There was a thin girl, the only passenger in the car, and she looked up when he called, then put her hand out between the almost-closed doors. They sprang open and before they could shut again Sam was inside.
“Thanks,” he said, out of breath, as he dropped into a seat.
“That’s all right, you’ll do the same for me someday.” She stood and went to the other end of the car and sat down there, facing away from him. People didn’t get too close these days.
The buildings swept by soundlessly outside, the rain lashed across the window. Sam opened his collar and dabbed away some of the sweat. Once he opened the black bag and looked inside, then slammed it shut without taking anything out. He was tired — but not that tired yet. If he was going to take any chemical stimulation, it would be best to wait until a time when he would really need it. The jointed silver tube of the monorail train rushed downtown.
There was a stop at Wall Street and Sam got off there, the girl watching impassively as he left. No one else emerged from the train and he was alone on the platform, looking down at the narrow and empty canyons of the streets. The business heart of New York, the financial center of North America, empty and deserted in the middle of the day. He bent his shoulders into the driving rain and walked south.
There were police all around the entrance to the tunnel, a squad car parked in a side street and guards on the platform where the small, remote-controlled busses departed for the island. Sam huddled black into a deep doorway and watched the entrance a block away. Had the police been here all the time — or was this all for his benefit? If it was he had better start moving, it wasn’t safe near here. A truck came out of the tunnel and went on without stopping; one policeman waved to it, the only notice they took. Then a staff car appeared, going toward the island and was stopped. Only two officers went over to it but a number of other ones were watching carefully and the barrier remained down. It wasn’t until the identity of the driver had been proven that it was allowed to proceed. Sam started to turn away when he saw another vehicle coming out of the tunnel, a jitter— he recognized the high-wheeled, thin outline at once. He should know it, he had been pounded about in one often enough; these airborne jeeps were overpowered and underweight — magnesium, dural, foam rubber — and riding them was like no other experience in this world. Only the UN Army used them.
Sam eased away from the doorway and as soon as he was out of sight of the tunnel entrance he began to run. Where would the jitter be going? Probably north, uptown — but to the East or West Side — or to the local streets? He had to catch it before it reached the first junction — he ran harder, the breathing tearing in his throat.
When he turned the corner he saw that the jitter had already gone by — but it had stopped just a block away, pulled up in front of the red light. He ran on, trying to go faster. He had to ‘reach the corner before the light changed.
The police car came into the intersection ahead just as the light changed, turning and coming towards him.
There was no place to hide; the solid wall of a building was at Sam’s side. And he was alone on the street, the only pedestrian visible in any direction. Sam slowed to a steady walk as they came close, keeping his eyes from the car. Ahead of him the jitter surged forward and vanished from sight. He walked on an turned the corner — and had a brief glimpse of the police car making a U-turn and coming after him.
He ran again, heading for the illuminated BAR sign halfway down the block. But he couldn’t run all of the way, that would bring instant attention from the police. Before they turned the corner behind him he was walking again, closer still to the bar. Only too aware of the rumble of the engine coming up behind him. The entrance was just ahead of him. He pushed at the door as the policeman leaned out of the car and called to him.
“Hey, you there. I want to talk to you…”
The voice was cut off as the door closed behind him. Sam looked at the dimly lit bar and wondered if he had walked into a trap. Was there a rear entrance? He stopped at the bar and leaned his hands on the scratched, dark wood, half-turned to look out of the front window. The police car was still there. But the car’s door was closed. He could just make out the outline of the driver talking into his microphone. Calling for aid?
“What’ll it be?” the barman said. He was burly, ugly, and staring at Sam through suspicious and slitted eyes.
“Beer.”
Sam dropped a bill onto the bar, then drained half of the glass in a single grateful gulp. He looked around at the room when he lowered the glass, looked for the first time at the men there, and realized that it was about as low a dump as you could find in the city. Almost all of the shabbily dressed men were looking out of the front windows, their attention drawn by the parked police car. The rest were staring at him. Sam drained the beer and left the change on the bar as he picked up his bag and started towards the rear. A thin, ratty individual stepped out and blocked his way.
“Where you going, doc?” the man said.
Sam looked him up and down in silent contempt and started by. The man moved in front of him again as he spoke. “What’s in the bag, doc? Merchandise?”
When he said this everything fell into place for Sam. The repetition of the word doc had made him think like a doctor. The man’s obvious malnour-ishment, the palsy in the dirty fingers, the color of his lips; they all spelled out drug addiction. Nor would he be the only one here. No wonder the clients had been so interested in the police car outside! As well as being equally interested in the contents of his medical bag. Sam nodded slowly.
“I’ve got some items for sale. But not with our friends outside looking on. Is there a back way out?”
The man licked his lips as he smiled. “You better believe it. I’ll show you. I could score some horse, move all you got…”
He led the way down a foul-smelling hall and pushed open a heavy door at the end. They went out into a narrow alleyway half-choked with refuse.
“Uppers, downers, doc, I got a market for everything. Just le’me look through the bag.”
Sam pushed him away. “I’ve changed my mind. You can crawl back inside…”
“Give it to him,” the deep voice said. Sam spun about as the big man came through the door behind them. He took a tape-wrapped length of pipe from inside his heavy pea jacket and slammed it against his palm. His ratty companion had produced a switchblade; the knife snapped open. Sam stepped backward away from them both, raising the bag before him.
“Hand it over, doc, because you got trouble,” ratface said.
Sam retreated again, banging his legs into a container of rubbish; he could back no further, they had him in a corner. He swung the bag back as though trying to keep it away from them.
“You can have it,” he said — then swung it hard into the knife-weielder’s face. The man screeched shrilly as he dropped, the knife clattering from his hand. Sam kept turning as the big man attacked.
Sam couldn’t avoid the club completely. It caught him hard on the right shoulder with a wave of agonizing, numbing pain. The bag dropped from his fingers as he staggered, almost falling. He saw the man draw his arm back for another blow, his thick neck exposed above the heavy jacket.
Sam used the weight of his turning body to jab the stiffened fingers of his left hand straight into the man’s throat.
It was a merciless and destructive blow. The big man gurgled in pain as he fell. Sam’s kick on the side of his head dropped him into merciful unconsciousness.
His companion had just grabbed the fallen knife when Sam stamped on his hand. His squeal of pain was silenced as Sam gripped him by the throat and squeezed hard.
The brief and deadly encounter had taken less than thirty seconds. Sam stood over the two unconscious bodies, gasping in breath after breath, fighting back the nausea from the pain in his shoulder. Nothing seemed to be broken, but the bruise was a wicked one. He massaged his arm as the numbness slowly ebbed away. As soon as he could he pulled off his jacket and dropped it to the ground. It was time to change his appearance; the policeman would surely have called in a description of him. With one hand it was a painful struggle to roll his assailant over and tear off the pea jacket. Police sirens wailed in the distance. With a final heave he pulled it off. Then he grabbed up his bag and stumbled off down the alleyway in the opposite direction, pulling on the jacket as he went.