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He said abruptly to R. Daneel, “Ready, Daneel?”
“I am ready, Elijah.”
They left the kitchen and escape was now clearly and flatly up to Baley.
There is a game that youngsters know called “ru
Its object is to get from point A to point B via the City’s rapid transit system in such a way that the “leader” manages to lose as many of his followers as possible. A leader who arrives at the destination alone is skillful indeed, as is a follower who refuses to be shaken.
The game is usually conducted during the evening rush hour when the increased density of the commuters makes it at once more hazardous and more complicated. The leader sets off, ru
Pity the follower who incautiously careens forward one strip too far. Before he has caught his mistake, unless he is extraordinarily nimble, he has driven past the leader or fallen behind. The clever leader will compound the error by moving quickly in the appropriate direction.
A move designed to increase the complexity of the task tenfold involves boarding the localways or the expressways themselves, and hurtling off the other side. It is bad form to avoid them completely and also bad form to linger on them.
The attraction of the game is not easy for an adult to understand, particularly for an adult who has never himself been a teenage stripru
Yet nothing can be done to wipe out the strip-ru
Elijah Baley, for instance, remembered with satisfaction even now that he had been a strip-ru
Baley was in his forties now, of course. He hadn’t run the strips for over twenty years, but he remembered some of the tricks. What he had lost in agility, he made up in another respect. He was a policeman. No one but another policeman as experienced as himself could possibly know the City as well, know where almost every metal-bordered alley began and ended.
He walked away from the kitchen briskly, but not too rapidly. Each moment he expected the cry of “Robot, robot” to ring out behind him. That initial set of moments was the riskiest. He counted the steps until he felt the first accelerating strip moving under him.
He stopped for a moment, while R. Daneel moved smoothly up beside him.
“Are they still behind us, Daneel?” asked Baley in a whisper.
“Yes. They’re moving closer.”
“That won’t last,” said Baley confidently. He looked at the strips stretching to either side, with their human cargo whipping to his left more and more rapidly as their distance from him increased. He had felt the strips beneath his feet many times a day almost all the days of his life, but he had not bent his knees in anticipation of ru
He quite forgot the one time he had caught Ben at the game. He had lectured him interminably and threatened to have him put under police surveillance.
Lightly, quickly, at double the “safe” rate, he went up the strips. He leaned forward sharply against the acceleration. The localway was humming past. For a moment, it looked as though he would mount, but suddenly he was fading backward, backward, dodging through the crowd to left and right as it thickened on the slower strips.
He stopped, and let himself be carried along at a mere fifteen miles an hour.
“How many are with us, Daneel?”
“Only one, Elijah.” The robot was at his side, unruffled, unbreathing.
“He must have been a good one in his day, too, but he won’t last either.”
Full of self-confidence, he felt a half-remembered sensation of his younger days. It consisted partly of the feeling of immersion in a mystic rite to which others did not belong, partly of the purely physical sensation of wind against hair and face, partly of a tenuous sense of danger.
“They call this the side shuffle,” he said to R. Daneel in a low voice.
His long stride ate distance, but he moved along a single strip, dodging the legitimate crowd with a minimum of effort. He kept it up, moving always closer to the strip’s edge, until the steady movement of his head through the crowd must have been hypnotic in its constant velocity—as it was intended to be.
And then, without a break in his step, he shifted two inches sideways and was on the adjoining strip. He felt an aching in his thigh muscles as he kept his balance.
He whipped through a cluster of commuters and was on the forty-five-mile strip.
“How is it now, Daneel?” he asked.
“He is still with us,” was the calm answer.
Baley’s lips tightened. There was nothing for it but to use the moving platforms themselves, and that really required co-ordination; more, perhaps, than he still retained.
He looked about quickly. Exactly where were they now? B-22 Street flashed by. He made rapid calculations and was off. Up the remaining strips, smoothly and steadily, a swing onto the localway platform.
The impersonal faces of men and women, calloused with the e
“Hey, now,” called a woman shrilly, clutching at her hat.
“Sorry,” said Baley, breathlessly.
He forced his way through the standees and with a wriggle was off on the other side. At the last moment, a jostled passenger thumped his back in anger. He went staggering.
Desperately he tried to regain his footing. He lurched across a strip boundary and the sudden change in velocity forced him to his knees and then over on his side.
He had the sudden, panicky vision of men colliding with him and bowling over, of a spreading confusion on the strips, one of the dreaded “man-jams” that would not fail to put dozens in the hospital with broken limbs.
But R. Daneel’s arm was under his back. He felt himself lifted with more than a man’s strength.
“Thanks,” gasped Baley, and there was no time for more.
Off he went and down the decelerating strips in a complicated pattern so designed that his feet met the V-joint strips of an expressway at the exact point of crossover. Without the loss of rhythm, he was accelerating again, then up and over an expressway.
“Is he with us, Daneel?”
“Not one in sight, Elijah.”
“Good. But what a strip-ru
Off onto another localway in a whirl and down the strips with a clatter to a doorway, large and official in appearance. A guard rose to his feet.
Baley flashed his identification. “Official business.”
They were inside.