"Excuse me?"
The gardener had come up behind Hawkes without his having noticed. The ambassador turned to him, saying, "Nothing. Just talking to myself."
"Hey, do what you want. I don't care what you were doin'. I just want to get through."
Hawkes noted the three huge bags the man was dragging. Noting also that he could barely move them all, the ambassador offered, "Can I help you?"
The gardener's eyes narrowed. "How much?"
"Nothing. I came out for a walk . . . needed to stretch a little. You take two, give me one, and I'll help you." Hawkes stared into the gardener's overly suspicious eyes, and then added, "People do that where I come from." As the man continued to debate accepting, the ambassador offered, "You'll owe me a favor. You can decide how to repay it."
Even with that, it took the man a few more seconds to make up his mind. Finally, however, he decided he could trust the ambassador with one of his bags of dead twigs and leaves.
Probably figures I'm too old to get away from him if I decide to make a break for it, thought Hawkes grimly.
As the pair moved down into the lower levels, the ambassador tried to engage the gardener in conversation. The farther they went, however, the less Hawkes felt like talking. Every level down seemed to grow grimmer. Each was older, less attractive. It was easily evident that the factory levels were not maintained nearly as well as the Above, a fact that saddened the ambassador to the point where he could not find it within himself to speak.
Noticing the difference in Hawkes as they trudged down to Recycle, the official bottommost depth of the colony, the gardener stopped to dig out his work release. As he did so, he told the ambassador, "You ain't never skipped down this far—got it?"
"Yes," admitted Hawkes, an overwhelming sadness choking his voice. "You've got that one."
The gardener stood back for a moment while the door to Recycle scanned his release card. His hands on his hips, he said, "You ain't never even been in red clay before. You're greenside, ain't ya?" When the ambassador nodded, the gardener suddenly reached out his hand toward Hawkes. Gently patting the ambassador's shoulder with sad understanding, he told him simply, "It's okay."
And then the man turned and grabbed up his three bags, dragging them in past the opening Recycle door. Hawkes caught a glimpse of its innards as the gardener entered: all tubes and steam and humming machinery. He had just started to turn away when the man stopped on the other side of the door. As it began its backward slide to lock again, the gardener freed one hand long enough to give the ambassador a short salute. Then, allowing the tiniest grin to cross his face, he said, "Hey, don't forget. I owe you one."
The door clicked shut, and once again Hawkes was surrounded with nothing more than the silent door and the black tunnel walls leading away from it. The ambassador allowed himself a small shudder, surprised at how lonely the narrow cavern felt once he was alone. But then he was not alone for long.
The man who had followed him from the Above was still behind him. He had thought to make his move in the garden, but Hawkes had started his conversation with the gardener, forcing him to wait.
But, thought the silent figure, watching the ambassador from the shadows, there's no one around now.
With practiced silence, he slid his knife free of its sheath and moved out into the light.
18
THE ASSASSIN BOLTED our OF THE SHADOWS IN A RUSH, moving in a quick, straight line for Hawkes's back. Closing in, he screamed in a maddened voice, "Die, Eart'hog, die!"
The ambassador spun around, shocked at the sudden noise. Luckily instinct prevailed. Before he knew it, Hawkes had raised his arm just enough to lodge it under his attacker's, his wrist banging up against the descending knife arm. The two-sided blade stopped half an inch from Hawkes's head as the would-be assassin stumbled into him.
The force of the blow sent both of them reeling onto the tunnel floor, knocking the assailant's weapon from his hand. Both men grasped for it. Worry ran through the ambassador's mind. His opponent was younger by at least thirty years. He was a bigger man, and stronger.
Shoving fear aside, Hawkes replaced it with determination, and steeled himself as he crawled, trying to keep his foe from regaining his blade. The two grappled with each other every inch of the way—wrestling clumsily, striking at each other with awkward, flailing blows—each only trying to slow the other down as they crawled across the black floor, struggling to reach the lost knife.
Hawkes's mind pounded with confused questions as he fought his way forward.
Who wants me dead now? Is he from the same source as the attacks on Earth, or am I in someone else's sights now? There's big money at work here, just to kill one man.
No, he reminded himself. Not just to kill me. Nobody cares that much about me.
Heat coursed through Hawkes's body. He fanned his rage, feeling himself gaining on his attacker with each angry thought.
Me—I'm nothing. It's enslaving this planet that someone wants. It's my blood and the blood of a million others. A billion. A trillion—not that numbers matter. Not to them.
Hawkes felt his fingers balling. . . .
Kill off everyone—what does it matter? Ignite the universe just to light one of their cigars . . .
"No!"
The ambassador's fist came down in the small of his attacker's back. Forgetting the knife, Hawkes slammed his fist into the small of his attacker's back again and again. As the other man kept groping for the weapon, the ambassador dug the fingers of his left hand into his foe's side, twisting the flesh he found. His right caught up the man's longish brown hair and wrenched back with all his might, bringing a wailing scream from his would-be assassin's lips. As
