American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58 (37 page)

Foyle jaunted with her over his shoulder to the hospital grounds. There, in a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful. He removed his own costume, watching the girl intently, waiting to see if she would recognize him and remember him.

She was alarmed and confused; her telesending was like heat lightning:
“My God! Who is he? What’s happened? The music. The uproar. Why kidnapped in a sack? Drunks slurring on trombones. ‘Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.’ Adeste Fideles. What’s he want from me? Who is he?”

“I’m Fourmyle of Ceres,” Foyle said.

“What? Who? Fourmyle of—? Yes, of course.
The buffoon. The bourgeois gentilhomme. Vulgarity. Imbecility. Obscenity. The Four Mile Circus.
My God! Am I telesending? Can you hear me?”

“I hear you, Miss Wednesbury,” Foyle said quietly.

“What have you done? Why? What do you want with me? I—”

“I want you to look at me.”

“
Bonjour, Madame. Into my sack, Madame. Ecco! Look at me.
I’m looking,” Robin said, trying to control the jangle of her thoughts. She gazed up into his face without recognition.
“It’s a face. I’ve seen so many like it. The faces of men, oh God! The features of masculinity. Everyman in rut. Will God never save us from brute desire?”

“My rutting season’s over, Miss Wednesbury.”

“I’m sorry you heard that. I’m terrified, naturally. I— You know me?”

“I know you.”

“We’ve met before?” She scrutinized him closely, but still without recognition. Deep down inside Foyle there was a surge of triumph. If this woman of all women failed to remember him he was safe, provided he kept blood and brains and face under control.

“We’ve never met,” he said. “I’ve heard of you. I want something from you. That’s why we’re here; to talk about it. If you don’t like my offer you can go back to the hospital.”

“You want something?
But I’ve got nothing . . . nothing. Nothing’s left but shame and—Oh God! Why did the suicide fail? Why couldn’t I—
”

“So that’s it?” Foyle interrupted softly. “You tried to commit suicide, eh? That accounts for the gas explosion that opened the building . . . And your protective confinement. Attempted suicide. Why weren’t you hurt in the explosion?”

“So many were hurt. So many died. But I didn’t. I’m unlucky, I suppose. I’ve been unlucky all my life.”

“Why suicide?”

“I’m tired. I’m finished. I’ve lost everything . . . I’m on the army gray list . . . suspected, watched, reported. No job. No family. No— Why suicide? Dear God, what else but suicide?”

“You can work for me.”

“I can . . . What did you say?”

“I want you to work for me, Miss Wednesbury.”

She burst into hysterical laughter. “For you?
Another camp follower in the Circus?
Work for you, Fourmyle?”

“You’ve got sex on the brain,” he said gently. “I’m not looking for tarts. They look for me, as a rule.”

“I’m sorry.
I’m obsessed by the brute who destroyed me. I—
I’ll try to make sense.” Robin calmed herself. “Let me understand you. You’ve taken me out of the hospital to offer me a job. You’ve heard of me. That means you want something special. My specialty is telesending.”

“And charm.”

“What?”

“I want to buy your charm, Miss Wednesbury.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why,” Foyle said mildly. “It ought to be simple for you. I’m the buffoon. I’m vulgarity, imbecility, obscenity. That’s got to stop. I want you to be my social secretary.”

“You expect me to believe that? You could hire a hundred social secretaries . . . a thousand, with your money. You expect me to believe that I’m the only one for you? That you had to kidnap me from protective confinement to get me?”

Foyle nodded. “That’s right, there are thousands, but only one that can telesend.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“You’re going to be the ventriloquist; I’m going to be your dummy. I don’t know the upper classes; you do. They have their own talk, their own jokes, their own manners. If a man wants to be accepted by them he’s got to talk their language. I can’t, but you can. You’ll talk for me, through my mouth . . .”

“But you could learn.”

“No. It would take too long. And charm can’t be learned. I want to buy your charm, Miss Wednesbury. Now, about salary. I’ll pay you a thousand a month.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re very generous, Fourmyle.”

“I’ll clean up this suicide charge for you.”

“You’re very kind.”

“And I’ll guarantee to get you off the army gray list. You’ll be back on the white list by the time you finish working for me. You can start with a clean slate and a bonus. You can start living again.”

Robin’s lips trembled and then she began to cry. She sobbed and shook and Foyle had to steady her. “Well,” he asked. “Will you do it?”

She nodded. “You’re so kind . . . It’s . . . I’m not used to kindness any more.”

The dull concussion of a distant explosion made Foyle stiffen. “Christ!” he exclaimed in sudden panic. “Another Blue Jaunte. I—”

“No,” Robin said. “I don’t know what blue jaunte is, but that’s the Proving Ground. They—” She looked up at Foyle’s face and screamed. The unexpected shock of the explosion and the vivid chain of associations had wrenched loose his iron control. The blood-red scars of tattooing showed under his skin. She stared at him in horror, still screaming.

He touched his face once, then leaped forward and gagged her. Once again he had hold of himself.

“It shows, eh?” he murmured with a ghastly smile. “Lost my grip for a minute. Thought I was back in Gouffre Martel listening to a Blue Jaunte. Yes, I’m Foyle. The brute who destroyed you. You had to know, sooner or later, but I’d hoped it would be later. I’m Foyle, back again. Will you be quiet and listen to me?”

She shook her head frantically, trying to struggle out of his grasp. With detached calm he punched her jaw. Robin sagged. Foyle picked her up, wrapped her in his coat and held her in his arms, waiting for consciousness to return. When he saw her eyelids flutter he spoke again.

“Don’t move or you’ll be sick. Maybe I didn’t pull that punch enough.”

“
Brute
. . .
Beast
. . .”

“I could do this the wrong way,” he said. “I could blackmail you. I know your mother and sisters are on Callisto, that you’re classed as an alien belligerent by association. That puts you on the black list,
ipso facto
. Is that right?
Ipso facto.
‘By the very fact.’ Latin. You can’t trust hypno-learning. I could point out that all I have to do is send anonymous information to Central Intelligence and you wouldn’t be just suspect any more. They’d be ripping information out of you inside twelve hours . . .”

He felt her shudder. “But I’m not going to do it that way. I’m going to tell you the truth because I want to turn you into a partner. Your mother’s in the Inner Planets. She’s in the Inner Planets,” he repeated. “She may be on Terra.”

“Safe?” she whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“Put me down.”

“You’re cold.”

“Put me down.”

He set her on her feet.

“You destroyed me once,” she said in choked tones. “Are you trying to destroy me again?”

“No. Will you listen?”

She nodded.

“I was lost in space. I was dead and rotting for six months. A ship came up that could have saved me. It passed me by. It let me die. A ship named ‘Vorga.’ ‘Vorga-T:1339.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Jiz McQueen—a friend of mine who’s dead now—once told me to find out why I was left to rot. That would be the answer to who gave the order. So I started buying information about ‘Vorga.’ Any information.”

“What’s that to do with my mother?”

“Just listen. Information was tough to buy. The ‘Vorga’ records were removed from the Bo’ness & Uig files. I managed to locate three names . . . three out of a standard crew of four officers and twelve men. Nobody knew anything or nobody would talk. And I found this.” Foyle took a silver locket from his pocket and handed it to Robin. “It was pawned by some spaceman off the ‘Vorga.’ That’s all I could find out.”

Robin uttered a cry and opened the locket with trembling fingers. Inside was her picture and the pictures of two other girls. As the locket was opened, the 3D photos smiled and whispered: “Love from Robin, Mama . . . Love from Holly, Mama . . . Love from Wendy, Mama . . .”

“It is my mother’s,” Robin wept. “It . . . She . . . For pity’s sake, where is she? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Foyle said steadily. “But I can guess. I think your mother got out of that concentration camp . . . one way or another.”

“And my sisters too. She’d never leave them.”

“Maybe your sisters too. I think ‘Vorga’ was running refugees out of Callisto. Your family paid with money and jewelry to get aboard and be taken to the Inner Planets. That’s how a spaceman off the ‘Vorga’ came to pawn this locket.”

“Then where are they?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they were dumped on Mars or Venus. Most probably they were sold to a labor camp on the Moon, which is why they haven’t been able to get in touch with you. I don’t know where they are, but ‘Vorga’ can tell us.”

“Are you lying? Tricking me?”

“Is that locket a lie? I’m telling the truth . . . all the truth I know. I want to find out why they left me to die, and who gave the order. The man who gave the order will know where your mother and sisters are. He’ll tell you . . . before I kill him. He’ll have plenty of time. He’ll be a long time dying.”

Robin looked at him in horror. The passion that gripped him was making his face once again show the scarlet stigmata. He looked like a tiger closing in for the kill.

“I’ve got a fortune to spend . . . never mind how I got it. I’ve got three months to finish the job. I’ve learned enough maths to compute the probabilities. Three months is the outside before they figure that Fourmyle of Ceres is Gully Foyle. Ninety days. From New Year’s to All Fools. Will you join me?”

“You?” Robin cried with loathing. “Join you?”

“All this Four Mile Circus is camouflage. Nobody ever suspects a clown. But I’ve been studying, learning, preparing for the finish. All I need now is you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know where the hunt is going to lead me . . . society or slums. I’ve got to be prepared for both. The slums I can handle alone. I haven’t forgotten the gutter, but I need you for society. Will you come in with me?”

“You’re hurting me.” Robin wrenched her arm out of Foyle’s grasp.

“Sorry. I lose control when I think about ‘Vorga.’ Will you help me find ‘Vorga’ and your family?”

“I hate you,” Robin burst out. “I despise you. You’re rotten. You destroy everything you touch. Someday I’ll pay you back.”

“But we work together from New Year’s to All Fools?”

“We work together.”

On New Year’s Eve, Geoffrey Fourmyle of Ceres made his onslaught on society. He appeared first in Canberra at the Government House ball, half an hour before midnight. This was a highly formal affair, bursting with color and pageantry, for it was the custom at formals for society to wear the evening dress that had been fashionable the year its clan was founded or its trademark patented.

Thus, the Morses (Telephone and Telegraph) wore nineteenth century frock coats and their women wore Victorian hoop skirts. The Skodas (Powder & Guns) harked back to the late eighteenth century, wearing Regency tights and crinolines. The daring Peenemundes (Rockets & Reactors), dating from the 1920’s, wore tuxedos, and their women unashamedly revealed legs, arms, and necks in the décolleté of antique Worth and Mainbocher gowns.

Fourmyle of Ceres appeared in evening clothes, very modern and very black, relieved only by a white sunburst on his shoulder, the trademark of the Ceres clan. With him was Robin Wednesbury in a glittering white gown, her slender waist tight in whalebone, the bustle of the gown accentuating her long, straight back and graceful step.

The black and white contrast was so arresting that an orderly was sent to check the sunburst trademark in the Almanac of Peerages and Patents. He returned with the news that it was of the Ceres Mining Company, organized in 2250 for the exploitation of the mineral resources of Ceres, Pallas, and Vesta. The resources had never manifested themselves and the House of Ceres had gone into eclipse but had never become extinct. Apparently it was now being revived.

“Fourmyle? The Clown?”

“Yes. The Four Mile Circus. Everybody’s talking about him.” “Is that the same man?”

“Couldn’t be. He looks human.”

Society clustered around Fourmyle, curious but wary. “Here they come,” Foyle muttered to Robin.

“Relax. They want the light touch. They’ll accept anything if

it’s amusing. Stay tuned.”

“Are you that dreadful man with the circus, Fourmyle?”
“Sure you are. Smile.”

“I am, madam. You may touch me.”

“Why, you actually seem proud. Are you proud of your bad taste?”

“The problem today is to have any taste at all.”

“The problem today is to have any taste at all. I think I’m lucky.”

“Lucky but dreadfully indecent.”

“Indecent but not dull.”

“And dreadful but delightful. Why aren’t you cavorting now?”

“I’m ‘under the influence,’ Madam.”

“Oh dear. Are you drunk? I’m Lady Shrapnel. When will you be sober again?”

“I’m under your influence, Lady Shrapnel.”

“You wicked young man. Charles! Charles, come here and save Fourmyle. I’m ruining him.”

“That’s Victor of RCA Victor.”

“Fourmyle, is it? Delighted. What’s that entourage of yours cost?”

“Tell him the truth.”

“Forty thousand, Victor.”

“Good
Lord!
A week?”

“A day.”

“A day! What on earth d’you want to spend all that money for?”

“The truth!”

“For notoriety, Victor.”