"No," said Durham. "Oh no, you got the name wrong. Hawtree wouldn't
send for me if I was the last man in the galaxy. Hawtree, indeed."
"Hawtree," said Paulsen. He drew a deep breath and threw aside his
domino. "Come on, Burke."
Burke took off his domino. They came on together.
Durham drew back. His shoulders dropped and his fists came up. "Look
out," he said. "What you going to do? Look out!"
"All right," said Burke, and they both jumped together and caught his
arms, not because Durham was so big or so powerful that he frightened
them, but because they disliked the idea of brawling with a drunken
man. Paulsen said,
"Hawtree wants you tonight, and he wants you sober, and that, damn it,
is the way he's going to get you."
* * * * *
An hour and seven minutes later Durham sat beside Paulsen in a 'copter
with no insigne and watched the roof of his apartment tower fall away
beneath him.
Burke had stayed behind, and Durham wore the Irishman's domino with
the cowl up over his head. Under the domino was his good suit, the
one he had not sent to the pawnbroker because he could not, as yet,
quite endure being without one good suit. He was scrubbed and shaved
and perfectly sober. Outside he did not look too bad. Inside he was a
shambles.
The 'copter fitted itself into a north-south lane. Paulsen, muffled in
his cowl, sat silent. Durham felt a similar reluctance to speak. He
looked out over The Hub, and tried to keep from thinking. Don't run
to meet it, don't get your hopes up. Whatever it is, let it happen,
quietly.
The city was beautiful. Its official name was Galactic Center, but it
was called The Hub because that is what it was, the hub and focus of a
galaxy. It was the biggest city in the Milky Way. It covered almost the
entire land area of the third planet of a Type G star that someone with
a sense of humor had christened Pax. The planet was chosen originally
because it was centrally located and had no inhabitants, and because it
was within the limits of tolerance for the humanoid races. The others
mostly needed special accommodations anyway.
And so from a sweet green airy world with nothing on it but trees
and grass and a few mild-natured animals, The Hub had grown to have a
population of something like ten billion people, spread horizontally
and stacked up vertically and dug in underneath, and every one of them
was engaged in some governmental function, or in espionage, or in both.
Intrigue was as much a part of life in The Hub as corpuscles are a part
of blood. The Hub boasted that it was the only inhabited world in space
where no single grain of wheat or saddle of mutton was grown, where
nothing was manufactured and nobody worked at a manual job.
Durham loved it passionately.
Both moons were in the sky now. One was small and low, like a white
pearl hung just out of reach. The other was enormous. It had an
atmosphere, and it served as storehouse and supply base for the planet
city, handling the billions of tons of shipping that kept it going.
The two of them made a glorious spectacle overhead, but Durham did not
bother to see them. The vast glow of the city paled them, made them
unimportant. He was remembering how he had seen it when he was fresh
from Earth, for the first time--the supreme capital, beside which the
world capitals were only toy cities, the heart and center of the galaxy
where the decisions were made and the great men came and went. He was
remembering how he had felt, how he had been so sure of the future that
he never gave it a second thought.
But something happened.
What?
Liquor, they said.
No, not liquor, the hell with them. I could always carry my drinks.
Liquor, they said, and the accident.
The accident. Well, what of it? Didn't other people have accidents?
And anyway, nobody really got hurt out of it. He didn't, and the girl
didn't--what if she wasn't his fiancee?--and the confidential file he
had in the 'copter hadn't fallen into anybody's hands. So there wasn't
anything to that.
No. Not liquor and not the accident, no matter what they said. It was
Hawtree, and a personal grudge because he, Durham, had had Hawtree's
daughter out with him in the 'copter that night. And so what? He was
only engaged to Willa Paulsen, not married to her, and anyway Susan
Hawtree knew what she was doing. She knew darn well.
Hawtree, a grudge, and a little bad luck. That's what happened. And
that's all.
The 'copter swerved and dropped onto a private landing stage attached
to a penthouse. Durham knew it well, though he hadn't seen it for over
a year. He got out, aware of palpitations and a gone feeling in the
knees. He needed a drink, but he knew that he would have to go inside
first and he forced himself to stand up and walk beside Paulsen as
though nothing had ever happened. The head high, the face proud and
calm, just a touch of bitterness but not too much.
Hawtree was alone in the living room. He glanced at Durham as he came
in through the long glass doors. There was a servall standing in the
corner, and Hawtree said to it, "A drink for the gentleman, straight
and stiff."
A small anger stirred in Durham. Hawtree might at least have given him
the choice. He said sharply, "No thanks."
Hawtree said, "Don't be a fool." He looked tired, but then he always
had. Tired and keyed up, full of the drive and the brittle excitement
of one who has juggled peoples and nations, expressed as black marks on
sheets of varicolored paper, for so long that it has become a habit as
necessary and destructive as hashish. To Paulsen he said, "I'll ring
when I need you."
Paulsen went out. The servall placed the drink in Durham's hand. He did
not refuse it.
"Sit down," said Hawtree, and Durham sat. Hawtree dismissed the
servall. Durham drank part of his drink and felt better.
"Well," he said. "I'm listening."
"You were a great disappointment to me, Durham."
"What am I supposed to say to that?"
"Nothing. Go ahead, finish your drink, I want to talk to a man, not a
zombie."
Durham finished it angrily. "If you brought me all the way here to
shake your finger at me, I'm going home again." That was what he said
aloud. Inside, he wanted to get down and embrace Hawtree's knees and
beg him for another chance.
"I brought you here," said Hawtree, "to offer you a job. If you do it,
it might mean that certain doors could be opened for you again."
Durham sat perfectly still. For a moment he did not trust himself to
speak. Then he said, "I'll take it."
Certain doors. That's what I've waited for, living like a bum, dodging
creditors, hocking my shoes, waiting for those doors to open again.
* * * * *
He tried not to show how he felt, sitting stiffly at ease in the chair,
but a red flush began to burn in his cheeks and his hands moved. About
time. About time, damn you, Hawtree, that you remembered me.
Damn you, oh damn you for making me sweat so long!