Yet, he told himself, I must obtain the Gun.
Logan knelt beside the silent Devilstick, fiddling with its control panel. “This thing’s been acting strange,” he said. “I think the lower needle jet is losing power.”
“I observed no such malfunction in flight,” said the robot.
“Let me try it alone. Less weight strain on the pod. Maybe I can figure out what’s wrong.” Logan activated the stick. “I’ll just circle a couple of times…”
“As you wish.” The robot nodded. “But the device seems quite sound to me.” And he stepped back as Logan roared the stick skyward.
In the air, he estimated the space between the robot and the cliff. Room enough, he decided, if I come in fast and keep the sea at my back.
Logan circled once as the robot peered upward.
Fast and simple, Logan told himself.
And he powered the Devilstick, full-thrust, at the robot, skimming in low over the highway to drive the stick’s sharp duralloy nose directly into the creature’s metal chest.
The impact smashed the humanoid into the base of the rock with incredible force. Logan powered the stick swiftly upward again, fighting to regain full control. The cliff seemed to leap at him as he swung the craft hard-left to avoid violent collision with the rock face.
Below, the big robot lay motionless, metal parts strewn along the cracked road surface.
Logan brought the hovercraft down directly beside the body, quickly dismounting. He rolled the heavy creature over on its side, unsnapped the robot’s carrier-pouch, and pulled the Gun free.
At last! He had it!
“Stop!” said the machine, staggering up to face Logan. “Not…permitted.”
The creature’s chest was a smoking mass of shattered metal and ruptured circuitry. One of its arms had been totally ripped away; loose wires dangled from the gaping shoulder. And, in striking the rocks, the left side of its head had been crushed flat. The robot’s one still-functional eye was canted at a grotesque angle.
To Logan, the machine now seemed a totally alien thing, the thin veneer of pseudo-humanity having been ripped away.
The robot advanced on Logan as he retreated toward the road edge. “Stay back!”
And Logan brought up the Gun.
The machine kept coming, its twisted mouth forming the same ominous phrase: “Not permitted…not permitted…”
But the ammopac had been removed and Logan couldn’t fire; the Gun was useless.
Jamming the weapon into his belt, he feinted left, then lunged right, attempting to put the machine between himself and the road edge. And did not succeed.
The creature slammed its arm across Logan’s face, spilling him to the highway. Dazed, only half-conscious, he was powerless to resist as the tall machine plucked him up and swung his body toward the edge of the cliff.
“Not permitted…” the creature rasped. “Not permitted…”
And Logan was hurled from the cliff—a sheer mile drop to the distant sea.
As he went over, the instinct to survive fired his blood, and Logan clawed wildly at an overhang of heavy brush growing along a narrow ledge of rock, obtained a handhold—and managed to check his fall.
Loosened at its base, the tough-rooted brush threatened to pull free of the rock, but held. For how long?
Logan hung there, swinging by one hand, as the robot’s twisted metal head loomed above him. Can the damn thing reach me? No, Logan assured himself. Can’t. I’m too far down.
The creature realized that in order to dislodge this man below him, in order to send him plunging into the sea, it would be necessary to climb down to him. He set out to do this, easing his battered metal body over the road edge.
Logan, hanging ten feet below, no longer thought about his enemy; he was now trying desperately to obtain a double-handed grip on the slipping brush. But each time he hauled himself a bit higher, the shifting weight of his body ripped another section of brush loose from its base in the rock
The question was: could he pull himself onto the ledge before the brush gave way completely?
The robot was closer—much closer—making ponderous progress down the sharply angled face of the cliff. Soon he would be able to reach this man-thing. Soon.
Logan had swung his body to a point where he was finally able to get a grip on the ledge. Releasing the brush, he clawed his way up, levering his bruised body onto the narrow rock shelf.
But the robot was almost there—having lowered one metal leg to the ledge.
Logan twisted, pressing his back into the rock face for support, and kicked out with all his remaining strength at the thick metal limb of the machine.
The creature’s leg slipped off!
For a long moment the robot swayed on one leg, grasping at the rooted brush with its single, steel-fingered hand.
“Not permitted,” it said—and tumbled backward, past Logan, falling straight toward the sea, twisting, its metallic body sun-flashing as it arced downward, faster, to smash itself into metal death on the sea rocks below.
* * *
BAY OF DRAGONS
“All right, damn you, here’s what you wanted!”
With a pale smile, Kirov accepted the Gun. The weapon looked outsize and unwieldy in his small hands as he sighted along its barrel, examined its smooth pearl grip. His smile faded. “But I cannot fire it! This Gun is unloaded! You have not met the terms of our agreement.”
In a single stride, Logan closed the distance between them to grab the startled technician by the front of his uniform, pulling him close. His eyes burned into Kirov; his voice was iron. “The ammopac went into the sea. With the robot. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. You asked for a Gun and I brought you one. That was our agreement, and you’d better live up to your end of it. If not, little man, I’ll break you like a rotten stick!”
Logan released him, and Kirov fell back, shaken, lips trembling. He looked across the main living room of his unit at Jessica, who was glaring at him.
“Logan’s right,” she said. “You didn’t mention any ammopac. You just asked for a Gun. And he brought it. He risked his life to bring it!”
Kirov raised a placating hand. “Very well,” he murmured, attempting to regain his composure. He adjusted his wrinkled uniform. “I’ll keep my end of the agreement. I shall program your new identities into the computer during tomorrow’s workshift.”
“We’ll stay here tonight,” Logan said to Jess. “By tomorrow, with any luck, I’ll be talking to Francis.”
Indeed, Kirov 2 kept his word — allowing Logan and Jessica to leave Moscow by mazecar the following afternoon as Treven 15, a New Chicago bodyjewel merchant, and his pairup, Jaci 3, a firewalker in the Angeles Arcade.
Kirov had seen to it that the Prestor databank was totally erased. When Federal authorities ran a trace on the bogus CIC inspector and Gun thief, Prestor 8, they learned nothing.
And within twenty-four hours, Kirov himself could not recall anyone named Prestor or Logan or Jessica or Treven or Jaci. He resumed his gray, uneventful life as a computer tech, wondering, from time to time, how he had come to possess a Sandman’s Gun.
Kirov 2 never reported having the weapon because he knew that such a disclosure could lead to serious trouble. The Gun frightened him.
He finally buried it one night, very late, in the garden behind his unit.
At Angeles Complex, they left the maze, taking a belt up to the Wilshire sector. They had obtained appropriate clothing before leaving Moscow, but no physical alterations had been made in either of them. A facechange in a New You was totally impractical, since the idea was to prove themselves innocent of Phedra’s charge. Thus, they risked recognition, particularly by Sandmen who knew Logan. His arrest would be the talk of DS Headquarters. Also, his face was known to many citizens, as it had been to Jessica. Almost anyone could stop him, point him out.
Yet it was essential that he reach his lifeunit.
“At least there’s no active search for us,” Logan
told Jess. “As far as the Federal Police are concerned, we died on the Serengeti.”
“But if we’re scanned, our IDs may not hold,” Jess reminded him. “Kirov is blocking for us but that can be bypassed.”
“So we don’t get caught.” Logan smiled.
They moved leisurely through the crowds; hurried movement attracted attention.
“Sandman!” hissed Jess at Logan’s ear. “Just turned in our direction.”
“Keep walking. Don’t do anything,” said Logan tightly.
The DS man was young and intense; his mind was on the runner ahead of him. Female. And she was clever. Giving him a good hunt. Exciting! His fingers touched the holstered Gun at his belt. Should be able to homer her before she reaches Arcade. My first solo kill!
He passed Logan and Jess without a glance.
Now they entered the Wilshire threemile, Logan’s unit, taking a riser to the ninth level, moving quickly down the bright, high-ceilinged corridor.
Logan had kept Phedra’s key, had hidden it on a corridor ledge before he left for duty on that first morning, figuring it might be wise to have it there in case of emergency. Now that decision paid off as he found the ledge and recovered the silver slotkey.
At his unit he tried the key, but the door refused to yield. A recorded voice informed them: “This lifeunit has been sealed by Federal Police. There is no admission. Repeat: there is no admission.”
Jess frowned, drew a harried breath. “What now?”
“We break the seal,” said Logan. “I’ve broken them before.”
“Without triggering the unit alarm?”
“There’s no way to avoid that.”
“But, Logan—they’ll be here in less than a minute after that seal’s broken!”
”Less than a minute is all I need,” he said. And broke the seal.
The door opened and they hurried inside. No sound. The Federal alarm was silent but, in his mind, Logan could hear it screaming! Five seconds gone.
At the unit intercom he keyed in the number Francis had left with him.
“But you know he’s not at his unit,” Jess protested.
Ten seconds.
“His faxtape is,” said Logan, waiting for the relay pickup to engage. “Every DS man on freetime is required to leave his basic world location on a tape. And that’s all I need.”
Twenty seconds.
With the relay engaged, he ran in the faxcode numbers. Instantly, the gaunt Sandman’s image filled the screen.
“Dragon Bay, Jamaica,” said Francis. Logan smiled, killing the relay. They exited the unit building with ten seconds to spare.
“Identities!”
They were on the Wilshire platform, ready to board an express car, when two Federal officers stopped them.
Logan scowled at the two men, and continued to nudge Jess toward the car. An officer stepped between them on the boarding ramp.
“I’m Treven 15,” snapped Logan, his tone officious and hard-edged, “and I have an important appointment in New Chicago. Treven Jewelworks—you’ve heard of me.”
“Afraid not,” said the officer who was blocking them.
“Identities!” repeated the second officer.
Sighing in obvious disgust, Logan dug into his traveltunic, removed a foilcard, and handed it over. The first officer took Jessica’s card.
“We’ll have to ask you to follow us,” said the first officer.
“But why?” Jessica asked.
“We need to run a board check,” replied the officer. “There’s been a unit break-in, and we have a sight report that a man and woman fitting your description were seen leaving the building.”
They were taken to a scanroom at the far end of the platform, where their cards were board-slotted.
“Please step inside. This won’t take long.”
Logan entered first, standing alone in the small chamber, telling himself: Steady, don’t panic, this will be all right. Kirov’s an expert. He’s controlling the board. We’ll get through this.
A light clicked on; the door released itself and Logan stepped out as Jessica entered. Her eyes were down; she looked nervous. Logan pressed her arm.
Within five minutes they were on a mazecar headed for the West Indies.
“Kirov kept his word,” said Logan as they cleared the Angeles Complex in a bulleting rush. “He’s giving us the time we need.”
Jessica smiled. A tired smile. Her face was drawn, the skin taut across her cheeks. “So now we find Francis,” she said.
“Right.” Logan nodded as the tunnel swept past them in a silver blur. “We find Francis.”
South under Mexico, east through Guatemala into the Caribbean—to the West Indies and Jamaica, slowing as they moved beneath the island’s girdling coral reef to the platform stop at New Port Royal. Since the island jungles had once provided a haven for runners, all incoming visitors were required to register with Jamaica CenControl.
“How long did Kirov say he could hold the cross-check?” asked Jess as they moved down the processing line.
“Six hours maximum,” said Logan. “It’s going to be close.” The computer cleared them.
“Citizen Treven…citizen Jaci…our island welcomes you!” said the dark-skinned port official, handing them their foilcards. “Please enjoy yourselves. As we say on the island, ‘may the Undertaker’s Wind blow all troubles away!’ “
Back at the platform, armed with ID clearance, they boarded a local mazecar for the twenty-mile cross-island jump under the Blue Mountains to Dragon Bay on the rugged north coast, emerging into a blaze of color and lush tropical growth. An easy-flowing tradewind from the Caribbean stirred fern and bamboo, juniper and satinwood. Frigate birds skimmed the white dazzle of beach, and immense Jamaican butterflies flashed their rainbow wings.
“The air’s so clean,” said Jess. “They say the tradewinds never stop.” She shaded her eyes against the glare of white sand. “It’s really lovely here…unspoiled.”
“No part of this world’s unspoiled,” said Logan, looking at the red crystal alive in his right palm. “Ask a runner how unspoiled Jamaica is. This island’s a potential deathtrap. If we don’t find Francis, and soon, we may never leave it.”
“Where do we look for him?”
“He’ll be hunting,” said Logan. “Francis likes to hunt.”
“Dragon, mon! He hunt the big dragon!”
“Barracuda,” Logan said to Jess. “The dragon of the sea. Extremely difficult to catch.”
“Oh, yes, mon!” The club attendant nodded his dark, smooth-skinned head. “They like catch you. ‘Cuda eat many hunters. Very…”. he smiled broadly, winking at Logan, “difficult.”
The island clubroom was festooned with undersea gear—from ancient metal diving helmets to modern laserspears. Photos of myriad sea life crowded the walls—and a large manta ray, fully extended, floated above the main doorway, looking all too lifelike.
Logan checked the huntboard. Francis was logged out as a solo.
When Logan asked about this, the attendant shook his head. “Mon, you friend not wise,” he said. “Nobody hunt alone! Not here, mon. Never alone here.”
Logan wasn’t surprised; it was characteristic of Francis to ignore the dangers of a solo undersea hunt.
“What’s he using?” Logan asked.
“He got a cat. Long range. Gone for long time.”
“How long?”
“Long time now,” said the attendant. He flashed his wide smile again. His tone was musical, full of secret mirth. “Many come here, hunt ‘cuda. Not all come back.”
“I’m going after him,” said Logan flatly.
Jess looked concerned. She put aside a shell she’d been holding. “You heard what he said about going out alone. I don’t like your going out after him alone.”
“I can handle it.”
“I think you should wait. He’ll be back…probably on the way right now.”
“Or he could be in trouble right now,” said Logan. “I’v
e got to find him. If he’s in trouble,” and he looked at her steadily, “we’re in trouble.”
“Undertaker Wind blow all trouble away!” said the attendant.
And against the darkly burnished skin of his cheeks, his mocking white smile dazzled like beach sand.
* * *
THE SWIMMING DEATH
It was a world of cerulean blues, deep-velvet purples, inked greens, of wide brainstone coral cliffs and deep-bottomed troughs where the sea turned black in the chartless depths—a world of eel and octopus and squid, of the soldier crab and the loggerhead turtle, of jeweled angelfish, gliding manta rays, and great blue marlin. The majestic whale shared these rich Jamaican waters with the pulsating jellyfish—and the voracious shark, as old as time itself, prowled here in the daggered dark of the Caribbean.
Logan rode an open-cockpit two-man Seacat, swift and highly maneuverable, a sleek deep-water vehicle equipped with probing pinbeam lights and a stern-mounted minicannon powerful enough to penetrate any undersea obstacle.
He wore full lightweight bodyarmor, developed by Jamaican hunters to provide maximum protection against shark and barracuda.
“Within limits, of course,” the outfitter had warned him as he’d donned the armored suit. “Some of these fellows can swallow you whole!”
“How strong is it?” Logan had asked.
“It’s designed to withstand an ordinary slash attack—which will give you a chance to use the cannon if you have to.” The outfitter, whose face bore a scar from chin to forehead, looked at him scornfully. “Not very sporting, though. Idea is to use a trank pistol on the fellow, then bring him in unmarked.”
The tranquilizer was strong enough to put any barracuda to sleep—but then the problem became: how to net him to the Seacat and haul him in before his fellow denizens, sensing his lifeless state, tore him apart for lunch!
And me along with him, thought Logan. But of course he had no intention of netting a ‘cuda; he was searching every trough and coral valley for Francis, pinbeaming the sea floor, powering the cat through masses of clinging sealace, over encrusted rocks, darting his light into the mouths of caves.
Logan: A Trilogy Page 35