[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
nervous strength, teased up within him by his agency training, seemed
ceaseless, and Sweets began helplessly -- because he too had been doctored by
men -- to imagine defeat.
Then four sticks of dynamite took apart a temporary police headquarters
on Columbus Avenue, and the sound struck them like a hand.
Duke twisted away, snapping his head in terror, seeking the sound to
bite it. Sweets, surprised but not frightened, attacked again, drove Duke to
yield; Duke, maddened, tried to flee, was made to yield again, and then lay
still beneath Sweets, all surrender.
Sweets let him rise. He had to. He felt, irresistibly, an urge to
urinate; and when he walked away to do so, Duke fled. Not far; from behind
green benches along a walk he barked, letting Sweets know he was still there,
still mean. Still of the pack. Only not leader.
Sweets, heart drumming, one leg numb, his lips beginning to burn in the
cold air, looked around his kingdom. The others were keeping far from him;
they were dim blurs to his colorless vision. He was alone.
There were four officers and a single prisoner in the temporary station
on Columbus Avenue. The prisoner was in transit from up north, where he had
been captured, to a destination undisclosed to the officers, who were city and
not Federal; all they knew was that he was to be held and transferred. And, of
course, that a report had to be made out. It was this report, on six thin
sheets of paper the colors of confetti, that the sergeant had been typing out
with great care and two ringed fingers when he was decapitated by the file
drawer -- K -- L -- behind which the charge had been hidden and which shot out
like an ungainly broad arrow when it went off.
"Height: 6'2"," he had typed. "Weight: 190." He didn't look it; slim,
compact, but mighty. "Eyes: yellow." He could almost feel those strange eyes,
behind him in the cell, looking at him. "Distinguishing marks." The sergeant
was a methodical, stupid man. He pondered this. Did they mean distinguishing
him from others of his kind, or from men? He had seen others, in films and so
on, and to him they all looked pretty much alike. He wasn't about to get near
enough to look for scars and such. The species had existed for nearly half a
century now, and yet few men -- especially in cities -- ever came near to one
as the sergeant was now. They were shy, secretive, close. And they were all
marked for extinction.
The form just didn't fit the prisoner. The sergeant knew well enough
what to do when, say, a man's name was too large for the space it was to be
put in. He could guess weights and heights, invent the glum circumstances of
an arrest. Distinguishing marks . . . He wrote: "Leo."
That certainly distinguished him. The sergeant used it twice more: in
the Alias spot, and for Race. Pleased with himself, he was about to type it in
for Nationality/Autonomy too, when the charge went off.
Two of the others had been in the foyer, and one was screaming. The
third had been standing by the coffee urn, which was next to the cell door; he
had been trying to catch a glimpse of their strange charge through the
screened window. Now his head, face tattered by the screen, was thrust through
the little window, wedged there, his eyes seeming to stare within, wide with
surprise.
The leo shrieked in pain and rage, but couldn't hear his own voice.
What had happened? The night streets north of Cathedral Parkway were
always dead quiet on winter nights like this one; the loudest noises were
their own, overturning garbage cans and barking in altercation or triumph;
only occasionally a lone vehicle mounted with lights would cruise slowly up
the avenues, enforcing the curfew. Tonight the streets were alive; windows
rose and were slammed down again, loud sirens and bullhorns tore at the
silence, red lights at the darkness. Somewhere a burning building showed a
dull halo above the streets. There were shots, in single pops and sudden
handfuls.
With Blondie gone, Sweets had no one to interpret this, no one who with
certitude would say _Flee_, or _Ignore that, it means nothing_. It was all him
now. The pack was scattered by incident over two or three blocks when mistrust
overwhelmed Sweets. He began to lope along the streets, swinging his head from
side to side, nostrils wide, seeking the others. When he passed one, the fear
smell was strong; they were all of a mind to run, and had all begun to turn
toward the long darkness of the park to the south. Sweets, though, kept [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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nervous strength, teased up within him by his agency training, seemed
ceaseless, and Sweets began helplessly -- because he too had been doctored by
men -- to imagine defeat.
Then four sticks of dynamite took apart a temporary police headquarters
on Columbus Avenue, and the sound struck them like a hand.
Duke twisted away, snapping his head in terror, seeking the sound to
bite it. Sweets, surprised but not frightened, attacked again, drove Duke to
yield; Duke, maddened, tried to flee, was made to yield again, and then lay
still beneath Sweets, all surrender.
Sweets let him rise. He had to. He felt, irresistibly, an urge to
urinate; and when he walked away to do so, Duke fled. Not far; from behind
green benches along a walk he barked, letting Sweets know he was still there,
still mean. Still of the pack. Only not leader.
Sweets, heart drumming, one leg numb, his lips beginning to burn in the
cold air, looked around his kingdom. The others were keeping far from him;
they were dim blurs to his colorless vision. He was alone.
There were four officers and a single prisoner in the temporary station
on Columbus Avenue. The prisoner was in transit from up north, where he had
been captured, to a destination undisclosed to the officers, who were city and
not Federal; all they knew was that he was to be held and transferred. And, of
course, that a report had to be made out. It was this report, on six thin
sheets of paper the colors of confetti, that the sergeant had been typing out
with great care and two ringed fingers when he was decapitated by the file
drawer -- K -- L -- behind which the charge had been hidden and which shot out
like an ungainly broad arrow when it went off.
"Height: 6'2"," he had typed. "Weight: 190." He didn't look it; slim,
compact, but mighty. "Eyes: yellow." He could almost feel those strange eyes,
behind him in the cell, looking at him. "Distinguishing marks." The sergeant
was a methodical, stupid man. He pondered this. Did they mean distinguishing
him from others of his kind, or from men? He had seen others, in films and so
on, and to him they all looked pretty much alike. He wasn't about to get near
enough to look for scars and such. The species had existed for nearly half a
century now, and yet few men -- especially in cities -- ever came near to one
as the sergeant was now. They were shy, secretive, close. And they were all
marked for extinction.
The form just didn't fit the prisoner. The sergeant knew well enough
what to do when, say, a man's name was too large for the space it was to be
put in. He could guess weights and heights, invent the glum circumstances of
an arrest. Distinguishing marks . . . He wrote: "Leo."
That certainly distinguished him. The sergeant used it twice more: in
the Alias spot, and for Race. Pleased with himself, he was about to type it in
for Nationality/Autonomy too, when the charge went off.
Two of the others had been in the foyer, and one was screaming. The
third had been standing by the coffee urn, which was next to the cell door; he
had been trying to catch a glimpse of their strange charge through the
screened window. Now his head, face tattered by the screen, was thrust through
the little window, wedged there, his eyes seeming to stare within, wide with
surprise.
The leo shrieked in pain and rage, but couldn't hear his own voice.
What had happened? The night streets north of Cathedral Parkway were
always dead quiet on winter nights like this one; the loudest noises were
their own, overturning garbage cans and barking in altercation or triumph;
only occasionally a lone vehicle mounted with lights would cruise slowly up
the avenues, enforcing the curfew. Tonight the streets were alive; windows
rose and were slammed down again, loud sirens and bullhorns tore at the
silence, red lights at the darkness. Somewhere a burning building showed a
dull halo above the streets. There were shots, in single pops and sudden
handfuls.
With Blondie gone, Sweets had no one to interpret this, no one who with
certitude would say _Flee_, or _Ignore that, it means nothing_. It was all him
now. The pack was scattered by incident over two or three blocks when mistrust
overwhelmed Sweets. He began to lope along the streets, swinging his head from
side to side, nostrils wide, seeking the others. When he passed one, the fear
smell was strong; they were all of a mind to run, and had all begun to turn
toward the long darkness of the park to the south. Sweets, though, kept [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]