and it's from Madison they buy their generators, water purifiers, truck engines, whatever. Didn't you know?'
'I know my wife and son weren't involved.'
'You're starting to bore me, Dallen. How did you get to Cordele? By car?'
'I flew.'
'That's a pity — if you'd come by car we'd have taken it and let you walk back. A flier is no use to us though, so I guess you can take it away as soon as you've thawed out.'
It was only then that Dallen realised he had been expecting imprisonment or worse. 'You're letting me go?'
Sanko looked exasperated. 'Maybe you expected to be cooked and eaten.'
'No, but with what I know about Beaumont…' Dallen paused, deciding not to make a case for his detention.
'Try a little experiment,' Sanko said, taking Mien's sidearm and dropping it into his own pocket. 'When you get back to Madison make out a report saying you heard some non-existent people claiming to have ended the non-existence of some other non-existent people. I'd like to hear what sort of reaction you get.'
It was late afternoon when Dallen reached the city. He circled in low over the south-western districts, over Scottish Hill and the immaculate, hermetically sealed suburbs which would later begin to glow in a simulation of life as the lights came on in a thousand empty streets. The tall buildings of the city centre, projecting above vivid toyland greenery, were washed with sunlight and looked impossibly clean, idyllic. A visitor winging down from space might have concluded that here was a community of contented, rational beings leading well-regulated lives — but Dallen's mood was one of disaffection as he picked out the pastel geometries of the City Hall.
His reckless dash to Cordele had, as well as providing vital information, jotted him out of grief-dominated patterns of behaviour, freed him from the emotional conviction that a craving for justice and revenge would, if strongly enough felt, bring about its own ends. He had been reminded that there was no even-handed arbiter, and that the most successful hunters were those who stalked their prey with coldness and calculation.
His ship hovered for a moment, then began its purposeful descent, its shadow a drifting prismatic blur which advanced and retreated according to the lie of the land beneath.
Chapter 9
Gerald Mathieu stood at the window of his office and watched the Bureau patrol ship slant down across the sky for a landing at Madison's inner field. The notion that Carry Dallen might be at the flying controls entered his mind, but he dismissed it and walked back to his desk. Dallen's prolonged absence from the City Hall had been welcome to Mathieu as a breathing space, but it was making him obsessive, giving his subconscious mind too much time to elaborate on the image of a dark superhuman Nemesis.
He had survived his encounter with Dallen immediately after the incident… woman and child, crumpling, fatting, idiot eyes shining… but the circumstances had been exceptional and had not quite dispelled his fear of the other man's intuitive power. Since then that fear had been growing, week by week, and now the prospect of eventually having to face Dallen again ranked with all the other great phobias of his life. There was the dread of venturing into infinite black space, of living in a wafer-thin shell of alien metal, of being exposed as a criminal, of ever having — even once — to exist for a full day without felicitin. And now there was the next meeting with Carry Dallen…
Mathieu sat down at his desk and tried to concentrate on the backlog of work. The job of mayor or deputy in an artificial city bore little resemblance to that traditionally associated with the tides. It was more akin to being executive officer for a very large theme park, and Mathieu's responsibilities ranged from public relations and tourist information to recruitment and purchasing. Even with extensive electronic assistance the job was demanding, especially as the city's annual revenue was in a steady decline, Mathieu had deferred for several days decisions about reducing engineering budgets, but on his way to the office that morning had promised himself good progress. It would be a sign that he was still functioning well, that a single unlucky accident… woman and child crumpling, going down before him, minds blown away… was not going to ruin his entire career.
He called up a set of cost analysis graphs on the desk's main screen and strove to link the varicoloured blocks and lines to external reality. Silent minutes went by. The graphs shimmered on the surface of his eyes, tantalising him by refusing to be drawn into his head. He was beginning to feel a mild panic when the internal communicator chimed and Mayor Bryce-land's features appeared at the projection focus, eyes blindly questing. Taking only a second to smooth down his jacket, Mathieu accepted the call, making himself visible at the caller's terminal.
'Let's have a talk about the conference,' Bryceland said at once. 'What have you got so far in the way of a programme?'
Mathieu was baffled for a moment, then it dawned on him that Bryceland was referring to a conference of museum city managers which Madison was scheduled to host in the coming November. 'I haven't had a chance to look at it yet, Frank,' he said. 'Perhaps next week…'
'Next week!' Bryceland's puffy countenance registered dismay. 'I suppose you're aware how important this conference is?'
'Yes. I'm also aware it's five months away.'
'Five months is no time at all,' Bryceland grumbled. 'Specially the way you're working these days.'
'Meaning?'
'Try to figure it out for yourself.' Bryceland's image dissolved into transient specks of light, ending the conversation.
'Jesus Christ!' Mathieu leaped to his feet, fists clenched, angry and afraid at the same time. He walked around the office and paused at his full-length mirror for reassurance. The blond-haired figure gazing at him from the safety of that other office, the one in the looking-glass world, appeared exactly as it should — tall, young, athletic, successful, immaculate. But were the eyes beginning to show signs of strain? Was there a slight hunching of the shoulders which indicated harmful tensions?
Mathieu raised one hand to touch the rose-petal perfection of his white collar, but the figure in the mirror betrayed him. It guided the hand to the inner pocket of his jacket, and found himself holding the gold pen, the one which dispensed a magical ink. He hesitated, trembling on the edge. It was regarded as medically impossible for anyone to kick the felicitin habit unaided, but since the day of the incident… woman and child, crumpling, unique human flames guttering… he had been holding off on the fixes until after office hours. The motive had been self- defence, the plan to avoid dangerous confidence, but five weeks had gone by and his position had to be growing more secure with each passing hour. And there might be a greater hazard in the displaying of personality changes dating back to the precise day of the crime… woman and child, crumpling, falling…
He clicked the pen's changeover mechanism and quickly drew the point across his tongue.
As he was returning the gold cylinder to his pocket he felt a twinge of curiosity about the exact amount of felicitin left in its reservoir. There was no anxiety involved, no urgency, simply a mild desire to confirm that all was well. He raised the pen to his eye and rotated it until the light from the window was caught in an integral glass capillary. The shock was almost physical, dragging his mouth out of shape, causing him to take a step backwards.
There was nearer a week's supply, where there should have been enough for a month.
Along with the confirmation that he had been using too much of the drug came the first surge of induced reassurance, blessed certainty that he could handle any difficult situation which arose. Felicitin, as he had noted before, worked fast.
The main problem to be considered was that his supplier was not due in from the west coast for another two weeks, and the solution was straightforward — he would cook up a good reason and make a special flight to Los Angeles. QED. Everything would be fine. In fact, now that he thought about it constructively, discovering that his drug stock was low was one of the best things mat had ever happened to him. The pen dispenser was a rich man's toy — making it far too easy to take an over-generous dose — so from next week onwards he was going to use microcaps. That system was much better. It would give him a foolproof method of monitoring his consumption, would also save him a lot of money, and would also be a major step towards the day when he would
