Logan's Search (10 page)

Kirov spoke in a flat monotone: “I don’t know why you came to me, or who sent you, and I certainly don’t know why I am willing to help you—but I
am
willing to do so.” He stroked his thinly bearded chin. “I seem to be
impelled
to help you, which I find most strange. Normally, I would turn both of you over to the authorities.”

Logan realized that the aliens had mentally prepared Kirov on a subliminal basis and that the little man knew nothing of his having been influenced by them. Which was all right with Logan, if that’s how they wanted it. All that mattered was the help he needed.

“Exactly what do you wish me to do?” Kirov asked.

“Arrange complete new identities for us both. Do you have internal access to the Central Computer?”

‘Yes.”

“We’ll provide you with basic data. You simply program it into the board. Can you do that?”

Kirov nodded. “But you must understand my problem. The board will automatically cancel the new identities—when it becomes obvious, in cross-check, that your crystal patterns do not match”

Jess put aside her tea (having found it undrinkable). “How long can we count on getting by with the new IDs?” she asked.

“Six hours maximum,” said Kirov. “Normally, a cross-check would be instantaneous, but I can delay the process for six hours. Will this be sufficient?”

Jess turned to him: “Will it, Logan?”

“All we need to do is find Francis. Once we do, he can get our cases reversed and prove that Phedra lied. Finding him shouldn’t take long. He’s our key back into the system.”

Kirov stood up, collected the tea things, and took them into the service cubicle. Logan followed him there.

“When can we expect to have ID clearance?”

“As soon as you have brought me a DS Gun,” Kirov said in his flat monotone. “Would you care for a vitaflake biscuit?”

“Wait, I—” Logan started to protest.

“Perhaps you,” said Kirov, returning to Jessica with a plate of biscuits. She shook her head.

Kirov sat down in a stiff-backed chair, nibbling on one of the biscuits. Logan stood above him, glaring.

“You seem angry,” said the little man.

“What’s this about my bringing you a Gun?”

“A Sandman’s Gun…I have…a sudden urge to possess this weapon.”

“But a citizen can’t even touch one,” said Logan. “Each Gun is coded to its operative. If I tried to steal one for you it would take my arm off!”

“Only after the detonation device has been set,” said Kirov. “If you took a Gun from the line, at the factory in Monte Carlo, before the device has been set—there would be no problem.”

“Is he serious about this?” Jess asked Logan.

“Oh, let me assure both of you, I am quite serious,” said Kirov, dusting his hands into a naptowel. “I must have the Gun before I can help you.”

“But I can’t leave Jess!”

“She can remain here in my unit until, you return with the weapon.” He looked at Jess with his flat, dull eyes. “You shall be quite safe here.” He smiled faintly. “I will admit that my request for a Gun is at direct odds with my pacifist personality, but this is nevertheless what I demand if you wish my help.”

“The factory is impossible to penetrate,” Logan declared. “There’s no way I could reach the Gunline.”

“Incorrect,” said Kirov. “Tomorrow, at my board, I will program you as a Gun Controller, Class A, which will guarantee clear entry into the factory.” He shrugged a thin shoulder. “The rest is up to you.”

Logan studied the pale little man for a long moment.

“And if you are thinking that perhaps you could betray me, use your new ID to hunt down your friend —I merely remind you of the woman. I shall turn her over to the police for immediate execution if you do not return here with the weapon directly from Monte Carlo.”

“We must do what he wants,” Jess told Logan. “There’s no other way.”

Logan nodded, his eyes hard On Kirov. “You’ll have your Gun.”

And Kirov smiled again, a soft wet smile. “That will be very nice,” he said.

A silver needle threading earth, the mazecar blazed south, beneath the Carpathian Mountains, through Hungary—then west, under the tip of Yugoslavia, into Italy, and on below the French coast to the platform at Nice.

Using his new ID, as Prestor 8, Logan rented a hoverstick for the short jump to Monte Carlo. If he ran into trouble at the Gunfactory, using the maze could be risky; the jet-powered Devilstick would provide a much more reliable method of escape from the area.

Coming in by air, riding the stick high above the wide sweep of sun-sparked Mediterranean, Logan was impressed by the idyllic setting: perched on its high white limestone cliff above the sea, Monte Carlo resembled a mythic giant’s castle of crystal and glass. Threemile units rose glittering into the clean arc of sky in pinks, soft greens, pastel blues.. .Date palm and Barbary fig trees dotted the high terraces; scarlet Riviera flowers bloomed in lush profusion.

Difficult to think of this romantic area as what it really was: a dispenser of death, origin of nightmare destructive force, the primary world source of DS weaponry.

Logan was still mystified by Kirov’s bizarre demand. It might be explained as the manifestation of a latent dominance syndrome, previously blocked and buried in the frustrated little man and activated by the sudden realization that he finally had total power over others, that the lives of Logan and Jessica were truly in his hands. It was obviously something the aliens had not anticipated, a random personality flaw that Logan was now forced to accommodate.

He had seriously considered stealing a Gun, still holstered, from a Sandman. The attack itself would be relatively simple: Logan would strike down the DS man and take the belted Gun before other Sandmen arrived. Simple. But then he would face the supremely difficult task of defusing the weapon.

Once, on his return from Argos, he had actually accomplished this. Unsure of the dangers he’d be facing on Earth, Logan had taken a holstered weapon from the body of a dead Sandman, brought the Gun into camp, and, using special tools, painstakingly defused it, recoding it to his hand-pattern. He had put it away, vowing he would never use it. But when the Borgia Riders took Jess.

The situation was different now. Even if he could succeed in using his specialized knowledge of weaponry to defuse a Gun for Kirov, there were no devastated cities in which to obtain the necessary tools. Also, the theft of the Gun would be flashed on every DS alert board; Sandmen would converge on the area, sealing off all escape routes.

No; the only way to satisfy Kirov was to obtain a Gun from the line. A line Gun, not yet keyed in to the boards, would present less direct risk. And if I’m clever enough, Logan told himself, perhaps the weapon will never be missed.

It was possible.

Just barely possible.

Monte Carlo’s casino was once its heart—the lure that attracted moneyed gamblers of all nations. Here, under marbled Victorian arches, fortunes had been won and lost on the single oiled spin of a soft-clicking wheel. Counts and grand dukes wagered castle and mistress on the maddening caprice of a tiny, dancing ivory ball. Many ended as suicides, leaping from the high cliff into the depths of the Mediterranean, as the green baize tables and rosewood roulette wheels took their toll.

But the opulent casino was gone; its marbled splendor had given way to the stark gray bulk of a Gunfactory that now dominated Casino Hill. The graceful arches and red-velvet pillars were replaced by metalloid assembly lines and by emotionless robots that regulated the constant flow of weaponry.

From these steel corridors emerged Fuser and Lasercannon, Stunrifle and Pinbeamer—but the major product was the Gun, the deadly homer-carrying DS killweapon that haunted the mind of every runner.

“Prestor 8,” Logan had said to the ID roboguard outside the main assembly block. “Control.” 

“Purpose of visit?” 

“Routine line check.”

“Identify,” said the robot.

Logan stepped inside the scanroom and casually wall-slotted the Gun tech foilcard provided by Kirov. If the ID failed, he would never leave this room alive.

The chamber weighed him, photochecked him, scanned his body profile—computer-matching man to foilcard.

A screen in front of Logan flashed the readout:

     PRESTOR 8—96466

     GUN CONTROL TECHNICIAN

     CLASS A

The screen ran a complex cross-pattern of coded numbers so rapidly that Logan’s eye could not follow them.

Then, in green, the word he’d waited for: VERIFIED.

The heavy duralloy slidedoor to the assembly block opened for him.

Verified!

He was inside.

Calmly, slowly, Logan walked toward the Guns.

Installation of the pore-pattern detonation device represented the final stage of Gun assembly. Therefore, Logan deliberately initiated his inspection just short of the area.

Logan was comfortable in his role as a Gun tech; his basic working knowledge of DS weaponry enabled him to pull off the impersonation without strain. He was smooth and professional, and the drone robots ignored him as he performed his duties, picking various weapons from the line, checking them carefully, making rapid notations in the minibook he carried.

As Logan moved down the line, the chief section robot approached him. He stared at Logan with faceted, lidless metal eyes.

“I assume you wish to test-fire one of our products?” 

“Uh…naturally,” said Logan.

“Then select a weapon of your choice,” said the robot, “and please follow me.”

Logan was annoyed at this delay. He wanted to get the job over quickly, since his unauthorized position here was extremely dangerous. What if they contacted CIC? What if the Central Inspection Control office was asked about Prestor 8? No, we didn’t send him. No, he shouldn’t be at your factory.

Every minute wasted here placed Logan in deeper jeopardy.

He selected a weapon and followed the tall humanoid robot. He had not planned on firing any of the Guns, but apparently this was part of a normal tech inspection. It was expected. No way of avoiding it.

The test area, to the left of the main assembly floor, contained several targets of varying size, mounted at widely spaced intervals across the width of a sound-and-shock-insulated firing tunnel.

The section robot handed Logan a silver ammopac stamped with the factory’s black death-head design.

“Six charges,” he said. “Full pac.”

Logan armed the Gun, weighing it in his hand.

“You’ll note the balance has been improved,” said the tall robot. “Barrel-weight reduction, mainly. But with absolutely no loss of basic reliability.”

“I can feel the difference,” said Logan.

The Gun’s long barrel gleamed under the factory lights; its pearl handle was snug against his palm and cool to the touch. Seductive. The damned Gun was always seductive.

“I suggest you try a ripper,” said the robot. “You’ll find that we have increased its force considerably.”

Logan raised the weapon, set to ripper, and sighted the nearest target: a block of solid double-band durasteel.

He triggered the Gun.

The block instantly erupted into a snowfall of tiny steel fragments.

“Improved?” asked the robot.

“Improved.” Logan nodded. “Definitely an upgrade of overall destruct power.” 

The robot seemed pleased. “Care to try a tangler?…The new stress-webbing is—” 

“Thanks, but I’ve seen enough here,” said Logan. 

“The tensile strength has been
doubled
. You really should try one.”

“I’m on a tight schedule,” said Logan, handing him the Gun. “But I’ll make special note of it in my report.”

The machine trailed Logan back to the Gunline, still talking about basic product improvement.

“We never consider any design totally perfected,” he declared. “Most Sandmen don’t appreciate that fact. They fail to realize that they have us to thank for a higher killscore each year.”

How do I get rid of him? Logan knew that with this overzealous robot watching his slightest move, it would be utterly impossible for him to remove a line Gun.

Even more unsettling, if he actually managed to steal a weapon, how would he get it past the scanners? All visitors, including techs, were scanchecked when entering or leaving the factory grounds. You didn’t just walk out with a Gun.

Or
did
you?

Suddenly, logically, Logan had the answer.

No scanchecks were made on section robots leaving the factory. That was
why
only machines were employed here: they could be programmed against theft. Exit checks were unnecessary.

Logan smiled at the robot. “You seem to be exceptionally well versed in Gun design.”

“It is my specialty,” said the tall machine.

“I know this is an unusual request—but I would like to take you back to CIC with me, have you talk to my superiors. I think you’d be able to provide invaluable suggestions in relation to future line-inspection procedure.”

“That is most flattering,” said the robot. “Of course, since this is your wish, I would be willing to accompany you.”

Logan shut the minibook, tucking it inside his green worktunic. “I wish to leave immediately. Will this cause you any problem?”

“None whatever,” said the machine.

“Let’s meet outside the main gate. I have a hoverstick there.” The robot nodded.

“And, ah…” Logan added casually, “you’d better take one of the new line Guns along—to demonstrate what you’ve been telling me.”

“Very well,” said the humanoid, slipping a weapon into his sidepouch.

Logan smiled at him once more, then turned for the exit—but the robot’s metallic voice stopped him. 

“Prestor 8?” The tall machine was staring at him.

What’s wrong, Logan wondered? What mistake did I make? Does he know who I am?

“I wish to say, Prestor 8, that I consider this an honor.”

“Well…” said Logan, drawing in a breath. “You have certainly earned it.”

The robot said nothing more, and Logan watched him walk stiffly toward the machine-exit.