THE WORLD JONES MADE

"Everybody. Except the skeleton of the organization, the real fanatics. They'll fight like hell for him."

"Are there many of them?"

"No, not many. Idealists, the energetic youth. After all, Jones did let us down—it's a fact, he knows it, we know it, pretty soon everybody will know it. But there are those who will stick with him anyhow." Without emotion she added, "Not me."

"Why not?"

"Because," she said, slowly, softly, "he told us what he's going to do to keep power. He's going to use the fleet as a weapon against the mobs. He's going to give the fleet its battle. And that means—" Her voice faltered, broke, then resumed. "Well, that means civil war. Just because he lied to us and betrayed us and led us into ruin we'll never get out of, doesn't mean he's going to step down; as a matter of fact he's just getting started. If anybody thinks—" Cussick reached out and caught hold of her arm. "Take it easy," he told her firmly. "Lower your voice."

"Thanks." She nodded tightly. "It's so damn awful. He knows he can't do it—he knows they'll get to him, eventually. Six months; that's how much time he has. But he's going to hang on. He's going to pull the whole world down around his ears... if he's dead he wants everybody else dead, too."

Silence.

"And," Nina finished wanly, "there's nothing we can do. Remember the assassin? Remember Pearson's attempt? It slipped right into Jones' hands... it got him into power."

"What happened to Pearson?"

"Pearson is dying. Very slowly and carefully. Not long ago Jones introduced some kind of parasite into him. It's feeding on him; eventually it'll lay its eggs in him. Jones is so proud of it; he never gets tired telling us about it."

Licking his dry lips, Cussick said hoarsely: "That's the kind of man you've been following?"

"We had a dream," Nina said simply. "And he had a dream. It went sour, it went all to pieces... but he just won't let go. He won't stop. And there's nothing that can make him stop; all we can do is sit back and watch while he goes to work. The round-ups are begi

Cussick's fingers tore up his paper napkin and shredded the bits onto the floor. "Does Jones know you've crossed back?"

"I don't think so. Not yet."

"I thought he knew everything."

"He knows only what he's going to know. He may never find out; after all, I'm only one of many: he's got millions of people to keep tabs on. A lot of us sneaked off; the man who drove me was my boss, my superior. He was leaving, too, with his wife and family. They're pulling out in droves, trying to find places to hide. Setting up retreats, hoping to last it out."

"I want you to go back," Cussick said.

Nina gave a little soundless bleat. "Back?" Quavering, she asked: "You're going to try to talk to him? Reason with him?"

"No," Cussick answered. "Not exactly."

"Oh." Nina nodded, understanding. "I see."

"Probably I'm doing what Pearson did; the quixotic gesture has already been made once. But I can't sit here." He leaned toward her. "Can you? Can you sit here sipping your coffee while he gets this thing going?"

Nina couldn't meet his gaze. "All I want to do is get out of it. I want to be back with you." Her eyes on her coffee cup, fingers clutching convulsively, she hurried on: "I have a place. It's in West Africa, where there's still a lot of unclaimed land. I fixed it up months ago; everything's arranged. The place was built by organization labor gangs; it's all finished. I have Jackie down there now."

"That's not legal. It takes both of us."

"There's no such thing as not legal, any more. Don't you know that? It's what we want—it's what the organization orders. I've got it arranged; we can get down there by tomorrow morning if we leave now. An organization intercon ship will fly us to Leopoldville. From there we'll go by surface car, up into the mountains."

"Sounds fine," Cussick commented. "Sounds like we could get by. We might even be alive, six months from now."

"I'm sure of it," Nina said emphatically. "Look at those Venusians—he doesn't care about them. A lot of people are going to survive; he'll have his hands full coping with the big-city riots."

Cussick examined his wristwatch. "I want you to go back to your organization and I want you to take me along. Can you get me through the check system?"

"If we go back," Nina said evenly, her voice low and steady, "we'll never get out. I know it—I can feel it. We won't get away."

After a moment Cussick said: "One of the things Jones taught us is the importance of action. I think the time for action has come. Maybe I should have been a Jones supporter. This is the time for me to show up and volunteer as one on the Jones Boys."

Nina's trembling fingers slipped from her cup; the cup turned on its side and oozed lukewarm coffee across the table in an ugly brown film. Neither of them moved, neither of them noticed.

"Well?" Cussick inquired.

"I guess," Nina said faintly, "you don't really care about me after all. You don't really want me back."

Cussick didn't answer. He sat waiting for her to agree, to begin putting the wheels into motion that would carry him inside the Jones organization and to Jones himself. And he was wondering, idly at first and then with growing hopelessness, how he could possibly kill a man who knew the topography of the future. A man who could not be taken unawares: a man for whom surprise was impossible.

"All right," Nina said, in an almost inaudible voice.

"Can you get an organization car?"

"Sure." Listlessly, she rose to her feet. "I'll go phone. He can pick us up here."

"Fine," Cussick said, with satisfaction. "We'll wait."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DARK RAIN swished down on the car as the gray-uniformed organization driver guided it conscientiously along through the heavy, slow-moving traffic. In the back, Nina and Cussick sat silently together, neither of them speaking.

Outside the car, blinding headlights loomed up, reflected, from a billion raindrops streaking the plastic windows. Signal lights blinked on and off; within the dashboard, answering relays closed in response. The driver had little to do beyond steering; most of the controls were automatic circuits. He was young and blond, a humorless functionary, performing his job skillfully, dispassionately.

"Hear the rain," Nina murmured.

The car halted for a series of rerouting lights. Cussick began shifting restlessly. He lit a cigarette, stubbed it out, then jerkily lit another. Presently Nina reached out and took hold of his hand.

"Darling," she said wretchedly. "I wish—what the hell can I do? I wish I could do something."

"Just get me in."

"But how are you going to do it? It isn't possible."

Warningly, Cussick indicated the driver. "Let's not talk about it."

"He's all right," Nina said. "He's part of my staff." The car started up, and in a moment they were on the broad freeway that led directly to the Fedgov buildings, where Jones had entrenched himself. It wouldn't be long, Cussick realized. Probably another half hour. Glumly, he gazed out at the lines of speeding cars. There was a lot of traffic. Along the pedestrian ramps shuffled hunched-over citizens, commuters who had been deposited by the urban expresses, dumped off to shift for themselves in the pouring rain.

From his pocket, he got out a small glittering bauble, carefully wrapped in translucent brown fiber. He sat with his knees apart, holding the bauble cupped in his hands.

"What is it?" Nina asked. Pathetically, she reached out to touch it. "A present for me?"