"Good," came the response.
"No," the addict said.
"There are no sounds of anything."
The man appeared to consider this.
"Good," he said again and, turning sharply, he resumed the trek.
Along they went, then down twisting narrow steps that led to a thin walkway along a culvert, its sides curving steeply to meet below a silent stretch of still water.
They walked along the side, trailing their left hands across the wall as they pa.s.sed, leaning slightly to avoid the feeling of falling ... or of wanting to jump. Beneath a curved stone bridge, they came to more steps, this time going up. The man ran up the steps two at a time, his coat-tails wafting behind him, and the addict followed, pleased to be leaving the culvert behind.
At the top of the steps they turned sharp right along a narrow street between what appeared to be warehouses.
The road here was cobbled and uneven, its surface shiny with water and slick with something else.
Now there was a smell.
The addict breathed in deeply.
The scent of decay and oldness was at once repellent and attractive. He thought it might be like the smell of the sea.
At the end of the street they turned left, the man glancing over his shoulder to make sure the addict was still there. The addict suspected that the man could not care less either way, and, as they continued, he half-expected the man to make a break for it. He wondered what he would do if that happened. He had absolutely no idea where they were.
A little way along another street, that sloped gently downhill, the man stopped and moved to the side where he stopped and pressed his back against the wall.
"Are we there yet?" the addict asked, pausing for breath.
"Where?" the man asked.
The addict shrugged.
"Wherever it is that we"re going."
The man did not respond. Instead, he backed along the wall until he reached a section of boarding. He backed onto the boarding and began to tap with his knuckles, beating out a discordant rhythm that seemed to go on and on. After a few seconds, the addict thought that the man was simply playing for time .. .
that the rapping was a nervous tic ... but then he stopped.
The addict sensed that they were now waiting for something.
He listened.
Then, there it was ... a distant and faint rapping, a faraway syncopated melody of hand on wood. It came from behind the boarding.
The man rapped again. And waited.
A sudden litany of noise sounded, and stopped.
The man stepped aside and waved for the addict to join him against the wall. As he stepped forward, the addict heard a faint scratching rasp, metal on metal, from behind the door. He leaned back against the wall and waited, hardly daring to breathe.
At the far end of the alley a figure appeared, seeming to step straight out of the wall itself. Without moving his back from the wall, the addict craned forward to see if he could discern some kind of door but the wall seemed to go on right to the end of the street.
The figure jogged noiselessly across the street, where it disappeared momentarily, folding itself into the shadows. Then it reemerged and jogged to the end of the street, its bulbous head darting first one way and then the other, checking the street that crossed the end of the alley for any signs of movement. The figure came back and stood for a few seconds looking down at the addict and the dealer. Then, with a short wave of an arm, it backed up into the shadows.
"Is he waving at us?" the addict whispered.
The dealer shook his head and pointed down the alley, away from the waving figure.
The addict looked around and saw a second figure, its head as huge and unwieldy as the first, stepping back into the shadows. The wave had clearly been some kind of signal, perhaps confirming that the streets were clear of Prowlers, and the addict waited quietly for further developments. He did not have long to wait The rasping noise came again, louder this time as though whoever or whatever was making it no longer felt such a need for stealth. The noise grew louder still until it stopped with a dull thud. Then came a metallic jingle and the sound of keys being inserted and turned to give a solid thunk.
The dealer stepped away from the wall and held out his hand to the addict.
"Credits," he said.
"Give to me."
Momentarily wrong-footed by the sudden use of the preposition, the addict pulled out his wad of notes without thinking and peeled off five, The dealer took them, gave them a quick flick and shook his head.
"More."
"How much more?" the addict asked.
"I haven"t even seen anything yet."
The wood paneled boarding began to rise.
"Many pages in there," the dealer hissed, nodding to the rising boarding.
"Give ten like others."
"Which others? You brought other people here?"
"No," the dealer snapped.
"Like other notes." He patted his coat pocket.
"Forties!" The addict made a quick mental calculation.
"That"s more than five hundred credits," he said.
The other man thrust the notes he already had into his pocket and then jabbed his empty hand out again.
"Yeah, right. Give."
The addict counted off the forties and placed them in the dealer"s hand. The man thrust his payment into his coat pocket and ran off down the street, his steps echoing through the gloom.
Turning around, the addict watched as the boarding reached the top of the surrounding brick and stonework and stopped. The addict frowned.
There had only been a wall behind the boarding. He was about to turn and shout to one of the shadowy figures at either end of the street when the wall shimmered and another figure stepped through it and out onto the pavement.
Before he stepped out of the shadows, the addict transferred the old Prowler gun from his pocket to the prosthetic flap on his upper thigh.
The new figure wore plastic coveralls and a large bulbous helmet.
Holding the gun steady, its muzzle pointing straight at him, the figure lilted its free arm and flicked a b.u.t.ton on the helmet. Amidst a blur of crackling static, a deep male voice said, "Who was he?"
"Who?"
"Your friend. The guy ran off?"
The addict shrugged.
"Dealer. He brought me here.
I asked him."
"Why"d you do that?"