Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 (10 page)

 
          
 
When I switched to another belt, moving at
right angles to the one I had ridden. I glanced back. There was a figure,
several hundred yards to the rear, which had not been present when I had
mounted the conveyance. I waited perhaps two minutes and looked again. He had
switched also, was still there. In fact, he was nearer now, as he was walking
on the belt.

 
          
 
I waited several moments and began walking
myself. Most likely, he was quite innocent, but I considered no precaution
unwarranted at that moment. I changed again at the next intersection, but
refrained from looking back. I saw that we were headed toward a somewhat
crowded area.

 
          
 
As we passed through that section of the
Living Room, I stepped down beside a group of sofas, took a few paces and
glanced back again.

 
          
 
Yes, he was on this belt now, and he was
looking at me.

 
          
 
I turned, folded my arms across my breast and
stared back at him. There were dozens of people about me, talking to one
another, reading, munching snacks, playing cards. I felt quite secure in their
presence. He must have thought I was, too, if he meant me harm, for he
immediately looked away and continued on by. I felt a small satisfaction in
watching him pass, a tribute to my alertness and ingenuity. This vanished as
soon as I began to uncross my arms, when I realized that I had unconsciously
parted the seam of my jacket beneath my left armpit and was fingering the
nonmetallic tranquilizer gun we all carried there. Then the fear was there,
full force, as I realized it had never, really, left me. Emotionally chastened,
and stoking my anger in hope of sparking some courage to flame, I moved forward
and remounted the belt

 
          
 
I could still see the man, up ahead. I had
gotten a fairly good look at him, what there was to see. He had shoulder-length
brown hair and a slightly darker beard. He wore blue mirror-glasses, a matching
jacket and white, knee-length trousers.

 
          
 
A flash of blue, as he glanced back ...

 
          
 
I began walking toward him, my heart pumping
heavily. It was suddenly very important to me—more important than my fear,
even—that I obtain his reaction.

 
          
 
He turned away, stood still for perhaps half a
minute, then looked back again. I had kept walking, continuing to close the
distance between us. The second time he looked back, I raised my right hand and
slipped it inside my jacket in the fiction-honored fashion of a man reaching
after a deadly weapon.

 
          
 
He moved quickly then, stepping down from the
belt and darting behind a partition that projected out near to its edge. It was
only then that I noticed his limp. I had not detected it when he had been
walking straight toward me, but he tended to favor his left leg.

 
          
 
I got off the belt immediately. It would not
do to let it carry me right past him if he were armed himself. I hurried to my
right, heading toward a different partition. So far as I was concerned at the
moment, the fact that he had fled was sufficient to establish that he harbored
nasty intentions toward me.

 
          
 
Slipping along the partition, I worked my way
back and in, cutting through an empty alcove and moving behind another
partition that formed one wall of a corridor that bore off to my left—his
direction—and dead-ended into a three-walled section containing four sofas,
miscellaneous chairs and tables and a crackling fireplace. I dashed across its
width and ventured a quick look around the near corner.

 
          
 
There was no one in sight.

 
          
 
I could see into several deserted sections
before my view was blocked by more partitioning perhaps a hundred and fifty
feet ahead. There were five or six crannies and chambers into which I could not
see, however.

 
          
 
Cautiously, I advanced, drawing my gun and
palming it now. In the space of four or five minutes, I had worked my way
through, discovering no one. A couple more minutes, and I was into the area
where the man had fled, searching it carefully.

 
          
 
He did not seem to be about. He had had time
to slip off in any of several directions. I felt quite uncomfortable as I stood
there, considering it. He might be circling, slipping up behind me, lying in
ambush. The thought occurred to me that there might even be more than one
person involved, that perhaps I was supposed to see this fellow while
another...

 
          
 
The safest thing for me to do, I decided, was
to get out of there as quickly as possible, confuse any pursuit and beat it to
Wing Null.

 
          
 
I worked my way back to the belt, waited until
it bore a group of passengers abreast of me and climbed on, moving immediately
to a position in their midst. I received some foul glances and fishy stares
from passengers I pushed by and elbowed aside, but that was all I got as we
slid on through the area. I was a near-impossible target where I stood.

 
          
 
"... You are very rude," a husky,
redheaded woman with blue eye makeup was saying.

 
          
 
I nodded my agreement and kept watching the
furnishings and people we passed. The man was nowhere in sight.

 
          
 
About half a mile farther along, we came to an
intersection and I switched over, heading off to the left. The people I had
used for shields continued on, sending a few remarks after me. They had all
been together, apparently—a party coming or going somewhere.

 
          
 
Traffic was heavier on the new belt, and
before too long it bore me to a two-way, multilane beltway. Crowds of people,
staler air and an increased sound level enfolded me. I got into its fastest
lane and rode for several minutes. Then I began switching again, following
signs to the nearest jackpole.

 
          
 
It was a down tube, transparent, echoing,
forever screwing itself into the House. A small boy came rushing upward,
laughing and looking back over his shoulder. I reached out and seized his arm.
He attempted to pull away, then turned and glared at me. A moment later, a
woman—presumably his mother—came puffing upward, red-faced and looking even
meaner. She slapped him and took hold of his other arm.

 
          
 
"I told youl" she said. "I told
you never to do thatl"

 
          
 
Then she looked at me,

 
          
 
“Thank you," she said, "for stopping
him. I don't know why they like to run up the down ones and down the up ones.**

 
          
 
I smiled.

 
          
 
"Neither do I," I said, releasing my
grip somewhat reluctantly.

 
          
 
They got off at the next level, Kitchen, and
while she was saying, "Wait till I get you home!" the boy turned
around and stuck his tongue out at me.

 
          
 
I tried to think what it must be like, to be a
child, to have parents.

 
          
 
I continued on down to the next level, the
Recreation Room, disembarked there and found a fast belt through the playing
area. Every team sport I could think of seemed to be in progress somewhere in
the field section. For a time, the beltway was elevated, and I could see for
miles in all directions. Balls were hit, kicked, thrown, caught, dribbled, run
with, on fields and courts, over nets, against walls, into cages. Banks of
spectators cheered and stamped their feet; wide, towering boards flashed
scores; overhead speakers emitted decisions and static. The ceiling was light
blue, a pleasant, somehow appropriate color. At the moment, I could detect no
crane activity upon that peaceful, gridded surface. Swimming pools glimmered,
cast dancing ghosts on towers and stands. Air currents bearing smells of sweat
and liniment swept by, seeking ventilation units into which they might retreat
to cleanse themselves.

 
          
 
The belt was fairly crowded, so it was
impossible for me to tell whether I was being followed. I began switching down
to smaller and smaller beltlines, heading in the general direction of a dimmed
area. Traffic fell off as I came upon long rows of tables featuring more
sedentary pastimes. Small groups and solitary players sat at cards and board
games. Some competed against themselves, some against machines, their luck,
skill, knowledge taxed to whatever degree they desired. Dice fell, wheels spun,
cards were shuffled and dealt, counters pushed about; pieces advanced,
retreated, jumped, captured, were captured themselves; numbers were called out,
bids were made, tricks taken; people bluffed, attacked, sought wins, points,
stalemates, proceeded directly to Go without collecting two hundred dollars,
some money often changing hands beneath the table. I am not much of a gamester
myself.

 
          
 
The blue was beginning to darken overhead, the
voices diminishing, when I heard a shrill, ringing sound: a phone in a callbox
at the near end of a deserted aisle. A strange feeling, that: hearing it and
seeing it there with nobody around to answer.

 
          
 
There was a jackpole deep in the dimmed area,
glowing beads marking its crystal spiral. I transferred again, onto an empty,
one-lane belt. There was a weak light every hundred yards or so, and
maintenance machines bumped and hummed in the gloom on either side of me. I
kept looking back over my shoulder to see whether anyone else had come onto the
belt. No one had.

 
          
 
A moment or two later, and I came to another
intersection, decided to switch again. The juncture-point was completely
deserted. Motes of dust, disturbed by the cleaning machines, swirled in the
yellowish light of the lamp on the corner tower. As I passed there, I heard the
ringing once more. Another phone, in a recess at the tower's base, had
commenced to jangle. I could hear its persistent summons for a long way down
the line. It was sort of sad, the effort to reach someone who just wasn't
there, or the trying in the wrong place—whichever it was.

 
          
 
I passed an empty polo field, the mechanical
horses standing like a row of depressed statues. The dark surfaces of pools
buckled constantly, like memories. Opened to the floor, gray sacks bulging and
swaying above, mouths on rollers moved among lockers and gaming tables,
consuming refuse. An ambulance rose from some distant bay or playing field and
sped through the twilit air, red cross aglow. I slid by a couple embracing in
an alcove. I would not even have noticed them if they had not moved suddenly
when they became aware of me. They averted their faces. So did I. Then I passed
a partition on which a painted "STARS" had not been completely
obliterated. Checking behind me, I saw that I was still alone on the belt

 
          
 
I switched again, bridged over a series of
exposed conduits, got down and walked for two blocks to shortcut my way to a
belt that headed straight for the jackpole. The area was very silent and
virtually deserted. A few individuals advanced toward the pole from various
directions, though none were emerging from it at the moment. Three men loafed
about a candy and periodical stand nearby, and I had a feeling that I could
replace Lange's photos there—or lay a bet, or make certain other unauthorized purchases.

 
          
 
A draft of warm air struck me as I entered the
glowing tube and descended. I was probably all right now, had doubtless been
quite safe since I had departed the Living Room. Nevertheless, considering its
destination, I was determined to make a thorough job of my flight. To my
knowledge, there had never been a question of pursuit when any of us had
retreated to Wing Null before.

 
          
 
I emerged at the next level into a section of
the Office that was just closing operations. The sight of all those people
getting ready to call it a day reminded me just how tired I had grown. For a
moment, I debated continuing down to another level to avoid the rush. But
mingling with a crowd would help obscure my trail that much more, so I decided
to go ahead.