In the last six hours the input of data had greatly increased. So many bits and pieces had been stored, now, that he knew the symbiote that was half him would soon begin to connect one datum with another. If the pace kept on like this, he would be able to slowly formulate a few theories in another day, maybe two days, then logically eliminate a number of the present suspects.
Then, perhaps, before too much longer, the case would be finished.
He realized as he swallowed the last of the Scotch that he did not want it to be finished.
That is an unhealthy attitude.
He wanted to apprehend the killer, of course, and before anyone else died. He wanted to pinpoint the man, get him running, corner him and break him down, thoroughly break him down. That was what he was all about, after all; that was what Baker St. Cyr did well. But once the killer was out of the way, he did not want to have to leave this house.
Get right down to it, then: He did not want to have to leave Tina Alderban.
Avoid emotional complications of this nature.
He got up and poured another glass of Scotch.
He sat down in the same chair and took a large swallow of the drink, stirred the ice with his finger.
Tina Alderban…
When he closed his eyes, he could see her on the insides of his lids, standing naked, wearing a cape of black hair, holding out her arms to him, with two shiny globes of light before her, one resting lightly on each of her flat palms…
He remembered the nightmare again: the cracked macadam roadway, the tumble-down buildings… Somehow, Tina Alderban seemed to be a part of it.
It is very late. Even if you sleep until noon, you will not get your proper rest.
To counter the stodgy half of his symbiote, he raised his glass and sipped more Scotch. Apparently, however, the bio-computer had gotten to him on a deep, motivational level, for he put the glass down when it was still half full, undressed and went to bed.
SIX: Nightmare and Paranoia
St. Cyr stepped quickly behind a huge slab of concrete pavement which some tremor of the earth had cracked, lifted, and jammed toward the dark sky. He pressed his back against it, making himself as small as he could, shivered as the dampness of the chilled stone seeped through his shirt.
He listened intently, but he could no longer hear the soft footsteps that had dogged him until this moment.
Stepping from behind the slab, he stared down the length of the avenue, saw that he was alone — unless, of course, someone was hiding behind one of the other tilted blocks of paving.
He did not have time to search them. He could only press forward. But when he did, the footsteps were behind him once more, close.
He ran.
As he increased his pace, the sky seemed to lower, the blackness sink until it lay just above his head, like a roof. The buildings on either side began to close in as well, until the street was barely wide enough to run through. He remembered that, when he had begun this journey, the street had appeared to dwindle toward the horizon until the buildings seemed to come together at a point no larger than the prick of a pin. He had thought that this was only a trick of perspective. Now he saw that the closing together was genuine. In a few minutes, in another couple of thousand yards, the buildings would touch, putting an end to the avenue, leaving him nowhere to run to avoid the stalker.
Behind him, the night suddenly sighed and, an instant later, exploded around him.
Turning, he saw the tottering buildings had collapsed in his wake, bricks tossed into the air like milkweed fluff, dust devils whirling gleefully towards him.
He turned and ran.
On both sides, the abandoned structures, broken windows like mouths full of transparent teeth, leered down at him, swayed in sympathy with his rapid footfalls.
Then the street ended.
The buildings fused into a smooth curve of stone, blocking exit. He stopped, felt the curve, seeking a lever or concealed device for opening a path, found none. Because he was no longer running, no dangerous vibrations were set up; silence was soon restored to the street. In the silence, as he stood bewildered before the fused stones, he heard the footsteps behind him again.
He turned.
The stalker was only a few yards away. The stalker was an old, old friend whose touch he could no longer tolerate, and the stalker walked straight for him, arms open to receive him in a cold embrace…
Baker St. Cyr sat straight up in bed, a scream caught in the back of his throat, his hands full of twisted sheets.
It was a nightmare, the bio-computer said.
He pushed up, felt the water mattress give considerably and attempt to suck him back down, crabbed to the edge of the bed and got quickly to his feet, though once standing he was not certain he could remain that way for long. His legs felt weak, as if he had been running for a long, long time without rest, and his head ached from the top of his forehead backwards and down the length of his neck, as if his skull might be loose. For a moment he had an absurd vision: his head falling off his shoulders, bouncing twice on the thick carpet, rolling over and over until it came to rest against the rectangular window, staring out at the dawn that already filtered under the balcony roof.
The dawn. Suddenly it seemed to him that all of his problems were somehow tied to the rising of the sun, and that if he could force Nature to move backwards into darkness, everything would once more be all right. He stumbled to the floor-to-ceiling window, slapped the palm switch next to the panes, and watched them go abruptly opaque, then change in color until they looked as black as onyx and did not permit passage to a single thread of sunlight.
But that was not enough. He still felt weak, terribly weak, and — frightened.
It was only a nightmare.
Shut up.
He went into the bathroom and, without turning on any lights, found the cold water faucet, filled the sink, bent and splashed his face until he was shivering all over. He dried his face. He felt no better.
Standing before the mirror in the dark, he tried to see his face and could not, was glad that he could not.
Your dream contained a number of familiar symbols, including the broken road, which is, to you, THE PAST.
I don't want my dreams analyzed, St. Cyr told it.
The buildings equal old memories.
Stop it, damn you!
He went into the bedroom again, realized that he could not lie down and sleep, strode into the sitting room, where the patio doors let a wash of warm light into the room. He palmed the switch there and was rewarded with more darkness. After that, he stood in the center of the room, naked but for the shell clamped to his chest, wondering what he should do next.
Do you know whose footsteps you were hearing in the dream?
I don't want to hear about the fucking dream!
You are not well.
The old stand-by rejoinder: go to hell.
You actually should not be a practicing cyberdetective until you have had thorough psychological counseling. You have been hiding too many things from yourself, and you are no longer able to hold them all in. Thus the dream and the stalker in the dream. You have forgotten whom the stalker represents, who that was in real life, or have pretended to forget. I feel strongly that…
The bio-computer sensed the attack even as it began, and it did not complete the admonition.
St. Cyr screamed, though his throat was so constricted that no voice could come out, only a thin hiss like a prophesying snake.