“Oh yes,” LeConte said. “He died of Asian flu soon after. He’s been dead for fifteen years.”

  In a helicopter, Hood flew slowly above the terrain depicted in the Times articles, seeing for himself that there was no sign of political activity; he did not feel really assured until he had done so, seen with his own eyes that the newspaper had lost contact with actual events. The reality situation did not coincide with the Times’ articles in any way; that was obvious. And yet—the homeostatic system continued on.

  Joan, seated beside him, said, “I have the third article here, if you want to read it.” She had been looking the latest edition over.

  “No,” Hood said.

  “It says they’re in the outskirts of the city,” she said. “They broke through the police barricades and the governor has appealed for UN assistance.”

  Thoughtfully, Fletcher said, “Here’s an idea. One of us, preferably you, Hood, should write a letter to the Times.” Hood glanced at him.

  “I think I can tell you exactly how it should be worded,” Fletcher said. “Make it a simple inquiry. You’ve followed the accounts in the paper about Cemoli’s movement. Tell the editor—” Fletcher paused. “That you feel sympathetic and you’d like to join the movement. Ask the paper how.”

  To himself, Hood thought, In other words, ask the newspaper to put me in touch with Cemoli. He had to admire Fletcher’s idea; it was brilliant, in a crazy sort of way. It was as if Fletcher had been able to match the derangement of the newspaper by a deliberate shift from common sense on his own part. He would participate in the newspaper’s delusion. Assuming there was a Cemoli and a march on New York, he was asking a reasonable question.

  Joan said, “I don’t want to sound stupid, but how does one go about mailing a letter to a homeopape?”

  “I’ve looked into that,” Fletcher said. “At each kiosk set up by the paper there’s a letter-slot, next to the coin-slot where you pay for your paper. It was the law, when the homeopapes were set up originally, decades ago. All we need is your husband’s signature.” Reaching into his jacket, he brought out an envelope. “The letter’s written.”

  Hood took the letter, examined it. So we desire to be part of the mythical fat clown’s throng, he said to himself. “Won’t there be a headline reading curb chief joins march on earth capital?” he asked Fletcher, feeling a trace of wry amusement. “Wouldn’t a good, enterprising homeopape make front page use of a letter such as this?”

  Obviously Fletcher had not thought of that; he looked chagrined. “I suppose we had better get someone else to sign it,” he admitted. “Some minor person attached to your staff.” He added, “I could sign it myself.”

  Handing him the letter back, Hood said, “Do so. It’ll be interesting to see what response, if any, there is.” Letters to the editor, he thought. Letters, rather, to a vast complex electronic organism buried deep in the ground, responsible to no one, guided solely by its own ruling circuits. How would it react to this external ratification of its delusion? Would the newspaper be snapped back to reality?

  It was, he thought, as if the newspaper, during these years of its enforced silence, had been dreaming, and now, reawakened, it had allowed portions of its former dreams to materialize in its pages along with its accurate, perceptive accounts of the actual situation. A blend of figments and sheer, stark reporting. Which ultimately would triumph? Soon, evidently, the unfolding story of Benny Cemoli would have the toga-wearing spellbinder in New York; it appeared that the march would succeed. And what then? How could this be squared with the arrival of CURB, with all its enormous inter-system authority and power? Surely the homeopape, before long, would have to face the incongruity.

  One of the two accounts would have to cease…but Hood had an uneasy intuition that a homeopape which had dreamed for a decade would not readily give up its fantasies. Perhaps, he thought, the news of us, of CURB and its task of rebuilding Earth, will fade from the pages of the Times, will be given a steadily decreasing coverage each day, farther back in the paper. And at last only the exploits of Benny Cemoli will remain.

  It was not a pleasant anticipation; it disturbed him deeply. As if, he thought, we are only real so long as the Times writes about us; as if we were dependent, for our existence, on it.

  Twenty-four hours later, in its regular edition, the Times printed Fletcher’s letter. In print it had a peculiar quality; it struck Hood as flimsy and contrived—surely the homeopape could not be taken in by it, and yet here it was. It had managed to pass each of the steps in the pape’s processing.

  Dear Editor:

  Your coverage of the heroic march on the decadent plutocratic stronghold of New York City has fired my enthusiasm. How does an ordinary citizen become a part of this history in the making? Please inform me at once, as I am eager to join Cemoli and endure the rigors and triumphs with the others.

  Cordially,

  Rudolf Fletcher

  Beneath the letter, the homeopape had given an answer; Hood read it rapidly.

  Cemoli’s stalwarts maintain a recruiting office in downtown

  New York; address, 460 Bleekman St., New York 32. You might apply there, if the police haven’t cracked down on these quasi-legal activities, in view of the current crisis.

  Touching a button on his desk, Hood opened the direct line to police headquarters. When he had the chief investigator, he said, “Dietrich, I’d like a team of your men; we have a trip to make and there may be difficulties.”

  After a pause Dietrich said dryly, “So it’s not all noble reclamation after all. Well, we’ve already dispatched a man to keep an eye on the Bleekman Street address…I admire your letter scheme; it may have done the trick.” He chuckled.

  Shortly, Hood and four black-uniformed Centaurian policemen flew by ’copter above the ruins of New York City, searching for the remains of what had once been Bleekman Street. By the use of a map they managed after half an hour to locate themselves.

  “There,” the police captain in charge of the team said, pointing. “That would be it, that building used as a grocery store.” The ’copter began to lower.

  It was a grocery store, all right; Hood saw no signs of political activity, no persons loitering, no flags or banners. And yet—something ominous seemed to lie behind the commonplace scene below, the bins of vegetables parked out on the sidewalk, the shabby women in long cloth coats who stood picking over the winter potatoes, the elderly proprietor with his white cloth apron sweeping with his broom…it was too natural, too easy. It was too ordinary.

  “Shall we land?” the police captain asked him.

  “Yes,” Hood said. “And be ready.”

  The proprietor, seeing them land in the street before his grocery store, laid his broom carefully to one side and walked toward them. He was, Hood saw, a Greek; he had a heavy moustache and slightly wavy gray hair, and he gazed at them with innate caution, knowing at once that they did not intend him any good. Yet he had decided to greet them with civility; he was not afraid of them.

  “Gentlemen,” the Greek grocery store owner said, bowing slightly. “What can I do for you?” His eyes roved speculatively over the black Centaurian police uniforms, but he showed no expression, no reaction.

  Hood said, “We’ve come to arrest a political agitator. You have nothing to be alarmed about.” He started toward the grocery store; the team of police followed, their side arms drawn.

  “Political agitation here?” the Greek said. “Come on; it is impossible.” He hurried after them, panting, alarmed now. “What have I done? Nothing at all; you can look around. Go ahead.” He held open the door of the store, ushering them inside. “See right away for yourself.”

  “That’s what we intend to do,” Hood said. He moved with agility, wasting no time on the conspicuous portions of the store; he strode directly on through.

  The back room lay ahead, the warehouse with its cartons of cans, cardboard boxes stacked up on every side. A young boy was busy making a stock inventory; he glanced up, startled, as they entered. Nothing here, Hood thought. The owner’s son at work, that’s all. Lifting the lid of a carton Hood peered inside. Cans of peaches. And beside that a crate of lettuce; he tore off a leaf, feeling futile and—disappointed.

  The police captain said to him in a low voice, “Nothing, sir.”

  “I see that,” Hood said, irritably.

  A door to the right led to a closet; opening it, he saw brooms and a mop, a galvanized pail, boxes of detergents. And—

  There were drops of paint on the floor. The closet, sometime recently, had been repainted; when he bent down and scratched with his nail he found the paint still tacky.

  “Look at this,” he said, beckoning the police captain over.

  The Greek, nervously, said, “What’s the matter, gentlemen? You find something dirty and report to the board of health, is that it? Customers have complained—tell me the truth, please. Yes, it is fresh paint; we keep everything spick and span. Isn’t that in the public interest?”

  Running his hands across the wall of the broom closet, the police captain said quietly, “Mr. Hood, there was a doorway here. Sealed up, now, very recently.” He looked expectantly toward Hood, awaiting instructions.

  Hood said, “Let’s get in. At once.”

  Turning to his subordinates, the police captain gave a series of orders. From the ship, equipment was dragged, through the store, to the closet; a controlled whine arose as the police began the task of cutting into the wood and plaster.

  Pale, the Greek said, “This is outrageous. I will sue.”

  “Right,” Hood agreed. “Take us to court.” Already, a portion of the wall had given way; it fell inward with a crash, and bits of rubble spilled down onto the floor. A white cloud of dust rose, then settled.

  It was not a large room which Hood saw in the glare of the police flashlights. Dusty, without windows, smelling stale and ancient…the room had not been inhabited for a long, long time, he realized as he warily entered. It was empty. Just an abandoned storeroom of some kind, its wooden walls scaling and dingy. Perhaps before the Misfortune the grocery store had possessed a larger inventory; more stocks had been available, then, but now this room was not needed. Hood moved about, flashing his beam of light up to the ceiling and then down to the floor. Dead flies, entombed here…and, he saw, a few live ones which crept haltingly in the dust.

  “Remember,” the police captain said, “it was boarded up just now, within the last three days. Or at least the painting was just done, to be absolutely accurate about it.”

  “These flies,” Hood said. “They’re not even dead yet.” So it had not even been three days. Probably the boarding-up had been done yesterday.

  What had this room been used for? He turned to the Greek, who had come after them, still tense and pale, his dark eyes flickering rapidly with concern. This is a smart man, Hood realized. We will get little out of him.

  At the far end of the storeroom the police flashlights picked out a cabinet, empty shelves of bare, rough wood. Hood walked toward it.

  “Okay,” the Greek said thickly, swallowing. “I admit it; we have kept bootleg gin stored here. We became scared. You Centaurians—” He looked around at them all with fear. “You’re not like our local bosses; we know them, they understand us. You, you can’t be reached. But we have to make a living.” He spread his hands, appealing to them.

  From behind the cabinet the edge of something protruded. Barely visible, it might never have been noticed. A paper which had fallen there, almost out of sight; it had slipped down farther and farther. Now Hood took hold of it and carefully drew it out. Back up the way it had come.

  The Greek shuddered.

  It was, Hood saw, a picture. A heavy, middle-aged man with loose jowls stained black by the grained beginning of a beard, frowning, his lips set in defiance. A big man, wearing some kind of uniform. Once this picture had hung on the wall and people had come here and looked at it, paid respect to it. He knew who it was. This was Benny Cemoli, at the height of his political career, the leader glaring bitterly at the followers who had gathered here. So this was the man.

  No wonder the Times showed such alarm.

  To the Greek grocery store owner, Hood said, holding up the picture, “Tell me. Is this familiar to you?”

  “No, no,” the Greek said. He wiped perspiration from his face with a large red handkerchief. “Certainly not.” But obviously, it was.

  Hood said, “You’re a follower of Cemoli, aren’t you?”

  There was silence.

  “Take him along,” Hood said to the police captain. “And let’s start back.” He walked from the room, carrying the picture with him.

  As he spread the picture out on his desk, Hood thought, It isn’t merely a fantasy of the Times. We know the truth now; the man is real and twenty-four hours ago this portrait of him hung on a wall, in plain sight. It would still be there this moment, if CURB had not put in its appearance. We frightened them. The Earth people have a lot to hide from us, and they know it; they are taking steps, rapidly and effectively, and we will be lucky if we can- interrupting his thoughts, Joan said, “Then the Bleekman Street address really was a meeting place for them. The pape was correct.”

  “Yes,” Hood said.

  “Where is he now?”

  I wish we knew, Hood thought.

  “Has Dietrich seen the picture, yet?”

  “Not yet,” Hood said.

  Joan said, “He was responsible for the war and Dietrich is going to find it out.”

  “No one man,” Hood said, “could solely be responsible.”

  “But he figured largely,” Joan said. “That’s why they’ve gone to so much effort to eradicate all traces of his existence.”

  Hood nodded.

  “Without the Times,” she said, “would we ever have guessed that such a political figure as Benny Cemoli existed? We owe a lot to the pape. They overlooked it or weren’t able to get to it. Probably they were working in such haste; they couldn’t think of everything, even in ten years. It must be hard to obliterate every surviving detail of a planetwide political movement, especially when its leader managed to seize absolute power in the final phase.”

  “Impossible to obliterate,” Hood said. A closed-off storeroom in the back of a Greek grocery store…that was enough to tell us what we needed to know. Now Dietrich’s men can do the rest. If Cemoli is alive they will eventually find him, and if he’s dead—they’ll be hard to convince, knowing Dietrich. They’ll never stop looking, now.

  “One good thing about this,” Joan said, “is that now a lot of innocent people will be off the hook. Dietrich won’t go around prosecuting them; he’ll be busy tracking down Cemoli.”

  True, Hood thought. And that was important. The Centaurian police would be thoroughly occupied for a long time to come, and that was just as well for everyone, including CURB and its ambitious program of reconstruction.

  If there had never been a Benny Cemoli, he thought, it would almost have been necessary to invent him. An odd thought…he wondered how it had happened to come to him. Again he examined the picture, trying to infer as much as possible about the man from this flat likeness; how had Cemoli sounded? Had he gained power through the spoken word, like so many demagogues before him? And his writing…maybe some of it would turn up. Or even tape recordings of speeches he had made, the actual sound of the man. And perhaps video tapes as well. Eventually it would all come to light; it was only a question of time. And then we will be able to experience for ourselves how it was to live under the shadow of such a man, he realized.

  The line from Dietrich’s office buzzed. He picked up the phone.

  “We have the Greek here,” Dietrich said. “Under drug-guidance he’s made a number of admissions; you may be interested.”

  “Yes,” Hood said.

  Dietrich said, “He tells us he’s been a follower for seventeen years, a real old-timer in the Movement. They met twice a week in the back of his grocery store, in the early days when the Movement was small and relatively powerless. That picture you have—I haven’t seen it, of course, but Stavros, our Greek gentleman, told me about it—that portrait is actually obsolete in the sense that several more recent ones have been in vogue among the faithful for some time now. Stavros hung onto it for sentimental reasons. It reminded him of the old days. Later on when the Movement grew in strength, Cemoli stopped showing up at the grocery store, and the Greek lost out in any personal contact with him…he continued to be a loyal dues-paying member, but it became abstract for him.”

  “What about the war?” Hood asked.

  “Shortly before the war Cemoli seized power in a coup here in North America, through a march on New York City, during a severe economic depression…millions were unemployed and he drew a good deal of support from them. He tried to solve the economic problems through an aggressive foreign policy—attacked several Latin American republics which were in the sphere of influence of the Chinese. That seems to be it, but Stavros is a bit hazy about the big picture…we’ll have to fill in more from other enthusiasts as we go along. From some of the younger ones; after all, this one is over seventy years old.”

  Hood said, “You’re not going to prosecute him, I hope.”

  “Oh no. He’s simply a source of information; when he’s told us all he has on his mind we'll let him go bade to his onions and canned apple sauce. He’s harmless.”

  “Did Cemoli survive the war?”

  “Yes,” Dietrich said. “But that was ten years ago; Stavros doesn’t know if the man is still alive now. Personally I think he is, and we’ll go on that assumption until it’s proved false. We have to.”

  Hood thanked him and hung up.

  As he turned from the phone he heard, beneath him, the low, dull rumbling. The homeopape had once more started into life.

  “It’s not a regular edition,” Joan said, quickly consulting her wristwatch. “So it must be another extra. This is exciting, having it happen like this; I can’t wait to read the front page.”