Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 (8 page)

 
          
 
When the red active light came on, accompanied
by a buzzing sound, I waited for the others to pass through before I moved
toward the Gate.

 
          
 
I submitted my card for rescanning and moved
through the entranceway. As I entered the subway, I could hear a faint
crackling all about me and the smell of ozone came into my nostrils. A hundred
or so yards of metal-lined tunnel lay ahead of me, faintly illuminated by dirty
overhead glow-plates. A haphazard array of advertisements and graffiti covered
the walls, random bits of litter dotted the floor.

 
          
 
Halfway along the tunnel, a short, swart man
stood reading a poster, hands clasped behind his back, mouth working around a
toothpick. He turned and grinned at me as I approached.

 
          
 
I edged my way over to the left, but he headed
toward me then, still grinning. As he drew near, I halted and folded my arms
across my chest, the fingertips of my right hand separating the mag-bound seam
of my jacket beneath my left armpit and coming into contact with the tiny butt
of the tranquilizer pistol I carried there.

 
          
 
His grin became more conspiratorial, and he
nodded it, saying, "Pictures."

 
          
 
Before I could respond, he had drawn open his
jacket and was reaching inside. I relaxed, for I saw that he was not going for
a weapon, but did indeed have a sheaf of photos sticking up out of an inside
pocket. He withdrew them and took a step nearer, shuffling them slowly.

 
          
 
Anywhere else, some other time, and I might
have arrested him or told him to get lost, depending on my mood. But there, in
the territory-less way through subspace, the question of jurisdiction was
always tricky. It would be especially complicated if he had been waiting around
through several shiftings, as I suspected he had. Also, I was off duty and all
out of professional feelings at the moment. I moved to the right, to go around
him.

 
          
 
He clutched at my arm and thrust his pictures
before me.

 
          
 
"How about that?** he asked.

 
          
 
I glanced down. My mood must have been even
more pathological than I had estimated, for I kept looking as he played slowly
through his glossies.

 
          
 
For reasons I did not attempt to analyze, I
found myself fascinated by the display, though I had seen all of them in some
variation or other countless times in the past.

 
          
 
There were three deep-space shots of the
Earth, one each of the other planets, perhaps a dozen of planets in other solar
systems and a score of star groups. I was strangely moved by them, and slightly
irritated with myself for feeling that way.

 
          
 
"Nice, huh?" he said.

 
          
 
I nodded.

 
          
 
"Fifty," he said. "You can have
the whole lot for fifty dollars."

 
          
 
"Are you crazy7" I said.
"That's too much."

 
          
 
“They are very good pictures."

 
          
 
"Yes, they are," I said. "But
they are not worth that much to me. Besides, I don't have fifty."

 
          
 
"You can have any six for
twenty-five."

 
          
 
"No."

 
          
 
I could simply have said I never carried cash
and ended things right there. Theoretically, there was no need for cash, since
my i.d. card was also good for charging anything against my personal account,
the balance of which was instantly verifiable. But everyone, of course, carries
some cash, for purchases he does not wish recorded. I could also have told him
to go to hell and kept walking.

 
          
 
All right, I was stalling for some reason. The
reason must be that I was attracted by the photos. In the interest of dealing
with my post-death trauma as expeditiously as possible, I decided to humor my
neuroses and buy a couple.

 
          
 
I selected a crisp, clean shot of the Earth
and one of the black and bright sprawl of the Milky Way. I gave him two dollars
apiece for them, tucked them away near my pistol and left him there with his
toothpick and his grin.

 
          
 
A few moments later I stepped into the
Cocktail Lounge in Wing 19.

 
          
 
I moved down the ramp and out of the station.
I mounted the beltway. It was always evening here, and I found it comfortable
for that reason. The ceiling was invisible in the darkness, and the little
areas of light were like campfires in a vast field. I remained on the slow belt
and had it pretty much to myself. The four who had preceded me through the Gate
were nowhere in sight. I transferred several times, making my way toward one of
the darker areas, far in toward the left. I passed among the carefully
contrived nooks and adyts, done up in all manner of motifs, some of them
occupied, many of them not. Here and there, I came upon a party and could
sometimes hear the strains of music and the sounds of laughter. Occasionally, I
glimpsed a couple, fingertips touching, heads close together above a small
table on which a tiny light flickered. Once I caught sight of a solitary
figure, leaning heavily on his table, drinking in the dark. I must have
proceeded for several miles before a satisfactory sense of seclusion enfolded
me and I stepped down to seek my own place.

 
          
 
I made my way among darkened tables, turned a
corner, crossed over a small bridge and passed through a cluster of fake palm
trees, moving quickly to escape the Polynesian decor. Several more turnings,
and I came to a surprising little place. Settling myself onto a chair with a
cross-stitch seat at the side of a small table, I leaned forward and turned on
the imitation oil lamp. Its soft, yellow light showed me armchairs with lace
antimacassars on their backs, an upright piano, a pair of expressionless
portraits, a shelf of expensively bound books. I had wandered into a Victorian
drawing room, and it struck me as just the mood-easer I needed, eminently solid
and secure.

 
          
 
I sought the ordering unit, located it beneath
the table. Inserting my card, I ordered a gin and tonic. As an afterthought, I
requested a cigar. A moment later, they arrived and I lifted the hatch and
brought them to the tabletop.

 
          
 
I took my first cool sip and lit the cigar.
Both of them tasted fine. I stopped thinking for a short while and simply sat
there wrapped in a pleasant feeling. Something finally stirred down at the
bottom of my mind, though, and I slipped my hand into my jacket and withdrew
the two photos. I placed them side by side on the tabletop and regarded them.

 
          
 
Again, the fascination and something strangely
like nostalgia for these unseen things ...

 
          
 
As I pondered the Earth and that great river
of stars, I attempted to analyze these feelings. Failing this, an uneasiness came
over me, rising to a near-certainty as to their origin.

 
          
 
Old Lange, my late senior •.. It had something
to do with him, the sacrificed part»..

 
          
 
But there was only one way to find out for
certain—an emergency procedure which I could not recall ever having been used.
Even though a terrible, frightening thing had happened to me, I did not see
that an exploration of my post-traumatic reactions to some pictures warranted
its employment. The dead were dead, and they were meant to remain so for very
good reasons. While the present situation was quite serious, I could not
conceive of any set of circumstances which would justify pulling pin seven—

 
          
 
My God! Like somebody I could not recall and
his piece of spongecake, there came a sudden remembrance. My crazy, dying
thought, smothered until that moment by the pain, the fear ... Pull pin seven
...

 
          
 
Why, I still had no idea.

 
          
 
There came no mocking chuckle, no delirious
schizophrenic reaction. And I would have welcomed even that right then, for I
felt completely alone with a fear so naked I could almost see the bones.

 
          
 
I was afraid of what it stood for, what it
meant. Even more than death, I feared pin seven.

 
          
 
Why did I have to be the oldest, be the nexus?
Why did the responsibility have to be mine?

 
          
 
I gulped my drink, not allowing myself to say,
"It is not fair." There was a quick, easy way to relieve my
aloneness, but this would not be fair to the others. No. I had to sweat and
figure this part out for myself. It was the only way. I cursed my weakness and
my fear, but knew there was no help for me this side of the black door. Damn
it!

 
          
 
I ordered another drink, sipping this one
slowly, and puffed on my cigar. I gazed at the pictures, trying to penetrate
their mystery by sheer eyeball power. Nothing. Attractive and verboten, nobody
alive remembered what was left of the Earth, and who the hell had ever seen a
star? Despite my age, I still felt somewhat guilty and self-conscious to be
sitting there staring at a picture of the place we had come from and its
galactic backdrop. However, my intentions were not prurient.

 
          
 
I thought that I heard a noise, but with all
the partitions and furnishings it was impossible to determine its direction.
Not that it really mattered, I suppose. There could be someone seated within a
few feet of me, neither of us aware of the other's existence. Though I
preferred the actuality, the illusion of solitude would be sufficient, I
supposed. I was not yet ready to get up and move on.

 
          
 
I listened to the ticking of the clock in its
glass case. I liked this little area; I would have to note down its coordinates
so that I could come again. I—

 
          
 
I heard the noise, unmistakable this time,
louder. Someone had bumped against a piece of furniture. But there was also a
background sound now, an underlying accompaniment that was soft and whirring,
mechanical. That was better. It meant that it was probably a robotic
cleaner-upper, in which case it would avoid a functioning area.

 
          
 
I took another sip, smiling faintly as I moved
my hand away from the photos. I had automatically covered them when I thought
that someone might be coming this way.

 
          
 
After several moments, I heard it again, very
clear, very near. Then he came into sight, rounding the corner at the far end
of the room. It was the old man in the power chair who had preceded me through
Gate 11. He nodded and smiled.

 
          
 
"Hello," he said, gliding forward.
"My name is Black. I saw you at the subway station—Dispensary, Wing
3."

 
          
 
I nodded.

 
          
 
"I saw you, too."

 
          
 
He chuckled as he drew up beside the table.

 
          
 
"When I saw you get off the belt here I
figured you were stopping for a drink." He glanced at my glass.

 
          
 
"I didn't see you on the belt."

 
          
 
"I was fairly far behind you. Anyway, I
find myself in a slightly awkward position, and I thought you might be willing
to help me."