They were following him again! He looked around wildly as the sidewalk moved swiftly through the cool evening air. Far above, he could see the shimmering, iridescent screen that still stood to protect the New City from the devastating virus attacks which might again strike down from the skies without warning. Far ahead he could see the magnificent “bridge” formed by the sidewalk crossing over to the apartment area, where the thousands who worked in the New City were returning to their homes.
Someone was still following him.
Presently he heard the sound, so close to his ear he jumped, yet so small he could hardly identify it as a human voice. “What was it you found, Harry? What did you discover? Better tell, better tell.”
He saw the rift in the moving sidewalk coming, far ahead, a great, gaping rent in the metal fabric of the swiftly moving escalator, as if a huge blade were slicing it down the middle. Harry’s hand went to his mouth, choking back a scream as the hole moved with incredible rapidity down the center of the strip, swallowing up whole rows of the seats, moving straight toward his own.
He glanced in fright over the side just as the sidewalk moved out onto the “bridge,” and he gasped as he saw the towering canyons of buildings fall far below, saw the seats tumble end over end, heard the sounds of screaming blend into the roar of air by his ears.
Then the rift screamed by him with a demoniac whine and he sank back onto his bench, gasping as the two cloven halves of the strip clanged back together again.
He stared at the people around him on the strip and they stared back at him, mildly, unperturbed, and returned to their evening papers as the strip passed through the first local station on the other side of the “bridge.”
Harry Scott sprang to his feet, moving swiftly across the slower strips for the exit channels. He noted the station stop vaguely, but his only thought now was speed, desperate speed, fear-driven speed to put into action the plan that had suddenly burst in his mind.
He knew that he had reached his limit. He had come to a point beyond which he couldn’t fight alone.
Somehow, Webber had burrowed into his brain, laid his mind open to attacks of nightmare and madness that he could never hope to fight. Facing this alone, he would lose his mind. His only hope was to go for help to the ones he feared only slightly less, the ones who had minds capable of fighting back for him.
He crossed under the moveable sidewalks and boarded the one going back into the heart of the city. Somewhere there, he hoped, he would find the help he needed. Somewhere back in that city were men he had discovered who were men and something more.
Frank Manelli carefully took the blood pressure of the sleeping figure on the bed; then turned to the other man. “He’ll be dead soon,” he snapped. “Another few minutes now is all it’ll take. Just a few more.”
“Absurd. There’s nothing in these stimuli that can kill him.” George Webber sat tense, his eyes fixed on the pale fluctuating screen near the head of the bed.
“His own mind can kill him! He’s on the run now; you’ve broken him loose from his nice safe paranoia. His mind is retreating, running back to some other delusions. It’s escaping to the safety his fantasy people can afford him, these not-men he thinks about.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Dr. Webber, his eyes eager. “Oh, he’s on the run now.”
“But what will he do when he finds there aren’t any ‘not-men’ to save him? What will he do then?”
Webber looked up, frowning and grim. “Then we’ll know what he found behind the dark door that he opened, that’s what.”
“No, you’re wrong! He’ll die. He’ll find nothing and the shock will kill him. My God, Webber, you can’t tamper with a man’s mind like this and hope to save his life! You’re obsessed; you’ve always been obsessed by this impossible search for something in our society, some undiscovered factor to account for the mental illness, the divergent minds, but you can’t kill a man to trace it down!”
“It’s too neat,” said Webber. “He comes back to tell us the truth, and we call him insane. We say he’s paranoid, throw him in restraint, place him in an asylum; and we never know what he found. The truth is too incredible; when we hear it, it must be insanity we’re hearing.”
The big doctor laughed, jabbing his thumb at the screen. “This isn’t insanity we’re seeing. Oh, no, this is the answer we’re following. I won’t stop now. I’ve waited too long for this show.”
“Well, I say stop it while he’s still alive.”
Dr. Webber’s eyes were deadly. “Get out, Frank,” he said softly. “I’m not stopping now.”
His eyes returned to the screen, to the bobbing figure that the psycho-integrator traced on the fluorescent background. Twenty years of search had led him here, and now he knew the end was at hand.
5
It was a wild, nightmarish journey. At every step, Harry’s senses betrayed him: his wrist watch turned into a brilliant blue-green snake that snapped at his wrist; the air was full of snarling creatures that threatened him at every step. But he fought them off, knowing that they would harm him far less than panic would. He had no idea where to hunt, nor whom to try to reach, but he knew they were there in the New City, and somehow he knew they would help him, if only he could find them.
He got off the moving strip as soon as the lights of the center of the city were clear below, and stepped into the self-operated lift that sped down to ground level. From the elevator, he moved on to one of the long, honeycombed concourses, filled with passing shoppers who stared at the colorful, enticing three-dimensional displays.
At one of the intersections ahead, he spotted a visiphone station, and dropped onto the little seat before the screen. There had been a number, if only he could recall it. But as he started to dial, the silvery screen shattered into a thousand sparkling glass chips, showering the floor with crystal and sparks.
Harry cursed, grabbed the hand instrument, and jangled frantically for the operator. Before she could answer, the instrument grew warm in his hand, then hot and soft, like wax. Slowly, it melted and ran down his arm.
He bolted out into the stream of people, trying desperately to draw some comfort from the crowd around him.
He felt utterly alone; he had to contact the not-men who were in the city, warn them, before they spotted him, of the attack he carried with him. If he were leading his pursuer, he could expect no mercy from the ones whose help he sought. He knew the lengths to which they would go to remain undetected in the society around them. Yet he had to find them.
In the distance, he saw a figure waiting, back against one of the show windows. Harry stopped short, ducked into a doorway, and peered out fearfully. Their eyes locked for an instant; then the figure moved on. Harry felt a jolt of horror surge through him. Dr. Webber hunting him in person!
He ducked out of the doorway, turned and ran madly in the opposite direction, searching for an up escalator he could catch. Behind him he heard shots, heard the angry whine of bullets past his ear.
He breathed in great, gasping sobs as he found an almost empty escalator, and bounded up it four steps at a time. Below, he could see Webber coming too, his broad shoulders forcing their way relentlessly through the mill of people.
Panting, Harry reached the top, checked his location against a wall map, and started down the long ramp which led toward the building he had tried to call.
Another shot broke out behind him. The wall alongside powdered away, leaving a gaping hole. On impulse, he leaped into the hole, running through to the rear of the building as the weakened wall swayed and crumbled into a heap of rubble just as Webber reached the place Harry had entered.
Harry breathed a sigh of relief and raced up the stairs of the building to reach a ramp on another level. He turned his eyes toward the tall building at the end of the concourse. There he could hide and relax and try, somehow, to make a contact.
Someone fell into step beside him and took his arm gently but firmly. Harry jerked away, turning terrified eyes to the one who had joined him.
