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He squinted a moment. Now, the orders usually came from people, and not from
the indefinite nonvoice of what those on the network called the Boss. Reuben
had even come to recognize the "signatures" of certain human personalities he
communicated with, but this time, they were not familiar to him.
"Cleveland it is," he said. He pulled several maps from the glove compartment
and used a yellow marker to draw his course along the highways. He had spent
the last few days stealing hundreds of books and optical disks from libraries
in Washington and Richmond, and buying hundreds of others from bookstores. He
had passed all of these on to three middle-aged men in Richmond, and he had no
clear idea what they were going to do with them; he hadn't asked. Clearly, the
Boss was interested in literature.
With some relief he did not enjoy thievery, even in a good cause he took to
the open road.
Spring was coming fast. The hills surrounding the Pennsylvania Turnpike were
already rich green, and trees were bringing forth leaves that they would not
have time to shed. There would be no summer or autumn.
Reuben shook his head, thinking about that, hands on the wheel. When he was on
the road, the network rarely spoke to him, and that gave him plenty of time
perhaps too much time to wonder about things.
He refilled the LeBaron's tank in New Stanton and parked in front of a diner.
After a quick meal of a hamburger and a small green salad, he paid his tab and
looked over a rack of postcards, choosing one showing a big white barn covered
with Pennsylvania Dutch hex symbols. Purchasing a few stamps from a machine,
he scribbled on the back of the card, Dad, Still working steady here and
elsewhere. Thinking about you.
Take care of yourself.
Reuben and dropped it into the box outside the diner.
He made it to Cleveland by eight. A quiet rain fell as he checked into an old
hotel near the bus depot. He parked the LeBaron in a public parking garage,
uncomfortably aware that he would not be driving it to the final destination.
Somebody would pick him up and take him there.
He was no more than a couple of miles from Lake Erie, and that so the network
had told him was where he would have to be in the early morning.
Reuben regarded himself in the bathroom's spotty mirror. He saw a big kid with
a patchy beard and strong, regular features. He saluted the big kid and the
network  and went to bed, but didn't sleep much.
He was scared. Tomorrow, he would meet other people in the network some of the
people behind the voices. That didn't frighten him. But...
Something in the lake waited for them.
How much did he trust the Secret Masters?
What did it matter?
He'd be on the lake shore, at the Toland Brothers Excursion Terminal, at six
a.m. , clean-shaven and freshly showered and dressed in the new suit he had
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56
Trevor Hicks stepped out of the rental car under a big iron trestle and
screened his eyes against the sun. He saw Arthur Gordon crossing the street.
Gordon waved. Hicks, exhausted from the drive and still nervous, made a feeble
gesture of acknowledgment. He had never become used to driving in the United
States. Unable to find a quick route by surface streets, he had taken the
freeway to get to the Seattle waterfront, then had driven in circles beneath
the bridge for ten minutes, twice barely missing other cars in the narrow
aisles. Finally he had managed to park just down the long concrete steps from
the Pike Place Market. Across the street, warehouses converted into
restaurants and shops vied with new buildings for views of the bay. Sea gulls
wheeled and squeaked over a half-eaten hamburger in the street, lifting on
spread wings to dodge passing cars.
Gordon approached and they shook hands awkwardly.
Despite having communicated recently on the network, they hadn't seen each
other since their first meeting in the Furnace Creek Inn. "My wife and son are
in the aquarium," Gordon said, pointing down the street. "That'll keep them
busy for a couple of hours."
"Do they know?" Hicks asked.
"I told them," Arthur said, "We're staying together, wherever I go. We're
driving to San Francisco next week."
Hicks nodded. "I'm staying here. I hear there's going to be activity in the
sound soon." He made a face. "If you can call it 'hearing.'"
"Any idea what sort of activity?" Arthur asked.
Hicks shook his head. "Something important. In San Francisco, too."
"I've had that impression."
"I'm sorry about your friend," Hicks said.
Arthur stared at him, puzzled. "Sorry?"
"Mr. Feinman. It was in the papers yesterday morning."
Arthur hadn't thought of Harry much since leaving Oregon. "I haven't been
reading the papers. He..."
"Monday," Hicks said.
"Christ. I...Ithaca probably called, and we were gone." He lifted his head. "I
told him about the network, too."
"Did he believe you?"
"I think he probably did."
"Then maybe it helped...No, I suppose that's silly."
Arthur stood with hands in pockets, shaken despite the months of preparation.
He felt vaguely guilty for not thinking of Harry; he had called several times
before leaving Oregon, and had been unable to speak to his friend. He took a
deep breath and indicated they should climb the stairs to the market. "I
wanted him to know that not everything was lost. I hope it helped. It's so
difficult sorting everything out."
They passed in silence through the mostly empty aisles, stopping at a bakery
to buy coffee and sitting at a white wrought-iron table placed between shops.
"How have they kept you busy?" Arthur asked.
"I've been visiting libraries, universities. Locating people...That's how I'm
most useful, apparently. I help find people the network is looking for, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]