Night Walk (15 page)

Tallon snorted. "Do you know what he did to me?"
"The injury to your eyes was an accident."
"Damn my eyes. Did you know he put a brain-brush on me and tried to wipe
my life away like you just did to the stains on this table?"
"Mr. Cherkassky is a senior Lutheran executive. He wouldn't."
"Forget it," Tallon said brusquely. "That's what I've done. Whatever it
was -- I've forgotten it."
When she had finished with his hand and taped the wound he flexed the
fingers experimentally. "Will I ever play again, Doctor?"
There was no reply, and he felt a creeping sense of unreality. Helen Juste
eluded him; he was unable to imagine her as a human individual, to visualize
her place in this world's society. Physically he could see her only
fleetingly when she happened to glance at her own reflection in the
kitchen mirror. He noticed, too, that she kept glancing toward a shelf
on which lay several small pieces of soft leather, stitched into the
shape of bags. Their purpose mystified him; then he remembered Juste's
bird and that it had been trained for falconry.
"How ill is your brother, Miss Juste?"
"What do you mean?"
"How did he react to the eyeset? Did he like hunting with his birds?
Running with the dogs?"
She went to the window and stared out at distant trees, limned against the
red disk of the rising sun, before answering. "It isn't your business."
"I think it is," he said. "I didn't realize what was happening at the time.
I knew Cherkassky was coming. There was no time to wait for the answer
to the problem of the cameras, so I decided to look through the eyes of
other men. It was that simple. I had no idea I was creating the first
new form of perversion the empire has seen in a long, long time."
"You mean, you . . . ?"
"No, not me. I've been running too hard. But there was that woman in
Sweetwell -- the one I'm supposed to have raped. She used the eyeset
when I was sleeping. She liked cats, if you know what I mean."
"What makes you think Carl was like that?"
" You do, though I don't know why. Something about the way you keep
insisting he's a harmless recluse, perhaps. There may not be any sex angle
in his case, of course. I've read that when a person who has been blind
for a long time has his sight restored, it isn't always the expected
joyful experience. There can be depression, feelings of inadequacy
caused by suddenly being back on even terms with the rest of humanity,
with no handicap to fall back on. How much better to be, say, a falcon,
with sharp eyes and sharper claws and a mind that doesn't understand
weakness, or anything but hunting and tearing and -- "
" Stop it!"
"I'm sorry." Tallon was faintly surprised at himself, but he had wanted to
reach her and felt he had succeeded to some extent. "Do you treat only
those wounds your brother has inflicted? There's this hole in my back. . . ."
Helen Juste helped him to work the uniform down from his shoulders, and
gasped when she saw the great pool of congealed blood that lay across his
back. Tallon almost gasped too as he received the picture. He had never
before really appreciated the degree of nastiness that can be covered
by the phrase "nasty flesh wound." This was nasty, it was fleshy, and
it was a wound in anybody's book.
"Can you do anything with it -- short of amputating my shoulders,
that is?"
"I think so. There wouldn't be enough tissue welder and bandages in
my own first-aid kit, but Carl usually has some in this cupboard." She
opened it, found the medical supplies, and got to work on his shoulder
with a moistened cloth, gently removing the superfluous mess. "This is
a gunshot wound?"
"Yes." Tallon told her how it had happened. He had almost convinced
himself she was a sympathetic listener when he suddenly thought of
something. "If you knew your brother had medical supplies in here,"
he said slowly, "why did you go out to the car for your own kit?"
"No reason. Force of habit. You know, you should be in bed with an injury
like this. Why don't you give yourself up and get proper attention before
the reaction sets in?"
"Sorry. I'm going to have something to eat now; then I'll tie you up,
along with your brother, and be on my way."
"You won't get far."
"Perhaps not. Does it matter much to you, anyway? I had an idea you and
the Pavilion might be parting company after this little affair. Is that
why you're here now? Have you been sacked?"
"Detainee Tallon," she said evenly, "escaped prisoners do not interrogate
prison executives. I'll make breakfast now. I'm hungry too."
Tallon was mildly pleased at her reaction. He got into his uniform again,
then took the roll of medical tape and bound Carl Juste's wrists and ankles.
The big man smelt of brandy. Tallon returned to the kitchen and sat in
a chair, feeling the tingle of the tissue welder compound on his back,
while Helen Juste cooked something that was so like ham and eggs he
was almost certain it was ham and eggs. Twice, as they were eating,
Carl Juste moaned and stirred slightly. Tallon allowed Helen Juste to
go out and look at her brother each time.
"I told you he'd be all right," he said. "He's a big, strong boy."
He made no further attempts to talk to her during the meal, but enjoyed
the faint echo of domesticity he received from the act of eating breakfast
with a young woman in the morning quietness of a warm kitchen, even though
they were much more than worlds apart.
Tallon was sipping his fourth cup of strong coffee when he heard a
scratching sound at the entrance door at the far end of the hall. The
scratching was followed by a shrill bark Tallon recognized.
" Seymour!" he shouted. "Come in, you little phony. I thought you
were dead."
He went to the door ahead of Helen Juste and was almost embarrassed
at the joy he felt on seeing the familiar brown shape leap into his
arms. As far as he could tell from where Helen was standing, the dog was
unharmed. Perhaps Seymour had made it to the gate and got through the
bars inches ahead of the big hound. If the latter had inefficient brakes,
it could explain the redness he had detected around its muzzle; and it
was also possible that Seymour had been rocketing along fast enough to
be out of range when Tallon had tried to pick him up on the eyeset.
Hugging the excited animal to his chest, Tallon reselected on proximity,
and put Seymour on his number one stud again. Equipped once more with what
were practically his own eyes, he turned to look at Helen Juste. She was
as perfect as he remembered, still wearing the green Pavilion uniform,
which accented her coloring. Her hair was a massive copper helmet,
burnished laser bright; her eyes, still the color of whiskey, were
looking past him, at her pale blue car.
Tallon had a strong hunch about that car. He went over to it and opened
the door. A small orange light was winking patiently, low on the dash --
on the radio panel, to be exact. The TRANSMIT toggle was in the "on"
position, and the microphone was missing from its clip.
Breathing heavily, Tallon switched the radio off and went back into the
house. Helen Juste was staring at him, white-faced but very erect.
"Full marks for resourcefulness, Miss Juste," he said. "Where's the
microphone?"
She took it from her pocket and held it out to him. As he expected,
it was the type that incorporated a miniature transmitter of its own in
place of a wire connection to the main radio. He had been on the air for
some time, no doubt on a police wavelength. Tallon had almost forgotten
the automatic pistol in his right hand. He raised it thoughtfully.
"Go ahead and shoot me," she said calmly.
"If you had thought I would shoot, you wouldn't have taken the risk,"
Tallon snapped, "so spare me the bit where you face the mouth of the
cannon without flinching. Get your coat, if you have one here. We haven't
much time."
"My coat?"
"Yes. I don't trust myself driving your car. Seymour has an unfortunate
habit of not looking where I want him to look, and at high speed that
could be dangerous. Besides, it will do no harm to have you as a hostage."
She shook her head. "I'm not leaving this house."
Tallon reversed the pistol, weighed it meaningfully in his hand, and took
one step forward. "You want to bet?"
As they were going out the door Carl Juste seemed to come fully awake.
He gave several moans, each time a little louder, until he was almost
shouting; then as his mind took over he abruptly fell silent.
"I don't want to leave him like that," Helen Juste said.
"He'll have company pretty soon. Remember? Just keep moving."
Tallon turned and looked back at Carl. He was struggling ineffectually
with his bonds; his forehead glistened with sweat, and the blind eyes
shuttled frantically. Tallon hesitated. He knew only too well how the
big man was feeling after his long uphill climb from unconsciousness into
a private black hell of sightlessness, helplessness, and hopelessness.
"Just a minute," he said. He went back and knelt beside Carl Juste.
"Listen to me, Juste. I've taken the eyeset back because I need it
more than you do. Can you hear me?"
"I hear. . . . But you won't . . ."
Tallon raised his voice. "I'm leaving you another identical eyeset,
which needs only a new power unit to make it work again. I'm also writing
out a full specification of the power unit for you. If you don't let
the police or agency men take it as material evidence, you should be
able to get the eyeset working again soon. With your sort of money,
it should be no problem to bend the relevant laws."
He signaled to Helen Juste, and she ran for paper and pen. Tallon seized
them and, still kneeling on the floor, began writing the specification.
While he worked, Helen mopped her brother's forehead and spoke quietly
to him in a sad small voice that Tallon scarcely recognized. There was
something deep and strange about their relationship. He finished writing
and crammed the paper into the pocket of Juste's pajamas.
"You wasted a lot of time," Helen Juste said as he stood up. "I didn't
expect such . . ."
"Stupidity is the word. Don't remind me. Now let's move."
The car was smooth, quiet, and fast. As Tallon had noted earlier, it was
an expensive imported job of advanced design, with a gravity component
engine that instead of propelling the vehicle allowed it to
fall
forward.
Spaceships used similar power units in the initial stages of flight,
but because of the difficulty of fitting them into a confined space
they were rarely used anywhere else, even on aircraft. This meant the
car was very expensive indeed. Helen Juste handled it with showy skill,
broadsiding through the gate she had left open on her arrival, and taking
off along the roadway with a prolonged burst of acceleration that sucked
Tallon deep into his seat.
As the car swooped around a long curve, which blended into a motorway,
Tallon held Seymour up to look through the rear window. Seymour was a
little nearsighted, but there seemed to be specks in the southern sky,
moving with the characteristic sinking flight of helicopters.
"Switch on the radio," Tallon said. "I want to hear what crimes I've
committed this time."
They listened to music for half an hour; then the program was interrupted
for a newsflash.
Tallon whistled. "That was quick. Now let's hear how depraved I've become
since my last public appearance." But as the announcer spoke, Tallon felt
embarrassed at his display of egotism; his name was not mentioned.
The official news was that Caldwell Dubois, for Earth, and the Temporal
Moderator, for Emm Luther, had simultaneously recalled their diplomatic
representatives following the breakdown of the Akkab negotiations over
apportionment of new territories.
Unofficially, the two worlds were on the verge of war.
fifteen
Helen Juste: Twenty-eight years old, unmarried, beautiful, honors degree
in social sciences at the Lutheran University, member of the planet's premier
family, holder of a governmental executive position -- and a complete failure
as a human being.
As she drove northward she tried to analyze the interactions of character
and circumstance that had led to her present situation. There was her
older brother, of course, but perhaps it was too easy to blame everything
on Carl. He had always been there, looming big, a kind of landmark by
which to steer through life; but over the years the landmark had crumbled.
The erosion began when their parents and Peter, their younger brother,
were drowned in a speedboat accident near Easthead. Carl, in his last year
at university, was driving the boat. He began to drink heavily after that,
which would have been serious enough on any other world. On Emm Luther,
where abstention was part of the very political and social structure,
it was almost suicidal. He managed to hold together for three years,
joining the space-probe design center as a mathematician; then a case
of substandard bootleg brandy had cost him his eyesight.
She helped install him in his private estate, which would have cost a
prohibitive amount had the Moderator not fixed it for Carl, partly out
of family feeling and partly out of a desire to get him tucked safely
away from the public eye. Since then, she had watched Carl grow more
and more neurotic, break up into smaller and smaller pieces.
At first she had assumed she would be able to help; but looking within
herself, she had found nothing to offer Carl. Nothing to offer anybody.
Just a tremendous sense of inadequacy and loneliness. She tried to get
Carl to emigrate temporarily with her to another world, perhaps even
to Earth itself, where an operation to give him some form of artificial
vision would have been legal. But he had been afraid to go against the
Moderator's wishes, to face the soul-attenuation of the flicker-transits,
to leave the comfortable womb-darkness of his new home.
When Detainee Winfield had told her about Tallon's idea for a seeing
device it had seemed to be the answer to everything, although, looking
back, she realized she had been wrong to suppose that making Carl happy
in that particular way would have compensated for her personal inadequacies.
She had broken every rule in the book to bring about the creation of
the seeing devices, finally going too far for even the Moderator's
protection, only to see Carl use his new eyes to seek out other forms
of darkness. . . .