Logan's Run (7 page)

The water climbed their legs until it took them at thigh level. Whale undogged a final beaded bulkhatch and pushed Logan through ahead of him. Wet tonnages drummed the chamber. In this small coffin space the ocean was a living presence; the sledging boom of iced undersea tides quaked the walls, and dust powdered down in damp brown showers.

Without the Gun, and under the implacable eye of the weapon in Whale’s hand, Logan felt powerless.

“She’s sick down here.” said Whale. “Fightin’ hard, she is.” Shifting the launcher, he placed a gentle hand against the pitted metal of the wall. “Hold on, Molly girl,” he crooned. “Ya showed ‘em what ya got. I know you’re hurt. You’ve taken all the sea can give. Hold! I’ve brought ya help.”

He fixed Logan with his eyes. “If you wanta live, mate, you’ll help Molly fight her battle. Just put your weight to that wall.”

The mountain of man squeezed back, out of the chamber. “When the bulkhead goes, you go with it.”

“Wait,” cried Jess. She blocked the hatch. “You’re not leaving him
here?
“ 

Whale rumbled. “Where else? Molly needs him.” “But then you’re no better than he is. A killer.”

“A man kills to save himself.” He brushed her aside, slammed the hatch and dogged it.

Outside, he handed her a key. “Use this at ten forty for the neat car. And you’d better step. You know where the landing is.”

Jess looked at him, white-faced

A dull reverberation trembled the floorplates.

“Molly’s callin’ and I got work to do. Tell Ballard we’re still holdin.”

And, with amazing agility, he weaved through a thicket of spars and stanchions to disappear into Molly’s vitals.

In the sweating dark, Logan felt despair. His last hope was gone. He was dead and he knew it. Now he felt as a runner feels, feared as a runner fears.

He traced the sweep of flexing coffin with searching fingers. No openings. Nothing to use on the hatch. Why hadn’t he taken his chances against the harpoon?

It ripped your gut out, but at least it was quick. Not like this. A place like this could break a man’s courage, stretch his nerve, unman him.

Well, I’m getting what I asked for, he thought. And maybe I deserve it for what I’ve done. God, maybe I do. So let the damn sea have me.

Logan fought a sudden urge to smash at the walls.

The Pacific leaned its weight against the chamber; water dripped continually, increasing in volume. Logan was chest deep in the cold tide. It rose toward his chin; he clamped his mouth shut. The chamber groaned under immense pressures.

Then abruptly the hatch opened. The water receded. Jess was there. 

“Quick,” she said. “There’s not much time.”

In subsector 8, section T, level zero, now completely submerged, a tiny crustacean burrowed a hundredth of an inch further into a conduit, since it was the creature’s nature to burrow. The tiny crawler blazed into blue-white heat.

In callbox 192978-E a micro terminal rose seven and a half degrees, shorting out a relay. A wire-cluster fused, and a new circuit was born.

“Sanctuary,” they had said to the mazecar.

But it did not take them to Sanctuary.

Instead, it took them to Hell.

He examines the data.

Fact: Doyle 10 had a sister, Jessica 6.

Fact: His interrogation of the little girl, Mary-Mary 2, has revealed that Logan is with Jessica.

He watches the board. It is silent, dark. No lights glow. No needles quiver.

The maze scanners are silent, dark.

The Gun tracer is silent, dark.

The Follower is silent, dark.

Impossible.

His quarry has vanished. 

LATE NIGHT…

Hell: named after the ancient religious concept of eternal punishment. Over a thousand miles of dead glare-ice wilderness between Baffin Bay and the Bering Sea. A sharded tumble of floes and bergs and nightmare crevasses, of daggered ice cliffs and howling glacial frost winds. A crippling, killing, freezing, forsaken world of white on white on white.

Hell: fourteen burrows in an irregular semicircle on the lee side of a storm-carved berg. Each cramped ice cell clawed from the iron surface by dying, lonely men and women working in subzero cold. Near the entrance to one hide-hole was a rich red stain on the ice glass, where an unknown convict had lung-hemorrhaged under the refrigerated glare of the midnight sun.

The maelstrom of cold had shaped a ledge into a stubby pedestal, and topping the pedestal was a hand-hewn ice block. Within the transparent mass a dark shape swam in frozen silence.

There were no guards. Nor were they needed.

No man ever walked out of Hell.

When Logan and Jess arrived, an alarm sounded. The platform itself dealt with them. They were needle-stunned, packaged and conveyed through a force field labyrinth and dumped on the ice.

The platform had disappeared. There was no way back.

Warden came to meet them. A man hunched against driving wind, a fur-shrouded scarecrow. His feet were rag-wrapped, his face old leather and iodine; his eyes burned under a filth-stiffened parka.

He bent over their cocooned figures and his mittened hands clumsily stripped away the con-webbing. Wadding the precious material, he thrust it into his parka.

Cold clubbed them.

Logan stumbled up, pulling Jess with him. In the severe cold the effects of the needle drug were rapidly dissipated.

“Wh—where’s the key?” he asked Warden. This man must be their contact. “When you come to Hell they throw away the keys.”

Logan felt the brass taste of fear in his mouth. They were in the escape-proof prison city at the North Pole.

“Come learn the rules” said Warden. He turned his back and paced off across the glare sheet.

They struggled after him. The wind died to a low snarl as they reached the partial shelter of the great iceberg which loomed over the burrows.

“Your neighbors,” said Warden.

Fur-swaddled figures surrounded them, emerging in clots of twos and threes from the ink-mouthed holes. Logan scanned the emaciated, skull-haunted faces that hedged him in a wolf circle.

“Rule one,” said Warden. “A new convict can pick his antagonist. Two: the antagonist can use any weapon he has to defend himself and his goods. Three: the new man fights barehanded. This all the rules we got—except winner gets first cut.”

“And if I don’t fight?” asked Logan.

“Then ya die on the ice,” said Warden. “Course, that don’t go for the girl.” He grinned. “And ya better get to it. Couple minutes more out here, dressed like you are, and you won’t
need
to choose.”

Under the wind’s hammer, Logan’s clothing was gauze. He measured the corded figures, looking for weakness and found none. These were survivors. No soft ones here.

He pointed a random finger. “Him,” said Logan.

The circle tightened to take up the slack left by the man who stepped forward. Tall. Long-armed. Thick-shouldered. From the matted fur at his chest he drew forth a needle-pointed stiletto of hand-burnished ice. Eight inches of lethal blade, shaped with an artist’s care.

Instantly he lunged. The stiletto flashed. He had led with the knife. Logan took advantage of this mistake to chop the weapon from his hand. It shattered on the ice, but Logan’s foot slid on one of the shards and he was down, the man atop him, hands at his throat.

Logan felt the sinewed fingers close on his windpipe.

He broke the chokehold and the man’s neck with one blow.

Warden looked stunned and disappointed. The circle of eyes shifted hungrily to the dead body, already frost-dusted. Now they moved in to strip the clothing, which they piled at Logan’s feet. The corpse was hustled away.

“That was Harry 7 you just took care of,” said Warden. “Pick up his clothes and claim his goods.” Warden walked to the mouth of a burrow. “This hide hole’s yours. Harry didn’t have no woman. You share everything with the girl.”

Logan followed Jess into the narrow, fetid mouth of the ice cave. Inside, they hurriedly donned the evil-smelling hides of Harry 7. The temperature was twenty degrees warmer, but it was still chillingly cold.

They sat down together on a thin layer of shredded conwebbing which had been spread against the ice. Logan pressed close to Jess. She withdrew, her face set.

Well, here we go again, he thought angrily. She knew he’d had no choice out there. She was alive in the clothes of a dead man, but she couldn’t accept the fact that he had to kill to get them.

“I listened to you as we were coming into the platform,” he said. “I hid the Gun so the contact wouldn’t connect me with DS. With the Gun we’d have some kind of a chance here. But we don’t. And right now you need me a lot more than I need you.”

After a moment he felt her settle against him. “What are we going to do?” she asked.

“Nothing. Until we know more.”

A scuffing sound at the entrance. Warden appeared.

“Come see Black Tom.”

They followed him out. Warden led them for a short distance across the blowing ice. “Here he is.” Warden gestured theatrically.

They looked up at the dark shape in the transparent block above them. Inside the ice was
part
of a man.

He had no legs. One of his arms was a flat, paddle-shaped stump. The remaining arm arched forward, terminating in taloned fingers. All the fat was gone, and the bone structure was exposed in raw relief. The arm strained in a bowed curve, clawing for life. Nestled against the shoulder was the head. Staring out of a twisted visage were, eyes of milk. Wind and sun and wilderness had carved him.

He was black.

“He was a white man, once,” said Warden. Jessica looked away.

“Black Tom’s up there for a reason,” Warden went on. “He ain’t what you’d call decoration. You can learn from Tom. He cracked the two-year mark in Hell. He watched ‘em come and he watched ‘em go —until he went snow-blind the end of the first year. A month later frostbite got his legs, but that didn’t slow him. He dug two burrows by hisself to keep his place, and tanned the skins you’re wearin’ on your backs. They say he bit his arm off when an ice slide trapped him. Anyhow, he come in without it. Tom lived longest ‘cause he learned fastest.” Warden spat on the ice. “Me, I’ve lasted more’n a year already—and there’s none here can say the same. Do like you’re told, and you may last the week.”

“Savage!” flamed Jess. “Why do you live like this?”

Warden’s reply was edged. “Living’s better than dying.”

“You could cooperate,” she said. “You could work together instead of
slaughtering
each other.”

“Work for what?”

“Food, clothing, tools.”

“There’s damn little food, less clothing and no tools. It takes wood and stone and metal to build something, and the only metal around here is—in Box.”

A man loped up to drop a soggy bundle at their feet. “Here’s your cut,” the man said to Logan.

He picked up the bundle—and unwrapped the liver and heart of Harry 7! Jess stepped back with a look of horror. Logan dropped the bundle; it stained the snow.

“We don’t waste food here,” snapped Warden. “This ain’t a threemile complex in Nebraska. Now pick up your share. When you get hungry enough you’ll eat.”

“There must be other food,” said Logan.

“Out there.” Warden swept the lifeless horizon with his hand. “Maybe a mile, maybe a hundred. If you’re lucky you’ll stumble across a seal whelp, which ain’t very likely. Black Tom killed a polar bear once with an ice spear. We lost three men last month, tryin’ to pull down a bull seal—and Redding lost all his fingers. Ice too thick to reach the fish if there is any. And if you don’t have luck in the first hour there ain’t a second. Shackleford made himself a slingshot outa hide strips, but he froze solid before he could use it. Sure, there’s food. There’s polar bear and ptarmigan, seal and otter, and you’re welcome to hunt ‘em down, if you can find ‘em. And when you do they can hide better, run faster and jump quicker than you can. I tell you this—go join Box out there if you don’t care for the table we set”

“Box? Who’s he?”

“Box ain’t a he. He’s a
what.
”

Logan looked curiously at Warden.

“Maybe he’s got a name, but I don’t know it,” said Warden. “He got chewed up in a belt jump after a torture jig with a ten-year-old. The gears scattered him some. He was half dead then, but the system don’t let go that easy. They sewed him back together, and what they couldn’t find they
made
. After they was done they put him on a Hellcar. He lit out soon as he got here, and he’s a hard one to find.

“One thing I’ll say for him. He must know where the food is and how to get it. If you can catch him maybe you can make him show you. You might try up north, about two miles, near the cliffs.” He grinned wolfishly. “But you can bet he won’t be waitin’ there for you.”

“We’ll risk it,” said Logan.

“Then go,” said Warden. “You won’t be comin’ back.”

When they stepped from the shelter of the berg, the wind took them.

Box lived in a white world. He moved in storms of dusted ice and loneliness. He did not tire; he was never cold; a part of him never slept. His world was porcelain and pale marble, alabaster and bone ivory. He made castles of bergs and palaces of glacier cliffs. He cloud-wandered the frozen immensities.

And was content.

Box saw them coming: two staggering figures, bent against the wind. He vanished.

Logan fought the clogging exhaustion in his body. The wind leaped in to snatch his breath, battered his face and hands, ripsawed through his furred clothing. The dreaming cliffs on the ice-dazzled plain were no closer. They would never be closer. They were ten thousand miles away. They were an illusion which stung him forward, one leaden foot after the other leaden foot after the other leaden foot after the other leaden foot after the other leaden foot.

Jessica toppled and fell.

He pulled at her, tugging at an arm. No going forward. No going back. No more steps. The cliffs were dream and dream; they had never existed. Logan slipped down beside Jess. Her eyes were closed. She should open her eyes, he thought lazily. She’ll die. If she does not open her eyes she’ll die and that would be too bad. Too bad.