… A quick tick derick flick through the barge's computer, which was now functioning in order to compare the manifest and what actually came aboard, told me a number of interesting things: the vessel would be departing in about two hours, and it would be stopping in Vicksburg.
No hurry then, and I could think of several arguments against prematurity in my approach. So I watched the operation and counted heads and checked out things which occurred to me with the computer.
There were the two men aboard the barge, loading the cargo into place. I assumed the crane itself to have a human operator, though it occurred to me that the large, red-haired man, wearing faded jeans and a blue and white striped sweater, who was seated atop a packing crate drinking a cup of coffee, might be manipulating it remotely by means of the small device near his right hand, which he occasionally raised.
Tick-terick.
No. He was just calling off inventory items through a broadcast unit. There was someone in the shed manipulating the crane. Another man was sprawled—sleeping or drunk or both—upon the decking, his back against the shack, head rolled to the side upon his shoulder, mouth open, eyes closed.
I guessed that the big man on the crate was the one listed in the vessel's computer as "Ship's master: C. Catlum". The computer itself was similar to that on my houseboat, and I read that its standing orders required two live hands while the barge was adrift. I assumed that the guy propped up against the shed qualified loosely as the other one. I further assumed that some sort of union rules required that the vessel be loaded and unloaded by someone other than its captain and crew. I noted three cars and a truck parked in a lot behind the shed. The cars probably belonged to the laborers, the truck to the warehousing company which had stored the cargo. I strained and made out the lettering "Deller Storage" on its side. Good. It seemed I had a reasonable picture of the situation now. I cast about then for the best approach. There was just no way I could sneak aboard—I had discarded that notion long ago.
I watched for over an hour, assuring myself that there was no one else around. The stack of flats grew lower and lower. Another fifteen minutes, I decided…
When that time had passed, I rose to my feet and made my way slowly down toward the lighted area. There wasn't much left to stow now. I walked out across the planks and up to the side of the packing case. The man propped against the shed still hadn't moved.
"And hello to you, too," said the man on the case, not looking in my direction.
"Captain Catlum?" I said.
"You're one up on me."
"Steve," I said, "Lanning. I understand you'll be leaving for Vicksburg in a little while."
"I won't deny it," he said.
"I'd like a ride down that way."
"I'm not running a taxi service."
"Didn't figure you were. But when I mentioned to the man at Deller Storage that I'd always wanted to ride on one of these, he said maybe I should see you."
"Deller's been out of business two years now. They should take that name off the trucks."
"Whatever they call it these days, he said if I could pay my way I could probably get a ride."
"The regulations say no."
"He said maybe fifty dollars. What do you say?"
Catlum looked at me for the first time and he smiled, a very engaging thing. He was a ruggedly good-looking guy; about my own age, I guessed.
"Why, I didn't write the regulations. Some fellow in an office back East prob'ly did."
The crane swung back and descended. It caught hold of another flat and raised it.
"You realize, I'd be jeopardizing my career by taking you aboard," he said.
"He really said a hundred dollars. I suppose I could manage that."
He did something to the machine at his side, indicating the loading of that last flat.
"You like to play checkers?" he asked.
"Well—yes," I said.
"Good. My partner's going to be out for a while. What'd you say was the name of that man you talked to?"
"Wilson, or something like that."
"Oh, yeah. Why'd you wait so long before you came on down?"
"I saw you were busier at first."
He grinned and nodded. Then he came down from the crate, leaned forward and counted the remaining flats. He reached out and entered something into the unit. I was suddenly awed. There had been no real way of telling while he was seated, and he was well-enough proportioned that it was almost difficult to believe, but the man was about seven feet tall.
"Okay," he said, hooking the unit onto his belt and handing me his cup and a huge thermos jug. "Take these, will you?"
Then he leaned forward and scooped up the unconscious man. He draped him over his left shoulder and headed up the gangway as if the extra weight meant nothing. He headed into the small cabin and dumped him onto a bunk. Then he turned toward me and took his cup and thermos.
"Thanks," he said, hanging the cup on a hook and depositing the jug in a corner.
I was reaching for my wallet, but he walked away, departing the cabin, and checked on the rest of the incoming cargo. When this was done he turned to me, grinning again.
"Say, I'm going to have to break the shoreside computer hookup in a few minutes," he said, "Do you think Wilson might have left a message about you in the company machine?"
I shrugged.
"I don't know. He didn't say."
"You a sporting man, Steve?"
"Sometimes."
"I'll bet you a hundred dollars he didn't say a word. You know old Wilson—or whoever."
I figured I could probably use the money, and I wanted to strengthen my story, as he obviously believed I was lying—though I didn't think it really mattered that much to him.
"You're on," I said, and I coiled.
"Okay. They'll finish stowing the stuff in another five minutes. Let's go and see now."
I accompanied him back to the cabin, where he approached a terminal and punched an inquiry after messages in the warehouse computer.
STEVE LANNING WILL BE ALONG, the screen flashed.
"I'll be damned," he said. "Old Wilson remembered. That's a fine trick. Looks as if you ride free. Well, we'd better be gettin' ready to cast off now. Say, how good a checkers player are you?"
No sense in putting myself down. Besides, I was pretty good.
"Not bad," I said.
"Good. Let's make it two dollars a game. I think there's time for fifty quick ones before breakfast"
I didn't think it possible that anyone could beat me fifty straight games of checkers. Catlum won the first dozen games so fast that my head spun. He never paused. He just moved whenever his turn came. Then he poured us each a cup of coffee and we took them outside while his companion snored.
We looked out over the waters and I thought of Mark Twain and of all the things that had come down the river over the years.
"You running from something?" he asked.
"Running to something," I answered.
"Well, good luck to you," he said.
"Don't you get bored pushing a barge?" I asked.
"Haven't done it in a long time," he said. "This is a sentimental journey."
"Oh." I was silent for a while. Then, "This must really have been something when it was all wild," I observed.
He nodded.
"Pretty. Of course, the last time I came down this way I wound up in jail."
We watched until our cups were empty and then we went back inside. He beat me another dozen games, and then a false dawn occurred in the east. I bore down, I played as well as I could, but he just kept winning. He chuckled each time, taking my two dollars or making change for me. I finally decided that he had to be taken down a peg. I coiled into the computer and installed the tightest impromptu game program I could come up with—which I guess was only as good as the programmer, because I leaned heavily on it for a time and he kept right on winning.
He got his hundred dollars sometime late that morning, and then I had to sack
out on the other bunk while he went out to look at the cargo.
I don't know how long I had been asleep when I dreamed my way through a Coil Effect. I was inside that 'copter again, skimming across the countryside, when suddenly I was flanked by a pair of heavier-looking machines. They opened fire without preamble, tearing my vehicle to bits. I remained within the computer's shrinking sensorium as it plunged earthward. Then came the impact and I awakened briefly. I knew that it had been more than a dream. The feelings accompanying the phenomenon were second nature, and the ones I'd just experienced had been real.
But there was nothing to do at this point and my eyes were still heavy. I drifted back to sleep. I dreamed more dreams, but they were garden-variety and fugitive.
What finally slowly brought me around later was a moaning sound—repeated, drawn-out. I opened my eyes. The cabin was dark. The fellow on the other bunk was making the noises. For a minute, I was disoriented, and then I realized where I was.
I sat up on the edge of the bunk and massaged my brow. Had I really slept away most of the day? My body must have needed the rest badly, to put me out like that. I looked over at the other bunk. The man who tossed there, arm across his face, appeared to be in the throes of a horrible hangover. As this did not make him the best of company, I rose and turned toward the doorway, realizing as I did that I was ravenously hungry. I also wanted a bathroom.
I passed outside. Catlum was leaning against the bulkhead, grinniag at me.
"Just about time to go, Steve," he said. "I was going to get you up in a few more minutes."
I cast about in all directions. I did not see anything that lived up to my expectation of Vicksburg. I told him so.
"Well, you've got a good point there," he said. "Vicksburg's still a little ways downstream. But we're already long past Transylvania. Most important of all, though, the captain's waking up."
"Wait a minute. Aren't you Captain Catlum?"
"Indeed I am," he answered. "Only I'm not captain of this particular vessel—one of those little fine points they sometimes get touchy about."
"But when I saw you supervising the loading—"
"—I was doin' a little favor for a friend who couldn't say no to free drinks."
"But what about the other guy? Aren't there supposed to be two people aboard?"
"Alas! That other gentleman was taken out in a fist fight. It comes of drinking and carousing. He was in no shape to make the trip. Now, up forward there—"
"Hold on! It sounds as if you stole this vessel!"
"Lord, no! I've probably just saved that poor man's job." He jerked a massive thumb back toward the cabin. "I've no desire to embarrass him by waiting around for his thanks, though. Now, we'd better be jumpin' in a few minutes. The water'll be shallow off to port, near that promontory. We can just wade ashore."
Wading, I reflected, tends to be easier when one is seven feet tall. But I said, "Why'd you do it?"
"I needed a ride to Vicksburg, too."
I was about to say that the computer had him listed as captain, but how was I to know that? Instead, I said, "I'm going to hit the head first."
"I'll be gettin' my gear while you do that thing."
While I did that thing I also coiled into the computer and checked again. "Ship's master: David G. Holland" I read. So Catlum had fudged the records, too, temporarily—just an observation, as I could hardly afford a holier-than-thou attitude on that count. But knowing my story about a Wilson at Deller's referring me to him to be a complete fabrication, he must have been puzzled about how I did know his name and how I'd gotten my message into the computer. On the other hand, he didn't seem to care and he hardly seemed the sort to go running to authorities about a fugitive. He might even be one himself. I decided that it was safe to accompany him ashore at the point he had indicated.
When the time came, we jumped. He did wade. I swam. My teeth were chattering when we finally reached the strand, but Catlum set up a brisk pace which was eventually warming.
"Where are we headed?" I finally asked him.
"Oh, a couple of more miles along the road here there's a little eatery I know," he said.
My stomach growled in reply.
"… Then a little further on there's a small town with just about anything you'd want. Maybe even a new pair of pants."
I nodded. My garments were even shabbier now. I was starting to look like a bum. He slapped me on the shoulder then and increased his pace. I forced myself to match it. I thought about the barge and its hungover captain, winding along the river up ahead. I had to acknowledge that if anyone somehow traced me to the barge the trail was going to be even more confused than I'd originally intended. I owed this oversized con man that much.
When we got to the restaurant I was almost dizzy with hunger. We settled at a table off to the side and I ordered a steak. My companion did what I'd only fantasized. He ordered three. He finished them, too, and started in on several pieces of pie while I was still working on mine. He called for coffee so often that the waitress left a pot on the table.
Finally, he sighed and looked at me and said, "You know, you could use a shave."
I nodded.
"Didn't bring my barber along," I said.
"Wait a minute." He leaned to the side and opened his duffle bag. He rummaged in it for several moments, then withdrew one of those plastic disposable razors and a small tube of shaving cream. He pushed them across the table toward me. "I always carry a couple of these for emergencies. You look like one."
He poured himself another cup of coffee.
"Thanks," I said, spearing the last edible morsel on my plate and glancing back toward the Men's Room. "I'll take you up on it."
I went back and washed, lathered my face, shaved and combed my hair. The image which regarded me from the mirror actually looked presentable, well-nourished and rested then. Amazing. I disposed of the disposable and departed the facility.
Our table was empty, save for the bill.
After a moment I had to laugh, for the first time in a long while. I couldn't hold it against him. I should have seen that one coming. I shook my head, feeling something vaguely like a loss other than my money.
That Catlum was sure one hell of a checkers player.
Chapter 14
Moving off. The skin of the sky was very blue and the song of the air whistled inside my helmet around my ears. I gripped the handlebars and maintained a steady pace within my lane. The 'cycle held the road beautifully.
I had found the little town right where Catlum had said it would be, up the road, and I had indeed purchased new trousers there—also a shirt and a jacket. Except for a few stores, though, I was stymied. They had a vehicle rental place, but it was closed and I couldn't locate the owner or manager. Upon reflection, this may have been just as well. It resulted in my getting in some good thinking time.
I had passed a little motel on my way into town. I could get a room, and the shower itself would be worth it. I was not sleepy after the day's hibernation, but I wanted to be out of sight while I waited and I did not feel like skulking about the countryside.
When I said cash and he saw that I had no luggage, the clerk asked for payment in advance. But that was okay. I gave him a false name and out-of-state address, of course, got the room, cleaned myself up and stretched out on the bed.
Still feeling alert, I reviewed everything that had happened—from the Keys to Baghdad and on along my current odyssey to the present moment. I thought about Cora. I knew where she was now, and I felt that she was safe for the time being. A dead hostage is after all no hostage, and they would derive no benefit from making her suffer until or unless I could be made to watch. While recent experiences demonstrated the fineness of the distinction, I felt that Barbeau would still actually rather have me alive and working for him again than dead. This much of what he had said back in Philadelphia, I believed. If this could not be, however, he wanted me dead. What he feared most, I was certain, was probably my going to the Justice Depar
tment with my story. I could see myself at a hearing, playing computer tricks to demonstrate what I was saying. No. He would not like that. And so long as he had a live Cora for insurance, he knew that this would not come to pass. He would hang onto a live Cora now until he had a dead BelPatri—for he must realize by now that I wasn't coming back.
I had remained safe so far by exploiting the new, manipulative aspect of my paranormal ability. Barbeau had not been prepared for anything like it, and I was certain it had him worried. I realized, too, that I was going to have to rely upon it from here on out, to exploit it fully, for offense and defense, for the rest of my journey, to keep him off balance, to maintain an edge.
I intended renting a vehicle on the morrow, for the next stage of my journey. As I had just been reminded at the desk, however, one either charges or pays cash for things—and my funds were dwindling and my credit cards all said DONALD BELPATRI.
No problem, I decided, remembering the policeman with the little box, back in Philadelphia. No matter what the card says, I can alter what the machine says it reads there.
But wait… It was not quite that simple.
For one thing, altering the account number signal would not be sufficient. It had to be altered to something intelligible and acceptable. Otherwise, the transmitter would receive a notice that there was something wrong, and I would be in trouble.
For another thing, the cards all bore my name. While this meant nothing to the computer, which was only interested in an account number associated with some name on file, a human operator on this end would see the name and would also doubtless create a local, personal record of the transaction. This was unacceptable, with Angra shaking the shrubbery after me.
I studied one of my credit cards. The name and numbers were embossed in such a fashion that I couldn't really do much to alter their values. With the point of my pocket knife, though, it seemed that I might be able to scrape a letter off flush with the surface of the card, so that it would not print onto any paper inserts. A little scribbling and smudging could then mask the letter-sized gap… I got rid of the B and the RI.
Coils Page 14
