The smart thing to do now would be to head back out the turnpike to
Haug's lot, turn in my badge and keep moving, south. I could give up
while I was still alive. All I had to do was accept the situation.
I had a wide choice. I could sign on with the New Confeds, or the Free
Texans, or any one of the other splinter republics trying to set up
shop in the power vacuum. I might try to get in to one of the Enclaves
and convince its Baron he needed another trained bodyguard. Or I could
take a post with one of the king-pins in the city.
As a last resort I could go back and find a spot in the Naples
organization. I happened to know they had a vacancy.
I was just running through mental exercises to hear myself think.
I couldn't settle for the kind of world I had found when I touched
planet three months back, after eight years in deep space with Hayle's
squadron. When the Interim Administration shot him for treason, I
burned my uniform and disappeared. My years in the Service had given me
a tough hide and a knack for staying alive; my worldly assets consisted
of the clothes I stood in, my service pistol and a few souvenirs of my
travels. For two months I had been scraping along on the cash I had
in my pocket, buying drinks for drifters in cheap bars, looking for a
hint, any lead at all, that would give me a chance to do what had to be
done. Max Arena was the lead. Maybe a dud lead--but I had to find out.
The city lights loomed just a few miles away. I was wasting time
sitting here; I steered the hack out into the highway and headed for
them.
* * * * *
Apparently Lefty's influence didn't extend far beyond the South Radial.
The two roadblocks I passed in the next five miles took my money,
accepted my story that I was on my way to pick up a fare, said to say
hello to Haug and passed me on my way.
Haug's sour yellow color scheme seemed to carry some weight with the
town Organizations, too. I was well into the city, cruising along
the third level Crossover, before I had any trouble. I was doing
about fifty, watching where I was going and looking for the Manhattan
Intermix, when a battered Gyrob four-seater trundled out across the
fairway and stopped. I swerved and jumped lanes; the Gyrob backed,
blocking me. I kicked my safety frame down and floor-boarded the hack,
steering straight for him. At the last instant he tried to pull out of
the way.
He was too late.
I clipped him across his aft quarter, and caught a glimpse of the
underside of the car as it stood on its nose, slammed through the
deflector and over the side. Old 16 bucked and I got a good crack
across the jaw from the ill-fitting frame, and then I was screeching
through the Intermix and out onto the Manhattan Third level.
Up ahead, the glare panels at the top of the Blue Tower reared up
half a mile into the wet night sky. It wasn't a hard address to find.
Getting inside would be another matter.
I pulled up a hundred yards from the dark cave they used to call
the limousine entrance and looked the situation over. The level was
deserted--like the whole city seemed, from the street. But there were
lights in the windows, level after level of them stretching up and away
as far as you could see. There were plenty of people in the city--about
ten million, even after the riots and the Food Scare and the collapse
of legal government. The automated city supply system had gone on
working, and the Kingpins, the big time criminals, had stepped in and
set things up to suit their tastes. Life went on--but not out in the
open. Not after dark.
I knew almost nothing about Arena. Judging from his employees, he
was Kingpin of a prosperous outfit. The T-Bird was an expensive
late model, and the two thugs handled themselves like high-priced
talent. I couldn't expect to walk into his HQ without jumping a few
hurdles. Maybe I should have invited myself along with Stenn and his
new friends. On the other hand, there were advantages to arriving
unannounced.
It was a temptation to drive in, with the hack's armor between me and
any little surprises that might be waiting, but I liked the idea of
staging a surprise of my own. I eased into drive and moved along to a
parking ramp, swung around and down and stopped in the shadow of the
retaining wall.
I set the brake and took a good look around. There was nothing in
sight. Arena might have a power cannon trained on me from his bedroom
window, for all I knew, but I had to get a toe into the water sometime.
I shut down the turbo, and in the silence popped the lid and stepped
out. The rain had stopped, and the moon showed as a bright spot on the
high mist. I felt hungry and a little bit unreal, as though this were
happening to somebody else.
* * * * *
I moved over to the side of the parking slab, clambered over the
deflector rail and studied the shadows under the third level roadway.
I could barely make out the catwalks and service ways. I was wondering
whether to pull off my hard-soled shoes for the climb when I heard
footsteps, close. I gauged the distance to the hack, and saw I
couldn't make it. I got back over the rail and waited.
He came into sight, rangy, shock-haired and preternaturally thin in
tight traditional dress.
When he got close I saw that he was young, in his early twenties at
most. He would be carrying a knife.
"Hey, Mister," he whined. "Got a cigarette?"
"Sure, young fellow," I said, sounding a little nervous. I threw in a
shaky laugh to help build the picture. I took a cigarette from a pack,
put the pack back in my pocket, held the weed out. He strutted up to
me, reached out and flipped the cigarette from my fingers. I edged back
and used the laugh again.
"Hey, he liked that," the punk whined. "He thinks that's funny. He got
a sense of humor."
"Heh, heh," I said. "Just out getting a little air."
"Gimme another cigarette, funny man."
I took the pack out, watching. I got out a cigarette and held it
gingerly, arm bent. As he reached for it, I drew back. He snatched for
it. That put him in position.
I dropped the pack, clenched my two hands together, ducked down and
brought them up hard under his chin. He backflipped, rolled over and
started crawling.