CANTATA-141

5

As he flew by Jet'ab to Scotty's Place, Jim Briskin thought: At least now I don't have to come out for Lurton Sands; I don't have to follow Sal's advice any more on any topic because if he's not my campaign manager he can't tell me what to do. To some extent it was a relief. But on a deeper level Jim Briskin felt acutely unhappy. I'm going to have trouble getting along without Sal, he realized. I don't want to get along without him.

But it was already done. Sal, with his wife Patricia, had gone on to his home in Cleveland, for a much-delayed rest. And Jim Briskin, with his speechwriter Phil Danville and his press secretary

Dorothy Gill, was on his way in the opposite direction, toward downtown N'York, its tiny shops and restaurants and old, decaying apartment buildings, and all the microscopic, outdated business offices where peculiar and occult transactions continually took place. It was a world which intrigued Jim Briskin, but it was also a world he knew little about; he had been shielded from it most of his life.

Seated beside him, Phil Danville said, 'He may come back, Jim. You know Sal when he gets overburdened; he blows up, falls into fragments. But after a week of lazing around...'

'Not this time,' Jim said. The split was too basic.

'By the way,' Dorothy said, 'before he left, Sal told me who this man you're meeting is. Sal recognized him; did he tell you ? It's Tito Cravelli, Sal says. You know, Myra Sands'

investigator.'

'No,' Jim said. 'I didn't know.' Sal had said nothing to him; the period in which Sal Heim gave him the benefit of his experience was over, had ended there on the spot.

At Republican-Liberal campaign headquarters in N'York he stopped briefly to let off Phil

Danville and Dorothy Grill, and then he went on, alone, to meet with Tito Cravelli at Scotty's

Place.

Cravelli, looking nervous and keyed-up, was already in a booth in the rear of the restaurant, waiting for him, when he arrived.

'Thanks, Mr. Briskin,' Tito Cravelli said, as Jim seated himself across from him. Hurriedly,

Cravelli sipped what remained of his cup of coffee. 'This won't take long. What I want for my information is a great deal. I want a promise from you that when you're elected - and you will be, because of this - you'll bring me in at cabinet rank." He was silent, then.

'Good god,' Jim said mildly. 'Is that all you want ?'

'I'm entitled to it,' Cravelli said. ‘For getting this information to you. I came across it because I

have someone working for me in ...' He broke off abruptly. 'I want the post of Attorney General;

I think I can handle the job ... I think I'd be a good Attorney General. If I'm not, you can fire me.

But you have to let me in for a chance at it'

'Tell me what your information is. I can't make that promise until I hear it.'

Cravelli hesitated. 'Once I tell you - but you're honest, Briskin. Everyone knows that. There's a way you can get rid of the bibs. You can bring them back to activity, full activity.'

'Where ?'

'Not here,' Cravelli said. 'Obviously. Not on Earth. The man I have working for me who picked this up is an employee of Terran Development. What does that suggest to you ?'

After a pause Jim Briskin said, 'They've made a breakthrough.'

'A little firm has. A retailer in Kansas City, repairing a defective Jiffi-scuttler. They did it - or rather found it. Discovered it. The 'scuttler's at TD, now, being gone over by factory engineers. It was moved east two hours ago; they acted immediately, as soon as the retailer contacted them.

They knew what it meant.' He added, 'Just as you and I do, and my man working for them.'

'Where's the break-through to ? What time period ?'

'No time period, evidently. The conversion seems to have taken place in spacial terms, as near as they can determine. A planet with about the same mass as Earth, similar atmosphere, welldeveloped fauna and flora, but not Earth - they managed to snap a sky-chart, get a stellar reading.

Within another few hours they'll probably have plotted lit exactly, know which star-system it lies in. Apparently it's a long, long way from here. Too far for direct deeps-ace ships to probe - at least for some time to come. This break-through, this direct shorted-out route, will have to be utilized for at least the next few decades.'

The waitress, came for Jim's order.

'Perkin's Syn-Cof,' he murmured absently.

The waitress departed.

'Cally Gale's there,' Tito Cravelli said.

'What!'

'Doctor put her across. That's why my man got in touch with me; as you may know, I've been retained to search for Cally, trying to produce her on demand for the trial. It's a mess; she lasered an employee of this Kansas City retailer, its one and only tried and true 'scuttler repairman. He had gone across, exploring. Too bad for him. But in the great scheme of all things...'

'Yes,' Jim Briskin agreed. Cravelli was right; it was small cost indeed. With so many millions of lives - and, potentially, billions - involved.

'Naturally TD has declared this top-secret. They've thrown up an enormous security screen; I was lucky to get hold of the poop at all. If I hadn't already had a man in there ...' Cravelli gestured.

'I'll name you to the cabinet,' Jim Briskin said. 'As Attorney General. The arrangement doesn't please me, but I think it's in order.' It's worth it, he said to himself. A hundred times over. To me and to everyone else on Earth, bibs and non-bibs alike. To all of us.

Sagging with relief and exultation,, Tito Cravelli burbled, 'Wow. I can't believe it; this is great!'

He held out his hand, but Jim ignored it; he had too much else on his mind at the moment to want to congratulate Tito Cravelli.

Jim thought, Sal Heim got out a little too soon. He should have stuck around. So much for Sal's political intuition; at the crucial moment it had failed to materialize for him.

Seated in her office, abort-consultant Myra Sands once more leafed through Tito's brief report.

But already, outside her window, a news machine for one of the major homeopapes was screeching out the news that Cally Vale had been found; it had been made public by the police.

I didn't think you could do it, Tito, Myra said to herself. Well, I was wrong. You were worth your fee, large as it is.

It will be quite a trial, she said to herself with relish.

From a nearby office, probably the brokerage firm next door, the amplified sound of a man's voice rose up and then was turned down to a more reasonable level. Someone had tuned in the

TV, was watching the Republican-Liberal presidential candidate giving his latest speech.

Perhaps I should listen, too, she decided, and reached to turn on the TV set at her desk.

The set warmed, and there, on the screen, appeared the dark, intense features of Jim Briskin. She swiveled her chair toward the set and momentarily put aside Tito's report. After all, anything

James Briskin said had become important; he might easily be their next president.

'... an initial action on my part,' Briskin was saying, 'and one which many may disapprove of, but one dear to my heart, will be to initiate legal action against the so-called Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite. I've thought about this topic for some time; this is not a snap decision on my part. But, much more vital than that, I think we will see the Golden Door satellite become thoroughly obsolete. That would be best of all. The role of sexuality in our society could return to its biological norm: as a means to childbirth rather than an end in itself.'

Oh, really ? Myra thought archly. Exactly how ?

'I am about to give you a piece of news which none of you have heard,' Briskin continued. 'It will make a vast difference in all our lives ... so great, in fact, that no one could possibly foresee its full extent at this time, A new possibility for emigration is about to open up at last. At Terran

Development...'

On Myra's desk the vidphone rang. Cursing in irritation, she turned down the sound of the television set and took the receiver from its support. 'This is Mrs. Sands,' she said. 'Could you please call back in a few moments, thank you ? I'm extremely busy right now.'

It was the dark-haired boy, Art Chaffy. 'We were just wondering what you'd decided,' he mumbled apologetically. But he did not ring off. 'It means a lot to us, Mrs. Sands.'

'I know it does, Art,' Myra Sands said, 'but if you'll just give me a few more minutes, possibly half an hour ...' She strained to hear what James Briskin was saying on the television; almost, she could make out the low murmur of words. What was his new news ? Where were they going to emigrate to ? A virgin environment ? Well, obviously; it would have to be. But precisely where is it ? Myra wondered. Are you about to pull this virgin world out of your sleeve, Mr. Briskin ?

Because if you are, I would like to see it done; that would be worth watching.

'Okay,' Art Chaffy said. 'I'll call you later, Mrs. Sands. And I'm sorry to pester you.' He rang off, then.

'You ought to be listening to Briskin's speech,' Myra murmured aloud as she swung her chair back to face the television set; bending, she turned the audio knob and the sound of Briskin's voice rose once more to clear audibility. You of all people, she said to herself.

'... and according to reports reaching me,' Briskin said slowly and gravely, 'it has an atmosphere nearly identical to that of earth, and a similar mass as well.'

Good grief, Myra Sands said to herself. If that's the case then I'm out of a job. Her heart labored painfully. No one would need abort brokers any more. But frankly I'm just as glad, she decided.

It's a task I'd like to see end - forever.

Hands pressed together tautly, she listened to the remainder of Jim Briskin's momentous Chicago speech.

My god, she thought. This is a piece of history being made, this discovery. If it's true. If this isn't just a campaign stunt.

Somewhere inside her she knew that it was true. Because Jim Briskin was not the kind of person who would make this up.

At the Oakland, California, branch of the U.S. Government Department of Special Public

Welfare, Herbert Lackmore also sat listening to presidential candidate Jim Briskin's Chicago speech, being carried on all channels of the TV as it was beamed from the R-L satellite above.

He'll be elected now, Lackmore realized. We'll have a Col president at last, just what I was afraid of.

And, if what he's saying is so, this business about a new possibility of emigration to an untouched world with fauna and flora like Earth's, it means the bibs will be awakened. In fact, he realized with a thrill of fright, it means there won't be any more bibs. At all.

That would mean that Herb Lackmore's job would come to an end. And right away.

Because of him, Lackmore said to himself, I'm going to be out of work; I'll be in the same spot as all the Cols who come by here in a steady stream, day in day out - I'll be like some nineteen-yearold Mexican or Puerto Rican or Negro kid, without prospects or hope. All I've established over the years - wiped out by this. Completely.

With shaking fingers, Herb Lackmore opened the local phone book and turned the pages.

It was time to get hold of - and join - the organization of Verne Engel's which called itself

CLEAN. Because CLEAN would not sit idly by and let this happen, not if CLEAN believed as

Herb Lackmore did.

Now was the time for CLEAN to do something. And not necessarily of a non-violent nature; it was too late for non-violence to work. Something more was required, now. Much more. The situation had taken a dreadful turn and it would have to be rectified, by direct and quick action.

And if they won't do it, Lackmore said to himself, I will. I'm not afraid to; I know it has to be done.

On the TV screen Jim Briskin's face was stern as he said. '... will provide a natural outlet for the biological pressures at work on everyone in our society. We will be free at last to ...'

'You know what this means ?' George of George Walt said to his brother Walt.

'I know,' Walt answered. 'It means that nurf Sal Heim got nothing for us, nothing at all. You watch Briskin; I'm going to call Verne Engel and make some kind of arrangements. Him we can work with.'

'Okay,' George said, nodding their shared head. He kept his eye on the TV screen, while his brother dialed the vidphone.

'All that gabble with Sal Heim,' Walt grumbled, and then became silent as his brother stuck him with his elbow, signaling that he wanted to listen to the Chicago speech. 'Sorry,' Walt said, turning his eye to the vidscreen of the phone.

At the door of their office Thisbe Olt appeared, wearing a fawnskin gown with alternating stripes of magnifying transparency. 'Mr. Heim is back,' she informed them. 'To see you. He looks -

dejected.'

'We've got no business to conduct with Sal Heim,' George said, with anger.

Tell him to go back to Earth,' Walt added. 'And from now on the satellite is closed to him; he can't visit any of our girls - at any price. Let him die a miserable, lingering death of frustration; it'll serve him right.'

George reminded him acidly, 'Heim won't need us any more, if Briskin is telling the truth.'

'He is,' Walt said. 'He's too simple a horse's ass to lie; Briskin doesn't have the ability.' His call had been put through on the private circuit, now. On the vidscreen appeared the miniature image of one of Verne Engel's gaudily-uniformed personal praetorian flunkies, the green and silver outfit of the CLEAN people. 'Let me talk directly to Verne,' Walt said, making use of their common mouth just as George was about to address a few more remarks to Thisbe. 'Tell him this is Walt, on the satellite.'

'Run along,' George said to Thisbe, when Walt had finished. 'We're busy.'

Thisbe eyed him momentarily and then shut the office door after her.

On the screen Verne Engel's pinched, wabble-like face materialized. 'I see you - at least half of you - are following Briskin's rabble-rousing,' Engel said. 'How did you decide which half was to call me and which half was to listen to the Col ?' Engel's distorted features twisted in a leer of derision.

'Watch it - that's enough,' George Walt retorted simultaneously.

'Sorry. I don't mean to offend you,' Engel said, but his expression remained unchanged. 'Well, what can I do for you ? Please make it brief; I'd like to follow Briskin's harangue too.'

'You're going to require help,' Walt said to Engel. 'If you're going to stop Briskin now; this speech will put him across, and I don't think even concerted transmissions from our satellite - as we discussed - will be sufficient. It's just too damn clever the speech he's making. Isn't it,

George ?'

'It certainly is,' George said, eye fixed on the TV screen. 'And getting better each second as he goes along. He's barely getting; started; it's a genuine spellbinder. Whacking fine.'

His eye on the vidscreen, Walt continued, 'You heard Briskin come out against us; you must have heard that part - everyone else in the country certainly did. Planet-wetting with Bruno Mini isn't enough, he's also got to take us on. Big plans for a Col, but evidently he and his advisors feel he can handle it. We'll see. What do you plan to do, Engel ? At this very crucial point ?'

'I've got plans, I've got plans,' Engel assured him.

'Still no-violence stuff ?'

There was no audible answer, but Engel's face contorted oddly.

'Come up here to the Golden Door,' Walt said, 'and let's talk. I think my brother and I can see our way clear to make a donation to CLEAN, say in the neighborhood of ten or eleven mil. Would that help ? You ought to be able to buy what you need with money like that.'

Engel, white with shock, stammered, 'S-sure, George or Walt, whichever you are.'

'Get up here as soon as you can, then,' Walt instructed him, and rang off. 'I think he'll do it for us,' he said to his brother.

'A gorp like that can't handle anything;,' George said sourly.

"Then for pop's sake, what do we do ?' Walt demanded.

'We do what we can. We help out Engel, we prompt him, shove him if necessary. But we don't pin our hopes on him, at least not entirely. We go ahead with something on our own, just to be certain. And we have to be certain; this is too serious. That Col actually means to shut us down.'

Both their eyes, now, turned toward the TV screen, and both George and Walt sat back in their special wide couch to listen to the speech.

In the luxurious apartment which he maintained in Reno, Dr Lurton Sands sat raptly listening to the television set, the Col candidate James Briskin delivering his Chicago speech. He knew what it meant. There was only one place that Briskin could have happened across a 'lush, virgin world'. Obviously Cally had been found.

Going to his desk drawer, Lurton Sands got out the small laser pistol which he kept there and thrust it into his coat pocket. I'm amazed he'd do it, Sands thought. Capitalize off my problems -

evidently I misjudged him.

Now so many lives which I could have saved will be forfeited, Sands realized. Due to this. And

Briskin is responsible ... he's taken the healing power out of my hands, darkened the force working for the good of man.

At the vidphone Sands dialed the local jet'ab company. 'I want an 'ab to Chicago. As soon as possible.' He gave his address, then hurried from his apartment to the elevator. Those that are hounding Cally and me to our deaths, he thought, Myra and her detectives and the homeopapes ... now they've been joined by Jim Briskin. How could he align himself with them ?

Haven't I made clear to everyone what I can do in the service of human need ? Briskin must be aware; this ain't be merely ignorance on his part.

Frantically Sands thought. Could it possibly be that Briskin wants the sick to die ? All those waiting for me, needing my help ... help which no one else, after I've been pushed to my death, can possibly provide.

Touching the laser pistol in his pocket, Sands said aloud, glumly, 'It certainly is easy to be mistaken about another person.' They can take you in so easily, he thought. Deliberately mislead you. Yes, deliberately!

The jet'ab swept up to the curb and slid open its door.