by Dean Koontz
"You tell me."
The voice was a rasping command, given in a low but deadly key.
The technician cleared his throat. "They've headed west. They passed the Great Lakes conversion crater. The scene was clear in his mind. They got off the superway at exit K-43 and took the secondary route toward Ohio."
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more."
"This is not much."
"Enough for a Hunter," the technician chief said.
"This is true."
Docanil left the room, went into the corridor where Banalog waited. He glanced at the traumatist as he went by, as if he did not know him and was only mildly curious. Banalog rose and followed him to the end of the hall, through a plasti-glass door into the frigid morning air. A copter was waiting, a large one with living quarters and enough supplies to last the two of them as long as the hunt required.
"You found them?" he asked Docanil when they were seated in the cockpit of the craft.
"More or less."
"Where are they?"
"West."
"That's all you know?"
"Not quite."
"What else?"
Docanil looked at the traumatist with interest. The glance made the other naoli cringe and draw away, tight against the door of the cabin.
"I was just curious," Banalog explained.
"Fight your curiosity. The rest is for me to know. It can mean nothing to you."
He started the copter and lifted it out of the ruins of Boston, into the wind and snow and bleak winter sky . . .
Chapter Ten
POINT:
In the Nucio system, on the fourth planet circling the giant sun (the place once called Data but now called nothing at all) it was early evening. A brief but intense rain had just fallen, and the air was saturated with a fine, blue mist that settled ever so slowly on the glossy leaves of the thick forests. There were no animal sounds anywhere. Occasionally, there was a soft ululation—but that was not the cry of a beast.
Near the calm sea, where there had once been beasts, the jungle labored to turn a tangle of steel beams into dust. The metal was already eaten through in many places . . .
A hundred feet beyond this, closer to the water's edge, a walking vine snaked a healthy green tentacle through the empty, yellow eye' socket of a long, gleaming naoli skull . . .
Chapter Eleven
COUNTERPOINT:
In the city of Atlanta it was noon. It was a bright day, though a cloud or two drifted across the sun. In the foundry yard on the west end of town, everything was still—except for the rats scrambling about the interior of a huge storage tank at the yard's end. There were about a dozen of them, chittering and hissing at one another. This had once been the tank that temporarily housed Sara Laramie. The rats feasted . . .
Chapter Twelve
As they neared the border of Pennsylvania and Ohio, the Hunter Docanil prepared to initiate as careful a search as possible of the oncoming terrain. He withdrew the sensory patch-ins from their slots on the console. The patches were little metal tabs whose undersides were studded with a dozen half-inch needles of the finest copper alloy, honed and sharpened to a rigid specification. There were six of them, and Docanil pressed each of them into a different set of nerve clusters on his body, having to roll back his sleeves in the process; his trousers were equipped with zippers along the legs to open them for the same purpose. When he was patched into the exterior sensory amplifiers on the copter's hide, he settled back in his chair, six wire snakes winding from him to the console, making him look like some automaton or some part of the machine and not a living creature in his own right.
Banalog watched, fascinated and horrified. What fascinated him would fascinate anyone watching a Hunter at work for the first time. What horrified him was the ease with which the creature became a part of a machine. He seemed to suffer no psychological shock in the process. Indeed, he seemed to enjoy linking to the copter and its electronic ears and eyes and nose. The mechanical devices amplified not only his perceptions, but his stature, his very being—until now he was as some mytho-poetic creature from legends.
Docanil had closed his eyes, for he did not need them now. The exterior cameras fed sight data directly to his brain—that super brain that could interpret all sensations much more thoroughly and readily than the average organic mound of gray tissue.
The copter swept up the mountainside, following the road that its radar gear said existed beneath the billowing, undulating dunes of snow.
Banalog had never seen so much snow in his life. It had begun snowing steadily only yesterday afternoon, and in one day had put down almost a foot. The occupation force meteorologists said the end was not in sight. It looked as if the storm could last another six or eight hours and put down another half foot of the white stuff. Not only was it a record breaker in duration and amount of precipitation (in naoli experience) but also in the area it blanketed. It stretched all along the top of what used to be called the States, from the Mid West to the New England coastline. It would have held the traumatist enthralled, had not the Hunter also fascinated him.
The copter drifted on, flying itself, only twenty-five feet above the land.
They were almost to the top of the mountain when Docanil opened his eyes, leaned forward, kicked the automatic pilot off, and took control of the machine.
"What is it?" Banalog inquired.
Docanil did not answer. He brought the copter around, headed back down the mountain for a few hundred feet, then set the machine to hover.
Banalog looked out the windscreen, studied the area that seemed to concern the Hunter. He could make out only what appeared to be a few guardrails thrusting above the snow, a tangle of safety cable, and a great deal of drift.
"What?" he asked again. "I'm supposed to help you if I can."
He thought the Hunter almost smiled; at least he came closer to it than any Hunter the traumatist had ever seen.
"You help me to think ahead of Hulann. I can pick up the trail myself. But since you are curious . . . Do you see the rails and the cable?"
"Yes."
"The rails are crooked, as if they have been partially uprooted or bent out of shape. The cable is broken. See how it meanders across the snow. Something has struck here. Perhaps they have already died. See the drift ahead? They could have swerved to miss that."
Banalog licked his lips. He wanted to twine his tail about his leg, but knew the Hunter would see. "I didn't know you were so sensitive to clues this small or to—"
"Of course," Docanil the Hunter said.
He took the copter over the rails and down the side of the mountain, handily avoiding the pipes, swerving through breaks in them that Banalog did not even see until they were upon them, zigging and zagging, using the stiff wind that tried to batter their craft, moving with it instead of against it.
"There," Docanil said.
Banalog looked. "What? I see nothing."
"Between the two columns of rock. The car."
If the traumatist looked closely, strained his big eyes until they watered, he was able to make out pieces of a shuttlecraft body peeking through the snow, no section more than a few inches square.
"The vehicle is on its side," Docanil said. "And it is the one they escaped in."
"They're dead?"
"I don't know," the Hunter said. "We will stop and look."
Leo was roused by the stuttering blades of a copter. He sat up on the plush couch and listened closely. The noise was gone now, but he was certain he had not dreamed it. He sat very tensely for a time. At last, he got up and went to the windows, walked from one to the other. There was nothing but the trees, the snow, and the hotel grounds.
Then the sound came again.
A helicopter. Close.
He ran across the room to where Hulann slept, shook the naoli's shoulder.
Hulann did not respond.
"Hulann!"
Still, he did not move.
The sound o
f the copter faded, then came back again. He could not tell if it was coming closer or not. But he knew it was almost a certainty that the passengers of that machine were looking for he and Hulann. He continued to harass the sleeping alien, but with no more luck than before. There are only three ways to wake a naoli from his nether world slumber . . .
Docanil the Hunter clambored out of the smashed shuttlecar, walked across the side of the twisted wreck, and jumped to the ground, sinking in snow up to his knees. Despite the difficult conditions, he moved with grace and catlike quiet.
"Are they dead?" Banalog asked.
"They are not there."
Banalog managed to keep his relief from showing. He should have been anxious for the Hunter's success and against anything that benefited the renegades. Irresponsibly, he felt just the opposite. He wanted them to escape, to find refuge, to survive. Deep within, he was aware of what the Phasersystem said would happen if humans survived. A hundred years from now, two hundred, and they would find a way to strike back. His irresponsibility, if it became popular, would be a danger to the race. Yet . . . He did not stop to analyze himself. He did not dare . . .
They boarded the chopper again.
Docanil pulled the patch-ins from their slots and reconnected himself to the exterior pickups. The cords dangled. When the copper alloy needles had slid into his flesh, he started the machine and—keeping it under manual control—took it up into the grayness.
"What now?" Banalog asked.
"We quarter the mountain."
"Quarter?"
"You are not familiar with search techniques."
"No," Banalog agreed.
The Hunter said no more.
At length, after they had danced back and forth, up and down a relatively small portion of the slope for some time, Docanil brought the copter in over a pylon boarding station that was part of an aerial cableway running from the base of the mountain to the top.
"There," he hissed, as excited as a Hunter could get.
Again, Banalog could see nothing.
Docanil said, "Ice. See? Broken from the steps. And it has been melted from the control board recently." The helicopter passed over the platform; he brought it around once more. "They've used the cablecar. Also notice that the ice has been broken from the cable going to the top of the slope, though it still remains on the cable leading to the bottom. They went up."
He turned the copter; they fluttered toward the peak.
The cable ran by below them.
The Swiss-styled header station laid ahead, becoming visible through the snow . . .
Leo had heard stories of naoli and the condition they entered when they slept and when they drank alcoholic beverages. He knew there were other ways to wake them, but he did not know what they were. He had only heard about the application of pain, heard about it from spacers who had been in the outer reaches, among the many races of the galaxy. He did not want to hurt Hulann. There was no other choice.
The chopper was working closer now, swaying back and forth directly down the slope from them, around the cableway system. He could hear it coming gradually closer, then receding, only to come back again.
"Hulann!"
The naoli did not respond, and there was no time to try anything but that which he knew would work. He stood and ran through the lobby, along a corridor and into the main dining hall. The tables were set, everything ready for a full house—except dust had collected on the silverware. Leo moved between the tables, through the double doors at the rear of the room and into the large hotel kitchen. In moments, he found the knife and went back to the lobby.
He knelt next to the couch where Hulann slept. His hands shook as he brought the blade forth, and he dropped it as if it were red hot the first time the gleaming point touched the tough alien skin. He looked at the knife on the carpet and could not bring himself to lift it.
The helicopter's engine changed tone. Then, the roar of it grew steadily louder. It was coming directly for the hotel!
He picked up the knife in both hands so that he could be sure of holding onto it. He pricked the point of it in Hulann's biceps.
The alien slept on.
He jabbed deeper. A small well of blood sprang up around the edges of the knife. A thin trickle of it ran down Hulann's arm and dripped onto the couch.
Leo felt ill.
The copter's engine boomed abruptly louder, three times the volume as before, as it came over the brow of the mountain down near the header station.
He twisted the blade, opening the wound farther.
More blood sprang up.
The copter passed over the hotel, turned to come back.
The room shook with its noise.
Leo gritted his teeth, twisted the blade viciously in the rubbery flesh.
Instantly, Hulann sat up, striking out with an arm that caught the boy on the side of the head and knocked him sprawling on the floor.
"They're here!" Leo shouted, not angry that he had been struck.
"I thought you were—"
"They're here!" he insisted.
Hulann listened as the Hunter's craft swept low over the hotel roof. He stood, his entire body trembling now. It had to be a Hunter, for they could not have been found so quickly by anyone else. The Hunter—Docanil. Yes, that was his name.
Dark blue velveteen trousers and shirt . . . Black boots . . . Heavy greatcoat . . . Gloves for the six-fingered hands, gloves with the ends open to permit the claws their deadly full-length when he chose to unsheath them . . . The high skull . . . The deadly, steady eyes . . . And the extended claw circled by the sharpened iron nails . . .
While he stood, nightmares flushing through his mind, the copter settled onto the promenade before the hotel, only a hundred yards from the lobby doors.
"What can we do?" Leo asked.
"Hurry," Hulann said, turning and striding across the lobby toward the rear of the great hotel complex. He was not certain where he was going. Panic was guiding him. But panic was better than paralysis, for it carried him away from the Hunter Docanil, gained a few extra minutes in which to think.
Leo hurried behind.
They passed the dining hall entrance, went beyond a small mall with a plasti-glass roof that gave a view of the sky. Here, there were a dozen shops for the hotel patrons, a few little restaurants, a barber, curios, and a hundred-seat theater. They went out the other side of the mall and into the offices of the hotel administration. These were bare now. The doors stood open. Dust gathered on what had once been urgent memos and important reports.
At last, they reached the back of the hotel, pushed open a heavy fire door, and stepped into the snow again. They had gotten several hours sleep, but the moment the cold and wind hit them, they felt as if they had only paused a minute or two since getting off the cablecar.
Ahead, the top of the mountain stretched. There were various markers indicating the direction to the ski slopes, toboggan trails, and other points of interest. A hundred feet away, they spotted a squat, block building perched on a small knoll, windowless, with a single sliding door that rolled away overhead.
"There," Hulann said.
"But they'll check that after they search the hotel."
"We're not staying there. I think it may be a garage. The skiers had to have some way to reach the slopes besides walking."
"Yeah!" Leo said, grinning.
Hulann could not grin, and he marveled at the boy's delight over such a small treasure. Even if it turned out to be a garage, there might be no vehicles there. And if there were cars, they might not run. And if they ran, there was still no guarantee they could escape Docanil and his copter. Certainly no time to grin.
The boy reached the door first, palmed the control set in a black panel in the concrete wall. The metal portal shuddered, then groaned upward, admitting them. The interior of the place was like a tomb, dim and cold and sifted over with dust and frost. But there were cars. There were heavy tread vehicles for use in drifts of almost any size.
>
They boarded the first, found that it would not turn over; the second was in the same condition. As was the third. But the fourth one coughed twice, sputtered like a man with a mouthful of some unpleasant food, and grumbled into life. Hulann brought the clumsy beast out of the garage, surprised that—now that it was running—it made almost no noise. That would be better for an escape. And for something else he had in mind. He turned the car toward the front of the hotel.
"Where are you going?" Leo wanted to know.
"To see if they left the helicopter unguarded," Hulann said.
Leo grinned. Despite himself, Hulann grinned too . . .
Docanil and the traumatist stood in the deserted lobby, surveying the rich draperies and plush furniture. Now and then, the Hunter would go to a chair or couch to inspect it. Banalog could not begin to guess what he expected to find.
"They've been here?" he asked the Hunter.
"Yes."
"Are they still—"
"Perhaps."
"It is a large place to have to search."
"We will not have to search it all," Docanil said. He bent to the carpet, his steady eyes on it. "The dust. Here. And there. And leading that way. It has been disturbed."
"I cannot see—"
"Of course not."
Docanil peeled off his gloves and tucked them into the pockets of his enormous coat. Banalog looked at the hands. Though they were larger than most naoli hands, they appeared no more deadly. He knew the truth to be different. They were the deadliest tools in the galaxy . . .
He strode off toward the back of the hotel . . .
. . . and stopped instantly as the crash sounded from the front promenade.
"The helicopter!" Banalog said.
But Docanil was by him, running for the door, a huge, dark figure much like something a human might have painted to represent a demon of Hell fleeing the wrath of the Almighty. He burst through the doors and onto the porch, Banalog a few steps behind.
The copter was lying on its side. It had been rammed by a heavy, ten passenger ground car, toppled from its landing skis. The car circled and came back, running headlong for the front of the plane. It struck with a resounding jar that shook the ground and even sent a tremble through the patio on which they stood. The windscreen shattered. The nose crumpled inward, jamming the control mechanisms.