He removed the headpiece, switched off the control unit.
"I have never known such a sensation of power," said the marquis. "Why— There would be the invincible weapon, the perfect assassin. Why do you not use it to kill that Dorakeen fellow and claim the bounty your master is offering?" Sundoc laughed.
"Can you see it lumbering along the Road toward some guessed-at rendezvous, to step on his enemy? No, transportation would be an insuperable problem, even if we did know exactly where to deliver the beast. I
never intended to use it in any such fashion. Far too cumbersome."
"True, true—when you put it that way. It was the imagery that took hold of me—the reptilian avenger swooping down upon its prey... The sensations of controlling it the while..." "Um. I suppose so."
"... Whereas it actually represents a noble enterprise for the advancement of science."
"Hardly. All of the techniques employed here are quite venerable. The control of that monster represents no gain for science. Whatever information may be obtained concerning the beast itself could as easily be gained simply by studying it in an untampered condition. No, what you see down there is the fulfillment of a whim—which is why I consented so readily to showing it off. I had always had a desire to do this for the pure fun of it. That's all. It is an end in itself. There is no special use for the beast. Oh, my assistants will study its physiology and publish their findings. Might as well take advantage of its presence that way. After a long and rewarding career, I can afford to indulge myself in this fashion. So why not?"
"We are closer together in some matters than I would have believed."
"Because I admit to an expensive indulgence?" The marquis shook his head.
"Because you enjoy the feeling of such a peculiar power."
Sundoc moved his hand and darkened the pit. He drew back from the railing and turned away.
"All right," he said. "You have a point." He replaced the gear on the workbench as they moved away. "You'd best get back to those manuscripts now."
"Ouch," said the marquis. "From Olympus to Tartarus in only a few blocks." Sundoc smiled. "It eats a lot too," he said. "But it's worth it."
One
He entered the graveled lot and headed toward a group of hewn-log buildings before which stood rows of pumps for various fuels.
"How's the gas?" Red inquired.
"Half full, with a full auxiliary."
"Park, over by those trees."
He came to a halt beneath a large oak tree. The sun had already settled far into the west.
"We're around C Sixteen, aren't we?"
"Yes. Were you planning on getting off here?"
"No. I was just thinking: I once knew a guy from this period. Had to take the English cutoff, up a piece..."
"You want to park and go visit him?"
"No. He's—elsewhere. And I'm hungry. Come keep me company."
He withdrew a copy of Flowers of Evil from beneath the dashboard.
"Where did he go?" came the voice from the book.
"Who?"
"Your friend."
"Oh. Far. Yes, he went far." Red chuckled.
He opened the door and stepped outside. There was
a chill in the air. He moved quickly in the direction of the buildings.
The dining room was shadowy, its chandelier as yet unlit. The tables were of wood and uncovered, as was the floor. A log fire crackled in an open hearth at the room's far end. The only windows were in the front wall.
He glanced at the diners. Two couples were seated before the big window. Young-looking. From their garb and their speech, he placed them as late C Twenty-one. The garments of the delicate-looking man at the table to his right indicated late Victorian England as his place of origin. Seated with his back to the nearer wall was a dark-haired man wearing black trousers and boots, and a white shirt. He was eating chicken and drinking beer. A dark leather jacket hung over the back of his chair. Too basic. Red could not place him.
He moved to the farthest table, turned it, and sat with his back to the comer. He placed Flowers of Evil on the boards before him, opening the volume at random.
" 'Pour I'enfant, amoureux de cartes et Sestampes, Vunivers est egal a son vaste appetit,'" came the tiny voice.
He quickly raised the book to cover his face. 'True," he replied in a whisper. 'Yet you want more, don't you?" 'Just my own little corner." 'And where might that be?" 'Damned if I know."
"I've never quite understood why you do the things-"
A tall, white-haired waiter came up beside the table.
"Your order— Red!"
He looked up, stared a moment
"Johnson?..."
"Yes. Good Lord! It's been years!"
"Has it? You used to work farther down the Road, didn't you?"
"Yes. But I like it better up here."
"I'm glad you found a good spot. Say, that guy's chicken looks good." Red nodded toward the darkhaired man. "So does his beer. I'll have the same. Who is he, anyway?"
"Never saw him before."
"All right. Bring the beer now."
"Okay."
He withdrew a fresh cigar from a concealed pocket, examined it.
Johnson paused, regarding him.
"Are you going to do the trick?"
"What trick?"
"I once saw you light your cigar with a coal you plucked from the fire. You weren't burned."
"Go on!"
"Don't you remember? It was some years ago... Unless you are going to learn it later. You did look older then. Anyway, it was about half a C down the Road."
Red shook his head.
"Some childish trick. I'll none of it now. Let's have the brew and the bird."
Johnson nodded and departed.
By the time Red had finished eating, the dining room had filled. Lights had been lit and the background noise had grown louder. He hailed Johnson, paid his tab and rose.
Outside, the night had become colder. He stepped down into the lot and turned left, heading toward his truck.
"Quiet," came the small word from the book he bore.
"Yes. I-'
The impact staggered him just as he saw the flash from the muzzle and heard the weapon's report.
Not pausing to assess the damage, he threw himself
to the side, his right arm whipping across his body. There came a second shot, but he felt nothing. With a snapping movement, he hurled Flowers of Evil at the shadowy gunman, then broke, into a run toward his vehicle.
He tore around the front of the truck to the passenger side, pulled the door open, and threw himself flat within. As he groped beneath the seat for the .45 he kept there, he heard footfalls on the gravel on the other side. A voice from a greater distance on that side called out, "Hold it, mithter! You're covered!" There followed a gunshot and a soft curse, just as his fingers wrapped around the butt of the heavy revolver. He fired once, up and out through the window on the driver's side— a moment's insurance. Then he backed out and crouched.
Sounds were now coming from the building, as though the front door had been flung open and numerous loud conversations were in progress. There were several shouted inquiries. No one seemed to be approaching, however.
He stayed low and moved to the rear of the truck. Glancing behind him, he dropped to all fours, peered beyond the tailgate, looked around the bumper. Nothing. No one in sight...
He listened for a telltale footfall, heard none. He moved around to the rear, crawled toward the left side.
"He'th in front, heading right," came a sharp whisper.
He heard a sound from the front then, a hasty foot on gravel...
He tossed a rock behind him, to the right of the truck. No response. He waited.
Then, "Looks like a stalemate," he called out in foretalk lingo. "Want to discuss it?"
No reply.
"Any special reason for wanting to shoot me?" he tried.