"They drove me over, though the station was only two blocks away. There, I surrendered my wallet, which they said they'd keep safe for me. I was able to determine on handing it over that my money was still in it. I hoped it would stay there. I was conducted back to a cell then and locked up. I might have made a break on the way over, or even there in the station before they locked me up. But I was still disorganized, and I wanted a little time to think.
"So all I did was watch which key it was on his chain that my jailer used to lock my cell. As he turned away, I already had hold of it with my mind. I teleported it into my right hand and put it in my pocket. I went and sat down on my bunk. I'd been in better jails and I'd been in worse. At least I knew where this one was located in relationship to everything else in the area, from my walk the other night. There was no point in escaping unless you knew where you were going and what you were going to do.
"After perhaps twenty minutes I had decided what to do. So I got up, unlocked the door, stepped out, and closed it behind me. I passed a small room from within which I heard sounds of typing. No need to look for trouble. I continued on.
"There were two cops up front. One was drinking coffee and the other was talking to someone on the telephone me. I backed up beyond the doorframe and waited for the sound of the phone being cradled. The safe wherein they'd stowed my wallet was an old one, of a sort Bentley'd taught me to open in the dark.
"I moved in quickly whcn I heard the telephone drop into place. It took one calculated punch each to render the cops unconscious. Then I propped them in their chairs to look as if they were dozing. The safe was old and crochety and started taking longer than I'd thought it would. I didn't want to give it another five or ten minutes, though, so I braced it with a foot and a hand and started pulling. I wasn't able to tear the door off, but I buckled it enough to be able to reach inside and get my wallet. I pocketed it then and walked out, taking a right on Washington Avenue.
"I continued along this until I came to the road to Hyde Park, where I turned and started to climb. I knew that it would eventually pass through a part of the National Forest. I could find myself a good place to hide out there before morning. And I did."
Croyd rose, stretched, returned to the cooler, came back with two beers. He set one before Hannah. He backhanded a moth.
"End of story," he said, "except for an Indian ace I met who could change the patterns on rugs into whatever was selling best, just by running his hands over them. I got away. Now can I buy you a drink?"
"Yes, now I'm thirsty," she said, reaching out and holding the bottle as he opened it. "But how did you get out of town?"
"I lived on roots and people's picnic remains for over a week," he said. "Then, with a short beard and wearing a pair of sunglasses I'd found, I took a chance and hiked back to town and bought a load of food and took it back to the forest with me. Lived on that until I got sleepy. Sacked out then in a rocky shelter I'd set up. When I woke a couple of weeks later I was a slim blond guy with the ability to shout at ultrasonic levels and knock people out or just make them uncomfortable, depending on how high I raised my voice and for how long. I went down to town then, got a ride out to Lamy, took a train back to New York."
"And Rudo?" she asked, sipping the beer. "Did you ever see Pan Rudo again?"
"Yes," he said. "Looked him up when I got to town. Got into his apartment building one day and picked the lock to his pad, waited there for him."
"And?"
"Of course, he didn't recognize me. He looked startled when he saw me, but he just said, 'If this is a robbery, take whatever you want. I don't need any trouble.'
"I caught hold of his shirtfront and pulled him forward till his face was within an inch of my own. At first I'd planned to kill him, but then I decided it just wasn't worth it. Hell, maybe he was even helping some of his patients.
"'It's me, Croyd Crenson,' I said, and he must have thought I was going to kill him because he went pale as a bone. Then, 'Just tell me why you did it,' I said. 'Why'd you set me up?'
"I guess he figured he had nothing to lose if he was going to die. His lip curled then, and he said, 'You're genetic garbage, you and all of the others! I hate what you have done to the race! I wanted to disgrace the lot of you - publicly, seriously! You got lucky, though.'
"I hit him then, in the mouth, twice, and I split his lip. I threw him down on his couch and used my handkerchief to wipe the blood off my hand. But it kept coming. I realized then that I'd cut a knuckle on his tooth.
"'I'm not going to kill you now,' I told him. 'But one of these days - Who knows?'
"I left then, and when I checked a bit later I discovered that he'd moved out. And that is the story of something that might have hurt me and led to a lot of bad will toward jokers and aces in general, what with all the HUAC paranoia that was in the air."
"Thanks," she said, taking a swallow and shutting down her recorder.
She cased the recorder and placed it in her shoulderbag, along with the clipboard.
"So much for business," Croyd said. "How's about having dinner with me?"
She slung the bag over her shoulder and moved toward the door.
"Sorry," she said. "I've got to organize a lot of notes tonight, and I'll be leaving fairly early in the morning."
"You prejudiced against guys with tails?" he said.
She removed a collapsible umbrella from her bag and opened it. She smiled then.
"No, Croyd," she said. "But I'll be keeping mine to myself. Good evening," and she turned and walked off into the shadows and the drizzle.
Croyd stood in the doorway, watching until she was out of sight. Then he turned back to the empty bar.
"Play it, Sam," he said softly, and racks of glasses began to sing. A horde of flies chose that moment to swarm about him. Cursing, he swatted at them. Their buzzing took on the sounds of a tune.
The Ashes of Memory
6
"I know you. You're Hannah."
The quiet voice spoke in the dark. Hannah turned. In the dim glow of the lamps hung from the porch's ceiling, she could see Quasiman's eyes looking at her. "Hi. You came hack, huh?"
"Yeah. Sorry." He looked pained, frowning as if he had a migraine. "Hannah, it's so damned hard keeping it all together. Remembering you, remembering what we're doing and who's involved and why ... I write every day, and I keep looking at it when I forget, but ..."
"Don't apologize. I know you carft help it. Where were you?"
The hunchback shook his head. "I don't know. I heard a gunshot, and I was frightened. I saw you, but ... but ..." His shoulders sagged. His mouth twisted as his lips pressed together. "I've forgotten it. Already. The whole thing's gone now, and I don't know what it was or what it meant, but it was important. Damn it ..."
Quasiman went silent. He stepped out onto the rude wooden planks Where Hannah leaned against the railing, looking out to where Faneuil's grave lay invisible in the jungle night. Gently, as if he didn't want his nearness to trouble her, he halted several feet away. The gesture, so caring and self-effacing, touched her. She found herself smiling at the joker; he gave her a tentative smile in return. "Where's ... ?" Quasiman asked.