1
George, the night man at Smitty's Conditioning Parlor and Health Club, laid aside his paper as the buzzer sounded and feet descended the short flight of steps from street level. A tall, quick-moving man with a badly scarred face came into the room pulling off his coat.
"Yessir," George said, coming to his feet in a quick motion for all of his two hundred and ninety pounds of bulk, smiling, sizing up the newcomer. He noted the soiled cuffs, the wilted and grimed collar, the tear in the dusty knee of the trousers. But the suit was cut from a good grade of worsted, real wool, it looked like, and the big brogans were almost new under the dust and scuff marks. And the socks were a tasteful solid, none of those purple clocks. The guy had been out on the tiles, all right, but there was some quality there; he was no bindlestiff just drifting in out of the damp night air. George caught the jacket as the man tossed it aside.
"Sponge and press the suit, sir?" he said. "Do it for you nice, while you're in the steam."
"Never mind that," the big man said. The scars on his face moved as he spoke, the big one across the cheek dimpling as if in a puckish smile, the one crossing his forehead and running back into the scalp lifting quizzically, sardonically. He shucked bills from a folded sheaf, tossed them on the table.
"My body's full of poison," he said. "I want heat. Lots of heat."
An elderly man, naked and shrunken, emerging from the infrared room, jerked his head sharply at sight of the newcomer. He halted, watching the scarred man strip. He seemed fascinated by the scars, large and small, that marked the powerfully muscled chest, back, thighs.
"I'm carrying one-twenty in the wet room, one-eighty in the sauna," George said. "Five minutes of that be all you can take."
"Call me in ten."
George watched the glass door, smiling a little to himself. He folded some towels, opened and shelved a carton of soap. Ten minutes, the man say. Like to see the man could take ten on them hot teak boards. First couple minutes go easy; then it start to get hot. Ten minutes. George chuckled. Door be opening any minute now. Big man be out, gasping like a catfish on the bank. He looked at the clock. Five minutes almost up. Through the clear glass he saw the scarred man sitting bolt upright, swinging his arms. Hoo-ee! That white man crazy, have to watch him, get him out when he faint . . .
"That fellow's asking for a heart attack," the old man spoke suddenly beside George. He had come up silently, rubber-sandaled. He ruffled his wispy hair with a towel. "What was that he said about poison?"
"Booze, doctor," George said. "He meant the booze. Smell it on him."
It was eleven minutes before the scarred man strode from the dry-heat room, his body pouring with sweat. A sickly odor of alcohol hung thick about him. George stared.
"Cold water?" the big man said curtly.
"Deluge showers, right to your right." George pointed.
"Good way to get yourself a coronary attack," the old fellow called after him.
The scarred man stood in the stall, dousing himself with icy water. He breathed in great, shuddering gulps. Afterward he spent ten minutes in the steam room, ten more in the sauna, showered again. By then the reek of raw alcohol had dissipated.
"You know massage?" he asked George. George's wide black face crinkled in a smile.
"Some say I do pretty good." He nodded toward the padded table. The scarred man waved aside the proffered towel, stretched out face down. His back was solidly muscled about the shoulders, tapering sharply to a lean, hard waist. A deep scar ran down across the left trapezius to end near the spine. Lesser scars—lines, pocks, zigzags—were scattered over his hide in random distribution. Under
George's hands, the flesh felt hard, ropy.
"You ever in the ring?" the masseur inquired.
"Not much."
"That fight racket no life for a man."
"Harder," the scarred man said. "I want to feel it."
"Got to be careful," George chuckled. "Man come home with bruises, his sweety wonder why."
"Say," the old man said. "Mind if I ask how you got the scars?"
The big man turned his head to look at him.
"I'm a doctor, a medical doctor," the old fellow said. "I've never seen anything quite like the way you're marked up."
"I got them in the wars," the big man said. George shot the oldster a pursed-mouth look.
"Don't shush me, George," the old man said. "My interest's legitimate."
"Got a little rheumatism there?" George asked. His hard, pink-palmed hands explored a lump under the client's skin. The elderly medical man came over, frowned knowingly down at the man stretched on the table.
"Be careful, George," he ordered. "You take it easy with those hands of yours." He leaned for a closer look at the deep fissure, keloid-ridged, that crossed the kidney region.
"Feel like some kind of lump there," George said. "Feel hot, too." He stepped back, looking at the doctor. The old man's thin fingers ran over the visible swelling at the lower edge of the prone man's ribs.
"Why, there's a bullet lodged in there," he said. "You been shot, mister?"
"Not recently."
"Hmmm. Must have entered along here . . ." The thin old finger traced up along the big man's side. "Right here," he said. "Here's your point of entry. Traveled right along the rib cage—"
The medical man broke off, staring at an angry, reddish swelling developing at the spot under which the bullet lay.
"George, what did you do, gouge in with those big thumbs of yours? I told you to take it easy!"
"I never bear down on that place, doctor. I feel it right away and take it real gentle."
"You lie easy, mister," the doctor said. "You have some infection there, that's pretty plain. I have my kit with me. I think I'd better give you a hypo of PN-43—"
"No," the big man said. He was gritting his teeth, his back tensed. "I know what it is. But I'd forgotten how it feels. . ."
As the doctor and the masseur watched, the contusion grew, flushing dusky purple now, a three-inch splotch against the tan skin. A patch of paleness grew at its center, spread to the size of a steel dollar.
"Hey, doctor—" George said, and broke off as the swelling burst, the skin splitting to ooze dark blood and clear matter, exposing a grayish lump. The doctor uttered an exclamation, scuttled across to an open locker, jerked out a green-plastic instrument case, opened it on a bench, hurried back. With a shallow, spoon-shaped probe, he levered at the wound, lifted out a slightly misshapen lump of lead as big as the end of his thumb. The big man sighed harshly and relaxed.
"How long ago did you say it was you were shot?" the doctor asked in a strained voice, eyeing the big slug lying on his palm.
"Quite a while."
"I should say so." The old man barked a short laugh. "If it weren't so ridiculous, I'd swear that was a genuine minié ball."
"Minié ball? What that?" George asked; his eyes rolled like a horse smelling smoke.
"That's what they used in the Civil War," the doctor said.
The scarred man smiled slightly. "I need food," he said as he pulled on his shirt. "Is there a restaurant nearby that you can recommend, George?"
"Happen I got a nice slab of sirloin in my cooler right this minute," the big black man said. "And eggs, too. About half a dozen sound right?"
The scarred man took the fold of bills from his pocket and shucked off a fifty, laid it on the rubbing table.
"Rare. And over lightly."
"Say," the doctor said. "Funny thing. The scars on your face: they look different."
The scarred man turned to the full-length wall mirror. He went close, studying his features. The furrow across his cheeks that had pulled his mouth into a perpetual faint grin had faded to a shallow, pinkish line. The broad band of lumped scar tissue across his forehead was now no more than a faint discontinuity in the smooth tan of his skin.
"Never saw anything like it," the old man said in a tone of wonderment. "Those scars are fading right out. Just disappearing . . ." His hand moved, caught itself. "You'll pardon my curiosity," he said, edging around for a better view. "But as a man of science—"
"They weren't as bad as they looked," the formerly scarred man said shortly, turning away.
"Look here, my friend, I'm Dr. Henry Cripps. Hank, to my friends. Now, I've had some experience with contusions and the like during over forty years of practice. I know a third-degree scar when I see one. A thing like that doesn't just disappear in the space of a quarter of an hour—"
"Doctor, I'm not in need of medical attention, thank you anyway," the big man said. The oldster clamped his jaw, retired to the far side of the room, from where he stared at the object of his professional curiosity. An odor of cookery wafted into the room through the open doorway to a back room. The big man paced up and down, flexing his arms.
"Itches, doesn't it?" Cripps spoke up.
"A little."
"Damnedest thing I ever saw."
Five minutes of silence ensued. George appeared at the door.
"On the table," he said. The big man followed him back to the small, neatly arranged living quarters. He seated himself and attacked the thirty-two-ounce steak. George put a big glass of milk in front of him. He drained it, asked for a refill. He ate the eggs, mopped the juices from the plate with a scrap of toast. George brought in a foot-wide pie, lifted a quarter of it onto a plate, put a half-pint mug of coffee beside it.
"Can't get that kind in the store," he said. "I got a lady friend brings them around." He watched as his guest finished off the dessert, drained the cup.
"Better hang on to that lady friend, George," the big man said. He rose. "Thanks. I needed that."
"I reckon," George agreed. "Too bad Lucy-Ann not here to see you tuck it in. Do her heart good to see a man eat."
"By God," Dr. Cripps said. "Will you look at that, George? You can scarcely see where the scars were. They're remitting completely."
George shook his head, accepting the evidence of his eyes philosophically.
"Nothing like a good feed to set a man up," he commented.
"Look here," Cripps said as the object of the discussion headed from the room. "Would you mind just letting me have a look at your back?"
"I'm sorry; I'm in a hurry."
"But damn it, this is medical history in the making—if you'd let me observe it! I have a camera in my apartment, a few blocks from here; I should photograph this, document it—"
"Sorry." The big man picked up his coat.
"At least let me examine the wound I dressed. You owe me that much."
"All right." The big man stripped off his shirt. The doctor's eyes goggled at the sight of the wide, unmarked back. He put out a hand, touched the smooth skin. There was no trace of any injury anywhere in the patient's skin.
"Sir," he said in a choked voice, "you must come along with me to St. John's Hospital. You must allow this to be studied by competent authorities—"
The big man shook his head. "Out of the question." He donned his shirt, tied his tie, pulled on his coat. He put another fifty-dollar bill on the table.
"Thanks, to both of you," he said. "I hope that will cover your fee, doctor."
"Never mind my fee—"
"It's late," the big man said gently. "Maybe you were imagining things."
"George, you saw it too," Cripps exclaimed, turning to the Negro.
"Doctor, seem like sometimes I got a powerful bad memory." George smiled dreamily, looking at the bill.
They watched in silence as the big man went up the steps.
"Where can I reach you?" Cripps called as he put a hand on the door. "I'll want to follow up on treatment, of course!"
The big man paused, turned his head slowly, as if listening for a distant sound. He pointed in a direction at an angle to the door.
"I'm going that way," he said. "I don't know how far." The shrill of the wind as he pushed open the door drowned the doctor's reply.
2
Four guards carrying choke guns and sidearmed with holstered 4-mm impact pistols escorted Grayle along the wide, brilliantly lit subterranean corridor, two in advance, two behind him. In the liftcar, they posted themselves in the four corners and sealed their helmet visors before closing the door. In silence, they dropped the hundred and fifty feet to the staging room that was the sole exit route from the prison proper. As they emerged from the shaft, Ted was waiting. He stepped forward hesitantly.
"Hey, Mr. Grayle," he said in strained greeting.
"Hello, Ted," Grayle said.
"Uh—you O.K. now?" Ted said, and blushed.
"Sure. Thanks for everything, Ted."
"Geez, Mr. Grayle . . ." Ted swallowed and turned away quickly.
"So long, Ted," Grayle said.
In the processing unit, Grayle moved stolidly through the chemical and radiation scanners, submitted to the cold caress of the medical unit, the icy touch of the hyposprays. His fingerprints and retinal and dental patterns were read and compared. A husky lieutenant flicked keys on the ID panel and recorded the response which certified the identity of prisoner 7654-K-3YN-003. He opened a steel drawer, withdrew a pair of inch-wide metal-link wrist irons linked by a ten-inch rod. He weighed them on his palm, looking at Grayle.
"I don't want any trouble out of you now, boy," he said. His voice was a casual drawl, but his eyes were sharp on Grayle's. He advanced briskly, snapped a steel ring in place on the prisoner's right wrist, reached for the left. He gripped it, then suddenly twisted Grayle's arm behind him, brought it to within an inch of the waiting cuff, then stopped. His face darkened; veins stood out on his forehead, but the cuff moved no closer.
"Do you want to call for help?" Grayle asked softly, "or stick to the book?"
"Don't get me mad, boy," the lieutenant hissed. "I've got friends at Gull."
"What do you do when you're mad, Harmon, blow bubbles?"
The man made a noise deep in his throat. "A guardhouse lawyer," he grunted. Five seconds passed in silence; then the lieutenant stepped back.
"I guess I'll give him a break," he said loudly to the sergeant. "This boy won't give us any trouble. He's got enough trouble. He'll want to hit Gull clean—as clean as his kind can be. Cuff him up in front."
The sergeant secured the manacles. The four armed men boxed the prisoner. Metal clanged as steel doors opened on a bare chamber. They walked in. The doors closed. Two of the men pushed buttons at opposite ends of the small room. A heavy panel slid aside on a big bright-lit garage where two massive gray-painted vehicles bearing the letters CIFP were parked. An attendant unlocked a door at the rear of one; one of the guards stepped up into the windowless compartment, covered Grayle as he entered. A second guard came aboard, and the door closed. Locks snicked.
"You sit there." The guard indicated a low bench with a sloping back mounted against the driver's compartment. When Grayle was seated in it, knees high, his weight on the end of his spine, a locking bar slid into place across his ribs and sealed with a click. The two guards strapped into the contoured chairs mounted at the sides of the car. Each pressed a button set in the armrest of his chair.
"In position," one said. Grayle heard a soft sound, saw a minute movement of the tiny glass prism set in the ceiling. It studied him, then swiveled to inspect the guards. The light died behind it. A moment later the turbines started up with a muted howl.
Grayle felt the car move forward; he sensed the raising of the flint-steel door, was aware of a sense of enclosure as the vehicle entered the upward-slanting tunnel.
One of the guards stirred in his seat. He was a young fellow, with a bone-and-leather face, prominent teeth.
"Just try something, bo," he said in a husky whisper. "I hear you're a tough boy. Let's see can you break from us."
"Shut up, Jimbo," the other man said. "He ain't going noplace."
"Just to Gull, is all," Jimbo said. He smiled, exposing untended molars. "You think he'll like it there, Randy?"
"Sure," Randy said. "His kind likes it tough."
Grayle ignored their conversation. He was listening to the muted, echoic roar of the car's passage through the hundred-yard tunnel. The tone changed as the car slowed, started upgrade, changed again as it moved ahead on the level. They had emerged now onto the causeway linking the islands. Quickly the car built up speed. In six minutes they would pass over the Boca Ciega cut, the deep-water tidal-flow channel spanned by a single-lane bridge. Grayle tensed, counting silently to himself.
3
When Weather Control at Kennedy alerted the satellite that the weather-patrol craft was airborne, estimating five minutes to contact, the object of the meteorologists' attention had grown to an estimated diameter of four miles. Its rotation was clearly visible now.
"About five minutes for a complete revolution," Bunny said. "That means winds topping sixty at the periphery already. And she's holding position as if she'd dropped anchor."
"Kennedy is patching us directly in on the ground-to-air," Fred said. He plugged a hand microphone into a jack beside the screen. A faint crackle sounded; then the voice of the pilot came through loud and clear: ". . . getting dark fast, but it's clear as a bell out here, sea calm. I see some fishing boats down there, like ducks on a pond. I'm holding ten thousand . . ."
"He ought to be spotting some sign of it," Bunny muttered. "He's within fifty miles of it—"
"Hold everything, Kennedy Tower." The pilot's tone changed. "I have something . . . like a twister, a funnel. Black as soot. Looks kind of strange, hard edges like cast metal. Just sitting there on the horizon, maybe forty miles dead ahead."
"Roger, Navy oh-nine-three," the Kennedy controller said. "Close to ten miles and orbit the fix. Better give us the cameras on this from now on."
"Cameras already rolling. I'm getting a hard echo off this thing. It's big, all right. It tops out at about fifteen thousand, six miles wide. It looks like a mountain standing on its nose. What's holding it up?"
"I've got him on the HR screen, sir," a junior technician called. "He's at thirty miles, closing fast."
"Say, Kennedy, I'm getting some turbulence now," the Neptune pilot said calmly. "I'm making a pass east of the bogie. This thing is big. I never saw anything like this. It's opaque. It looks like it's spinning. Trailing streamers. The sea looks kind of funny under it. Black shadow, and . . ." There was a five-second pause. "There's a hole down there. A whirlpool. My God, I . . ."
"Navy oh-nine-three," Kennedy came in as the voice hesitated. "Repeat that last transmission."
"I'm down to five thousand, fifteen miles out. The thing's standing up over me like an umbrella. I'm holding about a twenty-degree crab. Winds are getting rough. I can hear it now, roaring . . ."
"All right, sheer off, Ken, get out of that turbulence—"
"There's a boat down there, some kind of boat! She's got her lights on. Looks like about a thirty-footer. She's got her stern to the twister. She's . . . my God, the damned thing's got her! She's going in!"
"Ken, get out of there!"
"There's three people aboard, I can see them!" the pilot was shouting now.
"All right, Navy oh-nine-three," another voice spoke harshly. "Report course change, and put some snap into it!"
"I'm . . . I'm making my pass now, north of it, five miles from contact. That boat—"
"Never mind the boat! Pick up a heading of oh-nine-oh and put some distance between you and this thing!"
"Turbulence is bad. She's fighting me. . ."
"Go to full gate, Ken! Get the hell out of there!"
"She's not reacting to control, Kennedy! She's . . . God! I'm getting knocked around . . . it'll tear her apart . . .!"
"Mr. Hoffa!" the technician called. "The Navy's plane's headed right into it!"
"Ken! Try riding with it! Don't fight it, let it take you around, build up airspeed, and try to edge out!"
"Roger, Kennedy," the pilot said. His voice was flat, emotionless now, against a background howl. "Tell the next guy to stay way back, twenty miles at least. It's like a magnet. I'm riding it like a merry-goround. It's like a black well, two miles off my starboard wingtip. The noise—I guess you can hear it. I'm indicating four-fifty, but I'd say my ground speed is a couple hundred over that—"
"Ken, try a left turn, about five degrees—"
"I'm in a tight crab, no joy, Kennedy. The boat's coming under me again. It's right on the edge of the drop. It—it's breaking up. Ripped wide open. It's gone. Lucky at that. Fast. I'm getting the turbulence again. It's dark in here. I've got my nav lights on. It looks like black glass. Buffeting's bad now; can't take much of this . . . she . . ."
"Ken! Ken! Come in, Ken!"
"It merged," the technician said in a choked voice. "The plane flew right into it!"
4
The sound of the tires of the armored vehicle changed tone as it started across the metal-grid surface of the lift span of the Boca Ciega bridge. As they did, Grayle arched his back, putting pressure against the steel bar across his chest. For an instant it held firm; then it yielded, bent like sun-warmed wax. One end sprang free of the latch mechanism. At the sound, both guards tensed, their heads jerking around in time to see Grayle come to his feet, tense his forearms, and bend the chrome-steel rod between his wrists into a U, grip it with both hands, and with a quick twist snap it apart. The one called Randy made a strangled sound and clawed at the gun at his hip. Grayle plucked it from him, did something to it with his hands, threw it aside, in the same motion caught Jimbo as he rose, tapped him lightly against the wall, dropped him. He stepped to the rear of the car, gripped the steel rods which engaged slots at the sides of the double door, braced his feet, and lifted. One rod popped from its socket; the other broke with a crystalline tinkle. Grayle kicked the doors wide; a swirl of rain whipped at him. Gripping the jamb, he swung out, caught at the lamp housing above, pulled himself up onto the roof of the speeding vehicle. As he drew his legs up, there was a sharp double report, and a sharp pang stung his left shin.
He rose to his knees, looking down at the concrete railing flashing past, at the multistrand barbed wire above it, the dark water frothing whitecapped below. He rose to his feet against the rushing wind, gauged his distance, and dived far out over the pavement and the wires as the car braked, tires squealing, its siren bursting into howling life.
The escort spent half an hour patrolling the bridge on foot, playing powerful handlights across the water, but they found no sign of the escaped convict.
Under the high-beamed roof of the timbered farmhouse at Björnholm, the man who had been Gralgrathor sits at a long table, musing over a bowl of stout ale. In the fire burning on the hearth, images of faces and figures form, beckon, flicker away, their whispering flame-voices murmuring words in a tongue he has half-forgotten. Across the room Gudred sits on a bench between the two household servant girls, her youthful head bent over her needlework.
He pushes the bowl away, stands, belts a warm coat of bearskin about him. Gudred comes to him, the firelight soft on her plaited hair, the color of hammered gold.
"Will you sit with me by the fire awhile, my Grall?" she asks softly. Of all the daughters of Earl Arnulf, she alone had a voice that was not like the bawling of a bull calf. Her touch was gentle, her skin smooth and fair.
"You are a fool, Grall," the earl had said. "She is a sickly creature who will doubtless die bearing your first son. But if you indeed choose her over one of my lusty, broad-beamed wenches—why, take her, and be done with it!"
"I'm restless, girl," he tells her, smiling down into her face. "My head is fuddled with ale and too long lazing indoors. I need to walk the hills awhile to clear the cobwebs from my brain."
Her hand tightens on his arm. "Thor—not in the hills! Not in the gloaming; I know you laugh at talk of trolls and ogres, but why tempt them—"
He laughs and hugs her close. Across the wide room, the curtains of the sleeping alcove stir. The face of a small boy appears, knuckling his eyes.
"See—we've waked Loki with our chatter," Gralgrathor says. "Sing him a song, Gudred, and by the time you've stitched another seam in your Fairday gown, I'll be back."
Outside, the light of the long northern evening gleams across the grain field which slopes down to the sea edge. Above, the forest mounts the steep rocks toward the pink-stained snowfields on the high ridges. With the old hound Odinstooth beside him, he sets off with long strides that in a quarter of an hour have put the home acre far below him.
Beside him, Odinstooth growls; he quiets the dog with a word. On the hillside, a movement catches his eye. It is a man, wrapped in a dark cloak, approaching from the tongue of the forest that extends down toward the farm. Grall watches him, noting his slim, powerful physique, his quick, sure movements.
The man's course leads him down across the fold of the earth, up again toward the ledge where Gralgrathor waits; there is something in his gait, his easy movements, that remind him of someone from the forgotten life . . .
The man comes up the slope, his face shadowed under the cowl. For an instant, the heavy gray cloth looks like a Fleet-issue weather cloak . . .
"Thor?" a mellow tenor voice calls.
Gralgrathor stands staring down at the newcomer, who has thrown back his cowl to reveal a lean, dark-eyed face, flame-red hair.
"Lokrien—am I dreaming?" Gralgrathor whispers.
The dark-eyed man smiles, shaking his head. He speaks in a strange language . . . but dimly, Gralgrathor senses the meaning.
"Thor—man, it is you! Don't tell me you've forgotten your mother tongue!"
"After all these years?" Gralgrathor says. "You've really come?"
"I've come for you," Lokrien says in the half-strange language. "I've come to take you home, Thor."