He retreated as the footsteps got closer. Down to the end of the corridor. It came to a dead end. The offices on either side were locked. He had no place to go. He took a final two steps back, saw the men raise their guns—
And the ground opened up under his feet.
Actually, as he figured it out later, a trap door opened up and he had fallen through. He had no time to think about it now. He had fallen only about five feet, landing heavily because he hadn’t been expecting this. He got to his feet at once. He heard the panel above his head slide shut. A moment later, the gunmen were hammering at it, trying to get it open again.
He became aware that someone was in the crawl space with him.
A man’s voice said, “They’re going to have some difficulty getting that open. But I really don’t think we should hang around here, do you?”
“I guess not,” Delgado said. “But who are you?”
“It’s really not the time for introductions. Follow me.”
The space between floors was narrow, cramped. Delgado had to run hunched over, in a sort of ducklike waddle. In the darkness he couldn’t even make out the shape of the man ahead of him, just hear the whisper of his footsteps.
They ran for what felt to Delgado like the length of the building. Then the man stopped.
“This is the spot. Ready?”
“For what?”
“I’m getting you out of here. Once you’re on the street, take your first right, then go straight for two blocks, then left. Got it?”
“Yes, I’ve got it. But what’s do I find there?”
“Something you need,” the voice said. “Go!”
Following instructions, Delgado pressed himself into an opening in the floor. He found himself in darkness on what felt like a tilted slide. He tried to keep himself from falling, but the slide was slippery. He coasted down on his back, legs bent to absorb the shock when the ride ended. He seemed to be descending for a long time. Then his feet hit something solid and he came to a stop.
The darkness now had a different quality, and the air was cool. He knew he was outside again. He took one look around. There was no sign of any car or person. He picked himself up and began trotting, to the first right, which he took, then straight for two blocks, then left. The smell of the air changed. He could smell salt water, figured he was near the sea.
As he continued, he saw an illuminated sign up ahead. It read, “New York—Venice shuttle.”
Chapter 7
We are going to follow Delgado now as he goes into the street, emerging from the shadows, glad that the darkness is at least concealing the color of his prison clothes. He moves under the arc lights, keeping a wary watch for the gangsters or whatever they were who were trying to get him. There was no sign of them as he moved into the docking area. Here there were crowds, some of them boarding the America-Europe shuttle, others seeing off friends. The shuttle itself was a large cigar-shaped thing, balanced on its tail and held upright by the stages on either side of it.
They were boarding passengers now at the main gate. Delgado walked around and saw a group of men in white jackets loading supplies onto the shuttle, working from a large truck that had been pulled up as close as it could get to the entrance port.
Delgado walked around the truck. No one paid any attention to him. He found a way into the truck on the other side; an unwatched sally port. He went in. Two men finished pushing out a bale of goods and jumped down to manhandle it to the ship. A man came up into the truck. He was alone. Delgado leaped on him and knocked him unconscious with a single violent blow to the skull. The man collapsed.
Delgado hurriedly stripped off his white coat and put it on. Then he grabbed a package, jumped down from the truck, and went aboard the shuttle. He saw where the other men had been piling their burdens. He added his to the pile, but then, instead of going back outside with the others, he continued further into the ship.
He was in a narrow passageway. There were stateroom doors on either side. He picked one at random and pushed it open. Inside, a man was sitting in a lounge chair, reading a magazine. He appeared to be somewhat older than Delgado, and perhaps twenty pounds heavier. He was sitting in his shirt sleeves, and he looked startled when Delgado came in.
“What is this?” the man asked. “I didn’t call for any service.”
“No, sir,” Delgado replied. “The ship’s commander wanted us to check all passengers. To make sure they were quite all right.”
“Well, I’m fine, as you can see. Now get out.”
“Yes, sir.” Delgado could hear footsteps out in the corridor. He decided he’d better stay right where he was. “I’ll just turn down the bed first, sir.”
“I told you to get out of here,” the man said, and put a rough hand on Delgado’s shoulder.
Delgado hadn’t any plan. He hadn’t known how he was going to handle this situation. But when the man seized him, Delgado’s only course of action seemed clear.
He turned and hit the man across the throat with the knife edge of his hand. The man fell back, choking. Delgado eased him to the floor, clapping a hand over the man’s mouth to keep him from being overheard.
Footsteps outside again. They stopped at the stateroom. Someone rapped sharply at the door.
“Yes, what is it?” Delgado called out.
“Everything all right in there, Mr. McDermott?”
“Yes, everything is fine,” Delgado called back, his hands tightening over McDermott’s face.
“Better strap in, sir. Takeoff in five minutes.”
“Thanks,” Delgado said. “I’ll be ready.”
The footsteps moved away. Delgado looked at the man he had hit. The man was unconscious. Delgado tried for the pulse in the man’s neck but couldn’t find one. He leaned over and tried to listen to the man’s heart. No beat. He realized he must have crushed something in the man’s neck. And then, when he held his mouth to keep him from calling out, the man had suffocated. Now that he thought about it, Delgado realized he had been closing off the man’s nostrils as well as his mouth.
“Well, shit,” Delgado said. “I didn’t mean to do that . . .” Although now that he thought about it, the only way to keep the man silent was to have killed him.
A siren went off within the shuttle. An amplified voice came on. “Strap in! Strap in! We’re taking off!”
Delgado went to the big chair and strapped himself in. Minutes later, he could feel the thrust of the jets as the shuttle trembled. And soon after that, they were aloft.
Chapter 8
“Are you telling me the whole truth here?”
“What a naive question!”
“And yet I expect an answer from you.”
“And you shall have it. No, it is not the whole truth, which, even with the best intention in the world, is unknowable and unsayable.”
“But does what you say to me really have behind it your best intention?”
“What I say represents our best intention insofar as it serves our needs. From your viewpoint, it may not be the best intention at all.”
“You’re as good as telling me that you’re lying to me!”
“Let us say that I am not telling you the entire truth in all instances. But that entire truth is untellable.”
“Is that a lie?”
“You must judge that for yourself.”
Joseph W. Painter, “Talks with the Eneshti,” Mystic Insights Press, 2217. 7th Edition.
And so they’re on their way. The shuttle is blasting off for the stratosphere, after which it will coast down to Venice’s airport. It’s a trip of about four hours. Done in luxury. A fine meal is served aboard. Not that Delgado is thinking much about food. In fact, he orders dinner in his cabin. First taking care of McDermott. He has a closet and bathroom. The closet holds a couple of McDermott’s suitcases. He takes them out, puts McDermott in. First zipping him into a sleeping bag. That’s the best he can do. No way to get rid of the body.
He’s sorry that he killed McDermott. But
he isn’t making a big deal about it. He finds time to wonder at himself: he’s killed about three people so far today. No pangs of conscience. Is he supposed to have pangs of conscience? He doesn’t know; only knows he doesn’t have them.
He tries on McDermott’s clothing. They fit him pretty well. He looks over McDermott’s papers. He is surprised to find that this guy was on his way to take up his duties as Venice’s new Chief of Police.
McDermott had brought along several uniforms for his new job. One everyday one of khaki, another for dress-up, of a dark green cloth. All with badges and insignia, medals. Only one set of civilian clothes.
Delgado sits back and tries to think what he knows about Venice. For about twenty-three years the island city has been owned outright by the Disney International Syndicate. The company bought out most of the people living there and did a lot of rebuilding. Nothing new and garish, of course. Just enough to ensure the safety of what was already there. All in the style of the original Venice.
It was better than a theme park. Or rather, it was a theme park, a theme city, but using the original structures. The idea had been tried before, with considerable success. Everybody knew of Club Miami’s Port-Royal. Greece had done a lot of good for itself by selling Athens to Classical Developers, moving most of the population out to a new city, and leaving Athens, restored to its classical splendor, for those who could afford it.
The same treatment had been inevitable for Venice, which, in its heyday, could fairly enough have been called the Disneyland of the Renaissance. Now the place was an international vacation city, peopled mostly by Americans, Germans, and Japanese. Just enough Italians had been left to give a nice foreign flavor. A good place to live, a great place to retire.
Delgado couldn’t remember reading anything about the crime rate in Venice. You wouldn’t think it was particularly high. You wouldn’t think there’d be much for a chief of police to do.
Not that he expected to find out. He planned to get out at Venice disguised as McDermott, and then take the first available transport somewhere else. He’s got McDermott’s money and his papers. It shouldn’t be too difficult.
His lack of memory is annoying, but not too serious. He wishes he knew what he did to get into prison. Maybe he can find that out later. And how did he come to lose his memory? He has no idea. It’s one of the things he needs to learn out.
For now, for the moment, he’s safe. He doesn’t look particularly like McDermott, but maybe nobody on the shuttle got too good a look at the guy. He’ll just have to hope for the best.
Chapter 9
Venice, Serra
“You told me I could be utterly frank without fear of punishment in my questions to you?”
“That is so.”
“Then I must tell you that I feel there is some important matter you’re leaving out. Something to do with your day-by-day practice here on Earth.”
“It is understandable that you might feel that.”
“It is true, then?”
“I didn’t say that. I only meant to say that it is natural for you to feel it, whether it is true or not.”
“You’re evasive!”
“Truth is not so easily told. Be grateful for what we do tell you. It is a very great deal, I assure you.”
“But not all.”
“No statement or group of statements, no matter how all-inclusive they strive to be, can be considered all-inclusive.”
“You put me off with generalities.”
“In the final analysis, generalities matter more than particulars. If you don’t yet know that a bird flies, it is useless for you to study the composition of a feather.”
Joseph W. Painter, “Talks with the Eneshti,” Mystic Insights Press, 2217. 7th Edition.
“Passengers, please return to your cabins! We are beginning our descent to Spaceport Marco Polo!”
Delgado strapped in. He was glad it was a short trip. McDermott in the closet hadn’t had time to start smelling yet. The familiar sensations of deceleration ensued: a mild nausea, a tightening of the groin, a pinpoint headache over the left eye. These symptoms cleared up as soon as the ship was down. McDermott (as Delgado now considered himself, since the name wasn’t much more unfamiliar than ‘Delgado’) watched it all on the tv screen that made up one wall of his cabin. It was a pretty descent, just like in the movies. There was a lot of cloud cover, so he didn’t get much of a look at the city on the lagoon.
When the all-clear or whatever they called it sounded, McDermott took a deep breath and stepped out into the aisle with his luggage under his arms. He trudged through among the other passengers, presented his (McDermott’s) ID card at the immigration barrier and was waved through.
So far, so good. He had McDermott’s money, of course. Now to buy a trip to somewhere else, and from there to some other place. He looked around. The ticket booths were at the far end of the concourse.
Someone called out, “Chief McDermott!”
Great, he thought, but realized he should have considered the possibility that McDermott was being met at the terminal. But surely the new person hadn’t recognized him. He still had a chance to dart away.
Down at the end of the concourse he saw a sign: “Shuttle to Hong Kong.” That sounds good to him. He started toward it. Someone grabbed his arm.
“Ah, Chief McDermott!” In a playful voice. “You don’t get away from us as easily as that!”
He turned and looked at his interlocutor. A man in his late twenties or early thirties, thin brown face, lively brown eyes. But the most impactful thing about him was that he was wearing a uniform. The insignia on his cap read, “Caribinieri de Venezia.” The silver bars on his shoulder proclaimed him a lieutenant. Just his luck. McDermott was being met by a cop.
“You must have the wrong man,” Delgado says.
“Not a chance,” the policeman said. “We know that you always travel with your gold and silver suitcase. Either you’re McDermott or you’ve stolen McDermott’s suitcase. Which is it?”
The tone was still playful. Delgado made up his mind in a hurry. “You win, Lieutenant.”
The Lieutenant extended his hand. “I am Juan Serra, lieutenant in the major crimes division of the Venice Police, and I am at your service.”
“Delighted to meet you, Lieutenant.”
“Your methods of testing your new associates are well known. You create a stir wherever you go, so it is said. But I was determined not to be caught out.”
“You did very well indeed, Lieutenant,” Delgado said. “Not everyone would have associated the suitcase with the man.”
“I try to keep my eyes open,” Serra said.
“I am so happy to make your acquaintance, Serra,” Delgado said. “I’ve been looking forward to this trip.”
“I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. I have a launch at the police pier just outside here. If you will permit me—” He picked up McDermott’s white and gold suitcase and reached for the small day pack.
“I’ll carry that,” Delgado said.
“As you wish, sir,” Serra said. “Commissioner Schimmer sends regrets that he was not able to meet you in person. He will be at the station house waiting your arrival.”
“Excellent,” Delgado said, and followed the lieutenant through the terminal and out one of the side doors.
They came out on a long pier. At the far end of it, Delgado could make out a small launch with an official-looking flag fluttering from a pole. Serra helped Delgado into it. There were two uniformed policemen inside. Both saluted. Then one of them cast off the lines while the other engaged the gear of the throbbing.
“We’re crossing the Palude Maggiore,” Serra said, raising his voice to be heard over the deep rumble of the launch’s engine. “This is your first visit to our city, is it not? We go past a lot of little islands. Venice is ahead about three kilometers.”
It was an overcast day. The water was a grayish-green, with little wavelets kicked up by a strong wind from the north. The islands Serr
a had mentioned lay low in the water. The water itself was dotted with navigational aids, buoys and what looked like little lighthouses. Delgado took in the scene absentmindedly. His mind was racing, trying to figure out what was happening and what he might expect. It seemed too good to be true that Serra had not recognized him. But how long could that luck last? Surely someone at the Venice police station would have seen a photo of McDermott? And for that matter, why this official welcome? Why were the police extending themselves so to greet his arrival? Was McDermott some sort of important man? Evidently. He would just have to wait and see, and look for a chance to get away.
They came around a buoy and the pilot made a change in their direction. Now Delgado could see a large island coming up ahead. It had a skyline crowded with buildings and with churches. That had to be Venice.
They entered a wide canal, and then turned into a narrower one with buildings on both sides. “Canale di Cannareggio,” Serra told him. “We are in Venice now, sir. I trust it pleases you?”
Delgado nodded.
Ahead was the police station. Delgado could tell this by the flags flown from the building behind its pier—the white and green flag of Italy, the crimson and red flag of the Venetian Republic, reconstituted just ten years previously, the red and green flag of Disney International, and the many-colored flag of the First Provisional World Government. A dozen or so policemen were lined up at the wharf, and as the launch approached they stood stiffly to attention. As Delgado was helped out of the launch by the lieutenant, a sergeant commanding the honor guard barked a command and they all saluted. Him!
Delgado returned the salute. He felt more than a little silly, but it was all he could do.
The policemen formed a file on either side of him. When Serra had disembarked and placed himself at their head, he barked an order. They all marched toward the station. Delgado marched as well. It was either that or be trampled.
The station house, a two story brick building, was hung with bunting. As Delgado entered, a five piece band on the steps broke into a stirring march. Within there were many more policemen. They stood to rigid attention as Delgado entered.
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