Stalking the Nightmare (29 page)

But even had I not received such vindication from my peers, I know damned well that the loss of $93,000 was not the vain and foolish gesture of a nit-picker. That Award is the rose Fve plucked from the summit of the mountain of cow flop
The Starlost
became.

Nor have I lost my sense of smell. A writer has only his or her talent, determination and imagination to pit against the winter of mediocrity Hollywood generates. Good writers die here, not from too much cocaine, or too much high living, or even too much money. For, in the words of Saul Bellow, “Writers are not necessarily corrupted by money. They are distracted—diverted to other avenues.” They die hi pieces, their talent and thus their souls turned sere and juiceless. Until they are lit for nothing better than to bend to the whims of businessmen with a stranglehold on the art-form.

It is a writer’s obligation to his craft to go to bed angry, and to rise up angrier the next day. To fight for the words because, at final moments, that’s all a writer has to prove his right to exist as a spokesman for his times. To retain the sense of smell; to know what one smells is the corruption of truth and not the perfumes of Araby,

Whether in a fifty-mile-across biosphere, in Oz, in Kansas or in Hollywood.

Rondell awoke all at once. Not in soggy sections after a sound sleep, but rigid with tension: product of cold nightmares and expectations of the footstep. The instant his eyes opened he knew something was waiting for him outside the hotel’s 32nd-storey window. Even before the metallic voice from the cop chopper shattered the dawn silence, he knew they were out there.

Then:
All right, Rondell! No fight, please! There are officers out here who have children, there are others in the building, the streets full of commuters who’d get hit by debris … think of them. Don’t force us to punch out the wall! Come out slowly, with your hands behind your neck … or on top of your head.

It had to be a young cop. Unsure of his words. He fumbled the instructions. Probably had never done a roust like this in all the time he’d been a cop.

Rondell’s expression was wry. He could almost laugh. Not a big laugh; something small, an exhalation of breath, freighted with irony. The poor sonofabitch, dumb kid. It had been a long, long time since these reserve corps cops had been pressed into service, since they had actually cornered a dangerous man who might give them trouble. All their drilling and pamphlets and fake hero-pride could not help them now; and they were scared. The frightened-animal tingle to the voice had told him all he wanted to know. Even alone—and how long he had been alone!—he was more than a match for them. Still… he should not feel overconfident
That
might be a little bit of dangerous.

The silly-ass way they thought of their safe little homes, their children, their petty lives. Then, before he could stop it, a feeling of utter loneliness washed over him.

He abruptly felt defeated, lost. Where was the end to all this? Someday not getting the jump on them when they found him? Dead from a police disruptor in a cheap hotel? In the same instant he tightened his thoughts. Not here. Not this way. Perhaps soon, but at least in his own time, on his own terms.

Another warning blast from the cop chopper’s loudspeaker clattered about the room as he stepped quickly to the closet, taking from a hook the fly-belt and propulsion unit. Without wasted movements he strapped the units to his back and waist. Outside the door to his room he could hear the furtive, frightened steps of the civilian police, setting up riot disruptors in the hall, ready to spray the room through the door if he made it necessary. They knew he had only one way out of the room. They knew it. They were wrong.

He chuckled softly. They were bluffing and
he
knew it. They would vomit up their guts at the sight of a dead man; but just
one
might nervously tick the firing stud, and results did not consider intentions.

So I’ll try not to make it necessary,
he thought briskly, edging toward the window. He flattened himself against the wall, wishing he had not turned the cheap glass windopaque to “full” the night before. If he could see out, gauge the proximity of the chopper hovering there, so many floors above the plasteel slidewalks, things would be easier. But had the hotel not been a sleaze hole, had it not been a glass window, things would be much tougher. They would be impossible.

He caught a reflection of himself in the mirror-window. The shortcut sandy hair, the squinting dark green eyes and the nose that had been broken too many times to be anything like aquiline. Not a good face, not a bad face; just a tired face.

He thought about the chopper.

It was probably just above. He calculated rapidly.

Thirty-two stories to the ground; the chopper at least two floors above; reaction time of the pilot; speed of the sprayed web-nets; his own fleetness. An unsupported body accelerates at a rate of 9.8 meters per second per second …

An unexpected burst of the riot guns shattered the door; he bunched his muscles and threw himself through the window.

His finger tensed on the power button of the fly-belt but he did not jab. He fell rapidly, turning over, catching a glimpse of the cop chopper descending like a hunting falcon. The pilot had paused only three seconds, taken by surprise; but it had been enough. Rondell looked down, forcing his eyes to remain open, despite the vertigo of his descent.

The slidewalk, crammed with first-shift casino-bettors, reeled up beneath him. His stomach wrenched and he was uncertain whether he would be caught by the chopper, die of fright, or smash to a pulp on the plasteei.

The avian screech of the diving ship, fast closing on him, caused the commuters to glance up. Their attention was held hypnotically; their wide, white stares registered clearly in Rondell’s vision. Ten meters above the slidewalk he jabbed wildly at the button, and the breath was instantly sucked from his lungs by the wrench of a retarded descent. The cop chopper was directly above him, dropping fast!

He continued to fall, knowing the pilot, no matter how young, how inexperienced, would not endanger the pedestrians by a possible crash. He was aware that they could not pull out of too steep a dive. He hoped the pilot was privy to the same intelligence.

The police ship veered off, its spinnerets casting out the sticky web-netting in a final effort to capture him. But he was already out of range.

The nets shriveled into little black balls, hanging by their strands beneath the chopper. Then they were sucked up into the spinnerets again.

Rondell swooped in over the pedestrians’ heads, landing lightly, with knees bent. He killed the power to the propulsor unit, ripped the instrument from his back, and threw it down between the speeding strips—all as one movement. Knife-switch reflexes paid off, and in a few moments of sprinting, leaping from strip to moving strip, he was lost in the crowded mass hurrying to the casinos.

Once again the thief had escaped.

The window had not been opaqued and Rondell gazed in silence at the oily back of the Professor’s fat, wattled neck. Though he could see only the huge blank bulk of the casino owner’s tight-fitting silvermesh, the thief was certain the Professor was twining. As he always twined. He was sure the fingers of those fat, perspiring hands were twisting ofle over the other, like ten gorged worms struggling for freedom.

Rondell was aware of a rising tide of hatred, boiling up from somewhere deep inside himself. Climbing organ over organ till he felt its heat in his face.

The Professor turned suddenly, his face blanching, as the thief punched in the window with the disruptor. Debris exploded into the office, whirling around the room, smashing against the walls. The casino owner’s eyes bulged from his pale face, reminding Rondell of a fish just hooked, still flopping.

The fat man’s hand darted for a row of silver-topped studs on the desk, but the thief was even quicker. His hand, wrapped around the muzzle of the disruptor, smashed down brutally on the gambler’s fingers. The fat man gave a soft, indrawn moan, a catch of the breath, and his eyes closed with pain. He clutched his hand fiercely, rubbing the sausage fingers rapidly.

“Let’s try to get on like compatriots, what say, lard belly?” Rondell carefully noted the nostril-flare of anger at the reference to the Professor’s bulk.

“I don’t know where you came from, Rondell,” wheezed the fat man, finding difficulty getting the words out, “but you’d better go back there. My guards are right outside that door, and they’ll be in here in a moment”

Rondell smiled. “The room’s soundproofed. They don’t come unless you call.”

“You set off an alarm when you broke the window.” He cocked his head at the shattered pane. He looked triumphant for a second. Then he saw the look in the thief s eyes.

“I’ll let
you
phrase whatever it is you’re going to say to keep them outside, Professor.” He spoke softly. The menace was in every syllable. The casino owner tightened his hps a bit more.

They both started at the sound of an intercom buzzer.

“If I don’t answer, they’ll punch open the door.”

“So answer.”

The Professor’s voice was unnaturally loud and strained as he depressed the intercom stud, but over the machine it would make no difference. “It’s all right, boys,” the fat man said quickly. “Just a fit of temper at how much Countess Kinderlee owes me. Afraid I punched out the window with my disruptor. Don’t worry about it; we’ll have it fixed tomorrow. Go on back to your cards.” He was sweating freely now, runners of perspiration trailing down into the collar of his silvermesh. The sounds of retreating footsteps came clearly over the intercom.

“Drop a shield over that window in case they come around outside to board it up,” Rondell said. The Professor moved a finger toward another stud. “Very careful now, fatso.” A sausage finger depressed the stud. A heavy lead shield fell, securing the window.

Rondell leaned over and pulled loose the suction-tips and wires leading to the machine. He threw the piece of equipment across the room, where it landed in a corner with a bounce and a clatter on its shatterproof case.

He stepped quickly to the door—keeping the disruptor trained quite steadily on the fat man—making sure it was triple-bolted and voice-keyed to “lock.”

Then he dropped into a formfit chair in front of the Professor’s desk.

“How did they locate me, Professor?” It was simply a question, but the look of hatred on Rondell’s face told the fat man the thief had already decided from where the information had come.

“I
had
to do it, Rondell. They would’ve closed me up!” He swiped at his rolled-fat jowls with a moist palm, his voice quivering.

The thief stifled a short, nasty laugh. “So you saved your greasy fat hide and threw me to the cops. Just to keep this joint running. Now is that the way to reward one of your best pupils? It was you, after all, who taught me everything I know.” His voice dripped sarcasm, tinged with something deadlier. “Where would I be today, Professor, if it hadn’t been for you?”

“How long do you think it’ll be,” the Professor wheezed, “before they look
here?
They must know you’d come after me. You’d better get out while you…”

The words were cut off by Rondell’s sudden movement, the slash of the disruptor across the gambler’s face. The gunsight raked flesh, and blood welled up thickly from his cheekbone. This time he made no sound, but his eyes glazed over momentarily from the pain. He sank lower into his formfit, and it squawked beneath him. Soundless in obesity, fat became pain; the sheer bulk of the Professor shrieked with mindless anguish.

Rondell spoke softly: “I’m going to kill you, Professor. For twenty-eight years of running, Fm going to even it up. It took me five years to get back here from Sumatra … five years like an animal, and no reason for it. No reason!”

The fat man stared up through tears of anguish at the rock that sat before him. Rondell was the last of his breed, a breed that had died out long before. The last thief in a world where stealing was utterly pointless.

And the thief stared back.

He stared at the disgusting heap of protoplasm quaking in its silvermesh luxury; symbol of a race he despised. The fat man had no backbone. A thin webbing of hair thrown scantily across a bald, furrowed head; fat drooping in folds over the already-stained collar of the silvermesh—worth Rondell’s entire wardrobe and more. But no backbone, no guts. The fat man’s face was pale, crossed here and there by scars from long-forgotten fights in a youth where violence was even then becoming unknown. Small wrinkles radiated out from the pig eyes.

“You’re going to die. How would you like to go?”

The Professor raised a hand feebly, tried to say something, but Rondell cut him off. “I have it. How fitting, fat man, how fitting.

“I think we’ll put you away on one of your own games, Professor. I think we’ll put you in the android bin. Or maybe the blackjack table? No, you never
did
like those piranhas, so maybe the roulette-table would be better.”

The Professor’s skin broke out in a fever-sweat as he thought of the roulette tables—with their razor-sharp, double-edged scimitars —the blackjack table—with its computer-brain croupier and trapdoor seats that dropped away to the tanks below—or …