Chapter 60
We made it.'*
They leaped to their feet, peering, listening, sniffing. The night was impenetrable, but they heard the soft sigh of night winds, and the sweet scent of green growing things came to their nostrils. Far in the distance a dog barked.
"My G.o.d, Gully," Jisbella whispered incredulously. "You're right. We're out of Gouffre Martel. All we have to do is wait for dawn."
She laughed. She flung her arms about him and kissed him, and he returned the embrace. They babbled excitedly. They sank down on the soft gra.s.s again, weary, but unable to rest, eager, impatient, all life before them.
"h.e.l.lo, Gully, darling Gully. h.e.l.lo Gully, after all this time."
"h.e.l.lo, Jiz."
"I told you we'd meet some day... some day soon. I told you, darling. And this is the day."
"The night."
"The night, so it is. But no more murmuring in the night along the Whisper Line. No more night for us, Gully, dear."
Suddenly they became aware that they were nude, lying close, no longer separated. Jisbella fell silent but did not move. He clasped her, almost angrily, and enveloped her with a desire that was no less than hers.
When dawn came, he saw that she was lovely: long and lean with smoky red hair and a generous mouth.
But when dawn came, she saw his face.
CHAPTER SIX.
HARLEY BAKER, M.D., had a small general practice in Montana-Oregon which was legitimate and barely paid for the diesel oil he consumed each weekend partic.i.p.ating in the rallies for vintage tractors which were the vogue in Sahara. His real income was earned in his Freak Factory in Trenton to which Baker jaunted every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night. There, for enormous fees and no questions asked, Baker created monstrosities for the entertainment business and refas.h.i.+oned skin, muscle, and bone for the underworld.
Looking like a male midwife, Baker sat on the cool veranda of his Spokane mansion listening to j.i.z. McQueen finish the story of her escape.
"Once we hit the open country outside Gouffre Martel it was easy. We found a shooting lodge, broke in, and got some clothes. There were guns there too... lovely old steel things for killing with explosives. Wetook them and sold them to some locals. Then we bought rides to the nearest jaunte stage we had memorized."
"Which?"
"Biarritz."
"Traveled by night, eh?"
"Naturally."
"Do anything about Foyle's face?"
"We tried makeup but that didn't work. The d.a.m.ned tattooing showed through. Then I bought a dark skin-surrogate and sprayed it on."
"Did that do it?"
"No," j.i.z. said angrily. "You have to keep your face quiet or else the surrogate cracks and peels. Foyle couldn't control himself. He never can. It was h.e.l.l."
"Where is he now?"
"Sam Quatt's got him in tow."
"I thought Sam retired from the rackets."
"He did," Jisbella said grimly, "But he owes me a favor. He's minding Foyle. They're circulating on the jaunte to stay ahead of the cops."
"Interesting," Baker murmured. "Haven't seen a tattoo case in all my life. Thought it was a dead art. I'd like to add him to my collection. You know I collect curios, Jiz?"
"Everybody knows that zoo of yours in Trenton, Baker. It's ghastly."
"I picked up a genuine fraternal cyst last month," Baker began enthusiastically.
"I don't want to hear about it," j.i.z. snapped. "And I don't want Foyle in your zoo. Can you get the muck off his face? Clean it up? He says they were stymied at General Hospital."
"They haven't had my experience, dear. Hmm. I seem to remember reading something once...
somewhere... Now where did I-? Wait a minute." Baker stood up and disappeared with a faint pop.
Jisbella paced the veranda furiously until he reappeared twenty minutes later with a tattered book in his hands and a triumphant expression on his face.
"Got it," Baker said. "Saw it in the Caltech stacks three years ago. You may admire my memory."
"To h.e.l.l with your memory. What about his face?"
"It can be done." Baker flipped the fragile pages and meditated. "Yes, it can be done. Indigotin disulphonic acid. I may have
"Will you get off your hobby," Jisbella exclaimed in exasperation. "We're hot, understand? The first that ever broke out of Gouffre Martel. The cops won't rest until they've got us back. This is extra-special forthem."
"But-"
"How long d'you think we can stay out of Gouffre Martel with Foyle running around with that tattooed face?"
"What are you so angry about?"
"I'm not angry. I'm explaining."
"He'd be happy in the zoo," Baker said persuasively. "And he'd be under cover there. I'd put him in the room next to the cyclops girl-"
"The zoo is out. That's definite."
"All right, dear. But why are you worried about Foyle being recaptured? It won't have anything to do with you."
"Why should you worry about me worrying? I'm asking you to do a job. I'm paying for the job."
"It'll be expensive, dear, and I'm fond of you. I'm trying to save you money."
"No you're not."
"Then I'm curious."
"Then let's say I'm grateful. He helped me; now I'm helping him."
Baker smiled cynically. "Then let's help him by giving him a brand new face."
"No."
"I thought so. You want his face cleaned up because you're interested in his face."
"d.a.m.n you, Baker, will you do the job or not?"
"It'll cost five thousand."
"Break that down."
"A thousand to synthesize the acid. Three thousand for the surgery. And one thousand for-"
"Your curiosity?"
"No, dear." Baker smiled again. "A thousand for the anesthetist."
"Why anesthesia?"
Baker reopened the ancient text. "It looks like a painful operation. You know how they tattoo? They take a needle, dip it in dye, and hammer it into the skin. To bleach that dye out I'll have to go over his face with a needle, pore by pore, and hammer in the indigotin disulphonic. It'll hurt."
Jisbella's eyes flashed. "Can you do it without the dope?"
"I can, dear, but Foyle-""To h.e.l.l with Foyle. I'm paying four thousand. No dope, Baker. Let Foyle suffer."
"Jizl You don't know what you're letting him in for."
"I know. Let him suffer." She laughed so furiously that she startled Baker. "Let his face make him suffer too."
Baker's Freak Factory occupied a round brick threestory building that had once been the roundhouse in a suburban railway yard before jaunting ended the need for suburban railroads. The ancient ivy-covered roundhouse was alongside the Trenton rocket pits, and the rear windows looked out on the mouths of the pits thrusting their anti-grav beams upward, and Baker's patients could amuse themselves watching the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps riding silently up and down the beams, their portholes blazing, recognition signals blinking, their hulls rippling with St. Elmo's fire as the atmosphere carried off the electrostatic charges built up in outer s.p.a.ce.
The bas.e.m.e.nt floor of the factory contained Baker's zoo of anatomical curiosities, natural freaks and monsters bought, and/or abducted. Baker, like the rest of his world, was pa.s.sionately devoted to these creatures and spent long hours with them, drinking in the spectacle of their distortions the way other men saturated themselves with the beauty of art. The middle floor of the roundhouse contained bedrooms for post-operative patients, laboratories, staff rooms, and kitchens. The top floor contained the operating theaters.
In one of the latter, a small room usually used for retinal experiments, Baker was at work on Foyle's face. Under a harsh battery of lamps, he bent over the operating table working meticulously with a small steel hammer and a platinum needle. Baker was following the pattern of the old tattooing on Foyle's face, searching out each minute scar in the skin, and driving the needle into it. Foyle's head was gripped in a clamp, but his body was unstrapped. His muscles writhed at each tap of the hammer, but he never moved his body. He gripped the sides of the operating table.
"Control," he said through his teeth. "You wanted me to learn control, Jiz. I'm practicing." He winced.
"Don't move," Baker ordered.
"I'm playing it for laughs."
"You're doing all right, son," Sam Quatt said, looking sick. He glanced sidelong at Jisbella's furious face.
"What do you say, Jiz?"
"He's learning."
Baker continued dipping and hammering the needle.
"Listen, Sam," Foyle mumbled, barely audible. "j.i.z. told me you own a private s.h.i.+p. Crime pays, huh?"
"Yeah. Crime pays. I got a little four-man job. Twin-jet. Kind they call a Saturn Weekender."
"Why Saturn Weekender?"
"Because a weekend on Saturn would last ninety days. She can carry food and fuel for three months."
"Just right for me," Foyle muttered. He writhed and controlled himself. "Sam, I want to rent your s.h.i.+p."
"What for?"
"Something hot.""Legitimate?"
"No."
"Then it's not for me, son. I've lost my nerve. Jaunting the circuit with you, one step ahead of the cops, showed me that. I've retired for keeps. All I want is peace."
"I'll pay fifty thousand. Don't you want fifty thousand? You could spend Sundays counting it."
The needle hammered remorselessly. Foyle's body was twitching at each impact.
"I already got fifty thousand. I got ten times that in cash in a bank in Vienna." Quatt reached into his pocket and took out a ring of glittering radioactive keys. "Here's the key for the bank. This is the key to my place in Joburg. Twenty rooms; twenty acres. This here's the key to my Weekender in Montauk.
You ain't temptin' me, son. I quit while I was ahead. I'm jaunting back to Joburg and live happy for the rest of my life."
"Let me have the Weekender. You can sit safe in Joburg and collect."
"Collect when?"
"When I get back."
"You want my s.h.i.+p on trust and a promise to pay?"
"A guarantee."
Quatt snorted. "What guarantee?"
"It's a salvage job in the asteroids. s.h.i.+p named 'Nomad.'"
"What's on the 'Nomad'? What makes the salvage pay off?"