Dayworld

by Philip J. Farmer

  Dunski made a strangled noise and turned away. He walked to the sofa, sat down, stared at Gaunt, who was talking and glancing back at him, got up, and walked to the kitchen. He poured out coffee with a shaking hand, sipped it, put the cup down, and walked to the big window. His grief was there but numbed. He was as sluggish as a glacier from toe to scalp.

  Staring through the sheers at the street scene, he muttered, "I can't take much more of this."

  Gaunt coughed behind him. He said, "The woman ... she was your wife?"

  Dunski kept looking through the windows as. he said, "In a way."

  The bright sunshine was gone. The lighter heralds of the advancing storm had colored the sky gray.

  "I'm very sorry," Gaunt said. "But ..

  "There's always a but, isn't there?"

  Gaunt coughed again. "This time, there is. We have to get to Castor fast. The organics may not have been too upset by what Castor did Tuesday, but they know now what he did on Wednesday and will probably do today. They'll launch an allout search."

  Dunski said, "Rupert!"

  "What?"

  "My wife. She's in grave danger."

  "No more than you," Gaunt said. "He's tried once to kill you, and he'll keep trying until you're dead or he's dead."

  Dunski turned to face Gaunt. The man looked pale.

  "Rupert has to be protected."

  "I've already sent two to guard her," Gaunt said. "They'll tell her what's happened." He shook his head. "This is getting worse and worse."

  "I don't know what to do. There's no sense in just roaming around hoping I'll see Castor."

  "I know that," Gaunt said. "I think you should go home with Rupert and wait there. Castor may try to get to you there. The guards will be out of sight but watching."

  "We'll be decoys?"

  "A waiting game. Meanwhile, every immer in Manhattan and many in the neighboring cities will be here looking for Castor."

  "I doubt that Castor would try to get into my apartment. There are too many other people there."

  Gaunt bit his lip and said, "Yes, I know." Evidently, he did not approve of communal marriages.

  Gaunt had said nothing about Tingle's dummy being disturbed, and, if he had heard anything, he would not have kept quiet about it. Castor could have removed the dummies of Caird and Tingle and so revealed to the organics that they were daybreakers. He had not done so because he wanted to kill Caird. If the organics got hold of him first, they would prevent Castor from getting his revenge and from ridding the universe of Castor's Satan.

  Duriski said, "I think I'm going into shock."

  "You look like it," Gaunt said. "Follow me." They went into the living room. Dunski sat down. Gaunt took a syringe from his bag and picked up the bottle of alcohol. "Lift your arm."

  Dunski did so, saying, "What's that for?"

  "It'll make you feel better for a while. The drug doesn't get rid of the shock; it just delays it."

  The syringe shot a bluish liquid into Dunski's arm. He felt a warmth and a rush of blood. His heart pounded; the numbness evaporated. He could almost see it steaming off.

  Gaunt said, "Feel better now?"

  "Much better. I'm glad it wasn't a sedative. J need to be on my toes."

  "It perks you up for a while," Gaunt said. "But you have to pay the price later."

  Dunski thought, There's always a price. What's the price for being an immer? Why do I ask that, stupid? I'm paying it now and am a long way off from paying all of the debt.

  He rose, started toward the door again, stopped, gestured at the cylinder, and said, "Does she ...

  "Yes, she does," Gaunt said. "I don't know about you, Dunski. You seem to have trouble accepting the inevitable. I can understand how you must feel, I think I can, anyway, but you're not showing immer quality."

  "It just doesn't seem right," Dunski murmured.

  "The right way is the best way. Go on now. Your wife will be waiting for you."

  Dunski opened the door and turned for a last look. Gaunt was staring hard at him. The man's will was as hard as the bodies in the cylinders. He closed the door and went down the hall to the door. Opening it, he was wetted by the rain. He stepped back in and took from the bag a yellow roll no longer or thinner than his index finger. Holding a tab at its one end between two fingers, he snapped it. The roll became a raincoat with attached hood, electric sparks crackling from its hem.

  Clad in the raincoat, he stepped out into the fierce downpour. The street was deserted except for a bicyclist pedaling madly, bent over, the wheels splashing water. From far off, thunder rumbled, and lightning coursed through the dark western mass like the shining arteries of a god.

  He did not have to go home at once. Rupert should be safe. Gaunt would not like his orders disobeyed, but what could he do? Not much if he, Jim Dunski, did nothing but hang around for a while here and then take his time going home. If he did what was so raging, though so vague, in his mind, he would suffer severe punishment. Perhaps, Gaunt might arrange an accident for him and so dispose of him. That, however, would cause a chain of problems for the immers. If Dunski disappeared or was killed, then Caird, Tingle, Repp, Ohm, Zurvan, and Isharashvili would also disappear.

  The seven roles had put him in danger. On the other hand, they were insurance of a sort against the immers' turning against him. If the situation became desperate, though, the immers could cancel his policy and take their chances.

  Chapter 18

  Jim Dunski stood for a while and wondered what he would do, what he should do, when the second of decision came. He could walk away and leave Snick to die. Or he could try to rescue her. Logic, self-survival, and common sense urged him to leave here as quickly as possible. His horror at the concept of murder and his vision of Snick being murdered-no concept- this, but a vividly red image-rooted him.

  Do the ends justify the means? That was an ancient question that had only one answer if you had a heart.

  But if he did what was right, then he was wrong.

  "I should have thought of this when I swore utter loyalty forever," he muttered. A little later, he said, "But it's not like I'm turning them in, exposing them. If I just get her away, somehow, and hide her, all of us immers will still be safe."

  At that moment, he knew that he was not going to let Gaunt kill her. Not if he could help it. He did have a plan to do this, though it was wild and could easily go awry. Read for awry, his death.

  He looked up and down the street. The two whom Gaunt had said would be watching him were not in sight. No doubt, they could see him. If Castor appeared, they would close in and kill him, though they might be too late to save their fellow immer, himself. For all he knew, Gaunt had decided that he should be the sacrificial victim, the throwaway decoy.

  No. Gaunt would not wish Dunski to die in these circumstances. He would want a well-planned coverup before that happened.

  The rain fell heavily as he walked. Behind him, thunder and lightning came nearer as if they were stalking him. He stopped at the corner of Jones and Seventh and looked up and down the broad avenue. There were no pedestrians or bicyclers, and the car traffic was much lighter than usual. Two taxis, a government limousine, and an organic patrol car. The latter was cruising at five miles an hour, its headlights on, its two occupants rain-blurry behind the windshield. They did not seem to have looked at the lone man in the yellow hood and coat.

  The storm was what Gaunt should have asked for. It was blocking the sky-eyes and removing possible witnesses from the streets. Even people looking out their windows would be half-blinded.

  Presently, a white van with black zebra stripes appeared north on Seventh, two blocks away. There were three thousand such in Manhattan, all vehicles of the State Cleaning Corps of all days. It slowed at the light and eased through on the yellow. Dunski was not surprised when it turned onto Jones Street. The SCC van could stop at the apartment, its corpspersons could enter the building and come out with a large package or a cart filled with something concealed by a tarpa
ulin, and no one would be suspicious. Any watcher might commend the Corps for doing its duty in such bad weather.

  He turned to watch the van do just what he thought it would. Two men in the uniform of Thursday's SCC, green trousers with belibottom cuffs and loose scarlet coats, got out of the van. One opened the rear doors; the other reached in and pulled out a folding cart. They stood before the door a few seconds, waiting for Gaunt to identify them on the strip. As soon as they had disappeared into the building, Dunski walked slowly down the long block toward the van. i1e looked across the street at the building opposite. It was one of the modern boat-shaped structures with a large yard with many trees and bushes. He spotted a dark figure standing in a doorway under the overhang of the building. That must be one of his guards.

  The watcher was probably wondering why he had not started for home. He might be asking questions of Gaunt now via radio. And where was the other guard? If he was in the bushes or behind a tree, he was well hidden.

  Other than the man in the doorway, the only person visible was a bicyclist who had just turned off West Fourth onto Jones Street. Through the driving rain, Dunski could see a figure in a dark raincoat and wide-brimmed rainhat, bent over, his face hidden, his legs moving hard as he drove the bicycle through the now inch-deep water. Dunski slowed even more. He should have waited a little longer. The two pseudo-SCC-men would take about three minutes to go inside, load Snick into the unfolded cart, get back to the van, and load her in. Unless Gaunt delayed them with more instructions.

  Dunski did not want to arrive too soon. He should get to the van just after the two had stored their hard burden inside it. Before they closed and locked the door.

  "I'm doing it," he thought. "I'm crazy, but I'm doing it." He stopped and waited. He cursed. It wouldn't work. The man in the doorway of the building across the street would radio Gaunt, and Gaunt would come out with the two men to find out what was happening. Or he might have them stay inside until he found out why Dunski was loitering there. Or he might send one man out to do that.

  "I'll improvise," he muttered.

  The door to the building swung open. One of the men backed out, pulling on the now-unfolded cart. Dunski waited until both were out, the cart between them. He started walk- ing. The man in the doorway of the building across the street had stepped out into driving rain. He hesitated as if he were wondering what he should do. Then he broke into a run on the sidewalk through the yard, and he began shouting.

  At the same time, another man lunged out from a cluster of bushes. He was carrying something dark in his right hand. A gun. By then the other immer had his gun out. Dunski swore again. He did not want to murder while trying to prevent a murder.

  The two SCC-men did not seem to hear the shouts. They had retracted the cart wheels and lifted it between them and were shoving it into the van. Dunski started running toward them. He reached into the shoulderbag, gripped the butt of the gun, and snatched it out. He would hold the two SCC-men with the gun. He would threaten to shoot them if the two guards did not throw down their weapons and walk off. He hoped that his bluff would not be called. Or was it a bluff? Not until the moment of action came would he know.

  By then, the shouting man was near enough so that the SCCs could hear him against the west wind and the quickly descending thunder and lightning. They turned toward him. At the same time, the bicyclist straightened up, and white teeth flashed in a grin or a snarl. His right hand came up from his belt holding a gun. It rose swiftly, steadied, and man-made lightning spat whitely from him to the nearest armed man. The distance was about sixty feet, which meant that the ray had lost much of its deadliness. The charging man, however, fell on his face and slid on the rain-slicked pavement for a few feet. His weapon rang as it struck and bounced away from him. He did not try to get up; he lay quivering on the street.

  The other armed immer shot once and missed, the white beam passing just behind the bicyclist's back. Laughing so loudly that he could be heard above the crashing of the storm, the bicyclist shot again. The beam half-cut the leg off the immer just above the knee.

  Dunski screamed, "Castor!"

  The two SCCs ran to the front of the van, leaving the back doors open. Gaunt stepped out of the building door, his weapon in his hand. He was shielded from Castor's view, but he also could not see Castor. Then Castor had sped beyond the van. Dunski, Gaunt, and Castor shot simultaneously. Because Castor had breaked his vehicle somewhat, the beams aimed at him crossed and neutralized each other. The slowing down and slight skidding spoiled Castor's aim. Dunski threw himself to one side, pressing the firing button again as he fell. The beam struck the sidewalk, hissing.

  Castor was crazy, but he was cool. Seeing Dunski fall and thus knowing that he would be out of action for several seconds, he aimed at Gaunt. Their beams struck and canceled each other. Castor did not make the mistake of Gaunt, who had released his button, and then pressed it again. Castor kept the beam on, though that drained the weapon's powerpak quickly. His beam, unhindered, burned through Gaunt's belly. Gaunt dropped his gun, clutched his belly and fell backward, his head striking the side of the building.

  By then Dunski had rolled twice and come up on his stomach, elbows on the pavement, both hands clutching the gun. He fired. Lightning, Nature's, not man's, smashed into the street near the yard of the building across the street. Another bolt split an oak tree in half.

  Both SCC-men had jumped out of the van with guns. Dunski saw all this just before the flash dazzled him and the explosion of electricity deafened him. For a moment, he thought that he was struck. The weapon play had not scared him because it had taken place so swiftly. The lightning stroke terrified him, boiling out in him all the fear and helplessness that human beings have felt since they were cavemen and the wrath of the gods was loosed in the skies.

  During Dunski's brief paralysis, Castor scrambled up from the pavement where he had fallen off his bicycle. He got down on his hands and knees again and groped for his gun. The SCC-man nearest him seemed to be stunned. He did not shoot while Castor was a helpless target. The other man ran around the van after crouching for a moment after the bolt had slammed into the street. Castor found the gun and rolled away as the beams from the two men steamed the water near him. Dunski got to his feet and ran toward the van. Castor, rolling, managed to beam steadily toward the SCC-men. It cut through the plastic of the van body at the right rear corner and across the man closest to him. The man cried out and fell.

  The other man also held his firing button, but, a third time, the two beams crossed. Now Castor had stopped rolling, and his beam slid to one side, jerked back and caught his enemy in the eyes. Screaming, the man dropped his weapon, clutched his eyes and staggered off.

  Yelling exultantly, Castor, still on the ground, aimed his weapon at the running Dunski. Dunski shot; his beam struck close to Castor's shoulder. Castor screamed with fury because the powerpak in his weapon was empty. He bounded upward as if off a trampoline, came down running, and headed for the van. Dunski passed the stumbling blind man between him and the building. He snapped a shot over the man's shoulder but only cut off the lower corner of the right back door of the van. By then, Castor was hidden behind the van.

  His breath grating, Dunski ran at an angle, knowing that he would have to get into the street before Castor picked up the weapon dropped by the first SCC-man he had shot. He got to the corner of the van just as Castor was rising after reaching out from the protection of the rear wheel to grab the gun. Dunski smashed into him and knocked him backward, though he fell on top of him.

  Castor's breath went out of him in a big oof. Lightning struck somewhere down the street. Castor grabbed Dunski's wrist and turned it savagely. The gun fell from Dunski's hand, but he did not try to regain it. Shouting, he grabbed Castor's throat. Castor screamed, "Now I have you in my power! God will not be denied!"

  Though he was choking, Castor's hands closed around Dunski's throat. Dunski let Castor loose and tore himself away. He got to his feet before Cast
or did, and he charged, knocking him down again. He picked Castor up by the neck and shook him, then ran him against the side of the van. Castor slumped. Dunski held him up with one hand and slammed the base of the palm of his left hand again and again on Castor's chin. He kept driving the back of Castor's head against the van until his arm was too weary to lift.

  Finally, gasping as if all air had suddenly been taken from the face of Earth, he dropped Castor onto the pavement.

  God was dead.

  Dunski shook uncontrollably. He would have liked to lie down on the street and let the rain and lightning do what they would with him. It seemed to be the best bed in the world, the most desirable of all desires and an utter necessity. But . there was always a but ... he could not do what he most wanted to do.

  People were coming from the building near him and from across the street, despite the almost solid rain and the lightning still smashing nearby. Some would have called the organics. He had to get away. Now.

  He staggered around the van, stopped halfway to the driver's seat, turned, staggered back to his gun, picked it up, started away, turned again, and picked up his shoulderbag, which had dropped offjust before he had charged around the corner of the van into Castor. After picking up the gun dropped by the SCC-man, he set its charge to BURN and fried the skin bearing his fingermarks on Castor's neck. He closed the back doors of the van, got wearily into the front seat, breathing as if a knife were cutting his throat, and drove off.

  No one tried to stop him.

  Though he wanted to turn left onto West Fourth so that the witnesses would tell the orgaсics that he had gone that way, he did not. Sheridan Square was too close in that direction. There were usually some organics there. He drove to the right from Jones Street, passed Cornelia, and went over the bridge above the Kropotkin Canal. He had to get out of the van very quickly, but he also had to hide Snick someplace. If he did one, he could not do the other.