It was a lovely morning. The woods were damp and the air was filled with the smell of green grass. The First Merchants Bank looked intact.
Flojian, who had an affection for commercial institutions, wanted to look inside. “I’ve never seen one in such good condition,” he said.
The forest overgrew the walls on all sides and pushed in through the main entrance and jammed tight an inner set of revolving glass doors. But they found a window whose frame was loose. Quait almost casually ripped it off.
Flojian looked in, saw a long counter, workstations, writing tables, desks, and chairs. Several rooms and two corridors opened off the lobby. He climbed through and descended onto a dirt-covered floor. He was behind the counter. Each of the workstations had the apparently ubiquitous glass sheet and housing that he had seen at the Devil’s Eye.
Although Illyrians thought of banks purely as money lenders, the concept of a centralized institution coordinating the flow of currency was not completely foreign. Flojian had been in the vanguard arguing for the establishment of a League bank and a common monetary system.
He stood now, visualizing how this bank had worked. Customers lined up at the counter to deposit money, which would be duly credited to their accounts, and interest paid. That same money would be loaned out to other customers, probably in confidence. That meant loan officers would be located in the rooms centering on the lobby. These loans would be used to capitalize individual enterprise, and they would be paid back at a fixed rate from the profits. All very neat, and a much more progressive system than the one he’d been faced with, in which opportunities were often not exploited and growth not achieved simply because funds were not available.
Quait came in behind him.
There were eight positions for cashiers. And there appeared to be a ninth one, facing out, at the point where they’d entered. (He didn’t understand that at all.) Each position was furnished with a workspace and a drawer. He opened one and was delighted to see coins. “Marvelous,” he breathed. “Quait, look at these.”
He picked up one of the larger coins, wiped it off, and held it in the sunlight. It was a quarter-dollar, its name engraved on the reverse, under the likeness of an eagle. He smiled appreciatively at it, slipped it into his pocket, and began to scoop out the others.
“Take as many as you can carry,” he advised Quait. “This place is scary,” said Quait, who seemed not to have heard.
“How do you mean?”
Quait opened another drawer. More coins. And more. Every drawer was filled.
“So what’s your point?” asked Flojian.
“These people left so suddenly, they didn’t even take their money with them. How bad could the Plague have been?”
“Bad, I guess. I really have no idea.”
“Remember what Mike said? They just didn’t come to work one day and he never saw them again. Here, they left their money. If we look in the shops, the merchandise is still there. Or what’s left of it. It’s as if they just walked off the Earth.”
“Listen,” said Flojian, “why don’t we talk about this later? I’m running out of pockets.”
Flojian saw movement. Incredibly, a writing table near the front door rose onto three legs and strode forward into the center of the lobby. His hair rose. It looked like a six-foot-tall drawing board with a tapered head connected to a short pliant neck. Two flexible limbs emerged from beneath the table top, and one of them pointed something that looked like a pipe or nozzle in their direction. “Stop what you are doing,” came a voice from directly overhead. “The police are on their way. Do not move unless directed to do so. Weapons will be used if you do not comply with all instructions.”
Quait swore softly. “Lay down your guns and come around the counter.”
Flojian debated his options and glanced at Quait. Was the nozzle a weapon? A gunfight with a machine that could simply walk over and shoot them did not seem promising. He heard Chaka behind him, in the window, say that she didn’t believe this.
He took his gun cautiously from his holster, laid it on a table, and walked out into the lobby. Where he got the shock of his life.
Several piles of skulls and bones were heaped up on the floor at the base of the counter.
Quait came out behind him and caught his breath.
“We didn’t mean any harm,” Flojian said. “We’re just passing through.”
“Police are en route,” said the overhead voice. “Remain where you are until they arrive.”
“What police?” demanded Quait. “There are no police here.”
“Remain where you are until they arrive or I will use force.”
Flojian looked down at the bones. “Some of these people are still waiting.”
Chaka disappeared from the window.
The table stood about ten feet away, swaying lightly on its tripod frame. But the nozzle, which was pointed at a spot midway between him and Quait, never wavered.
“What do you suggest?” he asked Quait, without taking his eyes off the thing.
“It looks a little rusty. The gun might not work.”
“You want to take the chance?”
“We might have to. It’s going to be a long wait for the police.”
Flojian’s heart was pounding. This was ludicrous. He was being held hostage by a writing table. But he was scared all the same. “How do you know the police are coming?” he asked the ceiling.
No response.
“I’m going to try backing away,” said Quait. He shifted his weight. Moved a foot.
“That’s far enough. Take another step and I will fire on you.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Quait said.
“There won’t be another warning.”
“This is crazy,” said Flojian.
Chaka was back. With a rifle. But before she could begin to
bring it to bear, the nozzle moved past Flojian and he heard a sound like sizzling steak. Chaka screamed and dropped out of sight.
Quait spun on his heel and bolted for the window. The nozzle swung back and the sizzle came again. Quait turned into a ragbag, collided with the counter, and went down in a pile.
Flojian screamed at the table, but the voice came again, cool and unmoved: “Stay where you are until the police arrive.”
19
The world kept trying to turn on its side and Chaka didn’t care whether she lived or died. Avila’s anxious face hovered over her. There was a damp cloth on her forehead and her blouse was loosened and Avila was telling her to rest.
The daylight hurt.
“Quait’s awake, too.” The words were only out there, hanging in air, devoid of meaning.
Quait. “Where is he?”
“Still in the bank. The table won’t let them go.” Avila almost managed a grin.
Chaka tried to get up but her head lurched and her stomach fell away. She brought up her breakfast. Avila gave her water to sip and reapplied the cloth, and she began to feel better.
The sun was directly overhead. She’d been out a couple of hours. “What are we going to do?” she asked.
“Actually,” said Avila, “I have an idea. Wait here.”
That was a joke. As if she could go anywhere.
