I had no idea what the kid was going to do, but when I started to follow him out into the lobby, the Hawk grabbed my arm and hissed, “Stay here, you idiot!”
I stepped back. Arty was leaning on DOOR OPEN.
Hawk sprinted toward the pool. And splashed in.
He reached the braziers on their twelve-foot tripods and began to climb.
“He’s going to hurt himself!” the Hawk whispered.
“Yeah,” I said, but I don’t think my cynicism got through. Below the great dish of fire, Hawk was fiddling. Then something under there came loose. Something else went Clang! And something else spurted out across the water. The fire raced along it and hit the pool, churning and roaring like hell.
A black arrow with a golden head: Hawk dove.
I bit the inside of my cheek as the alarm sounded. Four people in uniforms were coming across the blue carpet. Another group were crossing in the other direction, saw the flames, and one of the women screamed. I let out my breath, thinking carpet and walls and ceilings would be flameproof. But I kept losing focus on the idea before the sixty-odd infernal feet.
Hawk surfaced on the edge of the pool in the only clear spot left, rolled over onto the carpet, clutching his face. And rolled. And rolled. Then, came to his feet.
Another elevator spilled out a load of passengers who gaped and gasped. A crew came through the doors now with fire-fighting equipment. The alarm was still sounding.
Hawk turned to look at the dozen-odd people in the lobby. Water puddled the carpet about his drenched and shiny pants legs. Flame turned the drops on his cheek and hair to flickering copper and blood.
He banged his fists against his wet thighs, took a deep breath, and against the roar and the bells and the whispering, he Sang.
Two people ducked back into the two elevators. From a doorway half a dozen more emerged. The elevators returned half a minute later with a dozen people each. I realized the message was going through the building, there’s a Singer Singing in the lobby.
The lobby filled. The flames growled, the firefighters stood around shuffling, and Hawk, feet apart on the blue rug by the burning pool, Sang, and Sang of a bar off Times Square full of thieves, morphadine-heads, brawlers, drunkards, women too old to trade what they still held out for barter, and trade just too nasty-grimy; where earlier in the evening a brawl had broken out, and an old man had been critically hurt in the fray
Arty tugged at my sleeve.
“What . . .”
“Come on,” he hissed.
The elevator door closed behind us.
We ambled through the attentive listeners, stopping to watch, stopping to hear. I couldn’t really do Hawk justice. A lot of that slow amble I spent wondering what sort of security Arty had:
Standing behind a couple in bathrobes who were squinting into the heat, I decided it was all very simple. Arty wanted simply to drift away through a crowd, so he’d conveniently gotten Hawk to manufacture one.
To get to the door we had to pass through practically a cordon of Regular Service policemen, who I don’t think had anything to do with what might have been going on in the roof garden; they’d simply collected to see the fire and stayed for the Song. When Arty tapped one on the shoulder—“Excuse me please”—to get by, the policeman glanced at him, glanced away, then did a Mack Sennett double-take. But another policeman caught the whole interchange, touched the first on the arm, and gave him a frantic little headshake. Then both men turned very deliberately back to watch the Singer. While the earthquake in my chest stilled, I decided that the Hawk’s security complex of agents and counteragents, maneuvering and machinating through the flaming lobby, must be of such finesse and intricacy that to attempt understanding was to condemn oneself to total paranoia.
Arty opened the final door.
I stepped from the last of the air-conditioning into the night. We hurried down the ramp.
“Hey, Arty . . .”
“You go that way.” He pointed down the street. “I go this way.”
“Eh . . . what’s that way?” I pointed in my direction.
“Twelve Towers sub-sub-subway station. Look. I’ve got you out of there. Believe me, you’re safe for the time being. Now go take a train someplace interesting. Good-bye. Go on now.” Then Arty the Hawk put his fists in his pockets and hurried up the street.
I started down, keeping near the wall, expecting someone to get me with a blow-dart from a passing car, a deathray from the shrubbery.
I reached the sub.
And still nothing had happened.
Agate gave way to Malachite:
Tourmaline:
Beryl (during which month I turned twenty-six):
Porphyry:
Sapphire (that month I took the ten thousand I hadn’t frittered away and invested it in The Glacier, a perfectly legitimate ice cream palace on Triton—the first and only ice cream palace on Triton—which took off like fireworks; all investors were returned eight hundred percent, no kidding. Two weeks later I’d lost half of those earnings on another set of preposterous illegalities and was feeling quite depressed, but The Glacier kept pulling them in. The new Word came by):
Cinnabar:
Turquoise:
Tiger’s Eye:
Hector Calhoun Eisenhower finally buckled down and spent three months learning how to be a respectable member of the uppermiddle-class underworld. That’s a novel in itself. High finance; corporate law; how to hire help: Whew! But the complexities of life have always intrigued me. I got through it. The basic rule is still the same: Observe carefully; imitate effectively.
Garnet:
Topaz (I whispered that word on the roof of the Trans-Satellite Power Station, and caused my hirelings to commit two murders. And you know? I didn’t feel a thing):
Taafite:
We were nearing the end of Taafite. I’d come back to Triton on strictly Glacial business. A bright pleasant morning it was: the business went fine. I decided to take off the afternoon and go sight seeing in the Torrents.
“. . . two hundred and thirty meters high,” the guide announced, and everyone around me leaned on the rail and gazed up through the plastic corridor at the cliffs of frozen methane that soared through Neptune’s cold green glare.
“Just a few yards down the catwalk, ladies and gentlemen, you can catch your first glimpse of the Well of This World, where over a million years ago, a mysterious force science still cannot explain caused twenty-five square miles of frozen methane to liquefy for no more than a few hours during which time a whirlpool twice the depth of Earth’s Grand Canyon was caught for the ages when the temperature dropped once more to . . .”
People were moving down the corridor when I saw her smiling. My hair was black and nappy, and my skin was chestnut dark today.
I was just feeling overconfident, I guess, so I kept standing around next to her. I even contemplated coming on. Then she broke the whole thing up by suddenly turning to me and saying perfectly deadpan: “Why, if it isn’t Hamlet Caliban Enobarbus!”
Old reflexes realigned my features to couple the frown of confusion with the smile of indulgence. Pardon me, but I think you must have mistaken . . . No, I didn’t say it. “Maud,” I said, “have you come here to tell me that my time has come?”
She wore several shades of blue with a large blue brooch at her shoulder, obviously glass. Still, I realized as I looked about the other tourists, she was more inconspicuous amidst their finery than I was. “No,” she said. “Actually I’m on vacation. Just like you.”
“No kidding?” We had dropped behind the crowd. “You are kidding.”
“Special Services of Earth, while we cooperate with Special Services on other worlds, has no official jurisdiction on Triton. And since you came here with money, and most of your recorded gain in income has been through The Glacier, while Regular Services on Triton might be glad to get you, Special Services is not after you as yet.” She smiled. “I haven’t been to The Glacier. It would really be nice to say I
’d been taken there by one of the owners. Could we go for a soda, do you think?”
The swirled sides of the Well of This World dropped away in opalescent grandeur. Tourists gazed, and the guide went on about indices of refraction, angles of incline.
“I don’t think you trust me,” Maud said. My look said she was right.
“Have you ever been involved with narcotics?” she asked suddenly.
I frowned.
“No, I’m serious. I want to try and explain something . . . a point of information that may make both our lives easier.”
“Peripherally,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve got down all the information in your dossiers.”
“I was involved with them a good deal more than peripherally for several years,” Maud said. “Before I got into Special Services, I was in the Narcotics Division of the regular force. And the people we dealt with twenty-four hours a day were drug users, drug pushers. To catch the big ones we had to make friends with the little ones. To catch the bigger ones, we had to make friends with the big. We had to keep the same hours they kept, talk the same language, for months at a time live on the same streets, in the same buildings.” She stepped back from the rail to let a youngster ahead. “I had to be sent away to take the morphadine detoxification cure twice while I was on the narc squad. And I had a better record than most.”
“What’s your point?”
“Just this. You and I are traveling in the same circles now, if only because of our respective chosen professions. You’d be surprised how many people we already know in common. Don’t be shocked when we run into each other crossing Sovereign Plaza in Bellona one day, then two weeks later wind up at the same restaurant for lunch at Lux on Iapetus. Though the circles we move in cover worlds, they are the same—and not that big.”
“Come on.” I don’t think I sounded happy. “Let me treat you to that ice cream.” We started back down the walkway.
“You know,” Maud said, “if you do stay out of Special Services’ hands here and on Earth long enough, eventually you’ll be up there with a huge income growing on a steady slope. It might be a few years, but it’s possible. There’s no reason now for us to be personal enemies. You just may, someday, reach that point where Special Services loses interest in you as quarry. Oh, we’d still see each other, run into each other. We get a great deal of our information from people up there. We’re in a position to help you, too, you see.”
“You’ve been casting holograms again.”
She shrugged. Her face looked positively ghostly under the pale planet. She said, when we reached the artificial lights of the city, “I did meet two friends of yours recently, Lewis and Ann.”
“The Singers?” Maud nodded.
“Oh, I don’t really know them well.”
“They seem to know a lot about you. Perhaps through that other Singer, Hawk.”
“Oh,” I said again. “Did they say how he was?”
“I read that he was recovering about two months back. But nothing since then.”
“That’s about all I know, too,” I said.
“The only time I’ve ever seen him,” Maud said, “was right after I pulled him out.”
Arty and I had gotten out of the lobby before Hawk actually finished. The next day on the newstapes I learned that when his Song was over, Hawk shrugged out of his jacket, dropped his pants, and walked back into the pool.
The firefighter crew suddenly woke up. People began running around and screaming. He’d been rescued, seventy percent of his body covered with second- and third-degree burns. I’d been industriously trying not to think about it.
“You pulled him out?”
“Yes. I was in the helicopter that landed on the roof,” Maud said. “I thought you’d be impressed to see me.”
“Oh,” I said. “How did you get to pull him out?”
“Once you got going, Arty’s security managed to jam the elevator service above the seventy-first floor, so we didn’t get to the lobby till after you were out of the building. That’s when Hawk tried to—”
“But it was you who actually saved him, though?”
“The firemen in that neighborhood hadn’t had a fire in twelve years! I don’t think they even know how to operate the equipment. I had my boys foam the pool, then I waded in and dragged him—”
“Oh,” I said again. I had been trying hard, almost succeeding, these eleven months. I wasn’t there when it happened. It wasn’t my affair. Maud was saying:
“We thought we might have gotten a lead on you from him, but when I got him to the shore, he was completely out, just a mass of open, running—”
“I should have known the Special Services uses Singers, too,” I said. “Everyone else does. The Word changes today, doesn’t it? Lewis and Ann didn’t pass on what the new one is?”
“I saw them yesterday, and the Word doesn’t change for another eight hours. Besides, they wouldn’t tell me, anyway.” She glanced at me and frowned. “They really wouldn’t.”
“Let’s go have those ice-cream sodas,” I said. “We’ll make small talk and listen carefully to each other while we affect an air of nonchalance. You will try to pick up things that will make it easier to catch me. I will listen for things you let slip that might make it easier for me to avoid you.”
“Um-hm.” She nodded.
“Why did you contact me in that bar, anyway?”
Eyes of ice: “I told you, we simply travel in the same circles. We’re quite likely to be in the same bar on the same night.”
“I guess that’s just one of the things I’m not supposed to understand, huh?”
Her smile was appropriately ambiguous. I didn’t push it.
It was a very dull afternoon. I couldn’t repeat one exchange from the nonsense we babbled over the cherry-peaked mountains of whipped cream. We both exerted so much energy to keep up the appearance of being amused, I doubt either one of us could see our way to picking up anything meaningful—if anything meaningful was said.
She left. I brooded some more on the charred phoenix.
The Steward of The Glacier called me into the kitchen to ask about a shipment of contraband milk (The Glacier makes all its own ice cream) that I had been able to wangle on my last trip to Earth (it’s amazing how little progress there has been in dairy farming over the last ten years; it was depressingly easy to hornswoggle that bumbling Vermonter) and under the white lights and great plastic churning vats, while I tried to get things straightened out, he made some comment about the Heist Cream Emperor; that didn’t do any good.
By the time the evening crowd got there, and the moog was making music, the crystal walls were blazing; and the floor show—a new addition that week—had been cajoled into going on anyway (a trunk of costumes had gotten lost in shipment [or swiped, but I wasn’t about to tell them that]), and wandering through the tables I, personally, had caught a very grimy little girl, obviously out of her head on morph, trying to pick up a customer’s pocket book from the back of his chair—I just caught her by the wrist, made her let go, and led her to the door daintily, while she blinked at me with dilated eyes and the customer never even knew—and the floor show, having decided what the hell, were doing their act au naturel, and everyone was having just a high old time, I was feeling really bad.
I went outside, sat on the wide steps, and growled when I had to move aside to let people in or out. About the seventy-fifth growl, the person I growled at stopped and boomed down at me, “I thought I’d find you, if I looked hard enough! I mean if I really looked.”
I looked at the hand that was flapping at my shoulder, followed the arm up to a black turtleneck where there was a beefy, bald, grinning head. “Arty,” I said, “what are . . . ?” But he was still flapping and laughing with impervious gemütlichkeit.
“You wouldn’t believe the time I had getting a picture of you, boy. Had to bribe one out of the Triton Special Services Department. That quick change bit: great gimmick. Just great!” The Hawk sat down next to me and dr
opped his hand on my knee. “Wonderful place you got here. I like it, like it a lot.” Small bones in veined dough. “But not enough to make you an offer on it yet. You’re learning fast there, though. I can tell you’re learning fast. I’m going to be proud to be able to say I was the one who gave you your first big break.” Arty’s hand came away, and he began to knead it into the other. “If you’re going to move into the big time, you have to have at least one foot planted firmly on the right side of the law. The whole idea is to make yourself indispensable to the good people. Once that’s done, a good crook has the keys to all the treasure houses in the system. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“Arty,” I said, “do you think the two of us should be seen together here . . . ?”
The Hawk held his hand above his lap and joggled it with a deprecating motion. “Nobody can get a picture of us. I got my men all around. I never go anywhere in public without my security. Heard you’ve been looking into the security business yourself,” which was true. “Good idea. Very good. I like the way you’re handling yourself.”
“Thanks. Arty, I’m not feeling too hot this evening. I came out here to get some air . . .”
Arty’s hand fluttered again. “Don’t worry, I won’t hang around. You’re right. We shouldn’t be seen. Just passing by and wanted to say hello. Just hello.” He got up. “That’s all.” He started down the steps.
“Arty?”
He looked back.
“Sometime soon you will come back; and that time you will want to buy out my share of The Glacier, because I’ll have gotten too big; and I won’t want to sell because I’ll think I’m big enough to fight you. So we’ll be enemies for a while. You’ll try to kill me. I’ll try to kill you.”
On his face, first the frown of confusion, then the indulgent smile. “I see you’ve caught on to the idea of hologramic information. Very good. Good. It’s the only way to outwit Maud. Make sure all your information relates to the whole scope of the situation. It’s the only way to outwit me, too.” He smiled, started to turn, but thought of something else. “If you can fight me off long enough and keep growing, keep your security in tiptop shape, eventually, we’ll get to the point where it’ll be worth both our whiles to work together again. If you can just hold out, we’ll be friends again. Someday. You just watch. Just wait.”