As they emerged onto the steps, the acolytes held back and the barrier dropped. Igan and Boumour turned left, noting a new building at the end of the long esplanade which fronted Administration. They saw its machicolated walls, the openings fitted with colored filters which sent bursts of red, blue and green light upon the surrounding air, and they recognized that it blocked the way they had intended to take out of Central. A building suddenly erected, another Optiman toy. They saw it and planned their steps accordingly with the automatic acceptance that marked them as regulars in the Optiman demesne. The meres and inhabitants of Central seemed to know their way through the arabesques of its roads and streets by an instinct. The place defied cartographers because the Optimen were too subject to change and whim.
“Igan!”
It was Allgood calling from behind them.
They turned, waited for him to catch up.
Allgood planted himself in front of them, hands on hips, said, “Do you worship her, too?”
“Don’t speak foolishness,” Boumour said.
“No,” Allgood said. His eyes appeared to be sunk in pockets above the high cheekbones. “I belong to no Folk cult, no breeder congregation. How can I worship her?”
“But you do,” Igan said.
“Yes!”
“They are the real religion of our world,” Igan said. “You do not have to belong to a cult or carry a talisman to know this. Calapine merely told you that, if there is a conspiracy, those belonging to it are heretics.”
“Is that what she meant?”
“Of course.”
“And she must know what is done to heretics,” Allgood said.
“Without a doubt,” Boumour said.
6.
Svengaard had seen this building in the tricasts and entertainment vids. He’d heard descriptions of the Hall of Counsel—but actually to be standing here at the quarantine wall with the copper sheen of sunset over the hills across from it… he’d never dreamed this could occur.
Elevator caps stood out like plasmeld warts on the hillock in front of him. There were other low hills beyond with piled buildings on them that could’ve been mistaken for rock outcroppings.
A lone woman passed him on the esplanade pulling a ground-effect cart filled with oddly shaped bundles. Svengaard found himself worried about what the bundles might contain, but he knew he dared not ask or show undue curiosity.
The red triangle of a pharmacy outlet glowed on a pillar beside him. He passed it, glanced back at his escort.
He had come halfway across the continent in the tube with an entire car to himself except for the escort, an agent from T-Security. Deep into Central they’d come, the gray-suited T-Security agent always beside him.
Svengaard began climbing the steps.
Already, Central was beginning to weigh on him. There was a sense of something disastrous about the place. Even though he suspected the source of the feeling, he couldn’t shake it off. It was all the Folk nonsense you could never quite evade, he’d decided. The Folk were a people for the most part without legends or ancient myths except where such matters touched the Optimen. In the Folk memories, Central and the Optimen were fixed with sinister omens compounded of awesome fear and adulation.
Why did they summon me? Svengaard asked himself. The escort refused to say.
They were stopped by the wall and waited now, silent, nervous.
Even the agent was nervous, Svengaard saw.
Why did they summon me?
The agent cleared his throat, said, “You have all the protocol straight?”
“I think so,” Svengaard said.
“Once you get into the hall, keep pace with the acolyte who’ll escort you from there. You’ll be interviewed by the Tuyere—Nourse, Schruille and Calapine. Remember to use their names when you address them individually. Use no such words as death or kill or die. Avoid the very concepts if you can. Let them lead the interview. Best not to volunteer anything.”
Svengaard took a trembling breath.
Have they brought me here to advance me? he wondered. That must be it. I’ve served my apprenticeship under such men as Potter and Igan. I’m being promoted to Central.
“And don’t say ‘doctor,’ ” the escort said. “Doctors are pharmacists or genetic engineers in here.”
“I understand,” Svengaard said.
“Allgood wants a complete report on the interview afterward,” the agent said.
“Yes, of course,” Svengaard said.
The quarantine barrier lifted.
“In you go,” the agent said.
“You’re not coming with me?” Svengaard asked.
“Not invited,” the agent said. He turned, went down the steps.
Svengaard swallowed, entered the silver gloom of the portico, stepped through to find himself in the long hall with an escort of six acolytes, three to a side, swinging thuribles from which pink smoke wafted. He smelled the antiseptics in the smoke.
The big red globe at the end of the hall dominated the place. Its open segment showing flashing and winking lights; the moving shapes inside fascinated Svengaard.
The acolytes stopped him twenty paces from the opening and he looked up at the Tuyere, recognizing them through the power curtains—Nourse in the center flanked by Calapine and Schruille.
“I came,” Svengaard said, mouthing the greeting the agent had told him to use. He rubbed sweaty palms against his best tunic.
Nourse spoke with a rumbling voice, “You are the genetic engineer, Svengaard.”
“Thei Svengaard, yes… Nourse.” He took a deep breath, wondering if they’d caught the hesitation while he remembered to use the Optiman’s name.
Nourse smiled.
“You assisted recently in the genetic alteration of an embryo from a couple named Durant,” Nourse said. “The chief engineer at the cutting was Potter.”
“Yes, I was the assistant, Nourse.”
“There was an accident during this operation,” Calapine said.
There was a strange musical quality in her voice, and Svengaard recognized she hadn’t asked a question, but had reminded him of a detail to which she wanted him to give his attention. He felt the beginnings of a profound disquiet.
“An accident, yes… Calapine,” he said.
“You followed the operation closely?” Nourse asked.
“Yes, Nourse.” And Svengaard found his attention swinging to Schruille, who sat there brooding and silent.
“Now then,” Calapine said, “you will be able to tell us what it is Potter has concealed about this genetic alteration.”
Svengaard found that he had lost his voice. He could only shake his head.
“He concealed nothing?” Nourse asked. “Is that what you say?”
Svengaard nodded.
“We mean you no harm, Thei Svengaard,” Calapine said. “You may speak.”
Svengaard swallowed, cleared his throat. “I…” he said. “… the question… I saw nothing… concealed.” He fell silent, then remembered he was supposed to use her name and said, “Calapine,” just as Nourse started to speak.
Nourse broke off, scowled.
Calapine giggled.
Nourse said, “Yet you tell us you followed the genetic alteration.”
“I… wasn’t on the microscope with him every second,” Svengaard said. “Nourse. I… uh… the duties of the assistant—instructions to the computer nurse, keying the feeder tapes and so on.”
“Say now if the computer nurse was a special friend of yours,” Calapine ordered.
“I… she’d…” Svengaard wet his lips with his tongue. What do they want? “We’d worked together for a number of years, Calapine. I can’t say she was a friend. We worked together.”