The walls were covered with the same pink silk which lined the tunnel. Tables circled the room, each protected by its own silk enclosure, granting those within a gauzy sort of privacy.
Dominating the center of the room was a sunken bar, also circular in shape. And there, bobbing gently in the air-conditioned breeze, was Cy. Autocarts scurried this way and that, serving their customers, and skillfully getting out of McCade's way as he headed for the bar.
The bar was practically empty, most customers evidently preferring the curtained pleasures of the surrounding tables, to the more standard liquid refreshments. Taking the empty seat next to Cy, McCade said, "Nice place, Cy . . . by far the fanciest whorehouse I've ever seen."
"Yes," Cy answered wistfully. "I can remember enjoying such things . . . but not very well." He sighed, and extruded an infrared pickup to supplement his vision. "When the bartender comes, tell him you wish to speak with Silk. She owns the place, and used to run the Destiny games. If they're still going she'll know. But I think you're crazy to even consider playing that game."
"You're probably right," McCade replied. "But I'd like to ask her a few questions." Moments later the bartender appeared from the other side of the bar, lumbered up, and ran his bar rag over the pink plastic countertop.
"Want?" His voice was a guttural rumble which sounded like distant thunder. Luminescent green eyes peered out from under craggy brows to regard McCade with generalized hostility. Like all his race, the Cellite was a humanoid mountain of muscle and bone, sculpted by the heavy gravity of his home world into a living Hercules. His oiled torso rippled when he moved.
"I'll take a whiskey and water," McCade answered. "Terran if you have it."
The bartender gave a grunt of assent, and tapped three keys on his auto-mixer. The glass emerged with a whirring sound and disappeared into the bartender's huge hand. As he set it down, McCade said, "Thanks. And I'd like to have a word with Silk when she has a moment."
The bartender eyed him appraisingly, and then grunted, "Wait." With that he lumbered away and out of sight.
McCade eyed Cy as he lit a cigar, and took a sip of his drink. He had a feeling that direct questioning wasn't going to get him much. So he needed some help, but how far could the cyborg be trusted? He wasn't sure, but decided to take a chance. That way he could pursue the gambling angle, while Cy tried other less obvious possibilities. He cleared his throat. "Cy, I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with you earlier."
"I know that, Sam," the cyborg replied calmly, turning a vid pickup in McCade's direction. "Regular customers either ignore me, or just laugh at me. They'd never risk a fight with Rad. So," he added shrewdly, "since you aren't a customer, then you're after something, or somebody."
"Somebody," McCade answered evenly, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "And I need your help."
"I owe you my life," Cy said simply. "If I can help you, I will."
McCade smiled. "Maybe you lost your body, Cy, but you've still got lots of guts. I'm trying to find someone who disappeared about two years ago. Here's what he looked like back then." McCade unzipped a pocket, and pulled out the vidfax of Alexander which Swanson-Pierce had supplied.
Cy extruded an articulated metal arm. He took the vidfax with his three-fingered hand, and held it up in front of a vid pickup. McCade searched for any sign of recognition. After all, Alexander's likeness had appeared on every vidcast in the Empire countless times before and after his disappearance. But either Cy didn't recognize him, or he did, and carefully concealed it. As he handed the vidfax back McCade wished Cy had a face. How the hell can you tell what a metal ball's thinking anyway? Talk about a poker face . . ..
"This is the friend you mentioned . . . the one who played Destiny?"
McCade nodded. "I'm trying to find him."
Cy bobbed his understanding. "As I explained earlier your friend could be anywhere, depending on how his game went. If he won, then perhaps he chooses to be elusive. If he lost . . . then who knows. But Joyo maintains an extensive data bank on all his customers. Since many come back again and again, the records help him keep track of what they like, what they don't, and how to maximize his take without driving them away. Anyway . . . if I'm very careful, I might be able to access his central computer."
"I was hoping for something like that," McCade admitted. "Have you got any storage compartments?"
There was a soft whirring noise as a small hatch slid aside to reveal a tiny recess in Cy's metal body. McCade reached into a pocket and pulled out the wad of expense money Walt had given him. Splitting it in two, he stuffed half into Cy's storage compartment. "There's no telling how things will go . . . so here's a little something to tide you over. If you're careful it should solve your DC problem for quite a while."
For a moment neither said anything. Finally Cy broke the silence. "This is very dangerous, Sam. Be careful what you say to Silk, she belongs to Royo mind and body. And he doesn't like people poking into his affairs."
"Thanks, Cy. I will. And the same to you. Don't take any unnecessary chances."
Cy bobbed in the affirmative. "I won't. Watch for me, Sam . . . I'll find you." And with that he was gone, sailing across the room toward the distant tunnel.
"Come."
McCade turned to find the bartender had returned. Stubbing out his cigar in an ashtray, he stood and said, "After you, gabby."
The Cellite scowled, and did an abrupt about-face. McCade grinned, and followed the huge humanoid toward the far wall. As they approached, the bartender stopped and pointed to a curtained doorway. "In."
"Somehow I knew you were going to say that," McCade said, shaking his head in disappointment. The bartender scowled even harder as he stepped aside and motioned for McCade to enter. As he stepped through the curtained entranceway, McCade saw a luxuriously furnished office, and the woman called Silk. She was sitting on the corner of a large desk. The same beautiful face, blue hair, red lips, and long straight nose. And in spite of her somewhat androgynous look, there was no longer any question of her sex. Her red silk gown managed to both reveal and conceal a spectacular female body. Unfortunately she wasn't alone. A cadaverous-looking man, dressed entirely in black, sat behind the desk, smiling a thin smile. Jerome Joyo. And on either side of him there stood a Cellite bodyguard, their huge hands dwarfing the blasters which were pointed in McCade's direction. The thin man spoke first.
"Welcome, Citizen Lane, or whatever your real name is. You are in very deep trouble."
Cy was scared. No, on second thought, he was terrified. For the last ten minutes he'd hovered in front of the open air vent, trying to work up enough courage to enter. He'd already unscrewed the grille and swung it out of the way. Now all he had to do was enter, find his way through the complex maze of ducts to Joyo's computer center, plug in, and run a highspeed data search. Not an easy task, but not all that hard either, except for the crawlies. They scared the hell out of him, and for a very good reason. If they found him in the ducts, they'd kill him. That was their job. Joyo was not a stupid man. He'd forseen that the air-conditioning ducts could be used against him. In fact, he used them himself. Cy knew, because on more than one occasion, he'd been sent into the ducts to spy on customers. For hours on end he'd waited by vents, forcing himself to listen to their boring talk, waiting for that one gem of information for which Joyo would pay. Joyo said it was cheaper than bugging all the rooms. But that was different. The crawlies had always been deactivated for his benefit. Now, however, they would be very much alive, just waiting for him.
Crawlies were rectangular in shape, and were designed so that they fit snugly inside the endless ducts supplying Joyo's Roid with warm and cool air. All four sides of their boxy bodies were equipped with traction drives, which enabled them to crawl through the ducts, and explained their name. Hollow in the middle, so they wouldn't obstruct the free flow of air through the system, crawlies were governed by a microcomputer so primitive, so simple, it was almost retarded by the normal standards of robotics. How much intelligence does it take to sense unusual amounts of heat, noise, or movement, and fire a battery of low-power lasers? Crawlies were equipped with low-power lasers so they wouldn't damage the ducts, but low power or not, they'd cook Cy in seconds.
Still, Cy thought to himself, trying to push the fear down and back, I'm smarter than they are, and that's an advantage. Plus I'm smaller, faster, and more maneuverable. He felt the fear retreat a ways, crouching like an animal in its lair, watching and waiting to see what he'd do. And there's one more thing, damnit! he thought defiantly. Sam said I've got guts. Machines don't have guts. Maybe I'm locked up in this tin can body, but by Sol I'm still a man! And with that he entered the duct, extruded an arm to pull the grille closed behind him, and squirted himself into the darkness. Let the crawlies come . . .. He'd show 'em a thing or two!
An hour later, he was still moving, but with a good deal less bravado. He sensed an intersection up ahead. As always he approached it with great care. He'd already dumped all but essential systems to minimize heat. His infrared and audio sensors were cranked up to max, and he was using his sonar to gently probe ahead. What was that? A noise. Inside the duct or out? Sometimes it was hard to tell. Nothing on sonar. Inside. Definitely inside. A slight grating of metal against metal, like a traction drive with a worn bearing, or a poorly adjusted servo. Oh, shit . . . it was just ahead . . . coming toward the intersection just like he was. Which duct? Well, it wasn't in his, so that left three possibilities. Should he just stop and hope for the best? Or should he attack? Attack? How the hell could he attack? The Sol-damned things had lasers and he didn't have shit. Oh, wait a minute . . . lasers . . . they literally cut both ways. If he could just work fast enough . . ..
Frantically he extruded three articulated arms, and went to work on his own metal housing, swearing when one screw refused to budge, then giving thanks as it finally came free. A distant part of his mind kept nagging him, pointing out he was making enough noise to raise the dead, reminding him the crawlie would reach the intersection in seconds. Then it would zap him, and a few days later the smell of his rotting brain would offend some guest, and they'd send in a maintenance bot to find him, and throw him in the recycler.
As half his housing came free, he spun it around, and sensed the flare of heat as the lasers hit. But there was no hot searing agony. No plunge into the darkness of death. Only an incandescent flash of light as the crawlie took the reflected laser blast, and died. It worked! The concave surface of his shiny metal housing had served to concentrate and reflect the lasers, turning them back against their source.
At first he couldn't believe it, and then suddenly he did, giving a whoop of joy, which scared the hell out of a couple making love in a nearby room. Pushing his way down the duct, Cy located the dead crawlie, and spent a moment gloating over his victory. Then, just as he was about to continue his journey, he remembered something. Quickly probing and touching, he found the crawlie's power pak, checked it for damage, and chuckled when he found none. Ten minutes later he'd jury-rigged a connector, plugged in, and was happily draining delicious DC from the robot's storage cell. It took some time to suck up all the crawlie's power, but eventually the task was complete, and thus refreshed, Cy continued happily on his way. Now he moved with some speed, pushing his homemade laser reflector in front of him, almost daring crawlies to attack him. One did, and quickly suffered the same fate as its predecessor. This time Cy was forced to leave the corpse only partially drained, since his own storage capacity was up to max. Great Sol, it felt good!
He was close to the computer center now . . . so all he had to do . . . Then his thoughts were shattered, as someone slammed a grille against a wall up ahead, and he heard the sound of male voices. "Shit, I don't know, Vern . . . I mean how the hell would I know what trashed the crawlies? Meg told me one went off her board, and then another one croaked too. And like she says, two in one day's no accident. Somethun's in the vents. But whatever it is ain't gonna last long. Not after the snake finds 'em. Ain't that right, snaky?"
Snaky? Cy wondered. What the hell was a snaky? He'd never heard of such a thing. Up ahead there was a metallic slithering. Suddenly Cy had a feeling he'd get to meet snaky real soon.
The Cellite hit McCade with a massive open-handed blow. Pain rolled over the considerable pain he already felt. And when he hit the wall, the impact created a whole new wave of pain, which rolled over all those which had gone before. As he slid down the wall to the floor, he could detect distinct layers of pain, sort of like an archaeologist digging down through layers of artifact-laden soil, each telling its own special story.
"Why don't you just tell us what you're doing here?" Joyo asked reasonably. "It would save you so much pain."
From his vantage point on the floor McCade could see a certain logic to the suggestion. After all pain hurt, and hurting was bad, so anything that stopped the hurting was good. No wait a minute, telling was bad, so hurting was good. Oh, to hell with it, throwing up was good, so he'd do that. By expending a little extra effort, he managed to do it on Joyo's shiny boots. He watched dully as the boot went far away, and then came straight at him with incredible speed. The resulting darkness felt good.
The snake was about six feet long. Where a real snake's head would normally be, the robosnake had a bulbous housing containing sensors and weapons. Its brain, a micro-computer only marginally more intelligent than those issued to crawlies, was located in its tail, its designer having concluded this would be a safer place for it.
Cy, however, was in no mood to appreciate the subtlety of the robosnake's design. He just wanted to kill it, and do so as quickly and simply as possible. But how? Well, first he'd try the laser trick. It had worked on the crawlies, so maybe it would work on robosnakes too. He made a little noise, and waited for the lasers to hit. Nothing. Just more metallic slithering. Faster now that the snake had a target.