"You're a little confused, Mr. Duncan," the doorman said, putting away his gun. "All Souls was last night; this is Friday."
Something's gone wrong, Ian realized. But he said nothing; he merely nodded and hurried on toward the elevator.
As he emerged from the elevator on his own floor, a door opened and a furtive figure beckoned to him. "Hey, Duncan."
It was Corley. Warily, because an encounter like this could be disastrous, Ian approached him. "What is it?"
"A rumor," Corley said in a rapid, fear-filled voice. "About your last relpol test – some irregularity. They're going to rouse you at five or six A.M. tomorrow morning and spring a surprise quiz on you." He glanced up and down the hall. "Study the late 1980s and the religio-collectivist movements in particular. Got it?"
"Sure," Ian said, with gratitude. "And thanks a lot. Maybe I can do the same -" He broke off, because Corley had hurried back into his own apartment and shut the door; Ian was alone.
Certainly very nice of him, he thought as he walked on. Probably saved my hide, kept me from being forcibly ejected right out of here forever.
When he reached his apartment he made himself comfortable, with all his reference books on the political history of the United States spread out around him. I'll study all night, he decided. Because I have to pass that quiz; I have no choice.
To keep himself awake, he turned on the TV. Presently the warm, familiar being, the presence of the First Lady, flowed into motion and began to fill the room.
"…and at our musical tonight," she was saying, "we will have a saxophone quartet which will play themes from Wagner's operas, in particular my favorite, 'Die Meistersinger.' I believe we will truly all find this a deeply rewarding and certainly an enriching experience to cherish. And, after that, my husband the President and I have arranged to bring you once again an old favorite of yours, the world renown cellist, Henri LeClercq, in a program of Jerome Kern and Cole Porter." She smiled, and at his pile of reference books, Ian Duncan smiled back.
I wonder how it would be to play at the White House, he said to himself. To perform before the First Lady. Too bad I never learned to play any kind of musical instrument. I can't act, write poems, dance or sing – nothing. So what hope is there for me? Now, if I had come from a musical family, if I had had a father or brothers to teach me how…
Glumly, he scratched a few notes on the rise of the French Christian Fascist Party of 1975. And then, drawn as always to the TV set, he put his pen down and turned to face the set. Nicole was now exhibiting a piece of Delft tile which she had picked up, she explained, in a little shop in Vermont. What lovely clear colors it had… he watched, fascinated, as her strong, slim fingers caressed the shiny surface of the baked enamel tile.
"See the tile," Nicole was murmuring in her husky voice. "Don't you wish you had a tile like that? Isn't it lovely?"
"Yes," Ian Duncan said.
"How many of you would like someday to see such a tile?" Nicole asked. "Raise your hands."
Ian raised his hand hopefully.
"Oh, a whole lot of you," Nicole said, smiling her intimate, radiant smile. "Well, perhaps later we will have another tour of the White House. Would you like that?"
Hopping up and down in his chair, Ian said, "Yes, I'd like that."
On the TV screen she was smiling directly at him, it seemed. And so he smiled back. And then, reluctantly, feeling a great weight descend over him, he at last turned back to his reference books. Back to the harsh realities of his daily, endless life.
Against the window of his apartment something bumped and a voice called at him thinly, "Ian Duncan, I don't have much time."
Whirling, he saw outside in the night darkness a shape drifting, an egg-like construction that hovered. Within it a man waved at him energetically, still calling. The egg gave off a dull putt-putt noise, its jets idling as the man kicked open the hatch of the vehicle and then lifted himself out.
Are they after me already on this quiz? Ian Duncan asked himself. He stood up, feeling helpless. So soon… I'm not ready, yet.
Angrily, the man in the vehicle spun the jets until their steady white exhaust firing met the surface of the building; the room shuddered and bits of plaster broke away. The window itself collapsed as the heat of the jets crossed it. Through the gap exposed the man yelled once more, trying to attract Ian Duncan's faculties.
"Hey, Duncan! Hurry up! I have your brother already; he's on his way in another ship!" The man, elderly, wearing an expensive natural-fiber blue pin-stripe suit, lowered himself with dexterity from the hovering egg-shaped vehicle and dropped feet-first into the room. "We have to get going if we're to make it. You don't remember me? Neither did Al. Boy, I take off my hat to them."
Ian Duncan stared at him, wondering who he was and who Al was and what was happening.
"Mama's psychologists did a good, good job of working you over," the elderly man panted. "That Bethesda – it must be quite a place. I hope they never get me there." He came toward Ian, caught hold of him by the shoulder. "The police are shutting down all my jalopy jungles; I have to beat it to Mars and I'm taking you along with me. Try to pull yourself together; I'm Loony Luke – you don't remember me now but you will after we're all on Mars and you see your brother again. Come on." Luke propelled him toward the gap in the wall of the room, where once had been a window, and toward the vehicle – it was called a jalopy, Ian realized – drifting beyond.
"Okay," Ian said, wondering what he should take with him. What would he need on Mars? Toothbrush, pajamas, a heavy coat? He looked frantically around his apartment, one last look at it. Far off police sirens sounded.
Luke scrambled back into the jalopy, and Ian followed, taking hold of the elderly man's extended hand. The floor of the jalopy crawled with bright orange bug-like creatures whose antennae waved at him. Papoolas, he remembered, or something like that.
You'll be all right now, the papoolas were thinking. Don't worry; Loony Luke got you away in time, just barely in time. Now just relax.
"Yes," Ian said. He lay back against the side of the jalopy and relaxed; for the first time in many years he felt at peace.
The ship shot upward into the night emptiness and the new planet which lay beyond.
Waterspider
I
That morning, as he carefully shaved his head until it glistened, Aaron Tozzo pondered a vision too unfortunate to be endured. He saw in his mind fifteen convicts from Nachbaren Slager, each man only one inch high, in a ship the size of a child's balloon. The ship, traveling at almost the speed of light, continued on forever, with the men aboard neither knowing nor caring what became of them.
The worst part of the vision was just that in all probability it was true.
He dried his head, rubbed oil into his skin, then touched the button within his throat. When contact with the Bureau switchboard had been established, Tozzo said, "I admit we can do nothing to get those fifteen men back, but at least we can refuse to send any more."
His comment, recorded by the switchboard, was passed on to his co-workers. They all agreed; he listened to their voices chiming in as he put on his smock, slippers and overcoat. Obviously, the flight had been an error; even the public knew that now. But -
"But we're going on," Edwin Fermeti, Tozzo's superior, said above the clamor. "We've already got the volunteers."
"Also from Nachbaren Slager?" Tozzo asked. Naturally the prisoners there would volunteer; their lifespan at the camp was no more than five or six years. And if this flight to Proxima were successful, the men aboard would obtain their freedom. They would not have to return to any of the five inhabited planets within the Sol System.
"Why does it matter where they originate?" Fermeti said smoothly.