Then he remembered the satchel! Clinging to the doorframe with one hand, he reached back into the cab and hauled the satchel from on top of Johnny’s smiling face.
“Prepare for immediate impact,” Johnny said, unperturbed.
Quaid leaped! This, too, his body knew how to do; a stunt that might have killed an amateur hardly bruised him, as he tumbled clear and rolled down an embankment, hanging on to the satchel as if for dear life. Seconds later, the cab smashed into the wall and exploded in flames.
Quaid was safe, for the time being. But Richter would soon be after him again, when he discovered there was no corpse in the JohnnyCab. Quaid had to lose himself better than he had before, and stay lost. He climbed to his feet and disappeared into the darkness.
Richter and Helm pulled up short as the cab exploded. The rain was still coming down, but it could do little to extinguish the great gouts of flame that flared from the ruined vehicle.
They gazed at it, catching their breath while savoring the destruction. All kinds of mayhem were nice, but fire had its own special appeal. Helm started forward, but Richter held him back.
“Not yet,” Richter said, offering Helm a cigarette. “I like my meat well done.” He lit his own cigarette, then turned to watch the barbecue.
Meanwhile, below, Quaid was climbing over a fence, satchel in hand, unobserved. This was the industrial section of town. He headed into the comforting concealment between two brick buildings. With luck the goons would be distracted by the smashed cab above long enough, and would lose his trail entirely. He ran on, gaining confidence. Now he needed to find a private place, out of the dreary rain, to check the satchel. He put a hand to his head, holding the ragged turban in place; he was lucky he hadn’t lost that during his encounter with the wall!
Helm had gone for the car and radioed for backup. Now he, Richter, and four other agents watched as two firemen foamed the smoking wreck and searched for remains. One of the firemen backed out and crossed over to Richter.
“Nobody home,” he said, with a shrug.
Richter and Helm looked at each other in amazement.
“Maybe he burned up,” Helm said.
Then the other fireman called out from the wreckage. “Wait a second! I’ve got something!”
Richter and Helm approached eagerly as the fireman dragged a charred form from the foam. It was the smoldering remains of the mannequin driver. The ghastly head turned.
“Thank you for taking JohnnyCab,” it said brightly. “I hope you enjoyed the ride!”
The quarry had slipped the noose again! Enraged, Richter smashed his fist into the Johnny head, cracking its jaw and shutting it up. He grimaced and drew his hand back quickly, The damned thing was hot!
An agent ran over to him. “We picked up a reading at the cement works,” he said. “It’s weak, but it’s him.”
“Move!” Richter shouted.
CHAPTER 13
Hauser
Quaid zigzagged through the industrial complex, trying to stay out of sight while exploring for a suitable building. He wanted something that was deserted but not too obvious as a hiding place.
Quaid had been in such places many times on the job. He was familiar with the acrid smell of chemical waste leaking from rusting drums; the sight of tangled, outdated machinery; the oily orange and green scum floating on the surface of each puddle. He knew better than most people how many factories had closed down since the war with the Southern Bloc had heated up. With the big money going into weapons manufacture, the production of ordinary items had all but ceased.
It meant little to the wealthy, such as those in Quaid’s new tower block. The luxuries they craved were supplied by small, specialized “boutique” factories. Now, as in the past, the rich were getting richer and the poor were getting screwed. The abandonment of the larger industrial centers had meant shortages and deprivations for the average person. It had also made it that much harder for people to find jobs: the new defense plants were almost entirely mechanized.
No wonder so many people were emigrating to work in the Martian mines. Not only were huge bonuses offered, but job security as well. It looked pretty likely that the demand for turbinium would continue to increase for a good long while.
Turbinium was a rare resource, unknown on Earth, but relatively common on Mars, a key ingredient in the particle beam weapons program. Exactly what it was and how it was used was classified information; it wasn’t even listed in most reference works, but it was known that the Northern Bloc’s space-based weapons system depended on it. The stuff was more valuable than diamonds and as long as the war continued, miners would be needed to wrest it from the Martian soil.
Quaid stopped in his tracks as he spotted a likely hiding place: a large, dilapidated factory building in which he was sure he could find a hiding place. Later it would be scheduled for demolition, to make room for a turbinium processing plant, but right now it was deserted. The windows weren’t even locked; there must be nothing in here worth stealing.
He climbed through a window and finally out of the rain, ducking his head to avoid getting the turban knocked askew. He found himself in a cavernous industrial ruin. Water dripped through holes in the roof. Ideal!
He wasted no time. He set the satchel on a corroded assembly-line apparatus and removed the contents, hoping feverishly that they would somehow tell him something about his true identity. Maybe then he would understand why those thugs were trying to kill him.
There were packets of Martian money: lots of it. He whistled to himself as he flipped through the red banknotes. Since Martian currency was valid on Earth, just as Earth credits were valid on Mars, this would solve any financial problems he might have. But at the moment it wasn’t what he needed. He needed something to save his life.
The next items proved to be of more interest. There were two ID cards. One, made out to someone named Brubaker, held a photo of a face that matched his own. His hands trembled with excitement. Was his real name Brubaker? Was Brubaker the man those thugs were after? He scanned the other ID. The photo was that of an overweight, many-chinned woman of indeterminate age. She had to be someone important to him—why else would her ID be in the satchel? He stared at her face, searching within himself for any spark of recognition. Could she be a relative? His mother? A girlfriend? It was no good. The face meant nothing to him. Pushing back a surge of disappointment, he continued to empty the satchel.
There was a weird sort of surgical instrument sealed in clear plastic. Well, the satchel looked like a doctor’s black bag, so maybe this was to make it look more authentic. He could claim to be a specialist of some kind.
There was a strange rubber mold. He held it up and saw that it was an elaborate head-covering mask with some kind of electronic gadgetry imbedded in it that made the mouth move and changed its expression slightly. It matched the woman’s face on the ID. So it had to be a disguise, with identification to back it up. Beneath the mask were yards and yards of a slimy, plastic fabric; part of the disguise, he hoped. He’d need more than a mask—even a fancy job like this one—to transform himself into the woman pictured in the ID.
He delved deeper. There were only a few items left. He pulled out a package of candy bars.
He peered at them, surprised. No, they really were garden-variety candy: Mars bars. Someone must have had a warped sense of humor. Still, they did remind him that he was hungry. Were they safe to eat?
There was a pair of strange galoshes. Huh?
He delved again, and came up with a combination wristwatch and numerical pad. He examined the little instrument, touching one of its buttons.