I went over the rail without stopping to think it over and crossed the
girder to the catwalk that ran under the boulevard above. I groped my
way along to where the service way branched off for the Blue Tower,
then stopped and looked up. A strip of luminous sky showed between the
third level and the facade of the building. Anybody watching from the
right spot would see me cross, walking on the narrow footway. It was a
chance I'd have to take. I started to move out, and heard running feet.
I froze.
The feet slid to a stop on the level above, a few yards away.
"What's up, Crackers?" somebody growled.
"The mark sapped me down."
* * * * *
That was interesting. I had been spotted and the punk had been sent to
welcome me. Now I knew where I stood. The opposition had made their
first mistake.
"He was starting to cross under when I spot him," Crackers went on,
breathing heavily. "He saps me and I see I can't handle him and I go
for help."
Someone answered in a guttural whisper. Crackers lowered his voice. It
wouldn't take long now for reinforcements to arrive and flush me out.
I edged farther and chanced a look. I saw two heads outlined above.
They didn't seem to be looking my way, so I started across, walking
silently toward a narrow loading platform with a wide door opening from
it.
Below me, a lone light reflected from the wet pavement of the second
level, fifty feet down; the blank wall of the Blue Tower dropped past
it sheer to the glistening gutters at ground level. Then I was on the
platform and trying the door.
It didn't open.
It was what I should have expected. Standing in the full light from the
glare panel above the entry, I felt as exposed as a fan-dancer's navel.
There was no time to consider alternatives. I grabbed my power pistol,
flipped it to beam fire and stood aside with an arm across my face. I
gave the latch a blast, then kicked the door hard. It was solid as a
rock. Behind and above me, I heard Crackers yell.
I beamed the lock again, tiny droplets of molten metal spattering like
needles against my face and hand. The door held.
"Drop it and lift 'em, mug," a deep voice yelled. I twisted to look up
at the silhouettes against the deflector rail. I recognized the Slavic
face of the man called Heavy. So he could talk after all.
"You're under my iron, mug," he called. "Freeze or I'll burn you."
I believed him, but I had set something in motion that couldn't stop
now. There was nothing to go back to; the only direction for me was on
the way I was headed--deeper into trouble. I was tired of being the
mouse in a cat's game. I had taken the initiative and I was keeping it.
I turned, set the power pistol at full aperture, and poured it to the
armored door. Searing heat reflected from the barrier, smoke boiled,
metal melted and ran. Through the stink of burning steel, I smelled
scorched hair--and felt heat rake the back of my neck and hands. Heavy
was beaming me at wide aperture, but the range was just too far for a
fast kill. The door sagged and fell in. I jumped through the glowing
opening, hit the floor and rolled to damp out my smouldering coat.
* * * * *
I got to my feet. There was no time now to stop and feel the pain of
my burns. They would expect me to go up--so I would go down. The Blue
Tower covered four city blocks and was four hundred stories high. There
was plenty of room in it for a man to lose himself.
I ran along the corridor, found a continuous service belt and hopped
on, lay flat, rode it through the slot. I came out into the light of
the service corridor below, my gun ready, then down and around again.
I saw no one.
It took ten minutes to cover the eighteen floors down to the
sub-basement. I rolled off the belt and looked around.
The whole space was packed with automatics; the Blue Tower was a
self-sufficient city in itself. I recognized generators, heat pumps,
air plants. None of them were operating. The city services were all
still functioning, apparently. What it would be like in another ten or
twenty years of anarchy was anybody's guess. But when the city systems
failed the Blue Tower could go on on its own.
Glare panels lit the aisles dimly. I prowled along looking for
an elevator bank. The first one I found indicated the car at the
hundred-eightieth floor. I went on, found another indicating the
twentieth. While I watched, the indicator moved, started down. I was
getting ready to duck when it stopped at the fifth. I waited; it didn't
move.
I went around to the side of the bank, found the master switch. I went
back, punched for the car. When the door whooshed open, I threw the
switch.
I had to work fast now. I stepped into the dark car, reached up and
slid open the access panel in the top, then jumped, caught the edge
and pulled myself up. The glare panels inside the shaft showed
me the pony power pack on top of the car, used by repairmen and
inspectors when the main power was off. I lit a per-match to read the
fine print on the panel. I was in luck. It was a through car to the
four-hundredth. I pushed a couple of buttons, and the car started up. I
lay flat behind the machinery.
As the car passed the third floor feet came into view; two men stood
beyond the transparent door, guns in their hands, watching the car come
up. They didn't see me. One of them thumbed the button frantically. The
car kept going.
There were men at almost every floor now. I went on up, passed the
hundredth floor, the one-fiftieth, and kept going. I began to feel
almost safe--for the moment.
* * * * *
I was gambling now on what little I knew of the Blue Tower from the old
days when all the biggest names congregated there. The top floor was a
lavish apartment that had been occupied by a retired fleet admiral, a
Vice-President and a uranium millionaire, in turn. If I knew anything
about Kingpins, that's where Max Arena would hang his hat.
The elevator was slow. Lying there I had time to start thinking about
my burned hide. My scalp was hit worst, and then my hands; and my
shoulders were sticking to the charred coat. I had been travelling on
adrenalin since Heavy had beamed me, and now the reaction was starting
to hit.
It would have to wait; I had work to do.
Just below the three hundred and ninety-eighth floor I punched the
button and the car stopped. I stood up, feeling dizzy. I grabbed for
the rungs on the wall, hung on. The wall of the shaft seemed to
sway ... back....
Sure, I told myself. The top of the building sways fifteen feet in a
high wind. Why shouldn't I feel it? I dismissed the thought that it was
dead calm outside now, and started up the ladder.
It was a hard climb. I hung on tight, and concentrated on moving one
hand at a time. The collar of my coat rasped my raw neck. I passed up
the 398th and 9th--and rammed my head smack against a dead end. No
service entry to the penthouse. I backed down to the 399th.
I found the lever and eased the door open, then waited, gun in hand.
Nothing happened. I couldn't wait any longer. I pushed the door wide,
stepped off into the hall. Still nobody in sight, but I could hear
voices. To my left a discreet stair carpeted in violet velvet eased up
in a gentle curve. I didn't hesitate; I went up.
The door at the top was an austere slab of bleached teak. I tried the
polished brass lever; the door swung open silently, and I stepped
across the threshold and was looking across a plain of honey-colored
down at a man sitting relaxed in a soft chair of pale leather.
He waved a hand cheerfully. "Come on in," he said.