The blow was swift, soundless, feral in its cold, merciless accuracy. The beggar grunted as his skull yielded to the impact of the weighed club, then as the tall man supported his sagging body he collapsed gently to the wet ground. In the dim light it would seem as though he had sat down again, and Ron jingled a few coins in his pocket as he stooped over the lifeless figure.
He was sweating as he walked away.
It wasn’t the murder, for death was nothing and a beggar less than that. It was the danger, the unnecessary risk and the awful waste. He had walked among them and he had killed, and now he was walking away while behind him—
He swallowed and forced himself not to hurry. If the watching beggars even guessed at what he had done or why he wouldn’t stand a chance. They would rend him, tear his quivering flesh, smash the life from his body and vent their insensate hate on his delicate structure. Fear walked with him as he strode through the rain, and he was glad of the shielding darkness.
He walked directly into a patrol.
Light flared at him, thrown from a shuttered lantern, and he blinked in the sudden glare, conscious of hostile eyes staring at him from the tight knot of men.
“You! What are you doing here?”
“Heading for the main section.” He forced stiff features to smile. “I’m thirsty, thought I’d get me a drink and a spin at the wheel. Why?”
They didn’t answer, but a rough hand swept the hair back from his forehead and ears and calloused fingers probed at his skull. They found the knife and club, but that meant nothing, a man would be worse than a fool to travel unarmed, and he stood, cringing a little, as they ‘examined his body.
“He seems all right, Luke,” grunted a man. “Human; anyway.”
“Sure I’m human,” he snapped, and made his voice carry injured innocence. “You think I’m one of those damn Muties?”
“You could be. They’ve been coming into town too often of late. It’s getting so a man ain’t safe after dark, and a lot of ’em are trying to pass the line.”
“Not me.” He shrugged his clothing back into position. “Thanks, anyway, I’ll be more careful.” He made as if to walk on, and halted as the hard-eyed men barred his passage. “What’s the matter?”
“In a hurry, ain’t you?”
“I’m cold and wet and I want a drink.” He glared at the men. “You’ve examined me, haven’t you? Well?”
“Where do you work? What do you do? Where do you live?” The question spat like bullets from the thin lips of the man called Luke. “I ain’t satisfied.”
“I work for myself, collecting metal, copper and zinc for Zamboni piles, some ali and iron.” Ron shrugged. “During the day I work in the ruins, but at night I come into town.”
“Address?”
“Any flop house which has a spare bed.” He grinned. “You’re wasting time. I’m okay.”
“Sounds reasonable, Luke,” said a man quietly. “He looks human, anyway, let’s get on.”
“You coming with us?” Luke stared coldly at Ron, and looking at him the tall man knew that he daren’t refuse. Suspicion was too near the razor-edge of action, and one dead man more or less wouldn’t matter. It would be simple to slam a bullet through him — just in case, and any refusal might trigger the blood lust. He nodded, falling into step with the men and waiting for a chance to dodge free. In a way it had its advantages. With the patrol he was safe, above suspicion, and could walk the streets with impunity, but within him the pains mounted, tearing at his sanity and making his hands sweat and tremble.
Grimly he bit his lips and forced himself to walk as they walked, do as they did, deliberately bumping into obstacles and cursing with human impatience. Gradually the tension eased as they accepted him for what he appeared to be, and he began looking for a chance to escape.
The sound of shots cut through the night like the repeated slamming of a door. Three of them, blurring into one long rolling explosion, then, after a pause, two more echoing down the rain-washed streets like exclamation marks, cutting across the mechanical grinding of the distant jukebox and bringing a stir of life to the huddled beggars.
Whoever had fired the shots was either a bad shot or hated what he shot at, and few men were bad shots. The echoes died, yielding to the sound of running feet and the thick, blood-crazed cursing of a man. He staggered from a leaning doorway, dressed in a tattered shirt and trousers, the pistol still in his hand, and in the sudden glare of the lantern his eyes were bloodshot and mad looking.
“Two of them,” he mouthed. “A pair of the swine. I got one but the other got away.”
“Let’s have a look.” Luke thrust himself forward and stared at the others. “Cover the back and two of you go after it.” He looked at the man. “Male or female?”
“A bitch. The pair of them were bitches.” He spat and rubbed his chin with the hand holding the pistol. “The young one got away.”
“I’ll go after it,” said Ron. He stared at Luke. “I haven’t got a gun, so could you—?”
“Go with him, Sam. You’re armed. Bring back the body if you find it, but don’t go too far out.” The lantern light glistened from Luke’s eyes. “I’ll examine this one, a female you say?”
“Yeah.” The man led the way through the doorway and Ron stared at Sam.
“Let’s go.”
It was almost too easy. Swiftly Ron led the way towards the ruins, weaving skillfully between the heaps of rubble, taking a path that twisted far from the lights and noise of the center. Sam stumbled after him, the sound of his breathing harsh against the soft murmur of the rain, cursing when he fell. The sounds of the discordant music faded into the distance, throbbing like a forgotten dream, and the smoking flares cast a dim radiance faraway.
“Take it easy.” gasped Sam. He paused, wiping his face and staring into the darkness, the pistol held tensely in his hand. “This is far enough, too far, let’s get back.”
“I think she went just a little further,” suggested Ron. “Maybe she holed up in that heap over there.” He pointed and the other man narrowed his eyes as he tried to see through the rain-dimmed night.
“She? He squinted at the tall man. “Over where? How can you see in the damn darkness?” Suspicion again. The ever-ready suspicion of a man who mistrusted everything he couldn’t understand, and Ron frowned as he realized how he had given himself away. He stepped closer to the other man.
“Look,” he said. “You can just make it out, that white blob there.” Automatically Sam turned his head, peering in the direction of the pointing arm, then stared back — too late.
First the club, the weighed material crushing thin bone with deceptive ease. Then the knife, the honed edge opening the gushing gates of life. Then—
When Ron straightened from the empty body the pains had died almost away, almost, as far as they ever died, and the trembling urgency had gone. Swiftly he examined the body, taking the pistol and the handful of cartridges, the underarm holster and the belt knife. A few coins spilled from one of the pockets and he grabbed them, thrusting them with his own. He tensed, skin prickling to primitive warning, and glided with soundless strides from the huddled figure.
A girl stumbled slowly through the darkness.
Pale she was, her skin almost luminescent in the night, with long hair straggling over her face and a thin dress, torn and soiled, clinging damply to her well-made figure. Ron stared at her, crouched beside a heap of heat-seared brick, and within him strange hunger pulsed into vibrant life.
He moved and she recoiled. He stepped forward and she shrank back, her wide eyes terrified as she stared at him. He smiled, and incredibly her fear left her, reaction slumping her body, forcing her to lean against the jumbled ruins.
“You frightened me,” she said. “I thought—”