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They cannot exist.
They do now, I said. And as he murders men he will replace them
with more. I think that s the Extro speaking through him. Men have
been hating machines since the twentieth century; it s never occurred
to them that machines might return that hatred. That s why I m
terrified, Boris.
It is bad, but it is not enough to account for extreme terror. You are
still holding something back. What is it? I have the right to know.
I let out a sigh of defeat. R. I am. The Greek figured out that there s a
renegade Moleman working with the Extro; maybe with Guess, too,
for all I know.
Impossible to believe.
The Greek s evidence and deduction can t be argued. There s a
Moleman who s declared war on the Group.
Who?
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Not known. You re right, Boris. A baby Moleman and a stretch
computer in collaboration are bad, but not terror-making. Add a
renegade Moleman with centuries of knowledge, experience, wealth,
hatred, running amok against the Group that s pure panic for me,
and that s why I want no part of the disastrous mess. Let a Group
hero-type take it on. I ll outlive it if I can keep under cover, which I
have every intention of doing.
And your beloved wife?
W?
Will she outlive it?
You crafty cossack son of a bitch! All the same, my answer stands. I
won t tangle with him or any or all three of them. I m no hero.
Then I will, alone, Natoma said grimly. Boris, you please take me
to Mexifornia on your way home. If you can t, I go myself.
Natoma I began angrily.
Edward! She cut me off in the peremptory voice of the daughter of
the most powerful Sachem in Erie.
What could I do? She had the Indian sign on me. I surrendered. All
right. I ll go. I m just a squaw man.
Boris beamed. I will now sing Rubinstein s Persian Love Song in
honor of your beloved, beautiful, valiant wife.
If we can find the music room, I grumbled, reaching for the map.
10
Then came the unexpected epiphany of Hillel, the Jew; saturnine,
Sephardic black and white, and twice as smart as the rest of the world
put together.
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As Natoma and I came out of customs in the Northeast Corridor
(Brazil has no franchise to put down in Mexifornia; don t ask me why)
there he was with the live and mecho porters. He answered a signal I
never made, fought to us, picked up our luggage, and hustled us to a
pogo. When I started to greet him he shook his head. As he put us in
he mouthed, Tip. I tip. He growl in disappointment and disappear.
He reappear in a different coverall as the pogo hackie, demanding in a
debased Spang where we had the nerve to want to go. When I told him
he started a fight for extra fares. I ve never been so abused in my life,
and hot-tempered Natoma was ready to slug him.
Cool, I soothed her. This is typical of the Corridor. It s all a rage
trip.
Hilly passed me a note. It read:Careful. You re monitored. Will
contact soonest . I showed it to Natoma. Her eyes widened but she
nodded in silence.
We made the hotel in three jumps and damn if Hillel didn t start
another fight over the tip. The concierge rescued us and escorted us
through the security barriers, followed by the Hebe s screams of
outrage. Beautifully in character. Chronic fury was the beau ideal of
the Corridor.
We took a suite with water, both hot and cold, an extravagance that
erased the desk clerk s sneers. The Corridor suffered from a
perpetual water shortage. Most of it was black market and you had to
pay through the nose for it. In the Corridor you didn t ask a girl to
come up and see your etchings; you invited her to come up and take a
shower.
So we took our showers, which made me feel like a deliciously dirty
old man, and while we were drying off, the floor steward came in
carrying a couple of leather gun cases.
The shotguns you ordered, sir, he said in affected hotel Euro.
Over-and-under .410 s. Lady-size for modom. Box of shells in each
case.
I started to deny everything. Then I saw it was the Jew again and shut
up.
Sunrise tomorrow morning on the Heath. Five thirty ack emma,
Hillel continued suavely. The club has agreed to release twenty
chickens. Most generous. If you will permit a suggestion, Mr. Curzon,
one would be advised to offer a generous bonus.
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Chickens! I said incredulously. No grouse, pheasant, partridge?
Impossible, sir. Those are extinct species in the Corridor. They could
be imported from Australasia but that would take weeks. However,
the chickens have been bred for cunning and guile. You and modom
will have a fine morning s sport.
A range safety officer came up to us on the Heath while we were
waiting for sunrise and the birds. He wore brilliant protective
crimson and I thought he was going to ask to inspect our permits.
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