Bodger had only a short distance to walk to Unit B from his office. His
temper, despite his efforts at self-control, was seething dangerously
when he entered his foyer. He crossed the mammoth parlor toward the
archway at its rear, where a short corridor led to the sleeping
quarters. Bodger arrived at the door of his son's bedroom. Then, with
his hand upon the knob, he froze, and a ghastly pallor spread itself
across his rugged features.
A hand came up swiftly to his stomach, holding it, pressing inward
against the sudden spasm he had felt, and he stepped swiftly across
the few remaining feet of carpeted hallway to the door of his own
room, through it, and swiftly into his personal bathroom, locking the
thick door behind him. The room was swimming like a thing seen through
warm oil as he slid open the mirrored panel of the medicine-chest and
removed a large jar of pale granulated crystals. Violently nauseated,
he managed to unscrew the lid and dump a handful of the crystals into
the water tumbler. He ran the warm water into the tumbler--it would
dissolve the crystals faster--and drank the now-glutinous solution.
Then the tumbler fell from his weak, perspiring fingers and smashed
into spicules in the basin. He took no notice, hands rigid against
the rim of the basin, shoulders shaking uncontrollably, his large,
grey-thatched head sunken wearily upon his chest. He stood like that
for two minutes, until the room began to settle down, and its outlines
took on solidity once more.
"A close one," he muttered, aloud.
When the eyes that met his in the glass were no longer bleared with
sick pain, he combed his hair neatly, and impatiently began to remove
his sweat-soaked shirt and necktie. Before returning to his bedroom to
change into fresh dry garments, he slid the mirrored panel closed. It
clicked sharply and locked. Countersunk into the tiled wall, there was
no indication that such a space existed behind it. Only Bodger, Senior,
knew which tiles to depress in which order to open that panel. In a
disease-free society, a medicine-chest was taboo; it implied that its
user had no faith in the Government-run hospitals. Bodger went into his
bedroom, dropping the damp shirt and tie atop the clothes hamper in the
closet. There was an ancient leather bag, with shoulder-strap, on the
closet floor. Bodger carried this out into the room, opened the flap.
When a small light glowed on the indicator panel, he lifted a short
metal rod, and played the end of it slowly back and forth just below
his fleshy ribs. The light flickered on and off steadily. Bodger looked
sharply at the needle of a dial beside the light. "Thank heaven," he
whispered, and returned case and contents to the closet. Then, after
laying out a set of dry things, he considered a moment, ran a hand
testily over his stomach region, and grunted in annoyance. He was still
slightly over-wrought; he could feel the juices inside him itching to
spurt into his bloodstream and arouse him into his erstwhile pitch of
anger. It wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all.
Angered at his own infirmity, he nevertheless set the alarm for an
hour's time ahead, in case he dozed, then lay back on the bed and
closed his eyes.
* * * * *
In the adjoining room, where the door to the hallway was securely
bolted, Lloyd Bodger, Junior, stood up near the wall, in a stance he'd
held for many minutes, the side of his head pressed tightly against the
plastic paneling. "I think he's lying down," he whispered. "I heard the
bedsprings creak."
Andra Corby, her face lowered against the knees which she hugged to her
chest on the bed, shivered a bit, then straightened her long, smooth
legs until she was simply pillow-propped against the headboard once
more, and her arms had refolded across her breast. "Are you sure?" she
asked tautly. "The longer I stay here, the more frightened I become."
Lloyd spun to face her, almost angrily. "Will you _stop_ that
relentless nobility! I'm doing this for my _own_ skin, remember?
I don't care what happens to you; I care what happens to _me_ if
something happens to you!"
"Your father," she said, enunciating with icy calm and slow clarity,
"is going to _hear_ you...."
Lloyd controlled himself, his fists knotting at his sides.
Seeing he was relaxing, Andra said, a little less frigidly, "I
thought--I thought he was coming in _here_."
"He stopped outside my door, all right ..." Lloyd mused. "Then went to
his room in a rush. I don't get it."
He listened some more at the wall. Behind him, Andra giggled, suddenly.
He glanced at her. "What--?"
"I just thought--What if your father's on the other side, listening to
hear what _you're_ doing. I'm just picturing two grown men, frowning in
earnest concentration, their ears separated by a few inches of plastic,
and it's funny."
"Not if you're correct, it isn't," said Lloyd, and Andra stopped
smiling. "As soon as he hears you, the jig's up."
"Maybe--" She leaned forward with eager hope. "Maybe it would be a
_good_ thing, Lloyd. He's a powerful man in the Hive. If he knew your
problem, he could use his influence to do something, couldn't he?"
"My father loves me, sure," said Lloyd, with a wry quirk to his lips.
"But I don't think he loves anything so much as his position in our
society. My consorting with a fugitive might put the kibosh on the
next election."
Just then the phone rang and Lloyd couldn't avoid knocking Andra to the
floor in his effort to get the receiver off the hook before the bell
could shatter the silence once more.
"Hello?" he said, extending an upright palm toward Andra to beg her
continued silence.
"Lloyd?" said a subdued, tense female voice.
"Grace!" he said, remembering his promise to come by with her card.
"What--What do you want?"
"I've got to see you, Lloyd," she said. "About last night."
"When?" he asked.
"As soon as you can make it."
"Well--Maybe in ..." Lloyd peered across the room at his bureau clock.
Almost noon. Non-essential lift usage precluded until after the
twelve-to-one lunch period. If he hurried, he could key the lift-switch
before the ban. Lifts in use were never disempowered. "If I catch the
lift, fifteen minutes. Otherwise not till after one."
"... All right."
* * * * *
Lloyd grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. Andra stood up,
apparently unharmed, and slid into her shoes. "Where are we going?" she
asked, smoothing her dress.
Lloyd looked at her. He hadn't considered--"I guess you'd better come
with me," he said. "I'd hate you caught in the house. In my bedroom
especially."
There were seconds to spare when he closed the gate and thumbed
Grace's level, the ninety-third. Anyone was permitted to travel to a
level beneath their own. To go higher, you needed a duly authorized
Voteplate, or an invitation from a higher-level dweller. The lift
dropped smoothly down inside the shaft. Half-way to Grace's level,
a red light glowed on the level-indicator. When they reached their
getting-off place, the buttons would function no more until one
o'clock. It saved needless crowding if lunching workers remained
on their own levels. Otherwise, if a line were too long, a worker
might be tempted to try his luck lower down, and if too many decided
simultaneously, the bland flow of human traffic might be imbalanced,
agglomerated beyond the capacity of the transportation systems.
Inefficiency would result, with people returning late to their work,
restaurants having too much leftover food, or not enough to go around.
The Hive was too delicately geared for imbalance. So the lifts went off
during lunch.
"Grace Horton must be trusted," Andra said suddenly. "Look, Lloyd," she
clutched his arm, forcing him to meet her gaze and listen. "If she
hasn't found out, fine. Even Goons can't find out what a person doesn't
know. But if she _has_ found out someone else used her cards--And
called _you_, instead of reporting it to the authorities.... Then she
can be trusted to hear about me."
"I hope you're right," said Lloyd. The gate opened.
"We'll never find out standing here," said Andra. "Come on, Lloyd." She
started out ahead of him. He pondered the courage of this small blonde
girl, then felt a wave of shame at his own cowardice. He was in this
up to his earlobes already. No amount of explaining could ever make up
his hours of ignoring the basic laws of the Hive. And he simultaneously
realized two things: If Andra's theories were all wrong, he would
merely be Readjusted and returned to his life same as before. And if
they were correct--What difference did it make _how_ long he dallied
with the Hive's opposition? You could only be destroyed once, and even
his delay in shouting the alarm when he'd recognized Andra as the
fugitive was grounds for a medical check-up.
"What the hell," Lloyd said miserably to himself. He was no safer
standing on the cross-sector walk than in the depths of dark intrigue
with Andra.