“Move up closer,” one man shouted at the tense, hunch-shouldered figure of the driver. “How d’you expect to grab on from here?”
“I don’t know why we aren’t on the east side,” a plump woman just in front of Hargate said resignedly. “The east cable always got more room since the fire up at Cohoes. You’d think the driver would know that much, wouldn’t you? That’s not too much to expect even these days, for God’s sake.”
She half-turned in the seat, seeking approval for her comments, and her expression changed as she got her first good look at Hargate. He smiled maliciously, knowing that the paralysis affecting the left side of his face would make him look deformed and idiotic. The woman’s gaze wavered and she quickly turned away, nudging the red-coated woman seated next to her by the window. There was a whispered exchange and Hargate watched intently, maintaining his smile in case he would need to use it against the second woman, but she did not look back. Got one of them anyway, he thought. And I’ll watch out for the other one.
The lateral procession of modules came to a sudden end, giving way to multiple catenaries of unoccupied cable strung out on their support bogies, and a short distance away to the north the flashing red lights of the rear-frame came into view. A sputtering whine and a tang of ozone rose from the module’s electric engine, positioned somewhere beneath Hargate’s feet, but there was no accompanying movement of the vehicle. The driver appeared to be struggling with a floor-mounted lever.
“Go, go, go!” An elderly man halfway along the car rose up and shook his fist at the driver’s back. “Move it out, fella, or we’re gonna be here till Christmas!” The module lurched forward, turning at the same time and causing the man’s legs to buckle. He sat down suddenly, half-spilled into the aisle and had to drag himself back to an upright position, muttering disconsolately as he brushed grime from his hands.
Serves the old puke right, Hargate thought, deeply amused. The module converged on the main railway line and there was a forward surge as its magnetic clutch locked on to the moving cable. Points clacked noisily beneath the wheels. The vehicle gave a yawing shudder, creaked a little, then it was part of the train, settling down for the leisurely journey to Poughkeepsie. At a nominal forty kilometres an hour the trip was going to take almost three hours, and Hargate had plenty of time to ponder on why his quarterly visit to the Dutchess County neurology clinic had been brought forward by several weeks.
There were two possibilities, one of which he did not dare to think about. During his last visit he had received confirmation of something he had intuitively known for some time, that the polyneuritis had seriously affected his heart. The official verdict was that there were only three or four years left to him. It could be that Foerster wanted to see him because the prognosis had been drastically revised, but if that was the case—had the figures been pushed up or down? Was he not even going to make it to his mid-thirties, or had he a chance of reaching the grand old age of forty?
Abandoning speculation, he unlocked the wheels of his chair, moved a little closer to the window so that he could look out. The transporter module was a veteran of many passes through urban Bomber Alleys, with the result that its armoured glass was liberally flowered by impact of rocks and occasional sniper bullets. Hargate found a relatively clear area and began staring nostalgically at the slow-drifting scenery which reminded him of the countryside near his boyhood home in Carsewell.
Twenty years had gone by since the spring morning on which he had struggled all the way up to Cotter’s Edge and there, in the secret place, had seen a beautiful girl who had scribed a sign in the air and had vanished. He knew that the event had happened, although he had never mentioned it to anyone. He had no trouble distinguishing between memories of dreams and memories of reality—his illness had not progressed as far as the Korsakoff syndrome—but the fact remained that his “reality” did not totally correspond with that of other people. One element he knew to be factual would be classed by anybody else as fictional or illusionary, so where should he draw the line?
The generally accepted reality of AD 2024 was one which contained and also was bounded by things like energy crises, the third world war which seemed both inevitable and imminent, attritive strikes, terrorism, failing resources, social decay, famine, and advertising campaigns for children’s knife-proof undergarments. Hargate’s composite picture was like a grainy, black-and-white photograph, but with one particle of colour in it—a bright-hued fleck representing his memory of the lovely and mysterious girl who could cast spells and make herself disappear.
Hargate shook his head in annoyance as he realised the extent to which he was still allowing childhood memories to occupy his mind. He turned away from the window and concentrated his attention on the other passengers, passing the time by trying to make Holmesian deductions about their occupations and reasons for travelling. In particular he kept an eye on the plump woman and her red-coated companion in the seat immediately ahead, half-smiling every now and then in preparation for one of them turning to look at him. Getting up at 6.30 to catch the early train had cost him some sleep, and before long—encouraged by the muggy atmosphere and the swaying of the module—he was drifting into a light doze. The feeling was pleasant, and he surrendered to it for the rest of the journey to Poughkeepsie, occasionally rousing himself with an extra-loud snore and almost at once sinking back into unconsciousness.
The day was mild and sunny, but Hargate felt cold, irritable and generally ill at ease as a result of having slept on the train. Taking advantage of the fresh charge in the wheelchair’s battery, he bowled his way out of the 10th Street station at an inconsiderate speed which led to several near-collisions with pedestrians. He turned south in the direction of the Dutchess County clinic.
He considered spending the extra time sunning himself in the plaza outside the clinic, but groups of employees were already drifting out to spend early lunch breaks in the open. Staying there would involve him in a series of mimed skirmishes with strangers who showed too much curiosity about his condition, and after the long train journey he was too tired to face the daily battle with the rest of the human race. He decided to go straight up to Doctor Foerster’s office and see if Vince Debrou was on reception duty. Debrou, possibly because of his work, was one of the few who knew how to respond to Hargate in a totally natural manner and Hargate liked talking to him. There was also the possibility that Debrou had obtained some new orders. He rolled into the shabby redbrick building and took an elevator to the ninth floor, scowling over an increase in the surcharge.
“Hi, Denny,” Debrou said, when he entered the outer office. “Congratulations!”
Hargate, who had expected to find at least six other patients waiting in the reception area, glanced around the empty room in some surprise. “Congratulations? Have I just got myself engaged or pregnant?”
“Come on, Denny, you know what I mean.” Debrou, who was a pale young man with a permanently corrugated forehead and weightlifter’s shoulders, went on sorting through a pile of X-ray slides on his desk.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Hargate said, his impatience increasing the nasal quality of his voice. “If I had any idea what you mean I would say so, but I have no idea what you mean and that’s why I’m asking you to tell me what you mean.”
“I thought they…” Debrou paused, eyeing him intently. “The doc’s down in the canteen—how about a coffee while you’re waiting?”