THE MAN WHO JAPED

CHAPTER 17

Gretchen wore a tight blue suit, carried a beaded purse, was pale and drawn, dark-eyed with tension. She smelled of fresh flowers and looked beautiful and expensive. Closing the door, she said:

"I got your note."

"The baby was a boy. Six pounds." The office seemed filled with tiny drifting particles; he rested his palms against the desk and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes the particles were gone but Gretchen was still there; she had seated herself, crossed her legs, and was fingering the edge of her skirt.

"When did you arrive back here?" she asked.

"Sunday night."

"I got in this morning." Her eyebrows wavered and across her face flitted a blind, crumpled pain. "You certainly walked right out."

"Well," he said, "I figured out where I was."

"Was it so bad?"

Allen said: "I can call people in here and have you tossed out. I can have you barred; I can have all kinds of things done to you. I can even have you arrested and prosecuted for a felony, you and your brother and that demented outfit you run. But that puts an end to me. Even Vivian walking in to take dictation is the end, with you sitting there."

"Who's Vivian?"

"One of my new secretaries. She comes along with the job."

Color had returned to Gretchen's features. "You're exaggerating."

Allen went over and examined the door. It had a lock, so he locked it. He then went to the intercom, pressed the button, and said: "I don't want to be disturbed."

"Yes, Mr. Purcell," Vivian's voice sounded.

Picking up the phone, Allen called his Agency. Harry Priar answered. "Harry," Allen said, "get over here to T-M in something, a sliver or a Getabout. Park as close as you can and then come upstairs to my office."

"What's going on?"

"When you're here, phone me from my secretary's desk. Don't use the intercom." He hung up, bent over, and ripped the intercom loose. "These things are natural taps," he explained to Gretchen.

"You're really serious."

"Bet you I am [ sic] ." He folded his arms, leaned against the side of the desk. "Is your brother crazy?"

She gulped. "He—is, in a sense. A mania, collecting. But they all have it. This Psi mysticism. There was such a blob on your -gram; it tipped him across."

"How about you?"

"I suppose I'm not so clever either." Her voice was thin, brittle. "I've had four days travelling in to think about it. As soon as I saw you were gone, I followed. I—really thought you'd come back to the house. Wishful thinking... it was so damn nice and cozy." Suddenly she lashed out furiously. "You stupid bastard!"

Allen looked at his watch and saw that Harry Priar would, be another ten minutes. Probably he was just now backing the sliver onto the roof field of the Agency.

"What are you going to do with me?" Gretchen said.

"Drive you out somewhere and dump you." He wondered if Gates could help. Maybe she could be detained at Hok- kaido. But that was their gimmick. "Didn't it seem a little unfair to me?" he said. "I went to you for help; I acted in good faith."

Staring at the floor, Gretchen said: "My brother's responsible. I didn't know in advance; you were starting out the door to leave, and then you keeled over. He gas-pelleted you. Somebody was detailed to get you to Other World; they were going to ship you there by freight, in a cataleptic state. I—was afraid you might die. It's risky. So I accompanied you." She raised her head. "I wanted to. It was a terrible thing to do, but it was going to happen anyhow."

He felt less hostility, since it was probably true. "You're an opportunist," he murmured. "The whole affair was ingenious. Especially that bit when the house dissolved. What's this blob on my -gram?"

"My brother puzzled over it from the time he got it. He never figured it out, and neither did the Dickson. Some psionic talent. Precognition, he thinks. You japed the statue to prevent your own murder at the hands of the Cohorts. He thinks the Cohorts kill people who rise too high."

"Do you agree?"

"No," she said, "because I know what the blob means. You do have something in your mind nobody else has. But it's not precognition."

"What is it?"

Gretchen said: "You have a sense of humor."

The office was quiet as Allen considered and Gretchen sat smoothing her skirt.

"Maybe so," Allen said finally.

"And a sense of humor doesn't fit in with Morec. Or with us. You're not a ‘mutant'; you're just a balanced human being." Her voice gained strength. "The japery, everything you've done. You're just trying to re-establish a balance in an unbalanced world. And it's something you can't even admit to yourself. On the top you believe in Morec. Underneath there's that blob, that irreducible core, that grins and laughs and plays pranks."

"Childish," he said.

"Not at all."

"Thanks." He smiled down at her.

"This is such a goddamn mess." From her purse she got her handkerchief; she wiped her eyes and then stuffed the handkerchief into her coat pocket. "You've got this job, Director of Telemedia, the high post of morality. Guardian of public ethics. You create the ethics. What a screwy, mixed-up situation."

"But I want this job."

"Yes, your ethics are very high. But they're not the ethics of this society. The block meetings—you loathe them. The faceless accusers. The juveniles—the busybody prying. This senseless struggle for leases. The anxiety. The tension and strain; look at Myron Mavis. And the overtones of guilt and suspicion. Everything becomes—tainted. The fear of contamination; fear of committing an indecent act. Sex is morbid; people hounded for natural acts. This whole structure is like a giant torture chamber, with everybody staring at one another, trying to find fault, trying to break one another down. Witchhunts and star chambers. Dread and censorship, Mr. Bluenose banning books. Children kept from hearing evil. Morec was invented by sick minds, and it creates more sick minds."

"All right," Allen said, listening. "But I'm not going to lie around watching girls sun-bathe. Like a salseman on vacation."

"That's all you see in the Resort?"

"That's all I see in Other World. And the Resort is a machine to process people there."

"It does more than that. It provides them with a place they can escape to. When their resentment and anxiety starts destroying them—" She gestured. "Then they go over."

"Then they don't smash store windows. Or jape statues. I'd rather jape statues."

"You came to us once."

"As I see it," Allen said, "the Resort acts as part of the system. Morec is one half and you're the other. Two sides of the coin: Morec is all work and you're the badminton and checkers set. Together you form a society; you uphold and support each other. I can't be in both parts, and of the two I prefer this."

"Why?"

"At least something's being done, here. People are working. You tell them to go out and fish."

"So you won't go back with me," she said reasonably. "I didn't really think you would."

"Then what did you show up here for?"

"To explain. So you'd understand how that whole damn foolish business happened, and what my part was. Why I got involved. And so you'd understand about yourself. I wanted you to be aware of your feelings... the hostility you feel toward Morec. The deep outrage you have for its cruelties. You're moving in the direction of integration. But I wanted to help. Maybe it'll pay you back for what we took. You did ask us for help. I'm sorry."

"Being sorry is a good idea," he said. "A step in the right direction."

Gretchen got up and put her hand on the doorknob. "I'll take the next step. Goodbye."

"Just sit down." He propelled her back to the chair but she disengaged her arm. "What now?" he demanded. "More speeches?"

"No." She faced him. "I give up. I won't cause you any more trouble. Go back to your little worrying wife; that's where you belong."

"She's younger than you," Allen said. "As well as smaller."

"How wonderful," Gretchen said lightly. "But—does she understand about you? This core you have that makes you different and keeps you out of the system? Can she help bring that out as it should be? Because that's important, more important than anything else. Even this heroic position, this new job, isn't really—"

"Still the welfare worker," he said. He was only partly listening to her; he was watching for Harry Priar.

"You do believe what I say, don't you? About you; about what's inside you."

"Okay," he said. "I'm taken in by your story."

"It's true. I—really care about you, Allen. You're a lot like Donna's father. Equivocating about the system, leaving it and then going back. The same doubts and mistrusts. Now he's back here for good. I said goodbye to him. I'm saying goodbye to you, the same way."

"One last thing," Allen said. "For the record. Do you honestly suppose I'm going to pay that bill?"

"It does seem stupid. There's a routine procedure, and it was marked ‘for services rendered,' so nobody would identify it. I'll have the account voided." She was suddenly shy. "I'd like to ask for something. Possibly you'll laugh."

"Let's hear it."

"Why don't you kiss me goodbye?"

"I hadn't thought about it." He made no move.

Stripping off her gloves, Gretchen laid them with her purse and raised her bare, slim fingers to his face. "There really isn't anybody named Molly, is there? You just made her up." She dug her nails into his neck, tugging him down against her. Her breath, as she kissed him, was faintly sweet with peppermint, and her lips were moist. "You're so good." she said, turning her face away.

She screamed.

On the floor of the office was a metal earwig-shaped creature, its receptor stalks high and whirring. The juvenile scuttled closer, then retreated in a dash of motion.

Allen grabbed up a paper weight from the desk and threw it at the juvenile. He missed, and the thing kept on going. It was trying to get back out the window, through which it had come. As it scooted up the wall he lifted his foot and smashed it; the juvenile fell broken to the floor and crawled in a half-circle. Allen found a typewriter and dropped it on the crippled juvenile. Then he began searching for its reservoir of tape.

While he was searching, the office door fell open and a second juvenile spurted in. Behind it was Fred Luddy, snapping pictures with a flash camera. With him were Blake-Moffet technicians, trailing wires and earphones and lenses and mikes and batteries. After the Blake-Moffet people came a horde of T-M employees, screeching and fluttering.

"Sue us for the lock!" Luddy shouted, tripping on a mike cable. "Somebody get the tape from that busted juve—"

Two technicians jumped past Gretchen and swept up the remains of the demolished juvenile. "Looks intact, Fred."

As Luddy snapped pictures, tape transports revolved and the surviving juvenile whirred exultantly. The office was jammed with people and equipment; Gretchen stood huddled in a corner, and somewhere far off burglar alarms were ringing.

"We reamed out the lock!" Luddy shouted, rushing up to Allen with his camera. "You didn't hear it; you were killing that juve we sent in through the window. Up six flights—those things climb!"

"Run," Allen said to Gretchen, pushing people out of her way. "Get downstairs and out of here."

She broke from her paralysis and started toward the open door. Luddy saw and yelped with dismay; he shoved his camera into a subordinate's arm and hurried after. As he caught hold of her arm, Allen reached him and socked him on the jaw. Luddy collapsed, and Gretchen, with a wail of despair, disappeared down the corridor.

"Oh boy," one of Blake-Moffet's men chortled, helping Luddy up. "Have we got pictures."

There were now three juveniles, and more were on the way. Allen seated himself on an air conditioner and rested. Turmoil surged everywhere; the Blake-Moffet people were still taking pictures and his own T--M [sic] people were trying to restore order.

"Mr. Purcell," one of his secretaries—probably Vivian—was shrilling in his ear. "What'll we do? Call the police?"

"Get them out," Allen grunted. "Bring up people from the other departments and throw them out. They're trespassing."

"Yes sir," the secretary said, and darted off.

Luddy, propped up by two of his compatriots, approached. He was fingering his chin and he had got back his camera. "The first tape's intact. You and that gal clinching; it's all down. And the rest, too; you busting the juve up and hitting me, and sending her off. And the door locked, the intercom ripped out—the whole works."

From the confusion Harry Priar emerged. "What happened, Allen?" He saw Luddy and the juveniles. "Oh no," he said. "No."

"You didn't last long," Luddy said to Allen. "You—" He ducked off as Priar started at him.

"I guess," Priar said, "I didn't get here in time."

"How'd you come? On your hands?" Some of the chaos was dying down. The Blake-Moffet people, and their equipment, were being forcibly ushered out. They were all smiles. His own staff was gathering in gloomy bunches, glancing at him and exchanging mutters. A T-M repairman was inspecting the hole in the office door where the lock had been. Blake-Moffet had carried the lock off with them, probably as a trophy.

"Invasion," Priar said. "I never would have thought Luddy had the guts."

"Blake's idea," Allen said. "And Luddy's vendetta. So now it comes full cycle. I got Luddy, now he gets me."

"Did they—I mean, they got what they wanted, didn't they?"

"Drums of it," Allen said. "I did the ultimate; I stamped on a juvenile."

"Who was the girl?"

Allen grimaced. "Just a friend. A niece visiting from the country. My daughter. Why do you ask?"