The Chromosomal Code, page 18
More or less by accident, Kathy tuned in a newscast, and Starkman heard his name mentioned. He was suddenly interested.
“. . .failure to apprehend this dangerous fugitive, the Governor has decided to provide additional incentive. Any person providing information leading to the capture of John Starkman, alive and uninjured, will receive a reward of one million units in cash. In the event of multiple reports, duplicate rewards will be given to all parties involved.”
Kathy turned and stared at Starkman. “Mother? That's a lot of money, isn't it?”
“Yes, it is,” Jenny answered. “But it's probably a lie again, like when they said he was sick. Besides, Mr. Starkman is our friend, and also, if he's captured they may kill all of us.”
“I know, but what if somebody saw him come here?”
“We'll just have to hope that no one did.”
Kathy nodded, and changed the channel as the announcer repeated Starkman's description.
They finally settled on watching an old detective movie, but missed the title. The children required endless explanations of how things had worked before the cold came. They did not know what a detective was, or for that matter any policemen, and had a great deal of trouble in thinking of anyone who worked for the government as a “good guy“; Jenny explained to Starkman that there had been a series of dictators in their area before the cold got impossible, and although the last was gone before Charlie had been born, she and her husband had consistently spoken ill of governments as a result.
When the movie had ended, and Jenny had explained what a prison was and that policemen didn't just kill murderers, the children were put to bed while Starkman flicked through a few of the video channels on his own. The offer of a reward was repeated, and the stricture against sunglasses; his description was given on no less than four of the hundred-odd channels as he rushed through. One had a bad composite sketch of him as he had appeared before changing clothes and trimming his hair and beard.
In the background he was aware of the children marveling at water that didn't have to be pumped or heated, and toothpaste that didn't have to be thawed out. “It's all warm and gooey!” Charlie exclaimed at one point.
Finally both were tucked away behind closed doors, and Jenny returned to the living room.
“Where do I sleep?” Starkman asked quietly. “Here?” He gestured at the couch he sat on.
“Not unless you want to.”
“Where, then?”
“It's been a year since my husband died, John.”
“I've been alone for a decade; I'd gotten used to it.” He stood and reached out uncertainly. “That doesn't mean I want to be alone any longer.”
“You don't have to be.” She moved forward into his arms. He kissed her awkwardly, then she led the way into her bedroom.
Chapter Twelve
Starkman awoke the next morning with a feeling of unreality; the warmth of a woman's body in the bed beside him seemed more like one of his better dreams than like the waking world.
The night before had not been a complete success; he had never had much experience with women, and had been alone for ten years, so he had been somewhat clumsy and inept. Still, he looked back on it with pleasure. Though he had not wanted to leave Pennsylvania, and was certainly not enjoying his current status as a fugitive, there were definitely redeeming features to his return to human society.
Trying not to wake Jenny, he slid out of the bed and found his clothes. He had a very limited wardrobe; he had not wanted to weigh himself down while traveling, but had planned on buying more once he had found himself a place to stay. He had underestimated the intensity of the search for him, however, and now he did not dare step outside the apartment. That left him with one pair of slacks and two shirts given him by the Watchman, and his own sunglasses, boots, socks, and underwear. Having little choice, therefore, he put back on everything he had worn the day before except for the lavender shirt. His second shirt was pistachio green, a color that did not appeal to him; he marveled briefly at the aberrations of fashion.
Dressed, he wandered into the kitchen area of the main room and began looking through cupboards for something suitable for breakfast.
There wasn't much; the Saslovs had been living there less than a day, hardly long enough to accumulate much of a stock. He found a frying pan and half a dozen eggs, and fried himself two.
As he slid them onto a plate Charlie appeared in the doorway, and a third egg went into the pan. Kathy turned up a few seconds later and got the fourth. The last two went back into the refrigerator, as Jenny showed no signs of stirring.
The kids were generally quiet, but Charlie did ask whether Starkman would be staying with them forever.
“I don't know,” he replied. “I don't think so.”
When the frying pan had been rinsed out and put in the dishwasher – a convenience Kathy pointed out; Starkman would not have noticed its presence himself – he settled on a couch and turned on the video, tuned to one of the independent all-news, image-and-voice channels.
He caught the tail end of a story about one of the domed cities up north, and listened with real interest to an announcement concerning the four captured revolutionaries who had shot it out with government troops the night before last. The Governor had decided to drop all charges and pardon them, since no one had been seriously hurt.
Starkman wondered at that; why were there only four? Who had gotten away, or else who was the government secretly holding? How could the government claim that no one had been hurt, when the television reports he had seen live on the spot showed several clones lying in pools of blood? Did the government not consider clones to be worth worrying about?
The announcer on this particular station had obviously asked himself that last question or two. He spoke over a videotape of the firefight, showing close-ups of “Imperials” looking very much like corpses, asking aloud what the Governor considered serious injury.
Letters appeared on the screen, reading, “The government has not approved of this report, and does not consider it accurate or in the public interest.”
The announcer finished his remarks, and continued, “Today's editorial involves a related story; the government is still searching for the missing man calling himself John Starkman, who was believed to be involved in this recent shooting incident in Capital. This man is reportedly infected with a mutated flu virus, and extremely dangerous, yet has somehow eluded capture, and no other cases of the disease have been reported. In its continuing effort to locate him, the government has now banned all intercontinental travel, and all intercity travel in South America. A reward of one million units has been offered for information leading to his apprehension, and restrictions on sunglasses and concealing garments have been imposed worldwide. House-to-house searches are now under way in Capital, Rio de Janeiro, Brasilia, and New Denver. It is the editorial opinion of this station that the government is overreacting to a possible threat to the public health; the measures taken seriously interfere with the rights of many millions of innocent citizens. The representatives of the Galactic Empire have heretofore carefully respected human rights; why has what should have been a minor incident been blown all out of proportion? Can all this fuss really be about one sick man, who has not yet infected a single other person? We call on the Governor, and whatever officials have introduced these draconian measures, to reconsider their actions before they seriously alienate their constituents, and thereby hamper their future efforts on behalf of the world's people.”
Starkman turned off the set.
He had not realized that a house-by-house search was being made; that would almost certainly locate him before very much longer.
It was obvious that he was not going to be permitted to hide. So long as the Rebel-run government of Earth remained in power, its every resource would be dedicated to finding him. If that went on, sooner or later they would find him; a lone man simply could not prevail against such odds.
There was no way he could overthrow the government quickly enough to save himself, either, so far as he was aware – and even if the government were to fall, so long as the Governor and his fellow Rebels were anywhere on Earth they would pursue him. The fact was, he knew, that they didn't much care about who ran this world, save that being in control of the government improved their chances of capturing him – him, John Starkman.
That meant that sooner or later they were going to get him, unless he were to die first. Even then, his death alone would not be sufficient. His body would have to be destroyed as well.
If that happened, the government would have no proof that he was dead, and would presumably go on searching indefinitely – or at least until they managed to anger the populace of Earth enough to trigger a rebellion. That might be all very well for humanity, but it wouldn't do him any good. Suicide simply did not appeal to him.
So they were going to get him, and the Rebels would have the secret of the supernova bomb.
He had thought about this the preceding day, in the park by the dome wall. If it weren't a secret, then there would be no problem.
“Good morning,” Jenny said from the door of the bedroom.
“Hello,” he answered. “We left you a couple of eggs. Do you know anything about the postal service around here?” A half-formed idea was wandering about in his thoughts.
“No. Why?”
“I think I may want to mail a package, and I wondered how long it would take to get there.”
She shrugged as she headed for the kitchenette. “I haven't the slightest idea.”
That idea didn't seem very promising. “Do you know any doctors, perhaps?”
“No. We just got here, John – just a few hours before you did.”
“That's true.” He looked at the computer keyboard and video display. Somewhere in there, he was sure, would be all the information he might need to solve his problem.
He had been thinking of taking samples of his blood and mailing them to whoever he could find who might be able to analyze the DNA and send the information out into space, for eventual receipt by the real government of the Galactic Empire. Upon consideration, though, he realized that it almost certainly wouldn't work. The mails might well be searched; furthermore, he knew nothing about how long it took chromosomes to break down and decay, or how blood samples would have to be packed to preserve the genetic information in the white cells. He did know that red cells did not have normal nuclei, and were therefore probably worthless for his purposes.
And, he realized, he knew no one who would be able to transmit the date except, perhaps, Watcher One.
And no ordinary doctor would have the equipment for genetic analysis, so he couldn't just have the job done himself and mail the data.
The basic concept was still good, he was sure; if he could transmit the data to the Empire, then there would be no harm done if he were to be captured by the Rebels. The balance of power – or perhaps of terror – would be preserved. The secret would no longer be a secret, and the Governor would have no reason to kill him or to harm Earth – and for that matter, no reason to stay on Earth. He hoped that, if he did manage it somehow, the Governor wasn't sufficiently human to kill him out of spite.
He had no way of analyzing his DNA, or of transmitting the information, but the Watch probably did. He would have to contact them and suggest it.
They would, he knew, probably dislike the idea. After all, they had been doing everything they could to suppress new weapons technology, and he was going to suggest that they give it away instead.
He saw no other way to preserve his own life, however. And since he didn't want to commit suicide, it might well be the only way to preserve the lives of everyone else on Earth, as well. If he could convince the Watcher of that, it would probably aid him, albeit reluctantly.
He couldn't be absolutely certain, however; he wanted as much back-up for his plan as he could provide. He wished he knew of an Imperial spy on Earth. He wondered if there were any.
He also wondered how long he had before the door-to-door search reached him. He reminded himself that he had no time to waste.
He needed more information.
The video, the phone, and the computer were all part of Max, the comnet, and he had a rough idea of how to use its more basic functions. He also knew the code to reach the Watchman – what would once have been his telephone number. Jenny's service did not include a voder, unless there were one built into the phone, so that communication with Max itself or with any of the library or teletext functions would have to be done with the keyboard and display screen, rather than by spoken word. Starkman had no idea whether he might have used the phone, nor did he have time to figure it out. He wished he knew how to type.
He pecked out a command for library access in the form the Watchman had shown him, and then a request for information on genetic analysis; to his dismay, the screen was immediately crammed with tiny type, listing hundreds of subheadings.
That was no good. He punched the clear button, and stared for a moment at the blank screen. He needed help; he knew that. He would need someone who could take blood samples and analyze them. He could think of no one who might be able to help except Watcher One; genetic analysis was not something that could be done in the corner drugstore, or by the average family physician.
With the possibility of being captured at any minute, he didn't really have much of a choice any longer; he punched the phone button, lifted the receiver from beside the keyboard, and typed in the Watchman's code.
A voice at his ear answered, “Yes?”
“This is John Sta – Stanford,” he said, remembering at the last minute that Max had been programmed to note any mention of the name “Starkman.”
“Ah, of course. I remember you, Mr. Stanford.”
“It appears that I am about to go to work for the government, whether I want to or not. You are aware, I assume, of the house-to-house search currently under way in New Denver.”
“Yes, of course; we were worried about you.”
“They haven't found me yet, but I don't suppose it will be much longer; I've run out of ideas on how to hide.”
“I'm afraid we can't be much help; I don't know of any way that we could get you out of the dome. It appears that our choice of New Denver may have been a mistake right from the beginning.”
“I think it was.”
“We hadn't realized that they would be quite so ruthlessly efficient.”
“Obviously. Though if they were really efficient they'd have gotten me by now.”
“Do you plan to use the device I gave you?”
“That depends. I have an alternate plan.” He went on to explain his reasoning, and concluded, “Is there any way you can help?”
“We can do the analysis and transmission, but I'm not sure that we want to. I'll have to confer with the Watcher.”
“I figured that you would. Let me say, though, that I will not suicide if you refuse to help me. If they get me before you have a chance to act, I'll try to use your little toy; at least, I think I will. But if you people are too damned moral to help me, then you can forget about my doing any favors for you or anybody else. After all, I wind up just as dead either way, if you don't help.”
There was a long pause before the Watchman answered conversationally, “That sounds an awful lot like blackmail.”
“I suppose it is, but I never said I was moral, and my life is on the line here.”
“Yours and millions of others, Mr. Stanford.”
“So I'm selfish. Look, if they get me, I'll try and leave something you can use with the people in this apartment. I assume you've traced the call.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. These are good people here; you do what you can for them if there's any trouble.”
“We will. I'm going to hang up now, and talk with the Watcher; we'll try and get someone out there for samples as soon as we can.”
“Good. Oh, wait; one other thing. Is there any way you can delay the search, or disrupt it?”
“We're trying. We do have a few people involved.”
“It's too bad you don't have a few assassins somewhere. Everything would be so much simpler if the Watch had just killed off the Rebel leaders a few thousand years ago.”
“Yes, I know, but then would the Watch be any better than the Rebels are? If someone had killed the Governor the Rebels would probably never have reached Earth, but they might have discovered that the Watch existed, and by now the Empire might be in the middle of a three-way war instead of two.”
“Was the Governor as important as all that?”
“Oh, yes; this whole expedition is his personal enterprise. He's the only member of the Rebel oligarchy involved. We're wasting time, though; I'll talk to the Watcher, and see if he'll permit the data to be transmitted. If he agrees, we should have someone there in half an hour or so.”
“All right.” Starkman hung up the phone, and punched the clear button just to be sure. He glanced over at Jenny and the children, gathered at the table while Jenny finished off the eggs. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
“Anything I can help with?” she called.
“No, at least not yet. Thanks anyway,” he replied.
She nodded, and went on eating.
He still wanted some sort of back-up, in case the Watcher decided against transmitting, or the messenger didn't get through. There was nobody else he knew that he could trust at all.
Even someone he couldn't trust might be better than nothing, however, and there was one other group that he knew of that opposed the Governor. They might not have the Watch's resources, but they might manage something. He picked up the receiver again, then typed in the code for directory assistance. A voice spoke in his ear; he could not decide if it was human or computer-generated, and it didn't much matter.
“I'm trying to reach a Dr. Janet Curtis, in Capital; she works at the Welcome Center there.”
“One moment.” There was a flurry of electronic clicking, and then a string of numbers. He punched them in as they were given.
