"The World Jones Made" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

AS AN immediate measure, Floyd Jones we taken into surveillance. That interim system continued for a period of seven months. In November of 1995, the bland, uncomplicated candidate of the extremist Nationalist Party came through and won the general Council election. Within twenty-four hours of the time Ernest T. Saunders was sworn into office, Jones had been quietly arrested.

In the half year, Cussick had lost most of his youthful plumpness. His face was firmer and older. He thought more, now, and talked less. And he had gained experience as a secret-service man.

In June of 1995, Cussick had been transferred to the Danish region. There he had met a pretty, buxom, and very independent Danish girl who worked in the art department of a Fedgov information center. Nina Longstren was the daughter of an influential architect; her people were wealthy, talented, and socially prominent. Even after they were officially married, Cussick still stood in awe of her.

His orders from police offices in Baltimore came while he and Nina were redoing their apartment. It took him a little while to find a way to bring the matter up; they were right in the middle of painting.

"Darling," he told her finally, "we're going to have to get the hell out of here."

For a moment Nina didn't answer. She was intently studying color charts, her elbows resting on the living room table, hands clasped under her chin. "What?" she murmured vaguely. The living room was a shambles of creativity; buckets of paint, rollers, sprayers lay everywhere. The furniture was covered with paint-splattered plastic sheeting. In the kitchen and bedrooms stood heaps of still-crated appliances, clothing, furniture, wrapped wedding presents. "I'm sorry ... I wasn't listening."

Cussick walked over beside her and gently slid the color cards from under her elbows. "Orders from the big wheel. I have to fly back to Baltimore . . . they're assembling a case against this fellow Jones. I'm supposed to appear."

"Oh," Nina said faintly. "I see."

"It shouldn't take more than a couple of days. You can stay here, if you want." He didn't particularly want her to stay behind; they had only been married a week: technically, he was on his honeymoon. "They'll pay travel expenses for both of us--Pearson mentions it."

"We really don't have much choice, do we?" Nina said forlornly. She got up from the table and began gathering together the various color cards. "I guess we should cover all the cans of paint."

Woebegone, she began pouring turpentine over a tin can of paint brushes. A smudge of sea-foam green was dabbed across her left cheek, probably as of when she had reached to push back her long blonde hair. Cussick took a rag, moistened it in the turpentine, and scrupulously removed the smudge.

"Thank you," Nina said sadly, when he had finished. "When do we have to leave? Right now?"

He examined his watch. "We better get into Baltimore by evening; they're holding him now. That means we ought to get the eight-thirty ship out of Copenhagen."

"I'll go bathe," Nina said obediently. "And change. You should, too." Critically, she rubbed his chin. "And shave."

He agreed. "Anything you want."

"Will you wear your light gray suit?'

"I have to wear brown. Remember, this is business. For the next twelve hours I'm back on the job."

"Does that mean we have to be solemn and serious?"

He laughed. "No, of course not. But this thing worries me."

Nina wrinkled her nose at him. "Worry, then. But don't expect me to. I've got other things to think about . . . you realize we won't get this place finished until next week?"

"We could get a couple of workmen in here to complete things."

"Oh, no," Nina said emphatically. She disappeared into the bathroom, turned on the hot water in the tub, and returned. Kicking off her shoes, she began undressing. "We're doing this ourselves. No broken-down tramps are getting in this apartment--this isn't a job; this is--" She searched for the words as she tugged her sweater up over her head. "This is our life together."

"Well," Cussick said drily, "I was one of those broken-down tramps until I joined Security. But it's up to you. I enjoy painting; I don't care either way."

"You should care," Nina said critically. "Darn it, I'm going to spark some sort of artistic sensitivity in your bourgeois soul."

"Don't say I should care. That's a crime against Relativism. You can care all you want, but don't tell me I have to care, too."