Rosenthal Webb's lungs were gurgling with each breath and he felt feverish, but this was not a meeting to miss. There were only five other faces around the Revolutionary Council table, the others no doubt busy with mounting administrative chores.
We're all getting stretched rather thin, Webb thought to himself.
Winston Weet was getting flushed in the face as he ranted to the council, and Webb instinctively knew to begin paying attention to the speech again. The round-faced orator was finally getting to the point. It was as if Weet's guts constricted whenever he measured his words carefully, and this tightening forced blood up into his face.
". . .and if the very existence of the Revolutionary movement owes itself to the theory that Government must serve its people, as opposed to the people serving the Government, I propose that our priorities should lie with the dismantling of the work camps."
"He's getting philosophical again," Eliot Kohrn grumbled to himself.
Weet slapped the edge of the conference table. "I'm beginning to believe that we're wasting too much time here tying ribbons and bows. The camps should have turned open and voluntary the day we nipped the Monitor's head off."
Virginia Quale broke in, "And the schools broadened, and scientific inquiries begun. . .."
"No," Weet replied, whapping the table again, "none of those before freedom of the individual."
"But as yet, we have so few of our own people in place in New Chicago," Quale objected.
Weet frowned. "Sometimes I think we're being more careful—ya, more paranoid—that the Monitor ever was. Who's ta say that the populace will want us for leaders once we announce ourselves anyway? Why must we be in total control of New Chicago? Or is it that we're afraid of what the populace will want—just like the Monitor?"
Webb tried in vain to clear his lungs with a cough, but spoke anyway with a slightly strangled sound: "Ya, the theory of it all is amusing ta bat about, but I say this—" he coughed again "—I say we're down to no man power to even start such a mission. Ho, we can send a few freelance musclers to Chautown, have our people in New Chicago wire 'em authorization for this and that. But it will take a lot more than cable messages to prevent a massacre. Remember, there's still a tangle of bastards in Merqua what would want the Monitor's systems intact, even if he ain't."
"You go, Rosenthal," said Kohrn. "You who's so quick to jump into a mission, farther the better, when it's the homeland what needs fixing. So quick to send Gregory off an' then complain of man power."
"My health like this, with this mud in my lungs, I couldn't possibly start out," Webb answered. "As fer Gregory, he'd be right for the job, the right temperament. But I can't apologize for just asking him to contact a shipbuilder. He shoulda reported back by now. I say let's hold up on this 'til we hear from him."
Quale looked undecided, and her eyes darted from person to person around the table.
"I say we go on it now," Weet huffed. "You have an able muscler down on Level Five right now—doin' nothing but petting his willie. The big booger, guy with a scar on his nose—what's his name?"
Webb's face drained. "Fel Guinness? You've never been in the field with 'im. Disaster. A savage with a banger or knife when that's needed. Fine. But trust him to a diplomatic matter? Disaster."
"Perhaps you should have sent Guinness to strong-arm the shipbuilder, that Big Tom," Kohrn put in. "Then Gregory would be here to recruit a team outta Chautown."
"Disaster. Guinness on his own? Disaster."
When the debate fell cold, Quale said, "So. I propose a vote: If Gregory is not back within a week, Fel Guinness leaves for Chautown."
Not necessary, Webb said to himself. He could read the five other faces, and he had lost.
Webb rapped on a narrow plank door on Level Five and heard a muffled "Unh" respond within, which Webb took for permission to enter. When he stepped in, an object whirred past his ear and whacked into the door. A Rafer tosser disk bit into the pine, forming a perfect line with three other disks down the center brace.
"Thass pig-pokin' dangerous," Webb said, keeping his voice steady.
Fel Guinness slouched in his cot, leaning against the far wall. Unlike many denizens of the Revolutionary hideout, he had the tanned, weather-beaten look of a man who had spent much of his life out of doors. He had a strangely small head and large lips. He was frowning now, his right index finger still poised in the air from making the toss.
"Ah dint use the poison, Mr. Webb. That would be dangerous."
Webb studied the inscriptions on the disks. He suspected that eventually someone would copy the nasty little weapons, but these were authentic Rafer.
"Where did ya get 'em?" Webb asked.
"Traded an old banger for 'em a while ago."
"Hmph, doubt that," Webb replied. "A proper Rafer wouldn't have a use for a banger, wouldn't go near one."
"Oh ya. Guy I got these from weren't a Rafer. He'd killed a few, though."
Webb sighed. He was tempted to give Guinness a lecture on Revolutionary policies, but he thought better of it. Guinness already knew them well.
"Likely we'll have a mission for you to run in a week or so," Webb said. "So next time ya go prowling, don't go too far."
Guinness pushed his hands into the mattress and sat forward. "This got something to do with that big ship you keep talking about? That ship what's gonna sail some of us over for a taste of European radiation, count of ours ain't good enough?"
Webb leaned against the dresser, feigning patience. The room had a close, rotty smell, and he wondered if this room alone could be fouling the air of the entire complex. There was little decoration, save for the weaponry belts and bangers hung from nails around the wall. A small photo of a large-breasted woman, the blurry sort of porno snapshot sold by the street corner ruggers in New Chicago, was tacked to the wall beside Guinness's cot.
Webb coughed. "Nah," he said. "This is a run down ta Chautown. Need a team put together—I'll give you some names of reliable men down there, time comes. The team will do the enforcing once we announce the dismantling of the forced labor on the Southland farms. Any trouble, make it work."
Guinness scratched at his crotch. "That I can do," he said.
"But I tell ya," Webb said, pointing a nubbed finger into the air, "this ain't a license to whack an' chop anyone what don't kiss your toes."
"Me?"
"You been warned," Webb said, turning to go.
"Hey wait, Mr. Webb!"
"Ya?"
"Show me that new tattoo?"