Special Deliverance

27

Early on the morning of the second day after Lansing had headed for the inn, the Wailer appeared. It was on the summit of a hill that paralleled the trail and as Lansing strode along, the Wailer kept slow pace with him. When, on occasion, Lansing fell behind, the Wailer halted and sat down ponderously to wait for him. When once he had forged ahead a little, the Wailer loped easily to catch up.

To say the least, this was mildly disconcerting. Lansing did his best not to let it show. Other than a sidelong glance from time to time to keep track of the animal, Lansing attempted to pretend that he was ignoring it. After a while, he told himself, it will give up the game it’s playing with me and go trotting off somewhere. The Wailer, however, did not appear to be of this mind at all.

The mighty beast, more wolflike than it had seemed when they’d seen it on the butte top, had a look of reprehensibility. It was, Lansing figured, an arrant vagabond. So far it had made no hostile move, but that was not to say it wouldn’t. Any moment it could turn into a raging fury. If such should happen, no one could hope to stand against it. Lansing undid the guard of his belt knife so it would be easy to his hand, but had no hope that it would count for much if the animal should charge.

Mary, he thought. Was this great beast the reason that Mary had left the camp? Had it harried her out of it? And where had she gone? Or had she gone anywhere? Had the beast, after playing a silly game with her, finally charged? He bent over, retching at the thought of it.

If she had fled under pressure from the beast, without doubt she would have headed for the inn, for that was the only place that would afford protection. God grant, he prayed, that she had reached it.

The beast was coming closer, edging down the hillside toward him, wagging its tail at him (and a wolf, he remembered, never wags its tail), laughing at him with its lips pulled back, showing a lot of teeth. To gain some distance from it, he left the trail, slanting south and east. The Wailer crossed the trail and followed, paralleling his progress, not coming directly at him but continually edging closer. It drove him south and east.

The game went on for hours. The sun reached noon and started sliding west. Somewhere ahead of him, Lansing knew, flowed the river that, coming from the west, flowed into the badlands stream they had followed. On the point of land between the two rivers stood the inn. He could not allow this beast to drive him beyond the river. If that happened, he would not reach the inn and it then could herd him on and on, until he dropped from exhaustion.

Topping a low ridge late in the afternoon, he saw the river. He went down the slope toward it, the Wailer following. When he reached the river he halted and faced about. The Wailer stood not more than fifty feet away. Lansing lifted the knife from his belt and stood waiting.

“All right,” he asked the Wailer, “what is it going to be?”

The Wailer was huge. It stood ten feet at the shoulder. It lowered its head and thrust out its muzzle and came toward him, pacing slowly, first one slow step and then another. It was shaggy and disreputable. It looked like an unmade bed. And it was big — God, was it big! One snap and it would have him.

Lansing tightened his grip upon the knife, but did not raise it. He did not move a muscle, standing rigid and rooted in the face of the beast’s advance. It edged closer and closer. It thrust out its muzzle, almost reaching him, and snarled.

With an effort, Lansing did not move. He wondered vaguely, marginally, what might have happened had he moved. And was surprised he hadn’t.

The beast took another step. The muzzle now was only a foot or so away. This time there was no snarl. Still gripping the knife, Lansing lifted his free hand and laid it on the muzzle. The ragged beast groaned with pleasure. It moved closer, so that its muzzle pressed against his chest, forcing him back a short step. He stroked the muzzle, reached up and scratched an ear. The beast cocked its head to one side so that ear was easier to reach.

Lansing scratched the ear, and the Wailer held its head so it could be scratched. It mumbled a little in its throat and pushed Lansing back another step as it moved affectionately against him.

“That’s enough,” said Lansing. “I can’t go on petting you all day. I have traveling to do.”

Almost as if it had understood, the great beast grumbled at him. Lansing took another backward step into the river. Then, deliberately, he let his hand fall from the mighty head and, turning about, began to wade the stream.

He kept on wading. The water was like ice. He did not look back until he reached midstream, with the water to his knees. Then he did look back. The Wailer stood forlornly on the shore, looking after him. It took a step, putting one foot in the water, then pulled it back and shook it.

Lansing laughed and went on wading. When he reached dry land, he turned again. The beast still was on the other shore. Seeing Lansing halt and look back, it took two steps into the water, then pulled back and shook itself.

“So long, friend,” said Lansing. Briskly he set out down the river. Half a mile farther on he had another look. The beast still had not crossed the river. Apparently it did not like cold water.

Lansing hurried. Despite what had happened, he told himself, it would not be a bad idea to put as much distance between himself and the Wailer as was possible. It was the sort of beast one could not place much reliance on.

The sun went down, but he did not pause for the night. He kept on walking, occasionally jogging, running at times, intent on covering as much ground as he could. The moon, now slightly past full, shed a cold, white light upon the wilderness. The river gurgled eastward. At dawn he stopped and built a fire, boiled coffee, had something to eat. There was no indication the Wailer was anywhere about.

He was tired and wanted sleep, but after a short time set out again, driving himself down the river. The sun was slanting well into the west when he reached the inn.

The common room was empty, dark and chilly. No blaze burned on the hearth. The card players were not at their table.

Lansing called and there was no answer. Going across the room, he collapsed into a chair before the dead fireplace. He huddled in the chair, worn by fatigue.

After a time, the moon-faced woman in the checkered apron came out of the kitchen.

“Oh,” she said, “so it’s you again.”

He croaked at her. “Was a young woman here? In the last day or two?”

“Oh, yes, indeed she was.”

“And where is she now?”

“She left this morning. Early in the morning.”

“Did you notice where she went? What direction she took?”

“No, I didn’t, sir. I happened to be busy.”

“Did she leave any word? Could she have left a note?”

The woman said, “I believe she did. I put it away. I’ll go and get it.”

She bustled off and Lansing waited. After a time she came back, carrying a bottle and a mug, which she set on the table beside him.

“I don’t know what happened,” she said, “but I cannot find the note. I must have mislaid it.”

He surged to his feet and roared at her. “How could you have mislaid a note? A note that was given you this morning?”

“I do not know how I could have, sir. Apparently I did.”

“Well, look for it, then. Have another look.”

“I’ve looked everywhere,” she said. “It’s not where I thought I put it. It’s not anywhere.”

Lansing sank into the chair. She poured a drink and handed it to him. “I’ll start a fire to warm you and then I’ll cook you something,” she told him. “You probably are hungry.”

“Yes, I am,” growled Lansing.

“The lady,” she said, “had no money…”

“Goddammit,” Lansing shouted, “I’ll pay her bill. Are you sure about that note?”

“Quite certain, sir,” she said.

He sat morosely, drinking, watching her start a fire.

“You’ll be staying the night?” she asked.

“Yes, I will,” he said. “I’ll leave early in the morning.”

Where could Mary have gone? he asked himself. Back to the singing tower to wait, knowing he’d show up? Or back through the badlands to the city? Not back to the city, he thought, certainly not back to the city. Although, perhaps, she might. Just possibly she might. Maybe she had thought of something there that needed more looking into, some facet of the city they had overlooked. But the question was why she hadn’t waited here; certainly she knew that he would follow her.

He sat pondering, turning over and over the thoughts that came to mind. By the time the landlady brought in the food, he’d made his decision. He’d go back to the singing tower and if she were not there, he’d start over again — from the tower back here again and then on to the city. If she was not in the city, he’d go back to the cube. He kept remembering that Mary had always thought the answer lay somewhere in the cube.