Logan Trilogy by William F Nolan, George Clayton Johnson Page B
Authors: William F Nolan, George Clayton Johnson
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said Warden. "Course, that don't go for the girl." He grinned. "And ya better
get to it. Couple minutes more out here, dressed like you are, and you won't need to choose."
Under the wind's hammer, Logan's clothing was gauze. He measured the corded figures, looking for weakness and found none. These were survivors. No soft ones here.
He pointed a random finger. "Him," said Logan.
The circle tightened to take up the slack left by the man who stepped forward. Tall. Long-armed.
Thick-shouldered. From the matted fur at his chest he drew forth a needle-pointed stiletto of hand-burnished ice. Eight inches of lethal blade, shaped with an artist's care.
Instantly he lunged. The stiletto flashed. He had led with the knife. Logan took advantage of this mistake to chop the weapon from his hand. It shattered on the ice, but Logan's foot slid on one of the shards and he was down, the man atop him, hands at his throat.
Logan felt the sinewed fingers close on his windpipe.
He broke the chokehold and the man's neck with one blow.
Warden looked stunned and disappointed. The circle of eyes shifted hungrily to the dead body, already frost-dusted. Now they moved in to strip the clothing, which they piled at Logan's feet. The corpse was hustled away.
"That was Harry 7 you just took care of," said Warden. "Pick up his clothes and claim his goods."
Warden walked to the mouth of a burrow. "This hide hole's yours. Harry didn't have no woman. You share everything with the girl."
Logan followed Jess into the narrow, fetid mouth of the ice cave. Inside, they hurriedly donned the evil-smelling hides of Harry 7. The temperature was twenty degrees warmer, but it was still chillingly cold.
They sat down together on a thin layer of shredded conwebbing which had been spread against the ice. Logan pressed close to Jess. She withdrew, her face set.
Well, here we go again, he thought angrily. She knew he'd had no choice out there. She was alive in the clothes of a dead man, but she couldn't accept the fact that he had to kill to get them.
"I listened to you as we were coming into the platform," he said. "I hid the Gun so the contact wouldn't
connect me with DS. With the Gun we'd have some kind of a chance here. But we don't. And right now you need me a lot more than I need you."
After a moment he felt her settle against him. "What are we going to do?" she asked.
"Nothing. Until we know more."
A scuffing sound at the entrance. Warden appeared.
"Come see Black Tom."
They followed him out. Warden led them for a short distance across the blowing ice.
"Here he is." Warden gestured theatrically.
They looked up at the dark shape in the transparent block above them. Inside the ice was part of a man.
He had no legs. One of his arms was a flat, paddle-shaped stump. The remaining arm arched forward, terminating in taloned fingers. All the fat was gone, and the bone structure was exposed in raw relief.
The arm strained in a bowed curve, clawing for life. Nestled against the shoulder was the head.
Staring out of a twisted visage were, eyes of milk. Wind and sun and wilderness had carved him.
He was black.
"He was a white man, once," said Warden.
Jessica looked away.
"Black Tom's up there for a reason," Warden went on. "He ain't what you'd call decoration. You can learn from Tom. He cracked the two-year mark in Hell. He watched 'em come and he watched 'em go
—until he went snow-blind the end of the first year. A month later frostbite got his legs, but that didn't slow him. He dug two burrows by hisself to keep his place, and tanned the skins you're wearin' on your backs. They say he bit his arm off when an ice slide trapped him. Anyhow, he come in without it.
Tom lived longest 'cause he learned fastest." Warden spat on the ice. "Me, I've lasted more'n a year already—and there's none here can say the same. Do like you're told, and you may last the week."
"Savage!" flamed Jess. "Why do you live like this?"
Warden's reply was edged.
get to it. Couple minutes more out here, dressed like you are, and you won't need to choose."
Under the wind's hammer, Logan's clothing was gauze. He measured the corded figures, looking for weakness and found none. These were survivors. No soft ones here.
He pointed a random finger. "Him," said Logan.
The circle tightened to take up the slack left by the man who stepped forward. Tall. Long-armed.
Thick-shouldered. From the matted fur at his chest he drew forth a needle-pointed stiletto of hand-burnished ice. Eight inches of lethal blade, shaped with an artist's care.
Instantly he lunged. The stiletto flashed. He had led with the knife. Logan took advantage of this mistake to chop the weapon from his hand. It shattered on the ice, but Logan's foot slid on one of the shards and he was down, the man atop him, hands at his throat.
Logan felt the sinewed fingers close on his windpipe.
He broke the chokehold and the man's neck with one blow.
Warden looked stunned and disappointed. The circle of eyes shifted hungrily to the dead body, already frost-dusted. Now they moved in to strip the clothing, which they piled at Logan's feet. The corpse was hustled away.
"That was Harry 7 you just took care of," said Warden. "Pick up his clothes and claim his goods."
Warden walked to the mouth of a burrow. "This hide hole's yours. Harry didn't have no woman. You share everything with the girl."
Logan followed Jess into the narrow, fetid mouth of the ice cave. Inside, they hurriedly donned the evil-smelling hides of Harry 7. The temperature was twenty degrees warmer, but it was still chillingly cold.
They sat down together on a thin layer of shredded conwebbing which had been spread against the ice. Logan pressed close to Jess. She withdrew, her face set.
Well, here we go again, he thought angrily. She knew he'd had no choice out there. She was alive in the clothes of a dead man, but she couldn't accept the fact that he had to kill to get them.
"I listened to you as we were coming into the platform," he said. "I hid the Gun so the contact wouldn't
connect me with DS. With the Gun we'd have some kind of a chance here. But we don't. And right now you need me a lot more than I need you."
After a moment he felt her settle against him. "What are we going to do?" she asked.
"Nothing. Until we know more."
A scuffing sound at the entrance. Warden appeared.
"Come see Black Tom."
They followed him out. Warden led them for a short distance across the blowing ice.
"Here he is." Warden gestured theatrically.
They looked up at the dark shape in the transparent block above them. Inside the ice was part of a man.
He had no legs. One of his arms was a flat, paddle-shaped stump. The remaining arm arched forward, terminating in taloned fingers. All the fat was gone, and the bone structure was exposed in raw relief.
The arm strained in a bowed curve, clawing for life. Nestled against the shoulder was the head.
Staring out of a twisted visage were, eyes of milk. Wind and sun and wilderness had carved him.
He was black.
"He was a white man, once," said Warden.
Jessica looked away.
"Black Tom's up there for a reason," Warden went on. "He ain't what you'd call decoration. You can learn from Tom. He cracked the two-year mark in Hell. He watched 'em come and he watched 'em go
—until he went snow-blind the end of the first year. A month later frostbite got his legs, but that didn't slow him. He dug two burrows by hisself to keep his place, and tanned the skins you're wearin' on your backs. They say he bit his arm off when an ice slide trapped him. Anyhow, he come in without it.
Tom lived longest 'cause he learned fastest." Warden spat on the ice. "Me, I've lasted more'n a year already—and there's none here can say the same. Do like you're told, and you may last the week."
"Savage!" flamed Jess. "Why do you live like this?"
Warden's reply was edged.
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