He had gone too far. Edward Falcaro rose from his chair and leaned
forward, bracing himself on the table. He said flatly: "This is a
statement, gentlemen. I won't pretend I'm happy about the way things are
in Mob Territory. I won't pretend I think old man Regan is a balanced,
dependable person. I won't pretend I think the Mob clients are enjoying
anywhere near the service that Syndic clients enjoy. I'm perfectly aware
that on our visits of state to Mob Territory we see pretty much what our
hosts want us to see. But I cannot believe that any group which is
rooted on the principles of freedom and service can have gone very
wrong.
"Maybe I'm mistaken, gentlemen. But I cannot believe that a descendant
of Jimmy Regan would order a descendant of Amadeo Falcaro murdered. We
will consider every other possibility first. Frank, is that clear?"
"Yes," Taylor said.
"All right," Edward Falcaro grunted. "Now let's go about this thing
systematically. Dick, you go right down the line with the charge that
the Government's responsible for these atrocities. I hate to think that
myself. If they are, we're going to have to spend a lot of time and
trouble hunting them down and doing something about it. As long as they
stick to a little commerce-raiding and a few coastal attacks, I can't
say I'm really unhappy about them. They don't do much harm, and they
keep us on our toes and--maybe this one is most important--they keep our
client's memories of the bad old days that we delivered them from alive.
That's a great deal to surrender for the doubtful pleasures of a long,
expensive campaign. If assassination's in the picture I suppose we'll
have to knock them off--but we've got to be _sure_."
"May I speak?" Reiner asked icily.
The old man nodded and re-lit his cigar.
"I have been called--behind my back, naturally--a fanatic," Reiner
said. He pointedly did not look anywhere near F. W. Taylor as he spoke
the word. "Perhaps this is correct and perhaps fanaticism is what's
needed at a time like this. Let me point out what the so-called
Government stands for: brutal 'taxation,' extirpation of gambling,
denial of life's simple pleasures to the poor and severe limitation of
them to all but the wealthy, sexual prudery viciously enforced by penal
laws of appalling barbarity, endless regulation and coercion governing
every waking minute of the day. That was its record during the days of
its power and that would be its record if it returned to power. I fail
to see how this menace to our liberty can be condoned by certain
marginal benefits which are claimed to accrue from its continued
existence." He faltered for a moment as his face twisted with an
unpleasant memory. In a lower, unhappier voice, he went on: "I--I was
alarmed the other day by something I overheard. Two small children were
laying bets at the Kiddy Counter of the horse room I frequent, and I
stopped on my way to the hundred-dollar window for a moment to hear
their childish prattle. They were doping the forms for the sixth at
Hialeah, I believe, when one of them digressed to say: 'My Mommy doesn't
play the horses. She thinks all the horse rooms should be closed.'
"It wrung my heart, gentlemen, to hear that. I wanted to take that
little boy aside and tell him: 'Son, your Mommy doesn't have to play the
horses. Nobody has to play the horses unless he wants to. But as long as
one single person wants to lay a bet on a horse and another person is
willing to take it, nobody has the right to say the horse rooms should
be closed.' Naturally I did not take the little boy aside and tell him
that. It would have been an impractical approach to the problem. The
_practical_ approach is the one I have always advocated and still do.
Strike at the heart of the infection! Destroy the remnants of Government
and cauterize the wound so that it will never re-infect again. Nor is my
language too strong. When I realize that the mind of an innocent child
has been corrupted so that he will prattle that the liberties of his
brothers must be infringed on, that their harmless pleasures must be
curtailed, my blood runs cold and I call it what it is: _treason_."
Orsino had listened raptly to the words and joined in a burst of
spontaneous applause that swept around the table. He had never had a
brush with Government himself and he hardly believed in the existence of
the shadowy, terrorist D.A.R., but Reiner had made it sound so near and
menacing!
But Uncle Frank was on his feet. "We seem to have strayed from the
point," he said dryly. "For anybody who needs his memory refreshed, I'll
state that the point is two assassinations and one near miss. I fail to
see the connection, if any with Dick Reiner's paranoid delusions of
persecution. I especially fail to see the relevance of the word
'treason.' Treason to what--us? The Syndic is not a government. It must
not become enmeshed in the symbols and folklore of a government or it
will be first chained and then strangled by them. The Syndic is an
organization of high morale and easy-going, hedonistic personality. The
fact that it succeeded the Government occurred because the Government
had become an organization of low morale and inflexible, puritanic,
sado-masochistic personality. I have no illusions about the Syndic
lasting forever, and I hope nobody else here has. Naturally I want it to
last our lifetime, my children's lifetime, and as long after that as I
can visualize my descendants, but don't think I have any burning
affection for my unborn great-great grandchildren. Now, if there is
anybody here who doesn't want it to last that long, I suggest to him
that the quickest way to demoralize the Syndic is to adopt Dick Reiner's
proposal of a holy war for a starter. From there we can proceed to an
internal heresy hunt, a census, excise taxes, income taxes and wars of
aggression. Now, what about getting back to the assassinations?"
Orsino shook his head, thoroughly confused by now. But the confusion
vanished as a girl entered the room, whispered something in the ear of
Edward Falcaro and sat down calmly by his side. He wasn't the only one
who noticed her. Most of the faces there registered surprise and some
indignation. The Syndic had a very strong tradition of masculinity.
Edward Falcaro ignored the surprise and indignation. He said placidly:
"That was very interesting, Frank, what I understood of it. But it's
always interesting when I go ahead and do something because it's the
smart thing to do, and then listen to you explain my reasons--including
fifty or sixty that I'm more than positive never crossed my mind."
There was a laugh around the table that Charles Orsino thought was
unfair. He knew, Edward Falcaro knew, and everybody knew that Taylor
credited Falcaro with sound intuitive judgment rather than analytic
power. He supposed the old man--intuitively--had decided a laugh was
needed to clear the air of the quarrel and irrelevance.
Falcaro went on: "The way things stand now, gentlemen, we don't know
very much, do we?" He bit a fresh cigar and lighted it meditatively.
From a cloud of rank smoke he said: "So the thing to do is find out
more, isn't it?" In spite of the beard and the cigar, there was
something of a sly, teasing child about him. "So what do you say to
slipping one of our own people into the Government to find out whether
they're dealing in assassination or not?"
Charles Orsino alone was naive enough to speak; the rest knew that the
old man had something up his sleeve. Charles said: "You can't do it,
sir! They have lie-detectors and drugs and all sorts of things--" His
voice died down miserably under Falcaro's too-benign smile and the looks
of irritation verging on disgust from the rest. The enigmatic girl
scowled. _Goddam them all!_ Charles thought, sinking into his chair and
wishing he could sink into the earth.
"The young man," Falcaro said blandly, "speaks the truth--no less true
for being somewhat familiar to us all. But what if we have a way to get
around the drugs and lie-detectors, gentlemen? Which of you bold fellows
would march into the jaws of death by joining the Government, spying on
them and trying to report back?"
Charles stood up, prudence and timidity washed away by a burning need to
make up for his embarrassment with a grandstand play. "I'll go, sir," he
said very calmly. _And if I get killed that'll show 'em; then they'll be
sorry._
"Good boy," Edward Falcaro said briskly, with a well-that's that air.
"The young lady here will take care of you."
Charles steadily walked down the long room to the head of the table,
thinking that he must be cutting a rather fine figure. Uncle Frank
ruined his exit by catching his sleeve and halting him as he passed his
seat. "Good luck, Charles," Uncle Frank whispered. "And for Heaven's
sake, keep a better guard up. Can't you see the old devil planned it
this way from the beginning?"
"Good-bye, Uncle Frank," Charles said, suddenly feeling quite sick as he
walked on. The young lady rose and opened the door for him. She was
graceful as a cat, and a conviction overcame Charles Orsino that he was
the canary.
V
Max Wyman shoved his way through such a roar of voices and such a crush
of bodies as he had never known before. Scratch Sheet Square was bright
as day--brighter. Atomic lamps, mounted on hundred-story buildings hosed
and squirted the happy mob with blue-white glare. The Scratch Sheet's
moving sign was saying in fiery letters seventy-five feet tall: "_11:58
PM EST ... December 31st ... Cops say two million jam NYC streets to
greet New Year ... 11:59 PM EST ... December 31st ... Falcaro jokes on
TV 'Never thought we'd make it' ... 12:00 midnight January 1st ... Happy
New Year ..._"
The roar of voices had become insane. Max Wyman held his head, hating
it, hating them all, trying to shut them out. Half a dozen young men
against whom he was jammed were tearing the clothes off a girl. They
were laughing and she was too, making only a pretense of defending
herself. It was one of New York's mild winter nights. Wyman looked at
the white skin not knowing that his eyes gloated. He yelled curses at
her, and the young men. But nobody heard his whiskey-hoarsened young
voice.
Somebody thrust a bottle at him and made mouths, trying to yell: "Happy
New Year!" He grabbed feverishly at the bottle and held it to his mouth,
letting the liquor gurgle once, twice, three times. Then the bottle was
snatched away, not by the man who had passed it to him. A hilarious fat
woman plastered herself against Wyman and kissed him clingingly on the
mouth, to his horror and disgust. She was torn away from him by a
laughing, white-haired man and turned willingly to kissing him instead.
Two strapping girls jockeyed Wyman between them and began to tear _his_
clothes off, laughing at their switcheroo on the year's big gag. He
clawed out at them hysterically and they stopped, the laughter dying on
their lips as they saw his look of terrified rage. A sudden current in
the crowd parted Wyman from them; another bottle bobbed on the sea of
humanity. He clutched at it and this time did not drink. He stuffed it
hurriedly under the waistband of his shorts and kept a hand on it as the
eddy of humanity bore him on to the fringes of the roaring mob.
"_Syndic leaders hail New Year ... Taylor praises Century of Freedom ...
12:05 AM EST January 1st ..._"
Wyman was mashed up against a girl who first smiled at his young face
invitingly ... and then looked again. "Get away from me!" she shrieked,
pounding on his chest with her small fists. You could hear individual
voices now, but the crowd was still dense. She kept screaming at him and
hitting him until suddenly Scratch Sheet Square Upramp loomed and the
crowd fizzed onto it like uncorked champagne, Wyman and the screaming
girl carried along the moving plates underfoot. The crowd boiled onto
the northbound strip, relieving the crush; the girl vanished,
whimpering, into the mob.
Wyman, rubbing his ear mechanically, shuffled with downcast eyes to the
Eastbound ramp and collapsed onto a bench gliding by at five miles per
hour. He looked stupidly at the ten-mile and fifteen-mile strips, but
did not dare step onto them. He had been drinking steadily for a month.
He would fall and the bottle would break.
He lurched off the five-mile strip at Riverside Downramp. Nobody got off
with him. Riverside was a tangle of freightways over, under and on the
surface. He worked there.
Wyman picked his way past throbbing conveyors roofed against pilferage,
under gurgling fuel and water and waste pipes, around vast metal
warehouses and storage tanks. It was not dark or idle in Riverside.
Twenty-four hours was little enough time to bring Manhattan its daily
needs and carry off its daily waste and manufactures. Under daylight
atomics the transport engineers in their glass perches read the dials
and turned the switches. Breakdown crews scurried out from emergency
stations as bells clanged to replace a sagging plate, remag a failing
ehrenhafter, unplug a jam of nylon bales at a too-sharp corner.
He found Breakdown Station 26, hitched his jacket over the bottle and
swayed in, drunk enough to think he could pretend he was sober. "Hi," he
said hoarsely to the shift foreman. "Got jammed up in the celebration."
"We heard it clear over here," the foreman said, looking at him closely.
"Are you all right, Max?"
The question enraged him. "'Smatter?" he yelled. "Had a couple, sure.
Think 'm drunk? Tha' wha' ya think?"
"Gee," the foreman said wearily. "Look, Max, I can't send you out
tonight. You might get killed. I'm trying to be reasonable and I wish
you'd do as much for me. What's biting you, boy? Nobody has anything
against a few drinks and a few laughs. I went on a bender last month
myself. But you get so Goddammed _mean_ I can't stand you and neither
can anybody else."
Wyman spewed obscenity at him and tried to swing on him. He was
surprised and filled with self-pity when somebody caught his arm and
somebody else caught his other arm. It was Dooley and Weintraub, his
shift-mates, looking unhappy and concerned.
"Lousy rats!" Wyman choked out. "Leas' a man's buddies c'd do is back'm
up...." He began to cry, hating them, and then fell asleep on his feet.
Dooley and Weintraub eased him down onto the floor.
The foreman mopped his head and appealed to Dooley: "He always like
this?" He had been transferred to Station 26 only two weeks before.
Dooley shrugged. "You might say so. He showed up about three months ago.
Said he used to be a breakdown man in Buffalo, on the yards. He knew the
work all right. But I never saw such a mean kid. Never a good word for
anybody. Never any fun. Booze, booze, booze. This time he really let
go."
Weintraub said unexpectedly: "I think he's what they used to call an
alcoholic."
"What the hell's that?" the foreman demanded.
"I read about it. It's something they used to have before the Syndic. I
read about it. Things were a lot different then. People picking on you
all the time, everybody mad all the time. The girls were scared to give
it away and the boys were scared to take it--but they did anyway and it
was kind of like fighting with yourself _inside_ yourself. The fighting
wore some people out so much they just couldn't take it any more.
Instead of going on benders for a change of pace like sensible people,
they boozed _all_ the time--and they had a fight inside themselves
about _that_ so they boozed harder." He looked defensive at their
skeptical faces. "I _read_ it," he insisted.
"Well," the foreman said inconclusively, "I heard things used to be
pretty bad. Did these alcoholers get over it?"
"I don't know," Weintraub admitted. "I didn't read that far."
"Hm. I think I'd better can him." The foreman was studying their faces
covertly, hoping to read a reaction. He did. Both the men looked
relieved. "Yeh. I think I'd better can him. He can go to the Syndic for
relief if he has to. He doesn't do us much good here. Put some soup on
and get it down him when he wakes up." The foreman, an average kindly
man, hoped the soup would help.
But at about three-thirty, after two trouble calls in succession, they
noticed that Wyman had left leaving no word.
* * * * *
The fat little man struggled out of the New Year's eve throng; he had
been caught by accident. Commander Grinnel did not go in for
celebrations. When he realized that January fifteenth was now fifteen
days away, he doubted that he would ever celebrate again. It was a
two-man job he had to do on the fifteenth, and so far he had not found
the other man.
He rode the slidewalk to Columbus Square. He had been supplied with a
minimum list of contacts. One had moved, and in the crazily
undisciplined Syndic Territory it was impossible to trace anybody.
Another had died--of too much morphine. Another had beaten her husband
almost to death with a chair leg and was in custody awaiting trial. The
Commander wondered briefly and querulously: why do we always have such
unstable people here? Or does that louse Emory deliberately saddle me
with them when I'm on a mission? Wouldn't put it past him.
The final contact on the list was a woman. She'd be worthless for the
business of January fifteenth; that called for some physical strength,
some technical knowledge, and a residual usefulness to the Government.
Professor Speiser had done some good work here on industrial sabotage,
but taken away from the scene of possible operations, she'd just be a
millstone. He had his record to think of.