Friday (15 page)

Georges gave a cynical little smile. “One might almost define intelligence as the level at which an aware organism demands, ‘What’s in it for me?’” He went on, “Marj, on this matter of buying from you one fine fresh egg, perhaps I should try to tell you what’s in it for you.”

“Don’t listen to him,” urged Janet. “He’ll put you on a cold table and stare up the tunnel of love without the slightest romantic intention. I know, I let him talk me into it three times. And I didn’t even get paid.”

“How can I pay you when we share community property? Marjorie sweet lady, the table is
not
cold and it
is
padded and you can read or watch a terminal or chat or whatever. It is a great improvement on the procedure a generation ago when they went through the wall of the abdomen and often ruined an ovary. If you—”

“Hold it!” said Ian. “Something new on the honker.” He brought the sound up.

“—Council for Survival. The events of the last twelve hours are a warning to the rich and the powerful that their day is ended and justice must prevail. The killings and other illustrative lessons will continue until our rightful demands are met. Stay tied to your local emergency channel—”

Anyone too young to have heard the announcement that night certainly has read about it in school. But I must summarize it to show how it affected me and my odd life. This so-called “Council for Survival” claimed to be a secret society of “just men” dedicated to correcting all the myriad wrongs of Earth and of all the many planets and places where mankind lives. To this they pledged their lives.

But first they planned to dedicate quite a few lives of other people. They said that they had made lists of all the real movers and shakers everywhere, all over the globe and off it—separate lists for each territorial state, plus a grand list of world leaders. These were their targets.

The Council claimed credit for the initial killings and promised to kill more—and more—and more—until their demands were met.

After listing the world leaders the voice that reached us started reciting the British Canadian list. From their expressions and thoughtful nods I saw that my hosts and hostess agreed with most of the choices. The deputy to the Prime Minister was on the list but not the Prime Minister herself—to my surprise and perhaps more so to hers. How would you feel if you had spent your whole life in politics, scrambled all the way to the top, then some smart yabber comes along and says you aren’t even important enough to kill? A bit like being covered up by a cat!

The voice promised that there would be no more killings for ten days. If conditions had not then been corrected, one in ten of the remaining names would be selected by lot for death. The doomed would not be named; they simply would be killed. Ten days later another one in ten. And so on, until Utopia was achieved by the survivors.

The voice explained that the Council was not a government and that it would not replace any government; it was simply the guardian of morals, the public conscience of the powerful. Those in power who survived would remain in power—but they would survive only by doing justice. They were warned not to attempt to resign.

“This is the Voice of Survival. Heaven on Earth is at hand!” It shut off.

There was a long pause after this tape ran out before a live communicator appeared on the terminal’s screen. Janet broke the silence with: “Yes, but—”

“Yes but what?” Ian asked.

“There’s no question but what that list names most of the really powerful people in the country. Suppose you’re on that hit list and are so scared silly that you are willing to do
anything
not to risk being killed. What do you do? What
is
justice?”

(“What is truth?” asked Pontius Pilate, and washed his hands. I had no answers, so I kept quiet.)

“My dear, it is simple,” Georges answered.

“Oh, fiddle! How?”

“They have made it simple. Every owner or boss or tyrant is assumed to know what ought to be done; that’s his job. If he does what he should, all is well. If he fails, his attention is invited to his error…by Dr. Guillotine.”

“Georges, do be serious!”

“Dear one, I have never been more serious. If the horse can’t jump the hurdle, shoot the horse. Keep on doing this and eventually you will find a horse that
can
clear the jump—if you don’t run out of horses. This is the sort of plausible pseudo-logic that most people bring to political affairs. It causes one to wonder if mankind is capable of being well governed by
any
system of government.”

“Government is a dirty business,” Ian growled.

“True. But assassination is still dirtier.”

This political discussion might still be going on if the terminal had not lighted up again—I have noticed that political discussions are never finished; they simply get chopped off by something outside. A live, real-time communicator filled the screen. “The tape you have just heard,” she announced, “was delivered by hand to this station. The PM’s office has already repudiated this tape and has ordered all stations that have not yet broadcast it to refrain from doing so under penalties of the Public Defense Act. That the pre-censorship claimed by this order is unconstitutional is self-evident. The Voice of Winnipeg will continue to keep you advised of all developments. We urge you to keep calm and stay indoors unless you are needed to preserve essential public services.”

Then came replays of news tapes heard earlier so Janet cut the sound and put news streamers on the screen. I said, “Ian, assuming that I am to stay here until things quiet down in the Imperium—”

“That’s not an assumption; that’s a fact.”

“Yes, sir. Then it becomes urgent for me to call my employer. May I use your terminal? My credit card, of course.”

“Not your card. I’ll place the call and we’ll charge it here.”

I felt somewhat vexed. “Ian, I do appreciate the lavish hospitality that you—that all of you—are showing me. But, if you are going to insist on paying even those charges that a guest should pay herself, then you should register me as your concubine and publish your responsibility for my debts.”

“Reasonable. What salary do you expect?”

“Wait!” Georges demanded. “I pay better. He’s a stingy Scot.”

“Don’t listen to either of them,” Janet advised me. “Georges might pay more but he would expect posing and one of your eggs all for one salary. Now I’ve always wanted a harem slave. Luv, you will make a perfect odalisque without so much as a jewel in your navel. But do you do back rubs? How’s your singing? Now we come to the key question: How do you feel about females? You can whisper in my ear.”

I said, “Maybe I had better go out and come back in and start all over again. I just want to make a phone call. Ian, may I use my credit card to place a call to my boss? It’s MasterCard, triple A credit.”

“Issued where?”

“The Imperial Bank of Saint Louis.”

“From what the dog did in the night I deduce that you did not hear an earlier announcement. Or do you
want
your credit card canceled?”

“Canceled?”

“Is that an echo? BritCanBanCredNet announced that credit cards issued in the Imperium and in Québec were void for the duration of the emergency. So just stick it in the slot and learn the wonders of the computer age and the smell of burning plastic.”

“Oh.”

“Speak up. I thought you said, ‘Oh.’”

“I did. Ian, may I eat humble pie? Then may I call my boss on your credit?”

“Certainly you may…if you clear it with Janet. She runs the household.”

“Janet?”

“You haven’t answered my question, dear. Just whisper it into my ear.”

So I whispered into her ear. Her eyes got wide. “Let’s place your call first.” I gave her the call code and she did it for me, using the terminal in her room.

The streamers stopped and a procedural sign flashed on:
SECURITY INTERDICT—NO CIRCUITS TO CHICAGO IMPERIUM

It flashed for ten seconds, then cut out; I let out a very sincere damn and heard Ian’s voice behind me. “Naughty, naughty. Nice little girls and ladies don’t talk that way.”

“I’m neither one. And I’m frustrated!”

“I knew you would be; I heard the announcement earlier. But I also knew that you would have to try it before you would believe it.”

“Yes, I would have insisted on trying. Ian, I’m not only frustrated; I’m stranded. I’ve got endless credit through the Imperial Bank of Saint Louis and can’t touch it. I have a couple of dollars Ennzedd and some change. I have fifty crowns Imperial. And a suspended credit card. What was that about a concubinage contract? You can hire me cheap; it’s become a buyer’s market.”

“Depends. Circumstances alter cases and now I might not want to go higher than room and board. What was it you whispered to Janet? Might affect things.”

Janet answered, “She whispered to me, ‘
Honi soit qui mal y pense
,’”—I hadn’t—“a sentiment I commend to you, my good man. Marjorie, you aren’t any worse off than you were an hour ago. You still can’t go home until things quiet down…and when they do, the border will be open, and so will be the comm circuits, and your credit card will be honored again…if not here, then just across the border less than a hundred kilos away. So fold your hands and wait—”

“‘—with quiet mind and tranquil heart.’ Yes, do,” Ian agreed, “and Georges will spend the time painting you. Because he’s in the same fix. You both are dangerous aliens and will be interned if you step out of this house.”

“Did we miss another announcement?” Jan asked.

“Yes. Although it appears to be a repetition of an earlier one. Georges and Marjorie each is supposed to report to the nearest police station. I don’t recommend it. Georges is going to ignore it, play dumb, and say that he didn’t know that they meant to include permanent residents. Of course they might parole you. Or you might spend all next winter in some very drafty temporary barracks. There is nothing about this silly emergency that guarantees that it will be over next week.”

I thought about it. My own stupid fault. On a mission I never travel with only one sort of credit and I always carry a healthy amount of cash. But I had uncritically assumed that a vacation trip did not call for the cynical rule of a crown of cash per click in iron money. With plenty of cash a cowan can bribe his way into an esbat…and out again, with his tail feathers unsinged. But without cash?

I hadn’t tried living off the country since basic training. Perhaps I was going to have to see if that training had stuck. Thank God the weather was warm!

Georges was shouting. “Turn up your sound! Or come out here!”

We hurriedly joined him.

“—of the Lord! Pay no heed to vain boasts of sinners! We alone are responsible for the apocalyptic signs you see all around you. Satan’s minions have attempted to usurp the Holy work of God’s chosen instruments and to distort it to their own vile ends. For this they are now being punished. Meanwhile the worldly rulers of mundane affairs here below are commanded to do the following Holy works:

“End all trespass into the Heavenly realm. Had the Lord intended man to travel in space he would have given him wings.

“Suffer not a witch to live. So-called genetic engineering mocks the Lord’s dearest purposes. Destroy the foul dens in which such things are done. Kill the walking dead conjured up in those black pits. Hang the witches who practice these vile arts.”

(“Goodness,” Georges said. “I do believe they mean
me
.” I didn’t say anything—I
knew
they meant
me
.)

“Men who lie with men, women who lie with women, any who lie with beasts—all shall die by stones. As shall women taken in adultery.

“Papists and Saracens and infidels and Jews and all who bow down to idolatrous images—the Angels of the Lord say unto you: Repent for the hour is at hand! Repent or feel the swift swords of the Lord’s chosen instruments.

“Pornographers and harlots and women of immodest demeanor, repent!—or suffer the terrible wrath of the Lord!

“Sinners of every sort, remain on this channel to receive instruction in how you may yet find the Light.

“By order of the Grand General of the Angels of the Lord.”

The tape ended and there was another break. Ian said, “Janet, do you remember the first time we saw Angels of the Lord?”

“I’m not likely to forget. But I never expected anything as ridiculous as this.”

I said, “There really are Angels of the Lord? Not just another nightmare on the screen?”

“Um. It’s hard to connect the Angels Ian and I saw with this business. Last March, early April, I had driven to the port to pick up Ian. The Concourse was loaded with Hare Krishna freaks, saffron robes and shaved heads and jumping up and down and demanding money. A load of Scientologists was coming out the gates, heading for some do of theirs, a North American convention I think it was. Just as the two groups merged, here came the Angels of the Lord, homemade signs and tambourines and clubs.

“Marj, it was the gaudiest brawl I have ever seen. No trouble telling the three sides apart. The Hare Krishners looked like clowns, unmistakable. The Angels and the Hubbardites did not wear robes but there was no trouble telling them apart. The Elronners were clean and neat and short-haired; the Angels looked like unmade beds. They carried the ‘stink of piety,’ too; I got downwind of them once, then moved quickly.