The Shadow Cabinet (47 page)

“What he's saying,” the chairman amplified, “is that we had a policy that worked in Europe. We had the bomb, we got NATO together, and we contained Soviet military power. Using your terminology, you might say we ‘conditioned' Moscow to our way of thinking. That's how come Europe is still Europe. You can't tell me the Soviet Union doesn't understand force. Let's just say we helped along in the conditioning process. But we're talking about Latin America and how to handle that subversion down there—”

“I'm afraid I disagree,” Dr. Foster called out.

“How's that? Disagree? How can you disagree with that? It was our nuclear superiority that held back the Russians all that time, just as it's holding them back now. How can you say they haven't been conditioned by that?”

“I'm afraid that's the tragedy,” Foster replied sorrowfully, “that's the terrible tragedy about all this. We've conditioned ourselves, that's all.”

The television lights, which had mercifully dimmed five minutes earlier, came back on. The hush had returned to the restless audience behind him. The chairman called upon Foster to explain.

“No one knows what the map of Europe might have looked like today without NATO or the hydrogen and atomic bomb,” Foster said. “Granted. But we did have those bombs, just as today we have these massive nuclear arsenals on both sides. And because we possessed these weapons first and have continued to increase our stockpiles, we've become the prisoners of the assumption that the Soviet Union has been restrained only by our nuclear superiority. We've become the prisoners of the assumption that without our nuclear superiority, the Soviet Union would have been true to its ratomorphic or aggressive nature. But in that way, you see, our own nuclear armaments have become living proof of an unrelenting Soviet hostility. Our own military establishment is day-to-day evidence of the Soviet Union's brutal intent, just like the bars in the lions' cages out at the Washington Zoo. No, I disagree with you, I'm sorry to say, and this is the greatest tragedy of all. All of this shows that we've only conditioned ourselves by these massive nuclear armaments, just as the Russians have conditioned themselves. We've become the pathological prisoners of these stockpiles. We've finally succeeded as a nation in conditioning ourselves to that same primitive, unreflective, ratomorphic psychology we once assigned the Russian leadership. There's no better evidence of it, I regret to say, than those who sit in the White House and the Pentagon …”

The chairman had begun to gently tap his gavel, the crowd had begun to stir, but Dr. Foster, a few bare breaths left in his weary lungs, was determined to continue:

“… at this very minute. Their presence should remind us of the sort of obsessive, primitive, fear-ridden leadership we've created for ourselves after thirty-five years. No, Mr. Chairman, I'm sorry to say we've only conditioned ourselves.…”

The banging of the gavel had grown louder, terminating what the chairman now identified as a partisan assault on the present administration and inadmissible under the rules of bipartisanship.

There were no further questions. “Thank you, Dr. Foster,” the chairman concluded briskly. “We'd like to thank you for sharing your views with us.”

“That was a right interesting presentation you made, Doctor,” said an unfamiliar voice as Foster bent at the corridor water fountain to rinse the disagreeable metallic taste from his dry mouth. He felt enervated, weak-kneed, damp, hot, and humiliated, so drained by his inquisition that he had absolutely no recollection of the words he'd uttered during those final minutes. But he also felt relieved and elated, free of a burden that had been haunting him for weeks. The world looked brighter, cleaner, simpler, and less hostile, as it might to a man who had just escaped execution. “Real scientific,” the voice continued. “How do you spell that, that ‘ratomorphic'?”

Foster told him, still leaking water to his vest and tie. He'd expected his roommate to be waiting for him, but he had vanished. Instead a handful of reporters followed him into the corridor to ask a few questions.

“I expect you must be a student of eugenics too,” Shyrock Wooster said, taking a card from his pocket as he returned the small notebook, “you an' that Center over there. Must be doing some right interesting work. We need more scientific studies on what the Russians are up to, a whole lot more. Maybe it's something in the genes that will tell the answer. You do any government work?”

“A few endocrine studies, biopathology,” Foster muttered.

“Well, I'll be. Haven't heard much about that.” He passed Foster his card and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Doctor. Maybe sometime we can get together, swap a few ideas. You ought to get some of these scientific studies of yours published—some magazine where they'll get national attention.”

And with that, Shy Wooster turned and went back down the hall to the hearing room. He paused outside the door to make another entry in his notebook and then stepped inside to hear the testimony of the Assistant Secretary for Latin American Affairs.

“No, I'm sorry, Congressman,” the Secretary was intoning in his rich, fruity voice. “I'm afraid that's not an expression I'm familiar with.”

“‘Ratomorphic,'” repeated the congressman in his Oklahoma twang. “You never heard of that? Well, maybe you oughta look it up. Shows you striped-pants diplomats don't know everything.”

Dr. Foster found his roommate on the steps outside, pale and anxious, standing to one side, avoiding the few departing spectators. “I was so mortified,” he confided, “I just couldn't stand it any longer, not what you were going through.”

“It wasn't easy,” Foster confessed, annoyed that his nervousness might have been that visible. “But I think I got myself under control.” On the whole, he felt quite pleased, pleased enough so that as he went down the steps, his gait grew bolder. A departing reporter recognized him and waved. Foster waved back. As he reached the pavement and turned, waiting for his companion, a young college girl behind him on the steps nodded and smiled. “I liked what you said,” she told him. “Really neat.”

“Well, thank you,” Foster said, pleased.

“Me too,” volunteered her companion as they passed. “You really had them shook.”

“What'd they say?” his roommate asked as he joined Foster, watching the two girls go up the street.

“Do you have to know everything?” Foster said, looking at the pale, shrinking recluse at his side. He looked so absurd Foster gave a vulgar laugh.

Oh, dear
, he thought instantly, hearing that loud, lewd sound.
What have I done?

11.

The yellow caution lights blinked off and on at the intersections, but the lonely boulevard was as deserted as the nearby freightyards. Only an occasional automobile sped by, trailing the sound of its engine long after it had passed. It was a poor place to have a flat tire, find a cab, or meet someone with a dubious reputation. Cronin's call had come at the telephone booth a little after ten o'clock. Ten minutes later, Wilson parked his car in front of the closed diesel fuel depot. The bar with the yellow neon beer sign in the window was dark, the heavy metal grille locked. No lights showed in the solitary house where the little girl had been pulling the rusty wagon. He crossed the broken asphalt street, head bent against the wind. The chain-link gate was closed but unlocked, the heavy padlock hanging open in its hasp. He entered and closed the gate behind him. The windows of the office were dark. A night-light burned dimly in the reception room beyond the glass door. As he moved, the moon drifted from behind the high broken clouds, its cold pallor touching the windshields of the rental cars. Steam boiled up from the pumping shed of a depot across the railroad tracks.

As he moved into the shadows at the rear of the lot, he identified the silhouette of a car backed up against the door of the maintenance garage. Its rear end was elevated, as if on racing slicks. Approaching, he saw the interior light blink on momentarily, to reveal a figure leaning forward over the wheel. As Wilson bent to look in the passenger window, the light went out and the door was pushed open. He heard the sound of a radio playing softly, a woman singing in a low, strident voice.

“Cronin?” he called.

“Who else? Climb in where it's warm and cozy, just me an' Grace Slick.”

“How about a little more light first?”

“What do you think, I got a zapper in here?”

“Turn on the light.”

Wilson waited. A moment later the weak passenger light came on. The figure behind the wheel wore a wispy beard and his hair was long over his neck and ears. Wilson couldn't be certain it was the same face he'd seen through the Alfa window that drizzly day on the ramp; the sunglasses had made the big difference. He wore a bulky jacket similar to a GI field jacket and he was holding a can of beer. The light went out. “You got my money?”

“Your check? Not with me, no.”

“Don't shit me, man. What the hell am I here for? You owe me three hundred.”

“You'll get your money,” Wilson said, still holding the door open.

“You know what I went through to get that goddamn check to you? I was sweating blood, man! I got nothing, zilch, not a fucking dime, on account of that three hundred I gave you!”

In the darkness Wilson couldn't see the face, but the voice told him enough. He stayed outside the car.

“I'm flat broke, missing two checks. I got a job waiting out of town, only I gotta get there first! I need that three hundred to get on the road and you tell me you haven't got it!”

“I can have it for you tomorrow, but I want to talk first.”

“What about?”

“The accident on the ramp that morning.”

“An accident, so what?”

“Why were you out there?”

“What the hell's it to you? I was out driving around. Who the fuck are you—my probation officer, some VA snooper? How'd you find out my name?”

“Why'd you give me the Caltronics card?”

“Because I had to get the shit out of there, what else? I see this card, I use it. So what? What's it matter whose card?” Wilson heard the sound of a beer can rattling to the floor and the sound of another being opened.

“Is this your car?” he asked, straightening to search his coat pockets for his gloves. The car seemed familiar and now he remembered. He'd seen it parked nearby the day he'd visited the lot.

“Some mechanic's. Went up to Philly to pick up a car. Why?”

“How come you're sitting in it?”

“Because he left it here, because I got keys, man. How'd you think I got in the gate? You wanna go sit in the fucking office instead so you can call the cops? What are you asking all these questions for?”

“I told you.” He let the door swing back. “You'd better go get yourself a lawyer, a lawyer and a little protection. Some people are going to be looking for you.” He stepped back.

“Just hold it!” the young man said. “We're not finished yet! What are you on my ass for?”

“I told you. I want to talk.”

“Yeah, talk, just talk. Like always. You think you're gonna rip me off, think I'm a fucking lush sitting here, screwing up my head. Only if the cops show, I've got an ejection seat this time, right out the fucking tube.” His hand rested on the dashboard shelf, pointing toward the front gate. The moonlight moving through the windshield splashed it radium blue, like the small hand of a cadaver. It was a hand curiously without strength, Wilson thought, not a mechanic's at all. The face was still hidden in the shadows. “Someone shows, I'm gone, man—right out the fence there.”

It seemed an empty boast, like everything else Wilson had heard. “When they want you, they'll find you,” he said, pulling on his gloves, “just as I did.”

“So what the shit's going on, what's all this garbage you're giving me?”

“That's what I want to talk about. But this isn't the place.”

A car passed slowly in front of the gate. He thought it might be Buster Foreman's car, prowling the lonely street in front after he'd failed to reappear, but it was too conspicuous for Buster. The headlights were also too dim, as if the alternator wasn't charging properly. Uneasily, Wilson followed its taillamps up the bumpy street. It turned into a lot and the lights were extinguished.

He turned back.

“Hold it,” the young man said. He'd left the car to stand in the moonlight, looking across the engine hood toward Wilson. “How much money you got on you?”

“Eighty, ninety dollars. Why?”

“All I care about is getting on the road. I don't know anything about what you're talking about, I don't know shit. Someone wants to pull me in, O.K.—let 'em. I've been crazy-rated by the VA, man—eighty percent wacko, ask the D.C. cops. What are they gonna do, lock me up again? O.K., let 'em. The VA wants me to turn myself in for sixty days anyway—post-traumatic stress syndrome, you ever heard of it? I don't, so they cut off the disability check. The D.C. cops bust me once and a guy at Caltronics gets someone to bail me out, so I owe him a favor. What the fuck more do you wanna know? We're drinking buddies and I do him some favors. He likes my war stories, like those shrinks over at the VA that wanna turn me into a fucking vegetable. I drink a lot on account of these two heads I'm wearing half the time, a goddamn plate in my skull, and now you're on my ass on account of some goddamn card I pass you out the window. So that's my life story, all I know, so gimme what you've got in your wallet and I'll get the fuck out of here.…”

He'd moved toward Wilson as he rambled on, one hand held out, one hand in his pocket, but stopped as Wilson mistrustfully pulled his own gloved hands from his pockets.

“Who at Caltronics?”

They stood in silence, facing each other across the front of the car.