Vertigo Read online

  He had been a gregarious boy, not averse to speaking his mind, and the worst personality conflicts had arisen from this fact. Time after time he had been quelled, humbled, desolated by the admonition — always delivered in a shocked and betrayed undertone — that a proposed course of action would cause people to look at him. He had grown up with the implanted conviction that the most scandalous thing he could ever do would be to draw the attention of others in public. There had been other strictures, notably those concerned with sex, but the principal one, the one which clung longest and made life most difficult, had been that concerning the need for self-effacement. Even as a young adult, at college and during a brief spell in the army, each time he had been called upon to get up on his feet and address any kind of assembly he had been plagued and undermined by visions of panic-stricken blue eyes and by the parental voice whispering, “Everybody will look at you!”

  Hasson had eventually broken the conditioning, and — with his father long dead — had thought himself free of it for ever, but the impact of nervous illness appeared to have shattered his adult character like a glass figurine. It was as if his father had begun to achieve a posthumous victory, recreating himself in his only son. He found it intensely difficult to sustain any kind of a conversation, and the thought of having to enter a house of strangers filled him with a cool dread. Hasson stared sombrely at the unfolding alien snowscapes and yearned desperately to be back in his two-roomed flat in Warwick, with the door locked and the undemanding companionship of a television set for solace.

  Al Werry, as though sensing his need, remained silent in the following hour except for the passing on of scraps of information about local geography. In between times, the police radio made occasional popping and growling noises, but no calls came through on it. Hasson took the opportunity to recharge his spiritual batteries and was feeling slightly more competent when a tangle of pale-glowing aerial sculptures appeared above the horizon, letting him know they were drawing close to Tripletree. He was taking in the broad outlines of the traffic control system when his eye was caught by the silhouette of a peculiar structure close to the city, stark against the background of luminous pastels. From the distance it resembled a monstrous, single-stemmed flower, grown to a height of perhaps four hundred metres. He speculated briefly about its purpose, then turned to Werry.

  “What’s that thing?” he said. “It can’t be a water tower, or can it?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your eyes, Rob.” Werry spent a few seconds staring straight ahead, satisfying himself that he too could see the object clearly. “That’s our local landmark, Morlacher’s Folly — otherwise known as the Chinook Hotel.”

  “Strange architecture for a hotel.”

  “Yeah, but not as strange as you would think. You know what a chinook is?”

  “A warm breeze you get in the wintertime.”

  “That’s right, except that we don’t always get it. Around here it has a habit of streaming over us at a height of a hundred or two hundred metres. Sometimes as low as fifty. It can be ten below zero at ground level, so we’re going around freezing, and up there the bird’s are sunbathing at ten and fifteen degrees above. That’s what was in old Harry Morlacher’s mind when he built the hotel — the residential part is right up there in the warm air stream. It was meant to be a high-priced R R spot for oil execs from all over Athabasca.”

  “Something went wrong?”

  “Everything went wrong.” Werry gave a quiet snort, a sound which might have been indicative of appreciation, awe or contempt. “None of the construction outfits around here had ever tried building a giant lollipop before, so the costs kept going up and up till Morlacher was down to near his last cent. Then they developed new ways of scooping up the tar sands and cleaned out what was left of the easy stuff in a couple of years. Then mono- propellant engines came in and nobody had much use for our oil any more, so the Chinook Hotel never took in a paying customer. Not one ! Talk about a fool and his money!”

  Hasson, who had little expertise with money, clicked his tongue. “Anybody can make a mistake.”

  “Not that sort of mistake. It takes a special talent to make that sort of mistake.” Werry grinned at Hasson and adjusted the angle of his cap, looking scornful, tough, healthy and well adjusted, the picture of an up-and-coming career cop, a man with complete confidence in his own abilities. Hasson felt a fresh pang of envy.

  “Still, it makes a good talking point,” he said.

  Werry nodded. “We’ll be going right by it on the way into town. We can stop there and you can have a close look.”

  “I’d like that.”

  There was little else of interest in the flat white landscape and Hasson kept his gaze fixed on the remarkable structure as it steadily expanded in the frame of the car’s windshield. It was only when they approached to within a kilometre that he began to appreciate the full daring of the unconventional architecture. The central column looked impossibly slim as it soared skywards to blossom outwards into an array of radial beams supporting the circular mass of the hotel proper. It gave the appearance of having been forged from a single piece of stainless steel, although he was sure that seams would become visible upon close inspection. Sunlight glinted on the glass and plastics exterior of the hotel section, making it look remote and unattainable, an Olympian resort for a godlike breed of men.

  “There isn’t much room inside that stem for a lift… elevator,” Hasson commented as the car reached the outskirts of Tripletree and began to pass widely separated high-income dwellings perched on snow-covered hummocks.

  No room,” Werry said. “The plan was for two tubular scenic elevators running up beside the pylon, but things never got that far. You can see the holes for them on the underside of the hotel.”

  Hasson, narrowing his eyes against the intense light from the sky, had just managed to pick out two circular apertures when his attention was caught by a moving speck in the upper air close to the hotel. “There’s a flier up there.”

  “Is there?” Werry sounded uninterested. “Could be Buck Morlacher- old Harry’s son. Buck or one of his men.”

  “The place isn’t in use, is it?”

  “It’s in use, all right — but not the way the Morlachers had in mind,” Werry said grimly. “We’ve got angels here too, you know, and the Chinook makes a dandy roost for them. At night they come in from all over the province for their get-togethers.”

  Hasson visualised the task of trying to police the huge eyrie at night and there was an icy heaving in his stomach. “Can’t you seal the place up?”

  “Too much glass. They can pick a window anywhere and cut through the bars and they’re in.”

  “What about CG field neutralisers? A building like that must have had them to keep off peepers.”

  “The money ran out before they were installed.” Werry glanced at his wristwatch. “Look, Rob, you must be real hungry by this time, I’ll take you right on home now to eat and we can stop by for a look at the hotel some other time. How does that sound to you?”

  Hasson was on the point of falling in with the suggestion out of courtesy when he realized he had no desire for food. Furthermore, making a closer inspection of the fantastic building would stave off the ordeal of having to meet the other members of Werry’s household.

  “I couldn’t look at food just yet,” he said, testing the position. “A column that height must have one hell of a foundation.”

  “Yeah — in the ground, where you can’t see it.”

  “All the same…”

  “Tourists,” Werry sighed, swinging the car to the left to pick up a tree-lined avenue which ran towards the hotel. At this proximity, for the occupants of a vehicle, the building registered on the vision as nothing but a silvery mast sprouting from behind ordinary buildings and making a dizzy ascent to unseen regions. The idea of following that slim pylon upwards for four hundred metres and finding a world of conference halls, ballrooms, cocktail bars and bedrooms seemed utterly prepo
sterous, as much a part of a fairy tale as a giant’s castle at the top of a beanstalk.

  Hasson looked about him with interest as the car reached a flat and undeveloped tract of land which would have formed spacious grounds for the hotel. Its boundary was marked by a four-strand wire fence which had been knocked down in several places, and here and there beneath the snow it was possible to pick out old scars made by earth-moving equipment. The air of desolation, of a battle that had been lost, was added to by the state of the low circular building which surrounded the base of the support column. Most of its windows had star-shaped holes and the walls were colourful samplers of aerosol graffiti. A strip of waterproof skin that had almost been detached from the roof stirred gently in the breeze.

  As the car came to a halt Hasson noticed another vehicle — an expensive-looking, wine-coloured sports model — parked just inside the line of the fence. A fur-hatted man in his thirties was leaning against it with a shotgun cradled in his arms. He was wearing a one-piece flying suit, the glistening black material of which was crossed by the fluorescent orange straps of a CG harness. Hearing the other car arrive, he turned his head towards Werry and Hasson for a moment — flashing sunlight from mirrored lenses — then resumed his concentrated study of the lofty upper section of the hotel.

  “That’s Buck Morlacher,” Werry said. “Guarding the family investment.”

  “Really? With a gun?”

  “That’s just for show, mainly. Buck likes to think he’s a frontiersman.

  Hasson paused in the act of opening the car door. “He isn’t wearing panniers. Don’t tell me he flies with a shotgun just held in his hands.”

  “No chance!” Werry tugged the peak of his cap down a little. “It wouldn’t matter much, anyway. There’s nobody around here for it to fall on.”

  “Yes, but …” Hasson stopped speaking as he realized he was on the verge of interfering in things which were not his concern. One of the most universal and necessary legislations relating to personal flight was the one which forbade the transportation of dense objects, except in specially approved pannier bags. Even with that precaution the annual death toll from falling objects was unacceptably high, and there was no country in the world where the breaking of that particular law did not bring severe mandatory penalties. All Hasson’s instincts told him Morlacher had just flown with the gun, or was about to fly, and he felt a profound relief over the fact that the law enforcement task was not his. It was work for a fit, hard man in full possession of himself.

  “Are you getting out?” Werry said, again glancing at his watch.

  “Can’t see anything from in here.” Hasson pushed open the passenger door, swung his feet sideways and froze as his back locked itself into immobility with a sensation like bone grinding on dry bone. He caught his breath and began trying different grips on the doorframe as he struggled with the engineering problem of how to hoist his skeleton into an upright position. Werry got out at the other side without noticing, adjusted his cap, checked to see how his gleaming boots were faring on the snow, tugged his tunic straight at the back, and approached Morlacher with careful tread.

  “Mornin’, Buck,” he said. “Going to do a little duck shooting?”

  “Go away, Al — I’m busy.” Morlacher continued staring upwards, his eyes hidden behind chips of pale blue sky. He was a large, overweight man with copper-coloured hair and a triangular patch of bright pink on each cheek. His lips were drawn back, exposing teeth which seemed to be inhumanly thick and strong, with heavy molars in place of incisors, Hasson immediately felt afraid of him.

  “I can see you’re busy,” Werry said pleasantly. “Just wondered what you’re busy at.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” A look of impatience appeared on Morlacher’s face as he lowered his head to stare at Werry. “You know I’m doing the work you should be doing — if you’d any balls. Why don’t you just get back into your kiddycar and leave me to it? All right?”

  Werry glanced back at Hasson, who had managed to draw himself into a standing position with his arms along the top of the car door. “Now you listen to me, Buck,” Werry said. “What makes you…?” “They were up there last night again,” Morlacher cut in. “Having one of their dirty parties — violating my property — violating it, do you hear? And what do you do about it? Nothing. That’s what you do — nothing!” Morlacher scowled, pulling his colourless eyebrows together, and directed his mirrored gaze towards Hasson as though becoming aware of him for the first time. Hasson, still trying to establish whether or not he could stand up unsupported, looked away into the distance. He detected a movement at the upper edge of his vision and raised his eyes to see a flier swooping down from the hotel.

  “There might be one or two of them still holed out up there,” Morlacher went on, “and if that’s so, Starr and I are going to flush them out and deal with them ourselves. The old way.”

  “There’s no need for that sort of talk,” Werry protested. He was staring, perplexed, at Morlacher when the descending flier closed in on him from above and behind. He was a wispy- bearded youngster, wearing a blue flying suit and carrying a pump-action shotgun slung across his back. As Hasson watched, he moved a hand to his belt and deliberately switched off his counter-gravity field while still three metes in the air. He dropped instantaneously, but the momentum remaining from his curving descent brought him into a thudding collision with Werry’s shoulder. Werry sprawled on the ground, his face driven into the snow.

  “Sorry, Al. Sorry. Sorry.” The young man helped Werry to his feet and began brushing show from his uniform. “It was a pure accident — the glare from the snow blinded me.” He was winking at Morlacher as he spoke.

  Hasson felt a rush of adrenaline through his system as he looked at Al Werry, waiting for him to take the action the situation cried out for. Werry straightened up and looked uncertainly down at the newcomer who was stooped before him brushing his clothes with exaggerated gestures of concern. Now, Hasson willed. Now, before any more time passes. Now, while he’s set up for you in all his arrogance.

  Werry shook his head and — disastrously — began to smile. “Know something, Starr Pridgeon? I don’t think you’re ever going to get the hang of that harness.”

  “Know something, Al? I think you’re right.” The youngster gave a bray of laughter and in the middle of it, just as Morlacher had done, turned and fixed his gaze on Hasson as though seeing him for the first time. Hasson, veteran of a thousand such encounters, recognised the imitative borrowing of a mannerism and guessed at once that Morlacher was the dominant partner of the pair. He remained leaning on the car door, tentatively trying to straighten his back as Pridgeon came towards him. Pain flared in his joints. They were machine bearings which had been sabotaged with carborundum powder, robbing him of mobility.

  “This must be Al’s cousin from England,” Pridgeon said. “What do you think of Canada, Al’s cousin?”

  I haven’t had time to form an opinion,” Hasson said steadily.

  Pridgeon glanced at the others. “Don’t he talk nice?” He ruined back to Hasson. “Wasn’t that accident the dumbest thing you ever saw?”

  “I didn’t really see it.”

  “No?” Pridgeon examined him critically for a moment. “You a cripple or something?”

  To his horror, Hasson found his lips arranging themselves in the shape of a smile. “Almost.”

  “Huh!” Pridgeon walked away looking dissatisfied and stood beside Morlacher, and Hasson realized the older man had summoned him with a slight inclination of his head. His guess about the relationship was confirmed, but the insight was worthless.

  “Did you see anything up there?” Morlacher said to Pridgeon, as though they were alone together and nothing had happened.

  “Nope. Anybody’s up there, they’re keeping away from the windows.”

  “I’ll go up with you.” Morlacher began tightening the straps of his harness.

  “Just so long as you don’t carry that shotgun with yo
u,” Werry said severely. “We can’t have you just blasting off at people.”

  Morlacher continued addressing Pridgeon. “I’ll take this shotgun up with me, and if I see anybody I’ll blast off at them.”

  “Well, I don’t know how you characters feel, but I’m hungry,” Werry said, suddenly breezy and jovial as he turned to Hasson. “Come on, Rob — May’s going to get mad at us if we don’t show up in time for those steaks.” He walked to his car and dropped into the driving seat, causing the vehicle to rock on its suspension. Hasson, who had just established that it was now safe for him to move, lowered himself back into the car and closed the door. He placed his hands on his knees and gazed fixedly at them while Werry started the car, drove it in a semicircle across the uneven snow and took them back out to the road. A minute of silence was all he could endure.

  “Al,” he said quietly, “are you going to put in a call?”

  “A call?” Werry sounded genuinely surprised. “What for?”

  “You saw Pridgeon commit a TDO — he was carrying a shotgun on an ordinary shoulder sling. And Morlacher’s going to do it, too.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that too much. Besides, it was on Buck’s private property.”