Coils

by Roger Zelazny

  How good were they? What were their limits? Another memory came through… Marie took great pride in her cooking, and she was good. I recalled that she'd had us all over for dinner on several occasions. Rather than fool with padded gloves or pot-holders, she had once, while seated at the table, levitated a huge tureen of steaming soup out in the kitchen, causing it to drift eerily into the dining room and settle to a perfect landing before us. I'd seen her spill a drink and freeze the droplets in midair, then cause them all to drift back into the glass without moistening anything nearby. The maximum mass she could affect…? Once, on a bet, she had raised Ann several feet above the floor and held her there for half a minute, but she was panting and sweating before the time was up, and she let her down kind of hard…

  Old Willy Boy… The nearer you were to him the faster he could affect you. Sudden death within ten feet, a little slower out to twenty—thirty or forty feet caused him a lot more work, slowed him considerably. I'd say fifty feet was his absolute maximum, but that it might take him a quarter of an hour to get results at that range—strangely, the approximate radius of the larger tents he used to work in. Thinking about it, it occurred to me that I must now be one of the few people to have felt both his healing and his destroying touch. I recalled the morning after that drinking session at his place. I had sacked out on the sofa, and I awoke when I heard him moving around, cursing. My head was splitting. I got up and walked to his bathroom. He was in there gulping aspirins. He grinned at me. "You don't look too good, boy," he'd said. I told him to save a couple for me. "What for?" he answered, reaching out and tousling my hair. "Heal! Heal, you sinner!" I'd felt a sudden rush of blood to my head, my temples had throbbed for a moment and then all of the pain was gone. I felt fine. "I'm okay," I said, surprised at my undeserved recovery. "Praise the Lord!" he replied, taking a final aspirin. "Why don't you do it for yourself?" I said then. He'd shaken his head. "I can't work it on me. My little cross in this vale of tears." And that was all I knew about Willy Boy's power.

  Ann… Her ability did not seem to fall off with distance. She could have been sitting in a motel room down in the Keys causing me to see that serpent as we were landing in Philadelphia. Her weaknesses were at some other level, and I couldn't recall them. She did have a thing about flowers, though. Reading their primitive life emanations somehow soothed her. She returned to them whenever she was troubled. They were so prominent in her mental life that they often colored—or perfumed, I suppose—her transmissions. And it seemed that she could also make you not see something that was indeed present.

  The four of us, then—a team, a set of tools for Barbeau. We were the reason that Angra had outdistanced all the competition some years ago. I could steal data from anyone's computer. And if it wasn't there, Ann could pluck it from the minds that held it Marie could ruin experiments, cause accidents, set back anyone's research project. And if some particular individual were really troublesome, a certain Southern gentleman might pass him on the street, sit near him in a theatre, eat at the same restaurant…

  But could I be sure of the extent of everyone's abilities now? Back at the airport lounge, Marie had made a comment about getting better at what she did. Had everyone's powers continued to develop, to improve with the passage of time? An intangible. Impossible for me to estimate. Best to assume that they had. Give Matthews a few more feet, maybe, intensify Ann's hallucinations, assume Marie can lift a bit more, hold it a little longer. I never knew her range. Greater than Willy Boy's, nothing like Ann's. That was all.

  What about Barbeau himself? Had he some special power beyond simple ruthlessness and a keen intellect? I didn't know. If he did, he either kept it well-hidden or I was missing that memory.

  And where was Cora? What had they done with her? I doubted they would have harmed her. Dead, she would have been worthless to them as a hold over me. I hadn't seemed too tractable to Barbeau. Maybe there had been a signal from Ann to the effect that she had scanned me and that I was now useless to him. So he had not even bothered to offer a trade: Cora, for my coming back. On the other hand, he had known I was coming. He would take me back if I were willing, and he was ready to dispose of me if I were not. And just in case, just in case I got away, he wanted Cora for insurance. That seemed to make some kind of sense. I was certain that he had her alive, somewhere very safe.

  The car began to slow. I peered ahead. It was getting on into evening now, and a bit harder to see… Traffic jam. An accident, maybe. I saw parked police cars.

  No. It was a roadblock, near a little strip of parkland which filled the bulge between this and another highway. My stomach tightened. They were stopping everyone, letting them through slowly, one by one. Checking IDs, obviously.

  Despite continuing civil libertarian protests, everyone had a Social Registration Card these days. They'd come in in the late '80s, providing one number for everything—Draft Registration, Social Security, Driver's License, voting, what have you. I could see now that, up ahead, the police were just looking at these cards and feeding the numbers through a little unit they carried.

  I had known that an alarm would go out for me. But I had not expected anything this fast, this efficient. It was interesting, though, that they were after a number rather than a face. Perhaps Barbeau had not wanted just anyone to know which man he wanted so badly. Perhaps the police computer was merely set to identify my number. Perhaps it had been furnished mine and a list of phonies, so that they would not easily be able to ascertain my true identity. Yes, that seemed the way Barbeau would go about it.

  I wondered, as we drew even nearer to the block—Should I simply tell the police my story, now that there were police available?

  My more cynical self, which had been slow in making its comeback, sneered at the thought. At best, they would take me to be confused, upset… At worst—I did not know how many grains of truth there had been in Barbeau's version of the past—uncomfortably many, according to my own returning memory. Was I really guilty of some crime or crimes of such scope that it had necessitated my being retired with a new identity? Somehow, I did not doubt that The Boss would have a better chance of making charges stick against me than I would against him.

  My driver, who kept shaking his head, finally pulled up to the roadblock in his turn.

  "Let me see your ID, please. Your passenger's, too," the nearest cop said.

  He produced his own from an inside wallet, while I fished for mine.

  "What's the matter, officer?" he asked.

  The policeman shook his head.

  "Fugitive," he said.

  "Dangerous?"

  The cop looked at him and glanced at the second car, upon the hood of which was perched an officer holding a shotgun, and he smiled.

  The driver passed him my SR card. Almost without thinking, I coiled into the small unit he wore slung like an accordian and keyed with less musical effect. It was one of the older units, I saw. With the newer ones you could just push the card into a slot for a direct read.

  He punched my number, but a slightly different signal went out. In the broadcast version a pair of the digits had been transposed. An All Clear light came on upon the face of the box. He handed back the cards.

  "Go on," he said, turning toward the next car.

  We pulled away. The driver sighed. He had his headlights on now, as did the other vehicles.

  It seemed only moments later that I heard a cry from behind us, followed by the shotgun's boom. A sound like hail came from all over the place.

  "What the hell," the driver said, stepping on the gas rather than the brake.

  But I had already begun to suspect. Someone, somewhere back at home base, must have been watching a printout or display screen. The machine cleared it, but to a human observer a pair of transposed digits still came awfully close to what they wanted. The possibility of operator error must have occurred to him and he had radioed out to have them halt us again. The fact that they were this trigger-happy made me wonder what they had been told and what
their instructions must have been. I did not want to stay around to ask them personally. So…

  "Stop!" I cried. They'll shoot again!"

  He finally hit the brake and we began to slow. I glanced back.

  No time to wait for him to come to a complete stop. I needed every bit of the lead we had.

  I opened the door and jumped out. I hit that grassy central strip, collapsed and rolled. I didn't look back as I recovered my feet. I ran for the woods, cutting to my left and then to my right as soon as I entered them. I heard gunshots far to the rear, but they had the sound of pistols.

  The ground took an abrupt turn upward and I stumbled to mount it. The sounds of traffic came from above. I did not know what road it was, but it did not matter. I was heading for it now. It was dark, there were lots of trees between me and the police and the shouting had stopped. If I could just get out and get across the highway… It was almost too much to hope that I might be able to flag a ride. I was vaguely aware of blood on my hand and my face, and I was certain that my trousers were torn…

  … They must have been told that I was armed and dangerous, maybe even a cop-killer, to come on shooting that way. I kept expecting to hear them behind me again at any moment…

  Up ahead of me, pieces of the blackness moved, came together. Suddenly, they shot upward, towering, swaying, acquiring illumination as from strong moonlight. It was a bear! An enormous grizzly—I'd seen them in zoos—reared up on its hind legs, facing me! It—

  Oh, no. Not again, Ann. Not here. Not that way. Not with a grizzly bear on the outskirts of Philadelphia. You should have tried a cop with a shotgun if you'd wanted to stop me. I'd have shit my pants and wouldn't have smelled your flowers. Better luck next time.

  I headed straight toward it. I bit my lip and closed my eyes as I passed through, but I did pass through. When I opened them-again I saw the lights of traffic through a final screen of trees. Not just a little traffic, though. It was heavy, a veritable river. There was no way I could get across it without being hit.

  But I thought I heard voices in the woods below now. Not too damn much choice.

  I burst out of the wooded strip onto the shoulder of the highway, waving my arms at everything in the nearest lane, wondering what sort of impression I made—bloody, dirty and ragged—there in their headlights.

  … Smile a little. That sometimes seems to help…

  I came to a halt and just kept waving. Definitely now, I could hear the sounds of my pursuers, working their way through the woods, yelling to each other…

  A truck screeched to a halt before me. I could hardly believe it, but I was not about to question the driver's judgment. Behind it, an entire lane of vehicles was coming to a halt. I ran for it, pulled open the door and jumped in. I slammed it behind me and collapsed in the passenger seat. Immediately, the engine roared and we were moving. I felt like the Count of Monte Cristo, Willie Sutton and the Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo—lucky and free. For the moment, anyhow. At least, I wouldn't be shot for a while and I was moving, away.

  "Thanks," I said. "Maybe it looks funny, but I'll explain it as soon as I get my breath back. You're a real life-saver."

  I breathed a couple of deep ones and waited. The engine had settled down to a steady, smooth purring. We were moving along at a very good clip, the countryside flashing by in a long, curving blur. I turned my head.

  The driver's seat was as empty as a pawnbroker's heart.

  I took a deep breath. There wasn't the faintest trace of daffodils, narcissi, Lilies or any other plant's sexual organs, just the slightly stale, dusty smell of an area long enclosed.

  I exhaled. What the hell.

  "Thanks," I repeated, anyway.

  Chapter 8

  Speeding along through the dark tube of the night, towns and country rush together… The lights are bright beads, the sound of the engine soothing in its monotony. I had lapsed into a half-drowse in quick reaction to the day's events…

  I was moving along at about one hundred-fifty kilometers an hour in one of the safest vehicles on the road. The truck was powered by large and expensive batteries, which were still economical because of the recent cheapness of electric power. A competing line of vehicles was fueled by hydrogen, clean and non-polluting, available now in unlimited supply again because of the cheap electricity produced by solar power. Both were largely the result of advances made under patents held by Angra Energy, with their vast new power installations producing electricity across the Sunbelt.

  I remembered vividly how the substance of some of the patents had been obtained. I was guilty of industrial espionage, though I wondered whether any statute really covered the specific methods I had used. Morally, though… Well… This was not a suitable time for soul-searching, though I wondered why it bothered me now when it hadn't then. Or had it? Or had I changed? Or both? There was a memory somewhere that I couldn't quite reach.

  The truck I rode was completely automated, traveling only on specially equipped highways, though more and more roads were being fitted with the necessary equipment. Usually, they drove in one special lane. It was plainly marked, so that human drivers could avoid it if they wished. Actually, though, the automated tracks had proven safer than the traditional kind, and very few people objected to sharing the road with them.

  All of this meant that I was safe, for the moment. But there were really a number of things I should be about. Only, it felt so good to be stretched out here on the right seat, which converted into a cot, my head propped slightly to see the lights in the sky as well as those along the way. The wind whistled about us, engines hummed below. Peripherally, I was aware of steady transfers of data, and this too was good. Every minute, I was getting farther and farther away from the scene of my troubles.

  The cot was there, as well as some elementary plumbing, for the same reason that the truck was still fitted with a full set of manual controls and two seats. The Teamsters' Union had been given large blocks of stock in companies profiting from this accelerated trend to automation. They no longer raised serious objections to the gradual cutback in the number of drivers' jobs, but the issue of requiring a live driver on board was not completely dead. It had not exactly been a Big 10-4 all the way—more a forty-roger, finger-wave, 10-65. So, the trucks still came equipped and continuing negotiations still raised the possibility of some form of featherbedding. For which I was, at the moment, grateful. This because, in addition to the facilities, I had also located some freeze-dried food evidently left by the last human driver or passenger. I had eaten enough to take the edge off my hunger before I had collapsed the seat and stretched out, overcome by fatigue.

  All right. I had to provide for my continuing safety. Which meant that I had to know as much as I could before I allowed myself the luxury of sleep. There was still too much that I did not know about this freight run and everything connected with my passage, and there was only one way that I could discover more—

  Click. Clicket. Clicketderick.

  Down, twisting, into, through, expanding now, out branches and sub-branches… Dots of light… Break-voids… The elegant symmetries of the programs and contingency programs within the onboard computer… Laid out like an incandescent formal garden… No scents here, however, and sense coded… Pause and consider its ways… The rest will come. . .

  The computer steered and controlled speed, receiving information on road conditions and other matters through a communications strip buried in the pavement. Its radar probed continually on all sides for other traffic and for unexpected obstacles. In principle, it was similar to the manner in which the Hash Clash moved along the channels among the Keys, obtaining information from broadcast units on their banks. And at the same time as this one managed the driving, it was monitoring engine performance, the condition of the brakes and all other systems.

  I passed in analogue through these various functions, coming to understand them as I did so. And this, in turn, provided a number of insights into the overall design. I coiled furth
er then, attacking the travel-code. There were a number of obscurities—bits with no immediately apparent referents, the precise meanings of which would have to remain unknown until they were actually called into operation—but the general picture began to fall into place. It seemed likely that our destination was Memphis.

  Further, further… Winding through the programs… The biggest question of all still pended… The Why still waved and fluttered like a bright banner before me… I ransacked the instructions until I came upon it—strange, and at the same time familiar…

  Ricketerclick.

  I withdrew from the bright microcosm, puzzled.

  I groped beneath the dashboard then for a small first aid kit which the computer's inventory had told me should be present. I located it and brought it out. I found some bandages and an antibacterial ointment within.

  There was also a small drum of water with a flexible hose and a tap nearby. I drank some and used some more to wash my cuts. I applied the ointment then and covered the wounds.

  Running in darkness like a company of migrating creatures, untouched and untouching, the great trucks bent their course across the land. We maintained a precise distance from the one before us. If a car cut in there was an immediate adjustment. The lane in harmony lay to the central beat of the mechanical heart. I felt the stern march of its program all about me. Yet—

  I had seen it there… My signature. As plain as if it were in longhand. I had seen it as I had seen that it was the hand of a stranger rather than Cora's which had left the message back at my condo. It made no sense… And yet it made sense.

  I reclined myself completely, to where only gangs of passing stars were visible beyond the window. More thinking was definitely in order, and I stoked my tired brain and sought the tracks of reason.

  The instruction that the truck stop back when it did to pick me up had not been a part of its original programming package. I had seen the alterations in its instructions, and it had been plain to me that I had somehow put them there myself. I had ordered the truck to stop for me. But how? I had never done anything like that before, had never been able to, was not even certain how to go about it.