His arms buckled under him when his fists cracked against a metal plate ten feet below; the whole weight of his body pressed his head into his throbbing shoulder, and his nose-bleed now threatened to choke him.
The echoes of his own bubbling, gasping breath filled the shaft, and he could hear nothing else. The damned android could be playing an accordion up there, he thought, and I couldn’t tell. He waited, while his twisted arm grew numb from lack of circulation and blood trickled up into his hair. How truly awful this is, he reflected.
When a good measure of time had passed, and he felt the android must certainly have returned to the alley, Thomas began to think dizzily about getting out of the chimney. No hope of climbing back out, he told himself—my arms are as numb as if they belonged to someone else. All I can move are my legs, and they only have a foot or two of space to twitch in.
Like an electric shock, claustrophobia seized every nerve of him. I can’t get out, his mind gibbered, I’ll die and rot jammed up in here, leant move. He began screaming and thrashing about as much as he could in the confined space; his head was being twisted even worse as more of his weight shifted onto it, but he wasn’t even aware. He was nothing now but a mindless, trapped, screaming animal, absolutely dominated by pure fear.
CHAPTER 10
“With This Memory Bank …”
Gladhand was unhappily sipping a glass of port in the greenroom when the screaming abruptly began. They were wild, ragged shrieks that suddenly disrupted the evening calm, and they seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Lambert and Jeff, pale and wild-eyed, leaped out of the chairs they’d been slouched in. “What the hell is that?” they both yelled at once.
“I don’t know!” shouted Gladhand, dabbing at the port he’d spilled on himself. “Go find out! Hurry!” The two young men ran out of the room as the screaming went on. Several terrified actors and actresses dashed by in the hallway.
Pat ran into the greenroom, her blouse dusted with brown powder and a big fear in her eyes. “Did you hear that?” she yelled.
“Yes,” Gladhand said, loudly to be heard over the shrieking.
“Thank God,” Pat gasped, and left the room.
Gladhand leaned back in his wheelchair, his hands clenched on the arms, and stared at the cracked ceiling until, an eternal, deafening four minutes later, the hoarse yells ceased. Slow footsteps sounded in the hall a minute or so later and then Jeff and Lambert edged into the greenroom, carrying between them a bleeding, shirtless wretch, shivering and powdered thickly with soot.
“Who is this?” Gladhand demanded.
“Rufus,” Lambert answered as he and Jeff laid the twitching body on the couch. “He was jammed upside-down in that little chimney behind the upstairs stove. Had to pull that old blower out of the wall to get him.”
“He apparently got hysterical in there,” Jeff added.
“Apparently. Rufus? Here, Jeff, give him some port. Lock the door, will you, Lambert?”
Jeff pried open Thomas’ jaws and poured a dribble of the fortified wine into his mouth. Thomas swallowed it. “More,” he croaked. Jeff obligingly tipped up the bottle and let Thomas drink as much as he cared to. Finally Thomas shivered, opened his eyes, and slowly sat up. His hair was matted with blood, and his face was wet with blood, tears and port. His arms and chest were everywhere cut and scraped, as if he’d fallen from a racing horse.
“Uh, hi,” he rasped hoarsely.
“Hi,” said Gladhand. “How in the devil’s own name did you wind up in the chimney?”
Thomas leaned his head back and sighed. “Spencer’s dead,” he whispered. Gladhand stiffened. “He apparently,” Thomas went on, “caught a sword in the belly. He was far gone when I found him. When he found me. He was waiting by the side of the road to tell me that the police… know who I am, and have the theatre staked out.”
“I don’t get it,” Lambert said. “Who are you?”
“Tell you later. Listen, now. Turned out to be true. Cops in the alley. I climbed up on top of the Castello Bank and then jumped across onto the roof here. One of ’em thought he heard something, and climbed up the fire escape to our roof. The stairway door was locked and he was about to step onto the roof, so I dove down the chimney.”
Gladhand picked up his own glass from the carpet and held it out for Jeff to refill. “Jeff,” he said, “go explain, to the android who will shortly be knocking at our door, that the screams he heard were part of the rehearsal. Uh … Celia’s grief at Rosalind’s exile, tell him.”
“I found a letter,” Thomas continued wearily, pulling the battered envelope out of his pocket and handling it to the theatre manager. “It was written ten years ago by Strogoff the android-maker, and he says that the assassination attempt of seventy-nine was successful, and that major-domo Hancock replaced the dead, genuine Pelias with an android. So your bombs a week ago only blew up an android copy. Somebody got the real Pelias ten years ago.”
Jeff and Lambert looked astonished, but Gladhand only nodded sadly. “A fairly accurate statement,” he said.
“And Spencer told me why the police are after me—they think I found an android’s memory bank last Friday morning when I was sky-fishing. I didn’t, but they think I might have.” He sighed. “Now here’s my theory: I think your Thursday morning bombs damaged the PADMU of this Pelias android, and a bird-man flew in while technicians were repairing the mayor, and flew away with the memory bank. That’s why they say Pelias has had a stroke. Now if there was—and clearly there must have been—something very important in that memory bank, that would explain why the police have been searching for me so desperately.”
“There was something important in it,” Gladhand said. He took a sip of port and went on, “Do you recall McGregor, Jeff?”
“Yeah,” Jeff answered. “I haven’t seen him around within the last week, though.”
“Nor will you ever. I had Spencer kill him at the same time you and Negri were planting the bombs in the mayor’s chambers. McGregor was a spy, and managed—by a really respectable program of research and inspired guesswork—to learn quite a bit about the guerrilla side of our operation. He even found out who it is that I plan to appoint as mayor when we overthrow the present government. He got to this android Pelias with all the information before we could stop him, and that’s why we had to kill both of them immediately.”
“Ah,” Thomas nodded. “And that’s why they want his memory bank—because it contains the location and strengths of the resistance force.”
“That, yes, but the most important thing is the name and location of this proposed successor. The present government would be much safer if that man were dead.”
“Oh, come on,” Lambert said skeptically; “a lot of people have more-or-less valid claims to the mayor’s office, and the city manages to squelch them pretty well. What’s so different about this boy of yours?”
Gladhand smiled. “ ‘My boy,’ ” he said, “is Mayor Pelias himself. The real one.”
“I thought,” Jeff said, dizzied by these rapid-fire revelations, “I thought you just got through saying the real Pelias was killed ten years ago.”
“No. He was injured by that grenade, quite severely injured, and he was replaced by an android which that treacherous swine Hancock happened to have on hand. As a matter of fact, I think Hancock ordered the grenade attack. But no, Pelias didn’t die. He’s alive today, and in this city—and Tabasco would give anything to have him killed once and for all.”
There came a knock at the greenroom door. “Who is it?” Gladhand barked.
“It’s me—Pat.”
“Come in,” The door opened and Pat strode in. She looked very startled when she saw Thomas on the couch.
“Was that you, in the chimney?” she asked.
He nodded sheepishly. “Yes.”
She shook her head wonderingly. “What a voice you’ve got. And how did you get so messed up?”
“Spencer’s dead,” Thomas said.
; “He is? You look like a cheap crucifix, all bloody and your hair sticking up like that.”
Thomas felt nauseated. He turned to Gladhand. “Sir, I was thinking—the police believe I have the Pelias android’s memory bank. Maybe we could accomplish something in the way of a bluff? Pretend to have it, you know.”
“Hmm. It might be a good thing to fall back on,” Gladhand admitted, scratching his beard. “Everything’s happening so damned fast.”
Thomas nodded sympathetically. “What would an android’s memory bank look like, anyway? A metal box with wires sticking out all over?”
Gladhand chuckled. “Oh no,” he said. “They’re much more sophisticated than that. The new ones use a crystal, but ten years ago it would have been a length of wire, about three inches long.”
“Good God!” Thomas gasped. “I did have it!”
“What?” Gladhand snapped, suddenly alert. “Where is it?”
“I repaired my sandal with it. And then my sandals were given to Ben Corwin. I suppose he’s still wearing them.”
“We’ve got to get it and destroy it,” Gladhand said. “First thing in the morning, Jeff, you find Corwin, take the wire away from him and melt it immediately. It’s soft metal, a match should do the trick.”
“Wouldn’t it be pretty well wrecked already?” Thomas asked. “Tied in a knot, covered with mud …”
The theatre manager shook his bald head. “No. The memories are coded on the very molecules. Melting it is the only way to break it down.”
“I’ve got to go powder my nose,” Pat said. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She walked out of the room.
“Then that’s what this week-long ‘coma’ is,” Lambert said. “The absence of that wire.”
“Right,” Gladhand said. “And even if the android we blew up last week is too messed up to use, they’ve got several new Peliases brewing, into whose PADMUs they could slip that memory bank. We can’t let that wire fall into Tabasco’s hands. Of course, who’d think of looking for it on the sandal of the most disreputable beggar in the city?”
“That’s true,” Thomas said. “They aren’t likely to look there.”
“Nonetheless, I—” Gladhand turned pale. “Jeff! Get Pat! Find her and hold her. Lambert, you too. Go!” The two young men leaped out of their chairs for the second time that night and ran out of the room.
“Why?” Thomas asked, suddenly worried. “Is she in any danger?”
“Hah! If I catch her she is! Where’s my mind tonight?” Gladhand pounded his forehead. “Why don’t I notice things when they happen?”
“What are you talking about?”
Gladhand turned on him. “Have you ever observed Pat sniffling and sneezing and wiping her nose? Right, so have I. Tonight she burst in here, panicked by your screaming, and there was brown powder all over her blouse. She wanted to know if I, too, heard the screaming. Deduction: the powder was snoose. Who uses snoose? Besides poor Ben Corwin, I mean:
“Androids,” Thomas said reluctantly. “Androids use it.”
“Pre-cisely. Pat, my boy, is an android—and I should be shot for not figuring it out days ago.”
Jeff dashed back into the room, panting. “She’s gone, sir. Skooney saw her go out the front door, and Lambert and I looked up and down the street for her—no luck. The androids Rufus said had the place staked out? Not a sign of them. There’s nobody around.”
“Rufus,” Gladhand rasped, “get a shirt. You’re all three to go out immediately and find Ben Corwin before Pat and her android brothers do. Go! I’ll send some more people out after you to help. It’s a warm night, Rufe—forget the shirt.”
Lambert and Jeff hoisted Thomas to his feet and the three of them ran down the hall, through the lobby and out into the night.
They paused on the sidewalk: “Corwin likes to sleep in doorways and on benches,” Jeff said. “Look in places like that. Ask other derelicts, bribe them, rough them up if you have to, but find out if they know where he is. Split up now; I’ll take east. Good luck.”
Thomas ran south on the Broadway sidewalk, peering into every doorway he passed and receiving horrified stares from other citizens. He spied two hunched figures in the dimness of a barber shop entryway, and he sprinted up to them.
“Oh Lord,” exclaimed one of them, a frail old man with no teeth, “it’s the Angel of Death.”
“I’ll let you live,” Thomas panted, “if you tell me where Ben Corwin is.”
“He moved by here, headin’ south, few hours ago,” said the other squatter, a stout woman in a burlap sack.
Thomas pounded onward south, shoving people aside in his haste, until he saw, a block ahead, three androids behaving in the same way. They’re on his track, too, he realized; and he admitted to himself now that Gladhand was right—Pat must really be an android. I’m the one who should have caught on, he thought bitterly. I was in love with her.
He crossed the street and strode on as quickly as he could without drawing the attention of the androids. He was at the Third Street intersection now, and decided to move west. I’ll lose the androids that way, he thought, and who knows? this may be the direction Corwin took.
This stretch of Third Street was not as well lit as Broadway, and he had to look carefully into each alley and doorway. He passed a number of rough-looking types, and several times expected trouble; but they all seemed fearful of the wild-eyed, gaunt, blood-spattered creature who paused only long enough to ask them if they’d seen Ben Corwin before disappearing once again into the night.
Twice he had to hide while android police ran past him.
He followed Third to Flower, which he took north. His legs were trembling, his mouth had a dry, brassy taste and his eyes were having difficulty in focusing. I’m not good for much more of this, he thought. If I don’t find him soon, somebody’s going to have to come find me. He didn’t want to rest, though; he knew there were things in his mind waiting for his attention, things he didn’t want to face.
Just short of the point where Flower dead-ended against First Street, Thomas glanced into a narrow passageway and saw a stocky figure sitting complacently against the wall. “Excuse me,” Thomas said hoarsely, shambling up to the man, “do you know where I can find Ben Corwin?”
The old man looked up. “Maybe I do,” he said, “and maybe I don’t. You aren’t the first one to ask me that tonight, neither. A cop was just here.”
“Oh yeah?” God, they’re quick, Thomas thought.
“Yeah. I told him nothing. They’re the abominations of Moloch, them cops. Most sinful things in this whole sinful city. I’ll deal with ’em real soon. Would you like a bit of scotch, son? You’re not looking real good.”
Thomas accepted the proffered bottle gratefully and took a deep sip of the fiery liquor. “I know you,” he said as he handed it back. “You’re the … Lord of Wrath. You gave me scotch to clean my wounds with, a week ago.”
“Well, damn my eyes,” said the old man wonderingly. “It’s the young monk. What have they done to you now?”
“They beat me up and shoved me down a chimney,” Thomas told him. “But if I can find Ben Corwin I’ll be okay.”
“Son,” said the Lord of Wrath warmly, “you’ve come to the right man. I saw Corwin not twenty minutes gone, and he told me he’s gonna spend the night on the Malk Cigars billboard on Fremont Avenue. That’s two blocks to your left, on First up here. You can’t miss it.”
Thomas leaned down and shook the old man’s hand. “Thank you,” he said.
“Anything for a friend,” the man answered. “Hey, if you get in any jams—”
“I’ll tell them you’re a buddy of mine.”
“Right.”
It was a huge painting, lit now only by the moon, of a dark-haired young man puffing with exaggerated relish on an immense cigar. There was a round hole cut in the man’s mouth, and Thomas suspected there had once been a machine behind the billboard to send puffs of smoke out through the hole.
Thomas stared up at the n
arrow, railed scaffold that ran along the bottom edge of the billboard. Was there anybody up there? Yes, by God, Thomas thought excitedly—if that isn’t an arm dangling from the far side, I’ll eat my shorts.
After glancing quickly up and down Fremont Avenue to be sure he was not being observed, Thomas ran across the weedy lot to the huge sign’s base. One of its old wooden legs had an iron ladder bolted to it, and Thomas swarmed up it energetically, his fatigue temporarily forgotten. The eternal warm wind was cool for him, drying the blood and sweat on his chest and face.
He poked his head over the top of the ladder; at the far end of the scaffold lay a heap of old fabric that would resemble a man only to someone expecting to find a man there. “Ben?” Thomas said, standing up cautiously on the swaying platform. “Hey, Ben, it’s me. Rufus, from the theatre.” He edged his way over to the sprawled figure, bent down and shook the old man by the shoulder. “Wake up, Ben! I need your sandals.”
The old man didn’t move, so Thomas carefully rolled him over onto his back. The face was black with dried blood, although the old irregular teeth were bared in a beatific smile.
Oh no, thought Thomas with a chill of disappointment, they’ve beaten me to him. He crouched over the body and pulled the trailing coat away from the dead beggar’s legs—and saw the sandals, his own old sandals, still strapped to the bony, discolored feet. He wrenched the left sandal off, and sat back against the sign with a deep sigh of relief when he saw the mud-crusted wire still twisted onto the brittle leather straps. He carefully untwisted it and held it in his palm. A damned little scrap of metal, he thought—barely fit for repairing sandals—but it contains something that powerful men have killed for.
He reached into his pocket for a match, but the pocket was empty. So, he found, were the other three. What do I do now, he thought—eat it? I guess I’ll just take it back to Gladhand in my pocket.