Roadmarks (5 page)

"Perhaps. That's why we're going to look first, then make a dash for the trees. I think it's more likely, though, that they'd be watching the pickup, either from the trees or from another vehicle. Therefore, we'll work our way around through the woods."

He reached the door, cursed when he discovered it to be heavy and windowless, eased it open a crack, looked out. Farther, then . . .

"Nothing," he said. "No talking now till this is all over, unless it's a warning. I wish I'd remembered the earplug lead."

"You'll ficth my thpeaker thoon?"

"There's a place up the Road that can probably do it while I'm getting a new windshield. Don't worry."

He swung the door open and dashed toward the shelter of the trees, about fifteen meters distant. When he reached them, he swung around the nearest and crouched in the shadows at its base. He remained motionless for several moments, breathing through his opened mouth.

Nothing. No shots, shouts or sounds of movement. He crawled back into the stand of trees, his fingertips brushing the way before him. Finally, he turned to his right and made his way around the rear of the hostel, still crawling. Leila's room remained dark. He could smell the burnt mattress ticking.

He advanced until he had a full view of the parking lot. No additional vehicles seemed present in the light of the quarter-moon and a scattering of stars. He remained within the wood, however, heading toward the point where his attacker had fallen.

When he reached the spot, he discovered that the covered body still lay there, its shroud weighted down with stones. He crouched beside it, pistol in hand, and regarded his truck. Five minutes passed. Ten . . .

He advanced. He circled the truck, inspecting it, then entered on the driver's side. He placed his book in a slot beneath the dashboard, then inserted his ignition key.

"Thtop! Don't turn the key!"

"Why not?"

"I am trickling a minimal charge through the thythtem. There ith rethithtanth that doethn't belong."

"A bomb?"

"Perhapth."

Cursing, Red stepped out and opened the hood. He produced his flashlight and began an inspection. After a time, he slammed the hood and climbed back in, still cursing.

"Wath it a bomb?

"Yes."

He started the engine.

"What did you do with it?"

"Chucked it back into the woods."

He put the truck into gear, backed up, turned and headed out of the lot, stopping only to top off the tank.

He had left his vehicle at a roadstop several days distant, yet worlds away. He was excessively tall and thin, with a great shock of dark hair above his high forehead, and he seemed garishly garbed for the mountains of Abyssinia. He wore purple khaki trousers and a purple shirt; even his boots and belt were of dyed purple leather; ditto his large backpack. Several amethyst rings adorned his abnormally long fingers. As he hiked along the rocky trail, apparently oblivious to the chill wind, it seemed he could almost be a young Romantic poet off on a
Wanderjahr
, save that the nineteenth century was eight hundred years in the future. Hollow eyes burning in his near-emaciated face, he searched for obscure landmarks and found them. He had not rested the entire day, even taking his rations as he walked. Now, though, he paused, for two distant peaks had finally come into line and the end of his journey was in sight.

Several hundred meters ahead, the trail widened, forming a large, flat bank which ran backward into a recess in the mountainside. He moved again, heading in that direction. When he reached the level area, he advanced into the recess. Walls of rock towered on either hand as he moved through the defile.

At length, passing through a wooden gate, he emerged into a small valley. Cows munched the grasses within it. There was a pool at its farther end. Nearer, a corral stood beside one of several cave mouths. Seated before that entranceway was a short, baldheaded black man. He was enormously fat, and his thick fingers caressed the turning clay on a treadle-operated potter's wheel.

He looked up, regarding the stranger who greeted him in Arabic.

" . . . And peace be with you," he replied in that language. "Come and refresh yourself."

The purple-clad stranger approached.

"Thank you."

He dropped his pack and squatted across from the potter.

"My name is John," he said.

" . . . And I am Mondamay, the potter. Excuse me. I am not being rude, but I cannot desert the pot at this point. It will take me several more minutes to be assured it will grow properly. I will fetch you food and drink immediately then."

"Take your time," said the other, smiling. "It is a pleasure to watch the great Mondamay at his work."

"You have heard of me?"

"Who has not heard of your pots
—
turned to perfection, fired with an amazing glaze?"

Mondamay remained without expression.

"You are kind," he observed.

After a time, Mondamay stopped the wheel and rose to his feet.

"Excuse me," he said.

He moved with a peculiar, shuffling gait. John, his long fingers dipping into a purple pocket, watched the potter's back as he went.

Mondamay entered the cave. Several minutes later, he returned bearing a covered tray.

"I bring you bread and cheese and milk," he said. "Excuse me if I do not partake of them with you, as I have just eaten."

He bent, graceful for all his bulk, to place the tray before the stranger.

"I will slay a goat for your dinner
—
” he began.

John's left hand was a blur. His incredibly long fingers dug into the area beneath the other's right shoulder blade. There they penetrated, tearing away a huge flap. His right hand, holding a small crystalline key, was already plunging toward the exposed metallic surface. The key entered a socket there. He turned it.

Mondamay became immobile. A series of sharp clicks occurred somewhere within his stooped form. John withdrew his hand, moved back.

"You are no longer Mondamay the potter," he said. "You have been partially activated, by me. Assume a standing position now."

A soft whirring, accompanied by occasional crackling noises, emerged from the figure before him. Slowly it straightened; then it grew motionless once again.

"Now remove your human disguise."

The figure before him raised its hands slowly to the back of its head. They remained there for a moment, then drew apart and forward, stripping the dark pseudo-flesh from what came to be revealed as a metallic, stepped pyramid set about with numerous lenses. Then the hands moved to what appeared to be the neck, pressed there, pulled downward. Metal. More metal was revealed. And cables, and quartz windows behind which tiny lights flickered, and plates and nozzles and grids . . .

Within two minutes, all of the false flesh had been stripped away, and the one who had been known as Mondamay stood gleaming, flashing and crackling before the tall man.

"Give me access to Unit One," the man ordered.

Cash register-like, a narrow metal drawer extruded itself from the automaton's chest. John leaned forward, his amethyst rings flashing, and made adjustments upon the controls contained within it.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Mondamay asked.

"You are now fully activated and must obey me. Is that not correct?"

"Yes, it is. Why have you done this to me?"

"Deaccess Unit One, straighten up and go stand where you were when I arrived."

Mondamay obeyed. The man seated himself and began eating.

"Why have I activated you?" John said after a few moments. "Because," he answered himself, "I am, at the moment, the only man in the world who knows what you are."

"There have been many mistakes concerning me . . . "

"Of that I am certain. I do not know whether there are parallel futures, but I do know that there are many pasts leading up to that time from which I have come. Not all of them are accessible. The sideroads have a way of reverting to wilderness when there are none to travel them. Do you not know that Time is a superhighway with many exits and entrances, main routes and secondary roads, that the maps keep changing, that only a few know how to find the access ramps?"

"I am aware of this, though I am not one who can find his way along them."

"How is it that you know?"

"You are not the first such traveler I have met."

"I know that, here in your branch, a hypothesis which intelligent men find laughable in my own branch happens to be quite true: namely, that the Earth was visited long ago by creatures from another civilization, creatures who left various artifacts behind them. I know you are such an artifact. Is it not so?"

"It is correct."

"I know, further, that you are a fantastically sophisticated death machine. You were designed to destroy anything from a single virus to an entire planet. Is that not correct?"

"It is so."

"You were left behind. And with no one to understand your function, you chose to disguise yourself and lead this simple existence. True?"

"True. How is it that you learned of me and obtained the necessary command key?"

"My employer knows many things. He taught me the ways of the Road. He told me of you. He provided the key."

"And now that you have found me and used it, what is it you wish of me?"

"You said that I am not the first such traveler you have encountered. I know this, for I know the other man's identity. His name is Red Dorakeen, and soon he will be seeking you on this branch. I have need of a very large sum of money, and I will be paid it for killing him. I always prefer working through intermediaries, however
—
human or mechanical
—
in matters of violence. You are to be my agent in this matter."

"Red Dorakeen is my friend."

"So I was told. All the less reason for him to suspect you in this. Now
—
” He rummaged in his pack and withdrew a slim metal case. He opened it and adjusted a pair of knobs. A beeping sound emerged from the unit. "He recently had a windshield replaced," John said, setting the case atop a rock. "When this was done, a small broadcast unit was concealed in his vehicle. Now I have but to wait until he enters this branch, and I can track him with this, striking wherever I choose."

"I do not wish to be your agent in this matter."

John rose from his meal, crossed the area between them, and struck the pot Mondamay had been turning, squashing it out of shape.

"Your wishes are not important," he stated. "You have no choice but to obey me."

"That is true."

"I order you not to attempt to warn him in any way. Do you understand?"

"I do."

"Then do not argue with me about it. You will do as you are told, to the fullest of your ability."

"I will."

John returned to the tray and continued eating.

"I would like to dissuade you from this," Mondamay stated after a time.

"No doubt."

"Do you know why your employer wishes him killed?"

"No. That is his affair. It does not concern me."

"There must be something very special about you, to have warranted your selection for such exotic employment."

John smiled.

"He considered me qualified."

"What do you know of Red Dorakeen?"

"I know what he looks like. I know that he will probably be coming this way."

"You are obviously some sort of professional whom your employer has gone to great lengths to recruit . . . "

"Obviously."

"Have you not wondered why? What is it about your intended victim which requires such consideration?"

"Oh, he wanted me to handle it because the victim may already be aware that he is being hunted."

"How did this come about?"

"Recently, in his personal time-line, there has been one attempt on his life."

"How is it that it failed?"

"Crude, poorly managed, I understand."

"What became of the would-be assassin?"

The man in purple raised his eyes to glare at Mondamay,

"Red killed him. But I assure you there is no comparison to be made between that person and myself."

Mondamay remained silent.

"If you are trying to frighten me, to cause me to feel it could happen to me also, you are wasting your time. There are very few things I fear."

"That is good," said Mondamay.

John remained with Mondamay for the better part of a week, breaking fifty-six delicately wrought pots before discovering that this did not disturb his mechanical servant. Even when he ordered the robot to break them personally, he obtained no equivalent of an emotional response, and so gave up on that avenue as a source of pain to his captive. Then, one afternoon, the bleeping machine emitted a sharp buzzing note. John hurried to adjust it, took a reading, and adjusted it further.

"He is about three hundred kilometers from here," he stated. "As soon as I have bathed and changed my clothing, I will permit you to transport me to him so that this matter may be concluded."

Mondamay did not reply.