I set the defense mech down, because you can't handle a man Maxwell's
size with only one hand. I grabbed his arm again, this time with both
hands, and pulled as hard as I could. It jerked him off balance and out
of danger. The semi roared past.
And Maxwell turned on me with sudden, violent anger.
"Listen," he snapped, "what in hell's the matter with you? What do you
think you're doing?"
I didn't argue with him. I took careful aim and threw a haymaker,
giving it everything I had. It caught the point of his chin squarely and
jarred me to my ankle.
He swayed a little bit and his face went blank, but he didn't fall.
For which I shall be eternally grateful.
Another giant semi, still nearly a block away, was hurtling toward us.
If Maxwell had fallen, I could not possibly have dragged him out of the
way in time. And the semi couldn't have stopped in that distance.
As it was, I was able to snatch up the defense mech with one hand and
propel Maxwell to the opposite curb, just seconds before the truck went
by with a whiz and a rattle.
I got Maxwell onto an escalator leading to the second level before his
legs buckled. Then he went to his knees. I managed to get his arm around
my shoulder and hoist him back to his feet before we reached the top.
On the second level there were no vehicles; quite a few pedestrians
glided by in both directions, on several different speeds of ambulator
bands.
I spotted a bar down the street and dragged Maxwell onto a amband going
that way.
By the time I got him inside and settled in a booth, he was beginning to
recover, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
I ordered a whole bottle of Scotch and handed Maxwell a glass of the
stuff. He took it automatically and drank half of it as though it were
water.
* * * * *
He put the glass down quickly and half rose from his seat, clutching his
throat and gasping. I handed him another glass, this one containing
water. He drank it and sat back down, slowly.
"Drink the rest of that Scotch," I said. "Drink it quick and don't ask
any questions. Someone's got a telenosis beam on you, and he isn't
kidding."
It penetrated, for he emptied the glass with short but rapid gulps. I
filled the glass again and ordered more water. It took him fifteen
minutes to kill the glass this time, taking only a little sip of Scotch
for every deep gulp of water. But he got it down, though he was nearly
unconscious at the end.
"Listen," I said, reaching over to shake his limp shoulder. "Are you
still with me? For the love of heaven, don't pass out on me--that's
about the worst thing you could do. John!"
He jerked his head and regarded me with unfocused eyes. "Huh? Wash
matter, ole fren? I'm wish ya. Wish ya ta the end. Washer trouble, huh?"
[Illustration]
I said, "John, listen. You're in danger. We've got to get you out of
here. Out of town. Back to New York. Right away! Do you understand?"
He nodded limply. I wasn't sure whether he really understood or not. But
if he could only walk, it wouldn't make much difference.
If only he didn't pass out ... it wasn't very far. Just back to the
door, then into the elevator instead of going onto the street at this
level. Then, on the third level, only the few feet necessary to catch a
bus or a cab to take us to the strato-port.
If he _couldn't_ walk, I didn't know what I'd do. Whoever the telenosis
operator was, I was sure he had followed us to this bar through
Maxwell's mind. That's the way telenosis works. Alcohol sets up a
complete barrier, and contact is broken entirely; but about all a blow
on the head does is immobilize the victim--visions, commands and other
impressions can still penetrate, and the operator can still receive
whatever sensations his victim may have.
Maxwell hadn't been unconscious enough for us to be safe. Someone wanted
our blood. We had to move fast.
And if he couldn't manage to walk at all....
He couldn't, exactly. But he could get to his feet and lurch and stumble
along after a fashion.
It accomplished the same purpose.
* * * * *
I got him to the third level, and we stood at the entrance of the bar
while I got myself oriented.
I had made a tactical error. Vehicles going to the strato-port stopped
on the other side of the street. And to get there, I would now have to
walk Maxwell all the way down to the end of the block to a pedestrian
cross-walk, then halfway back up the other side.
The alternative was to go down again and cross in the middle of the
block on the pedestrian level, which is what I should have done in the
first place.
But I wanted to get as far away from the bar as possible and as soon as
possible. So I shrugged and turned to my left, shoving and dragging
Maxwell with me.
As I did so, my defense mech started clicking.
Maxwell stumbled and nearly fell. I shoved him against the side of a
building and leaned against him to keep him up. The liquor had hit him
hard. If he once went down, there would be no getting him up. Not by me.
We did better after I wrapped one of his arms around my shoulder. I
could carry part of his weight and I had better control of him. I kept
him as close to the storefronts as possible, to minimize the possibility
of being recognized from a moving vehicle in the street.
It didn't do a bit of good.
They'd probably spotted us as soon as we stepped away from the bar
entrance. For all I know, they had been waiting for us since we entered
the bar.
Three of them. Sitting there in the illegally parked light passenger
sedan just ahead of us.
I saw it when we were still fifteen feet away. I saw it, and I knew what
it was, and I stopped.
The sedan wasn't really parked. It was just pulled over close against
the curb, moving slowly toward us.
When I stopped, the sedan moved up quickly even with us, and two men
stepped out.
I edged Maxwell toward a drugstore entrance a few feet to the left, but
the men from the sedan were at our side in an instant.
"Hey, friend, got a match?" one of them asked for the benefit of a
passing couple who glanced at us.
I recognized him. A deep criss-crossed scar ran from above his right
cheekbone vertically down his cheek, ending in a big dent in his jaw
bone. His lips were thick and loose.
* * * * *
For just an instant I was motionless, frozen, my right hand holding
Maxwell's arm over my shoulder, my left hand gripping the quietly
ticking defense mech.
Then I moved almost without thinking about it.
I released my grip on Maxwell's arm, shoving him against the thug that I
didn't recognize. At the same time, I swung my defense mech, aiming at
the head of my scarfaced acquaintance. He raised his arm, but the heavy
case slammed into it and bounced off his forehead.
It probably broke his arm, and possibly fractured his skull. I didn't
wait to find out.
Holding tightly to the defense mech, I darted into the store entrance. I
left Maxwell blindly clutching the assailant into whose path I had
thrown him. I didn't worry about Maxwell. They could have him. If I got
away, they wouldn't dare kill him. And if I didn't get away, they would
kill both of us.
The escalator was just inside the door to the right, and I ran down the
downward-moving steps, doubling back to the left at the bottom, and out
the door on the pedestrian level. I turned left again and ran to the
corner, crossed the street and ran three-fourths the length of the
block.
I glanced backward and didn't see anyone running after me, so I entered
a late-hour department store. I wasn't safe yet, and I didn't feel safe,
but I felt encouraged enough to slow down to a fast walk through the
aisles of the men's clothing section.
I had to get to a visiphone, first of all, and call Newell in New York.
And then--well, I wasn't sure. Hide, somewhere. Keep from being
captured.
It took me three minutes of rapid wandering through the building to find
a row of visiphone booths. I placed the call. While I waited, nervously
crossing and uncrossing my legs, peering intermittently out the window
to see if there was any sign of pursuit, I had time to think.
I had time to think, but I didn't think. Not really. I was thinking of
what I was going to tell Newell. Thinking of Maxwell being dragged away
by Grogan's "secretaries," and wondering what would happen to him. But I
didn't really think, and maybe it's just as well.
A little less than nine agonizing minutes elapsed before Newell's plump
face appeared on the screen.
"You're late tonight," he said. "I was just on the verge of calling you.
How're things going?"
I told him quickly, and with a minimum of detail, what had happened
since our last session.
"It's Grogan, after all," I said. "I'd recognize that scarfaced gorilla
of his anywhere. Get Grogan and--"
The boss nodded. "We'll get him. You let me worry about that. You've got
to.... You say they were beaming telenosis on Maxwell? How the devil did
they get his wave-band so soon?"
"You can worry about that one, too," I told him.
"Okay. Never mind. Where are you now? Never mind that either. Just stay
there. Call the nearest police station and have them send someone after
you. Get in a nice snug cell and stay put. We'll take care of Grogan and
Maxwell. Okay, now. Don't waste any time."
* * * * *
We hung up together. Then I quickly dialed the operator and asked for
the nearest sectional police station.
When the face of the desk sergeant flashed on the screen, I told him,
"My name is Earl Langston. My life is in immediate danger. I'm in a vp
booth near the Pacific Street entrance, number four, of Underhill's
department store, second level."
"Stay where you are," the sergeant replied. "We'll have someone after
you in ten or fifteen minutes."
In a surprisingly short time, an overweight, gray-uniformed policeman
with a face like a bulldog rapped at the door of the booth.