Having reached the decision, Bennett allowed himself to relax; and immediately, the chilly, but pleasurable flutterings of anticipation began in his stomach. His mind lost itself in visions of the simple, yet subtle, triadic permutations of skin pigmentation: white, black, and all the warmly sexual spectrum that lay between.
The telepolygraph was an expensive instrument to begin with; and the fact that its use was illegal had boosted the market price to several times its true value. About half the cost of manufacture went into the badge-like receptor, which could pick up encephalography activity at a distance of several feet and measure heart rates when its incredibly accurate range-finder was aimed at areas of skin pulsation. The rest went into the comparator network and logic circuits, which operated a thumb vibrator when certain criteria were fulfilled.
In general, the telepolygraph represented a prohibitively expensive and elaborate method of finding out if a person was lying; but it had its uses in some professions. Stirling had won his from another reporter in a particularly abrasive poker game, but rarely used it in the course of his work. But this time it had really justified its existence. The vibrator had stung his thumb like a wasp each time Bennett was questioned about Johnny. But knowing a person was lying was not exactly the same as knowing the truth.
Stirling stood uncertainly at the entrance to the Receders’ chapel and watched Bennett’s dapper, gymnast’s figure blend with the apparently aimless tides of people surging along the sidewalks and spilling onto the street itself. Realizing the other man was not going to flag a taxi, Stirling grunted with exasperation and breasted the forces of the crowd. In a matter of seconds his shirt was clinging to his back, and sweat had bound his trousers to his thighs, making walking difficult. He stayed a discreet distance behind Bennett and felt faintly relieved that there was no need for him to catch up. Bennett seemed to be a true child of the Compression: his neat black-and-silver head slid effortlessly through the barriers of flesh, while Stirling labored grimly in his wake, like a tugboat following a racing yacht. The irregular strips of sky, which could be seen among the high-level traffic lanes, had darkened to a hectic indigo tinged with dusty saffron in the west.
As they neared First Avenue, the commercial buildings gave way to an assortment of eating places, bars, drugstores, and pleasure houses. Cosmodromes—with their illusions of space, flight and freedom—were popular; but there were many variations on the basic theme. In the so-called “action” houses, anyone could pay his money, climb into a cradle, inhale the hallucigens, and transplant his mind into the cockpit of a centimeter-long military aircraft. With its micro-miniature cameras feeding him sense data through a radio link, he could fly lonely jungle missions, engage in dogfights, or perform acrobatics. Most of the patrons, however, seemed to prefer bombing and strafing the beautifully modeled cities.
Stirling’s single visit to the cosmodrome had satisfied his curiosity about the experience; but, as he struggled along behind Bennett, he began to wish for the chance to stop anywhere, just for the chance to breathe in comfort. The redly glowing signs winked at him. OXYGEN INSIDE. OXY-COND1TIONING HERE. STEP IN AND BREATHE. Stirling tried to ignore the invitations. The government issued regular assurances that, although the general oxygen level had fallen slightly with the annihilation of vegetation, any effects which might be felt would be purely psychological. Stirling’s opinion was that they might be psychological for all the medium-sized, thin, dry individuals whose builds he envied every day; but, for him, the effects were real.
Two blocks from the brightest lights, he rationalized that there was little point in following Bennett all over town. The nearest elevator whipped him up two street levels, where he was able to catch a taxi heading south.
After the pressures and accompanying heat of the bottom-level streets, the deserted spaciousness of the Record’s editorial offices was almost welcome. Stirling knew from experience that he would be able to appreciate the emptiness for only a few minutes before the uneasiness set in. That’s all right, he told himself. In a society where claustrophobia is a sin, agoraphobia must be a virtue. Slinging his jacket across a desk, he crossed the room to the news desk where the two nightmen for that week sat in extravagant postures of boredom. Behind them the long room was cool and cavernous, walled with shadows.
“Hi, Vic,” Dolan said, brightening up. “I didn’t know you were on tonight.”
“I’m not—so you can forget any sneaky ideas of turning that phone over to me for the night.” Stirling pushed Dolan’s feet off the desk and sat down on the edge. “Tell me, Chris, what do you know about the Receders?”
“What is there to know? They’re just one of those minor religious cults. Back to nature, or something like that.”
The other nightman, Waldo Fitz, took off a pair of 3-D television glasses and glanced across at Stirling curiously. Fitz was a surly, thick-set youngster with absolutely no imagination, but with a mind like a computer. He was also a top-flight newsman.
“Are you on to a story, big fella? We’re short of copy for tomorrow. You could get the page one lead with a speeding case.”
“No,” Stirling said cautiously. “Just asking. Is there a story in the Receders?”
Fitz shrugged. “It’s a possibility. The guy who runs that cult is called Mason Third. His name seems to keep popping up.”
“In what connection?”
“Nothing special. lust crops up, that’s all.” Fitz selected a different channel on his spectacles. While the little left and right pictures flickered like imprisoned candle flames, he relaxed back into his torpor. A thread of reedy music escaped the earpieces.
Recognizing Fitz as a man who never gave anything away, Stirling was vaguely dissatisfied. He drifted up to his own desk, sat down, and pulled a stat-vu terminal over to him. In response to his keyed request, the instrument began displaying on its screen all the Record’s stock cuttings on the Receders and Mason Third. Stirling was able to skim through them in less than five minutes and learned practically nothing. The majority of references to the cult were in articles giving general surveys of religious movements and contented themselves with describing the Receders as an obscure and very minor sect. Third’s own file contained a dozen or so clippings taken over the past fifteen years. They conveyed the impression he was a lawyer or a preacher—or both—who had been hovering on the fringes of the political scene without ever committing himself or becoming aligned. His name had appeared, very occasionally, in various contexts on the transport-tribunal/citizens-action group level. Once he had been named as co-respondent in an unremarkable divorce case, and another time had been fined for attempted tax evasion. All Stirling could get out of it was the impression of a shadowy, slightly unsavory figure, who had come from nowhere and was not going anywhere in particular.
Putting aside his newly found interest in the Receders, Stirling punched in Duke Bennett’s name and the few available facts about his background. There was a slight delay while the central installation searched city directories, electoral rolls, and such police files as were open to the Record, Finally, the screen flashed a confirmation that Bennett worked in the freight transfer service associated with International Land Extension, U.S. 23. The only other information was his address, a single apartment on the north side, not very far from Stirling’s own place.
Stirling memorized the string of figures. Here was another clue, another signpost. He made a fairly good salary as a senior reporter, and it took no less than half of it to buy him the privilege of living and sleeping alone. So how was Bennett financing his apartment on an elevator man’s wages?