Keats had to try five different seals before he found the one that
opened the lawyer's office. He was afraid his obvious lack of
familiarity would arouse Lockard's suspicions, but the big man was too
much preoccupied with his own emotions.
An unpleasantly haunting aroma of cooked meat seeped out from inside.
"For Christ's sake, Carmody, hurry!" Lockard snarled, and gave a sigh
of relief as the door swung open and the illuminators went on, lighting
the shabby office. Gorman was there. His horribly seared body lay
sprawled on the dusty rug--quite dead.
"You--you killed him?" Gabriel quavered. The sight of murder done by
another hand seemed to upset him more than the murder he himself had
just committed.
The thin man gave a difficult smile. "Carmody killed him." Which was
undoubtedly the truth. "The gun that did it is in his pocket. I had
nothing to do with it." His eyes sought for the ones behind the veil.
He wanted the girl who stood frozenly by the door to know that this, at
least, was the truth.
Gabriel also stayed near the door, unable to take his eyes off the
corpse. In death Carmody and Gorman, the big man and the small man, had
looked the same; each was just a heap of charred meat and black ash. No
blood, no germs--all very hygienic. "You're smart, Carmody," he said
from taut lips. "Damn smart."
"I'm Keats, not Carmody! Remember that." He dropped into the chair
behind the desk. "Sit down, both of you." Only Gabriel accepted the
invitation. "Why don't you take that thing off your face, Mrs. Lockard?
You aren't hiding from anybody, are you?"
Gabriel gave a short laugh. "She's hiding her face from everybody. I
spoiled it a little for her. She was going to sell me out to ... the
guy in your body."
Keats' hand tightened on the arm of his chair. Lose his temper now and
he lost the whole game. "It was a good body," he said, not looking at
the thing on the rug, trying not to remember the thing on the rug on
the other side of town. "A very good body." Through the veil, Helen's
shadowy eyes were fixed on his face. He wanted to see what Lockard
had done to her, but he couldn't tear off the veil, as he longed to
do; he was afraid of the expression that might be revealed on her
face--triumph when there should have been anguish; anguish when there
should have been triumph.
"Not as good as the one I have here." Lockard thumped his own chest,
anxious to establish the value of the only ware he had left.
"Matter of opinion," Keats said. "And mine was in better shape."
"This one isn't in bad condition," Gabriel retorted defensively. "It
could be brought back to peak in short order."
"You won't have much opportunity to do it, though. But maybe the
government will do it for you; they don't pamper prisoners, I
understand, especially lifers."
* * * * *
Gabriel whitened. "You're an extralegal, Carmody--Keats," he whined.
"You know your course. You know how to hide from the hounds.... I'm
a--a respectable citizen." He spread his hands wide in exaggerated
helplessness. "Strictly an amateur, that's what I am--I admit I've been
playing out of my league."
"So?"
"I'm worth a lot of money, Keats, a hell of a lot. And half of it can
be yours, if you ... change bodies with me."
Keats' angular face remained expressionless, but there was a sharp cry
from the girl--a cry that might have been misunderstood as one of pain,
but wasn't.
Gabriel turned toward her, and his upper lip curled back over his
teeth. "I'll throw her in to the bargain. You must have seen her when
she wasn't banged up so you know she's not permanently disfigured.
Isn't she worth taking a risk for?"
Keats shrugged. "If the hounds pull you down, she'll be a legal widow
anyway."
"Yes, but you'd have no ... chance with her in the body you now
have.... No chance," he repeated. His voice broke. "Never had a chance."
"Go ahead, feel sorry for yourself," the other man said. "Nobody else
will."
Gabriel's face darkened, but he also had to control his temper to gain
what he fancied were his own ends. "You won't deny that this hulk is
better than the one you have now?"
"Except that there's one thing about the head that I don't like."
Gabriel stared in bewilderment. His body was beyond criticism. "What is
it you don't like about the head?"
"There's a price on it now."
Gabriel pressed his spine against the back of the chair. "Don't play
the innocent, Carmody. You've killed people, too."
"Well, sure, but not out in the open like that. You know how many
people saw you blast him? Too many. If you're going to exterminate
somebody, you do it from a dark doorway or an alley--not in a
brilliantly lit hotel lobby, and you blast him in the back. But there's
no use giving you lessons; it's not likely you'll ever be able to use
them where you're going."
Gabriel suddenly sagged in his chair. He looked down at the floor. "So
you won't do it?"
Keats grew apprehensive. He hadn't expected the big man to give in to
despair so soon--it might spoil all his plans and leave him trapped
in this sick unwanted body. He lit a milgot. "I didn't say that," he
pointed out, trying to sound unconcerned. "Matter of fact, I might even
consider your proposition, if...."
There was hope in Lockard's eyes again. It made Keats a little sick to
think of the game he had to play with the other; then he thought of
the game the other had played with him, the game the other had played
with his wife, and the faint flickering of compassion died out in him.
"What do you want?" Gabriel asked.
Keats took a moment before he answered. "I want _all_ of what you've
got."
Gabriel uttered an inarticulate sound.
"You can't take it with you, colleague. If we hulk-hop, it's got to be
tonight, because the hounds will be baying on your trail any moment.
You wouldn't have the chance to transfer the property to my name and,
if you take my word that I'll hand over half afterward, you're just
plain out of this dimension.... Think of it this way, Lockard--what's
worth more to you, a couple of lousy billions or your freedom?"
"All right, Carmody," Lockard said dully, "you're the dictator."