“Maybe, maybe not,” said O’Brien. He studied London.
“He has you enthralled, too,” said London. “Bah!”
“Perhaps we chose our figurehead with more skill than we supposed,” said O’Brien. “Let’s not forget that a crisis time requires strong measures and a strong hand to execute them.”
“Execute!” London stamped across the room to the master chart. “He’ll likely ruin everything. It’s damned strange, Nate. Only last week our positions were reversed. You were wanting him eliminated and I was saying we should wait.”
“You know, I was just thinking the same thing,” said O’Brien. He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s odd, Quilliam, but we’ve never discussed one vital element of our plans. I believe we’ve tacitly avoided it.”
London turned away from the chart. “And what would that be?”
“After the revolution, who did you plan should be Coordinator?”
The old man drew himself up. He had never looked more like an ancient hunter—knobby, austere. “Myself, of course. Who else is qualified to render dispassionate judgments?”
A look of tiredness washed over O’Brien’s face. “I guess I’d anticipated that.” He looked up at London. “I had thought, though, that our object was to give the government back to the people.”
“When they’re ready for it,” said London in a clipped tone.
O’Brien smiled vaguely. “Movius would say they’ve always been ready for it.”
London banged a fist against the master chart beside him. “Movius! Did Movius devise this? Did Movius anticipate the course of history?”
“Who did do these things?” O’Brien’s voice was low.
“We did,” said London.
“Allow me to correct you.” O’Brien raised his voice. “Because of the accident of time which placed us at this point in history, and for no other reason, we are in a position to reap the benefits of five hundred years of work by thousands of others. Without their work we’d have nothing. And as far as predicting the course of history, are we sure—certain sure—that we were the force that brought Movius on stage?”
London curled his lip. “Don’t turn metaphysical on me, Nate. I can forgive you anything but that. Your other argument has spoken for me. Because of all this work, we are in a position to save the best of one civilization for the next one. But our work and the work of those before us is being endangered by this egoistical upstart, Daniel Movius!”
O’Brien cocked his head to one side. “On what do you base this judgment?”
“On my ability to interpret the course of events and decide when the time is ripe. Movius is moving too rapidly.” He shook his head. “Much too rapidly.”
“You said yourself that the crisis would come at the time of the Fall poll,” said O’Brien.
“I have revised my opinion.”
“The revision seems to have come at the very time Movius seems in a position to win the revolt and take over the government.”
London’s eyes blazed. “Are you trying to say that…”
O’Brien stopped him with a curt wave of the hand. He stood up, the look of tiredness more pronounced. “I had hoped to avoid this, Quilliam.” He brought a rolled chart from beneath the table, opened it to show that it was transparent. A single blue line slanted across it, curving up and down. The transparent chart fitted over the chart on Movius. O’Brien taped it in place. The blue line on the transparent chart showed a flatter gradient, more sharp downslopes than the red line on the chart beneath it. The difference was pronounced. The red line climbed at a steep angle. “This blue line charts the decision index of a man named Quilliam London,” said O’Brien.
London’s cheeks flushed; he compressed his lips, breathed noisily through his nose. “That was an evil turn to do an old friend, Nate.” His voice was low, controlled.
“I had to do it, Quilliam. If it’s any consolation, I’ve a chart on myself here. It’s about the same as yours.”
“That man is dangerous,” insisted London.
“He’s dangerous to us if we threaten him,” agreed O’Brien. “Only if we threaten him.”
“Have you given up then?” London looked down at the little psychologist.
“Given up? No, I wouldn’t call it that.” O’Brien turned away from the wall. “A psychologist looks for many things in people and events. I missed a point in observing Movius, although he has not missed this point in observing himself. He has said at least once…”
“Bah!”
“Don’t interrupt. Movius has his roots deep in the unbeatable wellspring of the collective unconscious, that living juggernaut which actually governs…”
“Nonsense! That is not logical!” London seemed at the end of his patience.
“That is exactly correct,” said O’Brien. “Movius is not using logic. He is depending upon instinct. He is in contact with his feelings. There is an ancient colloquialism which precisely fits this situation: Movius is flying by the seat of his pants.”
“Of all the utter…” London broke off, gritted his teeth. “You’re going to sit by and let him destroy everything we’ve planned.”
O’Brien shook his head. “I’ve explained the significance of our work to Movius as well as I am able. I’m hoping he will use the knowledge to advantage. That would preserve it.”
“You’re hoping!” The old man’s tone was taunting. “You’re not planning—you’re hoping!” Suddenly, the old fierceness returned to London. “What about our plans, Nate? I ask you that!”
O’Brien shrugged. “Sometimes the best laid plans…” He broke off. “Someone has come along who demonstrate without question he has greater planning ability than we have. I consider it wise to turn the planning end over to him.”
“In the worst crisis time in all history? Movius doesn’t appreciate the first significance of a crisis!” London turned his back on O’Brien. “You’ve lost your spine, Nate. This isn’t like you.”
A note of pleading came into O’Brien’s voice. “No, Quilliam. I’ve awakened. As I listened to Movius…”
“Listened to Movius! Great Gallup! For six weeks I ate, slept and drank Movius! He’s nothing but a monumental ego!”
“We mustn’t interfere with him,” said O’Brien. “I’m convinced of it.”
“Well, I’m not convinced!” London strode to the table, picked up the wig which disguised his hair, stuffed the cheek-distenders into his mouth. He picked up the infirmary bag, went to the door. “Movius is a positive threat to all of our plans. He is going to be eliminated.”
“Just a moment.”
The command stopped London at the door. The old man turned, the disguise making him look youthful in a bizarre way. “Yes?”
“Who will do the eliminating?”
London patted the infirmary bag. “I will.” The hunter’s eyes stared back at O’Brien.
“Why can’t Navvy do it?”
A vague sag drew at London’s shoulders. “You know Navvy’s gone over to Movius. He hypnotizes people.”
O’Brien said, “Quilliam, your own children oppose you and agree with me.”
“It makes no difference,” said London. “I’ve come to my decision. We’re going on without him.” He slammed the door behind him.
O’Brien sat down at his table, waited almost a minute. With a wary sadness, he picked up his phone. “Security, please. Wilson? This is O’Brien. Quilliam London just left my office about a minute ago. He’s disguised as an infirmary attendant. You’ll know his walk. I want him followed. If he goes anywhere near Movius’ apartment he is to be stopped.” O’Brien hesitated. “Be careful. I believe he has a stutter gun in that infirmary bag.” He listened, spoke again in a lower tone. “Yes… shot if necessary.”