After Doug had gone, Dot tried to make herself forget why he had gone,
where he was going. She wanted the old conviction to come back; she
wanted to be smugly sure again that it was impossible for him to fly to
another planet, and that what he had said was just a great joke.
She twisted a dial on the luxurious radio console, sat for a moment
beside it and wished that she could as easily twist fact away from
belief, so that the awful fear would go. Yet blindness to fact was no
answer to fear of it.
It seemed long ago that space flight had been something for light
dinner-table conversation, something for fanciful conjecture in an idle
moment, something to discuss politely when the overimaginative person
became serious with his day-after-tomorrow talk.
But now suddenly it was none of those things. Now suddenly it was a
thing of life or death to her; it was real, and she was afraid. The
science-fiction stories she had leafed through in an idle moment--what
had their writers said? What had they, in their irrepressible way, so
logically theorized about the balance of life in the impossibly deep
reaches of Space--about the precocious ships that men would some day
build when they were at last free of their age-old fear of infinity?
The soft music from the radio had stopped, and the newscaster's voice
disturbed her reverie.
"... this afternoon, the Prelatinate announced eight new amendments
to the Constitutional Commandments, making the total for the day so
far a slightly-under-average twelve. This afternoon's amendments deal
specifically with Commandment Ninety-three, Section 189, Chapter 914,
paragraph 382, sub-division 2103-K. The first stipulates...."
She tried to find another program of music, but the daily amendment
announcements were everywhere. With a fleeting smile she remembered
what Doug had said--that at last the commercial had met its match as an
instrument for ruining radio listening. Yet logical enough, for here
the dollar was secondary, and Government was God.
She turned the console off, and again the house was quiet, and the
chill mantle of worry drew closer about her brain, grew steadily into
a stifling strait-jacket of helpless fear. Lord, there was nothing she
could _do_....
Then of a sudden her pulse was racing as the large helicopter landed at
the side of the house. She looked out the window.
But it was not Doug. The word ELECTROSUPPLY was stenciled in large
letters above the craft's opening freight-door, and she watched as a
dolly was lowered from it. There were four men, and they were unloading
a large crate. It went on the dolly, and then the dolly with its load
was being pushed by the four to the side of the house.
The door-signal sounded.
"Yes?"
"Madame Blair, would you please sign for the shipment?"
"Yes, of course. But what is it that I--"
"Sorry, Madame. Only the Order Division knows the nature of the
consignment--policy, you know. There, that'll do it. Thank you."
* * * * *
He left with her permission to leave the crate in the cellar, and
after a few minutes the 'copter and its efficient crew was gone.
She knew intuitively that it was the equipment he needed so
desperately--ironically enough it must be that. She had to fight back
the impulse to rush to the cellar and rip the crate open. For if in
some way she should slip, do something wrong, damage what was inside....
Quite suddenly her thoughts were marshaled from their uninhibited
adventuring and became sharp hard-edged instruments. Even the tiniest
error now could mean the difference between winning and losing, and it
was still not too late to win.
A message to him through his office, but it must be contrived somehow
so that they could not suspect that she was telling him he must
return immediately. She could simply say something like "as per your
instructions, am informing you of arrival of the last item for which
you phoned. Am sure it is exactly what you wanted. Good luck, Lisa."
That should work--
But the telecall signal sounded before she could pick the slender unit
from its cradle.
"Yes?"
"Madame Blair?" It was a woman's voice.
"Why yes, speaking."
"This is Madame--Doe. We missed you at the culture lecture yesterday
afternoon my dear, and just wanted to make sure that everything
was--all right, you know."
"The lecture--oh, yes of course. Why I'm sorry--"
"But everything is--all right? You're not ill?"
"Oh, no. It just must have been one of my usual oversights," Dot
bluffed. And she knew there was something missing. In the woman's
voice. Something....
"Oversights?"
"Why, yes--I'm afraid so. Dreadfully sorry. But of course I'll try not
to forget next time."
"But Madame Blair--" and then suddenly the tone changed. "Yes, I know
how it is--we all have those days, don't we? Well, there's something
you really should know, so don't forget our next little get-together,
will you?" An enchanting little giggle was attached, but there had been
no giggle in the first three words.
"No, I won't forget," Dot said.
"'Til next time, then. Good-bye."
Dot hung up, and the room seemed suddenly to have become cold.
Intuition was one thing--she wouldn't be a woman if she didn't trust
that. But imagination was of course quite another. It had been simply
an unexpected half-minute phone-call. Short, almost too short, if she
were any judge of the ladies' society type. Nonsense....
She sat down. And the chair was cold.
_Nerves, girl, that's all. Like the night you saw the man in the
shadows outside the house and Doug wasn't home from the banquet yet,
and it turned out to be the neighborhood cop waiting for his beat
relief...._
She had to forget it, get the message to Doug. What would she say, now?
"As per your instructions--"
_But Madame Blair--!_
Damn! This was ridiculous--pure imagination--since when was a culture
society a thing to get goose-pimples over? That was all it was of
course. Just the knowledge of the crate downstairs.... God the house
was quiet.
She reached for the phone.
And again, the door-signal chimed.
She half-walked, half-ran to answer it; tripped, caught herself. It
chimed again.
Then somehow she had the door open, and there were four men in white
uniforms standing before it.
"Madame Blair, if you will please come with us."
"No, I'm sorry,--I can't. Why, what are you here for?"
"You received a telecall several minutes ago, did you not, Madame?" He
phrased it as a question, but she knew that it was a statement.
"Why, yes I did. A social call--"
"We know that it was not, Madame Blair. If you will accompany us
please." They stood there, unmoving.
"I--I don't understand. My culture society, if it is important for some
reason that you know...."
"Precisely. We've known for some time about the society, madame. We
are sorry that we have at length linked you with it. Now if you will
accompany us please."
There was no choice. She did not want to think of what might happen if
she ran.