He had a terrible feeling that it was not selective.
Going to the TV set at the far end of the room he snapped the switch. The screen grew into lighted animation, and yet, he saw, it was strangely blurred. The dim outlines of – it seemed to be a face.
And everyone, he realized, is seeing this. He turned to another channel. Again the dully-formed features, the old man half-materialized here on the television screen. And from the set's speaker the murmur of indistinct words. "…told you time and again your primary responsibility is to…" Johnny shut the set off; the ill-formed face and words sank out of existence, and all that remained, once more, was the ringing phone.
He picked up the phone and said, "Louis, can you hear me?"
"… when election time comes they'll see. A man with the spirit to campaign a second time, take the financial responsibility, after all it's only for the wealthy men, now, the cost of running…" The voice droned on. No, the old man could not hear him. It was not a conversation; it was a monologue. It was not authentic communication.
And yet the old man knew what was occurring on Earth; he seemed to understand, to somehow see, that Johnny had quit his job.
Hanging up the phone he seated himself and lit a cigarette.
I can't go back to Kathy, he realized, unless I'm willing to change my mind and advise her not to sell. And that's impossible; I can't do that. So that's out. What is there left for me?
How long can Sarapis hound me? Is there any place I can go?
Going to the window once more he stood looking down at the street below.
At a newsstand, Claude St. Cyr tossed down coins, picked up the newspaper.
"Thank you, sir or madam," the robot vender said.
The lead article… St. Cyr blinked and wondered if he had lost his mind. He could not grasp what he was reading – or rather unable to read. It made no sense; the homeostatic news-printing system, the fully automated micro-relay newspaper, had evidently broken down. All he found was a procession of words, randomly strung together. It was worse than Finnegans Wake.
Or was it random? One paragraph caught his eye.
At the hotel window now ready to leap. If you expect to conduct any more business with her you better get over there. She's dependent on him, needs a man since her husband, that Paul Sharp, abandoned her. The Antler Hotel, room 604. I think you have time. Johnny is too hot-headed; shouldn't have tried to bluff her. With my blood you can't be bluffed and she's got my blood, I…
St. Cyr said rapidly to Harvey, who stood beside him, "Johnny Barefoot's in a room at the Antler Hotel about to jump, and this is old Sarapis telling us, warning us. We better get over there."
Glancing at him, Harvey said, "Barefoot's on our side; we can't afford to have him take his life. But why would Sarapis -"
"Let's just get over there," St. Cyr said, starting toward his parked 'copter. Harvey followed on the run.
IV
All at once the telephone stopped ringing. Johnny turned from the window – and saw Kathy Sharp standing by it, the receiver in her hand. "He called me," she said. "And he told me, Johnny, where you were and what you were going to do."
"Nuts," he said, "I'm not going to do anything." He moved back from the window.
"He thought you were," Kathy said.
"Yes, and that proves he can be wrong." His cigarette, he saw, had burned down to the filter; he dropped it into the ashtray on the dresser and stubbed it out.
"My grandfather was always fond of you," Kathy said. "He wouldn't like anything to happen to you."
Shrugging, Johnny said, "As far as I'm concerned I have nothing to do with Louis Sarapis any more."
Kathy had put the receiver to her ear; she paid no attention to Johnny – she was listening to her grandfather, he saw, and so he ceased talking. It was futile.
"He says," Kathy said, "that Claude St. Cyr and Phil Harvey are on their way up here. He told them to come, too."
"Nice of him," he said shortly.
Kathy said, "I'm fond of you, too, Johnny. I can see what my grandfather found about you to like and admire. You genuinely take my welfare seriously, don't you? Maybe I could go into the hospital voluntarily, for a short period anyhow, a week or a few days."
"Would that be enough?" he asked.
"It might." She held the phone out to him. "He wants to talk to you. I think you'd better listen; he'll find a way to reach you, in any case. And you know that."
Reluctantly, Johnny accepted the phone.
"… trouble is you're out of a job and that depresses you. If you're not working you feel you don't amount to anything; that's the kind of person you are. I like that. The same way myself. Listen, I've got a job for you. At the Convention. Doing publicity to make sure Alfonse Gam is nominated; you'd do a swell job. Call Gam. Call Alfonse Gam. Johnny, call Gam. Call -"
Johnny hung up the phone.
I've got a job," he told Kathy. "Representing Gam. At least Louis says so."
Would you do that?" Kathy asked. "Be his P.R. man at the nominating convention?"
He shrugged. Why not? Gam had the money; he could and would pay well. And certainly he was no worse than the President, Kent Margrave. And I must get a job, Johnny realized. I have to live. I've got a wife and two children; this is no joke.
"Do you think Gam has a chance this time?" Kathy asked.
"No, not really. But miracles in politics do happen; look at Richard Nixon's incredible comeback in 1968."
"What is the best route for Gam to follow?"
He eyed her. "I'll talk that over with him. Not with you."
"You're still angry," Kathy said quietly. "Because I won't sell. Listen, Johnny. Suppose I turned Archimedean over to you."
After a moment he said, "What does Louis say to that?"
"I haven't asked him."
"You know he'd say no. I'm too inexperienced. I know the operation, of course; I've been with it from the start. But -"
"Don't sell yourself short," Kathy said softly.
"Please," Johnny said. "Don't lecture me. Let's try to stay friends; cool, distant friends." And if there's one thing I can't stand, he said to himself, it's being lectured by a woman. And for my own good.
The door of the room burst open. Claude St. Cyr and Phil Harvey leaped inside, then saw Kathy, saw him with her, and sagged. "So he got you to come here, too," St. Cyr said to her, panting for breath.
"Yes," she said. "He was very concerned about Johnny." She patted him on the arm. "See how many friends you have? Both warm and cool?"
"Yes," he said. But for some reason felt deeply, miserably sad.
That afternoon Claude St. Cyr found time to drop by the house of Elektra Harvey, his present employer's ex-wife.
"Listen, doll," St. Cyr said, "I'm trying to do good for you in this present deal. If I'm successful -" He put his arms around her and gave her a bear hug. "You'll recover a little of what you lost. Not all, but enough to make you a trifle happier about life in general." He kissed her and, as usual, she responded; she squirmed effectively, drew him down to her, pressed close in a manner almost uncannily satisfying. It was very pleasant, and in addition it lasted a long time. And that was not usual.
Stirring, moving away from him finally, Elektra said, "By the way, can you tell me what ails the phone and the TV? I can't call – there always seems to be someone on the line. And the picture on the TV screen; it's all fuzzy and distorted, and it's always the same, just a sort of face."