Mrs. Jamieson was furious. “And you believed him?”
“I don’t know. I just know what he said—and that he let me go without trying to shoot me.”
Mrs. Jamieson stopped on her way out of the room and laid a hand on his arm. “Your father would have been proud of you,” she said. “Soon you will learn the truth about the Agents.”
Beyond the closed door, out of sight of her son, Mrs. Jamieson gave rein to the excitement that ran through her. He had wanted the names! He didn’t know why—not yet—but he would. “He’ll do it yet!” she whispered to the flowered wallpaper. She didn’t care that no one heard her.
She didn’t know where the men were now, those who had killed her husband. They could be anywhere. Agents moved from post to post; in ten years they might be scattered all over Earth. In the killing of Konvs, some cylinders might even be taken by Agents—and used by them, for the power and freedom the cylinders gave must be coveted even by them. And they were in the best position to gain them. She was consumed by fear that one or more of the men on Earl’s list might have acquired a cylinder and were now Konvs themselves.
Two weeks later she read a news item saying that Tom Palieu had been killed by a Konv. The assassin’s identity was unknown, but agents were working on the case.
She knew. She had found a gun in Earl’s desk.
She took the paper into Earl’s room. “Did you do this?”
He turned away from her. “It doesn’t matter whether I did or not. They will suspect me. His name was on the list.”
“They will,” she agreed. “It doesn’t matter who the Konv is, now that an Agent has been killed. The one in Bangkok will tell them about you and the list of names, and it’s all they need.”
“Well, what else can he do?” Earl asked. “After all, he is an Agent. If one of them is killed, he will have to tell what he knows.”
“You’re defending him? Why?” she cried. “Tell me why!”
He removed her hand from his arm. Her nails were digging into his flesh. “I don’t know why. Mother, I’m sorry, but Agents are just people to me. I can’t hate them the way you do.”
Mrs. Jamieson’s face colored, then drained white.
Suddenly, with a wide, furious sweep of her hand, she slapped his face. So much strength and rage was in her arm that the blow almost sent him spinning. They faced each other, she breathing hard from the exertion, Earl stunned immobile—not by the blow, but from the knowledge that she could hate so suddenly, viciously.
She controlled herself. “We must find a way to leave here,” she said, calmly.
“They won’t find us.”
“Oh, yes they will,” she said. “Don’t underestimate them. Agents are picked from the most intelligent people on Earth. It will be a small job for them. Don’t forget they know who you are. Even if you hadn’t been so stupid as to tell them, they’d know. They knew my pattern from the time your father was alive. They got yours when we were together years ago, teasing them. They linked your pattern with mine. They know that your father and I had a son. Your birth was recorded. The only difficult aspect of their job now is to find where you live, and it won’t be impossible. They will drive their cars through every city on Earth with those new detectors, until they pick up your pattern or mine. I’m afraid it’s time to leave Earth.”
Earl sat down suddenly, “It’s just as well. I thought maybe some day I might hate them too, or learn to like them. But I can do neither, so I am halfway between, and no man can live this way.”
She did not answer him. Finally he said, “It doesn’t make sense to you, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t. This is not the time for such discussions, anyway. The Agents have their machines working at top speed, while we sit here and talk.”
Suddenly they were not alone.
No sound was generated by the man’s coming. One instant they were talking alone, the next he was here. Earl saw him first. He was a middle-aged man whose hair was completely white. He stood near the desk, easily, as if standing there were the most natural way to relax. He was entirely nude ... but it seemed natural and right.
Then Mrs. Jamieson saw him.
“Benjamin!” she cried. “I knew someone would come.”
He smiled. “This is your son?”
“Yes,” she said. “We are ready.”
“I remember when you were born,” he said, and smiled in reminiscence. “Your father was afraid you would be twins.”
Earl said, “Why was my father killed?”
“By mistake. Back in those days, like now, there were good Konvs and bad. One of those not selected by Stinson to join us was enraged, half crazy with envy. He killed two women there in Bangkok. The Agents thought Jamieson—I mean, your father—did it. Jamieson was the greatest man among us. It was he who first conceived the theory that there was a basic, underlying law in the operation of the cylinders. Even now, no one knows how the idea of love ties in with the Stinson Effect; but we do know that hate and greed as motivating forces can greatly minimize the cylinders’ power. That is why the undesirables with cylinders have never reached Centaurus.”
Heavy steps sounded on the porch outside.
“We’d better hurry,” Mrs. Jamieson said.
Benjamin held out his hands. They took them, to increase the power of the cylinders. As the Agents pounded on the door, Mrs. Jamieson flicked one thought of hatred at them, but of course they did not hear her. Benjamin’s hands gripped tightly.
Mrs. Jamieson slowly opened her eyes....
She no longer felt the hands. She was still in the room! Benjamin and her son were gone. Her outstretched hands touched nothing.
Her power was gone!
The Agents stepped into the room over the broken door. She stared at them, then ran to Earl’s desk, fumbling for the gun.
The Agents’ guns rattled.
Love, Benjamin said, the greatest of these is love. Or did someone else say that? Someone, somewhere, perhaps in another time, in some misty, forgotten chip of time long gone, in another frame of reference perhaps....
Mrs. Jamieson could not remember, before she died.
A Fall of Glass, by Stanley Lee
The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously.
It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, the humidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball in a cloudless blue sky.
His pockets were picked eleven times.
It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was a masterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was Humphrey Fownes’ abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. He was strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses, one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions. But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject to begin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking so deeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too many people were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum Dome Conditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a bogus postman, who pretended to be reading