The night was black, with no moon. My next problem was to get into the
walled town. The road led along the river's edge into the heart of the
city, according to Gaston. The dictator's stronghold lay at the edge of
the city north of the highway we were on. He had fortified the area,
enclosing shops and houses within an encircling wall like a medieval
town, creating a self-sufficient community to support the castle and
its occupants, easily patrolled and policed. It was no defense against
an army, but practical as a safeguard against assassins and rioters.
"That's us," I said aloud. "Assassins and rioters."
"Sure, chief," Gaston said.
There was a glow in the sky ahead. From the road only a few scattered
lights were visible. The countryside seemed almost unpopulated.
Twenty minutes of driving brought us to the bombed-out edge of the
city. The rubble stretched ahead, with here and there a shack or a tiny
patch of garden. To the right the mass of the castle loomed up, faintly
visible in the glow from the streets below it, unseen behind the wall.
To the original massive old country house, Bayard had added rambling
outbuildings, great mismatched wings, and the squat tower.
I pulled over, cut the headlights. Gaston and I looked silently at the
lights in the tower. He lit a cigarette.
"How are we going to get in there, Gaston?" I said. "How do we get over
the wall?"
Gaston stared at the walls, thinking. "Listen, Hammer-hand," he said.
"You wait here, while I check around a little. I'm pretty good at
casing a layout, and I know this one from the inside; I'll find a spot
if there is one. Keep an eye peeled for the street gangs."
I sat and waited. I rolled up the windows and locked the doors. I
couldn't see any signs of life about the broken walls around me.
Somewhere a cat yowled.
I checked my clothes over. Both lapels were missing; the tiny set was
still clipped to my belt, but without speaker or mike, it was useless.
I ran my tongue over the tooth with the cyanide sealed in it. I might
need it yet.
The door rattled. I had dozed off. Gaston's face pressed against the
glass. I unlocked it and he slid in beside me.
"OK, Hammer-hand," he said. "Think I got us a spot. We go along the
edge of the drainage ditch over there to where it goes under the wall.
Then we got to get down inside it and ease under the guard tower. It
comes out in the clear on the other side."
I got out and followed Gaston over broken stones to the ditch. It was
almost a creek, and the smell of it was terrible.
Gaston led me along its edge for a hundred yards, until the wall hung
over us just beyond the circle of light from the guard tower. I could
see a fellow with a burp gun leaning against a post on top of the
tower, looking down onto the street inside the wall. There were two
large floodlights beside him, unlit.
Gaston leaned close to my ear. "It kind of stinks," he said, "but the
wall is pretty rough, so I think we can make it OK."
He slid over the edge, found a foothold, and disappeared. I slid down
after him, groping with my foot for a ledge. The wall was crudely laid,
with plenty of cracks and projecting stones, but slimy with moss. I
groped along, one precarious foot at a time. We passed the place where
the light gleamed on the black water below, hugging the shadow. Then
we were under the wall, which arched massively over us. The sound of
trickling water was louder here.
I tried to see what was going on ahead. Gaston had stopped and was
descending. I could barely make out his figure, knee-deep in the
malodorous stream. I moved closer. Then I saw the grating. It was made
of iron bars, and completely blocked the passage.
I climbed over to the grating, leaned against the rusty iron to ease my
arms. The defense system didn't have quite the hole in it we thought it
had. Gaston moved around below me, reaching under the surface to try to
find a bottom edge. Maybe we could duck under the barrier.
Suddenly I felt myself slipping.
Below me, Gaston hissed a curse, scrabbled upward. My grip was firm,
I realized in an instant; it was the grating that was slipping. It
dropped another eight inches with a muffled scraping and clank, then
stopped. The rusty metal had given under our weight. The corroded ends
of the bars had broken off at the left side. There wasn't room to pass,
but maybe we could force it a little further.
Gaston braced himself against the wall and heaved. I got into position
beside him and added my weight. The frame shifted a little, then stuck.
"Gaston," I said. "Maybe I can get under it now, and heave from the
other side." Gaston moved back, and I let myself down into the reeking
water. I worked an arm through, then dropped down waist deep, chest
deep, pushing. The rough metal scraped my face, caught at my clothing;
but I was through.
I crawled back up, dripping, and rested. From the darkness behind
Gaston I heard a meshing of oiled metal parts and then the cavern
echoed with the thunder of machine gun fire. In the flashing light I
saw Gaston stiffen against the grating and fall. He hung by one hand,
caught in the grating. There were shouts, and men dropped onto the
stone coping at the culvert mouth. Gaston jerked, fumbled his pistol
from his blouse.
"Gaston," I said. "Quick, under the bars...." I was helpless. I knew he
was too big.
A man appeared, clinging to the coping with one hand, climbing down
to enter the dark opening. He flashed a light at us and Gaston, still
dangling by the left hand, fired. The man fell over into the stream
with a tremendous splash.
Gaston gasped. "That's ... all...." The gun fell from his hand into the
black water.
I moved fast now, from one hand-hold to the next, slipping and
clutching, but not quite falling somehow. I managed to get a look back
as I reached the open air. Two men were tugging at the body wedged in
the opening. Even in death, Gaston guarded my retreat.
I came up over the side, and flattened against the wall, slug-gun in my
hand; the street was empty. They must have thought they had us trapped;
this side was deserted. I was directly under the tower. I eased out a
few feet, and craned my neck; a shadow moved at the top of the tower.
There was still one man on duty there. He must have heard the grating
fall and called for reinforcements.
I looked down the street ahead. I recognized the Street of the Olive
Trees, the same one I had come through on my way out with Gros, ten
days earlier. It slanted down, curving to the right. That was where I
had to go, into the naked street, under the guns. I liked it here in
the shadow of the tower, but I couldn't stay. I leaped forward, running
for my life. The searchlight snapped on, swung, found me, burning
my leaping shadow against dusty walls and the loose-cobbled street.
Instinct told me to leap aside. As I did, the gun clattered and slugs
whined off the stones to my left. I was out of the light now, and
dashing for the protection of the curving wall ahead. The light was
still groping as I rounded the turn. No lights came on above me; I ran
in utter silence. The dwellers in these scarred tenements had learned
to sit silent behind barred windows when guns talked in the narrow
streets.
I passed the spot where Gros had died, dashed on. In the distance a
whistle blew again and again. A shot rang out, kicking up dust ahead. I
kept going.
I heard running feet behind me now. I scanned the shabby stalls ahead,
empty and dark, trying to find the one we had used the day we left the
palace, where the old woman huddled over her table of clay ware. It had
been tiny, with a ragged gray awning sagging over the front and broken
pots scattered before it.
I almost passed it, caught myself, skidded, and dived for the back. I
fought the stiff tarpaulin, found the opening and squeezed through.
I panted in complete darkness now. Outside, I heard voices as the men
shouted to each other, searching. I had a moment's respite; they didn't
know this entry.
I looked at my watch. Things happened fast in this war world; it was
not yet half past nine. I had left the house at seven. I had killed
three men in those two hours, and a man had died for me. I thought how
easily a man slips back to his ancient role as nature's most deadly
hunter.
I felt the fatigue suddenly. I yawned, sat on the floor. I had an
impulse to lie back and go to sleep, but instead I got up and began
feeling my way toward the passage. I wasn't finished yet; I was in the
palace, unwounded, armed. I had all I had any right to hope for--a
fighting chance.
I was no longer the eager neophyte, ignorant of the realities; I came
now, steeled by necessity, a hardened fighter, a practical killer. I
was armed and I was desperate, and I bore the scars of combat. I did
not intend to fail.
* * * * *
Half an hour later, I eased a door open and looked down the length of
the same hall into which the shuttle had pitched me headlong two weeks
before. It hadn't changed. I stepped into the hall, tried the first
door. It opened, and I saw that it was a bedroom. I went in, and by the
faint light shining through the curtains from below, looked over a wide
bed, a large desk against the far wall, a closet door, an easy chair,
and through a partly open door, a roomy bathroom to the right. I closed
the door behind me, and crossed to the windows. There were steel
shutters, painted light green to match the walls, folded back behind
the draperies. I closed them, then went to the desk and flipped on the
lamp. I had had enough of groping through the dark for one night.
The room was very handsome, spacious, with a deep pile grey-green rug
and a pair of bold water-colors on the wall. Suddenly I was aware of my
own reek. The clothes seemed to crawl on my back. I had lain in mud,
waded a sewer, crept through ancient dust. Without considering further,
I pulled the encrusted tunic off, tossed my clothes in a heap by the
door, and headed for the bath.
I took half an hour soaping myself, and then climbed out and got my
uniform. I had nothing else to put on, and I wouldn't wear it as it
was. I soaped it up, rinsed it out, and draped it over the side of the
tub. There was a vast white bathrobe behind the door, and I wrapped
myself in it and went back into the bedroom.
The thought penetrated to my dulled mind that I was behaving
dangerously. I tried again to shake myself alert. But alarm wouldn't
come. I felt perfectly safe, secure, comfortable. This won't do, I
thought; I'm going to go to sleep on my feet. I yawned again.
I sat down in the chair opposite the door, and prepared to wait it
out. I got up, as an after-thought, and turned the light out. I don't
remember sitting down again.