against every rule, but I gave in. Out of friendship for you, Macy. Will you buy

  that? Out of friendship. Out of concern. And we’ve been trying since Monday to

  figure out a way of handling the situation without endangering you. But now you

  tell me that Hamlin actually regained command of his body for a little while,

  for long enough to commit an assault against a human being. Okay. Friendship can

  go only so far. Can you guarantee Hamlin won’t take you over again half an hour

  from now? Can you guarantee he won’t be out banging housewives tomorrow? Wehave

  to seize him now, Macy, wehave to finish him off.”

  “Even if it entails danger for me?”

  “Even if it entails danger for you.”

  “I see,” Macy said. “You figure what the hell, I’m only a construct anyway and

  if I get wiped out, tough shit on me. The important thing is catching Hamlin.

  Nothing doing, doctor. I’m not going to be the innocent bystander who gets

  zapped while you and Hamlin shoot it out. Keep away from me.”

  “Macy—”

  Macy hung up. Gomez’ image shrank and vanished like a photo being sucked into a

  whirlpool. Macy gulped the last of his drink, dropped the glass, and looked

  around for some clothing. He understood that his conversation with Gomez had

  worked a significant and perilous change in his status. The Rehab man had served

  notice that they were going to come after Hamlin, no matter what risks were in

  it for anyone else who happened to be inhabiting Hamlin’s body. He could wait

  here meekly for the van, of course. Let himself be hauled off to the Rehab

  Center. Taking his chances that Gomez would be able to get Hamlin before Hamlin

  gothim. But how chancy a chance that was! He knew Hamlin. They hadn’t shared a

  brain all these weeks for nothing. And he knew that if Hamlin surfaced and found

  himself at the Center, being readied for a new deconstruct job, he’d explode

  with destructive fury. Samson pulling the pillars down around his ears. If

  Hamlin couldn’t have the body, he’d see to it that no one would have it. So it

  didn’t make sense to surrender to Gomez, not now. His fatalism of half an hour

  ago had gone from him. He didn’t want to die or even to risk dying. He wasn’t

  sure what it was he had to live for, but even so. He would have to run. He was

  going to have to become a fugitive.

  Night had come. Everything was washed in a peculiar faded gray light. Out the

  side way, down the alley. Macy looked in all directions as he left the building.

  Feeling faintly absurd about it. This silly skulking, so melodramatic, so

  unreal. But what if Gomez had a man watching the main entrance? More than a

  touch of paranoia. They’ll have hovereyes searching for me, a ten-state alarm,

  all the airports being watched. And where can I go? Jesus, where can I go? Macy

  wanted to laugh. Some fugitive. What am I going to do, camp out in Central Park?

  Eat squirrels and acorns?

  He thought of going to the crumbling roominghouse where Lissa had lived. A

  double advantage to that: he might find her there, his only friend, his only

  ally, and in any case the place was such an armpit, such a ghastly hole, that

  he’d be beyond the reach of the slick computerized search processes of the

  contemporary age. Hiding deep down in a rotting pretechnological subterranea.

  But there was one huge disadvantage, too. Gomez, knowing about Lissa, knowing

  that her place was where he’d be most likely to go, would certainly set up a

  stakeout there. Waiting for him. Too risky. So where, then? He didn’t know.

  He walked north. Keeping close to the darkened buildings, trying to attract no

  attention. One shoulder higher than the other as if he might shield his face

  that way. Randomly north as night closed in. Or not so randomly. He realized

  that his feet were taking him up Broadway, across the bridge, into Manhattan

  North. Toward the only other point on his compass, the vicinity of the network

  office.

  Landmarks of his slender tattered past. Here he had walked that uneasy hopeful

  Maytime day. One-and-two-and-one-and-two. Step. Step. Feeling clumsy and

  uncertain within his own body. Trying to be natural about it. This is how Paul

  Macy walks. Proudly down the goddam street. Shoulders square. Belly sucked in.

  Opportunity beckons you. A second trip, a second start. The bad dream is over;

  now you’re awake. Step. Step. Coming to an abrupt stop, he turned to his left

  and picked his reflection off the mirror-bright pilaster beside an office

  building’s entrance. Wide-cheeked, thin-lipped, standard sort of Anglo-Saxon

  face. And the girl, coming up behind him, caught short by his sudden halt,

  crashing into him. Nat, she said. Nat Hamlin, for God’s sake! The long cold

  needle slipping into his eye. Telling her politely but firmly, I’m sorry, but

  you’re mistaken. My name’s Paul Macy. People flowing smoothly around them. She

  was tall and slender, with long straight hair, troubled green eyes, fine

  features. Attractive in a tired, frayed way. Telling him not to play around with

  her: I know you’re Nat Hamlin, she said. Leaning toward him, fingertips

  clutching hard into the bones of his right wrist. A baffling sensation in the

  top of his skull. A sort of intrusion. A tickling. A mild glow of heat. Along

  with it a disturbing blurring of identity, a doubling of self. The first

  surfacing of Hamlin, only he hadn’t known that then. Clinging to the side of the

  building with one hand and making a little shooing gesture at her with the

  other. Go on. Away. Out of my life. Whoever you were, there’s no room now.

  And he hurried on toward the network office. Block after block, and there it

  was. Grim black tower. Windowless walls. He didn’t go in, not now, certainly not

  now. Fredericks. Griswold. Loftus. My colleagues. Smith or Jones. The Hamlin

  over there. One of my favorites, Griswold said. A gift from my first wife, ten

  years back, when Hamlin was still an unknown. Coughing. If you don’t mind—some

  cold water. Forgive me. You know, it’s only my first day on the outside. The

  strain, the tension. No, we’ll keep away from the network office tonight.

  And here, the corner of Broadway and 227th, northeast side. Where he met her on

  a Monday evening. Pacing in a taut little circle. A self-contained zone of

  tension on the busy street. Looking at him in mingled amazement and delight.

  Color stippling her cheeks. Eyes fluttering: she’s scared of me, he realized.

  Oh, Nat, thank God you came! No, he said, let’s get this established once and

  for all. My name’s Paul Macy. What do you want? We can’t talk here, she said.

  Not in the middle of a crowd. Where, then? Your place? He shook his head.

  Absolutely not. Mine, then. We can be there in fifteen minutes. But everything’s

  filthy, she said, and he said, What about a restaurant? There’s a people’s

  restaurant two blocks from here, she said. I’ve been having lunch at it a lot.

  You know it? He didn’t. We could go there, she said. Yes.

  I could go there again, too. Now. Now. The sudden call of hunger. Two blocks.

  Macy walked quickly. One shoulder higher than the other. Reaching the

  restaurant. A spartan socialist front, a plain glass window. Within, a deep

  narrow room with tarnishing brass walls and a bunch of sputtering defective

  light-loops threaded through the thatchwork ceiling. All right. Let’s get some

  dinner. In here he had dinner with Lissa that night. Standing up, turning,

  walking away from her. And her scream. No! Come back! Paul! Paul!Nat! Her words

  leaping across the gulf between them like a flight of arrows. Six direct hits.

  St. Sebastian stumbling in the restaurant aisle. His brain on fire. And Hamlin’s

  voice, quite distinct, from a point just above his left shoulder.—How could you

  walk out on her like that, you snotty creep.

  So here is where he first manifested himself. Very well. Let’s go in.

  He thought he was hungry, and loaded his tray accordingly, stacking it with meat

  and vegetables and rolls and more. But when he had taken a seat at one of the

  long tables he found he had no desire for food. He nibbled a little. He let his

  eyes drift out of focus and disconnected himself from reality. How restful this

  is. I could sit here forever. But someone was touching his shoulder. A quick

  impertinent prod, a withdrawal, another prod. Why can’t people leave me alone?

  One of Gomez’ flunkies, maybe. If I pay no attention perhaps he’ll go away. He

  tried to sink deeper into disconnection. Another prod, more insistent. A hoarse

  harsh voice. “You. Hey, you, will you look at me a second? You stoned or

  something?” Reluctantly Macy let himself slip back into focus. A fat,

  stale-smelling girl in a gray dress stood beside him. Her face was as flat as a

  Mongol’s, but her skin was pasty white, her eyes did not slant. She said,

  “There’s a girl upstairs needs some help from you. You’re the one.”

  “Upstairs? Girl?”

  “You, yes. I know you. You were in here two, three weeks ago with that girl,

  that redhead, that Lisa. You’re the one who collapsed, fell flat on your

  sniffer, we had to carry you out, me and the redhead and the cabdriver. Lisa,

  her name is.”

  “Lissa,” Macy corrected, blinking.

  “Lisa, Lissa, I don’t know. Look, she helped you, now you help her.”

  A floating film of memory. Standing by the restaurant’s credit console at the

  end of the counter that other time, authorizing it to charge his account ten

  dollars for his dinner. And a fat flat-faced girl waiting behind him in line

  snorting contemptuously. Was he paying too much? Too little? This girl.

  “Where is she?” Macy asked.

  “I told you. Upstairs. She came in yesterday, she was crying a lot, a big fuss.

  Passed out, finally. We got her a room and she’s still there. Won’t eat. Won’t

  talk. You must know her, so you go look after her.”

  “But where? Upstairs, you said.”

  “The people’s co-op, moron,” the fat girl said. “Where else? Where else do you

  think?” And strode away.

  FOURTEEN

  THE people’s co-op, moron. Where else? Leaving his laden tray, he went outside

  and looked around. Of course: there was a hotel associated with the restaurant.

  Or vice-versa. They shared the building. Stark green-tiled facade; a separate

  entrance for the hotel, escalator going up, the office on the second floor. In a

  wide low empty lobby, much too brightly lit, a directory screen offered sketchy

  information about the present residents of the building. Macy, frowning, checked

  theM column first. Moore, Lissa? Not there. He glanced atL and, yes, there was

  an entry for “Lisa,” nothing else, no surname, checked in June 3, eleven p.m.,

  room 1114. There’s a girl upstairs needs some help from you. And how to get

  upstairs?

  A door to his left opened and a blind man came in, moving confidently and

  swiftly around table and chairs and other obstacles. The sonar mounted in his

  headband going boing boing boing. Tan jacket, yellow pants, fleshy face, eyes

  half-closed showing only the whites. “Excuse me,” Macy said, “can you tell me

  where the liftshaft is?” The blind man, without stopping, pointed over his right

  shoulder and said, “Elevator’s back there,” and disappeared through a door to

  Macy’s right. Macy went through the other door. Elevator. Eleventh floor. Up.

  Room 1114.

  No fancy communication or scanning devices here, just a plain wooden door. He

  knocked and got no response from within. He knocked again. “Lissa? It’s me,

  Paul.” Knock knock. Silence. As he stood there, puzzled, a girl stepped out of

  the room across the hall, a thin bony girl, naked and casual about it, towel

  draped over one shoulder, ribs prominent, hipbones sharp, small pointed breasts.

  “Looking for Lisa?” she asked, and when Macy nodded the girl said, “She’s in

  there. Go on in.”

  “I knocked. She didn’t answer.”

  “No, she won’t answer. Just go on in.”

  “The door—”

  “No lockshere, brother.” The girl winked and sauntered down the hall. Her

  backbone standing sharply out against her skin. Pushing open another door; sound

  of water running, from within; the showerroom, Macy guessed. No locks here,

  brother. Okay. He tried the door of room 1114 and found that it was indeed open.

  “Lissa?” he said.

  This was what he imagined a jail cell would be like. His room at the Rehab

  Center had been palatial by comparison. A low narrow bed—a cot, really. A flimsy

  green plastic chair. A small squat brown dresser. A chipped yellow-white

  washstand. A grimy sliver of window. Bare flooring; cruel naked lights. Lissa

  was naked too, slouched on the bed, knees up, arms locked across them. She

  looked gaunt, almost frail, as if she had dropped eight or ten pounds in the

  thirty-six hours since he last had seen her. Her hair was a knotted mess and her

  eyes were red and raw. The room reeked of sweat. Her clothes lay in a heap near

  the window; the closet, its door ajar, was empty; near the washstand stood the

  big dilapidated green suitcase that she had used in bringing her things from her

  apartment to his, and from his place to here. Its sides bulged: she hadn’t

  bothered to unpack. As he entered, her head moved slowly in his direction, and

  she looked at him and did not look. And her head moved back so that she stared

  again at the brown dresser.

  Macy walked past the foot of the bed and tried to open the window, but there was

  no way of doing it. He spoke her name again; she gave no sign of hearing him.

  Crouching beside her, he took one of her feet in his hand, lifted it six inches,

  watched it drop heavily back, and slid the hand upward to the meaty part of her

  calf. Her skin blazed. Fever was consuming her. His hand went to her thigh. His

  fingertips dug in high, just below the curling auburn thatch, but she took no

  notice. He shook her thigh. Nothing. He stroked her breasts, he cupped one.

  Nothing. He rubbed the tip of his thumb back and forth over the nipple. Zero. He

  fanned his fingers in front of her eyes. She blinked once, absently. “Lissa?” he

  said a third time. She was gone, lost, cocooned in introspection. Beyond his

  reach. Anyone could do anything to her now and probably she wouldn’t react. How

  to break through? No way. No way.

  He stood by the window with his back to her.

  A long time later she said, voice thin and distant, “The talking in my head was

  driving me crazy. Bouncing off the walls. I couldn’t stay.”

  He swung around to face her. She was wholly expressionless. Still staring at the

  dresser. Her words might have been those of a ventriloquist. “You didn’t need to

  run away,” he said. “I was trying to help you.”

  “You had no help to give. And I couldn’t help you either. We were destroying

  each other.”

  “No.”

  “I opened you to Hamlin.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We needed each other.”

  “I needed to go,” she said. “I was choking there, I had to get out. So I went.

  So I came here.”

  “Why?”

  “To hide. To rest.” Murmured words, windsounds. “Go away, now. I have the voices

  again. The pressure building up. Can’t you feel it? The pressure. The pressure

  building up.”

  He caught her hand in his. The fever raging. The muscles of her arm entirely

  limp. Like holding a length of rope. “You’re ill, Lissa, physically ill. Let me

  get a doctor for you.” He wasn’t sure she heard him. Floating away from him

  again. “I’ll call a doctor,” he said. “All right.”

  Her eyes like glass spheres. She was adrift, heading out on the tide. He shook

  her, he fondled her, he talked to her. Zero. Talkedat her. An urgent torrent.

  Flooding her with words, trying to talk her back into some sort of contact wth

  him. Come on, snap out of it. Telling her of love, of need, of second starts, of

  new tomorrows, of shared anguishes, of an end to self-pity and vulnerability.

  Anything. Inspirational words. The old sunny platitudes. Why not tell her such

  things? To reach her. We’ll go far away and try again, you and me, me and you. A

  whole world of happiness. Come, Lissa. Come.

  Knowing that he is losing her, moment by moment. Has lost her. A million million

  miles away on her planetoid of ice. Yet he continued. Striving to pour his

  frantic energy into her, to fill her with enough stamina to return and rise.

  Visions of hope, daydreams of health and joy. A shimmering rainbow curving

  across the room from door to window. On and on and on, his voice growing rasping

  and edgy and desperate, Lissa paying no attention; the ice now entombed her, she

  could only dimly be seen within the sparkling wall of the glacier. He was