“Wednesday afternoon,” the fat man gasped.
“Come with me. I want to show you. It’s all hollow. There’s nothing behind these walls—”
“Why doesn’t somebody come along?” the fat man moaned, as if to himself.
“The masonry is only a quarter-inch thick,” Brett said. “Come on; I’ll show you.”
“I don’t like it,” said the fat man. His face was pale and moist. “You’re mad. What’s wrong? It’s so quiet . . .”
“We’ve got to try to save him. The Gel took him down into this pit—”
“Let me go,” the man whined. “I’m afraid. Can’t you just let me lead my life in peace?”
“Don’t you understand?” Brett lowered his voice with an effort. “The Gel took a man. They may be after you next.”
“There’s no one after me! I’m a businessman . . . a respectable citizen. I mind my own business, give to charity, go to church. I never kick dogs or molest elderly ladies. All I want is to be left alone!”
Brett dropped his hands from the fat man’s arms, stood looking at him: the blotched face, pale now, the damp forehead, the quivering jowls. The fat man stooped for his hat, slapped it against his leg, clamped it on his head.
“I think I understand now,” said Brett. “This is your place, this imitation city. Everything’s faked to fit your needs—like in the hotel. Wherever you go, the scene unrolls in front of you. You never see the Gels, never discover the secret of the golems—because you conform. You never do the unexpected.”
“That’s right,” the man gobbled. “I’m law-abiding. I’m respectable. I don’t pry. I don’t nose into other people’s business. Why should I? Just let me alone . . .”
“Sure,” Brett said. “Even if I dragged you down there and showed you, you wouldn’t believe it. But you’re not in the scene now. I’ve taken you out of it—”
Suddenly the fat man turned and ran a few yards, then looked back to see whether Brett was pursuing him. He shook a round fist.
“I’ve seen your kind before,” he shouted. “Troublemakers.”
Brett took a step toward him. The fat man yelped and ran another fifty feet, his coattails bobbing. He looked back, stopped, a fat figure alone in the empty, sunny street.
“You haven’t seen the last of me!” he shouted. “We know how to deal with your kind.” He tugged at his vest, went off along the sidewalk. Brett watched him go, then started back toward the hollow building.
* * *
The jagged fragments of masonry Brett had knocked from the wall lay as he had left them. He stepped through the opening, peered down into the murky pit, trying to judge its depth. A hundred feet at least. Perhaps a hundred and fifty.
He unslung the rope from his shoulder, tied one end to the brass stump, threw the coil down the precipitous side. It fell away into darkness, hung swaying. It was impossible to tell whether the end reached any solid footing below. He couldn’t waste any more time looking for help. He would have to try it alone.
There was a slap of shoe leather on the pavement outside. He turned, stepped out into the white sunlight. The fat man rounded the corner, recoiled as he saw Brett. He flung out a pudgy forefinger, his protruding eyes wide in his blotchy red face.
“There he is! I told you he came this way!” Two uniformed policemen came into view. One eyed the gun at Brett’s side, put a hand on his own.
“Better take that off, sir.”
“Look!” Brett said to the fat man. He stooped, picked up a crust of masonry. “Look at this—just a shell—”
“He’s blasted a hole right in that building, officer!” the fat man shrilled. “He’s dangerous . . .”
The cop ignored the gaping hole in the wall. “You’ll have to come along with me, sir,” it said in a bland, unemphatic voice. “This gentleman registered a complaint . . .”
Brett stood staring into the cop’s eyes. They were pale blue, looking steadily back at him from the expressionless face. Could the cop be real? Or would he be able to push him over, as he had other golems?
“The fellow’s not right in the head,” the fat man was saying to the cop. “You should have heard his crazy talk. A troublemaker. His kind have got to be locked up!”
The cop nodded. “Can’t have anyone causing trouble.”
“Only a young fellow,” said the fat man. He mopped at his forehead with a large handkerchief. “Tragic. But you men know how to handle him.”
“Better give me the gun, sir.” The cop held out a hand. Brett moved suddenly, rammed stiff fingers into the cop’s ribs. It stiffened, toppled, lay rigid, staring up at nothing.
“You . . . you killed him,” the fat man gasped, backing away. The second cop tugged at his gun. Brett leaped at him, sent him down with a blow to the ribs. He turned to face the fat man.
“I didn’t kill them! I just turned them off. They’re not real, they’re just golems.”
“A killer! And right in the city, in broad daylight.”
“You’ve got to help me!” Brett cried. “This whole scene: don’t you see? It has the air of something improvised in a hurry, to deal with the unexpected factor; that’s me. The Gels know something’s wrong, but they can’t quite figure out what. When you called the cops the Gels obliged—”
Startlingly the fat man burst into tears. He fell to his knees.
“Don’t kill me . . . oh, don’t kill me . . .”
“Nobody’s going to kill you, you fool!” Brett snapped. “Look! I want to show you!” He seized the fat man’s lapel, dragged him to his feet and across the sidewalk, through the opening. The fat man stopped dead, stumbled back—
“What’s this?” he wailed. “What kind of place is this?” He scrambled for the opening.
“It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. This city you live in—it’s a hollow shell. There’s nothing inside. None of it’s real. Only you . . . and me. There was another man: Dhuva. I was in a cafe with him. A Gel came. He tried to run. It caught him. Now he’s . . . down there.”
“I’m not alone,” the fat man babbled. “I have my friends, my clubs, my business associates. I’m insured. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about Jesus—”
He broke off, whirled, and jumped for the doorway. Brett leaped after him, caught his coat. It ripped. The fat man stumbled over one of the cop-golems, went to hands and knees. Brett stood over him.
“Get up, damn it!” he snapped. “I need help and you’re going to help me!” He hauled the fat man to his feet. “All you have to do is stand by the rope. Dhuva may be unconscious when I find him. You’ll have to help me haul him up. If anybody comes along, any Gels, I mean—give me a signal. A whistle . . . like this—” Brett demonstrated. “And if I get in trouble, do what you can. Here . . .” Brett started to offer the fat man the gun, then handed him the hunting knife. “If anybody interferes, this may not do any good, but it’s something. I’m going down now.”
The fat man watched as Brett gripped the rope, let himself over the edge. Brett looked up at the glistening face, the damp strands of hair across the freckled scalp. Brett had no assurance that the man would stay at his post, but he had done what he could.
“Remember,” said Brett. “It’s a real man they’ve got, like you and me . . . not a golem. We owe it to him.” The fat man’s hands trembled. He watched Brett, licked his lips. Brett started down.
The descent was easy. The rough face of the excavation gave footholds. The end of a decaying timber projected; below it was the stump of a crumbling concrete pipe two feet in diameter. Brett was ten feet below the rim of the floor now. Above, the broad figure of the fat man was visible in silhouette against the jagged opening in the wall.
Now the cliff shelved back; the rope hung free. Brett eased past the cut end of a rusted water pipe, went down hand over hand. If there were nothing at the bottom to give him footing, it would be a long climb back. . . .
Twenty feet below he could see the still, black water, pockmarked with expanding rings where bits of debris dislodged by his passage peppered the surface.
There was a rhythmic vibration in the rope. Brett felt it through his hands, a fine sawing sensation. . . .
He was falling, gripping the limp rope. . . .
He slammed on his back in three inches of oily water. The coils of rope collapsed around him with a sustained splashing. He got to his feet, groped for the end of the rope. The glossy nylon strands had been cleanly cut.