Chapter One.

At two o'clock in the morning, the main spire of c.o.c.kley Towers stood like a giant concrete and steel tree, its main shaft the trunk, its balconies and overhanging, gla.s.s-floored rooms the branches and the leaves. There were scattered lights glowing in the upper floors. The ground lobby was a blaze of warm, orange light. The dark floater drifted silently across the lawn, lights out, a slow, nocturnal b.u.t.terfly. There was a driver, a second bodyguard, and Mike Jorgova seated within the cave-like interior.

"Alarm line directly ahead," the bodyguard said.

"Breaks anywhere?" the driver asked.

"Hmm. No. Solid. Rings the building, apparently."

The craft slowed behind a line of shrubs, stopped. Mike leaned over the seat to watch the green scope pulsate yellow in one thin line that curved from one corner of the screen, down to the middle, and back up and out of the opposite corner.

"How broad?" the driver asked.

"Ten, maybe twelve feet."

"If we trip it, every guard in the tower will be down here, pulverizing us with vibra-pistols." The driver motioned to a gate that had no fence on either side of it. It stood, absurd and improbable, alone. The pathway to the gla.s.s lobby doors, however, led from it. "That's the visitor post. Mike, do you suppose you could go over and ring the bell? They ought to let a resident in, especially one as important as Malone. Tell them you forgot your card-key to activate the lock. We'll be right behind you in those bushes to the left of the gate."

Mike fingered the gas pistol that lay up his sleeve in a leather strap affair. One sharp downward jerk would bring it into his hand, in firing position, spitting destruction. He had not yet fired it upon a human target, but he had seen pictures of its victims. Pierre thought it wise that he see the results of the weapon prior to actual combat so that the shock might not slow his reflexes. There were headless corpses in those pictures, faceless heads, inside-out people. Even for Lisa, even to save his own life, it was a horrible death to visit upon a man. But he felt he could depress the stud if he had to. It was depress it and kill or not not depress it and depress it and be be killed. killed.

They got out of the floater, crawled, hunched, and ran across the lawn to other shrubs. Mike stood then and approached the bellpost, a waist-high, simu-wood sentry capped with a white, plastic b.u.t.ton.

Dingadingading.

There was a stirring in the lobby. A large, dark man in a greatcoat came to the gla.s.s doors, looked down the hundred feet of walk to the bellpost. He hesitated for a long moment, then opened the door, came out walking warily but not slowly.

"Forgot my card-key," Mike said off-handedly when the man reached him.

The doorguard's shoulders were two oak planks nailed to his neck. His nose had been broken once, jutting out now at odd angles to itself. "Mr. Malone?" he asked, obviously confused.

Mike remembered to act like Malone and not himself. "Who do I look like? A common doorguard?" It was all in a sarcastic tone.

"But you went upstairs more than half an hour ago."

"And I came out again."

"I been sitting in the lobby," the big man said, scratching his forehead, "and I didn't see you."

"You could not see your own face in a mirror if someone didn't point it out for you." He liked that one and had to refrain from smiling. "Now open this gate!"

The doorguard hesitated a moment, then withdrew a card-key from his pocket, slipped it into the proper slot. The gate swung open, the only pathway around the alarm band.

The driver and the bodyguard came from the bushes, rushed the Show man.

"Hey!" He moved to bring his own foot down on the nearby alarm band.

Suddenly Mike found the gas pistol in his palm, his finger on the cool stud and moving down. Pierre had trained him well. He had not even wasted a second in deciding upon a course of action and launching himself on it. The rest seemed like it happened in slow motion, but he knew he was moving very fast. It was just the detachment from action that Pierre had taught him, the ability to perceive your actions almost as a third party-even to comment to yourself on what you were doing as you did it. This mingling of thought and action was a lost art, one seldom seen in the modem world.

Slow motion: his finger crept downward, slowly, slowly, pressing the stud into the handle. The foot of the doorguard glided agonizingly through the air, closer, slightly closer to the hidden alarm. Mike's fingers felt a bit of resistance as the stud was completely depressed. Then the pellet came from the gun. Even detached as he was, seeing things almost from a different dimension, the bullet was only a blur to his eyes, a streak that he may have seen or that may have been his imagination. Easily, he released the stud, prepared to shoot again. The pellet sank through the greatcoat, through the man's shirt, into his chest. The foot stopped falling toward the alarm, jerked upward in a tangled-nerve reaction. A realization of death swept across the guard's face. He didn't even have time to be startled, just afraid. A mild fear that had slept in his soul and now rose slowly to spread across his features. Then blood came spinning out of his chest. Blood and flesh. The gore spattered the sidewalk. The blood twirled, lazily, like little marbles of clotted jelly, showering upon them, spattering their faces.

"You're fast," the floater-driver said, breaking the tableau.

The body lay on the icy ground, the face a drained, white fish belly.

"Let's go," Mike breathed. He was suddenly in control of the situation, a leader instead of a follower. Perhaps it was because he was now irrevocably involved; there was no turning back. He had made the decision to kill, and that decision had bound him to the cause and the fray without any chance of extricating himself. He was relieved rather than frightened. There were no choices anymore, merely the one pathway that must be followed: get Lisa. He would move quickly now. He helped them dump the body in the shrubs, tuck it neatly out of sight.

They reached the doors of the lobby and peered in cautiously. It was an immense room punctuated by many thick pillars. The furniture was, of course, neo-mod, tasteful in its lack of taste. There was no other person in sight. They opened the doors, went in.

"The thirty-eighth floor," the driver said.

"Elevator?" the bodyguard asked.

"The wealthy go in for real human servants instead of auto-servs," Mike said. "We better use the stairs."

They found the staircase and had gone up two flights when they met a tenant coming down. He was a small man, leading a brown dog on a silver leash. The driver saw him first and was shooting before Mike looked up. But his first shot missed, and the tenant was armed. Mike wanted to scream at the driver. They could have tried to bluff their way up, avoided a fight, but the other man's nerves were too taut, vibrating too much. Now they would have to fight. The tenant's first shot struck the bodyguard with a flash of gore. Mike wiped some of the blood from his face and leaped behind the down body.

The driver fired again, tore the tenant's leg off with a misplaced shot that had been meant for the groin. The limb, from the knee down, came tumbling down the steps, bone jutting out of the top. It was surrealistic and realistic at the same time. The tenant toppled against the wall. His face was a face of ash, white and gray and ready to crumble. His mouth hung open in disbelief. His fingers punched, punched, punched the trigger of his weapon like an automatic plunger. One of the wild beams smashed into the driver's throat, ripped it open, sending a bloodfall of liquid down over his chest. Mike choked, fired his gas pistol and put the tenant out of his mindless misery.

There were three bodies on the stairs. They sprawled in their own and each other's life fluids, faces distorted and bodies white from the great loss of blood. Blood. There was too much of it lying around to be wiped away with a handkerchief. He could not hope to get rid of the evidence. Besides, there was the dog cowering in the ruins of his master. He was whimpering now, but his voice would become a howl soon. Mike double-timed it up the steps, around one of the acoustically perfect bends and away from the dog's weeping. There were thirty-six floors ahead. Twenty. He rested. Fifteen. He rested again.

When he reached Malone's floor, the alarms had not yet sounded. No one had discovered the bodies yet; the dog had not barked. He found that his heart was beating insanely, thudding as if it were ready to burst wide open. There was some wild juice gurgling through him, something more than adrenalin, something unnameable. He was exhilarated, excited, frothing over with eagerness.

The hallways were heavily carpeted, producing no telltale echo of his footfalls. He pa.s.sed by doors with name plates of very famous men on them. These were the apartments of Show executives, Show Performers. He had lived in one himself. He was familiar with all of it, though it seemed strange and different now. When he had been living here, he had come and gone without really looking. Now he was here illegally, a thief in the night. More correctly, a murderer in the night. Many things which had not impressed him before impressed him now. He made mental note of the width of the halls, calculating the possibility of fighting off two or more men-or of running from them. He moved on.

At Malone's door, there was a grid for voice identification of those who were permitted entrance easily and for those who wished to request entrance. Mike had Malone's voice. This would be the major test of that little piece of surgical chicanery. It sounded like Malone's voice. It had fooled the doorguard at the gate. But would it fool this semantic machine, this keen-eared little metal monster buried somewhere in the wall?

"Open please," he said self-consciously.

There was a hum. A click. The door buzzed without comment, revealing the interior of Malone's apartment. He stepped inside, ready to jerk the gas pistol into his palm. The room was empty and dark except for what moonlight trickled through the large plexi-gla.s.s windows set in the far wall. It was a large room, larger than his own living room had been when he had worked for Show. Slaved for Show. Draperies covered the part of the wall that was not window, black and red things shot through with a pale yellow psychedelic sub-pattern. The other walls were chalk white and sported Spanish neo-mod paintings. They were all original oils. One appeared to be a Sanchez, and it almost caused Make to whistle out loud. There was a fortune hanging on the walls alone. There were two black leather couches, a recliner, three leather straight chairs, and a dozen scattered pillows of red and black. The entire room was bright yet dignified, invigorating yet respectable.

He moved quickly to the junction of living room and hallway. Stalking some imaginary animal, he went lightly down the carpeted corridor, pausing near the end of it to listen. There were voices ahead. One of them sounded faintly like his own.

Then the door of the end room abruptly opened. A man came out.

Mike caught his breath.

The man looked up, saw him.

Again, he was perceiving in the slow-motion fashion, watching as if from the sidelines while he moved. His arm rose in an arc, the palm stiffening, twisting sideways. The man, a servant judging by his white coat, white shirt, black bow tie, opened his mouth to scream. The hand with the steel wedge struck his neck; bone and cartilage broke, crackled sickeningly. Muscle and tendon tore, stretched. A small puff of air escaped the servant's lips in the form of a tiny squeak. The hand drew back. The body wobbled, fell forward into Jorgova's arms. He lowered it gently to the floor, careful not to make a sound, breathing through his nostrils instead of his mouth, slow and silent.

He stepped to the doorway, looked into the room. There was a desk, card-tape rack, player, everything needed for a complete home office. And there was a mirror image of himself, rather, of his new self. Tall, black hair, blue eyes, arrogant jutting of jaw and chin.

"Who are you?" the mirror said, holding a stack of card-tapes, halfway between desk and tape rack. He peered into the shadows, squinting.

"I-"

"What are you doing here?"

Mike stepped in from the shadows.

"Good G.o.d," the real Malone said, stepping back, stumbling. "Help!"

The gun was out of the leather pocket and in Mike's hand, spitting pellets. He aimed for the stomach, hoping to loll while spilling a small amount of blood. It was only a partial success.

Malone did an eerie death dance, dropping card-tapes as he went, twirling, sliding, finally collapsing against the desk, crashing onto the floor. But the pads and carpets were so thick that the crash was only a thud, dull and unexciting.

Mike approached the corpse, picked it up in his arms cradle-fashion to close the wound and keep the blood from dribbling on the rug. He struggled with the burden into the hallway, opened the disposal chute that was disguised as a large, gold, ornate shield. In a few moments, he had worked the big man's body through, let it drop. There was a distant roar of constantly consuming flames; there was a crunch, a loud sizzling as of meat cooking, then just the roar again. He shoved the servant's body through too, closed the door, and went back into Malone's private office. He had a bit of cleaning up to do.

He sat down at the desk a moment to allow his senses to begin perceiving at a normal speed again and to still the awful pounding of his heart. The phone rang. And rang again.

He stared at it, reached for it, withdrew his hand.

It rang a third time.

With a surge of consciously exerted confidence, he answered it.

"Do you have it, Malone?"

He recognized the voice. It was c.o.c.kley, the same voice of the same man who had nearly strangled him that day long ago when he had refused to bare the basics of his soul for public consumption. Fear roiled over fear in his mind, terror over terror. He clutched at his nerve with a shaky will power, forced courage into his heart. Knowing a great delay in answering would arouse suspicion, he finally said, "Almost have it, Mr. c.o.c.kley."

"Well how long will it take, man?"

"Another hour."

"I want that information before you go to bed tonight, Malone. I have confidence in you. Don't ruin that confidence."

"No, sir."

"I want the operation started tonight. I want Nimron!"

"I'll call you in an hour, Mr. c.o.c.kley."

"No," c.o.c.kley said. "I'll call you-in forty-five minutes. Keep moving, Malone."

There was a click. He sat for a moment with the phone in his hand, staring into it as if c.o.c.kley were lurking in the plastic mouthpiece, watching him. Then the old man's last words slipped into Mike's awareness, jolted him from reverie. Forty-five minutes. And he did not even know what it was he was supposed to have ready for c.o.c.kley.

His heart began pounding again: a thunder boom.

Suddenly his head was aching and his knees were trembling. He was abruptly hungry though he had eaten, sleepy though he had slept. A thousand reasons why he should chuck it and run whirled through his mind. But the one reason why he should not, why he should stay and fight, was blue-eyed, blonde, and stronger than the other thousand put together.

He forced himself to breathe deeply as Pierre had shown him, to conquer the outward manifestations ofhis fear. Outwardly efficient but inwardly boiling, he looked about the office. The card-tapes that Malone had been carrying toward the desk were strewn like dead gulls across the beach of the carpet. The card-tapes! Perhaps they contained the information c.o.c.kley wanted. Malone must have been expecting the phone call, must have been getting them ready to transmit over the phone. He gathered them up, slipped them into the player, started it. Malone's voice spoke to him through the wire mouth yawning on the top of the desk. "There are six Presidential vacation areas and four bomb shelters. These tapes contain all the information I could locate from the written files. They are a distillation of what the mechanical translator reports the ancient books have to say. Each of the following cards is concerned with a different location, arranged in order of probability."

There was a snap as the machine flipped to the next card. The fourth card, the third location, was the correct one. If c.o.c.kley received this and began the search tonight, Nimron and the others would be cornered by morning. He could not allow that. He took the cards out of the player, tore the first one up, the third one into fine bits. Slipping a fresh, unrecorded card into the dictocord machine on the desk, he began speaking into the mike grid. He would say there were only three bomb shelters and leave the rest of the report alone. c.o.c.kley would get nine locations instead of ten. Nimmy and the others would be safe. He had made it just in time.

Forty minutes after the first call, the phone rang again.

He did not hesitate this time. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Malone, do you have it?"

"Yes, Mr. c.o.c.kley. If you will put blanks in your dictacorder, plug it into the phone, I'll transmit them at high speed."

There was a moment's pause. "Go ahead."

He slipped the altered report into the player, flipped it to top speed and leaned back in his chair. In ten minutes, the process was completed. "That's it," he said to c.o.c.kley.

The old man was in a better mood now. "Boy, if this works, I'll consider a stock bonus for you. Two hundred shares in Coolcola."

"Why, thank you, sir. Thank you very much."

"I'll let you know when we catch them," c.o.c.kley said confidently. "Now get some sleep."

And he did.

Chapter Two.

He woke to the alarm at eight o'clock sharp. He had listened to Malone's schedule tape and knew that he was not to go to the Show studios until ten. He rose, checked the wall freezer while his eyes were still partially matted, rooted up some synthe-bacon, a few real eggs, and a can of juice. Gobbling the cooked results, chewing and swallowing until his stomach had stopped the dragon protest it had set up, he thought about his next step. He would have to shower and get dressed, then somehow get to see Lisa before he left the building. The plan called for a short contact this morning to ready her for the escape that night. He would have to convince her that he was Mike, that he wanted to help her, that she should cooperate. It might not be so very easy, considering he looked nothing like the Mike she knew. He finished eating and went to the shower.

Later, he stepped into the hall, letting the door of the apartment hum shut behind. He walked down the hall, punched for the elevator. When it arrived, he was confronted by a small young man with a pale and undernourished face. His teeth were yellow next to his gums. His uniform was just a bit too large.

"Top floor, please."

The boy pulled down on the lever, sending the lift in a smooth upward rush. "Hear about the excitement, Mr. Malone?" There was no particular trace of fear or respect in his voice.

"Excitement?"

"Murder. Three bodies found between the third and second floors."

"Whose bodies?" he asked, innocent to the world.

"Mr. Conan, first of all. Lives here, a minor exec. And two unknowns. Very mysterious, wouldn't you say, Mr. Malone? The police can't make tops nor bottoms of it."

The elevator jerked to a halt.

He handed the boy a five dollar bill, in keeping with Malone's conceited, self-important manner. "And make the ride smoother next time!" he snapped, stepping out onto Lisa's floor.

Lisa's floor. The sound of it pleased him. Lisa Lisa. He was going to be seeing her once more, looking down into those sky eyes and those apple lips. He wondered how he would react. Could he stand detached as he could while fighting, watching and evaluating his reactions to her, to what she said and did? He doubted it. He thought he would act rather irrationally and immaturely. And he did not really give a d.a.m.n!