The clerk on duty put a phone in front of me, a boxy affair made of a coarse-grained wood, like the ones in the room. I picked up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“I have your jacket,” a male voice said. “Want to come and get it?”
“Who is this?”
“The guy who owns the car you stole.”
The pill made my mouth work before I knew what I was saying. “The guy who owns the car I stole. Well, well. No fooling. What can I do for you?”
“You can come up to my cabin and get your jacket, and let me take a poke at you.”
“Least I could do. Right? Let me ask you this. How do you know I stole your vehicle, or that I stole anything?”
“A little birdie told me.”
It was an expression I hadn’t heard in a long while. In fact, something about his accent rang bells all the way back along my lifeline. He had a true American accent, and to me he sounded like what most people accuse me of sounding like—an anachronism. I remembered what he had yelled at us as we had pulled away in his vehicle: lousy bastards.
“Your little birdie is full of merte.”
“Look, Mac. Next time you steal a car, don’t leave a jacket with your name on it lying around … like on the front seat. Dig?”
Dig? “Okay,” I said. “You have me. Now what?”
“Like I said, come on up and get it. I’d like to meet you anyway. It’s not everyone who can handle my car and survive.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, I won’t start swinging at you. It was a hell of a merry chase, but I got my car back. So, no hard feelings. I was going to shoot that potluck anyhow.”
“You were? How did you get here? And how did you know I shot the potluck?”
“How did I know? You must be kidding. Half of Maxwellville was on your tail, pal. I just got in line. How did I get here? I bought an old bomb at the used car lot, that’s how. Paid top dollar for the goddamn thing. Cleaned me out! On second thought, I ought to punch your lights out just for that.”
I was marveling at the grammar, the vocabulary—‘bomb’ for substandard vehicle, the use of “dollar”—the red-white-and-blue, good-natured gaucherie of expression. It was a voice from the past, my past, eons ago, hundreds of lightyears away.
“Well? You gonna come up?”
“What’s your cabin number?”
“Three twenty-two, B Deck. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“I’ll be here.” He hung up.
First, I had a call of my own to make. I automatically stabbed a finger at the base of the instrument, then saw there were no touchtabs. I asked the clerk how to put a call through.
“The operator, sir. Just hang up and pick it up again.”
I did, and a woman’s voice got on the line, asked me for a cabin number. I gave her Paul Hogan’s.
“Yes?” He sounded uneasy, his voice hoarse. “Paul? Jake. Wanted to know if you’d had dinner.”
Silence.
Then he asked thickly, “Did you send them?”
“Send who?”
“You’re lying.”
“No, really. What happened?”
His breath came noisily into my ear. “Three men. They wanted your Cheetah. Thought I had it.”
“I see. No, I didn’t send them. Did you recognize them?”
Another pause. “Yeah.”
“Corey Wilkes’ boys, right?”
“You son of a bitch!”
“I said it wasn’t me, Paul. He’s your connection—correct?” A burst of obscenity, then he hung up.
“Weird Bastard,” I muttered into a dead phone. Darla had done her job well.
I was flying. The Purple Pyrotechnic Pill was shooting off the grand finale as I stood in front of Cabin 322. It took me a while to settle myself down. I knocked, and the door immediately flew open, startling me a little. By that time, seams in the carpet were unsettling me. But my emotional states were changing rapidly, like a flutter of card faces in a shuffled deck.
A young man had opened the door. He was tall, with light close-cropped hair, wearing a white pullover shirt and black trousers, black boots. He looked very young without benefit of anti-g’s, maybe twenty or so. When I saw him, I forgot about being startled and felt fine. He looked friendly enough, but then I got edgy again and balked at going in, even when he smiled amiably, stood aside, and gestured me through. Then in another second I was okay again and stepped in.
But as soon as I was astride the open hatch, I got an overpowering urge to shove it away; back against the bulkhead. I did it forcefully, and the hatch hit something, connecting with a body behind it, someone hiding. I drew the .44 and threw my weight up against the hatch and pushed. The kid leaped toward the other end of the room, but I didn’t worry about him; he looked as if he was on my side at the moment. He flew over an armchair and surprised another ambusher hiding behind it. Meanwhile, I shouldered the hatch and squashed whoever was back there one more time for good measure, then threw it aside. One of Wilkes’ bodyguards stood there against the wall, rocking back on his heels, looking at me abstractedly. Then the whites of his eyes rolled around and he slid to the floor with his back against the bulkhead, squatted for a second, and fell over. I kicked the dropped gun away and turned to see the kid wrestling with another man behind the overturned chair. I went over and whacked the bodyguard’s head when he came rolling around, the pill making me misjudge the force of my swing. I hit him very hard. His head crinkled like a hotpak carton under the heavy wood-and-metal grip.
The kid hauled himself off the floor; and I went to check the corridor. I closed the hatch and kept one eye on him as I looked over the first man. This one was merely out cold, but his comrade would need medical attention. The kid picked up a gun and tucked it into his belt, then came toward me.
“Nice move,” he said. “How did you know he was behind there?”
“I didn’t,” I told him. “Any more of them?”
“There was another one, but he left. These two had their guns at my head all during our phone conversation. What’s this all about, anyway?”
“Wish I knew exactly,” I answered, “but the gist of it is, they want something I have.”
“Really? And here I thought they wanted my car.”
“The Chevy?”
He was mildly surprised. “You know antique vehicles? Most people don’t.”
“Not really. But I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that buggy of yours. Exactly where did you get it?”
He went over to the dry bar and poured himself a drink. “Care for a snort?” he asked.
“No, thanks. Is it an alien-made vehicle?”
“It’s a long story,” he said. “Some other time.” He walked to the bed where a pile of clothes lay heaped and pulled out my leather jacket. “Here,” he said, tossing it to me.
I let it drop, still holding my gun at my side.
“Take it easy,” he laughed, going back and pouring himself another drink. “If these jokers are out to get you, you have my sympathy. Not necessarily my help, but my sympathy. Aside from the sock in the nose I owe you, we don’t have any problems. Put that six-gun away.”
I did, and sat down on the bed. “One thing. Did they tell you to call at the desk and have me paged?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You didn’t try my room first?”
“No, but they did mention you were dining with the Captain. That help?”
“Yes, thanks.” I picked up the jacket and put it on. It felt strange to get back inside it. “Sorry about your vehicle. It was a case of desperate need.”
“So I gathered. And I was stupid enough to leave it at the curb with the motor running. If you’d’ve tried starting it—”
“We found out what happens then, believe me.”
“I figured as much. You have to disarm the antitheft gear before you start. Is that why you ditched it?”
“Ditched? Uh, yeah, that was why.”
I watched him pour another bolt of straight
liquor from a dark brown bottle, down it, then grimace. “Rotgut,” he gagged.
“You said you were going to shoot the potluck on Seven Suns. Why?”
“I’m trying to get back home,” he said, as if the statement were self-explanatory. I made no comment.
After a moment, I asked, “When you found your car, did you see anyone lurking around there? Reticulans, maybe?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did see two Rikki cars, but that was down near… what’s the matter?”
I was on my feet, ripping off the jacket. I flung it to the floor and stared at it. As soon as I had put it on, I had had a relapse of the itchy creeps, but this time it was stronger, and different. There was something on that jacket. Bugs. No. Not bugs. Something else, but I couldn’t see what it was. But it was right there. A convulsive shudder went through me.
“Hey, are you all right?”
I sat down and tried to get a grip on things. “Do you see something?” I asked, a panicky breathlessness in my voice.
“Your eyes look kind of funny. Are you on something?” He looked around. “Where?”
“Right, there,” I said, pointing. “The jacket.”
“No,” he said. “What do you see?”
I tore my eyes from it. “Nothing. Forget it.” I sat there while my mind raced in neutral. I felt compelled to get up and run from the mom, but couldn’t quite come to a decision to make the first-move. “Maybe I should have that drink,” I said.
“Sure. You seem jumpy as hell. Not that I blame you.” He stepped to the bar and poured me a glass. “These two punks are enough…” He stopped and laughed to himself. “You know, where I come from, that word doesn’t mean what it does here. I have to watch myself sometimes in mixed company.”
“Word?” I said emptily, not really listening.
“Punk. The way I learned it, the word has nothing to do with sex, except when one of them tries to put a move on your kid sister.”
With difficulty, I plodded back to the conversation. “Where are you from? I mean, on Terra. You weren’t born out here.”
“I’m from the States. L.A. Santa Monica, really.”
“ ‘The States’? Not too many people call it that anymore.”
“I guess not.” He brought the drink over. “I’ll never get used to calling the country I was born in ‘New Union of Democratic Republics.’ ”
I took the glass of whiskey and upended it into my mouth. I tasted nothing at all. “We should leave,” I said.
The one by the hatch groaned.
“You’re right. What the hell should we do with them, though?”
“Leave them. Pack up and go down to the desk, get another cabin. Say you have some noisy neighbors. If you can’t get one, you can move in with us.”
“Good idea. Thanks.” He dragged out a satchel from under the bed and began to stuff it with the mound of personal effects and rumpled clothes. “Are there more where these came from?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “And Rikkis, too.”
“Jesus, those mothers give me the willies. I hear once they start chasing you, they don’t quit. I’ve also heard that—” He stopped, straightened up, and wiped his forehead with a sleeve.
“What is it?”
“Goddamn headache,” he said, his expression pained. “Jesus! That came on quick. Must’ve racked my head up against something.”
I sprang to my feet and stood there, immobilized. “Let’s go,” I said. “Now!”
“You’re a bundle of nerves, do you know that? Take it easy. Didn’t you lock the door?” He knitted his brow, rubbed the back of his neck, then looked around. “Do you hear something?”
“Like what?” I said breathlessly.
“A buzzing sound. What the hell is it?”
Chapter 21
THE NEXT FEW minutes … hours … I couldn’t tell which, were a dream remembered, then dreamed again. The last thing I recall clearly was watching the kid put his hand to his head and slowly sit down on the bed. I was rooted to the spot. Gradually, I grew aware of people around me, then of hands gripping my arms and leading me down corridors, endless corridors, then finally into another room.
Voices. I was seated in a chair but couldn’t move, staring at the ceiling, watching pretty afterimages from the glare of the overhead lights. For the first time, I noticed that they weren’t biolume panels, but glowing tubes, fluorescent tubes, recessed into the ceiling.
“Do you think he knows?” somebody whispered. Another voice.
“Careful. He may be coming out of it.” The second voice I recognized. Corey Wilkes.
“Darla-darling,” the first voice said, “can you think of anywhere the creature might be?”
“No,” Darla answered. “Is Pendergast searching?”
“I assume. Corey?”
“Yes, but the crew’s busy as hell,” Wilkes said. “Something about another ship out there, following us.”
“I think it’s imperative we find her before we make Seahome,” the first voice said. “She could slip off the ship easily.”
“You’re absolutely right, Van,” Wilkes said. “But one thing worries me. The story he told Darla about Hogan was to throw us off the track, of course, but he may have given her to one of the other passengers after all.”
“Then, what the girl told us isn’t true?”
“No, she’s probably telling the truth, but Jake may have taken her from the hiding place and then given her to someone else, just to further muddle things.” Wilkes laughed mirthlessly. “Of course, all of this is predicated on the assumption that the creature is the Roadmap, and we only have Darla’s word on that. Frankly, I’m still a little skeptical.”
“Darla?” Van said. “Can you convince him?”
“She’s the Roadmap,” Darla said flatly. “But before you get anything useful from Winnie, I want some assurance that you’ll let him go.”
“That was the agreement, Darla-darling, but … Corey, we can’t speak for the Reticulans, can we?”
“No,” Wilkes said. “He’s their sacred quarry. There are ceremonies to be performed, obligations to discharge.” “Then what we agreed—you’re backing out?”
“Not us, Darla.”
“I assure you,” Darla said coolly, “that you’ll get no further help from me interpreting for Winnie.”
Wilkes was unruffled. “Oh, that may not be quite the problem you think it is. Granted, it’s your field, and all, but I may be able to find someone else.”
“In the Outworlds?”
I could almost hear Wilkes’ Cheshire-cat grin. “Don’t worry, Darla, we’ll let him go. And I’m sure I can persuade the Rikkis to let him loose. They relish the hunt even more than they do the kill. But they will continue to track him down.”
“Then it’s agreed,” Darla said quietly.
A shadow moved in front of me, but I didn’t take my eyes from the light.
“I want to hear more about the maps,” Wilkes said. “You said you wrote something down.”
A rustling of paper. Then Wilkes said, “Well, this looks like the Perseus arm … and here’s the Orion, I suppose. Uh huh. Fine. So, it’s a simplified map of this part of the galaxy, so far as anyone knows. And these lines are major Skyway routes?”
“Yes.”
“What about these Xs all over the place?”
“Open clusters; I think. Winnie calls them ‘tangle-manytrees.’ Thickets.”
“How charming. But there has to be more, to it than this. What about this … this epic poem you mentioned? Can you recite some of it?”
“I’ll try. Winnie’s pidgin English is awfully difficult to render into something coherent. But parts of it go like this: ‘These are the Paths through the Forest of Lights, and this way you shall go to find Home. In the land of bright water, keep the sun at evening on the right hand and follow the path to the great trees at the edge of the sky…’ ”
“That’s a portal, I take it?”
“Yes. ‘Pass through
them but do not touch, for they clutch like the’—and here’s an untranslatable word, but I think it’s the name of a plant that preys on small animals ‘—and you will come to the land of white rock that is cold to the touch.’ ”
“Now, that sounds like Snowball to me,” Van said.
“Yes.” Wilkes wasn’t sure. “Go on, Darla.”
“ ‘Again, at evening keep the sun, which is small and dim, at the right hand and follow the Path to the great trees which grow here out of the white rock. Pass through them, but do not touch, for they clutch…’ That stanza keeps repeating. Anyway, it goes on like that, endlessly.”
“Not coherent?” Van laughed. “It even scans.” Silence, except for the sound of pacing.
Finally, Wilkes said, “I’m not sure I buy it.”
“Corey, Darla’s telling the truth.”
“I don’t doubt her, Van. I simply doubt that this could be the map. Why hasn’t anyone got wind of this before? Winnie couldn’t be the only member of her race who’s privy to this mythology.”
“No,” Darla said, “but she could be one of an exclusive group of initiates. A secret order. Primitive human tribes have them.”
“I see what you mean. But why haven’t the exopologists gotten any hint of this?”
“Lack of basic field research,” Darla explained. “It’s tough to get a permit to study anything on Hothouse.”
“And we know why that is,” Van said. “The Authority doesn’t want any scientific corroboration that the Cheetahs are truly sentient and deserve protection.”
More pacing. “But how long will the knowledge stay secret?”
“I’m not worried,” Van said. “I doubt that the Authority will ever lift its de facto ban on exopological field studies on Hothouse as long as the planet is a source of drugs. Of course, there’s always a chance someone may find out, but it’s a calculated risk.”
Again, a shadow crossed my field of vision.
“Corey, you may have your doubts about Winnie’s map, but I have my own as to whether this is the best way to go about preventing this map, or any map, from getting wide circulation. This Paradox business, I mean.”
“Do you still think we can do anything back in T-Maze?” Van sighed. “No, I suppose not. From what Darla’s told us, Grigory wasn’t any closer to ferreting it out of the dissident network than we were. That’s why he went after Jake. Right, Darla?”
Starrigger Page 25
