PATRIO
rally a
of the ma
JONES WILL
public invi
Torn across the middle, the poster lay sightlessly sprawled. But for every one that had been ripped down by the police, a thousand still plastered walls, doorways; hung in restaurants, store windows, bars, lavatories, gas stations, schools, offices, private houses. The Pied Piper and his flock... the reek of burning gasoline.
When the final thunderous roar of applause burst out, Cussick tensed himself. Already, a few eager people scurried from the open doorways; ushers appeared and rapidly fixed the doors aside. Now the first phalanx of the throng burst forth; laughing and conversing, pulling their wraps around them, the well-dressed citizens of the main floor poured into the lobby, like a jar of expensive costume jewelry abruptly overturned. Down the wide stairs, less elaborately dressed patrons descended. In a moment, Cussick was surrounded by a solid pack of talking, murmuring, noisily gesturing people.
Presently Nina fought her way over to him.
"Hello," he said uncomfortably.
"What happened?" Nina inquired, half-anxiously, half in exasperation. "Did you have some sort of fit?"
"Sorry." It was a difficult thing to explain to her. "That last act scenery reminded me of something. Dismal, like that. People creeping around in the darkness."
Lightly, Nina said: "Reminded you of business? Police prisons, maybe?" Her voice was tense, sharpened with momentary accusation. "Guilty conscience?'
He felt his face flushing. "No, that isn't it." Apparently he answered too loudly; some of the nearby people glanced curiously around. Cussick snapped his jaws angrily together and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. "Let's talk about it some other time."
"All right," Nina said brightly, smiling her familiar flash of white teeth. "No scenes—not tonight." Agilely, she spun on her heel, taking in the sight of the surrounding clusters of people. The tight line of her forehead showed she was still upset; he had no doubts about that. But the clash was going to be postponed.
"I'm sorry," Cussick repeated awkwardly. "It's this damn stuff going on. The dark stage reminded me of it. I always forget that whole scene is set as night."
"Don't worry about it," Nina answered insistently, wanting to drop the subject. Her sharp nails dug quickly into his arm. "What time is it? Is it midnight?"
He examined his wrist watch. "Somewhat after."
Frowning, Nina peered urgently toward the sidewalk outside. Taxis were sliding into the loading zone, picking up passengers and starting immediately off. "Do you think we missed him? He'd wait, wouldn't he? I thought I saw him, a second ago, as I was coming out."
"Isn't he meeting us at the apartment?" Somehow, he couldn't imagine Kaminski at a Mozart opera; the round-faced worried man with his thick mustache was from a different century entirely.
"No, dear," Nina said patiently. "He's meeting us here—remember? You were thinking about something else, as usual. We're supposed to wait for him; he doesn't know where we live."
The crowd was beginning to flow from the lobby outside onto the street. Gusts of frigid night air billowed in; coats were put on, furs slipped in place. The intimated odor of perfume and cigar smoke very soon dwindled as the remote, hostile vacuum of the outside world made its way in.
"Our little cosmos is breaking up," Cussick observed morbidly. "The real world is on its way."
"What's that?" Nina asked vacantly, still critically studying the women around them. "Look what that girl is wearing. Over there, the one in blue."
While Cussick was going through the motions of looking, a familiar figure came threading its way toward them.
"Hi," Kaminski said, as he reached them. "Sorry I'm late. I forgot all about it."
The sight of Max Kaminski was a shock. He hadn't seen his one-time Political Instructor in months. Kaminski was haggard and hunched over; his eyes were bloodshot, underscored with puffy black circles. His fingers trembled as he reached out to shake hands. Under one arm he clutched a bulky brown-wrapped package. Nodding slightly to Nina, aware of her for the first time, he murmured "Evening, Nina. Good to see you again."
"You weren't at the opera," Nina observed, with a distasteful glance at the man's rumpled business suit and the messy package.
"No, I missed it." Kaminski's hand was wet and clammy; he drew it back and stood clumsily, focusing with an effort. "I can't sit through long things. Well, are we ready to go?"
"Certainly," Nina said, in an icy voice, her dismay was fast turning to outright aversion. Kaminski had evidently been working through a fifteen-hour double shift, fatigue and nervous exhaustion were written in every pore of his stooped body. "What's that you have?" she asked, indicating the package.
"I'll show you later," Kaminski assured her noncommittally, tightening his grip.
"Let's go, then," Nina said briskly, taking her husband's arm. "Where to?"
"This girl," Kaminski muttered, shambling along after them. "We have to pick her up. You don't know her. I forgot to tell you about her. Very nice kid. It'll make us an even four-square." He tried to laugh, but what came out sounded more like a death-rattle. "Don't ask me to introduce her—I don't know her last name. I sort of picked her up in one of the outer offices."
Presently Nina said: "I'd like to go to the apartment, first. I want to see how Jackie is,"
"Jackie?" Puzzled, Kaminski hurried down the concrete steps behind them. "Who's that?"
"Our son," Nina said distantly.
"That's right," Kaminski admitted. "You have a child. I've never seen him." His voice trailed off... "With all this work, I don't know if I'm coming or going."
"Right now you're going," Nina said, standing on the curb, her body straight and disapproving, arms folded, waiting rigidly for a taxi. "Are you sure you feel up to this? It looks as if you've already had your share of celebrating."
Cussick said sharply: "Cut it."
The taxi came and Nina slipped gingerly inside. The two men followed, and the taxi shot off into the sky. Below them, the lights of Detroit sparkled and winked, evenly-spaced stars in a man-made firmament. Fresh night air swirled into the cabin of the taxi, a harsh but reviving wind that helped clear Cussick's head. Presently Kaminski seemed to recover a trifle.
"Your husband and I haven't been doing so well, lately," he told Nina: a belated apology. "You've probably noticed."
Nina nodded.
"We're falling apart. The strain..." He grimaced. "It isn't easy to watch everything you stand for falling apart piece by piece. One brick after another."
"The graphs still going up?" Cussick asked.
"Straight up. Every region, every stratum. He's getting through to everybody... a cross-section. How the hell can we isolate a thing like that? There's gasoline frying on every street corner in the world."
Nina said thoughtfully: "Does that surprise you?"
"It's illegal," Kaminski retorted, with childish venom. "They have no right to kill those things."
The woman's thin, pencilled eyebrows went up. "Do you really care about those—lumps?"
"No," Kaminski admitted. "Of course not. I wish they'd all sizzle into the sun. And neither does he; nobody cares about the drifters one way or another."
"How strange," Nina said, in a carefully modulated voice. "Millions of people are resentful, willing to break the law to show their resentment, and you say nobody cares."
"Nobody that counts," Kaminski said, losing all sense of what he was saying: "Just the dupes care, the idiots Jones knows and we know—the drifters are a means, not an end. They're a rallying point, a pretext. We're playing a game, a big elaborate game." Wearily, he muttered: "God, I hate it."