Frederik Pohl - The Coming of the Quantum Cats

"Because if Ron takes an interest in you, he can help you a lot. You got any other offers?"

He shrugged morosely.

I left it at that. I hadn't told him that the other reason nobody minded Ron being a little lefty in his politics was that nobody minded a pinko who was all talk and no action. And that was Ron.

But I wasn't ready for Dominic DeSota to find that out yet.

"This," said Ron gallantly, "is my dear wife, Janie."

"Charmed," she said, when DeSota and I had told her how glad we were to meet her, and then she and Ron led the way into the dining room. It wasn't big. A room that can seat maybe twenty people is big. This one could have served as mess hall for the Grand Army of the Republic. It was huge. And around us the music swelled.

I called across the table to Dominic, "You like the sound?" He was turning his head this way and that, the way people do when they haven't heard stereo before. "It's a new system," I explained. "Just listen to that sound! Hear how the violin sounds like it's on one side of you and the rest of the orchestra on the other? Ron's had this stuff for over a year now."

"It'll be on the market for everybody before long," Ron said modestly. "The only thing is that they don't make very many stereo records yet—and most of them more Janie's kind of music than mine." He grinned uxoriously down the long table to his wife, at the far end. She signaled yet another of the young black men to begin serving the salad before she picked up the conversational ball.

"I suspect Mr. DeSota likes the same sort of music I do," she offered sweetly. "Isn't that true, Mr. DeSota? You're obviously enjoying the Beethoven violin concerto."

But Dominic wasn't playing their game. "Is that what it is?" he demanded. "Actually, I was thinking it's the same piece Chief Agent Christophe was playing while she was questioning me."

Ron dropped his salad fork. "Nyla Christophe! You didn't say Nyla Christophe was involved here, Larry!"

"I guess I should have," I said, all open-faced and contrite. "Does it make a difference?"

"A difference! Jesus—I mean, gosh, Larry, of course it does!"

"She can't do you any harm any more," his wife called down the table.

"That's not what I'm worried about! I'd like to do her some! Nyla Chnstophe," he said, turning back to Dominic, "is one of the worst agents in the FBI. Did you notice she doesn't have any thumbs?"

"You bet," said Dominic. "I wondered how come a—"

"I'll tell you how come," Ron said. "Shoplifting! Then dope! She had three convictions before she was twenty-one years old—the third time meant loss of thumbs, and that's what she got. She was a music student up till then, but she got hooked on that killer weed and had to steal to support her habit!"

"And she got into the FBI?" Dominic demanded, pop-eyed with either wonder or indignation.

"She got religion," Ron roared. "She went to the local office before the bandages were off her thumb. Said she'd been born again, and she wanted to turn in every marijuana dealer and fence she knew in Chicago—and, believe me, she knew plenty of them! They kept her busy fingering and testifying for a year, then the old bureau chief, Federman, he got a special waiver for her to go on salary to infiltrate a bunch of union organizers in Dallas. They got fifteen convictions there, and Nyla was on her way!"

"In a way, Ron," I offered, "it's pretty impressive that somebody like her should make it to chief agent."

"Because she's a felon? Gosh, Larry! Where do you think they get most of their recruits?"

"No, I mean because she's a woman," I said.

"Yeah," muttered Ron. "Well—" He was in a bind there, I knew, because Janie was all for "women's rights," whatever she meant by that. "Well," he said, "the thing is, whatever else she is, what she is now is part and parcel of that whole reactionary gang that's running the FBI. The same ones that framed me, years ago! The ones that're hand-in-glove with the Arabs and that whole fundamentalist bunch in Congress that—"

Dominic interrupted him then. I could have punched Dominic out for doing it, because Ron was just getting to something I really wanted to hear, but Dominic couldn't wait. "Just what I say!" he cried. "Ever since the Arabs and the Moral Might got together they've been turning the clock back! Why, do you know, at my local swimming pool they let the state police come in and raid? Any man who's caught without the top to his bathing suit can get a five-dollar fine!"

Ron darted a humorous glance at his wife. "Should've seen us a few years back in Hollywood, eh, Janie? Men and women topless sometimes—and sometimes a lot more than topless."

"Now, Ron," she said, blushing. "Let's just try to concentrate on Mr. DeSota's problem."

I said gratefully, "Thank you." Then I turned to Ron and put the question: "What do you think, Ron? I know this is a serious matter, even if a principle is involved. I don't want you to take any risks—"

Ron looked noble. "It's a serious matter," he declaimed, "and a principle is involved. I'll help you, Dominic."

"You will?" cried DeSota.

"Of course," said Ron benignly. "First thing, I'll write a letter to The New York Times. Then, let's see, what do you think, Janie? Shall we try to get a demonstration going? Get some of your friends to march in front of the FBI headquarters in Chicago?"

"If you like, Ron," she said, "although some of them are on peace bonds now. I don't know if they'll want to go to jail."

Dominic looked doubtful. "I don't know if I want anybody to go to jail for me," he said.

"Urn," reflected Ron. "Then how about this? Get up a petition? Dominic can take a card table and a folding chair down to the Loop somewhere and get people to sign a demand that the FBI, uh, that they—What exactly do you want them to do?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know exactly," said Dominic. "I mean, I'm not charged with anything."

"But they interrogated you! Beat you brutally!"

"Yes, sure, but you can't blame them altogether. They did have those pictures and fingerprints."

This man was being entirely too reasonable for my taste—or for Ron's. "You're sticking up for them," said Ron. "Shows fair-mindedness. That's good—but don't carry it to any foolish extreme! They're still fascists."

Now, that was more like it. I cleared my throat. "When you say 'fascists,' Ron," I said, "you mean—"

"I mean that the FBI has turned itself into an exact copy of the Gestapo or the KGB," he declared.

"You're against them, then?"

He cocked an eyebrow at me. "Ah, Larry," he said, helping himself to the roast lamb, "I'm not just against them, I think it is every American's duty to resist them."

"You mean with demonstrations and petitions," I pressed.

"If those are enough, yes," he said bravely. "If not, then with whatever measures are necessary. I think—"

But Janie didn't want him to say what he thought. "Ron, dear," she scolded fondly, "you're keeping Seth from passing the potatoes. Why don't you take some and let him move on?"

"Of course, my love," said Ron, and the subject was changed. It didn't matter. I was content. As soon as we'd got through the main course I discovered that it was past eleven o'clock, and began organizing DeSota for the return trip.

"Oh, no, Ron, no dessert. No, not even coffee, thanks. Dominic here has to work in the morning, you know. Yes, the dinner was lovely, and thank you! And thanks for your help, Ron . . . and if you'll just get my car out . .

"You haven't forgotten anything?" asked Jane hospitably, looking around for hats or briefcases.

I shook my head. "I've got everything I need," I assured her, and it was the absolute truth.

I dropped DeSota at an interurban station. He squawked resentment, because they only ran every hour or so at that time, but, as I pointed out to him, it was getting late and I couldn't be expected to give the whole night to saving his dumb ass. It was nearly two when I got to the compound on Lake Shore Drive. I left my car in the underground garage, flashed my pass to the guard, and got in the elevator. I was thinking about Ron. Poor old guy! Just out of touch with the modern currents of politics in America. He had some crazy, sentimental notion about Franklin D. Roosevelt or somebody—I don't know—anyway, he simply didn't understand what was going on.