She turned a corner -- and found herself facing Bertold Goltz.
‘I hurried here as soon as I heard,' Goltz said, lazily. ‘So the old man's strutted his little period and now is to be hustled off. He didn't last very long, this one. And Herr Hogben will replace him, a certain mythical, non-existent construct with that apt appellation. I was over at the Frauenzimmer Werke; they're going great guns, there.'
‘What do you want here?' Nicole demanded.
Goltz shrugged. ‘Conversation, perhaps. I eternally enjoy chatting with you. Actually, however, I have a distinct purpose: to warn you. Karp und Sohnen has an agent in the Frauenzimmer Werke already.'
‘I'm aware of that,' Nicole said. ‘And don't refer to the Frauenzimmer firm as a "Werke." They're too small to be a cartel.'
‘A cartel can be small in size. What matters is that they hold a monopoly; there's no competition -- Frauenzimmer has it all. Now Nicole, you had better listen to me; better have your von Lessinger technicians preview events vis-à-vis the Frauenzimmer people. For the next two months or so at the very least. I think you'll be surprised. Karp is not going to give up that easily; you should have thought of that.'
‘We keep the situation in -- ‘
‘No you don't,' Goltz said. ‘You have nothing under control. Look ahead and you'll see. You're becoming complacent, like a big fat cat.' He saw her touch the emergency button at her throat and he smiled broadly. ‘The alarm, Nicky? Because of me? Well, I guess I'll stroll on. By the way: congratulations on stopping Kongrosian before he could emigrate. That was a genuine coup on your part. However -- you don't know it yet, but your snaring of Kongrosian has dragged a little more than you anticipated into existence. Please make use of your von Lessinger equipment; it's so uniquely valuable in situations like this.'
Two grey-clad NP men appeared at the end of the corridor. Nicole signalled brusquely to them and they scrambled to get out their guns.
Yawning, Goltz vanished.
‘He's gone,' Nicole said to the NP men, accusingly. Of course Goltz was gone; she had expected it. But at least this had terminated the conversation; she was rid of his presence.
We ought to go back, Nicole thought, to Goltz's babyhood and destroy him then. But Goltz had anticipated them. He was long since back there, at the time of his birth and onward into childhood. Guarding himself, training himself, crooning over his child-self; through the von Lessinger principle Bertold Goltz had become, in effect, his own parent He was his own constant companion, his own Aristotle, for the initial fifteen years of his life, and for that reason the younger Goltz could not be surprised.
Surprise. That was the element which von Lessinger had nearly banished from politics. Everything now was pure cause and effect. At least, so she hoped.
‘Mrs Thibodeaux,' one of the NP men said, very respectfully, ‘there is a man from A.G. Chemie to see you. A Mr Merrill Judd. We brought him up.'
‘Oh yes,' Nicole said, nodding. She had an appointment with him; Judd had some fresh ideas as to how to go about curing Richard Kongrosian. The psych-chemist had approached the White House as soon as he had learned that Kongrosian had been found. ‘Thank you,' she said, and started towards the California Poppy Room where she was to meet with Judd.
Damn those Karps, Anton and Felix, she thought as she hurried along the carpeted corridor, the two NP men following behind her. Suppose they attempt to sabotage the Dieter Hogben Project -- perhaps Goltz is right: perhapswe've got to act against them!
But they were so strong. And so resourceful. The Karps, father and son, were old pros at this business, even more so than she herself.
I wonder what Goltz meant exactly, she thought. About our having dragged more than we anticipated into existence when we regained possession of Richard Kongrosian. Something to do with Loony Luke? There was another one, as bad as the Karps or Goltz; another pirate and nihilist, out for himself at the expense of the state. How complicated everything had become, and still there was the unfinished, nagging business deal with Goering hanging over everything else. The Reichsmarschall simply could not decide and would not, would never finalize, and his indecision was stopping the wheels, keeping her attention fixed there, and at far too great a cost. If Goering did not decide by tonight. He would be, as she had assured him, back in his own time by eight this evening. Involved in a losing war which would eventually -- and he would be acutely aware of it cost him his fat life.
I'll see that Goering gets exactly what's due him, she said savagely to herself. And Goltz and the Karps, too. All of them, including Loony Luke. But it must be done carefully, with each matter handled in sequence. Right now she had a more pressing problem, that of Kongrosian.
Swiftly, she entered the California Poppy Room and greeted the A.G. Chemie psych-chemist, Merrill Judd.
In his sleep Ian Duncan had a terrible dream. A hideous old woman with greenish, wrinkled claws scrabbled at him, whining for him to do something -- he did not understand what it was because her voice, her words, blurred into indistinction, swallowed by her broken-toothed mouth, lost in the twisting thread of saliva which found its way to her chin. He struggled to free himself, to wake from his nap, to escape from her ...
‘Chrissake,' Al's peevish voice filtered through the layers of semi-consciousness to him. ‘Wake up! We have to get the lot moving; we're supposed to be at the White House in less than three hours.'
Nicole, Ian realized as he sat up groggily. It was her I was dreaming about; ancient and withered, with dry, shrunken, deathly-stale paps, but still her. ‘Okay,' he muttered as he rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I sure as hell didn't mean to doze off. And I sure paid for it; I had a terrible dream about Nicole Al. Listen suppose she really is old, despite what we saw? Suppose it's a trick, a projected illusion. I mean -- ‘
‘We'll perform,' Al said. ‘Play our jugs.'
‘But I couldn't live through it,' Ian Duncan said. ‘My ability to adjust is just too precarious. This is turning into a nightmare; Luke controls the papoola and maybe Nicola is old -- what's the point of going on? Can't we go back to just seeing her on the TV screen? That's good enough for me. I want that, the image. Okay?'
‘No,' Al said doggedly. ‘We have to see this through. Remember, you can always emigrate to Mars; we have the means right at hand.'
The lot had already risen, was already moving towards the East Coast and Washington, D.C.
When they landed, Harold Slezak, a rotund, genial little man, greeted them warmly; he shook hands with them, putting them at their ease as they walked towards the service entrance of the White House. ‘Your programme is ambitious,' he burbled, ‘but you can fulfil it, fine with me, with us here, the First Family I mean, and in particular the First Lady herself who is actively enthusiastic about all forms of original artistry. According to your biographical data you two made a thorough study of primitive disc recordings from the early nineteen hundreds, as early as 1920, of jug bands surviving from the US Civil War, so you're authentic juggists except of course, you're classical, not folk.'
‘Yes sir,' Al said.
‘Could you, however, slip in one folk work?' Slezak asked as they passed the NP guards at the service entrance and entered the White House, the long, quiet corridor with its artificial candles set at intervals. ‘For instance, we suggest "Rockaby My Sara Jane." Do you have that in your repertoire? If not?'