Страница 37 из 41
"We used these all the time," Cussick said, blocking her fingers. "Until Pearson ruled against them. You've probably heard about them... the Communists developed them during the war as instruments for conversion. We picked the idea up, too. This is called a lethe-mirror."
"Oh," Nina said. "Yes." She nodded. "I've heard of them. But I didn't think there were any left."
"Everybody kept one or two." In Cussick's hands the bauble shimmered menacingly. All he had to do was remove the brown-fiber covering; it was as simple as that. The mirror was a focus that caught and trapped the attention of the higher brain centers.
The car slowed a trifle. "Are we there?" Cussick demanded instantly.
"No sir," the young driver answered. "There's some kids trying to hitch a ride. Want me to pick them up?" He added, "It's raining pretty hard."
"Sure," Cussick said. "Pick them up."
The four kids who tumbled gratefully into the car were loaded down with drenched wicker baskets and the sodden remains of pe
"We were out selling Crusade buttons," another girl explained, mopping rain water from her face. Wet brown hair plastered over her ears, she hurried on joyfully: "And we had sold almost all of them, too, before the rain started."
The third teen-ager, a plump red-faced boy, gazed in awe at Nina and squeaked: "Are you in the organization?"
"That's right," Nina said thinly.
The girls mopped at their drenched clothes, struggled to dry their hair, exuded the smell of wet fabric and excitement. "Say," one of them noticed, "this is an official car."
The first girl, small and sharp-faced, with large interested eyes, said shyly to Cussick: "Do you have a Crusade button?"
"No," Cussick answered shortly. The irony of it hit home: this was a typical group of young fanatics, peddling buttons to raise Crusade funds. Standing on street comers, stopping cars and pedestrians, shoppers and commuters, faces flushed and alive with the fervor of their cause. In the four young faces he saw nothing but i
"Would you—" the little sharp-faced girl began, glancing up at him timidly, "would you like to buy a Crusade button?"
"Sure," Cussick said. "Why not?" He dug into his pocket. "How much?"
Nina made a strangled sound and ducked her head; he ignored her as he fished out a few crumpled bills.
"Ten dollars is the usual," the girl said, reaching quickly into her wicker basket for a button. "Anything you want... it's for a good cause."
He gave her the money; gravely, hesitantly, she pi
"Here," he said gently to Nina: "For you."
Solemnly, he pi
"Now we all have one," the sharp-faced girl said shyly.
Cussick paid her for the second button, and she scrupulously put the money with the other contributions. The six people in the back seat rode on through the rain, silent and subdued, each deep in his own thoughts. Cussick wondered what the four kids would be doing and thinking in a few more days. God knew... God and Jones, the two of them knew. He certainly didn't.
The driver let off the kids at a central intersection; the doors slammed after them, they waved thankfully, and again the car picked up speed. Ahead lay the ominous gray square that was the reinforced, bomb-proof Fedgov buildings. They were almost there.
"Those kids," Nina said sadly. "That's the way I felt, not so long ago."
"I know," Cussick answered.
"They don't mean any harm. They just don't understand."
He leaned down and kissed her; her moist, warm lips clung futilely to his own until, regretfully, he pulled away. "Wish me luck," he told her shortly.
"I do." She clutched fervently at him. "Please try not to let anything happen to you."
Cussick touched his coat. Inside, in addition to the mirror, was a standard police pistol. The mirror was for Jones; the pistol was to get himself back out again, past the guards. "How far inside can you get me?" he asked her. "How high does your authority go?"
"All the way," she answered, face stark-white, breath coming in rapid gasps. "It won't be hard... they all know me."
"Here we are, sir," the driver said. The car had left the freeway; now it was descending a long ramp toward the garages of the building. An echoing rumble rose around them; the wheels of the car were gliding over steel ru
Warily, Cussick opened the door and stepped out. He recognized this chamber; the vast concrete cave, in the old days, had housed his car. A gray-uniformed attendant was walking over: that was the only difference. The man wore an organization uniform, instead of the police brown. He touched his cap respectfully. "Evening," he murmured. "Can I have your permit?"
"I'll talk to him," Nina said, slipping quickly from the car and hurrying over beside Cussick. She fumbled in her purse and got out the metal plate. "Here it is; the car's mine."
"When did you want to pick it up?" the attendant asked, examining the plate and then returning it to Nina. The first hurdle, at least, was over. "You want it stored overnight?"
"Keep it up on the ground level," Nina instructed, with a questioning glance at Cussick. "We may need it any time."
"Yes ma'am," the attendant agreed, again touching his cap. "It'll be waiting for you."
As they entered the elevator, Cussick's legs were weak. Nina was terribly pale; he took hold of her and dug his fingers into her arm until she winced.
"I'm all right," she said brightly.
"Is it always this busy?" They were crushed in with a tightly-packed group of earnest-faced officials.
"Not always. There's been so much, lately..." Her voice trailed off vaguely. "A lot of activity."
The elevator closed at that moment: they stopped talking, grit their teeth and hung on to consciousness. Officials were muttering out floor numbers; Nina pulled herself together and said: "Seventeen, please."
They emerged with a knot of fast-moving dignitaries who hurried off in various directions. Ahead loomed the reception lounge and the broad information desk. Nina advanced toward the desk, her heels clicking on the hard, polished floor.
"I'd like an appointment with Mr. Jones," she said huskily to the uniformed officials behind the desk. From her purse she got out all her identification papers and laid them on the surface of the desk. "It's for this man."
Leisurely, the official picked up her papers and studied them. He was middle-aged, with a bulging neck that hung in wattles over his tight collar. His fingers were plump, white, efficient. With petulant, bureaucratic interest, he examined each paper before he spoke. "What's the reason for your request? You'll have to go through the regular cha
Nina shot a mute, agonized look at Cussick. "This is an emergency," she faltered. "It should be put right through."
"Well, then," the official said, without particular interest, "you'll have to fill out a special declaration." From a drawer he took a form-pad and turned it toward her. "Indicate the particulars in section five and again in section eight. Make certain the carbons are in properly." He pointed to a small table in the corner of the lounge. "You can fill it out over there."