SRT glanced at THX and then at the door. It was shut. Impulsively, THX jumped up and slid his chair against the door, wedging it firmly.
SRT grinned at him. “It doesn’t matter, huh?”
The door jiggled slightly, but the chair held it shut.
“I guess it does matter,” THX said, surprised to hear himself saying it. “It still does.”
The robot’s voice, unruffled, unhurried, the perfect public servant, said, “Remain calm. The door seems to be jammed or locked. Please check the lock on your side. We are not going to hurt you. Everything will be all right.”
They heard a faint buzzing sound, and the acrid smell of something burning. A tiny glowing spot appeared on the door just below the latch.
Not going to hurt us!
THX spun around and plugged in the earphones and mike again.
“Emergency!” he called. “Emergency! Fire in Station DBR 2618, Reproclinic 12. Repeat. Emergency. Fire in Station DBR 2618, Reproclinic 12. Top priority. Condition red!”
He turned to SRT. “Get ready to run.”
An automatic tape blared from the celing:
“EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! HEAR THIS! HEAR THIS! Fire in Station DBR 2618, Reproclinic 12. Discontinue all operations until…”
“Now!” THX yelled.
SRT whisked the chair away, THX yanked the door open, and they bolted past the police robots, which were standing dumbly listening to the instructions from the overhead speakers. Before the robots could react, the two men were out of the clinic and pounding madly down a main corridor.
“Upstairs to the factories!” THX gasped as they ran. “More people, easier to hide…”
Control was truly agitated. He swallowed another sedative and listened to the reports on his communicator.
“Monetary unit total: 5000 and rising. Account on 1138 prefix THX has just exceeded primary budget.”
“Have you seen them? They must be somewhere in corridor 3-L73.”
“Analysis indicates they are heading up toward the next level. Possibly arming for the superstructure.”
The chief of Mercicontrol police appeared on Control’s giant viewscreen. His puffy face and beady little eyes made him look almost like the legendary First Control. He looked flushed, though, and apprehensive.
“We almost had them,” he said to Control. Speaking first to Control, before you were spoken to, was a privilege that only a very few had.
“They’ve been very clever.” Control maintained his outward calm only with an enormous exertion of self-control. “But one would imagine that with a city full of police robots, observers, remote cameras, and such—you could apprehend two simple fugitives.”
“We got SEN 5241,” the chief said defensively.
Control said, “It’s the two fugitives I’m interested in. They must be caught! It’s uneconomic to allow them to remain free. The costs of apprehending them are already unbalancing the economic forecast for the month! If you don’t get them soon the entire year’s forecast will have to be redone!”
The police chief blanched. For Control to raise his voice, to show worry or anger—the chief began to tremble.
“We’re trying. This has been a severe test of our equipment and procedures. In… uh, in my last annual report I pointed out the need for an improved-model robot. Our present Mark XV’s are just too slow to keep up with an adrenalin-drenched adult male. And we need long- distance weapons. The electric rods are no good when the fugitive’s half a corridor length ahead of you.”
Holding his aching head in his hands, Control snarled, “Find them and bring them to justice. Quickly!”
THX and SRT pounded up another spiraling metal stairwell, heading for the second level. Far below them they could hear echoing:
“Yes, we hear them. Attempting sonic localization.”
“Connect me with Mercicontrol Dispatch, operation 1138 prefix THX.”
“Monetary unit total: 5750 and rising.”
This time the corridor they stepped into was alive with people. Not the frenetic bedlamites of the shopping levels, but the solid, quiet, serious-faced factory workers who had just put in a tiring four-hour shift and were plodding homeward.
The workers were pouring out of the huge yawning entryways all along the corridor and shuffling wearily toward the transport terminal a few hundred meters from the hatchway that THX and SRT stepped through.
THX could see the terminal. A long line of tram cars stood there, being obediently filled, one at a time, by the workers. Every few seconds a tram would start up, its electric engine whining. Men and women would back out of the way as the tram car lurched forward and then sped smoothly off into the distance, accelerating as it went.
Despite the fact that the workers were mostly quiet and sedated, their sheer numbers caused a constant uproar of voices and sounds in the corridor. After the quiet of the computer and clinic levels, the noise here was a shock to THX.
But the crowds meant camouflage, protection and safety, and THX laughed as he joined the jumble and uproar, with SRT right beside him. They let the crowd push them toward the tram cars.
For a flash of a second, as they were climbing into the tram, THX remembered his last ride in one. Suddenly he wanted to back away, to run from the tram, but it was too late. The crowd surged on and pushed him and SRT on board.
There was no room to sit, so they stood jammed against other people as the car lurched, shuddered, then slid away, swaying around a curve. The rapid transit tunnel outside turned into a meaningless blur of speed.
The tram whizzed past several stations, then slowed to a stop. There was a station platform outside, but the doors did not open. The jampacked crowd began to mutter. An old woman pounded on the door with her fist.
Outside on the platform, other workers were milling around, looking either curious or angry at the foul-up.
Then the ever-present loudspeakers said:
“Two fugitives from justice are somewhere on this tram car. The entire station has been sealed off and police are on their way here to make an arrest. Please remain calm.”
“I want to get off!” a man shouted.
The crowd in the tram car roared its agreement.
“I don’t want to be involved in any police arrests!” the old lady at the doors said.
“C’mon, force the doors open!”
The tram rocked dangerously as the crowd surged against the folding doors in the center of the car. The old woman screamed with pain and then the doors buckled and sprang open. The crowd spilled out onto the platform.
THX and SRT jumped onto the platform, pushed by those behind them.
“Look!” SRT called.
Down a flight of moving stairs, a long file of black-jacketed chrome police robots was gliding toward them. Everyone on the platform froze into obedient stillness.
Except THX.
He bolted toward the other end of the platform.
After an instant’s hesitation, SRT raced along behind him.
“Autos!” THX called out. There were a few jetcars parked at the end of the station platform. An overhead speaker was saying:
“Do not park in yellow-zoned sections for longer than three minutes. Jet acceleration must not exceed two percent in the dispersal area. To avoid being singed by jet exhaust, please exit your vehicle on the right and walk through the blue zone on the left.”
THX jumped off the end of the platform and sprinted for the nearest jetcar.
“Can you drive?” SRT shouted as they ran.
Nodding, THX wrenched open the hatch on the nearest car and slid in behind the wheel. He slammed the door shut, looked over the control panel briefly, found the starter switch. Thumbing it, he saw all the control indicators flash green. The turbine engine growled to life, then howled into such a high range that it passed human hearing. He only felt its thrilling vibration, heard the faintest bone-shivering whine.
He looked up and saw SRT climbing into the car parked next to his own.
Quickly slipping on the earphones that rested on the console beside his seat, THX heard a robot’s tape voice commanding:
“Stop where you are. You have nothing to be afraid of. Cooperate with the authorities.”
THX grabbed the wheel firmly and nudged the throttle forward. The jetcar purred smoothly out onto the thoroughfare. He floored it and the car zoomed away, down the traffic corridor, rushing toward an immense sign that said XWAY AHEAD. The engine exhaust roared and echoed through the cavernous corridor.
He looked in the rearview for SRT. Nowhere. He checked the radar screen on the control panel. SRT wasn’t anywhere around.
Can he drive? THX wondered. I just left him there!
For an agonizing moment, he bit his lip in indecision. Then he slowed the jetcar, swung it around across eight lanes of highway, and headed down the other side of the corridor, back toward the transport station.
It seemed incredible, but less than a minute had passed since they had left the tram. The crowd was still milling confusedly around the platform. The police robots were working their way through the crowd, looking into each person’s face and checking their badges.
And SRT’s blazing red jetcar was still sitting at the end of the platform, in the parking area. THX could see the black man in it, frowning over the controls, pushing buttons. No grin on him now. SRT glanced over his shoulder and THX followed his gaze. Two chrome police robots were approaching the parking area. THX, his car idling in the far lane, thumbed the window control.
He was about to yell for SRT to jump out and run to his own auto, when the red car’s engine roared to life with a puff of sooty exhaust. The big grin came back to the black man’s face. He looked up, recognized THX and waved, then slammed the red car into gear and shot ahead.
Into a concrete pillar. The car was instantly demolished in a thundering explosion.
THX felt the shock wave hit him and rattle the car. He sat there, immobile, unbelieving. A life had been snuffed out in an eyeblink. A friend—his only friend—the first and last friend he had in the world. Dead.
“We have an accident in Module Dispersal Center 21. Stolen vehicle into 3T support. Felon killed instantly. Car totaled.”
“Monetary unit total: 15,500 and rising.”
Now the chrome robots turned toward THX. For a frozen instant he couldn’t move. Then, like the breaking of a spell, he slammed the jetcar’s throttle and felt the blast of acceleration snap his head back against the rest.
The engine thundered and the station, the robots, the wreckage of SRT all disappeared into the distance.
The guidance screen on his control panel showed that he was approaching an express tunnel. THX swerved the car onto the appropriately marked lane as his earphones buzzed:
“I have a vehicle entering a restricted access expressway. Vehicle checks with stolen jetcar, Samos model, registration number 327115.”
“Escaped felon 1138 prefix THX believed operating stolen Samos 327115. Apprehend at once. Proceed with caution.”
“Monetary unit total: 19,000 and rising. Please review all unfunded obligations.”
THX gunned the jetcar onto the expressway, howling down the huge tunnel to… where? Upward. Up to the first level, where the powerplants rumbled and the radioactivity level was high enough to be lethal if you stayed for more than a few hours.
And beyond that?
The traffic monitor grimaced and shook his head as he watched the huge electronic map spread out on the wall display in front of him. One yellow blip—THX’s car—was the center of his attention.
“Expressway 291,” he said into his lip mike. “Clear all traffic. Mercicontrol police request full clearance in apprehension procedure. Divert all traffic to link 4833—cross to web 2.”
THX heard the monitor’s commands. His radar screen chimed. Glancing down at it, he saw two blips far to the rear of him.
“Electrocycles 1048 and 1050 dispatched to apprehend fugitive 1138 prefix THX.”
“Predicted route of flight will be transferred to web 3 at 3:47.”
“Proceed. Execute.”
Electrocycles couldn’t catch a turbine-driven jetcar, THX knew. But as if in answer to his thought, the car began to make strange noises. The engine was thumping, clunking. Indicators on the control panel began flashing red. The engine’s overheating. Automatically, the car slowed down.
THX frantically scanned the panel. There must be some way…
“Radar fix on stolen Samos 327115. Range, five kilometers.”
He tried every knob and switch on the control panel, but the overheat indicator stayed stubbornly red. The engine whined down. The car glided to a stop.
“Subject vehicle appears to have stopped in expressway 291. Subject has ceased flight. Report when fugitive is in custody.”
The two yellow blips on the radar screen were drawing steadily closer. It would only be a matter of minutes before they were on top of him.
There was a switch marked Cool, but whenever THX hit it, freezing air swirled around him and the engine temperature indicator stayed firmly in the danger zone, glaring balefully at him. His hand touched the switch marked Fuel Recirc, and the red lights on the panel suddenly began winking off. The engine growled again, then steadied to a sweet purring. The last red light turned green, and THX hit the throttle. The car leaped forward.
“Subject jetcar Samos 327115 appears to be moving again. Range increasing.”
The radar dots fell behind him again as he zoomed through the express tunnel and up the rampway that led to the first level. A warning sounded in his earphones.
“You are approaching a restricted area. Danger of radioactivity extreme. Turn back at the next interloop.”
THX ignored the warning. He glanced at the radar screen. The electrocycles stayed firmly behind him. Robots didn’t fear radioactivity. Or did they?
Where to? Where to? THX asked himself. There’s nothing left for me in this world. Nothing at all. Can’t stay on Level One. Can’t live in the superstructure. Can’t return below.
“Subject vehicle is entering construction area 36J. Passage through this expressway section is closed. Contact operator at once.”
“Alert construction personnel. Samos 327115 approaching. Evacuate area.”
“Attention Samos 327115. Stop your vehicle. Warning! Warning! Stop your vehicle. You are approaching a work area. Do you read? Respond.”
Is it a trick?
Suddenly there was a barrier up ahead with construction equipment strewn across the roadway behind it. OMM’s voice broke in.
“Everything will be all right. You are in my hands. You have nowhere to go. I am here to protect you. You have nowhere to go. Nowhere…”
The radar bonged emergency, red lights flashed on the control panel, and the car’s collision avoidance system automatically cut the engine and fired the retrobrakes.
The jetcar skidded sideways, bounced off one wall of the tunnel and screeched to a stop against the barrier.
Before THX stopped rattling in his seat harness, the first police cycle hummed around the slight curve of the tunnel, tried to stop, and slid sideways into the wall. The robot went over backwards with the cycle on top of him. The second cycle came an instant later, it the wreckage of the first. The robot went flying through the air and slammed into the side of THX’s car.
Control was absolutely livid.
“Morons!” he spat. “Absolute idiots! To let one frightened man consistently wriggle out of your grasp… the cost of apprehending one man… and it’s still not accomplished…” He became incoherent.
On the giant wall screen, he watched—speechlessly—as THX emerged from the ruined jetcar, looked around shakily. One of the robots, the one that had been on the first bike, was getting to its feet. It looked dusty and crumpled, but it was still functioning.
THX hopped over the barrier and sprinted past the abandoned construction equipment. Another camera, farther down the expressway tunnel, picked him up running toward it. Control dialed for a close-up of the fugitive’s face, and the camera obediently zoomed in on THX. He looked weary, out of breath, close to exhaustion. But not afraid. No longer afraid. Determined.
Control shook his head and reached for the sedatives lined up in gaudy plastic vials behind his desk. Why can’t men with that much strength work for us?
The robot was trailing him. Looking over his shoulder, THX could see that now both robots were hobbling after him. One of them was limping noticeably and clanking with a grating, grinding noise; the other was missing an arm. But both of them doggedly pursued him like some inevitable fate.
“We only want to help you. You have nothing to be afraid of. Please come back. We won’t harm you.” There was a ladder up ahead, steel rungs projecting from the metal wall. It stretched up so far that THX couldn’t tell where it ended. But it went up. With another glance at his pursuers, he grabbed the rungs and started climbing.
So did the robots.
“You cannot survive in the superstructure. You will destroy yourself if you continue. Come back with us.”
THX kept climbing.
“Monetary unit total: 25,000 and rising, please place a priority transfer of assessment.”
“Surrender to the authorities. You have nothing to fear but fear itself.”
“Attention. All operations on fugitive 1138 prefix THX are cancelled. Subject operations have been declared economically inefficient. Unlimited liability. All annuities are to be written off. The account on 1138 prefix THX is closed. Transfer officers to operation 327.”
THX hearing the command voice from the robots themselves, stopped climbing and hung on the ladder, panting and sweat-drenched. He looked down and saw that the robots had stopped, too.
“We have to go back. This is your last chance to return with us. You have nowhere to go.”
“You cannot survive outside the city. Come back with us.”
For an answer, THX resumed climbing. He didn’t even hesitate. He continued upward, rung by painful rung. If he was headed toward death, then so what? Nothing but death awaited him below—even if he should live a thousand years in that inferno below him.
For a long time he heard nothing except his own labored breathing, felt only the gritty metal rungs in his hands, smelled his own sweat. He kept climbing, climbing.
Toward self-destruction.