"I don't know," he finally said, but he only said the words as a cover-up, a chance to still the clapper banging in his skull, to get his thoughts together, to plan some sort of action.
"It's legitimate," said Gibbons. "I can handle it. Cold cash. No check. No record. Nothing. I can handle everything but the actual payoff. You are in on that." "So I'll be tied to it," said Frost.
"So you're tied to it," said Gibbons. "Good God, man, they deserve that much for their quarter million. And, besides, they wouldn't trust me with a quarter million. And you'd be crazy if you did. I could turn an awful heel for that kind of money. I couldn't help myself." "And you? What kind of cut…"
Gibbons chuckled. "None. You keep the loot, every cent of it. Me, I get ten thousand for convincing you." "We'd never get away with it," Frost said, sharply. "I'm sorry, Dan. I had to tell you. I can go back and tell them no. Although, I'd hoped. I could use ten thousand."
"Joe," said Frost, impulsively, "you've worked a long time with me. We have been friends…"
He stopped. He couldn't say what he had meant to say. It would do no good. For if Marcus Appleton had gotten to Joe Gibbons, there was nothing he could do about it.
"Yes, I know," said Gibbons. "We have been friends. I'd hoped you'd understand. And since you bring it up, we could get away with it. Me, it would be no problem for a guy like me. With you it might be a bit more difficult."
Frost nodded. "Invest the money, then apply for death."
"No! No!" protested Gibbons. "Not apply for death. A very natural death. Give me ten thousand of the loot and I'd get it done for you. That's the going rate. Very neat and easy. And the investment, of course, couldn't be in Forever stock. Something you could stash away— a bunch of paintings, maybe."
"You have to give me time," said Frost.
For he needed time. Time to get it figured out. Time to know what next to do.
"And if you didn't go for death," said Gibbons, "you could try to bluff it out. You've stopped a lot of them. This one just slipped past. You can't catch them all. No one expects you to."
"This one," said Frost, "must be a lulu. To rate a quarter million, it would have to be."
"I wouldn't kid you, Dan," said Gibbons. "This one-would be dynamite. It would sell like wildfire. They figure a seven million mark in the first edition."
"You seem to know a lot about it."
"I made them talk to me," said Gibbons. "I wouldn't buy it blind. And they had to talk with me, for I was the only one who could channel it to you."
"It sounds to me you got in fairly deep."
"All right," said Gibbons, "I'll give it to you straight. I said a while ago I could go back and tell them no. But it wouldn't work that way. If you say no, I won't go back. Say no and walk away from here and I'll begin to travel. And I'll have to travel fast."
"You'd have to run for it," said Frost.
"I'd have to run for it."
They sat in silence. The squirrel sat up and watched them with its beady eyes, its forepaws hanging limply.
"Joe," said Frost, "tell me what it's all about."
"A book," Gibbons told him, "that claims Forever Center is a fraud, that the whole idea is a fraud. There's no chance of second life; there never was a chance. It was a thing dreamed up almost two hundred years ago to put an end to war…"
"Now, wait!" Frost exclaimed. "They can't…"
"They can," said Gibbons. "You could put a stop to it, of course, if you knew about it. Pressure could be brought and…"
"But I mean it can't be right!"
"What difference does it make?" asked Gibbons. "Right or wrong, it would be read. It would hit people where they live. It's no pamphlet job. This guy takes a scholarly approach. He's done a lot of research. He has good arguments. He has it documented. It may be a phony, but it doesn't look a phony. It's the kind of book a publisher would give his good right arm to publish."
"Or a quarter million."
"That's right. A quarter million."
"We can stop it now," said Frost, "but once it hit the stands, there wouldn't be a chance. Then we wouldn't dare. I can't let a book like that get by. I wouldn't dare to do it. I'd never live it down."
"You could work it," Gibbons reminded him, "so you wouldn't have to live it down."
"Even so," said Frost, "they could take retroactive action. They could pass the word along to overlook a certain man when time for revival came."
"They wouldn't do that," said Gibbons. "Memories don't run that long or bitter. But if you're afraid of that I could go in and clear your name. I could say I knew about the book but that you were knocked off before I could get to you."
"For a price, of course."
"Dan," said Gibbons, sadly, "you said a while ago that we were friends. For a price, you say. That's no way for friends to talk. I'd do it out of friendship."
"One thing more," asked Frost. "Who is the publisher?"
"That's something I can't tell you."
"How can I…"
"Look, Dan, think it over. Don't say no right now. Give yourself twenty-four hours to think about it. Then come back and tell me."
Frost shook his head. "I don't need twenty-four hours. I need no time at all."
Gibbons stared at him glassily and for the first time, Frost could see, the man was shaken.
"Then I'll look you up. You may change your mind. For a quarter million! Man, it could set you up."
"I can't take the chance," said Frost. "Maybe you can, tut I can't."
And he couldn't, he told himself.
For now the clanging clapper was no longer in his skull. Instead there was a coldness far worse than the clanging—the coldness of reason and of fear.
"Tell Marcus," he said, then hesitated. "No, don't tell Marcus. He'll find out for himself. Hell bust you, Joe, and don't you forget it. If he ever catches you…"
"Dan," yelled Gibbons, "what do you mean? What are you trying to say?"
"Nothing," said Frost. "Nothing at all. But if I were you, I'd start running now."
9
Glancing through the half-open study door. Nicholas Knight saw the man enter the church, furtively, almost fearfully, with his hat clutched in both his hands and held foursquare across his chest.
Knight, seated at his desk, with the little study lamp pulled low against the desk top, watched in fascination.
The man, it was quite apparent, was unused to church and unsure of himself. He moved quietly and unsteadily down the aisle and he cast about him little probing glances, as if he might fear that some unknown and awesome shape would spring out at him from the pooL of shadow.
And yet there was about him an attitude of worship, as if he might have come seeking refuge and comfort. And this, in itself, was something most unusual. For today few men came worshipfully. The} came nonchalantly or with a calm assurance that said there was nothing here they needed, that they were only paying homage by an empty gesture to a thing that had become a cultural habit and very little more.
Watching the man, Knight felt something stir deep inside himself, a surge of feeling that he had forgotten could happen to a man—a sense of reaching out, a sense of benediction, of purpose and of duty and of pastoral compassion.
Of pastoral compassion, he thought And where in a world like this was there any need of that? He had first sensed it long ago, when still in seminary, but he had not felt it since—for there had been no place for it and no need of it.
Silently, he rose from his chair and paced carefully and slowly to the door that led into the church.
The man had almost reached the front of the empty church and now he sidled from the aisle and sat down gingerly in a pew. His hat still was clutched against his breast and he sat forward, on the edge of the seat, his body stiff and straight. He stared straight ahead and the light of the candles flickering on the altar sent tiny shadows fleeing on his face.