Radix

Three days later he had bought all the necessary material and had set his trap. Twice during those days he had almost killed himself. The first time was underground in the sewer that doubled as a conduit for the area's power lines. There, setting up a circuit breaker to tap into the trunk line, he had lost his grip on the thick wire. He had almost dumped the charged cable into the sludge he stood knee-deep in. The second time was after he had connected a lead-off line to the chain-link fence. When he tested it, one of the wires broke loose and snaked dangerously through the air. He caught it just as its hot end whipped toward him.
Although the risks were high, the reward promised to be measureless. Weeks had gone by without Sumner being able to eat properly. The slow acid of his rage had made it impos-sible for him to enjoy his food.
But he was patient. As soon as everything was in place he spent a day and a night on one of the warehouse roofs watching to make sure no one had seen him wire the fence. He had been careful to cut the power lines in the first few hours of morning. Within thirty minutes the lines were con-nected again with the circuit-switch attached. Still, he had to be certain that no one reported the brief blackout.
He watched the courtyard carefully from the roof. No inspectors or troubleshooters from the power company showed up that day. The next day, back in his room, Sumner took a leaf of the kiutl, rolled it into a cigarette, and smoked it. He gagged, but the aftertaste of the smoke had a pleasant nut flavor.
Zelda was out of the house, so he didn't bother to open a window. Through the coils of smoke he gazed around his room, waiting for the change to overtake him. Nothing hap-pened. He sat back and finished the last of the cigarette.
It was necessary to be sure that Camboy had set him up. The only way to find out, he reasoned, was to look inside his head. If this muckel really works.
The greatest danger would come from the brood jewel, if it was still in the office. He would have to be careful not to get too close to it or his real intentions would be as promi-nent as his bellyroll.
A few minutes after he finished the cigarette an expan-sive calm settled over him. The light in the room brightened. Outside the window there was a gold-leaf sky. Furtive move-ments flicked at the edge of his vision, vanishing when he moved. He was sure the room was full of subtle turnings visible to any eyes less stubborn than his own.
A voice lilted in his ears (Yas, the islands be moving inward—the cliffs fall away), and he vaguely recognized it. It seemed to be coming from outside his door (Fore and aft, the cliffs of the fogbound Farallones), but it sounded like a whis-pering in the back of his head. He went over and opened his door.
(The halyards are secure and the mainsails still reefed.) Johnny Yesterday was standing in one of the large blue urns, his eyes closed (Bos'un! Bring arms aloft. Deck watch! Pre-pare cannon. Load grape!), his ears twitching.
Sumner suppressed a gleeful whoop and closed the door. (Action stations!) He was hearing Johnny Yesterday's thoughts. Hau! The senile wheeze is playing admiral! He laughed aloud (The hawsers—be they chanteyed tight?) and picked up the stuffed envelope on his desk. It was time to speak with Parlan Camboy. (If the sea wants you, lad, your time has come.)
Sumner rode the elevated train into center-city, not trusting himself to drive. Sitting in the metallic and captive air of the train, his envelope in his hand, his mind was overrun with sounds. The inner voices of everyone around him sweeled about his head.
It was an insane chorus that made it impossible to think. He looked down the aisle and fixed his mind on a young woman who was reading (How important is form?). She was small and shapely (Art, like society, requires a stringent discipline) with a defiant curl at the edge of her lips. He let his eyes trail down to her legs (Without it, we would lose ourselves in the squalor of the imagination) and linger on the curve of her calves. (However, do not make the timeless error of believing that form is necessarily definition.) There was a honey tone to them that excited him. (Narn! I knew that fat boy was staring at me.)
Sumner lifted his eyes quickly and caught an annoyed glance from the woman. Fat boy! The insult galled him, but his hurt was smothered by the sudden rush of muttering voices. For the rest of the trip he flicked his attention quickly from one passenger to another, avoiding any prolonged con-tact. By the time he stepped to the platform he had gotten used to keeping his mind moving and was able to hold the gibberish down to a distant chattering.
At Parlan Camboy's office the secretary was curt. "What do you want now?" (Lard ball.)
Sumner bit back a curse and stepped up to the desk. "I have something for Mr. Camboy." He tore open the enve-lope he was holding and thrust it under the secretary's nose. It was a thick sheaf of kiutl—half of everything Jeanlu had given him.
(By Mutra's hind tit! Kiutl!) The secretary disguised his astonishment well. He got up, motioned Sumner to have a seat, and went into the office. Hard as he tried, Sumner couldn't pick up any thoughts from the next room. In a few minutes the door opened, and the secretary cheerfully beck-oned him in.
Camboy already had a window open and the wooden stool before his desk. He was seated with his hands under his desk, and Sumner sensed that he was surrounded by hidden weapons. He looked around quickly for the brood jewel, but it wasn't in sight and he relaxed. (Looks nervous. Is he going to try something?)
He opened the envelope fully and scattered the dark red leaves on the desk. (It's voor muckel, all right.) "I've got fifteen pounds of this," he said, warming to see the disbelief in Camboy's eyes. (Fifteen? Where'd this dragass steal that much muckel?) "My voor contact's been generous. But with my white card, I don't want to use this stuff. It might distort me. You're the only merchant I know who can move it."
Camboy's eyes darkened. (Is he lying? If it's all as good as this stuff looks, that's three thousand, easy.)
Sumner kept his face empty.
"What'd you have to do for all this kiutl?" Camboy asked.
"I've been using my white card."
"You must rut a lot of voors to earn that much kiutl." He frowned. "How much do you want?"
"A thousand zords."
Camboy smiled. (A rube.) "Five hundred."
Sumner shook his head. "A thousand. You can get three times that in the city fringes."
(So he knows the market.) "I'd have figured the ten I gave you last time would have held you over." (Does he know? Look closely. His eyes are kind of vague. Is that a smile?)
"I lost it. I was pushed over."
"Gambling?"
"No. On the street. After I left."
Camboy shook his head, his voice filled with scorn. "You had it all in one pocket. Right?"
"Ya. So what?"
"Kid, two dozen and one thieves watch this building day and night. A lot of money passes hands here. When you left, they saw the bulge in your pocket and they hit you."
Sumner clenched his teeth and shook his head with feigned anger. "I should have had you drop it. I was bonebrained to take the zords." (He doesn't know. Good. We'll hit him a little harder this time.) "This isn't my game. But I have the kiutl, and I want to unload it. The zords are important—I'm sick of screwing distorts. You'll give me a thousand?"
Camboy let himself be persuaded. "When will you bring it by?"
"I'm not," Sumner answered with finality. "I got bruised once in this neighborhood. If you want the fifteen pounds, you'll pick it up where I tell you, tonight at midnight."