Dayworld

by Philip J. Farmer

  He had to take the chance that they might look back. He rose and ran from the door, the screwdriver and the handle of the hammer in his belt. He went up the steps to the walkway over the east-west belts, climbed over the railing, and dropped onto a box. He got down quickly from it and crouched between two boxes. Now, if they looked back, they would think that his light was theirs unless they noticed that their light was much longer than it should be. He prayed that they would not.

  When he stuck his head up over the edge of the box, he saw them climbing over a box. He waited until they had gotten off it and then went over his box. He ran while they walked. He overtook them when they were going over another box. His hammer and screwdriver were in his hands when he slid off the edge of the box.

  Just as he came up behind the man in the rear, Eyebrows, the man started to turn his head to look behind him. Caird brought the hammer down on the side of his head harder than he had intended. He dropped the hammer and the screwdriver, not caring how much noise he made now. Bulldog, on getting ready to slide off the box, had turned his head when he heard the thud of the hammer. Caird caught Eyebrows' body with one hand. With the other, he snatched Eyebrows' weapon from his holster.

  "Hold it!" Caird said, and he let Eyebrows fall. The gun was set for full power. Bulldog knew 'that.

  "I don't want to kill you," Caird said, "though I should. You were going to kill me."

  ("Take them out, anyway," Repp said. "They're vermin, and a dead enemy is one less enemy.")

  ("Don't!" Isharashvili cried.)

  "Your left hand up in the air. High. OK. Now, slowly, very slowly, ease the gun out with the right hand. Drop it on the box by you. Turn your head away; don't look at me. Hold it until I tell you different."

  Bulldog's neck quivered, but he looked straight ahead. After a slight hesitation, he took the butt of the weapon by two fingers and placed it on the box by him. His right hand joined the left one above his head.

  "Now slide off the box and walk about twenty feet away. Keep your hands high. Don't turn around. I know how to use this. I'm a crack shot."

  Bulldog obeyed. Caird got swiftly onto the box and stuck the gun into his shoulderbag. He got down off the box, walked to Bulldog, reversed the weapon, and struck the man hard on the crown of his head. Bulldog crumpled.

  ("Don't!" Isharashvili cried again.)

  "Go back where you came from," Caird muttered. He removed the ID disc-star from Bulldog's neck and put it in his shoulderbag. He might be able to use it, though he doubted it. He rolled the body onto the west-going belt and climbed back over the box. After putting Eyebrows' ID in the bag, Caird rolled the body onto the west-going belt. Since there might be a use for the hammer and screwdriver, he placed them in the bag. It was bulging and was very heavy, but he did not plan to carry it for some time. He stood watching the light and the two unconscious men in it for a minute. Then he lay down. He did not think he had closed his eyes, but a man shouting at him woke him up.

  The man's eyes were level with the belt. Caird shouted, "Surprise inspection! You should be glad I found you awake!"

  Caird sat up and grinned at him until the man turned and walked into the office. Caird did not have time to worry about what the worker meant to do. He had to change belts soon. If he kept going much longer, he would be under the East River and on his way to Brooklyn.

  By the time that he had gotten to his goal, he had switched belts nine times. A few times, he had been forced to travel for a while in the opposite direction. He had stolen a worker's lunch. He had gotten off four times to drink from a fountain and had twice had to go down an access ladder to the lower level. He had washed off the tissue from his cheek wound and the dirt from his face and hands.

  When he got out of an elevator in an access tube, he was tired. The events of today and the six days before, the tension, the uncertainty, the battles, the running, and the warring voices within him had punished him. He had been stretched to his outer limits on a rack and squeezed to his inner limits in a compacter.

  Nevertheless, when he stepped out into Central Park near the Alice in Wonderland statue, he at once felt stronger and more hopeful. Alice, after falling down a hole, had survived her many perils. He hoped that there was no mirror he had to pass through in his future.

  He planned to hole up somewhere in the park over night. As a ranger, that is, drawing on Isharashvili's memory, he knew several good hiding places. Tomorrow, he would try for the wilds of New Jersey. The great forest that covered most of the state's eastern part sheltered some outlaws. They might accept him. If he was rejected, he would starve. He knew nothing of noncity survival. Even if he was taken in, he would live hunted and harried.

  At least, he would be living. Someday, he might get back into a city and there insert a new ID into the data bank. That idea, at the moment, tasted like he imagined cockroach droppings would taste.

  The sight of Central Park cleansed him of such thoughts. Amazingly, the storm had passed and was now only low black clouds in the west. The air was exhilarating; the wind, a mere five miles an hour. The world looked as it always does after a good rain. It seemed to have been remade by God to His better liking. A male cardinal's Toowheert-Toowheert -- -- Toowheert- Twock-Twock-Twock-Twock rang from an oak branch. A squirrel was scold-barking from an Osage orange tree branch at a big black cat that had braved the wet grass.

  The clear sky also meant that the satellites had their eyes o Central Park.

  This did not bother Caird. He walked along a winding, uj and-down flower-lined path past bushes and trees, past statue of Frodo and Smaug, Lenin, the Cowardly Lion and Dorothi Gandhi, Don Quixote, Spinoza, Rip van Winkle, Woody Allen and John Henry. He went by a few people who had taken she ter from the storm and were out again. So far, no rangers or oi ganics, but they would be somewhere near.

  After going for several hundred feet on a path covered by ir terlocking tree branches, he left it. He plunged into an are that was not off-limits to the public but was seldom venture into. It stood out like a green thumb, a patch of bright an poisonous-looking vegetation. The stone statues of the animal crouching in the very thick ranks of fronds and huge el phant's-ear plants looked slightly misshapen. He was walkin in a landscaper's reproduction of an Amazon jungle by the am cient French painter Henri Rousseau. Yellow eyes framed i spotted faces gleamed from behind heavy nightmarish bushe:

  A proboscis monkey, resembling a politician whom the lanc scaper disliked, stared down foolishly from a branch.

  Caird pushed through the forbidding growth, struggled ur hill, skirted a black-painted granite god, squat, massiv crouching on frog legs, its half-human, half-jaguar face snarl ing, and came to the ridge of the hill. He crossed into the veg tation on the other side, descending abruptly into a land c pines and birches. The statues here were of folk-tale monsters c the far north, baba-yagas, cernobogs, chudo-yudos, hiisis, kosF cheis, lyeshies, and veshtitzes. At the bottom of the hill, h walked, ankle-deep in mud, around a swamp from which prc truded the heads of rusalkas, female water-spirits with lon wavy green hair.

  This was a fenced area the public could visit only dunn guided tours. Between the fence and a creek flowing under into the swamp was a gap of two feet. He got down on his knee in the water, pushed the fence up, and, bent over, went beneath the fence. Trees growing thickly along the creek banks shielded him from the sky-eyes.

  Another half-mile would get him to a small cave well-hidden by bushes near the foot of a hill.

  After wading for several hundred yards in the winding stream, he came to a bridge. All had gone well so far. He needed only a few more minutes to get to his haven.

  He froze.

  There, like a troll under a bridge, was an organic.

  She was standing, half-hidden behind a bush, on the right bank. The only good thing about the situation was that she was facing away from him.

  ("Hide!" Ohm said.)

  ("Go for it!" Repp said fiercely. "Take her! Don't pay any attention to that cowardly coyote!
")

  ("You don't know that she's looking for you," Tingle said. "Maybe she's waiting there for her lover.")

  ("True," Dunski said. "She could be here for any of a dozen reasons. Maybe she just took a pee.")

  Caird paid as little attention as possible to the voices whispering inside him. He turned and slowly climbed onto the bank and pushed gently through the bushes and high grasses on the slope. Once, he startled a dragonfly. He became motionless until it was long gone, then went on. He came up on the walk that led to the bridge. For a moment, he would be exposed to the sky-eyes, but he would cross the path quickly into the dense vegetation on the other side. Unless the organic had by now come up from under the bridge, he would be safe.

  Before leaving the bushes, he looked both ways down the path. No one was in sight.

  He started to walk across the path.

  A voice rang out, "Hold it!"

  He whirled around to his right. A male organic with a ho! stered gun had just come around the bend inthe path. The weapon told him that the two officers were looking for a fugitive and that the fugitive was probably Isharashvili.

  Not wanting to lead the organic into the woods and straight to his hiding place, desperate, panicky, he turned and ran down the path. He crossed the bridge, hearing the man shouting to his partner to come up and help him. A glance behind showed Caird that the organic had not yet drawn his weapon. But he soon would.

  He passed something lying in the path, a reminder of what seemed to be the far distant past. The name associated with it flashed through his mind and was forgotten.

  Just as he had decided to leap into the bushes, he heard another shout behind him. It was not the stern command or warning he had expected. It was a yell of surprise. He turned just in time to see the organic stretched out a few feet above and parallel with the ground. His legs were spread wide; his arms were flailing. Then he struck the path hard on his back, and he was silent and unmoving.

  Just beyond the man's head was a banana peel.

  "Rootenbeak!"

  That was the name that had darted across his mind.

  The peel had probably not been dropped by Rootenbeak- what would he be doing so far north of Washington Square?- but it had certainly been dropped by someone like him.

  And that inconsiderate slobbishness was helping him escape. He ran into the woods. Looking to one side, he saw the conical helmet and auburn hair of the female organic who had been under the bridge. Then the heavy bushes and trees screened her. He slowed down, not wanting her to hear him, until he was several hundred feet from the path. Zigzagging through the growth, he headed for the creek. When he was close to it, he got down on all fours and looked from behind a bush that grew close to the bank of the stream. At first, he could hear loud voices but could see no one. Then a man appeared in a break between two trees. He was an organic and had a large green pack on his back. A thick wire ran from the pack to a small square plate he held in one hand. Another wire ran to a long tube with a disc at its end that he held in the other hand. This was being moved from side to side and then up and down.

  Caird groaned quietly. The tube held equipment that would probe for the heat of his body, sniff for his odor, and listen for his breathing and the beating of his heart.

  If only he could have crossed the stream and gotten to the cave. If only he could have gotten here before the rain.

  ("If only, hell!" Repp said. "You got two guns! Fight, man, fight! Go down with guns blazing!")

  ("No! No!" Isharashvili said.)

  Light suddenly appeared in him and swept across, followed by a shadow. The light seemed to spill out of his eyes, blinding him, and then the blindness was made even darker by the shadow. He shook. What was happening? Was he at last falling apart, taking refuge in disintegration?

  ("I am back," a voice said.)

  Caird bit his lip to keep quiet.

  ("You?" Ohm said.)

  ("I was taken up by God, and He weighed me in the balance and found me wanting.")

  ("Father Tom!" Dunski said.)

  ("How in hell can a fictional God reject a fictional soul?" Ohm said.)

  ("He told me to go back to my maker," Zurvan said. His voice was as deep and muffled as the bell of a sunken ship swayed by a current. "He hurled me out of the kingdom of glory back into the nothingness from which I came.")

  Caird wanted to yell at the voices. If he did so, he would be located immediately, and he would be done for. But what dif ference did it make if he was silent, or screamed? He was going to be caught. The only question just now was whether he would surrender quietly or shoot to kill until he was killed.

  ("Killing is not the right path," Isharashvili said. "You ... I we, I mean, have taken many wrong paths. Don't take this most evil of all.")

  ("Hypocrite!" Ohm screamed. "Hypocrite! Hypocrites all! But just this once, Isharashvili, you're right!")

  The voices babbled on while he lay prone, his chin on his arm. The blindness had passed, but he seemed to be seeing through a veil of heat. The tall grass before him wavered.

  A grasshopper ended its leap upon the stem of a weed. It swayed back and forth with the weed, clinging to it. It was a brightly colored metronome, back and forth, back and forth.

  And in and out. His eyes focused, then unfocused. The insect became clear, then fuzzy. But he could make out the purple-painted antennae, the Kelly-green head, the golden eyes, the orange legs, and the green-and-black-checked body.

  He groaned, "Ozma!"

  He began weeping, and the grasshopper dissolved in the tears.

  He had turned into a river of tears shaken by an earthquake. He could not control himself even if he had wanted to. He sobbed and stretched his arms out and clawed at the earth.

  He had betrayed the state, the immers, his lovers, his friends, and himself.

  The voices within him screamed, roared, and tore at him. He rolled over to look up into the trees. He was dimly aware that two men were looking down at him.

  Tuesday-World

  FREEDOM, Seventh Month of the Year

  D6-W4 (Day-Six, Week-Four)

  Chapter 34

  Today was Tuesday's Christmas.

  Jeff Caird looked out the window down at the huge yard surrounding the institution. It was on West 121st Street, near the junction of Frederick Douglass and St. Nicholas avenues. A light snow, which was quickly melting, formed patches of white and green. It was the first of the winter and might be the last. There were no holiday decorations in the yard or on the trees, but many of the windows of the apartment building across the street displayed holly or figures of Santa Claus and his reindeer.

  "Saint Nicholas," Caird said. "The great giver of gifts. The state."

  He turned and walked across the large room past the desk of the psychicist and sat down in an easy chair.

  "Frederick Douglass, the slave who led his people out of bondage. Me."

  "Your people are dead," the psychicist said.

  "The immers?" Caird said, looking startled.

  "No," the psychicist said, smiling. "I didn't mean the immers, and you know it. I referred to the others. Your personae."

  Caird was silent. The psychicist said, "You still feel a sense of great loss?"

  Caird nodded and said, "The big wringout. The grasshopper was the key, the stimulus, the trigger, the catalyst."

  "The funny thing, the peculiar phenomenon, I mean," the psychicist said, "is that you grew new nerve paths when you grew your personae. They should be dying, you know, since you no longer use them. There's no sign of shrinkage in the neural circuits. Yet, you've been cured. Cured, I mean, of your multiple personality disorder."

  "You know that for sure?"

  "Don't you? Of course, you do. Just as we know. That is, unless you've found some way of cheating the truth mist. if you have, you're the first, and I'm one hundred percent sure that you haven't."

  "You even know that I haven't once, not once, thought of an escape plan."

  The psychicist frowned. She
said, "That's an even more puzzling phenomenon, I don't mind telling you. Even though you had no desire to escape, you still should think about it now and then. You should at least fantasize about it. Fantasizing is part of your nature. I don't understand it."

  "Maybe I'm completely cured. The state finally has its perfect citizen."

  The psychicist smiled again. "There is no such creature, any more than there is or ever will be a perfect state. Our society is as close to perfection as it can be. It's a benevolent despotism, but that has to be. You know something of history. You know that no other government has provided plenty of food, good housing, luxuries, free education, free medical treatment ..

  "Spare me," Caird said, lifting his hand. "What I want to hear is that someday I'll walk out of this place and take my place in society again."

  "That can be. I am confident that you have the potentiality to be cured. But ..

  "But ... ?"

  "There are political considerations. I don't want to upset you. Still, the world councillors are very upset, and the people are demanding punishment."

  Caird sighed, and he said, "So, even in this near-perfect society, politics can override the strict interpretation and practice of the law."

  The psychicist made a face. "There are situations where never mind. The truth is, Jeff, that you, and all of you immers, were fortunate that you were not immediately stoned after the trial. You were lucky to have a trial.

  "Of course, you could have saved the state the expense of a trial if you had killed yourselves before you were arrested. You all had the means. Yet very few of you used them. You all wanted to live too much."

  "Another betrayal," Caird said.

  He did not feel guilt. That had been washed out by the tears along with much else. Water wears out stone.

  There was a long silence. Then the psychicist, looking as if she did not want to say what she had to say, spoke.