"You are, uh, perfectly correct, sir. It is indeed a failing of mine." His voice dropped, as though he wasn't speaking to Teague at all. "I live in the mind, sir. As you know, there is another country there. In the mind. Memories of a better life, a richer existence by far."
"Lotta crap you talk, Doc."
"Indeed, sir. Yes, indeed. Indubitably. I, uh..." His voice trailed off.
"Dunno where you fuckin' are, Doc, that's what's wrong with you."
The old man's head came up, his voice stronger.
"Oh, no, sir. Believe me, I know where I am. Indeed I do, sir. I am in Hell. I have often thought it. It is the only explanation."
"Yeah." Teague chuckled throatily, his cheeks quivering. He was still looking up at the ceiling, had not even shifted his gaze even when lashing out at the old man, but now he dropped his head, stared down. "You 'n' me both, Doc," he said. There was a grotesque smile on his face. "Hear Cort had you down in the pens again, ha?"
"Th-that is so."
"Get it up, did ya?"
The old man shuddered but did not answer.
"I said, get it up did ya?" said Teague dangerously.
The lank hair shook slightly as the old guy nodded.
"Well, more'n I can do, Doc," Teague said affably. "Fuck knows when I last got it up. Just lost the inclination. Too much like hard work, know what I mean?"
The old man did not reply.
Teague suddenly barked, "Hey you, bitch!"
Neither of the women took a blind bit of notice.
Teague, grunting and gasping, gripped the chair arms, heaved himself forward. He screamed, "Bitch!"
The younger of the two women got up unconcernedly and mounted the pyramid toward him. At the top she stood beside the chair, gazing blankly out across the room as Teague reached out a flabby hand and fondled her buttocks, his fingers disappearing from sight. Grunting, he heaved himself around and thrust the fingers of his other hand up inside her top, began groping at her hidden breasts. Still the woman said nothing, did nothing, her face expressionless. Teague suddenly sank back into the chair with an angry croak, flapped a hand irritably at her. She turned, descended the steps, pulling her top down. She sat on the bottom step and took up the conversation again with her companion.
"Y'know, Cort's gonna kill ya one of these days, Doc."
The old man's hands rose, palms up.
"I am dead already, sir. It is the only explanation."
"He don't like ya, Doc. S'why he likes to humiliate ya. Wasn't for me, you'd be stiff."
"I was taught, sir, that theories must always fit the facts, not facts theories. It is a basic tenet of any academic discipline. And the facts are simple. This is Hell. Therefore, quod erat demonstrandum,I am dead. I have been dead, sir, since... since, ah... ah, dead... since..."
His voice had become hoarse and he began to tremble again, a terrible feverish shiver that took hold of his entire bony frame, as though invisible hands had gripped him and were shaking him violently. Slowly he sank to his knees, his head held in his hands, his shoulders quaking. Gusty sobs erupted from him.
Teague sucked at his cigar, as though oblivious of what was happening below.
He said, "No way out for ya, Doc. Cort ain't just gonna put ya to the hogs one of these days, he's gonna feed ya to them."
"No. That is where you are wrong," The voice had suddenly become crisper in tone. His head jerked up, dropped to one side, like a bird's. "The locational progressions are simple. There is no problem there. From A to B to C and onward. Or from P to Q and then back to, let us say, G. So you see, there is indeed a way out. Or I should say, many ways out. But finding them, my dear sir, that is altogether a different matter. The Redoubts are there, in situ. Many of them. But — and I put it to you — where is 'there'?"
"Shit," muttered Teague.
"This is the point. And I fear I have to say the answer is for the moment lost." He was talking more quickly now, the words spilling out, a curious excitement in his voice, in his whole bearing. His right hand was raised, the forefinger wagging up at Jordan Teague as though in admonishment. As though the losing of the "answer" was all the gross man's fault. "No doubt it will reveal itself. No doubt theywill reveal themselves. At times the fog clears..."
He stood up suddenly, began to prowl in front of the pyramid, his hands clasped behind him. Backward and forward, backward and forward. His voice dropped to a dreamy murmur that Ryan could only just make out.
"The fog. Sometimes, if let loose, it's quite powerful. Feedback effect, as I recall, though difficult to explain. And quite arbitrary. Of course, they had no real conception of its power. They said they had, but they lied. They lied much of the time." He thumped his right fist into the palm of his left hand, his voice rising to an outraged cry. "They treated me like an animal! It was disgraceful! As though I were a puppet! They had no right to do what they did and I informed them of that fact. And for all their honeyed words I was nothing to them, less then nothing. A subject. An interesting experiment. It was wicked, wicked! God should have struck them dead!" He swung around on Teague, pointed up at him, laughing, his voice cracked, pitching up to a falsetto. "But through the fog, my dear sir! From A to B! And then to R or M or anywhere! Findthe fog, sir! There is your solution! Your way out! So many possibilities!"
Hunaker whispered, "Shit, Ryan, we're wasting time. Let's doit!"
Ryan said "Wait, dammit. There's something..." Then he said, "Lucky we didn't!" as Teague bawled, "Jauncy! Hackutt!" and one of the mirrors on the other side of the pyramid swung open and two goons came through at the run. They had slung M-16s and they went separate ways around the pyramid, right and left, and converged on the wild-eyed old man. They were both grinning death's-head grins.
The old man stopped pacing, seemed to shrivel into himself, his face gray.
Teague said, "Fucker's off again. Take his toys from him."
"No!"
The man called Doc screamed the word. His hands went up toward Teague in an imploratory gesture, silently entreating him not to do what was to be done, and what had been done, probably, on many occasions in the past.
"C'mon, c'mon!" snapped one of the goons. "Take 'em out. Hand 'em over."
Doc stared wildly around, as though looking for some means of escape. Then he swallowed hard, his shoulders slumping. He reached slowly into a pocket of his filthy black coat, then held out his hand. Ryan peered up at the ceiling, the only way he could see what was there: two gray spheroids.
He muttered, "All right, but don't hit the old guy."
"Why not?"
"I'm not sure, but don't. I want him."
"You're the boss."
They slammed through the curtain, Ryan to the left, Hunaker on his right, one target apiece. Simple.
Except that the two women shrieked and bolted. Their ideal course of escape would be off to the side, out of any line of fire. Instead blind panic turned them both into something akin to chickens with their heads lopped off. They dived in front of the two sec men, yelling in a frenzy. One tripped on a rug, the other tumbled over her. Ryan swore and dived to one side as a sec man, quick off the mark, unslung his piece and fired what must have been half a mag in his direction, the rounds flaying the thick curtains behind into wildly flapping cloth shreds. Ryan was firing the LAPA, its butt smacking into his pelvis, but his aim was wild and rounds hammered into the mirrors behind the pyramid, the glass exploding into a million flying shards.