The demolished man (5 page)

some order. I don't even ask for beauty."

"Just name the pattern, Linc."

"What'll you have?"

"Basket-weave? Math curves? Music? Architectural design?"

"Anything. Anything. Just so long as you don't make my brains itch."

Sorry, Lincoln.
     
We weren't party-minded
  
Enough

Tate
                
thought
                  
Esper

but
                 
Alan
                     
Men

I'm
              
   
Seaver
                   
remaining

Not that a Pres
     
was ever elected still
   
unmarried

at
                  
coming
                   
can

liberty
             
but
                      
ruin

To be generous,
     
I feel Al's a man to loa
 
the

reveal
              
don't
                    
Guild's

anything
            
TP
                       
entire

about
               
him
                      
eugenic

D'Courtney if
       
arriving according to
    
plan

                    
yet

There was another burst of laughter when Mary Noyes was left hanging with that

unreticulated "yet." The door-bell chimed again, and a Solar Equity Advocate 2

entered with his girl. She was a demure little thing, surprisingly attractive

outwardly, and new to the company. Her TP pattern was naive and not deeply

responsive. Obviously a 3rd.

"Grettings. Greetings. Abject apologies for the delay. Orange blossoms & wedding

rings are the excuse. I proposed on the way over."

"And I'm afraid I accepted," the girl said, smiling.

"Don't talk," the lawyer shot at her. "This isn't a 3rd Class brawl, I told you

not to use words."

"I forgot," she blurted again, and then heated the room with her fright and

shame. Powell stepped forward and took the girl's trembling hand.

"Ignore him, he's a 2nd-come-lately snob. I'm Lincoln Powell, your host. I

Sherlock for the cops. If your fiance beats you, I'll help him regret it. Come

and meet your fellow freaks..." He conducted her around the room. "This is Gus

Tate, a quack-one. Next to him, Sam & Sally @kins. Sam's another of the same.

She's a baby-sitter-two. They're just in from Venus. Here on a visit..."

"H-How---I mean, how do you do?"

"That fat man sitting on the floor is Wally Chervil, architect-two. The blonde

sitting in his (lap) is June, his wife. June's an editor-two. That's their son,

Galen, talking to Ellery West. Gally's a tech-undergrad-three..."

Young Galen Chervil indignantly started to point out that he'd just been classed

2nd and hadn't needed to use words in over a year. Powell cut him off and below

the girl's perceptive threshold explained the reason for the deliberate mistake.

"Oh," said Galen. "Yep, brother and sister 3rds, that's us. And am I glad you're

here. These deep peepers were beginning to scare me."

"Oh, I don't know. I was scared at first, but I'm not any more."

"And this is your hostess, Mary Noyes."

"Hello, Canapes?"

"Thank you. They look delicious, Mrs. Powell."

"Now how about a game?" Powell interposed quickly. "Rebus, anyone?"

Outside, huddled in the shadow of the limestone arch, Jerry Church pressed

against the garden door of Powel's house, listening with all his soul. He was

cold, silent, immobile, and starved. He was resentful, hating, contemptuous, and

starved. He was an Esper 2 and starved. The bend sinister of ostracism was the

source of his hunger.

Through the thin maple panel filtered the multiple TP pattern of the party; a

weaving, ever-changing, exhilarating design. And Church, Esper 2, living on a

sub-marginal diet of words for the past ten years, was starved for his own

people---for the Esper world he had lost.

"The reason I mentioned D'Courtney is that I've just come across a case that

might be similar."

That was Augustus Tate, sucking up to @kins.

"Oh really? Very interesting. I'd like to compare notes. Matter of fact, I made

the trip to Terra because D'Courtney is coming here. Too bad D'Courtney

won't---well, be available." @kins was obviously being discreet and it smelled

as though Tate was after something. Maybe not, Church speculated, but there was

some elegant block and counter-blocking going on, like duellists fencing with

complicated electrical circuits.

"Look here, peeper, I think you've been pretty snotty to that poor girl."

"Listen to him shoot off his mind," Church muttered.
"Powell, that holy louse

who had me kicked out, preaching down his big nose at the lawyer."

"Poor girl? You mean dumb girl, Powell. My God! How gauche can you get?"

"She's only a 3rd. Be fair."

"She gives me a pain."

"Do you think it's decent... marrying a girl when you feel that way about her?"

"Don't be a romantic ass, Powell. We've got to marry peepers. I might as well

settle for a pretty face."

The Rebus game was going on in the living room. The Noyes girl was busy building

a camouflaged image with an old poem:

The
                                      
vast,

sea
                                      
and

is
                
out
                   
Glimmering

calm
          
in
      
the
              
stand,

tonight,
     
tranquil
    
bay
           
England

The
      
Come
     
to
   
the window
     
of

tide
       
sweet
    
is
  
the night
     
cliffs

is
           
air.
         
Only
         
the

full
           
from
      
the
           
gone;

the
              
long
  
line
   
         
is

moon
               
of spray
             
and

lies
                                     
Gleams

fair
                                     
light

Upon the straights;---on the French coast the

What the devil was that? An eye in a glass? Eh? Oh. Not a glass. A stein. Eye in

a stein. Einstein. Easy.

"What d'you think of Powell for the job, Ellery?" That was Chervil with his

phoney smile and his big fat pontifical belly.

"For Guild President?"

"Yes."

"Damned efficient man. Romantic but efficient. The perfect candidate if only

he'd get married."

"That's the romance in him. He's having trouble locating a girl."

"Don't all you deep peepers? Thank God I'm not a 1st."

And then a smash of glass crashing in the kitchen and Preacher Powell again,

lecturing that little snot, Gus Tate.

"Never mind the glass, Gus. I had to drop it to cover for you. You're radiating

anxiety like a nova."

"The devil I am, Powell."

"The devil you're not. What's all this about Ben Reich?"

The little man was really on guard. You could feel his mental shell hardening.

"Ben Reich? What brought him up?"

"You did, Gus. It's been moiling in your mind all evening. I couldn't help

reading it."

"Not me, Powell. You must be tuning another TP."

Image of a horse laughing.

"Powell, I swear I'm not---"

"Are you mixed up with Reich, Gus?"

"No." But you could feel the blocks bang down into place.

"Take a hint from an old hand, Gus. Reich can get you into trouble. Be careful.

Remember Jerry Church? Reich ruined him. Don't let it happen to you."

Tate drifted back to the living room; Powell remained in the kitchen, calm and

slow-moving, sweeping up broken glass. Church lay frozen against the back door,

suppressing the seething hatred in his heart. The Chervil boy was showing off

for the lawyer's girl, singing a love ballad and paralleling it with a visual

parody. College stuff. The wives were arguing violently in sine curves, @kins

and West were interlacing cross-conversation in a fascinatingly intricate

pattern of sensory images that made Church's starvation keener.

"Would you like a drink, Jerry?"

The garden door opened. Powell stood silhouetted in the light, a bubbling glass

in his hand. The stars lit his face softly. The deep hooded eyes were

compassionate and understanding. Dazed, Church climbed to his feet and timidly

took the proffered drink.

"Don't report this to the Guild, Jerry. I'll catch hell for breaking the taboo.

I'm always breaking rules. Poor Jerry... We've got to do something for you. Ten

years is too long."

Suddenly Church hurled the drink in Powell's face, then turned and fled.

3

At nine Monday morning, Tate's mannequin face appeared on the screen of Reich's

v-phone.

"Is this line secure?" he asked sharply.

In answer Reich simply pointed to the Warranty Seal.

"All right," Tate said. "I think I've done the job for you, I peeped @kins last

night. But before I report, I must warn you. There's a chance of error when you

deep peep a 1st. @kins blocked pretty carefully."

"I understand."

"Craye D'Courtney arrives from Mars on the `Astra' next Wednesday morning. He

will go at once to Maria Beaumont's town house where he will be a secret and

hidden guest for exactly one night... No more."

"One night," Reich muttered. "And then? His plans?"

"I don't know. Apparently D'Courtney is planning some form of drastic action---"

"Against me!" Reich growled.

"Perhaps. According to @kins, D'Courtney is under some kind of violent strain

and his adaptation pattern is shattering. The Life Instinct and Death Instinct

have defused. He is regressing under the emotional bankruptcy very rapidly..."

"God damn it! My life depends on this," Reich raged. "Talk straight."

"It's quite simple. Every man is a balance of two opposed drives... The Life

Instinct and the Death Instinct. Both drives have the identical purpose... to

win Nirvana. The Life Instinct fights for Nirvana by smashing all opposition.

The Death Instinct attempts to win Nirvana by destroying itself. Usually both

instincts fuse in the adapted individual. Under strain they defuse. That's

what's happening to D'Courtney."

"Yes, by God! And he's jetting for me!"

"@kins will see D'Courtney Thursday morning in an effort to dissuade him from

whatever he contemplates. @kins is afraid of it and determined to stop it. He

made a flying trip from Venus to cut D'Courtney off."

"He won't have to stop it. I'll stop it myself. He won't have to protect me.

I'll protect myself. It's self-defense, Tate... not murder! Self-defense! You've

done a good job. This is all I need."

"You need much more, Reich. Among other things, time. This is Monday. You'll

have to be ready by Wednesday."

"I'll be ready," Reich growled. "You'd better be ready too."

"We can't afford to fail, Reich. If we do---it's Demolition. You realized that?"

"Demolition for both of us. I realize that." Reich's voice began to crack. "Yes,

Tate, you're in this with me, and I'm in it straight to the finish... all the

way to Demolition."

He planned all through Monday, audaciously, bravely, with confidence. He

pencilled the outlines as an artist fills a sheet with delicate tracery before

the bold inking-in; but he did no final inking. That was to be left for the

killer-instinct on Wednesday. He put the plan away and slept Monday night... and

awoke screaming, dreaming again of The Man With No Face.

Tuesday afternoon, Reich left Monarch Tower early and dropped in at the Century

Audio-bookstore on Sheridan Place. It specialized mostly in piezoelectric