Manalone (18 page)

The answer was not obvious. He still wanted to get into the house, to pick up a few personal belongings if they had not already been taken, and to see if any more answers lay in the pattern of what had been removed by the police. It appeared to him unlikely that the police would mount a guard on the place, so he resolved to return to his observation point at intervals, and to approach the house only when it appeared certain that all police activity had been withdrawn.

After
walking minor streets for a couple of hours, he finally turned back into his road and was mildly surprised to find that the yellow manu-drives had gone. He walked discreetly past the house a couple of times to try to determine if anyone had been left behind. He found no evidence to suggest that a guard had been posted. He finally circled to the rear entrance and tried the lock. It responded easily, and he stepped thankfully inside.

The rooms looked as though they had been hit by a whirlwind. Items from the drawers and cupboards which Sandra had not been able to take, she had apparently thrown on the floor. She must have had several secret storeplaces in which she kept items, presumably presents and jewellery, which she had not wanted Manalone to find. He came upon several expensive gift-cases, now empty, which to his certain knowledge he had never seen before.

In contrast, the police attentions to his studyspace had been a lot tidier and a lot less selective. All the drawers of his filing and microfilm cabinets had been removed together with their contents, and only the shells of the cabinets remained. The desk drawers had been completely cleaned out, and all the trivialities they contained had been removed along with the more important notes and items. His petty-cash box had been taken too, but whether by the police or by Sandra it was impossible to tell.

There was still food left in the freezer. Manalone went dismally to the sleepspace and lay down on the bed eating a block of cheese and trying to think what to do next. On the floor around him were strewn the contents of his wardrobe. Someone had systematically been through the pockets of all his cloaks and suits. From the resulting chaos, it was probably Sandra’s work. Most of the items he had intended to regain had already been removed or else were lost somewhere under the heaps of clothing and items on the floor.

‘Which
is all really rather funny, Manalone. All those years of honest endeavour have brought you to this reward – no job, a ransacked house, your wife fled with an acquaintance, not enough cash to get to the bank, and unwelcome attention by both the police and the security forces. If that’s what honest intent does for a man, you know what’s the logical thing to do? Don’t just lie there, Manalone – get twisted! Try playing the rotten system against itself.’

The bedside autophone was still in its niche. After a moment’s thought he coded Blackman’s number and ignored the ‘not available’ return signal. Because his interrogative connection would tie the circuit until the call was answered, he knew Blackman would either have to respond or accept that he could not use his own instrument until Manalone chose to disconnect. About half an hour later Blackman’s voice came through.

‘I guess that’s you, Manny. You know the police are after you?’

‘I know it, but they aren’t looking very hard. So don’t worry. It wasn’t that I wanted to speak to you about.’

‘I guess not. But before you start shouting let me tell you I know just what you want to say. And you can save your breath. She’s through with you for good.’

‘Oh, you mean Sandra?’ Manalone managed to affect a tone of amused surprise. ‘You’re welcome to her. She’s a piece of human trash that’ll fit in very neatly with the rest of the garbage you’ve collected. No, I wanted to speak to you about the job.’

‘The job …’ There was a long silence. ‘You mean to say you’re still willing to do it?’

‘I’ll start right now if you wish. Send an autram to collect me, and I’ll be ready to join it when it arrives.’

‘What the hell are you up to, Manny?’ Blackman was deeply suspicious.

‘What could I be up to? You hold all the cards – including the lady. I’m merely acknowledging your superior position.’

‘One day I’ll get the measure of you,’ said Blackman darkly. ‘I’ll send an autram – but if it comes back with a bomb in it, I’ll set out personally to nail you to the nearest fence.’

‘You’ve a nasty, devious mind, Victor.’

‘When
you’re dealing with crazy technologists, thinking devious is the only way to survive. I’m pretty certain you’re up to something, Manny. But I can’t figure it, so I’m going to take a chance.’

Manalone cut the connection, and lay back on the bed. Hurt pride was a luxury he could not afford. His need for cash was sufficiently great that it overweighed his instincts to make the conventional protests about the loss of Sandra. He needed an autram operating on somebody else’s credit to carry him away from his present location, and there seemed a certain poetic justice in making Blackman send the autram.

‘The MIPS are doing mostly what Maurine said they would, Manalone. They’re taking away everything you’ve lived and worked for – cutting the world away but leaving the shorn man. Which is a ridiculous situation, because it’s far easier to cut away the man and leave the world alone.

‘Untouchable – that’s what the CALF officer called you. And that’s the way the game’s been played. Isolated, insulated, deprived, but unharmed. What sort of test requires the experimental animal to be segregated from the herd and placed at variance with its normal environment? Intelligence? Stability? Adaptability? Survival potential? Or is the test designed to see if you can figure out why the hell you’re being tested in the first place?’

As usual, there was no answer to the questions. The sound of an approaching vehicle caused him to leap to the window in case the police were returning. It was a false alarm. A contract autram passed without stopping. The fact of its passing, however, made him pause to consider what things he ought to take with him when Blackman’s vehicle arrived.

He searched around and found a change of day clothes, and a toilet set, partly broken. His desk calculator had been removed, together with the rest of his instruments. All his reference books had gone. He finally settled for a miniature tape-recorder, a pocket gas igniter, and a handful of variously coloured writing styli – which seemed to be the only remnants of his former mode of life still left for him to find.

Then he paused, transfixed by a bolt of shock. The vidiphone in his studyspace had been tampered with. A plastic clip had been inserted under the handset to keep it unobtrusively raised into the operating position. The indicator lights had been removed, and the
viewscreen intensity dulled to the point of obscurity. Nevertheless the instrument was live, and the pick-up lens and the microphone were alert to everything within their range. Experimentally he brought up the brilliance on the viewscreen, and was rewarded by the sight of two eyes watching him intently.

Fascinated,
Manalone stared back into the two eyes watching him. They were old eyes, wizened eyes, shrewd with age. The transmitter must have been operating at an extreme magnification for the features to so nearly fit the viewscreen and be reproduced in such detail. He wondered if it was imagination or whether the craggy skin around the eyes did actually crinkle with humour as his own startled face peered back.

His speculation was short-lived. An empty autram drew up before the house and stopped. Victor Blackman had kept his word. Gathering his possessions into an untidy armful, Manalone turned to the door, a sense of lostness closing around him. No matter in whose autram he travelled, if he was leaving under such close scrutiny his movements could easily be traced. Seeing no way of avoiding this fact, he was instead seized by a brief bravado, and he stopped and saluted the mute watcher on the screen. This time he was certain that a smile crept round the eyes.

Once in the autram he considered his next move. He cancelled the destination pre-set on the route box, and substituted the sequence for the location of his bank. He took care not to upset the credit register, whch was debiting the charge to one of Blackman’s accounts. The instrument clucked scoldingly at the change of route, but accepted the alteration and moved off after a minor hesitation.

Having reached the bank, Manalone found he now had a new dilemma. He had no way of determining how long Blackman’s credit would continue to register before the autram reverted to normal duties. If he left his possessions in the autram there was the distinct possibility that the vehicle would leave and take them with it. Alternatively, to carry a heap of personal belongings into the bank was an act guaranteed to attract attention. He finally decided to trust the autram rather than invite speculation about his predicament. This was but another expression of his preference for machines over people.

Usually he could
have obtained cash from the autocashier. This he shunned because the maximum amount was limited, and because it involved an on-line ComCredit transaction which he was anxious to avoid. Instead he stood patiently in the queue at one of the windows, waiting to be served by a human teller.

The girl received his voucher without comment, and turned to the credit verifier. She then became extremely upset, and called her manager. The latter came to the window and viewed Manalone with pained recognition.

‘There’s been a terrible mistake, Manalone. The People Census has fed into our computer an entry saying that you’re dead. All your assets are frozen pending probate.’

‘Then you’d better unfreeze them. I assure you I’m anything but dead.’

‘I take your point,’ said the manager placatingly. ‘Unfortunately it’s not as simple as that. It may take a little time. We’ll have to challenge the People Census and produce proof of your continued existence. May I have your CI card?’

‘I don’t have it with me,’ said Manalone, realizing he had left it in the MIPS office.

‘Then perhaps if you could bring it in …’

‘This is ridiculous! You know me. You know my credit’s good. You hold my money, and I want some of it. What could be simpler than that?’

‘Believe me, I can quite see your point of view. This is all most regrettable. But the fact is that the Census entry puts a complete block around your account in our computer. We can’t even get access to it ourselves.’

‘Then if I can’t have my money, how about lending me some of the bank’s?’

‘You could use ComCredit to tide you over until we can get this sorted out. A day or two at the most.’

‘I don’t want ComCredit. I want more than the ComCredit maximum – and I want it in small cash.’

‘Small cash?’ The manager looked slightly dubious and re-examined Manalone’s voucher. ‘Could I enquire as to why you need so much?’

‘It’s none
of your damn business. What kind of service do you call this, anyway?’

Muttering to himself, the manager turned away and went back into his office. Something about his manner warned Manalone that further enquiries would be made before any cash was released to him. It was now certain that the entry of his supposed death into the computer had not been an accident. His attempt to obtain cash had been rather cleverly forestalled, and the method gave further credence to the point about his excommunication from the human race. Any enquiries the manager might make would only increase his suspicions and not allay them. Manalone decided it was a prudent time to leave.

He turned with affected nonchalance towards the auto-cashier. Even a limited amount of cash would be better than none at all. With the autram outside, he reasoned he could use his ComCredit card and be well away from the district before the police or the MIPS could arrive. He keyed an indication of his requirements, inserted the fateful card, and held his hand expectantly at the delivery slot.

After an instant of meditation, the machine spat out his ComCredit card, having first perforated it along one edge. The expected cash was not forthcoming. Overhead an extremely loud bleep-alarm came alive and every eye in the banking hall turned in his direction. Appalled, Manalone retrieved the damaged card and walked out of the door with as much composure as he could muster. He was uncomfortably aware that his neck and ears were glowing red with embarrassment.

Fortunately the autram was still waiting where he had left it. He climbed in thankfully, inserted Blackman’s destination code, and slumped back in the seat as the vehicle moved away. He was no stranger to frustration, but humiliating defeat was a relatively new sensation. The MIPS were taking his world away with expert thoroughness, depriving him of all the essentials he needed to continue a normal life.

‘So what are they trying to do to you, Manalone? Starve you into submission? If so, they could achieve that more simply by locking you up in the nearest cell. Or are they trying to evoke an abreaction …? Pushing until you kick? You kicked them once with the computer deposition. It’s doubtful if Shears is over the shock of it yet. The only way you can kick harder is to get right through to the Masterthinkers themselves.’

The home
of Blackman’s manufacturing empire was a number of warehouses and small buildings which had once been independent enterprises. These had gradually been overrun by the Blackman–Gross methods of business acquisition, and welded into a manufacturing unit for which they were neither designed nor suited. It was Manalone’s considered opinion that the whole assembly made no economic sense, except that Blackman’s range of barely legal products enabled him to command unrealistic prices for a great quantity of very marginal workmanship.

Blackman’s greeting was reserved.

‘You took your time getting here, Manny.’

‘I had to stop by the bank on the way.’

Blackman raised his eyebrows. ‘I ran a credit rating on you – and as far as the bank’s concerned, you’re dead.’

‘Do I look dead?’

‘No more than usual. But I’ve been thinking over your terms and I’ve decided I can’t afford them. I’ll pay you fifty a week, and that’s my final offer.’