Counter-Clock World Page 6

  Just to be sure, however, he knelt at the grave, clicked on the bullhorn which he used on such occasions, and said into it, “Can you hear me, sir? If so, make a sound.” His voice boomed and echoed; he hoped it would not attract persons passing by the cemetery. Getting out the phones he clamped them to his head, placed the sound-sensitive cup against the earth. Listened.

  No response from below. A dismal wind stirred the wild, irregular tufts of grass, the wilderness of this little peripheral cemetery. . . . He moved the listening cup about, here and there over the grave, straining to pick up something, some response. None.

  From several yards off, a different grave entirely, he heard a weak voice issuing from beneath the sod. “I can hear you, mister; I’m alive and I’m shut up down here; it’s all dark. Where am I?” Panic in the dim, lonely voice. Sebastian sighed; he had awakened, by use of the bullhorn, some other deader. Well, that would have to be attended to, too; he owed it to the trapped old-born person suffocating in the coffin. He walked over to the active grave, knelt there, placed the listening cup to the ground, although really it was unnecessary.

  “Don’t be frightened, sir,” Sebastian said into the bullhorn. “I am up here and aware of your plight. We’ll get you out, soon.”

  “But—” the voice quavered, ebbing and fading. “Where am I? What is this place?”

  “You have been buried,” Sebastian explained; he was accustomed to this: each job his firm handled called for this odd little interval between the time the deader awakened and the time they had him up and out . . . and yet he had never gotten used to it. “You died,” he explained, “and were buried, and now time has reversed itself, and you’re alive again.”

  “Time?” the voice echoed. “Pardon? I—don’t understand; time for what? Can’t I get out of here? I don’t like it here; I want to go back to my bed in my room at La Honda General.”

  The last memories. Of hospitalization, which had proved terminal. Sebastian said into the bullhorn, “Listen to me, sir. Very shortly we will have equipment and men here to get you out; try to breathe as little of the air as possible. try not to use it up. Can you relax? Try.”

  “My name,” the voice called up quaveringly, “is Harold Newkom, and I’m a war vet; I get preference. I don’t think you ought to treat a war vet like this.”

  “Believe me,” Sebastian said, “it’s not my fault.” I had to undergo it, too, he thought somberly; I remember how it felt. Waking up in darkness in the Tiny Place, as it’s called. And some of them, he reflected, bleating without getting any response . . . because the system is all tied up by the goddam bureaucratic laws passed in Sacramento, laws that bind and hamper us, obsolete laws, damn them.

  He rose stiffly to his feet—he was not becoming young fast enough—and made his way back to the Anarch’s tomb.

  When Bob Lindy and Dr. Sign and Father Faine arrived, he said to them, “We’ve got a live one we have to handle first.” He showed them the grave, and Bob Lindy at once sent his drill driving furiously into the hard-packed soil, bringing down essential air. So that was that; the rest would be routine.

  Standing beside him, Dr. Sign said sardonically, “This is lucky. You now have an excuse for being here if the cops come by. You were visiting the cemeteries in your usual rounds and you heard this man . . . correct?” He returned to the grave; now dirt was flying in all directions as Lindy operated the autonomic diggers. Turning again toward Sebastian Hermes he called, over the noise of the diggers, “I think you’re making a big mistake, from a medical standpoint, digging Peak up now while he’s still dead. It’s risky; it interferes with the natural process of reconstitution of the biochemical entity. We’ve been told all about that; if the body comes up too soon he ceases to mend; it’s got to be down there, in the dark, cold, away from the light.”

  “Like yoghurt,” Bob Lindy said.

  Dr. Sign continued, “And in addition it’s bad luck.”

  “‘Bad luck,’” Sebastian echoed, amused.

  “He’s right,” Bob Lindy said. “There’s supposed to be a release of the forces of death, when you dig up a deader prematurely. The forces get loose in the world when they shouldn’t, and they always come to rest on one person.”

  “Who?” Sebastian said. But he knew the superstition; he had heard this all before. The curse fell on the person who had dug the deader up.

  “It’ll be on you,” Bob Lindy said; he grimaced and grinned.

  “We’ll bury him again,” Sebastian said. The diggers had stopped now; Lindy hung over the shallow pit, groping for the rim of the coffin. “In the basement. Under the Flask of Hermes Vitarium.” He came over; he and Dr. Sign and Father Faine helped Lindy drag up the damp, moldering coffin.

  “From a religious standpoint,” Father Faine said to Sebastian, as Lindy expertly unscrewed the lid of the coffin, “it’s a violation of God’s moral law. Rebirth must come in its own time; you, of all of us, ought to know that—since you underwent this yourself.” He opened his prayer book, to begin his recitation over Mr. Harold Newkom. “My text for today,” he declared, “is from Ecclesiastes. ‘Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.’” He gave Sebastian a severe look and then continued.

  Leaving the others at their various subdivisions of the job, Sebastian Hermes wandered about the graveyard, in his usual fashion, yearning, reaching out, listening . . . but this time as before he found himself drawn toward one grave, to the one place which mattered. Back to the ornate granite monument of the Anarch Thomas Peak; he could not keep away from it.

  They’re right, he thought. Doc Sign and Father Faine; it’s a hell of a medical risk and an outright breaking of the law: not just God’s law but the civil code. I know all that, he thought; they don’t have to tell me. My own crew, he thought gloomily, and they’re not backing me up.

  Lotta will, he realized. That, he could always count on: her support. She would understand; he couldn’t risk not digging the Anarch up. To leave him here was to invite Ray Roberts’ Offspring of Might in for a murder. A good excuse, he thought wryly. I can rationalize it: it’s for the Anarch’s safety.

  Just how dangerous, he wondered once more, is Ray Roberts? We still don’t know; we’re still going on ’pape articles.

  Returning to his parked aircar he dialed his home phone number.

  “Hello,” Lotta’s small-girl voice sounded, intimidated by the phone; then she saw him and smiled. “Another job?” She could see the graveyard behind him. “I hope this is a valuable one.”

  Sebastian said, “Listen, honey—I hate to do this to you, but I don’t have the time to do it myself; we’re all tied up here with this job, and after him—” He hesitated. “Then we’ve got another waiting,” he said, not telling her who it would be.

  “What would you like?” She listened attentively.

  “Another research assignment at the Library.”

  “Oh.” She managed—nearly—not to show her dismay. “Yes, I’d be glad to.”

  “This time we want to know the story on Ray Roberts.”

  “I’ll do it,” Lotta said, “if I can.”

  “How do you mean, if you can?”

  Lotta said, “I get—an anxiety attack there.”

  “I know,” he said, and felt the fullness of his injury to her.

  “But I guess I can do it one more time.” She nodded, drably.

  “Remember, absolutely remember,” he said, “to stay away from that monster Mavis McGuire.” If you can, he thought.

  All at once Lotta brightened. “Joe Tinbane just now did a research of Ray Roberts. Maybe I can get it from him.” Her face showed utter, blissful relief. “I won’t have to go there, then.”

  “Agreed,” Sebastian said. Why not? It made sense, the Los Angeles police researching Roberts; after all, the man was about to show up in their jurisdictional area. Tinbane probably had everything there was; to be harsh about it, he had probably done—God forbid, but it was undoubtedly true—he had done a better
job at the Library than Lotta could ever do.

  As he rang off he thought, I hope to hell she can get hold of Joe Tinbane. But he doubted it; the police were undoubtedly extremely busy right now; Tinbane was probably tied up for the rest of the day.

  He had a feeling that Lotta was in for bad luck; very soon and in large measure. And, thinking that, he flinched; he felt it for her.

  And felt even more guilty.

  Walking back to his crew of employees at the open grave he said, “Let’s try to get this one wrapped up fast. So we can get on to the important one.” He had definitely made up his mind; they would exhume the body of the Anarch, now, on this trip.

  He hoped he would not live to regret it. But he had a deep and abiding hunch that he would.

  And yet still—to him, at least—it seemed like the best thing to do. He could not shake that conviction.

  7

  You and I, when we argue, are made in each other. For when I understand what you understand, I become your understanding, and am made in you, in a certain ineffable way.

  —Erigena

  Out cruising his beat in his roving prowlcar, Officer Joseph Tinbane got the call over the police radio. “A Mrs. Lotta Hermes asks you to get in touch with her. Is this police business?”

  “Yes,” he said, lying; what else could he say. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll phone her. I have the number; thanks.”

  He waited until four o’clock, the end of his shift, and then, out of uniform, called her from a pay vidphone booth.

  “I’m so relieved to hear from you,” Lotta said. “You know what? We have to get all the info we can on that Ray Roberts who heads that Udi cult. You were just at the Library looking him up, and I thought I could get it from you and not have to go back to the Library.” She gazed at him entreatingly. “I’ve already gone there once today; I just can’t go back, it’s so awful, everybody looking at you, and you have to be quiet.”

  Tinbane said, “I’ll meet you for a tube of sogum. At Sam’s Sogum Palace; do you know where that is, and can you get there?”

  “And then you’ll tell me all about Ray Roberts? It’s getting late in the day; I’m afraid the Library will be closing. And then I won’t be able to—”

  “I can tell you all you need to know,” Tinbane said. And a great deal more besides, he thought.

  He hung up, then buzzed over to Sam’s Sogum Palace on Vine. As yet, Lotta had not arrived; he took a booth in the rear where he could watch the door. And presently she appeared, wearing a much too large wintery coat, eyes dark with concern; glancing about, she made her way hesitantly into the palace, not seeing him, afraid he wasn’t really there, etc. So he rose, waved to her.

  “I brought a pen and paper to write it down.” She seated herself breathlessly across from him, so pleased to find him . . . as if it was a miracle, some special dispensation of fate, that they had contrived to appear at the same place at roughly the same time.

  “Do you know why I wanted to meet you here?” he said. “And be with you? Because,” he said, “I’m falling in love with you.”

  “Oh God,” she said. “Then I have to go to the Library after all.” She leaped up, picked up her pen and paper and purse.

  Also standing, he assured her, “That doesn’t mean I don’t have the info on Ray Roberts or won’t give it to you. Sit down. Be calm; it’s all right. I just thought I should tell you.”

  “How can you be in love with me?” she said, reseating herself. “I’m so awful. And anyhow I’m married.”

  “You’re not awful,” he said. “And marriages are made and broken; they’re a civil contract, like a partnership. They begin; they end. I’m married, too.”

  “I know,” Lotta said. “Whenever we run across you you’re always talking about how mean she is. But I love Seb; he’s my whole life. He’s so responsible.” She gazed at him attentively. “Are you really in love with me? Honestly? That’s sort of flattering.” It seemed, somehow to make her more at ease; plainly it reassured her. “Well, let’s have all the data on that creepy Ray Roberts. Is he really as bad as the ’papes say? You know why Sebastian wants the info on him, don’t you? I guess it won’t hurt to tell you; you already know the one secret thing I wasn’t supposed to say. He wants the info on Roberts because—”

  “I know why,” Tinbane said, reaching out and touching her hand; she drew it away instantly. “I mean,” he said, “we all want to know Roberts’ reaction to Peak’s rebirth. But it’s a police matter; as soon as Peak is old-born it’s automatically our responsibility to protect him. If my superiors knew your vitarium had located Peak’s body they’d send in their own team to dig him right up.” He paused. “If that happened, your husband would take a great loss. I haven’t told Gore. George Gore is my superior in this. I probably should.” He waited, studying her.

  “Thank you,” Lotta said. “For not telling Mr. Gore.”

  He said, “But I may have to.”

  “At the Library you said it was as if I hadn’t told you; you said, ‘Don’t even tell me,’ meaning that officially as a policeman you hadn’t heard me. If you tell Mr. Gore—” She blinked rapidly. “Sebastian will figure out how you found out; he knows how dumb I am; I’m always the one; it’s always me.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re just not constituted for deceit; you say what’s on your mind, which is normal and natural. You’re an admirable person and very lovely. I admire your honesty. But it is true. Your husband would be sore as hell.”

  “He’ll probably divorce me. Then you can divorce your wife and marry me.”

  He started; was she joking? He couldn’t tell. Lotta Hermes was a deep river, unfathomable. “Stranger things,” he said cautiously, “have happened.”

  “Than what?”

  “What you said! Our eventually getting married!”

  “But,” Lotta said earnestly, “if you don’t tell Mr. Gore then we won’t have to get married.”

  Baffled, he said, “True.” In a sense it was logical.

  “Don’t tell him, please.” Her tone was imploring, but with overtones of exasperation; after all, as she pointed out, he had made it clear that he hadn’t—officially—heard. “I don’t think,” she went on, “that you and I are suited; I need someone older who I can cling to; I’m very clinging. I’m not really grown up any more, and that damn Hobart Phase is making it more true every day.” She made assorted scratches on the pad of paper with her pen. “What a thing to look forward to: childhood. Being a baby again, being helpless, waited-on. Every day I try to be more grown up; I fight all the time against it, the way ladies used to fight being old, getting middle-aged, fat, with wrinkles. Well, I don’t have to worry about that. But see, Sebastian will be an adult still when I’m a child, and that’s good; he can be my father and protect me. But you’re the same age as I; we’d just be children together, and what’s in that?”

  “Not much,” he agreed. “But listen to me. I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll give you the info on Ray Roberts and I won’t tell Gore about the Anarch Peak’s body being in your vitarium’s possession. Sebastian won’t know that you told me.”

  “Told both of you,” Lotta amended. “That librarian, too.”

  He continued, “My deal. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Yes.” She listened obediently.

  Plunging into it, he said hoarsely, “Could you spread any of your love in my direction?”

  She laughed. With malice-free delight. And that really mystified him; now he hadn’t the foggiest idea of where he stood or what—if anything—he had achieved. He felt depressed; somehow, despite her girlishness, her inexperience, she was controlling the conversation.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  It means, he thought, going to bed with me. But he said, “We could meet like this from time to time. See each other; you know. Go out, maybe during the day. I can get my shift changed.”

  “You mean while Sebastian is down at the store.”

  “Yes.” He nodded.


  To his incredulity, she began to cry; tears ran down her cheeks and she made no effort to stifle them; she cried like a child.

  “What’s the matter?” he demanded, reflexively getting out a handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes.

  Lotta said chokingly, “I was right; I do have to go back to the Library. Food.” She stood up, gathered her pen and paper and purse, moved away from the table. “You don’t know,” she said, more calmly, “what you’ve done to me. Between you and Seb; both of you. Making me go back there for a second time today. I know what’s going to happen; I know this time I’ll meet that Mrs. McGuire; I would have before if you hadn’t helped me to find Mr. Appleford.”

  “You can find him again. You know where his office is; go there, where we were before, where I took you.”

  “No.” She shook her head drearily. “It won’t work out that way; he’ll be out to sogum or finished for the day.”

  He watched her depart, unable to think of anything to say, feeling totally futile. He thought, She’s right; I am sending her off to face that. Something and someone she can’t face. Between us, between Sebastian Hermes and me, we did it; he could have gone; I could have given her the info. But he didn’t go and I wouldn’t tell her without something in return. God, he thought; and hated himself. What have I done?

  And I say I love her, he thought. And so does Sebastian; he “loves” her, too.

  He stood watching until she was out of sight, and then he went quickly to the payphone on the far side of the sogum palace; he looked up the Library’s number and dialed it.

  “People’s Topical Library.”

  “Let me talk to Doug Appleford.”

  “I’m sorry,” the switchboard girl said, “Mr. Appleford has left for the day. Shall I connect you with Mrs. McGuire?”

  He hung up.

  Glancing up from the manuscript she had been reading, Mrs. Mavis McGuire saw a frightened-looking young woman with long dark hair standing in front of her desk. Irritated by the interruption, she said, “Yes? What do you want?”