The Last Hot Time Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: John M. Ford
you take them in the north garden? And I'll let Mr. McCain know you're awake."
It was pleasant in the garden; the sun was about to disappear below a building, but the still air was warm. The plants were still surprisingly green, with dashes of color from late-season flowers. There was no view. Brick walls twenty feet high, topped with iron points, enclosed it completely.
McCain entered. "Not bad," he said. "Boris always likes having a new body to work on. You know you're in for a full custom fit-ting."
"Did he use magic on this?" Danny described the work on the shirt seams.
"That's his Touch. All he works with is fabric. Seams, cigarette burns in the carpet. . . He's a wizard with drapes, he is." McCain grinned. "What, did you think it was all throwin' lightning bolts? Come with me. Bring your coffee."
They went down to the garage. The TR3 was there, hood propped open. Jesse the mechanic was leaning over the engine.
"You tune this thing yourself, ki—Doc?" Jesse said.
"When I can get the parts."
"Yeah, that's always the trouble." He pointed at the engine block, at places where the metal looked unnaturally shiny, or glowed a deep cobalt blue. "Wasn't any way to go dual-fuel—space, mass, architecture—and you needed new lifters anyway, so I put in sensitives, and bound a desire to the fuel pump. That should get you through any short-term tech failure." Jesse closed the lid. "She's a pretty car, Doc. I wouldn't do her wrong. Turn her over yourself."
Danny slid in. He noticed that a couple of familiar dings were out of the panel, and the rips in the soft top had all been mended.
He started the car. It caught on the first try, and sounded slick as iced snot.
"Take her 'round the block," McCain said. He held out two slabs of plastic: a driver's license and paramedic's card, new ones with his new name. Danny tucked them away, saluted, and put the Triumph into gear.
He got up the ramp, turned onto the street, upshifted. She liked it.
The low sun bronzed the corridors of glass and brick and the stumps of broken skyscrapers. The near buildings were mostly clean and cared for, with here and there a notch of fallen stone. Beyond, there were walls holed with empty windows, holding up nothing, and bare metal frames, twisted like dust devils petrified. Above the near rooflines, Danny could see the tops of skyscrapers: they were dull, and dark, and looked ravaged. Not one seemed to be intact.
A cluster of five motorcycles went by the other way. The riders had this-and-that leathers, not a helmet among them, streaming long hair and tassels and bits of chain. One was a bare-legged barefoot girl. They revved, popped wheelies, split to flow around the Triumph, hooting and hollering. Something bounced off the soft top and crashed against the pavement. Danny drove on, checked the mirror: they gave no sign of doubling back.
He saw the lake then, across a band of highway and a line of wrecked buildings. It roiled, green and whitecapped, more like pictures of the ocean than any lake Danny knew. It faded out into darkness to the east.
He stopped on a bridge, got out of the car for a look around. The river was low, with sludgy banks littered with broken concrete and old metal. There had been a whole series of bridges toward the west; about half of them looked intact, the others just pilings, or collapsed and partially cleared. One looked as if something had bitten out and swallowed its span. Somewhere upstream—no, downstream; the water was, illogically, flowing out of the lake—a cargo ship was beached and rusting along the waterside, tilted twenty degrees over.
To the southeast there was a green park, little smokes eurling up from among the trees. At least it seemed like something people
were doing. He couldn't tell how far the park went; beyond a certain point, maybe a mile and a half away, the world got vague, like a running watercolor. A long way off to the southeast the sky was just a long smudge of smoky color. Danny had
It was pleasant in the garden; the sun was about to disappear below a building, but the still air was warm. The plants were still surprisingly green, with dashes of color from late-season flowers. There was no view. Brick walls twenty feet high, topped with iron points, enclosed it completely.
McCain entered. "Not bad," he said. "Boris always likes having a new body to work on. You know you're in for a full custom fit-ting."
"Did he use magic on this?" Danny described the work on the shirt seams.
"That's his Touch. All he works with is fabric. Seams, cigarette burns in the carpet. . . He's a wizard with drapes, he is." McCain grinned. "What, did you think it was all throwin' lightning bolts? Come with me. Bring your coffee."
They went down to the garage. The TR3 was there, hood propped open. Jesse the mechanic was leaning over the engine.
"You tune this thing yourself, ki—Doc?" Jesse said.
"When I can get the parts."
"Yeah, that's always the trouble." He pointed at the engine block, at places where the metal looked unnaturally shiny, or glowed a deep cobalt blue. "Wasn't any way to go dual-fuel—space, mass, architecture—and you needed new lifters anyway, so I put in sensitives, and bound a desire to the fuel pump. That should get you through any short-term tech failure." Jesse closed the lid. "She's a pretty car, Doc. I wouldn't do her wrong. Turn her over yourself."
Danny slid in. He noticed that a couple of familiar dings were out of the panel, and the rips in the soft top had all been mended.
He started the car. It caught on the first try, and sounded slick as iced snot.
"Take her 'round the block," McCain said. He held out two slabs of plastic: a driver's license and paramedic's card, new ones with his new name. Danny tucked them away, saluted, and put the Triumph into gear.
He got up the ramp, turned onto the street, upshifted. She liked it.
The low sun bronzed the corridors of glass and brick and the stumps of broken skyscrapers. The near buildings were mostly clean and cared for, with here and there a notch of fallen stone. Beyond, there were walls holed with empty windows, holding up nothing, and bare metal frames, twisted like dust devils petrified. Above the near rooflines, Danny could see the tops of skyscrapers: they were dull, and dark, and looked ravaged. Not one seemed to be intact.
A cluster of five motorcycles went by the other way. The riders had this-and-that leathers, not a helmet among them, streaming long hair and tassels and bits of chain. One was a bare-legged barefoot girl. They revved, popped wheelies, split to flow around the Triumph, hooting and hollering. Something bounced off the soft top and crashed against the pavement. Danny drove on, checked the mirror: they gave no sign of doubling back.
He saw the lake then, across a band of highway and a line of wrecked buildings. It roiled, green and whitecapped, more like pictures of the ocean than any lake Danny knew. It faded out into darkness to the east.
He stopped on a bridge, got out of the car for a look around. The river was low, with sludgy banks littered with broken concrete and old metal. There had been a whole series of bridges toward the west; about half of them looked intact, the others just pilings, or collapsed and partially cleared. One looked as if something had bitten out and swallowed its span. Somewhere upstream—no, downstream; the water was, illogically, flowing out of the lake—a cargo ship was beached and rusting along the waterside, tilted twenty degrees over.
To the southeast there was a green park, little smokes eurling up from among the trees. At least it seemed like something people
were doing. He couldn't tell how far the park went; beyond a certain point, maybe a mile and a half away, the world got vague, like a running watercolor. A long way off to the southeast the sky was just a long smudge of smoky color. Danny had