“When I think of my sister sitting at home with those three children and that wishywashy husband of hers, I could laugh in her face.”
“You know, a friend of mine was studying the old dialects and there used to be a word for just what we are. There used to be women like us, and you know what they called them? Tramp followers.”
They forgathered at the appointed meeting place—Garrett and Maureen and Uranov and the other one of “us,” a dark intense young man named Loewe.
“It’s astounding,” the epic writer exclaimed. “There hasn’t been anything like it since the twentieth century. And for a true analogy you’ve got to go back further than that—the European wars of the seventeenth, or even back to the Roman legions. This dome that’s supposed to house a location company is an armed camp of mercenaries, ready to let loose rapine and destruction upon the world.”
“They’re mad,” Maureen protested. “They can do infinite harm for a little while, but what can this handful hope to accomplish in the long run?”
It was Garrett who answered. “You know from the old medical records what syphilis could do to an uncontaminated population, with no resistance to it? This scourge can act the same way. How much they’ll gain for themselves is doubtful, but they’ll spread the poison of hatred and killing. The world has almost forgotten that; but the memory will come back quickly enough.”
“And still you know—” Maureen sounded ashamed of her own statement. “These people— I know they’re terrible. But somehow they’ve come alive. There’s something in their eyes, even if the sight of it terrifies you—”
Uranov laughed. “Still dreaming of the vigor of the olden days, Maureen? Well, we’ve space enough for vigor now. We’ve got to learn what their plans are specifically and circumvent them—very specifically. And first— But where’s Wojcek? He ought to be here by now.”
Loewe spoke. “I was with him. One of these . . . these killers had worked in the lab once. He recognized him in spite of the body tint and the wig. He got suspicious. They took him away. I don’t think we’ll see him again.”
Garrett swore. Maureen gave a little stifled choking noise. Uranov said coldly, “That’s a score to settle.”
Garrett shook his head. “We can’t talk of settling scores now. Private revenge—that belongs to their way of thought. We’re working to frustrate this movement, and then comes our real job: to see to it that the peace never again breeds such a movement.”
“But how?” Loewe protested. “Short of annihilating this entire camp. We’re far too few to do that, and even if we could—”
“No. These men aren’t lost to mankind. Remember they’ve grown up in a world conditioned to the ideals of Devarupa. They’re revolting against those ideals now because they’re under the domination of a strong leader who appeals to the worst in them; but that condition is still there, if we reawaken the ideals.”
“But how?”
“One problem at a time. First to our current job: Did any of you find a way into S.B.’s quarters?”
Each answered in turn, but their answers amounted only to what Garrett had learned himself: that the sanctum sanctorum of the chief’s high command was tightly, impenetrably guarded.
“And you didn’t gather anything of what his first move is to be?”
“The men don’t know, and they don’t care. It’s enough for them that a strong man is going to guide them to loot and slaughter and vivid excitement. They’ll take what comes when he gives the orders.”
“It all boils down to that, doesn’t it? One strong man. If we can get at him, if we can weaken him in any way—”
“Such,” Uranov suggested, “as killing him.”
“There are other weapons that will not so surely turn against us. Maureen, what did you find out about Astra’s quarters?”
“They adjoin S.B.’s, of course. That’s only practical. She has a dozen ladies in waiting or harem slaves or whatever you want to call them; it’s easy enough for a woman to slip in there. But the way through to S.B.’s is through her boudoir; you couldn’t make it without—”
“—Without her help. Exactly. And that, my dear children, is what we are now going to obtain. Listen—”
“—And you never know what’s going to happen to you next,” said the woman who had learned she was a tramp follower. “Like last night, there I was walking along not bothering anyone unless, like Joe always tells me, I bother people just by walking along, only you can’t believe a word Joe says, that Moon pilot, and all of a sudden this big hunky man appears out of nowhere and—”
She let out a little scream. She had not expected her narrative to be so appositely illustrated. This time there were three men, one for each of her friends, too. She held her breath and reminded herself that it was about time for her to be vaccinated again and she certainly mustn’t forget, or else—”
When she let out her breath again it was in a sigh of anguish. “Of all the—To strip off your clothes and then . . . and then just take the clothes and vanish—” In dazed frustration, she clothed herself with the male garments which Gan Garrett had left behind.
The three female-clad figures followed Maureen unnoticed into Astra Ardless’ apartment. Her ladies in waiting lolled about in provocative boredom, ob-viously longing for the coeducational life outside. Garrett looked at them, and began to understand why certain prerequisites were demanded of a male harem attendant. Maureen coolly walked on into the boudoir, and the three followed her.
Astra Ardless sat alone at her dressing table. Her face was in its natural state while she surveyed the array of cosmetics before her. Seen thus, it was a sad face, a lonely face, an old face, and in an odd way, a more beautiful face than she had ever displayed on the beams.
Maureen approached her. “Madame
