Castle War! (12 page)

“First of all, we don't know if there's any real trouble. It could just be portal difficulties.”
 

“But the golf world was always stable.”
 

“I have a feeling this
is
the golf world, but changed.”
 

“Hope you're right. But what if it changes back while we're out hacking?”
 

“Then we carry on hacking, I guess. We can't go back now.”
 

“Right.” Thaxton downed his wine and poured more.
 

Dalton's gryphon soup came. He sampled it and smiled. “A little salty but good.”
 

“I wonder if they bagged that gryphon out on the links.”
 

“I wonder what hero bagged the basilisk. You look one of those in the eye and you're dead.”
 

“Really? Not up on my classical lore.”
 

The waiter brought Thaxton's hamburger. It was large and rested inside a sliced pita loaf. Thaxton lifted the top slice and sniffed. The waiter set down a bottle in front of him.
 

“Ah. Steak sauce.” Thaxton applied a liberal dose.
 

“Will that be all, sir?”
 

“Yes, thank you.”
 

Thaxton lifted the huge thing and examined it.
 

“No onions or tomatoes?” Dalton asked.
 

“I'm a purist.” He took a bite and chewed. “Tastes a bit gamey.”
 

“Probably ground salamander or something.”
 

“It's good enough.” Thaxton set the hamburger down. “Still thinking about getting back to the castle.
Something's
up, I just have a feeling.”
 

“Well, I get that feeling, too, but I can't think of what to do except retrace our steps.”
 

“We can't very well do that. Those holes are as good as under Vesuvius now.”
 

“I suppose we could just come out and ask.”
 

“Capital idea.”
 

Thaxton lifted an arm and called the waiter over.
 

“Yes, sir?”
 

“Tell me ... how do I phrase this? Know of any—well,
castles
in the area?”
 

“Castles, sir?”
 

“Um, yes. Castles.”
 

Gamalkon scrunched up his face in thought. “Sir, I don't recall ever seeing any castles around here.”
 

“Any ... sort of floating doorways into castles? I suppose not.”
 

Gamalkon shook his horned head. “Sorry, sir.”
 

“Quite all right. Thank you. Uh, I think we need another bottle of wine. I do, anyway.”
 

“Right away, sir.”
 

Thaxton gave Dalton a forlorn look. “I suppose it's hopeless.”
 

“Looks like. Don't worry about it. We'll find our way back eventually. After the eighteenth hole. I think fate has decreed that we play this course through.”
 

“Fate, eh? Bloody bad luck, I call it.”
 

“Thaxton, old boy, you just won't admit that you're having the time of your life.”
 

Thaxton poured himself more wine. “A spot more of this and I
will
be having a good time.”
 

Dalton laughed.
 

Two strange-looking creatures were shown to the next table. They looked like gargoyles come to life. One of them looked over and squawked something that sounded friendly.
 

“Good afternoon! Nice to see you,” Dalton answered brightly.
 

Thaxton managed a thin smile. “NOSD, those two,” he murmured.
 

“Eh?”
 

“'Not Our Species, Dear.'”
 

“I wonder if they'd be up for a foursome.”
 

“With my luck, they're probably both scratch players.”
 

“My handicap is nothing to write home about, either, but it might be interesting.”
 

Dalton's entrée was served.
 

“Very good indeed,” he pronounced. “These wild mushrooms provide just the right accent.”
 

The meal progressed. The wine flowed; the second bottle emptied. More Château Avernus was ordered.
 

A while later the room began to shake. Wine bottles fell over and the windows rattled. A piece of ceiling fell to the floor very near.
 

Glassy-eyed and smiling, Thaxton looked around. “If I weren't so drunk I'd be frightened out of my wits.”
 

Dalton said thickly, “D'you think we should ... make a run for it?”
 

“Yes, let's.”
 

They both had a hard time getting up. Thaxton picked up the full bottle.
 

“Get your clubs, old boy,” Dalton said.
 

“Right.” Teetering, Thaxton picked up his golf bag.
 

With a resounding crash, part of the ceiling collapsed, and a portion of the far wall gave way. Debris cascaded down. After the dust cleared, half the room lay buried in rubble.
 

“Dalton, old boy. You all right?”
 

Dalton sat up and brushed himself off. “I think. We had better get outdoors fast, wouldn't you say?”
 

“Having a spot of trouble. Leg's stuck under this bit of concrete, here.”
 

“Let's see if we can move it.”
 

Dalton squatted and put his weight against the mass but stopped when he saw Thaxton wince. He searched around, found nothing suitable, and so used his two-iron as a lever, attacking the job from the other side. The club bent, but the chunk of ceiling lifted enough so that Thaxton could get his leg out from under it.
 

Dalton helped him up. “Can you walk?”
 

“I can hobble.”
 

“Need help?”
 

“I'll manage. Give me that iron.”
 

“Here. Are you sure?”
 

“I've got the wine. Don't forget the clubs, old boy.”
 

They picked their way toward a ragged opening in the wall.
 

“Bit of luck, this,” Thaxton said.
 

“How so?”
 

“I was wondering how we were going to get out of paying the bill. Don't have a farthing on me.”
 

 

 

 

City

 

There was little to orientation. He was not subjected to political indoctrination or any long harangues; there was no orientation per se. He was simply issued clothing—an all-weather coat with baggy trousers—and a sheet of paper with some instructions on it. The instructions said to report to a certain address, his new residence. He was to remain there until he was issued new instructions, which he would receive via his apartment communication screen. That, along with more slogans, was all there was.
 

 

TO LOVE IS TO OBEY

 

GOOD CITIZENS ARE HAPPY CITIZENS

 

DUTY LIES WITHIN

 

Banners with slogans draped every building facade, hung from every cornice. He walked the streets reading posters in storefront windows and on kiosks. He could not get a sense of who was running things. There were no giant blowups of some dictatorial face, no direct references to a political party or revolutionary cabal.
 

The people he passed were all smiling, hurrying to some duty or another. It was a strange smile, somehow detached from or irrelevant to any real sense of well-being. It was not forced, yet not quite real.
 

He stopped to ask directions of a traffic director—not a policeman; the man wore only a white brassard and was unarmed. The man told him to take an omnibus with a certain number and to get off at Complex 502 on the Boulevard of Social Concern.
 

“Put a smile on your face,” the man told him.
 

Ignoring the order, he walked on.
 

It was not long before the first pangs of nausea began. He forced a smile, and his stomach rumbled, then quieted. He felt better instantly. Justice was that speedy. His own body was judge and jury, and its verdict was not open to appeal.
 

There were few stores or shops. Most storefronts were boarded up or had their windows used as billboards. Here and there a door was open, no sign above saying what was going on inside. He stopped at one such place and found a store with a few undifferentiated shoes in bins. Another store offered socks and underwear. There wasn't much stock in any store he visited. The places looked ransacked, and no salespeople were about. He continued walking.
 

Traffic was limited to trucks, buses, and official-looking vehicles. No bicycles or powered two-wheeled conveyances. The sidewalks were crowded, as they would be on any workday in any universe. This was downtown, the area between the rivers that he knew as the Golden Triangle. There were hundreds of office buildings and thousands of workers. Everyone was dressed pretty much as he was, in the same utilitarian outfit.
 

He passed what looked like a restaurant. He went back and looked in the window. The place was actually a cafeteria. His stomach had calmed down and he was hungry. Very hungry. His instructions had not told him about food or about getting it, and he had no money.
 

Yet he went in. It was midmorning and there were no lines. He watched a woman at the counter load her tray and walk to a table. He could see no checkout station, no cashier. He decided to take a chance. He took a tray and slid it along the runner.
 

Nothing looked very good. He passed green gelatin and wilted salads. Farther along an attendant was ladling what looked like chicken stew into a container. He asked for some of that, and got a small bowlful. He took slices of bread and a cup of what appeared to be custard or vanilla pudding. There was little else to choose from. He got himself coffee but no cream, as that commodity was not in evidence. No sugar, either. He found a seat.
 

The stew, if that's what it was, was awful, tasting of flour paste and unidentifiable flavorings. The vegetables were tasteless, and the “meat” was not chicken but something like bean curd, and just as unappetizing. He forced it down. The bread had the flavor of cardboard. He spat out the first mouthfuls of ersatz custard and sipped the coffee surrogate, which carried the faint aftertaste of detergent.
 

He looked on the wall above the counter.
 

 

SUICIDE IS UNSOCIAL

 

Of course; a simple way out, and one the authorities probably had a hard time thwarting.
 

He wondered if it was the only way out.
 

He left half the coffee in the cup and went out to the street. He now knew why the stores needed no salespeople. Citizens simply walked in and took what was needed. They took exactly as much as they needed and no more, or InnerVoice would punish. Dandy way to run a distribution system. No money necessary. It was the age-old utopian dream: a moneyless economy immune from the laws of supply and demand, based on mutual cooperation and individual restraint. Unfortunately there were chronic shortages, but who would complain?
 

Who
could
complain?
 

He caught the bulky omnibus on Conscience Avenue, a thoroughfare that ran to the river and crossed a bridge. On the other shore the bus turned left and entered a section of the city that Gene knew as the South Side. In this universe it was nameless and consisted mostly of high rises and little parks.
 

The Boulevard of Social Concern was the main street, leading past numerous groups of buildings, signs designating each complex by number. He saw 501 go by, and made his way to the front of the bus.
 

The driver beamed at him. “We're getting happier every day, citizen.”
 

“Aren't we, though?”
 

He paid for the irony with a twinge or two of gastric pain.
 

Building C of Complex 502 looked increasingly shabbier the closer he got to it. Intended to be lean and functional, it looked only weathered and threadbare. The bare concrete was cracked and streaked with water stains, and the tiny windows made the place look more like a prison than an apartment building. The surrounding grounds were clear of trash but looked desolate. The grass was stunted and looked dead, gone brown and dry.
 

He passed through a cracked glass door and entered the lobby. It was empty except for a few stacked fiberglass chairs and an underused bulletin board. He waited for the elevator.
 

The elevator never came. His apartment number, so the instruction sheet said, was 502-C-346. He found a stairwell and went up to the third floor.
 

The door to 346 was open. There was no lock.
 

It was a one-room apartment with two small windows and walls of unpainted concrete block. The floor was bare concrete. The place was perfunctorily furnished: a cot, one table, one chair, and a small settee. A lidless toilet stood in a corner next to a tiny sink. There was a kitchen of sorts—a hot plate and a cabinet. No refrigerator, no kitchen sink. The walls were devoid of decoration and there were no curtains on the windows.
 

Set in the wall in front of the settee was an oblong screen. It displayed: