"Was that you, in the chimney?" she asked.
He nodded sheepishly. "Yes."
She shook her head wonderingly. "What a voice you've got. And how did you get so messed up?"
"Spencer's dead," Thomas said.
"He is? You look like a cheap crucifix, all bloody and your hair sticking up like that."
Thomas felt nauseated. He turned to Gladhand. "Sir, I was thinking—the police believe I have the Pelias android's memory bank. Maybe we could accomplish something in the way of a bluff? Pretend to have it, you know."
"Hmm. It might be a good thing to fall back on," Gladhand admitted, scratching his beard. "Everything's happening so damned fast."
Thomas nodded sympathetically. "What would an android's memory bank look like, anyway? A metal box with wires sticking out all over?"
Gladhand chuckled. "Oh no," he said. "They're much more sophisticated than that. The new ones use a crystal, but ten years ago it would have been a length of wire, about eight centimeters long."
"Good God!" Thomas gasped. "I did have it!"
"What?" Gladhand snapped, suddenly alert. "Where is it?"
"I repaired my sandal with it. And then my sandals were given to Ben Corwin. I suppose he's still wearing them."
"We've got to find it and destroy it," Gladhand said. "First thing in the morning, Jeff, you locate Corwin, take the wire from him and melt it immediately. It's soft metal; a match should do the trick."
"Wouldn't it be pretty well wrecked already?" Thomas asked. "Tied in a knot, covered with mud…"
The theatre manager shook his bald head. "No. The memories are coded on the very molecules. Melting it is the only way to break them down."
"I have to go powder my nose," Pat said. "I'll be back in a minute." She left the room.
"Then that's what this week-long 'coma' is," Lambert said. "The absence of that wire."
"Right," Gladhand said. "And even if the android we blew up last week is too messed up to use, they have several new Peliases brewing, into whose padmus they could slip that memory bank. We must not let that wire fall into Tabasco's hands. Of course, who'd think of looking for it on the sandal of the most disreputable beggar in the city?"
"That's true," Thomas said. "They aren't likely to look there."
"Nonetheless, I—" Gladhand turned pale. "Jeff! Get Pat! Find her and hold her! Lambert, you too. Go/" The two young men leaped out of their chairs for the second time that night and ran out of the room.
"Why?" Thomas asked, suddenly worried. "Is she in any danger?"
"Hah! If I catch her she is! Where's my mind tonight?" Gladhand pounded his forehead. "Why don't I notice things when they happen?"
"What are you talking about?"
Gladhand turned on him. "Have you ever observed Pat sniffling and sneezing and wiping her nose? Right, so have I. Tonight she burst in here, panicked by your screaming, brown powder all over her blouse. Deduction: the powder was snoose. Who uses snoose? Besides poor Ben Corwin, I mean?"
"Androids," Thomas said reluctantly. "Androids use it."
"Pre-cisely. Pat, my boy, is an android—and I should be shot for not figuring it out days ago."
Jeff dashed back into the room, panting. "She's gone, sir. Skooney saw her leave by the front door, and Lambert and I searched up and down the street for her—no luck. The androids Rufus said had the place staked out? Not a sign of them. There's nobody around."
"Rufus," Gladhand rasped, "put on a shirt. You're all three to go out immediately and find Ben Corwin before Pat and her android brothers do. Now! I'll send some more people out after you to help. It's a warm night, Rufe—forget the shirt."
Lambert and Jeff hoisted Thomas to his feet, and the three of them raced down the hall, through the lobby and out into the night.
They paused on the sidewalk. "Corwin likes to sleep in doorways and on benches," Jeff said. "Look in places like that. Ask other derelicts, bribe them, rough them up if you have to, but find out if they know where he is. Let's split up. I'll take east. Good luck."
Running south on the Broadway sidewalk, Thomas peered into every doorway he passed and received horrified stares from other citizens. Spying two hunched figures in the dimness of a barber shop entry way, he sprinted up to them.
"Oh Lord," exclaimed one of them, a frail old man with no teeth, "it's the Angel of Death."
"I'll let you live," Thomas panted, "if you tell me where Ben Corwin is."
"He went by here, headin' south, few hours ago," said the other squatter, a stout woman in a burlap sack.
Thomas pounded onward, shoving people aside in his haste, until he saw, a block ahead, three androids behaving in the same way. They're on Corwin's track, too, he realized; and he admitted to himself now that Gladhand was right—Pat must really be an android. I'm the one who should have caught on, he thought bitterly. I was in love with her.
He crossed the street and strode on as quickly as he could without drawing the attention of the androids. At the Third Street intersection, he decided to head west. I'll lose the androids that way, he thought, and who knows? this may be the direction Corwin took.
The stretch of Third Street was not as well illuminated as Broadway, and he had to look carefully into each alley and doorway. He passed a number of rough-looking types, and several times expected trouble; but they all seemed fearful of this wild-eyed, gaunt, blood-spattered creature who paused only long enough to ask them if they'd seen Ben Corwin before disappearing once again into the night.
Twice he had to hide while android police ran past him.
He followed Third to Flower, which he took north. His legs were trembling, his mouth had a dry, brassy taste and his eyes had difficulty in focusing. He was almost too exhausted to continue and feared that if he didn't find the derelict soon, somebody would have to come find him. Yet he didn't want to rest; he had things in his mind waiting for his attention, things he didn't want to face.
Just short of the point where Flower ended at First Street, Thomas glanced into a narrow passageway and saw a stocky figure sitting complacently against the wall. "Excuse me," Thomas said hoarsely, shambling up to the man, "do you know where I can find Ben Corwin?"
The old man looked up. "Maybe I do," he said, "and maybe I don't. You aren't the first one to ask me that tonight, neither. A cop was just here."
"Oh yeah?" Wow, they're quick, Thomas thought.
"Yeah. I told him nothing. They're the abominations of Moloch, them cops. Most sinful things in this whole sinful city. I'll deal with 'em real soon. Would you like a bit of scotch, son? You're not looking real good."
Thomas accepted the proffered bottle gratefully and took a deep swallow of the fiery liquor. "I know you," he said as he handed it back. "You're the… Lord of Wrath. You gave me some scotch to clean my wounds with, a week ago."
"Well damn my eyes," said the old man wonderingly. "It's the young monk. What have they done to you now?"
"They beat me up and shoved me down a chimney," Thomas told him. "But if I can find Ben Corwin I'll be okay."
"Son," said the Lord of Wrath warmly, "you've come to the right man. I saw Corwin not 20 minutes gone, and he told me he's gonna spend the night on the Malk Cigars billboard on Fremont Avenue. That's two blocks to your left, on First here. You can't miss it."
Thomas shook the old man's hand. "Thank you," he said.
"Anything for a friend," the man answered. "Hey, if you get in any jams—"
"I'll tell them you're a buddy of mine."
"Right."
It was a huge painting, lit now only by the moon, of a dark-haired young man puffing with exaggerated relish on an immense cigar. A round hole was cut in the man's mouth, and Thomas suspected that once a machine had been set behind the billboard to send puffs of smoke out through the hole.