Roadmarks (8 page)

The car had braked to a halt. Its door slammed.

"How pleasant
—
”

"Hold Flowers a moment, would you? I want to speak with this gentleman."

Red turned toward the giant figure with the black bag who was now striding toward him.

"Hello again. Sorry to trouble you if we were mistaken," he said, glancing down, "but is this the guy you were looking for?"

The big man nodded and opened his bag.

"He is. Are you all right?"

"Can't complain. He's just had an ultrasound jolt and a left to the jaw, though."

The golden-eyed man examined John's ears and eyes, listened to his heartbeat. He filled a syringe from an ampule, knelt and gave him a large injection in the right biceps. He drew a pair of handcuffs from his hip pocket and fastened John's hands behind his back. He then proceeded to search the yellow-clad form, removing various small devices from cuffs, collars, sleeves and boots,

"That about does it," he said, closing his bag and rising. "As I told you before, he is a very dangerous man. What did you do to warrant his attentions?"

"He was hired to get me."

"Then someone must want you very badly, to pay the sort of fee he'd charge."

"I know. I'm going to have to do something about it pretty soon."

The other regarded him for a moment.

"If you would like my help in resolving this matter, I will be glad to give you a hand."

Red drew his teeth across his lower lip and slowly shook his head.

"Thanks, Doc. I appreciate it. But no thanks. This is a very special sort of thing."

The big man smiled faintly and nodded.

"You know your situation best."

He stooped and raised the supine figure effortlessly with one arm. His shirt tore across his back as he did so. Slinging John over his shoulder, he turned and extended his hand.

"Thanks for my patient then, and best of luck with your
—
problem."

"Thanks. Good-bye, Doc."

"Good-bye."

He watched the other walk back to his car, deposit his burden, get in and drive off.

"Good to see John get his," said Mondamay, extending a metal hand, the firing tube now retracted, and placing it on Red's shoulder. "By the way, he was able to monitor your progress by means of a broadcasting device secreted somewhere on your vehicle. It was placed there at a repair shop you recently visited. He'd mentioned it to me. Perhaps we had best locate it and remove it before we do anything else."

"Good idea. Let's have a look." They moved off toward the truck. "How come you didn't detect it, Flowers?"

"Must be an odd wavelength. I don't know. I'll start a scan . . . "

"You did not introduce me," Mondamay said.

"Huh? Oh, he was so busy with John that I didn't want to interrupt him."

"Not the doctor. Flowers of Evil, here. I did not realize I was holding a sophisticated intelligence when you handed me a book."

"Sorry. Extenuating circumstances. Mondamay, I want you to meet Flowers of Evil. Flowers, this is Mondamay the killing machine."

"I am pleased," Mondamay said.

"Likewise. I find your plight extremely distressing
—
carrying around all those dead circuits, being deprived of function."

"Oh, it's not all that bad. I enjoy what I'm doing just as much as what I used to do."

"What is that?"

"I'm a potter, among other things. Any sort of precision work in the arts appeals to me."

"How fascinating. I think I'm almost ready for some degree of manual ability myself. At least I'd like to try. I'd love to see your pots sometime
—
”

"Flowers," Red asked, "have you spotted the broadcast unit yet?"

"Yes. It's affixed to the underside of the body a little forward of the left rear tire."

"Thanks."

Red moved to, the rear of the truck and crouched. "You're right," he said after a moment. "Here it is." Detaching the device, he crossed to the front of the ground-effect car and fastened it to a spot within the front bumper. He returned then to where Mondamay stood leafing through Flowers.

"Just to let them know we caught it," he said.

" . . . And this
Paysage
is certainly a lovely one," Mondamay was saying.

"Thank you."

"It's nearly dinnertime," Red said. "Come keep me company and tell me how things have been. I've a lot I want to ask you."

"Delighted," Mondamay replied. "By the way, I'm sorry about this whole business."

"Not your fault. But I'd be grateful for some advice on it."

"Certainly. And I'm anxious to hear your story."

"Let's go then."

"Don't send a charge up there! It's called a tickle circuit . . .  Stop it!"

Red halted.

"Huh?"

"Sorry. Didn't realize I was vocalizing. Flowers was curious about one of my subunits."

"Oh."

They crossed the veranda and entered the building.

It was over. Randy had driven Julie to the bus station that morning, helped her with her bags, said good-bye. By now she was well on her way to her parents' home in Virginia. There was nothing of hers in sight in the apartment's small living room or kitchen, between which he wandered, preparing fresh glasses of iced tea and drinking them. He had taken the last of his final exams the previous day and gone with Julie to a good restaurant for a late dinner. He had even gotten a bottle of fine wine to go with it. Neither of them had said it was over, but the feeling was there. Now she was on her way back to Virginia, and he had to line something up for the summer. She had wanted him to go home with her; she'd said that her father could find him a summer job. But Randy had smelled a trap in this. He did not want any strings on him yet. The arrangement they had had was fine, with an agreement as to its temporary nature from the beginning. But she had tried to change the rules with her offer, and he was not ready for anything like that. In the back of his mind, thoughts of the search still lurked, though postponement had weakened that childhood resolution. And there was school. And all the things he wanted to do before he even thought about settling down. No. She had offered. He had refused. Something had changed. A different feeling was there. It was over.

He moved to the window and looked three blocks through the evening in the direction of the campus. He wore a T-shirt, Bermuda shorts and thong sandals. People on the street below were similarly clad. It had been a bright-skied, humid day with more such days forecast to follow. His arms and legs were coppery beneath scribblings of reddish hair. He drew the back of his hand across his broad forehead and it came away wet. He held the glass against his cheek and regarded the storefronts, parked cars, passing cars, bicycles. Insects still hummed within the trees. An orange cat licked at a melting ice cream cone on the sidewalk below.

Over . . .  He could work in construction again if he wanted to return to Cleveland. But that was bad too, He might have to live at home
—
Mr. Schelling had even gone out of his way to say how much they wanted him to
—
and that was no damn good. Even if he managed to get a place of his own, they would be after him. He had only met the man twice and could not bring himself to call him anything but "Mr. Schelling," even though he had been married to Randy's mother for almost six months now. It was not that he disliked him. It was just that he did not know him and did not care to. No, not back there. That was over too.

He sipped his tea and turned toward the bedroom. Too hot to think. They had been out late the night before and up early this morning. Sprawl on the bed and hope for a breeze, and maybe an idea would come for a summer job for a classics major. Or would it be linguistics in the fall? Or Romance languages? It would be neat to travel abroad as a secretary, an interpreter . . .

As he passed the bookcase, his hand moved without premeditation and drew out the copy of
Leaves of Grass
.

Then it
had
been in the back of his mind, the search, the promise . . .

He carried the book with him into the bedroom. He needed something to fill his mind in there. Maybe that was all there was to it.

He propped himself up with pillows, turned the pages and read. It was strange, though, the fascination the book held for him. He had consciously had to avoid it this past quarter, for it had attracted him each time he'd passed the bookcase. It was the only thing he owned that had belonged to his father.

It was dark when he finished reading, and the bedside lamp burned beside him. The moist rings from his glass had not evaporated, but lay like Venn diagrams upon the nightstand. He thought about his father, whom he had never seen. Paul Carthage had lived with his mother briefly and departed before Nora even knew she was pregnant. Where was he now? He could be dead. He could be anywhere. Randy turned to the back of the book, where he kept the only photo he had of him. A monochrome, it showed a wide-shouldered, large-handed man with a mass of curly hair; he had a heavy brow over rough but regular features, and he was smiling despite the fact that he looked uncomfortable in the light suit and tie. Transportation . . .  He had told Nora he was in transportation. That could mean anything from a cab dispatcher to an airline pilot. Randy sought himself in that face, looked away with recognition. He had to find him. He wanted to see him and talk with him and learn what he was, where he had come from, what he did, whether he had sired others and what they were like. Paul Carthage . . .  He wondered whether that was even his real name. But there were no clues Randy had ever been able to uncover. When he had departed that night in his blue Dodge pickup truck, the only things he had left behind were his marked-up copy of
Leaves of Grass
and an embryonic Randy.

He replaced the photo and closed the book, hefting it. It was heavier than it looked. In one place where the green binding had worn, it appeared that the cover board was of a light metal. He opened it and paged through again. There was no apparent pattern to the underlinings at first glance. But he began with the first that he found and moved through the book, reading them aloud, a thing he had not done before. Odd that he had never thought to trace, in these sections, some aspect of his father's sensibilities. What was it that had moved him to mark the passages that he had? Of course, there was always the possibility that it was a used book, purchased in this condition. Still . . .  Something in the sections appealed to Randy beyond the mere tingle of familiarity. There was a wildness, a freedom, a restlessness that seemed to speak to him personally, to reach after some similar place in his own spirit . . .  "Is it only because I am twenty years old?" he wondered. "Would I feel this way if I came across this book ten years from now?" He shrugged and continued reading.

A tiny breeze stirred the curtain. He paused and drew in a deep breath. A small wave of coolness passed him. What was he doing? Reading to forget Julie, or to reopen the case on his father? Both, actually, he decided . . .  Both. But now that he had begun thinking of the search, he wanted to go on with it.

The breeze was the first bit of coolness in two days. He lay there with his finger marking his place, trying to breathe it all in before it was used up. It was a relief and . . .

He raised his left hand and regarded his fingertips. He rubbed them against his palm. He touched the book's cover once again.

Warm.

He touched the bedding at his side. Perhaps it was just his body heat that had done it . . .

He reached out and pressed his fingers against the glass on the nightstand. Cooler there. Yes . . .  After about half a minute, he touched the book's cover.

It did seem warmer than it should be. He held it close to his face. The faintest of vibrations seemed to be coming from the volume. He pressed his ear against the back cover. It seemed to be present there, too. It was such a gentle, subaural thing, however, that it could almost be his tired nerves playing games with background sensations.

He reopened the book to the point where he had stopped and sought the next marked passage. It was from "Song of the Open Road":

You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here,

I believe that much unseen is also here.

As he read this, the book vibrated in his hand and emitted a definite, audible, humming sound. It was as though the cover were some sort of resonator.

"What the hell!"

He dropped it. The book lay beside him and a voice said, "Query. Query." It seemed to be coming from the book itself.

He drew over to the far side of the bed and swung his legs to the floor. Then he looked back. The volume had not moved.

Finally, "Did you speak?" he said.

"Yes," came the voice
—
soft, feminine.

"What are you?"

"I am a microdot computer array. Specifications
—
”

"You are the book? The book I was just reading?"

"I am arrayed in the form of a book. That is correct."

"Did you belong to my father?"

"Insufficient information. Who are you?"

"Randy Blake. I believe my father was Paul Carthage."

"Tell me about yourself, and how I came into your possession."

"I was twenty this past March. You were left behind by my father in Cleveland, Ohio, before I was born."

"Where are we now?"

"Kent, Ohio."

"Randy Blake
—
or Carthage
—
as the case may be
—
I cannot tell whether or not I belonged to your father."

"Who did you belong to?"

"He used a number of different names."

"Was Paul Carthage one of them?"

"Not that I know of. But this, of course, proves nothing."

"True. Well, what turned you on, anyway?"

"A mnemonic key. I have been set to respond when certain words are presented to me in a particular sequence."

"It seems awfully awkward. I had to read a lot of sections before you addressed me."

"The key can be changed by means of a simple command."

"May I touch you?"

"Of course."

He picked up the book, turned to the table of contents.

"Let's make it 'Eidólons' then," he said, "if we must have a code. That's not likely to come up in normal conversation."

" 'Eidólons' it is. Or you could just have it be at my discretion. Red was cautious with me, near the end."

Randy sat down with the book.

"I'll leave it to your discretion. Red?"

"Yes, that was his nickname."

"I have red hair," he said. "I've got the feeling you have the information I want, and I just don't know how to ask for it . . . "

"Concerning your father?"

"Yes"

"If you order me to make suggestions, I will."

"Go ahead."

"Do you possess a vehicle?"

"Yes. I just got my car out of the garage. It runs again."

"Then let us go to it. Place me upon the seat beside you and begin driving. I have adequate sensing channels. After a time, I will tell you what to do."

"Where do you want to go?"

"I will have to take you there."

"I mean, where will we get to?"

"I do not know."

"Then why go?"

"To seek information with which to answer your question concerning your father."

"All right. As soon as I go to the john we'll get the car. But one thing more . . .  I've never heard of a microdot computer array. Where were you manufactured?"

"On the Mitsui Zaibatsu satellite Tosa-7."

"Huh? I've never heard of such an operation. When was this?"

"I was first tested on March 7 in the year 2086."

"I don't understand. You are speaking of future time. How did you get here
—
to the twentieth century?"

"Drove. It would take a while to explain. I can do that as we drive."

"Okay. Excuse me a minute. Don't go away."

He drove. The night was heavy with stars. The moon had not yet risen. He topped off the gas tank in Ravenna and headed north on Route 44. Traffic was light. They had passed the Ohio Turnpike and continued on into Geauga County where
 
Leaves of Grass
 
told him to hang a right at the next corner.

"It isn't exactly a corner coming up," Randy said. "It's more like a tangent to the curve ahead. And it is just a tractor trail heading off into the woods. That isn't the one you mean, is it?"

"Turn there."

"Okay, Leaves."

He slowed as he entered the rutted roadway. Branches scraped the sides of his car and his headlight beams danced among treetrunks. Overgrown in spots, the road bore to the right, then headed steeply downhill. He could hear the singing of frogs all about him.

He crossed a plank bridge which rattled ominously, and a feeling of dampness came to him, with the sounds of flowing water. A musty, moist smell accompanied it and he rolled his window shut against disturbed things that buzzed past.

He headed uphill then, and wound among trees for several minutes. Suddenly, the road dead-ended into another.

"Go right."

He turned. This road was wider and less rutted. It bore him away from the wood. Plowed fields appeared to his right. The lights of a small farmhouse shone in the distance. Seeing that the road remained level, he increased his speed. Shortly thereafter, the moon rose above a fringe of trees before him.

He rolled the window back down and switched on the radio, picking up a country music show out of Akron. The miles wound by. After five or six minutes, a stop sign came into view. The tires ground gravel as he drew to a halt.

"Turn right."

"Check."

It was a blacktop road. A rabbit scampered across it as he made the turn. There were no other vehicles in sight. He passed a farmhouse after perhaps half a mile, then two more. A darkened Shell station stood on a corner ahead and to the left. Across the street beyond it a row of houses began, with a sidewalk running before them. "Left at the corner."