“God, I don’t want it,” Kleo said with revulsion.
“Take it. Read and understand what we must do to rid ourselves of the New and Unusual tyranny that blights our lives, that makes a mockery of everything man tries to do.” He fumbled with the greasy, torn book, searching for a particular page. “Can I have a cup of coffee now?” he asked plaintively. “I can’t seem to find the reference I want; it’s going to take some time.”
She pondered a moment, then strode off into the kitchen cubicle, to heat water for the instant, ersatz coffee.
“You can stay five minutes,” Kleo said to Shire. “And if Nick isn’t back by then you’ll have to leave.”
“Are you afraid of getting caught here with me?” Shire asked.
“I—just find myself getting tense,” she said. Because I know what you are, she thought. And I’ve seen bent, mutilated books like that before, dreary books carried here and there in dirty pockets, pawed over in stealth and in secret. “You’re a member of RID,” she said aloud.
Shire grinned crookedly. “RID is too passive. They want to work through the ballot box.” He had found the reference he wanted, but now he looked too weary to show it to her; he merely stood there, holding onto his book. “I spent two years in a government prison,” he said presently. “Give me some coffee and I’ll leave; I won’t wait for Nick. He probably can’t do anything for me anyhow.”
“What did you think he could do? Nick doesn’t work for the government; he doesn’t have any—”
“That’s not what I need. I’m out legally; I served my term. Could I stay here? I don’t have any money or any place to go. I thought of everyone I could remember who might help me and then I thought of Nick by a process of elimination.” He accepted the cup of coffee, handing her the book in return. “Thanks,” he said as he greedily sipped. “Do you know,” he said, wiping his mouth, “that the entire structure of power on this planet is going to crumble away from rot? Internal rot . . . we’ll be able, some day, to push it over with a stick. A few key men—Old Men—here and there both inside and outside the Civil Service apparatus and—” He made a violent, sweeping gesture. “It’s all in my book. Keep it and read it; read how the New Men and the Unusuals manipulate us via their control of all the media and of—”
“You’re insane,” Kleo said.
“Not any longer.” Shire shook his head, his rat-like features twisting with intensity, a swift and emotional repudiation of her words. “When they arrested me three years ago I was clinically and legally insane—paranoia, they said—but before they would release me I had to take more psych tests, and now I’m able to prove my sanity.” He fumbled about in his many pockets once more. “I even have the official documentation with me, I carry it around.”
Kleo said, “They should check on you again.” God, she thought. Is Nick never going to get home?
“The government,” Shire said, “is planning a programme of sterilization of all Old Men males. Did you know that?”
“I don’t believe it.” She had heard many such wild rumours, but none of them ever turned out to be true . . . or anyhow most of them. “You say that,” she said, “to justify force and violence, your own illegal activities.”
“We have a Xerox copy of the bill; it’s already been signed by seventeen Councilmen out of—”
The television set clicked itself on and said, “A news bulletin. Advance units of the Third Army report that the Gray Dinosaur, the ship in which Citizen Thors Provoni left the Sol System, has been located circling Proxima with no signs of life. At present, tugs of the Third Army are engaged in grappling that apparently abandoned spaceship, and it is believed that Provoni’s body will be discovered within the next hour. Stay near your set for further bulletins.” The television clicked itself off, its message delivered.
A strange, almost convulsive shudder swept through Darby Shire; he grimaced, clutched with his right arm . . . he bit savagely into empty air, then, his eyes gleaming, he turned back to face Kleo. “They will never get him,” he said through gritted teeth. “And I’ll tell you why. Thors Provoni is an Old Man, the best of us, and superior to any New Men or Unusuals. He will return to this system with help. As he promised. Somewhere out there help exists for us, and he will find it, even if it takes eighty years. He’s not looking for a world we can colonize; he’s looking for them.” He eyed Kleo searchingly. “You didn’t know that, did you? Nobody does—our rulers have control of all information, even about Provoni. But that’s what it’s all about; Provoni will make us no longer alone and no longer in the control of mutational opportunists exploiting their so-called ‘abilities’ as a pretext for grabbing power here on Terra and holding it forever.” He wheezed noisily, his face writhing with intensity; his eyes had glazed over with his own fanaticism.
“I see,” she said. Repelled, she turned away.
“Do you believe?” Shire demanded.
Kleo said, “I believe you’re a devout supporter of Provoni; yes, I believe that.” And I believe, she thought, that you are once again clinically and legally insane, as you were a couple of years ago.
“Hi.” Nick, with Bobby lagging after him, entered the apartment. He perceived Darby Shire. “Who’s this?” he asked.
“Did Bobby pass?” Kleo asked.
“I think so,” Nick said. “They’ll notify us by mail within the next week. If we had failed they would have told us right away.”
Bobby said remotely, “I failed.”
“Do you remember me?” Darby Shire asked Nick. “After so much time has passed?” The two men surveyed each other. “I recognize you,” Darby said in a hopeful tone of voice, as if inviting Nick to recognize him, too. “Fifteen years ago. In Los Angeles. The county hall of records; we were both clerical assistants to Horse Faced Brunnell.”
“Darby Shire,” Nick said. He held out his hand; they shook.
This man, Nicholas Appleton thought, is deteriorated. What a dreadful change—but fifteen years is a long time.
“You look exactly the same,” Darby Shire said. He held his tattered book towards Nick. “I’m recruiting. For example, I tried just now to recruit your wife.”
Seeing the book, Bobby said, “He’s Under Man.” The boy’s voice held excitement. “Can I see it?” he asked, reaching for the book.
“Get out of here,” Nick said to Darby Shire.
“You don’t think you could–” Shire began, but he cut him off savagely.
“I know what you are.” Nick grabbed Darby Shire by the shoulder of his ragged coat; he propelled him forcibly towards the door. “I know you’re hiding from the Public Security people. Get out.”
Kleo said, “He needs a place to stay. He wanted to stay here with us for a while.”
“No,” Nick said. “Never.”
“Are you afraid?” Darby Shire asked.
“Yes.” He nodded. Anyone caught circulating Under Man propaganda—and anyone associated with him in any way—was automatically deprived of his right to take future Civil Service tests. If the PSS caught Darby Shire here, Bobby’s life would be destroyed. And, in addition, they all might be fined. And sent to one of the relocation camps for an indefinite period. Subject to no real judicial review.
Darby Shire said quietly, “Don’t be afraid. Have hope.” He drew himself up—how short he is, Nick thought. And ugly. “Remember Thors Provoni’s promise,” Darby Shire said. “And remember this, too: your boy isn’t going to get a Civil Service rating anyhow. So you have nothing to lose.”
“We have our freedom to lose,” Nick said. But he hesitated. He did not quite push Darby Shire out of the apartment and into the public hallway. Suppose Provoni does come back, he said to himself, as he had pondered many times before. I don’t believe it; Provoni is being captured right now. “No,” he said, “I don’t want to have anything to do with you. Ruin your own life; keep it to yourself. And—go away.” He propelled the smaller man out into the hall, now; several doors had popped open and the various inhabitants, some of whom he knew, some of whom he did not, gawked with interest at what was happening.