by Jack Womack
Avalon stepped into the car; Mister Dryden put his hand on her shoulder.
"Front yourself," he said and motioned toward me. "OM. In the back. Let's talk."
As I climbed into the car, settling in beside Mister Dryden, Lope's limo, over on Fiftieth, exploded. There was nothing to do but watch. Mister Dryden looked at the wreck and leaned back into his seat.
"Can't be too careful," he murmured, smiling. "Downtown, Jimmy. Bank me."
We drove down Fifth, past the bookstore. Flames rose like flowers from the ruins.
"Batbrained. Not iffed or maybeed. He's sliding hard and fast," Mister Dryden said to me, attempting to explain as he drew shut the clear panel dividing the car's front compartment from the rear, turning on the bar-sink faucet so that the roar of running water might muffle our illicit chat. I saw Avalon through the panel removing her conference outfit. She put on only another wig, my favorite: the lovely light brown one with aubergine highlights. The hair glided in snakish curls beyond her waist; it was as if Lady Godiva rode the front, blowing wisdomweed from Jimmy's bowl.
"He's always been eccentric," I said.
"Eccentric is as eccentric does," said Mister Dryden, downing four pills, swallowing dry. "He's far gone now." He offered me some tablets; I declined, happy to avoid all forms of polypharmacy.
"Maybe it only seems that way."
"He's entered permanent right-brain mode. No, OM. Action's time is here."
When speaking with me alone, Mister Dryden often let slip to some degree the bizspeak that, through practice, came so naturally to his lips; obfuscation was not his intent with me, as it was with so many others.
"Big action or little action?"
"The biggest," he said, coughing. One of the tiny pills, halfdissolved, flew from his throat in midspasm and stuck to the front seat. I slapped him across the back.
"AO?" I asked; he nodded. We drove west, down Forty-seventh. Empty storefronts lined Midtown streets; vast offices blockaded the avenues. Over time an exodus of smaller businesses from Midtown-their owners frazzled by ever-increasing rent, ever-decreasing trade, and ever-present fright-swept clear the streets of the extraneous. In even the most populated buildings- Dryco's as well-whole floors sat empty and defixtured, windows sealed and trimmed with flowery decals. There was space aplenty now, though in Midtown as in much of Manhattan, no new offices had risen for two years. 0 contrare: those retaining possession of smaller buildings often torched them so that the ruins might fall under city ownership.
"I haven't seen him for very long periods lately," I said. "He hasn't seemed so different, the past few times."
"He gives good behavior when publicked," said Mister Dryden, taking another couple of pills to counter the effects of his coughing fit; with water, this time.
"I'm sure you've seen more than I have," I said.
He nodded. At Sixth Avenue was ABC, another Dryco holding. Immense colorgraphs of network stars hung from the tower's sides. Some wag had rappelled up and painted mustaches on several; those, and those of stars recently canceled, were being rolled and removed by workmen and maintenants.
"How batbrained are we talking?" I asked.
"Total," he said. "Ego gone wild. Paranoia. The works. Reason's headfled. "
"Is he still working on those Bronx plans?"
"Exclusive. Exxing when he's saying I'm destroying the company. "
I said nothing, for I had thought that was what he intended.
"Every day," Mister Dryden continued, his eyes focusing, "he secludes with Army corpsmen. Running his plans to Bronx it and leave all else waysided."
Since Susie D died, no one saw overmuch of the Old Man, who over the years had grown fond of shelter. Once a month we weekended at the estate in northern Westchester so that we might soak our souls in verdant hours and dull our sense with country air; during those visits the Old Man appeared when food appeared, and when he chose to drag us all to chapel service. Otherwise he vanished so completely as did the vice-president a few years ago. Those were merciful weekends, truly; I could spend more minutes with Avalon, serving as her guard when she wished to ramble across the estate's green meadows, for even there oneon-one protection was deemed essential, just in case.
"Maybe he's just bored and this enlivens his mind," I suggested.
"Enlivens?" said Mister Dryden. "Boils it red."
The death of his wife-it seemed to me-never caused the Old Man the unbearable pain I believe it caused his son; perhaps it caused not even bearable pain. The Old Man and Susie D were married for more than forty years, but I never saw theirs as a. union forged strong through love's blasts, resembling, rather, the bond between Siamese twins: undeniable, inescapable, attached by chance, kept whole by necessity, ending only in death. An Ambient comparison, perhaps; I stand by it.
"He's moneytied us," said Mister Dryden. "Filling the Bronx's pockets. In several areas right now we've got to float fast or we'll be docklong and dollarshort. He's preventing."
"How so?"
Susie D passed into Godness's other domain during one of our weekends there, as we slept; no one ever specified what killed her, though rumors drifted like floaters down the Hudson. A coronary, we were first informed; that became a stroke a day or two later, following the cremation. The coroner's ruling was death by misadventure; that could apply to anyone, these days. During the past long year Mister Dryden had never spoken directly of his mother's death. The Old Man's words were select: curiosity, he said, killed the cat.
"Boredom has nada to do with this hobby," said Mister Dryden. "He's sunk millions down per quarter. My millions. His millions. That's the line as bottomed. Millions best spent elseways. On the coast. In Africa. In the Sydney markets. For the casinos, immediately; unless we refund, Mariel's going to move. Lope came by to brief me that he was signing over to them, since he couldn't count on our help. "
"So you helped Lope-"
He shrugged. "He'd have talked. Word spreads. I've problems enough. These things happen in life."
I wondered where else they might happen; thought it was wise to change the subject and so avoid one of those things about which it was wise to worry not, wonder not.
"How many millions are involved?" I asked.
"Half our working net'll be Bronxed. Land purchase wrapped last month. Last quarter our profits downed 75 percent of last year's. It's madness. His madness. The Army primes to push far with this. Jumps full command when his finger points. They can output this one forty years. Construction to begin, end of the season. End of construction, when the money goes. Before I have it, at this rate."
We steered down Seventh Avenue, reaching the Times Square Free Zone at Forty-third. As we glided through, clearing our lane, I saw Army boys frosting the wall with icy blooms of razorwire. Over the entrance was stenciled the message: The Guilty Will Be Punished. Times Square was Manhattan's only Free Zone; it wasn't large. At Dryco's suggestion, the Army had set the quadrant apart, though city police patrolled regularly, in groups of six. Here the uninvolved could spend their passions on harmless excitements, releasing emotions otherwise kept bottled before those in action against state interests-keen to divert such energy toward their own devices-applied more glittery methods of uncorking. Each day, each night, the Army admitted thousands, in rotation, for two-hour shifts so that all might stalk in ease, slaughtering time, frolicking beneath the advertisement's gleam, vizzing the enormous vid monitors that hung from the building facades. The zone's streets were perpetually wet; the only way to clear the area for oncoming shifts was to send through Army vehicles equipped with water cannons.
On assurance of death, IA cars passing through the Free Zone were left unscarred; Army boys, arms linked, shielded our land, to certify.
"But the capital isn't touched," I said.
"Not yet."
"And our reinvestments-"
"His rumors take wing and fly. Evidence grows. I suspected and as always I'm right. Land values in Manhattan dropping now. In Miami and Atlantic Cit
y. New Orleans and Sydney and Leningrad. On every coast, gracias of his wordspread. The Army wants to redivert from Manhattan to dry shore, half to Bronx and the rest overseas. Claims no sense protecting what won't last. Investments ruined and dead gone. My investments."
Passing into the Herald Square Secondary Zone we edged through the crowd awaiting Times Square admittance. We slid by city buses chugging along, passengers fly-clinging to their graffitied hulks. Two tumbled off as we passed; a taxi swerved to run them down. At Thirty-eighth, three cabs and a delivery van had been torched by those impatient; the offenders-I surmised it was them-lay covered in the street as if to be sheltered from the sun, surrounded by Army boys. Another limo, an old Lenin, sailed by, clipping ne'er-do-wells at the corner of Thirtysixth; they whirled and fluttered like falling leaves. Wishing to avoid Thirty-fourth Street's mania, we turned west onto Thirtyfifth, the ba-ba-da-da of "Teddy Bear" thumping along.
"We can relocate-"
"It's the interim that'll term us," said Mister Dryden. "His idea of reinvesting covers Bronx only. He wants to close foreign markets for fresh cash. Subvert all under his fear."
"You mean about the Green? It's not even proved--
"In his mind it is. He can't say why rain falls but he spells the weather's future. Nightmare made flesh. We'll be exxed."
"You think he really believes it?"
"I did," said Mister Dryden, his voice lowering, "But a new thought strikes."
We turned south onto the West Street speedway, passing the Javits Center. All along the Hudson from Midtown down, barges pulled into the rebuilt docks-some, at Dryco's request, built so high above the water that elevators were needed to uplift the freight-bringing in much of the city's imports: fabric to be reworked into clothing in the sweatshops, prepped goods ready for resale in the big stores, service equipment of all sorts for all types. Food was distributed through the Javits Center; by river barge, by train from upstate, by long trucks on their twice-daily runs through the tunnel, the produce demanded by Manhattan's throng arrived and was dispatched by the Army boys. From the buildings' ten dozen exits poured streams of trucks, vans, cars, carts, wagons, and dollies, all topfull with pickups. Near the newer part, Army trucks were conveniently parked so that the choicest items-meat, real milk, fresh fruit-could be loaded after confiscation for zone HQs. The public took what it was given-nothing unusual in that.
"What might that be?" I asked, looking into his eyes to see what might be there; seeing only the eyes of someone who had escaped from something-often.
"That his plan could be subtle. That with the Green and with the Bronx he intends only destruction. Kill what he built. What Mom built."
"Deliberately?" I asked, surprised to hear the pot kettlespeak.
"Why else?" he said, "He's done worse. Believe."
As our conversation continued, I turned to viz the river, finding nothing beneath the glaze coating his eyes, but seeing in his face-beyond the sweats and the shakes and the pallor-signs of something that troubled so deep that I began to feel I should begin to fear. Mister Dryden teetered into hysteria's edge; touchdanc- ing the chaos astride the abyss, Enid would say.
"Why would he want to do that?" I asked, softly, so as not to further alarm.
"Paranoia strikes deep, he says. His redeeps mine twenty over. He wants to keep me from getting it, OM. I can't say why. He'll gotterdam it all."
"Have you talked about this-"
"Talk's time is over. He's ready to action me now. Any day."
"Maybe not."
"He is," Mister Dryden repeated, shaking more violently; I worried, briefly, that he'd combined his reckers carelessly, but then his flesh settled. "He wants to take me out."
"But why?"
"He's batbrained. As I said. Shooting on impulse's charge." Mister Dryden's lip was bloodied from his nibbling it as we spoke. "I'm sure he thinks he works on reason still."
"Does he?"
"As said. Talk's time is over. Big action calls."
"What action plans?" I asked.
"I suspect he feels I'm going to do something to him."
"What?"
"What I plan to do to him." he said. "I'll need assistance. Assistance most silent. Cunning calls."
Traffic slowed as we neared the Downtown Control Zone, even in the IA lane. Inland, just before the barricade, I saw traffic stilled along Canal Street, all awaiting passage through the Holland Tunnel, the only Hudson crossing open for public use. New deflooding devices were being installed, and it was open only a few hours each day. The Lincoln Tunnel-closest to Midtown, and to the Javits Center-and the George Washington Bridge, high above water and sturdy, were reserved for Army use sole. Oil slicks on the river, combusting, flared yellow fire as I looked across the river's surface; old boxes, tires, papers, and wood drifted down with the current. The sun's light, eking through clouds, shone on Jersey City's spires, and made ashimmer the waters' ripples. As eve drew, blue lights would arise from the Hudson's silent passengers and float like balloons across the surface of the deep. No one fished out corpses anymore; they all had their reasons for being there.
"My assistance?"
"You'll recompense."
"For what?"
"I won't demand," he said, "But I will detail."
"Do," I said.
"You'll need assist, after," he said. "But that in a mo. Tomorrow we weekend, upstate. The birthday, AO?" Mister Dryden's son would be ten the next day; his son and his wife lived at the estate, for security's sake. "All sets as looks appear till night. I access you to his study. Sunday he enters to program. You rig a blast. Drape it in terrorchic. Any group suffices, though Maroon might best it. He goes in. He goes up. You're safetyplayed, meantime. "
I didn't respond at once-that he slipped back into full bizspeak to outline his program, as if fearful that he might be heard, even over the water's din, even in his own car, suggested that more was up than seemed evident.
"AO," I nodded.
"You could method it," he said. "You walk the walk. You talk the talk."
"AO," I repeated. With plasticine and powder and a quartz timeset a blast was the easiest thing to rig.
"Reaction?" he asked.
"You're sure it's necessary," I asked. "No other option?"
"Nada," he sighed. "His fear grows and he sets danger for all, OM. Keep him boiling as at present and we'll be meat for the stew. If he snaps, it won't be me alone. He'll take my son. Avalon, probably. You, definitely. Set him loose on the path he knows and he could lose it all twice over. He's not above much. If he ever chose to do what he could, all'd be lost for all. Untermed, he might do it yet."
"Do what?" I asked, realizing what subject he neared.
"Worry not, wonder-"
"AO," I interrupted, seeing I'd come no closer this day; seeing that soon I might. "You mentioned recompense?"
"Certain," he said, the hint of a smile shading his lips. "Loving You" started up on his soundtrack. "First, a move would be ordered. Afterward, a readjustment of rank. If son becomes father, then who becomes me?"
"Me?"
He nodded. "You've valuabled yourself thirty over, OM. Time comes to take you from guarding and put you in your place. As my righthand, you know so much as I. You'd become CEO."
"What about Jake?" I asked, thinking of that Kyoto sword.
"His talent lies where he leaves it. Yours needs the touch of free air. "
"How long have you been thinking about this?" I asked, doubtful still.
"Longtime," he said. "But the top only holds so many. Room must clear first. You'll clear. Then you'll move."
"AO," I said.
"Second," he said, "Recompense further is already effected. A different readjustment." Extracting a blue envelope from his jacket pocket, he handed it over.
"What's this?" I asked, breaking the flap's glue.
"My will," he said, "Revised as of last week."
It was; I recognized the signatures of his lawyers, and their holographic seal affixed a
t the bottom of each page.
"Clause 16A," he said; I found it and read it. I read it twice more.
"Seriously?" I asked.
"Even now, it steadies. Even if you decide otherwise in my request for assistance, you'll claim 25 percent of my holdings and future inheritances. You serve well, OM. Goodness claims those who wait."
"Even if I decide otherwise, this stands?"
He nodded. "Though if you do, and I'm taken first," he said, the hint of that smile long faded, "you may not enjoy for long. His hands could cut all our strings, and drop us in middance. Consider."
We neared our destination, the Trade Towers. Smoke still drifted near the base of the south tower, where the latest blast had occurred. Our operations were located in the north tower, as was Mister Dryden's downtown apartment. To the right of the towers, near the river's edge, stood the beginnings of the floodwall. When the possibility of the Green first showed itself, years ago, the city borrowed funds from the Old Man toward the construction of a fifty-foot wall intended to surround Manhattan. The funds were no less liquid than the waters to be fought and were mostly diverted to other campaigns. The floodwall ran only from the towers south to the Battery. Traditional American handicraft was employed in the wall's construction, and so most of it had collapsed.
"I just don't know," I said, after some minutes.
"You don't want better?"
"I do."
"A better place to live you'll have. You can move out of the freak show down there."
"I like where I'm living," I said-that wasn't strictly true, not anymore. I liked living with Enid, who liked where we lived.
"I can't stand even thinking of those Ambients," he said, shivering again. "The real ones, I mean."
Mister Dryden knew my sister was an Ambient, a voluntary one; such had been reported to him many times by the anonymous wishing to further themselves.
"I'm rather used to them," I said.
"OM," he said, "You can't know how many you'll help if you do this."
