An Epitaph in Rust

  Spencer nodded and nudged the knapsack under the table with his foot.

  “Good, good.” McHugh took a sip from the glass of wine he’d brought to the table. “Not bad,” he observed. “How’s the food here?”

  “Terrible,” Thomas said, pointing at the pie.

  McHugh peered at it. “Oh, yeah.” He looked up. “Here’s my partner now,” he said.

  Thomas didn’t turn around, so he didn’t see the new arrival until he sat down. “Mr. St. Coutras!” he said in surprise when he got a look at the white-bearded old man.

  “You two know each other?” McHugh asked, puzzled.

  “My God, it’s Thomas the famous runaway monk,” St. Coutras said. “You’re with these guys?” he asked, nodding at Spencer.

  “I am now,” Thomas told him. “I certainly wasn’t when I met you. And my name is Rufus, please.”

  “Hah! Rufus? Oh well, whatever you say.”

  “They’ve got the money,” McHugh said impatiently.

  “Okay,” St. Coutras said. “Now listen,” he said to Spencer. “Pick up the guns Saturday, that’s the day after tomorrow, under the third manhole on New Hampshire south of the wall. That’s right above the city college, near Vermont.”

  “I know where it is,” Spencer nodded. “When Saturday?”

  “Eleven at night. Be there, we won’t wait around. If—”

  McHugh half stood up, reaching quickly in his coat. A loud bang sounded behind Thomas and McHugh was kicked backward over his chair, the gun he’d reached for spinning across the floor.

  “No one else is going anywhere, are they?” inquired a cultured voice from behind Thomas’ shoulder. Four smooth-faced android policemen surrounded the table as Albers picked up McHugh’s chair and sat down.

  Thomas, from where he sat, couldn’t see McHugh’s body. Spencer could, though, and looked sick, scared and angry.

  “Foolish of you to miss our appointment, St. Coutras, old boy,” Albers smiled, taking a sip of McHugh’s wine. “Very tolerable Petite Syrah,” he remarked. “Is the food equal to it?”

  Thomas pointed mutely at the congealed pie. “Yes, I see,” Albers said with a shudder. “At any rate—these two young men, then, must be members of our own Los Angeles resistance underground! What are your names?”

  “Edmund Campion,” Thomas said.

  “Dan McGrew,” said Spencer.

  “Uh huh. So you thought you’d sell to a rival market, eh, St. Coutras? That’s known as treason, my friend. You’ll be hanged and we’ll appropriate your guns. For nothing. And you lads will be hanged, too, never fear—after a few days with the city interrogator, naturally.” He picked up the wine glass again, then froze. He turned a sharp stare on Thomas. “What did you say your name was?” His voice was like a slap in the face.

  “I forget,” Thomas said. “It was a phony name anyway.”

  “I know that. You just said the first name that popped into your head, didn’t you?”

  Puzzled and terrified, Thomas simply nodded.

  “Right,” Albers grinned. “Edmund Campion. The name of a… saint. Let’s see—you’re the right height, dark hair …” He leaned forward and stared at Thomas more closely.

  Through his tension and fear Thomas felt a taste of relief. At least it’s over, he thought. Now I’ll find out why they’ve been hunting me with such determination.

  “This is him, isn’t it, St. Coutras?” Albers said. “Thomas, our long-sought fugitive.”

  St. Coutras shook his head. “Wrong, Albers,” he said. “Are you going to grab every dark-haired young man who thinks of saints when he’s in trouble? You bastards are really grabbing at straws.”

  “Hmm.” Albers frowned thoughtfully. “Of course you’d say that in any case, to keep your bargaining position … What the hell. We’ll take all of you in for a little intensive interrogation, hey? Maybe even send a coach to Merignac, bring back a monk who could absolutely identify this damned Thomas. Up, now, and march outside. Put that down, you monster,” he added to one of the androids, who had furtively picked up the pie.

  Five horses were tied to a rail in front of the Gallomo, next to the old gun-runner’s cart Thomas had ridden to the city in, a week ago. One of the androids frisked the prisoners, removing a pistol apiece from Spencer and Thomas and a short, large-calibre sleeve-gun from St. Coutras.

  “Handcuff the prisoners,” Albers directed the android, “and lay them in the back of the old man’s cart.”

  The cold metal rings were clicked viciously tight around Thomas’ wrists, and then the android lifted him as easily as an armful of lumber and dropped him face down into the empty bed of the cart. A moment later St. Coutras and Spencer were dropped in on either side of him.

  “Stay loose, lads,” the old man gasped. “They haven’t got us in the pan quite yet.”

  Thomas could see no basis for hope, but felt a little better for St. Coutras’ words.

  “All right,” came Albers’ voice. “You three follow us back to city hall—and don’t forget to bring the spare horses, idiots. You—you’ll drive the rig and I’ll ride along to watch our little guests.”

  The cart rocked on its creaking springs as Albers and one of the androids climbed up onto the seat. “Don’t look up, friends,” Albers said, “but rely on it that I am staring down at you with a revolver in my right hand. I can’t afford to kill any of you yet, but I sure won’t hesitate to blow off an arm or two. Okay, Hamburger or whatever your name is, move out.”

  Thomas heard the snap of the reins, and the cart lurched and rattled as it turned out of the parking lot and east onto Beverly. In a moment followed the snare-drumming of hooves on cobblestones as the five horses fell in behind.

  “What time is it, Captain?” inquired St. Coutras politely.

  “Shut your filthy hole, traitor,” Albers snapped. “Step on it, will you?” he said to the android driver, and Thomas felt the cart’s speed increase. He glanced over at St. Coutras, and the old gun-runner winked at him.

  The cart leaned and creaked as it weaved to pass slower vehicles. The steady roar of the cobbles under the wheel-rims had risen in pitch. “Don’t stop for him,” Albers snarled. “Go around! There, grab that space! Oh yeah?” he shouted to some outraged driver they’d cut off. “Well, how’d you like to—oh Jesus, look out!”

  The cart’s brakes squealed and Thomas was thrown forward.

  “Hit the back brake!” St. Coutras called out commandingly, “or we’re doomed!”

  A deep, hollow boom shook the cart to its axles, and immediately St. Coutras was up on his knees. “Run for it, Aeolus!” he howled, and butted his white-maned head into the driver’s shoulder. The horse leaped forward in a sudden burst of speed and the android, off balance, pitched off the bench into the street.

  The old man frantically wrestled his manacled hands under his legs as the driverless cart picked up speed. When, a second later, he’d got them around in front of him, he vaulted onto the driver’s bench and caught the flapping reins.

  “Go, Aeolus, darling!” he yelled to the horse.

  Thomas rolled over and managed to drag his own hands around to the front. “Have you got a gun?” he shouted to St. Coutras. “They’re coming up fast behind us.”

  The driver held the reins in his teeth for a moment while he groped under the bench; there was a wooden click and he came up holding a pistol. Thomas took it and turned around.

  The three android riders were terribly close, and even as Thomas raised the pistol one of them got off a shot at him which almost burned his cheek as it passed. Thomas fired full into the rider’s face, and the android rolled off the back of its horse. The other two fell back a little.

  Thomas’ next shot went wide as St. Coutras wrenched the speeding cart around a tight corner. Spencer was sitting up, looking tense but cheerful. A bullet splintered the bench over his head and he ducked low. “Careful of those bastards, Rufus!” he yelled.

  Thomas nodded, and squeezed off a shot at the nearer r
ider. It tore a hole in the android’s arm, but didn’t slow it down. Thomas’ next shot crippled its horse, and mount and rider tumbled across the street in a tangle of thrashing limbs.

  “Only one more!” Thomas called.

  This one stood up in the stirrups now, raising its pistol in both hands for one well-aimed shot. Thomas centered the android in its sights, and both guns roared simultaneously.

  Thomas spun violently back into the cart bed, his gun whirling away into the street, as the last android clutched its exploded belly and rolled off its horse.

  Spencer grabbed Thomas’ shoulder. “Where are you hit?” he demanded.

  “My hand,” Thomas whispered through clenched teeth. His whole left hand was a blaze of pain, and he feared more than anything to look at it. He could feel hot blood running up his wrist and soaking his sleeve.

  “Head for the Bellamy Theatre,” Spencer called to the driver.

  “Screw that, son,” St. Coutras replied, not unkindly. “Our best bet is to head for the gate muy pronto, and get out of this maniac city before they hear about this and lock us in.”

  “Well, look, my buddy here’s bleeding like a cut wineskin; at least drop us off here.”

  “Okay.” St. Coutras reined in in front of a dark shop, and Spencer helped Thomas out of the cart.

  “Listen,” the old man said. “When Albers was blown out of the cart your five thousand went with him. But I’m willing to write that off as taxes if you still want the guns.”

  “We do,” Spencer said.

  “Good. No change in the delivery plans, then. Thomas?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re a good lad to have at one’s back in a fight. Hope I see you again.”

  Thomas was pale and trembling, but managed a smile. “Thanks,” he said. “We were lucky to have you in the driver’s seat.”

  “We owe it all to Aeolus. Here.” He tossed a box from under the seat to Spencer. “First aid. See you Saturday, boys!” He flicked the reins and the cart rattled away up the street.

  Thomas and Spencer stepped into an alley. “Hold out your hand,” Spencer said. He poured alcohol all over Thomas’ injured hand and began wrapping it in a bandage. “This ain’t easy to do when both of us are handcuffed,” he remarked.

  “How’s it look?”

  “Oh, you won’t die of it, I guess.”

  “Do the bandages have to be that tight?”

  “Yes.” When he’d laboriously tied a knot and bitten off the slack, Spencer patted him on the back. “That’ll do for now. We’re close enough to the theatre to be able to walk back. If we pass anyone, just keep to the shadows and sing as if you were drunk, and with any luck at all they won’t notice the cuffs.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The Head in the Box

  The front of the Bellamy Theatre was dark; the cluster of gargoyles and decorated balconies were homogenous blurs in the huge shadow that was the building. Then a match was struck on a second-floor balcony, and held to the end of a cigar. The flame flared up as the smoker puffed, revealing for a moment the bushy beard, bald head and deep-set eyes of Nathan Gladhand. The match was abruptly whipped out, leaving only the dull red pinpoint of the cigar tip.

  Gladhand looked anxiously up and down the dark, empty expanse of Second Street, and listened carefully as the city hall clock struck six-and-a-half.

  Suddenly someone began singing, a few blocks to the west. No, two people. Incongruously, for it was only October, it was a Christmas carol in which the two slightly hysterical-sounding voices were raised.

  O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie,

  Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by …

  It’s got to be them, he thought; pretending to be drunk. Or maybe they are drunk. He could see them now—weaving along the nearer sidewalk and leaning on each other—and, further behind them, a tall figure following. The theatre manager reached into his coat pocket and rested his hand on the butt of a shoulder-holstered pistol. As he watched, though, the man following entered a hotel, and the two young men walked the last block and a half alone. When they were directly below, Gladhand leaned over the balcony rail.

  “Spencer! Rufus!” he called quietly. “Is all well?”

  Spencer looked up. “Yes and no, sir.”

  “Come up here and tell me.”

  Two minutes later they sat in canvas chairs on the balcony, sipping gratefully at glasses of cold beer.

  “All right,” Gladhand said. “Tell me. What happened? How did Rufus hurt his hand?”

  “That guy McHugh is dead,” said Spencer. “Four cops and Blaine Albers followed him to the Gallomo, killed him and were going to arrest us. Albers even figured out who Rufus really is. It looked bad, need I say. That old guy St. Coutras, though, tricked the android that was carting us away into setting off a hidden gun which blew Albers right out of the cart. St. Coutras drove like a madman while Rufus leaned out the back and shot all three pursuing androids. The last one shot him in the hand.”

  “How bad is it?”

  Spencer started to speak, stopped, then tried again: “The first finger’s gone completely. Sorry, Rufe. The rest’s okay, though the thumb may be sprained.”

  “Are you left-handed, Rufus?”

  “Well—yes sir.”

  “Ah. That will be difficult. I’m sorry.” He turned to Spencer. “And the guns?”

  “Delivery at eleven P.M. Saturday. No trouble there.”

  “Well, thank God for that, anyway. Rufus, go below and have Alice fix you some food. And don’t think your heroism and self-sacrifice have gone unnoted. Spencer, escort him there, if you would, and then come back here.”

  Spencer led Thomas away, and took him downstairs to the greenroom, where Alice, Pat and Lambert were playing some card game.

  “Alice,” Spencer said, “see what Rufus will have, and get it for him, will you? He’s a casualty.”

  “Jesus, have you been shot again?” Alice exclaimed. “My God. You want some food or something?”

  “Some soup,” Thomas said slowly, “would be nice. Thanks, Alice.” He sat down as Alice scampered away. Pat, he noticed, was looking at him with an expression almost of hostility.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “I got…” He was suddenly very tired, and enunciating each syllable was a real effort. “I got my finger—” he waved his bandaged hand “—shot off in a gunfight with some androids. And then Spencer and I had to sing Christmas carols—” With no warning he found that he was crying. Almost as soon as he noticed it he was able to stop.

  “For God’s sake,” Pat said, standing up, “talk to me when you’ve managed to pull yourself together.” She walked out of the room.

  “Wow,” said Lambert softly. “Anybody ever accuse you of masochism, Rufus?”

  As far as Thomas could recall, this was the first time Lambert had called him by his first name. He grinned weakly. “It’s only these last few days they’d have had any cause to,” he answered.

  “I mean,” Lambert went on, “I’ve pursued some cold ladies in my time, but this girl of yours is a whole new category. Do you always go for girls like that?”

  Thomas shrugged. “She’s the first girl I ever … went for.”

  “Honest?” Lambert shook his head. “God knows where you’ll go from here.”

  Alice returned with a pot of steaming clam chowder and a tall mug of beer. “I ran into Spencer in the hall,” she said. “He tells me that Gladhand has advanced our opening night to Wednesday the twentieth.”

  “Wow,” said Lambert uneasily. “Less than a week away.”‘

  “Yeah,” Alice agreed. “Apparently he’s going to step up the pace of the rehearsals, to compensate.”‘

  “Is that … code or something?” Thomas asked. “Does ‘opening night’ mean the day we spring our coup on city hall?”

  “No, it’s really opening night,” Lambert said. “Gladhand made it clear, didn’t he, that the play is no shu
ck? Of course, there might be a clue here; he might be planning to mount the attack sooner than he originally meant to, and is moving the opening-night date up so the two won’t interfere with each other. Who knows? He might even be planning to overthrow city hall before the play opens. He’d never let on, in any case.”

  Thomas’ hand hurt, and he had difficulty in getting to sleep. When he finally did drift off he was plagued again with the sky-fishing dream. Again he reeled the resentful flier closer and closer, again saw the great white face, and knew for one awful moment whose it was; then it changed into the face of the stone head beside Thomas’ couch, which in turn became the face he’d glimpsed on the creatures in the vats in the android brewery. He woke at dawn, and lay there for an hour, tired and sick, and disgusted with his own subconscious mind.

  He stood up, finally—and found, when his vision cleared, that he was lying full length on the floor beside his couch.

  “What was that?” came a familiar voice. “Rufus? Are you all right?”

  Thomas got to his knees and shook his head to clear it. “Yeah,” he said clearly. “It’s okay. That you, Pat?” He forced himself to forget the horrible white-cheese face from his dream.

  “Yes.” She was standing beside him now, and helped him to his feet. His hand, he noticed, had bled during the night, and his sheets were spotted with brown.

  “Do you love me, Pat?” he asked dizzily.

  She thought about it. “Yes,” she said finally, “I guess I do.”

  He nodded. “I love you, too,” he said. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”

  “Right,” she said. “Better not waste any time,” she added. “Rehearsal’s at eight.”

  “Eight?” he echoed. “Instead of noon?”

  “As well as noon. Opening night’s been rescheduled. Didn’t you hear?”

  “Oh yeah. I remember now. Wednesday.”

  “Right. Hurry up, now. Everybody’s probably gobbling up our share.”

  When they got to the dining room, though, they found that breakfast had been held up until they arrived. As he and Pat sat down, Spencer and Jeff trooped in with platters of scrambled eggs and sausage and bacon, followed by Skooney, who carried in both hands a huge jug of orange juice. There was the usual babble of conversation, and no mention was made of the events of the previous evening. Thomas noticed, though, that the trace of condescension was gone from people’s voices when they spoke to him now. I’m a full-fledged member at last, he thought. And all it cost me was a finger. He looked around for Negri but didn’t see him.