To The Stars

“I’m telling you just that. And if you have never suspected it, then you are a bigger fool than I took you to be. People of your class prefer not to know, to let people like me take care of the dirty work for you. And look down upon us for it.”

“That’s not true, Smitty…”

“Isn’t it?” There was a cutting edge to his voice. “What was it you just called me? Smitty? Did you ever call Ricardo de Torres — Ricky?”

Jan started to answer, but could not. It was true. Thurgood-Smythe was descended from generations of drab civil servants; Ricardo de Torres from titled, landed gentry. For long seconds Jan felt impaled on that look of cold hatred; then his brother-in-law turned away.

“How did you find me up here?” Jan asked, trying to change the subject.

“Don’t pretend to be simple. The location of your car is in the motorway memories. Do you realize the extent of the computer files and programming?”

“I never thought about it. Big I suppose.”

“Far bigger than you realize — and far better organized. There is no such thing as having too much memory. If Security wanted to — and we may — we could monitor every second of your life, have it all on record.”

“That’s stupid, impossible. You’re in my territory now. No matter how much circuitry you have, no matter how much memory, there is no possible way you could run surveillance on everyone in the country all of the time. The data would swamp you.

“Of course it would. But I wasn’t talking about the entire country. I was mentioning one individual. You. Ninety-nine percent of the people in this country are neutral, neuters. Names in a memory bank of no interest to us. Proles who are identical as matchsticks. Society butterflies, who while richer and more exotic, are equally uninteresting. In reality, we have very little to do. Petty thievery and embezzling head our list of crimes. Of no real importance. So when we are asked to take interest in someone we do it with a vengeance. Your screen can be two-way — as can your phone. Your computer is accessible to us, no matter how secure you may think. Your auto, your laboratory, the mirror in your toilet, the light above your bed — are all in our employ…”

“You’re exaggerating!”

“Perhaps. But not by much, not in reality. If we want to know about you we can easily know all about you. Don’t ever doubt that. And we want to know about you now. I would say that, for a number of years — until your guilt or innocence is proven — this is the last private conversation that you will ever have.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“I hope so. If you are involved in anything — get out. We’ll never know, and I for one prefer it that way. But if your hands are soiled we are going to get you. Yes we will — as certain as the sun rises in the east.”

Thurgood-Smythe crossed over to the door and opened it. He turned as though to add something, then thought better of it. He turned and left and the door closed heavily behind him.

Jan closed the window; he was getting chilled.

Fifteen

The only thing to do now was to appear normal — try to act naturally in every way. Jan unpacked his bag, knowing that Thurgood-Smythe had undoubtedly gone through it, apprehensive lest something incriminating had been slipped in by accident. There was of course nothing; but he still could not displace the niggle of fear. It stayed with him while he bathed and changed, went down to dine, talked with old acquaintances in the bar. The feeling stayed with him all night and he slept little. He checked out early the next morning and began the long drive back to London.

It was snowing again, and he had no leisure to think of anything else as he drove carefully down the winding Highland roads. Luncheon was beer and a pasty in a roadside pub, then on until he came to the motorway. Once the computer took control he could relax — but did not. He felt more uneasy if anything.