Cities in Flight

Hazleton’s disturbance disturbed Amalfi, too, more than he liked to recognize. Mechanically, it would almost surely be possible for the ex-city manager to withdraw his decision; and mechanically, it would be possible to make the suggestion to Hazleton. Those three words had been neither overheard nor recorded as far as Amalfi knew, except—a small chance—by the treacher, the section of the City Fathers which handled tablewaiting. Even there, however, the City Fathers wouldn’t be likely to scan the treacher’s memory bank more than once every five years. The treacher had nothing interesting to remember but the eating preference patterns of the Okies, and such patterns change slowly and, for the most part, insignificantly. No, the City Fathers need not know that Hazleton had resigned, not for a while yet.

But allowing the city manager to back down did not even occur to Amalfi; the mayor was too thoroughly an Okie for that. Had it been proposed to him, Amalfi would have objected that the uttering of those three words had put Hazleton as totally under Amalfi’s smallest command as was a private in the city’s perimeter police; and he could have shown reasons why subservience of that kind was now required of Hazleton. He could also have shown that those three words could never be actually revoked, however closely they were kept a secret between Hazleton and himself; if pressed, he could have shown that he could never forget them, and that Hazleton couldn’t either. He might have explained that, every time Amalfi decided against a plan of Hazleton’s, the city manager would put it down to secret rancor against that smothered resignation. Or, being Amalfi, he might merely have noted that the conflict between the two men had already been deep-running, and that after Hazleton had said, “I want off,” it would become outright pathological.

Actually, however, no one of these things entered his mind. Hazleton had said, “I want off.” Amalfi was an Okie, and for an Okie, “I want off” is final.

“No,” the mayor said, at once. “You’ve asked for off, and that’s the end of it. You’re no longer entitled to any knowledge of city policy or plans, except for what reaches you in the form of directives. Now’s the time when you can use your training in thinking like me, Mark—obviously you’ll have no difficulty in thinking like the City Fathers— because it’ll be your only source of information on policy from now on.

“I understand,” Hazleton said formally. He stood silent a moment longer. Amalfi waited.

“At the next port of call, then,” Hazleton said.

“All right. Until then, you’re outgoing city manager. Put Carrel back into training as your successor, and begin feeding the City Fathers predisposing data toward him now. I don’t want any more fuss from them when the election is held than we had when you were elected.”

Hazleton’s expression became slightly more set. “Right.”

“Secondly, get the city moving toward the perimeter to intersect the town you couldn’t raise. I’ll want an orbit that gives us logarithmic acceleration, with all the real drive concentrated at the far end. On the way, ready two work teams: one for a fast spindizzy assessment, the other to run up whatever’s necessary on the mass chromatography equipment, whatever that may be. Include medium-heavy dismounting tools, below the graving dock size, but heavy enough to handle any job less drastic.”

“Right.”

“Also, ready Sergeant Anderson’s squad, in case that city isn’t quite as dead as it sounds.”

“Right,” Hazleton said again.

“That’s it,” Amalfi said.

Hazleton nodded stiffly, and made as if to turn. Then, astonishingly, his stiff face exploded into a torrential passion of speech.

“Boss, tell me this before I go,” he said, clenching his fists. “Was all this to push me into asking for off? Couldn’t you think of any way of keeping your plans to yourself but kicking me out—or making me kick myself out? I don’t believe this love story of yours, damned if I do. You know I’ll take Dee with me when I disembark. And the Great Renunciation is just slop, just pure fiction, especially coming from you. You aren’t any more in love with Dee than I am with you—”

And then Hazleton turned so white that Amalfi thought for a moment that the man was about to faint.

“Score one for you, Mark,” Amalfi said. “Evidently I’m not the only one who’s staging a Great Renunciation.”

“Gods of all stars, Amalfi!”

“There are none,” Amalfi said. “I can’t do anything more, Mark. I’ve said good-by to you a hell of a lot of times, but this has to be the last time—not by my election, but by yours. Go and get the jobs done.”

Hazleton said, “Right.” He spun and strode out. The door reached full dilation barely in time.

Amalfi sighed as deeply as a sleeping child. Then he flipped the treacher switch from set to clear. The treacher said, “Will that be all, sir?”

“What do you want to do, poison me twice at the same meal?” Amalfi growled. “Get me an ultraphone line.”

The treacher’s voice changed at once. “Communications,” it said briskly.