"Where was he going?" Cussick managed. But he already knew.
"He had a little deal cooked up with the Jones people. Something he's been fretting about for months. In return for his data they were going to provide him with sanctuary. They had some sort of retreat fixed up; Kaminski was going to hide away and sit out the war or whatever's coming. He washed his hands of it; he was through. And, of course, he couldn't resign. Nobody resigns from the police, these days. Not in this emergency."
"What did you do with him? Where is he?"
"He's in the Saskatchewan labor camp. For the rest of his life. He's already been taken there; I had them take him right off. I'm making this public; I want this to be an example."
"But," Cussick said hoarsely, "he's sick. He's old and ill. He doesn't know what he's doing. He's gone all to pieces—he ought to be in a hospital, not a forced labor camp!"
"He ought to be shot. Only we don't shoot people any more. All we can do is put them to work for the rest of their lives. Your old instructor will be sorting bolts until he's dead." Pearson came out from behind his desk. "I'm telling you this because you're partly responsible. We've been keeping an eye on all of you; Kaminski and that ex-Communist girl, Tyler Fleming, and your wife. We know your wife is a Jones agent; we know she's been working with them, living at one of their meeting units, getting indoctrination—giving them money." Folding up his memo, he added, "Kaminski knew about it. He held up the information—tried to suppress it."
"He didn't want me to know," Cussick said.
"He didn't want us to know, you mean. We realized the chances were high that he'd take off, after your wife left you and crossed over completely. We expected him to follow, sooner or later. As far as you're concerned—" Pearson shrugged. "I don't think there's a chance in the world you'd do what he'd done. That girl, too; she's still with us. But it's a nasty business." Suddenly the harshness left his voice. "It's a terrible thing... that wonderful old man. I thought you ought to know."
"Thanks," Cussick said numbly.
"Probably you're right. Certainly he ought to be in a hospital. But we can't do that; we're fighting for our lives. A lot of us want to get out... maybe all of us."
"Maybe so," Cussick agreed, barely hearing him.
"The Jones people are getting in everywhere. The whole structure is crumbling; every class, every group. Here in Security, men are slipping off, vanishing... like Kaminski. I had to put him in a work camp. If I could, I'd kill him in cold blood."
"But you wouldn't want to."
"No," Pearson agreed. "I wouldn't want to. But I'd do it." For a moment he was silent. Then he went on: "Kaminski was handling the security program for a top-secret Fedgov project. Something under the Department of Health... I don't know what it is; nobody does, here. The Council knows, of course. It's the work of a biochemist named Rafferty. You've probably heard of him; he disappeared about thirty years ago."
"I remember," Cussick said vaguely; he couldn't bring his mind into focus. "Is Max all right? He's not injured, is he?"
"He's all right." Impatiently, Pearson went on: "You'll have to take over the security aspect of this project. I suppose that son of a bitch Jones knows all about it; we stopped Kaminski from taking his papers, but Jones may have got an oral report." Furiously, he snapped: "Anyhow, Jones can't do anything. He's not in power—yet. And until he is, we're protecting this project."
Stupidly, Cussick asked: "What do you want me to do?"
"Obviously, I'm sending you over to Rafferty so you can find out what it's all about." From his desk Pearson snatched a packet of identification papers and held them out. "Rafferty had already been notified about Kaminski. He's expecting you; everything has been set up. Get right over there and report to me as soon as you think you've got it untangled. Not the project—I don't want to hear about that. All I'm interested in is the security end. Understand?"
In a daze, Cussick made his way out of the office. A high-velocity police cruiser was idling at the curb; three weapons-cops stood around in their shiny helmets, gripping regulation machine guns. They came instantly to attention as he stumbled up to them, shocked and confused, hardly able to grasp what was happening.
"I don't know anything about this," he informed them. "I don't know where we're going."
"We already have out orders, sir," one of the weapons-cops told him. "We've got the route plotted."
A moment later he was rising up above the dark city, with no idea of his destination. To his right, one of the cops had fallen into a contented half-sleep, his gun resting in his lap. The ship was on robot pilot; the other two cops were beginning to play cards. Cussick settled back and prepared for a long trip.
The trip, however, ended abruptly. All at once the ship nosed down; one of the cops laid aside his hand of cards and resumed manual control. Below, in the darkness, stretched the winking lights of a great city. It wasn't until the ship had actually come to rest on a roof-top field that Cussick recognized it, San Francisco. Then this was what Kaminski had meant, that night. Near them... the project he had mumbled about, brooded over, but not discussed. Now he would learn what it was all about—but he wasn't thinking about the Fedgov project. He was thinking about Kaminski in the forced labor camp.
With a click the hull slid aside and the three cops filed out. Cautiously, Cussick made his way down. Incredibly chill wind whipped around him; shivering, he peered to see where he was. In the downtown business section, apparently. The grand opaque shapes of office buildings loomed up in the frigid gloom.
"What now?" he inquired irritably.
He was led along a ramp, through an intricate multi-seal lock and down a flight of metal steps. A moment later he was facing a small, rather modest-appearing elderly man in a white medical uniform. The gentleman removed his glasses, blinked, and held out his hand. Rafferty was unassuming, with a worried, preoccupied twitch to his dry features. Above his lips was the faint wisp of a unsuccessful mustache.
"Yes," he acknowledged, as they shook hands, "I'm Rafferty. But they're not here, now. You'll have to wait."
Cussick said: "Doctor, I don't know anything about this." He got out the papers Pearson had given him and handed them over. "I was called into this without warning. You got word about Kaminski?"
Rafferty glanced suspiciously around, then turned and started off down the corridor. As Cussick walked beside him, the biochemist explained: "I sent them off when Pearson notified me that Kaminski had crossed over. It was my idea; I wanted them out of here, in case Kaminski had carried information to the Jones people. Sort of a silly gesture; if Jones knows now, he knew one year ago. But I thought there might be an attack... I've watched those mobs climb up on buildings after those protoplasmic affairs. I thought they might come here—using that as a pretext."
"Where are you taking me?" Cussick asked.
"I'm going to show you the project. I have to, if you're handling security. My God, you can't take care of them if you don't understand what they are."
Cussick found himself in an elaborate maze of white-glistening, hygienic passages. Doctors wandered here and there, involved in medical work beyond his comprehension. None of them paid any attention to him.
"This is their Refuge," Rafferty explained, as he stopped before an elongated transparent wall. "I'm having the whole shell cleaned and serviced while they're out of it. Killing two birds with one stone." He examined a series of wall-gauges. "We'll be able to go inside, in a few minutes."
Cussick was looking into an enormous steamy tank. Clouds of dense moisture billowed, obscuring the macabre landscape. Machinery was at work, lumbering through the humid atmosphere, spraying from thin nozzles. The ground was spongy in appearance. Occasional thick shrubs had sprouted; lumps of vegetable matter completely alien to him. Pools of humid water oozed over the ground. Only greens and blues were visible; the whole tank resembled a marine world, rather than a land world.