Paul's funeral oration was competent though less than inspiring. The Chief Resident of Dallas, one of the great new figures of the Establishment, made an even finer speech over the corpse. I listened attentively, judging from what was said and what was not said the wind's direction: it was quite obvious that Cavesway was to be the heart of the doctrine. Death was to be embraced with passion; life was the criminal; death the better reality; consciousness was an evil which, in death's oblivion, met its true fate… man's one perfect virtuous act was the sacrifice of his own consciousness to the pure nothing from which, by grim accident, it had come, a malignancy in creation. The Chief Resident of Dallas was most eloquent, and chilling.
Even sequestered in my room, I caught some of the excitement which circled the globe like a lightning storm. Thirty-five hundred suicides were reported within forty-eight hours of Cave's death. The statisticians lost count of the number of people who fought to get inside the building to see Cave in death. From my window, however, I could see that Park Avenue had been roped off for a dozen blocks. People, like ants, swarmed toward the gates of the tower.
I sent messages to Iris but received none, nor, for that matter, did I have any assurance that she had got mine. Paul's adventures I followed on television and from the reports of my editors who visited me regularly, despite Stokharin's orders.
On the third day, I was allowed to go to my office: Paul having decided that it would be thought odd if I were to die so soon after Cave and, too, he was no doubt relieved to discover that I had not revealed to my friends what actually had happened. Having established the fact of my weak heart, my death could be engineered most plausibly at any time.
I did not see him face to face until the fourth day, when John Cave's ashes were to be distributed over the United States. Stokharin, Paul and I sat in the back seat of a limousine at the head of a motorcade which, beginning at the tower, terminated at the airport where the jet-plane which would sprinkle the ashes over New York, Seattle, Chicago and Los Angeles was waiting, along with a vast crowd and the President of the United States, an official Christian but known to incline, as Presidents do, toward the majority… Cavites were the majority and had been for almost two years.
I was startled to find Paul and Stokharin in the same automobile. It had been my understanding that we were to travel separately in the motorcade. They were most cordial.
"Sorry to hear you've been sick, Gene," Paul grinned ingenuously. "Mustn't strain the old ticker."
"I'm sure the good doctor will be able to cure me," I said cheerfully.
They both laughed loudly; then the car pulled away from the tower and drove down Park Avenue at the head of a long procession. Crowds lined the street as we drove slowly by. They were curiously still, as though they hardly knew how to react: this was a funeral yet Cavesway was glorious. Some cheered; most simply stared and pointed at our car, recognizing Paul. I suddenly realized why they were so interested in this particular car: on the floor, at Paul's feet, was what looked like a large flower pot covered with gold foil.
"Are those the ashes?"
Paul nodded. "Did an extra quick job, too, I'm glad to say. We didn't want any slip up."
"Where's Iris?"
"I was going to ask you that." Paul looked at me sharply. "She disappeared yesterday and it's very embarrassing for all of us, very inconsiderate too: she knew I especially wanted her at the ceremony. She knows that everyone will expect to see her."
"I think she took the idea of Cavesway most illogically," said Stokharin, his usual sang-froid had returned, his breakdown forgotten. "She should be grateful to us for making all this possible, despite Cave's weakness."
I ignored Stokharin. I looked at Paul who was beaming at the crowd, acknowledging their waves with nods of his head. "What will you do now?"
"You heard the ceremony?"
"Yes."
"Well, just that. Cavesway has become universal. Even the economists in Washington have privately thanked us for what we're doing to reduce the population. There's a theory that by numerous voluntary deaths wars might decrease since… or so the proposition goes… they are nature's way of checking population."
"Perhaps you're right." I assumed a troubled expression as I made the first move of my counter-offensive.
Paul looked away from the crowd to regard me briefly, shrewdly. "You don't think I trust you, do you?"
I shrugged, "Why not? I can't change Cavesway now."
Paul grunted. I could see that he did not believe this spurious volte-face; nevertheless, an end to my active opposition would force him to revise his plans; this would, I hoped, give me the time I needed. I pressed on: "I think we can compromise. Short of rigging my death which would cause suspicion, you must continue to put up with me for a while. You've nothing to fear from me since you control the Establishment and since the one weapon I have against you I will not use."
"You mean…"
"My having witnessed the murder of Cave. If I had wanted to I could have revealed this before the cremation. An autopsy would certainly have ruined everything for you."
"Why didn't you?" I could see that Paul was genuinely interested in my motives.
"Because it would have meant the end of the work. I saw no reason to avenge Cave at such a cost: you must remember he was not a god to me, any more than you are."
This twist of a blunt knife had the calculated effect: "What a cold devil you are!" said Paul, almost admiringly. "I wish I could believe you."
"There's no reason not to. I was opposed to the principle of suicide. It is now firmly established. We must go on from there."
"Then tell me where Iris is."
"I haven't any idea. As you know, I've been trying to get in touch with her for days; your people intercepted everything. How did she manage to get away?"
"One of the guards let her out. I thought he was one of our boys but it seems she worked on him and he left with her. I've alerted all the Centers; so far no one's seen her."
Just before Grand Central Station, the crowd began to roar with excitement and Paul held up the jar of ashes which glittered in his hands; the crowd went wild and tried to break through the police lines. The cortege drove a bit faster and Paul set the ashes down; he looked triumphant but tired, as though he'd not slept in a month: one eyelid, I saw, was twitching with fatigue.
"When are we to have a directors' meeting?" I asked as we crossed the bridge which spanned the Hudson. We're still legally a company. We must elect a new board chairman."
"As soon as we find Iris," said Paul. "I think we should all be there, don't you? Two to two."
"Perhaps three to one on the main things," I said, allowing this to penetrate, aware that his quick mind would study all the possibilities and arrive at a position so subtle and unexpected as to be of use to me if I, in turn, were quick enough to seize my opportunity.
At the airport, a detachment of airborne troops were drawn up before a festooned reviewing stand. Near by the Marine Band played incongruous marches while in the center of the stand, surrounded by cameras and dignitaries, stood the smiling President of the United States.
2
The next day while I was examining the various accounts of the last ceremony, the chief editor came into my office, his face blazing with excitement: "Iris Mortimer!" was all he could say.
"Iris? Where?"