The very thought—that the terrorist might die in just such an air raid, that they might never know any more about him, might never solve the case—caused Pol to feel very upset as well.
There are aliens among us.
“Let’s wash up and get out of here,” Gyde said gruffly. He headed for a spigot on the side of the building.
“The water line might be down. Let’s just get back to the station.”
Gyde turned the spigot. Water came out. He shot Pol a look and removed his coat. “Come on. We’re filthy from that place. I don’t want you getting it in the car.”
They were filthy. The dust darkened the water that sluiced off Gyde’s hands. Pol could feel it clogging his pores, coating his hair, even his eyelashes. Damn. It must be matting on the blue makeup at his temples.
Gyde rolled up his sleeves, revealing his corded, hairless forearms. He rubbed his hands and face in the stream: “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”
Pol went over to the spigot reluctantly. Put his hands in the flow.
“You’re going to get your sleeves wet,” Gyde said with exasperation.
Pol shook the water from his fingers, face hard. “It’s the smell of blood, too many memories. I just want to get out of here.”
To the Citizens of Centalia
Some secrets lead to destruction.
Let it be known then: there are other realities beyond this planet.
I have been in contact with aliens, beings from other worlds. I have been taken to those worlds.
These aliens have advanced technology. If they choose (maybe I should say when they choose…) they will take all power from us and enslave us (every citizen… ).
This is a warning. They are already here. Their spies have infiltrated our society from the lowest levels to the highest ranks of our government. These aliens are in disguise and they are almost impossible to detect. (I know how, but I cannot speak for obvious reasons.)
We must unite, in secret, to save ourselves. Do not trust the State. TRUST NO ONE.
The pamphlet was signed on the back page with the open circle with the bar on top, the “signature” they’d seen on the wall.
Gyde was gleeful. “The more this scum dares, the easier it will be to find him and the more merits we’ll get when we bring him down!”
Pol almost said “if we bring him down,” but he bit it back. Gyde’s confidence made him angry. He didn’t know why. He wanted to find the terrorist, but that wasn’t the same thing as wanting Gyde to find him.
“He has access to a copier and supplies. The lab is checking now on the paper…”
Gyde went on. Pol shut him out. He shut out the anger, too, and his own confusion. One thing at a time. When your mind was wounded you had to grasp reality one fistful at a time. He tried to focus on the pamphlet’s message. He read it over several times, waiting for it to stick. Suddenly the paper was shaking in his hands.
It took him a moment to realize it. Meanwhile he stood there, shaking. He put the paper down carefully and made his way past Gyde with what he believed was a stony face, heading into the service room down the hall. For once it was empty, thank the gods.
It was his scarping hands. They were trembling, the traitors. He stuck them under his armpits, leaned forward from the waist, squeezing them tight, and his eyes, too.
Their spies have infiltrated our society.
He had opened the letter from the Department of Health. Gyde was right. It was his yearly physical, scheduled for one month hence. No, it was the yearly physical of Pol 137, scheduled for one month hence. Pol 137 would not be showing up.
Had he known about the physicals when he killed the Silver? No. He had thought of many things: of the hair color and the eyes, of removing the head and hands. The Silver had been just what he’d needed. Pol 137 had come to Marcus for some black-market hooch, and he’d mentioned that he was leaving the next day for Centalia and had Marcus ever been there? Kalim N2 had slipped from the house and followed the dashing officer, had later broken into his hotel room and found the letters of commission. He’d been retired from active battle duty, reassigned as monitor, detective class, in Centalia. Kalim had made up his mind instantly. He knew it was dangerous and chances were high that he would be caught. But at the time, he thought he would rather die than remain a servant. Perhaps he had not been thinking clearly after all. Craftily but not clearly.
He had not counted on the physicals. But even if he had thought about them, would it have made any difference? He tried to think back. He remembered wondering if he and Pol 137 were the same blood type.
He wanted to laugh, gripping his stomach. The same blood type! He couldn’t even roll up his sleeves or pull out his dick in public! What would they find in his scarping veins?
In the cafeteria over lunch, Gyde was still going on about the pamphlet. He puzzled over a copy while eating his soup. “ ‘I have been in contact with aliens, beings from other worlds,’” he quoted. “What a lunatic.”
“Perhaps that’s the angle,” Pol said. “Can we check records of anyone with known mental disturbances?”
Gyde gave him a peculiar look. “Not much tolerance for that.”
Meaning, Pol understood, that mental deviants simply “disappeared.” There would be no such records.
“Any other ideas?” Gyde prompted.
“We’ve eliminated Irons. What if he’s higher than a Bronze?”
“Scarp! No Silver or Gold is gong to hang around construction sites. Besides, this sociopath is too sick to be from the upper classes.”
Pol didn’t respond, but he must have looked unconvinced.
“No Silver or Gold is going to think up scarp like this! When he wrote the other messages I thought he was talking about foreign spies. But aliens from other planets? By the blood, what does that mean?”
Pol looked at the pamphlet, a reflective finger stroking his lip.
“Who ever heard of such a thing?” Gyde insisted, requiring an answer.
Pol’s cold blue eyes looked into Gyde’s. He could sense shifting sand under his feet.
“Have you ever heard of such a thing?” Gyde asked.
“No.”
“Everyone knows there are only four planets and ours is the only one capable of sustaining life.”
The finger stroking Pol’s lips faltered.
“You’ve…” Gyde lowered his voice, “you’ve never heard of Bronzies being taught anything different, have you?” His baffled tone suggested that the state would certainly be capable of teaching the Bronze class something else—anything else—if it was in their best interests to do so.
“Not to my knowledge.”
Gyde shook his head in disgust. “It had to come from somewhere. This slag can’t be that original.”
“There was nothing about aliens in the Archives.” And now Pol realized how odd that was. The “aliens” search had yielded not one word about extraterrestrials in the Archives, not even a claim from the state that such things didn’t exist.
“It came from somewhere.” Gyde’s eyes glinted with calculation.
The communal library at the dorm was empty. Only a few older Silvers were spending their evening in the lounge through the open archway. Pol scanned the bookcases of state-sanctioned titles and found what he was looking for—a book on astronomy.
He took it to a big leather chair and sat down. The lamp beside him cast a rosy glow. He thumbed through the pages and found a large color chart at the center of the book.
There: the sun and around it in elliptical orbits… four planets. Recalia, this planet, was the closest to the sun. Beyond it, cold and lifeless, were three smaller planets. None of the planets had any moons. And around this small solar system was a black encircling dome, affixed with pinpoints of light that were meant to be the stars. And that was all.
In the comfortable library, a fire not all that far away, Pol shivered. Bullshit, he thought, a word from his old language. Bullshit.