by William F.
The interior of the building was little better than the jungle which surrounded it: vines had woven their intricate rope patterns through the chamber. Windows were shattered; the floor was root-pocked and damp with leaf mold.
Jess slid down with her back to a section of the wall. Logan slipped down beside her. They didn't have to say anything to one another. Ballard was not here. Sanctuary was still illusion and fantasy.
They closed their eyes, resting in the moist heat.
Above them: an oiled glide of mottled copper. Twenty-three feet, five inches of dense muscle and crushing coil. Anaconda. The snake was hungry. It had not been satisfied with its last meal; the young ibex and two large rats had only whetted the reptile's voracious appetite. Now its pebbled outer lids raised, and it considered the food below.
The anaconda glided down through leaf-stillness toward its dozing prey, lowering itself with shining stealth, tail anchored for leverage, gliding, lowering . . .
Jess sighed, shifted her head to Logan's shoulder, leaned back. Through the gauze of her lashes she noted the leaf branches above. One of the branches was unlike the others. One of the branches was moving. One of the branches was—
Jess screamed.
They leaped out of the reptile's path as it struck at emptiness, coiling itself into a furious looped ball of writhing chainmail.
"He'd solve all our problems," said Logan as they headed for the steps. "With him around we wouldn't need to find Ballard."
There were vultures on the cornice of the Senate Building as they neared it. Four raw-necked buzzards peering down with glutenous eyes as they passed beneath. Off in the jungle, something thrashed and died. The vultures flapped into motion.
Jessica shuddered. "Ugly," she said. "There's no place that's safe. Anywhere we go there'll be things waiting to kill us."
Logan kept pushing ahead. Ballard has to be here somewhere. I know it.
A ripe stench of hothouse peat moss, swamp water and decaying vegetation enveloped them as they crossed a wide stretch of broken ground. Several Corinthian columns of white Georgia marble lay in their path.
They moved through tumbled ruins. Here was a medley of styles: French, Roman, Renaissance, Classic Greek—gone to rubble. A trio of Ionic piers stood miraculously upright, three smooth fingers probing the sky. Entablatures and architraves were woven with vine and creeper. Scrollwork, urns, garlands, lyres, sunburst designs emerged and disappeared in the lush growth.
They didn't hear the soft pad of feet that tracked them relentlessly. They didn't see the sun-yellow night-black beast that stalked among the fallen columns. They didn't see the Bengal with the crimson smear on its chest . . .
The evening sky darkened over Washington. Rain began to patter down. The patter became a roar. Rain punished the jungle, beating its way into the earth.
Jessica's foot drove into thick mud as she tried to avoid a head-high growth of pampas blocking her path. Logan caught her arm, drawing her quickly back. Carefully, he parted the swamp grass. "Cottonmouths. Nest of them."
In the dark pool: a knotted tangle of black snake bodies, blunt heads raised from the green slime with jaws wide-spread. The inside of each gaping mouth was white and cotton-soft, except for two gleaming fangs that arched from the upper jaw in twin-curved menace.
They trudged on through the downpour.
"Ballard isn't here," said Jess. "He can't be. No one can live in this place. Do you still believe he's here?"
Logan told her the truth. "I don't know."
They were in a field of high veldtgrass. The old Union Station Plaza area. The rain was a solid silver sheet. Logan saw a flicker of wet gold in the grass. He tensed. "Cat! He's back. Got our spoor."
He drew out the Gun, checked it. A homer was useless on an animal, which meant he had only a tangler to fire at the beast.
They moved off—and behind them the stalking Bengal left its wake in the grass sea.
A single jacaranda tree rose from the veldt. Logan put his back against the grainy bark and pulled Jess to him.
The tiger padded toward them.
Above the grass, in the raingloom, a light flickered on Capitol Hill. Logan's heart leapt. "We've found him! Ballard is up there!" He pointed to the huge bulk of Indiana limestone looming against the sky. "Library of Congress. I was right. I knew he'd go for high ground."
The Bengal halted forty feet away. His yellow eyes burned from the veldtgrass. He watched the two figures, hating them.
As abruptly as it began, the rain stopped.
They edged away from the jacaranda, keeping the bole of the tree between them and the tawny cat. The grass tops discharged a chaff that itched and stung their raw faces. Jessica's breathing was ragged; she'd been pushed to the edge of physical and mental endurance.
How many others were like her? Logan wondered. Others ready to run and keep on running for life. The words of the woman on the concourse came back to him: organized. By Ballard? He tried to recall when he'd first heard the name. Then he knew. It was the song. One of those folkchants sung to double-guitar by dark minstrels in dim tobacco dens. Logan's nostrils were filled with nicotine odors as he remembered . . .
He's lived a double lifetime,
And Ballard is his name.
He's lived a double lifetime.
Why can't we do the same?
Ballard's lived a double lifetime,
And never felt no shame.
Think of Ballard
Think of Ballard
Think of Ballard's name.
The cat coughed.
It was closer now, off to the left, slipping through the grass, shadowing them.
They'd have a better chance if they could reach the library. Perhaps Ballard would have his own weapon and could help them deal with the cat. Also, it would have to make its attack in the open.
The Bengal veered wide, coming in from the flank to cut them off.
"Noise," said Logan. He began clapping his hands together. Jess followed this example. The tiger hesitated. The sudden noise startled it, diverted its course.
They reached the library steps, mounted them hurriedly. A scrabble of claws on limestone. The Bengal roared, charged. Logan swept up the Gun. The huge, muscled cat was in the air, jaws slavering wide as the Gun cracked.
The tangler caught the beast in midleap, filling its mouth and throat with metal filament mesh, webbing the great head in clockcoils of steel, wrapping a shiny cocoon over the striped body.
The cat smashed into Logan, driving him down. Logan's head struck the limestone wall, stunning him.
Doubled into a spitting ball, the tiger clawed at the mesh. Bellowing in pain and frustration, it tried to loosen the thick webbing, but each convulsive movement caused the strands to constrict, work deeper into the beast's throat.
As Jess watched, helpless, the tiger thrashed closer to Logan. It had a front leg free now, and its claw scored the stone.
A tall shadow filled the doorway. Corded muscle, a lean face, a presence. Watching.
Logan shook his head dazedly. The great cat's head was inches from his, and he found himself staring into the murder-depths of the Bengal's glazing eyes. Now the free claw swung up to eviscerate the hated man-thing. Logan rolled aside. Chips of scored stone powdered his shoulder as the claw missed. He shrank back, ducking, attempting to slide along the wall away from the cat; but the tiger blocked him, trapped him in an angle between wall and balustrade. Logan kicked at the beast's head with his boot. Bone crunched; the Bengal roared in pain. Its body arched spastically. He kicked again, trying to gain room to stand.
Inner agony took the beast. Its hindquarters smashed down on Logan's left leg, pinning him. Any moment now and the claw might slice into him . . .
The shadow figure in the doorway moved. A forty-two-year-old man faced them. His lined face held a double lifetime; his hair was streaked with gray.
A legend. A myth.
A nightdream come alive.
"Ballard!" gasped Jess.
He was tall, dressed in dark blues, with a hunting longbow in one hand. Notched in the bow: a steel arrow. He did not speak. His eyes were flat and cold and unreadable.
The Bengal stirred, sobbed air, its free leg jerked. The cat focused on Logan, glared at him. A rattling growl announced its hate. Logan tried to rise, but his leg was held by the beast's weight.
"Kill it!" Jess cried to Ballard. "Use the bow!"
The tall man shook his head.
Logan's Gun lay on the wet stone where it had fallen. Ballard moved to it, kicked the weapon over the edge of the steps.
Suddenly, with a final convulsive spasm, the cat died. One moment it was a straining mass of claw and sinew and dense-packed muscle; the next it was dead meat, growing cold.
Logan levered the inert body from his leg. Stiffly he got to his feet.
The bow followed him up, the notched arrow centered on his chest.
Jess looked accusingly at Ballard. "You would have let it kill him."
"Yes," he said. His voice was deep, rasping. "Indeed I would."
Logan shifted his feet, moved slightly to the left. Ballard's jaw tightened. He drew back the bowstring until the feathered tip of the arrow touched his right ear.
"But he's a runner," pleaded Jess. "He saved my life."
"He's also Logan 3, from DS," said Ballard.
The bowstring tightened. Logan looked at death.
Instantly Jess launched herself; she hit Ballard's side, jolting him. Her hands came up to scratch at his face. With a hitch of one shoulder he threw her off and she tumbled to the steps.
But Logan was moving. Taking advantage of the brief scuffle, he had darted into the gloomed interior of the library. An arrow sung past him as Logan stumbled and hit the floor, sliding. He plowed forward, trying to adjust to the lack of light. He tripped again, falling heavily as a second arrow flashed past him to bury itself in the looming mass of a bookshelf.
Logan penetrated farther into the musty depths of the building. Volumes of all sizes lay in faded, disordered piles on floor and tables. Bookshelves spewed forth their contents in shredded confusion. The place smelled of dying paper and rotted bindings. Rats and lizards scuttled away from him as he rolled behind an upended tangle of shelving.
A bright beam lanced into the dark room, a pin-light spot sweeping back and across, up and down. The light found him. Logan rolled away from it, scrambled to his feet. The light followed. He ducked as a steel arrow thunked solidly into the table next to his head.
He edged back; his hand found a square, heavy book. He hefted the volume and eased around a bulk of newspaper cases. The light angled toward him. Using all of his force, he hurled the book at the light. Pages fluttered the air as the volume winged for its target. It struck Ballard; the light danced crazily.
Yet a book was no match for a hunting bow.
Logan checked the space around him for a more effective weapon, found none, began to go through his pockets as the light stalked him. His fingers touched a forgotten bulge: the Muscle pad he'd taken from the platform at Cathedral. Did he dare use it? The drug could tear him apart.
Ballard was advancing. There was nowhere to run. Logan knew he had no choice. If Muscle killed him it killed him; he'd be dead either way. He brought the pad up to his nose, squeezed it sharply and inhaled twice.
His body exploded. Fire scoured his tissues; his eyes blurred, tendons wrenched. He began shaking violently as the powerful drug took effect.
The light pinned him. Ballard raised the bow.
Logan was a dazzle of hot motion. He saw the arrow laze from the bowstring and float lightly toward him. He had all the time in the world to avoid it. He stepped aside to let it pass. He could feel a terrible pressure inside his body as he watched the arrow slide smoothly into the spine of a thick volume. Finally the pressure vanished and he relaxed, feeling his power.
With easy grace he stepped toward the tall figure silhouetted in the doorway. The figure seemed suspended there. In the time it took Logan to reach him, Ballard had moved the bow only two inches. Logan deftly plucked the weapon from the man's fingers and continued toward the square patch of light which was the outside world.
He saw Jess, a still, wide-eyed statue, hands to her mouth. He swept past her down the stairs to scoop up the Gun. The drug effect was easing; he was slowing.
He stopped. He covered Ballard with the Gun.
"Out," he said: "Out into the light."
"Oh . . . Logan," said Jess, in happy relief.
Logan could feel his heart flopping like a toad inside his chest as the drug left him. He steadied himself against the doorway as Ballard moved out into the fading sunlight.
"Tell him," urged Jess. "Convince him. Tell Ballard that you're a runner, just as I am."
"But I'm not," said Logan flatly. "I guess I never was. Ballard was right in trying to kill me."
All of the warmth drained out of Jessica's face: She blinked, as from a physical blow.
"Sit down," said Logan. "Both of you"
Jess was shaking her head slowly, unwilling to believe what she was seeing. Ballard took her arm and they sat down on the wet stone steps.
"I'm going to kill you," said Logan. "I've got to kill you."
Near them the great cat lay sprawled in a heap of soaked gold and black. Flies and gnats and ants had already gathered to contest the corpse. They crawled into its gaping mouth, over the ivory teeth, cloaking the tongue that lolled flaccidly, scummed the unblinking yellow eyes.
Logan said, "There's one thing I'd like to know." His glance flicked to Ballard's right hand, to the red flower that glowed there. "I've seen fakes, but nothing like yours. Tattoo artists, surgeons, chemists— they've all tried to duplicate the flower, but it's tamper-proof. Yet you've lived two lifetimes and that flower is real. How? How have you gone on living?"
"One day at a time," said Ballard with the trace of a smile.
Logan leveled the Gun.
"I'll tell you," said Ballard. "It won't make any difference if you know."
Logan could not look directly at Jess, couldn't meet her eyes.
"I'm a statistical freak," said Ballard. "When I was born something went wrong in the nursery. The Hourglass malfunctioned, and the crystal it placed in my palm was imperfect. I didn't know this until I became twenty-one and my hand failed to blink. The flower stayed red, and I lived on while others died . . ."
"I don't need to hear any more," said Logan. He stepped to the edge of the steps, cupped his lips and shouted, "Francis!" The cry echoed off into the jungle to be smothered by heat and darkness. Logan called again. "Francis, this way! Here!"
He waited. Francis did not appear.
Ballard turned to Jess. "He's a DS man. It's his life. It's what he was trained for." He kept his voice low as Logan scanned the jungle. "There's one consolation. He'll never find the others, the runners in Sanctuary."
Jess looked intently at him. "Then—there really is a Sanctuary, a place where people can grow old, have families, raise their own children?"
"There is."
Logan shouted again, received no answer. He walked over to them.
"I know I could never make you tell me where Sanctuary is," he said to Ballard. "But after you're dead, the line will be broken."
Ballard said nothing.
Logan brought up the Gun, set on homer. The single charge would kill them both at this range. "Goodbye Jess," he said softly. "I have to do this."
Logan pulled the trigger.
His hand was stone; the trigger finger would not move. He tried to fire, could feel muscles lock in conflict in the hand. His face went gray; the hand would not obey him. He saw Jessica's face and only Jessica's face. It was a white oval against the dark building, her eyes filled with pain and accusation.
Logan slumped back against the wall, slid down it loosely. He was making sounds. But not words. The Gun dangled limply in his hand.
Ballard stood up with Jess beside him. He took the girl aside, keeping an eye on
Logan. The DS man was blind to their words and movements.
"I knew he could never do it," said Jess, watching Logan with pity. "You can trust him now."
"Not at all," said Ballard.
"But . . . why? After what he's—"
"Logan is a man in torment. He's in a near-trance at this point, babbling, totally exhausted. Inwardly he's torn. Half of him wants to run, escape, live. The other half wants to destroy me and you, to crush the Sanctuary line and justify his entire existence. Right now I couldn't tell you which half will win." Ballard paused. "You'll have to go the rest of the way alone."
"But I love him," protested the girl. "You can't ask me to abandon him now."
"Alone," said Ballard sharply. "Listen to me. The final stage is Cape Steinbeck and"—he checked the time—"you've only twenty-eight minutes to get there. If you fail to make it they'll leave without you. Don't argue. You'll find a mazecar at the platform just below Capitol Hill. Now go. I'll take care of Logan."
He turned from Jess, back to the hunched figure.
The blow which knocked him unconscious was totally unexpected.
He breathes deeply.
His eyes are closed.
He knows the final stage to Sanctuary.
EVENING . . .
Logan reached the maze platform, numb, dull-eyed, one arm around Jessica's shoulder. She was guiding him, partly supporting him.
She summoned the car.
Logan's head was down; his breathing was shallow, his face flat chalk. He seemed unaware of his surroundings as the car swept into motion.
"It's going to be all right," Jess said, holding him against her, holding him as the Loveroom had held him, talking softly to him. "We're on the way, to the last stage, to Sanctuary. No one can stop us now. A few minutes more and we can quit running. It's all over now. It's all right. Everything's all right."
Logan didn't respond.
The car burned through the deep tunnels.
"Listen—you don't have to fight yourself any longer. I had to keep Ballard from hurting you because what I said to him was true, about my loving you. It's not easy to discard a lifetime, but you've done it, Logan. You're free now."
