Force corps ins heaven yours I go hour four fathers found dead a pond discon tune enter noon Asian. . . .
Foreskin and seven beers ago our forefingers foundered upon this condiment a ruination. . . .
Four sore and sullen years to go. . . .
The rosy glow faded, and conscious thought returned. With it came the world in all its sights and smells and sounds, replacing the glittering symmetry of hallucination, the rhythmically shifting paisley swirls and color-splashes seen palpebrally when the mind is in neutral and the eyes rolled up. I was back in my body, in lotus, on the roof of Butler Hall.
The Musky had fled.
I wondered why. My rifle seemed to be in my right hand; hair prickled on the back of neck, ancient reflex-attempt to appear an unchewable bite. With all the tentativeness of a man with third-degree burns reaching for a hot coffeepot, I flared my nostrils and cast, seeking the source of my subconscious alarm. Only the sense of self-preservation could reach me in the undermind.
Through the daily more-bearable stink of the city I isolated the spoor I sought, and grinned sourly.
What else? Collaci.
Seven others, heavily armed by the amount of cordite and magnesium I smelled, all save Collaci saturated with fear-stink. In him I detected, as usual, only the scent of hyperalertness given off by the trained hunter, the controlled, unreadable spoor of the predator. They say that Muskies never attack Teach'—because he has no emotions for them to perceive him by.
The party was near to the southwest, coming up Riverside Drive at about 113th Street. Slowly they came, and warily, and I found their olfactory auras heartbreakingly familiar. The party was broadcasting a welter of emotions almost identical with those I had felt on my first stormy walk up Broadway nearly three months before. They'd have checked the Waldorf—they knew I was here.
A Musky drifted over St. Hilda's and St. Hugh's School onto Riverside, and the party's spoor did not change—they were all heavily plugged. The Musky started, rose abruptly skyward and caught a westerly; I sent it a fleeting hello as it shot past me over Lewisohn Hall. It inscribed ballet figure over the Lowe Dome by way of reply and was gone. I could not tell its Name.
I put down my rifle, took the homemade stink bomb from my belt and heaved it as far as I could toward the center of the quad, feeling the irony of a Stone throwing something from this roof. It smashed on pavement, and began smoking. It would alert Wendell, wherever he was.
I took a last look at the campus that lay below me in the rich light of dawn, took my leave of ancient mighty trees and magnificent empty halls. From my high eyrie I could see a great long way, smell a longer. I had come here from my own lodging before daybreak, sensing a good morning for communication with the windriders, but now there was enough light for me to pick out the stylized letters carved in the granite face of Low Library:
KINGS . COLLEGE . FOUNDED . IN
THE . PROVINCE . OF . NEW . YORK
By Royal Charter In the
Reign of George II
Perpetuated As COLUMBIA COLLEGE By
The People of the State of New York When
They Became Free & Independent—
Maintained & Cherished from Generation
to Generation For the Advancement Of The Public Good & The Glory of Almighty God
Such pomp for an institution that hadn't lasted much more than two hundred years.
I recovered my rifle when my nose told me that Collaci and his party had turned down 114th Street and begun an encircling maneuver round Butler. I did not need to follow that maneuver—Collaci being Collaci, he would make the most logical and effective dispersal of his forces. Two men would cover the two exits onto 114th Street. Two would watch the windows facing on Amsterdam Avenue. One would cover the entrance I had used, between Furnald and Ferris Booth halls. The last two would seal off either end of College Walk, and Collaci himself would almost certainly approach Butler alone from the north—he knew from information I'd left behind where my center of operations was. I'd expected an extra man—a utility infielder—but I didn't miss him any.
I rose to my feet and made my way downstairs, whistling through my teeth. Wendell was on his own now, as ready as I had been able to make him, and I had some talking to do.
As I descended the dusty stairways, past booby traps and deadfalls and other lethal secrets, I wondered why I felt none of the old symptoms, the old emotions at the prospect of imminent combat. No adrenaline sang through my veins, no infusion of deadly purpose, no eagerness for the kill, no drive to be about it. I rather hoped we could avoid violence altogether, though the presence of so many made it seem unlikely. Still juggling a powder keg with a hot branding iron, just like always, but not so happy about it.
Maybe losing an arm had lost me my guts.
Then again, I kept going. The emotional symbolism of the place and the presence, the mere idea of Wendell Morgan Carlson made for an explosive situation, and the opposition was led by the only man on earth I knew was a better fighter than me, but I kept going. Passing as I went the booby traps and deadfalls and other lethal secrets that might or might not cover my retreat.
I cut in the generator as I reached the ground floor, and the front door lights were blazing into life as I emerged from the lobby, rifle slung low, parallel to the ground. It had taken me some time to reach the ground from the high roof, and the absence of gunfire convinced me that Wendell had made it to cover successfully. I hoped I could shortly give the prearranged signal for him to come out of hiding. I hoped I could shortly do anything, like raise a pulse.
Out the front doors:
Waist- and chest-high grass, a mohawk strip bounded on either side by cracked concrete sidewalks flanked with overgrown hedges, the whole enclosed alley ending in steps up to perpendicular College Walk, which spans the campus east-west from Broadway to Amsterdam.
In the center of the top step, Collaci.
Lean, hollow face, apparently carved by a whittler in a hurry, all angles and planes. Deepset eyesockets, deep enough to make his brow appear broader than it was, and the incongruously rounded, thrice-broken nose from which depended a ferocious moustache. A ringer for a long-dead actor named Boone. Dressed in black as I had been, black knit cap over his crewcut. Crossed bandoliers of ammo, four grenades in sight, two concussion-type and two incendiaries. One handgun visible, a heater rather than a man-killer. But the M-60 in his arms was definitely a slug-thrower: those high-velocity shells could chisel Aristotle's name from the stone facade above my head. Or draw seven circles around Dante. Or through me.
I smiled cheerily.
"Hey, Teach'!"
"Hello, Isham." His voice was pleasant, reassuring, almost convincing. I longed for my lost arm.
"What's new?" I asked as pleasantly.
"I have one dead."
"I'm sorry." So much for the utility infielder.
He looked down at the M-60, smiled: He let it hang from its long sling and took a pipe and matches from his pocket. It was the best chance I'd ever get—both of us shooting from the hip. I thought about it.
And kept on thinking. An even chance was not enough with Collaci.
He got the pipe lit, took a deep lungful of smoke and held it. His eyes met mine. "Hell of a place to get stoned," he called, and sucked back smoke.
"It purely is.''
"Somehow you want to, though." He exhaled.
"I haven't been smoking much lately. Too busy."
"First toke in four days myself."
"Enough small talk, Teach'. It's not like you. To what do I owe the etcetera?"
He took another long hit, looked quizzical.
"You were just passing through the city, huh?"
He exhaled easily. "Okay. I've been sent by the Council to bring you back with me to Fresh Start. Krish and the others want to talk with you, boy. At great length."
"What about?"
"How you clip your nails one-handed, I suppose. That sort of thing."
I nodded. "Just an errand boy, that's you—huh, Teach'? You just follow orders. So tell me about it and maybe I'll buy a piece."
"They say you talk with Muskies. This gives Krish a wish. A wish to talk with you."
"I'm the Ambassador from New York, Teach'. I want diplomatic immunity."
"Sling it over your shoulder and come along, son. I'd hate like hell to smash your only arm."
I grinned at him. "What are you offering?"
He looked tired. "Let's not, Isham. I'll get you back to Fresh Start alive, and the Council will decide the rest. It's not for me to be offering. You know that."
Gunfire came suddenly from the northeast. Collaci and I were carved of stone. Or maybe cast in iron, like twin grenades. His gaze was hooded, but then it always was. There were two shots together, then a third, a long pause and then the last two. My heart turned to ice. So this is what it's like when a friend dies, said a detached part of my mind, and I absently filed away an astonishing amount of grief for future perusal. I smiled at Collaci, and before that smile he winced.
"Quite a feat, Teach'. Your brave hunters offed an old man with no weapons."
"He must have tried to run," Collaci said dispassionately. "The orders read `alive for questioning'—but that was Carlson. He shouldn't have spooked my men."
"Yeah," I agreed. "He should have walked over here and offered you a beer. He'd have made it."
"He would have."
"Yeah," I said again.
Another pair of shots split the stillness. My heart leaped. There was a sudden fusillade, then silence. The hedges swam like seaweed in the morning breeze, and shafts of sunlight danced on the grass between Collaci and me.
"Let's go, Isham," he said finally, flatly.
I made a rude suggestion.
"It's the only arm you've got." The automatic rifle was still slung at his hip, the pipe still in his left hand.
"There's enough food behind me for a long siege, Teach'," I called, "and this is a town full of Muskies. Come in after me and see what you've taught me. Or put up that cannon and leave your weapons at your feet and come on inside for negotiation."
He shook his head once.
"Standoff, then."
Footsteps came faintly to the left of him, and a man's head appeared above the chest-high wall of College Walk, jogging toward Collaci. I could have put a slug through his right ear, but it wasn't my business to teach Collaci's newest pupils theirs.
"Boss," said the newcomer, "he got away. Subway."
I remembered the IRT station on Broadway and felt a half ton lighter—thank God! Wendell was safe: men who smelled as scared as this joker would not relish following the devil himself into a subway—their plugs might as well be earrings for all the good they'd do down there.
Collaci frowned, poised on the brink of issuing an order that would not be obeyed. But he was too smart for that, too smart for me.
"Cover him," he rapped, and was suddenly flat on his stomach. I sensed rather than saw the oncoming grenade and spun on my heels, diving for the safety of Butler. But I had strayed too far from first base, and Collaci had picked me off.
The grenade went past me, over my head, and went up in my face as I hurtled toward the doorway. A giant slapped two boulders together, and I flipflopped in the air, landing on my back about where I had started.
Incredibly, I was still conscious, but I could not get through to my body. I saw hedges sway above me, felt flames lap my ankles, and wished I could whistle. "Born to Lose" was on my mind.
The sun went out gradually, as if someone were slowly turning down its rheostat.
Regaining consciousness in Butler Hall can get to be boring, if you do it often enough. But this was easier than the first time. As my eyes opened I checked my equipment immediately, and discovered to my considerable relief that I had everything I had started with. I was stiff as a February breeze, but my strength was with me and my head was clear.
Collaci sat beside the bed, perennial toothpick in his mouth, a .45 held lazily in his bony-knuckled hand. As my eyes opened he lined up the pistol with them, and being reminded thereby of a subway tunnel I rejoiced, remembering Wendell's escape.
But grinning hurt my face, so I stopped. Collaci saw this and lowered the gun. "Anything feel broken inside?"
"Just my heart, Teach'." I felt light-headed and vaguely aware that that was suspect.
Collaci thought so, too. "How many fingers?" he asked, and held up his free hand. I read the number of fingers and gave him the same in reply, putting my arm into it. He barked a laugh and brought up the gun again. "You'll do," he said, grinning fiercely. Sonofabitch is pleased, I thought dizzily. So was I, come to think.
I suddenly realized where we were—my old room—and how far into the building. Those booby traps had been pretty good. "How many did you lose?" I croaked.
His grin disappeared. "Two. Counting the one you scragged before you jumped."
I had?
"Pretty good, Isham. I guess I should be proud of you."
I guessed so, too. Reflexes that operate without even notifying you are impressive indeed. I told him so.
"You don't look happy," he observed.
"Funny thing happened to me on my way to New York," I said. "I stopped getting off on killing people."
He nodded slowly. "Bound to happen to me someday. Soon after that someone'll explode a grenade in my face. You were actually hoping I'd just go away, weren't you?"
"Well . . . I had hopes."
He regarded me for a moment with eyes like chips of obsidian. "You've changed." A sneer. "Gone pacifist, boy?"
"Not exactly. Put that forty-five caliber advantage back in its holster and I'll break both your arms for you with one of mine. On the other hand, I'd like you to know that if you close the door behind you on the way out, a shape charge in the door frame will snap your spine."
A normal man would have started or jumped. Collaci looked intrigued. "The difference?"
"I still understand revenge and self-defense. But I'll stop short of killing if I possibly can. It's too final. You never have all the facts and you can't undo it afterward."
"You regret killing Jacob?" he asked distantly.
"No."
He seemed somehow happy about that, but I couldn't read the why on his chiseled face. He stood, spat out a mangled toothpick and twitched the .45 a millimeter toward the door. "Let's go, Isham."
"Eh?"
" `We're blowin' this burg.' Come on, come on. I mean to be out of town by nightfall."
I started to rise, then bit off a scream and fell back, holding my middle. "My gut!"
Collaci's eyes narrowed. " `Up' I said."
"Can't . . . . can't make it, Teach'."
Thunder filled the room. Three slugs ripped into the bed, each a foot closer to my crotch. I flopped weakly and yelped. The forth failed to smack into my belly.
"I guess maybe you are hurt," Collaci mused.
A short man ducked into the room and tossed a grenade onto the bed. Collaci looked startled.
I swept it toward the window and sprang, heard glass shatter as I landed, rolled into a ball, behind a file cabinet.
There was no explosion.
Instead I heard Collaci chuckle. "Thanks, Joe. Well, Isham? Coming? Or do I start breaking fingers?"
I rose cursing to my feet and preceded Collaci down the hall to the crisp afternoon outdoors vastly chagrined. Good old subconscious sentries—smart as turnips.
Collaci left the door open behind him.
The day was sunny, and the breeze was from the east, a breeze ridden only by birds. Five guards sat around a campfire on the broad concrete sward in a rough circle, eating field rations and managing to look sullen, scared and salty all at the same time. Three I knew slightly, and two appeared to be hill-folk from the mountains north of Fresh Start. These latter, set apart by their tied-back swaths of long hair, would be the most superstitious, the most spooked. But the three who came from my own home, the last bastion of scientific thought, gave off the smell of fear just as strongly. This devil city had taken three of their comrades.
And I was, in their minds, its most recent avatar.
They rose raggedly as we approached, and I heard growls, saw hands go to weapons. Of the three Fresh Starters, the one I knew best was ignoring his sidearm entirely and fondling his knife with dismaying fervor. Joe, the hill-man who had hurled the phony grenade, looked from me to Collaci and murmured, "Anybody say we got to bring all of him home, boss?" They didn't seem like friends for the making.
And Collaci barked once and the five came to something very like attention. He stood before them with fists on his hips and spoke, his voice like cold steel. "This man is under my care. The Council of Fresh Start wishes to have speech with him. And that makes his life worth more than yours—at the moment. You'll guard him like hawks, and you'll die for him if you must. Anybody got a beef?"
Nobody had a beef.
We sat out for Fresh Start.
After we cleared Passaic, New Jersey wasn't too hard to take. It was good to see countryside again, hills and patches of earth, and even the highway we sort of followed had poplars growing right up out of it at fairly regular intervals. Some of them housed birds, who sang. Long-abandoned automobiles lent a note of color, mostly rust-red, and were arranged singly and in bunches with the randomness of true natural beauty. But it was the trees beside the road that held my eyes—while I had toiled in the city, autumn had been spraying latex around the land. It seemed that no two leaves were the same color.
We marched in silence. I limped for all I was worth, but I didn't seem to impress anyone very much. No, take that back—I impressed the hell out of me. As I hobbled through growing darkness I thought often of Alia, wondered for the thousandth time what name you could give to the thing that had happened to us on our last night—the night before I set out to track and kill Carlson, months ago. I wondered what she thought of me, when she did, if she did. I wondered what I thought of her, and knew I could not postpone finding out much longer. She had come to my home when I first returned from the city, but I had had Dad send her away. She never returned, and I left her as my only loose end when I left home again shortly thereafter. Seems like you just shouldn't ever leave a world behind with loose ends in it—you might not be back.
Here I was doing it again.
Long after sundown Collaci called a halt beneath a half-crumbled overpass and announced we were camping for the night. Bedrolls were opened and canteens passed round. Nobody offered me a drink. I collapsed where I stood, a hair too melodramatically if my tailbone had anything to say about it, and made my eyes unfocus as I stared at Collaci. He laughed and threw something at me—I had ducked and caught it with my outflung arm before I realized I'd been suckered again.
It was a four-day-old edition of Got News, the weekly my father and two other men had begun nearly two decades ago, when they began consolidating Fresh Start and feeling the need for a public-relations arm. Lately it was a photo-offset eight-pager, nearly half that classified ads.
But page one was still the traditional spot for news. The 36-point bold head said: "JACOB STONE DEAD." Beneath it a subhead added: "Founding Father of Fresh Start Found Apparently Slain."
I scanned the copy. Jacob Stone, respected leader and thinker, had been found dead in his home. Foul play was suspected, but there was no clue to the identity of his assailant, if any. Further details would be forthcoming; Security Chief Collaci had promised to issue a statement soon, etcetera.
For a story that said nothing, it sure said a lot.
No mention of my tape or manuscript, no mention of my name anywhere. Not even so much as a description of the cause of death. That tight a lid on a story of this magnitude was almost incredible—hell, I guess Dad was one of the most respected men in the world. A lot of people must be finding this story baffling. The cover-up could not last: soon the Council would have to (a) publish the truth, or (b) offer up a fall guy. It seemed from the events of the past twelve hours or so that my name was patsy. But why, dammit, wouldn't the truth serve?
Sure it would shock a lot of people. But truth is truth. Or so I believed.
I decided to ask Collaci. I looked up to see him lying about ten yards from me, cocooned in his sleeping bag, facing the other way. A foodtab dinner had taken him no longer than reading the paper had taken me. The odds were even that the old hunter was sound asleep—he had that predator's ability to sleep where and when it was safe, instantly—with the corollary ability to come awake just as instantly. But I was burning to hear some kind of explanation for the things I had read—I decided to risk approaching the sleeping wolf from behind.
I didn't actually tap-dance to him, but no one could have said I was tiptoeing. Or pussyfooting. A pussy in platform shoes would have made less noise approaching Collaci than I did. None of the guards he had inevitably posted nor the other eating, resting members of the hunting party even felt it necessary to raise their weapons, growl, or even glance my way. We were in the country, plugless all, and they knew I knew they could track me perfectly by scent.
As of course could Collaci, even sound asleep. And my self-esteem rose some trifling fraction when he troubled to roll over and face me, gun preternaturally occurring in his fist, before I had covered half the distance between us.
"Sorry to wake you, Teach'," I said, pitching my voice for his ears only.
"What do you want?"
I sat down beside him. "Been reading the paper."
He grunted.
"Mighty interesting lead story. All that's missing is the story."
He grunted again.
"What kind of shit is that, anyway?"
He looked at me for a long moment, weighing something, and then his lip curled. "You're young, boy," he said sourly, "and I've been missing my two flankers and tailgunner all day, so I'm not inclined to grow you up politically tonight. Figure it out." And with that he rolled over savagely and shoved the gun back under his pillow, leaving me with venom dripping out of my ears, mightily confused. He must have had some reason for showing me the paper in the first place. I couldn't decide if he loved me or hated me.
It occurred to me that I never had known.
A large man with a face like an underdone turnip tossed me a bedroll, and as I bent to lay it out and unzip it, added a tin of K-rations with considerable vim. The tin caught me on the tail, which smarted enough already, and I spun angrily. He was covering me with a reconditioned Winchester, grinning. Have you ever seen a turnip grin? I thought longingly of turnip stew, then gave it up and sat down to eat.
It was a wonderful meal, with the consistency of old stove cement and a flavor between shoe-leather and toasted mucus. I washed it down with spit and thought hard. By rights, by all logic, Collaci should have had a million questions to ask, about my claim that Wendell and I could communicate with Muskies, if nothing else. But he displayed no curiosity, no inclination to swap stories—or even civilities. I could imagine him deciding that the story I'd left behind for him was a fiction. I could picture him deciding to put the arm on me for murdering Dad. But I couldn't picture him behaving the way he was now—it didn't fit, it didn't jibe. If Collaci had a theory that featured me as a liar, he'd be testing it, asking probing questions, interrogating me. As far as I knew he was the last living, Pre-Exodus cop in the world—and he was acting more a dog fetching a stick.
An hour's thinking produced no results. I swore softly for a while in Swahili and slept.
And woke, unknown time later, into an uproar of gunfire and shouting men.
Hot-shots split the darkness, and brilliant yellow-green flame blossomed in the trail of one of them, leaving a momentary ghastly view of men struggling from sleeping bags, firing as they came. Then blackness fell again and only the hot-shots and muzzle-flashes were visible.
You don't need to see to fight. My nostrils flared even as I wriggled one-handed from my sleeping bag, and I counted at least eight Muskies, at such close quarters it was impossible to pin down the number with accuracy. Jerked from sleep, surrounded by shouting, shooting men, I could not easily enter the undermind state, but I tried. If my complexion had allowed it, I would have paled. The fragmentary interface I achieved indicated nearly a full Name of windriders within a three-mile radius!
We were outgunned.
Outgunned? I didn't have a match. But then, I didn't want—or need—one. If I could reach Collaci at once, and make him believe me.
I threw back my head and bellowed. "Heeeeyyyy RUBE!" I don't know what the hell it means, but it fetched him like it always does. He reared up out of the gloom, a smoking Musky-gun in his hand, and pulled one from his belt for me.
I didn't have time to be flattered or grateful. "Teach', hear me good," I rapped. "Have your men hold their fire."
He gave a full second to staring at me, then snarled and began to turn away. I grabbed his shoulder. "Teach', I know what I'm doing! There's a couple dozen of 'em—let me parley or we're dead."
He started to pull away, and my heart sank. Then he checked, turned back. "What do I do?"
"Thank God! Get your men to hold fire, shut up and stand still."
He opened his mouth, then shut it and turned to the chaotic battle raging in the night. "Freeze!" he roared.
Discipline pays off—all firing ceased, and the shouts were supplanted by the sound of men falling where they stood, then by silence. "Start an Om," I hissed, seating myself in hasty half-lotus.
"What the—"
"Do it," I whispered savagely.
Collaci sat beside me in classic za-zen posture, filled his gut with air, and began:
"AAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM . . ."
For long startled moments he was alone, his men wondering if the Boss had cracked. Then two voices joined him, one on the same note and one on the tonic. As the rest came in, I turned inward and entered the undermind.
Four score and seven years ago our forefathers founded upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal . . .
Forze corinze heaven years I go arf ore fathers found it a ponthisk on tin enter noon hay shun . . .
For scorin' savin' years Agro are forefingers . . .
(astonishment)28
(greeting)
(interrogative)28
(identity)
(confusion)28
(identity)
(suspicion)28
(IDENTITY)
(identity)28
pause.
(interrogative)28
(incomprehension)
(interrogative)28
(incomprehension) (receptivity)
(interrogative)28(hate)28
(comprehension) (love)
(astonishment)28
another pause, and an added depth of communication.
(Name?)28
(Wendell Morgan Carlson)
(sudden comprehension)28 (sympathy)28
Thank God!
(requests?)28
(go in peace)
(it is done)28
(wait) (Name?)
(it is proper)28 (Sirocco)28
(identity) (farewell)
(identity)28 (farewell)28
. . . con sieve din libber tea end dead a cay to tooth a proper zish in that Allman are creative sequels . . .
Fore scorn's heaven years aglow . . .
The group Om-chant pillowed me gently back to reality like a psychic parachute, and I was back in my conscious, the consciousness-occupying word games gone, no longer needed. The night sky no longer smelled musky.
The Sirocco Clan had gone.
As his own nostrils confirmed this, Collaci stopped Om-ing beside me. I wondered if I should tell him that he had just joined the Carlson Clan.
"Anyone hurt?" he called softly. The Om ceased; stillness returned to the night.
"All here, all whole, major," came a hoarse voice.
"Shift guards and sack out," he ordered and was obeyed. There was no conversation, and not because the Boss wouldn't have liked it.
He turned to me then, and looked at me in silence through the dark for a long time. He passed me his pipe and lit it for me. I nearly choked: it was hash. And as I sucked deep on the token of friendship he began to talk softly, speaking at first of apparently unrelated things. It was his way of saying thanks—I guess he hated losing men under his command. I kept my lip buttoned and both ears open, and by dawn I understood why the Council had decided that I must die.