Nodding, Gram said, “He—it—killed them. Scooped out their skulls, left them empty. Except for the diencephalon, for some reason. They left that.”
“The vegetative functions,” Nick said.
“Yeah, we could have kept them alive like vegetables. But it wasn’t worth it; I told the different doctors to let them die, once I knew the extent of brain damage. That applies only to the New Men, however. There are two Unusuals on the Public Safety Committee, a precog and a telepath. Their talents are gone, same as mine. But we’re alive. For a while.”
“It won’t do anything more to you,” Nick said. “Now that you’re an Old Man, you’re in no more danger than I.”
“What did you want to see me about?” Gram asked, turning to face him. “To tell me about Charlotte? To make me feel guilty? Christ, there’re a million little bitches like her slinking around in the world; you can get yourself another in half an hour.”
Nick said, “You sent three black pissers to kill me. They killed Denny Strong instead, and because of his death we couldn’t handle the Sea Cow; hence the crash. Hence her death. You set up the train of circumstances; it all emanated from you.”
“I’ll call off the black troopers,” Gram said.
“That’s not enough,” Nick said.
The intercom burbled into life. “Council Chairman, both laser beams are now directed at the target spot, Thors Provoni.”
“What results?” Gram asked, standing rigidly, supporting his great bulk by holding onto the desk.
“They’re being passed to me now,” the intercom said.
Gram, silently, waited.
“No visible change. No, sir, no change.”
“Three laser systems,” Gram said huskily. “If we brought in the one from Detroit—”
“Sir, we can’t really operate what we have properly. The mental illness that’s attacking the New Men means we lack—”
“Thanks,” Gram said, and shut the intercom off. “ ‘Mental illness,’ ” he said, in ferocious mockery. “If only that’s what it was. Something you could cure in a sanitarium. What do they call that? Psychogenic?”
Nick said, “I’d like to see Amos Ild. Balancing paperweights on rulers.” The greatest intellect produced so far by the race of man, he thought. Neanderthal, homo sapiens, then New Men—evolution. And using the New Man neutrologics, he had struck out; he had batted 000. But maybe Gram is right, he thought. Maybe Amos Ild was always insane . . . but we had no way of measuring a unique brain like his, no standard by which to judge.
It’s a good thing we’re rid of Ild, he thought. It’s a good thing we’re rid of all of them, he thought. Maybe all the New Men, in one sense or another, were insane. It’s just a question of degree. And their neutrologics—the logic of the insane.
“You look lousy,” Gram said. “You better get medical help; I can see that your arm’s broken.”
“To your infirmary?” Nick said. “As you call it?”
“They’re competent medically,” Gram said. “It’s strange,” he said, half to himself, “I keep listening for your thoughts and they never come. I have only your words to go on.” He cocked his shaggy head, studied Nick. “Did you come here to—”
“I wanted you to know about Charlotte,” Nick said.
“But you’re unarmed; you’re not going to try to snuff me. You were searched; you didn’t know it but you passed five checkpoints. Are you?” With unusual swiftness for a man of his bulk, he spun deftly, touched a stud on his desk. Instantly, five black troopers were in the room; they did not seem to have come there; they just were. “See if he’s armed,” Gram said to the black troopers. “Look for something small, like a knife made of plastic, or a microtab of germs.”
Two of them searched Nick. “No sir,” they informed the Council Chairman.
“Stay where you are,” Gram instructed them. “Keep your tubes pointed at him and kill him if he moves. This man is dangerous.”
“Am I?” Nick asked. “Is 3XX24J dangerous? Then six billion Old Men are dangerous, too, and your black pissers aren’t going to be able to hold them back. They’re all Under Men, now; they’ve seen Provoni; they know he’s back, as he promised; they know your weapons can’t hurt him; they know what his friend, the Frolixan, can do—has done—to the New Men. My broken arm is paralyzed; I couldn’t pull a trigger anyhow. Why couldn’t you have let us alone? Why couldn’t you let her come to me, and be together? Why did you have to send those black pissers after us? Why?”
“Jealousy,” Gram said quietly.
“Are you going to resign as Council Chairman?” Nick asked. “You have no special qualifications. Will you let Provoni rule? Provoni and his friend from Frolix 8?”
After a pause, Gram said, “No.”
“Then they’ll kill you. The Under Men will. They’ll be coming here as soon as they understand what’s happened. And those tanks and weapons-squibs and black squads aren’t going to stop more than the first few thousand of them. Six billion, Gram. Can the military and the black pissers kill six billion men? Plus Provoni and the Frolixan? Do you have any real chance of any sort? Isn’t it time to pass control of the government, the whole establishment apparatus, to someone else? You’re old and you’re tired. And you haven’t done a good job. Snuffing Cordon—that alone should, by a constituted court of law, hang you.” And very well may, he thought. For that and other decisions Gram had made during his tenure.
Gram said, “I’m going to go and talk with Provoni.” He nodded to the black-clad troopers. “Get me a police squib; get it all ready.” He pressed a button on his desk. “Miss Knight, ask communications to try to establish voice contact between me and Thors Provoni. Tell them to start on it right now. Top priority.”
He rang off, stood, then said to Nick, “I want—” He hesitated. “Have you ever tasted Scotch whiskey?”
“No,” Nick said.
“I have some twenty-four-year-old Scotch, a bottle I’ve never opened, a bottle for a special occasion. Wouldn’t you say this is a special occasion?”
“I guess it is, Council Chairman.”
Going to the bookshelf on the right-hand wall, Gram lifted several volumes out, reached behind those that remained, came out holding a tall bottle of amber fluid. “Okay?” he said to Nick.
“Okay,” Nick said.
Gram seated himself at his desk, tore the metal seal from the top of the bottle, removed the stopper, then looked around and among the clutter until he found two paper cups. He dumped their contents into a nearby wastebasket, then poured Scotch into each of the cups. “What’ll we drink to?” he asked Nick.
“Is that part of the ritual of taking alcohol?” Nick asked.
Gram smiled. “We’ll drink to a girl that wrestled herself loose from four six-foot-tall MPs.” He was silent a moment, not drinking. Nick, too, held his cup without lifting it. “To a better planet,” Gram said, and drank the cupful down. “To a planet where we won’t need our friends from Frolix 8.”
“I won’t drink to that,” Nick said; he set his cup down.
“Well, then just drink! Find out what Scotch tastes like! The finest of the whiskies!” Gram stared at him in bewilderment and resentment . . . the latter grew until his face was dark red. “Don’t you realize what you’re being offered? You’ve lost your perspective on things.” He pounded angrily on the walnut surface of his mighty wooden desk. “This whole thing has made you lose your values! We have to—”
“The special squib is ready, Council Chairman,” the intercom said. “On the roof field at port 5.”
“Thanks,” he said. “What about voice contact? I can’t go until I get voice contact and establish that I’m not going to do them any harm. Switch off the laser beams. Both of them.”