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A long, ancient, filthy alley ran beside the hotel, as ugly as such corridors had traditionally been since
the days of Babylon, when the very pavement had been constructed of packed garbage. They trotted
down it. He had always thought of the archaic level as a monument to the prior greatness of Earth, but
now he realized that it also signified the horrors of public indifference.
His comprehensive knowledge of the city streets stood him in good stead, again. This was honest
information, years in the acquisition; no one could outmaneuver him here. Just ahead there was a
A beam of light pierced the shadow, searching for them from the window just quitted, but there was no
outcry. He jerked Serena around the corner. Fitting irony: his fake indoctrination made him far more
competent at this game than his pursuers were. They had thought to march in noisily and catch him
napping.
The lighted entrance to the subterranean transit was at hand. They merged with the evening throng. At
the first level down they stepped onto a belt traveling toward the center of town and stood together like a
couple going on a date. Serena retained her body, and it strained at the more conservative dress, but she
had not forgotten to straighten her wig and powder her face during the flight. She even attracted a
complimentary glance or two.
Henrys had chosen this belt because it moved in the opposite direction expected of a person fleeing the
city. Now it occurred to him that he was being foolish. Either the revolutionists were after him and
wanted him badly enough to close off every city exit a phenomenal undertaking, on top of the
problems of the takeover or their interest in him was incidental. He had jumped to the conclusion that
they had spotted him in the hotel, but now he saw this as a conditioned response, and an exaggeration of
his importance. It could have been someone on an unrelated errand and probably no one but Bitool
knew about Serena.
And he had sacrificed the room he had paid for, on that wild suspicion. Now he lacked the funds for
another. His conditioning had not helped him, it had betrayed him.
"Seren," he murmured. "I think I have miscalculated. Are you willing to take a chance? Maybe a
dangerous one?"
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"Yes, Richard."
He guided her off the belt at the next travelers' aid station. The man looked up as they approached the
booth. "Yes?" he inquired, very much as the hotel clerk had.
"We are travelers not in sympathy with the uprising," Henrys said quickly. "We do not have money for
food and credit while the rebels "
"Take a seat, please," the clerk said without changing expression. He touched a button on his phone.
They sat down uneasily on the bench facing the booth. "Are you certain that was wise?" Serena
inquired.
"No." He wondered whether her concern was for the amount of information given away, or because he
had not been entirely candid with the clerk. She might have stated the whole truth. "It is a calculated
risk. He will either find facilities for us that are discreet or he will betray us to the revolution. If he
reports us, be ready to move in a hurry; we should be able to lose ourselves again."
"Yes, Richard."
"But the odds are that no chase is on, and this way we'll have the benefit of "
A man strode up to the counter, robust and solid, with a receding hairline and a round cheerful face. The
clerk said something in a low tone, not looking up, and the man moved on. Henrys relaxed.
Then a man with a machine gun rode down the belt. Henrys tensed and touched Serena on the arm. He
tried not to stare or reach for his own weapon, but no one else was paying any attention. It was amazing
how sanguinely the populace took the revolution. Or was it merely the old, old policy of
noninvolvement, euphemized as "live and let live" or "the golden rule"?
"The golden rule is that there are no golden rules," he murmured, quoting from Tanner again. How could
a man witness an atrocity, and ignore it in the name of anything golden?
But he knew that no one would help him if the armed man attacked. He would have to use his palm
pistol or run.
The revolutionist rode on by.
"Will you join me?" It was the robust man, now seated beside them. Henrys had been so anxious about
the armed man that he had not paid enough attention to his immediate surroundings.
Should he trust this person? Obviously this was the clerk's contact.
What choice did he have? "Thank you," he said.
The man stuck out a healthy hand. "Adam Notchez, master sergeant, World Army, retired."
They shook hands. "Dick Henrys and this is Serena."
Notchez escorted them to a handsome apartment in the modern high-rise residentials. Henrys was
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relieved to get clear of the archaic level, though of course the revolutionists didn't care where he was.
"My grandchildren are about somewhere. 'Hide and tag' in the lift, most likely."
Henrys could imagine it: ride to a random floor, jump off, jump on again after several compartments had
passed, while the pursuing child had to outguess the first and catch up without overshooting. To watch
the floors from a compartment, or the compartments from one floor? Endless possibilities. "Is that
permitted?" he inquired.
"Of course not! I'll have to pretend I don't suspect. That's why I'm a popular baby-sitter: I'm good at
keeping secrets. Kids don't have the interaction they used to, with only one to a family, so the cousins
need to get together like this. Got nothing better to do with my time, these days. Have a drink?"
"No!" Henrys said, cutting Serena off. She smiled faintly and winked at Notchez, who grinned back.
"Well, you're both hungry, I know. It'll have to be leftovers, though. Hydro-turnip salad, soy milk, the
usual. I sure miss the old days."
Henrys tensed. "You object to Kazo rule?"
Notchez gestured expansively as he set down the food. "Ten years ago I would have been in the
forefront of the mob, howling for blue blood. Five years ago I might have supported a revolution tacitly.
But now that it's come, I discover that I don't go for it. Suddenly I find myself appreciating fifteen
consecutive years of peace and prosperity. That's a world record, you know. It beats the old one by about
fourteen and a half years. Oh, I miss it, all that action and uncertainty. I get terribly nostalgic but I
don't regret it."
"Didn't you suffer losses in the purge?" Henrys asked.
Notchez nodded soberly. "I had six kids, and four got taken for surplus. That's when I would've killed
the blues! But later years later! I realized that the weakest had been culled. One had a heart
condition, and that's hell when it starts in youth. Another was pretty wild, went on destroy-tantrums.
And two were having bad trouble in school. I just wasn't such great shakes as a father. But the two who
were really strong, smart, and healthy well, now they've got those kids of their own. And I was one of [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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