Orbitsville Departure o-1 Page 4

  "You're the killer around here, Dallen."

  "You know me?"

  "I know you. We all know you." Beaumont's words were slurred as a result of his paralysis. "And one of these days…"

  "Then you'll also know this isn't a bluff — you, young Derek, are going to tell me the combination for this." Dallen flicked the six numbered rings, close to one end of the cylinder, which would have to be correctly set to allow the fuse to be withdrawn.

  Beaumont managed something close to a sneer. "Why the fuck should I?"

  "I should have thought that was obvious," Dallen said mildly. "You're going to be sitting on top of the bomb if it goes. How long have you got? Ten minutes? Fifteen?"

  "You don't scare me, Dallen. You couldn't get away with a thing like that."

  "Couldn't I?" Dallen thought for a moment about the effects of an explosion in the crowded Exhibition Centre and felt his humanity bleed away. "If you've got some dim ideas about publicity and propaganda — forget them. I hauled you way back here because a few walls and a good cushion of air are enough to contain a bomb this size. The bang will startle a lot of people, naturally, but they'll calm down when they hear it was one of the city's old gas mains. And nobody is going to hear about you, friend. This time tomorrow you'll be nothing but rat turds."

  "You're a bastard, Dallen. You're a dirty…" Beaumont fell silent and the appearance of a thoughtful, introverted expression in his eyes showed that he was struggling to move, to force muscle commands across the artificially widened synaptic gaps of his nervous system. Lentils of perspiration appeared on his brow, but his limbs remained totally immobile.

  Tin everything you say, and more." Dallen knelt and held the bomb dose to Beaumont's face. "What's the combination, Derek?"

  "I… I don't have it."

  "In that case, I'm sorry for you." The possibility that Beaumont was speaking the truth flickered in Dallen's mind, but he refused to consider it. "I'm going to get out of here now — in case this thing blows up sooner than we expect — but I want you to know I'll be thinking about you."

  Beaumont's pallor intensified, making his face almost luminescent. "We're going to crucify you, Dallen. Not only you… your wife and kid, as well… just to let you see what it's like… I promise you it's all set up…"

  "You've got a great talent for saying the wrong thing," Dallen said, keeping his voice steady in spite of the pounding tumult of his chest. "1 don't want that combination any more. You can keep it — for a while."

  He gently inserted the bomb at the juncture of Beaumont's thighs, making it a silver phallus, then straightened up and walked out of the room on legs that suddenly felt rubbery. It's aU gone wrong, he accused himself, putting his back to the opposite side of the same partition that supported Beaumont and breathing deeply to overcome a developing sense of nausea. I should have dumped the bloody bomb and banted Beaumont outside and cleared the area. But now it's too late. It was too late as soon as be brought in Cona and Mikel…

  Taking his pipe from a side pocket, he filled it with black and yellow strands, and had put it in his mouth before realising he had no desire to smoke. All at once it seemed incredible, monstrous, that he was squandering the precious minutes of his life in such a fashion. How had he come to be trapped in the rotting carcass of a television store with a would-be murderer and a live bomb? Why was he confined to the claustrophobia and pettiness of Earth when he and his family should be soaring free on Orbitsville?

  In the two centuries which had elapsed since Vance Garamond's discovery of Orbitsville the circumstance of mankind's existence had completely changed. One of the most quoted statistics connected with the Big O was that it provided prime-quality living space equivalent to five billion Earths, but even more significant was the fact that it had enough room to accommodate every intelligent creature in the galaxy. For the first time in history there had been little or no brake on human expansion, and the migrations had begun immediately.

  Earth's technology and industry had become totally absorbed in the last great challenge, that of transporting an entire planetary population across hundreds of light years to its ultimate home. It had been a venture only made feasible by two factors — the old world's declining birth rate, and the irresistibleness of Orbitsville's call. Every nation, every statelet, every political party, power group, religion, sect, church, family, individual could have the equivalent of a virgin world in which to pursue ideals and dreams. Governments had been slower to adapt to the new era man peoples, but statesmen and politicians — faced with the prospect of strutting empty stages — had eventually been persuaded that their duties lay elsewhere.

  Each migratory government had, by UN agreement, retained responsibility for law and order in its historic territories, but time and distance had had their inevitable effect. Interest had declined, costs had increased, and many totalitarian states had in the end opted for the clean break solution, with compulsory migration of all subjects. Enforced migration to Orbitsville had not been possible in democratic countries, but that had not prevented governments — anxious to shake the clogging dust of the past from their feet — from using every conceivable inducement and pressure. More and more towns and cities had crumbled, ever larger areas of rural land had become overgrown, as the ordinary people had succumbed to the lure of the golden journey, the free trip to the Big O.

  There had, of course, been those who refused to leave. Mostly they had been the very old, men and women who wanted to end their days on the planet of their birth, but there had also been a sprinkling of those who simply rejected the idea of pulling up stakes. And now in the year 2296, almost two hundred years after the finding of Orbitsville, the the-hards in each area were still struggling to maintain a semblance of organised community life. But their situation had become less tenable with each passing decade as facilities had broken down and money and support from Orbitsville had dwindled…

  "You're not footing me, Dallen." The voice from the other side of the partition was confident. "I know you're out there, man."

  Dallen remained quiet, tightening his lips.

  "I'm telling you the God's truth, man — I don't have no combination."

  You shouldn't have threatened my wife and boy. Dallen glanced at his watch, suddenly remembering he had arranged to meet Cona and Mikel for lunch, an appointment he was now bound to miss regardless of how things worked out with Beaumont. He would be unable to get a message to Cona unless he resumed radio contact with Jim Mellor, which conflicted with his resolve to claim all responsibility for his current actions. It's all gone wrong, he accused himself once more. Why doesn't the moron give in before it's too late?

  There was a lengthy period of near-silence — the street sounds were murmurous and remote, part of another existence — then Beaumont spoke in less assertive tones. "What brought you here anyway, Dallen? Why didn't you stay on the Big O where you belong?"

  Responding to the change in the other man's attitude, Dallen said, "It's my job."

  "Hammering down on folk who's only standing up for their rights? Great job, man."

  "They haven't any right to steal Metagov supplies and equipment."

  "They got to steal the stuff if they can't afford to pay off Madison City officers on the quiet. Be straight with yourself, Dallen. Do you really think it's right for Metagov to keep a whole city going… a whole city lying empty except for a population of frigging optical illusions… while we got people sick and hungry on the outside?"

  Dallen shook his head, even though Beaumont could not see, impatient with old arguments. "There's no need for anybody to go sick or hungry."

  "I know," Beaumont said bitterly. "Let ourselves be rounded up like cattle! Let ourselves be shipped off to the Big O and turned out to pasture… Well, some of us just won't do it, Dallen. We're the Independents."

  "Independents who feel entitled to be supported." Dallen was deliberately supercilious. "That's a serious contradiction in terms, young Derek."

  "We don't want to
be supported. We made a contribution too, but nobody… We just want… We…" Overwhelmed by incoherence, Beaumont paused and his laboured breathing was easily audible through the partition.

  "And all I want is that combination," Dallen said. "Your time's running out."

  He made his voice hard and certain, consciously striking out against the ambivalence he usually felt when forced to think about Earth's recent past. Cona, as a professional historian, had the sort of mind which could cope with vast areas of complexity, confusion and conflict, whereas he yearned for a dawn-time simplicity which was never forthcoming. In the early years of the migrations, for example, nobody had planned actually to abandon the cities of the home world and let them sink into decay. There had been too big an investment in time. Mankind's very soul lingered in the masonry of the great conurbations, and hundreds of them — from York to New York, Paris to Peking — had been designated as cultural shrines, places to which Earth's children would return from time to time and reaffirm their humanity.

  But the thinking had been wrong, bound by outdated parameters.

  There had once been an age in which romantics could see men as natural wanderers, compelled to voyage from one stellar beacon to the next until they ran out of space or time — but there were no stars in the night skies of Orbitsville. Generations had come and gone without ever having their spirits troubled by the sight of distant suns. Orbitsville provided all the lebensraum they and their descendants would ever need; Earth was remote and increasingly irrelevant, and there were better things to do with money than the propping up of ruins for forgotten cities. Madison, former administration centre for the evacuation of seven states, was one of the very few museum cities to remain viable, and even there funding and time were growing desperately short.

  The thought of dwindling reserves of time prompted Dallen to look again at his watch. "I can't risk babysitting here any longer," he called out. "See you around!"

  "You can't bluff me, Dallen."

  "Wouldn't dream of trying." Dallen walked towards the front of the store, resisting the temptation to tread noisily on the dusty grey timbers of the floor. The slightest hint of overacting on his part was likely to strengthen Beaumont's resolve. As he dodged the insubstantial stalactites of cobwebs the conviction that he had made a mistake grew more intense and more unmanning. He decided to wait at the outer door for two minutes before dragging his prisoner out to safety, but new doubts had begun to gnaw at his confidence. What if Beaumont genuinely did not know the fuse combination or even the precise timer setting? What sort of justification could he give to others, to himself, if the bomb exploded and sent a blizzard of glass daggers through the pedestrians in 1990 Street?

  On reaching the front door he leaned against the frame, pressing his forehead into his arm, and began the familiar exercise of catechising the stranger he had become. What are you doing here? How long will it be before you — personally and deliberately — kill one of these sad, Earth-limited gawks? Why don't you pack in the sad, Earth-limited little job and take Cona and Mikel back to Orbitsville where you all belong?

  The last question was one which had confronted him with increasing frequency in recent months. It had never failed to produce feelings of anger and frustration, the helplessness which conies when a mind which likes answers is faced with the unanswerable, but all at once — standing there in the mouldered silence of the store — he realised that the difficulty lay within himself and always had done. The question was childishly simple, provided he faced up to and acknowledged the fact that he had made a mistake in coming to Earth. It was so easy. He — Carry Dallen, the man who was always right — had made a stupid mistake!

  Aware that he was rushing psychological processes which could not be rushed, that he was bound to suffer reactions later, he posed the crucial question again and saw that it had become redundant. There was nothing under this or any other sun to prevent his taking his family home. They could be on their way within a week. Dallen, experiencing a sense of relief and release which was almost post-orgasmic, looked down at his hands and found they were trembling.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," he whispered, turning towards the rear of the store.

  "For Chris'sake, Dallen, come back!" The voice from the office enclosure was virtually unrecognisable, a high-pitched whine of panic. "This thing's set for 11.20! What time is it now?"

  Dallen looked at his watch and saw there were four minutes in hand. At another time he would have walked slowly and silently back to the office, turning the screw on his prisoner to show him that life was easier on the right side of the law, but that kind of thinking now seemed petty. Earth-limited, was the term he had just invented. I don't want to be Eartb-limited any longer.

  He ran to the rear office, shouldered open the door and looked down at Beaumont, who was still unable to move. The silver obscenity of the bomb was projecting from his crotch. Suppressing a pang of shame Dallen retrieved the cylinder and fingered the fuse combination rings.

  "You're going to be bastardin’ sorry about this, you bastard," Beaumont ground out, his eyes white crescents of hatred.

  "My watch might be slow," Dallen said pointedly. "Do you want out of here, or would you rather stay and…?"

  "Six-seven-nine-two-seven-nine."

  "That must be a prime number." Dallen began aligning the digits with the datum mark. "Get it? Fuse — primer — prime?"

  "Hurry up, for…"

  "There we go!" Dallen withdrew the fuse and tossed it into a corner. "Thanks for your cooperation, Derek."

  He left the office, walked along a short corridor to the rear of the premises and opened a heavy door whose hinges made snapping sounds as they broke bonds of rust. An unmarked car was waiting in the alley outside, its smooth haunches scattering oily needles of sunlight, and two young officers in uniform — Tandy and Ibbetson — were standing beside it. Dallen smiled as he saw the apprehension on their faces.

  "Have a bomb," he said, slapping the cylinder into Ibbetson's palm. "It's okay — it's safe — and there's a character called Derek Beaumont to go with it. You'll find him resting inside, first door on the right."

  "I wish you wouldn't do things like this," Ibbetson mumbled. His voice faded as he went through the door, turning his footballer's shoulders to facilitate entry, and lumbered along the corridor.

  Vie Tandy, slate-jawed and meticulously neat, moved closer to Dallen. "Would you talk with Jim Mellor? He's going crazy back there trying to reach you."

  "He always does. Every time I get into a pocket of bad reception he…" Dallen broke off as he noticed Tandy's expression, oddly wooden and reserved. "Anything wrong?"

  "All I heard is Jim wants you to contact him." Avoiding Dallen's gaze, Tandy tried to by-pass him and enter the building.

  "Don't try that sort of thing on me," Dallen snapped, gripping the other man's upper arm. "Out with it!"

  Tandy, now looking embarrassed, said, "I… I think something might have happened to your wife and boy."

  Dallen stepped back from him, bemusedly shaking his head, filled with a sense that his surroundings and the blue dome of atmosphere and the universe beyond were imploding upon him.

  Chapter 4

  On the butt of the gun there was a stud which had to be depressed and moved from one end of a U-shaped slot to the other. It had been designed that way to ensure that the weapon, a highly expensive piece of engineering, could never be decommissioned by accident. Mathieu ran the stud along its full course, causing the myriad circuits to adopt new and permanent neutral configurations, then he stripped the gun down to four basic parts and hid them in separate drawers of his desk.

  The action made him feel safer, but not much. His original plan, now revealed to have been woefully inadequate, had not allowed for a still-functioning alarm system on Subkvel Three, and he could only speculate about other possible deficiencies. The gun had been rendered invisible to any detectors the police might bring in, but there was no guarantee that an existing monitor had no
t already tracked its course through the building and into his office. If that were the case he would know about it very soon. Behave normally in the meantime, he told himself, then came a question which was almost unanswerable to one in his state of mind. What do normal people do when an alarm sounds? He pondered it for a moment, like a man confronted by a problem in alien logic, and hesitantly reached towards his communications panel. The solid image of Vik Costain, personal assistant to Mayor Bryceland, appeared at the projection focus. Costain, who was close to sixty, made a profession out of knowing ail there was to know about the City Hall and those who worked there.

  "What's going on?" Mathieu said. "What was the racket?"

  "Give me a break, will you? I'm still trying to…" Costain tilted his near-hairless head, obviously listening to an important message, and nodded decisively — a sure sign he had no idea what to do next. "Call me later, Gerald."

  "Don't forget to let me know if the building's on fire," Mathieu replied, breaking the connection. He breathed deeply and regularly for a minute, satisfied that he had put on a reasonable act, gone some distance towards covering his tracks, then he closed his eyes and saw Cona Dallen and her son falling… falling and folding… their eyes already bright and incurious… idiot eyes…

  Mathieu leaped to his feet and walked around the perimeter of his office, suddenly unable to dredge enough oxygen from the air. He had made the circuit a second time, faster, before realising he was trying to outrace a part of himself, the pan which acknowledged that he — Gerald Mathieu — was a murderer. No amount of sidestepping or playing with definitions was going to change that fact. Continuance of personality was the sole criterion, the only one which counted, and the personalities known as Cona Dallen and Mikel Dallen no longer existed. He had blasted them away in a storm of complex radiations which had returned two human brains to the tabula rasa condition of the newborn infant, and those personalities would never exist again, no matter what therapies were employed.