Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 (12 page)

 
          
 
"Okay."

 
          
 
We halted the cart when we were near, turned
and moved in their direction. I grinned and rested my hand on the butt of the
pistol.

 
          
 
"Hi," Quick said, "I was just
wondering.. ."

 
          
 
The nearer man was squinting at me. I drew the
weapon and pointed it at them.

 
          
 
". . . wondering whether you wanted to
try and be heroes, or just live and let live."

 
          
 
"It's Leishman," he said to the
other.

 
          
 
"God!" the other replied.

 
          
 
"What'll it be?" Quick asked.

 
          
 
"Whatever you want," the second man
said.

 
          
 
"Then get in the truck, both of
you."

 
          
 
They got to their feet. The first man raised
his arms.

 
          
 
"Put your hands down," I said.
"Don't do anything conspicuous like that again."

 
          
 
"Sorry."

 
          
 
He lowered them, they headed for the truck,
got in. Quick climbed down from the dock, went forward and was talking with the
driver, who kept glancing back, an unhappy look on his face.

 
          
 
I followed the men inside.

 
          
 
"All the way back," I said,
"and sit on the floor."

 
          
 
I seated myself across from them. Seconds
later, the engine spun and caught. There was a scrambling noise from outside,
and Quick rounded the corner and climbed in.

 
          
 
"He'll be around to shut it in a
second," he said, taking up a position to my right, legs stretched out
before him.

 
          
 
A light came on overhead.

 
          
 
The man across from me on the left, a young,
slight, dark-haired guy, said, "What are you going to do with us?"

 
          
 
"Nothing," I said, "if you
don't make any trouble. You know you would report someone leaving in the truck.
We can't have that. Be good, don't make any noises as we leave, and we'll drop
you in the boondocks as soon as we're out a ways. Okay?"

 
          
 
"Anything you say," he said.
"I've got a family."

 
          
 
"So do I," said the older man beside
him. "I'll do what you say."

 
          
 
"Then sit back and enjoy the ride,"
I said.

 
          
 
The driver came around and Quick went back and
whispered with him before he closed us in. Moments later, I heard his door
slam. Then the engine started. Presently, we were moving.

 
          
 
Quick leaned over and whispered to me,
"We are going to drop them before we switch vehicles. The less they know,
the better."

 
          
 
"Good idea. How long will that be?"

 
          
 
"Around twenty minutes, I figure. We
ditch them in fifteen."

 
          
 
"Good enough."

 
          
 
The situation finally reached me at an animal
level, and I felt a profound desire to pace. My palms began to perspire and I
wiped them on my trousers. Ridiculous. I had had no particular reactions when I
had done the shooting in
Santa Fe
. It was probably that I had worked them all off in advance,
contemplating the event. This time, however, without preparation, I was easy
prey to the uncertainties involved.

 
          
 
We halted. Outer gate. I heard voices but
could not distinguish the words. Shortly, we were moving again.

 
          
 
"Mind if I smoke?" the man across
from me asked

 
          
 
"Go ahead," I said.

 
          
 
I watched him light up.

 
          
 
"Could I have one of those?" I
asked.

 
          
 
"Sure." He extended the pack.

 
          
 
I got up, crossed over and took one.

 
          
 
"May I have a light?"

 
          
 
He passed me his matches.

 
          
 
"Thanks," I said, handing them back.

 
          
 
I returned to my place across from him and
reseated myself.

 
          
 
"That was stupid," said Quick.
"You could have had one of mine."

 
          
 
"Didn't know you smoked."

 
          
 
"Haven't had a chance to," he said,
producing one and lighting it. "I didn't know you smoked."

 
          
 
"I haven't, for years. I just decided to
balance an ecological loss against a psychological gain. My chances are better
if I'm relaxed. Anything I can do to improve my chances right now is worth it.
If I get away, I may be able to carry ofi some more big ones for the Children.
Ah! that's good!"

 
          
 
"You're a weird guy," Quick said.
"I sometimes get the feeling the whole movement is more of a religious
thing for you than it is anything else."

 
          
 
"That's fair," I said. "I guess
it is."

 
          
 
"You think you'll get pie in the sky for
whatever you do?"

 
          
 
"Satisfaction right here is more than
enough. The Earth is my reward as well as my concern."

 
          
 
"They said at the trial that you used to
be with the Forest Service. I never knew that."

 
          
 
I nodded.

 
          
 
"What the lawyer said was true. It does
all go back to that, for me—seeing the land and everything on it constantly
taking second place to commercial interests. I talked with COE people on and
off for a couple years. Finally, one day, I decided hell! if we are as brutal
to them as they are to the land, maybe then some of the exploiters will get the
point, think twice. ... I don't know. I had to do something besides writing
protest letters. I get this kind of—mystical—feeling sometimes, when I am out
in the country. I feel there is something—some force—I am serving. It does not
matter what it is. It does not even matter whether it is really there. I am
sometimes comforted by a sense of presence that seems kindly disposed toward
me. That is enough."

 
          
 
"You've lived out of doors a lot
then?"

 
          
 
"Yes, I have."

 
          
 
Quick glanced at the guys across from us,
lowered his voice:

 
          
 
"You could live off the land, then?"

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
"Maybe that wouldn't be a bad idea, till
things cool down. Lots of places, say, in
Canada
where they would never find you."

 
          
 
"I've thought of it. —What about
yourself? Why are you in the movement?"

 
          
 
"Nothing as fancy as your reasons. I envy
them, but nothing's ever seen fit to give me the mystic high-sign. No, I
suppose I'm just a troublemaker, a professional malcontent. I hate the system
for lots of reasons-some of them big, a lot of them probably petty. No profit
in citing chapter and verse. If I weren't with the Children, I would be
throwing bombs with someone else. This seems a somewhat cleaner cause, that's
all. You know, you are probably saner than I am, pantheism or not. I have
worked in enough of those places like the one we just left that I picked up
some of the jargon, some of the ideas, seen a lot of the cases. I sometimes
think a lot of it applies to me." He laughed. "Then on even-numbered
days," he went on, "I am sure it is the world that is mad and all
that therapy would ever do is make me as batty as the rest of them."

 
          
 
I chuckled. We finished our cigarettes. I
listened for sounds from outside the truck and tried to estimate where we might
be. I heard nothing but the vehicle's own noises, though, and I had given up
counting turns too long ago.

           
 
"We never figured out how they managed to
locate you as fast as they did," Quick said. "Any ideas?"

 
          
 
"No."

 
          
 
"Well, this time we are being even more
careful. If they do not catch up with us during the first hour or so we should
be clear."

 
          
 
I thought back to that day, to the voice I
thought I had heard. Are you there now? Is it your will? I wondered. But there
was no answer.

 
          
 
After a time, we slowed and began to jounce
about. I assumed we had left the road. We continued in this fashion for several
minutes, then came to a halt.

 
          
 
I heard the cab door. A little later, the
driver opened the rear of the truck. Looking out, I saw that we were on a dirt
road, drawn up beside an arroyo.

 
          
 
I gestured with the pistol.

 
          
 
"All right, you two," I said.
"Time to say goodbye."

 
          
 
The men got to their feet, moved back. I
followed them and watched as they climbed down.

 
          
 
The older man looked back. For a moment, I
thought he was going to say something, but he turned away and headed down the
arroyo with the other.

 
          
 
The driver grinned after them.

 
          
 
"There go a couple scared hombres,"
he said.

 
          
 
"How much longer till we change
over?"

 
          
 
He glanced at his watch.

 
          
 
"Five minutes," he said, and he
closed the door.

 
          
 
I guess it was that. It seemed only about that
long when we had drawn up again, gotten out and were climbing into a passenger
vehicle drawn up at the side of the road. Quick and I got into the back. The
truck's driver left his vehicle and climbed into the front with the new driver.