There had been a time when men plundered the planet to light empty buildings all the night long. But reason and discipline had finally prevailed over vanity, and the towers of Minneapolis now loomed dark and faceless into the wintery night.
Jarrow got off the bus a few blocks short of the Hen-nepin Avenue bridge, crossing the river at Nicollet Island. He avoided the area west of the avenue, where some of the plusher bars and lounges were to be found. They were places where people went to see and be seen. He just wanted to hide. Instead, he headed into the central city and eventually found one of the smaller downtown bars. It was a bit garish for his taste, but a lot warmer than the sidewalk, and homey in its own rough kind of way.
He ordered a gin, adding less tonic than he normally took, and installed himself on one of the stools. The TV above the bar was showing a police movie, complete with the virtually obligatory cast of ethnic tokens: white protagonist (angry, maverick), two blacks (police chief, mature and tolerant; protagonist cop's partner, streetwise and loyal), one Hispanic (Catholic, dedicated family man), one liberated female (naive, learning fast—but not fast enough to avoid getting laid by maverick cop). Jarrow personally found the formula tiresome, but he accepted that it was necessary to instill correct notions into the masses.
After a while, a bearded, dark-haired man wearing a black woollen cap and navy donkey jacket sat down on the next stool. From his exchange with the bartender when he ordered a beer, his name was Paul. Meanwhile, on the screen, the plot line delivered as trustily as Old Faithful: maverick cop finally pisses off overtolerant chief and gets suspended ("I'll take the badge and the piece"), but tries to hunt down villains independently, wasting family-man partner in the process. Official team arrives in time to save the mess, maverick cop consigned to deserved oblivion, while wiser-now female gets promoted and will manage okay from here on. All a packaged lesson in the ultimate wisdom of appointed authority and the folly of individualists who think they can go it alone.
A barrage of commercials followed, showing cute kids eating breakfast, cartoon knights in gleaming armor chasing mucilaginous germs through a drain, and a moron and wife barbecuing steaks (with requisite health warning) for their ilk on a patio. Jarrow ordered another drink.
Next came the news. The lead item concerned a ground laser station that should have been boosting shuttles up from Florida two years ago (Jarrow remembered it as over a year behind schedule). Apparently it had failed some more tests, and the National Directorate of Technology was now saying that a major section of the project would have to be redesigned and rebuilt. The leader of the European Moderation Party, which opposed any expansion into space, had said the whole thing should be scrapped, and environmental groups were gleefully derisive. Meanwhile, Aerospaceflot of New Muscovy, the capital province of the loosely tied Federation of Eurasian Republics—roughly speaking, what had once been called the USSR, plus a number of former Eastern European and Asiatic Moslem territories—had inaugurated a regular passenger service to connect with the Offworld lunar transporters plying between Earth orbit and bases at Copernicus and Tycho. The new enforcement agency to be set up under the Bureau of Environmental Control had been relegated to third place since morning, but the account was pretty much the same as Jarrow had awoken to in Atlanta. To underline the need for draconian measures, it was followed by a report of how, in a computer model produced by two of the Bureau's scientists, unreg-ulated emissions from FER industries could disrupt atmospheric ozone.
"Bullshit," Paul muttered from the stool next to Jarrow.
"Excuse me?" Jarrow said, turning his head automatically.
Paul gestured toward the screen without looking at him. "That's bullshit. They've been coming up with garbage about ozone ever since CFCs were banned at the turn of the century. What it was really all about was that the patents were running out, and what used to be called the Third World was about to take over a market worth billions."
"Really?" Jarrow said. For his part he considered the official position understated—he would hardly have held a job as a teacher if it were otherwise. But he wasn't going to get into arguments with strangers in bars over it.
Paul downed a swig of beer. "Now they're trying to build up world pressure on the Eurasians to meet Consolidation standards, which would undermine the FER's Offworld connection. What else do you think the Consolidation is for?"
He meant the political and economic union composed primarily of North America and the western states of Europe, which in the last few years had officially designated itself the Western Consolidation as a way of underlining its commitment to collective solidarity against the decadence and disorder threatening to engulf it from the east. "The new Mongol hordes" was how the danger was usually described.
Jarrow stated the obvious, which he would have thought everyone knew. "To protect the quality of our way of life and preserve our resources. They'll loot and strip Siberia, and when they've turned it into a waste, they'll come this way—first Europe, then us. Conserve now and be strong when the time comes. That's what Consolidation means."
"Boy, you must have graduated top of the class," Paul said with mocking approval.
Jarrow expected to feel himself reddening, but somehow he seemed to have lost the reflex. "What do you mean?" he demanded stiffly.
Paul laid a hand on his shoulder for a moment. "Take it easy, eh? I know that's what everyone's told. But it's not the way it happened. The world could have been a great place when the smoke cleared after the Soviet empire fell apart. They wanted our products and we needed their materials. Everybody stood to be a winner."
"Hm. If turning the planet into a moonscape is what you mean by winning," Jarrow said coolly.
Paul shook his head. "That's just what the Green freaks who took control of everything over on this side of the world think. But it doesn't have to be that way."
"I fail to see why trying to curb the reckless spread of industrial technology should be considered freakish," Jarrow retorted.
"They don't understand anything about it. See, you can't stand still. Better methods give you better solutions. When you stop growing and plateau out at some fixed level of technology, that's when you eat up its resource base and screw things. The Greens could only think in terms of control and restricting, shutting everything down—and the irony was that it happened just when the other half of the world was realizing that central controls don't work and discovering what free individuals can do. There was a massive flight of capital and talent to the east, a redirection of Asian investment, and the turkeys in charge of everything here responded, typically, in the only way they knew how and started closing the borders to preserve captive markets for what was left. They had no concept of competition. They tried to shut out what they saw as a threat and created an economic concentration camp." Paul took another drink and wiped his mouth with a cuff. "The whole way it's structured is unnatural. What it's aimed at is eventual world government. Then they could put a fence around everybody and cut the Offworlders out, who are the ones really running with the ball. But the FER isn't interested, won't buy the Consolidation line, and that's the flaw in the game plan."
Jarrow looked at Paul more fully. He was in his thirties, lean in the face, and had mild gray eyes that confronted Jarrow with a direct, unwavering stare, but laced with a humorous twinkle. As a rule Jarrow didn't like talking about such things. His job gave him access to enough sources to know what was what, and he had no crusading urge to rectify offbeat opinions. "So where do you get your information?" he challenged, yielding nothing but at the same time trying not to sound provocative.
"I'm a scientist, would you believe—or at least I used to be." Paul gestured up at the screen with his empty hand. "I mean a real scientist, not one of those house-trained hacks who play games on computers that they parade across there. In fact I used to work on what that dummy there is talking about, so I know it's a load of crap."
"What happened?" Jarrow asked.
"Oh, you know how it is. I was what you'd call pure and idealistic—I believed what all the books said about how science was supposed to be the honest pursuit of truth. I was going to go public and tell how it really is. Except nothing got published. So now I nail packing crates together. Happens all the time. The people who are running things want problems, not solutions. That's what keeps them in charge. . . ." Paul stared down at his drink. "Aw, who cares? It's all going to hell, anyhow. You have your turn, eat, get drunk, screw; and fifty years from now none of it'll matter a ratshit."
"Philosophy," Jarrow said, glad to put the subject to rest. "There you go—that's more my line. I'm no scientist."
Paul's face split into a grin, revealing white, even teeth through his beard. "You're okay." He thrust a hand out. "Name's Paul."
"I know. I heard. I'm . . . Dick."
"Hi. So what is your line?"
"I teach . . ." Jarrow hesitated again, then added, "history." In the light of Paul's earlier remarks, it seemed less risky than saying "social integration."
"Do you think I'm crazy, saying things like that to somebody in a bar?" Paul asked him. "I mean, you could have been anyone: FBI countersubversives, local watch committee? Who knows?"
"Well, I'm not, so don't worry about it."
"I guess what I'm trying to say is, what could they do to me if you were? See what I mean? I nail crates together. And if they busted me out of that I'd fix fences or shovel snow. I'm not a scientist anymore. I don't need their approv-als, or their money, or their permission for anything now. See how free that makes me?"
"That's a good way of looking at it, I suppose." If Paul needed to rationalize his situation, it wasn't for Jarrow to disagree. "You see, I said you were a philosopher."
"So what's your philosophy of life?" Paul asked, sitting back and regarding him curiously.
"I'm not sure I've got one."
"They're like assholes. Everybody's got one."
Jarrow searched for something to oblige. "Just, keep it simple and try to stay out of trouble, I guess. Not a very exciting one, is it?"
"You live here in town?"
"I'm staying at a hotel a couple of blocks from here—the Lennox."
"I know it."
"And you?"
"Oh, I've got a place across the street. Wintertime, I like to stay in the city. When summer comes I'll head west and see what's going in the mountains. Maybe drift on up to Canada."
"Wouldn't you need a border pass? . . . I mean, if your name's been collecting penalty ratings in the Social Index computer . . ."
Paul gave Jarrow a conspiratorial wink. "There's ways. It's not like trying to get out of Consolidation territory into the FER or somewhere."
"What would you do there?"
"Hell, whatever's going. Swing a pick, lift a shovel. Anything where you don't have to give someone your life history before you can buy a meal or take a crap. Sometimes I think writing was the worst thing we ever invented. Once they can write your name down, you never get 'em off your back." Paul's gaze suddenly shifted from Jarrow's face to somewhere behind, in the direction of the door. "Hi," he said over Jarrow's shoulder. "Are you staying or just passing through?"
Jarrow turned and saw that two girls who must have just entered had joined them. One was tall and roundly filled out, with a heavy coat of brown suede and waves of black hair escaping from a tan bonnet. Her companion was smaller, a curly-headed blonde with an impish face and saucy blue eyes, dressed in an open gray parka and jeans. They were both in their mid to late twenties.
"What the hell, we'll stay for a couple," the taller one said. "You're better off in here than out there tonight, Paul, I'm telling you."
"Freeze your nuts off, eh?"
"You tell us," the blonde suggested.
Paul looked back at the other. "Did you talk to Harry?"
"Yes. He says he'll need another couple of days. Brian has to go out to St. Cloud to check the sizes."
"Jesus, I thought he already knew the sizes. Harry was out there on Thursday and he told me . . ."
As they carried on with whatever the matter was that needed to be cleared up, the blonde looked back at Jarrow with an interest that she didn't try to hide. Jarrow wasn't used to that kind of reaction from women and found it unnerving. "Hi," she said, smiling. She had freckles, and her cheeks dimpled.
"Er, hi."
"I'm Chris, since he hasn't bothered saying so. Who are you?"
"Dick."
"Another friend of Paul's? You'd think he owns this place."
"No. I only just met him."
"That's Paul—he talks to anyone. He's our resident -intellectual."
Paul broke off in the middle of his conversation with the other girl. "Hey, I'm forgetting my manners here. These are Chris—you already know that—and Donna. Guys, this is Dick. He teaches." He indicated each of the girls in turn with nods of his head. "Groceries, post office."
"Well, now that we've traded résumés, do you think there might be any chance of a drink?" Chris suggested.
"Sure, I'll get 'em," Paul said. "Usuals?" He looked around. "We don't have enough seats here."
"There's a table there," Donna said, gesturing. The girls led the way over.
"Same again, Dick?" Paul said to Jarrow. This was the strangest evening Jarrow had ever had in his life. Normally two would have been his limit, but to his surprise his metabolism was generating no alarm signals. In fact, he was warming inside now, and could feel himself loosening up for the first time all day. It was almost as if his body were tuned to this and could use a little more.
"Sure," he said.
Paul waved toward the table. "Go on over. I'll take care of it." Jarrow took off his topcoat, sat down with the girls. Paul joined them after giving the order to the bartender.
They talked about the day the girls had had, debated whether the winters were getting worse or better, and compared Minneapolis with other cities they'd known. Chris was originally from Oklahoma, Donna a Minnesota native. Jarrow repeated that he was staying at the Lennox.
Chris seemed attracted to Jarrow, sitting close and looking at him a lot. Then Paul and Donna went off into a private dialogue about Paul's business with Harry again. Chris cocked her head to one side, regarding Jarrow quizzically for a moment, then asked in confidential voice, "What happened, Dick? Wife throw you out?"
Jarrow frowned. "I don't understand."
Her eyes traveled down over him, then back up with a mischievous smile. "Quality suit, but staying at a place like that in this kind of neighborhood? Need a shave and a change of shirt. . . . It's either that or you rob banks." She winked in a way that said she didn't want to know which.
"Oh, you don't have to worry about that," Jarrow said. "I'm not exactly what you'd call adventurous. I hate any kind of violence."
"Good for you. That's what makes a real man," Donna said, catching the end of the conversation.
"Hey, me too," Paul put in. "Remember, I'm the intellectual."
"Right. And I could remind you of a few other things," Donna said.
"Hell, nobody's perfect."
Jarrow sat back. His glass was empty again, and he felt like another. "My turn," he announced. "Same again for everyone?" They affirmed. Jarrow caught the bartender's attention and signaled for another round.
"So, how did you handle being drafted?" Paul asked him, picking the thread up again.
Jarrow shook his head. "I disqualified on medical grounds." Then, through habit, he added, "Not exactly what you'd call a fighting physique, anyhow."
Chris looked him up and down again and shook her head. "Well, gee, Dick, you could have fooled me."
Jarrow became confused and talked on mechanically. "Although I think we have to have the draft. . . . I mean, the Consolidation's doing the right thing in setting the lead on restricting industry, and we've got to get the FER to follow. The Offworlders are going to outrun themselves one day, and then they'll be turning back in this direction." The expressions from around the table told him to forget all that for now. Then the bartender arrived with the drinks, and Jarrow gratefully let the subject drop.
Chris raised her glass before tasting from it. "Here's to you, Dick," she said. Donna followed suit.
"My pleasure," Jarrow said, and returned the gesture. Then he produced Gordon's wallet from his jacket and, still with his mind on what they had been saying, flipped it open carelessly to pay. In the shadows behind him a tall, hard-faced youth with cropped head, earring, and studded leather coat caught sight of the wad of hundreds and fifties and nudged his companion quietly. The other, pasty-faced but heavily built, with long, unkempt hair and tattooed knuckles, returned a faint nod.
"Good on ya," Paul acknowledged, raising a fresh beer toward Jarrow and taking a gulp.
"So, how long have you been in town now?" Chris asked. It seemed she just had to know all about him.
"Only today. I flew in from Atlanta this morning."
"How much longer will you be here?"
"I haven't made any plans yet."
"A real mystery guy," Donna commented.
"Chris, when will you ever learn to mind your own goddam business?" Paul said. "Can't you see the guy doesn't want to talk about it?"
Chris shrugged. "Well, I can't help being curious." She looked at Jarrow playfully. "Dick and I like each other . . . don't we?"
Jarrow's mouth twitched and he raised his glass hastily. He had never frequented such places and really didn't know the mores that were expected among people like these. Would acquiescence to Chris's overture be taken as confirmation that they were supposed to make a night of it? If so, what would be the best way to extricate himself cleanly? He had no inclination by temperament for any such liaison, and certainly no desire to complicate his situation further; on the other hand he was fearful of unwittingly giving offense.
But as the talk continued, he grew reassured that her teasing banter was intended as no more than that, and his apprehensions eased. Then some more acquaintances of Paul's arrived and began pulling up chairs to join them. Jarrow seized the opportunity to make his exit, pleading that he'd had a long day—which was no exaggeration—and left amid a profusion of customary "take cares" and "see you around."
Outside, he paused to check his bearings, pulling the scarf tight around his neck and zipping up his coat. Then he thrust his hands deep in his pockets and walked briskly away, his breath leaving a cloud in the cold night air. Above, the towers of the city stood dark and desolate.
Still to his surprise, the drink didn't seem to have -affected him much, apart from dulling his fears and doubts to the point where he felt he could put off worrying about them until morning. First he would check the records to make sure he was officially dead. . . . Christ, how weird could this get? Then he'd begin trying to pick up the trail, starting with Larry. He'd need to come up with a plausible line of approach there, he told himself again. But for now, he felt pleasantly detached from it all. Enough, anyway, to get a decent night's sleep.
He wasn't aware of the two figures who had been quietly gaining on him until a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, slamming him against a wall, and a knife was pushed up under his chin. A face contorted with malice, its hair cropped short and stark, thrust close and snarled at him. "Move and your throat spills. Where's the billfold?"
The other was already patting Jarrow's coat. "Okay, I've got it."
Jarrow had no awareness of reacting, no conscious knowledge of evaluating odds or deciding his action. What happened came out of nowhere. One hand twisted the knife away, and in the same movement his other shot upward, fingers curled, crashing the heel into the base of the punk's nose. Without missing a tempo, Jarrow seized the hand entering his coat and turned the wrist over savagely, forcing the second assailant's arm into a lever to double him over and jackknifing his face downward—straight into the foot flashing up to meet it. Three more lightning blows—each one delivered accurately and devastatingly enough to have finished matters on its own: edge-hand to the neck, fist to the hollow below the ear, elbow to the kidney—found their targets before the thug's knees had begun to buckle.
Jarrow, suddenly transformed into a totally dispassionate, high-precision, human-combat machine, wheeled as the crop-headed punk lunged back in, in the streetlight his lower face a mess of blood from his ruined nose, but still holding the knife. Jarrow evaded the slash and caught the punk's sleeve to draw him on, using his own weight and the other's momentum to whirl him around in an arc like a weight on a string, straight at a steel pole standing on the edge of the sidewalk. The punk's back hit it full force, snapping his head against the metal with a loud clang. Jarrow followed up with a kick to the groin and a straight-hand jab to the solar plexus as the form crumpled.
And then, just as quickly as the transformation had come over him, it left.
He stood bewildered, looking from one figure to another. The crop-headed thug was lying at the base of the pole, while the other, groaning feebly, was trying to pull himself up to his knees against the wall. A couple who had been walking along the other side of the street had stopped and were watching, petrified.
Jarrow stared back, as much at a loss as they were. The knife had nicked him below the chin. He took out a handkerchief, folded it into a pad, and held it to his neck.
"Are you okay?" the man called in a quavering voice. Hardly original; but it was more than Jarrow had managed.
It jerked Jarrow out of his state of shock. "You'd better call an ambulance," he retorted. Then, after feeling to make sure that the wallet was still in his jacket, he hurried away in the direction of his hotel.
When he got back to his room he was still shaking. He stripped for bed and stood looking at himself in the mirror. The cut under his chin didn't look serious, but it needed to be covered. He remembered the Band-Aids in the bathroom at the Hyatt in Atlanta and wished he'd had the presence of mind then to pick them up, along with the toilet articles and other things that he'd left there. Now, as things were, he would have to buy himself a new one of everything in the morning. Curiously, he removed the Band-Aid, which had been there when he woke up, from the side of his neck. Underneath was a mild, pink swelling and what looked like a tiny puncture.
Looking at himself generally, he saw that Chris from the bar had been right: he was athletic and muscular. But strangely again, although he could retrieve no mental picture of ever having looked different, at an intellectual level he remembered always thinking of himself as puny.
And then another thing struck him that should have been obvious, surely, from the time he'd woken up and first caught sight of himself: How old was he? What kind of a question was that? Everyone knew how old they were. He was forty-six. He could produce memories from every one of those years.
But the reflection in the mirror was at least ten years younger.
Baffled and exhausted, he fell asleep straightaway. But not to the relaxed, undisturbed sleep that he had hoped for. He had strange dreams of being in uniform, adrift in a strange, distorted military environment that included a colonel with gold-tinted glasses, whose eyes were never seen. And mixed among them were persistent images of a girl with red hair.