Seven Steps to the Sun (12 page)

'Do you want something to eat before you go?' Mary left her stool in front of the screen and began to make coffee.

'I've thrown that book away,' she added over her shoulder.

'Thanks. I'd love some coffee but nothing to eat. Then I'll be on my way.'

'Where are you going?'

'Home,' Mike lied.

'And forget about this supposed friend of yours?' said Mary, sarcastically.

'I reckon so, it wasn't really a very good idea.'

'Well, let's say it wasn't a very convincing story. If you really had a friend you wanted to find you would just go to any missing persons bureaux and check on their computer. Wherever your friend is, the computer would tell you,' said Mary, looking at him for the first time.

Mike looked back smiling. 'Maybe,' he said.

If this woman knew the half of it, she wouldn't be quite so bloody cocksure, he thought.

'And where might I find a missing persons bureau?' asked Mike casually.

'Every police office has one, you'll probably find one at the airport.'

Mike walked away from the house, round the pool and out of sight before turning to look back. He was glad Mary had not told Joe he was an imposter. Joe had been a good brick to him at a time when Mike needed a house to lean on. A taxi was waiting in the car park.

'You the fella who wants a ride to the airport?' asked a squat individual coming from behind the helicopter.

'I am.'

'Any particular airline?' said the man, looking at Mike's little bundle.

'Is there a general departure lounge? I have one or two things to clear up before I actually leave,' said Mike, getting in.

'Yeah, O.K., it was just that I was told you'd be going to London,' said the man.

'Fine. Just take me to the main building,' Mike said firmly.

The helicopter lifted off the ground, and Mike looked back for a moment before settling himself in for the journey.

'Which way d'ya want to go,' asked the driver, breaking into Mike's thoughts.

'Let's go down Fifth, across the Tribo and on to the airport,' said Mike automatically.

'Fine,' said the man with a crack on his face that might be called a smile.

'It must be over ten years since I was last here. Has much changed?' asked Mike, fishing.

'Sure it's changed it's a dead city, no life, no clubs, no nothing, it's better to live out of town.'

'Has this happened all over the States?'

'Couldn't say for sure, but I've heard some of my fares saying that the whole country's dead. It seems that way too, if you watch the television. Nothing goes on except for the killings, and the young people trying to exert their feelings by shouting about it. There isn't very much entertainment either.'

'You mean there are no more football games, or baseball matches?'

'Oh, sure there are big ball games, that's about the only thing this country's got left. The trouble is that it costs so much to get to a game, I've lost interest. All I do is watch it on the box,' said the man, a little sadly. Below them the island of Manhattan came into view.

'No Empire State building?' said Mike, looking around.

'Fella, they ripped that down years ago. It was one of the smallest buildings around,' said the driver. The helicopter dropped into Fifth Avenue, and they flew along, surrounded by fantastically high monsters of glass.

'What are they?' asked Mike, pointing at the sky scrapers.

'Apartments, but you've got to have a real bundle to be able to live there.'

'If they cost so much, why not live in the country?'

'Because this is their town, their own rules and regulations. You even need a permit to go in,' said the man in disgust.

'What happened to places like Harlem and Brooklyn?'

'They were bought up by the wealthy, and the people who were thrown out moved down to Philadelphia and places like that,' he said, pointing to the south.

'Where do you live?'

'White Plains,' said the driver settling down in the seat. Mike took this to mean that conversation was over. They were now crossing the river and on towards Kennedy.

The layout of the inside of the central building seemed to be the same as he remembered it. Mike went over to a desk marked American Airlines.

'What time's the next flight to Los Angeles?' he asked.

'Four o' clock,' said the man, going on reading.

'I'll have a ticket.'

'Sure, round trip?'

'No, one way.'

'Here you are, that'll be seventy dollars,' said the man tearing a ticket out of a book.

'Thanks,' said Mike giving the man a hundred-dollar bill.

'Departure is out of the exit doors, turn left and it's the second building on your left,' said the man giving him his change.

At the end of the concourse was a general store where Mike bought a reasonably sized brief case for his bundle of clothes. He checked his appearance before approaching a policeman lounging at a bar.

'Excuse me, do you have a missing persons bureau?'

'Nope. But the security office can help you. Through that door and second on the right,' said the policeman pleasantly. Mike followed the man's instructions. Left, left, he thought to himself not right. He knocked on the door and went in.

'Yes,' said a grim looking man, sitting at a desk.

'I am looking for a friend and I was told that you might be able to help.'

'Maybe, maybe not. What's your friend's name?'

'Peter Jones.'

'Why do you think he'd be in America?'

'It was just a guess. He lit out one day not saying a thing to his wife, and she asked me to find him.'

'How long ago was this?'

'Oh, about two years ago, and since he's a jazz musician, I thought he might have come to the States.'

'Shouldn't think so, he'd be more likely to go to Canada or Australia. Just hang on a minute I'll check out whether he's here or not,' said the man, going into another room. Mike waited, wondering how they could say people were here or not.

'Sorry,' said the security man, 'there's no British jazz musician by that name on our files.'

'And you have everybody who's in America on your files?'

'Of course,' said the man, frowning. 'Thank you.'

It occurred to Mike that there was one person in America who hadn't got his name on the computer's memory and it made him nervous.

He went over to his departure building and strolled across to the large tinted windows to look out at the planes. All the aircraft were very small, they reminded him of a scaled-down version of a Caravelle. In shape much cleaner than the planes he remembered, they seemed to have engines in the tail. He checked his time of arrival in Los Angeles—the flight would take only one and a half hours. Over a coffee and a hamburger he decided he was going to have to try very much harder to find Pete, whom he was still convinced was alive. But where? What would a detective do? Pete would have to make a living. If he couldn't in America, then where would he go? Canada didn't seem to fit. Pete had done a job there once and had never particularly liked the place, therefore where? Australia, he'd never been to Australia.

Mike's mind wandered on—What were the time changes? Why was he involved? How many fellow travellers had he? It was impossible to draw any real conclusions as he didn't know anything. This was the most infuriating and frightening part of the whole strange phenomenon. He was worried, and at times he was nervous enough to vomit, but he controlled feelings of panic and frustration, in order to remain rational. He was now highly curious to know where the whole thing was leading. Would it stop in a time and place that he didn't like, rather like hell? Or would it go on for ever?

The call for the four o'clock flight came over the loud speakers. The plane held about thirty people and was luxuriously appointed, with plenty of room for legs between the seats. Mike sank back comfortably. The outer door shut and the plane began to shake gently as immensely powerful engines started up. It took off vertically, climbing very quickly and Mike slept soundly until the plane just dropped out of the sky and all of a sudden they were hovering alongside the arrivals building. They didn't go straight into the main hall, but along a glass corridor into a room marked, '
travel
inoculations
'
. There was nothing for it but to follow the crowd into the room, which contained cubicles.

'Roll up your sleeve, please,' said the man, in a white smock. Mike rolled up his sleeve and was given a jab with a needle.

'What was that for?' asked Mike, as he rolled down his sleeve.

'It's your time injection,' the man said, preparing for the next passenger.

'My what?' Mike asked, in horror, as he was ushered from the cubicle by a petite young woman.

'You have just had an injection that will put your biological clock back in order,' said the woman.

'Do I need to have my biological clock put in order?' asked Mike.

'Well, if you don't you'll suffer the effects of the time change,' said the girl sweetly as they went into the main hall.

'You're not kidding,' mumbled Mike. He was about to add a few rude comments about his own time-change problems, but she was off.

Once he left the airport building he realized how hot it was. He stood for a moment blinking hard in the fierce sunlight. He moved over to a large area filled with helicopters, some of them obviously privately owned, but after a little investigation he found a taxi rank.

'Can you take me to the Beverly Rodeo Hotel?' Mike asked the driver.

'Sure thing,' said the man unwinding his vast legs from around the controls. 'Afraid I can't take you right
Up
to the door, but I can drop you within a block.' Mike nodded his approval and climbed in alongside. The engine burst into life and they lifted up and off in the direction of Beverly Hills. The sprawl of the Los Angeles bowl was still there. Acre upon acre of single-storey houses, set out in true Roman fashion.

'There's a lot of demolition going on, isn't there?' Mike shouted.

'Where?' said the driver looking at Mike. Mike pointed to a vast expanse of rubble.

'That's not demolition, or at least it's not man made,' the man laughed, 'that's what happened in the last earthquake.'

'Why aren't they rebuilding?' asked Mike, looking at the huge area of destruction.

'Look, see the line of destruction running north. That's part of the San Andreas fault, and it's so unstable you can't build on the surrounding area,' said the man, taking the helicopter round in a circle so that Mike could get a better look.

The fear of a big earthquake had always been in the minds of some Californians, but this one must have been the king of kings. The city seemed to be split in half with a path of terror. On the fringe of the debris he could see the remains of a rebuilding scheme. The line of destruction ran north through Hollywood, with all its studios and glamour. They started to follow the famous Sunset Strip going east. Below them Mike could see Westwood and the giant complex that made up the University of California. Hardly any vehicle, yet the roads looked intact. The helicopter came in to land alongside the old Beverly Hills Hotel, which still stood in its own block, but was now surrounded by grass. Mike went to ask where he could find the hotel he wanted. Under normal circumstances it should have been just down the street, but the geography of the area had changed.

It was still there, narrow fronted, but long in depth. He'd stayed here the last time he was in California, and from outside it hadn't changed at all. He pushed his way through the tinted doors. Inside it was cool and dark. The reception desk was deserted, so he waited. When no one came, he went over to the bar, where several men were lounging in front of a television.

'Can I get a room here?'

A man rose wearily.

'Single or double?' He gave Mike a form.

'Double,' said Mike. 'What's this for?'

'Hotel registration,' laughed the man suddenly.

'Do you want me to fill it out now?'

'No, do anything you like, tomorrow will do. Room number seven,' the man said giving him a key. 'Your room's on the first floor overlooking the pool.'

Mike picked up his bag and walked down the corridor past the pool, which was in a courtyard in the middle of the hotel. He felt as though he'd walked into a sleepy one-horse town somewhere in the mid west. What had happened to the glorious Golden State of years ago, when California was buzzing with the high-pressure living he remembered? After finding his room he took himself off to the Beverly Hills to see what entertainment the town could offer. He skirted the side of the hotel until he found the coffee shop.

'Coffee,' said Mike to the woman behind the counter.

'Cream?' asked the woman handing over the cup. Mike nodded.

'Why's the city so empty?' Mike asked pouring the generous quantity of cream into the cup. It hardly changed colour.

'You a stranger? You can always tell, they all ask the same question,' said the woman with a tired smile. 'The city started to go down about seven years ago, just before the quake. The prices of land and buildings were so high folks started to move back east. When the quake came, millions of people lost their homes and jobs, mainly through the insurance companies not paying up. So all those people left,' said the woman, as though she were telling him that the President slept here.

'What happened to all the industry? You know, films, aircraft, and so on?'

'Oh, there's still plenty of industry around, but they don't employ many people. You've got the aircraft factories down towards San Diego, then to the north there are the big electronics people, and everywhere else, where there are no people, they've turned the land over to the oil men,' she said, helping herself to a cup of coffee.