“It’ll do,” she said.
And Gemini, behind Orion, murmured, “Why not, Orry?”
The sound of the old term of endearment was startling to Orion, but oddly comforting. Did Gemini, then, treasure those memories as Orion did? Orion turned slowly, looked into Gemini’s sad, deep eyes. “Would you like to see it on the holo?” he asked.
Gemini only smiled. Or rather, twitched his lips into that momentary piece of a smile that Orion knew from so many years before (only forty years; but forty years was back into my childhood, when I was only thirty and Gemini was—what?—fifteen. Helot to my Spartan; Slav to my Hun) and Orion smiled back. His fingers danced over the controls.
Many of the guests gathered around, although others, bored with the coming and going in the timelid, however extravagant it might be as a party entertainment (“Enough energy to light all of Mexico for an hour,” said the one with the giddy laugh who had already promised her body to four men and a woman and was now giving it to another who would not wait), occupied themselves with something decadent and delightful and distracting in the darker corners of the room.
The holo flashed on. The truck crept slowly down the road, its holographic image flickering.
“Why does it do that?” someone asked, and Orion answered mechanically, “There aren’t as many chronons as there are photons, and they have a lot more area to cover.”
And then the image of a man flickering by the side of the road. Everyone laughed as they realized it was Hector, conking away with all his heart. Then another laugh as he dropped his robe and waved. The truck sped up, and then a backflip by the manfigure, under the wheels. The body flopped under the doubled back tires, then lay limp and shattered in the road as the truck came to a stop only a few meters ahead. A few moments later, the body disappeared.
“Brilliantly done, Hector!” Orion shouted again. “Better than you told it!” Everyone applauded in agreement, and Orion reached over to flip off the holo. But Officer Manwool stopped him.
“Don’t turn it off, Mr. Overweed,” she said. “Freeze it, and move the image.”
Orion looked at her for a moment, then shrugged and did as she said. He expanded the view, so that the truck shrank. And then he suddenly stiffened, as did the guests close enough and interested enough to notice. Not more than ten meters in front of the truck was the ravine, where the broken bridge waited.
“He can see it,” somebody gasped. And Officer Manwool slipped a lovecord around Orion’s wrist, pulled it taut, and fastened the loose end to her workbelt.
“Orion Overweed, you’re under arrest. That man can see the ravine. He will not die. He was brought to a stop in plenty of time to notice the certain death ahead of him. He will live—with a knowledge of whatever he saw tonight. And already you have altered the future, the present, and all the past from his time until the present.”
And for the first time in all his life, Orion realized that he had reason to be afraid.
“But that’s a capital offense,” he said lamely.
“I only wish it included torture,” Officer Manwool said heatedly, “the kind of torture you put that poor truck driver through!”
And then she started to pull Orion out of the room.
Rod Bingley lifted his eyes from the steering wheel and stared uncomprehendingly at the road ahead. The truck’s light illuminated the road clearly for many meters. And for five seconds or thirty minutes or some other length of time that was both brief and infinite he did not understand what it meant.
He got out of the cab and walked to the edge of the ravine, looking down. For a few minutes he felt relieved.
Then he walked back to the truck and counted the wounds in the cab. The dents on the grill and the smooth metal. Three cracks in the windshield.
He walked back to where the man had been urinating. Sure enough, though there was no urine, there was an indentation in the ground where the hot liquid had struck, speckles in the dirt where it had splashed.
And in the fresh asphalt, laid, surely, that morning (but then why no warning signs on the bridge? Perhaps the wind tonight blew them over), his tire tracks showed clearly. Except for a manwidth stretch where the left rear tires had left no print at all.
And Rodney remembered the dead, smashed faces, especially the bright and livid eyes among the blood and broken bone. They all looked like Rachel to him. Rachel who had wanted him to—to what? Couldn’t even remember the dreams anymore?
He got back into the cab and gripped the steering wheel. His head spun and ached, but he felt himself on the verge of a marvelous conclusion, a simple answer to all of this. There was evidence, yes, even though the bodies were gone, there was evidence that he had hit those people. He had not imagined it.
They must, then, be (he stumbled over the word, even in his mind, laughed at himself as he concluded:) angels. Jesus sent them, he knew it, as his mother had taught him, destroying angels teaching him the death that he had brought to his wife while daring, himself, to walk away scatheless.
It was time to even up the debt.
He started the engine and drove, slowly, deliberately toward the end of the road. And as the front tires bumped off and a sickening moment passed when he feared that the truck would be too heavy for the driving wheels to push along the ground, he clasped his hands in front of his face and prayed, aloud: “Forward!”
And then the truck slid forward, tipped downward, hung in the air, and fell. His body pressed into the back of the truck. His clasped hands struck his face. He meant to say, “Into thy hands I commend my spirit,” but instead he screamed, “No no no no no,” in an infinite negation of death that, after all, didn’t do a bit of good once he was committed into the gentle, unyielding hands of the ravine. They clasped and enfolded him, pressed him tightly, closed his eyes and pillowed his head between the gas tank and the granite.
“Wait,” Gemini said.
“Why the hell should we?” Officer Manwool said, stopping at the door with Orion following docilely on the end of the lovecord. Orion, too, stopped, and looked at the policeman with the adoring expression all lovecord captives wore.
“Give the man a break,” Gemini said.
“He doesn’t deserve one,” she said. “And neither do you.”
“I say give the man a break. At least wait for the proof.”
She snorted. “What more proof does he need, Gemini? A signed statement from Rodney Bingley that Orion Overweed is a bloody hitler?”
Gemini smiled and spread his hands. “We didn’t actually see what Rodney did next, did we? Maybe he was struck by lightning two hours later, before he saw anybody—I mean, you’re required to show that damage did happen. And I don’t feel any change to the present—”
“You know that changes aren’t felt. They aren’t even known, since we wouldn’t remember anything other than how things actually happened!”
“At least,” Gemini said, “watch what happens and see whom Rodney tells.”
So she led Orion back to the controls, and at her instructions Orion lovingly started the holo moving again.
And they all watched as Rodney Bingley walked to the edge of the ravine, then walked back to the truck, drove it to the edge and over into the chasm, and died on the rocks.
As it happened, Hector hooted in joy. “He died after all! Orion didn’t change a damned thing, not one damned thing!”
Manwool turned on him in disgust. “You make me sick,” she said.
“The man’s dead,” Hector said in glee. “So get that stupid string off Orion or I’ll sue for a writ of—”
“Go pucker in a corner,” she said, and several of the women pretended to be shocked. Manwool loosened the lovecord and slid it off Orion’s wrist. Immediately he turned on her, snarling.”Get out of here! Get out! Get out!”
He followed her to the door of the crambox. Gemini was not the only one who wondered if he would hit her. But Orion kept his control, and she left unharmed.
Orion stumbled back from the crambox
rubbing his arms as if with soap, as if trying to scrape them clean from contact with the lovecord. “That thing ought to be outlawed. I actually loved her. I actually loved that stinking, bloody, son-of-a-bitching cop!” And he shuddered so violently that several of the guests laughed and the spell was broken.
Orion managed a smile and the guests went back to amusing themselves. With the sensitivity that even the insensitive and jaded sometimes exhibit, they left him alone with Gemini at the controls of the timelid.
Gemini reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of Orion’s eyes. “Get a comb someday,” he said. Orion smiled and gently stroked Gemini’s hand. Gemini slowly removed his hand from Orion’s reach. “Sorry, Orry,” Gemini said, “but not anymore.”
Orion pretended to shrug. “I know,” he said. “Not even for old times’ sake.” He laughed softly. “That stupid string made me love her. They shouldn’t even do that to criminals.”
He played with the controls of the holo, which was still on. The image zoomed in; the cab of the truck grew larger and larger. The chronons were too scattered and the image began to blur and fade. Orion stopped it.
By ducking slightly and looking through a window into the cab, Orion and Gemini could see the exact place where the outcropping of rock crushed Rod Bingley’s head against the gas tank. Details, of course, were indecipherable.
“I wonder,” Orion finally said, “if it’s any different.”
“What’s any different?” Gemini asked.
“Death. If it’s any different when you don’t wake up right afterward.”
A silence.
Then the sound of Gemini’s soft laughter.
“What’s funny?” Orion asked.
“You,” the younger man answered. “Only one thing left that you haven’t tried, isn’t there?”
“How could I do it?” Orion asked, half-seriously (only half?). “They’d only clone me back.”
“Simple enough,” Gemini said. “All you need is a friend who’s willing to turn off the machine while you’re on the far end. Nothing is left. And you can take care of the actual suicide yourself.”
“Suicide,” Orion said with a smile. “Trust you to use the policeman’s term.”
And that night, as the other guests slept off the alcohol in beds or other convenient places, Orion lay on the chair and pulled the box over his head. And with Gemini’s last kiss on his cheek and Gemini’s left hand on the controls, Orion said, “All right. Pull me over.”
After a few minutes Gemini was alone in the room. He did not even pause to reflect before he went to the breaker box and shut off all the power for a critical few seconds. Then he returned, sat alone in the room with the disconnected machine and the empty chair. The crambox soon buzzed with the police override, and Mercy Manwool stepped out. She went straight to Gemini, embraced him. He kissed her, hard.
“Done?” she asked.
He nodded.
“The bastard didn’t deserve to live,” she said.
Gemini shook his head. “You didn’t get your justice, my dear Mercy.”
“Isn’t he dead?”
“Oh yes, that. Well, it’s what he wanted, you know. I told him what I planned. And he asked me to do it.”
She looked at him angrily. “You would. And then tell me about it, so I wouldn’t get any joy out of this at all.” Gemini only shrugged.
Manwool turned away from him, walked to the timelid. She ran her fingers along the box. Then she detached her laser from her belt and slowly melted the timelid until it was a mass of hot plastic on a metal stand. The few metal components had even melted a little, bending to be just a little out of shape.
“Screw the past anyway,” she said. “Why can’t it stay where it belongs?”
FREEWAY GAMES
EXCEPT FOR DONNER PASS, everything on the road between San Francisco and Salt Lake City was boring. Stanley had driven the road a dozen deadly times until he was sure he knew Nevada by heart: an endless road winding among hills covered with sagebrush. “When God got through making scenery,” Stanley often said, “there was a lot of land left over in Nevada, and God said, ‘Aw, to hell with it,’ and that’s where Nevada’s been ever since.”
Today Stanley was relaxed, there was no rush for him to get back to Salt Lake, and so, to ease the boredom, he began playing freeway games.
He played Blue Angels first. On the upslope of the Sierra Nevadas he found two cars riding side by side at fifty miles an hour. He pulled his Datsun 260Z into formation beside them. At fifty miles an hour they cruised along, blocking all the lanes of the freeway. Traffic began piling up behind them.
The game was successful—the other two drivers got into the spirit of the thing. When the middle car drifted forward, Stanley eased back to stay even with the driver on the right, so that they drove down the freeway in an arrowhead formation. They made diagonals, funnels; danced around each other for half an hour; and whenever one of them pulled slightly ahead, the frantically angry drivers behind them jockeyed behind the leading car.
Finally, Stanley tired of the game, despite the fun of the honks and flashing lights behind them. He honked twice, and waved jauntily to the driver beside him, then pressed on the accelerator and leaped forward at seventy miles an hour, soon dropping back to sixty as dozens of other cars, their drivers trying to make up for lost time (or trying to compensate for long confinement), passed by going much faster. Many paused to drive beside him, honking, glaring, and making obscene gestures. Stanley grinned at them all.
He got bored again east of Reno.
This time he decided to play Follow. A yellow AM Hornet was just ahead of him on the highway, going fifty-eight to sixty miles per hour. A good speed. Stanley settled in behind the car, about three lengths behind, and followed. The driver was a woman, with dark hair that danced in the erratic wind that came through her open windows. Stanley wondered how long it would take her to notice that she was being followed.
Two songs on the radio (Stanley’s measure of time while traveling), and halfway through a commercial for hair spray—and she began to pull away. Stanley prided himself on quick reflexes. She didn’t even gain a car length; even when she reached seventy, he stayed behind her.
He hummed along with an old Billy Joel song even as the Reno radio station began to fade. He hunted for another station, but found only country and western, which he loathed. So in silence he followed as the woman in the Hornet slowed down.
She went thirty miles an hour, and still he didn’t pass. Stanley chuckled. At this point, he was sure she was imagining the worst. A rapist, a thief, a kidnapper, determined to destroy her. She kept on looking in her rearview mirror.
“Don’t worry, little lady,” Stanley said, “I’m just a Salt Lake City boy who’s having fun.” She slowed down to twenty, and he stayed behind her; she sped up abruptly until she was going fifty, but her Hornet couldn’t possibly out-accelerate his Z.
“I made forty thousand dollars for the company,” he sang in the silence of his car, “and that’s six thousand dollars for me.”
The Hornet came up behind a truck that was having trouble getting up a hill. There was a passing lane, but the Hornet didn’t use it at first, hoping, apparently, that Stanley would pass. Stanley didn’t pass. So the Hornet pulled out, got even with the nose of the truck, then rode parallel with the truck all the rest of the way up the hill.
“Ah,” Stanley said, “playing Blue Angels with the Pacific Intermountain Express.” He followed her closely.
At the top of the hill, the passing lane ended. At the last possible moment the Hornet pulled in front of the truck—and stayed only a few yards ahead of it. There was no room for Stanley, and now on a two-lane road a car was coming straight at him.
“What a bitch!” Stanley mumbled. In a split second, because when angry Stanley doesn’t like to give in, he decided that she wasn’t going to outsmart him. He nosed into the space between the Hornet and the truck anyway.
There wasn’t room. The t
ruck driver leaned on his horn and braked; the woman, afraid, pulled forward. Stanley got out of the way just as the oncoming car, its driver a father with a wife and several rowdy children looking petrified at the accident that had nearly happened, passed on the left.
“Think you’re smart, don’t you, bitch? But Stanley Howard’s feeling rich.” Nonsense, nonsense, but it sounded good and he sang it in several keys as he followed the woman, who was now going a steady sixty-five, two car-lengths behind. The Hornet had Utah plates—she was going to be on that road a long time.
Stanley’s mind wandered. From thoughts of Utah plates to a memory of eating at Alioto’s and on to his critical decision that no matter how close you put Alioto’s to the wharf, the fish there wasn’t any better than the fish at Bratten’s in Salt Lake. He decided that he would have to eat there soon, to make sure his impression was correct; he wondered whether he should bother taking Liz out again, since she so obviously wasn’t interested; speculated on whether Genevieve would say yes if he asked her.
And the Hornet wasn’t in front of him anymore.
He was only going forty-five, and the PIE truck was catching up to him on a straight section of the road. There were curves into a mountain pass up ahead—she must have gone faster when he wasn’t noticing. But he sped up, sped even faster, and didn’t see her. She must have pulled off somewhere, and Stanley chuckled to think of her panting, her heart beating fast, as she watched Stanley drive on by. What a relief that must have been, Stanley thought. Poor lady. What a nasty game. And he giggled with delight, silently, his chest and stomach shaking but making no sound.
He stopped for gas in Elko, had a package of cupcakes from the vending machine in the gas station, and was leaning on his car when he watched the Hornet go by. He waved, but the woman didn’t see him. He did notice, however, that she pulled into an Amoco station not far up the road.
It was just a whim. I’m taking this too far, he thought, even as he waited in his car for her to pull out of the gas station. She pulled out. For just a moment Stanley hesitated, decided not to go on with the chase, then pulled out and drove along the main street of Elko a few blocks behind the Hornet. The woman stopped at a light. When it turned green, Stanley was right behind her. He saw her look in her rearview mirror again, stiffen; her eyes were afraid.
The Changed Man Page 8
