Read Online The Probability Broach by L. Neil Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: L. Neil Smith
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baroque and a sort of Swiss-chalet style—ornate, almost rococo, but taken all together, neither garish nor intimidating. Just different. The homes were set back deeply from the road, on enormous lots with gracefully curving rubber driveways winding through gardens and wrought-iron fencery. If Edward W. Bear lived like this, being a P.I. must pay better here than it did in my jurisdiction.
Definitely feeling more like myself, whoever that was (another twinge of curiosity about this “Edward W. Bear”), I ambled along in the afternoon sun, absently aware that the almost-silent vehicles swooshing along beside me in the street produced no noticeable exhaust. Down in the curbing there wasn’t a scrap of garbage. As my head cleared I began to notice other things—the streets might be Kentucky Blue, but there’s a lot to be said for rubber sidewalks. Soon, except for where I’d kicked that SecPol agent, my feet were the only part that didn’t hurt. I thought resentfully about the million concrete miles I’d trod on downtown foot patrol.
Here, the underground crossings ran to neighborhood groceries, stationery, and candy stores—the kind of mom-and-pop operations nearly killed off by city zoning back home. I took another fling, stopping for some cigarettes, my first decent ones in almost five years. Two copper pennies for the most expensive in the place.
Topside again, I did a little people-watching. It was more than their weird colorful clothing and strangely relaxed briskness. Something was missing—the barely concealed hostility and fear that haunted my city streets. These people never seemed to push or jostle, never avoided looking at one another. They’d nod politely—even speak!—and they carried their heads high, unafraid of the world around them. It sent shivers down my spine.
What I first took to be an extraordinary number of children became even more confusing. Some of these little people spotted muttonchops and mustaches. I noticed gangly arms and clumsy gaits. Mutants—the city was full of them. Even my bleary eyes could see the effects of radiation-distorted genes: protruding jaws, rubbery lips; some practically had muzzles.
Even more jarring were the weapons—men and women alike, little people, children. I passed one obvious kindergartener carrying a pistol almost as big as he was! Was there some danger here I wasn’t seeing? Or was the hardware merely a legacy of the brutal time that must have followed an atomic war? Yet these people seemed so full of cordiality. Could the source of their pride and dignity be nothing more than the mechanical means of dealing death they carried? Well, the alternative, thousands of variations on the Sullivan Act, had been no shining success back home.
What the hell, it was a nice day, a fine day. Nothing wrong that a long drink and a longer snooze wouldn’t cure. Maybe there was an opening on the local force—would a century and a half’s experience count for anything?
At long last a fancy scrollwork signpost announced PLACE d’EDMOND GENET. My stomach tightened, my mouth went dry. Who was this other Edward Bear?
All of a sudden a 747 was trying to land on my back! I whirled; a long black hovercraft tore down the street, coming my way fast. It bellowed, riding a tornado as other drivers bumped up over the sidewalk, swerved and slid to avoid being hit. Six feet above the ground, the monster covered blocks in seconds, sending a hideous roar ahead and a shower of sparks. Bullets sang around my head.
I leaped a low hedge and rolled, thankful I’d reloaded the forty-one. Pain throbbed through my exhausted body; muscles screamed and cuts reopened. Crouching, I pumped six heavy slugs into the hovercraft, but on it flew, never hesitating. Dimly aware that my hand was bleeding again, I wrestled the automatic free from my coat and thumbed the hammer back, jerking the trigger again and again as the machine slid crazily around the corner. It was like a dream where
Definitely feeling more like myself, whoever that was (another twinge of curiosity about this “Edward W. Bear”), I ambled along in the afternoon sun, absently aware that the almost-silent vehicles swooshing along beside me in the street produced no noticeable exhaust. Down in the curbing there wasn’t a scrap of garbage. As my head cleared I began to notice other things—the streets might be Kentucky Blue, but there’s a lot to be said for rubber sidewalks. Soon, except for where I’d kicked that SecPol agent, my feet were the only part that didn’t hurt. I thought resentfully about the million concrete miles I’d trod on downtown foot patrol.
Here, the underground crossings ran to neighborhood groceries, stationery, and candy stores—the kind of mom-and-pop operations nearly killed off by city zoning back home. I took another fling, stopping for some cigarettes, my first decent ones in almost five years. Two copper pennies for the most expensive in the place.
Topside again, I did a little people-watching. It was more than their weird colorful clothing and strangely relaxed briskness. Something was missing—the barely concealed hostility and fear that haunted my city streets. These people never seemed to push or jostle, never avoided looking at one another. They’d nod politely—even speak!—and they carried their heads high, unafraid of the world around them. It sent shivers down my spine.
What I first took to be an extraordinary number of children became even more confusing. Some of these little people spotted muttonchops and mustaches. I noticed gangly arms and clumsy gaits. Mutants—the city was full of them. Even my bleary eyes could see the effects of radiation-distorted genes: protruding jaws, rubbery lips; some practically had muzzles.
Even more jarring were the weapons—men and women alike, little people, children. I passed one obvious kindergartener carrying a pistol almost as big as he was! Was there some danger here I wasn’t seeing? Or was the hardware merely a legacy of the brutal time that must have followed an atomic war? Yet these people seemed so full of cordiality. Could the source of their pride and dignity be nothing more than the mechanical means of dealing death they carried? Well, the alternative, thousands of variations on the Sullivan Act, had been no shining success back home.
What the hell, it was a nice day, a fine day. Nothing wrong that a long drink and a longer snooze wouldn’t cure. Maybe there was an opening on the local force—would a century and a half’s experience count for anything?
At long last a fancy scrollwork signpost announced PLACE d’EDMOND GENET. My stomach tightened, my mouth went dry. Who was this other Edward Bear?
All of a sudden a 747 was trying to land on my back! I whirled; a long black hovercraft tore down the street, coming my way fast. It bellowed, riding a tornado as other drivers bumped up over the sidewalk, swerved and slid to avoid being hit. Six feet above the ground, the monster covered blocks in seconds, sending a hideous roar ahead and a shower of sparks. Bullets sang around my head.
I leaped a low hedge and rolled, thankful I’d reloaded the forty-one. Pain throbbed through my exhausted body; muscles screamed and cuts reopened. Crouching, I pumped six heavy slugs into the hovercraft, but on it flew, never hesitating. Dimly aware that my hand was bleeding again, I wrestled the automatic free from my coat and thumbed the hammer back, jerking the trigger again and again as the machine slid crazily around the corner. It was like a dream where
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