that such transmissions were unreliable when anything happened on the solar scale!
A blinking red dot appeared on the console tracking device. Helm nudged Richter, and Richter nodded. They had locked in on their man.
“Mr. Cohaagen, are you there?” Richter continued. “Hello? Hello?” So polite, with a touch of perplexity: the recording would show that he had no idea that his orders had changed.
With a contemptuous twist of the dial, Richter ended the transmission. Cohaagen wouldn’t be able to prove anything; interplanetary signals were notorious for interference. A price was paid for violating light-speed. There had been just enough genuine interference to cover his tracks.
Richter allowed himself a small, grim smile. He turned to Helm. “Fuckin’ asshole. He shoulda killed Quaid when he had the chance,” he said. Now he, Richter, would do it instead, with pleasure. They had locked on to the quarry, and no sunspots, real or fake, would interfere.
Helm gunned the car into traffic, splashing water on commuters walking out of the subway station. Their protests carried faintly, music to Richter’s ears. He put a hand up over his shoulder and hoisted one finger, signaling them, though he knew they couldn’t see inside the car. The gesture gave him satisfaction anyway. Too bad he couldn’t show the same signal of respect to Cohaagen.
Quaid had decided not to go too far. They would be expecting him to flee the city, so would be racing to cut off the exit points. Therefore he remained close—but not too close. His alternate self had deserted him; it manifested only when immediate, effective action was required, such as killing several men in several seconds. He was on his own, and that satisfied him for now.
He got off the train a few stops down and went into a lavatory. He looked a mess, all right! He slopped water across his face and hands and dabbed at the worst of the stains on his shirt, though not much could be done about that. He had a bright idea, squatted, scraped his fingers along the floor near the wall, and got a good load of dirt on them. He rubbed this into the shirt, covering the remaining bloodstains. Now he looked mostly filthy, like a tramp, not like a refugee from a slaughterhouse. It would have to do. He combed his hair back and assumed an expression of dullness, as if he were just a tired laborer returning from a hard day in the sewer.
He boarded another train, trying to make it difficult for the goons to trace his route. But he couldn’t do this forever; he needed to get into some other region. For that he needed money.
He paused at a money vendor near the end of the subway line and got as much cash as he dared: enough to pay for a plane to another continent. The transaction would be traced, and in minutes the goons would be on his tail again; that was why they hadn’t cut off his ID card already. But though he lacked the deadly expertise of his hidden self, he did have some native cunning. Instead of going to the airport, he caught the next train back toward the center of town, and rode almost to where he had started. That should catch them by surprise. He hoped. They might figure that he wasn’t counting on the ID tracer, and was innocently going his way, and wouldn’t do anything unpredictable. He hoped again.
He got off and took an escalator up. He emerged from an archway marked SUBWAY onto the ground floor of an ancient 1980s shopping mall which had degenerated into a barrio street scene, complete with bars, flophouses, pool halls, pawnshops, and massage parlors. The mall was crowded with kids on skateboards and bikes, and there were even bums sleeping in doorways. It was like stepping into the past, and he almost felt nostalgia. Life must have been simpler before the planets were colonized!
This was the ideal place to hide. He spied a fleabag hotel across the mall. Cash would be accepted there without question, and he wouldn’t have to show his ID. He’d be able to rest, and
A blinking red dot appeared on the console tracking device. Helm nudged Richter, and Richter nodded. They had locked in on their man.
“Mr. Cohaagen, are you there?” Richter continued. “Hello? Hello?” So polite, with a touch of perplexity: the recording would show that he had no idea that his orders had changed.
With a contemptuous twist of the dial, Richter ended the transmission. Cohaagen wouldn’t be able to prove anything; interplanetary signals were notorious for interference. A price was paid for violating light-speed. There had been just enough genuine interference to cover his tracks.
Richter allowed himself a small, grim smile. He turned to Helm. “Fuckin’ asshole. He shoulda killed Quaid when he had the chance,” he said. Now he, Richter, would do it instead, with pleasure. They had locked on to the quarry, and no sunspots, real or fake, would interfere.
Helm gunned the car into traffic, splashing water on commuters walking out of the subway station. Their protests carried faintly, music to Richter’s ears. He put a hand up over his shoulder and hoisted one finger, signaling them, though he knew they couldn’t see inside the car. The gesture gave him satisfaction anyway. Too bad he couldn’t show the same signal of respect to Cohaagen.
Quaid had decided not to go too far. They would be expecting him to flee the city, so would be racing to cut off the exit points. Therefore he remained close—but not too close. His alternate self had deserted him; it manifested only when immediate, effective action was required, such as killing several men in several seconds. He was on his own, and that satisfied him for now.
He got off the train a few stops down and went into a lavatory. He looked a mess, all right! He slopped water across his face and hands and dabbed at the worst of the stains on his shirt, though not much could be done about that. He had a bright idea, squatted, scraped his fingers along the floor near the wall, and got a good load of dirt on them. He rubbed this into the shirt, covering the remaining bloodstains. Now he looked mostly filthy, like a tramp, not like a refugee from a slaughterhouse. It would have to do. He combed his hair back and assumed an expression of dullness, as if he were just a tired laborer returning from a hard day in the sewer.
He boarded another train, trying to make it difficult for the goons to trace his route. But he couldn’t do this forever; he needed to get into some other region. For that he needed money.
He paused at a money vendor near the end of the subway line and got as much cash as he dared: enough to pay for a plane to another continent. The transaction would be traced, and in minutes the goons would be on his tail again; that was why they hadn’t cut off his ID card already. But though he lacked the deadly expertise of his hidden self, he did have some native cunning. Instead of going to the airport, he caught the next train back toward the center of town, and rode almost to where he had started. That should catch them by surprise. He hoped. They might figure that he wasn’t counting on the ID tracer, and was innocently going his way, and wouldn’t do anything unpredictable. He hoped again.
He got off and took an escalator up. He emerged from an archway marked SUBWAY onto the ground floor of an ancient 1980s shopping mall which had degenerated into a barrio street scene, complete with bars, flophouses, pool halls, pawnshops, and massage parlors. The mall was crowded with kids on skateboards and bikes, and there were even bums sleeping in doorways. It was like stepping into the past, and he almost felt nostalgia. Life must have been simpler before the planets were colonized!
This was the ideal place to hide. He spied a fleabag hotel across the mall. Cash would be accepted there without question, and he wouldn’t have to show his ID. He’d be able to rest, and
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