Alice’s face changed color from pink to deep red and then to white again. “Oh!” she gasped. “Oh, Fred, I never thought! I—” And she turned and scuttled off down the hallway.
“No, we don’t want to hear any of your wild tales,” Fred said grimly. “I’m switching off this intercom and locking it off, just in case someone manages to sneak in here. If there’s anything you need, better ask for it now. I’m very sorry, I don’t like being harsh, but I warn you, I’ll put up with no foolishness.”
Martin was so upset that he was afraid he might start to cry. He thought about the mess he was in and how he had gotten there. Dejected, he sat down on one of the chairs. “You told my dad about me, right?”
“Yes.”
“And—well, what did he say? Was he worried? Did he say he was sorry?” He studied his pajamas. They had a blue and yellow Night Fighters pattern on them, and he was sure they made him look like a moron. He felt his eyes begin to sting.
There was a pause, and he glanced up to find Fred looking uncomfortable. “Oh, he pretty much said what he always says,” he answered.
“Well, then—wait a minute. My dad says lots of things. I don’t get what you mean.”
Fred shrugged. “Walt said that he appreciates my concern, but he prefers to keep our relationship professional. I’m really sorry,” he added, and this time he looked like he meant it. “But you know how your father is.”
“Walt?” Martin said, bewildered. “You mean my dad?” He forgot that he wanted to cry. “Hold on,” he said. “My dad never talks like that. You’re the one who talks like that.”
“Me?” said the puzzled man. “No . . .”
“Dad complains about it all the time,” continued Martin in a rush. “We even make a game of it sometimes. Like the other day, Dad teased you right before the black packet came in, maybe about five in the morning. He said he hoped your wife hadn’t died in the night, and you said what you always say.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fred said. “I’ve never known that man to make a joke. And besides, I never work that early in the day.”
“So you’ve never spoken to my dad,” Martin said. “Never once. Who do you guys talk to, then? And—hey, wait a minute! Then who’s sending out that packet to get me?”
Fred stared at Martin in amazement. Then his face closed up like a clenched fist. “I knew you were trouble the minute I saw you!” he growled, and he snapped off the intercom and walked away.
The first thing Martin did after Fred left was order up four bowls of warm vanilla pudding from the cooker. He ate them rapidly, one after the other, before they could cool off. I didn’t think I needed to take iron anymore, confided a lady on the television. Martin turned his back on her.
Now, he thought as he slurped the sweet stuff off his spoon, that guy Motley said I always know what’s worth knowing. Okay, what do I know about what’s going on now? What’s going to happen next?
That special packet that’s coming to get me isn’t going to take me home.
Martin’s skin prickled up into bumps. He didn’t have to ask how he knew. He just knew. It was all in the way Fred had looked at him.
“Time to get out of here,” he said, jumping to his feet.
The sliding glass panel, of course, refused to slide. He banged it, poked its rubber gasket, and pounded the wall nearby to hunt for hidden switches or panels. Nothing made it budge.
I’ll have to break the glass, he decided. It’s going to be a mess. He picked up one of the plastic chairs and hefted it a few times. Then, squinting, he hurled it at the panel. The chair bounced off with a bang and knocked back into Martin. He wasn’t getting anywhere this way.
“Okay, what’s heavy?” he wanted to know. Systematically, he made his way around the room. The bed wouldn’t shift. The metal cabinets refused to leave their brackets. Nothing would break loose in the bathroom. Even the cooker and fridge were bolted down.
“Why is everything here driving me crazy?” he shouted. “I’ll do it myself, then!” And he climbed onto the vinyl bed, took two running steps down its length, and hurled himself into the glass. A terrific jolt went through him, and a second later, he felt the back of his head smack into one of the chairs. The blisters scraped off his forearm as he slid in a jumble onto the floor. He climbed to his feet with pain shooting through him, so mad that he couldn’t see.
Martin intended to coat the room with vanilla pudding. He meant to hurl bowl after bowl at those big glass panels until no one could see through them anymore. He pictured the thick goop dripping down the walls, splashing into the vents on the cooker, drying up and cracking into a hard yellow lacquer. Wouldn’t Fred be disgusted! Wouldn’t he be sorry he’d been such a jerk!
The first bowl was already cooking before Martin realized that Fred might be angry enough to order him into restraints.
Okay, bad idea. He didn’t want to be handcuffed. But what a good time he would have had! He sat down on the floor to eat the pudding instead, regretting his change of heart.
Afternoons with Shelly, announced the television screen in elegant, free-flowing script. Shelly turned out to be a slow-moving heavyset sixty-year-old man with bulldog jowls and twinkling blue eyes. It seemed that Shelly had lots of friends in his neighborhood, and he was going on a walk to visit them. He was hoping that Martin would come along.
“Yuck!” said Martin. “Why can’t old people take their own walks?” He spent a fruitless few minutes trying to find a way to change the channel, but the quarantine room television was permanently stuck on peaceful programming. Oh well, it could be worse. He could be watching game shows right now. Which brought him back to the problem at hand.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, wishing that Chip were there to listen, “let’s assume I don’t want to go where they’re taking me, because I bet I don’t. And let’s assume I can’t get myself out of here first, because I can’t, and that’s a fact. Now, what can I do? Fight when they get here? Not unless they send out someone my size.”
A soft thump in the cabinet announced the return of his clean clothes from the laundry, and Martin gratefully changed out of the Night Fighters pajamas. I’ll have to talk my way out, he decided, and I’m no good at talking. The Motley guy was right about that. But I’ve got till tomorrow to plan what to say. I better get to work.
So, while Shelly visited Gloria, who hadn’t been feeling well yesterday; and Donna, who fed him pecan tarts; Martin ran through all the things that might happen the next day, over and over, like he was playing one of his cartridges.
But he couldn’t prepare his heart for the shock it got the following morning when the glass panel finally slid open. In stepped a trim blond woman in a white lab coat and black slacks.
“Good morning,” she said in a brisk voice. “You must be Martin Glass.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Martin gaped at the woman, his mind echoing with Bug’s screams. He felt exactly like one of those rats in Motley’s refrigerator, with nowhere left to run.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Martin,” the woman said. Her eyes lit up with an obsessive glow, and she reached out to take his hand.
Wake up! called his brain. You thought of this. She’s a bot! You know how simple bot programming is. Do something! Don’t let her touch you!
“I’m not Martin!” he shrieked, jumping back. The bot woman paused, confused.
“Of course he is,” said Fred, stepping into the room behind her. “That’s the name he gave yesterday when he arrived.”
“No, I’m not!” Martin yelped, positioning himself behind the vinyl bed. “I’m not Martin Glass. They’re hiding him from you. I’ll show you where he is.”
Fred shrugged as the woman turned to him for clarification. “He’s the person you’ve come to take away. I don’t know why he’s babbling like this.”
“Liar!” Martin shouted. Okay, you worked on the Fred problem, he reminded himself. He paused to put his words in order. “That guy with y
ou, Fred—he asked me all these questions. He wanted to know all this illegal stuff.”
The packet chief’s face went tight with anxiety. “Don’t you tell her that!” he cried. “It’s a lie. Tell her you lied, you little brat!”
“Liar!” Martin shouted in return. Between them, the bot woman stood still.
“Where is Martin Glass?” she asked. “I need to find him.”
“I’ll take you to him,” Martin said, breathing hard, as though he were running a race. He pointed at the nervous packet chief. “And you. Stop talking about me and I’ll stop talking about you.”
The three of them walked down the hallway in silence while Martin’s mind raced through more plans. He could take the woman to the school and pick out a kid who looked like him. Maybe there would be a crowd, and he could get away. Maybe he could push her out the elevator and ride it back down. He’d have to see what shaped up.
Another voice in his mind was whimpering with dread. You don’t have a chance, it warned. You won’t escape. All you’ll do is buy a little time. There’s no way out of this place.
They came to the loading bay, and Fred stepped to the console. It seemed to give him confidence. “All right, I’ve put up with enough,” he said. “I’m the packet chief of this suburb, and I swear that’s Martin Glass. Now get him out of here.”
The woman swung her head to look at Martin again, and terror made him go weak at the knees. “No, they’ve hidden him in the school,” he cried, backing away. “You’re lucky I’m helping you find him.”
“It’s normal to be nervous,” the woman said reassuringly, stepping toward him. “Many of my patients are uneasy about their journey. You are Martin, aren’t you?” Her eyes lit up again. She looked like a child with a new toy.
Martin felt his hand seized in a tight grip, and he closed his eyes in a flurry of panic. But the hand didn’t feel right. That is, it felt exactly right. It made him feel big and powerful again. He opened his eyes. Fred and the woman were several feet away, staring in amazement.
Holding his hand was a smaller replica of him.
“What is that doing here?” the woman demanded.
“I don’t know,” Fred said.
Just like him, the little Martin was wearing an orange T-shirt and blue jeans. It, too, was rail-thin and dark-haired. Its face held the same look of fear that he knew was on his own. It was even wearing his backpack.
But I’m not wearing a backpack, thought Martin, feeling muddled. It’s outside with—
And then he knew.
From inside the blond woman came the vibrating sound of bot-to-bot communication. Martin’s twin vibrated back, and the woman snapped around to face Fred.
“My colleague informs me that my patient is traveling to another suburb,” she said angrily. “I’m to check your console for further orders. Why did you conceal this information from me? Why did you let my patient leave?”
“You’re a bot!” Fred cried, astounded. “I never would have guessed! I don’t have any idea what’s going on today.”
“Answer me, Packet Chief!” Her voice deepened to a roar. “WHERE IS MARTIN GLASS?”
“I thought he was the one in the quarantine room,” Fred babbled. “Martin Glass, the big Martin Glass, not the little one. I don’t know who—what—the little fellow is. Don’t look at me like that! Ask them yourself. They’re right here. No, where’d they go?”
Alarm bells interrupted him. The steel gates were opening. The woman let out a scream.
“My packet is leaving without me!”
Martin lay on his stomach inside the moving packet car, knocked flat by the jolt of their departure. His copy at the controls might have managed to get it moving, but he was hardly an expert driver. Martin braced his hands against the packet’s open doorway to keep himself from sliding out. He had a perfect view of the loading bay he was leaving.
The bot woman threw herself after them in a mad dash to catch the escaping car. Martin wasn’t worried. He remembered the day he had run after Granny’s packet. The woman would trigger the air horn, just as he had done. Then the security system would catch her in its steel net.
But Martin had forgotten that she was a bot. She was chasing them down far faster than a normal woman could run. The horn went off in a heart-stopping blast, but the net dropped down seconds too late. He saw it fall right at her heels as she raced after them.
They rumbled through the dripping washroom, and the gates clanged to, shutting off the racket from the deafening horn. She tore down the middle of the tracks right behind the car, smiling brightly at him. “You must be Martin,” she called over the clack of the rails. “Finally! I’m so glad. We’re going to have a very good time on this trip. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
Now they were in the long dark tunnel. The packet was picking up speed. Her lab coat flying, the woman was picking up speed too. The light flooding out from the packet’s open door lit up her blurred legs, her cheerful expression. And all the time she ran, she talked to him.
“You’ll be so excited to see where we’re going, Martin. Many patients become so excited that they require sedation!”
They blasted out into the sunlight and careered past the metal sheds. Even though the packet car was doing its best, Martin could see that she was catching up. Her legs had morphed into something other than legs. They looked like wheels. And her gray eyes watched him like a missile locked on target.
The last security gate was coming up, but she was too close to the car for it to catch her. Do something now! Martin told himself. This is a bot. You know what to do.
“I’M NOT MARTIN!” he yelled as loud as he could. “MARTIN IS BACK THERE.” And he lifted a finger from the floor to point toward the suburb.
Confusion crossed the woman’s face, a flicker of hesitation. For an instant, she slackened her speed. As they whipped past the outer fence, the security net dropped over her and trapped her in a web of steel mesh.
They rolled away, and her struggling figure diminished in the distance. Martin thought he saw her mutate into strange forms, extruding waving tentacles through the net. Feeling ill, he closed his eyes and huddled on the floor, swaying from side to side with the movement of the car. It would be all right, he comforted himself. She could never squeeze her circuit board through the net.
Martin stayed on the floor, holding on for dear life, as they covered the miles back to the hilltop junction. When the car came to the T in the tracks, it turned in the direction that led away from HM1. His twin at the controls brought it to a stop.
“Chip, did you make us go this way?” The little boy shook his head. “So we weren’t going home. I knew it!”
Before leaving, he took a quick look around the car. There was a small refrigerator filled with bottles of water and a cupboard containing snack-size bags of chips. Martin confiscated the supplies, laying them on a wide-bodied pink and yellow hospital gown and wadding it up into a makeshift bag.
At the front of the car, a big padded chair stood by the window. Leather manacles dangled from its arms and legs, and an IV bottle hung from a bracket. Martin fled out into the sunlight, afraid he was going to be sick.
His miniature self was gone. A gorgeous black-and-tan German shepherd frisked delightedly in the tall weeds, snapping at passing bees. “You computer chip!” cried Martin, attempting to gather the squirming dog into his arms. “You disobeyed me, didn’t you? I told you to stay out here until . . . until the packet came for me. I get it! You saw this packet—you’d seen it before—you decided it was for me. And then you could be free to do what you wanted. Wow, Chip! You’re too smart to be a dog, that’s what you are.”
Chip fell into his lap and whimpered with joy, licking the air around him. He realized the dog wasn’t licking his face because of the blisters.
“Hey, I’m not dying either. This is just a little burn. It’s gonna be gone in a couple of weeks.” He held out his arms. “See? I’m looking better already.” The blisters had gone down, but hi
s skin was starting to peel off in thin, transparent sheets. “Isn’t that gross, Chip?” he said, studying his arms with admiration. “I can’t believe it all comes off like plastic wrap.”
The day was wonderfully hot after the insipid climate of the suburb. Martin looked around at the shimmering landscape and felt his spirits lift. The myriad colors of wildflowers blended into a distant paleness, and the dusty shrubs and trees formed olive green smudges on the hills. He tilted back his head to take in the washed-out turquoise of the sky, the large birds that cruised lazily in circles.
“This is it, isn’t it, Chip?” he said. “This is where we belong. We’ve got to get Cassie out here.”
A clang behind him made him jump. The packet car that they had abandoned was rolling. “Did you set the brakes?” he asked Chip. Then he realized the packet was moving uphill.
The empty car gathered speed, rolling back the way they had come. It climbed the hill behind them that held those big scary dishes. Then it whipped around the junction in the tracks and headed toward Suburb BNBRX again, making excellent time.
“We could have been in there!” Martin whispered. “No way could we have jumped for it either. That means we’ve got maybe half an hour to get out of here before the freak in the lab coat comes after us.” He remembered the chair inside her car and shuddered.
The surroundings didn’t provide much shelter. There was nothing more concealing nearby than knee-high weeds. They scrambled through the wildflowers to a clump of scrubby bushes on a small knoll. Under these silver-leafed shrubs, they lay in the scratchy weeds, hiding until the bot’s packet car went by.
About an hour after it had rolled away from them, the ominous windowed car came into sight. It rolled down the rails at normal speed, like any other packet. Soon it vanished in the distance.
Martin climbed out of the bushes and scratched the back of his blistered neck. “I think it’s like this, Chip,” he said. “If you’re in their suburbs, they run your life, just like Bug said. If you aren’t, they don’t care. End of story.”