sk.runningman-第13部分

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　While　he　counted　cars；　Richards　watched　the　students　e　and　go。　They　were　in　sharp　contrast　to　the　Wanted…Fax　idlers；　their　hair　was　shorter；　and　they　all　seemed　to　be　wearing　tartan　jumpers；　which　were　this　year's　kampus　kraze。　They　walked　through　the　milling　ruck　and　inside　to　make　their　purchases　with　an　air　of　unfortable　patronization　and　hail…fellow　that　left　a　curdled　amusement　in　Richards's　mouth。　The　five…minute　spaces　in　front　of　the　store　filled　and　emptied　with　sporty；　flashy　cars；　often　of　exotic　make。　Most　of　them　had　college　decals　in　the　back　windows：　Northeastern；　M。LT。；　Boston　College；　Harvard。　Most　of　the　news…fax　bums　treated　the　sporty　cars　as　part　of　the　scenery；　but　a　few　looked　at　them　with　dumb　and　wretched　longing。
　　A　Wint　pulled　out　of　the　space　directly　in　front　of　the　store　and　a　Ford　pulled　in；　settling　to　an　inch　above　the　pavement　as　the　driver；　a　crewcut　fellow　smoking　a　foot…long　cigar；　put　it　in　idle。　The　car　dipped　slightly　as　his　passenger；　a　dude　in　a　brown　and　white　hunting　jacket；　got　out　and　zipped　inside。
　　Richards　sighed。　Counting　cars　was　a　very　poor　game。　Fords　were　ahead　of　their　nearest　contender　by　a　score　of　78　to　40。　The　oute　going　to　be　predictable　as　the　next　election。
　　Someone　pounded　on　the　door　and　Richards　stiffened　like　a　bolt。
　　〃Frankie？　You　in　there；　Frankie？〃
　　Richards　said　nothing。　Frozen　with　fear；　he　played　a　statue。
　　〃You　eat　shit；　Frankie…baby。　〃　There　was　a　chortle　of　drunken　laughter　and　the　footsteps　moved　on。　Pounding　on　the　next　door　up。　〃You　in　there；　Frankie？〃
　　Richards's　heart　slipped　slowly　down　from　his　throat。
　　The　Ford　was　pulling　out；　and　another　Ford　took　its　place。　Number　79。　Shit。
　　The　day　slipped　into　afternoon；　and　then　it　was　one　o'clock。　Richards　knew　this　by　the　ringing　of　various　chimes　in　churches　far　away。　Ironically；　the　man　living　by　the　clock　had　no　watch。
　　He　was　playing　a　variation　of　the　car　game　now。　Fords　worth　two　points；　Studebakers　three；　Wints　four。　First　one　to　five　hundred　wins。
　　It　was　perhaps　fifteen　minutes　later　that　he　noticed　the　young　man　in　the　brown　and　white　hunting　jacket　leaning　against　a　lamppost　beyond　the　bookstore　and　reading　a　concert　poster。　He　was　not　being　moved　along；　in　fact；　the　police　seemed　to　be　ignoring　him。
　　You're　jumping　at　shadows；　maggot。　Next　you'll　see　them　on　the　corners。　He　counted　a　Wint　with　a　dented　fender。　A　yellow　Ford。　An　old　Studebaker　with　a　wheezing　air　cylinder；　dipping　in　slight　cycles。　A　VW…no　good；　they're　out　of　the　running。　Another　Wint。　A　Studebaker。
　　A　man　smoking　a　foot…long　cigar　was　standing　nonchalantly　at　the　bus　stop　on　the　corner。　He　was　the　only　person　there。　With　good　reason。　Richards　had　seen　the　buses　e　and　go；　and　knew　there　wouldn't　be　another　one　along　for　forty…five　minutes。
　　Richards　felt　a　coolness　creep　into　his　testicles。
　　An　old　man　in　a　threadbare　black　overcoat　sauntered　down　the　side　of　the　street　and　leaned　casually　against　the　building。
　　Two　fellows　in　tartan　jumpers　got　out　of　a　taxi；　talking　animatedly；　and　began　to　study　the　menu　in　the　window　of　the　Stockholm　Restaurant。
　　A　cop　walked　over　and　conversed　with　the　man　at　the　bus　stop。　Then　the　cop　walked　away　again。
　　Richards　noted　with　a　numb；　distant　terror　that　a　good　many　of　the　newspaper　bums　were　idling　along　much　more　slowly。　Their　clothes　and　styles　of　walking　seemed　oddly　familiar；　as　if　they　had　been　around　a　great　many　times　before　and　Richards　was　just　being　aware　of　it…in　the　tentative；　uneasy　way　you　recognize　the　voices　of　the　dead　in　dreams。
　　There　were　more　cops；　too。
　　I'm　being　bracketed；　he　thought。　The　idea　brought　a　helpless；　rabbit　terror。
　　No；　his　mind　corrected。　You've　already　been　bracketed。
　　
　　Minus　070　and　COUNTING
　　Richards　walked　rapidly　to　the　bathroom；　being　calm；　ignoring　his　terror　the　way　a　man　on　a　high　ledge　ignores　the　drop。　If　he　was　going　to　get　out　of　this；　it　would　be　by　keeping　his　head。　If　he　panicked；　he　would　die　quickly。
　　Someone　was　in　the　shower；　singing　a　popular　song　in　a　cracked　and　pitchless　voice。　No　one　was　at　the　urinals　or　the　washstands。
　　The　trick　had　popped　effortlessly　into　his　mind　as　he　had　stood　by　the　window；　watching　them　gather　in　their　offhand；　sinister　way。　If　it　hadn't　occurred　to　him；　he　thought　he　would　be　there　yet；　like　Aladdin　watching　smoke　from　the　lamp　coalesce　into　an　omnipotent　djinn。　They　had　used　the　trick　as　boys　to　steal　newspapers　from　Development　basements。　Moue　bought　them；　two　cents　a　pound。
　　He　took　one　of　the　wire　toothbrush　holders　off　the　wall　with　a　hard　snap　of　his　wrist。　It　was　a　little　rusted；　but　that　wouldn't　matter。　He　walked　down　to　the　elevator；　bending　the　toothbrush　holder　out　straight。
　　He　pushed　the　call　button；　and　the　cage　took　a　slow　eternity　to　e　down　from　eight。　It　was　empty。　Thank　Christ　it　was　empty。
　　He　stepped　in；　looked　briefly　down　the　halls；　and　then　fumed　to　the　control　panel。　There　was　a　key　slot　beside　the　button　marked　for　the　basement。　The　janitor　would　have　a　special　card　to　shove　in　there。　An　electric　eye　scanned　the　card　and　then　the　janitor　could　push　the　button　and　ride　down　to　the　basement。
　　What　if　it　doesn't　work？
　　Never　mind　that。　Never　mind　that　now。
　　Grimacing　in　anticipation　of　a　possible　electric　shock；　Richards　jammed　the　toothbrush　wire　into　the　slot　and　pushed　the　basement　button　simultaneously。
　　There　was　a　noise　from　inside　the　control　panel　that　sounded　like　a　brief　electronic　curse。　There　was　a　light；　tingling　jolt　up　his　arm。　For　a　moment；　nothing　else。　Then　the　folding　brass　gate　slid　across；　the　doors　closed；　and　the　elevator　lurched　unhappily　downward。　A　small　tendril　of　blue　smoke　curled　out　of　the　slot　in　the　panel。
　　Richards　stood　away　from　the　elevator　door　and　watched　the　numbers　flash　backwards。　When　the　L　lit；　the　motor　high　above　made　a　grinding　sound；　and　the　car　seemed　about　to　stop。　Then；　after　a　moment　（perhaps　after　it　thought　it　had　scared　Richards　enough）；　it　descended　again。　Twenty　seconds　later　the　doors　slid　open　and　Richards　stepped　out　into　the　huge　dim　basement。　There　was　water　dripping　somewhere；　and　the　scurry　of　a　disturbed　rat。　But　otherwise；　the　basement　was　his。　For　now。
　　
　　Minus　069　and　COUNTING
　　Huge；　rusted　heating　pipes　festooned　with　cobwebs　crawled　crazily　all　over　the　ceiling。　When　the　furnace　kicked　on　suddenly；　Richards　almost　screamed　in　terror。　The　surge　of　adrenaline　to　his　limbs　and　heart　was　painful；　for　a　moment　almost　incapacitating。
　　There　were　newspapers　here；　too；　Richards　saw。　Thousands　of　them；　stacked　up　and　tied　with　string。　The　rats　had　nested　in　them　by　the　thousands。　Whole　families　stared　out　at　the　interloper　with　ruby　distrustful　eyes。
　　He　began　to　walk　away　from　the　elevator；　pausing　halfway　across　the　cracked　cement　floor。　There　was　a　large　fuse　box　bolted　to　a　supporting　post；　and　behind　it；　leaning　against　the　other　side；　a　litter　of　tools。　Richards　took　the　crowbar　and　continued　to　walk；　keeping　his　eyes　on　the　floor。
　　Near　the　far　wall　he　spied　the　main　storm　drain；　to　his　left。　He　walked　over　and　looked　at　it；　wondering　in　the　back　of　his　mind　if　they　knew　he　was　down　here　yet。
　　The　storm　drain　was　constructed　of　vented　steel。　It　was　about　three　feet　across；　and　on　the　far　side　there　was　a　slot　for　the　crowbar。　Richards　slipped　it　in；　levered　up　the　cover；　and　then　put　one　foot　on　the　crowbar　to　hold　it。　He　got　his　hands　under　the　lip　of　the　cover　and　pushed　it　over。　It　fell　to　the　cement　with　a　clang　that　made　the　rats　squeak　with　dismay。
　　The　pipe　beneath　slanted　down　at　a　forty…five…degree　angle；　and　Richards　guessed　that　its　bore　could　be　no　more　than　two　and　a　half　feet。　It　was　very　dark。　Claustrophobia　suddenly　filled　his　mouth　with　flannel。　Too　small　to　maneuver　in；　almost　too　small　to　breathe　in。　But　it　had　to　be。
　　He　turned　the　storm…drain　cover　back　over　and　edged　it　toward　the　pipe　entrance　just　enough　so　he　could　grip　it　from　beneath　once　he　was　down　there　Then　he　walked　over　to　the　fuse　box；　hammered　the　padlock　off　with　the　crowbar；　and　shoved　it　open。　He　was　about　to　begin　pulling　fuses　when　another　idea　occurred　to　him。
　　He　walked　over　to　the　newspapers　which　lay　in　dirty　yellow　drifts　against　the　whole　eastern　length　of　the　cellar。　Then　he　ferreted　out　the　folded　and　dog…eared　book　of　matches　he　had　been　lighting　his　smokes　with。　There　were　three　left。　He　yanked　out　a　sheet　of　paper　and　formed　it　into　a　spill；　held　it　under　his　arm　like　a　dunce　cap　and　lit　a　match。　The　first　one　guttered　out　in　a　draft。　The　second　fell　out　of　his　trembling　hand　and　hissed　out　on　the　damp　concrete。
　　The　third　stayed　alight。　He　held　it　to　his　paper　spill　and　yellow　flame　bloomed。　A　rat；　perhaps　sensing　what　was　to　e；　ran　across　his　foot　and　into　the　darkness。
　　A　terrible　sense　of　urgency　filled　him　now；　and　yet　he　waited　until　the　spill　was　flaming　a　foot　high。　He　had　no　more　matches。　Carefully；　he　tucked　it　into　a　fissure　in　the　chest…high　paper　wall　and　waited　until　he　saw　that　the　fire　was　spreading。
　　The　huge　oil　tank　which　serviced　the　Y　was　built　into　the　adjoining　wall。　Perhaps　it　would　blow。　Richards　thought　it　would。
　　Trotting　now；　he　went　back　to　the　fuse　box　and　began　ripping　out　the　long　tubular　fuses。　He　got　most　of　them　before　the　basement　lights　went　out。　He　felt　his　way　across　to　the　storm　drain；　aided　by　the　growing；　flickering　light　of　the　burning　papers。
　　He　sat　down　with　his　feet　dangling；　and　then　slowly　eased　in。　When　his　head　was　below　the　level　of　the　floor；　he　pressed　his　knees　against　the　sides　of　the　pipe　to　hold　himself　steady；　and　worked　his　arms　up　above　his　head。　It　was　slow　work。　There　was　very　little　room　to　move。　The　light　of　the　fire　was　brilliant　yellow　now；　and　the　crackling　sound　of　burning　filled　his　ears。　Then　his　groping　fingers　found　the　lip　of　the　drain；　and　he　slid　them　up　until　they　gripped　the　vented　cover。　He　yanked　it　forward　slowly；　supporting　more　and　more　of　the　weight　with　the　muscles　of　his　back　and　neck。　When　he　judged　that　the　far　edge　of　the　cover　was　on　the　edge　of　dropping　into　place；　he　gave　one　last　fierce　tug。
　　The　cover　dropped　into　place　with　a　clang；　ben