Victor — that’s the kid — offered him a loan. Henry said he wasn’t that hard up and didn’t need to borrow money from anybody. And do you know what the kid did then?
Hasson blinked. “Sighed with relief?
“No. The kid took some bills out of his wallet and stuffed them into Henry’s shirt pocket — and Henry let them stay there. After saying he wouldn’t take a loan from anybody, he let the money stay in his pocket!”
“He must have wanted the loan, after all.”
“That’s what I’m getting at,” Werry said with something like anguish in his eyes. “He must have wanted a loan, but he said he didn’t — so how did the kid know? If that had been me I’d have believed Henry, and I’d have walked off and he’d probably have been calling me all kinds of bastard from now till Christmas. Or else I’d have got it wrong another way and forced money on him and hurt his feelings, and he’d still have ended up bad-mouthing me from now till Christmas. What I want to know is — how did young Victor know what was expected of him?”
“He’s on an empathin kick,” Hasson suggested.
“Not a chance! None of my …” Werry paused and gave Hasson a solemn stare. “I suppose that was a joke.”
“Not much of a one,” Hasson apologised. “Look, Al, you’re not alone. Some people are naturally simpatico and the rest of us can only envy them. I’d like to be that way myself.”
“I’m not envious — just puzzled.” Werry sat down again and resumed polishing the already glossy toecap of a boot. “Would you like to go to a barbecue tonight?”
Hasson considered the idea and found it attractive. “That sounds good. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a genuine barbecue.”
“You’ll enjoy this one. Buck’s entertaining some visitors from out of town, so you can bet your life there’ll be plenty of good food and good booze. He always lays it on thick.”
Hasson did a mental double-take. “Are we talking about Buck Morlacher?”
“Yeah.” Werry looked up at him with the calm innocence of a child. “Buck throws great parties, you know, and it’s all right — I can bring as many guests as I want.”
There’s something wrong with one of us, Hasson thought incredulously. Al, you’re supposed to be the law around here.
“May’s going too,” Werry said. “The three of us will shoot over to Buck’s place around eight and drink the place dry. Okay?”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Hasson went out into the hail, selected a CG harness from the several that were hanging there, arid checked its power unit. The familiar action evoked a stirring of unease, and the confidence he had felt earlier began to fade. It was possible, after all, that he was rushing his fences, making unreasonable demands on himself. He hesitated for a moment, then slung the harness over his shoulder and left the house. The sun was curving down towards the west, cubes of shadow filled the spaces between the houses and there was a touch of coolness in the air. Hasson estimated there were less than two hours of daylight left, but it was enough for his purpose.
It took him some forty minutes to reach a deserted area where old quarry works had permanently disfigured the ground to such an extent that it was unsuitable for any form of agriculture. An occasional flier could be seen overhead, speeding into or away from Tripletree, but he knew from experience that in such terrain he would be practically invisible to airborne travellers. He scanned the immediate surroundings, seeing everything with rich clarity in the coppery light, and began putting on the CG harness.
It was a standard model, with straps which felt too thin to Hasson’s fingers. In normal flying there was no need for heavy webbing, because the counter-gravity field surrounded both the generator unit and the wearer, affecting them equally and creating no differential such as existed with a parachute or early troop-lifting jetpack. Police harnesses were much heavier and more positive in their connections, but for reasons which were unconnected with the laws of physics. The object was to ensure that no officer became separated from his CG unit during the aerial man-to-man combat which sometimes accompanied an arrest, Hasson was accustomed to heavy-duty straps and buckles, and although the benefit would have been purely psychological he would have preferred using police-style equipment for his crucial venture into the air.
He finished the flight preliminaries and, sensing that any further delay was inadvisable, rotated the master control on the belt panel to the primary position.
There was no perceptible effect. Hasson knew that was because the ground intersected the field in which he was now englobed, disrupting its onion-layer pattern of forced lines. He also knew that he had only to perform a standing jump to make himself airborne, floating in geometrical equilibrium a short distance above the yellowed and dusty grass.
He bent his knees and raised his heels a little, making ready for the snapping release of muscular energy which was all that was needed to promote him from the status of man to that of a minor god. Seconds went by. Malicious, heart-pounding, blood- thundering seconds went by — and Hasson remained as much a part of the earth as any of the rocks which lay all about him. An audio alarm began a muted but steady chirping at his waist to remind him that power was being expended to no good effect. His thighs quivered from the effort of maintaining what should have been a transitory pose. And still he was unable to jump. Sweat prickled out on his forehead and cheeks; his stomach muscles clenched in nausea. And still he was unable to jump…
“To hell with it,” he said, turning back the way he had come, and in that instant one part of his mind — representing the intolerant, unbending facet of Hasson’s character, the side of him which regarded cowardice as the ultimate shame — took unilateral action. What he had intended to be an ordinary stride became an ungainly one-legged leap into the air, and he found himself drifting with nothing under his feet.
Sick, cheated and afraid, he reached for the master control, determined to kill the CG field. Hold on, came the silent shriek. Don’t waste the chance. You’re off the ground now, and you’re all right, and you can survive this. Make the best of it. Fly, man, FLY!
Hasson was unable to believe what was happening to him as he touched the clinoselector, trading off a small fraction of lift to gain horizontal movement, and the ground began to flow underneath him. This was the moment. All he had to do now was advance the master control and he would go swooping up into the metallic sunlight, free of earth and all its petty restrictions, with new horizons unfurling on all sides and nothing above, around or below him but the pureness of wind-rivers…
NO! NO! NEVER!
He killed the CG field and slanted down into the tough grasses, stiff-limbed as a wooden manikin. Green snares gripped his feet. He pitched forward and rolled over, crying aloud as pain lanced through his hip and lower back. The earth took hold of him and he clung to it, waiting for all sensations associated with flight to depart his body.
When he stood up a few minutes later he was able to move freely, and for that he felt grateful. He had learned a valuable lesson at the cost of only a brief period of mental distress and physical agony, and now that he knew for certain that his flying days were over he would be able to make reasonable and realistic plans for the long-term future. As Hasson might have expected, Al Werry came downstairs prepared to go to the evening’s barbecue in full reeve’s uniform, complete with sidearm. Finding Hasson alone in the living room, he grinned ferociously and advanced on him crabwise, performing an elaborate shadow-boxing routine which ended with light pats on Hasson’s cheeks.
“Where’s May?” he whispered. “Have we time for a warmer before we go?”
Hasson nodded towards the kitchen. “She’s in there with two boys who came round to stay with Theo.”
Then we do have time for a quick belt.” Werry went to the sideboard and picked up a bottle. “Is rye okay? Have we educated your taste buds yet?”
“Rye’s fine. With plenty of water.” “That’s my boy.” Werry made up two largish drinks and handed one to Hasson. “How did things go this afternoon? Did you do any cloud-running?”
Hasson sipped his drink before he spoke, releasing that this was the crucial first moment of his new life. “Things went very badly. I did one short hop, and I hated it.”
“That’s only natural. It’ll take a while for you to get used to going up again.”
“No, it’s more serious than that,” Hasson said, keeping his voice level. “I’m finished flying. I won’t be going up again.”
“It’s an overrated pastime, anyway,” Werry said moodily, staring into his drink. “They’ll give you a desk job, won’t they?”
“I imagine so — acrophobia is a recognised occupational disease in the force.”
The cheerful expression returned to Werry’s face. “That’s not so bad, then. Drink up and forget about it.” He was following his own advice when May Carpenter emerged from the kitchen wearing gold boots, slacks and a quilted gold anorak. She looked at Werry and her jaw sagged.
“My God,” she said, “you’re not going dressed up like that!”
Werry looked down at himself. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”
“What’s wrong?” She glanced at Hasson, then turned back to Werry. “Al, is it a costume ball or are you planning to raid the joint?”
Werry made placating gestures with his free hand. “Honey, this isn’t just a social occasion tonight. Buck has some very important visitors — least he thinks they’re important — and he’ll want them to see that he hobnobs with the city reeve.”
May sighed, looking beautifully disconsolate. “Go into the kitchen and say goodnight to Theo.”
“There’s no need,” Werry said. “He never notices whether I’m here or not. Let’s go, folks — it’s crazy to stay here drinking our own booze when we could be out drinking somebody else’s. Isn’t that right, Rob?”
Hasson set his glass down. “Your argument is economically sound.”
“I’m ready,” May said. “Are we flying or driving?”
“Driving.” Werry opened the door to the hail and ushered May through it with exaggerated courtliness. “Didn’t Rob tell you he’s been grounded?”
“No,” May said incuriously, walking towards the front door.
“It’s true — I can’t fly any more,” Hasson said to her retreating back, putting in some practice at making the admission. She appeared not to notice. When they got into the waiting police cruiser Hasson sat alone in the rear seat, feeling lonely in the spacious darkness and wishing he had a woman with him. Almost any woman in the world would have been suitable, as long as she provided companionship. As the car slid silently along dim streets he stared nostalgically at the windows of the houses they passed — mellow, glowing rectangles, some of them framing tableaux of family life, the figures frozen in mid-gesture by the briefness of the glimpses he received. Hasson distracted himself by trying to invent characters and backgrounds for the waxwork people, but he could smell the light flowery perfume May was wearing and his thoughts kept coming back to her.
Weeks of discreet observation had given him no deeper insights into her personality, and he was still unable to see what had brought Werry and her together in the first place. As far as he could determine, Werry provided accommodation and food for May, and sometimes for her mother, and in return she gave some assistance with the running of the household. It was to be presumed that they had a sexual relationship, but there was an absence of any kind of mutual commitment which Hasson found baffling and disturbing.
Is this what life is like an the ground? he wondered. His instincts had led him to reject Werry’s claim that he and May were non- people, merely realistic lay figures imitating the movements of life — but supposing the fantastic hypothesis were true? Insidious and shameful thoughts began to burgeon in Hasson’s mind. Why not throw overboard all cumbersome precepts concerned with honour and truth? Why not consider the situation as a straight- forward problem in logic or mathematics? X is a man restored to health and with an increasing need for a safety valve to release biological pressures. Y is a man who is incapable of feeling love, hate or jealousy. Z is a woman for whom the concept of fidelity has little meaning. The current relationship can be expressed as X +(YZ), but why not do a little algebraic manipulation, the sort of thing that is done all the time, and change it to Y+(XZ)?
Hasson gazed at May’s silhouette, for the moment allowing himself to see her as a love machine, a human engine which would respond in a certain guaranteed way if he pressed the right buttons — then a rising tide of self-disgust obliterated all the symbols from his mind. Al Werry was a human being, not a mathematical abstraction, and if the things he said about himself were true it meant that he had gained very little from life, and for that reason should be protected rather than plundered. Equally, May was a human being and if she appeared two-dimensional to him the fault had to lie in his inability to perceive depth.
The car had been climbing a gentle hill on the western outskirts of Tripletree and now it swung on to a private road which tunnelled through banks of rhododendrons and other shrubs which Hasson was unable to name. After a few seconds of utter darkness it emerged on a flat summit where a rambling floodlit house presided over a glittering view of the city. Tripletree itself was a spilled hoard of jewellery, a central mound of every kind and colour of precious stone surrounded by outflung necklets of diamond and topaz. The aerial highways hung over it in pastel brilliance, each generously seeded with the lights of night-time fliers, and above them a few first magnitude stars pierced the canopy of radiance with their own patient lustre. Fairy lanterns had been lit on a patio at the side of the house, there was the sound of music and thronging figures surrounded a column of smoke from what appeared to be a huge charcoal grill.
“We must have come to the wrong place,” Hasson said ironically.
“No, this is definitely Buck’s house,” Werry replied, bringing the car to a halt. “I ought to know my way around Tripletree by this time.”
