Logan's Run by William F Nolan, George Clayton Johnson Page A

he could do. Nothing.
    Four of the gypsies lifted Jess onto the polished bartop. They held her wrists and ankles. The others waited expectantly. The play was Rutago’s.
    The gypsy leader savored his power; he advanced and placed his hands on Logan’s shoulders in comradely fashion. “Runnergirl she soon a sick one. Wanta you the antidote?”
    Logan nodded tightly.
    “Then”—Rutago handed a short bone-handled dirk to Logan—”gotta take an ounce of flesh— anywhere on runnergirl.”
    Logan paled. No, he couldn’t do this: The act was inhuman. And was a homer human? They were asking him to torture the girl who’d saved his life.
    But she’d die if he didn’t.
    “Anywhere?”
    Rutago nodded. His smile was angelic.
    Graygirl placed a delicate set of spring balance scales on the bar. One tiny pan held a gold ounce. Logan bent over Jess. She had her eyes closed, which was fortunate, because if she watched him.. .He slit the clothing along her hip to expose a patch of white skin. He placed his hand high on her upper leg. Shielded by his body, his thumb searched for the nerve plexus on her inner thigh. Shifting his weight to cover the action, he dug his thumb powerfully into the pressure point. Jess winced.
    Then he used the knife. Quickly. Efficiently.
    The raw square of bleeding flesh balanced the scales. Logan tossed the dirk aside.
    Rutago looked steadily at him. He shook his head slowly. “Sandfella badfella. Badfella cheat. Antidote, no.”
    Enough!
    Logan swept an arm around Graygirl, dropped to one knee and bowed the girl across it. “Give her the antidote, or I break this latch’s back!”
    Graygirl was no longer gray; she was red-faced with pain, her eyes bulging, her mouth twisted. Rutago stood unmoving, undecided. 
    “ Now! ” snapped Logan. His hands tightened. “Third finger, left hand,” rasped Graygirl.
    Disgusted, Rutago extended the ring facing. Logan sniffed it, was satisfied.
    Rutago poured the contents into a glass of water, handed it to Jess. Trembling, sweat sparkling her skin, she gulped it down.
    Logan motioned her out. “Take a stick and ride for the Gun,” he told her. “I’ll catch up with you” Jess limped to the door, moved through it. A thrum of metal. She was gone.
    Logan waited to give Jess a proper start, then backed out slowly, holding Graygirl in front of him. With vicious force, he heaved her back through the batwing door into the midst of the gypsies, spilling them.
    Outside, he vaulted into the saddle of the nearest devilstick and kicked the release stud. The hovercraft flamed into motion.
    He knew they’d be after him. Trees whiplashed at him as he skimmed their top branches. He’d stay as close to the ground as possible, head into the brush country and try to shake the pursuit before doubling back for Jess.
    As a boy, Logan had loved devilsticks. But this brute took some getting used to. Its power thrust was massive and tricky, and a delicate touch was needed, to keep upright. Sudden throttle bursts were dangerous, threatening to pitch him from the saddle. Yet his confidence grew with each passing mile. Learning to feel the machine he rode, beginning to understand its quick-working habits, Logan felt real exhilaration as he jetted over the country. His wounds were healed and his hands were free.
    Let the gypsies come!

    Logan saw them as he topped a high rock. Six of them, expertly riding his wake. He cut his vehicle sharply down into a baked creek bed, hugging ground, his jet flame searing the dry dust.
    He had taken Graygirl’s stick, and it was fast. Faster, by far, than most of the others. Gradually they fell back. And back. And were lost behind him.
    Logan headed for Jess.
    Yet one rider clung to him, matching his speed, gaining with each twist and fold of land. The afternoon sun rayed on moving jewels.
    Rutago.
    Logan gave his craft full throttle, but the gypsy continued to gain, mile by mile.
    At the entrance to the Lame Johnny, Logan spotted Jess. She was