by Bob Shaw
The youngster who might once have killed himself and some of his fellows with the aid of a motor cycle or fast car now had a new repertoire of dangerous stunts, all of them designed to prove he was immortal — all of them frequently demonstrating the opposite. A favourite game was aerial chicken, in which two fliers would grapple high in the air and fall like stones as their CG fields cancelled each other out. The first to break free and check his descent was regarded as the loser: and the other — especially if he had switched off his field and prolonged the fall until the last possible second — was regarded as the winner, even though the winner often became the loser by virtue of misjudging his altitude and ending up in a wheelchair or on a marble slab.
Bombing was another game played on days when low cloud cover screened participants from the eyes of the law. The rules demanded that one should take up position in cloud above an aerial highway, switch off lift, and fall down through a stream of commuters, preferably without using the CG force to vector the descent in any way. The aim was to strike fear into the soul of the staid, ordinary flyer on his way home from work, and that aim was usually achieved because anybody who thought objectively about the thing realized the impossibility of judging the closing angles well enough to guarantee there would never be a collision. On more than one occasion Hasson had shot pain-killing drugs into bomber and bombed alike, and had stood helplessly by while the Fifth Horseman had added fresh coffin-shaped symbols to his tally.
Werry activated his microphone. “Henry, have you got any IDs?”
“Some. The kid who did it checks out as a Martin Prada, with an address in Stettler.” There was a moment of fretful near silence from the radio. “He might have been holed up in the Chinook all morning. If there was a party up there last night they could be starting to get a bit restless. This low-level stratus we’re getting swallowed up the hotel about an hour ago, so they’re free to come and go as they please.”
“What about the other guy?”
“All I know is he isn’t local. Judging by his gear, he’s up from the States.”
“That’s all we need,” Werry said bitterly. “Any sign of drug abuse on the kid?”
“Al, he hit a light pole on the way down,” the radio said in aggrieved tones. “I’m not about to start poking around in the mess looking for hypo marks.”
“All right — I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” Werry broke the radio connection and gave Hasson a sidelong glance. “If there’s a US citizen involved it trebles the paperwork. How’s that for bad luck?”
His or yours? Hasson thought. Aloud he said, “What’s the narcotic situation like?”
“Most of the traditional stuff has died out, except for some acid but empathin is getting to be a big problem.” Werry shook his head and leaned forward to scan the horizon. “That’s the one that really beats me, Rob. I can understand kids wanting to get high, but wanting to get mixed up inside each other’s heads, thinking the other guy’s thoughts … You know, we get them down at the station some nights and for a couple of hours — till the stuff wears off, that is — they genuinely don’t know who they are. Sometimes two of them give the same name and address. One of them actually believes he’s the other one! Why do they do it?”
“It’s a group thing,” Hasson said. “Group identity has always been important to kids, and empathin makes it a reality.”
“I leave all that stuff to the psychiatrists.” Werry switched off his siren as a cluster of vehicles with flashing lights appeared on the road ahead. The outskirts of the city had been left behind and the country lay fiat and white all around, looking as though it had been abandoned for ever. Parallel to the road but hundreds of metres above it were two bell-mouthed aerial tunnels, bilaser projections glowing yellow and magenta, which guided fliers who were entering or leaving the city. There was a steady flow of travellers within the insubstantial tubes, but others were swarming down through different levels of the cold air, drawn by the activity on the ground.
Werry brought the car to a halt near the others, got out and picked his way across the snow to a group of men which included two in police flying suits. On the ground. in the midst of the thicket of legs, were two objects covered by black plastic sheets. Hasson averted his eyes and thought determinedly about his television set while a man drew back the sheets to let Werry inspect what lay underneath. Werry talked to the others in the group for a minute, then came back to the car, opened the rear door and took out his flying suit.
“I’ve got to go aloft for a while,” he said, pulling on the insulated one-piece garment. “Henry picked up a couple of blips on his radar and he thinks some of the punks might still be up there.”
Hasson peered up at the all-obscuring cloud. “They’re crazy if they are.”
“I know, but we have to go up and fire off a few flares and stir things up a bit. Let the good citizens see us on the job.” Werry finished zipping his suit and began to don his CG harness, looking tough and competent once more as he tightened the various straps. “Rob, I hate to ask you this, but could you take the car back across town and pick up my boy Theo coming out of school?”
“I should be able to cope if you give me directions.”
“I wouldn’t ask, but I promised him I’d be there.”
“Al, there’s no problem,” Hasson said, wondering why the other man was being so diffident.
“There’s a bit of a problem.” Werry hesitated, looking strangely embarrassed. “You see… Theo is blind. You’ll have to identify yourself to him.”
“Oh.” Hasson was lost for words. “I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t a permanent condition,” Werry said quickly. “They’re going to fix him up in a couple of years. He’ll be fine in a couple of years.”
“How will I recognise him?”
“There’s no problem — it isn’t a special school. Just look out for a tall boy carrying a sensor cane.”
“That’s all right.” Hasson strove to absorb the instructions on how to reach the school and to guess in advance what sort of relationship he might have with a blind boy, and all the while he was reluctantly fascinated by Werry’s preparations for flight, the instinctive rituals a professional never failed to observe before venturing into a perilous environment. All straps properly tightened and secured. Shoulder and ankle lights functioning. Fuel cells in good condition and delivering at the correct level. All the nets, lines and pouches associated with the air policeman’s trade present and properly stowed. Suit heater functioning. Communications equipment functioning. Face plate locked in down position and helmet radar functioning. CG field generator warmed up and all controls on belt panel at correct preliminary settings. Following the pre-flight checks with mind and eye, Hasson was lulled for a moment into visualising what came next — the effortless leap which became a dizzy ascent, the sensation of falling upwards, the patterns of fields and roads dwindling and wheeling below — and his stomach muscles contracted. propelling a sour bile into the back of his throat. He swallowed forcibly and distracted himself by sliding over behind the car’s steering wheel and examining the controls.
“I’ll see you back at the house,” Werry said. “As soon as I can.”
“See you,” Hasson replied stolidly, refusing to pay much attention as Werry touched a control at his belt and was wafted upwards into the cold grey sky at the centre of an invisible sphere of energy, his own micro-universe in which some of the basic dictates of nature had been reversed. The two other cops took off at the same time, stiff-legged, heads tilted backwards as they made cautious ascents into an unnaturally crowded medium.
Hasson started the engine, made a three-point turn and drove back towards the city. The sky had darkened perceptibly as the cloud cover thickened, although it was still mid-afternoon, and the translucent pastel geometries of Tripletree’s traffic control system were stark and garish at the upper edge of his field of vision. He found his way into the commercial centre without difficulty, aided by the fact that the city was en
tirely laid out on a simple grid pattern, and was leaving it again on the west side when he came to a snap decision about his craved-for television set. Slowing the car down, he began to study the store fronts which were drifting by and was rewarded by finding an electrical dealer within a matter of seconds. He parked just a few lengths beyond the appliance-filled window and walked back to it, experiencing a tremulous joy over the prospect of being safe for that evening and all the evenings to come. The glass door refused to move for him when he tried the handle.
Hasson stepped back and stared at the lighted interior with disbelieving eyes, wondering how a downtown store — even a small one — could be closed so early in the day. He swore at his bad luck, feeling cheated and persecuted, then became aware of a man watching him from the window of the adjoining premises. Unwilling to give up his electronic talisman when it had almost been within his grasp, he entered the other store and discovered it specialised in health foods. The shelves were overloaded with packets and bottles, and the air was charged with conflicting yeasty, malty and herbal odours. Behind a cluttered counter was a small, middle-aged man of Asian descent who regarded Hasson with knowing, sympathetic eyes.
“Next door,” Hasson said. “What’s happening next door? Why is there nobody there?”
“Ben has stepped out for five minutes.” The small man had a precise dry voice. “He’ll be right back.”
Hasson frowned and shifted from one foot to the other. “I can’t wait. I’m supposed to be somewhere else.”
“Ben will be back any minute, any second even. There’ll be no delay, Mr Haldane.”
Hasson looked at the storekeeper in surprise. “How did you know my…?”
“You’re driving Reeve Werry’s car, and you speak with a British accent.” The man’s eyes developed a humorous twinkle. “Simple, isn’t it? I keep passing up chances to be mysterious and inscrutable, but with a name like Oliver there’s no point in my overdoing the Oriental bit, is there?”
Hasson eyed the small man sombrely, wondering if he was being ribbed. “Are you sure he’ll be right back?”
“Positive. You can wait in here if you like.”
“Thanks, but…”
“Perhaps I can sell you what you need.”
The unusual phrasing, plus some indefinable quality in the storekeeper’s voice, alerted the dormant cop in Hasson, making him wonder what might actually be on offer. His mind flicked over a list of possibilities — drugs, women, gambling facilities, contraceptives, stolen property — then decided that nobody but a fool would proposition a relative of the local police chief on such a short acquaintanceship. And Oliver, whatever else he might be, was no fool. “I don’t need anything.” Hasson picked up a small bottle of lime green pills, glanced in-curiously at the label and set it back on the shelf. “I’d better go.”
“Mr Haldane!” Oliver’s voice remained light, his manner easy but his eyes disturbed Hasson. “Your life is entirely your own concern, but you are not at ease with yourself — and I can help. Believe me, I can help.”
Good sales pitch, Hasson thought defensively. He was choosing words to cover his retreat when a burly grey-haired man passed the store window and waved in at Oliver. Almost immediately there was the sound of the adjoining door being opened and Hasson stared towards the sweet, relieved of the need to speak.
“So long, Mr Haldane.” Oliver smiled, looking compassionate rather than disappointed at the loss of a possible sale. “I hope you’ll call again.”
Hasson paused outside in the bitterly cold air, feeling he had had a narrow escape of some kind, and hurried into the electrical store. It took him less than five minutes to purchase a small solid image television set, using some of the dollar currency which had been issued to him before he left England. He carried it out to the car, placed it carefully on the rear seat and resumed driving westwards in the direction of the school. Its location became apparent from a distance because two tree-like bilaser projections linked it into the aerial traffic system. Hasson could see hundreds of tiny figures representing students and parents floating up the ruby-coloured outward stem and dispersing at different altitudes.
The school itself turned out to be a cluster of not too modem buildings surrounding a large take-off area and car park. Students and a scattering of teachers were still emerging from some of the doors, and the sight of them reassured Hasson that he was not late. He stopped the car and got out, with only a moderate twinge from his back, and looked around for Theo Werry. There were several knots of teenagers within a radius of fifty paces, each of them seething with playful energy as the young people responded to the open air and freedom from school restrictions.
Most of them seemed oblivious to anything outside their immediate areas, but he noticed that his arrival in the police cruiser had wrought a change in one group. Its members had drawn closer together for a few seconds and then reformed into a pattern which allowed a majority to observe his movements. Hasson’s trained eye, without his bidding, detected the whispering and shuffling of feet and, above all, the sight preening movements of the shoulders which told him that young braves were entertaining thoughts of violence.
Sheer force of habit caused him to try assessing the command structure of the set, and he at once picked out a suited-up redhead of about eighteen — some four years older than his companions — who was standing in a slightly different attitude to the others and occasionally fingering his nostrils as he stared intently into the middle distance. Why am I doing this? Hasson thought, as he noted the heavily ornamented, non-standard straps of the man’s CG harness and the faint rectangular markings on the flying suit which showed that its patches of fluorescent material had been removed to make the wearer harder to track in flight. The suit also looked wet, as though it had recently been worn in cloud. At that moment a younger member of the group turned towards him and Hasson experienced a nervous jangling in his stomach as he saw the slim white tube of a sensor cane in the boy’s hand. He began walking in Hasson’s direction, watched by his companions.
Hasson put on a smile of greeting and felt it dissolve into a novocaine numbness as he remembered it could not be seen. Theo Werry was a tall, black-haired boy with finely moulded features, pale skin and the beginnings of a moustache and beard shadow which signalled his approaching manhood. His eyes looked clear and normal, fully under control, and only the tilted- back angle of his head and an unnatural serenity of expression revealed that he was blind. Hasson felt a pang of combined rage and pity which raked him with its intensity, and his thoughts promptly seized on Al Werry’s statement that the boy’s condition was soon to be cured. He stood without moving as Theo approached him. The boy walked slowly but with assurance, angling his cane in such a way as to gain maximum information about Hasson’s position and size from its invisible laser rays.
“Hello, Theo,” Hasson said. “I’m Rob Haldane. Your father got called out on a job so he asked me to meet you.”
“Hi.” Theo made an adjustment to the ear piece which translated the signals from his cane into audio tones. He extended his left hand. Hasson gripped it with his own left, taking care to achieve a clean handshake.
“I’m sorry you’ve been troubled,” Theo said. “I could have made it home by myself.”
“It’s no trouble.” Hasson opened the passenger door of the police cruiser. “Would you like to get into the car?” He was surprised to see Theo shake his head.
“I’d prefer to fly back, if you don’t mind. I’ve been cooped up all day.”
“But…”
“It’s all right,” Theo said quickly. “I’m allowed to go up, as long as I’m tethered to another flier. You’ll find my suit and harness in the trunk of the car.”
“Your father didn’t mention anything like that.” Hasson began to feel uncomfortable. “He asked me to pick you up in the car.”
“But it’s all right — honestly. I often fly home from school.” A note of impatience had crept into Theo’s voice. “Barry Lutze has offe
red to go with me, and he’s the best airman in Tripletree.”
“Is that the redhead you were talking to?”
“That’s him. The best flier in the country.”
“Really?” Hasson glanced across the intervening ground at Lutze, who immediately turned away and began staring into the distance while he stroked his nostrils between his finger and thumb.
Theo smiled. “Can I have my suit and harness, please?”
Hasson continued appraising Lutze while he came to a decision. “Sorry, Theo. I can’t take that responsibility — not without your father’s express consent. You can see my position, cant you?”
“Me? I can’t see anything,” Theo said bitterly. He found the car with his cane, got into it and sat down. Watched intently by the other boys, Hasson lowered himself into the driving seat and tried not to wince as the nerves in his back reacted violently to the flexure. He started the engine, drove away from the take-off area and turned towards the city. Theo maintained a reproachful silence.
“It’s a lousy day for flying, anyway,” Hasson said after a time. “Far too cold.”
“The chinook can make it warmer up top.”
“There’s no chinook today-just low cloud and a katabatic wind falling down from the mountains. Believe me, you’re better off out of it.”
Theo showed signs of interest. “Do you fly a lot, Mr Haldane?”