sk.runningman-第36部分

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　　That　had　snapped　him　out　of　it。　〃Don't　feed　me　that　shit！〃　He　screamed　suddenly。　Amelia　flinched　backward　and　suddenly　hid　her　face。　〃What　happened？　Tell　me　what　happened！　〃
　　〃There's　nothing　more　I　can　say。　Your　wife　was　stabbed　over　sixty　times。〃
　　〃Cathy；〃　Richards　said　emptily；　without　thought；　and　Killian　winced。
　　〃Ben；　would　you　like　some　time　to　think　about　all　this？〃
　　〃Yes。　Yes；　I　would。〃
　　〃I'm　desperately；　desperately　sorry；　pal。　I　swear　on　my　mother　that　we　had　nothing　to　do　with　it。　Our　way　would　have　been　to　set　them　up　away　from　you；　with　visiting　rights　if　you　agreed。　A　man　doesn't　willingly　work　for　the　people　who　butchered　his　family。　We　know　that。〃
　　〃I　need　time　to　think。〃
　　〃As　Chief　Hunter；〃　Killian　said　softly；　〃you　could　get　those　bastards　and　put　them　down　a　deep　hole。　And　a　lot　of　others　just　like　them。〃
　　〃I　want　to　think。　Goodbye。〃
　　〃I…〃
　　Richards　reached　out　and　thumbed　the　Free…Vee　into　blackness。　He　sat　stonelike　in　his　seat。　His　hands　dangled　loosely　between　his　knees。　The　plane　droned　on　into　darkness。
　　So；　he　thought。　It's　all　e　unraveled。　All　of　it。
　　
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　　An　hour　passed。
　　The　time　has　e；　the　walrus　said；　to　talk　of　many　things　。　。　。　of　sailing　ships　and　sealing…wax；　And　whether　pigs　have　wings。
　　Pictures　flitted　in　and　out　of　his　mind。　Stacey。　Bradley。　Elton　Parrakis　with　his　baby　face。　A　nightmare　of　running。　Lighting　the　newspapers　in　the　basement　of　the　YMCA　with　that　last　match。　The　gas…powered　cars　wheeling　and　screeching；　the　Sten　gun　spitting　flame。　Laughlin's　sour　voice。　The　pictures　of　those　two　kids；　the　junior　Gestapo　agents。
　　Well；　why　not？
　　No　ties　now；　and　certainly　no　morality。　How　could　morality　be　an　issue　to　a　man　cut　loose　and　drifting？　How　wise　Killian　had　been　to　see　that；　to　show　Richards　with　calm　and　gentle　brutality　just　how　alone　he　was。　Bradley　and　his　impassioned　air…pollution　pitch　seemed　distant；　unreal；　unimportant。　Nose…filters。　Yes。　At　one　time　the　concept　of　nose…filters　had　seemed　large；　very　important。　No　longer　so。
　　The　poor　you　will　have　with　you　always。
　　True。　Even　Richards's　loins　had　produced　a　specimen　for　the　killing　machine。　Eventually　the　poor　would　adapt；　mutate。　Their　lungs　would　produce　their　own　filtration　system　in　ten　thousand　years　or　in　fifty　thousand；　and　they　would　rise　up；　rip　out　the　artificial　filters　and　watch　their　owners　flop　and　kick　and　drum　their　lives　away；　drowning　in　an　atmosphere　where　oxygen　played　only　a　minor　part；　and　what　was　futurity　to　Ben　Richards？　It　was　all　only　bitchin。
　　There　would　be　a　period　of　grief。　They　would　expect　that；　provide　for　it。　There　would　even　be　rages；　moments　of　revolt。　Abortive　tries　to　make　the　knowledge　of　deliberate　poison　in　the　air　public　again？　Maybe。　They　would　take　care　of　it。　Take　care　of　him…anticipation　of　a　time　when　he　would　take　care　of　them。　Instinctively　he　knew　he　could　do　it。　He　suspected　he　might　even　have　a　certain　genius　for　the　job。　They　would　help　him；　heal　him。　Drugs　and　doctors。　A　change　of　mind。
　　Then；　peace。
　　Contentiousness　rooted　out　like　bitterweed。
　　He　regarded　the　peace　longingly；　the　way　a　man　in　the　desert　regards　water。
　　Amelia　Williams　cried　steadily　in　her　seat　long　after　the　time　when　all　tears　should　have　gone　dry。　He　wondered　indifferently　what　would　bee　of　her。　She　couldn't　very　well　be　returned　to　her　husband　and　family　in　her　present　state；　she　simply　was　not　the　same　lady　who　had　pulled　up　to　a　routine　stop　sign　with　her　mind　all　full　of　meals　and　meetings；　clubs　and　cooking。　She　had　Shown　Red。　He　supposed　there　would　be　drugs　and　therapy；　a　patient　showing　off。　The　Place　Where　Two　Roads　Diverged；　a　pinpointing　of　the　reason　why　the　wrong　path　had　been　chosen。　A　carnival　m　dark　mental　browns。
　　He　wanted　suddenly　to　go　to　her；　fort　her；　tell　her　that　she　was　not　badly　broken；　that　a　single　crisscrossing　of　psychic　Band…Aids　should　fix　her；　make　her　even　better　than　she　had　been　before。
　　Sheila。　Cathy。
　　Their　names　came　and　repeated；　clanging　in　his　mind　like　bells；　like　words　repeated　until　they　are　reduced　to　nonsense。　Say　your　name　over　two　hundred　times　and　discover　you　are　no　one。　Grief　was　impossible；　he　could　feel　only　a　fuzzy　sense　of　embarrassment：　they　had　taken　him；　run　him　slack…lunged；　and　he　had　turned　out　to　be　nothing　but　a　horse's　ass　after　all。　He　remembered　a　boy　from　his　grammar　school　days　who　had　stood　up　to　give　the　Pledge　of　Allegiance　and　his　pants　had　fallen　down。
　　The　plane　droned　on　and　on。　He　sank　into　a　three…quarter　doze。　Pictures　came　and　went　lazily；　whole　incidents　were　seen　without　any　emotional　color　at　all。
　　Then；　a　final　scrapbook　picture：　a　glossy　eight…by…ten　taken　by　a　bored　police　photographer　who　had　perhaps　been　chewing　gum。　Exhibit　C；　ladies　and　gentlemen　of　the　jury。　One　ripped　and　sliced　small　body　in　a　blood…drenched　crib。　Splatters　and　runnels　on　the　cheap　stucco　walls　and　the　broken　Mother　Goose　mobile　bought　for　a　dime。　A　great　sticky　clot　on　the　secondhand　teddy　bear　with　one　eye。
　　He　snapped　awake；　full　awake　and　bolt　upright；　with　his　mouth　propped　wide　in　a　blabbering　scream。　The　force　expelled　from　his　lungs　was　great　enough　to　make　his　tongue　flap　like　a　sail。　Everything；　everything　in　the　first…class　partment　was　suddenly　clear　and　plangently　real；　overpowering；　awful。　It　had　the　grainy　reality　of　a　scare　tabloid　newsie　clip。　Laughlin　being　dragged　out　of　that　shed　in　Topeka；　for　instance。　Everything；　everything　was　very　real　and　in　Technicolor。
　　Amelia　screamed　affrightedly　in　unison；　cringing　back　in　her　seat　with　eyes　as　huge　as　cracked　porcelain　doorknobs；　trying　to　cram　a　whole　fist　in　her　mouth。
　　Donahue　came　charging　through　the　galley；　his　gun　out。　His　eyes　were　small　enthusiastic　black　beads。　〃What　is　it？　What's　wrong？　McCone？〃
　　〃No；〃　Richards　said；　feeling　his　heart　slow　just　enough　to　keep　his　words　from　sounding　squeezed　and　desperate。　〃Bad　dream。　My　little　girl。〃
　　〃Oh。〃　Donahue's　eyes　softened　in　counterfeit　sympathy。　He　didn't　know　how　to　do　it　very　well。　Perhaps　he　would　be　a　goon　all　his　life。　Perhaps　he　would　learn。　He　turned　to　go。
　　〃Donahue？〃
　　Donahue　turned　back　warily。
　　〃Had　you　pretty　scared；　didn't　I？〃
　　〃No。　〃　Donahue　turned　away　on　that　short　word。　His　neck　was　bunched。　His　buttocks　in　his　tight　blue　uniform　were　as　pretty　as　a　girl's。
　　〃I　can　scare　you　worse；〃　Richards　remarked。　〃I　could　threaten　to　take　away　your　nose　filter。〃
　　Exeunt　Donahue。
　　Richards　closed　his　eyes　tiredly。　The　glossy　eight…by…ten　came　back。　Opened　them。　Closed　them。　No　glossy　eight…by…ten。　He　waited；　and　when　he　was　sure　it　was　not　going　to　e　back　（right　away）；　he　opened　his　eyes　and　thumbed　on　the　Free…Vee。
　　It　popped　on　and　there　was　Killian。
　　
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　　〃Richards。〃　Killian　leaned　forward；　making　no　effort　to　conceal　his　tension。　
　　〃I've　decided　to　accept；〃　Richards　said。　
　　Killian　leaned　back　and　nothing　smiled　but　his　eyes。　〃I'm　very　glad；〃　he　said。
　　
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　　〃Jesus；〃　Richards　said。　He　was　standing　in　the　doorway　to　the　pilot's　country。
　　Holloway　turned　around。　〃Hi。　〃　He　had　been　speaking　to　something　called　Detroit　VOR。　Duninger　was　drinking　coffee。
　　The　twin　control　consoles　were　untended。　Yet　they　swerved；　tipped；　and　fumed　as　if　in　response　to　ghost　hands　and　feet。　Dials　swung。　Lights　flashed。　There　seemed　to　be　a　huge　and　constant　input　and　output　going　on　。　。　。　to　no　one　at　all。
　　〃Who's　driving　the　bus？〃　Richards　asked；　fascinated。
　　〃Otto；〃　Duninger　said。
　　〃Otto？〃
　　〃Otto　the　automatic　pilot。　Get　it？　Shitty　pun。〃　Duninger　suddenly　smiled。　〃Glad　to　have　you　on　the　team；　fella。　You　may　not　believe　this；　but　some　of　us　guys　were　rooting　for　you　pretty　hard。〃
　　Richards　nodded　nonmittally。
　　Holloway　stepped　into　the　slightly　awkward　breach　by　saying：　〃Otto　freaks　me　out；　too。　Even　after　twenty　years　of　this。　But　he's　dead　safe。　Sophisticated　as　hell。　It　would　make　one　of　the　old　ones　look　like　a　。　。　。　well；　like　an　orange　crate　beside　a　Chippendale　bureau。〃
　　〃Is　that　right？〃　Richards　was　staring　out　into　the　darkness。
　　〃Yes。　You　lock　on　P。O。D。…point　of　destination…and　Otto　takes　over；　aided　by　Voice…Radar　all　the　way。　Makes　the　pilot　pretty　superfluous；　except　for　takeoffs　and　landings。　And　in　case　of　trouble。〃
　　〃Is　there　much　you　can　do　if　there's　trouble？〃　Richards　asked。
　　〃We　can　pray；〃　Holloway　said。　Perhaps　it　was　meant　to　sound　jocular；　but　it　came　out　with　a　strange　sincerity　that　hung　in　the　cabin。
　　〃Do　those　wheels　actually　steer　the　plane？〃　Richards　asked。
　　〃Only　up　and　down；〃　Duninger　said。　〃The　pedals　control　sideside　motion。
　　〃Sounds　like　a　kid's　soapbox　racer。〃
　　〃A　little　more　plicated。〃　Holloway　said。　〃Let's　just　say　there　are　a　few　more　buttons　to　push。〃
　　〃What　happens　if　Otto　goes　off　his　chump？〃
　　〃Never　happens；〃　Duninger　said　with　a　grin。　〃If　it　did；　you'd　just　override　him。　But　the　puter　is　never　wrong；　pal。〃
　　Richards　wanted　to　leave；　but　the　sight　of　the　turning　wheels；　the　minute；　mindless　adjustments　of　the　pedals　and　switches；　held　him。　Holloway　and　Duninger　went　back　to　their　business…obscure　numbers　and　munications　filled　with　static。
　　Holloway　looked　back　once；　seemed　surprised　to　see　him　still　there。　He　grinned　and　pointed　into　the　darkness。　〃You'll　see　Harding　ing　up　there　soon。〃
　　〃How　long？〃
　　〃You'll　be　able　to　see　the　horizon　glow　in　five　to　six　minutes。〃
　　When　Holloway　turned　around　next；　Richards　was　gone。　He　said　to　Duninger：　〃I'll　be　glad　when　we　set　that　guy　down。　He's　a　spook〃
　　Duninger　looked　down　morosely；　his　face　bathed　in　the　green；　luminescent　glow　of　the　controls。　〃He　didn't　like　Otto。　You　know　that？〃
　　〃I　know　it；〃　Holloway　said。
　　
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　　Richards　walked　back　down　the　narrow；　hip…wide　corridor。　Friedman；　the　munications　man；　didn't　look　up。　Neither　did　Donahue。　Richards　stepped　through　into　the　galley　and　then　halted。
　　The　smell　of　coffee　was　strong　and　good。　He　poured　himself　a　cup；　added　some　instant　creamer；　and　sat　down　in　one　of　the　stewardesses's　off…duty　chairs。　The　Silex　bubbled