Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07

by Bridge of Ashes

  But the weeks passed and there was nothing. It had of course occurred to me that the man I sought might well be dead. It had been a long time since his last appearance. His enemies might finally have caught up with him. I redoubled my efforts. I could do nothing but keep looking.

  It was on a Friday evening that I came across something peculiar. I had climbed a nearby hill, a concession to my mother's complaint that I was not getting enough exercise, and seated on a rock out of sight of the house I had set forth with my mind once again, casting first at places nearer to home. After a quarter of an hour of wandering, I encountered familiar thought-patterns. When I closed with them, I determined that they originated in Albuquerque, and I became aware of the thinker's plans for the following day. He would be heading north, and passing on the highway, not too far to the east. I was filled with excitement. He was not my quarry, but he was someone I greatly desired to meet.

  When I returned to the house, my mother saw my face, felt my mood and smiled.

  "I told you," she said. "Exercise. This is the best I've seen you look."

  "Yes, Mother," I said.

  "You will be in good condition for your surprise tomorrow."

  "Surprise? What is it?"

  "If I told you..." she began.

  "It isn't Dad, is it? Is he coming?"

  She looked away.

  "No," she said, "not your father. You will just have to wait and see."

  I thought of trying a probe, but she would have caught it and blocked it, I am certain. And she wanted it to be a surprise. I left it at that. I had more important matters to consider, anyhow.

  I yawned.

  "All this fresh air and altitude ... I am going to turn in early."

  "Good idea," she said, and kissed me.

  I was up early the next morning. Before I even got out of bed, I reached out with my mind and found my man. Then I left a note saying that I had gone for a walk, and I made my way to a bluff above the highway. I seated myself and waited, listening to his thoughts as he drove on.

  After a long while, the car came into view. I climbed down and waited at the side of the road.

  When the vehicle drew near, I stepped out into the road and raised my hands. I was in his mind at the time and saw that he had noticed me and was going to stop. Else I would have gotten out of the way.

  He braked to a halt and called out, "What's the matter, kid?"

  I walked up beside the machine, studying the face of the man I had once been.

  "Hello, Quick," I said. "It's been a while."

  He stared at me, then shook his head.

  "I'm sorry, he said. "I don't remember where ..."

  "I remember the shootout when they got Leishman," I said. "You got the last cop and made it away. They never did figure out who the other man was."

  His eyes widened, then narrowed.

  "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

  "I have to talk with you. It's important."

  "All right. Get in," he said.

  "No, thanks. Why don't you pull off to the side and get out? We can climb up in those rocks across the way."

  "Why?"

  "It's a place to sit down."

  "Is anyone else there?"

  "No."

  He pulled over, opened the door and stepped out

  "I want you to know something—" he began.

  "—that you are carrying a loaded .32 automatic in the right-hand pocket of your jacket," I said, "and you intend to shoot anyone else you encounter the moment you see him. But I am not lying to you. There is no one else. I just want to talk."

  "How did you—? Are you a telepath?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay. Anyplace special?"

  "No. Just up."

  "Lead on."

  He followed me to the top, found himself a perch and lit a cigarette.

  "What do you want?" he asked.

  "First," I said, "I wanted to meet you. You see, once I was you."

  "Come again?"

  "I will have to tell you something about myself ..." I began. And I did. I told him of my condition, of how I had become Leishman and been used to trace him, of how I had later, briefly, been Quick Smith. The sun was higher when I finished.

  He had remained silent as I had spoken, nodding occasionally. Now he sat, staring off toward the horizon, as if listening to some faraway voice. I waited for him to say something, but he did not

  I cleared my throat

  "That is—my story," I said, finally. "I wanted you to know that much before—"

  "Yes, it is—quite interesting,* 5 he said then. "You certainly are a different sort of person. Now what?"

  "Now? Now I was going to ask you, as the only COE member handy, whether you really believe that our rural past possessed all the virtues, whether all the cliches about cities might not make that past seem like something it never was, whether exploitation of the land and the people—like child labor—might not have been far worse in the old days, as it still is in agrarian countries today, whether the cities might not really offer more than they have taken when contrasted with that past."

  "That was not what I meant when I said *Now what?' and that is a string of loaded questions," he said. "But I will give you an answer anyway, before I go back to it. I am hardly a spokesman for the COE. I am just a dirtywork specialist. It is true that a lot of us might romanticize the simpler life, turn it into a pastoral. I am not one of them. I grew up on a farm. I was child labor myself. I do not have it in for the cities. In fact, they represented something I wanted to get away to as soon as I could swing it. They may well offer more than they have taken. I think that they probably do. I am just a dirty, mean little guy who was probably simply a troublemaker to begin with. If it had not been the COE it would have been something else—then. Your asking me these things makes me think back over it, though. Now, it is a bit different. But okay ... For all that, when I look back at my childhood, I see that I always loved the land. I can't romanticize it, I was too close to it. I am a conservationist, an environmentalist, an ecological activist—whatever term is currently fashionable—because I am pro-land, not anti-city. You set up a false dichotomy when you reeled off those questions. Being for the land does not mean being against the city. We cannot junk them all and turn back the clock. Not now. When we blow up a dam or screw up a source of pollution, we are not telling them to turn off all the technology in the world. We are telling them to be more judicious in its disposition, we are encouraging the consideration, the development, of alternatives. There are men who see no more in public lands than lumber, minerals, grazing and the building of dams, men who claim they are benefiting the people in this and are really only out for a fast buck. Rod told me the history of the national parks, for example. They faced this kind of invasion and destruction, with the same excuses offered, long before our present problems existed. I want to protect what remains of the natural world, that's all. Now you tell me something. I had asked you, 'Now what?' What I meant was, you have this powerful ability no other telepath seems to have developed yet. What are you going to do with it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your interest in these matters seems more than simple curiosity. I could not help but wonder—"

  His eyes flicked upward, past my shoulder.

  I had not heard anyone approach, nor felt them with my mind, and I was not in Quick's mind at the moment. I turned.

  She had come up the easy grade on the far side of the bluff. She seemed taller than I remembered, and a trifle thinner.

  "Lydia!" I said, rising. "Mother spoke of a surprise...."

  She smiled.

  "Hello, Dennis," she said. "Hello, Quick."

  "You know each other?" I asked.

  Quick nodded.

  "Oh yes," he said. "We've met. A long time ago. How've you been?"

  "Fine," she said, drawing nearer.

  "Lydia is the therapist I mentioned," I said, "who took care of me. Before."

  "Quick, you have changed," she
said.

  He nodded.

  "Everyone does, I guess,*' he said

  She looked at me again,

  Dennis, let me see you.

  I nodded and felt her move further into my mind.

  After a time, Congratulations. We have succeeded, she told me. You exist. You have followed the leads that I left you. You are seeking. .. What?

  A man. The man who spoke with Van Duyn, years back.

  Why?

  To ask how I can help him with his efforts.

  What makes you feel you have anything to offer?

  You know that I am special.

  You feel that is enough — being special?

  I guess that is for him to decide.

  It is good that you wish to help. Supposing he asked of you what he asked of Van Duyn?

  I do not know. It would be a waste.

  Perhaps. Whatever, I will help you in your search. So will this man.

  How?

  Later, Dennis. Later. All in good time. We had best get to your home now.

  "You are heading north, Quick?" she asked.

  "Denver, to spend a few days with some friends.**

  "Let me know where I can get in touch with you, all right? There is an enterprise in which you may be useful.'*

  "Sure," he said, and he fished a piece of paper from his pocket, scrawled something on it, passed it to her. "I'll be at the first one till Tuesday, the next one afterward."

  "Very good. Thank you. You may hear from me before too long. Have a nice trip."

  "Thanks. So long."

  "Goodbye."

  He headed back down toward the road. We went the other way.

  We walked back to where Lydia's car was parked on a side road. From there we drove on home, announcing that Lydia had encountered me on my morning hike. My mother prepared breakfast, and the morning was spent in conversation. After lunch, Lydia examined me at some length. I tried blocking in some areas, just to see what the result would be. She caught me on all of them.

  Excellent, she told me after a long while. You have exceeded my expectations.

  In what way?

  I mean that you have pulled through beautifully.

  That is not what you mean. You are masking some-thing.

  You are good. Congratulations.

  That is not an answer.

  Let us say then that it was really a form of directive therapy in which we engaged.

  There was not really that much of me to direct.

  I did not say that it was easy.

  Did you influence the development of my temporo-pathic ability?

  No, but I might have influenced the kinds of choices you would make if you did succeed in reaching back after other minds in times gone by.

  Why?

  I only said "might."

  You did not come back just to play games with me, did you?

  No. You will have your answers in good time.

  Where does Quick figure in all this?

  He did some work for me once.

  Is there anything at all that you feel like telling me?

  Yes, but you are not letting me. You are asking all the wrong questions.

  What are the right ones?

  I said that I would help you in your search. You said that you want to find the dark man. Had you asked me, I could have told you that he is still living. Had you asked me where, I could have told you that you will find him in East Africa.

  You know him?

  Yes, I know him.

  I have searched, but I found no trace. . . .

  You will not find him unless he chooses to be found.

  Why is this?

  His is a cautious way of life.

  Yes, I gathered that they seek him in particular.

  They may seek you now, also.

  Why?

  You have been broadcasting your presence ever since your return. They are suspicious of concentrations of power in the hands of a single individual. They must convince themselves it is harmless, tame it, turn it or destroy it.

  Then I am in danger, even now?

  It is possible. This is the reason I came so soon. You are firm in your decision?

  I am.

  Then we must leave as soon as possible. The longer we delay the less your chance of reaching your goal. They have human agents as well as mechanical devices.

  Are the enemies TP, also?

  That, or something like it. They have their ways of knowing things.

  How shall we go about the whole business?

  I have already obtained travel papers in your name. This evening we shall discuss with you mother your desire to see more of the world now that you are adjusted to this much of it. I will second the idea as a therapeutically sound thing. I believe that I can persuade her.

  Supposing she wants to come along?

  This possibility has been considered. Fortunately, her contacts with your father since your return seem to be leading them toward a reconciliation. I believe they are going to discuss the matter this evening. Should this come to pass, they might well appreciate your absence on a short trip.

  How can you know all these things?

  As a TP and a personal friend —

  No! That is too much to ask me to believe.

  What, then, would you believe?

  The only alternative that presents itself. You are devious, Lydia. I know that now, from my own case, from your plans for handling these things, from your acquaintanceship with a COE troubleshooter. I am forced to entertain the possibility that you possess considerable means for manipulating people and situations, that you are somehow responsible for my parents' breakup and their coming reconciliation, for my transfer to the moon — for the entire course my condition has taken. I suddenly look upon you as the architect of my existence.

  Ridiculous!

  Call it whatever you want. That is how I feel about it.

  Then believe whatever you want. Does it affect your plans?

  No. I am still going. I have to.

  Good. Then the rest does not matter.

  But it does. You see, I am not going to forget. If I live a few more years I am going to be even stronger than I am now. If I ever discover that you caused my parents needless pain, I want you to know that I am not going to forget.

  She lowered her head.

  So be it then.

  And things worked out pretty much as Lydia had said. Dad called and wanted to come out. To see me, he said. Mother said okay, and he arrived the next day. I quickly saw that Lydia had been right. They hit things off and were talking friendly again right from the start. He was happy enough to see me, very happy. We had several long talks and even went walking together a few times. But it was plain that he had come back for more than that.

  It began to occur to me about then that perhaps I had been too hard on Lydia. Common decency forbade my trying to probe my parents' thoughts at that time, but I suddenly realized that the strain of my prolonged condition must have been pretty hard on them, particularly on Dad. I may well have contributed to the initial breakup, just as my recovery might have served as catalyst to the reconciliation. It had been insensitive of me not to have realized this earlier. It began to seem possible that, though I still felt Lydia to be a manipulator, she had in this one respect merely capitalized on something already present, rather than creating the entire situation. It left her no less culpable, if she had somehow provided the necessary pushes at various points, but it softened the picture somewhat, if only through the mitigating agency of my own newfound guilt feelings.

  And these feelings made me anxious to be under way, as anxious perhaps as my parents were for some time alone together. At least, they bought Lydia's endorsement of my request for a vacation, seeing that I would be accompanied by herself and a male nurse of her acquaintance.

  "It's good to have you back, son."

  It did not seem so ironic later that these were the last words my father said to me as Lydia and I boarded the flier that was to take us
to Albuquerque. After the talks we had had I came to realize that my recovery was a source of pride to him—the fact that I had made it through a rough piece of existence— possibly even greater than his pleasure in knowing that my ability transcended any other on record. Mine was a sadder feeling than I had thought it would be, at another leave-taking this soon after my return. I waved to them as we rose and did not let down my shield till we reached the town.

  The flight out of Albuquerque was uneventful. Lydia had warned me Of the possibility of danger from that point on. But I scanned all my fellow passengers and found nothing alarming. In fact, it grew boring after a time, and I read most of the way to Libreville, in Gabon. Only Quick seemed constantly alert.

  Shortly after our arrival, a man appeared at our hotel with a case full of pistols. Quick selected one—a revolver—and a box of cartridges. No money changed hands. Lydia shielded the man's mind, but I was still able to skim a few surface thoughts indicating his connection with a local COE-type group.

  "With this," Lydia said to Quick, "you are in a position to take over my function as bodyguard. I have to go on ahead now to make arrangements, which gives you a little time to spend." She passed him a slip of paper. "Be at this field in Moanda at 1800 hours, tomorrow. You will be met there and transported east."

  It was not clear to me how she could have been acting as a bodyguard, but then Quick had never seemed much like a male nurse either. I refrained from commenting.

  'What is there to do in this town?" Quick asked her.

  "For one thing, you can get out of it in a hurry," she replied, smiling. "There are more instructions on the back of the page. Take the shuttle down to Moanda tonight and go visit that place tomorrow."

  Quick turned the sheet, read there, looked up.

  "What do we do when we get there?"

  "Sightsee. That is all. Look at that thing and think about it. Nothing more. An amusement perhaps. A way of passing the time."

  "All right. Shall we get something to eat now?"

  "Let's."

  Lydia departed after dinner, and Quick and I returned to the hotel and checked out. We caught the shuttle and leaned back to watch the country pass. After a time, I dozed and did not awaken until we had reached our destination. It was quite late when we checked into the local hostel, and we turned in immediately.