He checked to make sure his ad had been entered properly, read the paper through, and then, through sheer boredom, read it completely through again. He was beginning to feel awash with wine, and the waiter was glancing at him with obvious irritation each time he passed. George caught his eye and ordered a pastry and coffee. When that was gone, he ordered more coffee. Then he went back to wine.
Eventually it became impossible to think of taking another sip of the stuff. George sat and stared glassily at the half-empty bottle, wondering why he had not had the God-given sense to make the meeting place a library, or an opium den, or anything at all except a restaurant.
“Came as soon as I could,” said Luther’s voice. “What’s up?”
George looked around with enormous relief to see the little man easing into the chair opposite.
“Luther!” he said. “I couldn’t be gladder to see you!” He smothered a belch. “You haven’t gone back to your apartment, have you?”
“No, of course not. Why?”
“Don’t. According to Art, we’re all about two jumps away from Jail. Where were you, and how did you come back?”
“In Milano. I wanted to see a man there who claimed he had a new strain of Abyssinians. Came back by plane, the same way I Went up. Why?”
“Good Lord,” said George. “You were lucky they didn’t nab you at the airport. All right, the next thing is, give me checks for any funds you’ve got in Venetian banks. Wait a minute. First, do you have any idea where Morey might be?”
“Marseilles, I think. Now why—”
George stood up somewhat unsteadily. “I’ll try to call him there while you’re writing the checks. Don’t order anything till I get back.”
He returned in a moment. “No luck. Either he’s on the way back, or you were mistaken. Got the checks?”
“Yes. Here. But listen, George, take pity on my ignorance, will you? What’s happened to Art? Why do you want all my money? I feel as if I’d come in at the second act.”
“I’ll explain it all to you later or Art will. Oh, damn!” He looked at his watch. “The banks are closed, aren’t they?” He tore up the three slips of paper Luther had handed him and stuffed the fragments in his pocket. “Well, look. Art is in the Hotel Scato on the Ruza Vecchia, Suite C 35. Speak German and ask for Herr Bauernfeind—that’s the name I gave when I registered. You go on up there as fast as you can, but use the slidewalks; don’t take a ‘copter. I’ll stay here—” George looked unhappily at the wine bottle— “and wait till Morey shows up, or the place closes.”
Luther stood up. “All right. Look, though, if Morey is on the way here, and if he started about when I did, he might be within phone range by now. Why don’t you try calling him again?”
George clutched at the idea. “I will. Walt for me.” He Went to the booth again and dialed Morey’s number.
A voice said, “This is Stiles.”
George sighed happily. He said, “George, Morey. How long will it take you to get here? … You saw the ad?… Good. I’ll meet you outside.”
An hour later they were all together in Art’s suite, listening to a video newscaster announce, “The following persons are wanted by the Security Police for questioning in connection with a conspiracy against the peace. Please memorize these names and pictures. If you see one of these persons, communicate immediately with your local S. P. office. Arthur Benjamin Levinson, age 341; residence, Pasadena, California; profession, geneticist. Luther Wallace Wheatley, age 357; residences in Venice, Mexico City and Caulfield, Vermont; independently wealthy.” Three more pictures and descriptions of Luther’s friends appeared, then George’s. Morey was far down the list, which was a long one.
“They’ll narrow it down,” said Art Levinson. “In a couple of days, at the most, they’ll have located all but the four of us. Then you’ll really see a fox hunt.”
Morey’s long face was gloomy. “It don’t look good, Art. If you want my opinion, we’re licked.”
“I didn’t say the fox hunt would succeed,” Levinson said. “We can slip the hounds and, as long as we’re free, we have a chance to get our program across.”
Morey shook his head. “Maybe you got some reason to be optimistic, but I don’t see it. We’ve got to throw out all the plans we’ve made so far, ain’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, will you tell me what in blazes we can do? How much money have we got between us?”
They counted up. George had a little over two thousand international credits, Art four hundred, Luther not quite a thousand, and Morey, surprisingly, five thousand.
“It’s union money,” he said glumly. “If we spend it, that’s one more crime chalked up against us. Not that it’ll matter. Anyhow, we got just short of eighty-three hundred credits. How far can we get with that?”
“Not very far—if we run,” said Art. “If we run, they’ll catch us. I think we can take that as a mathematical certainty. That disposes of one of the three alternatives we have, as I see it.”
“The other two being?” asked Luther.
“We can give ourselves up,” said Art. “Or we can fight. It may seem funny, but I honestly think the safest thing we can do—supposing for a minute that we’re just interested in saving our necks —is to fight. Or let’s say to resist. The other two ways are the next thing to suicide.”
Art’s round face was flushed with enthusiasm. Luther was smiling quietly, and there was a faint gleam even in Morey’s pale eye. George felt a trifle left out. He had an absurd picture of the four of them behind a barricade, doing battle with an endless swarm of policemen.
“Somebody explain this to me, will you?” he asked plaintively.
“He’s too young to remember,” said Luther kindly. “Tell the boy, Art.”
Art leaned forward earnestly, and unconsciously the three hitched themselves forward a little in their chairs.
“George, you probably haven’t read much about the two so-called World Wars’ that preceded the Last War, because in historical perspective they were only a sort of preliminary. But during the second one, when Germany had overrun most of Europe, there was a thing called the Resistance. An underground movement. Their situation was very much like ours—they didn’t have enough of an organization to attack openly, or even defend themselves openly. But they did what they could—sabotage, espionage, propaganda, and some guerrilla warfare. In effect, they made themselves one hell of a nuisance to the Germans. We can do the same thing.”
“There were more than four of them, though, weren’t there?” George asked.
Art said, “An analogy is just an analogy, George, not an identity. As it happens, Golightly’s government has one serious disadvantage that the Germans didn’t have. The Germans were a frankly oppressive group to begin with, operating to the full extent of their power. Golightly’s crowd can’t fight even a small resistance group—and we’ll grow, don’t worry — without assuming the characteristics of a tyranny. And, George, this planet simply isn’t weak enough or sick enough, economically and politically, to hold still for a tyrant.
“This present group has been continuously in power for more than two centuries, and there isn’t one of the inner circle that wouldn’t like to extend their power. But we’ve still got a democracy. Why? Because they haven’t got a power concept behind them. They’ve kept office all this time because they’re the best administrators and practical politicians on the planet, and that’s all. If they stop acting in the people’s interest – which they’ve already done — and if enough of the people find out about it—which they will—their goose is cooked.”