Once inside, Doc paused. None of the buzzers bore names, and the old TV monitor screen was smashed as though someone had put a brick through it. Doc pushed the buzzer he thought was the right one. Then, when no voice signal came, he trudged up six flights of stairs and thumped on a heavy door.
Something stirred inside. A muffled voice said, "Who's there?"
"Me," Doc said. "Look under the door." He tore a page from his pocket notebook, scribbled on it, and slipped it halfway under the door. It vanished, and a few seconds later he heard bars and chains being released. The door opened a crack and he saw Billy's eye peering out.
"Jeez," Billy said, opening the door. "You had me worried. I wasn't expecting company." As Doc started to answer, Billy held up a warning finger. "Don't talk. This place may be wired up for voice prints. Let me get my coat, I know a place we can go."
Moments later Billy emerged, bundled up to the ears in his corduroy coat and a thick wool muffler. Silently he led Doc down the stairs to the street again. It seemed colder than before, and a cutting wind had come up, drifting snow and sending clouds of it whirling down the dark street ahead of them. Doc walked briskly, with Billy hobbling along beside him. Two blocks up the street they came to a dingy basement restaurant with a flickering neon beer sign in the window. The place was completely deserted except for a waitress reading a love novel behind the counter. Billy led Doc to a table near the back in a dimly lit corner. There he sat down and loosened his muffler, his teeth literally chattering even though the place was warm and steamy. "Doc, you shouldn't have come. I don't know who may be watching me . . . didn't Molly tell you?"
"She told me you were under some kind of surveillance, yes. But what did you expect me to do? Sit around twiddling my thumbs until you got ready to tell me what's going on? I've got work to do, patients to see —" Doc broke off, looking around the grimy restaurant. "Can we get a privacy screen?"
Billy shook his head. "No such thing down here. And if they did have one, we couldn't use it anyway. We'd have the cops in here inside of ten minutes."
Doc looked closely at Billy. "Why? Just what is going on?"
Billy rolled up his sleeve, revealing the transponder unit clamped to his wrist. "I picked up this little toy when they hauled me in last night."
"Oh, oh." Doc examined the device. "Isn't this one of those constant-signal transmitters?"
"Right."
"An electronic shadowing device."
"Right again. There's a grid pattern of receivers built into the telephone lines and laser conduits all over the city. Any place I go, the grid pattern reports my coordinates, minute by minute, as I move from one grid to the next. There's no audio or visual pickup, but there doesn't need to be. Any change from a perfectly smooth pickup pattern on the grid, and an alert goes out to the nearest precinct station, and they can have a helicopter on me in minutes. They can also retrace every place I go, everyplace, for court evidence later. They've got me boxed in tight; I can't make a move that they don't know about if they want to know about it."
"I know," Doc said glumly. "Legally it's considered equivalent to imprisonment. But I thought it had to be court-ordered and court-regulated. How did they manage to hang one on you?"
"Computer-court. They nailed me with a misdea-meanor charge, illegal possession of surgical supplies. Then they had the court rigged so that I got hung with the transponder whether I accepted the computer-court guilty verdict or appealed it pending a jury trial. In fact, it seemed to me that what they really wanted was to get this transponder on me, one way or another, regardless of any particular charges. Well, they worked it, all right. This thing's on me legally, and the minute it stops signaling for any reason whatever, there'll be a squad car
or chopper homing in on the spot where the signal quit."
Doc frowned and looked more closely at the gadget. "What would happen if you just cut it off and then took a heli-cab to the other side of the city before they could close in?"
Billy shook his head. "I'm not that crazy. There's a mandatory five years for transponder-jumping, it's the equivalent of a jailbreak. Of course I might get away before they nailed me, but they'd get me sooner or later. And anyway, why should I take the risk? It sure wouldn't do me any good—I'd just have to go underground and stay there—and it wouldn't do you any good, either. You'd just have to get another bladerunner, you wouldn't dare have me around."
"Well, you're not much use dragging that thing around on your wrist, either," Doc said, "leaving a blazed trail every place you go."
"So what am I supposed to do about it?" Billy flared. "You act like you've got some kind of problem. Well, I'm the one with the problem."
"Okay, okay, neither one of us likes it," Doc said. "The question is what we can do about it. There must be something. Now quiet down and tell me everything that happened last night. Maybe we can think of something."
Billy told him everything, from the moment Doc's heli-cab had taken off from the rooftop until the moment he had appeared at Billy's door—the Health Control interrogation, the computer-court hearing, his release with the transponder, everything. He paused as the waitress came up to take their orders, soy steak for Doc, a bowl of soup for Billy, and then continued. "So with this thing on my wrist, there wasn't much I could do," he concluded. "I went home and holed up, slept awhile, and then worked up nerve enough to go out and use a phone. I didn't dare use my own—it looked like they'd pulled the audio-visual bug out of my room, but there was no way I could be sure without a lot of testing devices that I don't have."
Doc scratched his chin. "Wouldn't be any problem to get help there. As a matter of fact—"
"Doc, what I don't see is why they were so eager to get this transponder on me in the first place. Have they been bothering you too?"
"In a way, yes. They're going after it differently, but I think it's me they're after in the long run. Just how they connect me with you I don't know—I'm not even sure they do—but as long as you've got that thing broadcasting on your wrist, we're both vulnerable. Somehow we've got to get it shut off without getting you into trouble."
"Fine. But how?"
"There's a computer man at the hospital owes me a favor," Doc said. "Jerry Kosinski. We fixed his kid's broken leg last year, remember?"
"Little guy with glasses? Yeah."
"He knows more about surveillance systems than anybody else I can think of. At least he could check out your room for you, and maybe do something about the transponder too. You go ahead and eat; I'll make a call from the corner."
A few moments later Doc was back. "Got him, and he'll meet us. Your room, as soon as he can get there. We'd better get along." He finished his steak, saw that Billy's soup was untouched. "What's the matter, you sick?"
"Just not hungry," Billy said, pushing the soup away. "Let's get out of here."
Back in his room Billy emptied a chair for Doc to sit down in and made a pot of coffee. They waited in silence as an hour passed, then another. Doc dozed, his head on his chest; Billy paced, pausing now and then to peer down at the street below through the steamy window. At last there was a rap on the door, and Billy let the little computer man in.
Jerry Kosinski nodded to Doc, shook hands with Billy, and set a small black valise on the floor. "Sorry to take so long," he said. "The snow has slowed traffic all over." He wiped steam from his glasses and peered around the room. "So you're having trouble with bugs, eh?"
"You might say so," Doc said. "We're not sure about the room, but there's no question about the bracelet the boy's wearing."
"Well, let's take the room first. You said there was a matchstick receiver installed here two days ago that's gone now, right? Where was it?"
Billy showed him the tiny hole in the floorboard where the bug had been. With flashlight in hand the little man went over the whole room, whistling through his teeth as he peered and probed. One by one he pulled testing instruments from the valise, completely absorbed in his task. He paid special attention to the teleph
one and computer console, at one point making an outside call and waiting for a call-back. Finally he sighed and looked at Billy. "If there's anything in this room that's bugged right now, I can't spot it. I think you're clean."
Billy took a deep breath and sat down on the bed. "That's good news," he said finally. "Now if there were just some way to shake this bracelet—"
"Let's have a look," Kosinski said. He studied the transponder closely, took some intruments from the valise, fiddled with dials. "Well, it's a standard police transponder," he said at length. "You don't dare try to take it off, or tamper with it, but we can certainly spoof it."
"Spoof it?"
"Fix it so it doesn't tell them anything." The engineer dug in his bag again and laid two devices out on the table. One looked almost identical to Billy's transponder, the other like a woman's hairnet made of fine silvery wire. "The idea is to set up a phony signal that they can't distinguish from the real one, and then block the real signal so they think the phony signal is valid. This gadget here is just another transmitter like the one on your wrist. We'll tune it to transmit exactly the same signal as your bracelet. Once I start it, we'll just lay it on your dresser here and leave it. It'll keep broadcasting for at least two months on the power pack that's attached. Meanwhile, we'll muffle your bracelet with this wire net gadget here. It's very similar to the old-fashioned Farra-day cages they used to use for privacy screens, but it's much smaller. It does the same thing, though—it keeps signals from going through. Once it's on, you can go any place you want and they can't follow you. Now let's get this set."
For several minutes Kosinski worked with the phony transponder, adjusting it, checking a tuning dial, then readjusting it. "Now hold out your wrist." He made a final adjustment and pressed a stud on the phony transponder. Quickly, then, he wrapped the wire mesh around Billy's wrist transponder and anchored it in place with a couple of laces. "There," he said. "You'll have to be sure that stays on, but as long as it does, the police grid will be picking up the signal from the phony transmitter, not from yours."
Billy looked at the wrapped bracelet and then at Kosinski. "You mean that's all there is to it? The phony is working now?"
"That's right."
"And if I leave it on the dresser there I can go anywhere I want and they'll think I'm right here?"
"Right. If you're smart, you'll take the phony with you when you go out to eat and things like that, so they'll see some activity, but leave it here when you don't want to be followed. If you want to switch back for some reason, just unwrap the muffler and then unlock the stud on the phony transmitter—but then don't
try to activate the phony again without help. Just give me a call."
Billy laughed. "Fat chance of that. Doc, we're back in business."
Doc smiled. "Thanks to Jerry."
"Don't fret, Doc. Junior may break another leg." The little engineer repacked his valise and climbed into his coat "Any problems, just let me know. I'd better get back now before I'm snowed in."
When the engineer had left, Billy lay back on the bed. "Okay, Doc. Now what?"
"For the moment, nothing," Doc said. "While you've been having your troubles, I've been having mine, and I think we'd better lie low for a day or two. You get your phone reconnected, and stand by. I'll contact you when I need you."
"Suits me," Billy said. "With this headache I feel like I could sleep for a week."
Doc looked up sharply. "I thought you looked lousy. How long have you had a headache?"
"Since this morning."
"Anything else?"
"I've been chilly all day. A little sore throat, and I kind of ache all over. That's about all."
"All right, let's check your temperature." Doc pulled a small leather pack from his pocket.
"Aw, come on, I'm just catching cold, that's all."
"Maybe and maybe not. After what I've seen going on, I'm not taking any chances." He stuck a thermometer in Billy's mouth. A moment later he checked it and swore aloud.
"What is it?"
"A hundred and three," Doc said disgustedly. "Why didn't you say you were getting sick?" He pulled a sealed culture tube from his kit, swabbed Billy's throat, and sealed the swab back in the tube. Next he withdrew a syringe and needle and injected some medicine into
Billy's shoulder. "That Viricidin, just in case this is the Shanghai flu you're coming down with. I'm also leaving some capsules here. Take two of them now and two morning and evening until they're gone—got that? And if that headache isn't gone by tomorrow evening, don't wait for me to call, you call me . . . okay?"
Billy nodded dully, shivering in the overheated room. At Doc's urging, he repeated the medication instructions. "Good," Doc said finally. "Take some aspirin too, and then get to bed and stay there. I'll keep in touch."
Moments later Doc was back down on the street. He walked through drifting snow to an Upper City arterial, clutching his coat collar to his throat, and finally caught a ground-cab. He sat back wearily, suddenly and overwhelmingly sleepy. It had been a long and disquieting day, and he could not shake the feeling that he would need energy to spare when he reached the Hospital next morning.
IX
His code number was flashing intermittently on the paging system when he walked into the Hospital just before seven next morning, and a light blinking on his mail box indicated a message was there. In the box he found copies of two new patient admission slips bearing his name as attending physician—one for a Will Hardy, aged forty-eight, the other for Robert Hardy, aged twelve. According to the slips, father and son had arrived at the hospital by ambulance shortly after midnight and had been admitted to an isolation ward by the emergency room intern who had first seen them. In each case the admitting diagnosis was acute meningitis.
So the Hardys had come back, after all. Doc tucked the notices in his pocket, and made his way across the hospital lobby to the doctor's lounge. Here he picked up a telephone to answer his page, sipping coffee and munching a doughnut as he dialed his code. Two calls were in for him, one from 14 West, the isolation ward where the Hardys were admitted, and one from Katie Durham. He rang the isolation ward first. The desk nurse there, dressed in isolation gown and mask, looked relieved when she saw him on the screen. "Did you get slips on your two new patients, Doctor? They both look very sick, and we'll need some orders on them."
"Okay, I'll be up right away," Doc said. He rang off, started to ring Katie Durham's office, and then put the phone down. He was early, and Katie could wait. Finishing his coffee, he left the lounge and jumped on a west-wing jitney. Ten minutes later he was slipping into an isolation gown and mask in the dressing room of 14 West.
"I'm glad you got here," the nurse was saying as she led him down the corridor to a six-bed wardroom at the end. "The intern has gotten routine studies started and ordered up IV's, but we need continuation orders for the Viricidin, and something for pain and fever."
"Any sign of convulsions?" Doc asked.
"Not yet, but if they go like some of the others, that could begin any time, and then the ones we've had have just gone right on out."
"Well, we may be in time." He stepped into the room and saw the two Hardys in beds at the far side. An intern was adjusting an IV on the older man. Doc crossed the room, frowning. Will Hardy was obviously far sicker than when Doc had last seen him thirty-six hours before, but he managed a feeble wave of his hand. "Hi, Doc. I should have done what you said. This neck's really getting me now."
"How's the boy?" Doc said, looking across at the sleeping figure in the other bed.
"Better than me," Hardy said. "His stifl neck didn't start until after dinner last night."
"Well, let's take a look at you." Carefully, painstakingly, Doc examined the older man, checking heart and lungs, extremities, neurological signs. Then he took the chart from the intern, nodded in satisfaction. "Okay, things seem to be under control here. You'll both need continuous IV's, and we're going to keep you loaded up with medicines. You're going to have
to be here awhile, I'm afraid, and you're to do everything the nurse tells you—no nonsense whatever, understand?"
"Don't worry, I'll behave."
"You'd better. Now what about your wife?"
"I'm not sure. They kept her in the emergency room for some tests and shots, I think."
"Well, I'll check," Doc said. "She didn't get the Shanghai flu when the rest of you did; she may be all right with just immunizations. I'll check back with you tonight. Meanwhile get some rest."
Back at the nurse's desk Doc wrote examination notes on the charts, together with additional orders. "Keep a close eye on them," he told the nurse. "They should have come in two nights ago, but there may still be time."
"I hope so. Sometimes these Naturist people just don't use good sense."
"It isn't just the Naturists that are in trouble," Doc said. "You're going to have a floor full of sick people here before this is over, unless I miss my guess." He finished his notes and handed her the chart. "Page me if you need me," he said.
By eight o'clock the hospital was alive with early-morning activity, with elevators and jitneys full. Back in his street clothes, Doc made his way up to Katie Durham's office. In the reception room her secretary looked up from the two telephones she was handling simultaneously and sighed. "TTiere you are! Dr. Durham is about climbing the walls."
"What's the trouble?"
"They don't tell me the trouble, but it's like a convention in there, computer people in and out all night. They called me in at five o'clock to handle the phone, and I don't think Dr. Durham got home at all."
Katie's head appeared at the door. "Will you try paging John Long again, urgent? Oh, he's here." She looked weary and shaken, and there was no mistaking her relief at Doc's presence. "John, did you ever call it! You have no idea. Come on in, we're finally making some sense out of these figures."
Alan E. Nourse - The Bladerunner Page 13