The coverall stuck to the small of my back. It wasn't the sweat of fear; it was the air that closed around me at over a hundred degrees. The world after the Change was a world of extremes. I walked around the front of the building. Long yellow strips of Authority security tape blocked doors, windows and air vents. All useless, since a good portion of the wall had collapsed, leaving a hole you could only block with a building. The oily conglomerate smell of burned furniture and scorched stone was thick. With it came a damp and clammy presence that made me instinctively wipe my hands against my sides. We were back at the waterfront again, and there was not so much as a cool breeze.
Warehouses by the thousands lined the jagged cement and steel coast of Greasetown. Since hundreds of airliners had crashed with the first computer malfunctions after the Change people were reluctant to start trusting flight again. Another devolution had occurred, to control-wires and levers, pilot-oriented air travel; but the memories were still fresh. And so sea traffic had taken over from air as the world's principal form of intercontinental locomotion and Greasetown's harbor had seen rejuvenation as a result, though it managed to retain much of its derelict charm. Rusted iron freighters with foreign names came and went-now the primary physical contact with the Old World. Luxury liners did not dock here, but you could catch one after a five-hour drive north to the City of Light. That growing metropolis rested on the inland bones of the now dead and drowned New York City.
Elmo and I had a devil of a time finding this particular warehouse, there were so many of them, old and new. My instincts were on full alert. I was afraid to call Authority. I was afraid to talk to anybody. I knew I was lucky that Cane had missed the call I made before slipping down the coast to Vicetown. I couldn't trust anyone, least of all, someone in Authority. I was certain I couldn't trust the anonymous person who had slipped a cryptic note under my office door during the night.
Warehouse 31, Pier 14: It read.
After driving all the way down, and a frustrating hour of traveling blind alleys, a scorched sign greeted me from one of the loading doors. It read: King Industries. Now, it wasn't logical to chase after every lead, especially after one that came to me so mysteriously; but I had the distinct feeling that the anonymous phone caller was the letter writer as well. I took it for granted that someone was going to lead me for a step or two. I had decided to do a thing a detective does at great risk. I was going to wait for guidance. It was obvious that there was a good deal of power at work, and if I looked lazy, they were bound to feed me something. It was risky, because I'd have to decide whether or not I was being led into something dangerous and deadly.
Someone had started the chain of events I was following. If it was just a case of vengeance, they could walk in and shoot me whenever they wanted. Whoever had called wanted me to do something specific. Well, I wondered what they'd do if I went sedentary-if I just kicked back and relaxed. I'd find out.
The security tape on the building indicated that Authority was involved, and as usual, wanted to hog all the fun. But it was hardly proof. I hoped that by letting my mystery guide feed me clues, I might get lucky and find out who he was and what he wanted-and who else was involved.
I poked my head through a scorched window frame. There were the expected chunks of melted plastic that had been computers and centrifuges, amid the charred skeletons of tables with so many hunks of glass and metal spot welded to them by the intense heat from a blast or fire. I could see the remains of a Bunsen burner, and a few firebombed cabinets and cupboards. The place was cinder and coal from baseboard to ceiling. There was no way I would trust the floor. It had collapsed in one corner already. I was looking at a burnt out lab all right, and it was supposed to be Cotton's. Plenty of evidence was lying all around to support that, so much so that I doubted it immediately. I knew there'd be something there with his name on it, if I looked. But it was all too pat. I had a nagging suspicion that this, too, was a part of an intricate shell game.
I turned from the building and headed toward the car. I would go home. It was noon, Tuesday. The paper sometimes came early on Tuesday. I needed to think, and Tommy needed to relax. A change is as good as a rest, they say. Well, I would change my approach to this case, and rest. Someone would be calling, I felt sure of that. I didn't know who, but someone had a timetable of his own that he wanted me to follow. I would let him make the next move.