The Mind-Riders Read Online Free PDF Page B

at struck me as being insipid. I found it difficult to choose one.
    Then I tested the cut on my little finger, to see if it still hurt.

CHAPTER THREE
    The bell rang.
    I was in mid-dream, and the frail images fled away into the dark recesses of my mind. I was slowly decanted into consciousness. I opened my eyes, and found that it was almost completely dark. Only the wan glow of the city lights filtered through the cracks on either side of the window screen.
    For a moment I was suspended, groping for the ill-formed memory of the bell and wondering what had dragged me out of my dreams. Then the sound came again, this time rudely shattering my drowsiness.
    I turned over. A tell-tale light was glowing mutely on the console. The luminous dials on my wrist-set, which was hanging from its buckle beside the bed, told me that it was three in the morning.
    I thumbed the switch which would enable me to speak to the lobby.
    â€œYou got the wrong number,” I said. I wondered briefly whether kids had managed to break in and were dancing a finger-jig on the bells, waking up the whole building. If so, the superintendent would half-kill them. He was a mean man.
    â€œHart,” said a voice. It was a brittle voice, guttural. It dragged out my name in a funny kind of dilute drawl. It wasn’t asking a question. It knew who I was. No wrong number.
    â€œWho’s that?” I asked, trying to match his harshness in my own tone.
    â€œI want to talk to you.”
    â€œIn the morning.”
    â€œNow.” He sounded confident as well as determined. He had a right to be. Anyone who goes out in the streets at three a.m. just to talk to someone has enough of a reason to get listened to. Also an armored car. Capstack concom is not the sort of district where you take a peaceful stroll.
    â€œWho the hell are you?” I wanted to know.
    â€œName’s Curman.”
    I’d never heard of him. It didn’t surprise me. There weren’t any acquaintances of mine with the habit of waking people up at this time.
    â€œAre you a cop? An agency man?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIs the superintendent there?”
    A new voice came over the mike. “It’s okay, thirty-nine twelve,” it said. “I checked his ID. It’s clean. I got his gun.”
    The superintendent knew his job. He was the kind that lets innocent cap dwellers sleep at nights. Except when people come calling. He’d held the job seven years and was still calling me by my cap number, but that was okay. I’d be no worse protected for being a number.
    â€œSend him up,” I said.
    â€œThanks.” This—dryly—from Curman.
    There was a click as the phone link was cut. I got out of bed and groped for a pair of trousers and a shirt. I unlocked the door and switched the light on. While I waited, I looked around for something to do with my hands. I couldn’t find anything, so I just jammed them in my pockets and twisted the keys around my fingers. I had an apprehensive feeling in my stomach. I still couldn’t think of a reason why I should be gotten out of bed at this time. My instinct still said cop, though he’d denied it, but I had a crystal clear conscience for the month. Where law, order and security were concerned I was a real good joe.
    There was a knock on the door, and he came in without waiting for his invitation to be renewed.
    He was a tall man, looking thin because he was elongated but not really lightly built. He had a dark face with a lot of fake worry lines. He also had bad teeth. I got the impression he had put a lot of practice into looking tough.
    â€œYou’re Ryan Hart,” he said. It still wasn’t a question.
    â€œWhat do you want?” I asked. It seemed like about the fifth time of asking.
    It was his move, but he wasn’t in a hurry to make it. He closed the door gently behind him, and looked around.
    â€œDon’t know how people live in these things,” he said. He