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«What, father?»
«I was thinking of a family vice, Olivia. I was thanking the Deity that you have not inherited it.»
«What vice is that?»
«There's no need for you to know. It's one that Fourmyle shares.»
«Ah, he's wicked? I knew it. Like a Borgia, you said. A wicked Borgia with black eyes and lines in his face. That must account for the pattern.»
«Pattern, my dear?»
«Yes. I can see a strange pattern over his face . . . not the usual electricity of nerve and muscle. Something laid over that. It fascinated me from the begi
«What sort of pattern do you mean?»
«Fantastic . . . Wonderfully evil. I can't describe it. Give me something to write with. I'll show you.»
They stopped before a six-hundred-year-old Chippendale cabinet. Presteign took out a silver-mounted slab of crystal and handed it to Olivia. She touched it with her fingertip; a black dot appeared. She moved her finger and the dot elongated into a line. With quick strokes she sketched the hideous swirls and blazons of a devil mask.
Saul Dagenham left the darkened bedroom. A moment later it was flooded with light as one wall illuminated. It seemed as though a giant mirror reflected Jisbella's bedroom, but with one odd quirk. Jisbella lay in the bed alone, but in the reflection Saul Dagenham sat on the edge of the bed alone. The mirror was, in fact, a sheet of lead glass separating identical rooms. Dagenham had just illuminated his.
«Love by the clock.» Dagenham's voice came through a speaker. «Disgusting.»
«No, Saul. Never.»
«Frustrating.»
«Not that, either.»
«But unhappy.»
«No. You're greedy. Be content with what you've got.»
«It's more than I ever had. You're magnificent.»
«You're extravagant. Now go to sleep, darling. We're skiing tomorrow.»
«No, there's been a change of plan. I've got to work.»
«Oh Saul . . . you promised me. No more working and fretting and ru
«I can't with a war on.»
«To hell with the war. You sacrificed enough up at Tycho Sands. They can't ask any more of you.»
«I've got one job to finish.»
«I'll help you finish it.»
«No. You'd best keep out of this, Jisbella.»
«You don't trust me.»
«I don't want you hurt.»
«Nothing can hurt us.»
«Foyle can.»
«W-What?»
«Fourmyle is Foyle. You know that. I know you know.»
«But I never…”
«No, you never told me. You're magnificent. Keep faith with me the same way, Jisbella.»
«Then how did you find out?»
«Foyle slipped.»
«How?»
«The name.»
«Fourmyle of Ceres? He bought the Ceres company.»
«But Geoffrey Fourmyle?»
«He invented it.»
«He thinks he invented it. He remembered it. Geoffrey Fourmyle is the name they use in the megalomania test down in Combined Hospital in Mexico City. I used the Megal Mood on Foyle when I tried to open him up. The name must have stayed buried in his memory. He dredged it up and. thought it was original. That tipped me.»
«Poor Gully.»
Dagenham smiled. «Yes, no matter how we defend ourselves against the outside we're always licked by something from the inside. There's no defense against betrayal, and we all betray ourselves.»
«What are you going to do, Saul?»
«Do? Finish him, of course.»
«For twenty pounds of PyrE?»
«No. To win a lost war.»
«What?» Jisbella came to the glass wall separating the rooms. «You, Saul? Patriotic?»
He nodded, almost guiltily. «It's ridiculous. Grotesque. But I am. You've changed me completely. I'm a sane man again.»
He pressed his face to the wall too, and they kissed through three inches of lead glass.
Mare Nubium was ideally suited to the growth of anaerobic bacteria, soil organisms, phage, rare moulds, and all those microscopic life forms, essential to medicine and industry, which required airless culture. Bacteria, Inc. was a huge mosaic of culture fields traversed by catwalks spread around a central clump of barracks, offices, and plant. Each field was a giant glass vat, one hundred feet in diameter, twelve inches high and no more than two molecules thick.
A day before the sunrise line, creeping across the face of the moon, reached Mare Nubium, the vats were filled with culture medium. At sunrise, abrupt and blinding on the airless moon, the vats were seeded, and for the next fourteen days of continuous sun they were tended, shielded, regulated, nurtured. . . the field workers trudging up and down the catwalks in spacesuits. As the sunset line crept toward Mare Nubium, the vats were harvested and then left to freeze and sterilize in the two week frost of the lunar night.
Jaunting was of no use in this tedious step-by-step cultivation. Hence Bacteria, Inc. hired unfortunates incapable of jaunting and paid them slave wages. This was the lowest form of labor, the dregs and scum of the Solar System; and the barracks of Bacteria, Inc. resembled an inferno during the two week lay-off period. Foyle discovered this when he entered Barrack.
He was met by an appalling spectacle. There were two hundred men in the giant room; there were whores and their hard-eyed pimps, professional gamblers and their portable tables, dope peddlers, money lenders. There was a haze of acrid smoke and the stench of alcohol and Analogue. Furniture, bedding, clothes, unconscious bodies, empty bottles, rotting food were scattered on the floor.
A roar challenged Foyle's appearance, but he was equipped to handle this situation. He spoke to the first hairy face thrust into his.
«Kempsey?» he asked quietly. He was answered outrageously. Nevertheless he gri
«Kempsey?» Foyle asked in the old gutter tongue. «I'm diggin' Rodger Kempsey.»
«I'm diggin' you for broke,» the man answered, thrusting out a huge paw for Foyle's money. «Gimmie.»
There was a delighted howl from the crowd. Foyle smiled and spat in his eye. There was an abject hush. The hairless man dumped the bawds and surged up to a
«Still diggin' Kempsey,» Foyle said gently. «Diggin' hard, man. You better finger him, man, or you're gone, is all.»
«Washroom!» the hairless man howled. «Holed up. Washroom.»
«Now you broke me,» Foyle said. He dumped the rest of his money on the floor before the hairless man and walked quickly to the washroom.
Kempsey was cowering in the corner of a shower, face pressed to the wall, moaning in a dull rhythm that showed he had been at it for hours.
«Kempsey?»
The moaning answered him.
«What's a matter, you?»
«Clothes,» Kempsey wept. «Clothes. All over, clothes. Like filth, like sick, like dirt. Clothes. All over, clothes.»
«Up, man. Get up.»
«Clothes. All over, clothes. Like filth, like sick, like dirt . .»
«Kempsey, mind me, man. Orel sent me.»
Kempsey stopped weeping and turned his sodden countenance to Foyle. «Who? Who?»
«Sergei Orel sent me. I've bought your release. You're free. We'll blow.»
«When?»
«Now.»
«Oh God! God bless him. Bless him!» Kempsey began to caper in weary exultation. The bruised and bloated face split into a facsimile of laughter. He laughed and capered and Foyle led him out of the washroom. But in the barracks he screamed and wept again, and as Foyle led him down the long room, the naked bawds swept up armfuls of dirty clothes and shook them before his eyes. Kempsey foamed and gibbered.