Why, then? A badfinger for Blake? Because he had had some crazy, deep-down conviction that he would find something? No. Not one of those reasons was good enough in itself.
All that time alone and still he had not figured himself out.
The man who hides from himself hides best of all.
"What did you find?"
Frog strove to focus on Plainfield. And realized that his earlier assessments were incorrect. The man was neither vulture, fox, nor wolf. He was a snake. Cold-blooded, emotionless, deadly. Predatory, and unacquainted with mercy. Nor was he owned. This news business was cover. He was a dagger in his own hand.
Plainfield moved toward him. A slap hypo appeared in his palm. Frog struggled weakly. The hypo hit his arm.
Wrong again, he thought. He's worse than a snake. He's a human.
"What did you find?"
Frog knew he would not make it this time. This man, this thing that called itself August Plainfield and pretended to be a newsman, was going to strip him of his victory, then kill him. Even God in heaven could not stop him from talking once the drug took hold, and then what value would he have alive?
Frog talked. And talked. And, as he knew he must, he died. But before he did, and while he was still sufficiently in possession of his senses to understand, another man entered the dark door before him.
Smythe burst into the room, alerted by his monitors. Moira trailed him as if attached by a short chain. The doctor charged Plainfield, opening his mouth to shout.
A small, silent palm weapon ruined Smythe's heart before any sound left his lips. Moira, as if on a puppeteer's strings, jerked back out of the room. Plainfield cursed but did not pursue her.
A sadness overwhelmed Frog, both for himself and for Smythe.
On Blackworld, as on all but a few worlds, the dead never saw resurrection. Even the Blakes remained dead when they died. Resurrection was too expensive, too difficult, and too complex in social implication. And why bother? Human numbers made life a cheap commodity.
Plainfield finished with Frog, then disappeared. The murders went on record as unsolved. Corporation police hunted the newsman, but no trace turned up.
They wanted him for theft. They wanted him for destruction of municipal and Corporate property. They wanted him for suborning municipal and Corporate employees. They wanted him for a list of crimes. But most of all they wanted him because of Frog and Smythe.
Blake had a long, long memory.
Stimpson-Hrabosky News denied ever having heard of Plainfield. How, then, Blake's cops demanded, had the man reached Blackworld in a Stimpson-Hrabosky charter? How, if he was an unknown, had he managed to get himself elected pool man?
Stimpson-Hrabosky responded with almost contemptuous silence.
Their reticence was itself informative. Plainfield obviously carried a lot of weight outside.
In the furor of pursuit the killer's motives became obscured. Only a handful of men knew about Frog's claim and will, and they were the men Plainfield had bribed. They were on trial and no one was listening to them. They were sent into exile, which meant that they were given outsuits and put out of the city locks to survive as best they could.
Blake reasserted its contention that it never left a debt outstanding, though it might take a generation to repay.
Frog's original will left Moira more than anyone had anticipated. It set up a trust that assured her a place in Edgeward's life.
And life went on.
Twenty: 3052 AD
We were not a cuddly, loving family, but we had our moments. Most of them were a little bizarre.
—Masato Igarashi Storm
Twenty-One: 3031 AD
The Faceless Man smiled and reached out to Benjamin. He wore nothing. He had no hair, no sex. Benjamin cowered, whimpering. The Faceless Man came toward him with a steady, confident step.
Benjamin whirled with a weak wail, ran. The gooey street grabbed at his feet. He pumped his legs with everything he had, yet they barely moved, pistoning in slowed motion.
The streets and walls of the city were a uniform, blinding white. The buildings had no windows. The doors were almost imperceptible. He flitted from one to another, pounding, crying, "Help me!"
No one answered.
He looked back. The Faceless Man followed him with that smile and confident stride, hand outreaching, his pace no greater than before.
Benjamin fled again, along the molasses street.
Now they opened their little peepholes when he pounded. They looked out and laughed. He flung himself from door to door. The laughter built into a chorus.
His tears flowed. Sweat poured off him. He shuddered constantly. His body ached with his exertion.
He looked back. The Faceless Man was at exactly the same distance, walking steadily, hand outstretched.
He ran in a straight line, trying to gain ground. They laughed at him from the rooftops. They called his name, "Benjamin! Benjamin!" in a feral chant. "Run, little Benjamin, run."
He gasped around a corner into a cul-de-sac. He moaned in terror, whirled, and... The Faceless Man was corning to him, reaching.
He threw himself against the walls. He tried to find a foothold, a way to scale their ivory slickness. "Please! Please don't!"
A hand touched his shoulder. The palm and fingers were icy. Thumb and forefinger squeezed together. Fire lanced through his muscles.
He spun and flung himself at the Faceless Man, clamping his fingers around the throat beneath the unyielding smile.
An unseen hand slapped his face, back and forth, back and forth. He did not relax his grip. A tiny fist began pounding his nose and cheeks.
The real pain reached through his terror. He shook all over, like an epileptic in the first second of seizure.
His eyelids rose. He stared into Pollyanna's terrified face. His hands were at her throat. Her bed was a sweat-soaked disaster. She had scratches on her face and marks on her throat that would become bruises. She kept punching weakly.
He yanked the offending hands away. "Oh, Christ!" he murmured. "Oh, Holy Christ!" He slithered back out of the bed, stood over her for a moment. The shaking would not stop. The layer of sweat covering him was chilling him. He seized a robe. It did nothing to warm him.
"Polly, Honey. Polly. I'm sorry. Are you all right? It was the nightmare... It was worse than I ever had it. He caught me this time. I'm sorry. I thought I was fighting him. Are you all right? Can I get you anything?" He could not stop talking.
His heart hammered. The fear would not go away. He almost expected the Faceless Man to step into the apartment.
Pollyanna nodded. "Water," she croaked.
He crossed to her bathroom, found a glass, tried to fill it. He dropped it twice before getting it to her half full.
She had hitched herself up in bed. She was rubbing her throat with one hand while staring at him timorously. She accepted the glass. "You need help," she whispered. "No! Stay away."
"That's the dream... I run through these streets yelling for help and they all laugh at me. And he keeps on coming... He caught me this time. Polly, I don't know what it means. I'm scared. Honey, please don't pull away. I'm all right now. I didn't mean to hurt you. I thought I was fighting him."
Pollyanna relaxed, but not much. She edged away whenever he eased nearer, trying to draw comfort from her proximity and warmth.
"Polly, please... "
The apartment door opened.
It was night in the Fortress of Iron. The hall lights had been dimmed. They saw only the silhouette of a man standing with feet widespread and arms crossed. Anger radiated from him.