“Careful,” Lizbeth signaled. “He’s suspicious of us.”
“Take Svengaard inside,” Glisson said.
Svengaard looked up at their driver. Glisson, the Durants called him. But the old man from the building had labeled Glisson a Cyborg. Was it possible? Were the half-men being revived to challenge the Optimen once more? Was that the reason for Seatac’s death?
Boumour and Igan lifted him, checked the fetters on his hands. “Let’s have no more foolishness,” Boumour said.
Are they like Glisson? Svengaard asked himself. Are they, too, part man, part machine? And what about the Durants?
Svengaard could feel the tear dampness in his eyes. Hysteria, he thought. Coming out of shock. He began to wonder at himself then with an odd feeling of guilt. Why does Potter’s death strike me more deeply than the death of an entire megalopolis, the extinction of my wife and friends? What did Potter symbolize to me?
Boumour and Igan half carried, half walked him into the building, down a narrow hall and into a poorly lighted, gloomy big room with a ceiling that went up to bare beams two stories above. They dropped him onto a dusty couch—bare plastic and hydraulic contour-shapers that adjusted reluctantly. The light came from two glowglobes high up under the beams. It exposed oddments of furniture scattered around the room and mounds of strange shapes covered by slick, glistening fabric. A table to his left, he realized, was made of planks. Wood! A contour cot lay beyond it, and an ancient roll-top desk with a missing drawer, and mismatched chairs. A stained, soot-blackened fireplace, with an iron crane reaching across its mouth like a gibbet, occupied half the wall across from him. The entire room smelled of dampness and rot. The floor creaked as people moved. Wood flooring!
Svengaard looked up at tiny windows admitting a sparse gray daylight that grew brighter by the second. Even at its brightest he knew it wouldn’t dispel the gloom of this place. Here was sadness that made him think of people without number—dead, forgotten. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
What’s wrong with me? he wondered.
There came a sound from the yard of the van’s turbines being ignited. He heard it lift, leave… fade away. Harvey and Lizbeth entered the room.
Lizbeth looked at Svengaard, then at Boumour and Igan who had taken up vigil on the cot. With her crouched, protective walk, she crossed to Svengaard, touched his shoulder. She saw his tears, evidence of humanity, and she wished then that he were her doctor. Perhaps there was a way. She decided to ask Harvey.
“Please trust us,” she said. “We won’t harm you. They are the ones who killed your wife and friends, not us.”
Svengaard pulled away.
How dare she have pity on me? he thought. But she had reached some chord in him. He could feel himself shattering.
Oppressive silence settled over the room.
Harvey came up, guided his wife to a chair at the table.
“It’s wood,” she said, touching the surface, wonder in her voice. Then, “Harvey, I’m very hungry.”
“They’ll bring food as soon as they’ve disposed of the van,” he said.
She clutched his hand and Svengaard watched, fascinated by the nervous movement of her fingers.
Glisson and the old man returned presently, slamming the door behind them. The building creaked with their movement.
“We’ll have a forest patrol vehicle for the next stage,” Glisson said. “Much safer. There’s a thing you all should know now.” The Cyborg moved a cold, weighted stare from face to face. “There was a marker on top of the van’s load section which we abandoned last night.”
“Marker?” Lizbeth said.
“A device for tracing us, following us,” Glisson said.
“Ohhh!” Lizbeth put a hand over her mouth.
“I do not know how closely they were following,” Glisson said. “I was altered for this task and certain of my devices were left behind. They may know where we are right now.”
Harvey shook his head. “But why…?”
“Why haven’t they moved against us?” Glisson asked. “It’s obvious. They hope we’ll lead them to the vitals of our organization.” Something like rage came into the Cyborg’s features. “It may be we can surprise them.”
16.
In the Survey Room, the great globe’s instrumented inner walls lay relatively quiescent. Calapine and Schruille of the Tuyere occupied the triple thrones. The dais turned slowly, allowing them to scan the entire surface. Kaleidoscopic colors from the instruments played a somnolent visible melody across Calapine’s features—a wash of greens, reds, purples.
She felt tired with a definite emotion of self-pity. There was something wrong with the enzymic analyzers. She felt sure of it, wondering if the Underground had somehow compromised the function of the pharmacy computers.
Schruille was no help. He’d laughed at the suggestion.
Allgood’s features appeared on a call screen before Calapine. She stopped the turning dais as he bowed, said, “I call to report, Calapine.” She noted the dark circles under his eyes, the drugged awareness in the way he held his head stiffly erect.
“You have found them?” Calapine asked.
“They’re somewhere in the wilderness area, Calapine,” Allgood said. “They have to be in there.”
“Have to be!” she sneered. “You’re a foolish optimist, Max.”
“We know some of the hiding places they could’ve chosen, Calapine.”
“For every one you know, they’ve nine you don’t know,” she said.
“I have the entire area ringed, Calapine. We’re moving in slowly, checking everywhere as we go. They’re there and we’ll find them.”
“He babbles,” she said, glancing at Schruille.
Schruille returned a mirthless smile, looked at Allgood through the prismatic reflector. “Max, have you found the source of the substitute embryo?”
“Not yet, Schruille.”
He stared up at them, his face betraying his obvious confusion at the militancy and violence of his Optimen.
“Do you seek in Seatac?” Calapine demanded.
Allgood wet his lips with his tongue.
“Out with it!” she snapped. Ahhh, the fear in his eyes.
“We’re searching there, Calapine, but the -”
“You think we were too precipitate?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“You’re acting strangely,” Schruille said. “Are you afraid of us?”
He hesitated, then, “Yes, Schruille.”
“Yes, Schruille!” Calapine mimicked.
Allgood looked at her, the fear in his eyes tempered by anger. “I’m taking every action I know, Calapine.”
She marked a sudden precision in his manner behind the anger. Her eyes went wide with wonder. Was it possible? She looked at Schruille, wondering if he had seen it.
“Max, why did you call us?” Schruille asked.
“I… to report, Schruille.”
“You’ve reported nothing.”
Hesitantly, Calapine brought up her instruments for a special probe of Allgood, stared at the result. Horror mingled with rage in her. Cyborg! They had defiled Max! Her Max!
“There’s only need for you to obey us,” Schruille said.
Allgood nodded, remained silent.
“You!” Calapine hissed. She leaned toward the screen. “You dared! Why? Why, Max?”
Schruille said, “What…?”
But in the shocked instant of her questions, Allgood had seen that he was discovered. He knew it was his end, could see it in her eyes. “I saw… I found the dopplegangers,” he stammered.