Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05

by Today We Choose Faces

  A moment or two later, and I came to another intersection, decided to switch again. The juncture-point was completely deserted. Motes of dust, disturbed by the cleaning machines, swirled in the yellowish light of the lamp on the corner tower. As I passed there, I heard the ringing once more. Another phone, in a recess at the tower's base, had commenced to jangle. I could hear its persistent summons for a long way down the line. It was sort of sad, the effort to reach someone who just wasn't there, or the trying in the wrong place—whichever it was.

  I passed an empty polo field, the mechanical horses standing like a row of depressed statues. The dark surfaces of pools buckled constantly, like memories. Opened to the floor, gray sacks bulging and swaying above, mouths on rollers moved among lockers and gaming tables, consuming refuse. An ambulance rose from some distant bay or playing field and sped through the twilit air, red cross aglow. I slid by a couple embracing in an alcove. I would not even have noticed them if they had not moved suddenly when they became aware of me. They averted their faces. So did I. Then I passed a partition on which a painted "STARS" had not been completely obliterated. Checking behind me, I saw that I was still alone on the belt

  I switched again, bridged over a series of exposed conduits, got down and walked for two blocks to shortcut my way to a belt that headed straight for the jackpole. The area was very silent and virtually deserted. A few individuals advanced toward the pole from various directions, though none were emerging from it at the moment. Three men loafed about a candy and periodical stand nearby, and I had a feeling that I could replace Lange's photos there—or lay a bet, or make certain other unauthorized purchases.

  A draft of warm air struck me as I entered the glowing tube and descended. I was probably all right now, had doubtless been quite safe since I had departed the Living Room. Nevertheless, considering its destination, I was determined to make a thorough job of my flight. To my knowledge, there had never been a question of pursuit when any of us had retreated to Wing Null before.

  I emerged at the next level into a section of the Office that was just closing operations. The sight of all those people getting ready to call it a day reminded me just how tired I had grown. For a moment, I debated continuing down to another level to avoid the rush. But mingling with a crowd would help obscure my trail that much more, so I decided to go ahead.

  I mounted the main beltway and a few minutes later a whistle blew and waves of humanity came toward me from every direction. I rode the middle lane, which was soon filled to capacity, and I was jostled, crushed, immobilized and borne helplessly along. I was squeezed into anonymity, however, which I kept telling myself made it all worthwhile.

  Turning my head, I could see the seeming endless rows of desks from which these people fled, arrangements of phones, blotters, papers softening in the already dimming light. Soon the cleaner-uppers would begin their rounds among them. I speculated as to the work performed there each cycle, then quickly closed my mind. Better not to think about it.

  I resolved to follow the path of least resistance, and the press of the crowd bore me from belt to belt for perhaps ten minutes before it eased, died down, left me to make choices on my own once more. Then I followed my previous inclinations and worked my way toward a hinterland.

  Soon I was riding feeder-belts and moving near to a completely dimmed area of the Office. I tentatively set my objective as another down-jackpole, this one on the far side of the darkened space.

  As I zigged and zagged my way in that direction, I became aware of a possible pursuer. I was not certain, but it seemed that one of the several figures far to my rear had changed belts with me several times. But my nervousness had subsided considerably, as though I only had a limited supply and had already used most of it. I changed again and waited. Eventually, one figure followed. According to my watch and my estimates as to beltspeed and the distance between us, he was in the proper position to be the same individual.

  All right, that much resolved, I decided on a course of action: I would make a final attempt to lose him. If that failed, I would wait in ambush.

  I headed into the darkness and he followed. Then I changed until I came to a short one and began running. I reached the next intersection and switched before he appeared. I ran again. This belt was longer, and I was feeling all of my forty-six years by the time I came to another intersection. But he was not behind me when I turned then either.

  I stood still for a moment, breathing heavily. I could hear no unusual sounds. It was quite quiet, and sufficiently dark for my purposes.

  I stepped down from the left side of the belt. Acres of desks lay before me, vanishing beyond the dark frontier of my vision as though extending into infinity. I moved toward them.

  The jackpole was still a good distance away. I did not head directly for it, but moved off at a tangent, passing along an endless-seeming aisle through the work area. I ran by desk after shadowy, identical desk, until I was well back into the darkness.

  Slowing to a walk when I was unable to run any longer, I found myself taken by an eerie treadmill illusion. The relentlessly recurrent sameness on either hand—small swivel chair, gray desk, green blotter, phone, in-basket, out-basket—all worked to create a sensation of nonmove-ment. There came a feeling of inescapability, accompanied by that odd intimation of eternity which sometimes occurs along with a monotonous stimulation of the senses, and for that timeless instant it seemed that I always had been and always would be running in place at the center of a universe of desks.

  I stopped and leaned against one, to demonstrate its substantiality as well as to catch a moment's rest. Checking back toward the lighted belt trail, I saw no one. If anyone had been following me. I seemed to have given him the slip. There was no movement that I could detect among the dark hundreds of desks that I had passed.

  Then, but inches away from my hand, the phone rang.

  I screamed and began running. Everything that had been pent up, suppressed, pushed aside, ignored, forgotten, emerged in that awful instant.

  I fled, a mindless bundle of perceptions and reactions; and pushing, hammering, driving even these apart, the ringing followed me.

  ... Pursued me, seemed to keep abreast of me—dying behind and breaking out afresh on each desk that I passed—my black-clad gorgons, wreathed by electric snakes. And this moment, too, seemed timeless and eternal.

  I ran—wildly, madly—bumping into things, stumbling, cursing, no longer a man, but a frightened movement in a forest of menace. Some part of me seemed as if it might be aware of what was happening, but that did not benefit me in the least.

  It—everything—was too much for me: the deaths, the menace, the pursuit, this assault by the unknown. I was afraid to look back. I might see something. Or, worse yet, see nothing. This was my breaking point, each ringing of the bells a fresh stab at the wound.

  My breath came hard and hot into my chest, depositing a bit more of pain on each visit. My eyes and face felt moist; but then, I think my trousers were, too.

  Through the wet kaleidoscope of my vision, far ahead, I seemed to see a light, a small, yellow halo—and perhaps that was a man bending within it.

  Sobbing, I strove to reach it, whatever it might be-probably because it was warm and bright, so unlike everything else.

  Then came the explosion that tore all sound from my ears, the flash of light that ripped the seeing from my eyes and the burning, body-rending shock that tore me to pieces, almost before the desperate words appeared on the screen of my mind: Pull pin seven!

  Then everything ended.

  3

  Bone by weary bone, I came together again. I was uncertain as to where I was, what had happened or how long it had taken. I wanted to return to oblivion, rather than face whatever damage had occurred.

  But consciousness was a persistent thing. It grew, rather than going away. I was just beginning to realize that I was still me and that I did not seem to hurt anywhere, when my eyes opened without any special planning on my part and began t
o focus.

  "Are you all right?" said the voice from the fuzzy image less than a foot from my face, at once the most asinine and pleasant thing I had heard in a long while.

  "I don't know," I said. "I just arrived. Give me a minute."

  A great tidal wave of thought passed through my mind. I remembered everything that had happened, and I understood the last of it. Davis and Serafis were dead. Serafis had gone to Wing 18, as planned, and met there with Davis. Together, in the Library, they had entered cubicle 17641, Hinkley's residence. They tripped something that caused an explosion, killing them. I experienced their deaths.

  I was surprised that I was still rational. I would not have believed that I could have remained so after going through the dying business four times in one day with extreme prejudice. Either I had grown emotionally numb, or I possessed greater resiliency than I had realized. Whichever it was, I was grateful that I was considerably less upset this time than I had been on the previous two occasions. Disturbed, naturally; concerned, of course. And very irritated.

  I was lying on the floor, an arm about my head and shoulders, raising them. I was staring into a face that was near to my own, a girl's—and she looked more frightened than I felt, actually. I would not have called her pretty, although she had possibilities along that line—of the dark-haired, pale-eyed, high-cheekboned variety—but she was a doubly welcome sight when I considered the possible alternative. Her glasses were thick, colorless ovals and she wore no makeup. Whether it was concern or the glasses that so enlarged her eyes, I was uncertain.

  "How are you feeling?" she said.

  I nodded my head several times and struggled into a sitting position. I massaged my eyes, ran my hands through my hair and took a couple of deep breaths.

  "All right now, thanks," I said. "It's all right."

  She was kneeling beside me in the aisle. She had on Hack trousers and a gray shirt. She did not release her hold on my shoulders.

  "What happened?" she said.

  "I was just going to ask you that," I said. "What did you see?"

  "You came running up the aisle. You screamed and fell."

  "Did you see anyone else? Behind me? Near me? In the distance?"

  "No." She shook her head slowly. "Was there someone with you?"

  "No," I said, "I guess not. I thought I heard someone. It must have been you."

  "Why were you running?"

  "The telephones," I said. "It startled me when they all began ringing. Do you know why they acted that way?"

  "No. They stopped about the same time I saw you fall. Some sort of electrical mixup, I guess."

  I climbed to my feet, leaned against a desk.

  "Would you care for a drink of water?"

  I did not, but it would give me a chance to make up some lies, so, "Yes," I said, "that would be good."

  "Sit down. Ill be right back."

  She indicated the chair at the lighted desk. I went and sat in it while she hurried off somewhere to my left. I glanced down at the work spread out on the blotter. Pages of statistics and a pad full of longhand notes, which she seemed to be turning into some sort of report.

  I searched in my pockets until I located a tiny pillbox containing some capsules I sometimes used to keep me bright, alert and cheerful when playing a late stand. One could not hurt any and might do me some good, though I really wanted it as a prop.

  When she returned with a cup of water, I said, "Thanks, I should have taken this earlier," and tossed off the capsule.

  "How serious is it?" she said. "I can call—"

  I shook my head and finished swallowing, satisfied that I had established my condition as fitting into some neat medical category.

  "It is not as bad as it looked," I said. "I have these spells sometimes. I forgot to take my medication earlier. That's all."

  "You're sure it's all over?"

  "Yes. Everything is fine now. I guess 111 be moving along."

  I started to rise.

  "No," she said, placing her hands on my shoulders and pressing firmly downward. "You wait. Rest awhile."

  "All right," I said, sinking back. 'Tell me, why are you working here all alone?"

  She glanced at the materials on the desk, blushed and looked away.

  "I got behind," she said softly.

  "Oh. Overtime, huh?"

  "No, I'm doing it on my own."

  "Sounds like real dedication."

  Her lips tightened, her eyes narrowed.

  "No," she said, "just the opposite." Then, "You don't work around here, do you?"

  I shook my head.

  "Well," she said, sighing, "I don't like what I do at all, and I am not very good at it. I got all confused, and I am way behind on everything. I came in on my own to see if I could get caught up."

  "Oh. Sorry I interrupted you."

  She shrugged.

  "It's all right," she said. "I was just getting ready to quit when you came along."

  "All finished?"

  She smiled, faintly.

  "You might put it that way."

  "Ohr

  "Yes," she said. "In a few days they will find out, and my employment here will be terminated."

  "I'm sorry."

  She shrugged again.

  "Don't be. I will go back to the unemployed labor pool, and maybe I will like the next job they find me better."

  "How many have you had?"

  "I forget. A couple dozen, I guess."

  I studied her more closely. She only looked to be about twenty.

  "Sounds pretty bad, doesn't it?" she said. "I'm not very good at anything. I'm accident-prone, too."

  "Perhaps there is an error in your aptitude-profile," I said. "Maybe you should be doing a different sort of work altogether."

  "Oh, they've tried me at damn near everything," she said. "They just sort of shake their heads now when they see me coming back." She chuckled. "What do you do?"

  "I'm a musician."

  "That is something Tve never tried. Maybe I will sometime. What is your name?"

  "Engel. Mark Engel. What's yours?"

  "Glenda. Glenda Glynn. Mind if I ask you why you were walking through the Office in the dark?"

  "Just felt like taking a walk," I said

  "You are in some sort of trouble."

  I felt it strange that she had not at least put it as a question.

  "What makes you say that?" I asked.

  "I don't know," she said. "It is just a feeling that I have. Are you?"

  "If I said yes, what would you do?"

  "Try to help you if I could."

  "Why?"

  "I don't like to see people in trouble. I seem to be in it all the time myself and I don't like it. I'm a sympathetic person."

  I could not tell whether she was joking or being serious, so I smiled.

  "Sorry to disappoint you," I said, "but I am not in any trouble."

  She frowned.

  "Then you will be," she said. "Pretty soon, I'd say."

  I was a trifle irritated by the amount of certainty she put into the pronouncement. Since I was just about to depart and doubtless never see her again, it should not have mattered. Somehow, though, it did.

  "Just for curiosity's sake," I said, "would you mind telling me how you know this?"

  "My mother told me it is because I am Welsh."

  'That's crazy!"

  "Uh-huh. But 111 bet you were thinking of going to the Basement when you leave here. You shouldn't, you know."

  She must have read my bewilderment on my face, because she smiled. At least, I hoped she only read it on my face. I had been thinking of cutting through the Basement in my effort to rid myself of pursuit. She made me feel uncomfortable about it. She also cinched my decision to do it.

  I snorted.

  "That's silly. You couldn't know—"

  "I told you."

  "Well," I said, climbing to my feet, "thanks for your help. I am going to leave now." I could feel the pill starting to work, and it was the b
est I had felt in a long while. "I hope your next job is a better one."

  She opened the desk's top drawer, swept all the papers into it and pushed it closed. I glimpsed an amazing entanglement of personal and business effects. Then she removed a sleeveless black jacket from the back of the chair, slipped it on and extinguished the desk light

  "I'm going with you," she said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Maybe I can help," she said. "I feel sort of responsible for you now."

  "That is ridiculous! You are not going anywhere with me!"

  "Why not?"

  I bit my lip. I could hardly admit that it might be dangerous when I had just been insisting on my trouble-free state.

  "I appreciate your concern," I said, "but I'm all right now. I really am. There is no need for you to go out of your way—"

  "No trouble," she said, taking my arm and turning me back toward the beltway.

  It was only then that I realized she was just a little under six feet—just a few inches shorter than me—and very strong, despite a certain willowiness.

  Suppressing several possible reactions, I considered the situation. It was possible that she had saved my life just by being where she was when she was. If it had been my pursuer's intent to panic me, he had succeeded admirably. Had he intended to administer the coup when I slipped over the edge of rationality, then Glenda's presence was probably what had stopped him. This being the possible case, I might be safer having her with me for a while. While I did not want to place her in jeopardy, I could not see, just off hand, any easy way to get rid of her yet. I would keep her with me for a few perambulations calculated to discourage pursuit, then leave her at the first opportunity and cut for Wing Null. Yes, that seemed best for all parties involved.

  It troubled me that my adversary seemed to know me so well. It was not just that he was able to follow me so easily, but that he seemed to know precisely what sort of pressure to apply and when to apply it, to break me as readily as he had. I was beginning to wonder what it would take to stop him. Something extraordinary, I was afraid. Well, that could be arranged ...