"No," Cussick said, baffled fury choking up inside him.
"In the next day or so," Jones continued, "the warships will be back home. People would see I made a mistake—they'd realize that I was fallible like everybody else. They would know I didn't have absolute knowledge." An amused mutter of triumph burst through the words, interrupting the monotonous flow. "Pretty soon the word would have started getting around: Jones was a fraud. Jones didn't have any talent. Jones played us for a sucker; he didn't have any more idea of the future than we did. But now they won't think that. They'll have this fact: today, Jones was murdered. And tomorrow, the ships start leaking back in. Jones died before defeat began—and cause always comes first."
Futilely, Cussick slammed off the flow of words. "Christ," he said bitterly.
"I don't get it," Nina whispered, stricken. "What's he mean?"
Reluctantly, Cussick again started up the tape.
"They'll say I was viciously killed," Jones observed gleefully. "They'll say you stole victory away from them when you murdered me. The legend will grow up: if Jones had lived, we would have won. It was you, the old system, Fedgov, Relativism, that robbed us. Jones didn't fail.
"My apologies to your wife. I had to say that; I had to goad you. Pearson, of course, is alive. You'll find him in one of the old police prisons; that is, if you're still—"
"You can turn it off," Nina said. "I don't have to hear any more."
He did so, instantly. "I helped him get what he wanted. He used me the way he used Pearson... we were elements of his plan."
For a time neither of them spoke.
"Well," Nina said bravely, "we don't have the civil war, now."
"No," Cussick agreed. "That was all a fake, a plant; all that stuff he told you about a last ditch stand against the mobs—that was for my benefit."
"He was quite a psychologist."
"He was everything. He understood history—he knew when to get off the stage... and how. He knew when to make his entrance and his exit. We thought we were going to be stuck with Jones for another six months... instead, we're stuck with Jones, the legend of Jones, forever."
He didn't need Jones' talent to see it. The new religion. The crucified god, slain for the glory of man. Certain to reappear, someday; a death not in vain. Temples, myths, sacred texts. Relativism wasn't coming back in, not in this world. Not after this.
"He really has us," Cussick admitted, furious, baffled, but forced to admire the cunning of the man. "He outsmarted us, all the way along the line. There'll be icons of Jones sixty feet high. He'll grow taller every year—in a century he'll be a couple of miles high." He laughed harshly. "Shrines. Holy images."
Nina began rewinding the tape. "Maybe we can use this as evidence."
"Hell," Cussick told her, "we've got plenty of evidence. We can prove Jones was wrong—prove it a million different ways. He misjudged the drifters—that's a fact. The ring was up before Jones died; the ships had already started back. And he's dead—rationally, that ought to cinch it. But it won't. He's right; he's a shrewd judge of us. Cause precedes effect. Jones died on Monday, the war was lost on Tuesday. Even I, standing here in this room, can't help being just a little convinced."
"Me, too," Nina agreed in a wretched, tiny voice. "It just sort of—feels right."
Cussick wandered over to the window, pushed aside the drapes, and gazed out helplessly at the dark sheets of rain drumming on the pavement below.
"What about you and me?" Nina asked timidly. "I guess you don't want to go to West Africa."
"You think West Africa will be far enough away? For me? I'm the man who murdered Jones—remember? A lot of people are going to be out looking for me."
"But where can we go?" Nina asked.
"Off Earth," Cussick said, brooding. "There's nowhere here for us. It'll take a day or so for them to start moving... that'll barely give us time to get Jackie and the rest of what we need. Junk—tons of it. And a good ship, one that's been recently serviced. You still have enough money and pull for such things?"
She nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose. You sound like you've made up your mind. You've decided where we're going."
"Where we're going and what we're going to do. It isn't pleasant, but maybe it would be permanent. That's one consolation... this stuff may die down someday, and we can come back."
"I doubt it," Nina said.
"I doubt it, too. But well need something to keep us going. We're going to have a few rough times ahead." He turned away from the window. "You can stay here, you realize. You're legally not my wife; they won't necessarily connect the two of us. A little fast talking here and there, and you're a loyal organization worker again."
"I'll come along," Nina said.
"You're sure? After all, you're in on the ground floor... you can be a saint in the new church."
She smiled up sadly. "You know I want to come along. So let's stop stalling around."
"Good," Cussick agreed, a little happier. In fact, a lot happier. Bending, he kissed her on the nose. "You're right—let's get started. The sooner we get out of here, the better."
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE INTERIOR of the cabin was cool and dark. The air, moist with the swirling mist from outside, drifted up in Louis' face and momentarily cut off his view. He blinked, squinted, settled down on his haunches, and leaned closer to see.
"Be careful," Dieter warned him ominously.
In the shadows lay Vivian, covered to her chin by a blanket. She gazed up weakly at Louis, her eyes dark and immense. It gave him a strange feeling; his heart turned over, and he had trouble getting his breath.
"Maybe I better look later," he muttered.
"I don't drive you fifty miles for nothing," Dieter answered urgently. "What's the matter? Afraid?"
"Yes," Louis admitted. "Do I have to look?" Fear took over, and he backed hurriedly away from the bed. What if it wasn't right? There was always the chance, a high chance, a better than even chance. The problem had never been solved; maybe the genes were inviolate, as Mendel had said. But how, then, had evolution occurred? A vast torrent of abstract theory swept through his brain. "No," he said emphatically, "I can't look."
Dieter strode over beside his wife. "You'll be next," he said to Louis. "You and Irma. And then Frank and Syd. So look."
He looked. And it was all right.
Trembling, he bent down. The baby was sound asleep, a reddish, healthy face, eyes shut tight, mouth slack, forehead pulled into a rubbery scowl. Tiny arms stuck up, ending in bent fingers. In many ways, it looked like an Earth baby ,...ut it wasn't. He could see that already.
The nostrils were altered; he noticed that first of all. A spongy element closed each one: filter-membrane to screen out the thick water vapor. And the hands. Reaching cautiously down, he took hold of the baby's tiny right hand and examined it. The fingers were webbed. No toes at all. And the chest was immense: huge lungs, to gather in enough of the air to keep the fragile organism alive.
And that was the proof. That was the important thing, the real thing. The baby was alive. Breathing the Venusian air, withstanding the temperature, the humidity... all that remained was the problem of nutrition.
Fondly, Vivian drew the baby against her body. The baby stirred, struggled fitfully, opened its eyes. "What do you think of him?" Vivian asked.
"He's fine," Louis said. "What's his name?"
"Jimmy." Vivian smiled up blissfully. Presently she lifted the struggling baby up against her enlarged breasts; after a short while the struggles ceased, and the frantic motion died into a greedy half-doze. Louis watched for a moment, and then he tiptoed off, to where Dieter stood proudly waiting.