One Million Tomorrows M

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One Million Tomorrows M Page 13

by Bob Shaw

“That upstart!” Gwynne sneered. “Didn’t he once say that to lead was to be blind to the necessity of following?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He didfenynne assured him. “As a philosopher that man is just pitiful. Take Bradley now …”

  “Perhaps,” Carewe put in quickly, “you could tell me who or what Beau Geste was.”

  Gwynne shook his head. “I don’t read much fiction. I think he was an upper crust Englishman who got mixed up in a family scandal and ran away to join a tough military outfit in the desert. Probably the old French Foreign Legion.”

  Carewe nodded—that tied in with Kendy’s comment on his arrival in Africa. “What sort of stuff do you read?”

  “Anything, nearly. History, biography, science …”

  Carewe thought of old Costello’s words. “But how much do you actually remember?”

  “Ah!” Gwynne said significantly. “That isn’t the point. When you’ve read a book on any subject, even if you subsequently forget every word, you’re left with a different kind of ignorance.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It isn’t too easy to explain—I’d say it’s because you’re aware of how much you don’t know.”

  Carewe lapsed into silence. Was that sufficient raison d’etre for an immortal—increasing his awareness of his own ignorance, creating a negative image of knowledge? Could it be equated with a growth of wisdom? Or was Gwynne’s different kind of ignorance also subject to the erasures of time? Bunny Costello had the sad disappointed face of a man who had seen a lot of life but failed to benefit from the experience.

  The bullet decelerated gently, passed through a series of sphincters and slid into the breach of the Idaho Falls terminal. There was a minimal delay while a roboloader set the vehicle on a chassis, and as soon as the drive transmission had engaged Gwynne headed south. Traffic was light and they made good time to the outskirts of the old city where factory buildings loomed along desolate streets. Blue-green lighting washed over featureless walls and bled into the sky, screening the stars. Carewe felt a stirring of almost pleasurable excitement—the taste of danger was still too new and foreign to be palatable, but it would satisfy the ennui which had been growing in him all day. And he might see Athene again, within a matter of minutes. He took a deep breath, suddenly detected a harshly acid tang of perspiration and glanced at Gwynne. The investigator’s forehead was dewed with sweat as he brought the bullet to a standstill in a short cul-de-sac. Carewe vaguely associated the unfamiliar smell as being associated with nervous stress, and he was both surprised and concerned.

  “How’re you feeling, Theodore?” he said casually.

  “Comme ci, comme ca, mostly comme ca. This is routine stuff in my line of business.” Gwynne touched his beaded forehead. “I must get the heater in this thing adjusted.Are you ready to go?”

  Carewe nodded. “Is this the place?”

  “We’re close to it. Best go the rest of the way on foot.” Gwynne opened a compartment and took out a small flashlight. It seemed to Carewe that the smell in the vehicle grew even stronger. He opened the bullet’s door quickly and got out, snatching the cool night air into his lungs.

  “I think the Frictionfree place is along here.” Gwynne pointed down the cul-de-sac to where the street lighting faded into darkness.

  Carewe was unable to see any signs; to his eyes the buildings all looked anonymous. “You know this area?”

  “I got the location from a map.” Gwynne crossed the street and walked cautiously towards the black trapezium of a doorway, with Carewe close behind him feeling strange and self-conscious. He had an abrupt and utter conviction that there was nobody in the silent factory building, and that he had been tricked into taking part in a ridiculous game. He was about to voice his doubts when a snarling gray shape emerged from the doorway and sprang directly at them. Gwynne leaped to one side, pointing his flashlight defensively, then swore as he realized they had disturbed a cat. Carewe stared thoughtfully after the fleeing animal. The part of his mind which jealously guarded his safety night and day was telling him there was something wrong somewhere.

  “Ever see one of these things?” Gwynne opened his pouch and held out a slim cylinder which appeared to taper off into a door key. There was just enough light in the street for Carewe to see that the teeth of the key were moving restlessly, like the stubby feet of a caterpillar. He shook his head abstractedly, his mind searching for the cause of its subconscious unease. Gwynne slid the key-like artifact into the lock of a small door which formed part of the main gate. The door opened at once, releasing a gust of stale warm air. Gwynne motioned for Crewe to pass through into the utter blackness beyond.

  Carewe hesitated. “This seems like a hell of a place to bring someone you want to study. How good is your information, Theo?”

  “Very good. Remember we’re going in the back way—through shops and stores. The office section at the front is bound to be more habitable.”

  “But the whole place feels so dead.”

  “Scared of the dark, Willy boy?” Gwynne carefully switched on his flashlight, pushed it through the doorway and went inside. Carewe followed, studying the little man by stray reflections his spotlight drew from the metal sides of what appeared to be storage bins. On arriving at the factory Gwynne had suddenly become nervous—so nervous that the cat outside had terrified him for an instant. Carewe paused in mid-stride. During his moment of panic Gwynne had pointed his flashlight at the cat, instinctively and defensively, as though he was handling a weapon. When he was switching the flash on he had done so carefully—with the sort of respect one gives a weapon. And now he was walking with a crab-like gait which would have appeared natural man carrying a pistol, but which seemed odd for a person holding a flashlight.

  Carewe stood still and let the other man draw away from him a little. Was he becoming paranoid in his thinking? There was no doubt that somebody had tried to kill him while he was in Africa, but if Gwynne joined in on the game it could only mean…

  “Where are you, Willy?” Gwynne turned and shone his light back the way he had come.

  “Right here,” Carewe said, as his eyes dazzled painfully. The pressure of light left his face. He looked down and saw the spot of white brilliance trembling on his chest. I’m a fool, he thought, but he leaped aside anyway—just as a spear of ruby-colored energy blazed from Gwynne’s hand.

  Shocked and blinded, Carewe kept moving at top speed with his arms raised to protect his face. He collided with a column, fell to his knees and his hands touched metal steps. Groping for a handrail, he ran silently upwards, guessing he would arrive on the catwalk which he had noticed spanning the storage bins. At the top he threw himself flat and lay blinking furiously in the darkness while varicolored after-images slowly faded from his vision. When his eyes had recovered he found the building was in darkness again except for a strangely localized red glow close to ground level. As he watched the glow deepened to a cherry color, then faded away, and he realized it had been coming from a piece of machinery which had been struck by Gwynne’s laser burst. The thought of what would have happened to him had he not jumped aside in time brought a tingle of perspiration to his brow.

  A spot of white light appeared below, danced briefly across metal walls and vanished. Carewe lay still, assessing his chances. Gwynne had the only weapon and it was a highly potent one, but to aim it efficiently he had first to throw a spot of incoherent light on his target. In doing that he was forced to advertise his position, but it was a very minor disadvantage. Had Carewe been the one with the laser he would be feeling relatively at ease. The light flickered again, in a different direction, and he pressed his face closer to the checkered metal of the catwalk.

  As the seconds dragged past Carewe was forced to an inescapable conclusion. If he continued to lie motionless and wait to be found…he would die before the night was over. Several times he rejected the idea of trying to attack Gwynne, but always it returned with a slow insistence which seemed almost more me
nacing than the laser itself. Finally he raised his face from the metal and discovered he could see a faint pattern of skylights in the roof above him. Testing his vision, he scanned his surroundings. There was a faint greenish radiance from the overhead transparencies—refracted street lighting from outside—which had not been noticeable until his eyes had adapted to the conditions. Gradually he picked up the confused outline of machines and storage bins, dimly laced together with the fainter traces of catwalks, handrails, beams and snaking pipes. Was there anything in the bins which might be used as a weapon?

  Carewe waited until another tentative flash of light came from below. It was closer this time, but he used the splintered reflections to peer into the bin which yawned only a few inches from his side. It appeared to be about two meters deep and was about half filled with what looked like glistening fist-sized bubbles. Even when the illumination from Gwynne’s flash had faded, Carewe could see the bubbles glinting like faint stars. He stared down at them in momentary bafflement, then a phrase from his earlier conversation with Gwynne filtered up into his consciousness. “… outfit called Frictionfree Bearings.” Bearings! The bubbles below him were actually spheres of solid metal.

  Filled with a sudden defiant hopefulness, he moved closer to the edge of the bin. A ballbearing the size of an orange could make a respectable weapon. He gripped a handrail standard with his left hand and reached down into the bin, stretching with his right until he touched the cool spheres. His fingers closed around one but it instantly slid out of his grasp. He tried again, taking a firmer grip, and the bearing shot away just as before. It struck others with a loud multiple click and, immediately, the flashlight probed up from below, limning the handrail above him with frosty light.

  Carewe realized he had made an appalling mistake.

  The bearings he had been planning to use as weapons were not simple spheres of steel. Conventional bearings had been ousted decades earlier by the modern type whose surfaces, composed of radially polarized molecules, had virtually no index of friction. Unless they were laterally restrained any attempt to put pressure on one of them resulted in the ball shooting away like a squeezed pip. For many engineering applications they were superb, but they were not suited for use as hand-held missiles. And there was nothing else available.

  Holding his breath, Carewe slid his fingers under another bearing, hooked them to form a shallow basket and brought it upwards. He was forced to shift his weight as his hand came level with his face and the massive bearing darted away like a live thing straining to rejoin its fellows. It clattered into the bin and the ruby sword of the laser slashed through the handrail, showering Carewe’s back with droplets of white-hot metal. He clenched his teeth and tried again. This time he brought the bearing up in one continuous movement, just as Gwynne appeared at the head of the stairs. Carewe swung the bearing sideways, moaning with despair as it evaded his grip and bounded along the catwalk.

  Taken by surprise, Gwynne pointed his light at the bearing as it rushed towards him seemingly gathering speed. Carewe launched himself after it. The flashlight shone blindingly in his face for an instant, then he thudded into Gwynne. He tried to bear the little investigator down, but Gwynne fought back with desperate strength and they caromed from rail to rail down the length of the catwalk. Carewe was whimpering with panic, aware that Gwynne still had the flash in his hand. He felt his opponent strive to turn the weapon against him and every muscle in his body exploded with undirected energy.

  Gwynne and he went high over the railings, and downwards into one of the storage bins. For a moment Carewe thought he had plunged into cold water, then he realized he was in a bin full of very small bearings. Completely inimical to friction, the tiny metal spheres offered less support than water, and he went to the bottom immediately. The bearings invaded his mouth like ferocious insects. He could feel them clicking eagerly against his teeth and pouring down into his stomach, metallic lemmings driven by gravity to seek the lowest level of any container in which they found themselves. They were indiffereered l the fact that the containers now presented to them were Carewe’s lungs and stomach.

  Closing his mouth, he forced himself to stand up straight and his face emerged into air. He spewed bearings from his lips, but his mouth was barely above the surface and a fresh wave of them lapped over his lower jaw, filling his mouth with their steely swarming presence. Any attempt to spit them out would merely have resulted in another influx. He swallowed convulsively and, breathing through closed teeth, made his way to the side of the bin. There was a handrail standard close by. He caught it gratefully, dragged himself up onto the catwalk and lay vomiting. It was not until the last of the metallic spawn had been driven from his stomach that he remembered Gwynne. The investigator was a head smaller than Carewe, and would not have been able to get his face above the surface. Carewe looked down into the bin, but its contents were motionless.

  Either Gwynne had … he sought for a word … drowned, or he was still alive on the bottom. The thought of deliberately putting his head under the silver “liquid” filled Carewe with dread, but it was possible that Gwynne could survive for quite a long time on air filtering through the bearings, and to leave him there would have been unthinkable. He was sliding his legs over the side of the bin when a transformation took place in the bin. The flat silvery surface glowed with a beautiful crimson light which came from within. It was as if the millions of steel balls had been transmuted to garnets and illuminated by a momentary blaze of sunlight.

  The light died abruptly and Carewe froze in the act of lowering himself into the bin. Gwynne must have triggered off his laser. An accident? In the center of the bin another glow appeared, but this one was localized and its color was that of incandescent metal. Carewe felt the heat on his face, then his nostrils caught the smell of searing steel—and of something else.

  He crawled away, choking, and reached the narrow stair which led to the ground. At the bottom he became aware that his hose and shoes had bearings in them, making walking a painful exercise. He sat down, removed his shoes and spilled the steel balls from them, listening abstractedly as they scuttled away to freedom down imperceptible gradients in the factory floor. Gwynne was dead! Instead of the million tomorrows which Osman claimed was every man’s natural birthright he had nothing, was nothing. He was no longer a man, an investigator, an enemy. He no longer existed. The pain and bafflement of an immortal confronted with mortality made Carewe’s breathing difficult. He shook his head, swearing bitterly into the impassive darkness, then with determined practicality began to cleanse himself of the remaining bearings. It was necessary to strip off all his clothes and turn them inside out. While he worked he found further steel balls under his tongue and lodged in the back of his nose. He snorted and spat, then noticed a peculiar sensation in his eyes. When he pressed the surrounding skin other bearings oozed from the sockets and slid down his cheeks.

  Ten minutes had passed before he had dressed again and found his way to the door where he and Gwynne had entered the plant. He went to Gwynne’s bullet, remembered he had no ignition key and walked on through the sterile streets, trying to remember the route by which he had come. The events of the night had left his brain numb, but some conclusions were inescapable.

  The information about Athene having been traced to Idaho Falls had been a fabrication, an elaborate ruse to get him out of the Three Springs area and make him “vanish.” Gwynne had been Barenboim’s man—which suggested that the president of Farma, having given Carewe a new kind of immortality, had then instigated a series of attempts on his life. But why? What possible reason could … ?

  A fresh thought occurred to Carewe, pushing the analysis of Barenboim’s motives into the back of his mind. If Barenboim wanted him killed, then the whole story about the machinations of a rival drug concern was also untrue—and that meant Athene could easily be dead.

  It also meant that if she was still alive, Barenboim was the man who knew where.

  XIV

  The pol
ice station was in complete darkness.

  Carewe, whose sketchy knowledge of police operations came from occasional tridi programs, was taken by surprise. He knew that crime was comparatively rare in the wealthy and well-adjusted bitch society, but it had not occurred to him that policemen worked normal office hours. His feet burned from the hour-long search which had brought him to the station, and his chest was hurting. A suspicion that some of the bearings had found their way into his lungs kept nagging at him, but he did his best to forget the prospects of further surgery. There would be time to worry about that later.

  He went up the steps into the station’s shadowy entrance and pounded on the door. His fists made discouragingly little sound on the reinforced plastic. He was turning away in disgust when he noticed a communicator screen in one corner of the porch. Beneath it was a local code and the legend: IN CASE OF AFTER-HOURS EMERGENCY, CALL THIS NUMBER. Feeling scarcely

  mollified, he punched in the number and waited for the screen to energize. It flashed colors for a second, then a flat image of a heavy-eyed man in police grays appeared.

  “What’s the trouble?” the policeman asked sleepily.

  Carewe hesitated, wondering where to start. “My wife has been kidnapped and one of the men who did it has been killed.”

  “Really?” The policeman sounded unimpressed. “I’d better advise you that the commset you’re facing automatically records retinal patterns and we make a practice of tracing and prosecuting hoaxters.”

  “Do I look like a hoaxter?”

  The officer eyed Carewe noncommittally. “Where and when was all this supposed to happen?”

  “Listen,” Carewe said angrily, “I’m reporting a serious crime and I don’t propose to stand all night on this lousy porch while doing it”

  “Can’t do much for you unless we get some details, friend.”

  “All right. The kidnapping took place three days ago up north in Three Springs. The man died tonight right here in Idaho Falls, at the Frictionfree Bearings plant.”

 

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