Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 (13 page)

 
          
 
"It will be available."

 
          
 
"Yes. Because I will be there."

 
          
 
I rejected several possible retorts as we
swept along, then, "Why?" I said. "Mind telling me why?"

 
          
 
"Because," she said, without
hesitation, "I have never been involved in anything exciting before. All
my life I have wanted to, but nothing ever happened. I was beginning to believe
that nothing ever would. Then you appeared while I was sitting there knowing I
was going to lose another stupid job. As soon as I heard the phones ringing and
saw you running, I knew this was going to be something different. It almost
seemed fated. The peculiar way the bells seemed to pursue you . . . your
dramatic collapse—almost at my feet ... It was very exciting. I have to know how
it all turns out, you see."

 
          
 
"I'll call you when it's all over and let
you know."

 
          
 
"I am afraid that will not be
sufficient," she said.

 
          
 
"It will have to do."

 
          
 
She simply shook her head and turned away.

 
          
 
"We have to change at this intersection,"
she said, after a few moments, "if we are going to the jackpole."

 
          
 
"I know."

 
          
 
We transferred to the other belt, and the
traffic was somewhat heavier. I was unable to tell whether we were being
followed at that time.

 
          
 
"I imagine you are now trying to figure
the best way to get rid of me."

 
          
 
"That is corrects

 
          
 
"Give up," she said. "I am not
going to go away."

 
          
 
“You have no knowledge of the situation into
which you are trying to force your way," I said, "and I am not about
to enlighten you. I have already told you that it is dangerous. Anyone who
rushes toward an unknown peril simply to satisfy a desire for excitement is a
fool. I begin to understand why you cannot hold a job."

 
          
 
"You cannot insult me into going
away."

 
          
 
"You are a fool!"

 
          
 
"Have it your way," she said,
"but I have a right to use public transportation the same as anyone else.
I have already decided where I am going, so you might as well be graceful about
it."

 
          
 
"It strikes me as in a category with
accident-watching."

 
          
 
"My intention is to do more than watch,
if necessary."

 
          
 
"I shan't argue with you any
further," I said. "But how do you know I am not depraved, psychotic,
criminal or any of a number of other undesirable things?"

 
          
 
"It does not matter," she said,
"since I have already chosen sides."

 
          
 
"That says something about your own
stability."

 
          
 
"I suppose it does. But why should it
matter to you, if I don't mind your being all those things?"

 
          
 
"Never mind. Forget it."

 
          
 
I watched the jackpole for a time. Overhead, a
crane ground by, bearing a massive load of office furniture. In a pit to our
right, the darkness was smeared away by the bright tongue of a welder,
repairing or replacing a conduit. Faintly, very faintly, and but briefly, I
heard some strains of music. Far ahead now, a geometrically disciplined
parklike area came into view at the base of the jackpole. It was not overly
lit, there was a statue of somebody or other at the near end and benches here
and there along the walks. As we drew nearer, I saw that the trees were
natural, not artificial, and there seemed to be a fountain toward the rear.

 
          
 
"It reminds me of something out of
Wolfe," Glenda said, looking in the same direction, and I became more
Hinkley than anything else, almost without realizing it.

 
          
 
"Yes," I found myself saying.
"He got a lot of mileage out of the town square, didn't he?"

 
          
 
"This one could use a city hall and a
courthouse with a big clock on it."

 
          
 
"There is a clock above the entrance to
the jackpole."

 
          
 
"Yes, but it is silent and always has the
right time."

 
          
 
“That's true. No bird droppings either."

 
          
 
"Could use a stonemason's shop,
too."

 
          
 
"But not the tombstones."

 
          
 
“True."

 
          
 
I wondered then about real squares back on the
Earth. Did the strange Mr. Black really remember such things, or had he simply
been killing time before he killed me? Since I had no such recollections on
which to base any nostalgia, I could only blame my feelings on Hinkley's
preoccupations: he was a romantic, an armchair time-traveler, a naturalist in a
place that was all out of nature. Sad. And that was how I felt for several
moments. About Hinkley, squares, everything.

 
          
 
"You read a lot," I said.

 
          
 
She nodded.

 
          
 
We disembarked at the park and walked into it.
Periodically, hidden speakers released recorded bird-notes from within the
bushes and trees. The peculiar smell of moist earth came to our nostrils. I
directed our route around the jackpole, where we passed beside the small,
sparkling fountain. Glenda dipped her fingers.

 
          
 
"What are we doing?" she asked, as
we completed our circuit of the pole and headed back in the direction from
which we had come.

 
          
 
"Biding a bit," I said, as I eased
myself onto a bench and stared back along the walk toward the beltway.

 
          
 
She settled herself beside me, followed the
direction of my gaze.

 
          
 
"I see," she said.

 
          
 
"While we are biding, you might tell me
something about yourself," I said.

 
          
 
"What do you want to know?"

 
          
 
"Anything. Free-associate for me."

 
          
 
"Will you return the favor?"

 
          
 
"Maybe. Why? Is that a condition?"

 
          
 
"It would be nice."

 
          
 
"I will see what I can think of to say
while you are talking."

 
          
 
"I am twenty-two years old," she
said. "I was born in this Wing. I grew up in the Classroom. My father was
a teacher and my mother was an artist—a painter. They are both dead now, and I
live in the Library. I—"

 
          
 
I gripped her arm.

 
          
 
"That's him?" she said, studying the
figure which had just come into view on the beltway. "The enemy you
flee?"

 
          
 
"I cannot be sure," I said.
"But I am going to operate under the assumption that it is. Come on."

 
          
 
We returned to the far side of the pole and
entered there.

 
          
 
"You could just be doing this to keep
from talking about yourself," she said.

 
          
 
"I could, but I am not."

 
          
 
We began the descent, augmenting our speed by
walking rapidly down the gyre. Running to get away, then waiting for the
pursuit to catch up could prove self-defeating if I continued the practice any
further. It was not my intention, however. I had wanted to establish something,
and I believed that I just had.

 
          
 
If it were the same man, it seemed to me that
he would have been following at too great a distance to maintain visual contact
for the whole junket from the Living Room. While he might be good at
anticipating me, the ability was hardly a thing in which to invest complete
confidence. Since his hand had already been exposed and it seemed fairly
certain that he was out for blood, it would seem to follow that he had some
means of tracking me which I had not so far considered.

 
          
 
How could he have planted a transmitter on me?

 
          
 
The answer was not long in coming, although it
was of no immediate use. My present clothing had hung in a locker, unattended,
while I was on the bandstand. It would not have been overly difficult to get to
it and insert something that would broadcast my whereabouts when I left.

 
          
 
It could be microscopic, though, and situated
anywhere. Locating it could be quite an undertaking. Unfortunately, the
alternative of discarding my garments would not serve to make me less conspicuous
in this Wing.

 
          
 
I was glad that I had taken the time to test
him though. If I had not, I would be leading him toward my jumping-off place,
even if I appeared to lose him. TTbat would never do.

 
          
 
We rode all the way down, to the Basement, and
my plan was already in pretty good focus by the time we reached it.

           
 
Save for maintenance people, the Basement was
pretty much unfrequented. But it was a wilderness of machinery—reactors,
generators, circulators, conditioners, pumps, computers, transformers, indicator
panels—half-hidden in a jungle of pipes and cables, service belts every few
yards, metal stairways that seemed to lead nowhere, flimsy platforms that
vibrated when you mounted them, a maze of catwalks at every level, gantries,
cranes, the smells of grease and burnt insulation, an unremitting hum, rush,
whirr and crackle arising from it and the blue presence of electricity
everywhere.

 
          
 
... All of which offered plenty of physical
cover, as well as possible interference for whatever broadcast device I might
be wearing.

 
          
 
I stood for a moment and took my bearings.
Although I could make out a couple of distant jackpoles, it was a subway
exchange that I wanted. I located signs indicating the way to the nearest and
headed toward the belt leading in that direction. My intention was to skip from
Wing to Wing until I hit a station offering immediate transport to the Room I
wanted, whatever the Wing, and then move directly to Go, without stopping,
without collecting two hundred dollars, cursing the whole damned game the
while. If my man could track me through interstellar space perhaps he deserved
to win. I had strong doubts concerning his capability along these lines,
however.