High-Opp

Chapter 2

The Bureau of Psychology had a special suite of rooms atop its building on Government Avenue, fronting the river. In the forenoon, the ledges outside the office windows were a roosting place for pigeons which watched the riverbanks and the streets for signs of food. A flock of them strutted along the ledges, cooing, brushing against one another. The sound carried through an open window into one of the rooms.

Two walls of this room were taken up by charts covered with undulant squiggles in colored inks. In the center of the room, spread out on a table, was another chart bearing a single red line, curving, dipping, ending in the middle of the sheet like an uncompleted bridge. A white card rested on this chart near the red line’s terminus. One corner of the card was weighted by a statuette of an obscene monkey labeled “High-Opp.” A strictly subversive, forbidden statuette.

Three people occupied the room—two men and a woman. Or, rather, they inhabited the room. They seemed fitted to it by an attitude of absorption. One got the feeling they had been initiated into the secrets of this room through a deeply esoteric ritual.

Nathan O’Brien, chief of Bu-Psych, stood up, closed the window to shut out the noise of the pigeons. He returned to his chair at the end of the table. O’Brien was a ferret of a man, who wore his Top Rank black with an air of mourning. He had the reputation of possessing a photographic memory, was conversant with seven of the pre-Unity languages, and was said to have a giant library of forbidden books of the ancients. Things were rumored of him that one would expect to hear about a man whose position could command privacy. There was about him a sense of remoteness, as though thoughts passed between his greying temples that no other men could fathom.

Quilliam London was a snorter. He snorted now, meaning he had been about to get up and close the window himself. Damned pigeons! He did not sit his chair, he rode it as though it were on a pedestal or a podium. Quilliam London had once been a professor of semantics before such teaching was low-opped and a heavy penalty put on infractions. Now he was on the retired rolls, serving an occasional afternoon at his district infirmary, filling out treatment cards, or visiting Nathan O’Brien at Bu-Psych, an activity carried out quietly. He was a rail of a man with the face of an eagle and hunter’s eyes. His seventy years were carried as though they were fifty. Thin wrinkles down his cheeks, thickening veins and greying hair gave him away, however, as did a tendency to be short of temper when talking with anyone under thirty.

Grace London, Quilliam’s daughter, turned away from the window where she had been watching the pigeons. She had rather enjoyed their cooing and was sorry when O’Brien closed the window. She was a woman with too much of her father’s thinness of face to be beautiful and people often were disconcerted by her habit of turning a piercing stare on whomever she addressed. There was youth in her, though, and the kind of sureness which comes with health and vitality. It gave her a sparkle, a crispness which some men found attractive.

“I believe he’s the man,” said O’Brien. He nodded toward the chart on the table.

“That’s been said before, Nathan.” His voice rumbled.

“But this time there’s a higher probability,” said O’Brien. “Look at his sorter card. Loyalty index ninety-six point six. Intelligence in the genius range. His decision chart is around here somewhere. Six questionables in twelve years.”

Grace London moved restlessly along the table, following the red line on the cart with a finger. “What does Cecelia say? Is he another Brownley?”

O’Brien looked up at her as though she had interrupted a thought. “She says not. She’s been watching him four years now, and her opinion is pretty trustworthy. We’ve just run a Malot-final on him from her completed reports. It’s uncanny how closely he fits the classic requirements.”

“I’m being overly cautious,” said Grace. “Brownley was such a disappointment.” She moved the monkey statuette to a more central position on the chart.

“Brownley was a result of poor timing on our part,” said O’Brien. “We were too eager.”

Quilliam London scratched his chin with his thumb. “That high loyalty index could backfire on us. With our treatment, Movius might turn it inward, go all out for number one.”

“That’s the chance we take,” said O’Brien. “Even if that does happen, he’d be useful to us up to a point. We could get rid of him, blame his death on…”

A door behind him opened and a blond man stepped into the room. “Chief, Cecelia Lang called. Movius just left her apartment. She says everything went off as planned.”

O’Brien straightened. “Get moving, Grace. You have to beat him to the Warren. I’ll have supply rush a make-up kit down to the car. You can change on the way.” He brushed a hand through his thinning hair. “Wouldn’t want Bu-Con recognizing you out there and asking questions.”

She nodded, followed the blond man out the door.

Quilliam London arose like a folding ruler being stretched to its limit. “I’d best be getting along, too. Has Marie Cotton been warned to look out for Movius?”

“She was in yesterday,” said O’Brien. “She had a relayed report on Warren Gerard and the latest Bu-Trans maneuvering.”

“That’s a funny thing about Gerard,” said Quilliam London. “What prompted him to send those specifications through the sorter at this particular time?” He pointed to the card on the table. “Gerard is going to be surprised when he finds out who his specifications fit.” He rapped a knuckle against the chart on the table. “This Movius is encouraging. I’ll have a long talk with the man tonight, see if he measures up to his psych card and to Navvy’s judgment.”

“He had better be right,” said O’Brien. “We don’t have time for another wrong move like Brownley.”