Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 Read online

  I ate in a small, brightly lit cafeteria. I was very hungry, but after the first minute or so the food became tasteless and its chewing and swallowing mechanical. I kept glancing at the other diners. Unbidden, the thought came into my mind: Could it be one of them? What does a murderer look like?

  Anybody. It could be anybody . •. anybody with a motive and a capacity for violence, neither of which appears on a person's face. My inability to think of anyone possessing these qualities did not alter the fact that they had been exercised a few hours earlier.

  My appetite vanished.

  Anybody.

  It was a hell of a time to go paranoid, but I felt the sudden need to move again, to get away. Everything about me had assumed a sinister aspect. The casual gestures and glances of the other diners grew menacing. I felt my muscles tense as a fat man with a tray passed behind me. I knew that if he bumped my chair or brushed against me I would leap to my feet, screaming.

  As soon as the aisle was clear I got up. It was all I could do to keep from running as I headed back to the beltway. Then I simply rode for a time, mindlessly, not wanting to be in a crowd, but not wanting to be alone either. I heard myself cursing softly.

  There was of course a place where there would be people, where I could be unafraid. I felt fairly certain of that. There was an easy way to find out, but my mood might be communicable and I wanted to keep it to myself until it went away. The easiest thing to do was simply to go there—to the scene of the murder.

  I decided that I wanted a drink first. But I was not about to order one in this Wing. Why? Again the irrational. I had been discomfitted in my own chambers.

  I followed the overheads, belting to the nearest subway station.

  Finally, I saw in the distance the towering wall with its changing pattern of lighted numbers and letters. I disembarked at the station and studied the departures. A small number of people trickled through the incoming gates and others stood about or sat in the bleachers, keeping an eye on the board. Studying the thing, I learned that Gate 11 would take me to the Cocktail Lounge of Wing 19 in six minutes. I entered the cage at 11—there was no line—and presented my card for scanning. There came a humming followed by a click, after which the meshed door in the rear opened.

  I passed through and headed up the ramp to the waiting area by the Gate. There were three men and a girl there. The girl had on a nurse's uniform. One of the men—an old codger in a power chair—might have been in her care, though she was standing quite a distance from him. He gave me a brief, sharp look and a faint smile, as though he might be interested in striking up a conversation. I glanced away, still feeling antisocial, and moved to a position far to his left and forward. Of the other two men, one stood near the Gate, his face partly hidden by the paper he was reading, and the other paced, briefcase in hand, his eyes on the clock.

  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 port
raits, 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."

  “What is that?"

  "I would like to buy a drink."

  I gestured at the table.

  "Go ahead. The unit is underneath."

  He shook his head.

  "You don't understand. I can't do it. Directly, that is."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Doctor's orders. My account is flagged. If I stick my card in that machine and ask for a drink, Central will order it not to sell me one when it runs the automatic credit check."

  "I see."

  "But I'm not broke. I mean, I have cash. Only, that thing has no use for cash. Now what I had in mind was this: If I could find someone who would buy me a drink on his card, I could reimburse him in cash—hell! I'd even buy him a drink, too!—and there would be no real record of my having done it."

  "I don't know," I said. "If your doctor does not want you drinking, I'm not sure that I want to be responsible for something that might not be good for you."

  He nodded.

  "Oh, the doctor's right," he said. "I'm hardly the picture of health. Just look at me and you can tell that. It's no fun being in the shape I'm in. They keep me alive, but I'd hardly call it living. A little physical discomfort tomorrow is not too high a price for a stiff bourbon on the rocks. It won't kill me." He shrugged. "And even if it would, it would not matter to anyone. What do you say?"

  I nodded.

  "It's not illegal," I said, "and you are the only real judge of what is important to you."

  I inserted my card in the slot.

  "Make it a double," he said.

  I did, and when I passed it to him he took a long, slow sip and sighed. Then he set the glass down, fumbled inside his jacket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes.

  "I'm not supposed to have these either," he said, lighting one.

  We sat in silence for perhaps a minute, sorting out our private feelings, I guess. Strangely, I did not resent the intrusion on the solitude I had gone so far to achieve. I felt sorry for the old man, doubtless alone in the world, waiting around to die, finding pretexts to go off from whatever rest facility housed him and cadge an occasional drink, one of his few remaining pleasures. But it went beyond sympathy. There was animation, defiance, strength in his deeply lined face. His dark eyes were clear, his mottled hands steady. There was something comforting, almost familiar, about him. I was certain I had never met the man before, but our meeting here, this way, gave me an odd, irrational feeling that it had been somehow prearranged.

  "What have you got there?" he asked, and I saw the direction of his gaze. "Feelthy pictures?"

  My face grew warm.

  "Well—sort of," I said, and he chuckled.

  He reached halfway toward them, then met my eyes.

  "May I?" he asked.

  I nodded.

  He picked them up, leaned back with them. His shaggy brows dropped toward a squint and he cocked his head to one side. He stared for a long while, his lips pursed. Then he smiled and placed them back on the table.

  "Very good," he said. "Very good pictures." Then his voice changed. "See Earth and then die."

  "I do not understand ..."

  "It is an old saying that I just made up. 'See Venice and die.' 'See Naples and die.' 'May you die in Ireland.' Many places once took such pride in themselves that they considered a visit there to be
the greatest thing in anyone's life. At my age, one can be a bit more cosmopolitan. Thanks for letting me see the pictures." His voice hardened. "They brought back many memories. A few of them were even happy ones."

  He took a large swallow of his drink and I stared at him, fascinated. He seemed to grow larger, he sat more erect.

  It was not possible, though. It simply was not possible. But I had to ask him.

  "Just how old are you, Mr. Black?"

  Part of his mouth grinned as he snubbed out his cigarette.

  "There are too many ways to answer your question," he said. "But I see what you are really asking. Yes, I have seen the Earth—actually, not just in pictures. I remember what things were like, before the House was built."

  "No," I said. "That is physically impossible."

  He shrugged, then sighed.

  "Perhaps you are right, Lange," he said. He raised his glass and drained it. "It does not matter."

  I finished my own drink, setting the glass down beside the photos.

  "How is it that you know my name?" I asked him.

  Reaching into his pocket, he said, "I owe you something."

  But it was not money that he withdrew.

  "See the Earth," he said, and, "A rivederci"

  I felt the bullet enter my heart.

  2

  How—?

  The music was swirling all about me, pumping, throbbing, and the lights were changing color faster and faster. Then it was time for me to come in on the clarinet. I managed it. Shakily, but sufficiently.

  Before too long there was applause. Weak-kneed, I got through the bows. Then the bandstand darkened and I followed the others down.

  As we moved around back, Martin's hand fell on my shoulder. He was the leader, stocky going to fat, three-quarters bald, heavy pouches under his pale, watery eyes. A very good trombone player and a nice guy, too.