The car was absurdly large, even if it could hold five people. The upholstery was plush and pretentiously ornate, with padded trim inside the doors and seats that felt like armchairs. The controls had a section labeled "Autodrive" that included a switch with a "Wireguide" position, and an electronic device tagged as a "Navgrid Locator," neither of which Samurai understood. But they were both evidently optional, for the conventional systems that he was familiar with all responded normally. It fairly surged with power and handled amazingly well. And although there was snow on the rooftops, highway shoulders, central divisions, and other unused areas, the roadways and sidewalks themselves were actually dry! Surely not even Eurasians could be sufficiently out of their minds to heat them. But what other explanation was there?
As he had come to expect by now, everything was built on a scale that was big, brash, gaudily flaunting its imagined grandeur. Huge buildings flanked the highways like mountains of luminescent crystal towering in the night. Lurid signs proclaimed the presence of hotels, business corporations, the Berdsk Plasma Physics Institute, the South Sub-City, whatever that was; others advertised everything from brands of hashish and vodka to dance schools and performances of orchestral music. There was a rainbow-lit fountain throwing water hundreds of feet into the air. He passed some kind of enormous glass enclosure with domes, illuminated inside and containing an artificial beach and palm trees.
Farther on, the roadway merged alongside several rail lines, some regular, others monotrack supported by pylons, to follow the top of a huge dam at one end of a lake, which, from the lights stretching away along its shore, receded as far as it was possible to see. The far shore was lined with floodlit industrial installations: tanks and towers braced by latticeworks, domes and spheres, concrete massifs wreathed in power lines and pipes. The lights of an aircraft rose up from among it all and vanished into the far sky over the lake.
There was a modest amount of other traffic about. A train and several unattached cars on the monotracks sped past him while he was negotiating the dam. Some distance past the end of it, the rail lines went off in their own separate directions. He passed what looked like an all-night restaurant and service area where several hopefuls were trying to hitch rides. Past the dam, the artificially dry road ended; but the continuation had been effectively plowed and the surface treated, enabling him to keep up a better speed than he had hoped. As the route began climbing into the hills south of Novosibirsk, his hopes for the mission rose with it.
By the time daylight arrived, he was descending again. The surroundings now were more sparsely inhabited, but the traffic increased steadily. An hour later he passed through another urban area, which his map showed to be the city of Barnaut—almost a quarter of the way to Semi-palatinsk already. As the morning traffic got into its swing, he was astonished to see swarms of what had to be tiny personal aircraft taking to the skies in orderly, well-defined traffic corridors.
Eurasians doing something orderly? It didn't seem possible. Maybe if their necks were on the line, even they were capable of some measure of rationality, he reflected. Or maybe all the ones who weren't up to it had self-selected themselves out of the population by now.
In his own mind, Samurai had far from written off the opposition who were out looking for him. The sight of the personal flyers made him think of them again, and left no guessing what their next move was likely to be. From the NSA intercept they knew where he was heading; there was only one route for getting there; and they knew what car he was driving, since he'd stolen it from them. There were no doubt as few restrictions on hiring private aircraft here as on everything else. As he continued southward from Barnaut, the surroundings became bleaker and more -deserted; the traffic thinned down to occasional heavy commercial rigs. Perfect surroundings for an interception. Having concluded that much, Samurai began taking a greater interest in the hitchhikers out on the road, whom he was still passing from time to time.
He raised and then dashed several hopes by slowing down promisingly, then speeding up again and driving on by. But eventually he saw what he was looking for: a man of reasonably presentable appearance, around thirty, dark-haired, with olive features—not unlike Samurai himself. He was wearing a blue parka and woollen hat, and had a black leather carryall by his feet. The man grinned and made a face to say it was cold out here. Samurai pulled over.
"Going as far as Semipalatinsk?"
"All the way."
"Great. Can I put this in the back?"
"Go ahead." The man heaved the carryall inside. "You might want to throw that coat in there as well," Samurai said. "It's warm in the car."
"Good idea. I'll do that."
His name was Rudi, from a province in the central Urals. He was heading south for the winter after working on a land drainage project farther north, which was now frozen. He was jovial and talkative, and especially curious when he learned that Samurai was a recently arrived American.
"Are you going back, or will you be staying here now?" he asked.
"Why shouldn't I want to go back?" Samurai said. He was preoccupied with keeping an eye on the mirror and trying to watch the skyline behind them, happy to let Rudi carry on doing most of the talking.
"Is it true what they say about the repression over there? All the censorship, and everything they say on the news being distorted? A friend of mine told me that communications equipment can only pick up approved channels, by law. Is that right?"
"We don't like anybody who wants to be able to pump whatever they like into people's minds," Samurai said shortly. "Is that so bad?"
"Well, can't the people have a say in it? They don't have to listen."
"People are like sheep. Most of them have never had a worthwhile thought in their lives. They'll believe anything they're told."
"Maybe not, if they're allowed to learn how to think. Instead of being told what to think."
"Look, if you must talk, why not find a different subject? I'm not criticizing your country. Otherwise you might end up hiking it to Semipalatinsk."
Rudi grinned unrepentantly and raised a hand in mock submission. "You're absolutely right! How ungracious of me. You are our guest. Not another word, I promise."
They drove on in silence for a mile or so. The road followed the base of a line of low, rounded hills, with desolation stretching away on the opposite side. "Do they really think we're running out of room?" Rudi said. "I mean, look at that. And it's nothing. I read somewhere that Americans have to move into smaller houses when their children leave home. Is that right? Do you really need licenses to have children there?"
"Do you drive, Rudi?" Samurai asked.
"I'm doing it again, aren't I?"
"Don't worry about it."
"Sure, everyone drives. Why?"
"I've been traveling all night. I could use an hour's sleep in the back. How would you like to take over for a spell?"
"Okay, if you trust me with it."
"Just don't talk so much, and watch the road."
They pulled over onto the shoulder and got out. The air outside was cold, with a mild but biting wind. Rudi got into the driver's side and adjusted the mirrors and seats. Samurai climbed in the back and settled down among his and Rudi's coats, his briefcase, Rudi's bag, and a couple of bags belong-ing to the Americans, which had been there when Samurai took the car. As they came back onto the roadway, he scanned the sky behind through the rear window. There was no local air traffic now, and anything approaching would stand out easily.
"I grew up in a place as dismal as this," Rudi said. "Sometimes it got so waterlogged in the thaw that we went to school in a boat."
"Really?"
"Yes. . . . I heard that over there they teach children in the schools that nobody should be different," Rudi said over his shoulder. "Is that really true?"
It was about a half hour later when Samurai spotted what he had been expecting: a dot flying low, following the road behind them. It gained rapidly, swooping even lower, circled, then passed immediately overhead for a close look as it overhauled the car. Rudi peered in his mirror and turned his head to look up at it through the window, muttering to himself but not bothering Samurai, who he believed was asleep. Samurai slid the automatic from his briefcase and squeezed himself down behind the seat, covering himself with the coats and bags to make it look as if the car had only one occupant. Then the aircraft rose and sped away ahead of them—checking that the road was free of approach-ing traffic from that direction, Samurai had no doubt. As it receded, he raised his head and saw that it was a rotorless hoverjet, about the size of a six-seat -chopper.
Minutes later it was back again. Samurai didn't expect for a moment that its occupants would simply open fire; besides its being a messy and needlessly overdramatic way of going about things, there was always the risk that they might have latched on to the wrong car. They would check it out first.
The machine came in close to fly just above the car, slightly back and to one side, the noise from its turbines drowning out the car's engine. Rudi, clearly alarmed by now, was turning his head frantically from side to side as he drove.
"Don't look back. Just keep driving and do as I say," Samurai instructed. His tone was harsh and authoritative suddenly, leaving no room for argument.
"What the hell's going on?" Rudi demanded. "Who are they? Look, I don't know what—"
"Shut up!"
Ahead, a wide expanse of flat, open ground lay to one side of the road, churned up by tire marks. It looked like a rest area that trucks used. A door in the side of the hoverjet opened, and a figure inside made pointing motions toward it. He was also holding a submachine gun.
"Slow down," Samurai ordered.
"But shit, that guy's got a gun! This doesn't have anything to do with me. I don't want to get mixed up in it."
"You are mixed up in it, so just do as I say. Pull over and stop." Rudi did so, and sat, shaking visibly. The flyer came down and hovered a few yards behind him, probably checking the registration. "Now get out, leave your door open, and move well away from the car with your hands raised," Samurai said. "Don't look back at me!"
Rudi's voice was choking with fear. "They'll k-kill me. This hasn't got anything to do with me."
"They might," Samurai agreed. "But I will for sure if you don't get out. Do it." Rudi opened the door with trembling hands and got out. "Hands high. Away from the car," Samurai repeated. Rudi raised his hands and stumbled away dazedly. Samurai stayed low, watching motionless through the chink beside the driver's headrest.
The flyer came down in a flurry of snow about thirty feet from the car, facing where Rudi was standing. The engine note dropped, and two armed men jumped out, leaving a third still in the pilot's seat. All attention was on Rudi, standing ahead of them in the snow with his arms high. Samurai eased himself up a fraction, his eyes moving rapidly, assessing distances and angles. The two who had got out approached Rudi warily from different sides, their guns leveled. Then the voice of the one who had remained in the cabin sounded over a loudspeaker. "Don't fuck with this guy. You heard the order. Drop him."
Very well. They had made the rules. . . .
And then one of the two on foot moved a pace closer and peered at Rudi quizzically. "Wait. That isn't—"
From the car, Samurai took out the pilot with a head shot through the open door of the hoverjet; the other two started to turn, but were dispatched before they had registered what was happening. Rudi, still with his hands in the air, watched horrified as Samurai got out. But Samurai gave him no time for wondering.
"Come on. You can't stand there like a tree all day. Help me move them." They dragged the bodies to the car and heaved them inside. Then Samurai told Rudi to move the car over to the far side of the open area, away from the road. While Rudi was doing that, Samurai loaded their coats and bags into the flyer.
"Now get in," Samurai said, waving toward the -passenger-side door when Rudi came back.
Rudi, still white-faced and feeling nauseous, shook his head fearfully. "I've seen enough. I don't want any part of this."
"Do you want to stay here and freeze? Look, you wanted a ride to Semipalatinsk, didn't you? If I wanted to kill you, you'd be with those three in the car already, wouldn't you? So get in and stop looking like that. It's over."
Rudi obeyed, moving as if in a trance. Samurai spent some time going over the controls and checking the instruments. Satisfied that he understood the basics, he increased power and lifted off cautiously. Everything felt right. "It goes without saying that you don't mention anything to anyone," Samurai said as they rose. Rudi had seen what Samurai was capable of, and didn't argue. Soon they were high over the road and heading south once more.
Being in motion again seemed to snap Rudi out of his stupor. He looked at Samurai with a new interest. "Who are you?" he asked. His voice was genuinely curious. "I mean, whatever you do, there has to be money in it, right?"
"I get by," Samurai replied neutrally.
There was a short silence, as if Rudi was weighing his chances. Then he said, "Whatever you're here for, you're a stranger in the FER. I know my way around, how things work here. . . . You know, Sam, I could be a useful guy to have around."
Samurai looked across at him. That was certainly a thought. He was glad now that he hadn't eliminated Rudi along with the other three. That had puzzled him, since it would have been the correct and logical thing to do.
Perhaps a little something had rubbed off on him from Roxy.