detour to opulent New River, implying another pickup there, and they agreed.
The cab came in five minutes.
It shot up unusual side roads. Two or three one-way systems had been provisionally dualized. Robot police were everywhere. I was depressed and awed by the way in which the city had been demoralized. Relief fought with panic inside me. The plan might be in ruins, too, but even so, with all this going on, who would be looking out for a stray silver-skinned man?
As we came around from Racine and then up through a previously pedestrians-only subway, and the New River appeared, I caught my breath. Davideed, the studier of silt, could have had a field day here. It looked as if someone had turned the river over with an enormous spatula. Shining icy mud lay in big curls against the banks and on the street, and spattered the fronts of the buildings. But every block was standing. We went by Clovis’s block. Not a brick was out of place, and though some of the air-conditioning boxes on the ground gallery looked askew, none of the upper ones had shifted.
“I think the river provided a pressure outlet,” Silver said.
“He must be safe, then.”
He had to be. As my mother had to be. There wasn’t time to investigate or to worry any further.
The cab spun around the city like a piece of flotsam, catching in jams, getting out of them, for thirty-five minutes before it emerged onto the highway. Then we went slowly for another ten, since, for the few cars trying to get out, hundreds of others were trying to get in. People had come from everywhere, looking for relations and friends in the aftermath, or to sightsee. The local news channel would have carried the news of the quake and excitement, adding the normal useless proviso: Please keep out, which no one, obviously, would attend.
The taxi had a glass-faced clock.
“It’s almost ten to twelve. We’re not going to make it,” I said.
We had come this way a century ago, the road clear save for a purple storm brewing, I with a silver nail through my heart, afraid to speak to him or keep silent.
“Jane, if a man comes over in a VLO and lands the thing, I think you can assume he’ll maybe hang about for a few minutes.”
The cab suddenly detoured on to a side turning.
“Where’s it going?”
“Straight on to route eighty-three, at a guess.”
“How do you know?”
“My city geography program extends several miles beyond the outskirts. Do you realize, in a new city, I’ll be as lost as you will?” A moment later, he said gently to me, “Jane, look.”
I looked out of the window, and far away over the snow-sheeted lines of the land, across the gash of the highway, poised at the topmost mouth of the Canyon, where the flyer air lines glinted like golden cotton, other vertical lines of glitter went up. And in the sky there was a tiny cloud, cool, blue and unmoving. Chez Stratos, that ridiculous house, was still standing, still intact.
Something broke and ebbed away inside me.
“Oh, Silver. After all, I’m so glad.”
“I know.”
A minute more and we plunged down a slope to the ragged ravine that leads into the Fall Side of the Canyon. The cab, not intended to risk its treads, stopped.
It took every coin and bill we had, to pay it the balance. But, in a way, that was ethical.
Soon we were walking down between walls of the frozen earth, he carrying the bags, the guitar, I, the umbrella, to the place where the steps are cut.
The Canyon, which had been created by an ancient quake prior even to the Asteroid, hadn’t been touched by the new one. At the bottom, between the tumbled blocks that give this end its name and close it on three sides, there was a ballroom floor of smooth treeless, rockless snow, hard and bluish as a sort of aluminum. A lovely place for a VLO landing. Secretive, and negotiable only in such a way, or on foot.
The last time on the clock had read as six minutes past noon.
“Have we missed it?” I asked. But I smiled at myself. We would have seen it going over if we had, we had been close enough.
“Oh, I should think so.”
It was very very cold in the Fall. It was like standing in the bowl of a metal spoon. Strange echoes came and whispers went. The growl of the plane, when it arrived, would be deafening.
“He is, of course, late,” I said.
“Five minutes.”
“Eight minutes. What do we do if he doesn’t come?”
“You’ll curse him. I’ll carry you back to the city.”
“You’ll what?”
“Carry you. The whole twenty, thirty miles. Running at eighty miles an hour all the way, if you like. The highway is comparatively flat.”
I laughed, and my laugh rang around the silver spoon.
“If he doesn’t, I dare you to.”
“No dare. It’s easy.”
“And terribly inconspicuous.”
And then I heard the plane.
“Oh, Silver. Isn’t it wonderful? It’s going to work.”
I stared into the sky, but all I saw was its lavender-blue wintryness.
“Can you see the plane, Silver?”
“No,” he said, “I can’t. And the reason for that is, I think, that there isn’t one. The Canyon sides are distorting some other sound.”
“Then what?”
“A car. Yes, listen. Brakes.”
“Why would a car stop here?”
“Clovis?”
“Then something has gone wrong.”
I can only describe the feeling this way: It was as though someone loosened a valve in each of my limbs simultaneously, and some precious vital juice ran out of me. I felt it go with an actual physical ache, sickening and final. My lips were frozen, my tongue was wood, but I managed to make them move. “Silver… The rocks behind us. I can’t get by them, but you can. You can run over them, jump them, and go down the other side. And up the Canyon. I won’t come because, if you carry me, it would have to slow you, make it that much more awkward. Because the surface—isn’t flat. You said, a flat surface.”
He turned and looked at me. His face was attentive, the eyes flattening out, cold gold-red fires.
“It wouldn’t be so easy over rocks, no. Much, much slower.”
“You’ll need to be fast.”
“What is it?”
“It’s—I don’t know. But I know you have to run. Now, Silver.”
“Not without you.”
“They can’t do anything to me.”
“They can do everything to you. You’re no longer coded. If someone wants me, and I’m no longer here.”
It came to me he knew what I meant before even I knew it. He had always known then, better than I, that they—that they—
“I don’t care, Silver. Please, please run away.”
He didn’t move, except he turned to face the way we had come, and I, helpless, powerless, turned to do the same. As we did so, he said, “And anyway, my love, they’d have, I think, some means of stopping me from getting very far.”
They. Five figures were coming down the steps onto the ballroom floor. They all wore fur coats, fur hats. They looked like bears. They were funny.
