Dayworld

Chapter 19

Just as he passed the little park on West Fourth east of the canal, he saw headlights behind him. He was too tired to swear. A patrol car? Probably. He could not even get out of the van and run. An eighty-year-old could catch him on foot now. The car swung out to pass him, then slowed to match the pace of his van. A window went down, and the man behind the wheel shouted at him. What he said was drowned in thunder, though the window on Dunski's right was up and so would have muted the man's voice. Dunski put that window down and shouted a question at him. The driver was not in uniform, and the car was unmarked. That did not mean the two in the car were not organics. However, if they were, why had they not slapped the orange flasher on top of their car? Perhaps they were immers sent to aid him.

He stopped the van and waited for the two to come to him. They were organics. But they were also immers, and they had been dispatched to see that he got a ride. Gaunt had been warned by one of the guards across the street that Dunski was not leaving at once as ordered. They were on their way to pick him up when Headquarters had ordered them to Jones Street. Someone had called in about the shooting.

"I'll tell you later what happened," Dunski said. "Just now, get the stoned woman into your trunk. I'll leave the van here." The man's partner, a woman, said, "We have orders to take you to our superior." Dunski turned the motor and lights off and got out. The woman hurried to help unload Snick. Dunski said, "Oh, I forgot!" and he wiped the wheel and the door handle of the van with his handkerchief. Then he crawled into the back seat of the car and lay down. The trunk lid slammed, and the two got into the front seat. "Maybe he should have gone into the trunk, too," the woman said.

The man did not reply. The woman spoke into a wristwatch in a voice too low for Dunski to distinguish the words. Not the organic frequency, Dunski thought. The man drove to Wornanway, two patrol cars, sirens wailing, passing him toward the west. The car turned left to go north on Womanway, turned right on East Fourteenth Street, and then left onto Second Avenue. Just past Stuyvesant Square, the car stopped before a block building. Dunski had seen this before, a structure resembling the Taj Mahal, though smaller. It housed high government officials and also contained the offices of many residents, stores, an empathorium, a restaurant, and a gymnasium. The situation must be bad indeed. Only if the council had no other way out would he have been brought here.

The man stayed in the car to listen to the organic cha

"He'll come up alone," a deep male voice said. "You get back to your post. After the disposal."

"Yes, Oom," the woman said. She did not leave, however, until Dunski had gotten on the elevator and the doors were closing. He rose to a floor in the dome, got out into a luxuriously carpeted and decorated hail, and said to the man waiting there, "Dunski." The man nodded and escorted him down the hall to a door. Its plaque bore two names, Piet Essex Vermeulen and Mia Owen Baruch. He knew the names, though he had never met their owners. They were his second cousins, once removed, Vermeulen on the paternal side and Baruch on the maternal. Since they were related to him, he had surmised that they were immers. Until now, he had had no proof of that.

That they were among the loftiest officials was evident by their single occupancy of the apartment. They had antiques and knickknacks and wallpaper, numerous items that did not have to be stored six days out of the week. Their situation was even superior to that of his friend of Tuesday, Commissioner-General Horn, who shared her apartment with one other, a woman of Thursday.

Vermeulen, a tall thin man, took Dunski's rain apparel and hung it up. His short and thin wife asked Dunski if he wanted anything to drink or eat. He spoke hoarsely and slowly, "A bourbon and a sandwich, thank you. I'd also like to use your toilet."

When he returned to the living room, he sat down on a huge stuffed couch covered with factory-grown fur. His pants and shoes were wetting the sofa and the carpet, but he did not care.

Mia Baruch brought him the drink and then sat down by him. He swallowed a fourth of it and sighed.

Vermeulen sat down but said nothing until Dunski had eaten his sandwich. "Now," he said, hitching forward in his chair, "you report everything. My people gave me some details on radio, and I've had reports from other days and from your immediate superior. But I want the whole story, all that's relevant, that is."

Dunski gave it to him, stopped now and then by questions from Vermeulen and Baruch. When Vermeulen was satisfied that he had heard all, he sat back, his fingers church-steepled.

"It's a mess, but it can be cleaned up. The organics won't be looking for Castor now, but there's all those dead men. The authorities will be wondering what they had to do with him. They'll research the dead, study their bio-data, review every recorded minute of their lives, seek out and interview people who knew them. They'll try to co

"What about next Wednesday?" Dunski said. "The organics will be questioning me. As Bob Tingle, I mean. If they get suspicious, they'll use truth mist. You know what that means."

Vermeulen dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. "What do they have? The lock that Castor ruined was replaced before the paramedicais got there. Your weapon was taken away. You had an accident, slipped on a piece of soap and struck your head, that's all. Our people in Wednesday, some very high-placed officials, will take care of all that."

He was probably right, Dunski thought. But too many immers had become involved in getting him out of this mess, and too many knew one or more of his identities.

Vermeulen said, "You've covered your tracks well. However, there may be witnesses, people who looked out from the nearby buildings and saw you."

"It was raining hard, it was dark, and I was wearing a coat and hood," Dunski said. "Could I have another drink? Thank you. Some people did come out just as I was getting into the van, but they didn't get close. And the clouds stopped the sky-eyes from following me."

"I know that," Vermeulen said. "The organics will work on this until close to midnight, then they'll close shop. They'll leave messages for Tuesday's and Wednesday's authorities. But those will consider the matter closed. Castor, an obvious psychopath, has been killed. End of the trail. Today, though .. there's all those corpses. That's Thursday's business only, but the immers in other days will be notified of this so that they can come up with something to erase all tracks. A false explanation, maybe. That might be best." His face lit up. "Any explanation, if it seems to fit, will be better than none. They'll keep an unsolved case in the bank, theoretically always active. Solved, it'll be in the history section."

Dunski fought to keep his eyes open.

"That's probably the best plan. Only ..

"Only what?"

"What about Snick?"

Vermeulen shook his head and said, "Garchar went too far." (Garchar must be the man I called "Gaunt," Dunski thought.) "I wouldn't have condoned killing her, though the mutilation would have been blamed on Castor, a very good idea. But I don't think I could have done it. I can't fault Garchar. He was in command and had no time to check with us. Still ... anyway, that's past. Snick will stay stoned and will be put in a safe place."