"Lonesome?" Her brown eyes were wide and perfectly serious. "I had
thought it would be otherwise, Tom. So many of us in this little space,
how could you be lonesome?"
I took her hand. "I'm not lonesome now," I told her. We found a place
to sit in a corner of the communal dining hall. Around us the life of
the underground movement buzzed and swirled. It was much like a branch
of the Company, as I have said; the work of this secret section seemed
to be mostly a record-keeping depot for the activities that took place
on the surface. But no one paid much attention to Rena and me.
What did we talk about? What couples have always talked about: Each
other, and everything, and nothing. The only thing we did _not_ talk
about was my basic beliefs in regard to the Company. For I was too
troubled in my mind to talk about them, and Rena sensitive enough not
to bring them up.
For I had, with all honor, sworn an oath of allegiance to the Company;
and I had not kept it.
I could not, even then, see any possibility of a world where the
Company did not exist. For what the Company said of itself was true:
Before the Company existed, men lived like beasts. There was always the
instant danger of war and disease. No plan could be made, no hope could
be held, that could not be wiped out by blind accident.
And yet, were men better off today? I could not doubt the truths I
had been told. The Company permitted wars--I had seen it. The Company
permitted disease--my own wife had died.
Somewhere there was an answer, but I couldn't find it. It was not, I
was sure, in Slovetski's burning hatred of everything the Company stood
for. But it could not be, either, in the unquestioning belief that I
had once given.
But my views, it turned out, hardly mattered any more; the die was
cast. Benedetto appeared in the entrance to the dining hall, peering
about. He saw us and came over, his face grave.
"I am sorry, Mr. Wills," he said. "I have been listening to Radio
Napoli. It has just come over the air: A description of you, and an
order for your arrest. The charge is--murder!"
* * * * *
I gaped at him, hardly believing. "Murder! But that's not true; I
certainly never--"
Benedetto laid a hand on my shoulder. "Of course not, Mr. Wills. It is
a fiction of the Company's, beyond doubt. But it is a fiction that may
cause your death if you are discovered, do not doubt that."