confessions like a stenographer’s recording machine.
A little violence? The modified electric move-alongs that had worked so well in the Seattle riots of 2005? Or only the steady battering of their questions?
The thoughts served no purpose, but he could not shut them out or turn them off.
Beyond the terminals there was the unmistakable whine of a Lockheed carrier being warmed up. His bird. The sound of it came in rising and falling cycles. When it cut off suddenly, he knew the fueling had begun. Twenty minutes if they were hurrying.
Richards did not think they would be hurrying. Well, well, well. Here we are. All the cards on the table but one. McCone? McCone, are you peeking yet? Have you sliced into her mind yet? Shadows lengthened across the field and everybody waited.
Minus 032 and COUNTING
Richards discovered that the old cliche was a lie. Time did not stand still. In some ways it would have been better if it had. Then there at least would have been an end to hope.
Twice the amplified voice informed Richards that he was lying. He told them if it was so, they had better open up. Five minutes later a new amplified voice told him that the Lockheed’s flaps were frozen and that fueling would have to begin with another plane.
Richards told them that was fine. As long as the plane was ready to go by the original deadline.
The minutes crept by. Twenty-six left, twenty-five, twenty-two, twenty ( she hasn’t broken yet, my God, maybe- ), eighteen, fifteen (the plane’s engines again, rising to a strident howl as the ground crews went through fuel-system and preflight checks), ten minutes, then eight.
“RICHARDS?”
“HERE.”
“WE HAVE SIMPLY GOT TO HAVE MORE TIME. THE BIRD’S FLAPS ARE
FROZEN SOLID. WE’RE GOING TO IRRIGATE THE VANES WITH LIQUID
HYDROGEN BUT WE SIMPLY HAVE TO HAVE TIME.”
“YOU HAVE IT. SEVEN MINUTES. THEN I AM GOING TO PROCEED TO THE
AIRFIELD USING THE SERVICE RAMP. I WILL BE DRIVING WITH ONE HAND
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ON THE WHEEL AND ONE HAND ON THE IMPLODER RING. ALL GATES WILL
BE OPENED. AND REMEMBER THAT I’LL BE GETTING CLOSER TO THOSE
FUEL TANKS ALL THE TIME.”
“YOU DON’T SEEM TO REALIZE THAT WE-”
“I’M THROUGH TALKING, FELLOWS. SIX MINUTES.”
The second hand made its orderly, regular turns. Three minutes left, two, one. They would be going for broke in the little room he could not imagine. He tried to call Amelia’s image up in his mind and failed. It was already blurring into other faces. One composite face composed of Stacey and Bradley and Elton and Virginia Parrakis and the boy with the dog. All he could remember was that she was soft and pretty in the uninspired way that so many women can be thanks to Max Factor and Revlon and the plastic surgeons who tuck and tie and smooth out and unbend. Soft. Soft. But hard in some deep place. Where did you go hard, WASP woman? Are you hard enough? Or are you blowing the game right now?
He felt something warm running down his chin and discovered he had bitten his lips through, not once but several times.
He wiped his mouth absently, leaving a tear drop-shaped smear of blood on his sleeve, and dropped the car into gear. It rose obediently, lifters grumbling.
“RICHARDS! IF YOU MOVE THAT CAR, WE’LL SHOOT! THE GIRL
TALKED! WE KNOW!”
No one fired a shot.
In a way, it was almost anticlimactic.
Minus 031 and COUNTING
The service ramp described a rising arc around the glassine, futuristic Northern States Terminal. The way was lined with police holding everything from Mace-B and tear gas to heavy armor-piercing weaponry. Their faces were flat, dull, uniform. Richards drove slowly, sitting up straight now, and they looked at him with vacant, bovine awe. In much the same way, Richards thought, that cows must look at a farmer who had gone mad and lies kicking and sun-fishing and screaming on the barn floor.
The gate to the service area (CAUTION-EMPLOYEES ONLY-NO SMOKING-UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS KEEP OUT) had been swung open, and Richards drove sedately through, passing ranks of high-octane tanker trucks and small private planes pulled up on their chocks. Beyond them was a taxiway, wide oil-blackened cement with expansion joints. Here his bird was waiting, a huge white jumbo jet with a dozen turbine engines softly grumbling. Beyond, runways stretched straight and clean into the gathering twilight, seeming to approach a meeting point on the horizon. The bird’s roll-up stairway was just being put into place by four men wearing coveralls. To Richards, it looked like the stairs leading to a scaffold.
And, as if to complete the image, the executioner stepped neatly out of the shadows that the plane’s huge belly threw. Evan McCone.
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Richards looked at him with the curiosity of a man seeing a celebrity for the first time-no matter how many times you see his picture in the movie 3-D’s you can’t believe his reality until he appears in the flesh-and then the reality takes on a curious tone of hallucination, as if entity had no right to exist separate from image.
He was a small man wearing rimless glasses, with a faint suggestion of a pot belly beneath his well-tailored suit. It was rumored that McCone wore elevator shoes, but if so, they were unobtrusive. There was a small silver flag-pin in his lapel. All in all, he did not look like a monster at all, the inheritor of such fearsome alphabet-soup bureaus as the FBI and the CIA. Not like a man who had mastered the technique of the black car in the night, the rubber club, the sly question about relatives back home. Not like a man who had mastered the entire spectrum of fear.
“Ben Richards?” He used no bullhorn, and without it his voice was soft and cultured without being effeminate in the slightest.
“Yes. ”
“I have a sworn bill from the Games Federation, an accredited arm of the Network Communications Commission, for your apprehension and execution. Will you honor it?”
“Does a hen need a flag?”
“Ah.” McCone sounded pleased. “The formalities are taken care of. I believe in formalities, don’t you? No, of course you don’t. You’ve been a very informal contestant.
That’s why you’re still alive. Did you know you surpassed the standing Running Man record of eight days and five hours some two hours ago? Of course you don’t. But you have. Yes. And your escape from the YMCA in Boston. Sterling. I understand the Nielsen rating on the program jumped twelve points.”
“Wonderful. ”
“Of course, we almost had you during that Portland interlude. Bad luck. Parrakis swore with his dying breath that you had jumped ship in Auburn. We believed him; he was so obviously a frightened little man.”
“Obviously,” Richards echoed softly.
“But this last play has been simply brilliant. I salute you. In a way, I’m almost sorry the game has to end. I suspect I shall never run up against a more inventive opponent. ”
“Too bad,” Richards said.
“It’s over, you know,” McCone said. “The woman broke. We used Sodium Pentothal on her. Old, but reliable.” He pulled a small automatic. “Step out, Mr.
Richards. I will pay you the ultimate compliment. I’m going to do it right here, where no one can film it. Your death will be one of relative privacy.”
“Get ready, then,” Richards grinned.
He opened the door and stepped out. The two men faced each other across the blank service area cement.
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Minus 030 and COUNTING
It was McCone who broke the deadlock first. He threw back his head and laughed. It was a very cultured laugh, soft and velvet. “Oh, you are so good, Mr. Richards. Par excellence. Raise, call, and raise again. I salute you with honesty: The woman has not broken. She maintains stubbornly that the bulge I see in your pocket there is Black Irish.
We can’t S.A. P. her because it leaves a definable trace. A single EEG on the woman and our secret would be out. We are in the process of lifting in three ampoules of Canogyn from New York. Leaves no trace. We expect it in forty minutes. Not in time to stop you, alas.
“She is lying. It’s obvious. If you will pardon a touch of what your fellows like to call elitism, I will offer my observation that the middle class lies well only about sex. May I offer another observation? Of course I may. I am.” McCone smiled. “I suspect it’s her handbag. We noticed she had none, although she had been shopping. We’re quite observant. What happened to her purse if it isn’t in your pocket, Richards?”
He would not pick up the gambit. “Shoot me if you’re so sure.”
McCone spread his hands sorrowfully. “How well I’d love to! But one does not take chances with human life, not even when the odds are fifty to one in your favor. Too much like Russian roulette. Human life has a certain sacred quality. The government-our government-realizes this. We are humane.”