Watson, Ian - Novel 10 (17 page)

 
          
‘We’ll
have to improvise,’ he thought. ‘We’ll manage.
Somehow.
’ He had already decided to put out of his mind, as much as was possible, the
problem of Resnick,
Alice
, the Egremont House and the Controllers. That situation was perhaps
resolvable if he did as they wanted him to, and executed Weinberger. On the
other hand, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that course of action would lead inevitably
to
his own
premature retirement. Keeping the ‘scandal’
under the firm wraps of the House, they could claim that

 
          
Jim
had gone insane . . .

 
          
Whereas he felt particularly sane right now.
After all, had
he not caught a distant glimpse of the existence of hidden Controllers?
Likewise he had almost caught a glimpse of the hidden roosting place of Death,
beyond the prisons which awaited souls.

 
          
‘Maybe
1 can’t quite cope with the intrigues . . . but 1 can cope with Death. That’s
my adventure.’

 
          
Jim
took the elevator back up to his own room, and stowed the player and the corpse
sweat dispenser in his valise. The yucca leaves outside the window clustered
menacingly, suggesting to him the ripping open of his bag — which reminded him
about the unread note in his pocket, which did not need to be slit or steamed
to open it. He took it out.

 
          
The
note which he was to carry to the Octagon consisted of just four words:

 
          
Give him the thing.

           
It was not signed, only initialled,
though presumably Resnick’s scrawl was unmistakable. The Master’s letters looped
childishly in the same way as he himself was given to performing
figure-of-eight gyrations of the body. Otherwise, perhaps, his writing would
have stuttered into illegibility . . .

 
          
Jim
stared at the note, more amused than bemused.

 
          
Give him the thing.

           
The note was a blank cheque. It
seemed incredible that anyone would hand over a lethal weapon on the basis of
such a flimsy hint, even to a guide from the House of Death. Oh, how the note
smacked of pre-arrangement — even though Resnick had appeared to be so strongly
opposed to
Alice
’s seemingly spontaneous suggestion.
At first.

 
          
Yes,
there were Controllers — and apprentice Controllers: those whose loyalty to the
system must be tested, at the expense of an occasional client, or guide . . .

 
          
‘What
the hell,’ thought
Jim.
Whom a gun hit depended on
whom it was pointed at. Better to be holding it, than not!
Metaphorically,
of course.
He would never contemplate actually using a gun. Perhaps
Nathan would, but Nathan was somewhat risky in that area.
Unreliable.

 
          
Or
maybe devilishly reliable!

 
          
Slipping
the note back into his pocket, Jim set off for the

 
          
Octagon.
He whistled to himself.

 
          
‘The
die is cast,’ he thought. Die? Yes, it all came down to the gamble of dying . .
.

 
          
Yet,
as he walked, despite his decision to keep his mind clear for other things, he
went over his puzzling encounter with Resnick once more.

 
          
What
the hell
was
going on in Egremont?
Involving Resnick and
Alice
and Officer Bekker and Death knows who else?

 
          
If
only he could put his finger on the exact source of Resnick’s apparently
paranoid fugue ... He almost felt that the source was . . .
himself
.
But that was ridiculous. How could
he
be blamed for what Resnick said and imagined? The truth of it was that Resnick
was about to have a nervous breakdown. Resnick had been riding high, preening
himself. Resnick had been looking forward to rewards for his successful rule of
the House. Then Norman Harper had been murdered, terrifying him.

 
          
And
unfortunately, even though there were checks and balances in any House, the
ultimate power of life and death was in Resnick’s hands.
Power
over everyone, including Jim.

 
          
‘The
ultimate
power of Death?* Jim
chuckled bitterly to himself. How little Resnick knew.
Or any
of them.
Only Jim and Nathan knew. Only they had chased Death, almost to
its home.

 
          
Secret
political intrigues were going on, he decided, but there couldn’t really be a
group anywhere in the House hierarchy who knew the truth about Death. If such a
group existed, and they continued to operate the Houses, it would be too evil
for words. Resnick believed that he was being led into temptation — for
political gain. So he would deliver himself from the evil of the bait.
By any means.

 
          
But
other people wouldn’t. Others would listen.
Surely.
Possibly.

 
          
Jim’s
shoes crunched the gravel as he crossed the courtyard to the Octagon; which
prompted him to wonder about their staying power over rougher terrain. But he
could not really feel the stone chips through the rubber soles, so he supposed
that the shoes would serve.

 
          
He
checked in at the front desk. The same white-uniformed woman was on duty.
Presently he accompanied another messenger up to Bekker’s office.

 
          
“So
it’s you again,” said Bekker, in an unwelcoming way.

 
          
Jim
slid the envelope across Bekker’s desk.

 
          
“He
did send me, this time,” said Jim deviously.

 
          
Bekker
removed the note, scanned it in a moment then turned the paper over as though
some explanation or endorsement might be written on the back. But no: Bekker
was simply placing the sheet of paper face down so that it was indeed a blank
sheet. The message no longer existed. He had never seen it.

 
          
Without
a word Bekker got up, went to a wall safe and removed a small package which he
handed to Jim. Jim weighed it, and dropped it into his pocket.

 
          
Sitting
down again, Bekker smiled for the first time.

 
          
“What
a beautiful day,” he said. Since his window glass was opaque this seemed a
doubly hypocritical remark.
“Nice of you to drop by.”

 
          
“But
you’re so very busy.”

 
          
“Right.
Alas.”

 
          
Bekker
smiled again, and Jim departed, to ride the Beadway back to the House like a
mugger of old with a murder weapon hidden in his pocket.

 
          
“.
. . So
we’ve got
to get out of here,
Nathan.”

 
          
“I
see. You really think the pheromone flask and the hypno-tape will be enough?”

 
          
“They’ll
have to be. We aren’t in the butterfly trapping game any longer. It’s just a
question of getting our timing right, transferring into our second bodies,
then
giving chase. But we can’t do that from here any longer
— cage or no cage.”

 
          
Leaning
to one side, Weinberger dialled a succession of new scenes for the wall screen:
a cactus desert, cumulus cloud islands detached from any land beneath, ripe
cornfields with not a bird in sight. He ended up with the rolling forests which
he had been gazing at when Jim first met him.

 
          
“We
used to go hiking when I was younger. I knew the ground north of here up as far
as Barnaby. There
were
forest retreats, with rations
kept in them.
Used to be.
Still will be, I suppose. Of
course, the Peace Service know where those all are. But there are other places
in the woods and hills.
Old mines, fishing cabins,
firetowers.
I must say I feel a lot stronger, though I don’t know what
shape I’m in for hiking. Lying around in bed can’t have helped! Still. . . We
are going north, aren’t we?”

 
          
^“
We’ll
take a car, to give us a start. If the battery’s fully charged, we’ll make
thirty-five or forty miles before it runs out of juice. Then we’ll hide the
car.”

 
          
‘‘Leaving approximately another hundred miles to the border — and
over that border, other Houses of Death.”

 
          
“Run
by different people, with different political pressures operating on them.
Maybe thereMl be less hidden manoeuvring. They’re supposed to be more free and
easy up there.”

 
          
‘‘So
is Egremont supposed to
be.
I’m still an absconding
murderer, remember. I killed Cock Robin. I shot the poet laureate.”

 
          
‘‘We’ll
have tracked Death to its lair, by then. We’ll have gone beyond the crystal
prisons. We’ll have news. Since Egremont won’t listen, that’s why we ran to
them.”

 
          
“Not
ran, Jim — walked.
Quite slowly.
Hoping
that they’ll listen to us.
Why should they want to?”

 
          
“Because it’s the truth.”

 
          
Weinberger
sighed. “You don’t really quite believe that yet, do you?
Despite
what we went through together.
Your mind’s still running on two separate
tracks. One, what we experienced was real. Two, it was a fantasy. You’re
getting out of here for reasons of your own.
Involving your
own skin.”

 
          
“That’s
true too,” admitted Jim. “But even so. You know, they’ll expect me to head back
towards Gracchus to hole up in the city. So we’ll be safe heading north.”

 
          
“Safe as Houses.
Speaking of safety, I once told you that a
hydrogen bomb might be the best defence against Death because it vapourizes
people before they know it. Do you remember? I was talking rather wildly.”

 
          
“Indeed
you were.”

 
          
“But
I’ve thought since, what about all the casualties who die slowly from burns and
radiation? My real point is
,
what can anyone
do
about Death, if it’s the truth?
Which it is.
Do
they

 
          
retrain
all the guides as a guild of assassins — sudden
killers gliding through society, picking off this man here and that woman there
before he or she ever suspects a thing?
In cahoots with the
Census Office and the Peace Service?
Oh, that would really turn the
world upside-down! Though I guess it already has been turned upside- down once
in my lifetime, so I suppose anything is possible. Oh, but you’d need a Norman
Harper and a half to versify that regime!

 
          
“Death
comes from the blue

           
It comes to me, it comes to you,

 
          
A
rifle bullet from a tower,

 
          
Today, tomorrow, any hour.

 
          
Death
doesn’t catch any of you.

 
          
W'e
do
.”

 
          
“That’s
why we need more information,” said Jim. “We have to trail Death to its lair.”

 
          
“In the woods, in the hills.
Well, I don’t suppose we have
any choice about it — and I’m glad to hear you convincing yourself.”

 
          
Jim
slapped his pocket.

 
          
“If
they pick up
our
trail, we can defend
ourselves.”

 
          
“With just six shots left?”

 
          
“We
can pretend to. Nobody argues with a gun. By the way, I meant to ask you: how
do you best use it? If ‘best* is the right word! I don’t mean how
do you pull the trigger — that’s obvious —
nor do I intend
to! Just —”

 
          
Weinberger
thumped his own chest. “A fellow’s heart is over here. And you don’t
pull
the trigger, Jim. You squeeze it.
Or you’ll miss. And don’t forget that there’s a safety catch — or that a gun
kicks. Not,” he added sarcastically, “that you’ll be using it.”

 
          
“You’d
better believe it. One other thing — hypothetically, you understand?
Purely as a matter of interest.”

 
          
“Well?”

 
          
“How
would someone go about shooting
himseljl
Would
he hold the gun backwards, like this?” Pointing
both hands back towards his heart, Jim mimed.

 
          
“You
try that when you’re holding a gun, and you’ll find how easy it isn’t.
No way.”
Weinberger stuck his index finger into his mouth,
then
pulled it out with a plop. “That’s how. Pointing
upwards,
or you’ll just blow the back of your throat out. I
think that’s how. Hell, it’s all so long ago.’’

 
          
“In your case, about ten days ago!”

 
          
“I
mean all the information about killing.
The serials, the soap
operas.
Look, Jim, this conversation’s getting a little muddleheaded.
Either you’re planning on taking to the hills with me — or on shooting me. Not
both at once.”

 
          
Jim
raised a hand in protest.

 
          
“No,
what I’m wondering is: can you ever shoot yourself by surprise — if you do it
quickly and impulsively enough?”

 
          
“How
do I know? Do you think I want to put it to the test? What I’d say
is,
that nobody ever commits suicide on impulse. So it’s a
fool question. But you’ve got one thing right. Our job’s to stay alive — and we
won’t manage it here.”

 
          
Weinberger
gazed into the scene-screen.

 
          
“I’d
better get rid of that. Forests are a dead give-away. It’s a pity there aren’t
any city scenes!”

 
          
Weinberger
dialled the forests away, and the winter of the world faced them once again,
glazed by the flood of sunlight reflecting off the icebergs.

 
          
“We’ll
leave tomorrow night,” said Jim. “I’ll tell Resnick that you’re on the verge of
agreeing to appear in public.”

 
          
“And
I will so appear. Only, no one will be up and about to see me.
Thus proving that a part of the truth is the biggest lie of all.
Oh, that’s neat. I shall eat like a horse till then.”

 
          
“In that case,
bon appetit
to you.”

 
          
“No,
I’ll just eat like a horse, that’s all.”