“What if he hasn’t been drinking?”
“He’s still scared, and that’s why he drinks . . . but he isn’t violent unless he drinks; he just wants to run away and hide. But he can’t do that—because he believes people are watching him and know he’s a dealer—so then he drinks; that’s when it occurs.”
“But by drinking,” Nick said, “he draws attention to himself; that’s the very thing he’s trying to avoid. Isn’t it?”
“Maybe not. Maybe he wants to get caught. He’s never done a lick of work in his life before dealing in tracts and booklets and minitapes; his family always supported him. And now he takes advantage of the cred—what’s the word?”
“Credulity,” Nick said.
“Does that mean like when you want to believe?”
“Yes.” It was reasonably close.
“So he takes advantage of their credulity, because people, a lot of people, superstitiously believe in Provoni, you know? About his coming back? All that shrnap you find in Cordon’s writings?”
Nick, incredulous, asked, “You mean to say that you people who deal in Cordon’s writings, you people who sell it—”
“We don’t have to believe it. Does the man who sells someone a pint of liquor have to be an alcohol addict himself?”
The logic, correct as it was, appalled him. “It’s for money,” he said. “You probably don’t even read what’s in those tracts; you just know them by name. Like a clerk working in a warehouse.”
“I’ve read a few.” She turned to face him, still massaging her forehead. “God, I’ve got a headache. Do you have any darvon or codeine at your place?”
Chapter 7
“No,” he said, filled with abrupt, alert unease. She wants to stay with me, he thought, for the next couple of days. “Listen,” he said, “I’ll take you to a motel, one picked at random; he’ll never find you. I’ll pay for it for two nights.”
“Hell,” Charley said, “there’s that master location-meter and control center that processes the name of everyone checked into every motel and hotel in North America; for two pops he can use it just by picking up a fone.”
Nick said, “We’ll use a fake name.”
“No.” She shook her head.
“Why not?” His unease became greater; he felt, all at once, as if she were sticking to him like flypaper: he couldn’t pry her loose.
“I don’t want to be alone,” Charley said, “because if he does find me in some motel room, alone, he’ll beat the hell out of me; nothing like you saw, but really. I have to be with someone; I have to have people who—”
“I couldn’t stop him,” Nick said, truthfully. Even Zeta, for all his strength, hadn’t been able to hold onto Denny for more than a few minutes.
“He won’t fight with you. It’s just that he doesn’t want anybody, any third party, to see what he does to me. But—” She paused. “I shouldn’t try to get you involved. It’s not fair to you. Suppose a fight broke out at your place, and we were all bursted by the PSS, and they found that tract on you that you got from us . . . you know the penalty.”
“I’ll throw it away,” he said. “Now.” He rolled down the window of the squib, reached into his cumberbund for the small book.
“So Eric Cordon comes second,” Charley said, in a neutral voice, a voice without censure. “First comes protecting me from Denny. Isn’t that funny? It’s really funny!”
“An individual is more important than theoretical—”
“You’re not hooked yet, sweet. You haven’t read Cordon; when you do, you’ll feel different. Anyhow, I have two tracts in my purse, so it wouldn’t make any difference.”
“Throw them away.”
“No,” Charley said.
Well, he thought, the stuff has hit the fan. She won’t give up the pamphlets and she won’t let me leave her off at a motel. What do I do now? Just drive around and around in this damn in-city traffic until I run out of fuel? And there’s always the chance that Shellingberg 8 will show up and we’ll be finished right then and there; he’ll probably ram us and kill us all. Unless the alcohol has worn off by now.
“I have a wife,” he said, simply. “And a child. I can’t do anything that—”
“You did it. By letting Zeta know that you wanted a tract; you were in it the minute you and Zeta knocked on the door of our apartment.”
“Before that, even,” Nick said, nodding; it was true.
So fast, he thought. A commitment made in the blink of an eye. But it had been there a long time, building up. The news of Cordon’s pending murder—and that was what it was—had brought him to a decision, and at that moment, Kleo and Bobby were in danger.
On the other hand, the PSS had just now spot-checked him, using Darby Shire as bait. And he—and Kleo—had passed it. So from the standpoint of statistical probabilities, there wasn’t a good chance he’d be investigated soon, again.
But he could not fool himself. They probably watch Zeta, he thought. And they know about the two apartments. They know all there is to know; it’s just a question of when they want to make their move.
In that case, it really was too late. He might as well go all the way; have Charley stay with him and Kleo for a couple of days. The couch in the living room made into a cot; they had had friends stay overnight.
But this situation differed, sharply, from those instances.
“You can stay with my wife and me,” he said, “if you get rid of the tracts you’re carrying. You don’t have to destroy them—can’t you just drop them off at some place you’re familiar with?”
Charley, without answering, picked up one of the pamphlets, turned the pages, then read aloud. “ ‘The measure of a man is not his intelligence. It is not how high he rises in the freak establishment. The measure of a man is this: how swiftly can he react to another person’s need? And how much of himself can he give? In giving that is true giving, nothing comes back, or at least—’ “
“Sure; giving gives you something back,” Nick said. “You give somebody something; later on he returns the favor by giving you something in return. That’s obvious.”
“That’s not giving; that’s barter. Listen to this. ‘God tells us—’ ”
“God is dead,” Nick said. “They found his carcass in 2019. Floating out in space near Alpha.”
“They found the remains of an organism advanced several thousand times over what we are,” Charley said. “And it evidently could create habitable worlds and populate them with living organisms, derived from itself. But that doesn’t prove it was God.”
“I think it was God.”
Charley said, “Can I stay at your place tonight and maybe, if it’s necessary—and only if it’s necessary—maybe tomorrow night. Okay?” She glanced up at him, her bright smile bathed in the light of innocence. As if, like a little cat, she were asking for a saucer of milk, nothing more. “Don’t be afraid of Denny, he won’t hurt you. If he beats up anybody, it’ll be me. But he’s not going to be able to find your apartment; how could he? He doesn’t know your name; he doesn’t know—”
“He knows I work for Zeta.”
“Zeta isn’t afraid of him. Zeta could beat him to a pulp—”
“You contradict yourself,” Nick said, or at least so it seemed; perhaps the alcohol was still affecting him. He wondered when it wore off, an hour? Two? Anyhow, it appeared that he was flying his squib adequately; at least no PSS occifer had flagged him down or grappled onto him with tractor beams.