The Keith Laumer MEGAPACK®

by Keith Laumer

  I wondered whose friends we had met this time.

  Two men climbed out, the pistols in sight, and came up to the hack. The first one was a heavy-set Slavic type zipped into a tight G. I. weather suit. He motioned. I opened up and got out, not making any sudden movements. Stenn followed. A cold wind was whipping along the concourse, blowing a fine misty rain hard against my cheek. The polyarcs cast black shadows on gray faces.

  The smaller man moved over to Stenn and crowded him back against the hack. The Slav motioned again, and I moved over by the T-Bird. He fished my wallet out and put it in his pocket without looking at it. I heard the other man say something to Stenn, and then the sound of a blow. I turned my head slowly, so as not to excite my watchdog. Stenn was picking himself up. He started going through his pockets, showing everything to the man with the gun, then dropping it on the ground. The wind blew cards and papers along until they soaked up enough water to stick. Stenn carried a lot of paper.

  * * * *

  The gunny said something and Stenn started pulling off his coat. He turned it inside out, and held it out. The gunny shook his head, and motioned to my Slav. He looked at me, and I tried to read his mind. I moved across toward the hack. I must have guessed right because he didn’t shoot me. The Slav pocketed his gun and took the coat. Methodically, he tore the lining out, found nothing, dropped the ripped garment and kicked it aside. I shifted position, and the Slav turned and backhanded me up against the hack.

  “Lay off him, Heavy,” the other hood said. “Maxy didn’t say nothing about this mug. He’s just a Escort.”

  Heavy started to get his gun out again. I had an idea he was thinking about using it. Maybe that’s why I did what I did. As his hand dipped into his pocket, I lunged, wrapped an arm around him and yanked out my own artillery. I held onto a handful of the weather suit and dug the pistol in hard. He stood frozen. Heavy wasn’t as dumb as he looked.

  His partner had backed a step, the pistol in his hand covering all of us.

  “Drop it, Slim,” I said. “No hard feelings, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Stenn stood absolutely motionless. He was still wearing his mild expression.

  “Not a chance, mug,” the gunny said softly. No one moved.

  “Even if you’re ready to gun your way through your pal, I can’t miss. Better settle for a draw.”

  “Maxy don’t like draws, mister.”

  “Stenn,” I said. “Get in the T-Bird. Head back the way we came, and don’t slow down to read any billboards.”

  Stenn didn’t move.

  * * * *

  “Get going,” I said. “Slim won’t shoot.”

  “I employed you,” Stenn said, “to take care of the heroics.”

  “If you’ve got any better ideas it’s time to speak up, Stenn. This is your only out, the way I see it.”

  Stenn looked at the man with the gun.

  “You referred to someone named ‘Maxy.’ Would that by any chance be Mr. Max Arena?”

  Slim looked at him and thought about it.

  “Could be,” he said.

  Stenn came slowly over to the Slav. Standing well out of the line of fire, he carefully put a hand in the loose pocket of the weather suit and brought out the pistol. I saw Slim’s eyes tighten. He was having to make some tough decisions in a hurry.

  Stenn moved offside, pistol in hand.

  “Move away from him, Smith,” he said.

  I didn’t know what he had in mind, but it didn’t seem like the time to argue. I moved back.

  “Drop your gun,” he said.

  I risked a glance at his mild expression.

  “Are you nuts?”

  “I came here to see Mr. Arena,” he said. “This seems an excellent opportunity.”

  “Does it? I—”

  “Drop it now, Smith. I won’t warn you again.”

  I dropped it.

  Slim swiveled on Stenn. He was still in an awkward spot.

  “I want you to take me to Mr. Arena,” Stenn said. “I have a proposition to put before him.” He lowered the gun and handed it to Heavy.

  It seemed like a long time until Slim lowered his gun.

  “Heavy, put him in the back seat.” He motioned me ahead, watched me as he climbed in the T-Bird.

  “Nice friends you got, mug,” he said. The T-Bird started up, backed, and roared off toward the city. I stood under the polyarcs and watched the tail glare out of sight.

  Max Arena was the man I had come to the city to find.

  III

  Old number 16 was canted against the deflector rail, one side shredded into curled strips of crumpled metal. I looked closer. Under the flimsy fairings, gray armor showed. Maybe there was more to Haug’s best hack than met the eye. I climbed in and kicked over the starter. The turbos sounded as good as ever. I eased the gyros in; she backed off the rail with a screech of ripped metal.

  I had lost my customer, but I still had wheels.

  The smart thing to do now would be to head back out the turnpike to Haug’s lot, turn in my badge and keep moving, south. I could give up while I was still alive. All I had to do was accept the situation.

  I had a wide choice. I could sign on with the New Confeds, or the Free Texans, or any one of the other splinter republics trying to set up shop in the power vacuum. I might try to get in to one of the Enclaves and convince its Baron he needed another trained bodyguard. Or I could take a post with one of the king-pins in the city.

  As a last resort I could go back and find a spot in the Naples organization. I happened to know they had a vacancy.

  I was just running through mental exercises to hear myself think. I couldn’t settle for the kind of world I had found when I touched planet three months back, after eight years in deep space with Hayle’s squadron. When the Interim Administration shot him for treason, I burned my uniform and disappeared. My years in the Service had given me a tough hide and a knack for staying alive; my worldly assets consisted of the clothes I stood in, my service pistol and a few souvenirs of my travels. For two months I had been scraping along on the cash I had in my pocket, buying drinks for drifters in cheap bars, looking for a hint, any lead at all, that would give me a chance to do what had to be done. Max Arena was the lead. Maybe a dud lead—but I had to find out.

  The city lights loomed just a few miles away. I was wasting time sitting here; I steered the hack out into the highway and headed for them.

  * * * *

  Apparently Lefty’s influence didn’t extend far beyond the South Radial. The two roadblocks I passed in the next five miles took my money, accepted my story that I was on my way to pick up a fare, said to say hello to Haug and passed me on my way.

  Haug’s sour yellow color scheme seemed to carry some weight with the town Organizations, too. I was well into the city, cruising along the third level Crossover, before I had any trouble. I was doing about fifty, watching where I was going and looking for the Manhattan Intermix, when a battered Gyrob four-seater trundled out across the fairway and stopped. I swerved and jumped lanes; the Gyrob backed, blocking me. I kicked my safety frame down and floor-boarded the hack, steering straight for him. At the last instant he tried to pull out of the way.

  He was too late.

  I clipped him across his aft quarter, and caught a glimpse of the underside of the car as it stood on its nose, slammed through the deflector and over the side. Old 16 bucked and I got a good crack across the jaw from the ill-fitting frame, and then I was screeching through the Intermix and out onto the Manhattan Third level.

  Up ahead, the glare panels at the top of the Blue Tower reared up half a mile into the wet night sky. It wasn’t a hard address to find. Getting inside would be another matter.

  I pulled up a hundred yards from the dark cave they used to call the limousine entrance and looked the situation over. The level was deserted—like the whole city seemed, from the street. But there were lights in the windows, level after level of them stretching up and away as far as you could see. There
were plenty of people in the city—about ten million, even after the riots and the Food Scare and the collapse of legal government. The automated city supply system had gone on working, and the Kingpins, the big time criminals, had stepped in and set things up to suit their tastes. Life went on—but not out in the open. Not after dark.

  I knew almost nothing about Arena. Judging from his employees, he was Kingpin of a prosperous outfit. The T-Bird was an expensive late model, and the two thugs handled themselves like high-priced talent. I couldn’t expect to walk into his HQ without jumping a few hurdles. Maybe I should have invited myself along with Stenn and his new friends. On the other hand, there were advantages to arriving unannounced.

  It was a temptation to drive in, with the hack’s armor between me and any little surprises that might be waiting, but I liked the idea of staging a surprise of my own. I eased into drive and moved along to a parking ramp, swung around and down and stopped in the shadow of the retaining wall.

  I set the brake and took a good look around. There was nothing in sight. Arena might have a power cannon trained on me from his bedroom window, for all I knew, but I had to get a toe into the water sometime. I shut down the turbo, and in the silence popped the lid and stepped out. The rain had stopped, and the moon showed as a bright spot on the high mist. I felt hungry and a little bit unreal, as though this were happening to somebody else.

  * * * *

  I moved over to the side of the parking slab, clambered over the deflector rail and studied the shadows under the third level roadway. I could barely make out the catwalks and service ways. I was wondering whether to pull off my hard-soled shoes for the climb when I heard footsteps, close. I gauged the distance to the hack, and saw I couldn’t make it. I got back over the rail and waited.

  He came into sight, rangy, shock-haired and preternaturally thin in tight traditional dress.

  When he got close I saw that he was young, in his early twenties at most. He would be carrying a knife.

  “Hey, Mister,” he whined. “Got a cigarette?”

  “Sure, young fellow,” I said, sounding a little nervous. I threw in a shaky laugh to help build the picture. I took a cigarette from a pack, put the pack back in my pocket, held the weed out. He strutted up to me, reached out and flipped the cigarette from my fingers. I edged back and used the laugh again.

  “Hey, he liked that,” the punk whined. “He thinks that’s funny. He got a sense of humor.”

  “Heh, heh,” I said. “Just out getting a little air.”

  “Gimme another cigarette, funny man.”

  I took the pack out, watching. I got out a cigarette and held it gingerly, arm bent. As he reached for it, I drew back. He snatched for it. That put him in position.

  I dropped the pack, clenched my two hands together, ducked down and brought them up hard under his chin. He backflipped, rolled over and started crawling.

  I let him go.

  I went over the rail without stopping to think it over and crossed the girder to the catwalk that ran under the boulevard above. I groped my way along to where the service way branched off for the Blue Tower, then stopped and looked up. A strip of luminous sky showed between the third level and the facade of the building. Anybody watching from the right spot would see me cross, walking on the narrow footway. It was a chance I’d have to take. I started to move out, and heard running feet. I froze.

  The feet slid to a stop on the level above, a few yards away.

  “What’s up, Crackers?” somebody growled.

  “The mark sapped me down.”

  * * * *

  That was interesting. I had been spotted and the punk had been sent to welcome me. Now I knew where I stood. The opposition had made their first mistake.

  “He was starting to cross under when I spot him,” Crackers went on, breathing heavily. “He saps me and I see I can’t handle him and I go for help.”

  Someone answered in a guttural whisper. Crackers lowered his voice. It wouldn’t take long now for reinforcements to arrive and flush me out. I edged farther and chanced a look. I saw two heads outlined above. They didn’t seem to be looking my way, so I started across, walking silently toward a narrow loading platform with a wide door opening from it.

  Below me, a lone light reflected from the wet pavement of the second level, fifty feet down; the blank wall of the Blue Tower dropped past it sheer to the glistening gutters at ground level. Then I was on the platform and trying the door.

  It didn’t open.

  It was what I should have expected. Standing in the full light from the glare panel above the entry, I felt as exposed as a fan-dancer’s navel. There was no time to consider alternatives. I grabbed my power pistol, flipped it to beam fire and stood aside with an arm across my face. I gave the latch a blast, then kicked the door hard. It was solid as a rock. Behind and above me, I heard Crackers yell.

  I beamed the lock again, tiny droplets of molten metal spattering like needles against my face and hand. The door held.

  “Drop it and lift ’em, mug,” a deep voice yelled. I twisted to look up at the silhouettes against the deflector rail. I recognized the Slavic face of the man called Heavy. So he could talk after all.

  “You’re under my iron, mug,” he called. “Freeze or I’ll burn you.”

  I believed him, but I had set something in motion that couldn’t stop now. There was nothing to go back to; the only direction for me was on the way I was headed—deeper into trouble. I was tired of being the mouse in a cat’s game. I had taken the initiative and I was keeping it.

  I turned, set the power pistol at full aperture, and poured it to the armored door. Searing heat reflected from the barrier, smoke boiled, metal melted and ran. Through the stink of burning steel, I smelled scorched hair—and felt heat rake the back of my neck and hands. Heavy was beaming me at wide aperture, but the range was just too far for a fast kill. The door sagged and fell in. I jumped through the glowing opening, hit the floor and rolled to damp out my smouldering coat.

  * * * *

  I got to my feet. There was no time now to stop and feel the pain of my burns. They would expect me to go up—so I would go down. The Blue Tower covered four city blocks and was four hundred stories high. There was plenty of room in it for a man to lose himself.

  I ran along the corridor, found a continuous service belt and hopped on, lay flat, rode it through the slot. I came out into the light of the service corridor below, my gun ready, then down and around again. I saw no one.

  It took ten minutes to cover the eighteen floors down to the sub-basement. I rolled off the belt and looked around.

  The whole space was packed with automatics; the Blue Tower was a self-sufficient city in itself. I recognized generators, heat pumps, air plants. None of them were operating. The city services were all still functioning, apparently. What it would be like in another ten or twenty years of anarchy was anybody’s guess. But when the city systems failed the Blue Tower could go on on its own.

  Glare panels lit the aisles dimly. I prowled along looking for an elevator bank. The first one I found indicated the car at the hundred-eightieth floor. I went on, found another indicating the twentieth. While I watched, the indicator moved, started down. I was getting ready to duck when it stopped at the fifth. I waited; it didn’t move.

  I went around to the side of the bank, found the master switch. I went back, punched for the car. When the door whooshed open, I threw the switch.

  I had to work fast now. I stepped into the dark car, reached up and slid open the access panel in the top, then jumped, caught the edge and pulled myself up. The glare panels inside the shaft showed me the pony power pack on top of the car, used by repairmen and inspectors when the main power was off. I lit a per-match to read the fine print on the panel. I was in luck. It was a through car to the four-hundredth. I pushed a couple of buttons, and the car started up. I lay flat behind the machinery.

  As the car passed the third floor feet came into view; two men stood beyond the transparen
t door, guns in their hands, watching the car come up. They didn’t see me. One of them thumbed the button frantically. The car kept going.

  There were men at almost every floor now. I went on up, passed the hundredth floor, the one-fiftieth, and kept going. I began to feel almost safe—for the moment.

  I was gambling now on what little I knew of the Blue Tower from the old days when all the biggest names congregated there. The top floor was a lavish apartment that had been occupied by a retired fleet admiral, a Vice-President and a uranium millionaire, in turn. If I knew anything about Kingpins, that’s where Max Arena would hang his hat.

  The elevator was slow. Lying there I had time to start thinking about my burned hide. My scalp was hit worst, and then my hands; and my shoulders were sticking to the charred coat. I had been travelling on adrenalin since Heavy had beamed me, and now the reaction was starting to hit.

  It would have to wait; I had work to do.

  Just below the three hundred and ninety-eighth floor I punched the button and the car stopped. I stood up, feeling dizzy. I grabbed for the rungs on the wall, hung on. The wall of the shaft seemed to sway…back….

  Sure, I told myself. The top of the building sways fifteen feet in a high wind. Why shouldn’t I feel it? I dismissed the thought that it was dead calm outside now, and started up the ladder.

  It was a hard climb. I hung on tight, and concentrated on moving one hand at a time. The collar of my coat rasped my raw neck. I passed up the 398th and 9th—and rammed my head smack against a dead end. No service entry to the penthouse. I backed down to the 399th.

  I found the lever and eased the door open, then waited, gun in hand. Nothing happened. I couldn’t wait any longer. I pushed the door wide, stepped off into the hall. Still nobody in sight, but I could hear voices. To my left a discreet stair carpeted in violet velvet eased up in a gentle curve. I didn’t hesitate; I went up.