It was a very long weekend.
Harker reached his home at five-thirty that evening, having left
Winstead around noon. He had had a miserable chlorella-steak lunch on
the wrong side of State Street and spent the early afternoon strolling
around Albany, easing the inner tension that gripped him. He made the
4:15 jet back to New York.
Chris was watching the video when he came in; it was a weekend, and the
boy had no homework. He hopped up immediately and said, "Drink, Dad?"
"Martini. _Very_ dry."
The boy busied himself with the pushbutton controls of the autobar
while Harker hung up his hat and jacket. Lois appeared from the general
vicinity of the kitchen.
"Did you see Winstead?"
He nodded. "Yeah, I saw him. He obviously doesn't want any part of the
project."
"Oh. Dr. Raymond called, from the labs. He wanted to know if you were
back yet. I told him you'd call as soon as you came home."
Harker picked up the phone, yanked down on the long-distance switch,
and punched out Raymond's number. He waited, hoping Raymond himself
would pick up and not Klaus or Barchet or someone like that.
Raymond did. He looked inquisitively out of the screen and Harker told
him exactly what Winstead had said. When he had finished the flat,
weary recital, he added, "I'm going to Washington on Monday. But if
Thurman gives me the brush-off, we may be in trouble."
Raymond grinned with unconvincing heartiness. "We'll get through
somehow, Jim. Have faith."
"I sincerely wish I could," Harker said.
He sipped the drink Chris put in his hand, and after a little of the
cold gin had filtered into his bloodstream he felt better. It was
a false comfort, he knew, but it was comfort all the same. He went
upstairs to the sitting-room, picked out a musictape almost at random,
put it on. The selection was a mistake: Handel's _Messiah_, Part III.
He listened to the big alto aria that opened the section:
... _I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the
latter day upon the earth:_
_And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see
God._
_For now is Christ risen from the dead_....
After the final notes of the aria had died away came the chorus, slow,
grave:
... _Since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of
the dead._
_For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made
alive_....
The jubilant tones of "_Even so in Christ_" sent startling shivers
of illumination through him; it was as if he had never listened to
these words before. ("_Since by man came death, by man came also the
resurrection of the dead_....") The words pursued him everywhere.
Twenty minutes later, after the last melisma of "_Amen_," he abruptly
turned the set off; dinner was about ready, or at least it should be.
It was. He ate quietly, deep in thought.
On Saturday he was a little more lively; he worked around the house,
took Chris and Paul for an hour-long hike in the early afternoon, spent
some time before dinner watching the telecast of the Yankee-Dodger
inter-league game from Los Angeles. He and Lois visited neighbors in
the evening; it was a pleasant, relaxed three or four hours. He was
beginning to think he could forget about the problem that was starting
to grow.
But Sunday his short-lived forgetfulness ended. It was breakfast-time;
Paul was struggling under the bulk of the Sunday _Times_, which had
been left in the box outside, and Lois was bringing the pancakes to
the table. As he took the paper from his youngest son, Harker turned to
Chris and said, "Switch on the audio. Let's see what the morning news
is like."
There was a click. A resonant, almost cavernous voice said:
"... _he saith unto them, Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go,
that I may awake him out of sleep. Then said his disciples, Lord,
if he sleep, he shall do well. Howbeit Jesus spake of his death:
but they thought that he had spoken of taking rest in sleep. Then
said Jesus unto them plainly, Lazarus is dead. And I_--"
Impatiently Chris reached out and changed the station. Harker shook his
head, annoyed. "No, Chris. Get that back. I want to hear it."
"The _Bible_, Dad?"
Harker nodded impatiently. As Chris searched for the original station
Lois said, "That's St. Matthew, isn't it?"
Chuckling, Harker said, "St. John, unless I've forgotten all my Sunday
Schooling. Your father ought to hear you say a thing like that."
Lois' father had been a stern Bible-reading Presbyterian; he had never
approved of Harker. The radio preacher said:
"... _Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead
was laid. And Jesus lifted up his eyes, and said, Father, I thank
thee that thou hast heard me. And I knew that thou hearest me
always: but because of the people which stand by I said it, that
they may believe that thou hast sent me. And when he thus had
spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth! And he
that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with grave-clothes;
and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus said unto them_--"
"All right," Harker broke in suddenly. "You can change the station now."
Chris said, "How come you wanted to hear that, Dad?"
"It's a very famous passage." Harker smiled. "And I have a feeling
we're all going to get to know it pretty well before summer comes."
* * * * *
After supper Sunday he packed for his trip to Washington; he took an
extra change of clothes, because Thurman's secretary had warned him
that the Senator was very busy and might not be able to see him until
Tuesday. Harker reflected privately that that was fine treatment to
accord a man who had once been virtually the titular head of the party,
but complaining would have done him less than no good.
He came downstairs again after packing, and spent the next several
hours watching video with the family: a silly, mindless series of
programs, ideally designed to give the mind a rest.
At quarter-past-nine, in the middle of an alleged ballet sequence, the
screen went blank. Harker frowned, annoyed; then an announcer's face
appeared.
"_We interrupt this program to bring you a special announcement
from our newsroom._
"_Richard Bryant, hero of Earth's first successful voyage to
another planet, died quietly in his sleep an hour ago, in his
Manhattan apartment. He would have been seventy-four next month._
"_He was assured of immortality on the first of August, 1984, when
he radioed from Mars the triumphant message_, 'Have landed _Mars
One_ safely. Am on way back. Mars is pretty dreary.' _From that day
on, Rick Bryant was a hero to billions._
"_We return you now to the regularly-scheduled program._"
Cavorting dancers returned to the screen. In a soft, barely-audible
voice, Harker cursed eloquently.
"Gee, Dad! Rick Bryant died!" Chris exclaimed.
Not long after he had taken the case, Harker had induced the old man
to autograph a copy of his book _I Flew to Mars_ for Chris; since then,
the boy had taken deep interest in Bryant's career.
Harker nodded. To Lois he said, "They didn't even give him a chance.
The hearing would have been last Thursday, but his son got it
postponed."
"Do you think this will affect the outcome, Jim?"
"I doubt it. That document was pretty solid. Damn, I wanted old Bryant
to have the satisfaction of knowing he died on top." Broodingly he
stared at his slippers. "If any of them had any guts, they would have
lied to him, told him his will was upheld. But of course they didn't.
They're just so many vultures. Hell, I guess I'd better phone. As the
old man's lawyer, I'd better get in touch."
He went upstairs to his den and switched on the phone. Punching out the
Bryant number, he waited a moment; an intercepting service took the
call and said, "We represent the Bryant family. Only friends of the
family and immediate relatives can be put through just now, sir."
"I'm the late Mr. Bryant's lawyer," Harker said, staring at the
monogrammed pattern on the screen. "James Harker. Will you put me
through?"
There was a momentary pause; then: "I beg your pardon, sir. Your name
does not seem to be on the list. You understand that in a time of grief
such as this the Bryant family accepts your condolences in the sincere
spirit in which they are offered, and regrets that it cannot devote
personal time to you as yet. We suggest that you call back tomorrow,
when the shock of Mr. Bryant's departure has lessened."
The intercepting-service monogram disappeared from the screen. Harker
scowled.
_The cold-blooded lice. Hiring a service to dish out all that unctuous
crap, meanwhile making sure I don't have a chance to talk to anybody
there._
He took a deep breath and punched out another number: the home phone
of District Judge Auerbach, who was scheduled to conduct the Bryant
hearing next Thursday.
Auerbach appeared on the screen, plump, sleepy-looking. Harker said,
"Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday night, Tom. You've heard about the
Bryant business?"
Auerbach nodded. "Too bad, I guess. He was very sick."
"No doubt of that. Look, Tom, his sons are being sticky about their
phone. I'm on the spit-list and can't get through to them. Has Jonathan
phoned you tonight?"
"No. Is he supposed to?"
"I don't know. I just want to notify you that I'll be out of town on
business tomorrow and maybe Tuesday, in case you or he or anybody is
trying to reach me. But I'll be back in plenty of time for the hearing
on Thursday. There isn't another motion for a postponement, is there?"
"Not that I know of," Auerbach said. "Be seeing you in court on
Thursday, then?"
"Right."
He returned to the television room. The ballet was still going on.
"Well?" Lois asked.
"I couldn't reach the Bryants. They hired an intercepting service,"
Harker said darkly. "I spoke to Tom Auerbach, though. The hearing's
still scheduled for Thursday. Jonathan just didn't want the old man to
be alive when it was held."
_I wouldn't put it past them to murder old Bryant_, he thought.
_Cold-blooded bunch._
He stared at the screen, but the colorful images only irritated him.
* * * * *
Idlewild was a busy place the following morning. Harker got there at
half-past-nine, and the sprawling buildings were jam-packed.
"_Flight 906 leaving for London via TWA in fifteen minutes--Flight 906
leaving for London via TWA in fifteen minutes--_"
He heard a deep-bellied boom; someone next to him said, "That's a
cross-country job, I'll bet."
Sure enough, the loudspeaker said, "_Now departing, Flight 136 for San
Francisco--_"
Above him a neon board flashed. The bright letters said: _Flight 136.
Lv Idlwld 0932, Ar SF 1126_.
Less than two hours across the continent. Harker shivered; the plane
that had taken off two minutes ago was probably somewhere over
Pennsylvania or Ohio by now.
"_Attention, please. Flight 199, United Air Lines, for Washington,
D.C., departure 0953, now boarding--_"
That was his plane. Leaving in about twenty minutes, and arriving in
Washington only about twenty minutes after that. Harker looked up and
saw a great golden stratocruiser coming in for a landing on a distant
runway. All around him he felt the nervous urgency always surrounding
people traveling.
Inwardly he began to grow tense. He had checked off two of the three
names on his scrawled list; neither had been of much encouragement.
Only Senator Clyde Thurman remained, and Thurman represented the
old-guard conservative wing of the Nat-Lib party; there was no telling
how he would react to the news that a technique had been developed
for--
"_Attention, please. Telephone call for Mr. James Harker. Mr. James
Harker, please report to any ticket desk. Telephone call for James
Harker--_"
Puzzled, Harker shoved his way through the crowd to the desk in the
foreground and said to the uniformed clerk, "I'm James Harker. I was
just paged for a phone-call."
"You can pick it up in there."
Harker stepped through into a waiting-room and picked up an extension
phone--audio only, no visual. He said to the operator, "I'm James
Harker. There's a phone-call for me."
"One moment, please."
There was the sound of phone-jacks being yanked in and out of sockets.
Then Mart Raymond's voice said, "Hello? Jim?"
"Harker here. That you, Mart?"
"Oh, thank God I caught you in time! I phoned your home, and your wife
said you'd gone to the airport to make a 9:53 jet! Another few minutes
and you'd have been aboard the plane, and--"
Harker had never heard Raymond this excited before. "Whoa, boy! Calm
down!"
"I can't. Cancel your trip and get out here right away!"
"How come? I'm on my way down to see Thurman."
"The hell with Thurman. Haven't you heard the news?"
"What news? About Bryant, you mean? How--"
"No, not about Bryant," Raymond snapped. "I mean about the _project_.
Hell, I guess you haven't heard yet. It only broke about five minutes
ago."
Harker stared strangely at the receiver in his hand. In as level a
voice as he could manage he said, "Mart, what are you trying to tell
me?"
"Mitchison!" Raymond gasped. "Mitchison and Klaus--they issued a public
statement about five minutes ago, telling the world all about the
project! The lab is swarming with reporters! Jim, you've got to get out
here at once!"
He hung up. Harker let the receiver drop into its cradle. He moistened
his lips.
The mask of secrecy was off. From now on, they were accountable to the
world for their every move.