8

HE TORE OUT the first pages of the print-out and spread them on the table he had appropriated. The unit continued its clicking, drowning out the sounds of the rain.

He returned to the machine, tore out the next page. He placed it beside the others and regarded them.

There came a sound like scratching from the direction of the window, and he jerked his head upright, nostrils dilated.

Nothing. There was nothing there.

He lit a cigarette and dropped the match on the floor. He paced. He checked his wrist-watch. A candle flickered above its sconce and the wax slid down its side. He moved to the window and listened to the wind.

There came a click from the door, and he turned and faced it. A large man entered the room and regarded him. He removed a dark rain hat, placed it on the chair beside the door, ran a hand through his thin, white hair.

"Doctor Shade," he said, nodding and unbuttoning his coat.

"Doctor Quilian."

The man hung his coat beside the door, produced a handkerchief and began wiping his glasses.

"How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. Yourself?"

"Fine."

Dr. Quilian closed the door, and the other returned to the machine and tore out more pages.

"What are you doing?"

"Some figuring for that paper I told you about-a couple of weeks ago, I guess."

"I see. I just recently learned about your arrangement here." He gestured toward the machine. "Whenever anyone cancels out, you're right there to take over his computer time."

"Yes. I keep in touch with everyone on the roster."

"There have been an awful lot of cancellations recently."

"I think it's the flu."

"I see."

He drew on his cigarette. He dropped it and stepped on it when the machine stopped printing. Turning, he removed the final printouts. He took them to the table where the others lay.

Dr. Quilian followed him.

"May I see what you've got there?" he inquired.

"Surely," he said, and offered him the papers.

After a moment, "I don't understand them," said Quilian.

"If you had, I would have been very surprised. They're about three times removed from reality, and I'll have to translate them for my article."

"John," said the other, "I'm beginning to have some funny feelings about you."

The other nodded and lit another cigarette before he recovered the print-outs.

"If you want the computer yourself, I'm finished now." he said.

"I've been thinking a lot about you. How long have you been with us?"

"Around five years."

There came a sound from the window once more, and they both turned their heads.

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

After a time, "You get to do pretty much what you want to around here, John..." said Quilian, adjusting his glasses.

"That's true. I appreciate it."

"You came to us with good-seeming credentials, and you've proven to be quite an expert on darkside culture."

"Thank you."

"I didn't exactly mean it as a compliment."

"Oh, really?" He began to smile as he studied the final page of the print-out. "What do you mean?"

"I've got a strange feeling you've misrepresented yourself, John."

"In what way?"

"On your application for a position here, you stated that you were born in New Leyden. There is no record of your birth in that city."

"Oh? How did this come to light?"

"Doctor Weatherton was up that way recently."

"I see. Is that all?"

"Outside of the fact that you are known to keep company with hoodlums, there is some doubt as to the validity of your degree."

"Weatherton again?"

"The source is unimportant. The conclusion is not. I do not feel that you are what you purport to be."

"Why choose tonight, here, to air your doubts?"

"The semester's over, I know that you want to go away, and tonight was your last session with the machine-according to the time you applied for. I want to know what you are taking away with you and where you are taking it."

"Carl," he said, "what if I admitted that I did misrepresent myself a bit? You've already stated that I'm an expert in my area. We both know I'm a popular lecturer. Whatever Weatherton dug up-What of it?"

"Are you in some kind of trouble, Jack? Something I might be able to help you with?"

"No. Not really. No trouble."

Quilian crossed the room and seated himself on a low couch.

"I've never seen one of you this close before," he said.

"What are you implying?"

"That you are something other than a human being."

"Like what?"

"A darkborn. Are you?"

"Why?"

"They are supposed to be taken into custody, under certain conditions."

"I take it that if I am, those conditions will be deemed to have been met?"

"Perhaps," said Quilian.

"And perhaps not? What do you want?"

"For now, all that I want is to know your identity."

"You know me," he said, folding the pages and reaching for his briefcase.

Quilian shook his head.

"Of the things about you which trouble me," he said, "I've just recently found a new one which gives me considerable cause for concern. Allowing for a moment that you are a darksider who has emigrated into day, there are certain correspondences which force me to pursue the question of your identity. There is a person whom I had considered possessed only of a mythological existence, on the darkside of the world. I wonder, would the legendary thief dare to walk in sunlight? And if so, for what reason? Could Jonathan Shade be the mortal equivalent for Jack of Shadows?"

"And what if it is?" he asked, striving to keep his eyes from moving to the window, where something seemed now to be occluding much of the dim light. "Are you prepared to place me under arrest?" he asked, moving slowly to his left so that Quilian would turn his head to follow.

"Yes, I am."

He glanced toward the window himself then, and an old loathing returned to him as he saw what was pressed against it.

"Then I take it that you have come armed?"

"Yes," he said, removing a small pistol from his pocket and pointing it.

I could throw the briefcase and risk taking one round, he decided. After all, it's a small enough weapon. Still, if I buy time and get closer to the light, it may not be necessary.

"It is strange that you came alone, if you had such a thing in mind. Even if you do have the authority to make a security arrest on campus-"

"I did not say that I am alone."

"-Not really strange, though, now that I think of it." He took a step nearer the flickering light. "I say that you are alone. You would like to handle this yourself. It may simply be that you wish to kill me without witnesses. Or it may be that you desire full credit for my apprehension. I'd guess the former, though, because you seem to dislike me very much. Why, I'm not certain."

"I fear that you overestimate your ability to create a disliking, as well as my own for violence. -No, the authorities have been notified and an arresting party is on its way here. My intention is only to require your presence until they arrive."

"It would seem that you waited until about the last possible moment."

With his free hand, Quilian gestured toward the briefcase.

"I've a suspicion that once your latest project has been deciphered, it will be found to have little to do with the social sciences."

"You are a very suspicious person. There are laws against arresting people without evidence, you know."

"Yes, that's why I waited. I'm betting that's evidence that you are holding-and I am certain that more will turn up. I have noted, too, that when it comes to matters of security the laws are considerably relaxed."

"You do have a point there," he replied, turning so that the light caught him full in the face.

"I am Jack of Shadows!" he cried out. "Lord of Shadow Guard! I am Shadowjack, the thief who walks in silence and in shadows! I was beheaded in Igles and rose again from the Dung Pits of Glyve. I drank the blood of a vampire and ate a stone. I am the breaker of the Compact. I am he who forged a name in the Red Book of Ells. I am the prisoner in the jewel. I duped the Lord of High Dudgeon once, and I will return for vengeance upon him. I am the enemy of my enemies. Come take me, filth, if you love the Lord of Bats or despise me, for I have named myself Jack of Shadows!"

Quilian's face showed puzzlement at this outburst, and though he opened his mouth and tried to speak, his words were drowned out by the other's cries.

Then the window shattered, the candle died, and the Borshin sprang into the room.

Turning, Quilian saw the gashed, rain-drenched thing across the room. He let out an incoherent cry and stood as if paralyzed. Jack dropped his briefcase, found the vial of acid and unstoppered it. He buried its contents at the creature's head, and without pausing to observe the results, he snatched up his briefcase and dodged past Quilian.

He was to the door before the creature let out its first shriek of pain. He passed into the hallway, locking the door behind him, having paused only sufficiently to steal Quilian's raincoat from where it was hanging.

He was halfway down the building's front steps when he heard the first shot. There were others, but he was crossing the campus when .they came, clutching the raincoat about his shoulders and cursing the puddles, and so he did not hear them. Besides, there was thunder. Soon, he feared, there would be sirens too.

Thinking stormy thoughts, he ran on.

The weather assisted him in some ways, hindered him in others.

What traffic there was had been slowed down considerably, and when he reached a stretch of open road, its long dry surface had become sufficiently slippery to preclude his moving at the speeds he desired. The darkness of the storm was causing motorists to depart from the streets at the first opportunity, as well as keeping those already home where they were, safe in the glow of many candles. There were no pedestrians in sight. All of which made it easy for him to abandon his vehicle and appropriate another before he had gone very far.

Getting out of town was not difficult, but outrunning the storm was another matter. They both seemed headed in the same direction: one of the routes he had mapped out and memorized long ago as both expeditious and devious in returning him to darkness. On any other occasion he would have welcomed a diminution in that constant glare which had first burned, then tanned his unwilling hide. Now, it slowed him, and he could not risk an accident at this point. It bathed the vehicle, and its winds caused it to sway, while its bolts of lightning showed him the skyline he as leaving.

Police lanterns set on the road caused him to slow apprehensively, seeking exit from the highway. He sighed and grinned faintly as he was waved on by the scene of a three-car accident, where a man and woman were being borne on stretchers toward a gaping ambulance.

He played with the radio but obtained only static. He lit a cigarette and opened the window partway. An occasional droplet struck against his cheek, but the air was cool and sucked the smoke away. He breathed deeply and attempted to relax, having just realized how tense he had been.

It was not until considerably later that the storm slowed to a steady drizzle and the sky began to lighten somewhat. He was driving through open country at that point and feeling a mixed sense of relief and apprehension which had grown between curses since his departure. What have I accomplished? he asked himself, thinking back over the years he had spent dayside.

It had taken considerable time for him to familiarize himself with the areas involved, obtain the necessary credentials, and learn the teaching routine. Then came the matter of finding employment at a university possessing the necessary data-processing facilities. In his spare time, he had had to learn to use the equipment, then conceive projects which would allow him to do so without question. Then he had had to review everything he possessed in the way of primary data with respect to his real questions, organize the information, and cast it into the proper form. The entire process had taken years, and there had been failures, many of them.

This time, though, this time he had been so near that he could taste it, smell it. This time he had known that he was close to the answers he had been seeking.

Now, he was running away with a briefcase full of papers he had not had an opportunity to review. It was possible that he had failed again and was returning without the weapon he had sought, returning to the place of his enemies. If this were the case, he had only postponed his doom. Still, he could not remain-for here, too, he had acquired enemies. He wondered briefly whether there was some cryptic lesson involved, some available but overlooked insight that would show him more about himself than about his enemies. If so, it eluded him.

Just a little longer... If he had only had a bit more time, he could have checked, then reformulate and reprogrammed if necessary. Now there was no more time. There could be no going back to hone it if it was a blunted sword he bore. And there were other matters, personal ones, he had wished to draw to better conclusions. Clare, for instance...

Later, the rain let up, though the cloud-cover remained total and threatening. He risked speeding then and tried the radio once more. Bursts of static still occurred, but there was more music than there was interference, so he let it play.

When the news came on, he was winding his way down a steep hill, and while he thought that he heard his name spoken, the volume had diminished too much for him to be certain. Alone on the road at that point, he began looking back over his shoulder regularly and up every side way he passed. It infuriated him that the mortals still had a fair chance of apprehending him before he achieved a situation of power. Ascending a higher hill, he saw a curtain of rain far off to his left and a few feeble flickers of lightning, so distant that he heard no following thunder. Continuing his search of the heavens, he saw that they were barren of traffic and he thanked the Storm King for that. Lighting a fresh cigarette, he brought in a stronger station, waited for the news. When it came, there was no report concerning himself.

He thought of the distant day when he had stood beside a rainpool and discussed his plight with his reflection there. He tried to see that dead self now-tired, thin, cold, hungry, sore- footed and smelling badly. All of the irritants were erased, except a small hunger just beginning in his middle and hardly worth comparison with those earlier feelings, which were near starvation. Still, how dead was that old self? How had his situation been altered? Then, he had been fleeing from the West Pole of the World, striving to keep alive, trying to evade pursuers and reach Twilight. Now, it was the bright East Pole from which he fled, toward Twilight. Driven by hatred and something of love, revenge had been hot in his heart, warming him and feeding him. Nor was it absent now. He had acquired knowledge of dayside arts and sciences, but this in no way changed the man who had stood beside the pool; he stood there still, within him, and their thoughts were the same.

"Morningstar," he said, opening the window and addressing the sky, "since you hear everything, hear this: I am no different than when last we spoke."

He laughed. "Is that good or bad?" he asked, the thought just occurring to him. He closed the window and considered the question. Not fond of introspection, he was nevertheless inquisitive.

He had noted changes in people during his stay at the university. It was most apparent in the students, and it occurred in such a brief time -that short span between matriculation and graduation. However, his colleagues had also altered in small ways which involved attitudes and sentiments. He alone had not changed. Is this something fundamental? he wondered. Is this part of the basic difference between a daysider and a darksider? They change and we do not. Is this important? Probably, though I do not see how. We have no need to change, and it seems that they do. Why? Length of life? Different approach to life? Possibly both. What value is there in change, anyway?

He turned off onto a seemingly deserted side road after the next news broadcast. This one had named him as wanted for questioning in connection with a homicide.

Into the small fire he kindled, he tossed every piece of identification that he carried. While they burned, he opened his bag and refilled his wallet with fresh papers he had prepared several semesters earlier. He stirred the ashes and scattered them.

Carrying it across a field, he tore Quilian's raincoat in several places and tossed it into a gully where muddy waters rushed. Returning to the vehicle, he decided to trade it for another before very long.

Hurrying up the highway then, he reflected on the situation as he now understood it. The Borshin had killed Quilian and departed, doubt less as it had come, through the window. The reason for Quilian's presence there was known to the authorities, and Poindexter would verify his own presence on campus and his stated destination. Clare, and many others, could testify as to their disliking one another. The conclusion was obvious. Though he would have killed Quilian had the necessity arisen, he grew indignant at the thought of being executed for something he had not done. The situation reminded him of what had occurred at Igles, and he rubbed his neck half-consciously. The unfairness of it all smarted.

He wondered whether the Borshin in its frenzy of pain had thought it was slaying him or was merely acting to defend itself, knowing that he had escaped. How badly injured was it: He knew nothing of the creature' recuperative abilities. Was it even now seeking his trail, which it had followed for so long? Had the Lord of Bats sent it to find him, or was it following its own feelings, conditioned as it was to hate him? Shuddering, he increased his speed.

Once I'm back, it won't matter, he told himself.

But he wondered.

He obtained another vehicle on the far side of the next town he passed through. In it, he hurried toward Twilight, near the place where the bright bird had sung.

For a long while he sat on the hilltop cross-legged, reading. His clothing was dusty and there were rings of perspiration about the armpits; there was dirt beneath his fingernails, and his eyelids had a tendency to droop, close, spring open again. He sighed repeatedly and made notes on the papers he held. Faint stars shone above the mountains to the west.

He had abandoned his final vehicle many leagues to the east of his hilltop, continuing then on foot. It had been stalling and knocking for some time before it stopped and would not start again. Knowing then that he had passed the place where the rival Powers held truce, he stumbled on toward the darkness, taking only his briefcase. High places always suited him best. He had slept but once on his journey; and while it had been a deep, sound, dreamless sleep, he had begrudged his body every moment of it and vowed not to do it again until he had passed beyond the jurisdiction of men. Now that he had done so, there was but one thing more before he would allow himself to rest.

Scowling, he turned the pages, located what he sought, made a marginal notation, returned to the place of the original markings.

It seemed to be right. It seemed almost to fit...

A cool breeze crossed the hilltop, bringing with it wild scents that he had all but forgotten in the cities of men. Now it was the stark light of the Everyday, not the smells and noises of the city, not the files and ranks of faces in his classrooms, not the boring meetings, not the monotonous sounds of machinery, not the obscene brightness of colors that seemed a receding dream. These pages were its only token. He breathed the evening, and the back translation he had made from the print-out leaped toward his eyes and quickened within his mind like a poem suddenly understood.

Yes!

His eyes sought the havens and found the white, unblinking star that coursed them.

He rose to his feet with his fatigue forgotten. With his right foot he traced a brief pattern in the dirt. Then he pointed a finger at the satellite and read the words that he had written upon the papers he held.

For a moment nothing happened.

Then it stood still.

Silent now, he continued to point. It grew bright and began to increase in size.

Then it flared like a shooting star and was gone.

"A new omen," he said and then smiled.