Charlie exchanged looks with Christy and Lanier. He said, "Is, that supposed to happen?"
"No," Lanier said flatly, "No, it's not." He stared down at the floor, lost in his own thoughts.
Christy handed a list to Charlie. "These requests came in while he was under. I have their files in my office. All the research is done. But look." She indicated the list of attached statistics. "The Syndrome has reached its worst point yet. Far beyond what anyone had predicted."
Charlie peeled it back and looked it over seriously.
"I think," he started, "that we're being kept in the dark about most of the situation."
The list bore seven more congressmen, five governors, the heads of two oil companies, and two cabinet members. There was also a presidential aide, Ms. Beverly Silva, reported missing.
"My God," Charlie exclaimed.
Lanier was silent, watching him.
"And these," Christy pointed out, "are just the ones sent here, to Fran. The other Stalkers have similar dockets."
"Can you do all of these people?" Charlie turned to Lanier. "Aren't there other Stalkers who can take off some of your load? There have to be."
Christy paraded around, businesslike, slapping the list with her finger in a frustrated gesture.
"Everyone's overloaded. It's just getting out of hand. And now it seems as if Fran is staying under longer and longer, for some reason none of us knows about. It could be part of a new strain in the disease itself."
Lanier sighed loudly, leaning back and closing his eyes.
"You know," he began distantly, "something's got to break. Losing Eventide was a big blow. He might have been able to come up with a stronger remedy than Baktropol. If only North Haven Chemicals hadn't fired him."
Charlie got up and retrieved his carrying pouch from the table. He stood, rummaging through it as Lanier spoke.
"But Ellie's loss," Lanier continued, "I just can't understand. I could have sworn that she wasn't suicidal. Her eyes … " He stared up at the ceiling. "Something made her kill herself. There was something in her makeup that none of us knew about, that allowed for her death. But what was it?"
Charlie held out a small sheaf of papers.
"I think I may have an idea."
Lanier craned over, pouring more gray tea into his cup. "Anything will do. What do you have?" His voice sounded tired, strained.
"Well," Charlie began with a mild touch of flourish, "I set my junior partners to work digging up some facts on Randell that weren't in either DataCom or HomeCom. Mostly stuff through the profession grapevines."
"What did they come up with?"
Charlie passed the forms over to him. "It's all there. Besides being one of the principal congressional trust-busters, he has more fingers in corporations than an octopus has arms."
Lanier leafed through the sheets. "I thought all congressmen by law had to dump their personal funds into blind trusts." He started feeling funny about Senator Randell. He already had an insight into his character that he truly could have lived without.
"Supposedly," Charlie said, smiling wryly. "But given the fact that Randell has 'friends' and that friends often have occasion to talk, it shouldn't be too surprising to see how Randell has maneuvered his congressional activities around his financial interests. And since a separate accounting firm makes his investments a blind trust, all Randell has to do is indicate where he'd like his money to go, verbally, and no record of it exists. Except…"
Lanier looked up. "Except what?"
"Except that everything that particular firm did for the past five years is in DataCom. The public doesn't have access to it, but Randell does."
Charlie walked around to the side of the couch. "Here." He pointed. "Not this one."
"North Haven Chemicals," Lanier observed. "That's interesting. He looked up at Charlie. "And I suppose that you've looked into why Eventide was let go."
"What do you take me for?" He smiled broadly. "The Freedom of Information Act can only go so far, legally. We ran into a force-field of inneroffice runarounds. The only thing we got that seemed positive was that Eventide's contract was terminated because of adverse publicity. The higher-ups didn't like the attention. They felt that a biochemist should stick to being a biochemist, not a public figure."
"That's pretty thin," Lanier grunted. "What else? What's this here?"
"Ah." Charlie smiled triumphantly. "This is a reproduction of a list we pulled out of HomeCom, believe it or not. It had to be made public. It's Randell's assets and holdings. At least, these are the ones he filed with the IRS and the Government Accounting Office. Notice his income."
Lanier's eyes widened appreciatively. "
Twelve million
? Per annum?"
Charlie planted his hands in the pockets of his expensive trousers. "He's one very shrewd businessman. I can imagine why he's in politics. And there's no reason why he shouldn't be that rich. Other politicians have come close, if you remember President Bowden. He was loaded."
Lanier examined the papers carefully.
He now understood the importance of Randell's rescue earlier that summer. Randell was a man of influence in most of the major industries and corporations in the country,
and
in Europe. The multinational corporation was one of the most significant legacies of the twentieth century. And Randell had an uncanny understanding of the world economic structure. In times of global catastrophe, Randell was a man to have around. He was something of a financial wizard.
"The bastard's got it coming out of his ears," Charlie Gilbert concluded sardonically. "And it's all legal."
He let Lanier scan the report.
A minute later, he leaned over. "There's a little thing we turned up that you might also be interested in knowing." He referred to another sheet. "Look here. Randell has even got connections in the movie industry as well. You can imagine the money floating around there. He's got interests in production plants, studios, even some law firms. I have some friends in those firms. I made a few phone calls and they confirmed most of what's in HomeCom. They wouldn't comment on what's in DataCom since that's classified. If they did, it'd blow the whistle on them, and probably Randell as well."
Charlie sat back down on the couch. "That's how a man of his stature can manage to meet a movie star like Ellie Estevan and a producer-director like Burton Shaughnessy."
Lanier studied the data closely. "So where's the business about the Saudis? It's not listed here."
Charlie said, "Remember when they got the first workable fusion reactor at Princeton going, and how everyone thought that fusion would take away some of the dependence on Saudi oil?"
"Sure," Lanier said. "And it didn't work out like that, to everyone's surprise."
"Well," Charlie continued, "it seems that Randell's influence in Congress kept the oil flowing and he managed to waggle through those energy laws about limiting the use of fusion."
"Friends with the Saudis," Lanier said in disgust. "At least the Seattle plant was built."
Though Lanier bore no ill will to the Saudi Arabians, he understood, as did everyone, that international politics, especially the Japanese-Saudi War crisis that Floyd Matkin had tried to mediate, constantly orbited around the last of the Saudi oil reserves. But rather than fuel petroleum, it was plastics and medicine the Japanese required. The Seattle fusion plant was the smallest in the world so far, and it was the size of a metropolitan supermarket, and fifty times as heavy: fusion was impractical for running automobiles. So, the Saudis still had their friends in America despite the fact that the Japanese were also the friends of America. And also despite the fact that, by all government projections, the Saudi fields would run dry—completely dry—within a decade or possibly even less.
And on the list at Lanier's knee were two Nobel Prize-winners in physics who had pioneered the microengineering in compacting the new fusion reactors. He looked at the list wondering who came first, the technicians or the politicians.
He hefted the papers Charlie had given him. The key-codes for DataCom cross-references were also provided in case he would want to do any verifying on his own.
"Thanks, Charlie," he said. "You're a good hound dog. I'll look at this much closer when I have the time. When I settle down."
Christy gave him a motherly look. "You aren't coming out of these missions like you used to."
Lanier nodded in agreement, looking as if he had aged ten years in the last few hours.
Christy went on. "Is it affecting you too? Are you losing any ability to go under and come out?"
Lanier shrugged. "I don't know. The disease has gone beyond our expectations. It doesn't even act like a regular disease. But maybe I'm getting more involved, when I shouldn't be." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Perhaps we'd better check up on some of the other Stalkers and see if it's happening to them as well."
Lanier hovered about the living room like the ghost of a fallen warrior, not quite knowing what to do, or feel.
He did feel somewhat foolish falling for a movie star, a person like Ellie Estevan. He had never counted on actually meeting anyone so famous, and then when he did, he hadn't counted on Ellie Estevan's simple reality, her eyes, her charm.
He felt awkward and partially ashamed to admit his emotional indiscretions toward a patient of his, since his previous hesitancies had allowed for more than one death to occur. This time it had been a movie star, someone familiar to millions of people. He shouldn't have allowed her death to happen. He was a professional, a
gifted
professional.
"Listen," he announced to his friends. "I'm going to rest for a day or two. Take things easy." He walked around, not really looking at them as he spoke. "I've got a lot to think about, and I'm tired."
Charlie sat with a long arm about Christy's shoulders.
Lanier continued, "I might need you and your boys to come with me to Washington. I need to talk with the President about the research into the disease. This thing has got to stop. Meanwhile," he looked down at Christy, "let's hold things for a while. You can pick which ones you feel I should do, but leave it for a couple of days. Forward the others to some of the nearest Stalkers. I just need a rest. Time to breathe. Things are just happening too fast."
"You got it, Fran," she said.
Lanier walked back into his own room and closed the door quietly.
Later that night, Charlie drove Christy into Missoula for a leisurely dinner. It was cold. The rains had finally stopped and everything seemed to be holding its breath for winter to arrive. The chinooks, those fronts of pure Arctic air, were coming down across western Canada and the upper Midwest. But given the slight rise in the overall temperature in the world, rain, and not snow, was constantly the result. Already, many of the mountain watersheds suffered. The streets were icy, the air bitter cold to breathe.
They had invited Lanier to tag along, but he declined. He felt like brooding and doing it right. They acquiesced.
After they had left, and Christy had shut down the computers, Lanier dined alone. Normally, during times like these, he would put on a Nielsen symphony, or something by Manuel de Falla, perhaps
Nights in the Gardens of Spain
, for atmosphere. But he decided against that. It might be too dangerous, given his mood.
Instead, he ate in silence.
Although he was restless, he felt that he didn't have the energy to set up the projection equipment in his living room to view the movies he had of Ellie Estevan, for that was the only thing he felt like doing at the moment: retain what of her he could. He couldn't shake the image of her standing alone on the grass of that English moor inside the hemisphere.
Those eyes
. He wanted to be alone, and alone with only her.
But that was impossible, now. So much remained to haunt him. There was so much about her as a person he didn't know, and it was too late to do anything about it.
He let the films lie in their boxes. He thought he'd go ahead and drive into town and see a movie. He fingered his Syndrome immunity card—which every citizen needed now to see any movie,—and dropped it into his shirt pocket. It was a false card provided by the government to all Stalkers. It would allow him to appear like an ordinary citizen; help him move through the world like the average Syndrome-ridden individual.
The drive into the heart of Missoula took him past a movie house where they were showing one of Ellie Estevan's earlier films,
Halcyon Days
. Towns such as Missoula always got their movies and holos much later than the rest of the country. In the case of
Halcyon Days
, it was years later.
It was also one of the films that Charlie had provided him with, one which Lanier had seen at least twice already. But two theaters in Missoula were showing Ellie's films, and there was no question that he would see one of them. He decided on
Halcyon Days
.
A line had already begun to form outside of the theater. He hated lines and waiting, but at this time of the night there would be only one showing of
Halcyon Days
. He swung his truck into a side parking-lot, decided to face the waiting anyway.
Stepping out of the truck, he recalled a line from an old Gary Snyder poem that Two Moons had shown him. It described the stars above as being
tough. The tough old stars
: above him, the Milky Way flourished in the clear Montana air. There was nothing like it even when he was a kid in New Mexico. The winter constellations of Auriga the Charioteer and Taurus the Bull were climbing up the eastern horizon, and the summer constellations were slowly leaning off toward the west. So long Cygnus. Goodbye Ophiuchus. Scorpio down. Sagittarius dying. It would be December soon. The Pleiades burned anxiously in the east, heralding the oncoming cold of deep winter.
He pulled his cowboy hat down over his eyes and walked up to the tail end of the line.
In the line, waiting for tickets, were ordinary Montana folk. They were mostly logging and ranching types, with a mingling of the university crowd. Everyone, though, certainly dressed western. Lanier felt comfortable with them immediately. There was nothing pretentious about these people. It was far better here than in Los Angeles.