The Company had evidently decided to lie to the human race. Keep
them in the dark--make each little section believe that only it was
affected--persuade them that they would be under for, at most, a few
weeks or months.
Was that, I wondered, Defoe's scheme? Was he planning to try somehow to
convince four billion people that fifty years were only a few weeks?
It would never work--the first astronomer to look at a star, the first
seaman to discover impossible errors in his tide table, would spot the
lie.
More likely he was simply proceeding along what must always have been
his basic assumption: The truth is wasted on the people.
Zorchi said with heavy irony, "If my guest is quite finished with the
instrument, perhaps he will be gracious enough to permit me to resume
Aïda."
* * * * *
I woke Rena and told her about the evacuation. She said, yawning, "But
of course, Tom. What else could they do?" And she began discussing
breakfast.
I went with her, but not to eat; in the dining hall was a small
television set, and on it I could listen to the same repeat broadcasts
over and over to my heart's content. It was--in a way--a thrilling
sight. It is always impressive to see a giant machine in operation, and
there was no machine bigger than the Company.
The idea of suspending a whole world, even piecemeal, was staggering.
But if there had been panic at first in the offices of the Company,
none of it showed. The announcers were harried and there was bustle and
strain, but order presided.
Those long lines of vehicles outside the window; they were going
somewhere; they were each one, I could see by the medallion slung
across each radiator front, on the payroll of the Company.
Perhaps the trick of pretending to each section that only it would be
affected was wise--I don't know. It was working, and I suppose that
is the touchstone of wisdom. Naples knew that something was going on
in Rome, of course, but was doubtful about the Milanese Republic. The
Romans were in no doubt at all about Milan, but weren't sure about the
Duchy of Monaco, down the Riviera shore. And the man on the street, if
he gave it a thought at all, must have been sure that such faraway
places as America and China were escaping entirely.
I suppose it was clever--there was no apparent panic. The trick took
away the psychological horror of world catastrophe and replaced it
with only a local terror, no different in kind than an earthquake or
a flood. And there was always the sack of gold at the end of every
catastrophe: Blue Bolt would pay for damage, with a free and uncounting
hand.
Except that this time, of course, Blue Bolt would not, could not, pay
at all.
* * * * *
By noon, Benedetto was out of bed.
He shouldn't have been, but he was conscious and we could not make him
stay put--short of chains.
He watched the television and then listened as Rena and I brought him
up to date. Like me, he was shocked and then encouraged to find that
Millen Carmody was in the vaults--encouraged because it was at least a
handle for us to grasp the problem with; if we could get at Carmody,
perhaps we could break Defoe's usurped power. Without him, Defoe
would simply use the years while the world slept to forge a permanent
dictatorship.
We got the old man to lie down, and left him. But not for long. Within
the hour he came tottering to where we were sitting, staring at the
television. He waved aside Rena's quick protest.
"There is no time for rest, my daughter," he said. "Do not scold me. I
have a task."