Logan's Run (4 page)

The party in unit 2582 was getting into full stride when Logan arrived. The door was opened by a mouse-faced man in orange trims. He was quite intoxicated.

“The tree of cruelty often blooms in the fertile soil of love,” he said

“I’m sure it does,” said Logan, scanning the crowded room for Lilith.

“The boy seeks, the man finds. That’s a poem. I write them, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” said Logan. The girl was not in the crowd. Perhaps she’d been delayed or had changed her mind about meeting him.

“One of my poems was read on TD. Called ‘Womb Wood.’ Like to hear it?”

Logan said nothing.

“In the woods of the womb, 

She walked.

In a whirl of red wounds,

She fell.

Heart bursting like a plum 

In the bracelets of her breasts.”

Logan sat down on a flowcouch built into the wall. The poet continued to talk, obviously determined to elicit praise.

“That poem received a great deal of very favorable comment. I’m quite famous, you know.” “Fine,” said Logan.

A toad of a man scuttled up with a foaming mug in his hand. “Try this,” he said. Logan caught the slightly sour odor of fermentation. “It’s Volney’s home brew. We’ve got a whole keg of it. It’s nothing like the beer from the slots. He’s a real artist, Volney is. Puts musk raisins in it.”

“I prefer Scotch.”

“That’s your loss, citizen.”

Logan dialed a Scotch. It was taken from him by a red-haired girl in slashvelvets. She downed it hurriedly.

“Wonderful!” she said Her green eyes were alcohol flushed. She offered Logan a cigarette.

“No, thanks.”

“Don’t be afraid to,” she urged him. “There’s a police payoff in this area. No tobacco raids. Go ahead.”

“No, thanks.”

The girl took offense. “Afraid to smoke, aren’t you? You men! Cowards. Every one of you cowards. I was on pairup with a merchantman until last week. Then we broke it. Know why?”

“Why?” asked Logan.

“Because. Because he lacked the essentials. He was content. Content to
be
content. He had his business and he had me and that’s all he wanted. I need a man who wants what he doesn’t have. That make sense to you, citizen?”

“Maybe you don’t need a man. Maybe you need a boy.”

“I tried a boy. Eleven. He was good for a while, but I got so I hated his young face. I’m fifteen—and a woman needs a man. How old are you?”

“Old enough,” said Logan, keeping his right hand closed. The flower blinked warmly in palmflesh. He could feel its heat against his fingertips.

“How about a pairup?”

“No. No, thanks.”

The green eyes chilled. “Is that all you can say—’no, thanks’?” 

The girl stood up, weaved away. 

Logan sighed.
Where
was Lilith?

The door slid open and a fat bellied man eased in, bearing a double armload of clothing and accessories. Hs voice shrilled in falsetto. “Hail, fellow lungblasters and glassmasters and livefasters! Hail, fellow peepers! The gear is here.” The fatman pasted a talk puppet grin on his face and began strutting the room in high-pumping steps. “Gear up! Everybody gear up!”

“Been waiting long?” Lilith 4 grinned down at Logan; a pink cigarette dangled smoke from her glitter-coated lips. She was bare-hipped in silver snakeskins.

“Let’s talk,” said Logan. “You know why I’m here.”

The fatman bustled importantly up to them. He thrust a black knit bodystocking and crepe stretchsoles at them. “Gear up, you two,” he said, clapping his meaty hands. “Let’s peep!”

“We’ll be partners,” declared Lilith. “You said you were up to it.”

Logan took the clothing, moved to a changeroom and slipped out of his grays. He’d have to stow the Gun somewhere; no place to conceal it in the skintight bodysuit. At least he’d left the spare ammo packs in his unit; figuring that the six charges in the weapon should see him through. Now he was grateful for this decision. Less bulk to worry about. He slipped the Gun into an alcove, gambling that no one would have occasion to search the closet.

“You have Greek shoulders,” said the mouse-faced poet, who was beginning to gear up next to him. Logan grunted and returned to Lilith, who was already dressed and ready. She offered him a Scotch. “Thanks, I can
use
this!” He tipped the glass to his lips.

A dozen dark-garbed men and women waited in the central chamber. They joined them, and the girl handed Logan a pair of smokegoggles. “Wear these on the ledge.”

Six black-light cameras were arranged neatly on a table. One camera per couple.

“Righty, righty,” said the fatman, signaling for attention. “Now all you peepers know what to do?”

“Stop being a damn woman, Sharps,” said a bored voice, “and get on with it.”

Sharps glanced petulantly at the speaker. “I’m in charge. The cameras belong to me!”

“And it’s your alcohol and your tobacco and your living unit. For which we are all duly grateful. So let’s peep.”

Sharps made an obscene gesture. He waved the first couple off. In pairs, the players left the chamber through a ceiling-high view-window.

Logan found himself kneeling beside Lilith on a narrow ledge high in the complex. Below them, the great city was alive with snakes of light. He saw the rows of blinking glasshouses near Hurley Square and, beyond, the dazzle of Arcade. The fire galleries sent up their rose glow, staining the edge of the night sky.

It was a long way down.

He shifted the camera and gripped the alum-ribbing of the building wall. Wind slicked between the box beams, threatening to pull him from the ledge.

Lilith crawled into the liquid dark, edging in front of Logan. Keeping his eye on the feminine sway of her dark bottom, he followed.

When the girl stopped he said, “Talk. Were alone now.” He couldn’t see her face behind the goggles. “
First
we peep,” she said. “Then we talk.”

“Why not now?”

“If we return to the party without film they’ll suspect something. Sharps is not the fool he seems. They’ll ask questions we might not want to answer.”

High in the complex, a full half-mile above them, a police paravane ran its pinlight along the ledges.

“Keep in shadow,” said Lilith. “They patrol these landings. We have to be careful.”

Logan knew the game was illegal, and he didn’t want the police stopping him. If he got picked up without the Gun he would not be able to prove his identity. They’d have to check him out. If he had the Gun, and revealed himself, the girl would close the door on Sanctuary. Either way, he couldn’t afford to be stopped.

He’d be careful.

With a cat’s litheness, the girl swung, hand over hand, along a guy wire leading to the next ledge. Logan slung the camera over one shoulder and followed.

Most of the windows they could reach were blacked. Other units were unoccupied. Lilith pointed downward “I think something’s happening in there,” she said. The window she’d indicated was closed but not blacked.

The girl took out a slim wire with an earplug at one end and a walkup on the other. She pressed the cup against the building, the plug in her ear. She smiled.

“Have a listen,” she said, passing the earplug to Logan.

Through the miniature amplifier he could hear voices husky with love. A man and a woman. Sighs. The rub of skin on skin.

“Give me the camera,” whispered Lilith. “And grab my ankles. I’m going down for a shot.”

Logan braced himself. He clung to the girl’s legs as she slipped off the ledge, head first. Lilith dangled in space just in front of the dark window. Below her: a mile-deep emptiness, a stagger of steel and glass and boa beam units.

Logan leaned back, feet gripping the stone, feeling his leg muscles protest. The camera whirred. “Up!” the girl whispered.

He pulled her back to the ledge. “How did you know I could hang on to you?” “I didn’t,” she said. “That’s part of the lift.”

Did she really know anything about Sanctuary? Or was she simply some danger-sick female out for thrills? Logan didn’t know. Yet.

A pinlight raked the building. Police!

They melted into shadow. The patrol paravane ghosted past them and continued on its way. “You’re doing fine,” the girl said.

“Can’t we talk now?”

She laughed—and crawled off with Logan behind her.

They climbed upward, along ridged metal, their suction stretchsoles aiding the ascent. On the roof Lilith said, “Jump!”

She leaped into space, cleared a gap between units, and landed in a garden patio. He made the jump, almost losing his balance.

The patio was deserted.

On the adjoining level, however, the girl found fresh prey. “You take them this time,” she said to Logan.

He aimed the camera, fingered it into whirring motion. “Good,” said the girl. “That’s prime peeping. Now we—”

“Now we talk—or I pitch you over this ledge. I’ve had enough of your nonsense.”

“You’d really do it, wouldn’t you?” Her voice held excitement.

“I really would.”

“All right.what do you know about Sanctuary?” “I know it’s where I want to go.”

“Where did you get my key?” She watched him carefully.

His lips felt loose. He giggled foolishly. “From.from the same place all runners get theirs.”

He giggled again.
What was happening
to
him?
The hard aluminum ledge rippled, fell away. He was floating out in space with the wind crying around him.

“Answer the question!” the girl’s voice whispered intensely at his ear.

Logan found himself singing: “Angerman was.filled with fury, He the judge and he the jury.

Logan babbled happily. He was poised in air, looking down at himself sprawled on the ledge. He watched Lilith cuff him across the mouth. He watched her grab his hair and bend his head back.

“The
key
—where did you get the key?”

“Man named 10, named 10, named 10…named Doyle 10.”

Logan’s neck ached.

“Angerman, pursuing faster,” he sang. “Ang—Angerman, the angry master.”

He stood up rigidly, with the girl clinging to him. The world was no longer dark; it was filled with blazing orange music which stabbed his eyes.

“Did you kill Doyle?”

The orange music stroked him. “Cubs…cubs killed him.”

Logan stepped off the ledge. Instinctively he reached out; his clawing fingers found a grip. His head was clearing as he kicked at air. His right foot lodged on a metal projection and slowly, inch by inch, he drew himself back onto the ledge.

He lay, stomach down, gasping for breath. The girl. She’d drugged his Scotch. With Truthtell.
Had he told her too much?

“What now?” he asked.

“Go see Doc,” she said sweetly. “He’s your neat contact.”

“Doc who?”

“In Arcade. Look for The New You. That’s his place.” Logan nodded.

“Now we go back to Sharps and turn in our peeps. Some lift, eh?” “Sure,” said Logan. “Some lift.”

He left the belt at the Beverly overpass and began threading his way through Arcade.

The immense pleasure center formed a never-ending human logjam. Arcade had not closed its doors to funseekers for over fifty years. The place was a vast crazy quilt of hallucimills, Re-Live parlors and fire galleries.

Signs screamed and moaned in smoky colors: RE-LIVE THAT FIRST EMBRACE! (A gaudy Tri-Dim on a ribbed platform depicting two nude youngsters in a torrid tangle.) RE-LIVE THOSE PRECIOUS MOMENTS! (A wild-eyed boy riding a flamed devilstick through a mock sky.) RE-LIVE! RE-LIVE! RE-LIYE!

Noise gonged; a thousand odors mingled; hawkers cried their wares. Here night was day and day was night

“Wanta good time, citizen?” A man with one arm and a fog voice beckoned him toward a swinging door.

Logan passed him quickly.

He saw the sign he was looking for. It hit the window in a sulfurous shower and withdrew, hit and

withdrew into the darkness behind the black glass. THE NEW YOU…THE NEW YOU…THE NEW YOU…

Logan entered the shop.

The waiting room was the color of ashes. The scattered pieces of furniture were faded, worn. Even the air in the room seemed used. An ancient chrome-plated desk hunched in one corner, and behind it sat a young woman in soiled whites. Her face was pale and predatory. She regarded Logan suspiciously.

“You want Doc?”

“I want Sanctuary.”

The girl wet her lips with a small pink tongue. “Then you want Doc.”

She rose listlessly, crossed to Logan. “Hand,” she said. He held up his right hand, palm out. Red-black-red-black-red-black.

“C’mon,” she said. “Follow through for the new you.

She led him down a musty hallway and into a large room smelling of metal. Logan recognized the thing in the center of the alum floor; he felt himself ice up.
Table!
The machine loomed over a flat metal bed that was grooved and slotted and equipped with fastening devices.

“There’s not another like her outside a hospital between here and New Alaska,” said a harsh, confident voice.

Logan whirled to face a thick bodied sixteen-year-old. The man’s bony features were split by a crooked-toothed smile. He wore a long gray smock which extended down to his shoe tops. Doc.

“A little edgy, are you? Well, that’s natural. Runners are scared people. Least you got enough sense to start before your flower blacks. It’s tougher then, with the Sandmen onto you. What’ll it be, face job or full body? Could add a couple inches to those legs”

“Just the face,” said Logan.

“Got no time, is that it? Runners never got time.” A note of sad regret in the voice. “I won’t ask your name. I don’t want to know it. You got the punchkey and that’s good enough for me. Ballard knows who to give them to.”

Ballard!
Logan’s mind leaped. The world’s oldest man. A story to frighten children with. A legend. A subject for folk chants. Was there actually such a man—the force behind Sanctuary?

“Holly will get you ready. If you’re worried about the Table, don’t be. They call me Doc , but I’m a trained mech. A real mechanic. Give me a basket of transistors and a pound of platinum sponge and I can make anything. You’re in good hands, believe what I tell you.”