Chapter 6
Nathan O’Brien, his back to the night-filled window, stared at Quilliam London for a moment. The old man had just entered the top floor office in the Bu-Psych Building. “Well?”
London took his time sitting down, settled back in the chair, suddenly looked up at O’Brien with those sharp hunter’s eyes. “He’s the one, all right.”
O’Brien relaxed. “I take it you approve?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Oh?”
Silence fell between them. London turned, stared at a chart on the wall. It was the chart which had been on the table. The single red line had been moved perhaps a quarter of an inch farther along its mysterious crossing.
“The loyalty index thing?” asked O’Brien.
London nodded. “He moves too quickly. Snap decisions. He made some fool statement about not thinking out things. The right solution always comes to him. I’m afraid he may turn ruthless.”
“That makes a good revolutionary.”
“Depends on the revolution.”
O’Brien looked at the red line on the chart. “Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“I know he’s dangerous.” London leaned forward, tapped a yellowed fingernail against the table top. “Give him a taste of the power that goes with an absolute commander and he’ll be dangerous to anyone or anything that crosses him.”
“No one is proof against a bullet,” said O’Brien.
“That is exactly what I mean,” said London. “You and I are mortal.”
O’Brien’s eyes widened.
“One way thinking is dangerous,” said London. “If Movius found out any of the basic elements of our plans—say he discovered that Cecelia Lang deliberately vamped The Coor to get Movius low-opped . . .” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a sound surprisingly like that of a fap-gun.
“Who’d do his dirty work?”
“Movius is the kind to do his own dirty work.”
“The things which make him ideal for our purposes also make him extremely dangerous to us,” said O’Brien. He rubbed a greying temple, sat down across from London. “I guess we anticipated that. Nothing to do but look sharp and do away with him once he’s served his purpose.”
“Afraid so,” said London. “We wouldn’t dare let him assume control of the government. I’ll alert the others. Any one of us may be called upon to put him out of the way.”
“It would be criminal to see our groundwork wasted,” said O’Brien. “I presume Grace got across to him the great mystery of it all.”
London leaned back in his chair, tipped his head down. “I’m not certain that was such a good idea. Grace was followed, had to lead them clear out of Lascadou before she could shake them.”
“Movius does have the idea he’s an important figure, though?” asked O’Brien.
“As far as I can see, he has always had that idea.”
O’Brien shook his head. “The reports would indicate that he has not been extremely ego-conscious. This business of leading him through the tunnels, mysterious organization, the sudden attention, all of these things are designed to . . .”
“That’s another thing,” said London. “Navvy and Movius almost got knocked off on the way in tonight. Someone spotted Movius with Clancy and they blanketed the Richmond and Riverside Warrenates. They tortured the information out of Clancy, but he didn’t know much.”
“What happened?” asked O’Brien.
“Three of The Coor’s hoods picked them up coming out of a sewer service dome. Navvy said Movius is an unexpectedly deadly man in a fight or they’d have been done for. Navvy could hardly get Movius away. He stopped and took a shot at Addington.”
“Addington? What was he doing . . .”
“After they picked up Clancy, Addington came down to supervise the . . . uh, interrogation himself. Clancy only knew Navvy and Movius were meeting two of our men near that service dome.”
“I presume they dropped Clancy in the river?”
“Yes.”
O’Brien pulled a stylus from his pocket, scratched the palm of his hand with it. “We’re pretty ruthless and callous ourselves, Quilliam.”
“In a good cause.”
“And we are the judges of how much worth our cause has,” said O’Brien. He put the stylus back in his pocket, looked up at the other chart on the wall, his eyes traveling down over the multi-colored lines. “We’re going to have a bad time. Crisis is near. Maybe two months, maybe less.”
“About the time of The Coor’s Fall poll,” said London.
“Anything else on your mind, Quilliam? It’s been a long day.”
London rested his bony elbows on the table. “Guarding Movius when he goes out to answer the Bu-Trans work order.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” said O’Brien. “The Bu-Trans starting clerk is a man named Bailey. He has a sister who . . .”