Ixyail settled in beside him, staring. "Grace. I think you are the blackest dusky I have ever seen."
Zeb felt a flash of irritability. He hid it behind a mask of polite cheerfulness. "Why, thank you."
Noriko took the right-hand-side driver's seat. "To the Monarch Building?"
Alastair, studying the partially-unrolled rubbery creature, took the seat beside her. "No. Thirteen John's Son, Pataqqsit."
Noriko set the car into motion, merging into a sudden swell of traffic that, Zeb saw, stayed to the left side of the street. The cars were of various styles and colors, but, like this one, antiques. "What's there?" Noriko asked.
"Cars." The creature began yammering again; Alastair rapped its head several times against the car door and it shut up. "This is not a living thing," he said. "Just rubber imbued with a bit of mystical energy, a tiny amount of instinct."
Harris said, "What's going on with Doc?"
Ixyail crossed her arms as if against cold winds. "He rose before dawn this morning and said he had an errand to be about." Her accent sounded faintly Spanish, but a moment before, Zeb would have sworn she had none at all. "He did not return. Since noon, I have felt someone beneath my flesh."
Harris frowned. "Meaning precisely what?"
"I am not sure. That is the best way I can describe it." A patch of lustrous black hair sprouted on her forearm; distracted, she rubbed at it, and the hair fell away. "But I know somewhere there is devisement, and it involves me."
Zeb stared at the floor of the car, where the hair had fallen, and felt that sense of unreality cut through him again.
They headed east on a two-way boulevard that was thick with traffic. The cars continued to suggest a 1930s automobile show. All around Zeb saw brick-topped streets, buildings with antique neon and marquees, and fine-featured folk in brightly-colored clothes that, if not for their rainbow of hues, would have looked appropriate in his grandparents' closet.
But east from Harris's building should have been— "Wait a second," said Zeb. "No Central Park?"
Gaby shook her head. "Neckerdam has parks all over, and hardly a street without big old trees. I guess they figured they didn't need a big park."
Harris stared at him expectantly, and finally said, "Well?"
"I already believed you, man."
"Yeah. But believing is one thing, seeing it is something else."
"True."
* * *
After the trip across what should have been the Brooklyn Bridge but wasn't, they pulled up in front of a large building whose green neon sign read BELLWEATHER. Behind its huge windows were bright new cars, squatter and rounder than the one Noriko drove, less ornamental.
The front door did not yield to Alastair's pull; he began banging on it.
Someone beyond yelled, "We're closed!"
Alastair said, "I need to see Fergus Bootblack."
Zeb saw the others exchange significant looks. "What's all this?"
"Fergus is a mechanic," Harris said. "Used to work for Doc. But he sold information to one of Doc's enemies and almost got me killed. He later sort of made up for it, so we're okay."
Ixyail looked disgusted. "So you say." Her Spanish accent was even stronger than before. "I think he should be gutted, his entrails tied off to a bumper while he screams for mercy—"
"Around to your right," called the voice from within.
They moved around to the side of the building, where a large sliding door stood open; light spilled out from within.
When they entered, they found themselves in the dealership's garage. Two cars were up on racks and two swearing men were working under one of them.
A man in green overalls and a plain red shirt, both grease-stained, approached. He was short, like most of the men Zeb had seen here, with black hair and skin that was closer to white than to pink. But he wasn't pale from worry; he seemed curious but not intimidated by this group of visitors. "Grace." He looked with special curiosity at Zeb.
Zeb found himself growing irritated. "What's the matter, do you have a special entrance for `duskies'?"
"No. Light, dark, dusky, all welcome at Bellweather." Fergus made it sound like an ad slogan. "But you're not really a dusky, are you? You're a grimworlder."
Alastair stepped up. "You've got sharp eyes and a good memory, Fergus, and I need them both." He handed the mechanic the rolled tube of rubber. "See what you make of this."
Fergus unrolled it on a table not completely covered with tools and automotive parts. It immediately began yammering again. Harris whacked its head a couple of times and it shut up.
"Inner tube rubber, or something very like it," Fergus said. "Except inner tubes are not usually so noisy." He picked up something that looked like a miner's hat; he put the thing on and turned on the light, then peered intently at the surface of the rubber. "What do you want to know about it?"
"Anything. Whatever you can tell us."
"Your timing is very good," Fergus said. "Next week I'll not be here."
"New employment?" Alastair asked.
"In a manner of speaking. I've passed all my tests and rented a Neckerdam office. Next week I'll be a free eye."
Gaby stood on tiptoe to whisper in Zeb's ear: "Private eye."
Alastair's expression suggested that he was at least slightly impressed. "Truly? I didn't know you had it in you."
"That was always the problem, wasn't it? I study in a dozen fields for a dozen years and the Foundation associates can only ever think of me as a mechanic."
"Let's not get into that again, Fergus. The problem—"
"Here you are." Fergus peered closer. "Very interesting. See these numbers?"
Alastair leaned close. "Barely. Black ink on black rubber. What do they mean?"
"They're a maker's mark. And these numbers belong to Fairwings Tiring. Which is odd, as Fairwings went under just after the Fall. Six, seven years ago."
"Who bought them out?"
"No one. Who could afford to? Their plant has stood closed all these years." He looked up into Alastair's face; when the doctor winced away, he shut off the lamp on his hat. "Sorry. And what's especially interesting is that this rubber here is full of cracks of age. Whatever devisement has animated and given it a voice is preserving it; without that devisement, it would just come to pieces when stressed."
"How do we get there?"
"It's here on Long Island. Go east on Lancers' Lane about four destads. Just past Trolton you'll see the old Fairwings sign."
"What will you charge when you're a free eye?"
"A lib a day and expenses."
Alastair flipped him a coin, which he caught. "There's your first fee. Lady's luck to you on your new business."
"And to you on yours."
Chapter Three
"My grandmother," said Ish in a whisper, "had a special recipe for traitors like Fergus. She would boil them alive in lime juice, with cuts in their flesh so they would feel what was flavoring them—"
Alastair snorted. "First, I've met your grandmother, and she is a nice old lady who would never do something like that. Second, your people aren't cannibals—"
"Oh, no, we would never eat such a stew . . ."
They sat in Noriko's car with the lights out and stared at the Fairwings factory. It was a dark mound of brick, an irregular artificial hill whose windows had been replaced by brick of a lighter hue. Zeb couldn't detect any straight lines in its walls; everything was curved, rounded. The wooden fence surrounding the property had fallen in places and the grounds were overgrown.
Noriko returned to the car where it sat on Lancers' Lane a hundred yards away from the property. "I found fresh car tracks where one section of fence was down," she said. "Many tracks; someone has been driving back and forth. The front and side doors are nailed to, but the rear door is new; it has merely been painted to look old."
Harris said, "All the windows bricked up?"
"Yes."
"Okay," Harris said. "Gaby, I want you at an angle to cover the
front and side doors. Alastair, Ish, Noriko and I will go in the back. Zeb, you want to wait here?"
"And let you get into trouble all alone? Nope."
"Then you stick close to me."
The car's trunk turned out to be a mobile armory; it was packed with cases and racks that yielded long arms, handguns, and ammunition. Alastair took what looked like a bronzed Thompson submachine gun and struggled into a barrel-like vest that Zeb assumed to be approximately bulletproof. Gaby selected a bolt-action rifle. Harris and Noriko took paired revolvers; Ixyail, a double-barreled shotgun.
Zeb, at Harris's gesture of invitation, took up a rifle like Gaby's and a large pistol shaped like an oversized Army-issue semiauto. He checked to see whether they were loaded and quickly familiarized himself with them.
Zeb saw Noriko whisper something to Harris. Harris nodded and murmured something about the Army. That rankled Zeb; Noriko was obviously checking to make sure he was fit to carry a weapon.
He decided to let it pass. He'd earned marksman's qualification in the Army. But it was true that when it actually came down to a live fire situation—the kind these people obviously expected they might face—he'd never been put to the test. Harris had no proof to offer Noriko about Zeb's reliability in such a situation.
Harris quietly closed the trunk. "Let's move out."
* * *
Noriko twisted the handful of picks inserted into the lock and was rewarded with a satisfying clunk. Quietly, she pocketed her tools and pulled the door open, sniffing.
She smelled old oil, aging rubber, freshly-spilled fuel, and something else: the faint odor of ozone, often given off by Doc's electrical devices. There was also something her grimworld friends could probably not detect, the disquieting smell of rusting steel; the fairworlders would need to be careful within. She gestured to the others, took a thin pair of gloves from her belt, and put them on. Alastair and Ish followed suit. The dusky grimworlder looked confused; she saw Harris lean in and whisper to him, mentioning the fairworlders' deadly allergy to ferrous metals.
Then, inside. She advanced cautiously into the darkness, letting her eyes adjust. But there was not even the faintest light for them to adjust to. She reluctantly brought out her torch and snapped it on, revealing her position to whomever might wait within.
The beam illuminated a huge open area; the light did not reach the far wall. The ceiling was supported by rusting steel framework. Everywhere were chains and hooks hanging from overhead winches, sagging conveyor belts, partially disassembled machinery lying in huge, collapsed piles. From the ceiling supports and their crossbeams hung tires and inner tubes ranging in size from those appropriate to cars to giant things suited to tractors.
Behind Noriko the others snapped on their torches and advanced. "Alastair with Noriko," said Harris. "Zeb, with me. Ish, stay at the door."
Ish grimaced. "I hate door duty."
"It's your turn."
Alastair joined Noriko and they moved straight ahead, along the main corridor between piles and supports, while Harris and Zeb circled around clockwise.
Noriko saw Alastair close his left eye, peering only through his right—his Gifted eye. "There's been devising hereabouts, recently," he said. "And something straight ahead—"
Noriko's torch beam fell on the massive table set up near the center of the factory—and on the pale figure atop it. A tingle of fear rose within her. She sprinted forward, knowing that Alastair would cover her advance.
On the table lay Doc. He stared straight up, unseeing, but moved a little as she reached him. His arms and legs were chained by links of bronze to the corners of the table. He was naked. "I have him!" she called. "Doc, are you well?"
"Noriko?" His eyes moved but he did not seem to be able to find her.
"Yes." She examined the cuffs on his wrists. Heavy, well-machined restraints. Their chains were bolted to the hardwood table's sides.
"Find Ish," Doc said. "She's here somewhere . . ."
"She's at the door. She is well."
Alastair joined her. "Good evening, Doc. I see you've been up to some fun."
* * *
Harris and Zeb heard Noriko's call. Harris shook his head and the two of them kept along their circular path, alert for other surprises the factory might have waiting for them. They moved along tight-packed aisles of junked machinery and piles of tires.
Zeb kept his voice low: "Was Ish serious about boiling Fergus?"
"No. She talks like a bomb-throwing anarchist, but it's really just part of her act. She's extremely recognizable the way you've seen her . . . but she can put on normal street clothes, drop that Castilian accent to zero, and when you run into her you'd never recognize her."
"Protective coloration."
"You got it."
"You've mentioned that steel thing twice now. Were you serious?"
"Oh, yeah." Harris nodded. "I've seen some fairworlders who, if they just touch ferrous metal, their skin blisters. If it's held to them for just a few minutes, they get sick, poisoned. It can kill them."
"Man."
They reached a wide cross-aisle. Their torch beams fell on scrapes on the floor, piles of small cuttings of rubber. "Something used to be set up here," Harris said. "Maybe where they made your rubber friend."
Zeb heard a rustle like a bird in the rafters; he shone his torch upward. The light played up a support beam and to the roof, but he could see nothing moving.
Now, that was odd. The light had crossed an unusual-looking lump, a shapeless brown mass about the size of a backpack, tied off to the support beam about a dozen feet up. Zeb returned the light to the lump. "What's that?"
Harris looked up. "Unknown," he said. "I hate unknowns. Here, hold this." He passed Zeb his torch and began climbing—a difficult task, since the support, shaped much like the I-beams Zeb was familiar with, offered little in the way of handholds. Harris had to climb through sheer grip strength. He made slow progress and began swearing.
"You're really out of shape, Harris."
"Shut up." Harris got his hands on the crossbeam directly above the brown lump. He pulled himself up to peer at the mass. "Some sort of rucksack. The flap's partly open." He wrapped his legs around the support beam and held out his hand. "Throw me the torch."
Zeb did so.
Harris shone his light into the partly-open backpack and sucked in a breath. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. "One regulation alarm clock and a lot of sticks of what look like dynamite." He swung free of the support beam, hanging for an instant by one hand, and then dropped to land in a crouch beside Zeb. "C'mon." He sprinted back the way they'd come.
Zeb kept up. "Shouldn't we do something about the bomb?"
"No. We have no bomb experts here. And that one bomb wouldn't necessarily bring down the ceiling or kill Doc. So there are bound to be more."
They reached Doc's table, where Alastair peered into Doc's eyes and Noriko worked with her picks at the cuff on one wrist. Their torches were tied off to support beams, aimed more or less at Doc's table, granting some dim light to the whole area, while Alastair used a much smaller torch to examine Doc.
Harris said, "We've got dynamite, uh, magnacendiaries here on a kitchen timer. Half a chime left! That's about five minutes, Zeb. Ish!"
Her voice came, faint and distant. "I hear you."
"Call `fall back'!"
Zeb heard her cry out, an odd series of yips and yowls.
Harris continued, "And the timer has only been going four or five minutes. We've been on the property that long, so the guy who set it is still here, or set it and left when he first heard us. Noriko, can you get him out of those in a quarter chime?"
She shook her head, not looking up.
"Go on guard, then." Harris moved around to the table side opposite the door by which they'd entered the factory. He set his shoulder against it and heaved. The massive table slid forward a couple of inches. "Zeb, give me a hand here."
"There's a big rolling cart back the way we came," Z
eb said. "Under some sheet rubber."
"Get it!"
Zeb began to turn. Then he was hit, a blow from above as if someone had dropped a bowling ball on his shoulders from one floor up. The impact slammed him to the concrete floor; his face hit the floor hard. He saw tiny dots of light swirling before his eyes and felt blood run from his nose.
Then teeth, like a small animal trap whose edges were made up of needles and broken shards of glass, closed on his shoulder, cutting through his shirt, slicing through his skin.
Zeb roared, a noise made up of pain and sudden fear, and came upright, despite the weight hanging from his shoulder.
There were children around him, five or six of them, advancing on him—
No, not children. They were no more than three feet tall, but had squat and powerful builds. Their eyes were large, their mouths broad and half-open, revealing rows of teeth that were crooked but long and sharp. Their skins, in the dim light cast by Zeb's dropped flashlight, seemed to be blue or gray or some hue in between. They wore crude sleeveless shirts that hung to their knees, leather gloves protecting hands and forearms nearly to the elbow, and leather wrappings lashed to their feet and lower legs.
And they carried weapons—wooden handles with stone heads lashed to them by hide strips. They raised those weapons as they came at Zeb.
Zeb jammed his hand into the face of the one that had bit him, sought the eyes, shoved his thumb into an eye socket when he found it. He thought he hit eyelid rather than eyeball, but the creature cried out, a gratifying squawk, and dropped away from him—but carried Zeb's rifle away with it. There were other noises, now—curses from Zeb's other companions, sounds of struggle, words he did not understand from the attackers.
Zeb stood. The nearest attacker came at him, swinging its stone club at his groin. Zeb struck just as it began its attack, his knifehand blow hitting it just beneath the wrist. He didn't feel the wrist break, but the attacker dropped its club and withdrew, howling, holding its injured hand. As it dropped back into proper range, Zeb took it in the chest with a snapkick, his blow sending it tumbling back into the darkness.
The others—Zeb thought there were six, but couldn't afford the time to count—surged toward him. He spun and leaped clean over one charging him from behind, its stone club passing between his legs, and he landed on the lip of the table that held Doc.
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