“The fracas wasn’t my idea,” I got in quick while he was fighting the Cantor’s tonsils back in line. “Not exactly, anyway. I took off out the back way, and—”
“You did what?” The yelp was up into the supersonic now.
“I beat it. Ducked out. Scrammed. What do you think I was going to do, stay there and let that elbow squad pull the legs off me like a fly?”
“You can’t run out on a registered satisfaction, Barney!” Gully leaned into his sender until all I could see were two eyes like bloodshot clams and a pair of quivering nostrils. “You, of all people! If the Pictonews services get hold of this, they’ll murder you!”
“This hit squad will murder me quicker—and not just on paper!”
“Paper’s what I’m talking about! You’re the aggressor party; you poked the schlock! You cop a swiftie on this, and you’re a fugitive from Law Cent! They’ll lift your Servo license, and it’ll be good-by career! And the fines—”
“Okay—but I got a few rights too! If I can get to another Servo before they grab me, it’ll become my legal Corpus operandi as soon as I’m in it. Remember, that satisfaction is to me, Barney Ramm, not to this body I’m wearing. You’ve got to get me out of here, and back to my apartment—” I felt my mouth freeze in the open position. Fifty feet away across the Fastwalk the Liston and a new heavy, a big, patched-up Baer, had come out of a doorway and were standing there, looking over the crowd. Those boys were as hard to shake loose as gum on a shoe sole. I ducked down in the booth.
“Listen, Gully,” I hissed. “They’re too close; I’ve got to do a fast fade. Try to fix it with Law Cent to keep their mitts off me until I can change. Remember, if they catch me, you can kiss your ten percent good-by.”
“Barney, where you going? Whattaya mean, ten percent? It ain’t the cookies I’m thinking about!”
“Think about the cookies, Gully.” I cut contact and risked a peek. The two goons were still there and looking my way. If I stepped out, they’d have me. And if I stayed where I was, sooner or later they’d get around to checking the booth . . .
* * *
I was still holding something in my hand. I looked at it: the cosmetics kit I’d grabbed on the way out of the ladies’ room at the Troc.
The lid flipped back when I touched the little gold button at the side. There were nine shades of eye shadow, mouth paint, plastic lens shades in gold, green and pink—some dames have got screwy ideas about what looks attractive—spare eyebrows and lashes, a little emergency face putty, some thimble-sized hair sprays.
I hated to ruin a hundred cee wig, but I gave it a full shot of something called Silver Ghost. The pink eyes seemed to go with the hair. The spray was all gone, so it was too late to bleach out a set of eyebrows, so I used a pair of high-arched black ones, then used a gingery set for a mustache. I thought about using one of the fake spit curls for a goatee, but decided against it. The Arcaro had a nice-sized nose on it, so I widened the nostrils a little and added warts. I risked another peek. The boys were right where I left them.
My jacket was a nice chartreuse job with cerise strips and a solid orange lining. I turned it inside out, ditched the yellow tie, and opened my shirt collar so the violet part showed. That was about all I could do; I opened the door and stepped out.
I’d gone about three steps when the Carnera looked my way. His mouth dropped open like a power shovel getting ready to take a bite out of a hillside. He jammed an elbow into the Liston and he turned around and his mouth fell open. I got a glimpse of some nice white choppers and a tongue like a pink sock. I didn’t wait to catch the rest of the reaction: I sprinted for the nearest shelter, a pair of swinging doors, just opening to let a fat Orggie out.
I dived past him into a cool, dark room lit by a couple of glowing beer ads above a long mirror with a row of bottles. I charged past all that, slammed through a door at the back, and was out in an alley, looking at the Wayne. He went into a half-crouch and spread his arms. That was the kind of mistake an amateur toughie would make. I put my head down and hit him square under his vest button. It wasn’t the best treatment in the world for the Arcaro, but it was worse for the Wayne. He froze up and made a noise like frying fat, with his eyeballs spinning like Las Vegas cherries. Between the fall in the john and the butt in the neuro center, he was through for the day.
* * *
I got my legs under me and started off at a sort of cripple’s lope toward the end of the alley.
My balance and coordination units were clicking like castanets. I ricocheted off a couple of walls, made it out into the Slowwalk, and jigged along in a crabbed semicircle, making jerky motions with my good arm at a cab that picked then to drop a fare a few yards away. The hackie reached out, grabbed my shoulder and hauled me inside. Those boys may be built into their seats and end at the waist, but they’ve got an arm on them. I’ll give ’em that.
“You look like you got a problem there, Mac.” He looked me over in the mirror. “What happened, you fall off a roof?”
“Something like that. Just take me to the Banshire Building, fast.”
“Whatever you say, Bud. But if I was you, I’d get that Servo to a shop as quick as I could.”
“Later. Step on it.”
“I’m doing a max and a half now!”
“Okay, okay, just don’t waste any time.” He muttered to himself then, while I got the bent cover off my reset panel and did what I could to rebalance my circuitry. My double vision cleared a little, and the leg coordination improved enough so I managed to climb out unassisted when he slammed the heli in hard on the roof deck.
“Be five cees,” the cabbie grunted. I paid him. “Stick around a few minutes,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
“Do me a favor, Clyde; throw your trade to the competition.” He flipped the flag up and lifted off in a cyclone of overrevved rotors. I spat out a mouthful of grit and went in through the fancy door with the big gold B.
Gus, the doorman, came out of his cage with his admiral’s hat on crooked; he hooked a thumb over his shoulder and got his jaw all set for the snappy line. I beat him to it.
“It’s me, Barney Ramm. I’m incommunicado to avoid the fans.”
“Geeze, Mr. Ramm? Wow, that Arcaro won’t never be the same again. Looks like your fans must of caught you after all.” He showed me a bunch of teeth that would have looked at home in a mule’s face. I lifted a lip at him and went on in.
5
My apartment wasn’t the plushest one in the Banshire, but it was fully equipped. The Servo stall was the equal of anything at Municipal Files. I got enough cooperation out of my legs to hobble to it, got the Arcaro into the rack with the neck plate open and the contacts tight against the transfer disk.
A pull on the locking lever, and I was clamped in tight, ready for the shift. I picked the Crockett; it was rugged enough to handle the Sullivan, and didn’t have any fancy equipment installed to have to look out for. It was a little tough coding the number into the panel, but I made it, then slammed the transfer switch.
I’ve never gotten used to that wild couple of seconds while the high-speed scanner is stripping the stored data off one control matrix and printing it on another one linking it in to the Org brain back between my real ears in the cold files downtown. It was like diving into an ocean of ice-cold darkness, spinning like a Roman candle. All kinds of data bits flash through the conscious level: I was the Arcaro, sitting rigid in the chair, and I was also the Crockett, clamped to a rack in the closet, and at the same time I could feel the skull contacts and servicing tubes and the cold slab under me in the Vault. Then it cleared and I was hitting the release lever and stepping out of the closet and beginning to feel like a million bucks.