Western Europe still wallowed in a muddled half-war: Soviet troops, unsupported and running low on supplies, rampaged through Germany, Austria, and the countries of Eastern Europe. There were refugees by the millions, impossible logistics, starvation, dysentery, and sanitation so bad that even the rats held their noses! Unusually severe rains turned the jerry-built Italian, French, and Belgian camps into quagmires, and Spanish troops were using machine guns and tanks to halt the influx of unwanted visitors north of Barcelona. It was a busy season in Hell.
A new epidemic, the anchorwoman continued, possibly Pacov or one of its mutant offspring, was decimating Japan, Korea, and unknown stretches of the Chinese mainland. Nor was South America immune: Starak had been accidently let loose there by an American rapid-strike force probing for secret supply bases: some trigger-happy pilot had bombed a barge, and its lethal cargo had taken a flying splash into the Amazon! Much of Brazil was now a boneyard.
By the time Jameela emerged, massaging her banner of shimmering tresses with a fluffy bath towel, Lessing’s mood had become a landscape of unrelieved darkness.
She chose white slacks, a tunic of rippling, emerald silk, and tiny, pointed, black slippers. A touch of makeup, a whiff of sandalwood, and she was ready. She clicked off the newscast, stooped to kiss him, and said, “You need lunch.”
Lessing had improved by the time they reached the hotel dining room, a cavernous place panelled in dark veneer and lit by dim, orange, electric candelabra. A few of the new Party and Cadre uniforms were visible in the gloom, amongst old-fashioned business suits and new-fangled unisex coveralls. Others wore the bright-hued kilts and tunics that had just come into fashion when Pacov and Starak put the garment industry hors de combat.
Wrench and Morgan communed together in solitary splendor at the “officers’ table” beneath stained-glass windows at the far end of the room. Goddard was in Salt Lake City, Jennifer and Borchardt were organizing somewhere on the east coast, and Mulder was settling into the world’s newest and strongest fortress, a complex of steel, concrete, and fancy electronics in Virginia. Lessing deliberately avoided thinking of Liese.
“Hey, the newly weds! ” Wrench crowed. “Or, at least, the newly-laids!”
“You, too, can be a victim,” Lessing warned genially.
Sam Morgan got up to be introduced. Heads were swivelling at other tables, but he ignored them. Morgan fancied himself a sophisticate. He wouldn’t have batted the proverbial eyelash if Jameela had been a six-armed Hindu goddess.
“Sit down,” Wrench urged Lessing. “You’re spoiling my view of this lady.”
Jameela smiled at him. “You’ve seen me before, Charles. All of me. I remember who installed those big keyholes in the Indoco staff showers.”
Wrench chortled. “Right on! A lovely sight! And how’ve you been, my sweet? Your folks okay?”
She raised a graceful, shoulder. “Settling in. My father likes Tenerife, but my younger brother wants to come on over here.”
“No jobs… Starak’s screwed up everything,” Wrench said.
Morgan leaned past the little man. “What about Pakistan for a home for your family? The Red Mullah can use all the Muslim expertise he can get, now that Soviet Central Asia is up for grabs.”
Jameela flashed him an appraising look. “We’re Shi’i. And Indians until last month. And my father’s no Marxist”
“Copley’s up there in Russia somewhere,” Wrench told Lessing. “City called Sverdlovsk, in the Urals. The Israelis gave it to him and his meres… like a fief, you know. ‘Fight for us! Protect our flanks while we gobble up the rest of the country! We will then reward you with rich lands, mighty castles, and all the beauteous damsels you can prod!’” He performed a mock bow that almost ended with his nose in his lasagna. Lessing noted the empty wine bottle amidst the clutter of dishes. Another, half full, stood nearby.
Jameela glanced at the tables around them, then laid cool fingers over Lessing’s. Her words were for Morgan, however. “I wasn’t told that my duties included being a zoo exhibit.”
Morgan reddened. “You ‘re different. Forgive the curiosity. After Starak, there’ve been a lot less… uh, foreigners. And, uh, some of our people are a little surprised to see you here.” He straightened his maroon, silk tie uncomfortably. “You’re important to us. Miss Husaini. As Mr. Mulder must have told you, we need you to keep us up on Asian affairs, tell us what the foreign press is saying, advise us, help us deal with India, Pakistan, what’s left of Iran and the Arab countries, and the rest of the so-called Third World. You’ll have a good staff… facilities… whatever you want…”
Jameela cut him off. “By ‘us’ you mean your Party of Humankind. Not the United States government.”
Morgan inspected a dark spot, not unlike a smear of asphalt, on the sleeve of his expensive sports jacket and said, “Um, yes. We aren’t the government”
“Of course. Not yet, anyway.” She stared past him at the banners hung along the rear wall opposite the windows. The Party flag consisted of a thick, black “X” inside a black circle on a while background, centered on a red field. The connection was obvious.
Wrench soothed her. “Don’t worry about your status here. Mulder’s fixed your visa and green card and stuff.”
“And who’s going to fix them?” She swept the room with an icy stare.
“Hey. It’ll be green light… okay! Our rank and file’ll get used to you. Some of these gubbers have never seen a female sheep before, much less a houri of paradise!”
“A non-White houri. The attitudes of your Party of Humankind are no secret, Charles.”
This unpleasant topic had to come up sooner or later. Wrench opened his mouth, but Lessing got in first. “You’re no more non-While than Jennifer Caw! And she’ll envy you your tan!”
“I won’t be your token Black lady,” Jameela said evenly to Morgan.
“Indians aren’t racially ‘Black,’” Wrench said, “not even southern Indians. And some of the northern Indians are as ‘White’ as their Aryan ancestors. In fact, words like Aryan and swastika come from Sanskrit.”
Morgan interrupted him. “Wrench… please! Miss Husaini, be assured that no one here… no one… will offend you by word or look or deed! You are very welcome. We need you… and others like you, who want to work for a world in which all ethnos groups cooperate in harmony. We do not hold with mingling ethnos groups indiscriminately, but there’s always room for exceptional individuals and situations.”
“What a beautifully mealy-mouthed way of putting it.” Wrench smirked across the table at Lessing.
“Take it easy, Wrench!” Morgan ordered. “Miss Husaini, the Party’s interested in a new and better social order, truth in history, redefinitions of social goals… not just in skin color! We have lots of people who are educated… reasonable…”
“Plus some who’ll swear Irishmen are Black,” Wrench sniggered, “or at least a mite discolored around the asshole. Or who say Catholics aren’t White… or Italians, or Spaniards, or whoever the hell is different and an economic threat! New kid on the block? Not one of our kind? Okay, you gubber, mess with my job… move into my neighborhood… screw my sister… and I’ll hand you your teeth!”
“You’re drunk,” Lessing said. He set the wine bottle down beyond Wrench’s reach.
Pale lines of anger framed Morgan’s lips, but he kept his calm. “Some of those attitudes are justifiable, given the facts of history. Others reflect no more than ignorance and humanity’s built-in xenophobia and isolationism. We do believe in our own ethnos; its success is the world’s success. That’s what positive ethnic idealism means. We are not ‘rednecks,’ not ‘nigger-bashers,’ not ‘kike-kick-ers!’ Such terms are insulting… offensive and unthinkable in this twenty-first century! We aren’t haters; we’re lovers… lovers of our heritage and our people.”