Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05

by Today We Choose Faces

  They seem to be getting closer.

  "The sooner we get them in range, the better," I said within myself.

  You are a better incarnation than Lange was.

  "I know that."

  But still not good enough, I fear.

  "What do you mean?"

  You are learning, but not fast enough. I think they will get you, too.

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  It might not be a complete loss, though. You may learn something from the experience.

  "Such as?"

  Forget the dead and stop running. Get your enemy, then clean house.

  "I have already established my own priorities."

  A lot of good they are doing you.

  "I will take your advice on forgetting the dead, though, beginning with you—"

  Wait! You need me, you fool! If you want to live —

  "Go!"

  — pull pin seven …

  I completed the expulsion and sighed, "Some help I can do without."

  "What did you say?" Glenda asked.

  "Nothing," I said. "I was mumbling to myself."

  "For a moment it seemed there was someone beside you."

  'That is your Celtic imagination trying to justify its existence."

  "No," she said, "that is what I pay it for."

  I glanced at her then and she laughed. Peculiar sense of humor, that.

  I was wary as we neared the beltway, but there was no one in sight this time either. We mounted it and were borne on through the gloom, side by side. Her presence seemed to have a stabilizing effect on me, a human anchor against my neurotic storms.

  "How are you feeling now?"

  "Better yet."

  "Good."

  After several minutes, we came to a crossway and switched to a larger belt. Our route was then better lighted and there were other travelers about. One more changeover and we would be headed toward the jackpole.

  Pull pin seven ... It was an intriguing—if heretical— thought, to release whatever beasts Lange had enchained in the dark night of his soul. For a moment, I wanted to laugh, then felt offended, hurt and mildly amused in rapid succession. That part of me which had been plain old Engel found it very funny to think of prissy old Lange in such romantic terms. Because of his appearance, he often got the assignment of cruising about as an aging queen, picking up young men in need of rehabilitation. To think of him as wrestling nameless demons and then going through with a more than symbolic act of suicide in order to establish the nexus, was close to inconceivable to plain old Engel. That part of me which now was Lange had been hurt and offended. But already the divisions were beginning to blur, and I—whoever I was—reacted finally with only a mild amusement. It was good that the merger was proceeding so smoothly on the surface, though I wondered what conflicts might be raging in the greater, unconscious portion of my mind.

  ... To pull pin seven would be to undo Lange's greatest work in our continuing effort to direct the moral evolution of human consciousness. I did feel a certain tension as that which was Lange within me resisted my even thinking along these lines. That which was not, however, continued to speculate as to the nature of the sacrificed portion. It became a moth-and-candle thing. I had inherited Lange's personal demon, and he of course would like nothing better than to hear my shouted Zazas, Zazas, Nasatanada, Zazas, the words which fling wide the Gates of Hell ...

  Where had I picked that up? Either from that portion of Hinkley which was mine, from Lange or from beyond pin seven, I decided. As if in answer, I could almost hear Hinkley's voice reciting something from Blake:

  But when they find the frowning Babe, Terror strikes thro' the region wide: They cry "The Babe! the Babe is Born!" And flee away on Every side.

  I took it to be his answer to the diabolical metaphor for pulling pin seven. Since he had been the librarian, he had a good deal from which to choose. Upon reflection, though, did it represent approval or disapproval of the notion? There was no accompanying feeling to help me judge it. Ambiguity, I decided, was the trouble with literary types. I—

  Damn! I pulled myself back from the distraction. Was the whole thing Lange's doing, an attempt to direct my thoughts away from my initial considerations?

  Or was it he-who-had-been, attempting to whip up some enthusiasm for a resurrection?

  What would I be like when my turn came?

  I would play the clarinet to them, I decided—sweetly, yet with infinite pathos ...

  I bit my lip. I stared out beyond the belt and marked our movement. I studied the curling of Glenda's hair behind her right ear and at the nape of her neck. I tapped my foot. It was time, I could tell, to shift my attention to externals. It had become too, too apparent that the conflicts within me were indeed stronger than they had seemed several jagged moments earlier.

  "How far do you propose to accompany me?" I said.

  "As far as is necessary."

  "Necessary for what?"

  'To see you safe," she said.

  "That may be a bigger job than you think."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You were correct a while back when you said that I was in trouble."

  "I know that."

  "All right. What I am trying to say is that while you were right as to the condition, its degree is another matter. My trouble is serious and dangerous. You have already helped me more than you realize. Now that I am back on my feet and on my way again, I can best repay you by-saying goodbye. There is really nothing more that you could do to help me along now, but if you were to remain with me the trouble could become contagious. So I thank you again, Glenda, and I will be leaving you at the jackpole."

  "No," she said.

  "What do you mean 'no'? I was not asking you. I was telling you. We have to separate. And very soon. You helped me. Now I am returning the favor."

  "I have a feeling you will require additional assistance. Soon."

  "It will be available."

  "Yes. Because I will be there."

  I rejected several possible retorts as we swept along, then, "Why?" I said. "Mind telling me why?"

  "Because," she said, without hesitation, "I have never been involved in anything exciting before. All my life I have wanted to, but nothing ever happened. I was beginning to believe that nothing ever would. Then you appeared while I was sitting there knowing I was going to lose another stupid job. As soon as I heard the phones ringing and saw you running, I knew this was going to be something different. It almost seemed fated. The peculiar way the bells seemed to pursue you . . . your dramatic collapse—almost at my feet ... It was very exciting. I have to know how it all turns out, you see."

  "I'll call you when it's all over and let you know."

  "I am afraid that will not be sufficient," she said.

  "It will have to do."

  She simply shook her head and turned away.

  "We have to change at this intersection," she said, after a few moments, "if we are going to the jackpole."

  "I know."

  We transferred to the other belt, and the traffic was somewhat heavier. I was unable to tell whether we were being followed at that time.

  "I imagine you are now trying to figure the best way to get rid of me."

  "That is corrects

  "Give up," she said. "I am not going to go away."

  “You have no knowledge of the situation into which you are trying to force your way," I said, "and I am not about to enlighten you. I have already told you that it is dangerous. Anyone who rushes toward an unknown peril simply to satisfy a desire for excitement is a fool. I begin to understand why you cannot hold a job."

  "You cannot insult me into going away."

  "You are a fool!"

  "Have it your way," she said, "but I have a right to use public transportation the same as anyone else. I have already decided where I am going, so you might as well be graceful about it."

  "It strikes me as in a category with accident-watching."

  "My intention is to do
more than watch, if necessary."

  "I shan't argue with you any further," I said. "But how do you know I am not depraved, psychotic, criminal or any of a number of other undesirable things?"

  "It does not matter," she said, "since I have already chosen sides."

  "That says something about your own stability."

  "I suppose it does. But why should it matter to you, if I don't mind your being all those things?"

  "Never mind. Forget it."

  I watched the jackpole for a time. Overhead, a crane ground by, bearing a massive load of office furniture. In a pit to our right, the darkness was smeared away by the bright tongue of a welder, repairing or replacing a conduit. Faintly, very faintly, and but briefly, I heard some strains of music. Far ahead now, a geometrically disciplined parklike area came into view at the base of the jackpole. It was not overly lit, there was a statue of somebody or other at the near end and benches here and there along the walks. As we drew nearer, I saw that the trees were natural, not artificial, and there seemed to be a fountain toward the rear.

  "It reminds me of something out of Wolfe," Glenda said, looking in the same direction, and I became more Hinkley than anything else, almost without realizing it.

  "Yes," I found myself saying. "He got a lot of mileage out of the town square, didn't he?"

  "This one could use a city hall and a courthouse with a big clock on it."

  "There is a clock above the entrance to the jackpole."

  "Yes, but it is silent and always has the right time."

  “That's true. No bird droppings either."

  "Could use a stonemason's shop, too."

  "But not the tombstones."

  “True."

  I wondered then about real squares back on the Earth. Did the strange Mr. Black really remember such things, or had he simply been killing time before he killed me? Since I had no such recollections on which to base any nostalgia, I could only blame my feelings on Hinkley's preoccupations: he was a romantic, an armchair time-traveler, a naturalist in a place that was all out of nature. Sad. And that was how I felt for several moments. About Hinkley, squares, everything.

  "You read a lot," I said.

  She nodded.

  We disembarked at the park and walked into it. Periodically, hidden speakers released recorded bird-notes from within the bushes and trees. The peculiar smell of moist earth came to our nostrils. I directed our route around the jackpole, where we passed beside the small, sparkling fountain. Glenda dipped her fingers.

  "What are we doing?" she asked, as we completed our circuit of the pole and headed back in the direction from which we had come.

  "Biding a bit," I said, as I eased myself onto a bench and stared back along the walk toward the beltway.

  She settled herself beside me, followed the direction of my gaze.

  "I see," she said.

  "While we are biding, you might tell me something about yourself," I said.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Anything. Free-associate for me."

  "Will you return the favor?"

  "Maybe. Why? Is that a condition?"

  "It would be nice."

  "I will see what I can think of to say while you are talking."

  "I am twenty-two years old," she said. "I was born in this Wing. I grew up in the Classroom. My father was a teacher and my mother was an artist—a painter. They are both dead now, and I live in the Library. I—"

  I gripped her arm.

  "That's him?" she said, studying the figure which had just come into view on the beltway. "The enemy you flee?"

  "I cannot be sure," I said. "But I am going to operate under the assumption that it is. Come on."

  We returned to the far side of the pole and entered there.

  "You could just be doing this to keep from talking about yourself," she said.

  "I could, but I am not."

  We began the descent, augmenting our speed by walking rapidly down the gyre. Running to get away, then waiting for the pursuit to catch up could prove self-defeating if I continued the practice any further. It was not my intention, however. I had wanted to establish something, and I believed that I just had.

  If it were the same man, it seemed to me that he would have been following at too great a distance to maintain visual contact for the whole junket from the Living Room. While he might be good at anticipating me, the ability was hardly a thing in which to invest complete confidence. Since his hand had already been exposed and it seemed fairly certain that he was out for blood, it would seem to follow that he had some means of tracking me which I had not so far considered.

  How could he have planted a transmitter on me?

  The answer was not long in coming, although it was of no immediate use. My present clothing had hung in a locker, unattended, while I was on the bandstand. It would not have been overly difficult to get to it and insert something that would broadcast my whereabouts when I left.

  It could be microscopic, though, and situated anywhere. Locating it could be quite an undertaking. Unfortunately, the alternative of discarding my garments would not serve to make me less conspicuous in this Wing.

  I was glad that I had taken the time to test him though. If I had not, I would be leading him toward my jumping-off place, even if I appeared to lose him. TTbat would never do.

  We rode all the way down, to the Basement, and my plan was already in pretty good focus by the time we reached it.

  Save for maintenance people, the Basement was pretty much unfrequented. But it was a wilderness of machinery—reactors, generators, circulators, conditioners, pumps, computers, transformers, indicator panels—half-hidden in a jungle of pipes and cables, service belts every few yards, metal stairways that seemed to lead nowhere, flimsy platforms that vibrated when you mounted them, a maze of catwalks at every level, gantries, cranes, the smells of grease and burnt insulation, an unremitting hum, rush, whirr and crackle arising from it and the blue presence of electricity everywhere.

  ... All of which offered plenty of physical cover, as well as possible interference for whatever broadcast device I might be wearing.

  I stood for a moment and took my bearings. Although I could make out a couple of distant jackpoles, it was a subway exchange that I wanted. I located signs indicating the way to the nearest and headed toward the belt leading in that direction. My intention was to skip from Wing to Wing until I hit a station offering immediate transport to the Room I wanted, whatever the Wing, and then move directly to Go, without stopping, without collecting two hundred dollars, cursing the whole damned game the while. If my man could track me through interstellar space perhaps he deserved to win. I had strong doubts concerning his capability along these lines, however.

  ... And somewhere, before I reached the Gate, I would have to dispose of Glenda. I could not very well take her along to the place where I was going, and I saw no real danger to her should I leave her behind. A quick shot of trank as soon as I was certain we were alone, and she could sleep this one out on some workman's bench. It would be safer for her than keeping her with me much longer, I decided.

  It was a wide belt and it was slow, but it had us out of sight of the jackpole within a minute, so packed were the environs with the equipment that maintained the Wing. Once we were in the midst of it, we felt rather than heard the throb of the place. Two quick changeovers and we were on a narrower, faster belt, the course of which roughly paralleled the first. We were actually only a few hundred feet away from it, but it was completely hidden to us. So far, we had encountered no other people.

  Anyone descending the jackpole might still catch sight of us without our seeing him, though, because of the way the lights played on the surface of the thing. If someone was, he might have seen me shrug at the thought, because that was about all I was able to do for the moment.

  I wondered about the others—what they were thinking, doing, whether they had guessed my present situation correctly. This seemed likely, since they knew I was alive and th
erefore doubtless aware of the most recent killings, yet had no new orders for them. They must have guessed that I was still running and would contact them as soon as I could, that attempts to contact me could only distract me from my immediate problems. I wondered how much initiative they possessed. We would have to confer again as soon as I reached Wing Null.

  We walked quickly, adding our own speed to that of the belt. The light was very bright, almost glaring, for it was always full day here. Cranes moved constantly overhead, dipping, rising, sidling. The machinery hissed, chattered, hummed, hissed, chattered, hummed. I felt an irrational relief when we passed a callbox and the phone within it did not jangle.

  "Will you tell me now why you are fleeing, and from whom?" Glenda said.

  "No."

  "It might be helpful if I knew."

  "You invited yourself on this trip," I said. "It is not a conducted tour."

  'The danger I felt earlier ... it is very near now."

  "I hope that you are wrong."

  But I felt that she was right. My paranoid tendencies were easily stimulated, but they had had a lot of practice recently. I took the next sidebelt to my right, not knowing where it headed. Dutifully, she followed. We were squeezed between towering cliffs of metal. The temperature soared, quickly became oppressive. About twenty feet overhead, two workmen on a metal scaffold stared down at us with something of surprise on their faces.

  We took several more turnings, even spending a couple of minutes on a maintenance belt so narrow we had to stand sideways. After a time, we found our way to another, more normal belt, heading in the proper direction. The only other people we passed were schoolchildren on a tour of the ventilation complex. They were far off to our left, and quickly lost to sight.

  I began looking about for a safe nook or cranny in which to leave Glenda. I drew my gun and palmed it. I did feel a certain uneasiness at the thought. I do not like leaving loose ends about, I guess that was it. I was curious about her. A strange girl, who could not hold a job, who had helped me ... I would check back on her as soon as possible. I would attend to her welfare as soon as I had assured my own.

  "... Don't look suddenly," I heard her saying, "but I think we are being followed. Not on the belt. Up above. To the left. Back."