by James Gunn
“As I hope for immortality!” Harry said fervently.
“Good, good. One more thing. You’ll take along with you the people you saw in the anteroom. The boy’s name is Christopher; the old man calls himself Pearce. He’s some kind of neighborhood leech. The governor has asked for him.”
“A leech?” Harry said incredulously.
Mock shrugged. His expression said that he considered the exclamation impertinent, but Harry could not restrain himself, and he said, “If we made an example of a few of these quacks—”
“The clinics would be more crowded than they are now. Now. They serve a good purpose. Besides, what can we do? He doesn’t claim to be a physician. He calls himself a healer. He doesn’t drug, operate, advise, or manipulate. Sick people come to him and he touches them. Touches them. Is that practicing medicine?”
Harry shook his head.
“What if the sick people claim to be helped? Pearce claims nothing. Nothing. He charges nothing. Nothing. If the sick people are grateful, if they want to give him something, who is to stop them?”
Harry sighed. “I’ll have to sleep. They’ll get away.”
Mock jeered, “A feeble old man and a boy?”
“The girl’s lively enough.”
“Marna?” Mock reached into a drawer and brought out a hinged silver circle. He tossed it to Harry. Harry caught it and looked at it.
“It’s a bracelet. Put it on.”
It looked like nothing more than a bracelet. Harry shrugged, slipped it over his wrist, and clamped it shut. For a moment it seemed too big, and then it tightened. His wrist tingled where the bracelet touched him.
“It’s tuned to the one on the girl’s wrist. Tuned. When the girl moves away from you, her wrist will tingle. The farther she goes, the more it will hurt. After a little she will come back. I’d put bracelets on the boy and the old man, but the bracelets only work in pairs. Pairs. If someone tries to remove the bracelet forcibly, the girl will die. Die. It links itself to the nervous system. The governor has the only key.”
Harry stared at Mock. “What about mine?”
“The same. For you it’s a warning device.”
Harry took a deep breath and looked down at his wrist. The silver gleamed now like a snake’s flat eyes.
“Why didn’t you have one on the medic?”
“We did. We had to amputate his arm to get it off.” Mock turned to his desk and started the microfilmed reports flipping past the window again. In a moment he looked up and seemed startled that Harry had not moved. “Still here? Get started. Wasted too much time now if you’re going to beat curfew.”
Harry turned and started toward the door through which he had come.
“Watch out for ghouls,” Dean Mock called after him. “And mind the headhunters.”
* * *
By the time they reached the southwest gate, Harry had evolved a method of progress for his little group that was mutually unsatisfactory.
“Hurry up,” he would say. “There’s only a few minutes left before curfew.”
The girl would look at him and look away. Pearce, already moving more rapidly than Harry had expected, would say, “Patience. We’ll get there.”
None of them would speed up. Harry would walk ahead rapidly, outdistancing the others. His wrist would begin to tingle, then to smart, to burn, and to hurt. The farther he left Marna behind, the worse his pain grew. Only the thought that her wrist felt just as bad sustained him.
After a little the pain would begin to ebb. He knew then, without looking, that she had broken. When he would turn, she would be twenty feet behind him, no closer, willing to accept that much pain to keep from coming nearer to him.
Then he would have to stop and wait for the old man. Once she walked on past, but after a little she could stand the pain no more, and she returned. After that she stopped when he did.
Her surrender was a small triumph for Harry, but something to strengthen him when he started thinking about the deadly thing on his wrist and the peculiar state of the world, in which the Medical Center had been out of touch with the governor’s mansion for three weeks, in which a convoy could not get through, in which a message had to be sent by a messenger on foot.
Under other conditions Harry might have thought Marna a lovely thing. She was slim and graceful, her skin was clear, her features were regular and pleasing, and the contrast between her dark hair and her blue eyes was striking. But she was young and spiteful and linked to him by a hateful condition. They had been thrown together too intimately too soon, and, besides, she was only a child.
They reached the gate with only a minute to spare.
On either side of them the chain-link double fence stretched as far as Harry could see. There was no end to it, really; it completely encircled the town. At night it was electrified, and savage dogs roamed the space between the fences.
Somehow citizens still got out. They formed outlaw bands that attacked defenseless travelers. That would be one of the dangers.
The head guard at the gate was a dark-skinned, middle-aged squire. At sixty he had given up any hopes for immortality; he intended to get what he could out of this life. That included bullying his inferiors.
He looked at the blue, daylight-only pass, and then at Harry. “Topeka? On foot?” He chuckled. It made his big belly shake until he had to cough. “If the ghouls don’t get you, the headhunters will. The bounty on heads is twenty dollars now. Outlaw heads only—but then, heads don’t talk. Not if they’re detached from bodies. Of course, that’s what you’re figuring on doing—joining a wolf pack.” He spat on the sidewalk beside Harry’s foot.
Harry jerked back his foot in revulsion. The guard’s eyes brightened.
“Are you going to let us through?” Harry asked.
“Let you through?” Slowly the guard looked at his wristwatch. “Can’t do that. Past curfew. See?”
Automatically Harry bent over to look. “But we got here before curfew—” he began. The guard’s fist hit him just above the left ear and sent him spinning away.
“Get back in there and stay in there, you filthy citizens!” the guard shouted.
Harry’s hand went to his pocket where he kept the hypospray, but it was gone. Words that would blast the guard off his post and into oblivion trembled on his lips, but he dared not utter them. He wasn’t Dr. Elliott anymore, not until he reached the governor’s mansion. He was Harry Elliott, citizen, fair game for any man’s fist, who should consider himself lucky it was only a fist.
“Now,” the guard said suggestively, “if you were to leave the girl as security—” He coughed.
Marna shrank back. She touched Harry accidentally. It was the first time they had touched, in spite of a more intimate linkage that joined them in pain and release, and something happened to Harry. His body recoiled automatically from the touch, as it would from a scalding sterilizer. Marna stiffened, aware of him.
Harry, disturbed, saw Pearce shuffling toward the guard, guided by his voice. Pearce reached out, his hand searching. He touched the guard’s tunic, then his arm, and worked his way down the arm to the hand. Harry stood still, his hand doubled into a fist at his side, waiting for the guard to hit the old man. But the guard gave Pearce the instinctive respect due age and only looked at him curiously.
“Weak lungs,” Pearce whispered. “Watch them. Pneumonia might kill before antibiotics could help. And in the lower left lobe, a hint of cancer—”
“Aw, now!” The guard jerked his hand away, but his voice was frightened.
“X ray,” Pearce whispered. “Don’t wait.”
“There—there ain’t nothing wrong with me,” the guard stammered. “You—you’re trying to scare me.” He coughed.
“No exertion. Sit down. Rest.”
“Why, I’ll—I’ll—” He began coughing violently. He jerked his head at the gate. “Go on,” he said, choking. “Go out there and die.”
The boy Christopher took the old man’s hand and led him through the open
gateway. Harry caught Marna’s upper arm—again the contact—and half helped her, half pushed her through the gate, keeping his eye warily on the guard. But the man’s eyes were turned inward toward something far more vital to himself.
As soon as they were through, the gate slammed down behind them and Harry released Marna’s arm as if it were distasteful to hold it. Fifty yards beyond, down the right-hand lanes of the disused six-lane divided highway, Harry said, “I suppose I ought to thank you.”
Pearce whispered, “That would be polite.”
Harry rubbed his head where the guard had hit him. It was swelling. He wished for a medical kit. “How can I be polite to a charlatan?”
“Politeness does not cost.”
“Still—to lie to the man about his condition. To say—cancer—” Harry had a hard time saying it. It was a bad word—it was the one disease, aside from death itself, for which medical science had found no final cure.
“Was I lying?”
Harry stared sharply at the old man and then shrugged. He looked at Marna. “We’re all in this together. We might as well make it as painless as possible. If we try to get along together, we might even all make it alive.”
“Get along?” Marna said. Harry heard her speak for the first time; her voice was low and melodious, even in anger. “With this?” She held up her arm. The silver bracelet gleamed in the last red rays of the sun.
Harry said harshly, raising his wrist, “You think it’s any better for me?”
Pearce whispered, “We will cooperate, Christopher and I—I, Doctor Elliott, because I am too old to do anything else, and Christopher because he is young and discipline is good for the young.”
Christopher grinned. “Grampa used to be a doctor before he learned how to be a healer.”
“Pride dulls the senses and warps the judgment,” Pearce said softly.
Harry held back a comment. Now was no time to argue about medicine and quackery. The road was deserted. The once magnificent pavement was cracked and broken. Grass sprouted tall and thick in the cracks. The weeds stood like young trees along both edges, here and there the big, brown faces of sunflowers, fringed in yellow, nodding peacefully.
Beyond were the ruins of what had once been called the suburbs. The distinction between them and the city had been only a line drawn on a map; there had been no fences then. When they had gone up, the houses outside had soon crumbled.
The real suburbs were far out. First it was turnpike time to the city that had become more important than distance; then, helicopter time. Finally time had run out for the city. It had become so obviously a sea of carcinogens and disease that the connection to the suburbs had been broken. Shipments of food and raw materials went in and shipments of finished materials came out, but nobody went there anymore—except to the medical centers. They were located in the cities because their raw material was there: the blood, the organs, the diseases, the bodies for experiment. . . .
Harry walked beside Marna, ahead of Christopher and Pearce, but the girl didn’t look at him. She walked on, her eyes straight ahead, as if she were alone. Harry said finally, “Look, it’s not my fault. I didn’t ask for this. Can’t we be friends?”
She glanced at him just once. “No!”
His lips tightened, and he dropped away. He let his wrist tingle. What did he care if a thirteen-year-old girl disliked him?
The western sky was fading from scarlet into lavender and purple. Nothing moved in the ruins or along the road. They were alone in an ocean of desolation. They might have been the last people on a ruined earth.
Harry shivered. Soon it would be hard to keep to the road. “Hurry,” he said to Pearce, “if you don’t want to spend the night out here with the ghouls and the headhunters.”
“There are worse companions,” Pearce whispered.
By the time they reached the motel, the moonless night was completely upon them and the old suburbs were behind. The sprawling place was dark except for a big neon sign that said MOTEL, a smaller sign that said VACANCY, and, at the gate in the fence that surrounded the whole place, a mat that said WELCOME. On a frosted glass plate were the words Push button.
Harry was about to push the button when Christopher said urgently, “Doctor Elliott, look!” He pointed toward the fence at the right with a stick he had picked up half a mile back.
“What?” Harry snapped. He was tired and nervous and dirty. He peered into the darkness. “A dead rabbit.”
“Christopher means the fence is electrified,” Marna said, “and the mat you’re standing on is made of metal. I don’t think we should go in here.”
“Nonsense,” Harry said sharply. “Would you rather stay out here at the mercy of whatever roams the night? I’ve stopped at these motels before. There’s nothing wrong with them.”
Christopher held out his stick. “Maybe you’d better push the button with this.”
Harry frowned, took the stick, and stepped off the mat. “Oh, all right,” he said ungraciously. At the second try, he pushed the button.
The frosted glass plate became a television eye. “Who rings?”
“Four travelers bound for Topeka,” Harry said. He held up the pass in front of the eye. “We can pay.”
“Welcome,” said the speaker. “Cabins thirteen and fourteen will open when you deposit the correct amount of money. What time do you wish to be awakened?”
Harry looked at his companions. “Sunrise,” he said.
“Good night,” said the speaker. “Sleep tight.”
The gate rolled up. Christopher led Pearce around the welcome mat and down the driveway beyond. Marna followed. Irritated, Harry jumped over the mat and caught up with them.
A single line of glass bricks along the edge of the driveway glowed fluorescently to point out the way they should go. They passed a tank trap and several machine-gun emplacements, but the place was deserted.
When they reached Cabin 13, Harry said, “We won’t need the other one; we’ll stay together.” He put three twenty-dollar uranium pieces into the coin slot.
“Thank you,” the door said. “Come in.”
As the door opened, Christopher darted inside. The small room held a double bed, a chair, a desk, and a floor lamp. In the corner was a small partitioned bathroom with an enclosed shower, a lavatory, and a toilet. The boy went immediately to the desk, removed a plastic menu card from it, and returned to the door. He helped Pearce enter the room and then waited by the door until Harry and Marna were inside. He cracked the menu card into two pieces. As the door swung shut, he slipped one of the pieces between the door and the jamb. As he started back toward Pearce, he stumbled against the lamp and knocked it over. It crashed and went out. They were left with only the illumination from the bathroom light.
“Clumsy little fool!” Harry said.
Marna was at the desk, writing. She turned and handed the paper to Harry. He edged toward the light and looked at it. It read:
Christopher has broken the eye, but the room is still bugged. We can’t destroy the bugs without too much suspicion. Can I speak to you outside?
“That is the most ridiculous—” Harry began.
“This seems adequate,” Pearce whispered. “You two can sleep in fourteen.” His blind face was turned intently toward Harry.
Harry sighed. He might as well humor them. He opened the door and stepped into the night with Marna. The girl moved close to him, put her arms around his neck and her cheek against his. Without his volition, his arms went around her waist. Her lips moved against his ear; a moment later he realized that she was speaking.
“I do not like you, Doctor Elliott, but I do not want us all killed. Can you afford another cabin?”
“Of course, but—I’m not going to leave those two alone.”
“It would be foolish for us not to stick together. Please, now. Ask no questions. When we go in fourteen, take off your jacket and throw it casually over the lamp. I’ll do the rest.”
Harry let himself be led to the next cab
in. He fed the door. It greeted them and let them in. The room was identical with 13. Marna slipped a piece of plastic between the door and the jamb as the door closed. She looked at Harry expectantly.
He shrugged, took off his jacket, and tossed it over the lamp. The room took on a shadowy and sinister appearance. Marna knelt, rolled up a throw rug, and pulled down the covers on the bed. She went to the wall phone, gave it a little tug, and the entire flat vision plate swung out on hinges. She reached into it, grabbed something, and pulled it out. There seemed to be hundreds of turns of copper wire on a spool.
Marna went to the shower enclosure, unwinding wire as she went. She stood outside the enclosure and fastened one end of the wire to the hot-water faucet. Then she strung it around the room like a spider’s web, broke it off, and fastened the end to the drain in the shower floor. She threaded the second piece of wire through the room close to but not touching the first wire.
Careful not to touch the wires, she reached into the shower enclosure and turned on the hot-water faucet. It gurgled, but no hot water came out. She tiptoed her way out between the wires, picked up the throw rug, and tossed it on the bed.
“Well, ’night,” she said, motioning Harry toward the door and gesturing for him to be careful of the wires. When Harry reached the door without mishap, Marna turned off the lamp and removed the jacket.
She let the door slam behind them and gave a big sigh of relief.
“Now you’ve fixed it!” Harry whispered savagely. “I can’t take a shower, and I’ll have to sleep on the floor.”
“You wouldn’t want to take a shower anyway,” Marna said. “It would be your last one. All of them are wired. You can have the bed if you want it, although I’d advise you to sleep on the floor with the rest of us.”
* * *
Harry couldn’t sleep. First it had been the room, shadowed and silent, and then the harsh breathing of the old man and the softer breaths of Christopher and Marna. As a resident, he was not used to sleeping in the same room with other persons.
Then his arm had tingled—not much, but just enough to keep him awake. He had got out of bed and crawled to where Marna was lying on the floor. She, too, had been awake. Silently he had urged her to share the bed with him, gesturing that he would not touch her. He had no desire to touch her, and if he had, he swore by Hippocrates that he would restrain himself. He only wanted to ease the tingling under the bracelet so that he could go to sleep.