Kaminski nodded. "They have."
"Any luck?"
"The data hasn't been sifted."
"In other words," Tyler said, "nothing of value."
Kaminski shrugged. "Who knows?"
"Jones," Nina murmured.
"Then ask him. Or wait for the official release. Don't bother me about it."
"What's this business with Pearson?" Cussick asked, to change the subject. "I've heard rumors that he's working night and day, lining up men, organizing projects."
"Pearson is determined to stop Jones," Kaminski answered remotely. "He's sure it can be done."
"But if we get as fanatic as they are—"
"Pearson is worse. He eats, sleeps, thinks, lives Jones. He can't rest. Every time I go into his wing there's a battalion of weapons-cops hanging around: guns and tanks and projectiles."
"You think it'll do any good?"
"Darling," Nina said, measuring her words, "don't you see anything positive in it?"
"Like what?"
"I mean, here we have a man with this wonderful talent... he can do something we've never done. We don't have to guess any more. We know. We can be sure where we're going."
"I like to guess," Cussick said flatly.
"Do you? Maybe that's where the fault lies... maybe you don't realize that most people want certainty. You've rejected Jones. Why? Because your system, your government, is built around not-knowing, around guesswork. It assumes nobody can know." She raised her cold blue eyes. "But now we can know. So in a way, you're outmoded."
"Well," Tyler said, amused, "then I'm out of a job."
"What did you do before you came to Security?" Cussick asked her.
"I didn't do anything: this is my first job. I'm only seventeen. I feel a little out of place with you people... I really don't have any experience."
Indicating the girl's glass, Kaminski said: "I can tell you one thing: that wormwood'll rot your nervous system away. It attacks the upper spinal ganglia."
"Oh, no," Tyler said quickly. "I'm doped against it." She touched her purse. "For this, I have to depend on a synthetic neutralizer. Or I wouldn't want to take it."
Cussick's respect for her rose another notch. "What part of the world do you come from?" he asked curiously.
"I was born in China. My father was a policy-level official in the Kweiping secretariat of the Chinese People's Communist Party."
"Then you were born on that side of the war," Cussick said, amazed. "You grew up on"—he grimaced—"what people used to call the Jewish-atheist-Communist side."
"My father was a devout Party-worker. He fought with all his soul and heart against the Mohammedans and the Christian fanatics. He brought me up; my mother was killed by bacterial toxins. Since she wasn't an official, she wasn't entitled to shelter. I lived with my father in the Party offices, a mile or so underground. We were there until the war ended." She corrected herself: "That is, I was there. My father was shot by the Party near the end of the war."
"Shot for what?"
"Deviationism. The Hoff book was being circulated in our area, too. My father and I set up portions by hand... we circulated them among Party workers. It was quite revolutionary; many of us had never heard of the multiple-value system. The idea that everybody might be right, that everybody was entitled to his own way of life, had a startling effect on us. The Hoff concept of personal style of living... it was exciting. Neither religious dogma nor anti-religious dogma; no more wrangling over which interpretation of the sacred texts was correct. No more sects, splinter groups, factions; no more heretics to shoot and burn and lock up."
"You're not Chinese," Nina said.
"No, I'm English. My family were Anglican missionaries before they became Communists. There was a community of English Communists living in China."
"Do you remember much about the war?" Kaminski asked her.
"Not much. The Christian raiding parties from Formosa... mostly just the printing at night. The secret distribution."
"How did you get off?" Cussick asked. "Why didn't they shoot you, too?"
"I was eight years old—too young to shoot. One of the Party chiefs adopted me, a very kind old Chinese gentleman who still read Laotze and had gold carvings cut into his teeth. I was a ward of the CP when the war ended and the Party apparatus disintegrated." She shook her head. "It was all such a terrible waste... the war could so easily have been avoided. If people had only been just a little less fanatic."
Nina had gotten to her feet. "Darling," she said to her husband, "please, could you do me a favor? I'd like to dance."
One section of the crowded floor had been cleared for dancing; a few couples pushed mechanically back and forth. "You really feel like it?" Cussick asked warily, as he got to his feet. "Maybe for a minute."
"She's a lovely girl," Nina said distantly, as the two of them found their way out onto the packed floor.
"It's interesting, her circulating Hoff's material among Party officials."
Suddenly Nina clutched her husband tight. "I wish—" Her voice broke achingly. "Isn't there some way we can go back?"
"Back?" He was perplexed. "Back where?"
"The way we were. Not quarreling, all the time. We seem to be so far apart. We don't understand each other any more."
He held his wife close to him; under his hands her body was surprisingly fragile. "It's this damn thing... someday it'll be over, and we'll be together like we used to."
Stricken, Nina gazed up imploringly. "Does it have to be over? Does it have to be gotten rid of? Can't we accept it?"
"No," Cussick said. "I'll never accept it."
The woman's sharp nails dug futilely into his back. For an interval she rested her head against his shoulder, tumble of blonde hair billowing into his face. The familiar scent of her tickled his nose: the sweet perfume of her body, the warmth of her hair. All this, the smoothness of her bare shoulders, the silky texture of her dress, the faint sheen of perspiration glowing on her upper lip. Harshly, he held her against him, squeezing her silently, yearningly. Presently she uptilted her chin, smiled waveringly, and kissed him on the mouth.
"We'll try," she said softly. "We'll do our best. Right?"
"Sure," he answered, meaning it with all his heart. "It's too important—we can't let our lives slip away like this. And now that we have Jack—" Roughly, his fingers crumpled into the base of her neck, lifting her torrent of thick hair. "We don't want to leave him for the vultures."
CHAPTER TEN
AFTER THE dance he led her back to the table, gripping her small fingers tightly until both of them had taken their seats. Kaminski sat slumped over, half-asleep, muttering vague hoarse sounds. Tyler sat trimly upright; she had finished her drink and ordered another.
"Another round?" Nina asked, with wan cheerfulness. She got hold of the waiter and reordered. "Max, you look like you're going to die on us."
With an effort, Kaminski raised his shaggy head. "Madame," he answered, "leave a man something."
The evening was coming to a close; people were beginning to filter out of the bar, back up the stairs to the street level. On the raised platform the man and woman had reappeared, removed their clothing, and once more were going through their dance. Cussick scarcely noticed them; sinking into gloomy contemplation, he sat dully sipping his drink, distantly aware of the murmur of voices, the thick opaqueness of the air. When the floor show ended, the major bulk of the audience got up and began pushing toward the exit. Already, the room was half-empty. From the street stairs a blast of frigid early-morning air swirled down, chilling the people still sitting at their tables.
"It's late," Cussick said.
Across from him, Nina's face flitted with panic. "They're not closing for a long time," she protested pathetically. "And in the back they don't close at all. Dance with me again, before we go."