Part 8

"The City of Wiener was officially founded on August 16, 2058, by Darby Chisholm, C. Edward Gronke, H. D. Feldstein, David M. Kammer, and Arthur Lloyd Canby, professors of cybernetics at Columbia University, Harvard University, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Colby Institute and Swarthmore College. The avowed aim of the five founders was to create a completely self-sufficient, automated cybernetic community in a relatively nonstrategic area of the United States, where experiments in non-limited automational control could be put into practice.

"The building of the City of Wiener was implemented by a government grant of three billion dollars and private contributions. Four sites were chosen: Juntura, Oregon; Lodge Grass, Montana; Wanblee, South Dakota; Wilder, Texas. It was the original plan of the founders to utilize all four sites and build identical cities at each, but the precipitation of war in 2059 made it unwise to divert energies to so large a project at that time, and the decision was made to limit the experiment to the Texas site alone. This later proved to have been wise, in view of the unexpected attacks on the three rejected sites in the apparently mistaken impression that they had been the ones chosen.

"The City of Wiener was completed on April 11, 2061, and the switch feeding the first input was thrown by Dr. Chisholm of Columbia. A series of cybernetic governors powered by a fusion-breeder reactor then took full control of operations, and the City of Wiener was officially born. It has--"

"All right," Kesley interrupted suddenly, realizing he was about to receive a detailed history of the City's activities over the past four centuries. "I'd like to see whoever's in charge here. The Mayor, or whatever."

"Question has no cognitive referent," the dry voice said.

"'_Seeing_' the controlling body is out of the question, as no human is to be permitted access to the cybernetic governors under terms of the original City contract established between the City of Wiener and its five founders in--"

Dumbstruck, Kesley said: "You mean a _machine_ runs this City?"

"The question is inaccurate. The City _is_ a machine. There are no human inhabitants."

Suddenly chilled, Kesley looked up at the grid at which he had been directing his words, and realized he had been holding conversation with a mechanical brain, not some remote City official. Moistening his lips, he said: "What does the City _do_?"

"Question is unclear."

_The precision of the mechanical mind_, he thought in amused irritation. He rephrased the question. "What functions does the City carry out, aside from the normal routine of--of self-repair?"

"The City maintains a record of happenings in the Outer World; this record is not completely available for examination at the moment, due to unsettled conditions without. The City supplies manufactured goods to those who request them, as prescribed by its founders. The City endeavors to supply information within the bounds of self-safety, likewise as prescribed. The City--"

"Does the City know of a poet named Daveen?" Kesley broke in.

"Question will have to be referred to Answering Banks."

A pause, then, in a somewhat altered voice: "Information incomplete on poet Daveen, no other name recorded, member of court Duke Winslow Chicago North America 2504-2521, left court 2521, current whereabouts unknown. Is full biography requested?"

"No." Kesley crossed his legs and stared broodingly at his boots for a moment. The entire City a vast sentient machine, then! No wonder the Dukes left it alone; they knew they would never have the strength to destroy Wiener, and so they preferred that the machine-hating populace never learned of the City's existence.

He found himself greatly curious about the City. His imagination was engaged by the implications of a city-sized mechanical mind; he who had never dealt with any machine more complex than a pistol, who had had only fleeting acquaintance with the remnants of the Old Days, was fascinated by this mightiest machine of all.

"What can you tell me about Dale Kesley?" he asked on a sudden impulse.

Again silence--silence while photon-tracers raced over cryotronic circuits searching for information. Then: "Dale Kesley, farmer, entered Iowa Province June 21, 2521, no previous record, left Iowa Province undetermined time in spring of this year. Entered City of Wiener unaccompanied except by one mutant horse Type VX-1342 on October 8 of this year. Further information is lacking."

"Thanks," Kesley said hoarsely. His first twenty years were blank to the City, too. "Mind if I look around the place a little?"

"Limited examination of City of Wiener is permitted," the metal voice said. "Your animal has been removed for care and will be returned to you upon request."

He glanced through the thick glass window of the cubicle and saw that it was indeed so. While he had talked, unseen hands--_hands?_--had taken the horse away. Led it to pasture, Kesley wondered?

* * * * *

He wandered through the silent halls of the complex city, observing with a sort of quiet horror the chill efficiency with which the robot mind carried out its daily routine.

The City _was_ populated. Kesley came across the inhabitants immediately after leaving the glass-walled cubicle. They were man-sized robots of blue metal, rolling on noiseless treads, equipped with opposable-thumbed hands and filament-ended tentacles and wiry grippers, seeing out of bright electrophotic eyes and gazing evenly ahead with expressionless, shiny faces.

One of them was squatting over an immense heap of coiled tape which was growing almost as fast as he could scoop it up and feed it into the chittering maw of some glossy data-eater in one wall.

Another was repairing a mass of tangled circuits in an exposed ganglion behind a section of wall.

Still another of the mechanical men stood at some distance away, holding a segmented tube to the mouth of Kesley's horse. The horse had its jointed scaly lips pressed tight against the tube, and was eating or drinking with evident contentment.

Air-conditioners hummed gently in the background, keeping the atmosphere pure and dustless. From the floor came the throbbing of some mighty engines far below. Kesley wondered just how deep in the ground the City penetrated.

All around, computers chattered and whistled. Kesley felt his astonishment growing with each moment. And beneath the astonishment, there was a mounting resentment at the Ducal philosophy that had blanked such achievements as this from the world.

_Machines have destroyed civilization_, people said. But had they? No; not the machines. It was man's _use_ of the machines; the machines themselves were impartial, as disinterested in the currents of human affairs as the moon and the stars.

Yet the Dukes had risen to power on a program of throttled technological development. Fleetingly, the thought went through Kesley's mind that the Dukes had made a mistake. If only--

He stopped, feeling a shiver of pain. Once again he had touched some reverberating rawness in the deep layers of his mind; once again, a forbidden thought.

In sudden inspiration he turned toward a grid set in the wall near him.

"Can I get information from you?" he asked.

"Answering circuits are functioning."

"Can you tell me anything about Antarctica? Anything at all?"

Silence for a moment. "Do you mean Antarctica before or after removal of the ice?" the voice asked.

"Afterward--I guess."

"We have no information on Antarctica after 2062," the machine said. "Ice removal was completed in 2021, and settlement proceeded along with rapid technological development. In 2062 Antarctica ceased all contact with the rest of the world."

2062 was the year of the Great Blast, Kesley thought. And Antarctica had drawn the curtain.

He shrugged and walked away, taking a seat on a curved metal stanchion projecting from the floor. Somewhere, locked in the obstinate memory banks of this computer-city, might be the information he needed to orient himself in the world, the missing data that everyone maddeningly withheld from him. But where to find it? How to get it?

Suddenly the City's voice said: "Dale Kesley!"

"I'm here. What do you want?"

"You will have to leave at once. We will tolerate a delay of no more than five minutes, plus or minus one."

"How come? Why can't I stay?"

"The City of Wiener faces armed attack if you remain here. Therefore, you must leave."

_Very logical_, Kesley thought coldly. "Armed attack from whom?"

A section of the wall near him rolled away, revealing a mammoth screen that showed the outside desert with startling clarity. Kesley saw figures huddled along the horizon, marching forward. An army. Duke Winslow's army.

"They're from the Duke, aren't they?"

"Yes. They've come to get you."

"And you're just going to turn me over to them?" Kesley asked horror-stricken.

"We simply are requesting that you leave. We do not wish to risk an armed attack upon ourself."

"You can defend yourself, can't you?"

"We are not afraid of the Duke. We simply wish to avoid any conflict as unnecessary expenditure of material and effort. You now have three minutes, plus or minus one, in which to leave freely."

Sweat began to pour down Kesley's back. He glanced at the screen, saw Winslow's advancing forces. They had somehow tracked him to Wiener.

But the City _couldn't_ throw him out now! It just wasn't fair!

Grimly, he started to run.

He charged forward toward the long shadowed corridor and heard his footsteps ringing loudly as he ran. The corridor was a helix that wound deeper and deeper into the Earth; Kesley ran, feeling the pure cold air whipping past.

Gleaming blue mechanical men turned to look at him as he went by.

"Two minutes, plus or minus one," the machine warned. Its voice seemed to be everywhere. Kesley saw the familiar grids studding the wall at regular intervals.

He had to hide. He had to avoid the City's commands, avoid Winslow, stay here where he was safe. He found a dark alcove and stepped in. There was a door; he opened it, stepped through, and found himself in the midst of an intricate network of machinery, row on row of relay and stud.

"One minute, plus or minus one," the ubiquitous voice said. Kesley scowled. There wouldn't be any escape, it seemed. He kept running.

"We have requested that you leave. Your time is now exhausted, and we must remove you."

Kesley whirled desperately and saw four of the metal men coming toward him. They seized him gently, grasping him in the thick paws of their upper arms. His fists thudded against the solid metal of their chest, bruising his knuckles but failing to stop their advance.

They lifted him and began to move, sliding forward at an incredible pace up the long corridor and toward the beckoning iris of an opening door.

XII

Once again, he was fleeing.

_Always on the run_, he thought bitterly, as the mutant horse flashed over the prairie, its six legs pistoning as it drew away from Winslow's men.

The City had been considerate; the City had been kind. The teardrop-vehicle had not deposited him sprawling at Winslow's feet, and for that mercy Kesley had to be grateful.

The four implacable robots had carried him effortlessly toward the opening door; the uncomplaining horse had already been led through the opening and into the waiting vehicle. Still yelling, Kesley had been crammed into the silvery vehicle, and it had started away from the confines of the City.

Winslow's men were advancing steadily. The City had ejected Kesley to save its own titanium skin, its own guts of transistors and cryotrons.

He was ejected from the vehicle and left in the midst of the hot sands, with Winslow's men still a distant green-and-gold blur on the horizon. For a moment Kesley had stood there uncertainly, staring back at the City that had cast him forth; then, mounting his wobbly-legged horse, he began to ride.

He headed north, back the way he came. Winslow had obviously pursued him through Illinois, perhaps tracked him from Mutie City to the Colony to Wiener--but the City had avoided disaster by ejecting him.

Now, northward.

Returning to the Colony was out of the question for many reasons. Returning to Iowa would probably be fatal--Loren and Lester, good subjects of the Duke, would turn the fugitive in without giving the matter a minute's thought. South America was as dangerous a place as Winslow's lands, and the Empires beyond the sea were impossible to reach. There was little traffic between the Americas and either Asia, Europe, Africa, or Australasia, and none whatsoever with Antarctica.

If he allowed Winslow to catch up with him, it would mean sure death. But one solution presented itself. _I'll return to Mutie City_, he thought, spurring the bony beast on. _That's one place where Winslow won't dare to come in after me._

Kesley squirmed in the saddle and peered around. Men were breaking off from the column of horsemen and were starting to follow him.

He gave the reins another tug. Whatever it was the City had fed the animal, it was propelling the beast like gasoline. The mutant was covering ground in a rocketlike fashion. But Kesley knew the pace could never last.

And, sure enough, the mutie began to falter after another half mile, to drop back and lose ground. Four of Winslow's men were still on the trail; Kesley computed that he was somewhere near the Oklahoma border, and hoped no border guards would trouble him as he passed into the adjoining province.

He had a knife and a truncheon; the pursuers probably had pistols. He wouldn't last long once they caught him. They'd gun him down on the spot.

And he'd never know why.

* * * * *

The horse gave out shortly after high noon. Kesley managed to guide the winded beast into a thicket off the main road, and dismounted there, crouching in hiding while the mutie gasped for breath and shook its sweating sides.

Before long the four pursuers arrived on the scene. For an instant Kesley thought they would simply keep riding past, but he heard voices commenting that the trail of hoof-prints ended up here. He tensed, knowing they would soon be searching the bushes for him.

"You go that way," someone said.

Kesley tethered his tired horse and backed away a little deeper into the underbrush. Several minutes passed.

Then a figure in the green-and-gold Ducal uniform appeared, a tall, dark-complected man with bare, burly arms. He clutched a drawn pistol in one hand.

"Hey, here's his horse--" he started to say, and Kesley leaped. His attack was the sudden, quick strike and withdrawal of the forest serpent; he sprang from the bushes, clubbed downward with the truncheon, withdrew again as the man fell. He waited a minute; then, seeing none of the other three approaching, Kesley quietly stole out and seized the fallen man's pistol. Now he was armed.

Cupping his hand over his mouth to muffle his voice, he shouted, "I got him in here!" Then he ducked back behind a thick-boled tree.

"We're coming, Gar!"

Three more uniformed figures stepped into the clearing. Kesley squeezed the trigger three times and they fell, their faces frozen in utter astonishment. Kesley felt suddenly unclean; he had murdered three men, injured a fourth. And those three did not know why _they_ had died, either.

He freed his own horse and slapped the weary mutant on the flank. "Go ahead, fella. You're free. You've done your job." He could take his pick from the four Ducal thoroughbreds waiting on the highway.

Sadly he stepped over the fallen bodies. The man he had clubbed was still breathing; he lay in a sticky pool of his companions' mingled blood. Kesley knelt, saw the ugly, raw wound on the man's skull, the welling blood matting the dark hair. Wedged in the soldier's sash was a grimy, folded piece of thick paper. Kesley drew it forth.

It was on Ducal stationery, with the familiar heraldic watermark that he had seen on so many tax vouchers in his farming days. The inscription, in large, dark, slightly smudged type, was a simple one:

WANTED

For High Treason Against His Highness, Duke Winslow of North America Dale Kesley, farmer, of Iowa Province, also known under the false name of Ramon, Ambassador from Duke Miguel of South America.

The said Kesley, having entered His Highness' court on the pretext of an embassy from the Court of Buenos Aires, did make an attempt on our Duke's life. Kesley is sought urgently. A reward of fifty thousand dollars is offered for his corpse.

The said Kesley is six-feet-two in height, with closely-trimmed blond hair, full lips, nose set somewhat unevenly on his face. He will probably be wearing stolen clothing and riding a stolen horse.

* * * * *

That was all. Kesley whistled; fifty thousand dollars was a staggering sum of cash to offer. And they wanted his _corpse_; Winslow had no interest in anything but a dead Kesley, then.

He would have to look sharp. With fifty thousand riding on his head, every loyal subject from Texas to Maine Province would be ready to sell him to the Duke.

* * * * *

He lived a hazardous existence on the way north, eating off the forest and staying out of the way of anyone official-looking. He travelled mostly by night, creeping along cautiously during the day and making up the delay by galloping furiously once the sun had set.

Generally he had no difficulties. Crossing from Arkansas into Missouri nearly caused trouble, when he blundered into a border patrol searching for someone else. He never found out who it was they really wanted; two of the guards stopped him, stared at his face in the light of a flickering match, and, after a tense moment or two, incredibly sent him along his way.

In central Missouri he wandered into a hobo camp. Four bedraggled-looking men were squatting around an iron pot in which bubbled some sort of stew. Kesley had not eaten all day; he rode up to them and dismounted, keeping a hand hovering near his weapons in case they should recognize him.

They didn't.

"Come join us, brother," one of them invited. He was a heavy man with a bulbous red nose.

"Thanks. Don't mind if I do." Kesley lowered himself into the circle round the fire.

"You from hereabouts?" a lean man of perhaps sixty asked grudgingly. "Don't spot your face."

"I'm an Illinoiser," Kesley said. "Spent some time down in Texas. Now I'm heading home again."

He helped himself to a potful of stew. The stuff was hot and bubbling--too hot, really, to taste, which perhaps was a sort of blessing, Kesley thought.

"Have any trouble with the border guards?" someone asked.

"Little squabble down near Arkansas, that's all. They were hunting someone or other, and took me for him."

"They do that, sometimes," the red-nosed man agreed. "Times are tough now. The woods are full of Winslow's men."

"Oh? Something up?"

"Seems someone tried to kill the old bird," the red-faced man said. "Guess he got fed up after all these years."

"I suspect it was that Duke from South America," the lean one remarked. "Them Dukes are out for each other, mark my words!"

The fire flickered and sent a spiral of smoke curling into the trees. Staring at it, Kesley found the sight oddly soothing. He took another sip of the stew.

Chuckling, he said, "They must be chasing this guy all over the country. I'll bet there's a nifty price on his head."

"Seventy-five thousand, that's what it is!"

Kesley frowned. Had the reward increased so fast--or was this just the exaggeration of ignorance? It didn't much matter.

"I'd like to catch some of that money myself, you know. Seventy-five thousand, huh?"

The red-nosed man laughed raucously. "You know, if I was the guy, maybe I'd turn _myself_ in, for that kind of dough!"

Maybe you would, Kesley thought, watching the ghostly shapes the fire took. Anybody would do anything these days.

"What would you do if _I_ was the guy?" he asked suddenly.

"You?" The red-nosed man seemed to stiffen a little. "Why would _you_ want to go killin' Dukes?"

"Yeah," Kesley said. "That's right, I guess."

* * * * *

He moved on later that night, leaving his newfound companions behind. They seemed happy there in the forest. He toyed with the idea of telling them the truth before he left, but rejected the idea. There was no telling how they'd react to the confession--but seventy-five thousand was a lot of money, and he didn't want four more deaths to his score.

He kept riding. He passed through Missouri and up into Illinois, following the Mississippi up from Cairo. The year was well into late October and the evenings were chilly. He rode quickly; the horse he had captured was a smoothly-functioning, full-blooded traveling machine.

Up through Illinois, until finally the broad expanse of Mutie City was visible through the dawn haze. For the first time since being cast out of Wiener he had the feeling that he was approaching safety. Flight was over--for now.

Of course, the mutants had told him not to return. But this was an emergency; surely they'd let him in.

He entered the city shortly after morning. The mutants were stirring, going about their early-day business. It seemed a savage parody of a normal city's routine. The shops were crowded, and what difference did it make if shopkeepers' heads were of spongy blue flesh and shoppers had the arms of lizards?

He felt terribly weary. As he entered the city, he was not surprised to see Spahl coming toward him.

"Hello," he said, dismounting.

"We expected your return," the seal-like creature said without preamble of formality. "We knew when we asked you to leave that you would be back."

"I want to rest," Kesley said. "This time don't throw me out."

He allowed Spahl to lead him to the room he had occupied on his earlier visit. A group of mutants congregated; he recognized Foursmith and Huygen. There were some others, stranger and more bizarre than any he had yet seen.

It was odd, Kesley thought, that the one place on Earth he could go for sanctuary was to this repository of freaks. Angrily, he brushed the thought away. The mutants were--well, _people_.

"I've been to the Colony and to Wiener," he explained. "I couldn't stay there. Winslow's hunting me all over the country."

"We know these things," Spahl said quietly. "We have followed your path, Kesley."

"And--?"

"We have decided the time has come for you to go home. You've been long awaited and we'll make sure you get there safely."

"Home?"

"Now your life is in danger. You endanger anyone you come in contact with. Obviously you must not remain in Winslow's territories any longer--or Miguel's."

"And therefore," Foursmith added when Spahl ceased, "we will send you forth. For your sake and ours."

Huygens, the man of two heads, said: "Besides, Daveen has been found."

"What? Where?"

"He is in Antarctican hands now. We sent him there but recently. He waits for you. Spahl, is it time?"

"Not just yet," said the seal-man. "Kesley, will you remember what we're doing--_later_? We're buying our lives from you. Will you remember that?"

"I don't understand a thing," Kesley said wearily. "I don't even think I want to understand. But yes, I'll remember. Sure." He rocked forward on his chair, dizzy, confused.

The mutants gave way, and a new one entered the room--a small, very pale man, normal except for the huge circumference of his skull.

"Edwin is a teleport," Spahl remarked casually.

"What--"

Suddenly Kesley felt himself struck by a blinding bolt of force; it spun him around, whirled him as if he were in a maelstrom, lifted him up. He saw the smiling faces of Spahl and Foursmith, saw all the mutants dwindle behind him. He rose, higher and higher, spinning vertiginously, frozen in an instantaneous moment of time. Space hung beneath him.