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breath. "Not a man like Ken Armstrong. Why, Iused to worship him when I was a kid. I was ten when he came back toEarth for his second Retread." The old man shook his head. "I wantedto go back to Mars with him--I actually packed up to run away, untildear brother Paul caught me and squealed to Dad. Imagine."

  "I'm sorry, Dan."

  The car whizzed off the Throughway, and began weaving through theresidential areas of Arlington. Jean swung under an arched gate,stopped in front of a large greystone house of the sort they hadn'tbuilt for a hundred years. Dan Fowler stared out at the grey Novemberafternoon. "Well, then we're really on thin ice at the Hearings. Wecan still do it. It'll take some steam-rollering, but we can manageit." He turned to the girl. "Get Schirmer on the wire as soon as weget inside. I'll go over Carl's report for whatever I can find. TellSchirmer if he wants to keep his job as Coordinator of the MedicalCenter next year, he'd better have all the statistics available on allrejuvenated persons past and present, in my office tomorrow morning."

  Jean gave her father a queer look. "Schirmer's waiting for you insideright now."

  "Oh? Why?"

  "He wouldn't say. Nothing to do with politics, he said. Somethingabout Paul."

  * * * * *

  Nathan Shirmer was waiting in the library, sipping a brandy andpretending to scan a Congressional Record in the viewer-box. He lookedup, bird-like, as Dan Fowler strode in. "Well, Nate. Sit down, sitdown. I see you're into my private stock already, so I won't offer youany. What's this about my brother?"

  Schirmer coughed into his hand. "Why--Dan, I don't quite know how totell you this. He was in Washington this afternoon--"

  "Of course he was. He was supposed to go to the Center--" Dan brokeoff short, whirling on Schirmer. "Wait a minute! There wasn't aslip-up on this permit?"

  "Permit?"

  "For rejuvention, you ass! He's on the Starship Project, coordinatingengineer of the whole works out there. He's got a fair place on thelist coming to him three ways from Sunday. Follmer put the permitthrough months ago, and Paul has just been diddling around gettinghimself clear so he could come in--"

  The little Coordinator's eyes widened. "Oh, there wasn't anythingwrong on _our_ side, if that's what you mean. The permit was perfectlyclear, the doctors were waiting for him. It was nothing like that."

  "Then what was it like?"

  Nathan Schirmer wriggled, and tried to avoid Dan's eyes. "Your brotherrefused it. He laughed in our faces, and told us to go to hell, andtook the next jet back to Nevada. All in one afternoon."

  The vibration of the jet engines hung just at perception level,nagging and nagging at Dan Fowler, until he threw his papers asidewith a snarl of disgust, and peered angrily out the window.

  They were high, and moving fast. Far below was a tiny spot of light inthe blackness. Pittsburgh. Maybe Cleveland. It didn't matter which.Jets traveled at such-and-such a rate of speed; they left atsuch-and-such a time and arrived elsewhere at such-and-such a timelater. He could worry, or he could not-worry. The jet would bring himdown in Las Vegas in exactly the same time, to the second, either way.Another half-hour taxi ride over dusty desert roads would bring him tothe glorified quonset hut his brother called home. Nothing Dan Fowlercould do would hurry the process of getting there.

  Dan had called, and received no answer.

  He had talked to the Las Vegas authorities, and even gotten Lijinskyat the Starship, and neither of them knew anything. The police saidyes, they would check at Dr. Fowler's residence, if he wasn't out atthe Ship, and check back. But they hadn't checked back, and that wastwo hours ago. Meanwhile, Carl had chartered him a plane.

  God damn Paul to three kinds of hell. Of all miserable times to startplaying games, acting like an imbecile child! And the work and sweatDan had gone through to get that permit, to buy it beg it, steal it,gold-plate it. Of course the odds were good that Paul would havegotten it without a whisper from Dan--he was high on the list, he wascritical to Starship, and certainly Starship was critical enough torate. But Dan had gone out on a limb, way out--The Senator's fistclenched, and he drummed it helplessly on the empty seat, and felt atwinge of pain spread up his chest, down his arm. He cursed, fumbledfor the bottle in his vest pocket. God damned heart and god damnedbrother and god damned Rinehart--did _everything_ have to split thewrong way? Now? Of all times of all days of all his fifty-six years oflife, _now_?

  _All right, Dan. Cool, boy. Relax. Shame on you. Can't you quit beingselfish just for a little while?_ Dan didn't like the idea as itflickered through his mind, but then he didn't like anything too muchright then, so he forced the thought back for a rerun.

  Big Dan Fowler, _Senator_ Dan Fowler, Selfish Dan Fowler loves DanFowler mostly.

  _Poor Paul._

  * * * * *

  The words had been going through his mind like a silly chant since thefirst moment he had seen Nate Schirmer in the library. Poor Paul. Dandid all right for himself, he did--made quite a name down inWashington, you know, a fighter, a real fighter. The Boy with theGolden Touch (joke, son, laugh now). Everything he ever did worked outwith him on top, somehow. Paul was different. Smart enough, plenty ofthe old gazoo, but he never had Dan's drive. Bad breaks, right downthe line. Kinda tough on a guy, with a comet like Dan in the family.Poor Paul.

  He let his mind drift back slowly, remembering little things, tryingto spot the time, the single instant in time, when he stopped fightingPaul and started feeling sorry for him. It had been different, yearsago. Paul was the smart one, all right. Never had Dan's build but hecould think rings around him. Dan was always a little slow--neverforgot anything he learned, but he learned slow. Still, there wereways to get around that--

  Dad and Mom always liked Paul the best (their first boy, you know) andbabied him more, and that was decidedly tougher to get around--Stillthere were ways.

  Like the night the prize money came from the lottery, when he and Paulhad split a ticket down the middle. How old was he then--ten? Eleven?And Paul was fifteen. He'd grubbed up the dollar polishing cars, andmet Paul's dollar halfway, never dreaming the thing would pay off. Andwhen it did! Oh, he'd never forget that night. He wanted thejet-racer. The ticket paid two thousand, a hell of a lot of cash for apair of boys--and the two thousand would buy the racer. He'd been soexcited tears had poured down his face.... But Paul had said no. Splitit even, just like the ticket, Paul had said. There were hot words,and pleading, and threats, and Paul had just laughed at him until hegot so mad he wanted to kill him with only his fists. Bad mistake,that. Paul was skinny, not much muscle, read books all the time itlooked like a cinch. But Paul had five years on him that he hadn'tcounted on. Important five years. Paul connected with just one--enoughto lay Dan flat on his back with a concussion and a broken jaw, andthat, my boy, was that.

  Almost.

  Dan had won the fight, of course. It was the broken jaw that did it,that night, later the fight Mom and Dad had, worse than usual, a cruelone, low blows, mean--But Dan got his racer, on the strength of thebroken jaw. That jaw had done him a lot of good. Never grew quiteright after that, got one of the centers of ossification, the doc hadsaid, and Dan had been god's gift to the pen-and-brush men with thatheavy, angular jaw--a fighter's jaw, they called it.

  * * * * *

  That started it, of course. He knew then that he could beat Paul. Goodto know. But never _sure_ of it, always having to prove it. Thesuccesses came, and always he let Paul know about them, watched Paul'sface like a cat. And Paul would squirm, and sneer, and tell Dan thatin the end it was brains that would pay off. Sour grapes, of course.If Paul had ever squared off to him again, man to man, they might havehad it over with. But Paul just seemed content to sit and quietly hatehim.

  Like the night he broke the Universalists in New Chicago, at thehundred-dollar-a-plate dinner. He'd told them, that night. That wasthe night they'd cold-shouldered him, and put Libby up to run forMayor. Oh, he'd raised a glorious stink that night--he'd never enjoyed
himself so much in his life, turning their whole twisted machine rightover to the public on a silver platter. Cutting loose from the oldcrowd, appointing himself a committee of one to nominate himself on anIndependent Reform ticket, campaign himself, and elect himself. Awhippersnapper of thirty-two. Paul had been amused by it all, almostindulgent. "You _do_ get melodramatic, don't you, Dan? Well, if youwant to cut your own throat, that's your affair." And Dan had burned,and told Paul to watch the teevies, he'd see a thing or two, and hedid, all right. He remembered Paul's face a few months later, whenLibby conceded at 11:45 PM on election night, and Dan rode into officewith a new crowd of livewires who were ready to help him plow into NewChicago and clean up that burg