Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just . . .
—Francis Scott Key
Tony Rand was at loose ends. There would be movies, either in Commons or on his TV . . . or he could read some of the technical articles now cluttering up his working space . . . but he wasn't sleepy and he didn't feel like working.
He had wanted to watch Art Bonner and Sir George together; but Art had made it clear that he would be in the way. Business. Fine. Art was no engineer, but he had a way of smoothing things out, so that the real work of Todos Santos could go on. Tony was still annoyed.
He punched for his own level, 100, and braced for the thrust. There were slow and fast elevators; you learned which were which. Art polled the residents regularly. Some hated waiting for elevators; some hated the accelerations. It wasn't hard to change the operating speeds to suit the users.
Hmm. Delores had seemed glad to see him when he was in Bonner's office earlier. She'd be up, it was early. Could he drop by her place? But on what excuse? Damn it, why couldn't he learn how to pick up girls? Even with women he knew, like Delores, he couldn't seem to change the relationship from business to social. Did other men have this problem?
He decided that Delores wouldn't want to see him, not at this hour, without an appointment. Who would?
Genevieve. She'd be glad . . .
He'd been in love with her once. He was still in love with her when she left. And to be fair, he hadn't been much of a husband. Too wrapped up in work, irritable when interrupted, unwilling to go places with her, rude to her friends, and glad enough when she decided not to go to conventions with him because she was always bored . . .
There'd been plenty of danger signals. He could see that now, looking back at the last year they were married; but he hadn't seen them then.
If I had, he thought. If I'd noticed how unhappy she was, could I have done anything about it? I'd have tried. But tried what?
She'd be glad if I called. I could invite her to come visit. Bring Zach and come stay a few days. She'd like that, and, dammit, she used to be fun to have around. Am I still in love with her?
The elevator stopped at his floor. Somehow the idea of his empty apartment was unpleasant; too unpleasant to face. Instead he took his pocket electronics box—calculator, phone, computer terminal, alarm clock, and calendar, an invention of his own that someday he'd market when he had time to perfect it—and plugged it into a jack in a panel near the elevator call box.
Genevieve's number didn't answer after twelve rings.
So now what? The apartment was still empty. Dammit, there had to be someone who'd be glad to see him—
Sanders. Pres would be on duty, and he could use some company. Pres didn't like night duty on the worry desk. Rand entered the elevator again and punched for the Operations level.
* * *
The Olympic ski jumps were back on the screen in Preston Sanders's office. "Evening," Tony said. "Why can't you be addicted to reruns of the Mary Tyler Moore show? Or at least watch the evening news?"
"I do watch the news," Sanders said. "And I generally get some work done when I've got night duty on the worry desk."
"Quiet tonight," Rand said. "Oh—there's some kind of problem with water deliveries in 44-West. Could you have Maintenance check it out?"
Sanders laughed. "I logged that one in an hour ago. How did your dinner go? Any conclusions about implants and genius?"
"Haven't made up my mind. Best way to find out would be to get my own."
"Sure. Tomorrow morning."
A shrill tone shattered their conversation. Red flashed above the screen, and the skier disappeared in mid-jump, replaced by a red-bearded guard captain. "Break-in. Intruder on C-ring, 18-North."
Tony stopped breathing. Burglars in the house?
Sanders looked automatically at the holographic model. Tony Rand didn't bother. The north side was unfinished in large part: nothing but girders and framework and the thin curtain wall that had been erected for appearances and environmental control. But two main hydrogen intake lines and a fastube to Santa Barbara came in near ground level on the north side.
A red pinpoint winked on in the holographic display. Level 18, and definitely out in the unfinished area. "Visual," Sanders demanded.
"Getting it, sir," the guard said. Another screen swam, then showed a dim figure on a narrow catwalk. "He won't know we've spotted him."
Rand went around behind the desk to look over Sanders's shoulder, careful not to distract Pres. There wasn't enough light for details.
"Keep it that way a minute, Fleming. What's he carrying?" Sanders demanded.
"Can't make it out," Captain Fleming answered. "No history on him. He had a badge at one time, or he wouldn't be here."
"And he ditched it before he went into that area. Right," Sanders said.
Rand felt beads of sweat pop out on his forehead, and a cold knot began to grow under his belt. This was no lost child. And if he felt the tension, what must Sanders be feeling? The black man looked calm enough. "A teener resident out to have fun?" Rand suggested.
"Possibly," Sanders muttered. He continued to stare at the screen. "But not likely. Not out there. Keep on it, Fleming. You've sent men down there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Maybe you ought to call Bonner," Rand suggested.
That got him a scowl. "Art's been drinking with the Canadian," Sanders said. "Afraid I can't handle the situation?"
"You know better," Tony protested. Was that what I was thinking?
"Two more," Fleming said excitedly. "Two bandits, Accessway 9. They've got some kind of interference gear. Don't know what it is, but we can't get an exact location."
"Interference?" Rand shouted. "What in hell could they—" He fell silent, thinking furiously, recalling the details of the security system. Accessway 9? That was a main hydrogen input tunnel!
A bright band sprang into view on the model: the indeterminate location of two intruders, deep underground. The southwest pipeline complex that ran parallel to the tunnel showed up as a series of thick purple lines.
"It makes a pattern," Pres said uneasily. "Opposite sides. Both aimed at hydrogen intake lines. That's our weakest spot. We've got to get visual on those new bogies!"
"Yes, sir," Fleming said from the screen. "Trying. I can send men into the tunnel—"
"And alarm them. Hold that." He looked up helplessly at Rand. "Christ, if they've got explosives, they can make one hell of a mess."
Tony could only nod agreement. "Pres! My Arr-two's. I've got one near Tunnel 9. Maybe they wouldn't be suspicious of a robot—"
"Maybe worth a try," Sanders said absently. "Use that console over there to fire it up, but don't do anything else without letting me know. Now let me think."
"Sure, Pres." Tony went to the console. It wouldn't be easy controlling the robot with this standard input; Tony usually used joysticks and gloves with special sensors, and other devices, but there weren't any of those closer than Tony's office—and by the time he could get there, this might all be over.
Sanders came to a decision. He pushed another button on the desk console. "Cut the hydrogen in those lines. All the lines next to Tunnel Niner, and the northside lines too. MILLIE, what does that do to us?"
"WE WILL GO TO FLYWHEEL DRAIN. NO ESSENTIAL POWER LOSS FOR SEVENTEEN MINUTES. AFTER FOURTEEN MINUTES WE MUST BEGIN PHASEDOWN POWER CUTS TO PREPARE FOR INEVITABLE POWER LOSSES. DO YOU WISH MORE DETAILS?" The contralto voice spoke in impassive block capitals; at least that was how Rand always visualized them.
Power cuts would—
"Negative phasedowns," Sanders said. "Carry out previous order and use flywheel storage."
"DONE."
"Not enough!" Rand said. "We need those—"
"Tony, shut up," Sanders said. "Fleming, are you certain they've got something that intentionally fouls up the detectors? That's not an accident?"
"Not bloody likely, sir."
"MILLIE?"
"PROBABILITY INSIGNIFICANT."
He turned to Rand. "Tony?"
Rand shrugged. "I don't know how they did it, but I can't see that happening by accident." He pointed at the fuzzy band on the hologram. "We ought to have intruders located to the decimeter."
"I'm getting an infra-red image now," Fleming said. "Tunnel Niner."
The screen showed a dim shadow of two figures, each carrying something heavy. The faces bulged like the snouts of pigs.
"Gas masks," Sanders said grimly. "MILLIE, do the images match anything in your memory?"
"PROBABILITY OF GAS MASK OR DELIBERATE SIMULATION OF GAS MASK, 76 PERCENT. OXYGEN MASK, 21 PERCENT PROBABLE. IF OXYGEN MASK, THE TANKS ARE VERY SMALL."
"Simulation? What's the chance of that?" Sanders demanded.
"INSUFFICIENT DATA."
"Jesus. Tony, get that damned robot of yours in there. Fast."
"I can't, Pres. Whatever they're using to interfere with our detectors is jamming my comm links with the Arr-two. I can't help you a bit."
* * *
It had happened at last. Preston Sanders had always known it would. It was the reason he hated the worry desk. Sitting here always involved political decisions; nothing else would be bucked up to the top duty officer. That was hard enough.
And now the big one had happened while he was on duty.
I've got about thirty seconds to dither. Should I call the boss? It'd take him at least that long to get up to speed. Maybe I should have called him earlier. Probably would if Tony hadn't suggested it. Oh, damn it—
And what if Art's not sober? That LA man has left, but the Canadian is still here—
One of the shadows in the tunnel bent over. Possibly to tie his shoes. Possibly to set off a bomb that would wreck the lines. Sanders made his decision.
His voice was calm as he said, "Big one. Tunnel Niner. Big stuff. No drill. Execute."
His voice was calm, but sweat dripped from his chin. He'd never been in the Army.
And he had just killed two men, deliberately, in cold blood.
"Now we take care of the one on the north side," Sanders said. "Stand by lights and snipers. He doesn't look to be carrying anything heavy enough to do much damage. Right?"
"Right," said Fleming.
"Make sure he's got nothing to penetrate the intakes. And no bomb. Then catch the son of a bitch. Catch him alive, and no alarms."
"Roger, Mister Sanders." Captain Fleming turned away from the screens, and Preston Sanders sank back into his chair.
* * *
Art Bonner drank a final nightcap with Sir George Reedy and left the Canadian in the guest suite. The perimeter corridor was dark and deserted as Art limped slowly toward his empty apartment, but he paid it no attention.
He almost turned to the elevator that would take him to Delores's apartment. But . . . no. She'd made it clear that whatever they'd been, it was all over now. She'd be glad to see him, but for what?
What do I want? he wondered. For the apartment not to be empty when I get there. And that's impossible, because who wants to live with a man who lets a city set his schedule—and loves it. It was a wonder Grace stayed five years.
Actually . . . Delores will be glad to see me. We can talk about next week's schedule, and she'll make some tea, and—
Not fair. She must have men friends. One of them might be with her right now.
It would be literally no effort to find out; he had only to think the question. Why not? But—
There was a rising and falling note in his head. It wasn't quite sound; the implanted receiver fed directly into the auditory nerve, and he could sense the difference from true sound. For one thing, there was no vibration. But it was loud enough to startle him no matter how often he had heard it before.
He thought, MILLIE?
INTRUDER ALERT. SINGLE INTRUDER NORTHSIDE LEVEL 18 CORRIDOR 128 RING C. INTRUDER APPARENTLY UNARMED CARRYING NOTHING LARGE. TWO INTRUDERS CARRYING SURVEILLANCE INTERFERENCE EQUIPMENT AND GAS MASKS AND OTHER HEAVY EQUIPMENT EXTENT AND NATURE UNKNOWN IN ACCESS TUNNEL OH-NINER LOCATION IMPOSSIBLE TO DETERMINE.
More information poured into his head: everything MILLIE knew about the situation, the computer's probability estimates, the probable consequences of explosions in the penetrated areas; all happening so quickly that Bonner was hardly aware of it.
"Lord God," Bonner said to himself. He moved toward the fast lane of the pedway.
Sanders has it?
AFFIRMATIVE.
He's in charge.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
He was automatically going toward the Operations Center. And what do I do when I get there? he wondered. I left Pres in charge. He'll think I don't trust him if I come in and take over. He hasn't asked for help.
And there's the little matter of the brandy, too. Am I competent to make decisions?
SANDERS HAS ORDERED LETHAL GAS ACTION IN ACCESSWAY NINER, MILLIE told him.
"Christ Almighty," Bonner muttered. He had seconds only to interfere, if he were going to. And he had no information.
Pres is a good man, he thought. Another part of his mind answered: "He'd damned well better be." Bonner walked rapidly along the pedway. It was silly, it wouldn't get him to the control offices more than a few seconds earlier, but he did it.
VX RELEASED IN ACCESSWAY NINER. SECURITY IS MOVING IN ON THE INTRUDER IN NORTHSIDE AREA.
Well. That's that.
He was past his own apartment now; not far to the elevator to the top floor. That location was silly, Bonner thought. Administrators ought to be either next to their own apartments or somewhere in the middle of the building; but the designers had their own ideas. What was happening to Pres?
He began moving off the fast lane again. An elevator was waiting for him, of course, and there were two uniformed men next to it. All through Todos Santos the Security people would be moving quietly into place, just in case there were more to this attack than just three intruders in uninhabited areas.
Maintenance and engineering and the fire department would be on alert, too. If the hydrogen lines went, even if there wasn't a fire, Todos Santos would come grinding to a halt. It took energy to run the city. Less than the same people would need if they were scattered out in hundreds of thousands of buildings, of course, but it took plenty.
He limped off the pedway, acknowledged the guards with a wave, and entered the elevator, twitching while it rose. How's Pres taking it? He's killed two people! The elevator loosed him and he ran for Preston Sanders's office, angling sideways to favor the bad leg.
* * *
Tony Rand watched the black man with awe. How can he be so damned calm about it? he wondered.
Maybe he's not. He's smoking like a chimney—have I ever seen him smoke before? He's usually so fussy about emptying ashtrays, and that one's half-full already.
He went to the shelf and poured a shot of brandy, tossing it off, almost laughing at the absurdity of his thoughts: it came unbidden that he'd put Sanders's prize brandy in coffee this afternoon, now he was drinking it like medicine. "Brandy?"
"I'm still on duty," Sanders said. "Fleming, what's the status on that northside intruder?"
"He's spotted us. He's hiding."
"Thank you."
"Maybe you ought to call Bonner now," Rand said.
"MILLIE already told him," Sanders said absently. "Standing orders on anything this big. He'll be here in a moment." He pointed at the holograph, where a blue star moved rapidly upward toward the operations suite. "I'd go easy on that brandy. Art will want you in on the conference."
Two dead, Rand thought. What the hell did they use to interfere with the surveillance?
Art Bonner came in. He took in the situation at a glance, his eyes resting momentarily on the full ashtray. "Status?" he asked.
"You already know," Sanders said. "I gassed Niner. They're getting men into survival gear to go inspect. And—"
"INTRUDER CAPTURED," MILLIE announced. She used audio to speak to all of them.
Fleming appeared on the screen. "Got him." Another image formed: a young man, early twenties at most, long hair in back but cut short at the sides and in front; scraggly beard, which wasn't unusual; cotton denim pants and jacket.
"No weapons," Fleming reported. "We fluoroscoped him. Nothing. And Medical says no drugs. He tried to put on he was high, but we've got him convinced we know better."
"That may have been a mistake," Sanders said. "Mister Bonner's here. Take over, Mister Bonner?"
"I relieve you. Get Delores up here, will you? And Sandra. I'm going to have to have some sleep before this night's over, and you will too. Fleming, send that intruder up here."
"Yes, sir." The images faded.
Bonner put his hand on Sanders's shoulder. "Relax."
Sanders tried to smile. It didn't work. "I killed them, Art. Both. In cold blood."
"Sure. Tony, get Pres a drink."
"It happened so fast. All over in a minute. Art, what if it's nothing? Like that kid, no weapons, nothing? Just trying to throw a scare into us? They never had a chance!"
Tony Rand brought over a brandy. "If they were trying to scare us, they made it nicely," he said. "Here."
Bonner nodded agreement. "You made the right decision. Same as I would. What if it wasn't nothing? What if they had bombs all set to take out the hydrogen lines? Set off the hydrogen with a big whoosh. Big bonfire, right in the park."
"I wish it hadn't been me."
"It was. And I'll back you all the way."
"It isn't Zurich I'm worried about. Or the Angelino police. It's me."
"Sure."
* * *
The boy was grinning. That was the first thing Tony Rand noticed when Lieutenant Blake ushered him into Sanders's office: a wide, triumphant grin.
"We got an ID on this one," Blake said.
"Sure. I'm Allan Thompson," the youth said. His voice was pleasant and sounded educated. "My father's a real estate broker in Hollywood. Where are the others?"
"What others?" Bonner asked.
"Aw, come on," Thompson said. He was still grinning. "You gotta have them by now—" He shrugged. "Maybe you don't." That seemed to amuse him even more.
Preston Sanders had ignored his brandy, and sat staring at the youth, his eyes a study of misery. The grin got to Tony Rand. "What's so damned funny?" Rand demanded.
Bonner raised a hand in warning. Rand subsided.
"We found a VIP Visitor badge outside the crawlway entrance to the unfinished section," Blake reported. "A Mr. Roland Thompson, who's a favored customer for a number of places."
"Sure, that's my Dad's badge," Allan Thompson said. "Okay, so now you call him and tell him the prodigal's in trouble again."
"Please sit down, Allan," Bonner said carefully. "And tell us why you were crawling around on a catwalk a hundred meters above ground level this late at night."
"It was fun, man." Thompson sat with the attitude of an important visitor. "We thought, what the hell, they're always talking about the security system at Todos Santos, we'll just show 'em it's not as good as they think—"
"We?" Bonner demanded. "Who are the others?"
Thompson grinned slyly. "So you really haven't caught them yet! That's choice. Well, I better tell you, 'cause it's getting pretty late and sitting here's a bummer. I don't guess you'll let me loose until you round 'em up. There are two, Diana and Jimmy, and they stayed in the stupid tunnel we got in from."
There was a sharp hiss as Preston Sanders took in a quick breath. Lieutenant Blake looked grim.
"Hey, what's the matter?" Thompson demanded. "Look, they aren't going to hurt anything!"
"Allan, were your friends carrying anything? Special equipment or anything like that?" Bonner asked casually. It was difficult to keep the strain from his voice.
Tony Rand leaned forward to listen. He felt the same thrill of horror that Bonner did; but he also wanted to know, how did they do it?
"Oh, some big boxes full of sand. Had 'dynamite' painted on the outside, you know? Just to show you. And Jimmy, that's Jim Planchet, he's an electronics genius. He made something that he thought would really give your detection stuff fits—"
"What? How did it work?" Rand demanded.
"Hell, I'm no electronics type," Thompson said. "But it must have worked if you haven't got 'em yet!"
Art Bonner was posed in the characteristic way he used to talk to MILLIE with his implant. His face looked—strange. Rand got up and went behind the desk so that he could see the TV screen that Sanders was watching. What had Bonner found out?
The screen showed:
JIM PLANCHET. IDENTIFICATION.
COUNCILMAN JAMES PLANCHET OF LOS ANGELES HAS A SON AGE TWENTY NAMED JAMES EVERETT JR.
"Lord God," Tony said involuntarily.
"What?" Allan Thompson squinted at Rand. "Did you say something?"
"No," Bonner said. "Who is Diana?"
"Aw, Diana Lauder. Kind of engaged to Jimmy, you know? Rooms in the dorm with us."
"I see. Well, I hope the automatic systems haven't harmed your friends," Bonner said evenly. "Lieutenant, please take Mr. Thompson to Central Security. We'll have to hang on to you for a while, Allan. What you did was highly illegal, didn't you know that?"
"You mean unlawful. Illegal's a sick bird," Thompson said. "We didn't mean any harm. Might even have done you a favor. Suppose we'd been somebody really out to get you? Wasn't my idea anyway. Jimmy's father kept spouting off about this place, and—there's something wrong, isn't there?" The boy's grin faded. "Jesus, they weren't hurt, were they? Look, Mister, they didn't mean any harm, they didn't have any weapons or anything! You didn't hurt them, did you? Jesus, Councilman Planchet will kill me if anything's happened to Jimmy!"
"So it was your idea," Bonner said evenly.
How can he be so calm? Rand wondered. And Pres just sits there staring at the brandy.
"Take him out, Blake," Bonner said. "We'll talk to him later."
"Hey, wait a minute, tell me, what's happened to Jimmy and Diana? Let me go, you goddam rent-a-cop! What did you bastards do? You can't handle me this way—"
* * *
The door closed behind the guard and the struggling youth. So that's that, Art Bonner thought.
"Kids out playing," Sanders said. "I don't want to believe it! Boxes full of sand. Art, they're as dead as—they're dead! I killed them, and they were just kids!"
"Yeah. Get hold of yourself. You did the right thing, given what you knew. Suppose it'd been FROMATES with a bomb?"
Sanders sat unmoving, staring at a wall he couldn't see.
"Come on, Pres, it's all right," Rand said. "Look, they tried their best to make you think they were FROMATES, right? I thought so, watching over your shoulder. What else could you do?"
Medical. Get someone in here to take care of Mister Sanders, Bonner thought.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
And get Sandra on duty. For everything except this I don't want to be bothered with trivia.
MS. WYATT IS JUST REACHING HER OFFICE.
Tell her she's in charge as soon as she sits down. And Medical can give Pres a shot to get him through the night, but what the hell are we going to do tomorrow?
An LA City Councilman's kid and his girlfriend. Planchet—Jesus, why did it have to be him? He spouts off a lot, but he's not really an enemy. Wasn't an enemy. He will be now.
Can we keep it a secret? No. Thompson knew where the others were. Others might. Maybe not. Unwanted, a thought crept into the darker part of his mind. Sorry, kid, you know too much—Bonner pushed it away.
Get me legal. Roust out Johnny Shapiro, right now, and get him up to my office.
ACKNOWLEDGED.
Status?
SECURITY TEAM NOT READY TO ENTER. DETOXIFICATION ALMOST COMPLETED. ESTIMATE TEN MINUTES UNTIL SAFE TO ENTER.
We'll just have to wait.
* * *
Rand watched impatiently: Bonner giving orders and getting reports through his implant, while Tony knew nothing. Bonner could have had the decency to put it all on the TV screen! "What's happening?"
"They're flushing out the last traces of nerve gas," Bonner said. "Not important enough to send guards in there with protective suits, not until it's safer. Is it?"
"Don't think so. I tried to get a robot in, but the comm link is still jammed."
"Why the hell can't your people develop something better than nerve gas? Something to knock a man over instantly but not kill him?"
"Tall order," Rand said. "You've got one, but it has to be inhaled. These were wearing gas masks. If you want something that works on skin contact and knocks them over before they know what hit them, war gasses are all there is."
"I suppose."
"Here's the route they must have taken," Bonner said. A thin line moved through the holograph; a second screen showed what someone traveling that route would see. Twice the stark words appeared:
IF YOU GO THROUGH THIS DOOR
YOU WILL DIE
SI USTED POR ESTA PUERTA
HABRIA PASADO, USTED HABRIA MUERTO!MUY PELIGROSO
"Subtle we aren't," Rand said. "And those were good locks on those doors. Anything more and we couldn't get through them ourselves. Maybe if I—"
"You too?" Bonner said irritably. "Look. We took precautions. At great expense. Dammit, we aren't morally obligated to design this place so that idiot geniuses can't hurt themselves! What are we supposed to do, sit back and let a pack of crummy bastards shoot our police, poison our people, burn the city, put our people out of work—and never fight back?"
"Sure," Tony said; but he couldn't help wondering if there wasn't something else he could have done. A more foolproof design. But these kids were anything but fools!
A young medical resident came in and gave Preston Sanders a shot. Later, a security team brought out the bodies of Jimmy Planchet, age twenty, and Diana Lauder, nineteen. They had nothing dangerous with them; only dummy bombs with garish cartoons, a box of sophisticated electronic gear that Rand thirsted to study, and masks connected to Scuba gear.
There were no weapons at all.