Gwen gave a somber nod. "It must have guarded well."
"It did," Chornoi agreed. "It was built to ward off seventeenth-century caravels, but it'd be very effective against any rebel group that tried to take over the transatlantic tube, today."
Rod lifted his head slowly. "So that's why the trip ends here!"
Chornoi nodded. "It'd also be easy to lock out anybody trying to invade through the tube from Europe. All you'd have to do would be to lock those big gates over there, and shoot down from the battlements up there." She pointed up at the rooftops. They could just make out the shape of the gun-slits against the sky. It wasn't hard to see the uniformed armsmen walking their beats, though.
Rod shuddered and looked away. "Not an entirely happy with a slice of blue between it and the sky. "What is that azure field?" thought, under our circumstances."
"Don't worry about it." Elaborately casual, Chornoi strolled out the main gate. The others followed her, with sighs of relief. "Where're we going?" Rod asked.
"Over there." Chornoi pointed at the skyline.
Another fortress topped a rise before them.
Gwen shivered, then squared her shoulders. "We do what we must." She stepped onto the slidewalk.
"That was the only tube from Europe?" Rod asked.
They were coming in through another gate in a reddish stone wall, and they found themselves in another courtyard. Gwen gazed about her. "Why, 'tis like to the other, only far smaller."
Chornoi nodded. "Good way to put it. I mean, it makes sense, doesn't it? If it worked with El Morro, why not do it again? This is the fortress San Cristobal, Miz Gallowglass—and yes, Major, that El Morro tube is the only one from Europe."
"For the whole Western Hemisphere?"
Chornoi nodded. "Oh, it makes for traffic jams, right enough, but it sure lets PEST control who moves where."
"So why aren't they stopping us?" Yorick muttered.
Chornoi frowned. "I was wondering that, myself. They must have figured out that we're not in the Canaries."
"But they don't know we're wearing gray," Rod reminded her.
Chornoi shook her head. "They've got to have guardsmen out with our pictures by now. All we had was a change of clothes, not plastic surgery."
They rode the slidewalk through the courtyard of San Cristobal slowly, each mulling at the thought. Finally, Yorick said, "You don't suppose the local guardsmen might not be too happy about PEST telling them what to do, do you?"
The slidewalk shot them into another dark tunnel.
This one was low, and not very wide. Discreet, indirect lighting showed them when the slidewalk turned into an escalator.
"They didn't used to have lights in here," Yorick muttered.
Chornoi's gaze snapped to him, eyes narrowed.
"They had charges of gunpowder set at regular intervals. That's what the lines there are for." Yorick pointed at straight cracks, an inch wide, that ran up the walls and across the ceiling. "If they blew up the far end of the tunnel, the near end would still stand. So if any poor bastard of a soldier had to come down here at night, he wasn't allowed to carry a torch."
Rod looked around at the dark close walls, glanced forward and backward, and saw that all the daylight had been blocked off by the curve of the tunnel. He shuddered.
The slidewalk stopped, and they stepped through a low doorway into a small tunnel at right angles to the main one. Rod noticed that they passed another grille of iron bars, blocked open.
He found himself in a very long room, like a section of tunnel that had been closed off. Far away at the end, daylight glared through a small rectangle.
"We wait here," Chornoi explained. "When the next car comes, we'll go down that escalator to board it." She pointed at a plasticrete portal that obtruded in the side of the tunnel, hideous in its smooth blandness.
Rod was looking about him. He noticed a clear panel and stepped over to it. Behind it was a section of tunnel wall with five crudely-drawn ships colored in earth tones, and a scrawled word above them.
Yorick noticed his gaze. "A young officer did that. He led a mutiny, and they locked him in here for sixty days before they took him out to kill him."
Rod darted a quick glance around the chamber. For a moment, he could imagine what it must have been like to be locked up in this small space for so long a time—day after day, never knowing when he'd be taken out to be slain, with nothing to do except rant at his fate and curse himself for a fool. He shook his head, turning away from the thought. "What does the word say?"
"What would you say, if you were locked up in here for sixty days?"
Chornoi frowned up at Yorick. "How come you know so much about this place?"
But Yorick only shook his head, brows drawn so low they hid his eyes, and muttered something under his breath.
A green panel glowed to life by the stairway.
"Loading time," Chornoi said softly.
As they came into the Atlanta interchange, a 3DT tank burst into color with a picture of a group. "These persons are criminals," a resonant voice informed them. "They endanger the state and, therefore, every citizen."
Rod stared, appalled. "Wow! I never looked worse!"
"It's the harried, hunted look," Chomoi assured him, "and they would catch me without makeup."
Yorick nodded. "I look like a thug."
Gwen didn't say anything, but the expression on her face spoke volumes.
"If you see any or all of them," the voice went on, "report them immediately to the nearest Security Service officer."
"See the scoutship in the background?" Yorick pointed. "This must be the picture that the little viper with the loud mouth had his flunky take."
Rod nodded. "Wonder what took 'em so long to get it on the network?"
"Who says it did?" Yorick countered. "We could be looking at the hundredth replay."
"Yeah, we could." Rod frowned. "Either way, we'd better get gone. Gwen, let's go. Chomoi… Chornoi?"
But Chornoi was over against the wall, talking at a blank viewscreen. "Yeah, I just saw them!" She was speaking in a higher, more nasal voice than usual, and fairly danced with excitement. "I mean, I'm right here in Atlanta, human, and I… huh?… No, I don't know why you're not getting any picture. I don't have one of you either, y' know? Hey, what can I tell you? The way you guys keep up these public call booths… Oh, them? Yeah! I just got in on the tube from Florida! And back in Jacksonville, when I was getting on, they were getting off!… No, of course not! How could I call you any sooner? There weren't any call booths on that capsule! Besides, I didn't see your blurb about them until I got off here in Atlanta… What?… Oh, sure, sure! Glad to help! I always wanted to be a good citizen… Yeah, 'bye, now."
"That," Yorick said, leveling a forefinger, "is a damn good idea." He jumped for another call booth, put his palm over the vision pickup, and said, "Security Service. Reporting."
But Rod was already at a booth of his own. "Huh?… Well, yeah, I'm in Atlanta now—but, I mean, I didn't see your blurb about 'em until I was waiting for my tube in Puerto Rico, and my capsule came right after that, and well, hell, you couldn't expect me to… Well, yeah! I saw them, yeah! Sicily, just before I got on the capsule there!… No, now, look, I know that was eight hours ago, but, yeah, I'm sure!… Yeah, I mean, you couldn't miss those clothes anywhere! What happened to that guy's jacket—did he get scrambled eggs on it?"
Gwen had her hand over another vision pickup, and was staring at the microphone inlay. Suddenly she smiled, and said, "Emergency," and began talking in a fast, nasal voice. "Hello?… Yeah, them!… No, no, the four in the tank! The ones with the weird… Yeah, sure I'm sure… Oh! Yeah, right here where I'm talking from… Where? Oh, I don't know. Someplace in Mexico… Whup! There comes my capsule!"
She disconnected and turned, to find Rod standing over her. "What did you do?"
She beamed up at him. "I traced the paths of the 'electrons' with my thoughts, and made each wait one second in an instrument a thousan
d miles away, then begin its course anew."
Rod stared. "You mean you figured out how to route that call through a terminal that far away in just a few seconds?"
"Nay—I've been learning of these things thou dost term 'electrons' sin that we were kidnapped."
"I noticed." Rod swallowed through a suddenly dry throat. "Uh… where does Security think that call came from?"
"I believe 'tis called 'Acapulco.'"
Rod turned away, just barely managing to restrain a gibber. "You, uh, seem to have developed a feel for the local dialect."
Gwen shrugged impatiently. "Tis naught, for one who reads minds."
Fortunately, right then, Rod bumped into Yorick, who was trying to shoo them all into a tightly-knit group again. "All right, all right! That's enough with the phone calls, already! Let's get under cover, before somebody tracks the origins of these little bulletins of ours, and adds two and two together, and comes up with three! We need a hiding-place, don't we?"
"Right!" Rod looked about him, thinking fast. He pointed a finger. "There!"
Yorick turned, looked, and grinned. "The very place. Come on, folks, let's go." And he shooed them all toward a shop front replete with flashing letters, garish holos, and animated enticers. They sauntered into a huge mouth with incarnadined lips below a mustache that read, "GAMES ARCADE."
Where the upper teeth should have been was a sign that read,
"NO CALCULATORS OR PERSONAL COMPUTERS ALLOWED!
They louse up our games."
As they stepped in, they were assaulted with a primal cacophony of whistles, squeaks, booms, shrieks, screeches, chimes, explosions, cackles, zooms, and rings. Gwen pressed her hands over her ears. "Aiee! Wherefore must they needs have such a deal of noise? And wherefore is there so much haze?"
The hall was filled with smoke, and dimly-lit by spotlights focused on each separate gaming machine.
"It's supposed to help their concentration," Rod called into her ear. "They won't be distracted by the other machines around them, because they can't see them clearly."
Gwen only shook her head, exasperated.
As they plowed on through the arcade, they were assailed by gunfire from a variety of periods: the booming of muskets, the sharp cracks of squirrel rifles, the continuous racket of repeating rifles, the rattle of machine guns, the sizzle of blasters. Names of famous battles flashed past them as they slogged doggedly ahead. Finally, gasping and panting, they reached an island of comparative quiet, where there were only a few rings of people sitting on the floor, chatting and laughing, and a man talking to a machine.
"Praise Heaven," Gwen gasped. "I feel as though I have just run the gaunt of the worst of Man's history."
Beside them, a calm voice asked, "What is the acceleration of a falling body on the planet Terra?"
"Thirty-two feet per second!" the player cried, and the machine chimed agreeably. A counter on its panel registered the number "20."
"Excellent," the machine murmured. "What was the first English novel?"
"Richardson's Pamela!"
The machine chimed again. "Excellent. Why did Alexander's empire fail?"
Rod looked up at the name of the game. It read, "Universe-Class Trivia." joy
"Invalid." One of the people in the nearest ring held up a hand. "He can't be using a two-handed sword in pre-Roman Britain."
One of the other people frowned. "Why not?"
"Because it wasn't invented until the 1200s."
"So what did the British use?"
"Axes."
The young man shook his head with deliberation. "He's my character, and he's using a broadsword."
"No way-o, Wolfbay-o. This game sticks to historical accuracy. That's Rule Three."
"Says who?"
"I do—and you know Rule One."
The young man sighed and said, "Okay. 'Wolfbay unlimbered his twenty-pound war-ax
"Hold it." The first man held up a hand again.
"Okay, O-kay! A two-pound ax!"
Gwen bent down and murmured something to one of the other players. The player answered her, and Gwen straightened, nodding, but still mystified.
"What was that all about?" Rod asked.
"I wished to know the source of the smaller man's authority." Gwen shrugged. "She told me 'tis because he is the… my lord, what is a 'diem'?"
"'Diem'?" Rod frowned. "I think it was a Latin word that meant 'day,' dear."
"Lost!" Beside them, Yorick gave a machine a slap. "Doggone it, this is too much! Three straight losses—in three moves each!"
A neatly-dressed man was at his elbow in a second. "I'm Alkin Larn, the manager. Do you have a problem with our games, citizen?"
"I sure do." Yorick nodded toward the machine. "You know how this thing gives you three tries on each game? Well, I never got past the first hurdle once! I think the joystick's broken!"
The manager stepped in front of the machine and slipped a credit card into the slot. "Let me see…" He began to play.
"This is one hell of a welcome to Terra," Yorick snorted. "Here I am, just in from the outlying planets—you know, Wolmar, Otranto—and I met a guy in a bar who recommended this particular arcade, so I came in here to get a taste of Terran high life, and what happens? The machine beats me out!"
Rod was frantically making shushing motions.
The manager stilled, gazing at the screen. Then he looked up at Yorick with a polite smile. "You may have a point about this machine, sir. I'll certainly arrange a refund; your acquaintance's recommendation is exactly what I'm always hoping to hear. Would you like to step into the back room to try the really advanced games?"
"Fine." Yorick grinned. "Just take me to them."
Personally, Rod hadn't thought Yorick had exactly been piling up a sky-high score, even on the kiddie level.
But the manager slipped a "MALFUNCTIONING" sign out of his coverall, hung it on the machine, and turned away. Yorick turned with him.
Chornoi and Rod looked at each other in mingled panic and disbelief.
"We have trusted him thus far," Gwen reminded them. "Wherefore should we think him mistaken now?"
"A point," Rod sighed, "and I must admit we don't see any squadron of armsmen charging down on us. Come on."
They turned and followed Yorick and Larn.
"With the advanced games, I really must warn you," Larn was saying, "that the stakes are advanced, too."
"Oh, sure, I know these machines are really just low-level gambling." Yorick shrugged. "After all, the government has to have an income, doesn't it?"
"It certainly does," Larn said grimly, "sixty percent of all gambling profits."
Yorick nodded. "But you can make a living off the forty percent that's left over?"
"A good living." Larn opened the door to the back room. "But I don't have any assistants—only two night managers. You're just in from Otranto, and you stepped into a games arcade?"
"What can I tell you?" Yorick shrugged as he stepped through the door. "We got tired of the Gothic motif."
Rod stepped aside for the ladies, then followed them in, feeling as though he were walking into a trap. Larn closed the door behind him.
Gwen was staring around at the walls. "So many books!"
Chornoi gawked. "Why? Why not just keep them on cube?"
"Books are more convenient in a great number of ways." Larn walked around in front of them, gesturing to an easy chair and a table with a lamp. "But the main reason is atmosphere. You can hide away from the world in here— and about twenty percent of our customers do."
Rod was still looking around. "I don't see anything but books. Where's the gambling?"
"The gamble is whether or not we get caught," the manager answered. He moved past them, beckoning.
They followed, past six people sitting around a circular table. The oldest was saying, "All right, Gerry, but you're assuming that nice, fair political system Plato's proposing, is representing the whole population."
Gerry frowned. "But tha
t's what he said, isn't it?"
"Yeah," another student answered, "but that's not what the real city was like, the one he was modeling this 'Republic' of his after."
Gerry frowned. "How?"
"There were a lot of slaves in the population," answered a third student, "and they weren't represented."
Larn escorted them into a six-by-six cubicle with transparent walls, a small table, and a single chair. He closed the door behind them and explained, "This is a study carrel—soundproof, so the student won't be distracted by the discussion groups."
"Those are volunteers out there?" Rod asked.
Larn nodded. "They got bored with the games. Sorry to have to put you through this." He pulled a small rectangle out of his pocket and passed it over Rod's body, head to toe, about six inches in front of him. "Turn around, please."
Resentment smoldered, but Rod complied. After all, he was the one asking for help.
"Okay. Thanks." Larn turned to Gwen. "If you don't mind, Miz?"
An angry refusal leaped to Rod's lips, but Gwen threw him a quick, imploring, determined glance, and he swallowed the words.
Larn scanned Gwen front and back, then Chornoi and Yorick. Finally, he nodded and slipped the rectangle back in his pocket. "All right, no bugs."
Gwen frowned.
"Listening devices," Chornoi explained. "Surveillance."
Gwen's lips formed an O.
"You ought to recognize the setup by now, Major," Yorick said, with a steady gaze.
Rod met that gaze, frowning. Then his eyes widened, and he spun to the manager. "Good grief! You're a Cholly Barman graduate!"
The manager nodded. "And our great and glorious masters of the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra have decreed that no one is to learn more than basic reading, writing, and arithmetic. Oh, a very small number of very talented students will be allowed to go on through high school, and maybe even college—any society has to have at least a few people to keep the machinery running, and collect the taxes— but the vast majority will never be taught to read anything more than the directions on a food packet."
Yorick nodded. "And, strangely, the children of PEST officials are already almost all included in that small number of 'very talented' chosen to go on in school."
The Warlock Wandering Page 26
