himself facing Stenog alone. Leisurely, Stenog brought forth what looked to Parsons like an eggbeater. Touching a raised spot on its handle, Stenog sent the blades into spinning motion; the blades disappeared and from it came a high-pitched whine. Obviously, it was a weapon.
"You're under arrest," Stenog said. "For a major crime against the United Tribes. The Folk." The words had a formal sound, but not the man's tone; he spoke them as if they had no importance to him; it was a mere ritual. "Follow me, if you will."
Parsons said, "You're serious?"
The younger man raised a dark eyebrow. He motioned with the eggbeater. He was serious. "You're lucky," he said to Parsons, as they moved toward the entrance of the hotel. "If you had healed her there, with those tribe people . . ." Again he eyed Parsons with curiosity. "They would have torn you apart. But of course you knew that."
This society is insane, Parsons thought. This man and this society together.
I am really afraid!
In the dimly lighted room the two shapes watched the glowing procession of words avidly, leaning forward in their chairs, powerful bodies taut.
"Too late!" the strong-faced man cursed bitterly. "Everything was out of phase. No accurate junction with the dredge. And now he's trapped in an intertribal area." Pressing a control, he speeded up the flow of words. "And now, someone from the government."
"What's the matter with the emergency team?" the woman beside him whispered. "Why aren't they there? They could have got him on the street. The first flash was sent out as soon as--"
"It takes time." The strong-faced man paced restlessly back and forth, feet lost in the thick carpets that covered the floor. "If only we could have come out in the open."
"They won't get there soon enough." The seated woman struck out savagely, and the flow of illuminated words faded. "By the time they get there he'll be dead--or worse. So far we've completely failed, Helmar. It's gone wrong."
Noise. Lights and movement around him. For an instant he opened his eyes. A shattering blaze of white poured remorselessly down on him from all sides; once more he shut his eyes. It hadn't changed.
"Your name again?" a voice said. "Name, please."
He did not answer.
"James Parsons," another voice said. A familiar voice. As he heard it he wondered dully whose voice it was. He could almost place it. Almost, but not quite.
"Old?"
"Thirty-two," the voice said, after a pause. And this time he recognized it; the voice was his, and he was answering their questions without volition. Off somewhere, machinery hummed.
"Born?" the voice asked.
Once more he struggled to open his eyes. His hand came up to shield his eyes from the glare, and he saw, for a moment, the blur of objects and people. A clerk, bored, empty-faced, seated at a recording machine, writing down the answers that were given. A bureaucrat. A functionary in a clean office. No force, no violence. The answers came, however. Why do I tell them?
"Chicago, Illinois," his voice from some other point in the room answered. "Cook County."
The clerk said presently, "What month, date?"
"October 16," his voice answered. "1980."
On the clerk's face the expression remained the same. "Brothers or sisters?"
"No," his voice said.
On and on the questions went. And he answered each one of them.
"All right, Mr. Parsons," the clerk said at last.
"Dr. Parsons," the voice--his voice--corrected, from a learned reflex.
The clerk paid no attention. "You're through," he said, removing a spool from the recording machine. "Will you go across the hall to Room 34, please?" With a nod of his chin he indicated the direction. "They'll take care of you there."
Stiffly, Parsons rose. A table, he discovered. He had been sitting on a table, and he had on only his shorts. Like a hospital--aseptic, white, professional looking. He began to walk. And, as he did so, he saw his white legs, unsprayed, a strange contrast to his dyed arms, chest, back, and neck. So
"You're under arrest," Stenog said. "For a major crime against the United Tribes. The Folk." The words had a formal sound, but not the man's tone; he spoke them as if they had no importance to him; it was a mere ritual. "Follow me, if you will."
Parsons said, "You're serious?"
The younger man raised a dark eyebrow. He motioned with the eggbeater. He was serious. "You're lucky," he said to Parsons, as they moved toward the entrance of the hotel. "If you had healed her there, with those tribe people . . ." Again he eyed Parsons with curiosity. "They would have torn you apart. But of course you knew that."
This society is insane, Parsons thought. This man and this society together.
I am really afraid!
In the dimly lighted room the two shapes watched the glowing procession of words avidly, leaning forward in their chairs, powerful bodies taut.
"Too late!" the strong-faced man cursed bitterly. "Everything was out of phase. No accurate junction with the dredge. And now he's trapped in an intertribal area." Pressing a control, he speeded up the flow of words. "And now, someone from the government."
"What's the matter with the emergency team?" the woman beside him whispered. "Why aren't they there? They could have got him on the street. The first flash was sent out as soon as--"
"It takes time." The strong-faced man paced restlessly back and forth, feet lost in the thick carpets that covered the floor. "If only we could have come out in the open."
"They won't get there soon enough." The seated woman struck out savagely, and the flow of illuminated words faded. "By the time they get there he'll be dead--or worse. So far we've completely failed, Helmar. It's gone wrong."
Noise. Lights and movement around him. For an instant he opened his eyes. A shattering blaze of white poured remorselessly down on him from all sides; once more he shut his eyes. It hadn't changed.
"Your name again?" a voice said. "Name, please."
He did not answer.
"James Parsons," another voice said. A familiar voice. As he heard it he wondered dully whose voice it was. He could almost place it. Almost, but not quite.
"Old?"
"Thirty-two," the voice said, after a pause. And this time he recognized it; the voice was his, and he was answering their questions without volition. Off somewhere, machinery hummed.
"Born?" the voice asked.
Once more he struggled to open his eyes. His hand came up to shield his eyes from the glare, and he saw, for a moment, the blur of objects and people. A clerk, bored, empty-faced, seated at a recording machine, writing down the answers that were given. A bureaucrat. A functionary in a clean office. No force, no violence. The answers came, however. Why do I tell them?
"Chicago, Illinois," his voice from some other point in the room answered. "Cook County."
The clerk said presently, "What month, date?"
"October 16," his voice answered. "1980."
On the clerk's face the expression remained the same. "Brothers or sisters?"
"No," his voice said.
On and on the questions went. And he answered each one of them.
"All right, Mr. Parsons," the clerk said at last.
"Dr. Parsons," the voice--his voice--corrected, from a learned reflex.
The clerk paid no attention. "You're through," he said, removing a spool from the recording machine. "Will you go across the hall to Room 34, please?" With a nod of his chin he indicated the direction. "They'll take care of you there."
Stiffly, Parsons rose. A table, he discovered. He had been sitting on a table, and he had on only his shorts. Like a hospital--aseptic, white, professional looking. He began to walk. And, as he did so, he saw his white legs, unsprayed, a strange contrast to his dyed arms, chest, back, and neck. So
Similar Books
Now Playing
Ron Koertge
Her Last Love Affair
Clara James
The Sirena Quest
Michael A. Kahn
The Irish Scissor Sisters
Mick McCaffrey
The Protected
Claire Zorn
A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis
Jillian Stone
Long Stretch At First Base
Matt Christopher
Into the Deep
Missy Fleming
Forever and a Day
Jill Shalvis
The Alchemy of Forever
Avery Williams