never left her.
DAKOTA STATES
INDUSTRIAL NURSERY—UNIT K
Beneath the sign Logan reconnoitered the gray metalmesh fence. Twice as tall as a man and capped with a triple strand of microwire. These gossamer threads could chop off fingers under the weight of a climber.
Beyond the fence, far out on the flat surface of the nursery playground, he could see the wreckage of Jessica's devilstick. Apparently she was inside somewhere, perhaps already in the hands of the Autogoverness. Other runners had tried to hide in these vast institutions, but each Autogoverness was programmed to sound an alarm. And if you could avoid the robots there were always the older children, conditioned and hypnotaped against invaders.
But I've got to try and find her.
He had to walk a full mile along the fence perimeter before he found the tree. It angled up and inward; one of its branches thrust out toward the wire. Logan climbed the tree, inching out as far along the branch as he dared. He hung there. Six feet ahead of him, and down, were the deadly strands of microwire.
He began to swing himself back and forth, gathering momentum. If he struck the wires they'd slice him like cheese. At the height of a swing he let go, twisting his body in the air. Logan hit ground safely, rolled and came up in a crouch. Silence. No alarms.
He crossed the wide asphalt toward the looming bulk of the nursery. At its fortress flank he paused to orient himself. He'd grown up in a place like this. The hypno classes would be in the west wing, the dorms to the left. He was now outside the infant wards. Less chance of being discovered if he entered here. High up the brick building face was a bank of windows. Logan began to climb, clinging to the irregular surface. A foot slipped; he regained his balance and continued.
The first window was locked.
He spidered along a narrow ledge, feeling the strain pulling at his arm muscles. The next window was unlocked but jammed. He struggled to budge it; the glass panel grated inward. Logan crawled through, dropped to the floor and stood listening. He was in a storage area.
Where was Jess? She could be anywhere in the sprawl of buildings. She could be hurt and dying in a corridor or under a conveyor or hidden in a locker space. Or maybe she wasn't here at all. The silence encouraged him. If Jess were here, at least she hadn't been discovered as yet.
He crossed the room and eased open the door. Distantly he heard the hum and buzz of classrooms in use. He checked the hall. Deserted. He moved to the next door. The dot symbol told him it was a Playroom.
It was not activated. The vibroballs were boxed and motionless, no longer bouncing themselves in puzzle patterns from the walls. The talk puppets were stacked and speechless. The echo boards were silent. No sign of Jess here. He closed the door.
The next chamber was also quiet. The delivery-room.
Logan checked the moveways. He stared in fascination at the Hourglass, at the phosphorescent crystals in the thick globe which gave each infant his birth right—the radioactive timeflower. He stared at his own hand, blinking red-black, red-black . . . He'd received his crystal in a room like this; it had imbedded the flower in his right palm, and the crystal had decayed on schedule, in the same way the cesium atom decays in a radium clock, turning the stigmata inexorably from yellow to blue to red—and now, soon, to black.
Logan passed through the room to a long corridor. Had Jess gone in this direction? The search seemed hopeless, but he could not abandon it. Not until he was forced to.
A whirring noise—a sound Logan had heard often in his childhood. The Autogoverness.
He jerked open a door to his right, dodged inside. The door swung closed. The interior was dark and warm.
"My own, my precious," his mother said.
A softness enveloped him.
"My little one, my sweet," said the Loveroom. Its voice was a crooning, smoothing music. "There, there," said the room.
Logan attempted to
DAKOTA STATES
INDUSTRIAL NURSERY—UNIT K
Beneath the sign Logan reconnoitered the gray metalmesh fence. Twice as tall as a man and capped with a triple strand of microwire. These gossamer threads could chop off fingers under the weight of a climber.
Beyond the fence, far out on the flat surface of the nursery playground, he could see the wreckage of Jessica's devilstick. Apparently she was inside somewhere, perhaps already in the hands of the Autogoverness. Other runners had tried to hide in these vast institutions, but each Autogoverness was programmed to sound an alarm. And if you could avoid the robots there were always the older children, conditioned and hypnotaped against invaders.
But I've got to try and find her.
He had to walk a full mile along the fence perimeter before he found the tree. It angled up and inward; one of its branches thrust out toward the wire. Logan climbed the tree, inching out as far along the branch as he dared. He hung there. Six feet ahead of him, and down, were the deadly strands of microwire.
He began to swing himself back and forth, gathering momentum. If he struck the wires they'd slice him like cheese. At the height of a swing he let go, twisting his body in the air. Logan hit ground safely, rolled and came up in a crouch. Silence. No alarms.
He crossed the wide asphalt toward the looming bulk of the nursery. At its fortress flank he paused to orient himself. He'd grown up in a place like this. The hypno classes would be in the west wing, the dorms to the left. He was now outside the infant wards. Less chance of being discovered if he entered here. High up the brick building face was a bank of windows. Logan began to climb, clinging to the irregular surface. A foot slipped; he regained his balance and continued.
The first window was locked.
He spidered along a narrow ledge, feeling the strain pulling at his arm muscles. The next window was unlocked but jammed. He struggled to budge it; the glass panel grated inward. Logan crawled through, dropped to the floor and stood listening. He was in a storage area.
Where was Jess? She could be anywhere in the sprawl of buildings. She could be hurt and dying in a corridor or under a conveyor or hidden in a locker space. Or maybe she wasn't here at all. The silence encouraged him. If Jess were here, at least she hadn't been discovered as yet.
He crossed the room and eased open the door. Distantly he heard the hum and buzz of classrooms in use. He checked the hall. Deserted. He moved to the next door. The dot symbol told him it was a Playroom.
It was not activated. The vibroballs were boxed and motionless, no longer bouncing themselves in puzzle patterns from the walls. The talk puppets were stacked and speechless. The echo boards were silent. No sign of Jess here. He closed the door.
The next chamber was also quiet. The delivery-room.
Logan checked the moveways. He stared in fascination at the Hourglass, at the phosphorescent crystals in the thick globe which gave each infant his birth right—the radioactive timeflower. He stared at his own hand, blinking red-black, red-black . . . He'd received his crystal in a room like this; it had imbedded the flower in his right palm, and the crystal had decayed on schedule, in the same way the cesium atom decays in a radium clock, turning the stigmata inexorably from yellow to blue to red—and now, soon, to black.
Logan passed through the room to a long corridor. Had Jess gone in this direction? The search seemed hopeless, but he could not abandon it. Not until he was forced to.
A whirring noise—a sound Logan had heard often in his childhood. The Autogoverness.
He jerked open a door to his right, dodged inside. The door swung closed. The interior was dark and warm.
"My own, my precious," his mother said.
A softness enveloped him.
"My little one, my sweet," said the Loveroom. Its voice was a crooning, smoothing music. "There, there," said the room.
Logan attempted to
Similar Books
