This Perfect Day Part 19

He told them that his plane left at eight. "We'll say good-by at the carport," he said. "The airport will be too crowded."

His father wanted to come along anyway, but his mother said no, they would stay in '334; she was tired.

At seven-thirty he kissed them good-by-his father and then his mother, saying in her ear, "Remember"-and got on line for a car to the '71330 airport. The scanner, when he touched it, said yes.

The waiting room was even more crowded than he had hoped it would be. Members in white and yellow and pale blue walked and stood and sat and waited in line, some with kits and some without. A few members in orange moved among them.

He looked at the signboard; the 8:20 flight for '14510 would load from lane two. Members were in line there, and beyond the gla.s.s, a plane was swinging into place against a rising escalator. Its door opened and a member came out, another behind him.

Chip made his way through the crowd to the swing-door at the side of the room, false-touched its scanner, and pushed through: into a depot area where crates and cartons stood ranked under white light, like Uni's memory banks. He un-slung his kit and jammed it between a carton and the wall.

He walked ahead normally. A cart of steel containers crossed his path, pushed by an orange-coveralled member who glanced at him and nodded.

He nodded back, kept walking, and watched the member push the cart out through a large open portal onto the floodlit field.

He went in the direction from which the member had come, into an area where members in orange were putting steel containers on the conveyor of a washing machine and filling other containers with c.o.ke and steaming tea from the taps of giant drums. He kept walking.

He false-touched a scanner and went into a room where coveralls, ordinary ones, hung on hooks, and two members were taking off orange ones. "h.e.l.lo," he said.

"h.e.l.lo," they both said.

He went to a closet door and slid it open; a floor polisher and bottles of green liquid were inside. "Where are the cuvs?" he asked.

"In there," one of the members said, nodding at another closet.

He went to it and opened it. Orange coveralls were on shelves; orange toeguards, pairs of heavy orange gloves.

"Where did you come from?" the member asked.

"RUS50937," he said, taking a pair of coveralls and a pair of toeguards. "We kept the cuvs in there."

"They're supposed to be in there," the member said, closing white coveralls.

"I've been in Rus," the other member, a woman, said. "I had two a.s.signments there; first four years and then three years."

He took his time putting on the toeguards, finishing as the two members chuted their orange coveralls and went out.

He pulled the orange coveralls on over his white ones and closed them all the way to his throat. They were heavier than ordinary coveralls and had extra pockets.

He looked in other closets, found a wrench and a good-sized piece of yellow paplon.

He went back to where he had left his kit, got it out, and wrapped the paplon around it. The swing-door b.u.mped him. "Sorry," a member said, coming in. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," he said, holding the wrapped kit.

The orange-coveralled member went on.

He waited for a moment, watching him, and then he tucked the kit under his left arm and got the wrench from his pocket. He gripped it in his right hand, in a way that he hoped looked natural.

He followed after the member, then turned and went to the portal that opened onto the field.

The escalator leaning against the flank of the lane-two plane was empty. A cart, probably the one he had seen pushed out, stood at the foot of it, beside the scanner.

Another escalator was sinking into the ground, and the plane it had served was on its way toward the runways. There was an 8:10 flight to Chi, he recalled.

He crouched on one knee, put his kit and the wrench down on concrete, and pretended to have trouble with his toeguard. Everyone in the waiting room would be watching the plane for Chi when it lifted; that was when he would go onto the escalator. Orange legs rustled past him, a member walking toward the hangars. He took off his toeguard and put it back on, watching the plane pivot . . .

It raced forward. He gathered his kit and the wrench, stood up, and walked normally. The brightness of the floodlights unnerved him, but he told himself that no one was watching him, everyone was watching the plane. He walked to the escalator, false-touched the scanner-the cart beside it helped, justifying his awkwardness-and stepped onto the upgoing stairs. He clutched his paplon-wrapped kit and the damp-handled wrench as he rose quickly toward the open plane door. He stepped off the escalator and into the plane.

Two members in orange were busy at the dispensers. They looked at him and he nodded. They nodded back. He went down the aisle toward the bathroom.

He went into the bathroom, leaving the door open, and put his kit on the floor. He turned to a sink, worked its faucets, and tapped them with the wrench. He got down on his knees and tapped the drainpipe. He opened the jaws of the wrench and put them around the pipe.

He heard the escalator stop, and then start again. He leaned over and looked out the door. The members were gone.

He put down the wrench, got up, closed the door, and pulled open the orange coveralls. He took them off, folded them lengthwise, and rolled them into as compact a bundle as he could. Kneeling, he unwrapped his kit and opened it. He squeezed in the coveralls, and folded the yellow paplon and put that in too. He took the toeguards off his sandals, nested them together, and tucked them into one of the kit's corners. He put the wrench in, stretched the cover tight, and pressed it closed.

With the kit slung on his shoulder, he washed his hands and face with cold water. His heart was beating quickly but he felt good, excited, alive. He looked in the mirror at his one-green-eyed self. Fight Uni!

He heard the voices of members coming aboard the plane. He stayed at the sink, wiping his already-dry hands.

The door opened and a boy of ten or so came in.

"Hi," Chip said, wiping his hands. "Did you have a nice day?"

"Yes," the boy said.

Chip chuted the towel. "First time you've flown?"

"No," the boy said, opening his coveralls. "I've done it lots of times." He sat down on one of the toilets.

"See you inside," Chip said, and went out.

The plane was about a third filled, with more members filing in. He took the nearest empty aisle seat, checked his kit to make sure it was securely closed, and stowed it below.

It would be the same at the other end. When everyone was leaving the plane he would go into the bathroom and put on the orange coveralls. He would be working at the sink when the members came aboard with the refill containers, and he would leave after they left. In the depot area, behind a crate or in a closet, he would get rid of the coveralls, the toeguards, and the wrench; and then he would false-touch out of the airport and walk to '14509. It was eight kilometers east of '510; he had checked on a map at the MFA that morning. With luck he would be there by midnight or half past.

"Isn't that odd," the member next to him said.

He turned to her.

She was looking toward the back of the plane. "There's no seat for that member," she said.

A member was walking slowly up the aisle, looking to one side and then the other. All the seats were taken. Members were looking about, trying to be of help to him.

"There must be one," Chip said, lifting himself in his seat and looking about. "Uni couldn't have made a mistake."

"There isn't," the member next to him said. "Every seat is filled."

Conversation rose in the plane. There was indeed no seat for the member. A woman took a child onto her lap and called to him.

The plane began moving and the TV screens went on, with a program about Afr's geography and resources.

He tried to pay attention to it, thinking there might be information in it that would be useful to him, but he couldn't. If he were found and treated now, he would never get alive again. This time Uni would make certain that he would see no meaning in even a thousand leaves on a thousand wet stones.

He got to '14509 at twenty past midnight. He was wide awake, still on Usa time, with afternoon energy.

First he went to the Pre-U, and then to the bike station on the plaza nearest building P51. He made two trips to the bike station, and one to P51's dining hall and its supply center.

At three o'clock he went into Lilac's room. He looked at her by flashlight while she slept-looked at her cheek, her neck, her dark hand on the pillow-and then he went to the desk and tapped on the lamp.

"Anna," he said, standing at the foot of the bed. "Anna, you have to get up now."

She mumbled something.

"You have to get up now, Anna," he said. "Come on, get up."

She raised herself with a hand at her eyes, making little sounds of complaint. Sitting, she drew the hand away and peered at him; recognized him and frowned bewilderedly.

"I want you to come for a ride with me," he said. "A bike ride. You mustn't talk loud and you mustn't call for help." He reached into his pocket and took out a gun. He held it the way it seemed meant to be held, with his first finger across the trigger, the rest of his hand holding the handle, and the front of it pointed at her face. "I'll kill you if you don't do what I tell you," he said. "Don't shout now, Anna."

3.

SHE STARED at the gun, and at him.

"The generator's weak," he said, "but it made a hole a centimeter deep in the wall of the museum and it'll make a deeper one in you. So you'd better obey me. I'm sorry to frighten you, but eventually you'll understand why I'm doing it."

"This is terrible!" she said. "You're still sick!"

"Yes," he said, "and I've gotten worse. So do as I say or the Family will lose two valuable members; first you, and then me."

"How can you do this, Li?" she said. "Can't you see yourself-with a weapon in your hand, threatening me?"

"Get up and get dressed," he said.

"Please, let me call-"

"Get dressed," he said. "Quickly!"

"All right," she said, turning aside the blanket. "All right, I'll do exactly as you say." She got up and opened her pajamas.

He backed away, watching her, keeping the gun pointed at her.

She took off her pajamas, let them fall, and turned to the shelf for a set of coveralls. He watched her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the rest of her body, which in subtle ways-a fullness of the b.u.t.tocks, a roundness of the thighs-was different too from the normal. How beautiful she was!

She stepped into the coveralls and put her arms into the sleeves. "Li, I beg you," she said, looking at him, "let's go down to the medicenter and-"

"Don't talk," he said.

She closed the coveralls and put her feet into her sandals. "Why do you want to go bicycling?" she said. "It's the middle of the night."

"Pack your kit," he said.

"My take-along?"

"Yes," he said. "Put in another set of cuvs and your first-aid kit and your clippers. And anything that's important to you that you want to keep. Do you have a flashlight?"

"What are you planning to do?" she asked.

"Pack your kit," he said.

She packed her kit, and when she had closed it he took it and slung it on his shoulder. "We're going to go around behind the building," he said. "I've got two bikes there. We're going to walk side by side and I'll have the gun in my pocket. If we pa.s.s a member and you give any indication that anything's wrong, I'll kill you and the member, do you understand?"

"Yes," she said.

"Do whatever I tell you. If I say stop and fix your sandal, stop and fix your sandal. We're going to pa.s.s scanners without touching them. You've done that before; now you're going to do it again."

"We're not coming back here?" she said.

"No. We're going far away."

"Then there's a snapshot I'd like to take."

"Get it," he said. "I told you to take whatever you wanted to keep."

She went to the desk, opened the drawer, and rummaged in it. A snapshot of King? he wondered. No, King was part of her "sickness." Probably one of her family. "It's in here somewhere," she said, sounding nervous, not right.

He hurried to her and pushed her aside. Li RM gun 2 bicy was written on the bottom of the drawer. A pen was in her hand. "I'm trying to help you," she said.

He felt like hitting her but stopped himself; but stopping was wrong, she would know he wouldn't hurt her; he hit her face with his open hand, stingingly hard. "Don't try to trick me!" he said. "Don't you realize how sick I am? You'll be dead and maybe a dozen other members will be dead if you do something like this again!"

She stared wide-eyed at him, trembling, her hand at her cheek.

He was trembling too, knowing he had hurt her. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the pen from her hand, made zigzags over what she had written, and covered it with papers and a nameber book. He threw the pen in the drawer and closed it, took her elbow and pushed her toward the door.

They went out of her room and down the hallway, walking side by side. He kept his hand in his pocket, holding the gun. "Stop shaking," he said. "I won't hurt you if you do what I tell you."

They rode down escalators. Two members came toward them, riding up. "You and them," he said. "And anyone else who comes along."

She said nothing.