Logan's Run (2 page)

Directly beneath the mural, a man with a sign. Logan registered shock. The man was about fifteen with rounded, girlish features and large, soulful eyes. A silver fringe of beard silked his chin, and his hair was worn shoulder-length. The sign around his neck said: RUN!

He sat, image-still, in the middle of the walkway. Several angry citizens circled him. One of them spat on the bearded man.

“Filth!”

“Scum!”

“Coward!”

The man smiled patiently at his tormentors. He handed each of them a thin scripsheet from a stack in his lap.

“This is disgusting,” said a fat woman, balling the scrip in her hand. “Unlawful.” As Logan approached, the man held out one of the sheets. He accepted it.

               REJECT SLEEP! RUN 

               IF THERE ARE ENOUGH RUNNERS 

               THERE WON’T BE ENOUGH HOMERS. 

               THERE WON’T BE ENOUGH DS MEN. 

               IT IS WRITTEN THAT THE LIFE 

               SPAN OF MAN IS THREE SCORE 

               YEARS AND TEN, SEVENTY YEARS! 

               DON’T SETTLE FOR TWENTY-ONE.

               RUN! REJECT SLEEP!

A police paravane settled soundlessly at the edge of the walkway. Logan watched the two lemon-tunicked officers dismount and advance on the bearded man. He did not try to run. They led him away.

The paravane lifted back into the evening sky.

A woman next to Logan clucked her tongue. “That’s the third maniac they’ve arrested this month. You’d think they were organized. It’s frightening.”

A girl in green mistsilks eased out of a doorway and fell into step beside Logan. He ignored her. The darkness had deepened and the sky was splashed with emerging stars. An air-freshener hummed. Logan stopped to watch the Tri-Dim Report.

The proscenium of the TD Newsbuilding brightened. A familiar 300-foot figure took solid form; he smiled warmly down at the crowd. The tri-dimensional newsman was dressed in Lifeleather trimfits. His giant eyes were clear and guileless.

“Evening, Citizens,” he boomed. “This is Madison 24 with the latest news. Trouble in the maze tonight. A gypsy gang war on an express platform near Stafford Heights resulted in two deaths. Fourteen individuals were injured, including three gypsies. Police are investigating and there
will
be arrests:” The immense figure paused for dramatic effect, then continued. “The triple slayer, Harry 7, was apprehended earlier today in the Trancas complex. His friends were invited to see him off in the Hellcar. But not
one
person showed up. Not one.” The giant face nodded sternly. “Does that tell you something, citizens? It tells me something. Yes, indeed. It tells me that we are a proud, law-loving people, ashamed of runners and killers and that we are—”

Logan stopped listening. He became aware of the girl at his side.

“You’re not happy,” the girl in green said. “I can always tell. I have a gift for knowing, for sensing unhappiness.” Her eyes shone with a fierce intensity. “I sympathize with unhappy men.”

She placed a soft hand on his waist and pressed lightly. He shook off the hand.

Logan walked away, lengthening his stride.

“I could make you happy,” called the girl. Her voice drifted after him faintly: “—make you happy.”

Happy. Logan turned the word over in his mind. Restlessness gnawed at him.
You can’t buy happiness
. But of course, you could.

The hallucimill on Roeburt was one of the city’s largest. The drugs, administered by trained professionals, were nonaddictive. Logan had tried several and found that LF produced the happiest effects—Lysergic Foam, an extension of the old LSD formula developed more than a century and a half ago. It required sixty seconds to run a man’s bloodstream. After that: expanded consciousness.

Synthetic bliss.

“LF,” Logan told the man in white.

“Dosage?” “Standard.”

“Follow me, please.”

Logan was taken to the blueroom: a small, padded chamber with a table, a chair and a blue floor. And nothing else.

A woman was coming out of the room. Her face was papery, her eyes still partially glazed.

Logan took the drug flask handed him, swallowed the contents. “Have a good lift,” the man in white said as he closed the door.

Logan sat down in the chair, keeping his eyes closed for a full minute, allowing the LF to work itself into his blood. Then he relaxed, opened his eyes.

A terrible illumination fired the room, and Logan knew it was going to be a bad lift.

Window, he thought, got to reach the window. It was open when he reached it and he fell out of the window, dropping down rapidly into the heart of the threemile complex.

A short, squat man caught him.

“You were running,” the man said “That’s fine.”

“No, I was falling. There’s a big difference.” It was important that he be understood. “I fell from a window.
Fell
.”

Logan twisted away, began to run.

He ran through hissing fire galleries. The world smelled of dream dust, and a million voices were dirging the coda to “Black Flower.”

The short, squat man dropped him with a blow.

“Again,” said the man, crouched.

But Logan had the Gun. He didn’t need to take any more of this damned punishment! He pulled the trigger. And the world exploded

On the way out the attendant grinned at Logan. “You were really lifted. Like another?” “No, thanks,” said Logan, and left the building. He didn’t feel any better.

On the upper level he slowed. A group of youngsters approached him, their palms glowing like blue fireflies in the soft dark. As they passed, Logan heard snatches of heated argument.

“The Reddies don’t remember we’ve got rights, too.”

“They just better begin to—”

Echoes of the Little War.

Logan moved on, toward the play of colored lights on the glasshouse ahead.

The big dome was frosted in white, and interior images were indistinct. A contortion of naked, massed bodies formed a high, arched entrance, and the steps leading inside were illumined from below.

PLEASURE gleamed a step.

SATISFACTION gleamed another. 

RARE DELIGHTS gleamed a third.

Logan entered.

“Your pleasure is our pleasure, sir,” a flax-haired girl said to him mechanically. She was seated at a flow desk and wore red satin transpants.

Logan placed his right palm flat to the desk. An inaudible click: the desk would bill him for the visit. He walked into the stagroom.
 

It was awash in sexuality. Here were beach girls from Mexico and California, Japanese maidens with shy eyes, Italian girls with mooned bodies, pert Irish lads, slim exotics from Calcutta, cool Englishwomen and full-figured French girls. All here because they were lonely or bored or oversexed; because they were looking for someone new or escaping from someone old—or for no reason at all except that the glasshouse was here to be used and it was a time for mingling and touching in a shadow search for love.
You never find the people that you go to meet in dreams
…

A girl with a blue palm swayed toward Logan; she was Eurasian and, at thirteen, a year away from womanhood. “I’m adept,” she said. “You’ll find me skilled beyond any others.”

Logan ignored her, gesturing to an older girl with red hair flowing along her back. She was swan-white with deep-lashed eyes of coral. “You,” he said.

The girl glided in his direction, the thin silk of her gown clouding behind her. “Not me,” she laughed, linking arms with a blue-gold blonde.

Logan was irritated. Ordinarily he would have been excited, flushed with anticipation. Tonight he felt dulled by what he saw.

He waved another female to him, a lithe girl with Slavic features and full hips. She smiled, took his hand.

They caught a riser up, passing tier on tier, stepped into a glass hall, moved in darkness to a glass room.

The girl told him that her name was Karenya 3. “I’m a three also,” Logan told her.

“Don’t talk,” she said feverishly. “Why do men always want to talk?”

Logan sat down on the bed and began to unbutton his shirt. The girl was already nude, having cast aside a thin garment of spun gauze.

How many times have I come to a place like this? he asked himself. To a lonely, empty house of glass.

Glass all around them. Glass walls and ceilings and floors. The bed, glass fiber. The chairs and tables, glass. The building was one vast transparent globe, shot periodically with colored lights.

Each room was equipped to illumine itself at irregular intervals, but it was impossible to determine just
when
a room would flare into brightness. Caught in the act of lovemaking, a couple would suddenly find themselves tangled in a wash of silver, or gold, or red, yellow or green. Other couples, around, above and below, would be able to watch them from glass floors, walls, ceilings. Then the light would die—to spring on in another chamber.

“Here,” said the girl. “Lie here.”

Logan eased into the glassfoam bedding. She guided his hand, and he gave himself over to this woman, holding and stroking her body in the darkness.

“Look!” she cried.

In the tier above them, bathed in hot gold, a man and a woman writhed in a love heat. Then darkness. The night deepened

Logan and Karenya were frozen in silver, arms and legs twined. They were conscious of the eyes around them in the dome, watching hungrily.

Darkness again.

Light bloomed, died, flared and died in the love depths of the structure. Until dawn sketched the glasshouse. The loving was over and done.

“Please visit us again,” said the flax-haired girl in transpants. Logan exited, saying nothing.

Time for duty. No time to sleep. Logan went home to his unit, took a Detoxic, flushing his system, but this didn’t seem to help. His eyes felt grainy; his muscles ached. He suited up and went down to headquarters.

Francis was there when he walked in.

The tall man grinned at him. “You look ripped,” he said. “Bad night?”

Francis never looked ripped. No lifts or glasshouses for him. Not before a job anyway. Francis was cool and clearheaded and sure of himself. Why couldn’t
he
be like that?

Actually there were few DS men who possessed the skill and drive of this friendless, loveless man with the mantis-thin body and the black eyes of a hunting cat. Precise, deadly, ruthless. Only the Thinker knew how many runners Francis had Gunned.

And what does he think of me? Logan asked himself. Always the casual grin, the light remark, telling you nothing. But judging every move.

The hallway was wide and gray and cold, yet Logan felt the warm sweat gathering under his tunic and along his hands as he walked.

He’d be all right once he had the Gun. He’d be fine; he always was. Soon he’d be hunting, man-tracking a runner somewhere in the city, doing his job as he had done it for years.

He’d be all right then.

The hallway ended. The two men faced a smooth section of wallmetal. “Identities,” said a metallic voice.

Each man pressed the palm of his right hand against the wall.

A panel slid back, revealing an alcove lined with worn black velvet. Gleaming in the velvet, long-barreled and waiting, were the Guns.

Only a DS man could carry a Gun. Each weapon was coded to the operative’s hand pattern, set to detonate on any other human contact.

Logan reached in and closed his fingers around the big pearl-handled revolver, drawing it free of its snug velvet nest. He checked it; full load, six charges: tangler, ripper, needler, nitro, vapor—and homer.

Already the sense of power was building in him as he held the Gun, weighing it in his hand, letting the light slide along the chased-silver barrel. Weapons shaped like these had kept the peace in towns named Abilene and Dodge and Fargo. Called “sixguns” then, their chambers held lead bullets. Now, centuries later, their cargo was far deadlier.

“Identities,” demanded the wall again.

The two men ignored the malfunction.

“Identities, please.”

The report room hummed.

The room clicked and flashed, metallically coding, decoding, indexing, weighing, processing, filing, tracking—rendering its impersonal machine data to the DS operatives who moved before its faceted wall of insect lights.

A dispatcher looked up, saw them. His face was dry and chafed, his expression harried. He picked out a scan record and bustled toward them.

“We’ve been jammed here,” he said irritably. “Stanhope’s in the field and I can’t locate Webster 16. We’ve got a runner in Pavilion, moving east.”

The room was a cross-mixture of voices.

“Come in Kelly 4. DS at Morningside seven twelve.”

“Come in Stanhope. Your man is in the maze.”

“Evans 9. Confirm. Runner’s destination recorded seven-o-four as Phoenix. Mazecar waiting at Palisades. Confirm.”

Logan swept the alert board. A light went on at the third level, east sector. “Who takes him?” he asked.

“You do,” said the dispatcher. “Francis is on backup.” “All right,” said Logan. “Give me a scan.”

“Name: Doyle 10—14302. His flower blacked at five thirty-nine. That would be”—he checked a wallchron—”eighteen minutes ago. He’s heading east, up through the complex. So far he’s avoided the maze. I make it he knows about the platform scanners. He’s going for Arcade. Cagy. He must know the fire galleries interfere with a DS scope. The rest is on the board. Good hunting.”

Logan began to plot the alarm trail as it came in over the circuits. A light went on at fourth level east. Citizen alarm. Logan noted it. Ordinary citizens are your best allies when a runner is loose. Another light at level five. Logan waited for the third light before he left the alert room.

In Central Files he punched Doyle 10—14302. The slot instantly produced the physical file on the runner: a TD photo, vital statistics, pore patterns, names of known friends and associates.

Logan checked Doyle’s flower history: YELLOW: Childhood. Birth to seven years: machine-reared in a Missouri nursery. No unusual traits noted. BLUE: Boyhood. Seven to fourteen. The usual pattern. Lived in a dozen states, roamed Europe. No arrests. RED: Manhood. Fourteen to twenty-one. Rebel. Arrested at sixteen for blocking a DS man on a hunt. Pair-ups with three women, one of whom suspected of aiding runners. Has a twin sister, Jessica 6, whose record is clear.