Transmaniacon (21 page)

“And you, Delegate Remm: I am perfectly aware that you concealed your, ah,
affair
with the pedestrian female and consigned her, still living, to the furnaces
not
to protect your reputation and interests, but because you wished to seal up a failed experiment as gracefully as possible and so preserve the equanimity of the city. Indeed, I am fully aware that you initiated the relationship with the woman only because you entertained an altruistic, humanitarian, if sadly unrealistic vision that one day pedestrians and the hierarchy could be equal and One. You simply wanted to investigate the
facts,
to see for yourself if their inferiority was so absolute that communion between the upper and lower classes was totally impossible. But unhappily, you discovered that the Traditionalist stand on pedestrian relations is factual—that pedestrians indeed
are
unworthy of intimate contact with the elite. The physical evidence of the experiment had to be concealed, of course, for the sake of morale. A noble and self-sacrificing experiment, Sir, which I salute.”

Remm nodded gratefully.

“While Delegates Remm and Bolton were commendably conceiving these works of significance, Delegate Bunn was not remiss. His acquisition of that bulk of credits so misused by the Utilities Commission—an act the unthinking might call embezzlement—was a boon to us all. These confiscated funds were put to use in your own inestimable humanitarian designs more judiciously than they would have been employed under the
Progressivist
directors of the backwards Utilities bureau. My admiration, Sir.

“In the three of you I have witnessed plentiful evidence of the Great Talent. Oh, any blunderer can set fateful wheels into motion using gross instrumentation within the compass of the vulgar public eye. But only a genius can accomplish great things working in utter secret. Subterfuge, chicanery—these terms have attracted unpleasant connotations over centuries of misuse. Yet, only we four and the spirit of Divine Machiavelli are fully aware of the charitable and divine work which can be accomplished only through the application of these techniques. And since you are, as I have said, men of such extreme intellect and insight, by now you have doubtless guessed the intent of my own activities.

“Why did young Tuskey choose to become a Professional Irritant? Why not something nobler, more fitting for a patriarch's son? Because conspiracy is the fundamental stuff of nobility! And because it is the single mode for founding social structures which is invariably efficient. Incitement and subterfuge, cleverly applied, are incomparably valuable tools. Chaldin imagines that I apply these tools to my private benefit. No. I am what I am because I love Detroit, and in my quest outside of Detroit the city is ever with me, in my heart—”
Careful, don't lay it on too thick,
he warned himself.

“I have roamed the continent searching for new techniques to bring Detroit to triumph and to bring the misdirected Progressivist patriarchs to justice. And I have returned to Detroit simply because I have, in fact, devised the perfect scheme with which to insure the glory of our people. The Great Scheme…”

Ben paused.
What
scheme? He hadn't made one up yet. He modulated the exciter and surveyed the three patriarchs. They were leaning forward now, faces intent on him, listening in rapture. The exciter and the practiced hypnotic rhythm of his words had them spellbound, his insights concerning their indiscretions had them obliged, his intensity had them convinced.

Oh, in some part of themselves they may have recognized the speciousness, the shallowness of his speech. But the psychic narcotic of the exciter, and most especially, the intimation that their indiscretions would be exposed if they failed to see things his way, swayed them. Under these conditions—the veiled threat, the narrative electricity, the flattering enthusiasm—the implausible becomes plausible and the incredible credible.

They believed him.

He remembered a statement attributed to Joseph Conrad:
Perverse unreason has its own logical processes.

And he continued:

“We know these things: that the Barrier must fall so that Detroit can own the outside world and with it, obtain the reins and the reign of civilization.
Yes?”

“Indeed!” declared Bolton. The others nodded fiercely. Bunn slapped his knee in emphasis.

“And we know that the Progressivists would have us forget our four generations of preparation for the destruction of the Barrier. They would have us waste our energies against Chicago. We know these forces have terrorist sympathizers working within the city—clandestine thugs hired by the Progressivists to force us into Progressivist ideology. Am I correct?”

“Yes, quite!” acceded Remm.

“And we know that the Progressivists want to abandon the Fist immediately, to strike off for some vaguely conceived war within a few months. How do we turn the tables on them? We must work within the Council proper to implant the suggestion that the Progressivists are working with certain forces from outside, forces who hope to pull Detroit's fangs, who would like nothing better than to see us waste our energy on some brushfire war with Chicago. We must convince the Council that the Progressivists are subversive, that they are the root of all the evils of our society, that only in absolute opposition to their goals will we rescue the ship of state from the rocks of impending doom!”

Ben was pounding his fist on the glass table top to emphasize his words, making it bounce in the nulgrav current, at the same time releasing short bursts of exciter energies. The final connection. Sew it up tight. Ben glanced at Bunn and noticed that he seemed slightly troubled. Then he remembered.

“Bunn, is, of course,
officially
a Progressivist. But I'm sure he is aware that my remarks concerning Progressivists are not directed at him, since I know that he is too moral a man to embrace that party in actual fact. In actual fact, Bunn is a Traditionalist who has been working undercover as a Progressivist in order to determine the best means with which to undermine the upstarts.”

Bunn nodded vigorously, looking relieved.
That
wrinkle was smoothed.

“And this man Chaldin?” Ben continued. “A Chicagoan, simple as that. He has vested interest in keeping Detroit powerless. He knows that I am the foremost influence in the new Traditionalist movement. So he attempts to cast doubt on my character, to play upon the significance of a wholly arbitrary duplicity of identity. He attempts to use you as his tool! And he is the guiding force behind the Progressivist terrorists! He is the missing link! Destroy him and you defuse their danger. And then…we proceed!” Triumphal, strident, Ben's voice rang out like a fanfare.

Almost as one, the three delegates leapt to their feet and extended their hands. Declared Bolton: “I myself will see to the elimination of the organization of this man Chaldin. He has never been welcome in Detroit. Now, he has proven that he is as dangerous as he is unwelcome.”

Ben took the hands of the three and, with the exciter throbbing within him so that the dark energies held the four of them together as if paralyzed in an electric circuit, he swore with them an oath in the secret language of the Arbiters of Ford. He then led them to the door, walking slowly with them, speaking in a conspiratorial tone of brotherhood, explaining how they might repress the data concerning his questionable background.

At the door Ben asked Bolton, “What was that you said about Chaldin's organization? Is there one such here, in the city? I mean,
I
knew of course Chaldin was operating clandestinely here. But, uh, what details of the operation are available to you, my friend?”

“I?” Bolton was eager to demonstrate his competence to his new hero. He laughed carelessly. “Why, I know their very address! Room 2366 at the Tower of Lenses, top floor!”

“Precisely correct,” said Ben admiringly. “I can see I have confided in the right man. Remember our oath and remember your duty, and remember your assignments. I shall expect full reports. Good evening.”

“Good evening…Delegate Ladd,” said Bolton. And they departed. The door sealed. Ben drooped against it, suddenly exhausted.

“Ben?”

“Yes, Gloria?”

“You okay?”

“Tired. I put my all into that performance.”

“I'll say you did. We're going to have to send for men with shovels to spend a few days clearing the bullshit from the floor.”

“Very funny.”

“Ben, do you think they'll believe you? About being Tuskey's son and all that nonsense?”

“Not deep down. But I constructed the thing so that if they doubt me, they doubt themselves. I suckered them into making the sacred oath of support.”

“Yes. I was listening. Ben, you—you said you lost control the other day. Over that mob. You knew it wouldn't help to use the exciter, that it would only make things worse, but you used it anyway—”

“So?” He stood up straight. Blackness swarmed his vision. He felt dizzy and reached a hand to the wall for support.

“So-so you did it to your, uh,
mate,
Ella. And those people at that party, back before you had the exciter. You played with them, using your talent. And now you've got the exciter and you sometimes lose control. Well, how do I know you won't use it against me? Against Kibo? I mean, maybe you should have it removed and go the rest of the way without—”

“No!” He turned to her, stiff with weariness, almost blind from sudden anger. “I need it. I've calculated things around the exciter. I advise you, Gloria, to restrain your twentieth-century vulgarity.”

She snapped her hand back to strike him, her lips tight. She quivered in that stance for a moment, and he waited for the blow. She dropped her hand and snorted. “You're tired. And it's lucky for you you've got that as an excuse.”

“Oh, damn, leave me
alone.”
Ben heard it as if from a distance, his own voice flat and alien. Why do I talk to her like this? he asked himself. Gloria went to the extra bedroom and slammed the door: Ben switched off his web and bobbed lightly to the floor. With nulgrav support gone, his weariness was nearly overwhelming. He staggered to the bedroom, fell onto the confoam cushions, and slept.

One month later, Kibo made his report.

To avoid any bugs that might have been planted in Ben's suite, they rode over the city-state in the slender nulgrav car, taking low sweeping curves over the hivelike Council dome, like a wasp circling before an attack.

Ben realized that Kibo had been speaking for some minutes. He had heard nothing. He had been thinking of Gloria. She had scarcely spoken to him for a month, since the night he'd enlisted the Insulation Committee. “I'm sorry, Kibo. I'm unwell. Kindly repeat your report to this point.”

Kibo shrugged and began. “Thirty-two strikes. One man apprehended. He killed himself with the holy words of the Progressivist oath on his lips—”

“No, he killed himself with arsenic,” Ben muttered, knowing that Kibo would not appreciate the joke. Sometimes, Ben was irritated by Kibo's professional insistence on living the ideology he was paid to support. It was
too
real.

“At any rate,” continued Kibo patiently, the whites of his eyes ghostly luminous against his black skin in the dimness of the small cabin, “the bombings have proven a viable tactic. Fifteen routes for mass transports have been temporarily eliminated, as well as two nulgrav field generators for fourth level elite-current traffic. The pedestrians grow angry with this inconvenience and blame the hierarchy, which in turn blames pedestrian terrorists, although we have explained in our manifestos that we are Progressivist patriarchs.”

Ben nodded, satisfied. “Cut down the bombing strikes by half. It must look authentic, and authenticity is augmented by the cyclic quality, by the ebbs and gains in the degree of your activity. The enthusiasm for all ideologies follows those patterns. But, we benefit, I think, from this general confusion over who is responsible. Confusion causes a withdrawal to conservative Traditionalist values. It's a defensive reflex against the unknown. And tradition is my middle name. So. Any problems?”

“Chaldin,” said Kibo.

Ben sighed. “We've got the Insulation bunch sewn up and we've got the Fist two weeks from completion and we've got the vote of the delegacy behind it. The Insulation Committee has been spreading rumors that anyone against the completion of the Fist is suspect. So by now Chaldin knows he can't get at me with the duplicity evidence, and he knows my campaign to finish the Fist and destroy the Barrier is succeeding.” Ben smiled. “And that scares him. He's created a monster, it was he who put me in the position to do this. So now he has to stop me.”

“Why? Why are you a threat to him?”

“Partly because he fears that I may use the exciter against him, I suspect. Because he knows how I feel about his using me to destroy the forever-revel. He knows I would destroy him if I could. But also because he controls a monopoly on the manufacture of nulgrav equipment for Denver and Fallon and Astor, which is largely because he has the mining facilities to acquire the necessary raw materials. The key ore is hard to find. But if the Barrier drops we have the whole outside world to mine for it. That would eliminate his monopoly, his greatest source of wealth.

“But his
power
comes from the syndicates he controls within the cities. He plans to expand those syndicates into the governments and make the cities wholly his. In order to do that, the syndicates have to grow faster than the city governments. . .If the Barrier were dropped and the resources of the outside world were available—and I'm talking about minerals, and the like, and not slaves—then the city governments would concentrate on exploration and development in the outside world, would expand beyond the reach of his syndicates. The cities would compete in exploration, they'd grow, expand their military strength and their nulgrav capabilities. Chaldin's syndicates would become small fish, would become obsolete. So he needs the Barrier to remain in control of the nulgrav syndicates. He has to stop me from dropping the Barrier, any way he can. Because if we were free to expand, civilization would once again become extroverted. Now it's introverted, almost catatonic. He thrives on stifled and stifling conditions. Like mold.”