“You’ve met Carl, then?” John asked Darla.
“Yes, we talked last night. But I didn’t get much out of him.” She smiled at Carl.
“Neither did I,” Susan said, strapping in.
“I notice he made a point to meet the women,” I commented.
“Don’t mean to be so secretive,” Carl said. But he left it at that.
“Here we go,” I announced. I goosed the engine and eased the rig forward down the steep incline.
Traffic whizzed by, two roadsters hot-rodding through the curves, braying annoyance at the big lumbering rig in their way. A little farther down, the curves got easier to handle, and I got a chance to look at the scenery. The sky was dark with a thick covering of greenish-purple clouds. Here and there, big winged creatures soared just above treetop level, alighting now and then on lofty branches. No other large life-forms in sight.
It was all very pretty, and very alien. The road bottomed out and went straight, following a long tree-lined corridor. Between the massive black tree trunks, undergrowth grew thickly even in the dim light. And a few lines came to me …
The woods were lovely, dark, and deep. But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep …
If road yarns contained any truth, I had light-years to go. For some unfathomable reason, I had become the protagonist of the wildest Skyway story yet. I knew only the outline of it; no one had related it in detail. It was the tale of a man, yours truly, who followed the Skyway clear out to the end. And came back. But in doing so, I returned paradoxically before I left.
There was more to it. I had come into possession of an alien artifact, the Roadmap, which delineated clearly and for all time the extent of the Skyway system and revealed a path leading to the lost civilization of the Roadbuilders and the secrets of their phenomenal technology.
And—where did the Skyway lead, if followed out all the way to the “end”?—As if an interconnected road system could have such. It led, so the stories said, to the beginning of the universe. Not to the end, mind you, in either sense—not the physical limit of the universe, or its final destiny, but to the beginning.
When I heard that (from Jerry Spacks, an old friend and former member of the Starriggers Guild), I asked if there was a good motel there.
The beginning of the universe. Bang.
Pack your sunglasses. And bring plenty of suntan lotion. That primeval fireball can burn you right through your pretty new beach outfit.
As farfetched as it all was, I had every reason—now—to believe it. True, I had only Darla’s word that she had met me before—a meeting I did not remember—but I also was now in possession of a very strange object, the nature of which was not clear even to Darla, who had given it to me. I had the Black Cube. That was all it was, a palm-sized cube, black as the devil’s heart, origin and purpose unknown. It might be the Roadmap, or it might not be.
There was other evidence. Back on Goliath, I had made good my escape from the Colonial Militia with the very timely help of what could only have been my doppelgänger, my paradoxical self. I was fairly sure of that. I had seen him … me. True, a tiny wisp of doubt still clung to that image of my own face hovering above me as I lay in my cell, being administered the antidote to the effects of the Reticulan dream wand…
I sat up in my seat. Where did my double get the dream wand he had used to knock out everybody at the Militia station? I opened the glove box under the dash. There it was, a shiny green shaft with a bright metal ring around one end.
Of course. That’s how “he” got it. I have it now! I closed the box. Jesus, it was spooky.
Maybe there was no doubt after all. “Hooray!”
A sign beside the road.
6KM TO THE
FRUMIOUS BANDERSNATCH!
EATS!
GET DRUNK!
WE MAIL YOU HOME, KEEP YOUR KEY
ROOMS, NOT TOO SORDID
TURN OFF SKYWAY 1KM
FOLLOW RT. 22 EAST
“Oh, God, a bed,” Susan said dreamily.
“The sign’s in English,” John said. “Oh, here’s the Inter system one. Odd, it’s not as friendly in ‘System.”
“Frumious Bandersnatch,” Roland muttered.
“Route 22” (I nearly missed it, even going at a crawl) was a dirt trail which intersected the Skyway, then meandered off into the forest. I turned off and followed it, bumping over mound and rut, stone and fallen log, for what seemed like 320km with no bandersnatchi evident. Nothing was evident but a kind of hokey enchanted forest scene, as in the animated epics you see in museum mopix programs. Except of course there was nothing ersatz about it; this was the real, otherworldly thing. Out there was the demesne of elves, dryads, unicorns, and nymphs—or their funny-looking alien counter-parts, and they’d be doubly eldritch for that.
We came upon it suddenly. It was a big, rambling three-story building slapped together out of immense logs and raw board lumber, roofed over with half a dozen gables, a spacious canopied porch going all the way around, lots of small windows on the upper floors, all of it anchored by four or five huge stone chimneys coughing thin black smoke. There was a big parking lot hacked out of the forest on three sides, crammed with unusual off-road vehicles.
All in all, it had a great deal of charm. Right then, though, a holey tent with no ground cloth would’ve looked like home. Smells of grilled food were in the air—I had been about to check instruments for air content and quality when I saw two husky fellows reel bare-headed out the front door and stagger to their funny-looking land jumper. I let down the port and sniffed. Pleasant odors, some nameless, some familiar. I rather liked this place already.
“Anyone hungry?” I said.
“Hold out your arm,” Susan answered, unstrapping hurriedly, “and don’t bother with the salt.”
I was pretty tired of hotpak dinners and moldy stuff from the cooler, too.
We were all packed up and out of the rig in nothing flat. The bad roller looked pretty grim, afflicted with leprous white patches of crystallization. From here on in, every meter it rolled would be a risk. No matter; I was fairly sure there’d be a garage nearby. We’d put on the spare, and not give too much thought to how bad it was.
I stood at the edge of the parking lot, checking out escape routes. Habit. A second highway intersected Route 22 here, another logging road, or rabbit trail, I couldn’t tell which. Sam had a clear path to leave on short notice, if necessary, unless someone parked next to him blocking the road. From the looks of these vehicles, though, he’d have no trouble nudging them aside if he had to. You’d have to see Sam up alongside your average four-roller buggy to appreciate how big he is.
I opened a channel on Sam’s key, an oblong orange plastic box that was a radio, among other things. “Okay, Sam, I guess we’re staying here overnight. You be all right?”
“Sure, have fun. And call me every so often. Leave the beeper on.”
“Right. I’ll patch you through when we go in to eat and lift a few cold ones. We’ll have a lot to talk over.”
“Good. ”
I closed the key: Susan was beside me, clucking and shaking her head.
“Poor Sam,” she said.
“Eh?”
“He always has to stay behind, doesn’t he? It’s sad.”
I reopened the key. “Hear that, Sam? Suzie thinks you’ve got nothing to do all by your lonesome. She’s all worried.”
“Hm? Oh, hell, don’t worry about me.”
Susan reddened. “I didn’t … I meant…”
“I got a stack of crotch magazines I haven’t looked at yet, and let’s see, there’s that model ship I’m putting together… have to write thank-you notes for the shower gifts … should wash my hair… and I can always wank off. ”
Susan scrunched up her face in pain. “Oh, you two are terrible!” She ran off, laughing.
“Welcome to Talltree!”
“Thanks,” I told the big-boned, flannel-shirted man at the desk. “Good name.”
&
nbsp; His eyes twinkled. “We stayed up all night to think of it.”
I looked around the lobby. It was big, fully two stories high with an open-beam ceiling. The rugs were sewn animal hides; the furniture looked handmade. The appointments were rustic yet tasteful. “Quite a place you have here,” I said.
He swelled visibly, and his grin was broad. “Thank you! It’s my pride and joy. Built most of it with my bare hands.” He winked. “And a little help.”
“Well, you did a good job. I was expecting something more primitive on a planet like this.”
“This is one of the most sophisticated log structures on Talltree,” he informed me. He pointed upward. “I designed those cantilever trusses myself. You can do a lot with the local wood, though. Strong as iron-high tensile strength.”
“Interesting.”
The lobby was filled with people, young men mostly, joking, hooting, jostling each other. They drank from pewter mugs, sloshing beer onto the floorboards. The crowd appeared to be the overflow from the bar, called the Vorpal Blade.
“I hear a lot of English being spoken,” I said.
“Mostly English speakers here,” he said. “English, Canadian, Aussie, lots of Irish, a few other breeds. You American stock?”
“Yes, but it’s been a long time since I thought of myself as American.”
He nodded. “Time marches on. One day we’ll all be sabra.” He turned the registration book around. “Anyway, I do hope you enjoy your stay here at the Bandersnatch—if you’ll sign right here. You all together?”
I signed. “Yes. What’s the local industry around here?”
His eyes twinkled again. “Would it surprise you if I said logging?”
“Not a bit.” I looked back at the crowd of burly young men. Everyone seemed cast to type.
He gave me our room keys. They were made of hand-wrought iron. Only two; Winnie and the women in one room, the men in the other. It was my idea. Talltree was part of the Outworlds, and my leftover Consolidation Gold Certificates were still good, but I wanted to economize. I had only a limited amount of gold to trade. The nightly room rates were fairly cheap, though.
“Any way of getting a bite to eat?” I asked.
“It’s a little early for the dining room, sir. Our cook’s building a flume this week. But the Blade has a separate kitchen and plenty of food. Most of the guests take breakfast and lunch in there. However, you might find it a bit crowded now.”
“What’s this?” I asked above the noise. “A luncheon party?”
“No, today’s a holiday. Feast of St. Charles Dodgson.” He gave me a knowing wink. “The celebration got started early. Like three days ago.”
“Feast of St. Charles…” John began, then broke out laughing. We all did. On the multiple nationality-ethnic-religious worlds of the Skyway, nobody could agree on what holidays to celebrate. Back in Terran Maze, those officially proclaimed by the Colonial Authority were scoffingly ignored, except by bureaucrats, who took off work. A tradition had arisen to celebrate spurious ones, silly ones, just for fun. People need excuses to goof off, though the thinnest will serve.
“Soon as you freshen up,” the clerk continued, “you can join the festivities, if you—”
I was looking at the merrymakers, then turned back to the clerk. He was staring at the registry book, into which I had just signed my name.
He looked up at me. “Is that really your name?”
“The alias I use most.” When he didn’t laugh, I said, “Just kidding. Sure, it’s my name.”
“You’re Jake McGraw? The Jake McGraw?”
Again, my inexplicable fame had checked in before I had. “I’m the only one I know of.”
“You have an onboard computer named Sam?”
“Yup.”
“I see,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. He turned away, but kept eyeing me askance, as if he weren’t sure about something. That was his problem. But what he would finally believe might be mine.
3
OUR ROOMS ON the second floor were primitive, but again there was antique charm in the rough wall paneling, the quaint lamps, the handmade furniture-beds, nightlamps, armoires, and chairs. The beds were especially nice, with simple floral carvings on the headboards. However, Susan didn’t like hers.
“Lumpy as hell,” she griped, “and the sheets are gray.”
“Be patient, Princess,” Roland teased. “We’ll get the pea out from under the mattress later.”
“Everyone I know is a comedian. Let’s go eat.”
They all went downstairs. There was a mirror behind the door to the room, and I paused to look myself over. I was wearing what is for me formal dress: my maroon starrigger’s Jacket with its jazzy piping, rakish cut, and little pockets with rippers all over the place. Usually, my attire is medium-slovenly, but all my casual clothes had been left behind on various planets. This jacket and the fatigue pants were about all I had left, except for shorts and things I wear when lounging about the rig. The jacket made me feel faintly ridiculous. I looked like a goddamn space cadet.
I went down the narrow stairs to the lobby, where the gang wax waiting for me. We started for the Vorpal Blade. There were even more people in the lobby now, trying vainly to get in. Just as we hit the edge of the crowd, the desk clerk intercepted us.
“We have a table for you and your party, Mr. McGraw. If you’ll follow me.”
“A table?” I said incredulously. “In there?”
“Yes, sir, right this way.”
I turned to my companions, but they weren’t at all surprised. So we followed him as he made a swath for us through the clot of people pressing around the entrance to the bar. He seemed to know just about everyone he either politely brushed by or summarily shoved out of the way, none too gently, when the parties concerned weren’t immediately cooperative. His size, even when compared to these beefy loggers, gave him all the authority he needed, if he didn’t own the place to boot.
The Vorpal Blade was dark, smoky, and noisy, redolent of spilled beer and cooking grease. A huge bar took up one side of the room. The walls were of barkless log, milled flat on the inside, and the ceiling joists were squared-off and planed. There were plenty of tables and chairs, but too many damn people—loggers mostly. The décor was apropos—walls hung with odd varieties of saws, axes, cutting tools of every sort, pairs of spiked climbing boots, ropes, and such. It was a sweaty, muscular, pewter-and-leather kind of place, awash with good fellowship and camaraderie. Everybody was singing, including the bartenders, and they were busy.
The clerk actually had a table for us, with room for all against the far wall near the bar and directly athwart a huge stone fireplace. We all sat, and I thanked the clerk. I asked him his name, silently wondering if I should tip him. I reached into my pocket.
“Zack Moore, sir. And save the gratis for the help. Enjoy.”
“Thank you, Zack.”
On his way out he shooed a buxom barmaid over to us, then waved and left.
“Hello, there! What’re you people having today?”
The others started ordering. I was noticing the alien graii of the wood. It was almost geometrical, oddly shot through with greens and purples, but the overall color was a dark brown. Didn’t look as though the wood had been stained. I knocked a knuckle against the wall. It felt like iron. I turned around sat back, and listened to the group sing-along. Odd lyrics. A group at a table near the bar sang the verses, the rest of th crowd taking up the chorus, which went something like:
A lumberjack can’t take a wife.
Such a terribly lonely life!
For a logger’s best friend is a tree
It’s strange, I know, but it’s all right by me!
Each verse grew progressively more absurd and off-color Transvestism and other variations were broadly hinted at. Individual poetasters stood up and sang their own verses, each more outrageous than the last. The crowd howled. After the last verse, they’d sing it all over again, adding more verses. I asked the barmaid where
the song had come from. She didn’t know, but said in so many words that it was most likely traditional. She’d been hearing it ever since she came to Talltree as a child (last Tuesday, from the looks of her—but, hell, maybe I’m just getting old).
We all listened while waiting for our order to come. By the time the beer arrived, Suzie and John were convulsed, with Darla and Roland smiling, a little unsure. Carl loved it, too. Winnie and Lori were trying to talk above the din.
The beer was Inglo style, dark, bitter, served at room temperature, but the high alcohol content more than made up for It. I drained my pewter mug in three gulps and refilled it from the glazed crockery pitcher.
Only when the food came did I think about Winnie. She certainly couldn’t eat this stuff-braised pork ribs, roast game hen, fried potatoes and vegetables, sliced warm bread with mounds of fresh butter. The barmaid told us that almost nothing on the planet was edible without extensive processing. All the fare before us had been raised on local farms.
Lori came over and shouted in my ear. “Winnie wants to go outside. Says she can find something to eat.”
“Here?” I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. “Well, okay, but I should go with you.”
“We’ll be fine. You go ahead and eat, I’m not very hungry.”
“How’s your head? Still feeling woozy?”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
“Okay, but be careful.” I was reluctant to let them go, and briefly considered asking Roland to tail them and keep an eye on them, but I knew Lori was fiercely independent for her age, and more and more I had come to consider Winnie the equal of an adult human in intelligence and maturity—maybe even more than equal. Lori could do very well on her own; however, I still wanted her to be checked over by a competent medic, if one could be found. That was a minor problem. The big one was what the hell to do with her. With the Laputa either lost or pirated, she had no place to go except to her former foster parents’ home on a planet named Schlagwasser, which lay on Winnie’s Itinerary. Unfortunately, Lori had not been on good terms with her foster parents, and had run away.
But it wasn’t certain that the Laputa had been lost. Good for Lori … maybe … but not good for me. At least three groups of people and beings aboard that strange ship-animal wanted my blood. In regard to the alien party, that could be taken quite literally. The Reticulans practiced ritual hunting in bands known as Snatchgangs, and dispatched their captured quarry by ceremonial vivisection. If Corey Wilkes, their human ally, had survived, he’d still be teamed with the Rikkis to get the Roadmap from me. And then there was the Laputa’s master, Captain Pendergast, who had been in cahoots with Wilkes and Darla’s father, the late Dr. Van Wyck Vance, in a scheme to run antigeronic drugs into the Outworlds. To those who wanted to keep these Consolidated Outworlds isolated from Terran Maze and independent of the Authority, the Roadmap represented a threat. Doubtless Pendergast viewed it as such, but he might yet be unaware of Wilkes’ betrayal; Wilkes wanted the map to give to the Authority in return for, among other things, amnesty for his part in the drug operation. Pendergast was not alone in his desire for a free Outworlds. He most likely shared it with every inhabitant of this maze. After all, everyone here had taken a desperate gamble in shooting a potluck portal to get here. There was a way back to Terran Maze by Skyway. Problem was, it went through Reticulan Maze, where few humans, or any rational human who wanted to keep his skin intact, dared to go. But it was a fair possibility that a bold or foolish few had braved the trip back and had lived to tell of what was on the other side of the potluck portal on Seven Suns Interchange, though that might be only one of several portals leading into the Outworlds.
Red Limit Freeway Page 2
