I didn't know either, but I suspected--and so did she. It was out
of the question that the Company, with its infinite resources, its
nerve-fibers running into every part of the world, should not know just
what that bomb was, and what it would do. And what few days the world
had--before the fall-out became dangerous--were none too many.
Already the word should have been spread, and the first groups alerted
for movement into the vaults, to wait out the day when the air would be
pure again. If it was being delayed, there could be no good reason for
it.
* * * * *
The only reason was Defoe. But what, I asked myself miserably, was
Millen Carmody doing all this while? Was he going to sit back and
placidly permit Defoe to pervert every ideal of the Company?
I could not believe it. It was not possible that the man who had
written the inspiring words in the Handbook could be guilty of genocide.
Rena excused herself to look in on her father. Almost ashamed of
myself, I took the battered book from my pocket and opened it to check
on Millen Carmody's own preface.
It was hard to reconcile the immensely reassuring words with what I had
seen. And, as I read them, I no longer felt safe and comforted.
* * * * *
There seemed to be no immediate danger, and Rena needed to get out
of that house. There was nothing for Benedetto to do but wait, and
Zorchi's servants could help him when it was necessary.
I took her by the arm and we strolled out into the garden, breathing
deeply. That was a mistake. I had forgotten, in the inconspicuous air
conditioning of Zorchi's home, that we were in the center of the hemp
fields that had nearly cost me my dinner, so long ago, with Hammond.
I wondered if I ever would know just why Hammond was killed. Playing
both ends against the middle, it seemed--he had undoubtedly been in
with Slovetski's group. Rena had admitted as much, and I was privately
certain that he had been killed by them.
But of more importance was the stench in our nostrils. "Perhaps," said
Rena, "across the road, in the walnut grove, it will not be as bad."
I hesitated, but it felt safe in the warm Italian night, and so we
tried it. The sharp scent of the walnut trees helped a little; what
helped even more was that the turbinates of the nostril can stand just
so much, and when their tolerance is exceeded they surrender. So that
it wasn't too long before, though the stench was as strong as ever, we
hardly noticed it.
We sat against the thick trunk of a tree, and Rena's head fitted
naturally against my shoulder. She was silent for a time, and so was
I--it seemed good to have silence, after violent struggle and death.