Worlds

  Fat Charlie stuck his head in the door. “Warm?”

  “Sweating.” He led me out onto the platform, where the other five were waiting. Most of the conversation died down and there was a little applause.

  He leaned against the piano and said, “Well? What’s first?”

  “You know ‘Stavin’ Change’?”

  Five grins. “Tryin’ to fuck us up,” the trombone said to the banjo. To me: “What key? C-sharp minor?” The pianist reached all the way to his right and tinkled out the first line, I’m gonna tell you ‘bout a bad man, in a ridiculously high C-sharp. “Maybe B-flat,” he conceded. “About sixty?”

  I nodded and Fat Charlie gave two heavy snaps; I just had time for a quick breath and started my intro, the piano and banjo automatically and softly behind. Then the trombone did a quiet vamp and the cornet took over the line, and I slid under him in sweet natural thirds and fifths, low register, and it was like we’d been playing together for years. They were so good.

  I’ll never have another night like that. I’ve played in a lot of orchestras and bands and quartets, and against my own recorded sound, but I’d never played with professionals before. There are no professional musicians in the Worlds, except for the cabarets in Shangrila. These cobs could do anything, with the precision and synchrony of a music box. If I’d asked them for the Pythagorean Theorem they’d take four finger snaps and roll into it.

  And the audience loved it. I know I wasn’t all that good, not within a light-year of Fat Charlie, but it was cute, like a bear riding a bicycle. They were “regulars,” aficionados, and when we did pieces that had coon-shout lines, they’d sing right along with us. (Which was a good thing. My singing voice is very ordinary, and an alto in with all that gravel sounded ridiculous.) They applauded and yelled and threw coins on the stage and bought us drinks. I had five mint juleps but didn’t get drunk; I was living so high and hard they just burned away. But by three o’clock I was staggering, drunk on fatigue and applause. The inside of my lips all numb pain and salt blood and my body felt like it had been squeezed through six bright hours of orgasm. Fat Charlie walked me back to the hotel and gave me a big wet kiss and a rib-cracking hug.

  I slept like a dead thing. The phone woke me up at about ten.

  “Hello, no vision,” I mumbled.

  “Jimmy Hollis here.” The banjo player. “You know you’re in the paper?”

  “What paper? What the hell are you doing up at this hour?”

  “Shee-it. I’m still up.” I remembered he’d offered me ’phets last night. “In the Times-Picayune. You a star, lady, a star!”

  I put something on and stumbled down to the lobby and punched up “Entertainment” on the Times-Picayune machine. There I was, on the first page, red hair and blue denim and looking very intense. I bought another copy to send to Jeff.

  I actually was, technically, a “star”—one of the 480 on the list compiled daily by The New York Times. I was number ten in the subcategory “Jazz, Traditional, Instrumental.”

  I hadn’t even finished reading the article when somebody knocked on the door. I put my hand on the knob. “Who is it?”

  “Newspaper. Times-Picayune.”

  I opened the door. “Look, I don’t—”

  He was a tall man with an ugly scarred face. He raised a small pistol and shot me in the neck.

  40

  Joyride

  I woke up with my wrists tied to the arms of a floater seat. To my right, out the window, a desert was rolling by about a thousand meters below. To my left was the ugly man who had shot me. There was a pilot and nobody else. My bladder was about to burst.

  “I have to pee,” I said to the ugly man.

  “So pee,” he said.

  “Winchell,” the pilot said, “don’t be such a prick. If she does, you have to clean it up.”

  “Don’t count on it.” But he untied me and I rushed back to the john. There was a small welt on my neck, anesthetic dart.

  Urinating, I realized the bladder pain wasn’t everything and, disgusted, found sticky evidence of recent intercourse. I cleaned up raging and went back to the man Winchell, standing in the aisle.

  “You son of a goat,” I said. “You raped me.”

  “Oh no. You didn’t resist at all. I think you liked it.”

  For three seconds I glared at him, trying to remember everything Jeff and Benny had taught me. I balled my right fist and hauled back as if to hit him. He stepped right into it. He laughed and reached forward to block it and I did my damndest to drive his testicles into his throat. He oof’ed and turned pale and started to fold up, and I hit his nose as hard as I could with the heel of my hand. Nearly broke my hand, but he crunched and bled in a satisfying way.

  “Very well done,” the pilot said. He was looking at me over the barrel of a dart pistol. “Not smart, though. When he can stand up again he’ll bite off your arm and stuff it down your throat. Very very bad person.” He lowered his point of aim and shot Winchell in the back.

  “Now. Are you going to be good, or do I shoot you another dose? It’s not healthy to have two the same day.”

  “I won’t hurt you. I don’t know how to drive a floater.”

  He nodded. “Sit up here, where I can keep an eye on you.”

  I strapped myself in next to him. I was still trembling with rage, and with something else, something I couldn’t identify. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

  “I’m a freelance pilot. Winchell’s a freelance muscle—all the way to the top of his skull, muscle. We snatched you for a guy named Wallace.”

  “Kidnapped?”

  “That’s right. Two hundred thousand up front, plus five percent each, of whatever he finally gets.”

  The desert must mean we were headed for Nevada. I thought about what Violet had told me about kidnapping. “But that’s absurd. I don’t have any money; nobody I know has any money.”

  He gave me a puzzled look. “Come on.”

  “But it’s true. I’m from New New York; no one has private wealth.”

  “He must have some other reason, then.” He shook his head. “Christ No royalties.”

  “I don’t see what you’re complaining about. This doesn’t seem like too much work for two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I only get a hundred. It’s the risk, not the work. Snatching’s a capital crime in Louisiana, and in Louisiana they just walk you past a warm judge and take you out back and shoot you.”

  “Are we in Nevada?”

  “Not yet. Wait till dark to cross the border.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back to look at some dials. “Winchell, uh, raped you while you were unconscious.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He is a low-life son of a bitch. I should have got someone else. It was real short notice,” he said apologetically.

  I stared out the window. “Twice in six months. I’ve been raped twice in six months.” I was seized with sudden fury. “What’s wrong with you groundhogs? What the hell is wrong with you?” I leaned over and was beating him on the shoulder and head with my fists, blinded with tears.

  He shoved me away, not too roughly. “Hey! You want to kill us all?” We were much closer to the ground; he pulled back on the wheel and we rose to our former level.

  “Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the dart gun. I braced for it, but he turned around and shot two more darts into Winchell. “He?ll be out for a day now. And he won’t be able to keep anything down for a week. I’d kill him for you, but people would think that was just to get his part of the advance. I’d have a hard time finding partners.”

  When I didn’t say anything, he elaborated. “Listen, lady. I really am sorry. This is a business to me, and I normally work with good professionals. But it was a rush job; I was in New Orleans on vacation and got the call. I had to pick up a local. He had a good reference; I’m sorry he turned out to be a thug.”

  “What the hell do you call yourself?”

  “Pilot. I fly merchand
ise and passengers under dangerous conditions.” He turned on a radar screen and slid a knob back and forth. The scale of it expanded; a green dotted state line appeared at the top of the screen. “We’re pretty safe now. A floater off autopilot isn’t that unusual here, lots of tourists. We’ll have to break a heavy police line to get in Nevada, though. They like to stop you on general principles.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “We might have some pursuit, though, if you’ve been reported missing. Is that likely?”

  I weighed what to tell him, and decided it was in my favor for him not to be too nervous. “Not until about nine o’clock. I’m supposed to show up to play in a band.”

  “Seven here, won’t be dark yet. That’s not good. If someone suspects a snatch they’ll put the border guards on alert” He banked the floater to the left and we started flying into the sun. “Think we better come in from the north-west. Let you see the Rockies.”

  I was still trembling. “I feel sick. I’ve never hit anybody before.”

  “Pretty good for a first try.” He reached across me and opened a small compartment in the dash. “Look in the first aid kit there. Should be some Dramamine and tranks. Water back by the john.”

  I took the pills back, stepping over Winchell, resisting the impulse to kick him a few times. The pilot asked me to bring him a sandwich and a beer from the refrigerator.

  My bag was on a shelf below the refrigerator. I checked and the Puke-O was missing. But the nineteen gold pieces were still sewed in the bottom lining.

  I got myself a sandwich, too, and we ate in fairly companionable silence.

  “You’ve already got your hundred thousand?” I asked him.

  “That’s right. Cash in advance.”

  “And you don’t think you’ll get any more? Five percent of nothing, I mean.”

  “That’s possible. Wallace didn’t say why he wanted you snatched. There are other reasons than ransom.”

  “If you turn this thing around and take me to Atlanta, I’ll give you thirty-eight thousand dollars in gold.”

  He laughed, didn’t look at me. “Not for a million, lady. I have a reputation to protect…. Besides, Wallace might possibly get angry, and have me killed. I’d never fly again.”

  “That’s just what I’m afraid of. A friend of mine was murdered and I think whoever did it wants to get me, too.”

  “Impossible,” he said. “Roundabout, anyhow. If I wanted somebody murdered in New Orleans, I’d just go down to the waterfront. Ten thousand shitbags who’d stick a knife into you for the price of breakfast at Brennan’s.” He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “How do you come to have so much gold stashed away?”

  “It’s for New New York. They use it in electronics. Do you know anything about Wallace?”

  “Never heard of him before yesterday. But that’s Las Vegas. People come and go.”

  “He couldn’t be the government, could he? U.S. government?”

  “What, are you a spy for the Worlds? This is getting deep.”

  “The Worlds don’t have spies on Earth. That would be like Philadelphia sending spies to New Jersey.”

  “Wouldn’t count on that being true anymore. From the news, it sounds like things are getting pretty rough. You ought to be glad you’re on Earth. Present circumstances excepted.”

  “Sure.” Present circumstances included an awful lot besides a little kidnapping. I yawned hugely. The tranquilizer was getting to me.

  “Go ahead and take a nap. But if you hear a loud chime, that means you have a half-second to get your arms on the armrests and make sure your head is straight up-and-down on the headrest. This baby can do eight gees on evasive maneuvers.” I got into that position and decided I could sleep that way.

  When I woke up it was dark. “How close are we?”

  “About two hundred kilometers from the border. We’re flying by radar, about ten meters off the ground.” I could see shadowy landscape flashing by; we were evidently in some sort of a valley, following the twisted course of a river.

  “How much longer?”

  “Twenty-some minutes. Less if we have to goose it.”

  On cue, a voice said, “OREGON STATE POLICE, YOU ARE FLYING WITHOUT LIGHTS.” It seemed to come from everywhere in the floater. The chime went off and I braced myself. “PLEASE IDENT—”

  A loud roar and the scenery around us was suddenly lit up by bright blue light The land fell away as acceleration crushed me back into the seat, as if a fat man had plopped down on my lap and was pushing back with all his might. I could feel my face distorting, the skin of my cheeks stretching back, eyeballs exposed to cold air. My ears popped painfully. The floater was shuddering violently. Then we were suddenly weightless.

  “Stay braced. I have to do some things to amuse their radar.” His right hand played over a keyboard. We were higher than the tallest mountains, but falling.

  “What about Winchell?” I didn’t dare look back.

  “He’s not the one I’m being paid to deliver. Hold on.” The blast kicked in again and we were diving straight down. We flashed down the side of a mountain—sharp pain in my ears like somebody poking fingers down them. “Yawn,” the pilot said; I did and they popped again. As the ground approached we leveled off with a violent surge, chin jammed down against my neck, sharp pain in back and breasts and elbows, and then we were just flying again, but very fast. I leaned forward and realized we were still accelerating slightly.

  “You do this often?” I asked.

  “Often enough to be good at it. That’s why they called me.” He tuned the radar. There were three bright spots drifting down the screen, dimming. “I’m not worried about the Oregon cops. But they’ll have warned the border guards. Big border, though; they might not have time to get into position.”

  “If they have?”

  “Probably try to shoot us down.” He grimaced, looking ghoulish in the green light from the radar screen. “Haven’t got me yet.”

  “Why don’t you contact them and tell them there’s an innocent person aboard?”

  “All that would do is give our position away. Don’t worry. I’ll be coming in at cactus level, five or six times the speed of sound. We’ll just pop over the horizon and zip! We’re in Nevada.”

  He really didn’t seem to be very worried. But then may-be he was insane.

  He studied the radar screen with increasing tension as we zigged and zagged, following the configuration of the land. After a few minutes he clicked a switch and leaned back.

  “That’s it. We’re home.”

  “They can’t follow us in?”

  “International incident.” He pushed a button. “Control, this is Baker eight-four-seven-six, coming in with a snatch. I need a pattern for Vegas, two-four, seven-nine, section OL.”

  “Congratulations,” it answered. “Who’s the snatch?”

  “Marianne O’Hara, alias Mary Hawkings, registered with Landreth Wallace.”

  “All right, we’ll notify. You’ve got the pattern. Endit.”

  “You know my real name?”

  “All I know is you’ve got two names.” He let go of the wheel, lit a cigarette and leaned back. “Can I give you some advice?”

  “Sure. This is all new to me.”

  “First of all, don’t try to escape. You don’t know how to drive a flyer, so the only way out of Vegas is the tube. You have to pass Security to get out, and they’ll know who you are. They can be pretty rough.”

  “I can walk out Across the desert.”

  “No. Not only is it too hard a hike, but they’d pick you up before you got five kilometers from the city limits. Just not very many people out there.

  “And be cooperative. This Landreth Wallace, from the few minutes I talked with him yesterday, seems to be a nice enough fellow. Older man. But he is a desperate criminal, by definition, and in Nevada he can do anything he wants to you, even kill you. So don’t provoke him.”

  “You mean I should start getting a taste for being raped.??
?

  “Not exactly… but I thought you Worlds girls were, well, liberal about that sort of thing.”

  I’m not a “girl,” but at least he didn’t call me a spacer. “Oh sure. We have rape contests all the time.”

  “Seriously. He’s a criminal but isn’t necessarily a violent or unreasonable man. I’m a criminal, too, and I haven’t laid a finger on you, right?”

  “Maybe you just don’t want to wind up like him.” I looked back and gasped. Winchell was crushed up against the lavatory door, lying in a thick pool of blood.

  “Christ.” The pilot unbuckled and walked back, took a quick look, and returned, shaking his head. “Dead as a rock.” He buckled in and turned on the radio. “Control, this is Baker eight-four-seven-six again. I need clearance for a fast manual approach.

  “What’s the problem, Baker?”

  “Dead passenger. May only be a couple minutes dead.”

  “Just a second… you’re clear at two thousand meters. Take her to West End. Lose your snatch?”

  “No, muscle. Endit.” The acceleration kicked in, not as hard as before.

  “I don’t understand why you want him revived,” I said. “Won’t you get twice as much if he stays dead?”

  “Not necessarily. Might just save Wallace a hundred grand. Have to take it before the guild.” The roar got louder as we rose, and he shouted over it. “Probably I would get the money, but it sure wouldn’t look good on my record. Be that much harder to get muscle I could trust.”

  Honor among thieves. We could see the glow of Las Vegas long before the first buildings came over the horizon.

  I’d seen pictures of the city, but they were nothing like the reality. A glimmering fairyland of graceful but garish buildings; bright ghosts of holo advertisements, as large as the buildings themselves, hovering in the air.

  We decelerated hard and floated down to the landing pad on a hospital on the outskirts of the city. Two orderlies were waiting with a stretcher; the pilot popped the door before we set down.

  They rushed in and strapped the body onto the stretcher. “Who’s going to pay?” the female orderly asked.