“He had better be right,” said O’Brien. “We don’t have time for another wrong move like Brownley.”
Chapter 3
Navvy let Movius out of the car half a block from the apartment. “You understand, sir. No sense rubbing their noses in it.”
“Yes. Good opps, Navvy.” Movius stood a moment on the curb, watching the car grow smaller, finding it difficult to realize that had been the last ride. His watch showed almost eleven. He turned, hurried toward the grill and glass front of the apartment building. In the lobby there was an atmosphere of refined gloom, thick carpet underfoot, a whirring of air-conditioning fans.
The manager had been notified. He darted across the lobby as Movius entered. “Oh, Movius?”
Now it’s just plain Movius, he thought. It used to be Mr. Movius. That glorified janitor!
“You no longer live here, Movius.” The manager’s face reminded him of a rabbit, a particularly gloating rabbit. “I have your new address right here.” He handed Movius a narrow strip of paper torn from a notepad.
Movius glanced at it, read: “Roper Road, 8100-4790DRB.” A Warren! Well, he’d expected that. DR for downstairs rear, B for bachelor. No tick rug in the lobby there; bare to the hard tiles. No isolation there; turmoil. A Warren.
The manager stood looking at him, obviously enjoying his discomfiture. “Your effects already have been moved.”
Already moved! he thought. Scarcely two hours and already moved. As though they wanted to cover him up, like an unsightly mistake.
“Was there any mail for me?” asked Movius.
“No, but I believe there was a tele-message on the printer. Just a moment.” He walked around a corner, returned with another piece of paper.
The note was brief:
“Dan,
“Just got the word. Comp Section still needs good hands. We could put through a special request—Phil Henry.”
Movius put the note in his pocket. Phil Henry. How long had it been? With a feeling of guilt, Movius realized he had not seen Phil Henry for almost a year. He remember the bushy-browed eager look of the man when they’d worked together back in Comp. Almost a year. Movius shook his head, turned to the manager.
“Is Miss Lang in her apartment? I’d like to see her.”
“Miss Lang?”
The anger came out in his voice. “Yes, Miss Lang. She wasn’t at work. I’d like to know if she’s home.”
“I’ll see if Miss Lang wishes to see you,” said the manager. He went into his cubbyhole. Movius heard him talking on the phone.
One of the privileges of Upper Rank quarters, thought Movius. No unauthorized visitors. Ergo: he had to ask permission to visit his fiancée. He wondered what would happen to her now. Probably a quick shift into another section. Only the top felt the heavy blow of a low-opp. Trained underlings were always needed somewhere.
The manager spent a long time on the phone, finally emerged, grinned at Movius before speaking. “You may go up.” The grin was a positive smirk.
Movius went to the elevator, punched for the thirty-third floor. Why hadn’t Cecelia been at the office? She seldom failed to report on time, often rode down with him. Movius thought of all the effort he had put out to get her this apartment next to his, the favors he had promised, the extra credits spent. And Cecelia only a twelfth ranker. That had made it difficult.
The elevator stopped, the door snicked back. Movius turned left, passed his own door, 3307, saw it was open and a cleaning crew working inside. The urge to pause and have a last look around the rooms swept over him. But he couldn’t face the thought of explaining to the cleaning crew, accepting their smiles of superiority. He turned away, noticed two men loitering in the doorway opposite ’07, Cecelia’s apartment. One of the men looked familiar. He had seen the fellow somewhere. The two men showed interest in Movius as he knocked on Cecelia’s door. One moved across the hall, hand in pocket. “Just a…”
The door opened, revealing Cecelia—chic, blonde, wearing dress coveralls the color of her hair. Her mouth was startling with a wild orange lipstick. The effect was a gold statue come to life.
Movius stepped forward to take her in his arms, ignored the man behind him. “Cecie, I…”
She put him off, extending her right hand as though for him to kiss. With her other hand she waved away the man in the hall. “Dan, how nice you could come by. Come in, won’t you? I’ve a guest.” She took his hand.
There’s something wrong with her voice, thought Movius. He said, “Who was that in the hall?”
“Nobody important; come along.” She led him into the apartment.
A wide-bodied man with crew-cut iron-grey hair and a face like a square-hewn plank stood up from the couch. He was putting a handkerchief into a side pocket. The handkerchief showed orange stains the color of Cecelia’s lipstick. Movius paused. Now he knew the reason for the men in the hall. Bodyguards. This was Helmut Glass, Coordinator of All Bureaus: The Coor. Although the directors of the top bureaus shared nearly equal powers, this man was titular head of government, the top of the pyramid.
“Sorry about your job,” said Glass. His left eye squinted, the muscles of the cheek rippling with a nervous tic. “I just heard about it a couple of hours ago.”
On the tip of Movius’ tongue was the urge to say, “Then my driver knew it before you did.” But his thoughts skipped a beat. It was now eleven o’clock. Two hours subtracted from eleven left nine o’clock, about the same time Navvy had been making the prediction. The Coor could not have known two hours ago unless his information came from a source similar to Navvy’s or from foreknowledge. But how could he predict the Opp?
“Just about two hours ago,” repeated Glass. “I was shocked.”
He’s emphasizing the point, thought Movius. It’s a calculated lie. And how could Glass be shocked at the knowledge? He and the other top bureau chiefs—Com-Burs—had framed the question. The man wants me to lose my temper, thought Movius. He wants me to call him a liar. Sorry, Mr. Glass.
In an even tone, Movius said, “That gave you just enough time to get over here and comfort Cecie, didn’t it?”
The Coor’s eyes widened, narrowed. “Cecelia…” He turned toward her.
Cecelia stepped to one side, said, “Helmut has transferred me to his department. Isn’t that lucky? Now I won’t lose my apartment.”
Not The Coordinator has transferred me… Isn’t this cozy? And dear Helmut received a big kiss when he made the announcement.
Glass put a lighter flame to the cigaret, looked at Movius through a blue cloud of smoke—distant, untouchable. “We can always use a good secretary. When I heard your department was low-opped and Cecelia out of a job, I snapped her up.” A streamer of cigaret smoke blew toward Movius. “Don’t know what we’re going to do about you, Dan. Something will probably turn up, though.” Again the tic rippled the Coor’s cheek, squinted his eye.
So it’s Helmut and Cecelia, thought Movius. He looked at Cecelia, wondering how he could get her away alone to talk to her. Something about the way she was looking at him—half laughing, superior—reminded him of a fact buried far down in his memory. Cecelia Lang had been engaged to another man once. What was the fellow’s name? Brownley or something like that. He’d been the head of the now defunct Department of Antiquities and had gone out and gotten himself into one of the penalty services for failure to report the discovery of an ancient library. And now that he thought about it, Movius recalled that Cecelia had been transferred to Liaison the day after what’s-his-name Brownley was low-opped.