This was where Robert was headed, to meet Addison Friendly at a place called the Jagged Yang. It was not a direction he had expected his investigations to take, but the logic was brief and concise. Silver ice was almost certainly the drug the girl had been on—or, at least, the principal drug of the several metered into the girl’s arm.
Silver ice, according to Addison Friendly, was a Chinese import, a derivative of a rice mold the Chinese had developed in their biological warfare research. It was smuggled into the United States from the Haitung by the microgram—which represented one hundred standard doses. With units that small, it was almost impossible to stop the trade.
“We will go into the Unworld this very evening,” Friendly had told Robert over the phone about an hour ago, “and investigate the source of silver ice. It’s sold somewhere down there. Close to Chinatown, you know. I suppose you have appropriate clothes.”
Robert has assured Friendly that he did. Now, staring down at his wardrobe, he wasn’t so sure. He had only the sketchiest knowledge of what dress would be appropriate. The holo tended toward exotic dress for the Unpeople in its fictions, but Robert had no idea along which vector truth was stranger in this case.
In a flash of inspiration he settled on a pair of old Navy undress uniform pants, a beat-up dress jacket with the insignia removed, and a red cape with gold trim. Surplus military clothing was always in style. He dressed quickly and, with the cape wrapped around the jacket, hurried out of the BOQ. If any of his brother officers saw him, he’d have to spend time explaining this mixed mode of naval uniform.
The cab driver agreed to take him as far south as Eighth Street, and from there he walked down the empty sidewalk of Sixth Avenue of the Americas. A full tourbus passed him, its turbos whining and its solid rubber wheels keening softly on the concrete, a wide-eyed face behind each of the thick stresglass portholes.
He turned east on Houston Street, his shoes tapping out the pattern of his step as he hurried along the sidewalk, keeping well away from the shadowy doorways. His heart was beating faster from excitement, he told himself, not from fear. He had always meant to explore this section of the Unworld, ever since he had been stationed in New York. He had gone on one of the tours, but he had felt that everything he saw was an act put on for the benefit of the redback-carrying tourists. The mysteries of the home of the officially unemployable—the Unpeople—the thirty percent of the population without even a category to fill if there were any vacant jobs in any of the categories—were cloaked in a nimbus of romance and adventure. He welcomed an official chance to penetrate the cloak.
“Whiss, whiss, hey, John!” A voice from the black of a doorway whispered anxiously. “John—hey, John!”
“You mean me?” Robert asked, stopping to face the doorway. He was, he reminded himself, trained in unarmed combat.
“You is the only John in sight, ain’t you?” the voice demanded waspishly. Its owner took a step forward and Robert could just make him out against the black frame. A small, skinny man, with a jutting chin and large owl’s eyes which darted about, he was dressed in what looked like a black wetsuit from the neck down. “Listen; whatever you come down here after, I get it for you. No strain, no pain. Whatever. No call to go any further. It’s dangerous down there.”
“I can take care of myself,” Robert snapped without thinking.
“Sure you can, John, sure you can. But why bother. Know what I mean? Whatever you is fumbling for, whatever you is groping after, I can get. Good prices. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Got a place here you can wait. Got a place here you can do it, if it’s that kind of thing you seek. Whatever be it. Just name it and put up the redbacks.”
“I’m looking for a friend,” Robert said.
“Yeah. Right. I can get you one, no trouble. Clean, honest, good-looker. Doesn’t do this kind of thing ordinarily, only she needs the cake. Or is it a boyfriend you be seeking?”
“You misunderstand,” Robert coldly told the little man, not sure why he was explaining himself. “I’m meeting a friend. A specific friend. Thank you for your offer.” He started walking.
“You’ll get yours!” the little man whispered hoarsely before retreating back into the blackness of his doorway.
Robert turned down Prince Street and headed south. A man in red pantaloons and a puffed gold shirt turned out of an alley and walked parallel, keeping two meters away. “Listen sailor,” he said in a rapid monotone, “what d’you need? What d’you need? I got whites, pinks, and spots; powder and crystal; pills, spills, pours and spores; loops and dizzies. What d’you need? What d’you need? Come on, got to fade next block. Speak it, sailor. What d’you need?”
With his hands thrust deep in his pockets, he waddled along, keeping his eyes straight ahead except for an occasional darting glance at Robert. “Come on, what d’you need? Speak it. Good stuff. I’ll give you a taste if you show me the color of your money. Redbacks at sight. Twenty percent float for yellowbacks, if at all. What d’you say, sailor?”
“Why do you call me ‘sailor?’” Robert demanded. “This isn’t exactly a uniform.”
“Bits and pieces,” the man said with a sneer in his voice. “Bits and pieces. Look at your shoes. Them’s government shoes if I ever saw a pair. Come on, give me a word. What do you say?”
“I say no,” Robert told him.
“Bad cess,” the man yapped, then disappeared into another alley.
Robert crossed the street. He thought of taking his “government” shoes off, but changed his mind after looking at the sidewalk. He compromised by scuffing them thoroughly to remove the high-gloss Navy shine. I, he thought, am not cut out to be a spy. It’s the little things.
Five men rounded the corner ahead and walked rapidly toward him. Robert kept walking, wondering what the correct protocol was in this situation. One course of action would establish him as a native, an Unman, and all others would brand him as a foreigner, a tourist, an intruder, and legitimate prey for this small band. Judging by his surroundings, the proper behavior was not being there in the first place. Little he could do about that. He kept walking, trying to look as though he had business somewhere ahead and was too tough to worry about a five-man gang. A sort of Chief-Petty-Officer-of-the-World look.
The five closed in on him. They were all young, dressed in a motley of bright-colored, loose-fitting tunics and puffy pantaloons, and they all carried meter-long hardwood staves. They shared the hard-eyed look of youth that thinks it has experienced life and knows what it’s all about. “Hey-y-y,” one of them drawled, “grok the john.”
“Yeah,” a second picked up, stepping in front of Robert to force him to stop or go around. “The fullness of him. Grok.”
Robert stopped a foot from the youth, who was slapping his club against his thigh. “Move aside,” he said, with an intensity born of fear and rage. He would not give in. It was not bravery; he could feel the knot of fear tighten in his stomach. It was an inherited stubbornness of the sort that had driven his father to crawl out of a Martian crater two hours after he had been given up for dead.
“This side?” the youth asked, dancing a step to the right. “Or this side?” He shuffled back. “Allee samee to me, John. I grok.”
Robert spoke deliberately and slowly, his words clipped and separated. “Get—out—of—my—way!” He felt abstracted from the situation, as though he were watching it from above and someone else were here in control of his body. He wanted to run, but someone else was making his body go through this dangerous, stupid farce.
“Yes, John,” the youth agreed. “Of course, John. But then, what is your way? And how are we to know? Not too bright, us Un-things.”
“Unwise, you might say,” one of them offered.
“Unintelligent,” a second corrected.
“Untalented.”
“Unashamed.”
They moved around Robert in a sort of half-shuffle, the one passing in front spitting out the word.
“Unafraid.”
“Unrel
enting.”
“Unfriendly.”
“Unkind.”
“Uncaring.”
“And Uncared.”
“Unknowing.”
“And Unknown.”
“Unleashed.”
“Unwashed.”
The hate in their faces shown clearly as they continued the ritualized dance, carefully not touching each other or Robert.
“Undersexed.”
“Underaged.”
“And underemployed.”
“Underground.”
“Unpeople.”
“Unchildren.”
“Uneverything.”
“Or anything . . .”
“. . . worth having.”
“But now . . .”
“. . . We’ve got . . .”
“YOU!”
The dance stopped, and they stood in a tight circle around Robert, their staves in front of them and all emotion drained from their faces. The one now at Robert’s left poked him with his staff. “Hey, John—you got any cake on you?”
“Cake?” Robert felt as emotionally drained as his tormentors.
“Redbacks, John. You got any redbacks? Real money? The kind what we’re too Un to be allowed. You holding any cake?”
“Is that what you want?” Robert asked, his heart beating loudly inside a dead-calm exterior. “Money? Red-seal? Why do you care? What difference does it make whether it’s red or yellow seal?”
One of the youths spat. “Yellowbacks is Unmoney for Unpeople.”
“Unmoney drives out the gut,” another chanted. “Freebees is for freebees. Unrewarding our untoil. Empty your purse into our lilywhites, John, before we unleash our unquiet in unison.”
“You have a persuasive argument, gentlemen,” Robert said, eyeing the hardwood staves and wishing that he’d paid a lot more attention in Martial Arts instruction. He seemed to remember one in particular that would help: When Unarmed, Subduing Five to Seven Men Armed with Staves—four credits. At the time it had seemed rather esoteric knowledge, and he had cut most of the classes. Well—he would have to make do with the little bit he had learned. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that I can’t see my way clear to avail myself of your generous offer.”
He ducked under a club swung at his head, grabbed for one aimed at his midriff. It stung his hand, but he hung on to it and pulled, simultaneously dropping and rolling to his right. There was a thunk as a club connected heavily with someone else’s flesh. Robert continued the roll, pulling the staff free from the youth’s grasp, and stood up to face the group. One of the five was down, accidentally battered by his mates when Robert dropped. The other four rushed him.
Robert used the staff as an épée, flicking it out in front of him to keep the four youths at a distance. Parrying the closest swings, he rapidly backed to the nearest wall to keep them from surrounding him. They were closing in, battering unscientifically, and he could feel the repeated shocks to his wrist as he warded off the continuous blows. It was clearly only a matter of time, but he was resolved to fight for every second.
He parried a low thrust then ducked under a high swing, prodding its maker in the belly and knocking the air from him. He stepped back, sidestepped a thrust, and stood up. Then one caught him: a heavy blow to the shoulder that sent shooting pains up his neck and numbed the whole right arm. The staff slid from his fingers and clattered to the ground. With sneers on their faces, the Unpeople raised their clubs; no thought of finesse, just oblivion.
Suddenly Robert screamed and charged between two of them, knocking one aside and startling the other, who swung at him overhand but missed. He raced down the street like a wounded fox with four hounds close behind him.
A large shape loomed in front of him, almost blocking the sidewalk. “Aha!” it boomed. “What’s this? Dissent; one might almost say combat; on my street? Gratuitous annoyance of a guest? This will never do!” The shape resolved itself into two people, one large in all directions and dressed in black, his face covered with a black hood; the other slight and colorfully dressed, and standing so close to the first that one large black cloak covered them both.
Robert slowed slightly to find a way around the large man, with his four pursuers only a step behind.
“Come, gentlemen,” the large man said, “can we not reason together?” He thrust a slender white cane in front of him, and the first youth impaled himself on the tip and fell, gurgling, to the sidewalk.
“Ah youth, impetuous youth!” the large man said. “Your comrade seems to have injured himself.” He whipped the cane around, smacking a second youth full in the stomach. The youth stopped as though he had come to the end of his string and slowly folded to the ground. “That’s better,” the man said, nodding his hooded head, “stop to give aid. I would assist if I could, but as you see I am blind and helpless.”
The two youths remaining on their feet paused to contemplate the new situation. One of them slowly backed away from the large blind man, but the other gave a feral yell and charged, swing his staff viciously about his head.
“You have small respect for the old and enfeebled,” the blind man said calmly. His cane darted out and rapped sharply against the edge of the stick, which snapped out of the youth’s grasp and clattered to the street. “Little respect; shame!”
The youth took two steps backward, reached for his hip, and pulled out a dark tube which fit comfortably into his hand. There was a slight click, and a razor-edge knife blade sprouted from the tube. Holding the weapon in his outstretched hand, he advanced in a half-crouch.
“Aha! Finally some semblance of skill,” the blind man said approvingly.
“Mine!” a voice said softly, and the slight shape detached itself from the larger. Robert was shocked to see that it was a girl.
She leaped in front of the youth and stood easily, hands empty and apart, daring him to come on.
“Move aside,” he snarled, flicking the blade at her.
Her left hand darted out to smack at his right wrist and she spun around in an effortless pirouette, catching him with the flat of her right hand somewhere around his shoulders. The youth flew through the air in a short arc, his back intersecting with the pavement. The knife went elsewhere.
She dropped to her knees next to him. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Hope I didn’t hurt you.”
He scrambled to his feet, eyes wide, and backed away. When he was three steps back he turned and ran. His remaining companion was right behind him.
The blind man turned to Robert, who was leaning against a railing catching his breath. “Good evening, sir,” he said. “I hope we have been of some assistance.”
“You have. You have indeed. Thanks.” Robert tried to get a look at the man’s face under the black hood, but the only thing visible was a pair of smoked glasses.
“My name is Doctor Black, and this is my daughter Nova. It is fateful that we pass when we do.”
The girl stood before him, legs wide and balanced on the balls of her feet. She was even thinner than Robert had thought, and her face was hidden behind a cloud of dark hair. “Pleased,” she said.
“The pleasure is mine,” Robert told her sincerely, shaking her small hand.
“Well!” she said.
“You saved my life,” he said. “The two of you.”
“We did,” Doctor Black agreed. “And that deserves a drink.” He turned and lifted his head, as though smelling the air. “You can buy us a drink for that, Mr . . .”
“Burrows. Robert Burrows.” Robert decided that it would be better to leave off the “Lieutenant.”
“Burrows it is. Come buy your saviours a drink, Burrows.”
“Well, ah . . .” Robert realized that he was late for his meeting.
“Come along now; it’s the least you can do. The Jagged Yang is just up ahead in the next block. You can buy us a steaming pot of hot chocolate, or whatever.”
“Of course,” Robert said. “Just where I was headed. The least I can do.”
“The
very,” Dr. Black agreed.
*
The Jagged Yang indicated its location by no outward sign. Robert would have had a hard time finding it without Dr. Black’s help. A building halfway down the next block; up four steps and down a long hallway to the last door. Dr. Black was known, and the doorguard passed them without comment. A short hallway led to a large, low-ceilinged room, buttressed by squat, pseudomarble pillars and spread with wooden tables and benches. The room was divided into a number of areas by glass counters, old wrought-iron fences, stone walls, double doors, and other oddments of the wrecking trade. The walls were hung with paintings, prints, posters, subway signs, road signs, hospital signs, stained glass windows, plumbing and wiring, and laced with graffiti. The clutter was sufficient to give each table a sense of privacy, and carefully arranged so that the lanes were wide and clear enough to please the flowing-skirted waitresses.
Dr. Black led the way to a table in a dark corner with unerring precision, and settled into a chair in the darkest shadow. If he’s blind, Robert thought, he must use radar. But he kept his opinion to himself. Nova took a chair to Dr. Black’s left and pulled it so close to him that she was half hidden behind his sleeve. Robert first sat opposite them, but his back started to itch so he moved next to a wall.
A man bobbed and weaved his way around the tables until he stood in front of them. He was stick-thin and very tall, and he walked with the permanent stoop of one who bends to go through doorways. “Dr. Black,” he said. “Nova. Good evening. Good evening. Welcome.”
“Ah,” Dr. Black said, rubbing his hands together and leaning forward until he looked like a vulture preparing to swoop. “Felix, let me introduce my friend Burrows. Burrows, this is Felix, proprietor of the Jagged Yang.”
Felix turned to Robert and extended a bony hand. “Any friend of Dr. Black,” he said, managing to sound sinister, “can count on Felix Hannibal. You are welcome here.” His eyes glinted momentarily in the dim light, and Robert repressed a shudder; Felix had eyes with the slitted pupils of a cat!
Psi Hunt Page 5
