Pain fountained up, drowning him.
This time when he woke, he felt much better. The bleeding had stopped, and the healing had already begun. He knew, somehow, that the wound was not as dangerous to him as it would have been to the stranger he had killed. In three days, his leg would be knit. There would be no trace of the wound, no limp. For the moment there was still pain, though it was bearable and growing smaller all the time.
The Puppet packed up the medkit and slipped it into his pack. Cautiously, he grabbed the railing and pulled himself up. Hopping on his good leg, he went downstairs. By the time he reached the back porch, he was able to drag the wounded leg, using it for minimum support while his good leg did most of the work. He lurched down the slope, into the orchard, came out of the far end of the trees to a high bank that looked down on a small, winding creek. Walking along the bank, he found the place where rainwater had cut a path into the steep shelf. He worked his way halfway down the thirty-foot drop, then started across the face of the embankment, grasping at roots and stones until he came to the mouth of the cave. Using his arms to gain leverage, he lifted his right leg in, dragged the left over the lip. For a time, he laid in the mouth of the cave, pulling huge lungfuls of air deep into his chest, spitting it out in shuddering exhalations.
When he felt he could move again, he crawled further into the cave until he came to the luggage that was supposed to be waiting for him. He did not know how this had been arranged or for what purpose, but he accepted it without question. There were three trunks of equal size, equal coloring, all plain and unadorned. He leaned against one of these and stared out of the cave at the small patch of foggy sky that was visible. Now, soon, he would fall asleep. He could not have remained awake had he wanted to. For two weeks, he would rest in a comatose state. His metabolism would drop to such a point that almost no air, water, or caloric intake would be necessary. He would waken five pounds lighter, thirsty, but ready for the next stage of the operation.
At the moment, though, he could not remember what that stage was. Or who he was. All he could remember was a corpse lying on a bedroom floor, its face all confused, a little tunnel drilled through its jaw.
Suddenly, he knew he was going to be sick. He crawled back to the mouth of the cave and hung his head over the lip. When he was done, he dragged himself back to the luggage and tried to find the answers to some questions which had just begun to plague him.
Instead, he fell asleep.
CHAPTER 2
Two weeks later, he rose out of deepest blackness through blending shades of purple and blue. As he ascended like a diver from the ocean bottom, he kept searching for something that had been lost, though the loss was indefinable, illusive. As the blue became nearly white, he remembered that there should be a Fourth of July rocket sparking in his leg, sending pinwheel bursts of color shooting upwards into his head. Someone had stolen the rocket, or perhaps it had burned out. He was trying to think what should be done about it when the soft whiteness in his skull turned into little, busy fingers that pried open his eyelids.
He looked up at a jumble of rocks and earth and was seized with panic that he had been prematurely interred. He came quickly to his feet, bashed his head solidly against the low ceiling, and sat down again A cave Then it all came back: the Victorian house, breaking in, killing It was two weeks later, and he was ready for the next step of the plan. Very good.
He examined his leg. There was a faint blue-brown discoloration where a gaping, pulsing hole should have been. Nothing more. He flexed his thigh muscles, expecting an eruption of agony. There was none. Everything checked out perfectly. Except
Except that he had killed a man he did not even know. Except that he did not know who he was. Or where he was from. Or what he might do next. For a moment, he felt depressed, confused. But that same measured, computer-like efficiency that had guided him that night two weeks earlier seemed to rise and beat back anything resembling human emotions. He began to lose the depression, confusion, fear.
Then he remembered the three trunks. He turned, looked behind where they rested against the real wall of the cave. They were made of burnished blue-gray metal, not unlike aluminum in appearance. The lids were fitted with hinges of the same metal. There were no locks, no places for keyholes.
He crawled back to them and looked them over. There were no initials on them, no shipping tags. He tried the lids without success. For a moment he sat there, feeling the incomprehension creeping back, the doors of doubt opening in his mind. But that strange, iron part of him clamped down on those sensations and returned him to cool reason. He went to the rucksack, opened it, and looked for clues there. He found the coin that had disintegrated the glass, the medkit, and three separately wrapped packages: brown paper held shut with rubber bands. He laid the coin and medkit aside and opened the first of these parcels. Inside was a bundle of crackling, green fifty dollar bills.
Suddenly, the iron part of him unwrapped all three packages and began counting. Two of the packages contained fifties, the other contained hundreds. Thirty thousand dollars in all. For a time, he sat, contemplating the money, smiling. But because there was nothing for the programmed part of him to do, the doubts and emotions began surfacing again. Had he been paid thirty thousand to kill the stranger? Was he a hired gun, an assassin? No, he could not very well be a professional killer, for he did not have the stomach for it. He could remember having been ill two weeks ago after killing the stranger. He had vomited just before going to sleep.
Sleep
Had he really slept two weeks? He remembered something, scrambled back to the mouth of the cave. The willow trees had bright, green tender leaves. When he had gone to sleep, they were merely studded with buds.
But in two weeks he should have starved, or died of thirst! And what about the leg? Did the average man heal that swiftly, without complications? Of course not. The more he allowed his mind to ramble through this disorder, the more frightening the mysteries became. And the more plentiful. He realized now that he was being used, that the programmed part of him was operating on some sort of quasi-hypnotic orders. But who was using him? And why? And who was he?
Victor Salsbury, a crisp, even voice said from somewhere close by in the cave. It is time for your first briefing.
Then, in an instant, there was no question of overcoming the iron program. It slapped down on him, squeezed the aware part of his mind back into the far reaches of his brain. He turned, positioned himself before the middle of the three trunks where, he somehow knew, an 810-40.04 computer was housed.
Victor Salsbury, the computer said. Remember.
And he did. He was Victor Salsbury. Twenty-eight years old. Both parents dead, killed in car crash when he was in sixth grade. Hometown: Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He was an artist-commercial trying to make it as creative. He was moving to Oak Grove to find a place to rent and make a studio. Thousands of major and minor memories poured into his consciousness. Memories of childhood, of life in the orphanage, of his art schooling, his association with a Harrisburg agency. Now, he had an identity. Somehow, the aware part of him felt, it was not genuine. As if he had been told his past, rather than having experienced it himself.
Do not fight the programming, the computer said to the tiny part of his mind that held emotions.
But I have killed a man!
He would have died a month later anyway, the computer explained in its authoritative tones. And his death would have been much more horrible than anything you could possibly have done to him two weeks ago.