“I did not mean to startle you,” he said. “But I did not wish to interrupt your ritual. Czolgoscz phoned me and I brought your bicycle around. The best one I had in stock.”

“Thank, thank you—indeed a beauty. But I am afraid I cannot pay you for it…”

He smiled. “You already have. I stopped at the wirrbank and debited your account. They asked me to give this to you.”

I did some rapid blinking at the wirrdisc he handed me. James diCriz it was labeled. And in the little LCD window it read Balance 64.678.

“The bank asked me to ask you to contact them. They were not sure how many hours you worked for the public service last night. If you would kindly report to them they will make the correction.”

“I am in the system!” I shouted happily. The bicycle man beamed happy agreement.

“Of course! You are an individual and Individual Mutualism is your right. Welcome, welcome! May your wirrbalance grow and may your life be a long and happy nnpl~’

Chapter 26

It was next morning when the cagal hit the fan. Reports had come in during the night of the fantastic success of D-Day. The troops had trooped into town with their passes, had expressed a great appreciation of fresh air, had been welcomed at the back entrance of any clothing store to change out of their uniforms, had boarded train after train. The last one left just before midnight when the curfew had descended.

And there had been no alarm, not at first. Luckily there were four gates into the camp and I presumed that the MPs, in their native ignorance, had all thought the returning soldiers had used the other gates. Therefore they had all been happy to cagal off for the evening. So successful had been our operation that even the extra trains had not sufficed for the mobs of deserters. Over a hundred were still in the city. They would stay hidden until nightfall when, hopefully, they would be smuggled to the station.

With my new-found wealth I had bought a giant TV as a gift for our hosts. Morton and I were watching a local broadcast when the military cut in. Neither of us appreciated it for this was a day of celebration of some kind, the anniversary of the wiring of Mark Forer’s first circuit board or some such, and all the city had turned out. We were enjoying a parade, headed by the local girls’ cycle club, all flashing bronzed limbs and fluttering skirts, when the picture sizzled and died to be replaced by General Zennor’s scowling features.

“Turn it offi” Morton moaned. “If I look at him I won’t be able to eat lunch.”

“Leave it. It won’t be good news, but since we will have to hear it sometime—better now.”

“Attention!” Zennor said and Morton made a rude noise with his tongue; I waved him to silence. “You all know me. General Zennor of the liberating forces. You know me as a kind and patient man . ..”

“He is a great fiction writer!”

“Quiet!”

“. . . a firm leader and ajust one. And now the time has come for firmness and justice to be applied. I have just discovered that a few cowards among the ranks of my loyal troops have been foolish enough to attempt to desert. Desertion is punishable by death…”

“What isn’t in the rotten army!”

“. . . and I know that none of you out there would want that to happen to foolish and misguided young men. Therefore this announcement. I am extending all passes issued last night for twenty-four hours. They are good until midnight tonight. No soldier will be punished who returns to the base before midnight. I therefore advise all the people of this city to speak to these misguided youths who are hidden among you. Tell them to return. You know where they are. Go to them. Tell them of this generous offer.” The fake kindness vanished from his face in an instant as he leaned close to the camera and snarled.

“Tell them also that my generosity vanishes at midnight! Martial law will then be declared. This city will be sealed. No one will enter or leave it. Then the city will be searched. Block by block, building by building. Any deserter who is then found will be taken prisoner, will be given one bottle of beer and will be allowed to write one letter home. And will then be shot.

“Is that clear enough? You have this single warning. You have until midnight tonight to return. That is the message I send to the deserters. After that—you are as good as dead—” I hit the button and turned the set off.

“Pretty depressing,” Morton said, looking pretty depressed. “Turn it back on so we can at least look at the girls.”

I did. But they were long gone and had been replaced by a man with long hair and an enthusiastic expression who was going on in great detail about the untold joys of IM. I killed the sound.

“You know, Morton, he eans us too.”

“Don’t say it! I know. Isn’t there another station with space opera? I need a drink.”

“No you don’t. You need to sit quiet and pull yourself together and help me find a way out of this for all of us. Well, maybe a small drink, a glass of beer just to get the thoughts rolling.”

“I could not but overhear,” Stirner said, entering with a tray of glasses and bottles. “If you will permit I will join you. The day is warm.”

We clinked and glugged. “Any word from the city?” I asked.

“A good deal of words. All the trains leaving the city have been canceled so there is no way out by train.”

“The roads?”

“Roadblocks on all arteries leading from the city. Flying machines supported by rotating wings—”

“Choppers.”

“Thank you, I have noted the word. Choppers flying over the countryside between so none may escape that way. All young men who attempt to leave are being detained, even when they are obviously Chojecki citizens who speak only our native tongue. They are imprisoned until their hands have been pressed to a plate on a machine, that is what has been reported. So far all have been released.”

“Very neat,” I muttered, “and just about foolproof. Fingerprint check. Right through to the base computer. So we can’t get out that way. It will have to be the fields, after dark.”

“Not that I want to cast a note of gloom,” Morton said, gloorncasting. “Choppers, infrared detectors, side-mounted machine guns, death from the sky…”

“Point taken, Morton. Too dangerous. There must be another way.”

The lecture had finished and once more hearty biking enthusiasts swept across the screen. All males with hairy knees: Morton grumbled in his throat. Then instantly cheered up as the girls’ club appeared, waving and smiling at the camera.

“Wow!” I shouted, jumping to my feet and running in small circles. “Wow-wow!”

“Down the hall, second door on the left.”

“Shut up, Morton. This is inspiration, not constipation. You see genius at work. You see before you the only man who knows how to get us all safely from the city. ”

“How?”

“That’s how,” I said, pointing at the screen. “Stimer—get busy on the phone and the backfence gossip circuit. I want this show on the road by midaftemoon. It will take us at least that long to organize it.”

“Organize what?” Morton cried. “I’m lost. What are you talking about?”

“I think I know,” Stimer said, being quicker on the uptake than Mort. “You are going to leave the city on bicycles. But you will be stopped.”

“No we won’t—because you got the answer only half right. Well all be leaving as girls!”

Once the idea had penetrated joy reigned for a bit—then we got down to work. Since I was doing most of the planning and organizing I was the very last one to actually get involved in the nitty-gritty of personal survival. There was much coming and going. I was vaguely aware when Morton’s bicycle arrived, but then got busy again with the men’s cycle club. I ate a sandwich, drank another beer, and looked up blinking when Morton called to me.