Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Telenizer by Don Thompson (best finance books of all time TXT) 📖
- Author: Don Thompson
Book online «The Telenizer by Don Thompson (best finance books of all time TXT) 📖». Author Don Thompson
I said, "Well, shucks, then. All I have to do is sit back and let you fellows dig up the information I need."
"That, of course, depends on how the information is classified after it's processed," Johnson corrected. "Maybe you can use it and maybe you can't." He shrugged. "Well, I've got a whole new batch of questions here for you. That's my job right now. Let's get at 'em."
After Johnson was gone and I again felt mentally empty, I turned to Maxwell, who was pacing the floor restlessly: "Well, shall we go down and set up your defense barrier again?"
"Let's take a walk," he said. "I've got a headache. Fresh air might help."
"Suits me," I replied. "I know of a little bar seven or eight blocks from here...."
I stopped because he was already going out the door, and I had to get up from the chair, grab the defense mech and run after him.
He wasn't hurrying, just walking casually, but not waiting for anything.
In the elevator, on the way down, he said, "Those defense mechs. God damn. I wish those defense mechs...."
I nudged him. The elevator operator was looking at him closely, and there's no use taking any chances. He ought to know better.
He was out of the elevator as soon as the door opened at ground level. He walked toward the front entrance. I had to run again to catch up with him.
"Hey, what's the hurry?" I asked. "Can I come along too?"
He didn't answer, just kept walking. Looking straight ahead, still not hurrying, but moving rapidly nevertheless. When we got outside, he turned right and continued at the same steady pace.
I tugged at his arm. "Hey, the bar I mentioned is the other way."
He shook my hand loose and kept walking. "I want to go this way."
I shrugged and trotted to keep up with him. "Okay. If you know of a better place, we'll go there. But—"
"This damn headache," he said. "I've had it all day. All afternoon."
"My fault," I said. "I started you puzzling over a problem that concerns only me...."
He wasn't listening.
There were few pedestrians on this level of traffic; most people who walked places took the ambulators on the second level. Down here the sidewalks were narrow and the curbs high, the streets being used almost exclusively for heavy transfer and delivery trucks.
A high metal railing along the street-side of the walk prevented careless pedestrians from stepping in the path of the huge, swift, rumbling vehicles.
But there were no railings at the intersections.
And at the next intersection, Maxwell stepped off the curb, shifted his course just a fraction, and went on at a tangent that would have had him smack in the middle of a truck-traffic lane.
I grabbed his arm and pulled hard, to get him headed back in the right direction.
"What the hell are you trying to do—get yourself killed?"
Which was almost exactly what I'd started to say. But he was the one who said it.
So I just said, "Huh?"
He jerked his arm free and continued walking—straight toward an oncoming 100-ton semi.
I had a sudden idea of what was going on, and acted rapidly.
I set the defense mech down, because you can't handle a man Maxwell's size with only one hand. I grabbed his arm again, this time with both hands, and pulled as hard as I could. It jerked him off balance and out of danger. The semi roared past.
And Maxwell turned on me with sudden, violent anger.
"Listen," he snapped, "what in hell's the matter with you? What do you think you're doing?"
I didn't argue with him. I took careful aim and threw a haymaker, giving it everything I had. It caught the point of his chin squarely and jarred me to my ankle.
He swayed a little bit and his face went blank, but he didn't fall.
For which I shall be eternally grateful.
Another giant semi, still nearly a block away, was hurtling toward us. If Maxwell had fallen, I could not possibly have dragged him out of the way in time. And the semi couldn't have stopped in that distance.
As it was, I was able to snatch up the defense mech with one hand and propel Maxwell to the opposite curb, just seconds before the truck went by with a whiz and a rattle.
I got Maxwell onto an escalator leading to the second level before his legs buckled. Then he went to his knees. I managed to get his arm around my shoulder and hoist him back to his feet before we reached the top.
On the second level there were no vehicles; quite a few pedestrians glided by in both directions, on several different speeds of ambulator bands.
I spotted a bar down the street and dragged Maxwell onto a amband going that way.
By the time I got him inside and settled in a booth, he was beginning to recover, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
I ordered a whole bottle of Scotch and handed Maxwell a glass of the stuff. He took it automatically and drank half of it as though it were water.
He put the glass down quickly and half rose from his seat, clutching his throat and gasping. I handed him another glass, this one containing water. He drank it and sat back down, slowly.
"Drink the rest of that Scotch," I said. "Drink it quick and don't ask any questions. Someone's got a telenosis beam on you, and he isn't kidding."
It penetrated, for he emptied the glass with short but rapid gulps. I filled the glass again and ordered more water. It took him fifteen minutes to kill the glass this time, taking only a little sip of Scotch for every deep gulp of water. But he got it down, though he was nearly unconscious at the end.
"Listen," I said, reaching over to shake his limp shoulder. "Are you still with me? For the love of heaven, don't pass out on me—that's about the worst thing you could do. John!"
He jerked his head and regarded me with unfocused eyes. "Huh? Wash matter, ole fren? I'm wish ya. Wish ya ta the end. Washer trouble, huh?"
I said, "John, listen. You're in danger. We've got to get you out of here. Out of town. Back to New York. Right away! Do you understand?"
He nodded limply. I wasn't sure whether he really understood or not. But if he could only walk, it wouldn't make much difference.
If only he didn't pass out ... it wasn't very far. Just back to the door, then into the elevator instead of going onto the street at this level. Then, on the third level, only the few feet necessary to catch a bus or a cab to take us to the strato-port.
If he couldn't walk, I didn't know what I'd do. Whoever the telenosis operator was, I was sure he had followed us to this bar through Maxwell's mind. That's the way telenosis works. Alcohol sets up a complete barrier, and contact is broken entirely; but about all a blow on the head does is immobilize the victim—visions, commands and other impressions can still penetrate, and the operator can still receive whatever sensations his victim may have.
Maxwell hadn't been unconscious enough for us to be safe. Someone wanted our blood. We had to move fast.
And if he couldn't manage to walk at all....
He couldn't, exactly. But he could get to his feet and lurch and stumble along after a fashion.
It accomplished the same purpose.
I got him to the third level, and we stood at the entrance of the bar while I got myself oriented.
I had made a tactical error. Vehicles going to the strato-port stopped on the other side of the street. And to get there, I would now have to walk Maxwell all the way down to the end of the block to a pedestrian cross-walk, then halfway back up the other side.
The alternative was to go down again and cross in the middle of the block on the pedestrian level, which is what I should have done in the first place.
But I wanted to get as far away from the bar as possible and as soon as possible. So I shrugged and turned to my left, shoving and dragging Maxwell with me.
As I did so, my defense mech started clicking.
Maxwell stumbled and nearly fell. I shoved him against the side of a building and leaned against him to keep him up. The liquor had hit him hard. If he once went down, there would be no getting him up. Not by me.
We did better after I wrapped one of his arms around my shoulder. I could carry part of his weight and I had better control of him. I kept him as close to the storefronts as possible, to minimize the possibility of being recognized from a moving vehicle in the street.
It didn't do a bit of good.
They'd probably spotted us as soon as we stepped away from the bar entrance. For all I know, they had been waiting for us since we entered the bar.
Three of them. Sitting there in the illegally parked light passenger sedan just ahead of us.
I saw it when we were still fifteen feet away. I saw it, and I knew what it was, and I stopped.
The sedan wasn't really parked. It was just pulled over close against the curb, moving slowly toward us.
When I stopped, the sedan moved up quickly even with us, and two men stepped out.
I edged Maxwell toward a drugstore entrance a few feet to the left, but the men from the sedan were at our side in an instant.
"Hey, friend, got a match?" one of them asked for the benefit of a passing couple who glanced at us.
I recognized him. A deep criss-crossed scar ran from above his right cheekbone vertically down his cheek, ending in a big dent in his jaw bone. His lips were thick and loose.
For just an instant I was motionless, frozen, my right hand holding Maxwell's arm over my shoulder, my left hand gripping the quietly ticking defense mech.
Then I moved almost without thinking about it.
I released my grip on Maxwell's arm, shoving him against the thug that I didn't recognize. At the same time, I swung my defense mech, aiming at the head of my scarfaced acquaintance. He raised his arm, but the heavy case slammed into it and bounced off his forehead.
It probably broke his arm, and possibly fractured his skull. I didn't wait to find out.
Holding tightly to the defense mech, I darted into the store entrance. I left Maxwell blindly clutching the assailant into whose path I had thrown him. I didn't worry about Maxwell. They could have him. If I got away, they wouldn't dare kill him. And if I didn't get away, they would kill both of us.
The escalator was just inside the door to the right, and I ran down the downward-moving steps, doubling back to the left at the bottom, and out the door on the pedestrian level. I turned left again and ran to the corner, crossed the street and ran three-fourths the length of the block.
I glanced backward and didn't see anyone running after me, so I entered a late-hour department store. I wasn't safe yet, and I didn't feel safe, but I felt encouraged enough to slow down to a fast walk through the aisles of the men's clothing section.
I had to get to a visiphone, first of all, and call Newell in New York. And then—well, I wasn't sure. Hide, somewhere. Keep from being captured.
It took me three minutes of rapid wandering through the building to find a row of visiphone booths. I placed the call. While I waited, nervously crossing and uncrossing my legs, peering intermittently out the window to see if there was any sign of pursuit, I had time to think.
I had time to think, but I didn't think. Not really. I was thinking of what I was going to tell Newell. Thinking of Maxwell being dragged away by Grogan's "secretaries," and wondering what would happen to him. But I didn't really think, and maybe it's just as well.
A little less than nine agonizing minutes elapsed before Newell's plump face appeared on the screen.
"You're late tonight," he said. "I was just on the verge of calling you. How're things going?"
I told him quickly, and with a minimum of detail, what had happened since our last session.
"It's Grogan, after all," I said. "I'd recognize that scarfaced gorilla of his anywhere. Get Grogan and—"
The boss nodded. "We'll get
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