Dazed, overwhelmed by the catastrophe, Manion gathered up the cooling metal box and stumbled off. The guard stepped aside, and he vanished through the door.
Breathing more easily, Pearson said: "You wouldn't cooperate with us. Kaminski wanted you to help Reconstruction."
"All right." Jones nodded curtly to the guard. "Take this man back to his cell. Keep him there."
"How long?" the guard inquired.
"As long as you can," Jones answered, with bitterness.
On the trip back to organizational headquarters, Jones sat bleakly meditating.
Well, he had expected to fail, hadn't he? Hadn't he known that Pearson would refuse? Hadn't he previewed that whole miserable episode, known he couldn't go through with the torture? He could—and would—say he had done it, but that didn't change the facts.
He was on his way out. There was a terrible, brutal time left for him, and nothing more. What he did now was desperate; it was ruthless and it was final. It was something people were going to discuss for centuries to come. But, frantic as it was, it was still basically and undeniably his death.
He had no certain knowledge of what was to become of society because he would not be around to see it. Very shortly he would die. He had been contemplating it for almost a year; it could be ignored temporarily, but always it returned, each time more terrible and imminent.
After death, his body and brain would erode. And that was the hideous part; not the sudden instant of torment that would come in the moment of execution. That, he could bear. But not the slow, gradual, disintegration.
A spark of identity would linger in the brain for months. A dim flicker of consciousness would persist: that was his future memory; that was what the wave showed him. Darkness, the emptiness of death. And, hanging in the void, the still-living personality.
Deterioration would begin at the uppermost levels. First, the highest faculties, the most cognizant, the most alert processes, would fade. An hour after death, the personality would be animal. A week, after, it would be stripped to a vegetable layer. The personality would devolve back the way it had come; as it had struggled up through the billions of years, so it would go back, step by step, from man to ape to early Primate to lizard to fish to crustacean to trilobite to protozoon. And after that: to mineral extinction. Final merciful end. But it would take time.
Normally, the devolving personality would not be aware, would not be conscious of the process. But Jones was unique. Now, at this moment, with his full faculties intact, he was experiencing it. Simultaneously, he was fully conscious, totally in possession of his senses—and at the same time undergoing ultimate psychic degeneration.
It was bearing. But he had to bear it. And every day, every week, it grew worse—until finally he would in actuality die. And then, thank God, the ordeal would end.
The suffering he had caused others did not compare with that which he had to undergo. But it was right; he deserved it. This was his punishment. He had sinned, and retribution had come.
The final, somber phase of Jones' existence had begun.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CUSSICK WAS deep in conversation with two members of the police resistance when the long black organization car pulled to a stop in front of the apartment building.
"Holy cow," one of the cops said softly, as he groped inside his coat. "What are they doing here?"
Cussick clicked of the lights; the living room dropped into instant darkness. There were two figures inside the organization car. It was an official car; the crossed-flasks emblem was neatly stenciled on the doors and hood. For a moment the figures sat, not moving, not stirring. They were obviously talking.
"We can handle them," one of the cops said nervously, from behind Cussick. "There're three of us."
Disgusted, his companion said: "This is only their front block. They're probably on the roof and up the stairs."
Rigid and apprehensive, Cussick continued to watch. In the faint light of the midnight street, one of the two seated figures looked familiar. A car spun past, and, momentarily, the figures were outlined. An aching tautness crept through his heart: he was right. For what seemed like hours the two figures remained in the car. Then the door slid open. The familiar figure stepped to the sidewalk.
"A woman," one of the cops said wonderingly.
The figure slammed the car door, turned on her heel, and started at a brisk trot toward the entrance of the apartment house.
In a hoarse, unsteady voice, Cussick said: "You two clear out. I'll take care of this alone."
They gaped at him foolishly. Then the sight of their surprised faces was cut off: Cussick had pulled open the hall door and was racing down the thick-carpeted corridor to meet her.
She was on the stairs when she saw him coming. There she halted, gazing up, breathing rapidly, holding onto the banister. She wore the severe gray suit of the organization, the little cap on her heavy blonde hair. But it was she; it was Nina. For an interval the two of them stood, Cussick at the top of the stairs, Nina below him, eyes bright, lips apart, nostrils dilated. Then she let go of the banister and scampered up the rest of the way. A brief instant as her arms reached up for him hungrily, and then he had descended his own two steps to meet her. After that an indefinite time of holding her tight, feeling her against him, smelling the warm scent of her hair; taking in, after so many months, the smooth pressure of her body, the yearning, fervent need of her.
"Oof," she gasped finally. "You're going to break me."
He led her upstairs, still holding tightly onto her, not letting her go until they were inside the deserted apartment and the door had been locked behind them.
Glancing breathlessly around, Nina stood stripping off her gloves. He could see how nervous she was; her hands shook as she mechanically pushed the gloves into her purse, "Well?" she asked huskily, "how've you been?"
"Fine." He walked a little way off to have a good view of her. Under his gaze she faltered visibly; she shrank back against the wall, half-lifted her fingers to her throat, smiled, gazed appealingly up at him like an animal that had failed to show up for its dinner.
"Can I come back?" she asked, in a whisper.
"Back?" He was afraid to imagine what she meant.
Tears filled her eyes. "Guess not."
"Of course you can come back." He moved up and took hold of her. "You know you can come back. Any time. Any time you want."
"You better let go of me," she whispered. "I'm going to start weeping. Let me get out my handkerchief."
He let go reluctantly; with awkward fingers she got out her bit of handkerchief and blew her nose. For a moment she stood dabbing at her eyes, red lips twitching, not speaking or looking at him, just standing there in her gray organization uniform, trying not to cry.
"The son of a bitch," she said finally, in a thin, weak voice.
"Jones?"
"I'll tell you... when I can." Balling her handkerchief up, she began striding around the room, arms folded, chin up, face quivering. "Well, it's a long and not very pleasant story. I've been with the organization—I guess over two years, now."
"Twenty-eight months," he informed her.
"That sounds right." She turned suddenly to him, "It's over. I'm through."
"What happened?"
Nina felt in her pockets. "Cigarette?"
He got out his pack, lit a cigarette for her, and put it between her trembling lips.
"Thanks," she said, breathing swift jets of gray-blue smoke out into the room. "First, I think we better get out of here. He may pick you up—he's picking everybody up."
"But I've been cleared," Cussick protested.
"Darling, that makes no damn difference. You've heard what he did to Pearson? No, I suppose not." Briskly taking hold of his arm she propelled him toward the door. "We'd be a lot safer out of here; take me somewhere, anywhere." Shivering, she stood up on her toes to kiss him briefly. "Something has happened. We—the organization—know it, now; Jones told us. Tomorrow morning the public will know."