'You could,' he allowed.
'The President is very concerned, Ottokar,' said Russell. 'He would like you to take a look at these trade figures…'
The Treasury man held out his papers, and spread them on the table in front of Dr Proctor. The chained man ignored them. He was enjoying this, Duroc knew.
At his trial, Dr Proctor had admitted that he had deliberately encouraged the North administration to follow near-suicidal economic policies in order to foster an increase of chaos in the world. When asked about his motivation, he had referred them to Jungian theory. 'Our collective unconscious is becoming too ordered,' he had claimed, 'someone had to do something to bring back the element of surprise.' Now, the government kept having to crawl to a convicted mass murderer to ask him to help them sort out the spaghetti tangle of figures he had left behind him.
Dr Proctor raised an eyebrow as he casually glanced at Russell's documents. 'Tut tut tut. Those tax rebates aren't working out at all, are they? Silly me. I should have seen that loophole all the Japcorps are squirrelling through, shouldn't I? You know, national economies mean less than corporate systems these days. I might devote a monograph to the subject. Take the case of the growing conflict between GenTech East and the Soviet Union, for instance. Logically, their trade war could develop into a shooting match, and then where would we be? You should have the CIA keep a close watch on this Blood Banner Society. Nationalism and commerce make a nasty team.'
'Ottokar, the President has personally asked me to convey to you his best wishes, and authorized me to offer to you any liberties up to but not including freedom from this institution if you'll only agree to work in an advisory capacity for a six-month period, just until the budget has passed.'
'I'm truly sorry, Julian, but I'm not interested.'
'We'll let you accept ZeeBeeCee's offer of another TV series. You can host the talk show.'
'TV. It's just a toy. Close down all the television stations in the United States. Now, there's some sound economic advice for you. Cut out the admass, and decrease useless consumption. Cut out the lifebite, and throw people back on their own devices. Your friends in Deseret have the right idea, M. Duroc, bring back the pioneer spirit. When it was just a question of a man, a rifle and a horse against the savage Indians.'
'This is getting us nowhere,' said Wicking. 'As usual. He's freaked the country, and now he's sitting back and surveying the mess.'
'I really think we're close to a breakthrough,' said Russell.
'You work out of New York, Francis. What's playing at the Met. Did you see Sir Oswald Osbourne in
Wicking threw up his hands, and slumped in his seat. His jacket opened, and Duroc saw he was carrying a discreet gun. Dr Proctor saw it, too.
Time passed, and everyone in the room looked at each other.
Finally, Dr Proctor broke the deadlock. 'M. Duroc, talk to me. Tell me what you can offer. Tell me about Jessamyn Bonney and the Josephites.'
Duroc was impressed. The man might be as crazy as a backstreet Bonaparte, but he was sharp, and he had sources of information nobody knew about. He hadn't tested ESP-positive in his medicals, but there were ways round the examination.
'Well?'
Duroc drew in a breath. 'Dr Proctor, I do not represent the government. Unlike Mr Wicking and Mr Russell, I have no legal authority here. I am not even an American citizen. I am French by birth, but my current passport lists me as a resident of Deseret—you know what that means?'
'Oh yes, an interesting geopolitical experiment, Deseret. Oliver should never have gone along with it. A bad precedent. Within seven years, Missouri, Arkansas and Kentucky will petition for secession from the Union. And perhaps Tennessee. You heard it here first. It will come. Oliver should send reinforcements to Fort Sumter. I'm sorry. I digress. Academic footnotes, it's a bad habit.'
'That's quite all right. The Church of Joseph would like to employ you as a consultant in the case of Jessamyn Bonney. You know her?'
'I know of her. We haven't moved in the same circles.'
Duroc brought out his file. It had been amended a little since the death of Bronson Manolo.
'This is ridiculous,' Dr Proctor said. 'Please may I have a hand? The left will do.'
Wicking chewed his lip, and signalled to the sergeant. Gilhooly drew his pistol, and held it to Dr Proctor's head while he fussed with his keyring. A manacle fell, and Dr Proctor waved his hand about to get rid of an ache.
'One move, Otto…' Gilhooly stood behind the man in the chair, his gun cocked and pointed at Dr Proctor's pineal gland. 'I'd like it, you know.'
Dr Proctor leafed through the Jessamyn Bonney data.
'Hmmn. Interesting girl. What's her score?'
'Nowhere near, Ottokar,' said Wicking. 'You don't have to worry about the record. Yet.'
'Don't be vulgar, Francis. It's not a game, you know. It's not basketball.'
'What is it then? All the killing?'
'It's an Art. It's the authentic American Folk Art.'
The Tasmanian Devil looked up from the file. 'Well, M. Duroc?'
Duroc put his hands on the table. 'We would like Jessamyn Bonney dead.'
'That shouldn't make you happy, but certainly won't make you lonely.'
Russell said, 'Roger, I don't see where this is leading us. Your people didn't say anything about…'
Duroc raised his hand. 'Silence.' Russell's jaw dropped. 'Thank you. Dr Proctor, we are prepared to offer you more than the deal presented by the United States of America. You have been convicted by no court recognized in Deseret. You could be awarded citizenship.'
Wicking was furious. 'This is freakin' insane.'
'Shush, Francis,' said Dr Proctor. 'I'm interested.'
'You could be granted political asylum in Salt Lake City.'
'I'd rather stay here. No, just kidding.'
Gilhooly was confused. The sergeant's brain wasn't up to this. Good, that gave Duroc a better than 80% chance of success. The other officer, Bean, was picking his nose and scratching his belly.
'All you have to do is kill one girl. After so many, that shouldn't be difficult.'
Wicking got up. 'I'm ending this meeting now. I had no idea when the President's office authorized your presence that you would be taking such an extreme stance. Mr Duroc, I shall be reporting in full…'
Duroc pulled the ivory throwing star—invisible to the asylum's metal detector—and flicked it across the room.
Gilhooly's throat opened in a cloud of blood. Dr Proctor's hand was behind him in an instant, catching the falling pistol.
Wicking nearly got his gun out, but not quite.
The shot rang loudly in the room. Wicking took his chair with him as he tumbled backwards.
Duroc was on the other side of the room now, his hand over Bean's mouth, pinching the guard's nostrils. He struggled, and died.
'Don't worry, M. Duroc. Everything in this place is soundproofed. Too many screams in the night.'
Russell was speechless, trembling. Duroc had scooped up Gilhooly's keys, and was methodically stripping Dr Proctor of his chains.
Gilhooly twitched on the floor, still bleeding. Dr Proctor was free now. He stretched his arms and stamped around. He passed the gun to Duroc, who turned it on Russell. The Treasury man put his hands up.
Dr Proctor knelt by the sergeant, and took hold of the throwing star lodged in his windpipe.
'I told you,' he said, twisting, 'not to call me Otto.'
The star scraped bone. Gilhooly gurgled, and stopped kicking. Dr Proctor stood up, and smiled at the Treasury Man.
'Ottokar,' said Russell, 'we have a relationship…'
'That's right, Julian. A very close relationship. None closer.'
The Tasmanian Devil looked around for something. He saw the coffee things, and picked a teaspoon out of the
