his veins and sent a shiver through his body that made it sway like a tree in the wind.
“Where did you steal this ID card? Who are you?” On the third try Bill managed to force words between his paralyzed lips.
“It's me… that's my card… I'm me, Fuse Tender First Class Bill…” “You are a liar.” A fingernail uniquely designed for ripping out jugular veins flicked at the card. “This card must be stolen, because First Class Fuse Tender Bil shipped out of here eight days ago. That is what the record says, and records do not lie. You've had it, Bowb.” He depressed a red button labeled MILITARY POLICE, and an alarm bell could be heard ringing angrily in the distance. Bill shuffled his feet, and his eyes rolled, searching for some way to escape. “Hold him there, Tembo,” the sergeant snapped, “I want to get to the bottom of this.” Bill's left-right arm grabbed the edge of the desk, and he couldn't pry it lose. He was still struggling with it when heavy boots thudded up behind him.
“What's up?” a familiar voice growled.
“Impersonation of a non-commissioned officer plus lesser charges that don't matter because the first charge alone calls for electro-arc lobectomy and thirty lashes.” “Oh, sir,” Bill laughed, spinning about and feasting his eyes on a long-loathed figure. “Deathwish Drangi Tell them you know me.” One of the two men was the usual red- hatted, clubbed, gunned, and polished brute in human form. But the other one could only be Deathwish.
“Do you know the prisoner?” the first sergeant asked.
Deathwish squinted, rolling his eyes the length of Bill's body. “I knew a Sixth-class fuse-fingerer named Bill, but both his hands matched. Something very strange here. We'll rough him up a bit in the guardhouse and let you know what he confesses.” “Affirm. But watch out for that left hand. It belongs to a friend of mine.” “Won't lay a finger on it.” “But I am Billl” Bill shouted. “That's me, my card, I can prove it.” “An imposter,” the sergeant said, and pointed to the controls on his desk.
“The records say that First Class Fuse Tender Bil shipped out of here eight days ago. And records don't lie.” ' “Records can't lie, or there would be no order in the universe,” Deathwish said, grinding his club deep into Bill's gut and shoving him toward the door.
“Did those back-ordered thumbscrews come in yet?” he asked the other MP.
It could only have been fatigue that caused Bill to do what he did then.
Fatigue, desperation, and fear combined and overpowered him, for at heart he was a good trooper and had learned to be Brave and Clean and Reverent arid Heterosexual and all the rest. But every man has his breaking point, and Bill had reached his. He had faith in the impartial working of justice-never having learned any better-but it was the thought of torture that bugged him. When his fear-crazed eyes saw the sign on the wall that read LAUNDRY, a synapse closed without conscious awareness on his part, and he leaped forward, his sudden desperate action breaking the grip on his arm. Escapel Behind that flap on the wall must lie a laundry chute with a pile of nice soft sheets and towels at the bottom that would ease his fall. He could get awayl Ignoring the harsh, beastlike cries of the MPs, he dived headfirst through the opening.
He fell about four feet, landed headfirst, and almost brained himself. There was not a chute here but a deep, strong metal laundry basket.
Behind him the MPs beat at the swinging flap, but they could not budge it, since Bill's legs had jammed up behind it and stopped it from swinging open.
“It's locked!” Deathwish cried. “We've been hadl Where does this laundry chute go?” Making the same mistaken assumption as Bill.
“I don't know, I'm a new man here myself,” the other man gasped.
“You'll be new man in the electric chair if we don't find that bowb!” The voices dimmed as the heavy boots thudded away, and Bill stirred. His neck was twisted at an odd angle and hurt, his knees crunched into his chest, and he was half suffocated by the cloth jammed into his face. He tried to straighten his legs and pushed against the metal wall; there was a click as something snapped, and he fell forward as the laundry basket dropped out into the serviceway on the other side of the wall.
“There he is!” a familiarly hateful voice shouted, and Bill staggered away.
The running boots were just behind him when he came to the gravchute and once more dived headfirst, with considerably greater success this time. As the apoplectic MPs sprang-in after him the automatic cycling circuit spaced them all out a good fifteen feet apart. It was a slow, drifting fall, and Bill's vision finally cleared and he looked up and shuddered at the sight of Deathwish's fang-filled physiognomy drifting down behind him.
“Old buddy,” Bill sobbed, clasping his hands prayerfully. “Why are you chasing me?” “Don't buddy me, you Chinger spy. You're not even a good spy-your arms don't match.” As he dropped Deathwish pulled his gun free of the holster and aimed it squarely between Bill's eyes. “Shot while attempting to escape.” “Have mercy!” Bill pleaded.
“Death to all Chingers.” He pulled the trigger.
Chapter 4
The bullet plowed slowly out of the cloud of expanding gas and drifted about two feet toward Bill before the humming gravity field slowed it to a stop. The simple-minded cycling circuit translated the bullet's speed as mass and assumed that another body had entered the gravchute and assigned it a position.
Deathwish's fall slowed until he was fifteen feet behind the bullet, while the other MP also assumed the same relative position behind him. The gap between Bill and his pursuers was now twice as wide, and he took advantage of this and ducked out of the exit at the next level. An open elevator beckoned to him coyly and he was into it and had the door closed before the wildly cursing Deathwish could emerge from the shaft.
After this, escape was simply a matter of muddling his trail. He used different means of transportation at random, and all the time kept fleeing to lower levels as though seeking to escape like a mole by burrowing deep into the ground. It was exhaustion that stopped him finally, dropping him in his tracks, slumped against a wall and panting like a triceratops in heat. Gradually he became aware of his surroundings and realized that he had come lower than he had ever been before. The corridors were gloomier and older, made of steel plates riveted together. Massive pillars, some a hundred feet or more in diameter, broke the smoothness of the walls, great structures that supported the mass of the world-city above. Most of the doors he saw were locked and bolted, hung with elaborate seals. It was darker, too, he realized, as he wearily dragged to his feet and went looking for something to drink: his throat burned like fire. A drink dispenser was let into the wall ahead and was different from most of the ones he was used to in that it had thick steel bars reinforcing the front of the mechanism and was adorned with a large sign that read THIS MACHINE PROTECTED BY YOU-COOK-EM BURGLAR ALARMS ANY ATTEMPT TO BREAK INTO THE MECHANISM WILL RELEASE 100,000 VOLTS THROUGH THE CULPRIT RESPONSIBLE.
He found enough coins in his pocket to buy a double HeroinCola and stepped carefully back out of the range of any sparks while the cup filled.
He felt much better after draining it, until he looked in his wallet then he felt much worse. He had eight imperial bucks to his name, and when they were gone-then what? Self-pity broke through his exhausted and drug- ridden senses, and he wept. He was vaguely aware of occasional passersby but paid them no heed. Not until three men stopped close by and let a fourth sink to the floor.
Bill glanced at them, then looked away; their words coming dimly to his ears made no sense, since he was having afar better time wallowing in lacrimose indulgence.
“Poor old Golph, looks like he's done for.” “That's for sure. He's rattling just about the nicest death rattle I ever heard. Leave him here for the cleaning robots.” “But what about the job? We need four to pull it.” “Let's take a look at deplanned over there.” A heavy boot in Bill's side rolled him over and caught his attention. He blinked up at the circle of men all similar in their tattered clothes, dirty skins, and bearded faces. They were different in size and shape, though they all had one thing in common. None of them carried a floor plan, and they all looked strangely naked without the heavy, pendant volumes.
“Where's your floor plan?” the biggest and hairiest asked, and kicked Bill again.
“Stolen…” he started to sob again.
“Are you a trooper?” “They took away my ID card…” “Got any bucks?” “Gone… all gone… like the dispos-a- steins of yesteryear…” “Then you are one of the deplanned,” the watchers chanted in unison, and helped Bill to his feet. “Now-join with us in 'The Song of the Deplanned,'” and with quavering voices they sang:
