Logan's Search Read Online Free PDF

jungle, of quicksand and rockslides, of chilling rain gusts, blast-furnace heat, savage winds.And always the cleverly programmed robot runners attacking from ambush, armed and dangerous. You could never relax; you were never beyond assault. Absolute concentration was required.
    Concentrate! Logan told himself when a female almost got him with a chokewire. He’d allowed her to come up behind him from a blind in the rocks, and the wire was around his neck before he managed a whip-spin that sent her sprawling. Francis was right: concentration was the key. Lose that cutting edge of alertness and the hunter becomes the victim. Four hours…and finally it was over.
    Francis, looking cool and unwinded, boots glistening, his uniform dusted, was already at the final crossway when Logan arrived.
    Logan’s uniform was torn in several places; his tunic was mud-splattered ripped at the shoulder. He came in limping, favoring his right foot.
    “Sandtrap?” Francis asked casually. An amused smile played at his lips.
    “Stunrod,” said Logan, sitting down wearily. “Didn’t know androids carried the things!”
    The tall man shook his head. “Whatever a runner could have, or steal, the robots get. Is it bad?”
    Logan slipped off his right boot; the lower leg was blue and swollen. “Bad enough.”
    “Santini can fix it.”
    Logan looked blank.
    “New body tech at the gym. Let him work the leg. You’ll be fine.”
    “I’ll try him,” said Logan, wincing as he tabbed the boot closed. He stood up, testing his weight. At least he could still hobble. The rod had caught him just below the knee and his leg had collapsed under him.
    He’d managed to fire as he fell, gutting the robot with a nitro. But it had been close—and painful. 
    Logan looked at Francis. “Well…shall we?”
    The tall man grinned. “Are you sure you want the bad news—a poor crip’ like you?” 
    “Score it,” snapped Logan.
    Francis palmed the scorepanel. A crimson number blazed to life on the board: 22.
    “Hey,” said Francis softly. “Two up from my last workout. That’s a sweet total.” He looked at Logan with amused eyes. “Your turn, friend.” 
    Logan palmed the wall and the simkill score flashed red: 24.
    Francis stared at it, his grin fading. He let out a soft breath. “Well, well.”
    “My right leg slowed me over the last mile,” said Logan. “But it’s not a bad total.”
    Francis flipped aside the vitabar he’d been chewing and moved sullenly through the slipexit.
    Logan followed. His leg felt better already.
    For the first time that day, he was smiling.

     
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THE LAST HUNT
     
    Santini 14 had always been unique. In Nursery, long after midnight, while the other children were in their slotbeds, hypnotapes whispering to them as they slept, young Santini 14 was in the romproom, challenging the musclebelts, or working the jumpbars, or twisting through the intricate network of whipchutes—toughening himself, shaping his body as a sculptor shapes fireglass, gaining mastery over bone and muscle. On blue, clear of the nurseries, he used his freetime to visit all of the world’s prime bodybuild centers—and on red, just past fifteen, he had opened his own bodyshop. His enlistment with DS, at Angeles Complex, was inevitable.
    Due to the odd irregularities of the twin Earths, Santini had never existed in Logan’s world. Therefore, his talent was truly unique.
    Logan had expected the usual swirlnerve treatment, but Santini employed a personal method of vibromassage, producing immediate relief. The swelling vanished and the discoloration was replaced by healthy skin tone.
    “Up!” ordered Santini, clapping his hands. “Jump, Sandman! Leap! Kick! You’re perfect.”
    Logan eased off the table, tried some knee bends, placing full weight on his right leg. He was astonished. No pain. No muscle pull or discomfort.
    “Perfect” Logan nodded. “Thanks!”
    Santini smiled lazily and moved closer. “The body holds many secrets.