"Eagles," said Padgett, and fell silent again.
The mountain loomed higher still; the fantastic city tilted its face upward. They were losing altitude, dropping toward the foot of the mountain, where Dick could see a scattering of buildings, like something spilled from the heights. "Why aren't we landing at the top?" he asked.
"It's the updraft. They heat the whole mountain top, and I suppose they're not too careful about insulation; anyhow, at this altitude, it makes quite a powerful ascending current of air. Notice the clouds, how they break and boil up just overhead. You couldn't land a plane there -- or drop a bomb, either, for that matter. You'll go up by the funicular." He pointed, and Dick for the first time noticed a line of suspended cables that swooped up the mountainside. One car was crawling up as he watched, another descending. Up forward; the radio was muttering at Otto. They leveled off and hovered until a Hock of small copters got out of the way, then lowered to one of the small landing areas that were clustered on either side of the central runway system. The almost inaudible howl of the jet and props cut off, leaving a ringing silence.
An armed, uniformed man boarded the dyne almost as soon as the door was open; his speech was so good that Dick answered a whole series of mildly insulting questions, taking him for a person, before he noticed the green tattoo on his forehead, half hidden by the visor of his cap. The fellow was a slob; and he had coolly demanded -- and received -- Dick's sidearm. Sputtering with indignation, Dick was about to demand the gun back, but the cautionary pressure of Padgett's hand stopped him.
Other places, other customs, Dick remembered. "Come on, Padgett," he said, getting up, "you can say good-bye to me at the cable-cars, anyhow."
"I would not advise it," said the uniformed guard. "They would stop him at the next check point, and then there might be a little trouble. He could not accompany you as far as the funicular, in any case. These, incidentally -- " he waved toward Blashfield and the rest of the guard, sitting glumly silent in the rear of the cabin -- "being armed, must stay in the dyne."
"Good-bye, misser Dick," called Blashfield gruffly.
"Good-bye," said Padgett, pressing his hand. Dick saw with surprise that the old man's eyes were moist; "God guard you," said the tutor, huskily, and stepped back.
"Now if you will, young mister -- " the guard was saying.
Dick stepped down. Slobs in white coveralls were unloading the dyne's luggage compartment, trundling the bags away on handcarts. The guard led him away in a different direction; two others hi the same uniform, armed with semi-automatics, fell in behind.
"Where are they going with my things?" Dick asked, pointing.
"To inspection. Everything will be returned to you in good order. Now if you will step in here --"
"Here," was a low stucco building in which Dick was fluoroscoped, fingerprinted, examined by a dentist who tapped all his fillings, and given an identity bracelet, which, he later discovered, was locked on and could not be opened.
Sobered and with much to think about, he found himself half an hour later standing on the glassed-in platform of the funicular railway, waiting for the down car to arrive! On the platform were three of the omnipresent, gray-uniformed airport guard, plus half a dozen people -sunburned men in big, gold-trimmed white hats, two pretty women in flimsy dresses, a bearded man in a turban, carrying a briefcase.
When the car came down -- an archaic-looking thing, painted black and gold -- only four passengers got out of it. Three wore a scarlet uniform. As far as Dick could see, they were armed only with light wooden cudgels. The fourth was a man in black, with a white face. The three marched him over to the waiting airport guards, left him there, and marched back into the car. When Dick looked back over his shoulder, the man in black was trudging away in the midst of the gray squad -- going where? What had he done?
The car was narrow and stuffy; the seats, set one above the other like chairs in an auditorium, were upholstered in stiff crimson plush. After an interminable wait, the car jerked, throbbed, and began to rise.
Dick leaned across the aisle toward one of the men in white hats. "Pardon. Is this the only way to get up to Eagles?"
The man looked surprised. He was lean and stringy, burnt the color of copper; his eyebrows and lashes were almost invisible. "No," he said mildly. "They's an express tube, comes out down the valley. Depends how much traffic, whetha they let you use it." After a moment he asked, "Your first time up?"
Dick nodded. The sunburnt man squinted at him confidentially, lowered his voice still more. "Don't ask too many questions," he said, and leaned back.
The trip took forever. Bored, half suffocated, Dick got out eventually on a broad glassed-in platform that seemed to overhang the valley. He stared down, fascinated; down at the bottom, where the converging lines of the cable railway disappeared, the valley was a cup of gold, the snaky line of the river was intolerably bright, even through the tinted glass. Wisps of cloud vapor rushed upward past the window; the big panes bowed inward, trembled, straightened, bowed in again ...
All his previous life seemed to be down there in that improbable cup of gold somewhere, silent and stifled. Voices echoed behind him, footsteps; a hand plucked at his sleeve.
He turned. People were crossing the platform in all directions, a glitter of color, a babble of voices. He saw three different uniforms, two beautiful women, a gang of slobs with a handtruck piled high with boxes. There was a man in a gorgeous garment of peach satin, the sleeves padded and puffed until they swelled him to twice his size; chain around his neck with a golden pendant; beard on his chin, rings on his plump fingers. He passed leisurely, leaving a wisp of perfume in his wake. Here came two women in big white headdresses, walking together, close in conversation; their black skirts swished to the ground. There strolled a boy, not more than twelve, resplendent in red-orange tights, eating peanuts from a cloth bag.
Nearer, an ugly face was peering up into his own, as good-humored and misshapen as a bulldog's. There was barely room on the fellow's forehead for his green slobmark; his ears were enormous and hairy, his nose flat. "Your firs' time at Eagles, Misser Jones?" he said hoarsely. "If you would condescend yourseff to come this way with me, jus' for a minute now -- " He backed away, showing a mouthful of tusks in what was meant for an ingratiating grin.
Dick followed, across the platform to an open booth where another slob sat, this one a bored, sallow-skinned fellow with mournful brown eyes. "Here we have with us now Misser Richer Jones," said the gargoyle, slapping his palm on the counter. "You take good care of him now, and no nonsense, you mind?"
The bored slob, with a look of distaste, reached below the counter and produced two articles, a belt with two thin chains dangling from it, and a slender wooden staff about a yard long, knob-tipped at either end.
The gargoyle, grunting with satisfaction, seized the belt and began to fasten it around Dick's waist. "What's this?" said Dick, resisting. For the first time, he noticed that both slobs were wearing similar belts, with the chains attached somehow to their sleeves just above the elbow. "This is what we call the elbow check, Misser Jones," said the gargoyle, deftly threading one of the needle-tipped chains through the slack of Dick's right sleeve. "All the men got to wear them at Eagles, and the buck servan's too. You find before you know it that they won' bother you at all." He threaded the second chain through the other sleeve in the same way, removed the needles, and snapped the ends of the chains to studs on the belt. Moving his arms experimentally, Dick found the chains prevented him from raising his hands higher than his head.