by Tim Powers
“That stuff is going to kill you,” Thomas remarked. “Why don’t you drink, instead?”
Corwin managed to choke, “Good enough for androids… good enough for me.”
Thomas sat down, wishing he had a really cold beer. This blasted desert wind is getting tiresome, he thought. I’ll never lose this cold while it keeps up.
The plywood door dragged open after a minute or so, but it was Spencer, not Gladhand, who stepped out onto the balcony.
“Howdy, Rufus,” he said. “Clear out of here, Ben. Important conference coming up out here. You’ve got to move on.” The old man uttered an obscene suggestion. “Will you leave for a five-soli bill?” Spencer asked, pulling one out of his pocket and holding it just out of reach of Ben’s waving, clutching hands.
Finally the old man struggled to his feet. “Give it here,” he said clearly.
“It’s yours,” said Spencer, letting him take it. “Go buy yourself a bottle of your favorite white port.” Muttering incoherently, Corwin tottered down the stairs.
“A conference?” Thomas inquired as Spencer sat down.
“Yeah, sort of. I’ll let Gladhand explain.”
The door grated open again and Gladhand wobbled out on crutches, closely followed by Negri. “Two more chairs, Bob,” the theatre manager said. Negri ran to fetch them, and in a moment the four of them were seated facing each other.
“There’s something it’s high time you learned, Rufus,” Gladhand began.
“Before it’s too late, sir,” Negri said, “reconsider. It’s crazy to trust—”
“We’ve been through this, Bob,” Gladhand said, a little impatiently. “Be quiet.”
“Sir,” Negri pursued, “might one—”
“Might one bugger off, Negri?” Gladhand said angrily. “Robert, you see,” he went on calmly, “doesn’t want me to tell you. He doesn’t trust you, Rufus.”
“I have no idea what’s going on here,” Thomas said, truthfully.
“Let me explain,” Gladhand said. “We are a theatre company, are we not? Right. But, lad, that’s not all we are. The Bellamy Theatre is a front—no, that’s not quite right—is the secret, uh, center of the only organized resistance force in L.A. My employees are guerrilla soldiers as well as actors.”
Thomas blinked, and then nodded slowly, trying to assimilate the idea. “That explains one or two odd remarks and looks,” he said. “Ah! And those ‘special effects’ are really weapons?”
“Some of them,” Gladhand nodded. “Some of them really are special effects devices. Don’t get the idea that the play is simply a mask, a cover. Our guerrilla efforts are no more important than our dramatic ones.” He lit a cigar. “Would you leave us, Robert?”
Negri raised his eyebrows incredulously.
“Leave us,” Gladhand insisted, and Negri stalked inside, pausing to give Thomas a look of pure hate. “You showed good… aptitude,” Gladhand continued, “in that foolish raid on the android barracks last week. I’d have taken you into our confidence right then, if it weren’t for the fact that the police were devoting so much time and effort to catching you. I was afraid you’d be seized at any time, and so for security reasons I kept you in ignorance of the… other half of our activities.”
“And… what changed your mind, sir?” Thomas asked.
“Things are quickly coming to a head. A crisis nears. Major-domo Lloyd committed suicide this morning; Alvarez has certainly reached the Santa Margarita River by now; and every two-bit politico south of Glendale is trying to take the reins of the city. I need every good man I can get, and it would be the exaggerated caution of a madman for me to keep you in the dark any longer. By the way, do you gentlemen recall those half-matured androids you saw under glass in that secret android brewery last week?” Thomas and Spencer nodded. “Well, Jeff told me at the time that the face they all wore looked familiar. Today it struck him whose it was. He swears it was the face of Joe Pelias.”
“Good God,” Spencer said. “Replacements, in case the real one dies?”
“I believe so,” Gladhand nodded. “They’ll be mature in another week, I’d judge, if they were already recognizable. We can’t waste time, you see.”
“Yes,” Thomas said. “What is it you’re hoping to do? In long-range terms, I mean?”
“Kill Pelias—it was our bombs that nearly did him in last week—and institute a new government, hopefully in time to defend the city against Alvarez.”
“What sort of new government?”
Gladhand shrugged. “A better one than this Pelias has given us. I know of a man with an unarguably valid claim to the mayor’s office. We will, I hope, manage to establish him when Pelias is finally disposed of.”
Thomas pondered all this. “Were you the ones who made that assassination attempt on Pelias ten years ago?”
Gladhand smiled oddly. “No. That attempt was certainly none of our doing. Anyway, our organization has only been in existence for eight years.”
“Does Pat know?” Thomas asked. “Is she in this?”
“Yes. I told her about it two days ago. She’s in.”
“Well, what can I do to join? Sign something in blood? Scalp a cop?”
“No, none of that. We’re very informal in that respect. Take my word for it that you’re a member. I did want to tell you all this today, though, so that you could help Spencer out tonight. He’s going to make the final arrangements on a purchase of a hundred rifles, in a bar called the Gallomo. I’d like it if he wasn’t alone, and you two seem to work well together.”
“Sure, I’ll go along,” Thomas said. “How are we going to get all those rifles back here, though?”
“We won’t,” said Spencer. “We’re just going to make a down payment, assuming the guns haven’t already been sold. Delivery will be in a couple of days, through the sewers.”
“I’ll want you both to carry pistols,” Gladhand said. “Just in case, you know.” He picked up his crutches. “In the meantime, get some lunch, and Spencer can fill you in on the details.” He swung himself erect and re-entered the building.
Four hours later Thomas was doing his best to eat a particularly gristly beef pie. “The drinks here might be okay,” he told Spencer, “but the food is vile.”
“Well, hurry up and finish it,” Spencer said. “The guy’s supposed to be here in ten minutes, and you’ve got your face in a goddamned pie.”
The pie had begun to cool off, and things were beginning to congeal in it, so Thomas pushed it away. “If things get rough we can throw it at somebody,” he said.
“Yeah, and—don’t turn around. He’s here. Good. That means we outbid city hall.”
Thomas slowly picked up the pitcher and refilled his beer glass. “Is he coming over here?” he whispered.
“He’s getting a drink first. Making it look unplanned, I suppose. Ah, here he comes.”
Peter McHugh sat down and nodded to Spencer. “Who’s your buddy?”
“A colleague,” Spencer said. “He’s okay. City hall didn’t go for it?”
“Oh, they claimed to, but my partner suspected they didn’t really intend to pay him. He’s got good instincts for that kind of thing.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s out in the wagon; he’ll be in in a minute. You’ve got the five grand?”
Spencer nodded and nudged the knapsack under the table with his foot.
“Good, good.” McHugh took a sip from the glass of wine he’d brought to the table. “Not bad,” he observed. “How’s the food here?”
“Terrible,” Thomas said, pointing at the pie.
McHugh peered at it. “Oh, yeah.” He looked up. “Here’s my partner now,” he said.
Thomas didn’t turn around, so he didn’t see the new arrival until he sat down. “Mr. St. Coutras!” he said in surprise when he got a look at the white-bearded old man.
“You two know each other?” McHugh asked, puzzled.
“My God, it’s Thomas the famous runaway monk,” St. Coutra
s said. “You’re with these guys?” he asked, nodding at Spencer.
“I am now,” Thomas told him. “I certainly wasn’t when I met you. And my name is Rufus, please.”
“Hah! Rufus? Oh well, whatever you say.”
“They’ve got the money,” McHugh said impatiently.
“Okay,” St. Coutras said. “Now listen,” he said to Spencer. “Pick up the guns Saturday, that’s the day after tomorrow, under the third manhole on New Hampshire south of the wall. That’s right above the city college, near Vermont.”
“I know where it is,” Spencer nodded. “When Saturday?”
“Eleven at night. Be there, we won’t wait around. If—”
McHugh half stood up, reaching quickly in his coat. A loud bang sounded behind Thomas and McHugh was kicked backward over his chair, the gun he’d reached for spinning across the floor.
“No one else is going anywhere, are they?” inquired a cultured voice from behind Thomas’ shoulder. Four smooth-faced android policemen surrounded the table as Albers picked up McHugh’s chair and sat down.
Thomas, from where he sat, couldn’t see McHugh’s body. Spencer could, though, and looked sick, scared and angry.
“Foolish of you to miss our appointment, St. Coutras, old boy,” Albers smiled, taking a sip of McHugh’s wine. “Very tolerable Petite Syrah,” he remarked. “Is the food equal to it?”
Thomas pointed mutely at the congealed pie. “Yes, I see,” Albers said with a shudder. “At any rate—these two young men, then, must be members of our own Los Angeles resistance underground! What are your names?”
“Edmund Campion,” Thomas said.
“Dan McGrew,” said Spencer.
“Uh huh. So you thought you’d sell to a rival market, eh, St. Coutras? That’s known as treason, my friend. You’ll be hanged and we’ll appropriate your guns. For nothing. And you lads will be hanged, too, never fear—after a few days with the city interrogator, naturally.” He picked up the wine glass again, then froze. He turned a sharp stare on Thomas. “What did you say your name was?” His voice was like a slap in the face.
“I forget,” Thomas said. “It was a phony name anyway.”
“I know that. You just said the first name that popped into your head, didn’t you?”
Puzzled and terrified, Thomas simply nodded.
“Right,” Albers grinned. “Edmund Campion. The name of a…saint. Let’s see—you’re the right height, dark hair…” He leaned forward and stared at Thomas more closely.
Through his tension and fear Thomas felt a taste of relief. At least it’s over, he thought. Now I’ll find out why they’ve been hunting me with such determination.
“This is him, isn’t it, St. Coutras?” Albers said. “Thomas, our long-sought fugitive.”
St. Coutras shook his head. “Wrong, Albers,” he said. “Are you going to grab every dark-haired young man who thinks of saints when he’s in trouble? You bastards are really grabbing at straws.”
“Hmm.” Albers frowned thoughtfully. “Of course you’d say that in any case, to keep your bargaining position… What the hell. We’ll take all of you in for a little intensive interrogation, hey? Maybe even send a coach to Merignac, bring back a monk who could absolutely identify this damned Thomas. Up, now, and march outside. Put that down, you monster,” he added to one of the androids, who had furtively picked up the pie.
Five horses were tied to a rail in front of the Gallomo, next to the old gun-runner’s cart Thomas had ridden to the city in, a week ago. One of the androids frisked the prisoners, removing a pistol apiece from Spencer and Thomas and a short, large-calibre sleeve-gun from St. Coutras.
“Handcuff the prisoners,” Albers directed the android, “and lay them in the back of the old man’s cart.”
The cold metal rings were clicked viciously tight around Thomas’ wrists, and then the android lifted him as easily as an armful of lumber and dropped him face down into the empty bed of the cart. A moment later St. Coutras and Spencer were dropped in on either side of him.
“Stay loose, lads,” the old man gasped. “They haven’t got us in the pan quite yet.”
Thomas could see no basis for hope, but felt a little better for St. Coutras’ words.
“All right,” came Albers’ voice. “You three follow us back to city hall—and don’t forget to bring the spare horses, idiots. You—you’ll drive the rig and I’ll ride along to watch our little guests.”
The cart rocked on its creaking springs as Albers and one of the androids climbed up onto the seat. “Don’t look up, friends,” Albers said, “but rely on it that I am staring down at you with a revolver in my right hand. I can’t afford to kill any of you yet, but I sure won’t hesitate to blow off an arm or two. Okay, Hamburger or whatever your name is, move out.”
Thomas heard the snap of the reins, and the cart lurched and rattled as it turned out of the parking lot and east onto Beverly. In a moment followed the snare-drumming of hooves on cobblestones as the five horses fell in behind.
“What time is it, Captain?” inquired St. Coutras politely.
“Shut your filthy hole, traitor,” Albers snapped. “Step on it, will you?” he said to the android driver, and Thomas felt the cart’s speed increase. He glanced over at St. Coutras, and the old gun-runner winked at him.
The cart leaned and creaked as it weaved to pass slower vehicles. The steady roar of the cobbles under the wheel-rims had risen in pitch. “Don’t stop for him,” Albers snarled. “Go around! There, grab that space! Oh yeah?” he shouted to some outraged driver they’d cut off. “Well, how’d you like to—oh Jesus, look out!”
The cart’s brakes squealed and Thomas was thrown forward.
“Hit the back brake!” St. Coutras called out commandingly, “or we’re doomed!”
A deep, hollow boom shook the cart to its axles, and immediately St. Coutras was up on his knees. “Run for it, Aeolus!” he howled, and butted his white-maned head into the driver’s shoulder. The horse leaped forward in a sudden burst of speed and the android, off balance, pitched off the bench into the street.
The old man frantically wrestled his manacled hands under his legs as the driverless cart picked up speed. When, a second later, he’d got them around in front of him, he vaulted onto the driver’s bench and caught the flapping reins.
“Go, Aeolus, darling!” he yelled to the horse.
Thomas rolled over and managed to drag his own hands around to the front. “Have you got a gun?” he shouted to St. Coutras. “They’re coming up fast behind us.”
The driver held the reins in his teeth for a moment while he groped under the bench; there was a wooden click and he came up holding a pistol. Thomas took it and turned around.
The three android riders were terribly close, and even as Thomas raised the pistol one of them got off a shot at him which almost burned his cheek as it passed. Thomas fired full into the rider’s face, and the android rolled off the back of its horse. The other two fell back a little.
Thomas’ next shot went wide as St. Coutras wrenched the speeding cart around a tight corner. Spencer was sitting up, looking tense but cheerful. A bullet splintered the bench over his head and he ducked low. “Careful of those bastards, Rufus!” he yelled.
Thomas nodded, and squeezed off a shot at the nearer rider. It tore a hole in the android’s arm, but didn’t slow it down. Thomas’ next shot crippled its horse, and mount and rider tumbled across the street in a tangle of thrashing limbs.
“Only one more!” Thomas called.
This one stood up in the stirrups now, raising its pistol in both hands for one well-aimed shot. Thomas centered the android in its sights, and both guns roared simultaneously.
Thomas spun violently back into the cart bed, his gun whirling away into the street, as the last android clutched its exploded belly and rolled off its horse.
Spencer grabbed Thomas’ shoulder. “Where are you hit?” he demanded.
“My hand,” Thomas whispered through clenched teeth
. His whole left hand was a blaze of pain, and he feared more than anything to look at it. He could feel hot blood running up his wrist and soaking his sleeve.
“Head for the Bellamy Theatre,” Spencer called to the driver.
“Screw that, son,” St. Coutras replied, not unkindly. “Our best bet is to head for the gate muy pronto, and get out of this maniac city before they hear about this and lock us in.”
“Well, look, my buddy here’s bleeding like a cut wineskin; at least drop us off here.”
“Okay.” St. Coutras reined in in front of a dark shop, and Spencer helped Thomas out of the cart.
“Listen,” the old man said. “When Albers was blown out of the cart your five thousand went with him. But I’m willing to write that off as taxes if you still want the guns.”
“We do,” Spencer said.
“Good. No change in the delivery plans, then. Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“You’re a good lad to have at one’s back in a fight. Hope I see you again.”
Thomas was pale and trembling, but managed a smile. “Thanks,” he said. “We were lucky to have you in the driver’s seat.”
“We owe it all to Aeolus. Here.” He tossed a box from under the seat to Spencer. “First aid. See you Saturday, boys!” He flicked the reins and the cart rattled away up the street.
Thomas and Spencer stepped into an alley. “Hold out your hand,” Spencer said. He poured alcohol all over Thomas’ injured hand and began wrapping it in a bandage. “This ain’t easy to do when both of us are handcuffed,” he remarked.
“How’s it look?”
“Oh, you won’t die of it, I guess.”
“Do the bandages have to be that tight?”
“Yes.” When he’d laboriously tied a knot and bitten off the slack, Spencer patted him on the back. “That’ll do for now. We’re close enough to the theatre to be able to walk back. If we pass anyone, just keep to the shadows and sing as if you were drunk, and with any luck at all they won’t notice the cuffs.”
CHAPTER 8
The Head in the Box
