Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 (9 page)

 
          
 
"Actually, I feel no signs of strain in
him, other than normal fatigue at being up this late past his bedtime. You know
that is not my main concern—"

 
          
 
"I know, I know. I don't want to damage
the kid's mind either. Listen, I've been thinking. Since Dennis is in such good
contact, couldn't he transmit as well as receive? Try to talk Leishman into
giving himself up?"

 
          
 
"No. Dennis would not know how to go
about it."

 
          
 
"What about you, then? Could you operate
through Dennis, get a message to Leishman that way? Tell him to stop and wait,
to hand over that gun?"

 
          
 
"I do not know," she said. "I
have never tried anything like that."

 
          
 
"Will you?"

 
          
 
She took a sip of coffee, then leaned back and
closed her eyes.

 
          
 
"I will tell you in a few moments whether
it can be done."

 
          
 
I placed the empty bottle on the floor,
rearranged the blanket for the dozenth time. Beyond the window, the world swam
pleasantly. Perhaps I would sleep now....

 
          
 
A misty, gray, humming thing of indefinite
duration ...

 
          
 
Roderick Leishman.

 
          
 
I shuddered, I rubbed my eyes and looked about
Nothing had changed.

 
          
 
Roderick Leishman.

 
          
 
"What?"

 
          
 
"I didn't say anything," said the
driver.

 
          
 
"I thought someone did."

 
          
 
"You were asleep. Must have been
dreaming."

 
          
 
"Must have."

 
          
 
I sighed and settled back again.

 
          
 
No, you were not dreaming, Roderick. I
addressed you.

 
          
 
. . . The Earth Mother is aloof, heedless. She
speaks to no man. I felt the bottle against my foot and chuckled. I had never
heard voices before. I did not feel that drunk, but then the participant is
seldom the best judge. When I awoke it would seem a dream. I closed my eyes.

 
          
 
. . . Neither drunk nor dreaming, Roderick. I
am with you now.

 
          
 
"Who are you?" I whispered.

 
          
 
You have named me.

 
          
 
"What I did today could not have been
that important."

 
          
 
There are other considerations.

 
          
 
"What is it that you want?"

 
          
 
Your life.

 
          
 
"Take it. It is yours."

 
          
 
I wish to preserve it, not take it.

 
          
 
"What do you mean?"

 
          
 
At this moment, you are being pursued by
federal agents. They are aware of your location. They will reach you before too
long.

 
          
 
I drew my slung arm tight, feeling the pistol
against my ribs.

 
          
 
No. You must surrender, not fight. 50

 
          
 
"I might be worth more as a martyr."

 
          
 
A trial would be much better. Your motive
would be detailed at great length.

 
          
 
"What do you want me to do now?"

 
          
 
Park the car and wait. Surrender yourself. Do
not give your pursuers an excuse to harm you.

 
          
 
"I see. Will you stay with me—through it
all?"

 
          
 
I am always with you.

 
          
 
I pushed back the blanket, let it fall. I
leaned forward.

 
          
 
"Pull over for a minute, will you?"
I said.

 
          
 
"Sure."

 
          
 
He braked and turned off the road. When we
were halted, I said, "Do you have a gun?"

 
          
 
"Yes. In the glove compartment."

 
          
 
"Get it out."

 
          
 
"What's the matter?"

 
          
 
"Just do it, damn it!"

 
          
 
"Okay! Okay!"

 
          
 
He leaned over, opened the compartment,
reached inside.

 
          
 
When he began to swing it in my direction, I
was ready. Mine was pointed.

 
          
 
"Not that way," I said. "Put it
down on the seat"

 
          
 
"What is this?"

 
          
 
"Do it!"

 
          
 
He hesitated a moment too long, and,
"I've already shot two men today," I said.

 
          
 
He put it down.

 
          
 
"Now reach over with your left hand and
pick it up by the barrel."

 
          
 
He did this.

 
          
 
"Pass it over. Drop it on the floor back
here.*

 
          
 
"What's going on?" he asked.

 
          
 
"I am trying to keep us from getting
killed. Do you mind?"

 
          
 
"I'm all for it," he said. "I
think it's a great idea. But I don't understand how disarming me will do
it."

 
          
 
"I want to avoid a shootout. I think we
are about to be arrested."

 
          
 
He chuckled. He opened his door.

 
          
 
"Don't get out!"

 
          
 
“I’m not." He gestured outward.
"Look, though. We're all alone. No one coming, either way. Listen, I know
you're very tired, you've had a lot to drink and your nerves have to be shot
after everything that's happened. I understand. With all due respect, I think
you're a bit delirious. Why don't you—"

 
          
 
"Don't move! Both hands on the
wheel!"

 
          
 
"Look, we are going to seem suspicious if
anyone comes by and sees us this way."

 
          
 
"Better than the alternative."

 
          
 
"Getting away?"

 
          
 
"Getting dead. We can't get away."

 
          
 
"Mind if I ask what makes you think
so?"

 
          
 
"You do not have to know," I said.

 
          
 
He was silent for a long while. Then, "Is
this some sort of setup?" he said. "A part of the plan I'm not in on?
Or is it just your own idea?"

 
          
 
"It is not just my own idea."

 
          
 
He sighed.

 
          
 
"Oh. Why didn't you tell me sooner? I
would have gone along with it, so long as you know what you're doing."

 
          
 
"Better you don't know."

 
          
 
"You can put the gun away. I—"

 
          
 
"I'm tired of talking. Just sit
there."

 
          
 
Richard Guise approached his son, who rested
on the courtyard bench.

 
          
 
"How do you do," he said.

 
          
 
"Hello."

 
          
 
"My name's Dick Guise."

 
          
 
Dennis rose, extended his left hand upward,
turning the palm out. He held his right across his chest. His dark eyes met his
father's.

 
          
 
"Rod Leishman," he said, as Dick
clasped it and released it.

 
          
 
"Mind if I sit down?"

 
          
 
"Sit," Dennis said, seating himself.

 
          
 
"How are you—feeling?"

 
          
 
"Shoulder's still giving me some
trouble." He reached across and rubbed it. "You a lawyer?"

 
          
 
"Friend of the court," Dick said,
seating himself. "They treating you all right?"

 
          
 
"Can't complain. Listen, I am not sure I
should be talking with you without Mr. Palmer—my regular attorney—around. Just
my ignorance. Nothing personal. Okay?"

 
          
 
"Sure. May I ask you something not
connected with the case?'

 
          
 
The green eyes, like Vickfs, fixed him once
again.

 
          
 
"Go ahead."

 
          
 
"What do the Children of the Earth really
hope to accomplish with all their violence?"

 
          
 
"Our only desire is to preserve the Earth
and maintain it as a suitable habitation for mankind."

 
          
 
"By killing people? By blowing up power
plants and dams?"

 
          
 
"It seems the only way to convince those
in authority that we are serious."

 
          
 
"Let me put it this way. If you were
actually to succeed in removing the large sources of energy, you would probably
defeat your own aim of maintaining the Earth as a suitable habitation for
mankind. Wait! Let me finish. I do not know whether you have ever read Robert
Heilbroner's The Future as History, written back in the middle of the last
century, but he makes a good case for the premise that the major outlines of
the future were already history in that they followed ineluctably from the
forces already in operation, that they were so powerful we could barely oppose
the general course they were determining for us. Technology, for example, would
have to advance. This, in turn, would lead to an increasingly bureaucratic
state. Abundant production would make living sufficiently easy that economic
pressure would not, in itself, be enough to keep people in the less attractive
occupations. He proved right on these matters, and on the lesser developed
countries springing for whatever political system promised the most rapid
industrialization. From there, their futures will follow as ours did—"