The Two Worlds (65 page)

But it soon became apparent that they hadn't left all their difficulties behind them just yet. As they passed an enclosed square of window facades crisscrossed by walkways on several levels, they saw a commotion ahead, involving a crowd of purple-clad people spilling out onto the roadway and causing vehicles to halt. One of the Jevlenese escorts voiced a command to the vehicle's monitor panel, and the bus veered away down a slipramp to take a different route.

"What now?" Hunt murmured apprehensively.

"You don't think it could all be for us?" Duncan said.

But farther along the lower route the crowds became thicker, jostling, shouting slogans, and blocking the throughway, heedless of the blaring horns and curses from the occupants of stranded vehicles. Again the minibus was forced to detour, this time into a side street flanked by shops and doorways. But after several more zigzag turns through the labyrinth that the part of the city they were now in was turning into, they found themselves back in the rally. This time there was no getting through. The intersection at which they had halted was jammed with marchers, some carrying banners, the rest linking arms to form a solid phalanx of chanting ranks. A flood tide of humanity closed around, while other vehicles that had been following blocked any way out behind.

Duncan stood up and peered anxiously through a side window. "There's another bunch coming up the street, green ones this time," he muttered.

"Best to stay put inside the vehicle," Danchekker pronounced, clutching his briefcase determinedly on his knee.

"I'm not so sure," Duncan said. "It looks to me as if there could be trouble breaking out."

The Jevlenese evidently agreed. One of them jabbed a finger several times in the direction the bus had been heading. "PAC, that way. Not far," he said. "Go feet now best. This bad news."

Hunt nodded. "Let's go." Danchekker hesitated for a second longer, then concurred.

They clambered out into the throng. Whatever the shouting was about was a mystery, since it was all in Jevlenese. One of the escorts led the way, pushing and elbowing to force a passage through, and the other brought up the rear. But despite the group's attempt to keep together, the ebbs and flows of the tide around them drew them apart. Danchekker and Sandy managed to stay close to the leader; but a gap developed between them and Hunt, and then another between Hunt and where Duncan was with the other Jevlenese, both of whom were being carried away sideways.

"
That way!
" the one who was near Duncan shouted, pointing with a raised arm at a stairway on the far side of the intersection, leading up to a system of overlooking galleries and walkways. "
Head for stairs 
. . ." He vanished in a swirl of people, and the rest of his words were drowned in a roar of voices.

Somebody backed into Hunt and trod on his instep, painfully, at the same time swinging an arm that caught Hunt across the mouth. Hunt shoved him away. The man collided with another, and they both went down. Then a knot of people pushing from the other direction sent Hunt sprawling over both of them.

At that moment, a group with green-crescent banners appeared on one of the levels above and showered leaflets on the marching Purples, and pandemonium broke out. As Hunt was trying to regain his feet, everyone around him began rushing forward as if impelled by a common instinct. He rose onto one knee and started to straighten up, whereupon a fat woman in a red-and-black jumpsuit careened into him and knocked him down again. She stumbled and fell heavily on her knees alongside him, shrilly exclaiming something that he didn't understand. He tried again to rise, but she was clawing at his collar, using him as a prop to pull herself up.

"Get off, stupid cow!" Hunt shouted, and was answered with a stream of what sounded like alien obscenities. He fought his way to his feet and looked about desperately, but the others had disappeared. Swearing to himself, he plunged into the turmoil, setting his sights on the stairway that the Jevlenese had indicated. But before he was a third of the way there, the marching tide flowed around him and carried him with it toward one of the exits from the intersection. A chanting man in a purple hood tried to link arms with him.

"Let go of me, you daft sod," Hunt snarled, wrenching himself away.

Another arm grasped his from the other side. Hunt tried to pull away, but the grip remained firm and insistent. "I do believe I hear another voice from back home," a voice yelled in his ear. It sounded American. Hunt jerked his head around and found himself staring at a ruddy, snub-nosed face with a short, hoary beard, eyes that glittered like light gray ice, and a mouth that couldn't suppress a mirthful twitch, even in the circumstances. The face was topped by a panama hat sporting an outrageous yellow band with red and white polka dots. Hunt could feel himself being urged along in the direction of the flow.

"Sorry," Hunt yelled back. "I'm not going on any Batman rallies today."

"Neither am I. I'm going home. But you won't get anyplace upstream in this. Have to ride with it until we can jump out."

"Where?"

"Just stick close."

They were swept along with the marchers for about half a block, in the course of which the stranger maneuvered them outward toward one side of the flow. Then, as they came abreast of the entrance to a narrow passageway leading off between a shuttered shop front and the base of a pillar, he yanked at Hunt's arm and nodded. "There!"

They detached themselves from the human river like hoboes jumping from a slowing boxcar and followed the passage to an iron stairway leading up. It brought them to an elevated pedestrian way where people were watching the confusion below. But at least it felt halfway back to sanity. Hunt and the stranger stopped for a moment.

"Who the hell are you?" Hunt asked when he had regained his breath.

The glittering gray eyes looked back at him with an amusement that seemed friendly. "English, eh? Well, most people who like me call me Murray. The others usually think up something else." He jerked his head to indicate the Jevlenese around them. "But let's leave the formalities till later and get away from all the crazies first."

Murray led the way through a warren of passages and arcades, up stairs and escalators, across footbridges. Within minutes Hunt had lost any idea of the way back to the intersection. It was like being inside an ocean liner, a supermall, and a Shanghai street market all rolled into one and swelled to a scale that would have encompassed New York's avenues and Tokyo's railroad system. Even though there were many shuttered shop fronts and vacated apartments, people were everywhere, though how much of the bustle and activity was normal, Hunt had no way of knowing.

The typical Jevlenese Hunt saw were not exactly like any of the Terran races. They were orangy in hue, with hair that varied from copper to black. Their faces were wide and flat, their eyes rounded, the skin of many of them speckled or streaked with brownish blotches, and they wore every form of garb imaginable. They tended to be taller than the average Terran, but flabby—probably from spending too much of their existence inertly coupled into jevex, Hunt guessed. But there were enough who were shorter, darker, lighter, or pinker to make Hunt feel at least not obviously alien, even if something of an oddity.

Everything had happened too quickly for Hunt to be in any state of mind to form a coherent picture of what was going on around him. He registered only disconnected impressions that came and went. Some were of people who seemed grandly attired and ornamented, strutting self-importantly, sometimes with retinues of attendants; others were of dirty and shabby individuals, panhandling from passersby. At one place they passed, which seemed to be a restaurant, a small honor guard of staff waited at the door to greet a party from a chauffeured automobile; a few yards farther on, a loudly protesting figure was tossed bodily from the back door of another place. In neither case did anyone else take much notice.

They came to a dingy, not-very-clean-smelling passage between a bar and some closed-down premises, and entered one of several doorways. Inside, a vestibule with a brave stand of exhausted flowers in a long tub opened through to a hall with several doors of various colors, all scratched and battered. One, larger than the rest, looked as if it might be an elevator, but Murray ignored it and, tossing back a terse "Busted" over his shoulder and making a throwing-away motion of his hand, led the way past it to a stairwell at the rear.

On the first landing, they had to step over a snoring body, drunk or under some other influence. A door on the next was open, with a pair of tots playing with toys on the floor outside. They greeted Murray with smiles. He ruffled their hair as he passed, muttering a few words in Jevlenese. From inside, their mother looked out blankly, saying nothing, while from behind a door opposite came strange, atonal music with a heavy rhythm, punctuated by two voices shouting and shrieking at what sounded like the borderline of murder. "Don't worry about it," Murray grunted, seemingly reading Hunt's mind. "It won't come to that. Jevs never do anything right."

Two levels farther up, they stopped in front of a purple door with a white surround. Murray said something to it, and a female voice answered from nowhere identifiable. The door slid aside, and Murray ushered Hunt through, just as a woman came out of one of the rooms to meet them. She had a clear, dusky complexion, cherry-colored hair, and was wearing a skintight orange top with glittery mauve, calf-length pants. By what seemed to be the Jevlenese norm, she was quite trim and shapely—in fact, her figure wasn't at all bad by most Terran standards, either. Her voice had a bright up-and-down lilt as she chattered more Jevlenese at Murray, who replied in a series of short utterances and grunts.

"This is Nixie," Murray said when he could get a word in. "All that was the Jev way of saying hi. They talk too much. Nixie, meet a new friend of ours . . ." He cocked an eyebrow inquiringly.

"Vic'll do fine," Hunt said. Murray said something to Nixie in which Hunt caught the syllable "Vic."

Nixie smiled, showing white and even teeth, and took Hunt's hand. "Vic, how you do today? We have real good time."

"No, no, you dumb broad." Murray sighed. "He's not a customer. Just visiting. Understand? Vis-it-or. Come here to say hello. Anyhow, it's your day off."

"Ah." Nixie dismissed the error with a matter-of-fact shrug. "Is okay I guess."

"How about a drink, then?" Murray said. "Can fix? Drink?" He raised his hand in a drinking motion. Nixie smiled, nodded, and turned toward a short passage that led to what looked like the kitchen, from which the sound of a popular jazz group was issuing—Terran, this time. Murray patted her behind as she moved away, then he steered Hunt into the lounge. "Put your feet up. Make yourself at home. I guess you've had a long trip."

It was a cheerfully chaotic place, cluttered and colorful in an unapologetically gaudy kind of way, yet cleaner and better kept than Hunt's impression of the exterior had prepared him for. It went with Murray's hatband. There was a suite of puffy-looking chairs in gray and red that molded themselves into whatever shape the occupant assumed, with a couch of the same; a large table by the wall, bearing a vase of Jevlenese plants amid a litter of household oddments, a box of tools, and some magazines; and a fluffy pink carpet that looked like mohair. Various ornaments and knickknacks filled every shelf and recess, and most of the wall space was taken up by posters, pictures that included some raunchy girlie poses, both native and Terran, and several embroidered blankets of the kind that tourists everywhere liked to buy. A picture of the Golden Gate Bridge formed a centerpiece on one wall. It was surmounted by an American flag, with a Chicago University bumper sticker, dollar bills of various denominations, and an arrangement of Budweiser, Miller, Michelob, and Coors coasters framing the whole.

Murray tossed his hat across the room onto the table and flopped down in one of the chairs, stretching a leg out over a footstool. He had wiry hair streaked with gray, like his beard, and was beginning to show a thin patch at the crown. Hunt sat down in the chair opposite, pressing his body this way and that until the contours suited him.

"Her real name's Nikasha," Murray explained. "Don't be taken in by the act. She's smarter than she lets on. Keeps her sights on the real world out there—and that's saying a lot for this place." He reached up to a shelf near his chair and took down a silver metal box. Flipping open the lid, he offered it to Hunt. It was partitioned into two sections, holding rolled joints of different colors, thicknesses, and lengths in one end, and a selection of tablets and capsules in the other. "Burn up? Cool down? Blow a weed? Some of the local stuff'll put you back into h-space."

Hunt shook his head. "Don't use it. I'll stick to conventional poison." He felt in his pocket for his cigarettes.

Murray snapped the box shut and threw it back on the shelf with an approving nod. "Damn right. Awful shit. I never figured it, either."

Hunt still had not caught up with the turn of events. He pinched his eyes for a moment, then tossed his hand out vaguely. "You were obviously one of the first here . . ."

"Natch."

"But not with any of the official parties, I take it?"

"I hitched a ride back on the first Thurien ship that showed up, right after the blowup with the Jevs," Murray replied. "I guess most people still don't realize that the Thuriens'll take just about anyone for the askin'."

Hunt shook his head in a way that said that many of the things Murray seemed to be taking as obvious were not obvious. "What was the attraction here?" he asked.

Murray tugged at his beard, his gray eyes glittering mischievously. He seemed to be enjoying Hunt's bemusement. "Nothin' that I'd ever heard of. It was more a case of having to get out of there. You know how unreasonable the Feds can get about anything they think they're not getting their cut of."

"What weren't they getting a cut of?"

"Oh, a little bit o' this, little bit o' that . . . I was mainly in what you might call the `creative import-export' business. It involved certain psychotherapeutic agents and other substances that aren't covered by monopoly patents, which you can't get approval for."