By the time I got to bed, the authorities had carted off the bodies, living and otherwise, along with depositions in living color and stereophonic sound, from every witness and participant—a lengthy process, but not without its rewards.
I wasn’t going to the asteroids, after all. Our damaged guest denied being intimidated—was downright vehement about it. I wasn’t looking any gift horses in the mouth, but everybody else was curious as the CLA shook him down.
“What’s this?” The representative removed a medallion from the prisoner’s neck. She may have been a Civil Libertarian, but she looked all police matron to me, maybe even All-America. At least Most Valuable Player.
“Private property!” he snarled. “Give it back!”
“Once you’re bonded out.” She handed it to Ed. “You make anything of this?”
“Eerie sort of thing. Take a look, Win.” He passed it across the coffee table. Different societies use symbols different ways—there’s a limited number of simple designs, and they show up over and over. The swastika, for example, has never been anything here but an Indian goodluck sign. On the other hand, our European street sign indicating “Men Working” means “Don’t open your umbrella in a subway.” The medallion was bronze, an inch and a half in diameter, featureless on one side except for the number 1789. The obverse, cut deeply into the metal, was very familiar indeed.
“The Eye-in-the-Pyramid. It appears on paper currency back home. Never could figure why.”
“I’ll tell you!” Lucy almost upset her plate snatching for the medal. “Check those bodies out there! This is all starting to make sense!”
The prisoner thrashed his way toward Lucy. “Shut up, old lady! Shut up or we’ll get you!”
“You want to open that leg again, fella?” The matron held him back. “Hey, Louie! Go out to the wagon and see if those stiffs’re wearing any jewelry, willya?” She addressed Lucy, “Don’t let this guy worry you, ma’am.”
“I’ve seen this type before”—Lucy chuckled grimly—“back in the War in Europe. Coulda collected a mess of those medals if I’d been the souvenir type.”
Ed looked exasperated. “There you go again, Lucy, that was seventy years ago, and the Confederacy was neutral. The only Americans over there were volunteers in—”
“The Thousand Airship Flight! Bloody Huns shot us to pieces, but I got my passengers down okay, and joined the fighting. That’s how I met Pete!”
“Pete?” My eyebrows did a little dance at the top of my skull.
“Her late husband—some kind of Prince, to hear her tell it!”
“And a prince of a fellow he was! Started fightin’ Prussians in thirty-eight—that’d be nineteen-fourteen to you, Win—an’ tended the sick ones through the flu afterward. A philosopher of no small repute, and a hell of a good shot. Sure miss the skinny little so-and-so.”
“Nineteen-fourteen? Lucy, we had a war back then, against the Germans! And influenza, too! It’s a strange universe.”
“Stranger’n you know.” Lucy handed the medal back. “Never thought I’d see one of these again, ’specially in this country. Kinda makes a body sick.”
“It’s Prussian?” I asked.
“Misfires and malfunctions, no! Belongs to the schemers behind those goose-steppin’ sadomasochists. Thought we’d cleaned ’em all out in the last war—Antarctica. Last place anybody heard of ’em was the postwar coup they tried in Luna—naked through the airlock, deader’n dollars.”
Ed goggled. “You mean it’s really—”
“That’s right, Eddie, it’s them. And Win, I do know what an atom bomb is. I helped move Phobos into synchronous orbit over Coprates.” She jerked an unkind thumb toward the prisoner. “If these crablice’re plannin’ t’use thermonuclear earth-movers as weapons …”
“Who the hell are you talking about?” I demanded. “Who’s them?”
“The Hamiltonians,” Ed answered quietly. “They’re the ones trying to kill you, Win.”
“Federalists?” Clarissa whispered with horror. “Right here in Laporte?”
XI: The Eye in the Pyramid
Perhaps the greatest influence on the character of North American culture is that nine-tenths of the populace is “self-employed,” choosing to do business from the home. Consequently, an individual’s sense of territory and property is enhanced (Americans believed the slightest breach of any of their rights is a grave violation of them all) and at the same time, there is less tendency to identify with any one job, the “job” of North Americans being to enjoy life, whatever the means to that end.
—Maggie Mead
Coming of Age in America
WEDNESDAY, JULY 15, 1987
Ain’t science wonderful? Through the marvel of Clarissa’s electronarcosis, I zonked right into REM and awoke at noon, merely feeling like the living dead. First, the cast would come off, weeks earlier than standards I was used to, but none too soon for me. Then we’d pay a call on Freeman K. Bertram, President and Chairman of the Board of Paratronics, Ltd., concerning his wandering felt-tip pen.
The day began with a small disappointment. Clarissa didn’t show up to do the honors. Perhaps she was still miffed. In any event, one of her staff performed the ceremony, a young female named Briit. I hate admitting to prejudice, but a four-foot chimpanzee in hospital greens is no substitute for a cuddly blonde.
Sorry, Briit.
The plastic slithered off at the touch of an electrode. I was free! I flexed the fingers, tried a few rapid dry fires with my Smith & Wesson. Everything was working a bit stiffly, but, thanks to the meshed construction of the cast, I wouldn’t be going through the usual scrubbing and peeling.
Much to my annoyance, Ed was in no particular hurry. After a leisurely brunch, Clarissa arrived with several bulky packages and an uncharacteristically sneaky smirk. Lucy drifted over, and Forsyth’s bandaged-but-unbowed appearance a few minutes afterward made it official: something was going on.
Ed cleared his throat: “I want you to know, Win—we all do—that we’re glad you pulled through.” Ed’s wounds had healed overnight, though the captain was still wearing plastic mesh under his hat.
“Thanks to you, especially you, dear doctor. If I had to do it all over again, it’d be worth it—I guess.”
“Look, bud,” Lucy interrupted. “Who’s running this testimonial? Keep quiet and let the man talk.” She rose and headed upstairs.
“Win,” Ed grinned. “I’m not the sort to paw through someone else’s belongings out of idle curiosity—last night, I mean. I was just returning your badge.”
“My badge? All you had to do was ask.”
“And spoil the surprise?” Clarissa broke into her sunniest smile, and I felt completely recovered.
Suddenly it really was Christmas. Lucy returned with Clarissa’s stack of pancakes. “Just so’s you won’t get any exaggerated notions,” she said, “we didn’t order this stuff until we were pretty sure you’d live!”
I’d never had a family before; how else can I explain why Homicide Detective Lieutenant Edward William Bear needed a handful of Kleenex all of a sudden? Inside the first box were street clothes: a light, hooded, knee-length robe, blousy trousers and tunic, and a sort of cape or poncho. “You can’t do all your gunfighting in the nude,” Ed observed. “People will talk!”
I was hustled to the bedroom where other packages lay piled on the bed. Lucy leeringly offered to stay and show me how things worked. Clarissa stood aside and blushed. Pretty silly, since she’d spent most of one night pulling foreign objects from my naked outraged flesh. On the floor stood a tall pair of black boots, more evocative of gauchos than cowboys, embossed with swirls and scallops that were suspiciously familiar—some brilliant craftsman had duplicated the ornate engraving on my detective’s shield. I sat down and wiped my eyes again, grateful for the solitude.
Another carton revealed socks, undershirts, shorts, all pretty familiar, and, to my satisfaction, not a single necktie or cuff-link. I tried the satiny trousers
which fastened with a toothless zipper, pant cuffs tucked into fourteen-inch stovepipes. The formal tunic I decided to skip, as I’d seen Ed do, in favor of the robe, which was silvery where sunlight caught the folds. Along one seam, a sewn-in rod the diameter of a pencil would regulate temperatures on chilly days or when it got too hot. I put up the hood, and slipped the tabard, black with silver trim, over my head.
Something was missing. I picked at the leather and elastic that had been my shoulder harness, fingering the remnants of my ammunition. Perhaps I should take Ed’s advice, and get another gun. I hefted the forty-one fondly, hating to part with it.
“SURPRISE!”
Thank heavens for steady reflexes. They stood crowding in the doorway again, giving me the once-over. Ed pulled a bulky object from behind his back—a tooled gunbelt, matching my boots, holster fitted to the Smith & Wesson. “How’d you pull this one off, wise guy? I’d sure as hell have missed my gun!”
“Easy—took it one night last week when you were under electronarcosis, and had it back before you woke up!” I strapped the rig under my poncho and below my paunch and tried a few fast draws.
Forsyth stepped forward. “Here’s something for that toy autopistol of yours.” A lightweight shoulder holster. I thanked him, wondering what I’d do with it—and no Browning ammunition.
Next came Lucy “Sure hope this works better’n it did for the last guy!” It was the Rezin—Bowie knife—sheathed now to fit my gunbelt on the offside, where it almost balanced the revolver. “Now you can either shoot or carve your way outta trouble—might like some latitude with them Federalists on your tail!”
Clarissa handed me two small boxes, familiar from their weight. “Lucy’s right. If you’re going to stick with obsolete weapons, here’s some brand-new obsolete ammunition. There’s more out in my car, fresh from the fabricator. We had quite a time finding a nine-millimeter casing to duplicate. Ran a metal-detector all over between here and Tabor Boulevard. I hope we’ve guessed the ballistics right.
“I don’t know what to say.” I tried to choke back the tears. “I hope I prove as good a friend as you’ve all been to me!”
Lucy wrinkled her nose. “Now he’s gone and got maudlin on us!”
MY FIRST SURVEY of Laporte was something of a busman’s holiday. I’d seen the insurance tapes of Ed’s garage: the brand-new Neova, a sleek little machine that put me in mind of a giant Instamatic camera; a steam-driven Stanley Landmaster with six powered wheels for rough country; the Baker Townmobile drawing power from induction coils beneath the grassy streets. They’d been smashed to pieces.
However we weren’t thrown on the mercies of public transport: Lucy had a matched pair of elderly Thorneycroft 418s, a stately machine dating back almost to the beginnings of hovercraft production. Enameled a garish yellow paisley, they’d rolled off the assembly line sixty years ago, but, with the help of an adoring mechanic, Lucy proudly kept them in mint condition.
We crossed a hundred yards of lawn, climbed a hedge stile, and were suddenly in Lucy’s heavily cultivated garden, where columbines grew in profuse, multicolored splendor. She walked with us on a crisp carpet of fallen pine needles, full of warnings and advice. “You gotta meet ’em half way—not like these FANtastics and Neovas that practically drive themselves, take all the adventure outa travel—the Thorneycrofts will drift right up the camber on the turns, and dump you on your head!”
“I know, Lucy,” Ed nodded continuously, “but it’s wheels-down all day for us. We won’t be leaving town.”
“I’d have figured wheels on a hovercraft are like, well, screen doors on a submarine!”
“Not at all, Winnie!” Lucy preempted. She’d heard me describe cars back home, and now seemed compelled to explain to everyone about Fords and Chevies, Bahias and Cabrals. “Still can’t believe you people ride the rubber all the time like old maids.” Lucy patted one of the gaudy 418s affectionately and hiked up its flexible plastic skirt. “See? Like big inflated doughnuts.” She pointed toward the drive fans, rudders high and stately behind them. “Can’t handle more’n a six-degree incline unless you give ’em full power and blow out every window in town. Can’t steer without headway, either, so you use the tires.”
I remembered the absence of propwash on the streets, the Frontenac blasting along at full speed. “Are the wheels powered?”
“Naw, just for brakes and steering.” She pulled a recessed latch and swung down a set of folding steps. Getting into a modern machine was like pouring yourself into an MG—this was like boarding a stagecoach. We climbed up behind the dual controls and pulled the canopy down behind us.
Lucy headed indoors, hollering something about “spoiling my store-bought hairdo.” Ed keyed the ignition, a turbine whined, rumbled, then died to a whisper. He tapped a brassbound panel gauge: “Road-bearing meter—weight on the wheels. Too little, no brakes, practically no steering. Too much and you’re digging ruts in the turf!” He shifted a lever labeled DRIVE FANS and I twisted around to see the twin blades blur and disappear as we slid onto the rubbery surface of the driveway.
The Telecom chimed—an animated cutie like the one who runs the phone company: “Road Service,” she chirped. “This afternoon we’re showing South by Southwest, starring Archibald Leach and—”
Ed interrupted. “We’ll be on manual this afternoon.”
“Very well, good day, sir.” The image faded and we curved silkily to the gate, my controls moving in synch with Ed’s. I held on gently, getting the feel of the ponderous road machine.
As NEAR AS I can figure, Laporte occupies about half the area of Colorado’s Larimer County. According to the ad agencies who keep track—a census-taker would be cold meat before his second nosy question—population varies between two and three million. North Americans are incredibly mobile. A lot of that is underground. We swept through timber and prairie Ed swore was high-density industrial, then the forest primeval would give way with breathtaking suddenness to skyscrapers swooping five hundred stories into the clear bright air.
Ed’s place is in south-central Laporte, dominated by the university, an enormous park I was acquainted with, various retail businesses and small industries. We slid easily and quickly through the manicured streets, finding an artery that let us rev up almost to eighty, and, with cross-traffic whisking around us by landscaped viaduct and tunnel, were in the Old Town in minutes.
That expression, “Old Town,” conjured up mental pictures that couldn’t have been more wrong. Most Confederates do business out of their living rooms, which discourages undue formality and keeps enterprises small. Mention time clocks or commuting, they’ll look at you like they know where you escaped from. But like many inhabitants of Laporte’s older district, Freeman K. Bertram had things turned around: the high-powered executive’s version of sleeping over the delicatessen.
Paratronics, Ltd., an impressive pile of Aztec Modern rock, was planted where the Poudre River canyon empties onto the plains. We slid into an underground parking lot, dismounted, and pulled three gees getting up to the 223rd floor. Bertram was a tallish, nervous type who preferred hornrims to getting his eyeballs resculpted like everybody else; he affected a sort of Italian Renaissance beard and a kilt. He swung his bony knees back and forth in a swivel chair, making steeples with his fingers while I got introduced and told him how I’d gotten here and what had happened since. He nodded and mm-hmmed at what seemed the right places, but finally interrupted. “Do not mistake us, sir, for one of the wild-eyed research boffins we are compelled to employ at the University. Do you somehow imagine that these events are germane to the warehouse thefts you were engaged to deal with? You’d led us to believe we’d heard the last of those.”
Ed stiffened in his lounger, set his drink firmly on the tabletop beside him, and ground out his cigarette. “I don’t know what’s germane to what, yet. But I’m going to find out! The leads in both cases point right back to your company. Only an inside man could get past your warehouse security, and this”—he slapp
ed the pen down on Bertram’s desk—“showed up on the other side. In Win’s world. Maybe I ought to have a talk with those boffins of yours.”
Bertram squinted at the evidence with distaste, slid it carefully to a far corner of his desk, and scrubbed his hands of some imaginary contamination. “Mr. Bear, we had the impression you were working exclusively for us. If we were misinformed, shouldn’t we renegotiate our business arrangement?” I couldn’t see anyone else in the room, and decided Bertram was being editorial. Or coming down with a bad case of royalty. “It was our hope you would apprehend those responsible for the pilferage. Such violations of propriety cannot go un—”
“Hold it!” Ed sat forward. “I told you when this started, I can protect your property in the future, discover how the thefts were carried out, but as to catching the ones who—”
“Furthermore—” Bertram insisted.
“I didn’t want this case, remember? But you pleaded with me, and Win’s sudden appearance made it possible to help you. Now you’re complaining because I’m helping him, too?”
“Furthermore,” Bertram cleared his throat, “whether you have prevented future thefts is moot. We have no means of ascertaining that until the thieves are caught. And understand this; we do not appreciate these feeble attempts of yours to excuse failure by means of this … this …”
Me?
“Insupportable fantasy. A simple admission of incompetence would—”
“If you don’t like my work, you can take your contract and—”
“Worse,” Bertram waggled a disdaining finger toward the pen, “you seek, for some insidious purpose, to implicate our company—and its scientists—in your accomplice’s misfortunes! Now we put it to you, sir, we realize how profligate the liability judges have become of late, but even the most gullible …” He waved it all away.