"I don't know. But I found out a few things. He's been seen with some
mighty peculiar people in Caserta. What's this about somebody with a
gun waiting at the office for him when you were there?"
It took a moment for me to figure out what he was talking about. "Oh,"
I said, "you mean the man at the car? I didn't know he had a gun, for
certain."
"I do," Gogarty said shortly. "The expediters tried to pick him up
today, to question him about Hammond. He shot his way out."
I told Gogarty what I knew, although it wasn't much. He listened
abstractedly and, when I had finished, he sighed. "Well, that's no
help," he grumbled. "Better get ready to catch your train."
I nodded and reached to cut off the connection. He waved
half-heartedly. "Oh, yes," he added, "give my regards to Susan if you
see her."
"Isn't she here?"
He grimaced. "Your friend Defoe said he needed a secretary. He
requisitioned her."
* * * * *
I boarded the Anzio train from the same platform where I had seen
Zorchi dive under the wheels. But this was no sleek express; it was an
ancient three-car string that could not have been less than fifty years
out of date. The cars were not even air-conditioned.
Sleep was next to impossible, so I struck up a conversation with an
expediter-officer. He was stand-offish at first but, when he found out
I was a Claims Adjuster, he mellowed and produced some interesting
information.
It was reasonable that Defoe would put aside his other duties and make
a quick visit to Anzio, because Anzio seemed to need someone to do
something about it pretty badly. My officer was part of a new levy
being sent up there; the garrison was being doubled; there had been
trouble. He was vague about what kind of "trouble" it had been, but
it sounded like mob violence. I mentioned Caserta and the near-riot I
had been in; the officer's eyes hooded over, and about five minutes
after that he pointedly leaned back and pulled his hat over his eyes.
Evidently it was not good form to discuss actual riots.
I accepted the rebuke, but I was puzzled in my mind as I tried to get
some sleep for myself.
What kind of a place was this Naples, where mobs rioted against the
Company and even intelligent-seeming persons like Renata dell'Angela
appeared to have some reservations about it?
V
I slept, more or less, for an hour or so in that cramped coach seat.
I was half asleep when the train-expediter nudged my elbow and said,
"Anzio."
It was early--barely past daybreak. It was much too early to find a
cab. I got directions from a drowsing stationmaster and walked toward
the vaults.
The "clinic," as the official term went, was buried in the feet of the
hills just beyond the beaches. I was astonished at the size of it. Not
because it was so large; on the contrary. It was, as far as I could
see, only a broad, low shed.
Then it occurred to me that the vaults were necessarily almost entirely
underground, for the sake of economy in keeping them down to the
optimum suspendee temperature. It was safe enough and simple enough
to put a man in suspended animation but, as I understood it, it was
necessary to be sure that the suspendees never got much above fifty
degrees temperature for any length of time. Above that, they had an
unwelcome tendency to decay.
This was, I realized, the first full-scale "clinic" I had ever seen.
I had known that the Company had hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them
scattered all over the world.
I had heard that the Company had enough of them, mostly in
out-of-the-way locations, to deep-freeze the entire human race at once,
though that seemed hardly reasonable.
I had even heard some ugly, never-quite-made-clear stories about _why_
the Company had so many clinics ... but when people began hinting
at such ridiculous unpleasantness, I felt it was my duty to make it
clear that I wanted to hear no subversive talk. So I had never got the
details--and certainly would never have believed them for a moment if I
had.
* * * * *
It was very early in the morning, as I say, but it seemed that I was
not the first to arrive at the clinic. On the sparse grass before the
main entrance, half a dozen knots of men and women were standing around
apathetically. Some of them glared at me as I came near them, for
reasons I did not understand; others merely stared.
I heard a hoarse whisper as I passed one group of middle-aged women.
One of them was saying, "Benedetto non é morte." She seemed to be
directing it to me; but it meant nothing. The only comment that came to
my somewhat weary mind was, "So what if Benedetto isn't dead?"
A huge armed expediter, yawning and scratching, let me in to the
executive office. I explained that I had been sent for by Mr. Defoe.
I had to wait until Mr. Defoe was ready to receive me and was finally
conducted to a suite of rooms.
This might have once been an authentic clinic; it had the aseptic
appearance of a depressing hospital room. One for, say, Class-Cs with
terminal myasthenia. Now, though, it had been refitted as a private
guest suite, with an attempt at luxurious drapes and deep stuffed
armchairs superimposed on the basic adjustable beds and stainless steel
plumbing.
I hadn't seen Defoe in some time, but he hadn't changed at all.
He was, as always, the perfect model of a Company executive of
general-officer rank. He was formal, but not unyielding. He was tall,
distinguished-gray at the temples, spare, immaculately outfitted in the
traditional vest and bow tie.
I recalled our first meeting. He was from the side of Marianna's family
that she talked about, and she fluttered around for three whole days,
checking our Blue Plate policies for every last exotic dish we could
squeeze out to offer him, planning the television programs allowed
under our entertainment policies, selecting the most respectable of
our friends--"acquaintances" would be a better description; Marianna
didn't make friends easily--to make up a dinner party. He'd arrived
at the stroke of the hour he was due, and had brought with him what
was undoubtedly his idea of a princely gift for newly-weds--a paid-up
extra-coverage maternity benefit rider on our Blue Blanket policies.
We thanked him effusively. And, for my part, sincerely. That was before
I had known Marianna's views on children; she had no intentions of
raising a family.
* * * * *
As I walked in on Defoe in his private suite at the clinic, he was
standing with his back to me, at a small washstand, peering at his
reflection in a mirror. He appeared to have finished shaving. I rubbed
my own bristled chin uneasily.