Atlanta Run

Chapter Thirteen

Blade’s grip on the blackjack tightened as the Storm Policeman stepped up to them. The trooper was staring intently at the hobo.

“Hey! Glisson! It is you, isn’t it?” the policeman asked.

Blade nudged the old-timer with his elbow.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Glisson answered in a fearful tone.

“Don’t you remember me?” the trooper inquired. “Corporal Schwartz? I conducted you to the Civil Directorate about seven or eight years ago. Remember?”

Glisson studied the trooper’s features, then beamed. “Sure. I remember you. You were the young private who was asking me a lot of questions about life on the road.”

Corporal Schwartz grinned. “I always was the curious sort.” He glanced at the light. “I’d better cross before the light changes.”

“Nice seeing you,” Glisson said.

Corporal Schwartz took a stride, then stopped. “Where’s your Escort?”

Blade quickly nodded at the far curb. “Already crossed.”

“Oh.” Schwartz began to turn, to look at the opposite curb, when the light changed. He hesitated for a second, smiled, and hastened on his way.

Blade hurried to the sidewalk with Glisson right behind him.

“That was too damn close!” the hobo declared once they were safely on the curb.

“Didn’t you know you’re famous?” Blade quipped.

“Very funny,” Glisson snapped.

“Lead on,” Blade instructed. “We’d better reach the Visitors Bureau before another of your fans spots us.”

“Smart-ass son of a bitch,” Glisson mumbled.

“Let’s go,” Blade said impatiently.

They strolled toward a row of glass doors at the base of the Civil Directorate, mingling with a constant stream of humanity flowing into and exiting the structure.

“The Visitors Bureau is on the ground floor,” Glisson informed the giant. “We go in those doors and hang a right.”

“Do the Storm Police frisk everyone who enters the Direcorate?” Blade asked, thinking of the blackjack in his right hand.

“No. Why should they?” Glisson responded. “There’s never any trouble inside the wall. The rebels only hit patrols on the outside.”

“Play it cool once we’re inside,” Blade advised.

“Joe Cool, that’s me,” Glisson said.

Blade was both perplexed by, and grateful for, the manifest lack of interest the citizens of Atlanta displayed in Glisson and himself. They all seemed to be too wrapped up in their own lives to care about a pair of strangers. He attributed their attitude to the hectic lifestyle prevalent in the metropolis; the people were constantly on the go. Aside from a few cursory stares engendered by his exceptional size and physique, the residents of the city ignored him.

Glisson slowed as he approached the glass doors, dragging his heels apprehensively.

“Keep going,” Blade commanded.

“Maybe we should reconsider,” Glisson commented. “We could be asking for grief.”

“We see this through,” Blade stated. “I have someone to find.”

“We could try and find this person by ourselves,” Glisson proposed.

“In a muncipality this big?” Blade retorted skeptically. “It would take years.”

Glisson frowned and walked to the glass doors, hesitating briefly before yanking on the handle and stepping inside.

Blade followed, feeling a degree of comfort in the sea of citizens busily hurrying to and fro. A huge lobby fronted the glass doors, crammed with people. On the opposite wall were five elevators, all in use. Underfoot was a plush green carpet.

“This way,” Glisson declared, turning to the right. After 40 feet they came to an amply lit corridor containing an apparently endless succession of office doors.

“Which one?” Blade queried.

The tramp marched over to a closed door on the right. “This is it.”

In large black letters on the door were the words “VISITORS BUREAU: Open 24 Hours.”

“They’re open twenty-four hours a day?” Blade queried.

“Atlanta never shuts down,” Glisson said. “Many of the people are assigned to shift work.” He opened the door and went in.

A wooden counter ran the width of the room within two yards of the door. Handling paperwork or fielding questions behind it were six employees. Another four pencil-pushers were at desks beyond the counter.

“May I help you?” offered an attractive woman in a smart yellow dress.

Pinned to the fabric below her right shoulder was a small gold and white badge with a single word imprinted on the plastic: “ESCORT.”

Glisson sauntered to the counter. “You sure can, sweet lips.”

The woman took instant umbrage, her thin nose crinkling distastefully, her mouth twisting downward for a second until she caught herself and forced a mechanical smile on her lips. “Tolerance for all, sir, is a virtue,” she said pleasantly. Her alert brown eyes matched her complexion, and her curly hair formed an oval cap to her heart shaped face.

“Where’d you get that from, sister?” Glisson asked. “A fortune cookie?”

The woman glanced over the hobo’s head at the giant in the leather vest and fatigue pants. “Are you with this gentleman, sir?”

“Unfortunately,” Blade replied, and saw her grin. “And calling him a gentleman is stretching the limits of reality.”

She burst into laughter.

“There’s no need to be insulting,” Glisson said angrily.

“My name is Eleanor,” the woman disclosed in a professional manner.

“I am here to…” she began. Then she abruptly stopped, examining the tramp’s features. “Haven’t you been here before, a long time ago?”

“I’ve been here gobs of times, you pretty thing,” Glisson answered.

“I’ll have to ask you to behave yourself,” Eleanor cautioned.

“And if I don’t?” Glisson baited her.

“Please,” Eleanor said. “As a personal favor for me?”

Glisson leaned on the counter and leered at her. “What do I get if I’m a good little boy?”

The sound of Blade’s right hand landing on the hobo’s back in a transparently friendly gesture produced a distinct smack.

Glisson straightened and looked at the Warrior, his eyes widening.

“If you’re a good little boy,” Blade stated mockingly, “you get to keep your teeth. Does that sound fair to you?”

Eleanor’s eyes were twinkling.

“I was just having some fun,” Glisson protested.

“Have you forgotten the reason we’re here?” Blade inquired.

“Why are you here?” Eleanor asked.

“I’m searching for a relative of mine,” Blade told her. “An officer informed me that you could find her using something called the Central Directory.”

Eleanor nodded. “The Central Directory is a listing of the name, address, identification number, medical record, and personal history of every citizen in Altanta. We access the information through our computer.”

“You have files on everyone in Atlanta?” Blade repeated in wonder.

“Comprehensive files,” Eleanor replied. “A complete rundown on everyone is at our fingertips.”

“Doesn’t it bother you knowing that your government is maintaining a record of everything you do?” Blade inquired.

“Not at all,” Eleanor answered. “We are all working toward a prosperous world,” she said, sounding as if the line was memorized. “Civil rights for all means privacy for none. Privacy is selfishness.”

“Can you jump through a hoop too?” Glisson cracked.

Eleanor looked at him quizzically. “A hoop?”

“Pay no attention to him,” Blade said, shouldering the tramp aside. “I really would like to find my cousin as soon as possible.”

“What’s your cousin’s name?”

“Llewellyn Snow,” Blade disclosed.

“Do you know her identification number?” Eleanor queried.

“No.”

“Her profession?”

“I know nothing about her except she lives in Atlanta,” Blade said. “At least, that’s what I was told. I hope I’m not wasting your time.”

“Not at all,” Eleanor assured him. “I’ll ask the computer for a list of all women by that name.”

“Your computer can talk?” Blade declared in alarm, thinking of the time the Warriors had encountered a hostile society in Houstin administered by a sentient “supercomputer.”

Eleanor chuckled. “Computers can’t talk, silly. I ask our computer for imformation by typing the proper codes.”

“A talking computer?” Glisson interjected, and cackled.

“This won’t take but a minute,” Eleanor said, walking to a nearby desk topped by a computer terminal.

“What are we going to do once we find this Snow woman?” Glisson questioned.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Blade responded.

“I can see you have this all planned out,” Glisson said sarcastically.

“I’m getting tired of your complaining,” Blade stated sternly. “If you figure you can do better on your own, be my guest.”

“Don’t be so damn touchy,” Glisson remarked. “Chill out.”

“It’s not chilly out.”

“You’re hopeless. Do you know that?”

Eleanor was tapping the computer keys and staring at a green display monitor.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Glisson mentioned, “but I hope Snow isn’t in the Central Directory.”

Blade glanced at the tramp.

“If she isn’t,” Glisson added quickly, “we can get the hell out of Atlanta.

And the sooner we split this burg, the healthier I’ll stay.”

Blade watched the Escort typing. She appeared to be puzzled, and as her fingers flew over the keys she became even more perplexed. Several minutes elapsed, until with a sigh of frustration she stood and returned to the counter. “I’m sorry,” she declared.

“Why?” Blade responded.

“I’m having trouble with the computer.”

“What kind of trouble?” Blade probed.

Eleanor gazed at the terminal, clearly mystified. “The Central Directory does list a Llewellyn Snow as being a resident of Atlanta—”

“Damn,” Glisson grumbled.

“But I can’t access the information in her life,” Eleanor detailed. “I fed in the proper codes again and again, and each time the computer denied my request.”

“Is that normal?” Blade asked.

“No,” Eleanor answered. “We rarely have a glitch, and I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s strange.”

“So I’m stuck?”

Eleanor reflected for a moment. “Maybe not. We can always use the old-fashioned approach and let our fingers do the walking.”

Blade gazed at his hands, baffled. “How do you mean?”

She reached under the counter and withdrew a thick book. “We look in the phone book. If she doesn’t have an unlisted number, we could be in luck.”

Glisson heard the office door open and looked back.

“Let me see,” Eleanor said, flipping the pages. “H. M. R. S. Here we go.”

She turned the pages slowly. “I hope she’s listed.”

“You and me both,” Blade concurred.

Glisson tapped the giant on the right shoulder.

“Not now,” Blade stated, concentrating on the Escort.

Eleanor stopped on one of the pages and bent forward. “There are eight or nine Snows listed.” She paused. “And here she is. Llewellyn Snow.”

The old-timer was trying to drill his fingers into the Warrior’s shoulder.

“Not now,” Blade said testily. “What’s the address?”

“Forget the address,” Glisson said. “This is more important.”

Blade turned, annoyed. “What could be so important?” he snapped, and then he saw the Storm Police. One stood in the doorway, and five or six more were visible in the corridor.

“Hello,” said the man in the doorway. “I’m Captain Weis.”

Blade straightened warily.

“Is something wrong, Captain?” Eleanor asked.

Everyone in the Visitors Bureau was staring at the officer.

“Someone in this office has been attempting to access information on Llewellyn Snow,” Captain Weis declared.

“I was,” Eleanor informed him.

“Why?” the officer demanded bluntly.

Eleanor indicated Blade with a nod of her head. “This man wants to contact her. She is a relative of his.”

“Is that so?” Captain Weis said with a smile. He gazed at the giant.

“What relation is she?”

“My cousin,” Blade replied.

“Care to try again?” Captain Weis queried.

“I don’t follow you,” Blade declared, his right hand tucked against his pants leg, the blackjack ready for use.

“Yes, you do,” Captain Weis corrected the giant. “Llewellyn Snow doesn’t have a cousin. She had a brother, Richard, and a sister-in-law, Leslie, but they’re both dead. And her parents were consigned to the Sleep Chambers five months ago.” He paused. “So you see, the jig is up.”

“Your files could be mistaken,” Blade said.

“Our files are never in error,” Captain Weis claimed.

Blade knew he was trapped, but he wasn’t about to surrender without a struggle. He opted to stall, hoping an opening would present itself. “Then I guess there’s no need for this pretense any longer.” He smiled. “I’m impressed. How did you know the lady was trying to access the information?”

“Llewellyn Snow is under surveillance,” Captain Weis explained. “We have put a lock on her file. If someone tries to gain entry, an alarm sounds at Storm Police headquarters. A second after this Escort tried to obtain the data, we were tracing the request. HQ immediately alerted all patrols in the area, and since we were already in the vicinity searching for a big guy with a lot of muscles and a bum, we responded. And who should we find!”

“We’re dead meat,” Glisson mentioned morosely.

“So we’ve killed two birds with one stone,” Captain Weis declared contentedly. “Now we will conduct you to our headquarters.”

“Where is your headquarters?” Blade inquired.

“On the third floor of the Community Directorate,” Captain Weis revealed. He stepped to one side and pointed at the door. “After you.”

Blade frowned as he took a stride toward the doorway. He’d gone from the frying pan into the fire in short order. The likelihood of contacting Llewellyn Snow was becoming dimmer by the moment. In fact, if he didn’t get his act together, the likelihood of rejoining Hickok and Rikki was even slimmer. He glanced at the Storm Police waiting outside of the office, then grinned at the officer.

“I’m glad you’re taking this so well,” Captain Weis remarked. “I was told you might give us trouble.”

“Whoever told you that was right,” Blade said, and whipped the blackjack into the startled officer’s jaw.

Captain Weis went stumbling backwards and toppled over.

One of the women in the Visitors Bureau screamed.

And Blade was in motion, bounding through the doorway into the troopers. To his consternation, he found there were over a half dozen in the hallway. In fact, there were more like 20, and they swarmed upon him with the intent of overpowering him by sheer force of numbers. The Warrior flailed away with all of his prodigious might, striking down trooper after trooper, feeling their blackjacks pound on his arms, chest, neck, and shoulders. He successfully warded off their blows to his face, with his extraordinary height working to hinder them and limit the effectiveness of their head strikes.

“Stay behind me!” the Warrior bellowed for Glisson’s benefit, hoping the tramp was with him.

“Get him!” one of the Storm Police was shouting, his voice rising and bordering on hysteria. “Get him!”

Blade slugged a trooper on the nose, then spun and delivered a rock-hard punch to the chin of yet another. Between the blackjack and his left fist he was making good headway, but the tide of battle would definitely shift in his favor if he could reach his Bowies.

The Storm Police, however, were doggedly determined to bring the giant down. One hit him low, around the ankles, in an effort to tackle the Warrior.

Blade tottered, unable to take another step, and shook his legs in an attempt to dislodge the trooper.

Seeing their adversary temporarily impeded, the rest of the Storm Police piled on him.

Blade was gripped by the wrists on both arms, but he managed to free his right arm by slamming the two troopers holding him into the wall. The respite was fleeting, as three aditional policemen took their place and clamped onto his arm for dear life. With both arms and legs rendered ineffectual, he could do nothing but utter a cry of defiance as he was buried under a milling mass of blue uniforms. “No!” he thundered, exerting his Herculean strength until the veins on his temples bulged.

Four troopers were sent flying, but then two others struck him on the forehead with their blackjacks and the world dissolved into a galaxy of spiraling stars.