It was a hell of a time to go paranoid, but I
felt the sudden need to move again, to get away. Everything about me had
assumed a sinister aspect. The casual gestures and glances of the other diners
grew menacing. I felt my muscles tense as a fat man with a tray passed behind
me. I knew that if he bumped my chair or brushed against me I would leap to my
feet, screaming.
As soon as the aisle was clear I got up. It
was all I could do to keep from running as I headed back to the beltway. Then I
simply rode for a time, mindlessly, not wanting to be in a crowd, but not
wanting to be alone either. I heard myself cursing softly.
There was of course a place where there would
be people, where I could be unafraid. I felt fairly certain of that. There was
an easy way to find out, but my mood might be communicable and I wanted to keep
it to myself until it went away. The easiest thing to do was simply to go
there—to the scene of the murder.
I decided that I wanted a drink first. But I
was not about to order one in this Wing. Why? Again the irrational. I had been
discomfitted in my own chambers.
I followed the overheads, belting to the
nearest subway station.
Finally, I saw in the distance the towering
wall with its changing pattern of lighted numbers and letters. I disembarked at
the station and studied the departures. A small number of people trickled
through the incoming gates and others stood about or sat in the bleachers,
keeping an eye on the board. Studying the thing, I learned that Gate 11 would
take me to the Cocktail Lounge of Wing 19 in six minutes. I entered the cage at
11—there was no line—and presented my card for scanning. There came a humming
followed by a click, after which the meshed door in the rear opened.
I passed through and headed up the ramp to the
waiting area by the Gate. There were three men and a girl there. The girl had
on a nurse's uniform. One of the men—an old codger in a power chair—might have
been in her care, though she was standing quite a distance from him. He gave me
a brief, sharp look and a faint smile, as though he might be interested in
striking up a conversation. I glanced away, still feeling antisocial, and moved
to a position far to his left and forward. Of the other two men, one stood near
the Gate, his face partly hidden by the paper he was reading, and the other
paced, briefcase in hand, his eyes on the clock.
When the red active light came on, accompanied
by a buzzing sound, I waited for the others to pass through before I moved
toward the Gate.
I submitted my card for rescanning and moved
through the entranceway. As I entered the subway, I could hear a faint
crackling all about me and the smell of ozone came into my nostrils. A hundred
or so yards of metal-lined tunnel lay ahead of me, faintly illuminated by dirty
overhead glow-plates. A haphazard array of advertisements and graffiti covered
the walls, random bits of litter dotted the floor.
Halfway along the tunnel, a short, swart man
stood reading a poster, hands clasped behind his back, mouth working around a
toothpick. He turned and grinned at me as I approached.
I edged my way over to the left, but he headed
toward me then, still grinning. As he drew near, I halted and folded my arms
across my chest, the fingertips of my right hand separating the mag-bound seam
of my jacket beneath my left armpit and coming into contact with the tiny butt
of the tranquilizer pistol I carried there.
His grin became more conspiratorial, and he
nodded it, saying, "Pictures."
Before I could respond, he had drawn open his
jacket and was reaching inside. I relaxed, for I saw that he was not going for
a weapon, but did
felt the sudden need to move again, to get away. Everything about me had
assumed a sinister aspect. The casual gestures and glances of the other diners
grew menacing. I felt my muscles tense as a fat man with a tray passed behind
me. I knew that if he bumped my chair or brushed against me I would leap to my
feet, screaming.
As soon as the aisle was clear I got up. It
was all I could do to keep from running as I headed back to the beltway. Then I
simply rode for a time, mindlessly, not wanting to be in a crowd, but not
wanting to be alone either. I heard myself cursing softly.
There was of course a place where there would
be people, where I could be unafraid. I felt fairly certain of that. There was
an easy way to find out, but my mood might be communicable and I wanted to keep
it to myself until it went away. The easiest thing to do was simply to go
there—to the scene of the murder.
I decided that I wanted a drink first. But I
was not about to order one in this Wing. Why? Again the irrational. I had been
discomfitted in my own chambers.
I followed the overheads, belting to the
nearest subway station.
Finally, I saw in the distance the towering
wall with its changing pattern of lighted numbers and letters. I disembarked at
the station and studied the departures. A small number of people trickled
through the incoming gates and others stood about or sat in the bleachers,
keeping an eye on the board. Studying the thing, I learned that Gate 11 would
take me to the Cocktail Lounge of Wing 19 in six minutes. I entered the cage at
11—there was no line—and presented my card for scanning. There came a humming
followed by a click, after which the meshed door in the rear opened.
I passed through and headed up the ramp to the
waiting area by the Gate. There were three men and a girl there. The girl had
on a nurse's uniform. One of the men—an old codger in a power chair—might have
been in her care, though she was standing quite a distance from him. He gave me
a brief, sharp look and a faint smile, as though he might be interested in
striking up a conversation. I glanced away, still feeling antisocial, and moved
to a position far to his left and forward. Of the other two men, one stood near
the Gate, his face partly hidden by the paper he was reading, and the other
paced, briefcase in hand, his eyes on the clock.
When the red active light came on, accompanied
by a buzzing sound, I waited for the others to pass through before I moved
toward the Gate.
I submitted my card for rescanning and moved
through the entranceway. As I entered the subway, I could hear a faint
crackling all about me and the smell of ozone came into my nostrils. A hundred
or so yards of metal-lined tunnel lay ahead of me, faintly illuminated by dirty
overhead glow-plates. A haphazard array of advertisements and graffiti covered
the walls, random bits of litter dotted the floor.
Halfway along the tunnel, a short, swart man
stood reading a poster, hands clasped behind his back, mouth working around a
toothpick. He turned and grinned at me as I approached.
I edged my way over to the left, but he headed
toward me then, still grinning. As he drew near, I halted and folded my arms
across my chest, the fingertips of my right hand separating the mag-bound seam
of my jacket beneath my left armpit and coming into contact with the tiny butt
of the tranquilizer pistol I carried there.
His grin became more conspiratorial, and he
nodded it, saying, "Pictures."
Before I could respond, he had drawn open his
jacket and was reaching inside. I relaxed, for I saw that he was not going for
a weapon, but did
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