They were inside Megara with three minutes to go before 1700. Crossing onto the single track for the Alhambra district, Kalmar had a sudden thought for greater security and held on for two minutes before checking out onto a static. There was no telling what might happen when the walkways stopped. One of the officials might well insist that all travelers stayed where they were until the fault was located.
In the event, there was nothing much to see, from the high static way they were on, when the walkway below them slowed to a halt. The only serious matter was that they felt suddenly very conspicuous.
From being slow-moving elements against a backdrop of general activity, they became the only moving features on a stationary set. Common curiosity would dictate that they should stop and look down.
Minarets and fountains showed up below. The last flyover made direct entry to the second floor of the Alhambra. They had turned into it, when a figure detached itself from the stanchions which marked the end of the lane. Even at the fifty meters distance which separated them, Kalmar recognized the section leader he had seen the day before.
Wendle Orman was taking his time. Almost casually he was moving along to meet them.
A deep oblong pouch on the man’s belt balancing the holster which held a squat, gray P7—the instant tranquilizer—gave Kalmar a sudden insight. He was in contact with his H.Q. at Byrsa. From there he would have been told at once about the sabotage and indeed about their defection. This time Gruber would want them in for full-scale investigation. A one-way ticket.
Through the thin tracery of the static way supports the whole front of the Alhambra was visible. Civil guards were moving off the stopped walkway. They fanned out in a planned operation to cover every entrance and six, with a section leader, went at a run through the main entrance.
Jane Welland was gripping his arm. She said quietly, “It’s over then. Don’t mind on my account. It’s been worth while to try.”
There was no answer. Distance had narrowed to ten meters and Orman was clearly looking very pleased with himself. He was speaking, inaudibly to his little box, no doubt telling all. At the same time, he began to draw his pistol. Using it would be an unexpected pleasure. He would be delighted to have Jane Welland mindless and docile, ready to obey any command he might give.
Gaul Kalmar had already stopped considering what effect his thoughts would have on the monitored record. It was a straight issue now. A fight to get out and anyone who chose could know all about it. Orman had the misfortune of being the symbol on the spot of the system. Moreover there was the implicit threat to Jane Welland. Red light momentarily masked his vision, as anger swept through him. He was moving before it cleared; when he reached the guard, he was in a cold, deadly fury.
Orman was lifting the muzzle when his wrist was gripped in a vise and the P7 clattered to the floor. He was no stranger to unarmed combat and had some trophies to prove it, but he was not given any chance to use textbook procedures. Although he was not a pleasant man, there was a kind of injustice in the fate that led him to tangle with a throwback to some remote Viking ancestry. A kind of latter-day berserker. He moved in an arc over a distance of some seven meters, kept within the narrow frame of the static way by a fluke, and lost all interest in this or any other chase. Jane Welland, with some presence of mind, scooped up the fallen tranquilizer and waited for the next thing.
Gaul Kalmar took the girl by the hand and hurried her back the way they had come. “We must get out of here. Try again later.”
“What about the others?”
“Lee knows what he’s about. He’ll go through with the operation. We’ll meet him outside.”
“Outside?”
“This is it.”
“Did the others know?”
“Not the girls.”
“Why not?”
“Security.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Not deliberate. Just statistical likelihood of an unguarded transmission. People making the preparations had to know. No sex slur intended.”
“That’s just as well.”
They had retraced enough ground to be well clear of Alhambra. No doubt the monitor ringer would be on them. That could be refined into a precise positional fix by cross reference. There was no hiding place in Carthage. Except perhaps in Byrsa. Unless the power crisis went on. The monitoring complex used a lot and had a big reserve set up, but someone would be making some stringent economies right now. That was a thought. He said, “We’re a long way from done yet.”
As if on a signal, the sky darkened by the fastest twilight experienced in Carthage and they were hurrying along in a violet darkness which transformed the city into a Bruegel version of hell.
Swarbrick and Shultz moved the small assembly into Hitchen’s apartment at 1645 hours. Lee Wayne and Wanda had been early arrivals. Cheryl Bentham had spent the afternoon there. Tania’s early appearance triggered off the move.
Shultz said, “Gaul and Jane Welland will know where to find us.”
When they were inside, he said, “We might as well go down and wait in the tender. Two members of the party haven’t seen it yet.” He spoke directly to Tania Clermont, “By the way, this is it. We go out now.”
Her reply was a question, “Why wasn’t I told?” Cheryl Bentham came across from where she was standing with Swarbrick. “I could echo that. You rat, Peter, why didn’t you let me know?”
Shultz went on, “Don’t blame him, Cheryl. It was a simple matter of keeping it off the net. Everything you need is stacked in the tender below.”
Tania asked, “Tender?”
“We broke through into an exit lock with an ambulance tender. It’s de luxe travel to start with, but the range will be restricted powerwise.”
He looked sharply at her. Security was no longer a vital issue, but something about her expression triggered off a suspicion which had been dormant for some time, she seemed to be concentrating on a train of thought. His own training sessions in Byrsa were near enough in time to remind him of certain drills for special agents. She could be relaying chapter and verse of what they were doing. When she said, “I’ll go and meet Gaul,” he was certain enough to counter it with, “Not now. Wait for him here.”
When the square below received its quota of civil guards and feet pounded along the corridor outside, doubt disappeared altogether. She was looking towards the door with an expression of knowledge of events to come.
Lee Wayne said, “Down the hole. You first, Wanda. Quick now.” At the same time, he dropped the inside lock and began shifting a heavy settle across the door. Tania Clermont had snapped back the flap of her sling bag and was reaching inside when Shultz chopped down with the heel of his hand and dropped her like a shapely log.
Wayne and Swarbrick straightened from their furniture-moving chore and saw the action, but not its cause. Lee Wayne, knowing Tania from a longer time than he had known the police cadet, jumped to the wrong conclusion and began to move in. “You brought them then. You won’t stop us now, but you moved too soon. Get him, Pete.”
Only Cheryl Bentham’s intervention stopped a very primitive ritual. She had heard the exchanges between Tania and Shultz and had seen her face. She was as convinced as he that Tania was the fifth column. As the two men closed ha on him, she came of age in the new season of violence and flung herself at Swarbrick.
“It’s true, Pete. There’s no doubt about it. She knew they were coming here. Directed them.”
Shultz said, “Look in that bag. See what she was bringing out.”
Cheryl seized it and tipped it up. Cosmetics, tissues, identity tags, a six-centimeter-square black box which was quite unfamiliar to anyone, and a small version of the P7. Something no ordinary citizen could possibly have.
Wayne said, “Sorry, Frank. But you’ll agree you were the more likely. I’ve known Tania a long time. I didn’t think she’d ditch Gaul.”
“That’s all right. We can’t ask her, but she might have fixed him already.”
&n
bsp; The door pinger went into a spasm. A voice, muffled by the fairly efficient soundproofing, was saying, “Open up. Civil guard detail. I’ll give you a count of ten and then tear it down.”
Cheryl Bentham was through, followed closely by Swarbrick. Wayne motioned Shultz to get on with it. But Frank Shultz was staring at the sleeping late-partner. Even in a crumpled heap Tania Clermont was a honey. She had fallen with knees bent and together, on her side, with a thick swath of shining black hair flung out over her right arm which was underneath and forward with slim tapering fingers spread wide on the amber foam floor covering. She looked ready for URN burial, though it would have been a waste. There was something pathetic and defenseless about her. Her lips were slightly apart. She looked incapable of guile.
Shultz said, “Carry on, Lee. I’ll be right behind you.”
Outside, the dedicated conversationalist said, “Time’s up. We’re coming in.” And an M.P. shear, set deep, began a cut down the center of the door.
Shultz had picked up the girl. As an afterthought, he also scooped most of her personal effects back into the bag and thrust it in his belt. The P7 he put in his own pocket. She was very light. He slung her over his shoulder and through the thin leotard could feel the pneumatic tension of her jagana against the side of his face. Her scent was a matter of some subtlety and care, with a faint overtone of sandalwood. Without overt intention, she was doing a fair job of mind-bending.
At the exit, he twisted her round and posted her, feet first, into the open square as if into the mouth of a crematorium. Then he slipped a running loop under her arms and pushed her out.
He heard the door in the outer room give and let her drop the last few feet into the dust, then he slipped inside himself, pulling the insulation plug back into place behind him. It might give them five minutes grace.
At the other end, he reversed procedures and climbed up with the end of her rope tied into his belt. Hauling her up in the confined space was a limit-of-endurance chore, until Swarbrick joined him in the narrow embrasure.
“What’s the idea of bringing Mata Hari?”
“Reclamation job. She does something to me.”
“You can have her.”
“I will.”
Light streamed from the farther opening, and a head and shoulders in uniform were silhouetted in it. As they heaved in the lay figure and dropped below the sill, a forked, crackling flare seared through the hole over their heads and exploded against the opposite wall in a cascade of fire, which left a dark hole as molten ceramic tile fell away.
If the tender had been there it would have had two brand-new doors.
Shultz said, “That’s nasty. Orders to kill. They wouldn’t do that on their own initiative. Let’s get out of here.”
Lee Wayne was already moving the tender forward, at walking pace, with a minimum of ground clearance. Without stopping him, they bundled the girl through the open door where she was hauled in by Wanda Mardin, who still found the set-up hard to believe. Then they went ahead to the wedged outer screen. Three meters thick, it was like a short tunnel.
The top of the tender was scraping the underside. Any increase in speed could only be gained by a boost in height. They crawled on expecting a finalizing jet of fire up the rudder which would write them off.
In fact the delay was caused by the first probing shot. It had carried away the tie bar below the hatch and the guard detachment was working under pressure to get a rope over the one above.
They were through when the first guard jackknifed out of the hole and sent a blast down the lock. Shultz, hanging half out of the port, as Wayne accelerated away, saw a sheet of flame cross the lock as the charge hit and disintegrated the transparent screen. Only a gust of acrid, hot air rushed past them and added a tail boost.
Lee Wayne was using the controls as if he had been a trained operator for this craft. The shuttle rose like a fast elevator to a dial reading in an unfamiliar unit of fathoms, but which looked like six or seven meters from the transparent floor panels, and then pulled away in a steady acceleration which pinned them back against the deep foam seats.
Shultz said, “Now we find out if your brain child has killed the city protection belt!”
It was, in any case, too late to stop.
Below them, the littered approach ramp came out of its cutting in a widening funnel of concrete. Many ways had joined here, in a traffic control system. Wayne followed the center lane which led out to the ancient harbor and brought the tender round in a sweep. They grounded gently on a table of concrete in an area of general smash, where the ruins of elaborate harbor works trailed out into calm, blue-gray water.
For the first time they saw their city from the outside. The vast shining dome shimmered like a mirage. It was incredible that it could ever have been built by man. Cheryl Bentham said quietly, “Citizens of no mean city.” Wherever they went they carried a formidable torch.
Lee Wayne said, “Gaul should have been here.”
Five
Gaul Kalmar would have subscribed to that view. Pounding along the high static way, he realized that there was not a lot of time before the monitors pin-pointed his position and set guards at every strategic intersection.
Down below, in the confused darkness, bobbing flashes of light showed that some people were moving again. Hand torches, not much used in the city, found by accident in pockets and briefcases by a few pessimists, who were justified at last, made up what light could be got. And a new note from the crowd. Rising and falling like a ululation. The beginning of panic.
Nothing like this had happened in living memory and here was proof that an edge of hysteria lay very close to the surface calm.
Jane Welland had given up the direction of affairs to Kalmar. She ran lightly along beside him. Although the whole situation was as insecure as it could well be, she personally felt a kind of happiness and satisfaction that she had never believed possible. She felt alive, in a way that she had not done before. Having decided to think no more and let the man of the house get on with it, nevertheless she had an idea which solved one of their problems.
“Gaul.”
“Here, present.”
“Getting excited down there.”
“True.” He had more weight to move and needed his breath.
“That’s going to flip a lot of relays in the computer rooms.”
“So?”
“So it won’t be easy to get a fix on anybody in particular. Suppose we join the mob?”
“Good thinking.”
Ahead of them, another long stretch ended in a stairway going down. Two lights were flicking between the treads of the flight. He stopped and pulled her to the side. Shadowy stanchions, darker shapes ha a general darkness, ran down from where they were.
“Over you go.”
Her hesitation was only fractional.
“Keep low.”
She went over the shoulder-high rail, lying for a moment flat along it. Fine strands of hair, colorless in the darkness, brushed against his face carrying a trace of perfume. Her head was level with his chin, her face a pale blur. It seemed right to them both when his lips briefly touched hers, and he said, “Good luck.”
Then her feet found the thin smooth upright and she was going down like a gymnast.
Gaul Kalmar no longer thought about anything but the survival bid of the moment. Even the future possibilities of the outside were excluded from his mind. There was only the present and the girl. It was, in its way, a great relief to be single-minded. His head was just below the level of the footpath when two pairs of running feet went past.
At this point there was no intervening level of static way and there was a direct drop to the parapet of the main walkway. When his feet hit the broad balustrade, she was standing beside him and together they dropped down into the crush.
From below, the impression was entirely different. The feeling of panic was everywhere intensified. Noise was greater and the movement of people, in a darkness complete except for t
he occasional beam of a torch, seemed random and purposeless. Voices were raised. It had begun to dawn on many that here was a unique opportunity for anonymous mayhem.
A scream, hitting a harmonic of terror, came from ahead and left. The grip that tightened on his arm suggested that even in their special hurry they ought to do something about it. Kalmar had time to think that it showed a nice side to her nature and steered her over through the complexities of a stationary reduction bay.
Here, they were suddenly out of the crowd, and two struggling figures against the outer wall of the system were just distinguishable. A pseudo circulation official had grabbed himself a prize from the melee and was giving his id an outing. His preoccupation was total.
Kalmar took him unfairly from behind, shook him free of his victim, and, continuing his swing, threw him over the waist-high parapet.
On the plot specially reserved for security forces, a light, which had been showing a bright, lecherous dither for some minutes, blacked out. Only a complete cessation of brain currents would cause such a stop and it was the second one to go. The tiny plaque representing Wendle Orman had been replaced by a question mark. As the operator now removed P. V. Teague from the spread and looked round for another interrogative symbol, a new sense of threat emerged. For the first time in memory, things were not going the right way, policewise.
Gruber had left his desk in the top brass quarter and was spending time on the monitor levels. He was therefore on hand to register grief. He said, “Those two I can well spare, but this is very untypical. Concentrate some force on that walkway and tell them exactly what they’re looking for.”
Eight Against Utopia Page 7