"Now?"
"Now."
Hamilton cleared the circuit. Monroe-Alpha had started to struggle the second the phone came to life. Hamilton had ground his knee into his spine and clamped down hard on his throat, but it was a situation which could mot be maintained indefinitely.
He eased up on Monroe-Alpha a little. "You heard those orders?"
"Yes," Monroe-Alpha acknowledged hoarsely.
"You are going to carry them out. Where's your runabout?"
No answer. Hamilton dug in viciously. "Answer me. On the roof?"
"Yes."
Hamilton did not bother to answer. He took his heavy automatic from its holster and struck Monroe-Alpha behind his right ear. The man's head jerked once, then sagged limply. Hamilton turned to the phone and signalled Mordan's personal number. He waited apprehensively while distant machinery hunted, fearful that the report would come back, "NOWHERE AVAILABLE." He was relieved when the instrument reported instead, "Signalling."
After an interminable time-all of three or four seconds- Mordan's face lighted up the frame. "Oh-hello, Felix."
"Claude-the time's come! This is it."
"Yes, I know. That's why I'm here." The background behind him showed his office.
"You-knew?"
"Yes, Felix."
"But ... Never mind. I'm coming over."
"Yes, certainly." He cut off.
Hamilton reflected grimly that one more surprise would be just enough to cause him to start picking shadows off the wall. But he had no time to worry about it. He rushed into his friend's bedchamber, found what he wanted immediately-small pink capsules, Monroe-Alpha's habitual relief from the peril of sleepless worry. He returned then and examined Monroe-Alpha briefly. He was still out cold.
He picked him up in his arms, went out into the corridor, and sought the lift. He passed one startled citizen on the way. Hamilton looked at him, said, "Sssh-you'll waken him. Open the lift for me, will you please?"
The citizen looked dubious, shrugged, and did as he was requested.
He found Monroe-Alpha's little skycar without trouble, removed the key from his friend's pocket, and opened it. He dumped his burden inside, set the pilot for the roof of the Clinic, and depressed the impeller bar. He had done all he could for the moment; in over-city traffic automatic operation was faster than manual. It would be five minutes, or more, before he reached Mordan, but, even at that, he had saved at least ten minutes over what it would have taken by tube and slideway.
It consoled him somewhat for the time he had wasted on Monroe-Alpha.
The man was beginning to stir. Hamilton took a cup from the cooler, filled it with water, dissolved three of the capsules in it, and went to his side. He slapped him.
Monroe-Alpha sat up. "Whassa matter?" he said. "Stop it. What's happened?"
"Drink this." Hamilton put the cup to his lips.
"What happened? My head hurts."
"It ought to-you had quite a fall. Drink it. You'll feel better."
Monroe-Alpha complied docilely. When he had finished, Hamilton watched him narrowly, wondering if he would have to slug him again before the hypnotic took hold. But Monroe-Alpha said nothing more, seemed still dazed, and shortly was sleeping soundly.
The car grounded gently.
Hamilton raised the panel of the communicator, shoved his foot inside, and pushed. There was a satisfying sound of breaking crystal and snapping wires. He set the pilot on due South, without destination, opened the door, and stepped out. He turned, reached inside, sought the impeller bar-but hesitated without depressing it. He stepped back inside and removed the selector key from the pilot. He stepped out again, depressed the impeller-and ducked. As the door slammed shut, the little runabout angled straight up, seeking cruising altitude.
He did not wait for it to go out of sight, but turned and started below.
Monroe-Alpha awoke with a dry mouth, an excruciatingly throbbing head, a nauseous feeling at his midriff, and a sense of impending disaster. He became aware of things in that order.
He knew that he was in the air, in a skycar, and alone, but how had he gotten there, why he was there, escaped him. He had had some dreadful nightmares-they seemed to have some bearing on it. There was something he should be doing.
This was the Day, the Day of the Change! That was it!
But why was he here? He should be with his section. No. No, McFee had said-
What was it he had said? And where was Hamilton? Hamilton was a spy! Hamilton was about to betray them all!
He must inform McFee at once. Where was he? No matter-call him!
It was then that he found the wrecked communicator. And the bright sunlight outside told him it was too late, too late. Whatever had come of Hamilton's treachery had already happened. Too late.
The pieces were beginning to fall into place. He recalled the ugly interview with Hamilton, the message from McFee, the fight. Apparently he had been knocked out. There was nothing left to do but to go back, turn himself in to his leader, and confess his failure.
No. McFee had given him orders to stay out, to stay away for two days. He must obey. The Whole is greater than the parts.
But those orders did not apply-McFee had not known about Hamilton.
He knew now. That was certain. Therefore, the orders did apply. What was it McFee had said? "I've decided to take no chances on him."
They didn't trust him. Even McFee knew him for what he was-a thumb-fingered idiot who could be depended on to do the wrong thing at the wrong time.
He never had been any good. All he was fit for was to do fiddling things with numbers. He knew it. Everybody knew it. Hazel knew it. If he met a girl he liked, the best he could do was to knock her off her feet. Hamilton knew it. Hamilton hadn't even bothered to kill him-he wasn't worth killing. They hadn't really wanted him in the Survivors Club-not in a pinch. They just wanted him available to set up the accounting for the New Order. McFee had spoken to him about that, asked him if he could do it. Naturally, he could. That's all he was-a clerk.
Well, if they wanted him for that, he'd do it. He wasn't proud. All he asked was to serve. It would be a fairly simple matter to set up foolproof accounting for a collective-type state. It would not take him long; after that, his usefulness ended, he would be justified in taking the long sleep.
He got up, having found some comfort in complete self-abnegation. He rinsed out his mouth, drank more than a litre of water, and felt a little better. He rummaged in the larder, opened a seal of tomato juice, drank it, and felt almost human, in a deeply melancholy way.
He then investigated his location. The car was hovering; it had reached the extreme limit of its automatic radius. The ground was concealed by clouds, though it was bright sunlight where he was. The pilot showed him the latitude and longitude; a reference to the charts placed him somewhere over the Sierra Nevada Mountains-almost precisely over the Park of the Giant Redwoods, he noticed.
He derived a flicker of interest from that. The Survivors Club, in their public, social guise, claimed the Generalsherman Tree as president emeritus. It was a nice jest, he thought-the unkillable, perfectly adapted Oldest Living Thing on Earth. The sabotaged pilot put wrinkles between his eyes. He could fly it manually, but he could not enter the traffic of the Capital until it was repaired. He would have to seek some small town-
- No, McFee had said to go away and stay away-and McFee meant what he said. If he went to any town, he would be mixed up in the fighting.
He did not admit to himself that he no longer had any stomach for it-that Hamilton's words had left him with unadmitted doubts.
Still, it must be repaired. There might be a repair station at the Park-must be, in fact, in view of the tourist traffic. And surely the Change would not cause any fighting there. He cut in the fog eyes and felt his way down. When he grounded a single figure approached. "You can't stay," the man said, when he was in earshot. "The Park's closed."
"I've got to have a repair," said Monroe-Alpha. "Why is the Park closed?"