Wrench and Liese busied themselves with the projector equipment, while Goddard stepped out onto the terrace to confer with his PHASE subordinates on the portable vid-phone. Mulder was left to sit alone in a plastic armchair before the pit-fireplace with its fake logs and phony, crackling flames. Above his round, bald head, a holo-photo of Susan Kane, defunct Hollywood’s last and greatest bitch-goddess, undulated in beads and transparent Arabian Nights silks. That had been part of the Theda Bara revival of two decades ago: a shadow from the past, a relic of another age.
A memory… ice-blue.
Lessing blinked to find Mulder talking to him. “Jonas was never like that, Alan. I can’t understand the change I saw in him today. And why does he let himself be dominated by that man Korinek? He sounded querulous, tired, and, it had to be admitted, old.
“Perhaps his illness, sir.”
“Who in hell is Korinek, anyway?” Wrench threw in from the projector console. “A Vizzie? An Izzie? The FBI? Some other coven of would-be ass-kickers?”
“Jew-lickers, you mean! A race traitor. A very deep mole,” Goddard answered from the deepening afternoon shadows by the shuttered terrace windows. “Janos Korinek is a lapsed Catholic, Czech ancestry, family in this country since the late 1890’s. Held liberal views in college, then apparently ‘turned’ and went over to Outram. Loyal as the family dog for fifteen years. One civil rights leader called him ‘Simon Legree.’ The Black Citizens’ Council accused him of masterminding the Cleveland race riots back in 2038. Seems he loves the Jews, though. They probably planted him.”
“Jonas never completely agreed with us,” Mulder continued as though he had not heard, “but he’d never betray us.”
“Ready! Lights, camera, action! ” Wrench called. “Eighty-Five?”
“Here, Commander. My tests show green light on the equipment, a faulty power-cell at N-435, and an improperly placed projector at Apex Three.”
Wrench corrected the projector setting. The power-cell could wait.
Janos Korinek appeared before them.
They all gasped, and Wrench uttered a Banger obscenity that even Lessing had never heard.
“Do not be alarmed,” the Korinek-image said. “It is I, Eighty-Five. I will now employ Mr. Korinek’s verbal codes.” The voice went up an octave and took on the agent’s raspy, reedy quality. “Eighty-Five, Simple Simon down to London went. Took a wife and bought a tent”
The response was immediate and chilling. Another voice, much darker, colder, and crisper, said, ‘Took his wife and tent back home.”
“Never more abroad to roam.”
“You are in, Agent Korinek. I recognize you.”
Lessing would have said something, but Liese put a finger to his lips. Across the penthouse, Goddard’s features resembled a fierce, African mask, his mouth a round “O.”
“Replay messages 7-D-I51 through 7-D-157.”
“Hologram facilities?”
“Present.”
The Korinek image flicked out, and another came into being: a warm, delicately furnished room. An American flag stood beside a big desk.
“The Oval Office,” Wrench breathed. “Outram!”
The man behind the desk was obviously ill. The heavy, fleshy jowls hung loose and flabby, spotted and wrinkled and splotched like a turkey’s wattles. The hands, clenched on the desktop, were empty bags of skin over slick-like bones. They trembled. A thick shawlhid the President’s torso and sagged down over his wheelchair to the floor.
The camera panned to show another man in the room: Herman Mulder.
This was a replay of Mulder’s morning meeting!
Mulder hissed, “What…? Why…?”
“I sense other operators. Agent Korinek!” the machine warned. “Security clearances, please.”
The hologram of Korinek reappeared. “None available. Emergency, path 250, file D.”
“Incorrect. Access denied. ” The picture snapped off, and the light died.
Mulder spoke into the resulting void: “Eighty -Five, what… what did you do? How?”
“I have Agent Korinek in my files. I created a hologram of him, using my highest resolution, and showed that image to my White House terminal. I… it… read the image’s retinal patterns, voice-print, and microscopic pore structure. These produced correct physical identification. My record of Commander Wren’s pen-transmitter then provided the verbal codes needed for access.”
“You fooled yourself with yourself!” Wrench marvelled.
“But what have we learned?” Liese asked. “Mr. Mulder can tell us what he and Outram talked about.”
“There is something else,” Eighty -Five instructed. “Observe!”
Outram appeared again in the center of the room. The picture zoomed close to show a huge, three-dimensional left hand and wrist.
The thumb showed a square, black hole.
“N-435,” Liese cried. “Outram is a… a… hologram!”
Korinek returned and held up his left hand. His thumb showed the same black, empty blot. “Quite so. I… we… must repair this power-cell.”
“Where is the real Outram?” Goddard sounded baffled. “What the hell?”
Eighty-Five spoke over their questions. “Everyone, please! Absolute silence is required. I shall re-access my While House terminal, utilizing the same method. I must do this quickly since various watchdog systems are being activated even now.”
The access sequence was repeated. Lessing found himself clutching his glass so tightly that he had to will his fingers to let go. Liese, on his other side, made a muffled sound of protest, and he released her too.
“Eighty-Five,” the Korinek-figure said, “Where is President Outram?”
“Code five!” the cold, mechanical voice demanded.
“Never give a sucker a snowball in hell.”
“You are in, Agent Korinek.” The machine paused, then said, “President Jonas Outram remains exactly where you put him: in a grave in Arlington National Cemetery under the name of Sergeant Orville Judd Hickam, killed in action in Mexico on March 18, 2050.”
Mulder could not restrain himself: “He’s dead? Jonas is dead!”
“Identify the unknown operator, please!”
“Ignore….” The rest was lost in a confusion of voices.
Korinek flared and vanished, and a familiar blue-and-gold shield appeared in his place. The scarlet lettering on the shield read: U.S. GOVERNMENT: ACCESS RESTRICTED.
A new Janos Korinek formed before them This one was visibly angry — and shaken.
“You people arc becoming a nuisance!”
“You killed Jonas Outram,” Mulder hissed. “The President of the United States! You killed him!”
The image shifted to Outram at his desk. “Nonsense!”
“Don’t bother,” Goddard snarled. “We know! Remember Sergeant Hickam?”
“All right.” The aide shrugged. “But we didn’t kill him. He died of liver complications two months ago. It was expedient to keep him alive
“Until you could get a handle on us and our movement! ” Goddard accused. “Until you could get your ‘traditional interests’ ready for a comeback!”
“Good reasons, don’t you think? No? Well, then, what do you plan to do about it? Tell the world? We’ll cheerfully admit our deception. It was in the public interest not to have a power vacuum at this time in our history. Certain high-level government officials decided to keep the President ‘alive,’ at least until the lib-reb war was over. I doubt if there’ll be a problem. On the other hand, we happen to know that your ‘Vincent Dom’ is a hologram too. What if we expose hint! Our red-blooded American citizenry may not like to be led by a computerized composite cartoon-character. How about a joint balloon-popping party?”
“You have committed treason,” Lessing stated heavily. ‘The President dies… under what circumstances nobody knows… and is secretly buried. You take over the country and run it to suit yourself… you and the power-groupies you represent! No, I don’t think treason’s the right word. Coup d’etat fits better.”