Jones had told him that the transportation services were being watched. What hope had he, then? He was unarmed, defenceless —“
Well, perhaps he could change that. With a gun in his hand, things would be a little different. In fact, things might be very different indeed. As Hull had pointed out, a hunter could legally shoot a Quarry; but if a Quarry shot a hunter he was liable for arrest and severe penalties.
If he did shoot a hunter, the police would have to arrest him! It would all get very involved, but it would save him from the immediate danger.
He walked until he came to a pawnshop. In the window was a glittering array of projectile and beam weapons, hunting rifles, knives and machetes. Blaine went in.
“I want a gun,” he said to the moustached man behind the counter.
“A gun. So. And what kind of a gun?” the man asked.
“Have you got any beamers?”
The man nodded and went to a drawer. He took out a gleaming handgun with a bright copper finish.
“Now this,” he said, “is a special buy. It's a genuine Sailes-Byrn needlebeam, used for hunting big Venusian game. At five hundred yards you can cut through anything that walks, crawls or flies. On the side is the aperture selector. You can fan wide for close-range work, or extend to a needle point for distance shooting.”
“Fine, fine,” Blaine said, pulling bills from his pocket.
“This button here,” the pawnbroker said, “controls length of blast. Set as is, you get a standard fractional jolt. One click extends time to a quarter second. Put it on automatic and it'll cut like a scythe. It has a power supply of over four hours, and there's more than three hours still left in the original pack. What's more, you can use this weapon in your home workshop. With a special mounting and a baffle to cut down the power, you can slice plastic with this better than with a saw. A different baffle converts it into a blowtorch. The baffles can be purchased —”
“I'll buy it,” Blaine broke in.
The pawnbroker nodded. “May I see your permit, please?”
Blaine took out his Hunter's License and showed it to the man. The pawnbroker nodded, and, with maddening slowness, filled out a receipt.
“Shall I wrap it?”
“Don't bother. I'll take it as is.”
The pawnbroker said. “That'll be seventy-five dollars.” As Blaine pushed the money across the counter, the pawnbroker consulted a list on the wall behind him.
“Hold it!” he said suddenly.
“Eh?”
“I can't sell you that weapon.”
“Why not?” Blaine asked. “You saw my Hunter's License.”
“But you didn't tell me you were a registered Quarry. You know a Quarry can't have weapons. Your name was flashed here half an hour ago. You can't buy a legal weapon anywhere in New York, Mr. Blaine.”
The pawnbroker pushed the bills back across the counter. Blaine grabbed for the needle-beam. The pawnbroker scooped it up first and levelled it at him.
“I ought to save them the trouble,” he said. “You've got your damned hereafter. What else do you want?”
Blaine stood perfectly still. The pawnbroker lowered the gun.
“But that's not my job,” he said. “The hunters will get you soon enough.”
He reached under the counter and pressed a button. Blaine turned and ran out of the store. It was growing dark. But his location had been revealed. The hunters would be closing in now.
He thought he heard someone calling his name. He pushed through the crowds, not looking back, trying to think of something to do. He couldn't die like this, could he? He couldn't have come 152 years through time to be shot before a million people! It just wasn't fair!
He noticed a man following close behind him, grinning. It was Theseus, gun out, waiting for a clear shot.
Blaine put on a burst of speed, dodged through the crowds and turned quickly into a side street. He sprinted down it, then came to a sudden stop.
At the far end of the street, silhouetted against the light, a man was standing. The man had one hand on his hip, the other raised in a shooting position. Blaine hesitated, and glanced back at Theseus.
The little hunter fired, scorching Blaine's sleeve. Blaine ran toward an open door, which was suddenly slammed in his face. A second shot charred his coat.
With dreamlike clarity he watched the hunters advance, Theseus close behind him, the other hunter in the distance, blocking the way out. Blaine ran on leaden feet, toward the more distant man, over manhole covers and subway gratings, past shuttered stores and locked buildings.
“Back off, Theseus!” the hunter called. “I got him!”
“Take him, Hendrick!” Theseus called back, and flattened himself against a wall, out of the way of the blast.
The gunman, fifty feet away, took aim and fired. Blaine fell flat and the beam missed him. He rolled, trying to make the inadequate shelter of a doorway. The beam probed after him, scoring the concrete and turning the puddles of sewer water into steam.
Then a subway grating gave way beneath him.
As he fell, he knew that the grating must have been weakened by the lancing beam. Blind luck! But he had to land on his feet. He had to stay conscious, drag himself away from the opening, use his luck. If he went unconscious, his body would by lying in full view of the opening, an easy target for hunters standing on the edge.
He tried to twist in mid-air, too late. He landed heavily on his shoulders, and his head slammed against an iron stanchion. But the need to stay conscious was so great that he pulled himself to his feet.
He had to drag himself out of the way, deep into the subway passage, far enough so they couldn't find him.
But even the first step was too much. Sickeningly, his legs buckled under him. He fell on his face, rolled over and stared at the gaping hole above him.
Then he passed out.
PART FOUR
27
When he revived, Blaine decided that he didn't like the hereafter. It was dark, lumpy, and it smelled of oil and slime. Also, his head ached, and his back felt as though it had been broken in three places.
Could a spirit ache? Blaine moved, and discovered that he still had a body. As a matter of fact, he felt all body. Apparently he wasn't in the hereafter.
“Just rest a minute,” a voice said.
“Who is it?” Blaine asked into the impenetrable darkness.
“Smith.”
“Oh. You.” Blaine sat up and held his throbbing head. “How did you do it. Smith?”
“I nearly didn't,” the zombie told him. “As soon as you were declared Quarry, I came for you. Some of my friends down here volunteered to help, but you were moving too fast. I shouted to you when you came out of the pawnshop.”
“I thought I heard a voice,” Elaine said.
“If you'd turned around, we could have taken you in there and then. But you didn't so we followed. A few times we opened subway grates and manhole covers for you, but it was hard to gauge it right. We were a little late each time.”
“But not the last time,” Blaine said.
“At last I had to open a grate right under you. I'm sorry you hit your head.”
“Where am I?”
“I pulled you out of the main line,” Smith said. “You’re in a side passageway. The hunters can't find you here.”
Blaine once again could find no adequate words for thanking Smith. And Smith once again wanted no thanks.
“I'm not doing it for you, Blaine. It's for me. I need you.”
“Have you found out why yet?”
“Not yet,” Smith said.
Blame's eyes, adjusting to the gloom, could make out the outline of the zombie's head and shoulders. “What now?” he asked.
“Now you’re safe. We can bring you underground as far as New Jersey. From there you’re on your own. But I don't think you should have much trouble then.”
“What are we waiting for now?”
“Mr. Kean. I need his permission to take you throu
gh the passageways.”
They waited. In a few minutes, Blaine was able to make out Mr. Kean's thin shape, leaning on the big Negro's arm, coming toward him.
“I'm sorry about your troubles,” Kean said, sitting down beside Blaine. “It's a great pity.”
“Mr. Kean,” Smith said, “if I could just be allowed to take him through the old Holland Tunnel, into New Jersey —”
“I'm truly sorry,” Kean said, “but I cannot allow it.”
Blaine looked around and saw that he was surrounded by a dozen ragged zombies.
“I've spoken to the hunters,” Kean said, “and I have given them my guarantee that you will be back on the surface streets within half an hour. You must leave now, Blaine.”
“But why?”
“We simply can't afford to help you,” Kean said. “I was taking an unusual risk the first time, allowing you to defile Reilly's tomb. But I did it for Smith, because his destiny seems linked with yours in some way. And Smith is one of my people. But this is too much. You know we are allowed to live underground upon sufferance only.”
“I know,” Blaine said.
“Smith should have considered the consequences. When he opened that grating for you, the hunters poured in. They didn't find you, but they knew you were down here somewhere. So they searched, Blaine, they searched! Dozens of them, exploring our passageways, pushing our people around, threatening, shouting, talking on their little radios. Reporters came too, and even idle spectators. Some of the younger hunters became nervous and started shooting at the zombies.”
“I'm very sorry about that,” Blaine said.
“It wasn't your fault. But Smith should have known better. The world of the underground is not a sovereign kingdom. We exist on sufferance only, on a toleration which might be wiped out at any time. So I spoke to the hunters and the reporters.”
“What did you tell them?” Blaine asked.
“I told them that a faulty grate had given way beneath you. I said you had fallen in by accident and had crawled into hiding. I assured them that no zombie had been involved in this; that we found you and would place you back on the surface streets within half an hour. They accepted my word and left. I wish I could have done otherwise.”
“I don't blame you,” Blaine said, getting slowly to his feet.
“I didn't specify where you would emerge,” Kean said. “At the very least, you'll have a better chance than before. I wish I could do more, but I cannot allow the underground to become a stage for hunts. We must stay neutral, annoy no one, frighten no one. Only in that way will we survive until an age of understanding is reached.”
“Where am I going to come out?” Blaine asked.
“I have chosen an unused subway exit at West 79th Street,” Mr. Kean said. “You should have a good chance from there. And I have done one more thing which I probably shouldn't have done.”
“What's that?”
“I have contacted a friend of yours, who will be waiting at the exit. But please don't tell anyone about it. Let's hurry now!”
Mr. Kean led the procession through the winding underground maze, and Blaine brought up the rear, his headache slowly subsiding. Soon they stopped beside a concrete staircase.
“Here is the exit,” Kean said. “Good luck, Blaine.”
“Thanks,” Blaine said. “And Smith — thanks.”
“I've tried my best for you,” Smith said. “If you die, I'll probably die. If you live, I'll keep on trying to remember.”
“And if you do remember?”
“Then I'll come and visit you,” Smith said.
Blaine nodded and walked up the staircase.
It was full night outside, and 79th Street seemed deserted. Blaine stood beside the exit, looking around, wondering what to do.
“Blaine!”
Someone was calling him. But it was not Marie, as he had expected. It was a man's voice, someone he knew — Sammy Jones, perhaps, or Theseus.
He turned quickly back to the subway exit. It was closed and fastened securely.
28
“Tom, Tom, it's me!”
“Ray?”
“Of course! Keep your voice down. There's hunters not far away. Wait now.”
Blaine waited, crouched beside the barred subway exit, peering around. He could see no sign of Melhill. There was no ectoplasmic vapor, nothing except a whispering voice.
“OK,” Melhill said. “Walk west now. Quickly.”
Blaine walked, sensing Melhill's invisible presence hovering near him. He said, “Ray, how come?”
“It's about time I was some help,” Melhill said. “That old Kean contacted your girl friend and she got in touch with me through the Spiritual Switchboard. Wait! Stop right here.”
Blaine ducked back against the corner of a building. A heli cruised slowly by at housetop level.
“Hunters,” Melhill said. “There's a field day on you, kid. Reward posted. Even a reward for information leading to. Tom, I told Marie I'd try to help. Don't know how long I can. Drains me. It's hereafter for me after this.”
“Ray, I don't know how —”
“Cut it out. Look Tom, I can't talk much. Marie has fixed a deal with some friends of hers. They've got a plan, if I can get you to them. Stop!”
Blaine stopped and found shelter behind a mailbox. Long seconds passed. Then three hunters hurried by, sidearms ready. After they turned a corner, Blaine was able to start walking again.
“Some eyes you have,” he said to Melhill.
“The vision's pretty good up here,” Melhill said. “Cross this street fast.”
Blaine sprinted across. For the next fifteen minutes, at Melhill's instructions, he wound in and out of streets, advancing and retreating across the battleground of the city.
“This is it,” Melhill said at last. “That door over there, number 341. You made it! I'll see you, Tom. Watch —”
At that moment, two men rounded a corner, stopped, and stared hard at Blaine. One said, “Hey, that's the guy!”
“What guy?”
“The guy they got the reward out for. Hey you.”
They ran forward. Blaine, his fists swinging, quickly chopped the first man into unconsciousness. He whirled, looking for the second, but Melhill had the situation well in control.
The second man had his hands over his head, trying to guard himself. A garbage can cover, levitating mysteriously, was clanging angrily around his ears. Blaine stepped forward and finished the job.
“Damn good,” Melhill said, his voice very weak. “Always wanted to try ghosting. But it drains… Luck, Tom!”
“Ray!” Blaine waited, but there was no answer, and the sense of Melhill's presence was gone.
Blaine waited no longer. He went to number 341, opened the door and stepped in.
He was in a narrow hallway. At the end of it was a door. Blaine knocked.
“Come in,” he was told.
He opened the door and walked into a small, dingy, heavily curtained room.
Blaine had thought he was proof against any further surprises. But it gave him a start all the same to see, grinning at him, Carl Orc, the body snatcher. And sitting beside him, also grinning, was Joe, the little Transplant peddler.
29
Blaine made an automatic move backwards toward the door, but Orc beckoned him in. The body snatcher was unchanged, still very tall and thin, his tanned face long and mournful, his eyes narrow, direct and honest. His clothes still hung awkwardly on him, as though he were more used to levis than to tailored slacks.
“We were expecting you,” Orc said. “Of course you remember Joe.”
Blaine nodded, remembering very well the furtive-eyed little man who had distracted his attention so that Orc could drug his drink.
“Happy to see you again,” Joe said.
“I'll bet,” Blaine said, not moving from the door.
“Come in and sit down,” Orc said. “We ain't planning to eat you, Tom. Truly not. Let's let bygones be bygones.”
�
�You tried to kill me.”
“That was business,” Orc said in his straightforward fashion. “We’re on the same side now.”
“How can I be sure of that?”
“No man,” Orc stated, “has ever questioned my honesty. Not when I'm really being honest, which I am now. Miss Thorne hired us to get you safe out of the country, and we intend to do same. Sit down and let's discuss it. Are you hungry?”
Reluctantly Blaine sat down. There were sandwiches on a table, and a bottle of red wine. He realized that he hadn't eaten all day. He started wolfing down sandwiches while Orc lighted a thin brown cigar, and Joe appeared to be dozing.
“You know,” Orc said, exhaling blue smoke, “I very nearly didn't take this job. Not that the money wasn't right; I think Miss Thorne was more than generous. But Tom, this is one of the biggest manhunts our fair city's seen for a while. Ever see anything like it, Joe?”
“Never,” Joe said, shaking his head rapidly. “Town's covered like flypaper.”
“Rex really wants you,” Orc said. “They've set their little hearts on nailing your corpus where they can see it. Makes a man nervous, bucking an organization that size. But it's a challenge, a real man-sized challenge.”
“Carl likes a big challenge,” Joe said.
“I admit that,” Orc said. “Particularly if there's a big profit to be made from it.”
“But where can I go?” Blaine asked. “Where won't Rex find me?”
“Just about nowhere,” Orc said sadly.
“Off the Earth? Mars? Venus?”
“Even worse. The planets have just a few towns and small cities. Everybody knows everybody else. The news would be all over in a week. Also, you wouldn't fit in. Aside from the Chinese on Mars, the planets are still populated mostly with scientific types and their families, and a few youth-training programs. You wouldn't like it.”
Immortality, Inc Page 15
