A few minutes later he was safely on the street, lost in the crowd and reasonably safe from pursuit.
* * * *
A clock told him that it was now sixteen o'clock; he had six hours before his appointment with Olliver. But he wasn't going to wait until twenty-two; the police might expect him to go to Olliver's house-not for the real reason he was going there, but to avenge himself on the judge who had sentenced him. As soon as he was missed, that house would be watched more closely than it was now. That was only common sense.
He looked up the address and took an autocab to within two blocks of it. He scouted on foot and spotted two guards, one at the front and one at the back. It would have been easy to kill either of them, but that would have defeated his purpose. It would definitely have focused the search for him on Olliver's house.
Getting into the house to hide would be equally dangerous; before they posted additional guards they'd search thoroughly.
The house next door was the answer; it was the same height and the roofs were only ten feet apart. And it wasn't guarded. But he'd better get in now. Later there might be a cordon around the whole block.
He took a tiny picklock out of the strap of his artificial hand: a bent wire as large as a small hairpin but as strong as a steel rod; and let himself in the door as casually as a returning householder would use his key. There were sounds at the back of the house, but he drew no attention as he went quietly up the stairs. He found the way out to the roof but didn't use it yet. Instead, he hid himself in the closet of what seemed to be an extra, unused bedroom.
He waited out five hours there, until it was almost twenty-two o'clock, and then let himself out on the roof. Being careful not to silhouette himself, he looked down and around. There were at least a dozen more vehicles parked on the street before Olliver's house and in the alley back of it than there should have been in a neighborhood like this one. The place was being watched, and closely.
The big danger was being seen during the jump from one roof to the next. But apparently no one saw him, and he landed lightly, as an acrobat lands. The sound he made might have been heard in the upstairs room immediately below him, but no farther. His picklock let him in the door from the roof to the stairs and at the foot of them, the second floor, he waited for two or three minutes until utter silence convinced him there was no one on that floor.
He heard faint voices as he went down the next flight of steps to the first floor. One voice was Olliver's and the other that of a woman. He listened outside the door and when, after a while, he'd heard no other voices, he opened it and walked in.
Jon Olliver was seated behind a massive mahogany desk. For once, as he saw Crag, his poker face slipped. There was surprise in his eyes as well as in his voice as he said, "How in Heaven's name did you make it, Crag? I quit expecting you after I found the search was centering here. I thought you'd get in touch with me later, if at all."
Crag was looking at the woman. She was the technician who had given him his start toward freedom that afternoon. At least her features were the same. But she didn't wear the glasses now, and the technician's cap didn't hide the blazing glory of her hair. And, although the severe uniform she'd worn that afternoon hadn't hidden the voluptuousness of her figure, the gown she wore now accentuated every line of it. In the latest style, baremidriffed, there was only a wisp of material above the waist. And the long skirt fitted her hips and thighs as a sheath fits a sword.
She was unbelievably beautiful.
She smiled at Crag, but spoke to Olliver. She said, "What does it matter how he got here, Jon? I told you he'd come."
Crag pulled his eyes away from her with an effort and looked at Olliver.
Olliver smiled too, now. He looked big and blond and handsome, like his campaign portraits.
He said, "I suppose that's right, Crag. It doesn't matter how you got here. And there's no use talking about the past. We'll get to brass tacks. But let's get one more thing straight, first-an introduction."
He inclined his head toward the woman standing beside the desk. "Crag, Evadne. My wife."
CHAPTER THREE
EVADNI
Crag almost laughed. It was the first time Olliver had been stupid. To think-Well, it didn't matter. He ignored it.
"Are we through horsing around now?" he asked.
Apparently Olliver either didn't recognize the archaic expression or didn't know what Crag meant by it. He raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean, Crag?"
"Making me take unnecessary risks just to show you how good I am."
"Oh, that. Yes, we're through horsing around. Pull up a chair, Crag. You sit down too, Evadne."
When they were comfortable, Olliver said, "First the background, Crag. You know the general political situation, but from the outside you probably don't know how bad it is."
"I know enough," Crag said.
"A two-party system, but both crooked. The only fortunate thing is the reasonably close balance of power between them. The Guilds-powerful organizations that evolved out of the workmen's unions of half a dozen centuries ago, pitted against the Syndicates-the Gilded-ruthless groups of capitalists and their reactionary satellites. The Guilds using intimidation as their weapon and the Gilded using bribery. Each group honeycombed with spies of the other-"
"I know all that."
"Of course. A third party, a middle-of-the-road one, is now being organized, under cover. We must get a certain amount of capital and of power before we can come out into the open." He smiled. "Or they'll slap us down before we get really started."
"All I want to know," said Crag, "is what you want me to do. You can skip the build-up."
"All right. A certain man has a certain invention. He doesn't know it's valuable. I do. With that invention, our party could have unlimited funds. Billions. We've raised a war chest of several million among ourselves already. But it isn't enough. A party, these days, needs billions."
"Sounds simple," Crag said, "but have you offered the inventor the million you offered me?"
"He won't sell at any price. For one thing, he's immensely wealthy already, and a million wouldn't mean anything to him. For another, the thing is incidentally a weapon and it would be illegal for him to sell it."
"What do you mean, incidentally a weapon?" Crag looked at him narrowly.
"That's its primary purpose, what it was made to be. But it's not a very efficient weapon; it kills, but it takes too long. It takes seconds, and whoever you killed with it could get you before he died. And the range is very limited.
"Its real importance, which he does not realize, lies in a by-product of its action."
Crag said, "All right, that part's none of my business. But tell me who and where the guy lives and what I'm looking for."
Olliver said, "When the times comes, you'll get the details. Something comes first-for your protection and mine. You won't be able to do this job right if you're wanted by the police, being hunted. For one thing, it's not on Earth. And you know-or should-how tough it is to get off Earth if the police are looking for you."
"Tough, but it can be done."
"Still, an unnecessary risk. And anyway, I promised you your freedom as part of this deal. I meant your full freedom, not as a hunted man."
"And how do you expect to swing that?" Crag asked.
"With Evadne's help. She's a psycher technician."
Crag turned and looked at her again. It didn't make him like her any better, but it did surprise him. To be a psycher technician you had to have a degree in psychiatry and another in electronics. To look at Evadne you wouldn't think of degrees, unless they were degrees of your own temperature.
Olliver said, "Now don't get excited, Crag, when I tell you that I'm going to send you-with your consent-to the psycher. It'll be a short-circuited one, with Evadne running it; it won't have any effect on you at all. But Evadne will certify you as adjusted."
Crag frowned. "How do I know the machine will be shorted?"
"Why would we cross you
up on it, Crag? It would defeat our own purpose. If you were adjusted, you wouldn't do this job for me-or want to."
Crag glanced at the woman. She said, "You can trust me, Crag, that far."
It was a funny way of putting it and, possibly for that reason, he believed her. It seemed worth the gamble. If they thought he'd been through the psycher, he really would be free. Free to go anywhere, do anything. And otherwise he'd be hunted the rest of his life; if he was ever picked up for the slightest slip he'd be identified at once and sent to the psycher as an escaped convict. And without a psycher technician to render it useless.
Olliver was saying, "It's the only way, Crag. By tomorrow noon you'll be a free man and can return here openly. I'll hire you-presumably to drive my autocar and my space cruiser-and keep you here until it's time to do the little job for me. Which will be in about a week."
Crag decided quickly. He said, "It's a deal. Do I go out and give myself up?"
Olliver opened a drawer of the big desk and took out a needle gun. He said, "There's a better way. Safer, that is. You killed a guard, you know, and they might shoot instead of capturing you if you went out of here. I'll bring them in instead, and I'll have you already captured. You came here to kill me, and I captured you: They won't dare to shoot you then."
Crag nodded, and backed up against the wall, his hands raised.
Olliver said, "Go and bring them in, my dear," to Evadne.
Crag's eyes followed her as she went to the door. Then they returned to Olliver's. Olliver had raised the needle gun and his eyes locked with Crag's. He said softly, "Remember, Crag, she's my wife."
Crag grinned insolently at him. He said, "You don't seem very sure of that."
For a moment he thought he'd gone too far, as Olliver's knuckles tightened on the handle of the gun. Then the men were coming in to get him, and they held the tableau and neither spoke again.
He was back in jail, in the same cell, within half an hour. One thing happened that he hadn't counted on-although he would have realized it was inevitable if he'd thought of it. They beat him into insensibility before they left him there. Common sense-or self-preservation-made him wise enough not to raise his hand, his left hand, against them. He might have killed two or even three of them, but there were six, and the others would have killed him if he'd killed even one.
He came back to consciousness about midnight, and pain kept him from sleeping the rest of the night. At ten in the morning, six guards came and took him back to the same room in which he had been tried the day before. This time there was no jury and no attorneys. Just Crag, six guards, and Judge Olliver.
Sentence to the psycher was a formality.
Six guards took him hack to his cell. And, because it was the last chance they'd have, they beat him again. Not so badly this time; he'd have to be able to walk to the psycher.
At twelve they brought him lunch, but he wasn't able to eat it. At fourteen, they came and escorted him to the psycher room. They strapped him in the chair, slapped his face a bit and one of them gave him a farewell blow in the stomach that made him glad he hadn't eaten, and then they left.
* * * *
A few minutes later, Evadne came in. Again she was dressed as she had been when he'd first seen her. But this time her beauty showed through even more for, after having seen her dressed as she'd been the evening before, he knew almost every curve that the tailored uniform tried to hide. She wore the horn-rimmed glasses when she came in, but took them off as soon as she had locked the door from inside. Probably, Crag thought, they were only protective coloration.
She stood in front of him, looking down at his face, a slight smile on her lips.
She said, "Quit looking so worried, Crag. I'm not going to psych you-and even your suspicious, unadjusted nature will admit I'd have no reason for lying about it now, if I intended to. I've got you where I'd want you, if I wanted you."
He said nothing.
Her smile faded. "You know, Crag, I'd hate to adjust you, even if this was a straight deal. You're a magnificent brute. I think I like you better the way you are, than if you were a mild-mannered cleric or elevator operator. That's what you'd be if I turned that thing on, you know."
"Why not unstrap me?"
"With the door locked, and with us alone? Oh, I'm not being femininely modest, Crag. I know you hate women I also know your temper, and I know how you've probably been treated since last night. I'd have to watch every word I said to keep you from slapping me down-left handed."
"You know about that?"
"Olliver-Jon-knows a lot about you."
"Then he must know I wouldn't hit a woman-unless she got in my way."
"But I might." She laughed. "And you'd have to le me strap you in again anyway. And that reminds me. You're supposed to be unconscious when I leave this room. You'll have to fake that. The guards come in and unstrap you. They take you to a hospital room until you come around."
"Helping me do so with rubber hose?"
"No, that's all over with. You'll be a new man-not the man who killed a guard yesterday. They won't have any resentment against you."
"How long am I supposed to be unconscious?"
"Half an hour to an hour. And you may leave as soon thereafter as you wish. Better stay an hour or two; most of them do. You're supposed to be a bit dazed when you come to, and to orient yourself gradually. And don't forget you're not supposed to remember your own name, or any crimes you've ever committed-or anything you've ever done, for that matter."
"Just like amnesia, huh?"
"Exactly like amnesia-and, besides that, all the causes of maladjustments are supposed to be removed. You're supposed to love everyone in particular and humanity in general."
Crag laughed. "And does a halo come with it?"
"I'm not joking, Crag. Take that idea seriously-at least until you're safely away from here. Don't act as though you still have a chip on your shoulder or they may suspect that something went wrong with the psycher and send you back for another try. And I'll be off duty by then."
"If I don't remember who I am-I mean, if I'm supposed not to remember-isn't it going to be funny for me to walk out without being curious? Do they just let psyched guys walk out without a name?"
"Oh, no. Each one has a sponsor, someone who volunteers to help orient them to a new life. Jon has volunteered to be your sponsor and to give you a job. You'll be told that and given his address and cab fare to get there. He's supposed to explain things to you when you see him, to orient you."
"What if a guy would lam instead of going to his sponsor?"
"After the psycher, they're adjusted. They wouldn't. Remember, Crag, you've got to play it to the hilt until you're safe at our house. If anyone steps on your toe, apologize."
Crag growled, and then laughed. It was the first time he'd laughed-with humor-in a long time. But the idea of him apologizing to anyone for anything was so ridiculous he couldn't help it.
Evadne reached across his shoulder and did something; he couldn't tell what because his head was strapped against the back of the chair.
"Disconnected a terminal," she said. "I'll have to run the machine for a while; someone might notice that it isn't drawing any current."
She went to one side of the room and threw a switch. A low humming sound filled the room, but nothing happened otherwise. Crag relaxed.
She was standing in front of him again. She said, "You know, Crag, I'm almost tempted to give you a partial psyching-just to find out what made you what you are."
"Don't start anything you don't finish," he said grimly. His right hand clenched.
"Oh. I know that. I know perfectly well that if I got any information from you under compulsion-as I could if I reconnected that terminal-I'd have to finish the job and adjust you or blank you out. Your ego wouldn't let me stay alive if I knew things about you that you'd told me involuntarily."
"You're smarter than I thought," he said.
"That isn't being smart, for a psychiatrist. Even a layman
could guess that. But, Crag, you've got to tell me a few things."
"Why?"
"So I can turn in a report. I don't have to turn in a detailed one, but I must at least write up a summary. I could fake it easily, but it just might be checked and fail to tally with some things about you that are already known. You can see that."
"Well-yes."
"For instance, the loss of your hand. That was back before you turned criminal, so the facts about it will be on record somewhere. And I'd be supposed to ask you about that because it may have been a factor in your turning against society."
"I guess it was," Crag said. "And, as you say, it's on record so there's no reason I shouldn't tell you. It happened on the Vega 111, when I'd been a spaceman eight years. It was a pure accident-not my fault or anyone else's. Just one of those things that happen. Mechanical failure in a rocket tube set it off while I was cleaning it.
"But they sprang a technicality on me and kept me from getting the fifty thousand credits compensation I was entitled to. Not only that, but took my license and rating away from me, turned me from a spaceman into a one-handed bum."
"What was the technicality?"
"Test for alcohol. I'd had exactly one drink-a stirrup cup, one small glass of wine-six hours before, which was two hours before we left Mars. Orders are no drinks eight hours before blast-off, and I hadn't drunk anything for longer than that, except that one drink. And it had nothing to do with the accident-nobody feels one glass of wine six hours after. But they, used it to save themselves what I had coming."
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