Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (4 page)

"Yes," I answered without thinking. "And I heard someone else, I don't
know who, call him a 'humie.' There were other remarks, I guess, but I
didn't hear them all. That kind of talk isn't usual, you know. The
Carrutherses may have been offended, but I hardly think they'd have
murdered for it. I smiled as nicely as I could because I felt sorry for
them, and the boy."

Harrington kept wiping his hands; then, with a flourish, deposited the
cloth back into his pocket and stood. "Okay," he said brusquely. "Thanks
for the information."

As he turned to leave, I couldn't help asking if he really believed the
boy or his parents had done it. "After all," I said, "the boy is an
android. He can't kill anyone."

Harrington stopped with his hand on the door knob. He actually looked
sorry for me. "Sir, either you read too much, or you watch too much TV.
Andy or not, if ordered, that kid could kill as easily as I could blink."

And then he left, with silent Ernie trailing apologetically behind. Slowly
I walked to the window and gazed out toward the bay. The sun was nearing
noon, and the glare off the water partially blinded me to the arms of the
coast that came within a hundred meters of turning Nova into a lake. Below
was the single block of businesses that squatted between me and the beach.
Leaning forward, I spotted a milling group of people and a squad car. I
watched, trying to identify some of them, until Harrington strolled from
the building and drove away. The crowd, small as it was, disturbed me.
Starburst wasn't supposed to deal in murder.

"Christ," I said. "And I wanted to punch that old guy in the face."

I shook myself and dressed quickly. At least Harrington didn't tell me not
to leave town. Not that I would have. I still had four days of vacation
left, and though I was sorry for the old nameless man, and sorrier for the
shroud the crime must have placed on the Carrutherses, I still intended to
soak up as much sun as possible.

And so I did until a shadow blocked the heat, and I looked up from my
blanket into the face of the boy: the face turned black by the sun behind
him. Specter. Swaying. I imagine I appeared startled, because he said,
"Hey, I'm sorry, mister. Uh, can I talk with you a minute?"

"Why, sure, why not?" I shifted to one side and sat up. Today the boy was
fully dressed in sweatshirt, jeans, and sockless sneakers. His dark hair
was uncombed. He squatted next to me and began to draw nothings in the
sand. Since I'm single, I guess I haven't developed whatever special
rapport a man can have with a younger version of himself: and when that
youthful image isn't even human, well, I just sat there, waiting for
someone to say something.

"You were nice to me and my people last night," he said finally, his voice
just this side of quavering. "I think I should thank you."

My mind was still not functioning properly. Part of me kept up a warning
that this kid was suspected of murder, and my throat tightened. The other
parts kept bumping into each other searching for something to say that
sounded reasonably intelligent.

"They, uh, treated you rather unkindly, son."

He shrugged and wiped the sand from his doodling finger. "We get used to
it. It happens all the time, though I guess that's not really true. Not
all the time, anyway. Maybe it just seems bad here because it's so small.
I'm … we're not used to small places."

He began digging into the sand, tossing the fill up to be caught and
scattered by a sharp, suddenly cool breeze.

"People can be cruel at times," I said unoriginally. "You shouldn't let it
bother you and your folks. Small people, you know, and small minds."

The boy stared at me from the corner of his eyes, his face still in
shadow. "Aren't you afraid of me?"

"Why? Should I be?"

He shrugged again and worried the hole with the heel of his hand. "I think
that detective thinks I killed that old man. He talked with us nearly two
hours this morning. He said he was satisfied. I don't think so."

I shifted around to face him, but he continued to avert his face. I
couldn't remember seeing such a shy boy before, though I supposed that the
shock of the crime wasn't the easiest thing in the world to accept with
nonchalance, especially when he was on the receiving end of the suspicion.
I made a show of searching the beach, stretching my neck and gawking like
a first-time tourist. "I don't see your, uh, parents. Are they as
unconcerned as you?"

"My people are inside. They don't want anyone staring at them."

My people.
That was the second time he'd used that wording, and I
wondered. In the silence I found myself trying to place his accent,
thinking it was perhaps a custom of wherever he came from, but there was
nothing to it. Curiously so. He could have lived anywhere. On impulse I
asked if he and his mother and father would care to join me for dinner. He
shook his head.

"Thank you, but no. We'll eat in our room until something happens to
change their minds. The doorman almost slammed the door in my face."

That figures, I thought as the boy struggled to his feet. He looked down
at me and said, "Thank you again," and was gone as abruptly as he had
come. It was then that I noticed the few sunbathers staring at me, their
hostility radiating clearly. I grinned back at them and lay facedown,
hoping they hadn't seen the grin twist to grimace.

As I lay there, I considered: unlike members of most minorities, androids
had no recourse to courts, education, or native human talent to drag them
out of their social ghetto. They were as marked as if their skin had been
black or brown, only worse because whatever rights they had stopped at the
factory entrance. And I wasn't at all pleased to have to admit to myself
that even I couldn't see handing them the same rights and privileges as I
had. I was beginning to wonder just how far above the crowd I really was
for all my ideas. I thought of the people who'd glared at me you'd better
stop casting stones, I told myself. Don't feel sorry for the boy, feel
sorry for the parents.

And then I dozed off, which, for my skin, is tantamount to stretching out
on a frying pan. When I awoke again, my back felt as if it had been
dragged over hot coals. And in feeling the burning pain, I surprised
myself at the foul language I could conjure. I tried to put on my shirt,
gave it up as the second worst idea I'd had that day, next to sunbathing,
and gathered my things together. I walked across the sand and between the
buildings that had their backs to the bay. When I reached the street, I
stopped dead at the curb. There was the squad car again and an ambulance.
A crowd getting noisy. And the flashing red lights. I spotted Detective
Harrington staring at me, and I waved and crossed. He met me by the police
car.

"Heart attack?" I asked, indicating the ambulance.

"You could say that," he said dryly. "A man has had his head bashed in."

I found it difficult to believe. It was as if someone had drilled a
pipeline directly from the outside world into Starburst and was pumping in
that which we were all here to get away from. Small wonder the people
milling around us were in such a foul mood. I tried a sympathetic smile on
Harrington, received no reaction and turned to go. I hadn't taken a single
step when he placed a gently detaining hand on my arm.

"Somebody said you were talking to the boy."

"Somebody?" Suddenly I was very mad. "Just who the hell are these
somebodies that seem to know everything, every goddamned thing that I do
or say?"

"Concerned citizens," he said with a slight trace of bitterness, as if
he'd had his fill of concerned citizens. "Were you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was." I looked at my watch. "About an hour
ago. On the beach."

"For how long?"

I tried to ignore the people trying very hard not to appear as if they
were eavesdropping. "Hell, I don't know. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty,
twenty-five."

I looked at Harrington closely, trying to snare a clue as to what he was
thinking. I did know that, for some reason, he still felt the boy had to
be involved with these two appalling crimes. Yet, if the boy had committed
them, he would have had to have been ordered to do so. And that meant the
Carrutherses. Somehow I couldn't see those two becoming entangled in
something quite so lurid. I was about to say as much when a flower-shirted
man shoved through the crowd and confronted us. The stereotypes come
crawling out of the woodwork, I thought and immediately wished there was
something I could do for the big detective.

"If you're the police," the man demanded in a voice as shrill as a
woman's, "why aren't you doing something about this?"

"Sir, I am doing what I can."

"I don't like it."

Harrington shrugged. The man was evidently a tourist, and the detective
obviously felt as if he had more important people, like the natives, to be
answerable to. "I'm sorry you feel that way, sir, but unless we can—"

"I want some protection!" the man said loudly and was instantly echoed by
several of the crowd who had paused to listen.

Harrington smiled wryly. "Now how do you expect me to manage that with the
force I have here? Did you know the man?"

"Of course not. I only arrived yesterday."

"Then what exactly are you worried about?"

"Well, that killer's obviously a maniac. He could kill anyone next."

The detective stared at him, then glanced at me. "No," he said quietly. "I
don't think so."

"Well, what about that andy." someone else demanded. "Why the hell don't
you lock it up? It's dangerous."

With that bit of melodramatic tripe, Harrington's patience finally reached
its end. "Lady," he said with exaggerated calm, "if you can give me the
proof, I'll snap that kid's tape faster than you can blink. But he belongs
to someone, and there isn't anything I can do without proof. So why don't
you, and all the rest of you, why don't you just go about your business
and leave us alone. You want me to catch this man, boy, woman, whatever, I
can't stand around here answering your hysterical, stupid questions."

For a moment I was tempted to applaud. In fact, one or two people did. But
I just stood aside while the crowd dispersed, far more rapidly than I
thought it would. Most of the people disappeared into the hotel, muttering
loudly. The rest scattered and were gone within a minute's time. When it
was quiet, Harrington signaled the ambulance driver, then slid into his
own car. He rolled down the window, chewing his tobacco slowly. He spat.
"Middle-class backbone of the race," he said to me and drove off. The
ambulance followed, and I was alone on the sidewalk. I don't remember how
long I stood there, but staring passersby reminded me that I was dressed
only in my bathing trunks and still carrying my beach paraphernalia.
Embarrassed, I darted inside and rushed up to my room. In the bathroom was
a first-aid kit, and after many painful contortions, I managed to empty
the can of aerosol sunburn medication onto my back.

I felt flushed.

Feverish, nearly groggy as if in a nightmare.

Despite the air-conditioning, the room felt warm, but I didn't want to go
out again. Not for a while. A long while. In spite of some of the other
hotel guests' fears, I realized I hadn't once felt as though I were in the
slightest danger, and when that fact sunk in, I was horrified. I didn't
believe I was in danger because I knew I had never been anything more than
polite to the Carrutherses and their son.
Guilty.
Jesus Christ, I
thought they were guilty.

You son of a bitch, I told myself. You're as bad as the rest of them.
Would a grown man murder for an insult as common as the ones Carruthers
must have been getting for as long as he'd had the android? To strike back
so drastically was too immature for the owner of a simulacrum—he
would be too vulnerable.

Hell! It was not a pleasant day. It had not been a pleasant vacation. I
hesitated and finally tossed my things into my bag. I decided to wait
until after dinner to leave. Until then, I lay on my bed, and it wasn't
long before I fell asleep.

I dreamt, but I'd just as soon not remember what it was I saw in those
dreams.

In Starburst, the dark is not quite the same as in the rest of the world.
Because of the mist on the hills, the slate and stone roofs, the moonlight
and starlight glinted off more than just water, and the result was a
peculiar shimmer that slightly distorted one's vision. When I awoke to
that unnatural light, I had a splitting headache. Groping around on the
nightstand, I found my watch and saw it was close to ten o'clock.
Hurriedly I swung off the bed, thinking that if I were as good a patron as
the hotel led me to believe, I might be able to squeeze in a meal before
the kitchen closed for the night. The clothes I was going to wear home
were laid out on a chair, and without turning on the lamp, I dressed,
standing in front of the window. The moon was hazed, and what stars there
were challenged my schoolboy knowledge of constellations. I was staring
out over the building at the bay when I caught movement on the beach. All
I could see was a group of shadows. Struggling.

I leaned forward, straining to make out details, curious as to who would
be playing games this time of night, since Starburst was definitely not
noted for its evening festivities. As I clipped on my tie, the shadows
merged into a single black patch, then separated and merged again. But not
fast enough to prevent me from spotting one of them lying on the ground.
The figure didn't move, and for no reason other than an unpleasant hunch,
I dashed from the room and, not wanting to wait for the elevators, ran
down the fire stairs and outside.

Once on the sidewalk, I hesitated for the first time, realizing I could
very likely be making a complete ass of myself. There were no sounds but
the evening wind in the park trees. As I crossed the street, my heels
sounded like nails driven into wood and I self-consciously lightened my
step. I became more cautious, though feeling no less silly, when I entered
an alley and could see the beach and bay beyond. By the time I reached the
far end, I was almost on hands and knees, and now I could hear: grunting,
and the dull slap of body blows, struggling feet scraping against the
sand. It didn't take a mastermind to figure out what was happening, and,
for all my professed cowardice, I burst from the alley shouting, just a
split second before I heard someone gasp, "Oh my God, look at that!"