Six and the girl were coming down from the Tower and Number Two felt himself relax; bringing to his awareness that he had been on edge with anticipation since the man first stepped up on the wall. Foolish really. Any expectation that Six would commit suicide was absurd. The man clung to life out of pure spite. He could not be coerced into doing the deed himself. The boldness of this thought made Two suddenly self conscious. He glanced round furtively as if expecting to catch sight of a hidden spy and was instead confounded to find the Supervisor still there, with his little file. Number Six's medical. He had not the will to even feign interest in it. He wanted to be alone.
"Well that's that." he said testily as if shooing at a fly.
"Number Six has never shown any suicidal tendencies before," the man remarked inanely. "Perhaps he's having difficulty with the adjustment."
"Did you really think he intended to jump?" he scoffed. "He would never be so obliging."
The Supervisor's quick glance warned him that he had made a misstep. He must be more careful. Number Six was still of great value; to them.
"You aught to take your job more seriously." he snapped in defensive rebuke, "You know how important this is."
"I do, sir."
"Then you are aware that Number Six whispered something to that girl?"
He had not intended to draw attention to the interaction but it produced the desired effect. The revelation staggered the Supervisor. He had missed what he was trained to observe and now must be called to account.
Though he had won a trifling victory, Two found the man's blank expression genuinely infuriating.
"You're just like the rest of them." he accused. "So worried about saving you're own skin you quite fail in your duty."
"Are you questioning my loyalty?"
The predictable response, like a hand thrown up reflexively to ward off a blow, furthered his irritation.
"No one," he said, "is above suspicion."
"I'll have the footage reviewed," The Supervisor said in a servile, placating tone. "Perhaps the microphones picked up something.
"Those two whisper like a couple of mice." he bellowed. "You'll get nothing from that."
Hotly he turned back to the screen, wanting only to be rid of his irksome subordinate but the order died on his lips. Number Six had, in his customary fashion, stopped to salute a camera. It was his smile that stilled Number Two's tongue. It was a victorious, mocking smile, like that of a man gloating over the body of his fallen enemy.
"He thinks he's won." His fist shook itself violently at the face on the screen. "Look at him! He thinks he's won."
Obediently the Supervisor looked to the screen but Number Six was already turning away, moving on in a long easy stride, Number Seven's arm looped affectionately through his.
"Everything seems in order." the Supervisor said passively.
"He's hypnotized you," his temper was rising. His voice pitched upwards with it. "Like a dupe at a magic show, you see only what he wants you to see."
More incredulity. "I don't understand."
"Of course not. He has you in a trance. The lot of you." He felt it stirring to life in the darkness. Strong emotion summoned it forth. Yet how could he resist? "Number Six has but to dangle his life before you and you become positively enthralled by fear. It's a small wonder he's has never broken,"
The violence of his wrath brought it snarling to the door of its cell, but he went on allowing the unbridled contempt to color his words. "How can sheep overcome a lion?"
"But Number Six clearly has broken." The Supervisor protested, "You've broken him."
How easily Number Six manipulated the manipulators.
"If that is indeed the case, then why is he plotting against me?" This supposition excited his passions. The bars of sanity seemed to shudder under powerful blows.
"Are you alright, sir?"
The Supervisor's words reached him as if from far off, drawing him back to place and time and an awareness that he had exposed it. He feared the man could see what he only felt. And caught, as he was, in the critical eye of the cameras, his betters might see it as well.
He wanted to cower, to creep away and hide, but instead pulled the frail mantle of authority about himself and demanded. "Well then, let's have the results of that medical." the calmness in his own voice pleased him. He felt in charge and it was the thing within him that was forced to withdraw to the shadows, "Maybe we will have an account for Number Six's wild impulses."
"There was no result."
He was up out of the chair, his rob swirling about him. His eyes as wild as his unkempt hair. "I ordered that he be tested!"
"He was most uncooperative."
He scarce heard the words. His orders had not been followed. He was losing power.
"Number Six became violent." The Supervisor went on with his impious excuse, "He had to be subdued on several occasions, making an examination impossible."
His entire being seemed to tremble with rage, yet he said reasonably. "He should have been kept in hospital until a proper examination could be preformed."
The proof of that which he feared most spilled out of his inferior's lips. "Number Forty Nine ordered his release."
An inhuman voice demanded, "On who's authority?"
Now the man faltered. His eyes darted away, seeking escape. "I don't know."
He felt the madness rush out of the darkness at him.
"Insubordination!" He bellowed.
He could not hear the groveling reply over the blood pounding in his ears. The cowering man and his own hands reaching for him were medieval images painted on canvas. He seemed not a part of it. As if he were somehow a spectator peering through eyes that were once his own but now belonged to a maniac. Shrilling above the noise in his head a voice was screeching. "Get out! Get out!"
.
.
.
There was little in the cupboard. The Village, it seemed, had been negligent in the care of its new guest. A trip to the shops was in order. But not today. The previous day's business had caught up with Number Six. The head swam and the body ached. He wanted sleep. Needed it. And after breakfast he would have it. There was a can of Village soup, it would do. He took it down and found a sauce pan.
From the bathroom he heard the sound of the shower. The time was short now. In a span of a few days he would discover whether or not he could beat Number Two at his own game, or if Number Two had already beaten him. The many things that could go wrong crowded forward, demanding attention. He would not give it. He opened the can and set its contents to simmering, then prepared the tea pot.
The kitchen table, arranged before a window, provided a lovely view of the Village and the ocean below. Casey, draped in a colorful dressing gown, ate her thin soup with the eagerness of a stray dog. While he sipped his own, his gaze rested on the distant horizon far below, where a ship would soon be anchored, and stubbornly fixed in his mind the unchallenged success of his plan.
He allowed the scene of the final act to play out and smiled. As if sensing his mood the girl looked up from her bowl and returned it. Such a pair they were. Somehow connected by an invisible thread that had entangled them both and brought them to the Village. Such a bond was best severed.
After a time he asked. "What happened yesterday?" he allowed suspicion to color the words. She would lie of course. Even if she wanted to tell him, whatever went on between herself and Number Two could not be told in front of the cameras. But if the position into which he had thrust her was uncomfortable she gave no sign of it.
Without concern, she dabbed her lips with a napkin and said, "While you were busy, Number Two took me for a walk."
She made it sound so perfectly normal.
"I see, and where did you walk to?"
"Up on the hillside, to watch the sunset."
"It sounds lovely."
"It was."
"A bit out of bounds."
"I suppose." she said easily, as if it were a minor infraction, like walking on the grass. "He wanted to talk to me in private."
"About what?"
"You."
"Oh," real suspicion stirred. How could it not? "Should have thought anything said about me could be said in front of them." he gave a camera an unfriendly look.
She shrugged. "Maybe Number Two thought I would be more willing to confide in him, alone."
"Were you?"
And now she put the crowning act on her performance. "He really is a wonderful man, once you get to know him."
"And did you," he asked, stepping round this absurdity with artful practice. "confide?"
"Of course."
"About?"
She looked as if she were surprised he even had to ask, "That silly little subject with which this place is oddly obsessed."
This time he was ready, there was no reaction, save the one he chose. "My resignation?"
"What else?"
"You know nothing about that."
"Not yet."
The mood was light and the game enjoyable. He pressed on.
"Number Two believes you can persuade me to tell?"
"I can."
"What makes you so confident?"
"Over time," she said with a new weariness, "secrets become very heavy."
"Do they?"
When she looked at him now, her eyes were full of her own secrets and the burden of a lifetime spent alone with them.
"You want to tell me." she said simply.
Number Two could not have devised more cunning a trap. A mere carnal lover was easily resisted, but a kindred spirit with whom one might finally share the deepest confession of his soul, this was a temptation almost beyond bearing.
He felt suddenly that he were crossing rapids on uncertain footing. One slip could spell his downfall.
He asked casually, "Do I?"
"Yes."
How easily she seemed to read his thoughts. Training fought intuition. To run headlong at something which had so long been carefully avoided was reckless indeed, yet he said, "we shall see," as if it were a trivial matter.
She smiled at him very much the way a cat smiles at a mouse.
.
.
.
He came to himself, sulking in the recesses of his chair. The Supervisor was gone. Had he even been there? The file lay on the desk. He must have been. Number Two swung the chair round suddenly, searching for a body. Of course there was none. They would not have allowed him to murder the Village's most faithful servant. Had he even touched the man? Or had the attempt been mere imagination? His mind crawled reluctantly back to scene, then shrank away without stirring any memory.
His eyes found the screen where the thick, oily bubbles now rose slowly upwards. He watched dully. The bubbles seemed to pull at him. He rather liked the lulling effect. It soothed away the distracting anxieties and allowed for rational thought. He was going mad of course. It could not be denied. Something deep inside his mind had given way, like the collapse of a once grand structure, leaving in its stead a ruin of which he could make no sense.
The door slid open but he paid it no mind. Only the clinking of the breakfast dishes brought the presents of the Butler to his attention. The little man was gathering the tray with no more expression than a piece of carved wood.
"What did you see?" Two demanded.
No answer from the silent man, only a brief hesitation of those busy little hands. Then he was shuffling his cart up the ramp and out the door. It closed behind him as if sealing a tomb. It wasn't important. He was lost again in his pondering. It was providence that had caused him to spare Number Seven. And if his masters were foolish enough to leave him in charge he would soon put an end to the trouble Six had been causing. As he went back to watching the bubbles he felt for the first time at peace.