Epitaph in Rust

CHAPTER 7: A Bad Dinner at the Gallomo

Rumors began to reach the city late the next afternoon—the merchants on the long coast run from La Jolla and Oceanside told of hundreds of campfire lights glimpsed in the valleys south of El Cajon and of streaks of smoke and raised dust on the southern horizon during the day. At sunset the inevitable suspicion was confirmed by the Escondido mail rider: General Alvarez of San Diego had mobilized his army and was marching north.

During the next two days details trickled in—details that agreed, contradicted and amplified each other— until the full situation was clear. Alvarez was advancing up Route Five with a force of 1,000 men and eight siege-mortars.

Los Angeles's buffer states, Santa Ana and Orange, sent ambassadors racing to the city to beg troops for the defense of their borders—and were reluctantly denied aid by Majordomo Lloyd, who was said to have turned them away with tears in his eyes. Souveraine of Santa Ana declared that, unsupported, he couldn't defend his unwalled city, and that he'd side with Alvarez when the time came. Smith of Orange arrived at the same decision with, as described in his letter to Lloyd, "incalculable reluctance."

Thursday morning dawned clear and warm, for the Santa Ana wind was still surging in off the desert. Exactly one week had passed since the bombing of Mayor Pelias's chambers; and the crowds that gathered around the news-loudspeakers sent forth despairing groans into the cloudless blue sky when it was announced, once again, that the mayor was still unconscious.

Blaine Albers glanced contemptuously at the clamoring crowd 20 stories below him and, pushing open the window, flicked the ash of his cigar out at them. "You haven't answered my question, Lloyd," he said quietly, facing back into the room.

Across the table an old man sweated and stared hopelessly at the litter of ashtrays and scattered papers. "I can't tell you," he whispered.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"No. He's under a… doctor's care, and he might— honestly—recover any day. Any hour."

The four other men in the room shifted impatiently in their seats, and one stubbed out a cigarette.

"Listen," said Albers, "even if he'd come out of it an hour ago it might have been too late." He struck his fist on the table. "Aside from the police, we have no army! Do you realize that? Our draft program is impossible to enforce. The few men we get desert the first time you take your eyes off them. We can't afford mercenaries. What do you suggest?" During the speech his voice had risen to a harsh yell.

"Find…" the old man quavered, "find Brother Thomas."

"Why? What on earth is the connection between Pelias and this delinquent monk?"

Lloyd sagged. "I can't tell you."

Several of the other men sighed and shook their heads grimly.

Albers spoke softly. "Lloyd, I'm sorry to have to say this. But you tell me where Pelias is and what this monk Thomas has to do with the situation, or we'll question you with the same methods we'd use on any criminal."

Lloyd was sobbing now. "All right," he said finally. He dragged himself up and crossed to the window. "God help us all," he said as he quietly rolled over the sill and disappeared.

For a full ten seconds no one spoke; then Albers went to the window and looked down. The section of the crowd directly below was churning about with increased energy. Aside from that, the view had not changed.

"That," he said to the others, "is the second time one of our majordomos has killed himself. His predecessor, Hancock, hanged himself in his bedroom six years ago."

The others nodded dumbly. "What can we do now," one asked, "besides grab some ready cash and run for Bakersfield?"

"Idiot," Albers said. "It's not time to run yet. Alvarez couldn't get here before Sunday even if he was already across the Santa Margarita River; which he isn't." He scratched his chin thoughtfully.. "But our hold on the city just went out the window. We have no authority at all, now."

"Maybe we could claim to know where Pelias is hidden?" suggested one of the others.

"No. Tabasco, damn his android eyes, almost certainly does know. He probably knows the secret about this monk, too."

"What could that monk have or know that they would want so badly?" wondered the one he'd called an idiot.

"I don't know," answered Albers slowly. "But I'd say if we want to keep any hand in this game, we'd better find him before Tabasco's police do." He flung himself into a chair. "We'll worry about that a little later," he said. "Right now, show that gun dealer in, Harper."

Harper stood up and went to the door. "Come in here," he ordered.

A moment later a tall old man with a white beard and mane strode into the room. He was dressed in faded dungarees and was puffing furiously on a battered corncob pipe. "Look here, boys," he growled, "if you want to make a deal, then let's talk. If not, I'll be on my way. But I'm not going to wait one more—"

"I apologize, Mr. St. Coutras," Albers said. "It was not our intention to keep you waiting. Sit down, please."

St. Coutras took a seat and rapped the still-smoking tobacco out of his pipe onto the floor. "All right. Do you want the 100 Brownings or not?"

"We do," Albers said. "We've decided we can pay you 100 solis per rifle."

"Dammit, I said 150. I can't go below that and make a living."

"What kind of a living do you think you'll make if Alvarez takes this city?" hissed Harper.

"The same as now," the old man replied. "Everybody needs guns."

"He's right, Harper," Albers interjected. "Shut up." He looked intently at St. Coutras. "Would you take the difference in bonds?"

For a full minute, the old man considered the oiler. "I'll take 100 in cash and 100 in bonds per rifle. That way, you'll be sure of getting good merchandise from me, since I'll have a 10,000-soli stake on your side of the table. If Alvarez takes the city, he's sure not going to honor any bonds issued by his predecessors."

"Good point," Albers nodded. "Okay. Hastings, draw up the papers. And Harper, you get busy tracking down that damned runaway monk. Get some details on why he left the monastery. It occurs to me to doubt old Lloyd's story that the kid stole the season's wine-money."

"Runaway monk?" St. Coutras repeated curiously.

Albers frowned. "Yes. He… has some information we need."

"His name isn't… Thomas, is it?"

Hastings's pen halted in midair; Harper froze half-way out of his chair; Albers slowly lit another cigar. "Why?" he asked. "Have you met a runaway monk named Thomas?"

"Yeah. A week ago. Last Friday morning. Gave him a ride into town."

"That'd be our boy, all right," Albers said.

"Have you seen him since?" Harper asked quickly.

"Nope."

"Where did you drop him off?" Albers asked.

"The north gate," St. Coutras answered. "On Western Avenue. Why, what's he done?"

"We have no idea. But somehow he's the key to a lot of desperately important questions. Would he remember you?"

"Sure."

"Kindly?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good." Albers took along, contemplative pull on his cigar. "Do you have an apprentice or partner or somebody who could bring the guns in without you?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"I want you to stay here and smoke this blasted monk out of whatever hole he's hiding in. We're pretty sure he hasn't left the city, but the police haven't been able to get any leads on him at all. What we'll do is check with the monastery to find out what his interests and skills are, and then send you places where he's likely to show up. When you see him, grab him. We'll give you as many men as you like to help."

"I'd be working with the police?" St. Coutras asked doubtfully.

"No. As a matter of fact," Albers said, "you will, practically speaking, be working against the police. We don't want Tabasco to get hold of the monk."

"Hmm. This post pays well, of course?"

"Of course. And carries a 5,000-soli—cash!—bonus if you bring him in."

"Well, I'll give it a try," the old man said. "I've done weirder things."

"Good," Albers indulged in his first smile of the day. "We'll have a rider to the Merignac monastery and back by three this afternoon, and you'll be able to start searching before sundown. You'll—"

"I get 1,000 a day to look for him," St. Coutras remarked.

Albers's face turned red, but his smile held its ground. "That's right," he said levelly. "Where are you staying?"

"At a friend's place. Never mind where. I'll come back here at 16:30 hours. See you later, gents." He stood, clamped his pipe in his mouth and left the room.

"I don't like his attitude," Harper complained. "Are you really going to pay him all that money? I think you promised him more than the city owns."

"He'll be paid, all right," Albers rasped. "We'll give him a few dozen of his own bullets, in the head."

Harper grinned, about to speak when a woman poked her head in the doorway. "Police Chief Tabasco is here to see Majordomo Lloyd," she announced at once.

"Send him in," Albers said. "None of you say anything, hear?" he added to his four companions.

Police Chief Tabasco was tall, with fine blond hair cut in bangs over his surprisingly light blue eyes. His face was pink and unlined. When he stepped into the room he made the five men look scrawny and unhealthy by comparison.

"Where is Majordomo Lloyd?" he asked.

"Well," Albers said thoughtfully, "to tell you the truth, he's dead." Harper didn't interrupt, but clearly wanted to. Tabasco raised his golden eyebrows. "You see," Albers continued, "he admitted to us that Mayor Pelias is dead, then immediately regretted betraying that secret and leaped," he waved at the open window, "to his death."

"You're lying," Tabasco observed calmly. "Pelias is alive and Lloyd knew it. He and I looked in on the comatose mayor earlier this morning. You killed Lloyd, correct? Why?"

"Oh, hell," Albers said, sitting down. "Okay, I guess Pelias is alive. No, we didn't kill Lloyd. I threatened him with torture if he wouldn't spill a few secrets, and he dove out the window. Look, Tabasco, if we're going to govern this city, there are several things we've got to know. First, where is—"

"You're not going to govern this city."

"Oh? Who is, then? Pelias? Lloyd? Alvarez? You?"

"Why not me?" Tabasco asked quietly.

Albers leaned forward. "Are you getting delusions of humanity? Listen, the people of this city would rather have a trained dog for mayor than a damned grass-eating, vat-bred android. Don't you know that? You creatures are just barely put up with as policemen. If—"

"Excuse me for interrupting," Tabasco said, a little heatedly. "But I would remind you that I control— absolutely—the only armed force available to Los Angeles; whereas you have nothing, not even—"

"I've got Thomas," Albers said.

"Who?"

"Thomas. The monk from Merignac. I have him."

"You're lying again," Tabasco said, but his eyes were lit with desperate hope.

"Believe that, if you like," said Albers carelessly. "I have him, anyway. And I don't need you."

"I knew you were lying," Tabasco said, the hope leaving his eyes. "If you really had him you'd know how much you do need me. And you'd know better than to sneer at androids. I want all five of you out of the city by sundown tomorrow. I'll instruct my officers to shoot any of you on sight after that. Do you understand?"

"Why you filthy—we're the—you can't tell the city council to—"

"I'll assume you do understand. Goodbye, gentlemen. May we never meet again."

Peter McHugh put down his coffee cup and newspaper and stood to meet the booted feet pounding up the stairs.

"That you, John?" he called, his hand hovering over a .38 calibre revolver lying on the wicker table beside him.

"Yes," gasped John St. Coutras a moment before he burst into the room. "Up and saddle the horses," the old man barked. "If we move quick we can get out of this doomed city with no trouble."

"What? Wait a minute. What happened at city hall? You didn't hit anybody, did you?"

"No. But I got Albers to agree to so many crazy payments that I know he means to kill me. Hell, he even offered me 1,000 solis a day to look for some monk. If we can get outside the city walls within the next hour, we—"

"Hold it. Listen to me. I got another offer for the guns. One hundred and fifty apiece."

St. Coutras halted. "You did? From who?"

"I don't know his name. We've been dealing through an intermediary, a red-haired kid named Spencer. But the offer's genuine, I'm convinced. We'll deliver the crates through the sewers, from north of the wall."

St. Coutras ran his fingers ruminatively through his beard. "This is 150 solis cash we're talking about?" he asked in a more quiet tone.

"Nothing but. The kid wanted to give me 5,000 down, right there. Had it in a knapsack. I told him I'd have to see you before I could take it."

"Well." The old man sank into a chair. "Is there any more of that coffee?"

"Coming up, boss."

Thomas looked critically at the final couplet of his sonnet while he chewed on the end of his pen; after a few rereadings of the poem he decided it would do and slid the paper into the box he'd appropriated for his personal belongings. A bleak mood, brought to a head by nine consecutive cups of black coffee and three stout maduro cigars, had produced the first eight lines the night before, and enough of the mood had carried over to the morning for him to write the last six lines immediately upon waking.

He stood up, stretched and reached down to pull on his pants when a loud crack sounded from the floor above. Splinters and dust whirled down through one of the beams of morning sunlight.

Thomas bounded upstairs to the stage, where he found Gladhand and five villainous-looking men staring at a small, ragged hole in the polished wood of the stage. Smoke still spiralled up from it.

"What the hell," Thomas said, unable to come up with anything better, but feeling that he ought to say something.

"Oh, good morning, Rufus," Gladhand said. "Nothing to be concerned about, that explosion. Just a special-effect device we're testing."

"More special effects?" For four days now Gladhand had been consulting furtive men—"technicians," he called them—and buying dozens of sturdy, heavy wooden boxes that he stored carefully in the basement. In answer to Thomas's questions, he'd explained that the boxes contained the wherewithal for various spectacular special effects he had ordered and intended to use for the appearance of the god Hymen in the play.

Gladhand now nodded vaguely. "Oh yes. I've decided to have a few miracles and apparitions and such things take place when Duke Frederick gets converted by the holy man in the wilderness."

"But that's only referred to. How will—"

"I've written in a new scene so as to have it take place on stage. Plot's too rickety otherwise. Look, I'm pretty busy right now, but I want to talk to you later. Meet me… on the alley balcony right after the noon rehearsal, okay?"

"Okay."

Thomas wandered to the dining room and wheedled a late breakfast of coffee and sweet rolls from Alice. He sat down at one of the long tables and gulped the oily coffee. After she rinsed out the pots and wiped down the counters, Alice sat beside him with her own cup of coffee.

"You're a late sleeper these days," she remarked, searching her purse for a cigarette. "How are you and Pat getting along?"

"Horrible."

"Oh, you had a little fight? Well, don't worry, it—"

"We didn't have a fight," Thomas asserted. "We never have fights. We just have… bafflements. Each of us is certain the other has lost his or her mind." He shrugged.

"Well, maybe you two just aren't meant for each other."

"Yeah," Thomas admitted, trying not to gag as he sipped at the coffee. "Logically speaking, that's true. But when we do get along—and we do, sometimes— it's the greatest thing that's ever happened to me."

"Which is most common? Getting along or not getting along?"

"Oh, not. By a long shot."

Alice shook her head with mock pity. "Zee course of dee true luhv nebbah did run smoooth," she leered in some badly imitated accent, as she picked up the two empty cups and walked in a bizarre fashion into the kitchen.

Thomas stared after her, and then slowly rose to his feet and went below to hunt for his shoes.

Ten minutes later he was sitting in the greenroom, going over his lines with Skooney, who obligingly read all the other parts. After a while Pat came in and sat down, and Thomas regarded her warily out of the corner of his eye, trying to get a clue to her current mood.

"You're not paying 100 percent attention to this," Skooney said.

"Oh, I think I've got it down pretty well already. Thanks, Skooney."

"Any time," the girl said, rising to leave.

"Morning, Pat," he said when Skooney was gone.

"Hi, Rufus," she answered with a friendly smile. Aha! he thought, she's in good spirits. And in the morning! Absolutely unprecedented. The feeling that had spawned his sonnet began to evaporate.

"Hey, noon rehearsal in five minutes," Lambert called, walking through the hall.

Thomas inwardly cursed the interruption; but then reflected, after Pat had blown him a kiss and darted out of the room, that the rehearsal call had probably saved him from unwittingly puncturing her good mood. Anything, it seemed, could cast her into heavy depressions or smoldering anger—a kiss at the wrong time, the lack of a kiss at the right time, a careless sentence, a carefully considered opinion—and her good cheer was always slow to return.

It's too bad she's the first girl I ever really knew, Thomas thought. I have no way of knowing whether all girls are this way or if she's unique. Does every guy heave an instinctive sigh of relief when he's kissed his girl goodnight, and the door is shut, and he can go relax by himself?

The noon rehearsal passed quickly. Gladhand wasn't watching as closely as he usually did; his corrections were infrequent and brief, and he had the actors skip over two scenes he didn't feel needed any work. The theater manager seemed preoccupied. Staring into space he periodically ran his fingers through his thick, black beard.

By 13:30 h. everyone had wandered offstage, deciding whether to eat in the theater or at a restaurant somewhere, and Skooney switched off her treasured lights.

Ben Corwin was sprawled on the balcony when Thomas got there. The old man's mustache, beard and shirt were dusted with brown powder, and he was wheezing and sniffling so hard that he could only blink his wet eyes and wave at Thomas by way of greeting.

"That stuff is going to kill you," Thomas remarked. "Why don't you drink, instead?"

Corwin managed to choke, "Good enough for androids… good enough for me."

Thomas sat down, wishing he had a really cold beer. This blasted desert wind is getting tiresome, he thought. He'd never lose his cold while it kept up.

The plywood door dragged open after a minute or so, and Spencer stepped out onto the balcony.

"Howdy, Rufus," he said cheerily. "Clear out of here, Ben! Important conference coming up out here. You've got to move on." The old man muttered an obscene suggestion. "Will you leave for a five-soli bill?" Spencer asked, pulling one out of his pocket and holding it just out of reach of Ben's waving, clutching hands.

Finally the old man struggled to his feet. "Give it here," he said clearly.

"It's yours," replied Spencer, allowing it to be snatched from his fingers. "Go buy yourself a bottle of your favorite white port." Muttering incoherently, Corwin tottered down the stairs.

"A conference?" Thomas inquired as Spencer sat down.

"Yeah, sort of. I'll let Gladhand explain."

The door grated open again and Gladhand wobbled out on crutches, closely followed by Negri. "Two more chairs, Bob," the theater manager said. Negri ran to fetch them, and in a moment the four of them were seated facing each other.

"It's high time you learned something, Rufus," Gladhand began.

"Before it's too late, sir," Negri said, "reconsider. It's crazy to trust—"

"We've been through this, Bob," Gladhand interrupted, a little impatiently. "Be quiet. Robert, you see," he went on calmly, "doesn't want me to tell you. He doesn't trust you, Rufus."

"I have no idea what's going on here," Thomas said, truthfully.

"Let me explain," Gladhand began. "We are a theater company, are we not? But, lad, that's not all we are. The Bellamy Theater is a front—no, that's not quite right—is the secret, uh, center of the only organized resistance force in L.A. My employees are guerrilla soldiers as well as actors."

Thomas blinked and then nodded slowly, trying to assimilate the idea. "That explains one or two odd remarks and looks," he said. "Ah! And those 'special effects' are really weapons?"

"Some of them," Gladhand nodded. "Some really are special effects devices. Don't get the idea that the play is simply a mask, a cover. Our guerrilla efforts are no more important than our dramatic ones." He lit a cigar. "Would you leave us, Robert?"

Negri raised his eyebrows incredulously.

"Leave us," Gladhand insisted, and Negri stalked inside, pausing to give Thomas a look of pure hatred. "You showed good… aptitude," Gladhand continued, "in that foolish raid on the android barracks last week. I'd have taken you into our confidence right then, if it weren't for the fact that the police were devoting so much time and effort to catching you. I was afraid you'd be seized at any moment; so for security reasons I kept you in ignorance of the… other half of our activities."

"And what changed your mind, sir?" Thomas asked.

"Things are coming to a head quickly. A crisis nears. Majordomo Lloyd committed suicide this morning; Alvarez has certainly reached the Santa Margarita River by now; and every two-bit politico south of Glendale is trying to take the reins of the city. I need every good man I can get, and it would be the exaggerated caution of a madman for me to keep you in the dark any longer. By the way, do you gentlemen recall those half-matured androids you saw under glass in the android brewery last week?" Thomas and Spencer nodded. "Well Jeff told me at the time that the faces looked familiar. Today it struck him whose it was. He swears it was the face of Joe Pelias."

"Good God," Spencer said. "Replacements, in case the real one dies?"

"I believe so," Gladhand nodded. "They'll be mature in another week, I'd judge, if they were already recognizable. We can't waste time, you see."

"Yes," Thomas agreed. "What is it you're hoping to do? In long range terms, I mean?"

"Kill Pelias—it was our bombs that nearly did him in last week—and institute a new government, hopefully in time to defend the city against Alvarez."

"What sort of new government?"

Gladhand shrugged. "A better one than this Pelias has given us. I know of a man with an indisputably valid claim to the mayor's office. We will, I hope, manage to establish him when Pelias is finally disposed of."

Thomas pondered all this. "Were you the ones who made that assassination attempt on Pelias ten years ago?"

Gladhand smiled oddly. "No. That attempt was none of our doing. Besides, our organization has only been in existence for eight years."

"Does Pat know?" Thomas asked. "Is she in this?"

"Yes. I told her about it two days ago. She's in."

"Well, what do I do to join? Sign something in blood? Scalp a cop?"

"No, none of that. We're very informal in that respect. Take my word for it that you're a member. I did want to tell you all this today, though, so you could help Spencer out tonight. He's going to make the final arrangements on a purchase of 100 rifles, in a bar called the Gallomo. I'd prefer it if he wasn't alone, and you two seem to work well together."

"Sure, I'll go along," agreed Thomas. "How are we going to get all those rifles back here, though?"

"We won't," said Spencer. "Assuming the guns haven't already been sold, we're just going to make a down payment. Delivery will be in a couple of days, through the sewers."

"I'll want both of you to carry pistols," Gladhand instructed. "Just in case, you know." He picked, up his crutches. "In the meantime, have some lunch, and Spencer can fill you in on the details." He swung himself erect and reentered the building.

Four hours later Thomas was doing his best to eat a particularly gristly beef pie. "The drinks here might be okay," he told Spencer, "but the food is vile."

"Well, hurry up and finish it," Spencer said. "The guy's supposed to be here in ten minutes, and you've got your face in a damned pie."

The pie had cooled off, and things were beginning to congeal in it, so Thomas pushed it away. "If things get rough we can throw it at somebody," he said.

"Yeah, and—don't turn around. He's here. Good. That means we outbid city hall."

Thomas slowly picked up the pitcher and refilled his beer glass. "Is he coming over here?" he whispered.

"He's getting a drink first. Making it look unplanned, I suppose. Ah, here he comes."

Peter McHugh sat down and nodded to Spencer. "Who's your buddy?"

"A colleague," Spencer said. "He's okay. City hall didn't go for it?"

"Oh, they claimed to, but my partner suspected they didn't really intend to pay him. He has good instincts for that kind of thing."

"Where is he?"

"Out in the wagon; he'll be in in a minute. You've got the five grand?"

Spencer nodded and kicked the knapsack under the table.

"Good, good." McHugh took a sip from his glass of wine. "Not bad," he observed. "How's the food here?"

"Terrible," Thomas said, pointing at the pie.

McHugh peered at it. "Oh, yeah." He looked up. "Here's my partner now," he said.

Thomas didn't look around, so he didn't see the new arrival until he sat down. "Mr. St. Coutras!" he said in surprise when he saw the white-bearded old man.

"You two know each other?" McHugh asked, puzzled.

"What do you know, it's Thomas the famous runaway monk," St. Coutras said, "You're with these guys?" he asked, nodding at Spencer.

"I am now," Thomas told him. "I certainly wasn't when I met you. And my name is Rufus, please."

"Hah! Rufus? Oh well, whatever you say."

"They've got the money," McHugh said impatiently.

"Okay," St. Coutras said. "Now listen," he said to Spencer. "Pick up the guns Saturday, that's the day after tomorrow, under the third manhole on New Hampshire, south of the wall. That's right above the city college, near Vermont."

"I know where it is," Spencer nodded. "When Saturday?"

"Thirty-three hundred hours. Be there. We won't wait around. If—"

McHugh half stood up, reaching quickly in his coat. A loud bang sounded behind Thomas, and McHugh was kicked backward over his chair, his gun spinning across the floor.

"No one else is going anywhere, are they?" inquired a cultured voice from behind Thomas's shoulder. Four smooth-faced android policemen surrounded the table as Albers picked up McHugh's fallen chair and sat down.

From where he sat, Thomas couldn't see McHugh's body. Spencer could though, and looked sick, scared and angry.

"Foolish of you to miss our appointment, St. Coutras, old boy," Albers smiled, taking a sip of McHugh's wine. "Very tolerable Petite Syrah," he remarked. "Is the food equal to it?"

Thomas pointed mutely at the congealed pie. "Yes, I see," Albers said with a shudder. "At any rate—these two young men, then, must be members of our own Los Angeles resistance underground! What are your names?"

"Edmund Campion," Thomas said.

"Dan McGrew," said Spencer.

"Uh huh. So you thought you'd sell to a rival market, eh, St. Coutras? That's known as treason, my friend. You'll be hanged and we'll appropriate your guns. For nothing. And you lads will be hanged, too, never fear—after a few days with the city interrogator, naturally." He picked up the wine glass again, then froze. He turned a sharp stare on Thomas. "What did you say your name was?" His voice was like a slap in the face.

"I forget," Thomas said. "It was a phony name anyway."

"I know that. You just said the first name that popped into your head, didn't you?"

Puzzled and terrified, Thomas simply nodded.

"Right," Albers grinned. "Edmund Campion. The name of a… saint. Let's see—you're the right size, dark hair…" He leaned forward and stared at Thomas more closely.

Through his tension and fear Thomas felt a taste of relief. At least it's over, he thought. Now he would find out why they were hunting him with such determination.

"This is him, isn't it, St. Coutras?" Albers said. "Thomas, our long-sought fugitive."

St. Coutras shook his head. "Wrong, Albers," he said. "Are you going to grab every dark-haired young man who thinks of saints when he's in trouble? You bastards are really grabbing at straws."

"Hmm." Albers frowned thoughtfully. "Of course you'd say that in any case, to keep your bargaining position… What the hell. We'll take all of you in for a little intensive interrogation, hey? Maybe even send a coach to Merignac; bring back a monk who could absolutely identify this damned Thomas. Up, now, and march outside. Put that down, you monster," he added to one of the androids, who had furtively picked up the pie.

Next to the old gun-runner's cart five horses were tied to a rail in front of the Gallomo. One of the androids frisked the prisoners, removing pistols from Spencer and Thomas and a short, large-calibre sleeve-gun from St. Coutras.

"Handcuff the prisoners," Albers directed the android, "and lay them in the back of the old man's cart."

When the cold metal rings were clicked viciously tight around Thomas's wrists, the android lifted him as easily as an armful of lumber and dropped him face down into the empty cart bed. A moment later St. Coutras and Spencer were dumped in on either side of him.

"Stay loose, lads," the old man gasped. "They haven't got us in the pan quite yet."

Thomas could see no basis for hope, but felt a little better for St. Coutras's words.

"All right," Albers ordered. "You three follow us back to city hall—and don't forget to bring the spare horses, idiots. You drive the rig and I'll ride along to keep an eye on our little guests."

The cart rocked on its creaking springs as Albers and one of the androids climbed onto the seat. "Don't look up, friends," Albers said, "but rely on my word that I am staring down at you with a revolver in my right hand. I can't afford to kill any of you yet, but I sure won't hesitate to blow off an arm or two. Okay, Hamburger or whatever your name is, move out."

Thomas heard the snap of the reins, and the cart lurched and rattled as it swung out of the parking lot and east onto Beverly. In a moment the snare-drumming of hooves on cobblestones sounded as the five horses fell in behind.

"What time is it. Captain?" inquired St. Coutras politely.

"Shut your filthy hole, traitor," Albers snapped. "Step on it, will you?" he said to the android driver, and Thomas felt the cart's speed increase. He glanced at St. Coutras, and the old gunrunner winked at him.

The cart leaned and creaked as it weaved to pass slower vehicles. The steady roar of the cobbles under the wheel-rims had risen in pitch. "Don't stop for him," Albers snarled. "Go around! There, grab that space! Oh yeah?" he shouted to some outraged driver they'd cut off. "Well how'd you like to—look out!"

The cart's brakes squealed and Thomas was thrown forward.

"Hit the back brake!" St. Coutras called out commandingly, "or we're doomed!"

A deep, hollow boom shook the cart to its axles, and immediately St. Coutras was up on his knees. "Run for it, Aeolus!" he howled and butted his white-maned head into the driver's shoulder. The horse leaped forward in a sudden burst of speed and the android, off balance, was pitched from the bench into the street.

The old man frantically wrestled his manacled hands under his legs as the driverless cart picked up speed. When, a few seconds later, he'd pulled them up in front of him, he vaulted onto the driver's bench and caught the flapping reins.

"Go, Aeolus, darling!" he yelled to the horse.

Thomas rolled over and managed to drag his own hands around to the front. "Have you got a gun?" he shouted to St. Coutras. "They're coming up fast behind us."

The driver held the reins in his teeth for a moment while he groped under the bench; he came up holding a pistol. Thomas took it and faced the rear.

The three android riders were terribly close, and even as Thomas raised the pistol one of them got off a shot at him, almost burning his cheek as it passed. Thomas fired full into the rider's face, and the android rolled off the back of its horse. The two others fell back a little.

Thomas's next shot went wide as St. Coutras wrenched the speeding cart around a tight corner. Spencer was sitting up, looking tense but cheerful. A bullet splintered the bench over his head and he ducked low. "Be careful, Rufus!" he yelled.

Thomas nodded and squeezed off a shot at the nearer rider. It tore a hole in the android's arm, but didn't slow it down. Thomas's next shot crippled its horse, and mount and rider tumbled across the street in a tangle of thrashing limbs.

"Only one more!" Thomas called.

This one was standing in the stirrups now, raising its pistol in both hands for one well-aimed shot. Thomas centered the android in his sights, and both guns roared simultaneously.

Thomas spun violently back into the cart bed, his gun whirling away into the street, as the last android clutched its exploded belly and rolled off its horse.

Spencer grabbed Thomas's shoulder. "Where are you hit?" he demanded.

"My hand," Thomas whispered through clenched teeth. His whole left hand was a blaze of pain, and more than anything he feared to look at it. He could feel hot blood running up his wrist and soaking his sleeve.

"Head for the Bellamy Theater," Spencer called to the driver.

"The hell I will, son," St. Coutras replied, not unkindly. "Our best bet is to head for the gate muy pronto and get out of this maniac city before they hear about this and lock us in."

"Well look, my buddy here's bleeding like a cut wineskin; at least drop us off here."

"Okay." St. Coutras reined in in front of a dark shop, and Spencer helped Thomas out of the cart.

"Listen," the old man said. "When Albers was blown out of the cart your 5,000 solis went with him. But I'm willing to write that off as taxes if you still want the guns."

"We do," Spencer said.

"Good. No change in the delivery plans, then. Thomas?"

"Yes?"

"You're a good lad to have at one's back in a fight. Hope I see you again."

Though he was pale and trembling, Thomas managed a smile. "Thanks," he said. "We were lucky to have you in the driver's seat."

"We owe it all to Aeolus. Here." He tossed a box from under the seat to Spencer. "First aid. See you Saturday, boys!" He flicked the reins and the cart rattled away up the street.

Thomas and Spencer stepped into an alley. "Hold out your arm," Spencer said. He poured alcohol all over the injured hand and began wrapping it in a bandage. "This ain't easy to do when both of us are handcuffed," he remarked.

"How's it look?"

"Oh, you won't die of it, I guess."

"Do the bandages have to be that tight?"

"Yes." When he'd laboriously tied a knot and bitten off the slack, Spencer patted him on the back. "That'll do for now. We're close enough to the theater to be able to walk back. If we pass anyone, just keep to the shadows and sing as if you're drunk. With any luck at all they won't notice the cuffs."

CHAPTER 8: The Head in the Box

The front of the Bellamy Theater was dark; the cluster of gargoyles and decorated balconies were homogenous blurs in the huge shadow that was the building. On a second floor balcony a match was struck and held to the end of a cigar. The flame flared up as the smoker puffed, revealing briefly the bushy beard, bald head and deep-set eyes of Nathan Gladhand. The match was abruptly whipped out, leaving only the dull red pinpoint of the cigar tip.

Gladhand looked anxiously up and down the dark, empty expanse of Second Street, listening carefully as the city hall clock faintly struck six-and-a-half.

Suddenly he heard singing, a few blocks to the west. Two slightly hysterical voices were warbling a Christmas carol—incongruous, for it was only October.

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie,

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by . . .

It has to be them, he thought; pretending to be drunk. Or maybe they are drunk. He could see them now—weaving along the sidewalk and leaning on each other—and, farther behind them, a tall figure following. The theater manager reached into his coat pocket and rested his hand on the butt of a shoulder-holstered pistol. But as he watched, the man following entered a hotel, and the two young men walked the last block-and-a-half alone. When they were directly below, Gladhand leaned over the balcony rail.

"Spencer! Rufus!" he called quietly. "Is all well?"

Spencer looked up. "Yes and no, sir."

"Come up here and tell me."

Two minutes later they sat in canvas chairs on the balcony, gratefully drinking glasses of cold beer.

"All right," Gladhand said. "Tell me what happened? How did Rufus hurt his hand?"

"That guy McHugh is dead." Spencer filled Gladhand in on the events of the last two hours, ending with a description of the awkward bandaging procedure.

"How bad is his hand?"

Spencer started to speak, stopped, then tried again: "The first finger's gone completely. Sorry, Rufe. The rest's okay, though the thumb is a bit messed up."

"Are you left-handed, Rufus?"

"Well—yes sir."

"Ah. That will be difficult. I'm sorry." He turned to Spencer. "And the guns?"

"Delivery at 23:00 hours Saturday. No trouble there."

"Well, thank God for that, anyway. Rufus, go below and have Alice fix you some food. And don't think your heroism and self-sacrifice have gone unnoticed. Spencer, escort him there, if you would, and then come back here."

Spencer led Thomas downstairs to the greenroom, where Alice, Pat and Lambert were playing some cards.

"Alice," Spencer said, "see what Rufus wants and make it for him, will you? He's a casualty."

"Hey, have you been shot again?" Alice exclaimed. "You want some food or something?"

"Some soup," Thomas said slowly, "would be nice. Thanks, Alice." He sat down as Alice scampered away. Pat, he noticed, was looking at him with an expression of near hostility.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"I got…"He was suddenly very tired, and enunciating each syllable was a real effort. "I got my finger"—he waved his bandaged hand—"shot off in a gunfight with some androids. And then Spencer and I had to sing Christmas carols—" With no warning he found that he was crying. Almost as soon as he noticed it he was able to stop.

"For God's sake," Pat said, abruptly standing, "talk to me when you've managed to pull yourself together." She walked out of the room.

"Wow," said Lambert softly. "Anybody ever accuse you of masochism, Rufus?"

As far ass Thomas could recall, this was the first time Lambert had called him by his first name. He grinned weakly. "It's only these last few days they'd have had any cause to," he answered.

"I mean," Lambert went on, "I've pursued some cold ladies in my time, but this one of yours is a whole new category. Do you always go for women like that?"

Thomas shrugged. "She's the first girl I ever… went for."

"Honest?" Lambert shook his head. "God knows where you'll go from here."

Alice returned with a pot of steaming clam chowder and a tall mug of beer. "I ran into Spencer in the hall," she said. "He tells me Gladhand has advanced our opening night to Wednesday the twentieth."

"Wow," said Lambert uneasily. "Less than a week away."

"Yeah," Alice agreed. "Apparently he's going to step up the pace of the rehearsals, to compensate."

"Is that a code or something?" Thomas asked. "Does 'opening night' mean the day we spring our coup on city hall?"

"No, it really is opening night," Lambert said. "Gladhand made it clear, didn't he, that the play is no shuck? Of course, there may be a clue here; he could be planning to mount the attack sooner than he originally meant to, so he might move the opening-night date ahead so the two won't interfere with each other. Who knows? He might even be planning to overthrow city hall before the play opens. He'd never let on, in any case."

Thomas's hand hurt, causing him to toss and turn feverishly. When he finally did drift off he was plagued with the sky-fishing dream again. He reeled the resentful flier closer and closer, again saw the great white face and knew for one awful moment whose it was; then it changed into the face of the stone head beside Thomas's couch, which in turn became the face he'd glimpsed on the creatures in the vats at the android brewery. He awoke at dawn and lay there for an hour, tired, sick and disgusted with his subconscious mind.

He finally, made an effort to get up and found, as his vision cleared, that he had fallen on the floor beside his couch.

"What was that?" came a familiar voice. "Rufus? Are you all right?"

Thomas rose to his knees and shook his head to clear it. "Yeah," he said clearly. "I'm okay. That you, Pat?" He forced himself to forget the horrible white-cheese face of his dream.

"Yes." She was standing beside him now and helped him to his feet. His hand, he noticed, had bled during the night, and his sheets were spotted with brown.

"Do you love me, Pat?" he asked dizzily.

She thought about it. "Yes," she said at last, "I guess I do."

He nodded. "I love you, too," he said. "Let's have some breakfast."

"Right," she said. "Better not waste any time," she added. "Rehearsal's at eight."

"Eight?" he echoed. "Instead of noon?"

"As well as noon. Opening night's been rescheduled. Didn't you hear?"

"Oh yeah. I remember now. Wednesday."

"Right. Hurry up. Everybody's probably gobbling up our share."

But when they got to the dining room, they found that breakfast had been held up until they arrived. As he and Pat sat down, Spencer and Jeff trooped in with platters of scrambled eggs and sausages and bacon, followed by Skooney, who carried a huge jug of orange juice in both hands. Amid the usual babble of conversation, no mention was made of the events of the previous evening. Thomas noticed, though, that the trace of condescension was no longer present in people's voices when they spoke to him. I'm a full-fledged member at last, he thought. And all it cost me was a finger. He looked around for Negri but didn't see him.

He barely managed to swallow a mouthful of egg before having to sneeze violently into his napkin. "Does the damned paper have any idea when this Santa Ana wind will quit?" he asked.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact," Spencer answered from across the table. "A big tide of cold air is sliding south down the San Joaquin Valley. It ought to cancel this heat a bit."

"Won't that cause tornadoes?" Alice asked. "I read somewhere that causes tornadoes."

"It might, up around San Gabriel or San Fernando," Jeff said. "Not here, though."

The hall doors swung open, and Gladhand propelled his wheelchair into the dining room. "Where's Negri?" he asked.

"Haven't seen him all morning," Alice answered. Everyone else shrugged or shook their heads in agreement.

"He might be buying breakfast somewhere," Spencer said. "He does, sometimes."

"I don't think he is today," Gladhand said grimly. "The idiot tacked this note on my door last night."

Listen: 'Sir—the killing of individual androids, while doubtless praiseworthy in its own small-scale fashion, can at best—' oh hell, I won't read the whole murky thing. The upshot is"—he looked around helplessly— "he says he's gone off, singlehanded, to kill Police Chief Tabasco."

Thomas happened to glance at Pat as Gladhand finished; she had turned pale. He was surprised and felt a twinge of reflexive jealousy; would she, he wondered, be that concerned if it was me out risking my life? Was she last night, when it way me?

"Oh no," Spencer said, getting to his feet and flinging down his napkin. "How long's he been gone?"

"Possibly as long as… eight hours," Gladhand said.

"God help us," Spencer muttered. "Rufus—no, never mind. Jeff, you and Lambert run to the basement, quick, and drag as many of the bomb and gun crates into the deep cellar as will fit. Hide the rest of them, or camouflage 'em; throw old costumes on top of the incriminating stuff." Jeff and Lambert hurried out.

"Right," Gladhand said. "If any of you own personal guns, fetch them and give them to Jeff. Then get back here; rehearsal begins at eight—that's… nine minutes from now—as planned. Everybody is to be there, no excuses. Rufus, you'll read the Orlando part as well as your own."

"What's all this?" spoke up a pigtailed girl whose name Thomas didn't know. "Can't we help Negri somehow? He's risking his life for us."

"He's risking our lives for the sake of his outsize pride," Gladhand shouted. "You all know my rules about individual, unauthorized sallies against the enemy. And Negri was reminded of them only last week. What if he's caught? They'll torture him, or shoot him up with scopolamine or sodium pentothal, and he'll tell them everything he knows. I'm praying he's been killed and that the police are unable to identify him. Otherwise they'll be knocking on our front door five minutes later—or, more likely, kicking it down."

All the actors pushed away from the table and left the room. "Rufus." Gladhand said, "go to the lobby and keep an eye out for cops. If none appear in the next five minutes, be on stage for rehearsal."

"Aye aye," Thomas said. He caught Pat's eye, made a brief, mock-despairing sign of the cross and sprinted for the lobby.

"Okay," Gladhand barked from his front row seat. "Curtain. Scene two."

A girl walked out on stage, looked around and shrugged. "I pray thee, Rosalind," she began, then halted. "Uh, sir?" she said hesitantly, trying to shield her eyes from the glare of the lights, "Rosalind's—Pat's not here."

"What?" Gladhand roared. "Find her!"

"Here I am," Pat said lightly, running down the carpeted center aisle.

"Where were you?" The theater manager's voice was ominously low.

"I was trying to find Jeff, to give him my gun," she said. "I thought I had plenty of time to make my entrance. I'm sorry, sir. Won't happen again."

Gladhand nodded wearily and scratched his beard, looking like an overtime clerk who notices another figure that must be included in an already complicated equation. "On the stage," he said quietly. "Your entrance has only just arrived."

They had reached the beginning of act four when the police arrived.

"Hi!" came a voice from the lobby doors. "You there, you actors! Where's your boss?"

Gladhand shifted around in his seat and stared for a moment at the two android policemen who stood in the doorway. "I'm Nathan Gladhand, the manager," he said. "Skooney! House lights only!"

The auditorium lights went on and the stage lights dimmed as six policemen filed in and strode down the aisle toward Gladhand. The actors gathered curiously at the front of the stage.

One of the policemen carried a cardboard box whose lid he now pried open. "Did you know this person, sir?" The android asked, tilting the box to show a severed human head.

Gladhand frowned. "Put it away," he said in a rasping voice. The android lowered the lid. "Yes, I knew him. That's Robert Negri, one of my actors." A low mutter of horror and anger arose from the stage; Thomas's eyes darted to Pat, but she showed no particular dismay now. "How," Gladhand asked, "did this happen?"

"This young man walked into the police station and requested to see Chief Tabasco. When officers asked him to submit to a search, he produced a pistol and menaced them. Two officers were killed before we managed to kill the young man. We brought the body to Chief Tabasco, who, being a connoisseur of the dramatic arts, recognized him as one of the Bellamy Players."

"I see," Gladhand said. "His… girlfriend was killed in the misunderstanding in Pershing Square on Saturday. Perhaps, in his grief-crazed state, he blamed Chief Tabasco for her death."

The android nodded. "That seems most likely," he agreed. "We must, though, be thorough. Do you have any objections to our searching your theater?"

"Of course not," Gladhand said. "Would you like a guide?"

"No."

"In that case we will go on with our rehearsal."

The officer smiled at him. "Will your actors be able to function properly immediately after a… piece of news such as this?" He held the box up and shook it.

"Probably not," Gladhand answered shortly, "but I'd rather have a bad rehearsal than call a halt so they can all brood about it."

"Ah. Good point." The android bowed and led his fellows back up the aisle to the lobby.

"Okay, dammit," Gladhand snapped. "Onward. Spencer, tell us again about your 'humorous sadness.' Skooney! Lights!"

The rehearsal progressed leadenly and without verve; by the time they'd finished, the police had left, taking Negri's head with them.

"Albert says they never even entered the basement, sir," Spencer said when the troop had gathered in the greenroom. "So I guess we're okay. We weathered this one."

Gladhand was uncertain. "They made a very cursory search," he said slowly. "I've seen them be far more thorough with far less cause."

Spencer shrugged. "It's hopeless to look for logic in the behavior of androids," he said.

"Is it, Spencer?" the theater manager asked softly. "Is it, entirely?"

The noon rehearsal left Thomas exhausted and obscurely depressed; when the actors dispersed at 13:30 hours, he gravitated toward Pat. She was standing by the edge of the stage, intent on wiping her nose after a sneezing fit, and she jumped when Thomas touched her on the shoulder.

She whirled around. "Oh, it's only you, Rufus. What do you want?"

It wasn't quite the way he had expected to be spoken to by a girl who loved him. "Let's go up to the roof." he said, trying to keep the dullness he felt out of his voice. "Catch whatever cool breeze there may be."

She considered the suggestion for a moment. "Okay," she said.

They walked up the three flights of stairs in silence; Thomas held the roof door open for her. After the dimness of the stairwell, the daylight was overpowering and Thomas squinted through watering eyes as he dragged two canvas chairs to the roof coping. He felt small and unimportant under the vast, empty blue vault of the sky. He noted with relief that its sapphire uniformity was flawed by a dirty smudge of rainclouds over the mountains to the north.

When his eyes had adjusted to the brightness, he glanced over at Pat, who was staring at the maze of cobbled streets and gray-shingled roofs stretching into the distance. God, she's pretty, he thought helplessly. Black hair fringed her smooth jawline; the curve of her tightly blue-jeaned leg was braced against the bricks in front of her. What makes you think, he asked himself contemptuously, that you could possibly have any future with a woman like this? Guys like Negri get these girls.

Negri didn't get this one, though, he reminded himself.

"Awful," he said, "what happened to Negri."

"Oh," she waved her hand dismissingly, "he was a jerk." She looked at him and smiled. "You know that."

"Yeah," Thomas admitted.

"He was just trying to make what you did last night look… small-time." She draped her hand over his arm in careless affection. "You guys were really up the creek there for a little while last night, weren't you? Before you managed to kill Albers and escape. The penalties for outright treason must be considerable."

"There was some talk of hanging," Thomas admitted, "and even of torture. But I think Albers had something else in mind for me personally."

"Oh? Like what?"

"Well—it's a long story. I must confess I lied to you last week, when I told you where I came from."

"You're not really from Berkeley?"

"No. I grew up not 15 kilometers from here—not 20, anyway—at the Merignac monastery. I ran away from there last week. And my name isn't Rufus Pennick. It's Thomas. Anyway, Spencer tells me the police have been looking for me ever since I entered the city, though neither of us can figure out why. Last night Albers realized I was this escaped monk everybody's after, and he wanted me for that reason, not for gunrunning."

Pat seemed tense, so he patted her hand reassuringly. "But Albers is dead now, and you and Spencer and Gladhand are the only ones that know I'm Thomas. So I'm safe again."

"Well, that's good," she said. But she shook her head, and Thomas noticed an expression of hopelessness in her eyes. "Oh, but for how long, Rufus? How long will you be safe? And what can conceivably become of us?"

Thomas put his arm around her shoulders. "It isn't that bad," he said softly. "They aren't omnipotent. And I'll tell you what's to become of us—we'll get married when all this political foolishness is over with."

She buried her face in his shoulder and said nothing.

Thomas stroked her fine hair and stared thoughtfully at the vista of rooftops, stretching away as far as he could see to the south. He wondered what would have happened if he'd reached San Pedro; he tried to picture himself dashing about the deck of a steamer, stripped to the waist and tanned the color of an old penny—but the absence of Pat from the daydream made it unconvincing.

Four gunshots sounded a few streets away, and Pat jumped. "Lord, that's a recurrent sound these days," she sighed.

"Yeah," Thomas agreed. "And you never find out who was shooting, or being shot at."

Pat stood and stretched. "I've got to go," she said. "Some of us are going out for ice cream this afternoon."

"Ice cream?" Thomas didn't know what that was.

"I'll see you later. Rufus," she said gravely, "I love you. Do you believe that?"

He looked at her. "Yes."

"Good. See you later." She loped to the stairway door and disappeared. Thomas carried his chair into the shadow of a beach umbrella and settled down to sleep.

CHAPTER 9: Deductions in Room Four

The glare of the late afternoon sun woke him, its rays slanting under the rim of the umbrella. He climbed to his feet and rubbed his eyes, feeling disoriented and apprehensive.

When he shambled down the stairs to the greenroom, he found Gladhand, alone, drinking scotch. Thomas dropped into one of the chairs.

"Where is everybody?"

"Spencer and Jeff and Lambert are off on a bit of official business," Gladhand explained. "You're exempt from all that till your hand heals. Most of the girls went off to eat snacks somewhere. I'm sitting here drinking."

Thomas nodded. "If it's alright with you, sir, I think I'll go have a solitary beer or two at the Blind Moon."

"Sounds like a valid course. Here." He reached into a pocket and handed Thomas a ten-soli bill.

"Thank you, sir."

"The girls took that ridiculous car, but I believe you'll find at least one horse out back."

Thomas left the building by the rear entrance and did indeed find a horse in one of the stalls—a sturdy creature of indeterminate breed that winked at him when he patted its nose.

He saddled the beast with only moderate difficulty, mounted and guided it out of the back lot. He rode east on Second for a block and then turned left onto Spring. The horse seemed as lazy as Thomas and clopped along at an easy pace.

A few people sat against buildings or slouched along the old sidewalks. The slightly cooler wind of evening carried smells of fried meat and spicy sauces; and Thomas realized most citizens were inside having dinner. As a matter of fact a bowl of chili at the Blind Moon might be just the thing.

Soon after he had crossed the bridge over the freeway, the city wall loomed ahead; and in its long shadow, dwarfed between two neighboring structures, stood the little building that was the Blind Moon. As Thomas tied his horse to the post out front, the narrow windows were already casting streaks of light across the darkening pavement.

He pushed open the swinging door and crossed directly to the bar. "A pitcher of draft beer, please, and a bowl of chili," he said to the girl who was washing glasses.

"Coming right up, sport," she said, "Where you sitting?"

"Uh, back there." Thomas pointed to a table against the wall, then crossed to it and sat down. On the wall across from him was the photograph of Negri and Jean. They're both dead now, he thought. In less than a week that picture has become very old.

"Cheer up, pal," the barmaid said, walking up to his table. "Your beer and chili have arrived."

"I suppose that's as good an excuse as any for cheering up. Thank you."

Holding his breath, he gulped the beer until his throat stung and then set the glass down with a clunk. The alcohol relaxed him, making him realize how exhausted he really was. When do they call time-out for rest around here?

He refilled his glass—awkwardly, for he used his injured left hand. When he'd topped it up, someone sat down across from him and extended an empty glass. "You owe me one," a hoarse voice said.

Thomas looked up and smiled in recognition. "Jenkins, right? The scholar from Berkeley."

"That's right," the old man whispered with a jerky nod. "Listen, I have to leave town."

"Oh? That's not as easy as it used to be, I hear," Thomas remarked as he filled the man's glass. "Why are you leaving? You finish your research?"

"You could say so." Jenkins grinned mirthlessly and reached into an inner pocket of his coat. "You know Spencer, don't you? Of course. I talked his girlfriend into getting me a copy of the key to the city archives."

Thomas looked at him with more respect. "Let nobody deny you're a true scholar, Jenkins," he said. "Did you find this…" he racked his memory, "… Strogoff letter you wanted?"

The old man appeared close to tears. "I did. Here," he said, pulling an envelope out of his coat. "Hold it for me. It's too big for me to… it's just too big for me. I must get out of the city. Then I'll send you an address you can mail it to. I'll pay you well for helping me, of course."

Thomas turned it over; a new seal held the flap closed. "You've read it," he said.

"Yes. I wish I hadn't. Don't you read it, please. Just hold it for me. Will you give me your word that you'll do as I say? I'll pay you 500 solis for mailing it to me unopened."

Thomas considered it. "Okay," he said finally, "I give you my word." Five hundred solis is 500 solis, he reflected.

"As an actor and friend of Spencer's?"

"As those things, yes."

Jenkins clasped Thomas's shoulder. "God bless you, boy," he said. "I was afraid I'd have to try to leave the city with it on me; and if they'd found it at the gate, well…" he blinked. "God bless you. I'll dedicate the book to you."

"Thanks." Thomas watched, half mystified and half amused, as the old man stood up, wiped his damp eyes with a coattail and scurried toward the front door. Poor old bastard, Thomas thought. All upset over a letter some philosopher wrote ten years ago. And look, he never even touched his beer; Thomas poured it back into the pitcher as the door swung shut behind the old scholar.

"Hold it, Jenkins!" came a cry from the street. Thomas was up out of his chair in a second, suddenly alert. Very loud and close, six gunshots suddenly rattled the windowpanes. As Thomas walked quickly to the kitchen door and pushed through it, he head the front door bang open. "Nobody move!" someone shouted in the dining room he'd just vacated. "This is the police."

Out the back door, lad, Thomas told himself. He hurried past the sinks, quietly opened the screen door at the rear of the place and slipped into the alley. He picked his way quickly and cautiously through the shadows, past the back ends of two dark buildings and saw the city wall a scant stone's throw ahead. Turning left again he followed a short, unpaved strip of dirt between two high walls back to the High Street sidewalk. Barely 20 seconds had elapsed since the six shots had been fired.

Thomas peered back around the wall at the front door of the Blind Moon. Six policemen loitered there, a couple of them crouched over a body that lay motionless in the street. So much for poor old Jenkins and the Collected Letters of J. Heinemann Strogoff, Thomas thought nervously. Noticing that he was still clutching the envelope Jenkins had given him, he shoved it hastily into his back pocket.

After a few minutes three more officers stepped out of the Blind Moon. "Nobody in here's got it," one said.

"It's not on him, either," spoke up one who'd been hunched over the body. "We must have missed it at his place." Lining up in formation, they trotted south on Spring.

I must get back to the theater, so I can see what's in this damned letter. Gladhand will probably be interested, whatever it is.

Thomas was prodding his phlegmatic horse down the southward side of the Spring Street bridge when one of the ubiquitous beggars called out hoarsely to him. "Rufus!"

Thomas looked around at the passersby, thinking that perhaps the beggar knew one of them.

"Rufus, dammit!" the beggar said, louder this time.

Thomas reluctantly swung his horse around and halted beside the ragged, slumped figure that had hailed him. This is probably a trap, he thought anxiously. He should keep moving and give this letter to Gladhand. Then in the unsteady light from a street lamp, he noticed blood glistening on the beggar's chest.

"You're hurt," he whispered, sliding off the horse.

The figure, whose face was shadowed under a wide cardboard hat, nodded matter-of-factly. "That's an accurate statement," the hoarse voice allowed.

Thomas recognized the hat. It was Ben Corwin's.

"Ben?" he said, pulling aside the hat; and then he froze. The face under its ragged brim, pale and beaded with sweat, was Spencer's.

Thomas dropped to his knees. "Spence!" he whispered urgently. "What happened? How bad are you hurt? Hang on, I'll get you to the Bellamy—"

"No." Spencer seized Thomas's wrist with a hand sticky with blood. "Listen. Don't talk. I've been waiting here for a half hour, and I don't have a lot of time left. The cops are wise to you. They know Rufus Pennick the actor is Thomas the monk. I guess… one of those cops last night lived… remembered Albers's guess. I don't know." He coughed violently and spat blood onto the sidewalk.

"Spencer, let me—"

"Sh. Listen. They've got the Bellamy staked out— north, south, east and west. Waiting for you. I stole some… old things of Corwin's and tried to sneak past them… put a sword through me, they did, but I got clear anyhow. Also—finally—Evelyn found out… why they're looking for you. They know you were sky-fishing last Thursday night, and they suspect you got an android's memory bank in the haul from the bird-man you caught. For some reason everyone wants it very badly."

"What android? I didn't find any—"

"I don't know what android. I can't imagine why they should go to all this trouble." He shuddered. "I don't understand any of it."

"Well how bad are you hurt? Spence? Spence!" Thomas leaned over Spencer's pale face, but could hear no breathing. "Spencer, answer me!" He put his fingers to the young man's throat. There was no pulse. "Oh no." Despairingly he slumped against the bars of the bridge rail and drove his fist savagely at one of the concrete pillars. His hand started bleeding again. Tears of impotent, confused rage and grief coursed down his cheeks.

"Here now!" intruded a flat, quacking voice. "What's going on?"

Thomas wearily lifted his head and saw, through the blurring of his tears, the stern face of an android policeman gazing at him. The creature held a nightstick at the ready and twitched it at Thomas. "What's going on?" it repeated.

Thomas leaped at the android with a snarl, and his fingers were at the thing's eyes even as the nightstick cracked down across his ribs. The sheer maniacal force of his attack knocked the officer backward, and Thomas was on its chest as soon as it hit the pavement.

His fingers were locked in its hair, and he pounded the moaning head against the curb again and again and again, until muscle fatigue rendered his arms incapable of continuing.

Thomas rose on unsteady legs. The crowd that had gathered regarded him with fearful, timid approval. Thomas wiped a few clinging strands of hair from his hands and ran.

When he stopped, completely winded but exorcized of the berserk fury that had possessed him earlier, he was in front of an old two story building; on a lamp-lit sign in front were painted the words ROOMS FOR RENT. There's the hand of Providence at work, he thought as he staggered up the walk and knocked at the door. After a minute an old woman opened it.

"Yeah?" she growled. "I got a big knife here, so don't try anything."

"All I want… is a room," Thomas panted. "How much for a room for the night?"

She looked him up and down through suspicion-narrowed eyes. "Twenty solis."

Thomas pulled out the ten-soli bill Gladhand had given him. "Ten's all I have," he said.

"Ten'll have to do, then," she said grudgingly as she snatched it from his hand. "You get room four. Round back." She made as if to close the door.

"Wait a minute. Isn't there a key?"

"No." The door slammed, followed by the rattle of a chain being drawn across it.

He shrugged and went "round back" to find room four. It proved to be a narrow, low-ceilinged cubicle that Thomas suspected had been designed as a closet. It possessed a wide range of disagreeable organic odors, and when he struck a match to the nearly exhausted oil lamp, Thomas saw that some madman had painted the warped walls in patches of bright green and orange.

He closed the door and shot the cheap, nailed-on bolt.

The bed consisted of a pile of old curtains, strewn with greasy oyster shells. Lord help me. When I hit the skids I don't mess around. If this isn't the absolute pit of creation, I hope I never see what is.

He pulled the crumpled envelope out of his pocket and sat down gingerly on the floor. The seal was already broken, and he lifted the flap and unfolded the ten-year-old letter:

12 January, 2179

Lawrence D. Hancock Majordomo,

City of Los Angeles

Dear Mr. Hancock:

I was deeply shocked to hear of the grenade attack Thursday last upon Joseph Fowler Pelias, the mayor of your city. I was, though, sir, even more shocked to see the telecast of the "recovered mayor" delivering a speech from a hospital bed on Saturday morning.

I, Mr. Hancock, am the inventor of the artificial constructs known as "androids," and I have done more work with and upon them, I suppose, than any other man. Did you, sir, really expect me—or anyone else who had dealt with them—to fail to recognize this "recovered" Pelias for the construct that it is? Those twitches about the eyes, the difficulty in pronouncing nasals and voiced fricatives, the long pauses between switched ideas—the very pallor, mottled around the temples—branded that creature as a newly surfaced android fake, not ten hours out of the vat.

I do not know, and will not speculate about, your motives in this matter; whether you have made this gross switch out of concern for your city or for the advancement of your personal career. It doesn't matter: your deed must be undone. Announce that complications developed; pneumonia set in; a stray bit of shrapnel reached the heart; hell, man, tell them assassins climbed in through the hospital window and hid vipers among his blankets; but get rid of that android.

You must realize that androids, though they can with the aid of padmus, think rationally and behave according to preset priorities, have no intrinsic moral sense. They cannot distinguish right from wrong, any more than a colorblind man can distinguish red from green. An android's actions will reflect only the morals of the person who prepared its padmu, and don't assume the creatures can't prepare padmus for their fellows.

The use of androids as policemen is dubious; the idea of one holding a high political office is as ridiculous as it is terrifying.

Therefore, Mr. Hancock, I am forced to issue to you a threat: if this false "Pelias" is not officially declared dead, and disposed of, within 24 hours of your receipt of this letter, I will share my observations with the press.

Yours for more rational uses of science,

J. Heinemann Strogoff

Hmm, Thomas thought. Jenkins had said Strogoff died a day or so after writing this letter? He thought he knew why and by whose order.

So, for the last ten years, Mayor Pelias had been an android. He wondered what the real Pelias had been like, then recalled the "stroke" Pelias the second alledgedly suffered a week ago, after Gladhand's bombs blew the floor out of his chambers. Perhaps the android was totally destroyed in the explosion and the stroke story was a stall to buy time until the androids brewing in the vats reached maturation. Then one of them would be chosen to serve as a replacement. A replacement of a replacement.

When were Gladhand's bombs detonated? Thursday morning, very early. One ten minutes after the other.

And when, Thomas asked himself excitedly, was I sky-fishing? Late the following night.

What was it Spencer had said the police suspected Thomas found in the bird-man's pouch? An android's memory bank.

Thomas began to perceive a pattern.

He postulated that when the first bomb damaged the Pelias-android's head, technicians immediately went to work repairing the padmu or whatever. The second bomb might have blown the windows out while the android's head was disassembled like an old alarm clock. Could a roving bird-man have flown in through the broken window, snatched up the memory bank (doubtless a bright, glittery object) and flown back out into the predawn before anyone could stop it? There must have been something desperately important in that memory bank, some vital knowledge. What would the government do?

After checking the bird-men taken in the city nets the next night, they'd find out if anyone was sky-fishing that night.

Thomas realized he had pieced the comedy of errors together. The only problem was that he hadn't happened to find an android memory bank in the damned creature's pouch. The police, Albers, everybody, were wasting their time.

Maybe, though, he could bluff them by pretending to have found it… ?

One thing was certain—Thomas had to get back to the Bellamy Theater and pass this information to Gladhand.

After blowing out the lamp, he left room four and descended the outside stairs to the ground. The Santa Ana wind was still sighing through the city, and over the gentle moan came the voice of a woman singing "Bill Bailey." Thomas made his way to the street and read a signpost at the corner. He was on Frank Court, and there was Fourth Street. Visualizing the Bellamy stakeout, he tried to plot a course that might take him past the guards.

Up on the roof of the four-story Castello Bank on Beverly Boulevard, Thomas painfully flexed his nine fingers and brushed flakes of rust off on his shirt. Stepping away from the fire escape, he padded across the moonlit roof to the southern side and looked longingly across the four meter gap to the Bellamy Theater, its dark massiveness relieved here and there by the, yellow glow from a window. The alley directly below was shrouded in total darkness—but as he peered cautiously over the edge he could imagine the android sentries that crouched, watchful and patient, in those deep shadows.

He gently broke off a bit of brick from the bank's roof and flung it down the alley to his left, in the direction of the theater's stables. A few moments later it clicked against pavement—and several sets of quick footsteps converged on the spot. There were a few muttered words and then silence once again.

Thomas pulled his head back and worried for a while. Maybe, he thought crazily, he could break a lock, descend into the bank and find a rope and a few gallons of gasoline. Then he'd just pour the gasoline down on those blasted cops, fling a match (which he'd also have to find) after the gasoline, and then swing across to the Bellamy roof on the rope.

Sure, he nodded bitterly, and the other policemen would burst into the theater and drag me out. No, lad; this calls for something more subtle.

Thomas sat down, resting his back against an antenna that dated from the lost days of television. The sky was a glittering, infinite gallery of stars, dominated but not overwhelmed by the crescent moon overhead. Thomas noticed the dark ramparts of the storm clouds to the north had swollen considerably. He raised his maimed hand and was chilled to see how ragged and temporal it looked against the eternal stars in the cathedral of the sky. Afraid the light would shine through the flesh, as if it were just an accumulation of cobwebs, he didn't want to cover the moon with his hand.

Objects were moving, flying high in the air. The bird men, the half-wit tax collectors, were winging their way north, back up Laurel Canyon to their nests; carrying in their pouches whatever trash they'd found attractive that day.

That's the solution, by God, Thomas thought, leaping to his feet. I'll fly across to the Bellamy roof. Put my life in the hands of the god of winds. He set about rocking the tall antenna loose from its moorings, and after a few minutes a bolt snapped and the pole was leaning on him. He tore it free from a section of tar-paper that had been tacked around its base, and then laid it down and began unbuttoning his shirt.

I'll just stretch my shirt over the horizontal prongs of the antenna, and then grip the pole and leap off the wall—the roof of the theater is one story below me, and I'll silently glide across onto it. Or else I'll fall, and drink the cold claret of hell tonight with Spencer, Jean, Gardener Jenkins and poor Robert Negri.

When he'd knotted the shirt securely across the metal rods, he strode bravely to the edge of the roof, stepped up onto the coping, raised the antenna over his head— and paused. He wondered what would happen if he fell but didn't die? It was only four stories, after all; he could wind up in some hideous interrogation chamber with two shattered legs.

With a snarl of impatience and despair, he whirled in a circle on the coping bricks and flung his antenna glider away from him. It crashed into the alley below in the same area his pebble had landed in, and this time the footsteps that went to investigate were not quiet.

Suddenly Thomas realized he'd created a diversion. Now was his chance, if there'd ever be one.

Scarcely stopping to think, he jumped back down onto the bank roof, loped halfway across it, then turned around; he took a deep breath and ran for the edge of the roof, digging in with his toes to muster every possible bit of speed. At the last moment he leaped with one leg, kicked off from the coping with the other, and hurled himself through the warm night air.

With a wrenching jolt, he hit the edge of the Bellamy roof and managed to crook his skinned fingers over the top just in time to prevent himself from falling. His lungs were void of air, and the muscles that could have drawn some in were in shock. Blood poured from Thomas's nose and ran in an annoying trickle down his neck.

Hop up, lad! screamed the small section of his mind that was still working. He knew he should swing up over the parapet before one of the androids glanced up, but a weaker part of his mind urged him to give up, simply let go and make the suicidal plunge to the ground. He tried to release his grip, but his body resisted his mind's decision and clung more tightly.

As tears mixed with the blood on his face, Thomas realized he couldn't rest even now. Slowly he pulled himself up, swung one leaden leg over the coping, and dropped heavily onto the surface of the Bellamy roof.

"A big antenna with a shirt on it," echoed a voice from below. "Nobody around."

"I don't like it. Trot up that fire escape and take a look around the theater roof."

"Okay, sir."

Thomas now heard footsteps clanging rapidly up a fire escape. This isn't fair, he thought. He'd never noticed a fire escape on this side of the building. Rolling to his feet, he limped to the stairway door.

It was locked. And the banging footsteps were much higher, and mounting fast.

The deck, he felt, was stacked against him. The android would be up over the edge of the roof in less than ten seconds. Thomas had to do something decisive, fast.

A wide-mouthed brick chimney poked its squat height out of the roof only a few steps away. He crossed to it and peered desperately into its inky depths. Then he heard, much clearer now, the android's boots rattling the bolts of the last length of ladder—and extending his arms in front of himself, Thomas dove headfirst into the chimney shaft, trying to slow his fall by pressing his legs outward against the walls.

His arms buckled under him when his fists cracked against a metal plate three meters below; the whole weight of his body pressed his head into his throbbing shoulder, and the blood from his nose now threatened to choke him.

The echoes of his own bubbling, gasping breath filled the shaft, and he could hear nothing else. The damned android could be playing an accordion up there, he thought, and he wouldn't be able to tell. While he waited, his twisted arms grew numb from lack of circulation and blood trickled into his hair. How truly awful this is, he reflected.

When a good measure of time had passed, and he felt the android must certainly have returned to the alley, Thomas began to think dizzily about extricating himself from the chimney. No hope of climbing back out, he told himself—his arms were as numb as if they belonged to someone else. All he could move were his legs, and even they had only a few centimeters of space to twitch in.

Like an electric shock, claustrophobia seized every nerve of him. I'll never get out, his mind gibbered. I'll die and rot jammed up in here. He began screaming and thrashing about as much as he could in the confined space; his head was being twisted even worse as more of his weight shifted onto it, but he wasn't even aware of it. He was nothing now but a mindless, trapped, screaming animal, absolutely dominated by pure fear.

CHAPTER 10: "With this Memory Bank ..."

Gladhand was unhappily sipping a glass of port in the greenroom when the screaming abruptly began. They were wild, ragged shrieks that suddenly disrupted the evening's calm, seeming to come from everywhere at once.

Lambert and Jeff, pale and wild-eyed, leaped out of the chairs they'd been slouched in. "What the hell is that?" they both yelled at once.

"I don't know!" shouted Gladhand, dabbing at the port he'd spilled on himself. "Go find out! Hurry!" The two young men ran out of the room as the screaming continued. Several terrified actors and actresses dashed by in the hallway.

Pat ran into the greenroom, her blouse dusted with brown powder and fear in her eyes. "Do you hear that?" she yelled.

"Yes," Gladhand said loudly in order to be heard over the shrieking.

"Thank God," Pat gasped, and left the room.

Gladhand leaned back in his wheelchair, his hands clenched on the arms, and stared at the cracked ceiling until, an eternal, deafening four minutes later, the hoarse yells ceased. Slow footsteps sounded in the hall a minute or so later, and then Jeff and Lambert edged into the greenroom, carrying between them a bleeding, shirtless wretch, shivering and powdered thickly with soot.

"What is this?" Gladhand demanded.

"Rufus," Lambert answered as he and Jeff laid the twitching body on the couch. "He was jammed upside down in that little chimney behind the upstairs stove. Had to pull that old blower out of the wall to get him."

"He apparently became hysterical in there," Jeff added.

"Apparently. Rufus? Here, Jeff, give him some port. Lock the door, will you, Lambert?"

Jeff pried open Thomas's jaws and poured a dribble of the fortified wine into his mouth. Thomas swallowed it. "More," he croaked. Jeff obligingly tipped up the bottle to let Thomas drink as much as he wanted to. Finally Thomas shivered, opened his eyes, and slowly sat up. His hair was matted with blood, and his face was wet with blood, tears and port. His arms and chest were cut and scraped everywhere, as if he'd fallen from a racing horse.

"Uh, hi," he rasped hoarsely.

"Hi," said Gladhand. "How in the devil's own name did you wind up in the chimney?"

Thomas leaned his head back and sighed. "Spencer's dead," he whispered. Gladhand stiffened. "He apparently," Thomas went on, "caught a sword in the belly. He was far gone when I found him—when he found me. He was waiting by the side of the road to tell me that the police… know who I am, and have the theater staked out."

"I don't get it," Lambert said. "Who are you?"

"Tell you later. Listen, now. Turned out to be true. Cops in the alley. I climbed up on top of the Castello Bank and then jumped across onto the roof here. One of 'em thought it heard something, and climbed up the fire escape to our roof. The stairway door was locked and it was about to step onto the roof, so I dove down the chimney."

Gladhand picked up his glass from the carpet and held it out for Jeff to refill. "Jeff," he said, "have somebody go explain to the android who will shortly be knocking at our door, that the screams he heard were part of a rehearsal. Uh… Celia's grief at Rosalind's exile, tell him."

Jeff poked his head out the doorway and relayed the order to Alice, who was walking past; she nodded acknowledgement, and he closed the door and sat down.

"I found a letter," Thomas continued wearily, pulling the battered envelope out of his pocket and handing it to the theater manager. "It was written ten years ago by Strogoff the android-maker, and he says that the assassination attempt of '79 was successful, and that Majordomo Hancock replaced the dead, genuine Pelias with an android. So a week ago your bombs blew up only an android copy. Somebody killed the real Pelias ten years ago."

Jeff and Lambert were astonished, but Gladhand only nodded sadly. "A fairly accurate statement," he said.

"And Spencer told me why the police are after me—they think I found an android's memory bank last Friday morning when I was sky-fishing. I didn't, but they think I might have." He sighed. "Now here's my theory: I think your Thursday morning bombs damaged the padmu of this Pelias android, and a bird-man flew in while technicians were repairing the mayor, and flew away with the memory bank. That's why they say Pelias had a stroke. Now if there was—and clearly there must have been—something very important in that memory bank, that would explain why the police have been searching for me so desperately."

"There was something important in it," Gladhand said. He took a sip of port before resuming. "Do you recall McGregor, Jeff?"

"Yeah," Jeff answered. "I haven't seen him around within the last week, though."

"Nor will you ever. I had Spencer kill him at the same time you and Negri were planting the bombs in the mayor's chambers. McGregor was a spy, and managed—by a really respectable program of research and inspired guesswork—to learn quite a bit about the guerrilla side of our operation. He even found out who it is that I plan to appoint as mayor when we overthrow the present government. He relayed all this information to the android Pelias before we could stop him, and that's why we had to kill both of them immediately."

"Ah," Thomas nodded. "And that's why they want his memory bank—because it contains the location and strengths of the resistance force."

"That, yes, but the most important thing is the name and location of this proposed successor. The present government would be much safer if that man were dead."

"Oh, come on," Lambert said skeptically; "a lot of people have more-or-less valid claims to the mayor's office, and the city manages to squelch them pretty well. What's so different about this boy of yours?"

Gladhand smiled. " 'My boy,' " he said, "is Mayor Pelias himself. The real one."

"I thought," Jeff said, dizzied by these rapid-fire revelations, "I thought you just finished saying the real Pelias was killed ten years ago."

"No. He was injured by that grenade, quite severely injured, and he was replaced by an android that the treacherous swine Hancock happened to have on hand. As a matter of fact, I think Hancock ordered the grenade attack. But no, Pelias didn't die. He's alive today, and in this city—and Tabasco would give anything to have him killed once and for all."

There came a knock at the greenroom door. "Who is it?" barked Gladhand.

"It's me—Pat."

"Come in." The door opened and Pat wandered in. She looked very startled when she saw Thomas on the couch.

"Was that you, in the chimney?" she asked.

He nodded sheepishly. "Yes."

She shook her head wonderingly. "What a voice you've got. And how did you get so messed up?"

"Spencer's dead," Thomas said.

"He is? You look like a cheap crucifix, all bloody and your hair sticking up like that."

Thomas felt nauseated. He turned to Gladhand. "Sir, I was thinking—the police believe I have the Pelias android's memory bank. Maybe we could accomplish something in the way of a bluff? Pretend to have it, you know."

"Hmm. It might be a good thing to fall back on," Gladhand admitted, scratching his beard. "Everything's happening so damned fast."

Thomas nodded sympathetically. "What would an android's memory bank look like, anyway? A metal box with wires sticking out all over?"

Gladhand chuckled. "Oh no," he said. "They're much more sophisticated than that. The new ones use a crystal, but ten years ago it would have been a length of wire, about eight centimeters long."

"Good God!" Thomas gasped. "I did have it!"

"What?" Gladhand snapped, suddenly alert. "Where is it?"

"I repaired my sandal with it. And then my sandals were given to Ben Corwin. I suppose he's still wearing them."

"We've got to find it and destroy it," Gladhand said. "First thing in the morning, Jeff, you locate Corwin, take the wire from him and melt it immediately. It's soft metal; a match should do the trick."

"Wouldn't it be pretty well wrecked already?" Thomas asked. "Tied in a knot, covered with mud…"

The theatre manager shook his bald head. "No. The memories are coded on the very molecules. Melting it is the only way to break them down."

"I have to go powder my nose," Pat said. "I'll be back in a minute." She left the room.

"Then that's what this week-long 'coma' is," Lambert said. "The absence of that wire."

"Right," Gladhand said. "And even if the android we blew up last week is too messed up to use, they have several new Peliases brewing, into whose padmus they could slip that memory bank. We must not let that wire fall into Tabasco's hands. Of course, who'd think of looking for it on the sandal of the most disreputable beggar in the city?"

"That's true," Thomas said. "They aren't likely to look there."

"Nonetheless, I—" Gladhand turned pale. "Jeff! Get Pat! Find her and hold her! Lambert, you too. Go/" The two young men leaped out of their chairs for the second time that night and ran out of the room.

"Why?" Thomas asked, suddenly worried. "Is she in any danger?"

"Hah! If I catch her she is! Where's my mind tonight?" Gladhand pounded his forehead. "Why don't I notice things when they happen?"

"What are you talking about?"

Gladhand turned on him. "Have you ever observed Pat sniffling and sneezing and wiping her nose? Right, so have I. Tonight she burst in here, panicked by your screaming, brown powder all over her blouse. Deduction: the powder was snoose. Who uses snoose? Besides poor Ben Corwin, I mean?"

"Androids," Thomas said reluctantly. "Androids use it."

"Pre-cisely. Pat, my boy, is an android—and I should be shot for not figuring it out days ago."

Jeff dashed back into the room, panting. "She's gone, sir. Skooney saw her leave by the front door, and Lambert and I searched up and down the street for her—no luck. The androids Rufus said had the place staked out? Not a sign of them. There's nobody around."

"Rufus," Gladhand rasped, "put on a shirt. You're all three to go out immediately and find Ben Corwin before Pat and her android brothers do. Now! I'll send some more people out after you to help. It's a warm night, Rufe—forget the shirt."

Lambert and Jeff hoisted Thomas to his feet, and the three of them raced down the hall, through the lobby and out into the night.

They paused on the sidewalk. "Corwin likes to sleep in doorways and on benches," Jeff said. "Look in places like that. Ask other derelicts, bribe them, rough them up if you have to, but find out if they know where he is. Let's split up. I'll take east. Good luck."

Running south on the Broadway sidewalk, Thomas peered into every doorway he passed and received horrified stares from other citizens. Spying two hunched figures in the dimness of a barber shop entry way, he sprinted up to them.

"Oh Lord," exclaimed one of them, a frail old man with no teeth, "it's the Angel of Death."

"I'll let you live," Thomas panted, "if you tell me where Ben Corwin is."

"He went by here, headin' south, few hours ago," said the other squatter, a stout woman in a burlap sack.

Thomas pounded onward, shoving people aside in his haste, until he saw, a block ahead, three androids behaving in the same way. They're on Corwin's track, too, he realized; and he admitted to himself now that Gladhand was right—Pat must really be an android. I'm the one who should have caught on, he thought bitterly. I was in love with her.

He crossed the street and strode on as quickly as he could without drawing the attention of the androids. At the Third Street intersection, he decided to head west. I'll lose the androids that way, he thought, and who knows? this may be the direction Corwin took.

The stretch of Third Street was not as well illuminated as Broadway, and he had to look carefully into each alley and doorway. He passed a number of rough-looking types, and several times expected trouble; but they all seemed fearful of this wild-eyed, gaunt, blood-spattered creature who paused only long enough to ask them if they'd seen Ben Corwin before disappearing once again into the night.

Twice he had to hide while android police ran past him.

He followed Third to Flower, which he took north. His legs were trembling, his mouth had a dry, brassy taste and his eyes had difficulty in focusing. He was almost too exhausted to continue and feared that if he didn't find the derelict soon, somebody would have to come find him. Yet he didn't want to rest; he had things in his mind waiting for his attention, things he didn't want to face.

Just short of the point where Flower ended at First Street, Thomas glanced into a narrow passageway and saw a stocky figure sitting complacently against the wall. "Excuse me," Thomas said hoarsely, shambling up to the man, "do you know where I can find Ben Corwin?"

The old man looked up. "Maybe I do," he said, "and maybe I don't. You aren't the first one to ask me that tonight, neither. A cop was just here."

"Oh yeah?" Wow, they're quick, Thomas thought.

"Yeah. I told him nothing. They're the abominations of Moloch, them cops. Most sinful things in this whole sinful city. I'll deal with 'em real soon. Would you like a bit of scotch, son? You're not looking real good."

Thomas accepted the proffered bottle gratefully and took a deep swallow of the fiery liquor. "I know you," he said as he handed it back. "You're the… Lord of Wrath. You gave me some scotch to clean my wounds with, a week ago."

"Well damn my eyes," said the old man wonderingly. "It's the young monk. What have they done to you now?"

"They beat me up and shoved me down a chimney," Thomas told him. "But if I can find Ben Corwin I'll be okay."

"Son," said the Lord of Wrath warmly, "you've come to the right man. I saw Corwin not 20 minutes gone, and he told me he's gonna spend the night on the Malk Cigars billboard on Fremont Avenue. That's two blocks to your left, on First here. You can't miss it."

Thomas shook the old man's hand. "Thank you," he said.

"Anything for a friend," the man answered. "Hey, if you get in any jams—"

"I'll tell them you're a buddy of mine."

"Right."

It was a huge painting, lit now only by the moon, of a dark-haired young man puffing with exaggerated relish on an immense cigar. A round hole was cut in the man's mouth, and Thomas suspected that once a machine had been set behind the billboard to send puffs of smoke out through the hole.

Thomas stared up at the narrow, railed scaffold that ran along the bottom edge of the billboard. Was there anybody up there? Yes, by God, Thomas thought excitedly—if that isn't an arm dangling from the far side, I'll eat my shorts.

After glancing quickly up and down Fremont Avenue to be sure he was not being observed, Thomas ran across the weedy lot to the base of the huge sign. One of its old wooden legs had an iron ladder bolted to it, and Thomas swarmed up it energetically, his fatigue temporarily forgotten. The eternal warm wind felt cool to him as it dried the blood and sweat on his chest and face.

He poked his head over the top of the ladder; at the far end of the scaffold lay a heap of old fabric that would resemble a man only to someone expecting to find a man there. "Ben?" Thomas said, standing up cautiously on the swaying platform. "Hey, Ben, it's me. Rufus, from the theater." He edged his way over to the sprawled figure, bent down and shook the old man by the shoulder. "Wake up, Ben! I need your sandals."

The old man didn't move, so Thomas carefully rolled him over onto his back. The face was black with dried blood, although the old irregular teeth were bared in a beatific smile.

Oh no, thought Thomas with a chill of disappointment, they've beaten me to him. He crouched over the body and pulled the trailing coat away from the dead beggar's legs—and saw the sandals, his own old sandals, still strapped to the bony, discolored feet. He wrenched the left sandal off, and sat back against the sign with a deep sigh of relief when he saw the mud-crusted wire still knotted onto the brittle leather straps. He carefully untwisted it and held it in his palm. A damned little scrap of metal, he thought—barely fit for repairing sandals—yet it contains something that powerful men have killed for.

He reached into his pocket for a match, but the pocket was empty. So were the other three. What do I do now, he thought—eat it? I guess I'll just have to take it back to Gladhand in my pocket.

He glanced again at old Corwin and noticed now the dark powder covering his hands and parts of his face. There was no mystery about what finished him.

He swung back down the ladder to the ground, strode across the dirt to the pavement and began walking south. Putting his hands into his pockets, he sauntered along casually, trying to be inconspicuous.

Three androids were trotting up the sidewalk toward him, their expressionless faces lit at intervals by the streetlamps they passed. Thomas wondered if they would recognize him, and suddenly he panicked.

Even the most cursory search would reveal the wire in his pocket. He cursed himself for not just flinging it down a sewer when he had the chance. His fist closed on the wire. If the cops grabbed him, he would at least throw it as far as possible.

He tensed, blinking against the sweat from his forehead, as the three ran the final half block toward him, swiveling their reptilian eyes in his direction; then they were past, their boots tapping the pavement in unison as they sprinted away to the north.

Weak with relief, Thomas leaned against the nearest wall and allowed himself a few deep breaths. Presently he removed the wire from his pocket, and looking up and down the deserted street, he wrapped it in an old bubble-gum wrapper from the gutter. He shoved it into a space between two bricks in the wall, where the loss of a chunk of mortar had left a small but deep hole.

Feeling much freer, he resumed his walk back to the Bellamy, careless now of who might notice him. As he turned left from Fremont onto Second, a two-horse wagon rattled out from under the freeway bridge, and rocked away east on Second after a man in the back flung a bundle of papers onto the far sidewalk. Thomas crossed the street to investigate and found that it was a wired-together stack of about 50 copies of the Saturday morning L.A. Greeter.

Thoughtfully, Thomas untied the baling-wire from around the papers and broke off a roughly equivalent length by bending it rapidly back and forth. He thrust it into his pocket, removed a copy of the paper and continued his eastward course.

Second Street passed under a number of concrete-buttressed bridges between Flower and Broadway.

Out of the darkness beneath one of them came a voice.

"Don't jump around, Rufus," the voice said wearily. "I've got a .357 Magnum aimed right at your belly."

Thomas stopped. "You don't have to call me Rufus anymore, Pat," he said.

"I've grown used to it," she answered, stepping forward so that her face was dimly dry-brushed in moonlight. "You're heading back toward the Bellamy," she observed. "You've got the wire?"

"Yes," Thomas said. "Are you ready to kill me for it?"

"I'd truly rather not," she said, after a pause. "But yes, I'm ready to do that."

"I seem to remember you saying you loved me. I guess you can't hold an android to a statement like that, though."

She sighed. "There is such a thing as generic loyalty, Rufus. Give me the wire and stop talking."

He took the bit of baling wire out of his pocket and stepped forward. "Hold out your hand," he said. She did, and he slowly twisted the wire around her third finger. "With this memory bank I thee wed."

"Oh, for God's sake," she snapped, yanking her hand away. Incredibly, there seemed to be tears in her voice. "Don't be species-chauvinistic. You think we're no more capable of feeling emotions than a… jack-in-the-box, don't you? Don't move, I'm not kidding about this gun. Listen, the police have had suspicions about Gladhand's troupe for weeks; I was sent to audition so that I could keep an eye on things. I… damn it, Rufus, I fell in love with you before Gladhand told me about the underground activities—so I never reported them. The police still don't know the Bellamy Theater is the headquarters of the resistance underground. But when you told me you were this Thomas fugitive, that was too much. To have kept quiet then would have been a betrayal of my whole species. And they wouldn't have killed you, anyway—it was essential that they take you alive, so they could find out where you put… this." She raised her hand.

"Well," Thomas said, "you have it now."

"Yes. Goodbye, Rufus. I… I'm going to give up police work. I'm just not cut out for it."

"You do all right."

"I don't like the work, though. As soon as I can get out of this city I'm going to live in Needles."

"Needles? Why Needles?"

"Why not Needles?" She turned away and disappeared silently into the shadows.

A wagon was parked in front of the Bellamy Theater, and Gladhand, sitting on the driver's bench, waved impatiently for Thomas to hurry up when he saw him approaching.

"We're leaving," the theater manager said. "Pat must have told them about our operations here, so I've moved everybody—"

"She didn't tell them," Thomas interrupted. "I just saw her, and she said she never told them about it—only about me being the celebrated monk. She was in love with me, see."

Gladhand paused. "When did you see her?"

"Not five minutes ago."

Jeff and Lambert emerged from the theater and hopped up onto the wagon. "Hi, Rufus," Lambert said. "You didn't find Corwin, did you?"

"Yes," Thomas said. "I took the wire and hid it, since I didn't have a match. And I took a piece of wire from a bundle of newspapers"—he waved his newspaper,—"and gave it to Pat. She thinks it's the real thing."

They all stared at him for a moment, and then Gladhand laughed softly. "All, it seems, is not lost," he said. "They probably won't find out for… oh, an hour or so that the wire Pat has is a fake." He turned to Jeff and Lambert. "We have time to take the heavy stuff after all. Load this cart and the old car out back. Rufus will help. Hustle, will you? This can only be a temporary extension."

Thomas followed the two young men downstairs into the theater basement. "All these crates," Jeff said, pointing to a low wall of wooden boxes. "I think we can each carry one."

Thomas swung one up onto his shoulder and winced at its weight. "What… are these?" he gasped.

"Bombs," Jeff told him. "And ammunition for a couple of cannons Gladhand has hidden somewhere. We took all the guns in the first load, when we evacuated everybody, and we figured we'd have to leave all this behind." He pointed to a length of gray twine that ran from under the crates across the floor and up the stairs. "We were going to blow it all up when we left. It almost made poor old Gladhand cry, to think of losing the Bellamy Theater."

When they were each hunched under a box they stumbled and cursed their way upstairs, and 20 minutes and five weary loads later, they'd filled the wagon.

"Okay," Gladhand said. "I'll move out. You guys fill the car and follow. Are they all going to fit?"

Jeff brushed sweat-dampened hair out of his face. "Yeah," he said. "They'll all fit."

"Okay. You know the way—see you in about an hour. Go, horse." He flicked the reins and the wagon lurched into motion.

When they had nearly filled the car and were about to shoulder the final boxes, Thomas went back inside for a last look at his old couch-bed. "I feel like I've lived here for a long time," he remarked to Lambert. "The first night I—where's that head? The big stone head that used to be on this shelf?"

"Gladhand took it along in the first load," Jeff said, "when we moved everybody out. Come on, now, grab a box and let's get out of here."

They hauled the last crates upstairs, down the hall, out the back door and across the dark courtyard to the car. After dumping the load into the trunk, they slammed the rusty hood.

"Okay, hop in," Jeff said as he closed the driver's door and whistled to the horse. "Wait a minute… what's that?" he pointed ahead.

"It's… a TV antenna with a shirt tied onto it," Lambert said.

"Well, get it out of the way." When Lambert had flung the thing aside and climbed back into the car, Jeff snapped the reins and angled the car out of the alley onto Broadway. Thomas reclined in his seat and closed his eyes, enjoying the cooling flow of air across his face.

The car slowed messily to a halt, the wheels roaring dully on gravel. Thomas stared curiously at the building they'd arrived at: it was long and low, with the corrugated metal under-roof exposed in patches bared when the old decorative shingles had fallen away. Plywood flats were nailed up over every window. A tall metal sign perched precariously on the roof; it had at one time and another been painted with so many businesses' names that now nothing was legible on it.

"What is this attractive place?" Thomas asked sarcastically.

"It was a pizza parlor not too long ago," Jeff told him. "Gladhand bought it a year ago, apparently, as a hidey-hole."

"Gladhand certainly seems to have money," observed Thomas.

"That's true," Jeff agreed. "He must be independently wealthy—he sure didn't receive a lot of money from the Bellamy box office." He guided the reluctant horse around the southern end of the old structure and soon the car was hidden from anyone who might pass by. As Thomas got out of the car, he noticed Gladhand's cart parked some distance away.

Gladhand was perched on a chair in the dining hall when they entered. The troupe of actors, about 20 in all, was sprawled about on the tables and benches; most were asleep, pillowed on bundles of spare clothing, but a few were sitting up, smoking or talking quietly.

"We could use some help getting this stuff in here," Jeff said.

"Right," the theater manager said. "Skooney, wake up Terry and Mike."

In a moment they were joined by two big, sleepy young men Thomas had never seen; with their help the car was unloaded in one trip.

"We'll have a council of war in the morning," Glad-hand stated when the crates had been stowed with the stacks of others already in the kitchen. "You guys help yourselves to some bourbon over there—and get some sleep."

"Is there a bathroom?" Thomas asked. "I could do with a shower."

"There's a bathroom, but no tub or shower. See what you can do with some wet paper towels."

Thomas followed Gladhand's pointing finger and found a dark little room with a sink in it. There weren't any paper towels, but noticing the short curtains in the window, Thomas tore one down, soaked it in cold water and washed off most of the soot and dried blood. He wiped the dust off the mirror while he was at it, but the room was too dim for him to see what he looked like. Probably just as well, he decided.

He shambled back into the dining hall and, after filling a paper cup with bourbon, sat down heavily beside Skooney.

"Hello, Rufus," she said quietly. "I hear you've had a rough day."

He took a long pull at the whiskey. "True," he said.

"Why don't you get some sleep?"

A few minutes later he blinked awake, then went to sleep again, reassured to find his bourbon sitting nearby and his weary head resting comfortably in Skooney's lap.

CHAPTER 11: The Last Night of the World

The smell of coffee woke him. Though it was still dark, people were padding about muttering to each other. He looked up and saw that Skooney was still sleeping, so he sat up gently. Streaks of dim gray light were beginning to filter in around the plywood on the windows, and the air carried a damp chill—plainly the heat spell was over.

Skooney yawned and rubbed her eyes. "Coffee," she said. "I believe someone has made coffee. Good morning, Rufus." She stood up. "Shall I bring you a cup?"

Thomas rose to his feet, wincing a little at his aches and stiffness. "I'll go with you," he said.

They joined the group of people gathered around a huge iron pot; Lambert ladled coffee into two cups for them. "Trail coffee," he said, "for the theft of which Prometheus was chained to a rock in the Newport Harbor."

It was hot, thick and strong, and had to be drunk black for lack of anything to put in it. Gingerly they carried the cups back to their place by the wall and sat down to sip it. Thomas was shivering, so Skooney borrowed a shirt from someone for him to wear.

Gladhand, propped on his crutches, poled his way to the bar and sat down on one of the stools. "Okay, gang," he said loudly, "settle yourselves somewhere and listen close. Pat Pearl, as you may already know, was a spy, an android." There were a few exclamations of surprise, but most of the actors nodded grimly. Skooney just listened, and Thomas was grateful for that. "I had planned to mount our attack on city hall next Saturday; that's why our opening night was rescheduled to this coming Wednesday But under the present circumstances, I have moved the date up—our attack will take place tonight, at midnight."

Eyebrows were raised, and a few deep breaths expelled, but no one spoke.

"I have hired," Gladhand went on, "100 Riverside mercenaries under Captain Adam Stimpson. They're camped about eight kilometers from here, in the Alhambra hills. They'll dynamite a section of the city wall just north of Whittier Boulevard and enter the city that way. Our own forces within the city now number about 500, and 400 of these will join Stimpson's army at Whittier and Alameda, and proceed north. The rest of our men will pick up guns and ammunition from a gunrunner near the City College over by Vermont. They will then proceed southeast and attack city hall from the rear while the main force, under Stimpson, attacks from the front. I have," he said with a note of pride, "four culverins, two four-pounders and two nine-pounders. Stimpson will have the nines, the rear force the fours."

"All this is happening tonight!" Jeff finally said. "I had no idea you had this much organized." He looked amazed.

Gladhand smiled. "I've never been one to keep people informed about my activities," he said. "Keep the cards close to the vest, I say. So! I want no one to leave this building today. Alice is on the roof with a rifle now, to be sure that order is obeyed. If we are harboring any more spies—I don't think we are—they won't be able to pass this information on until it's stale. In the back there," he continued, nodding over everyone's heads, "you'll notice Lambert tacking up papers. These are lists of the various troop assignments; check where you're to go, and with whom, sometime this morning. So until tonight, talk, eat, oil your weapons and sleep. All the liquor will be locked up at noon, though rum will be available just before the fight for those who want it." He hopped down from the bar stool and thumped off to the kitchen.

The coffee at the bottom of Thomas's cup was as thick, as mud, but he drank all that could be tapped out. Skooney had set the last half of hers aside.

"Today's… Saturday, right?" Thomas asked. She nodded. "A week and two days ago," he went on, "I was pumping a vat of Pinot Noir at the Merignac monastery."

"Pumping a vat?" echoed Skooney.

"Yeah. The grape skins float on the surface in a thick layer, and you have to pump the wine from below over them again and again until it's dark enough. The skins are what give it the red color."

"Oh." She thought about it for a while. "You were a monk?"

"Sort of. An apprentice monk."

"Not a student from Berkeley?"

"No. I made that up."

A muted hissing swept over the building and Thomas realized it was raining. "It's been a hell of a week," he said. "And now rain."

Someone had located the furnace, and after clinking around in its works for ten minutes managed to light it and fill it with strips of the wall paneling. Thomas stretched out along the wall base to sleep some more.

Gladhand was thumbing the cork into the bourbon bottle when Thomas shambled up, rubbing his eyes. "Did I wait too long?" Thomas asked.

"Well, yes. It's 12:01. But go ahead, have a cup for medicinal purposes." Thomas picked up a paper cup, which he extended to Gladhand to receive the whiskey. "Sit down, Thomas; we have things to discuss." Gladhand poured himself a cup and merely sipped it reflectively.

"It's like a chess game," the theater manager said, half to himself. "You study the situation, the strengths, weaknesses, ignorances; then you construct a plan and begin to put it into effect—but even as you move, the situation changes under your feet. Your opponent can disappear and be replaced. You can be replaced. Politics is a very slippery arena."

"Uh, no doubt, sir," Thomas said, mystified by all this.

"Have you looked at the assignment lists yet?"

Thomas shook his head.

"You're to be in the smaller force that attacks from the rear. A man named Naxos Gaudete is leading that group. Spencer was to have been his lieutenant—kind of all around errand runner, in other words—and I'm thinking you might do as a replacement."

"What would I have to do? I mean, I don't—"

"Nothing difficult. Just fetch things, carry a few boxes perhaps, relay messages. You won't even be in the actual fighting—wouldn't be anyway, with your trigger finger gone."

"I see. Well, sure; just so Gaudete doesn't expect me to know how to load cannons or anything."

"Splendid. By this time tomorrow, God willing, Joe Pelias—the real one—will be smoking a cigar in the mayor's office."

"Does he know the date's been moved up? Where is he, anyway?"

Gladhand sighed. "You're looking at him," he said softly.

Thomas blinked. "Am I?"

"Yes. Ten years ago, when that grenade nearly blew off my legs, two friends loaded my bleeding wreckage into a baker's cart and drove me deep into the city. I had an ex-wife living down on Central, and she grudgingly nursed me back to health while Hancock's damned android began taking over my… job, my life. When I'd healed, as much as I ever would, the android was well-entrenched in city hall. So I decided to wait and organize an underground resistance army that I could use, when the time came, to restore me to the mayor's office. I grew a beard, shaved my head and had the roots killed, and became Nathan Gladhand, theater manager."

Thomas shook his head wonderingly. "How long was it before you bought the Bellamy Theater? You must have worked in cellars and school auditoriums for a while."

"Hell no," Gladhand smiled. "One thing I am not is poor. I had big accounts in a dozen banks between Santa Barbara and Laguna. Under various names, of course, and coded by my thumbprint. This current effort is exhausting my funds, I'll admit, but the money has served its purpose."

"Where'd it all come from? Were you always rich?"

"No. I embezzled the devil out of the city treasury, you see, during my term as mayor. Hah! Ever since my reign the city has been nearly broke, in spite of the taxes. I think Hancock found out about my book-juggling and imaginary committees and all, and paid somebody to throw that grenade at me." Gladhand took a long swallow of his whiskey. "Bourbon renewal, I call this," he said, waving his glass. "One gulp and the whole neighborhood looks more elegant. Anyway, Hancock was an idealist, you see. Always horrified. Horrified when I had a drink or two in the office, horrified when I gave highly paid posts to pretty but otherwise unqualified young girls; hell, even horrified when I'd hang convicted murderers. So he had me removed from the picture and put an 'infallible' android in my place (he was always at me about how 'morally unfallen' androids were). That was a real laugh. The new Pelias kept the capital punishment and broadened the qualifications for it. And his cops were always gunning down citizens for things like cheating a newspaper machine.

Hancock killed himself four years later. Sic semper idealists."

Thomas rolled a mouthful of bourbon on his tongue and said nothing.

"And there'll be a place of honor for you in the new regime, Rufus," Gladhand said. "A nice, big office where you can write all the poetry you like. I'll have the government printing office publish your works."

Thomas shook his head. "I can't write poetry any more."

"Of course you can."

"No," Thomas insisted. "It's gone. I wrote a sonnet— iambic heptameter—this week, and I can see now that it was the last poem I'll ever write. It isn't just that my mind is dry for the moment—I know how that feels, and this isn't it. It's as if… as if part of my brain has been amputated."

Gladhand started to speak but changed his mind. "Drink up," he said after a pause. "This business has crippled both of us."

The rain had stopped for the moment, but an icy damp wind whipped at the oilcloth lashed over the two cannons that were being pulled behind the cart Thomas was in. The caravan rattling swiftly down the three southbound lanes of the Hollywood Freeway carried no running lights, and Thomas, peering back over his shoulder, could only occasionally make out the black bulks of the following troop and ammunition carts.

"Spring Street exit ahead," barked Gaudete, who sat beside Thomas. "Give them two flashes to the right."

Thomas picked up a steaming dark lantern from the floorboards and, leaning out on the right side of the cart, slid the lantern's iron door open-and-shut, open-and-shut. A quick acknowledging flash came from the wagon behind, and Thomas set the lantern down.

Gaudete snapped a long lash over the heads of the four horses. His droopy black mustache was matted with scented oil that had run down from his hair during the rain, and he kept sucking at the ends of it. "What's the time?" he snarled.

Glancing at the luminous face of the watch he'd been ordered to hold, Thomas answered, "23:55 hours."

"Fine."

Thomas sat back and pulled his corduroy coat tighter about him and patted the bulge in his right pocket that was a .45 calibre seven-shot automatic pistol.

The cart bounced up a ramp onto a narrow street paralleling the freeway, causing the iron barrels of the rearward-facing culverins to bob up and down under the oilcloths. The rest of the caravan was close behind.

A deep roar, and then another, sounded ahead, and Thomas, straining his ears, caught the distant rattle of gunfire.

"Gladhand's started," Gaudete observed grimly as he snapped the whip again.

They slowed before making the right turn onto Spring Street, so as not to skid across the wet cobblestones. The noise of gunfire was much clearer now, and Thomas pulled the pistol out of his pocket and carried it in his right hand.

After they crossed Temple Street, Gaudete ran the horses up the curb on the right, so that the cannons in back faced across a dark lawn in the direction of the tall bulk of city hall 100 meters away. The six following carts drew up beside them and dozens of men with rifles began hopping out and lining up on the sidewalk.

"The fighting's still around front, on the Mainstreet side," Gaudete said, climbing down to the pavement. "Quick, some of you, train these cannons so that they bracket the building."

Thomas clambered down and watched as several men, the backs of their wet sealskin jackets glistening in the lamplight, unchained the cannon carriages and pulled off the covers. Four of them slipped handspikes into iron rings in the carriage trails; laboriously they lifted them and rolled the cannons forward, swung the barrels into the correct positions and carefully lowered the trails to the pavement. "All set, Cap'n," gasped one of the men.

"Good. Hop up there, Rufus, and fetch me that big box from under the seat."

Thomas climbed back up into the cart and slid a heavy wooden box over the lip of the seat-rail to the waiting hands. Gaudete supervised the prying open of the lid and lifted out a one-kilo iron ball with a heavy chain dangling from it.

"This'll mow their lawn for them," he grinned. The men standing around grinned too, though they didn't understand. "We can shoot from here," Gaudete said. "The curbs will stop the recoil. Just be sure none of you stand behind the cannons. Okay, load!"

Another box was brought forward and ripped open, and a cloth bag full of powder was thrown into the muzzle of each cannon and shoved home with a rammer. A wooden disk was pushed in on top.

"Okay, now," Gaudete said, "load this chain shot; one ball in each cannon." The men were lifting Gaudete's unorthodox ammunition—two cannonballs connected by about ten meters of heavy chain—out of the box when, with a blinding, shadow-etching flash of lightning, the rain began again.

"Quick!" Gaudete screeched as the thunder was echoing away. "Cover the touchholes! Get that shot loaded!"

From the driver's bench Thomas watched the frantic work as sheets of rain thrashed onto the pavement; and suddenly he noticed that the surface of the street was alive with tiny, wriggling creatures. They were in the cart as well, and he bent down to pick one up. It was a frog. More were falling every second, dropping with the rain to shatter and die on the cobblestones. The street, the sidewalks, the whole landscape, was covered with tiny dying frogs.

The men had noticed it and became uneasy; the two carrying the shot had paused, and were blinking up at the sky.

"Load, you bastards!" Gaudete howled, waving a pistol, "or I'll see the color of your livers!"

In the next glaring flash of lightning Thomas saw, starkly illuminated in black and white, the two cannons pointing to either side of city hall, their glistening wet muzzles connected by a drooping length of chain. Wedges were now being pounded in under the breeches so that the muzzles were slightly raised from the absolute horizontal position.

"Okay!" yelled Gaudete. "Twenty of you run to the fighting, trade a few shots, let 'em see you, and then run back here with them chasing you. Halfway across the lawn you drop flat, and we'll touch off both these cannons simultaneously, with the chain stretched between the cannonballs. That'll cut most of them in half. Then the rest of us can charge in and finish them."

Gaudete designated 20 men and sent them forward through the rain. Skidding and slipping on the new pavement of perishing frogs, they made slow progress.

"Damn, why can't they hurry?" fretted Gaudete, twisting the ends of his mustache. Two more cannon blasts cracked a block or so away and were followed by a fast drum solo of gunshots.

Thomas sat on the driver's bench of the lead cart, shivering and brushing frogs off his wet clothes. He hefted his pistol nervously. I don't like this, he thought.

There's death in the air. It feels like the last night of the world.

"Hey!" Gaudete stiffened and pointed. "I see them!"

Thomas stared into the blackness, but could make out nothing. Then a white whiplash of lightning lit the lawn like a football stadium, and Thomas saw their men running before a tide of pursuing androids.

"Gunners ready?" yelped Gaudete.

"Ready!" called the two gunners, huddled over the breeches to keep their slow matches lit and the vent primes dry. Frogs bounced unnoticed from their hats and shoulders onto the street.

"They're down! Fire!"

Thomas was standing on the bench to improve his view at the moment the gunners touched match to prime. A deafening, stomach-shaking roar was followed instantly by a high-pitched screech like a million fencing foils whipped through the air. The cart beneath his boots was wrenched violently out from under him and flung in broken, spinning pieces for a dozen meters down the street.

He landed hard on his hip, but rolled quickly to his feet, his gun ready. His first thought was that the androids had set up a cannon of their own somewhere north on Spring, and their first shot had struck the cart.

Then he saw the appalling carnage that was sprayed and strewn everywhere; blood was splashed as if from buckets across the nearby building fronts, and the broken bodies of his cohorts lay on the street and sidewalk, mingling now with the frogs that still rained out of the night sky. Nearly half of the 80 men who'd been standing by, ten seconds earlier, were dead.

The others, mystified as to what weapon had so devastated their companions, flung down their rifles and ran away north and south on Spring Street.

The androids, completely unharmed, made short work of the several men who'd flung themselves flat on the lawn.

Thomas stood on the fouled pavement, rain running from the sleeves of his dangling arms and from the barrel of the gun that hung in his limp right hand. One cannon must have gone off before the other…

As the police troops bore rapidly down on him, Thomas walked listlessly to the largest section of the wrecked cart and lay behind it. He patted his pockets: two spare clips. I can, conceivably, kill 27 of them before they kill me. He thumbed off the safety catch and, raising the pistol, got one of the foremost androids in his sights and fired.

The open windows let in the morning sunlight, a cool breeze, and the sound of shovels grating on cobblestones as Gladhand, still dressed in his old sweater of the night before, was wheeled along the brightly tiled hallway. He looked tired, but joked with the nurses who escorted him. He carried a paper wrapped parcel in his lap.

"Here we are," smiled one of the nurses, looking a little haggard herself. "Number 12."

They steered Gladhand's wheelchair through the doorway into the narrow but cheerfully painted room. Sitting up in the bed by the window was Thomas. His left arm was bandaged and trussed in a sling.

"Have you smoked a cigar in your office yet?" Thomas asked.

"No, but that's on the agenda. How are you?"

"I give up, how am I?"

Gladhand grimaced and wobbled one hand in the air in an it-could-be-worse gesture. "The nerves of your left hand are dead, cut by a sword you apparently parried with the inside of your elbow. The nerves may grow back—I think I read about that happening somewhere—but until they do, your left hand will be paralyzed."

Thomas nodded dully. "Well, that's…" He could think of no appropriate way to finish the sentence.

"That's the bad news, my boy," Gladhand said. "The good news is this: I have selected you to be the new majordomo of this weary old city of the angels. You can help us organize the fortification of the city against Alvarez. I was going to appoint Gaudete, but he chopped himself in half with that incredibly foolish cannon trick."

"What exactly happened there?"

"Only one of his cannons fired, so instead of sending the chain flying at the androids, it whipped like a rotary weedcutter and ripped to bits all the men standing nearby."

"I see. Where'd the frogs come from?"

Gladhand chuckled. "Apparently there were tornadoes over the Ravenna swamps when the Santa Ana wind collided with the cold current from the north. The twisters sucked up the frogs—it seems there was an incredible population of the little beasts this year— and the storm's wind current carried them here. It scared the devil out of the androids." Gladhand searched his pockets fruitlessly for a cigar. "Oh well. I'll send out for some. That was a full-scale retreat that came charging at you—and that's doubtless how you survived; they were more interested in escaping than in killing you, though you did singlehandedly manage to kill 20 of them before this sword-cut distracted you. Our guns were pounding them to dust out front, but it was the frogs that broke their spirit. Androids fear what they can't understand."

"Well, that's silly of them," Thomas said dryly. "What have you got there?" Gladhand happily stripped the strings and paper off the object, and held it up. It was an android head, and after the first few seconds of shock Thomas recognized it.

"So that's who that stone head in the theater basement was of," he said.

"Well… they're both copies from the same original, let's say. Actually," Gladhand said, peering at the thing, "our bombs of a week ago don't seem to have done all that much harm; just a crushed-in section here in the back… and a few evidences of surgery, where they were trying to fix the padmu. And now he'll never get his memory bank back." Gladhand set the head unceremoniously on the floor.

"Later today I'll show you your office," Gladhand continued. "I think you'll be impressed. There's a mahogany desk so big you could sublet half of it as an apartment. It has a well-stocked bar, a walk-in humidor in case you should ever take up smoking, a hand-carved—"

"I get the picture," interrupted Thomas with a smile.

"Yeah, just bide your time here for a few days, and then L.A. will embark on a whole new era, with you and me at the tiller and helm." Gladhand nodded to the nurse, who promptly took hold of the handles of the wheelchair. "I'll see you later," he said. "Right now I have about a million things to do, and the first one is get some cigars. Nurse, if you'll be so good as to propel me out."

"Mr. Gladhand," Thomas said. "You've forgotten your head."

"Oh yes! Thank you. I want to hang it somewhere appropriate; maybe I'll put it on the shoulders of old Johnny Bush-head."

The mayor picked up the head, rewrapped it, and waved as the nurse wheeled him out of the room.

Thomas lay back down in the bed and shut his eyes.

Nurses were constantly hurrying by in the hall, asking each other in clipped tones about sulfa drugs, doctors, blood counts and leg splints, but Thomas was soon asleep.

In a dream he stood again on the high Merignac tower, clutching his broken fishing pole, and watched helplessly as the girl-faced bird creature dwindled to a distant speck in the vast sky.

A visitor arrived late in the afternoon. Thomas awoke with a start when she nudged his leg.

"Wha… ?" he muttered, blinking. "Oh. Hi, Skooney."

"Hi, Rufus." She sat down on the bed. "I hear you've been getting into trouble again."

"Yeah, that's the facts of the case, all right. This left hand, what's left of it, is paralyzed."

"Gladhand says he doesn't see why that should prevent you from playing Touchstone."

Thomas blinked. "You mean he still intends to do the play?"

"Oh sure. He's planning on making it grander than ever now. Even thinking of blocking off some boulevard and performing it outdoors."

Thomas nodded vaguely, and after a moment pounded his good fist into the mattress. "This is hard to say, Skooney, but… I've got to say it. I'm not going to do the play." Wait a minute, let me finish. I'm not taking the Majordomo post, either. "I'm…" He shrugged. "I'm leaving the city."

Skooney bit her lip. "Why?"

He waved his hand uncertainly. "I haven't done well here. No, I haven't. I've lost my hand, my best friend, and the girl I was in love with. The city has a bad taste for me."

Skooney shifted uncomfortably. "I," she began, "I thought maybe you and I had some sort of possibility."

"So did I, Skooney. But I've lost something here."

"You think you'll find it somewhere else?"

"No. But I don't want to stay here with its grave. I believe I'll continue my interrupted trip to San Pedro. Sign aboard a tramp steamer, like I intended to from the start."

"What do you know about that kind of life?"

"Nothing. That's what it has going for it."

"Oh. Well," said Skooney, standing up, "that leaves me with nothing to say. Does Gladhand—Pelias— know?"

"No. I only made up my mind a little while ago."

"You want me to tell him?"

"Yeah, why don't—no, I guess I'd better." Skooney lingered in the doorway. "When are you going to leave?"

"The doctors say they'll release me in two days. That's Tuesday. I guess I'll go then."

"You're… absolutely set on doing this?" Thomas stared down at his bandaged and slung arm.

"Yes," he said. When he looked up a moment later, Skooney was gone.

Gladhand visited Thomas three more times, though Skooney stayed away. Tuesday afternoon, when the doctors said he could go, Thomas found Jeff waiting for him in front of the hospital.

"Hi, Jeff," said Thomas, pleased to see someone he knew.

"Afternoon, Rufus. I've got the car parked around the corner. What would you say to a bit of beer at the old Blind Moon?"

Thomas smiled, erasing some of the weary lines around his eyes. "By God, that's the best idea I've heard since the last time we went there. And I'll pay; Gladhand gave me a lot of money this morning."

"I won't argue, then."

The streets were crowded, and it was at least half an hour before they arrived at the Blind Moon. To Thomas's relief, Jeff didn't try to talk him out of leaving the city. Instead, they discussed the relative merits of domestic and imported wines, the dangers inherent in the use of chain-shot, and the rain of frogs whose dried, raisin-like corpses could still be seen strewn like bizarre seeds in the empty lots and back alleys of the city.

They emptied their eighth pitcher of beer and called for a ninth. As a waitress passed through the fast-dimming room lighting the candles, Thomas noticed the ghosts at the other tables. There was Spencer, his red hair hanging down over his eyes, laughing as he told some long, involved joke. Negri sat nearby, pretending not to listen, or at least not to be amused. Gardener Jenkins nodded politely to Thomas as he poured bourbon into his beer glass, and Ben Corwin, standing outside on the pavement, pressed his nose against one of the windowpanes, wondering who'd stand an old,man to a drink.

"Let's… drink to these ghosts, Jeff," Thomas said, swaying in his chair as he waved his beer glass at them.

"Right," agreed Jeff, topping off both glasses. "Here's to you ghosts!" he said.

"Save us a chair and a glass," Thomas added, and then the two young men drained their glasses in one long, slow draft.

Thomas left Los Angeles early the next morning by the Harbor Freeway gate. His horse was energetic in the morning chill, and he let it gallop. He wore new boots and a good leather jacket, a sword on one side of his belt-balancing the .45 automatic on the other. For convenience, he kept his left hand in his jacket pocket.

At this hour the freeway was uncrowded—there were only a few milkwagons and private carts for him to pass—and he was slowed only occasionally when forced to wait in line to cross one of the narrow bridges spanning washed-out gaps in the old highroad. By 10:00 hours he'd reached the intersection of the 91 Freeway, and here he reined in his horse and paused.

The travelers that passed him may have been puzzled to see the grim-faced young man astride a horse standing motionlessly by the side of the road; but after a few minutes, he gave a nearly mirthless laugh and wheeling his horse, galloped east on the 91 Freeway, away from the sea, toward Needles.