Oberheim (Voices) Part 5

"I'm going to try to kill him, because I know something must be done.

But it's not in my nature to be vindictive. I'll be as pa.s.sive and yielding as I can, and then just do it."

Morgan took a deep breath. "You know there's the danger of being found out, or of being killed afterwards?"

"Yes. And I'm not just saying that."

... "Well. I admire your courage. And I'll do everything I can to protect you." He took a long, slow draught from the cup. "One thing, anyway. I won't have to be a part of their cancer anymore. I won't have to keep silent." He lowered his head in exhaustion. "Have you got anything stronger?"

"Yes. Lawrence kept some whiskey." She rose to get it.

They talked together far into the night. Then he said goodbye, and made his way stealthily back to the high-security apartment complex, and by a way known only to himself, entered the wide bedroom. The next night he returned with a dental surgeon, who implanted a small capsule filled with poison onto the bottom of her tongue, and sharpened to a cutting edge the canine tooth on the corresponding side of her mouth.

They made arrangements for the boy, and set a tentative date for five days hence. That day, at least, she would come and live with him.

The flat was wide and s.p.a.cious, divided into three sections. Coming through the front door, one entered the large living area, the room itself recessed to the right a foot lower than the polished hardwood walk-in. Deeply carpeted, it was furnished with long, pillowy couches and stiff upright chairs. Low tables of stainless steel and gla.s.s were spread among them. The in-wall, farthest from the walkway, consisted of a broad Earthstone hearth (a luxury), and was crowned above the mantle by a photograph of the First Minister, awarding the Medal of Valor to a tall, stern-faced soldier. A barrage of terraced and hanging plants surrounded the slanting, beamed windows of the western wall. Its opposing face was a wall-size entertainment screen, now projecting a tropical rainforest with a high, flowing waterfall in the background.

The bedroom opened off the walkway to the left, behind a thick double door of oak. The kitchen was straight ahead, and by a further pa.s.sage, the workroom or den.

Elonna sat beside him on one of the couches, its deep-cus.h.i.+oned comfort belying the approaching danger. She moved closer, and quite unconsciously, put her head against his neck. Morgan put his arm around her and stared at nothing. She was clothed in mistress fas.h.i.+on, a long dress of sunburst silk and mesh.

"When will they be here, Morgan?"

"Soon, I think. Try not to worry."

"May I have another drink?"

"Sure." He started to rise.

"No, nevermind. Don't get up. I'll be all right; just don't get up."

He drew her closer, warmed her shoulder with his hands.

"Remember," he said, "don't worry about looking scared. You play the part of a refugee among enemies, saving yourself by being my mistress.

Your natural reactions, whatever they are, will be all right."

"Well I'm glad of that. Oh Morgan, I wish it was over."

"So do I..... Oh, also. Don't be alarmed if he speaks of your past or your family. He'll have found all that out ahead of time."

"I'm scared."

A warning light lit above the doorway.

"They're in the building."

"How many?" she asked, fighting back a surge of fear.

"I don't know. I'll try to find out." He got up and went to an intercom by the door, moved his hand across it. "Lieutenant. How many have we got tonight?"

"Six, Undersecretary."

"Thank you, Walthrop." He switched it off. "Six."

"Why so many?"

"Probably to check the rooms. I don't think they'll stay." Several seconds later the door tone sounded. He turned to Elonna. "You okay?"

She took a deep breath. He opened the door.

The Secretary entered, preceded by his two bodyguards. Two uniformed soldiers followed. Morgan addressed them sternly. Another soldier remained in the hallway.

"So this is the little lovely," said Hunter civilly, nodding towards her. He gave his long officer's coat to Morgan, and the two uniformed men began to sweep the room with hand-held detectors. Her eyes drawn to him by some morbid curiosity, Elonna studied the Secretary.

In his late forties or early fifties, he was a man of average height, blonde-gray and gaunt, still retaining a taut musculature that showed itself in the square shoulders and stiffly upright posture. He had a lean, hard face with prominent cheekbones and brow. But what held her attention most---Morgan opened a bedroom door for one of the soldiers---were his eyes. Steel gray and cold, they looked out restless and insatiable. And though they did not flit, as with lesser men, they nonetheless seemed unable to rest their gaze on anything for more than a short time, as if never satisfied with what they saw, angry and bitter because of it. But when they returned again to her, she knew it would be very hard. He followed the silk dress up the long length of her body, and into her eyes. Here was something he wanted.

But even as she looked away, she felt a new determination growing out of her despair. And though for a moment she had seen him with woman's eyes, sensing the underlying weakness and need, she felt no pity for him. His self-malignation and inner violence had cost thousands of lives already. If it were at all within her power, they would cost no more.

It was at this same time that she decided upon a strategy. Morgan's plan had been to lie and act as little as possible, and to decide at the time which of three contingent courses to adopt. In this way he hoped to avoid unnecessary risk. She glanced over at him quickly, looking broken and hurt, and both understood: she had been told of this ahead of time, and though no longer shocked or capable of much fear, she felt shamefully and bitterly betrayed. She sat down again dejectedly and hung her head, without having said a word. Then let a single tear trickle down her cheek, and wiped it away.

Had they known it, this was probably the best course they could have adopted. This was not what he wanted---a broken and dispirited prisoner. He wanted something still alive, desiring freedom and capable of struggle. At once he called the soldiers to him.

"That is all. Leave the one at the door and get below."

"He has a rifle in the study," said one.

"I know that as well as you. You have your orders."

They touched their chests with a closed right fist and were gone. He seated his guards in two chairs placed on either side of the bedroom doors.

"I would like a drink, Morgan. Bring one for yourself, and for the lady. Whatever she likes." When he had left the room, Hunter moved to sit in a high-backed chair across from her. She looked up at him, puzzled.

"Please, you must not be afraid of me. Your master is a hard man because he has to be. We are not ogres." It was suddenly important to him that Morgan had never had her. "No one is going to hurt you.

Please, won't you trust me?" She said nothing, continued looking down.

The tall man began to re-enter the room, but Hunter waved him off.

"Has Morgan been treating you well?"

"Yes, very well." There were almost tears in her eyes. "But I thought I was going to be his. I've been good."

"Of course you have." Now he let Morgan enter. On his tray were three drinks in narrow gla.s.ses. He gave one to the Secretary, who drew out a long stick (for sensing poison) and submerged it in the gla.s.s. He gave another to Elonna and took the third for himself, sitting in a chair at a small distance to one side.

"Please, drink up," said Hunter. "To your health, Elonna." She made the toast halfheartedly. "Let's have some music, Morgan. Do you have a Beethoven program?"

"Of course." He rose to put it on.

"You like Beethoven, don't you?" She nodded.

And so the time pa.s.sed, with music, small talk and drinks. At intervals the Secretary asked simple questions about her health, promised she could stay here with Morgan, even hinted that the purges, ghastly but imperative, were now over, and that if she had any friends or relatives still in hiding, perhaps they could be given safe conduct off the planet.