"I must follow procedure, despite my personal feelings. If you know anything, we will know. If the Roadmap is indeed real, we will know that. If the whole affair is simply a hoax, or a political ploy, we will know that as well."
The word had sounded an odd note, with intriguing overtones. "Political? How could it be?"
"All possibilities must be covered," he said, his gaze deflecting a bit, as if he regretted having mentioned it.
"Anyway," I said, thinking just then that now would be as good a time as any to make a break, "a Delphi would be quite illegal.",
"Without proper authorization, yes. But I have that authorization." The hands unclasped and went out at wide angles to his midsection, flopped together again. "The technique is not permanently damaging. You know that."
Was Frazerjust outside the door? Likely was. "Yes, but I'd be disabled for quite a while. Lobotomized."
"An exaggeration."
"I thought the Colonial Assembly recently passed a law against the Delphi process."
"Ah, but exceptions were provided for. The language of the bill was quite clear."
And who cared what the Assembly did? Rubber stamps just bounce. "Still," I went on, "you have nothing on which to hold me." How many outside the door? One? Probably two. Frazer and another.
"You are wrong," Petrovsky told me. "We have the deposition of the manager of the motel."
"Perez? What could he tell you?"
"From him we pieced together what transpired."
"I have the feeling," I guessed, "that Perez did not actually witness an accident."
Petrovsky tilted his head to one side. True." I had to admit, the man was scrupulously straightforward in some matters.
"However, his testimony gives us the 'probable cause' you brought up earlier. Besides―" He gave a helpless, resigned shrug. "There is a dead body to be explained. You must understand."
"Oh, yes."
Petrovsky was honest, but he was hoarding most of the cards.
"Of course," he went on, thumbs back to twiddling in the general area of his solar plexus, "if you have some information for me, and would be willing to volunteer it, the Delphi series would be unnecessary."
"That's a fine specimen of medieval logic."
Petrovsky frowned. "I don't understand."
"I think you do. By the way, have a chair."
I brought it up from between my legs and threw it over the desk right at him. A powerful arm went out to ward it off, a little late. The back of the chair caught the bridge of his nose and sent him leaning back precariously, hands over his nose, until he toppled over and crashed into a tier of metal bookshelves capped with cups and trophies. The shelves tumbled over on him thunderously. By that time I was scrunched up against the wall by the door. It burst open and Frazer rushed in, hand on his holster. I let him go, but neck-chopped his partner, who followed close behind. The cop went limp in my arms and I propped him up with one arm and grabbed his gun. Frazer was by the desk, turning around, still fumbling at his holster. "Hey!" was all he could get out before his partner came lurching toward him, propelled by one of Frazer's spare boots applied at the small of the back. They embraced and fell over the desk. I checked out the corridor, went out, and slammed the door.
I was halfway down the hall to the left when I heard someone about to come around the corner of an intersecting corridor. I squeezed off a few dozen rounds into the wall by the comer, sending splinters of Durafoam into Old Fred's face just as he made the turn. He staggered back with his hands up around his eyes. I doubled back down the hall, covering my rear with a burst every three steps, and while en route, met poor Frazer again as he rushed out of the office with his pistol finally drawn. I body-checked him and added an elbow to the chin into the bargain, sending him tottering back into the office and the gun skittering down the hall floor. I turned right at the corner and found this corridor empty. I ducked into a dark office to wait and listen, thinking to let forces pass me by as they converged on the starting point of the disturbance.
I checked the gun. It was a standard issue Gorbatov 4mm pellet-sprayer. The clip held 800 rounds and was nearly full, but the charge on the thruster was down. I pulled out the metal stock a bit more to fit snugly in the crook of my arm, then poked my nose out the door. I heard pounding footsteps, shouts. Which way was out, though? I had lost my bearings. Down this hall and to the right ― but no, that led toward the desk and front entrance. A back door should lead to a parking lot and squad cars. But where?
Two men tore around the comer to my right, and I eased the door closed and waited until they passed. I waited five more heartbeats, then slipped out and tiptoed in the direction they had come from, hoping to find the way to a rear entrance. I gave a look behind as I ran and saw a shadow leak across the floor. I whirled, hit the floor and fired, the Gorby buzzing like an angry hornet. The man behind the comer got out, "Drop ―!" before the gun flew out of his hand, followed by a few fingers. The rest of him was shielded by wall except for his right leg to the knee. His trouser leg flew into tatters of bloody cloth and the hardened foam of the wall smoked into powder as the Gorby vomited its fifty rounds per second. I stopped firing and rolled to the other side of the hall, huddling against the wall. I heard a groan and a thud.
I didn't like where I was. I looked down the hall behind me, but nobody seemed to be approaching.
Hushed voices, arguing. Then, a hoarse whisper: "I don't want him killed!" Petrovsky.
I took advantage of the hesitation to get up and run, spraying the corridor behind me with superdense, hypervelocity BB-shot. I ran through the next intersection and surprised two cops who had been sneaking up for a rear attack. I continued firing behind as I ran, cut to the right, ran past shelves of cartons and equipment, ducked left this time past stacks of empty packing crates, down past a row of lockers, and then found a set of double doors. I backpedaled, crouched, and carefully nudged one door open. It was a garage, with a few squad cars up on jacks and no mechanics around, but no vehicles that appeared operable. The large garage doors were closed, but there was a smaller door, and I sprinted across to it, knowing full well that I had lost time, expecting all exits to be covered by now. I hugged the wall and gripped the doorhandle, threw the door open. Automatic fire riddled the air where I would have stood if I had wanted to commit suicide. A coherent-energy beam sizzled through and started a small fire among the shelves of boxed parts along the far wall ― one good reason why such weapons were impractical for indoor use. They were throwing everything at me. High-density slugs thumped into the foam, ricocheting lead and steel sang all over the garage.
One of the doors was swinging; someone had come through. I looked around for cover, but I was ten paces away from anything suitable.
"All right, kamrada. It's over, so drop the gun."
It was Old Fred again, pointing a sniper rifle at me across the top of the clear bubble of a squad car. He was grinning evilly, and something told me it didn't matter whether I dropped it or not. But I had no choice, and let the machine pistol clatter to the floor. Fred raised the sights up to eye level, taking his time, drawing a deep breath as if he were in the finals of a Militia sharpshooter tourney, doing it all by the book, eyes on another platinum-iridium trophy for the collection on the mantelpiece, and all it took was one neatly placed shot dead center, nice as you please, one expert squeeze, all coming down to that, one constriction of a flexor muscle, and it was off to a watering hole with the boys and girls for soybeer and snappers…
Petrovsky came barreling through the doors and slammed into him, sending Old Fred cartwheeling over the floor to crash into a stack of tool boxes. When the clanking and tinkling stopped, Fred was on his back under a pile of metal, out cold. Long before that I had made a fraction of a move to go for the dropped gun, but Petrovsky had already drawn a bead on me with his pistol. I was astonished at how quick he was, both on his feet and with his hands.