Clarence came out of the house, walked heavy-footed to the gate.
"There's no one in there, Marcus," he said. "No sign of anyone."
"Well, now," said Appleton, "she must be hiding somewhere."
"Not in the house," said Clarence. "Would you say," asked Appleton, "that this gentleman might know?"
Clarence swung his head around and squinted hard at Frost.
"He might," said Clarence. "There's just a chance he might."
"Trouble is," said Appleton, "he's not of a mind to talk." Clarence swung a beefy hand, so fast there was no time to duck. It caught Frost across the face and drove him backward. He struck the fence and slumped. Clarence stopped and grasped his shirt and lifted him and swung the hand again.
Brightly colored pinwheels exploded inside Frost's head and he found himself crawling on his hands and knees, shaking his head to get rid of the flaming pin-wheels. Blood was dribbling from his nose and there was a salt taste in his mouth.
The hand reached down and lifted him again and set him on his feet. Swaying, he fought to stay erect.
"Not again," Appleton said to Clarence. "Not right away, at least. Maybe now he'll talk."
He said to Frost, "You want some more of it?" "The hell with you," said Frost.
The hand struck again and he was down once more and he wondered vaguely, as he tried to regain his feet, why he'd said exactly what he had. It had been a dumb thing to say. He'd not intended to say it and then he'd said it, and look at what it got him. He crawled to a sitting position and looked at the two men. Appleton had lost his look of easy amusement. Clarence stood poised and watching him.
Frost put up a hand and wiped his face. It came away smeared with dust and blood.
"It's easy, Dan," Appleton said to him. "All you have to do is tell us where Mona Campbell is. Then you can walk away. We haven't even seen you." Frost shook his head.
"If you don't," said Appleton, "Clarence here will beat you to death. He likes that kind of work and it might take quite a little while. And the thought strikes me that the boys from the sector station might not arrive in time. You know that sometimes happens. They're just a little late and it's too bad, of course, but there isn't much that can be done about it." Clarence moved a step closer.
"I mean it, Dan," said Appleton. "Don't think I am fooling."
Frost struggled to get his feet beneath him, poised to rise. Clarence took another step toward him and started to reach down. Frost launched himself at the two treelike legs in front of him, felt his shoulder smash into them and sprawled flat upon his face. He rolled away blindly and got his feet beneath him and straightened. Clarence was stretched upon the ground. Blood flowed across his face from a gash upon his head, apparently inflicted when, falling, he had struck a fence post.
Appleton was charging at him, head lowered. Frost tried to step away, but the man's head hit him and he fell, with Appleton on top of him. A hand caught his throat in a brutal grip and above him he saw the face, the narrowed eyes, the great gash of snarling teeth.
From far off, it seemed, he heard a thunder in the sky. But there was a roaring in his head and he could not be sure. The hand upon his throat had a viselike grip. He lifted a fist and struck at the face, but there was little power behind the blow. He struck again and yet again, but the hand upon his throat stayed and kept on squeezing.
A wind that came out of nowhere swirled dust and tiny pebbles through the air and he saw the face above him flinching in the dust. Then the hand at his throat fell away and the face swam out of sight.
Frost staggered to his feet.
Just beyond the car sat a helicopter, its rotors slowing to a halt. Two men were tumbling from the cabin and each of them had guns. They hit the ground and squared off, with the rifles at their hips. Off to one side, Frost saw Marcus Appleton, standing, with his hands hanging at his side. Clarence still lay upon the ground.
The rotors came to a stop and there was a silence. Across the body of the cabin was the legend: RESCUE SERVICE.
One of the men made a motion with his gun at Marcus Appleton.
"Mr. Appleton," he said, "if you have a gun, throw it on the ground. You are under arrest."
"I have no gun," said Appleton. "I never carry one."
It was a dream, thought Frost. It had to be a dream. It was too fantastic and absurd not to be a dream.
"By whose authority," asked Appleton, "are you arresting me?"
There was mockery in his voice and he did not believe it. You could see that he did not believe it. No one, absolutely no one, could arrest Marcus Appleton.
"Marcus," said another voice, "it is on my authority."
Frost spun around and there, on the steps that led down from the cabin of the helicopter, was B.J.
"B.J.," said Appleton, "aren't you fairly far from home?"
B.J. didn't answer. He turned toward Frost. "How are you, Dan?" he asked.
Frost put up a hand and wiped his face. "I'm all right," he said. "Nice to see you, B.J."
The second man with a gun had gone over to Clarence and got him on his feet and relieved him of his gun. Clarence stood groggily, hand up to the gash upon his head.
B.J. had reached the ground and was walking out from the helicopter and Ann Harrison was coming down the steps.
Frost started toward the craft. His head was fuzzy and he could not feel his legs and was surprised that he could walk. But he was walking and he was all right and there was nothing that made sense.
"Ann," he asked, "Ann, what is going on?" — She stopped in front of him.
"What have they done to you?" she asked.
"Nothing that really amounted to anything," he said, "although they had a good start on it. But, tell me, what is this about?"
"The paper that you had. You remember, don't you?"
"Yes. I gave it to you that night. Or I thought I did. Was it really in that envelope?"
She nodded. "It was a silly thing. It said: 'Place 2468934 -isn't it ridiculous that I recall the numeral-Tlace 2468934 on the list. Do you remember now? You said you'd read it, but forgotten."
"I remember now it was about putting something on a list. What does it mean?"
"The numeral," said B.J., standing at his elbow, "is the designation of a person in the vaults. The list was a secret list of people who would never be revived. All record of them was to be wiped out. They would have disappeared from the human race."
"Not revived! But why?"
"They had substantial funds," said B.J. "Funds that could be channeled off. Channeled off and the records changed so that the funds would not be missed if their owners were not revived and did not appear to claim them."
"Lane!" said Frost.
"Yes, Lane. The treasurer. He could manipulate such things. Marcus ferreted out the victims—those who had no close relatives, no close friends. People who would not be missed if they were not revived."
"You know, of course, B.J.," said Appleton, conversationally, without a trace of rancor in his voice, "that I will sue you for this. I'll make you a pauper. I'll take everything you have. You have committed this slander in front of witnesses."
"I doubt it very much," B.J. told him. "We have Lane's confession."
He nodded to the two men from the station. "Take them in," he said.
The two men began hustling Clarence and Appleton up the steps.