that certain crazed fanatics were looking for him? When the police
located him and brought him back, she would so inform him. He
should be properly grateful.
Was there anything else? she asked optimistically, hoping to
speed her unwanted visitors on their way.
No, that seems to be, sadly, all you can tell us. The woman
preceded her companion in exiting the living room s conversation
area. Thank you for your help.
We who pave the way thank you, the man added as he strode
past. In so doing, he bumped into the nervous doctor. Sorry.
And then they were gone. Speaking into her command brace-
let, Marinsky immediately sealed every entrance to the house. A
quick check revealed that the privacy sphere had evaporated along
with those who had put it in place. By staying composed, she had
disposed of the intruders without harm to her home, to herself, or to
% %
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FLINX S FOLLY
them. Feeling relieved and not a little pleased with herself, she was
preparing to use her communicator to call urb security when a de-
manding itch caused her to look down at her left forearm. Where
the man had bumped into her, a small red blotch had appeared on
the bare skin. It was spreading rapidly. Alarmed, she activated the
com unit. When she tried to speak into it she discovered that her
vocal cords would not work. The paralysis proliferated with aston-
ishing speed.
When urb security finally arrived she was lying on the floor of
her undisturbed living room, the com unit clutched tightly in frozen
fingers, eyes open, her mouth parted in preparation of speaking
words that had not, and now never would, emerge.
As they sped away from the exclusive development in their
rented vehicle, the nondescript visitors discussed the implications of
their visit.
One more killing. As she spoke, the woman s thoughts turned
from the physician they had just left to their quarry.
It does not matter. Her companion was programming the
small skimmer to take them to the modest downtown hotel that they
had made their center of operations since arriving on Goldin IV.
The Death comes to us all sooner or later.
May it be sooner. The woman responded automatically in the
litany of the Order. Do you think he is still somewhere in the city?
We can only hope. Switching to automatic, the skimmer
joined a line of vehicles heading for the city. If so, we must find
him before the local authorities do. We have few associates here.
The physician knew nothing of his true nature. Sitting back in
her seat, the woman pondered the scenery whizzing past outside,
scenery that, like everything else, would be obliterated by the same
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ALAN DEAN FOSTER
clean slate that would come to dominate all of existence. Though
she knew she was personally unlikely to witness that coming, she
could anticipate and envision it in her imagination. That was the
wonderful thing about nothingness, she knew. It was clean. Pure. So
unlike the teeming, festering cosmos of today. It was coming. It was
inevitable.
Only one individual might possibly, by means and methods not
understood, somehow slow that process. He might do so only be-
cause he possessed knowledge of what was coming. Infinitesimal as
the possibility of the Forthcoming being diverted or halted might be,
it still existed. By dealing with him the Order would ensure that
even that minuscule possibility was erased.
It was little enough to do. If others died in the course of seeking
him, it meant nothing. If she and her companion died, it meant
nothing.
They would find the only one who, besides the members of
the Order, knew the full truth of what was coming, and they would
kill him. If possible, she wanted to speak to him first, to find out
everything that he knew and if he had passed the knowledge along
to many others. Because in that event, they would also have to die.
How ironic that if not for him and his knowing, the Order whose
members now vigorously sought his demise would not even exist.
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3 6
C H A P T E R
3
When Flinx stepped out of the hoverer and into open air he was be-
tween two and three thousand meters above the ground. At a com-
mand, the feather-light aerocomposite wings of the repeller attached
to his chest and legs unfolded. He dropped a few hundred meters be-
fore the repeller s breatherip intake snagged sufficient air and ar-
rested his plunge. Wraparound goggles snug against his face, hands
inserted into the repeller s control mittens, he leveled off and headed
for the leading edge of the nearest cloud. It was a big, puffy white
cumulus. Ingesting its moisture would top off the repeller s supply
of hydrogen. Repeatedly doing so would allow a competent flier to
remain aloft for as long as he wished, provided the weather cooper-
ated and he did not get too tired.
He soon left his fellow recreational soarers behind. They had
gone east to swoop along the flanks of the mountains where rising
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ALAN DEAN FOSTER
air currents would allow them to conserve energy. Flinx preferred
solitude. Effortlessly, the repeller carried him westward, high above
the gently undulating forest far below. He was looking for company
but not of the human kind.
He found it ten minutes later in the form of a flock of kyl-le-kee. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]