The Houses of Iszm Page 8

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said the secretary. “Quite contrary to our office procedure.”

  “Tell Mr. Penche that I have just arrived from Iszm on the Andrei Sitnic.”

  The secretary turned and spoke into a mesh. After a second her face melted and the screen filled with the face of K. Penche. It was a massive, powerful face, like a piece of heavy machinery. The eyes burned from deep rectangular sockets, bars of muscles clamped his mouth. The eyebrows rose in a sardonic arch; the expression was neither pleasant nor unpleasant.

  “Who’s speaking?” asked K. Penche.

  Words rose up through Farr’s brain like bubbles from the bottom of a dark vat. They were words he had never intended to say. “I’ve come from Iszm; I’ve got it.” Farr heard himself in amazement. The words came again. “I’ve come from Iszm…” He clamped his teeth and refused to vocalize. The syllables bounced back from the barrier.

  “Who is this? Where are you?”

  Farr reached over, turned off the screen, and sank weakly back into his chair. What was going on? He had nothing for Penche. “Nothing” meant a female house, naturally. Farr might be naive but not to that degree. He had no house, seed, seedling or sapling.

  Why did he want to see Penche? Pent-up common sense broke through to the top of his mind. Penche couldn’t help him… A voice from another part of his brain said, Penche knows the ropes, he’ll give you good advice… Well, yes, thought Farr weakly. This might be true enough.

  Farr relaxed. Yes, of course—that was his motive.

  But, on the other hand, Penche was a businessman dependent on the Iszic. If Farr were to go to anyone it should be to the police, to the Special Squad.

  He sat back rubbing his chin. Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to see the man, maybe get it off his chest.

  Farr jumped to his feet in disgust. It was unreasonable. Why should he see Penche? Give him just one good reason… There was no reason whatever. He came to a definite decision: he would have nothing to do with Penche.

  He left the room, descended to the main lobby of the Imperador, and crossed to the desk to cash a bank coupon. The coupon was screened to the bank; there would be a wait of a few seconds. Farr tapped his fingers on the counter impatiently. Beside him a burly frog-faced man argued with the clerk. He wanted to deliver a message to a guest, but the clerk was skeptical. The burly man began to bite off his words in anger; the clerk stood behind his glass bulwark, prim, fastidious, shaking his head. Serene in the strength given him by rules and regulations, he took pleasure in thwarting the large man.

  “If you don’t know his name, how do you knew he’s at the Imperador?”

  “I know he’s here,” said the man. “It’s important that he get this message.”

  “It sounds very odd,” mused the clerk. “You don’t know what he looks like, you don’t know his name… You might easily deliver your message to the wrong party.”

  “That’s my look-out!”

  The clerk smilingly shook his head. “Apparently all you know is that he arrived at five this morning. We have several guests who came in at that time.”

  Farr was counting his money; the conversation impinged on his consciousness. He loitered, adjusting the bills in his wallet.

  “This man came in from space. He was just off the Andrei Simic. Now do you know who I mean?”

  Farr moved away quietly. He knew quite clearly what had happened. Penche had been expecting the call; it was important to him. He had traced the connection to the Imperador, and had sent a man over to contact him. In a far corner of the room he watched the large man lurch away from the desk in rage. Farr knew he would try elsewhere. One of the bell-boys or a steward would get him his information for a fee.

  Farr started out the door and turned to look back. A nondescript middle-aged woman was walking toward him. He happened to meet her eyes, she looked aside, faltered the smallest trifle in her step. Farr had already been keyed to suspicion, or he might not have noticed. The woman walked quickly past him, stepped on the exit-band, and was carried through the Imperador orchid garden and out upon Sunset Boulevard.

  Farr followed, watching her melt into the crowds. He crossed to a traffic umbrella and took the left to the helicab deck. A cab stood empty beside the shelter. Farr jumped in and picked a destination at random. “Laguna Beach.”

  The cab rose into the southbound level. Farr watched from the rear port. A cab bobbed up a hundred yards astern, followed.

  Farr called to the driver, “Turn off to Riverside.” The cab behind turned.

  Farr told his driver, “Put me down right here.”

  “South Gate?” asked the driver, as if Farr were not in his right mind.

  “South Gate.” Not too far from Penche’s office and display yard on Signal Hill, thought Farr. Coincidence.

  The cab dropped him to the surface. Farr watched the pursuing cab descend. He felt no great concern. Evading a pursuer was a matter of utmost simplicity, a technique known to every child who watched the stereos.

  Farr followed the white arrow to the underground shaft and stepped in. The disk caught him and bumped to a gentle halt. Farr called over a car and jumped in. The underground was almost made to order for shaking off a shadow. He dialed a destination, then tried to relax into the seat.

  The car accelerated, hummed, decelerated, halted. The door snapped open. Farr jumped out and rode the lift to the surface. He froze in his tracks. What was he doing here? This was Signal Hill—once spiked with oil derricks—now lost under billows of exotic greenery: ten million trees, bushes, shrubs, merging around mansions and palaces. There were pools and waterfalls and carefully informal banks of flowers: scarlet hibiscus, blazing yellow banneret, sapphire gardenia. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon were as nothing. Bel-Air was frowzy in contrast and Topanga: was for the parvenus.

  K. Penche owned twenty acres on the summit of Signal Hill. He had cleared off his land, ignoring protests and court orders, winning lawsuits. Signal Hill now was crowned by Iszic tree houses: sixteen varieties in four basic types—the only models Penche was allowed to sell.

  Farr walked slowly along the shaded arcade that once had been Atlantic Avenue. Interesting, he thought, that coincidence should bring him here. Well, he was this close, perhaps it might be a good idea to see Penche…

  No! said Farr stubbornly. He had made the decision, no irrational compulsion was going to make him change his mind. An odd matter, that in all the vast reaches of Greater Los Angeles, he should wind up almost at K. Penche’s door. Too odd, it went beyond mere chance. His subconscious must be at work.

  He glanced behind him. No one could possibly be following, but he watched for a moment or two as hundreds of people, old and young, of all shapes, sizes and colors passed. By a subtle evaluation he fixed on a slender man in a gray suit; he struck a false note. Farr reversed his direction, threaded the maze of open-air shops and booths under the arcade, ducked into a palm-shaded cafeteria, and stepped out of sight behind a wall of leaves.

  A minute passed. The man in the gray suit came briskly past. Farr stepped out and stared hard into the well-groomed, well-pomaded countenance. “Are you looking for me, mister?”

  “Why no,” said the man in the gray suit. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “I hope I don’t see you again,” said Farr. He left the cafeteria, stalked to the nearest underground station, dropped down the shaft, and jumped into a car. After a minute’s thought he dialed Altadena. The car hummed off. No easy relaxation now; Farr sat on the edge of his seat. How had they located him? Through the tube? Incredible.

  To make doubly sure, he canceled Altadena and dialed Pomona.

  Five minutes later he wandered with apparent casualness along Valley Boulevard. In another five minutes he located the shadow, a young workman with a vacant face. Am I crazy? Farr asked himself, am I developing a persecution complex? He put the shadow to a rigorous test, strolling around blocks as if looking for a particular house. The young workman a
mbled along behind him.

  Farr went into a restaurant and called the Special Squad on the stereo-screen. He asked for and was connected with Detective-Inspector Kirdy.

  Kirdy greeted him politely, and positively denied that he had assigned men to follow Farr. He appeared keenly interested. “Wait just a shake,” he said. “I’ll check the other departments.”

  Three or four minutes passed. Farr saw the blank young man enter the restaurant take an unobtrusive seat, and order coffee.

  Kirdy returned. “We’re innocent around here. Perhaps it’s a private agency.”

  Farr looked annoyed. “Isn’t there anything I can do about it?”

  “Are you being molested in any way?”

  “No.”

  “We really can’t do anything. Drop into a tube, shake ’em off.”

  “I’ve taken the tube twice—they’re still after me.”

  Kirdy looked puzzled. “I wish they’d tell me how. We don’t try to follow suspects any more; they brush us off too easily.”

  “I’ll try once more,” said Farr. “Then there’ll be fireworks.”

  He marched out of the restaurant. The young workman downed his coffee and came quickly after.

  Farr dropped down a tube. He waited, but the young workman did not follow. So much for that. He called over a car and looked around. The young workman was nowhere near. No one was near. Farr, jumping in, dialed for Ventura. The car sped off. There was no conceivable way it could be traced or followed through the tubes.

  In Ventura his shadow was an attractive young housewife who seemed out for an afternoon’s shopping.

  Farr jumped into a shaft and took a car for Long Beach. The man who followed him in Long Beach was the slender man in the gray suit who had first attracted his attention at Signal Hill. He seemed unperturbed when Farr recognized him, shrugging rather insolently, as if to say, ‘What do you expect?’

  Signal Hill. Back again, only a mile or two away. Maybe it might be a good idea after all to drop in on Penche.

  No!

  Farr sat down at an arcade cafe in full view of the shadow and ordered a sandwich. The man in the natty gray suit took a table nearby and provided himself with iced tea. Farr wished he could beat the truth out of the well-groomed face. Inadvisable; he would end up in jail. Was Penche responsible for this persecution? Farr reluctantly rejected the idea. Penche’s man had arrived at the Imperador desk while Farr was leaving. The evasion had been decisive there.

  Who then? Omon Bozhd?

  Farr sat stock-still, then laughed—a loud, clear, sharp bark of a laugh. People looked at him in surprise. The gray man gave him a glance of cautious appraisal. Farr continued to chuckle, a nervous release. Once he thought about it, it was so clear, so simple.

  He looked up at the ceiling of the arcade, imagining the sky beyond. Somewhere, five or ten miles overhead, hung an air-boat. In the air-boat sat an Iszic, with a sensitive viewer and a radio. Everywhere that Farr went, the radiant in his right shoulder sent up a signal. On the viewer-screen Farr was as surreptitious as a lighthouse.

  He went to the stereo-screen and called Kirdy.

  Kirdy was vastly interested. “I’ve heard of that stuff. Apparently it works.”

  “Yes,” said Farr, “it works. How can I shield it?”

  “Just a minute.” Five minutes passed. Kirdy came back to the screen. “Stay where you are, I’ll send a man down with a shield.”

  The messenger presently arrived. Farr went into the men’s room and wrapped a pad of woven metal around his shoulder and chest.

  “Now,” said Farr grimly. “Now we’ll see.”

  The slim man in the gray suit followed him nonchalantly to the tube shaft. Farr dialed to Santa Monica.

  He rose to the surface at the Ocean Avenue station, walked northeast along Wilshire Boulevard, and back toward Beverly Hills. He was alone. He made all the tests he could think of. No one followed him. Farr grinned in satisfaction, picturing the annoyed Iszic at the viewer-screen.

  He came to the Capricorn Club—a large, rather disreputable-looking saloon, with a pleasant old-fashioned odor of sawdust, wax and beer. He turned in, went directly to the stereo-screen, and called the Hotel Imperador. Yes, there was a message for him. The clerk played back the tape, and for the second time Farr looked into Penche’s massive sardonic face. The harsh deep voice was conciliatory; the words had been carefully chosen and rehearsed. “I’d like to see you at your earliest convenience, Mr. Farr. We both realize the need for discretion. I’m sure your visit will result in profit for both of us. I will be waiting for your call.”

  The stereo faded; the clerk appeared. “Shall I cancel or file, Mr. Farr?”

  “Cancel,” said Farr. He left the booth and went to the far end of the bar. The bartender made the traditional inquiry, “What’s yours, brother?”

  Farr ordered. “Vienna Stadtbrau.”

  The bartender turned, spun a tall oak wheel twined with hop vines, gay with labels. A hundred and twenty positions controlled a hundred and twenty storage-tubes. He pushed the bumper and a dark flask slipped out of the dispenser, The bartender squeezed the flask into a stein and set it before Farr. Farr took a deep swallow, relaxed, and rubbed his forehead.

  He was puzzled. Something very odd was going on no question about it. Penche seemed reasonable enough. Perhaps, after all, it might be a good idea—wearily Fan put the thought away. Amazing how many guises the compulsion found to clothe itself. It was difficult to guard against all of them. Unless he vetoed out of hand any course of action that included a visit to Penche. A measure of uncompromising rigor, a counter-compulsion that set shackles on his freedom of action. It was a mess. How could a man think clearly when he could not distinguish between an idiotic subconscious urge and common sense?

  Farr ordered more beer. The bartender, a sturdy apple-cheeked little man with pop-eyes and a fine mustache, obliged. Farr returned to his thinking. It was an interesting psychological problem, one that Farr might have relished in different circumstances. Right now it was too close to home. He tried to reason with the compulsion. What do I gain by seeing Penche? Penche had hinted of profit. He clearly thought that Farr had something he wanted.

  It could only be a female house.

  Farr had no female house, therefore—it was as simple as that—he would gain nothing by going to Penche.

  But Farr was dissatisfied. The syllogism was too pat; he suspected that he had oversimplified. The Iszic were also involved. They must also believe that he had a female house. Since they had attempted to follow him, they were ignorant of where he would deliver this hypothetical house.

  Penche naturally would not want them to know. If the Iszic learned of Penche’s involvement, breaking the franchise was the least they would do. They might well kill him.

  K. Penche was playing for high stakes. On the one hand he could grow his own houses. They would cost him twenty or thirty dollars apiece. He could sell as many as he liked at two thousand. He would become the richest man in the universe, the richest man in the history of the Earth. The moguls of ancient India, the Victorian tycoons, the oil-barons, the Pan-Eurasion syndics: they would dwindle to paupers in comparison.

  That was on the one hand. On the other—Penche at the very least would lose his monopoly. Recalling Penche’s face the cartilaginous bar of his mouth, the prow of his nose, the eyes liked smoked glass in front of a furnace, Farr instinctively knew Penche’s position.

  It would be an interesting struggle. Penche probably discounted the subtle Iszic brain, the fanatic zeal with which they defended their property. The Iszic possibly underestimated Penche’s massive wealth and Earth’s technical genius. It was the situation of the ancient paradox: the irresistible force and the immovable object. And I, thought Farr, am in the middle. Unless I extricate myself, I will very likely be crushed… He took a thoughtful pull at his beer. If I knew more accurately what was happening, how I happened to become involved, why they picked on me, I’d know which way to jump. Yet
—what power I wield! Or so it seems.

  Farr ordered another beer. On sudden thought he looked up sharply and glanced around the bar. No one appeared to be watching him. Farr took the container and went to a table in a dark corner.

  The affair—at least his personal participation in it had stemmed from the Thord raid on Tjiere. Farr had aroused Iszic suspicion; they had imprisoned him. He had been alone with a surviving Thord. The Iszic had released hypnotic gas through a root-tubule. The Thord and Farr had been stupefied.

  The Iszic had certainly searched him unit by unit, inside and out, mind and body. If he were guilty of complicity, they would know it. If he had seed or seedling on his person, they would know it.

  What had they actually done?

  They had released him; they had facilitated, in fact they had prompted, his return to Earth. He was a decoy, a bait.

  Aboard the Andrei Sitnic—what of all that? Suppose the Anderviews were Penche’s agents. Suppose they had apprehended the danger that Farr represented and sought to kill him? What about Paul Bengston? His function might have been to spy on the first two. He had killed the Anderviews either to protect Penche’s interests, or cut himself a larger slice of the profits. He had failed. He was now in custody of the Special Squad.

  The whole thing added up to a tentative, speculative, but apparently logical conclusion: K. Penche had organized the raid on Tjiere. It was Penche’s metal mole that the wasp-ship had destroyed eleven hundred feet underground. The raid had nearly been successful. The Iszic must have writhed in terror. They would trace the source, the organization of the raid, without qualm or restraint. A few deaths meant nothing. Money meant nothing. Aile Farr meant nothing.

  And small cold chills played up Farr’s back.

  A pretty blonde girl in gray sheen-skin paused beside his table. “Hi, Cholly.” She tossed her hair roguishly over her shoulder. “You look lonesome.” And she dropped into a seat beside him.

  Farr’s thoughts had taken him into nervous territory; the girl startled him. He stared at her without moving a muscle, five seconds—ten seconds.

  She forced an uneasy laugh and moved in her chair. “You look like you got the cares of the world on your head.”