no longer even a man,totally unhuman, as alien as the world it lay partway in. The bodyflowed, molten, hideous.
The screen was a surrealist painting, come alive, solid and real. Andthe solid, physical body of Genarion was part of it. He was dead, butreal. His alien form was a bridge between two worlds, and now dead,Genarion was alien to both of them.
It was madness. The madness of the screen communicated itself to Newlin.Before his shocked eyes, Genarion's body began to steam and rise in acloud of vaporous, glittering crystals. Swiftly the haze dissipated. Itwas gone, gone invisibly into the alien world. Whatever Newlin hadkilled, it was not human, not a man.
Newlin turned and fled down the fairy stair-ladder.
He went through the still-open airlock doors and out into the screamingnight. Behind him alarms were ringing frantically. Now they would beringing in the stations of the Protection Police and call orders wouldgo out to the radio-equipped prowl cars. Police would converge swiftly.
Sound shattered the night stillness. From far away, coming closer, wasthe shrill wail of a siren. Other sirens.
There was a harsh bleat of police whistles, near at hand. Newlin'simagination quivered with the possibility of blaster beams thrusting athis back. He fled.
The alarms had burst into sound too quickly. Had the girl set the policeon him, waiting only long enough to make sure he would accomplish hismission?
Whatever he had been set to kill, had not been human. Not a man.Intuitively, Newlin realized that the girl had anticipated everything.She knew what would happen, he reflected bitterly. She had promisedpayment only on delivery of a corpse, when there could be no corpse.
Spud Newlin, Sucker No. 1.
Conscience did not trouble him. After all, the man--or the thing--hadfired first, without warning, without waiting to hear him out. Withoutwaiting for details like identity, or even asking to hear the message hebrought. It was self-defense, in a peculiar way.
* * * * *
Newlin ran and tried to lose himself in the shadowy fastness of MontaPark. He was not surprised that the girl had not troubled to wait andmeet him.
He was not even angry. It was part of the game.
The Protection Police radios were carrying the alarm. Soon the SecurityPolice would take up the hunt. If the girl had turned him in, she wouldbe able to give a detailed and accurate description. Newlin guessed thathe would be lucky to last even the few hours till daylight--or whatpasses for daylight on cloud-shrouded Venus.
Long before then, his career might end suddenly in a wild network ofblaster or heat beams. By dawn he would very likely be crumpled amongthe ashcans and refuse in any dark alley.
But still the city would be his best bet. No use beating his way to thespaceport landing stages. Space Patrol units must have been notified,and would already be searching all outgoing units.
For the moment, he had a brief interval of grace in which to thinkthings over and try, if only for his own satisfaction, to figure outwhat had happened. It--whatever it was--had writhed hideously when theblaster beam drove home. Part of it vaporized instantly, and the organsrevealed did not even look animal. Eery, geometric, but not the nakedelectronic symmetries of a mechanical robot. Not metal. But what?Collapsed like wet sacking, it had lain half-inside and half-outside thescreen. He could not recall clearly its rapid mutations of form afterthat.
Did it matter? The alarms were out. Blaring metallic clangor, and theuncanny banshee wailing of the hunting sirens. Police care little who ismurdered in the nameless dives of Venusport, but let one of the lordlyrich men die, and all Hell is loosed on the killer.
If the girl had turned in the alarm, it was only a matter of time. Theywould have his name and number; his ident-card would be listed andreproduced, sent everywhere. They would probably have the robot trackersout, those hideous electronic bloodhounds which can unerringly sort outa man's trail from the infinity of other scents and markings, followingnot smell, but a curious tangle of electrical impulses left by his bodylike static electricity or intangible magnetism. No layman could evenguess how such a robot worked, but fugitives had learned to dread itsinfallible tracking ability.
Newlin fled, and as he went, he cursed himself for getting involved insuch a nightmare.
Figures moved and blundered about him in the darkness of the park, butnone got in his way. None seemed to notice him. Since it was not a manhe had killed, perhaps others hunted him; other remote, alien beings hecould not see, or sense.
The girl would know, of course. If he could find her. But she hadvanished before he ever issued from the strange tower, and it was highlyunlikely that he would ever see her again.
Chance, and a sudden rush of blue-clad figures across a street ahead ofhim, turned Newlin back toward his own, familiar part of town. The scantshelter of shadows in deserted alleyways was a comfort, but little realprotection. He had friends, of a peculiar sort, in the old nativequarter, and the Spacebell lay just outside the fringe of the mutants'district, where the half-human natives laired up. These friends mighthide him, for a while, although such refuge was of little use againstthe robot-trackers.
By daylight, he could be smuggled outside the domed city, and once intothe wastelands, there was a chance. Not a good one; but there, even therobot-tracker could hardly come upon him without his knowledge. A luckyblaster shot would leave a blank trail and a shattered robot for hispursuers to follow. He wondered if they would risk another suchexpensive machine merely to hunt down a murderer in the wastelands.Scarcely, when the wastelands would kill the fugitive sooner or lateranyhow.
His first task was to reach the Spacebell and collect his pay. Then toget protection-armor, against the peril of sandstorms and theradioactive sinks that spot the old sea-beds outside Venusport. Afterthat, the native quarter, if he lived to reach it.
Shortly before daylight, he turned the last alley-corner and came insight of the Spacebell.
A shadow stirred with movement. A lithe, loosely draped figure hurriedto meet him. It was the girl--Songeen.
"Don't go in there," she said. "They know who you are, and the policeare waiting for you."
Newlin felt numb all over. "How did they know? Did you tell them?" hesnapped.
"Of course not. Don't be a fool. Would I inform, then wait to warn you?I did not know he had automatic alarms, and automatic cameras to makerecords of anyone who came into the--the place. It was the pictures.They were identified with your ident-card at the Central Police Bureau.And the robot-trackers are out."
* * * * *
Newlin and Songeen studied each other for a long moment of silence.
"I guess it doesn't matter now," Newlin said finally, "but I'm glad youdidn't turn me in. I might almost as well give up and get the thing overwith. There's no place to run. Not without money."
Songeen produced a small sack of platinum coins which jingled as sheoffered it.
"That's one reason I tried to find you. After the alarms, I knew I wouldonly handicap your flight. I hid. Then I came here, because I thoughtyou might come back. I'm sorry I have no more money, but the rest is allin credits. It would be no help to you in the wastelands."
"I see," muttered Newlin. "Why did you care? Were you afraid I'd talk ifthe Police caught me?"
Songeen shrugged coldly. "No, I hadn't thought of that. But I think Iowe you something. Murderer's wages. I knew you couldn't fulfil yourbargain when you made it. But, in a way, I am responsible for you."
"In a way," agreed Newlin bitterly. He snatched at the bag of coins."This will do. Thanks for nothing."
"Don't blame me too much. I had no choice, and I did not know it wouldwork out like this."
"Perhaps not, but next time do your own killing. It's rough on both yourvictims."
Songeen was crying, tearless wracking sobs that shook her frail body.
"I'm sorry," she moaned. "But I couldn't even get in to see him. He knewthe exact vibration level of my body, and had set supersonic traps tokill me if
I tried to enter. Even my bones would have shattered. I wouldhave died painfully and horribly. I would rather have died myself thancause his death. Believe that. There is always a third victim. He was myhusband, and I loved him. You can't understand, of course--"
"I understand less than ever now." Newlin knew that it was madness toremain so close to the Spacebell. But he could not force himself toleave Songeen. She seemed near collapse.
A thought struck him. "Say, is there anything there to tie you up withthis business?"
Songeen gave a wry thrust of her thin shoulders. "Much--but does itmatter? It was my--our home. Before he tricked me outside and would notlet me return. They don't know what happened--yet. But there will beenough evidence against both of us. Part of what you saw was illusion.His body is still there. Changed--but the trackers can identify it. Thecharge is murder, and they will want both