“If you scare me to death, you don’t collect,” Bailey said. “Those cards are no good without my prints.”
Goldblatt grinned. “Ready?” he asked. “Here we go.”
Bailey felt his right thigh twitch. He yelled as a full-fledged cramp locked to the rectus femoris—the name popped into his mind—like a red-hot clamp. The limb strained against the straps, quivering.
“… four seconds, five seconds, six seconds,” Goldblatt counted off. Abruptly the pressure was gone. The pain receded.
“Hey,” Bailey started—and yelled as his left leg jerked against the restraint. Six more endless seconds passed. Bailey lay gasping as a lever moved, flexing his knee to a new position.
“Cry all you want to,” Goldblatt said cheerfully. “This baby works over three hundred separate muscles, max contraction, three positions. How you like it, hah? Ready to get some sense now and settle for a toner like I said to begin with?”
Bailey gritted his teeth against the rubber bite protector and endured another spasm.
“Whatever you say, my friend,” Goldblatt sighed. “Here we go again…”
14
“Only two and a half hours?” Bailey inquired weakly. “It seemed like two years.”
“You build muscle by tearing down muscle,” the trainer said. “You just tore down a couple billion cells—and that hurts. But the body’s a fast worker. She rebuilds—and then we tear down again. So she works faster. But she hurts. She hurts all the time. For a week. For a month. Max job? Make that three months.”
“That’s cutting it fine,” Bailey said. “Can’t you rush it any?”
“Sure—if you want to sleep in the tank,” Goldblatt said sardonically.
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Are you serious? But I don’t need to ask, do I? You’re a man that’s driven, if I ever saw one. What is it that’s eating at you, young fellow? You’ve got a lot of life ahead of you. Slow down—”
“I can’t,” Bailey said. “Let’s get started on what comes next.”
In the third week Bailey, out of the tank for his alter-hourly session in the treadcage, paused to look at himself in the mirror. His face was gaunt, knobbed below the jawline with unfamiliar lumps of muscle; his neck was awkwardly corded; his shoulders swelled in sinewy striations above a chest which seemed to belong to someone else.
“I look wrong,” he said. “Misshapen. No symmetry. Out of balance.”
“Sure, sure. What do you expect, to start with? Some sectors respond quicker, some were in better shape. Don’t worry. First we go for tone, then bulk, then definition, then balance. You’re doing swell. We start coordination and dynamics next. Another sixty days and you’ll look like you were born under that blue tag.” He rubbed a hand over his head, eyeing Bailey. “If it wasn’t so crazy, I’d think maybe that’s the way you were thinking,” he said.
“Don’t think about it, Hy,” Bailey said. “Just keep the pressure on.”
15
On the eighty-fifth day, Hy Goldblatt looked at William Bailey and wagged his head in exaggerated wonder.
“If I didn’t see it myself, I would never of believed it was the same man.”
Bailey turned this way and that, studying himself in the wall mirror. He walked a few steps, noting the automatic grace of his movements, the poise of his stance, the unconscious arrogance of his posture, the way he held his head.
“It’ll do, Hy,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”
“Where you going now? Why not stay on, help out in the gym? Look, I need an assistant—”
“Pressing business,” Bailey said. “What do you know about the Apollo Club?”
Goldblatt frowned. “I was in the place once, mat man for a cross-class match. Lousy. Fancy place, fancy people. You wouldn’t like working there.”
“I might like being a member.”
Goldblatt stared at him. “You really think you got a chance—Dutch tag and all?”
Bailey turned, gave the trainer an imperious glare. “Are you questioning me?” he asked in a steely tone. Goldblatt stiffened; then he grinned wryly at Bailey’s mocking smile.
“Maybe you do at that,” he said.
16
Bailey devoted the next few hours to ablutions: a vacuum-and-pressure steam bath, mani- and pedicure, depilation, tonsure, skin toning and UV, bacterial purge. Then he turned his attention to costume.
The clothes he picked were far from new; but they had been handcut from woven fabric, rich and elegant. Bailey bought them from a doddering ancient whose hand shook with paralysis agitans until the moment when the scissors touched the cloth.
“You don’t see goods like this anymore,” the old tailor stated in his frail whisper. “Heat-seal plastics, throwaways, trash. Nothing like this.” He wagged his hairless skull, holding the tunic against Bailey’s chest.
“Where’d you get them?”
“They were found on a corpse,” the tailor said. “They brought them to me. Dead men’s clothes. Bad business. Man should be decently buried. But they don’t even get that nowadays, eh? Into the converter. Save the chemicals. As if a man was no more than a heap of fertilizer. No respect. That’s what’s gone wrong. No respect.”
“How far out of the current style is this outfit?”
“Cutting like this doesn’t go out of style,” the dodderer said sharply. “People don’t understand that. Trash, yes; flash today, junk tomorrow. But quality—real quality—it endures. In this clothing you could be at home anyplace. Nobody could fault you. Of the finest.”
17
It was almost dark when Bailey left the shop swinging his swagger stick, his newly altered garments snugged to his new body with a feel he had never known before. People on the sidewalk eyed him aslant and slid aside. In a dark shop with a smell of conspiracy he made a purchase.
Once out of sight on the utility stair, he clipped his bogus blue tag in place, checked his credit code: a charge of eight and a half M remained on the plastic: enough to live for a couple of years below-decks, he reflected—or to buy an adequate evening up above.
Attached to the steel gate barring access to Threevee Mall was a yard-high sign reading DEATH PENALTY FOR TRESPASS. Bailey pounded on it. In less than a minute the panel slid back to reveal a pair of Greenbacks, slammers leveled at belt-buckle height. Their jaws sagged as Bailey strolled through the forbidden gate.
“It’s all right, Leftenant,” he said to the corporal, and pushed the still-aimed gun barrel aside with a well-groomed finger. “Clear a path for me, there’s a good fellow.”
The Peaceman made a gobbling sound. “B—how… why…” He recovered a portion of his wits with an effort. “M’lord, that gate is interdicted—”
“And a good thing, too.” Bailey’s eye flicked to the man’s tag number. “I’ll mention your prompt action to Father—” He smiled with just the proper degree of guilt. “In another connection, of course. Wouldn’t do for his Lordship to guess where I’ve been amusing myself. Shall we go now? I reek of the Quarters.” Without waiting for assent, he started toward the wall of gaping passers-by. At a yell from the Greenbacks, they faded aside. Smiling a negligent smile, Bailey preceded his escort toward the lighted entry to the high-speed lift marked BLUE ONE.
18
The Peacemen cleared half a dozen passengers from the car to make room for Bailey. As the lift rocketed upward, he felt their eyes on him, hostile but cautious. At each intermediate level people crowded off against the flow of others crowding on, but the space around Bailey remained clear; no one jostled him. A pair of Peacemen made a swift tag check at the final stop before the car entered Doose territory; they evicted a protesting burgher with an overdate visa, gave Bailey and one other man respectful finger touches to their helmet visors. Nearly empty now, the car continued upward. By the fourth stop only Bailey and the man the police had saluted remained. The latter was tall, erect, silver-haired, with ruddy skin, dressed in austere gray with silver piping. He glanced not quite at Bailey’s eyes, murmured words which at first Bailey failed to understand: a formalized greeting, proper for strangers of approximately equal rank, indicating a degree of tolerant impatience with a shared inconvenience. Bailey made the appropriate response. The tall man’s eyes flickered over him more boldly now. He touched the silvered panel on the wall. The car sighed to a stop. Bailey tensed.