It was three in the afternoon and quitting time at Utopian Appliances, Inc. Bertram J. Bernard, the firm's stocky, thick-jawed president, waited discreetly at his desk for a few minutes, then closed the file he had been studying, bid his secretary a pleasant evening, and strode calmly out of the office. He did not want to appear eager, and succeeded superbly in that. Joining several junior executives, he conversed genially with them as they descended to the rapid-transit floor. Three of the bright, confident young men decided to stop for a quick one at the building's plush saloon. Well, that was okay—Bernard had been a late-runner in his youth. But now, well into middle age, he had learned that life had other demands and pleasures.
"Have a good run, B. B.," said Watkins, the treasurer, at the rap-tran gate. "Gloria's coming in on the three-thirty and we're going to dinner and then some musical or other she's been dying to see."
So Bernard entered the rap-tran alone, though surrounded by scores of pushing, jabbering strangers. Finding a seat on the aisle, next to a electronics company vice-president whom he knew slightly, he engaged in trade conversation during the five minutes it took the monorail to reach his stop. He and the electronics executive got off, as did about half of the rap-trans passengers, mostly middle-aged men like himself. Early-runners.
The escalator from the monorail stop descended directly into the Jungle Station beneath. In the large lobby the crowd dispersed and Bernard was again alone when he reached the dressing rooms. This was not surprising, he reflected; not many members of his Jungle Station could afford the elaborate private locker unique to this wing of the building. He pressed his thumbprint to the lock and the door slid back.
Inside, he undressed completely, noting with critical satisfaction the strength and color of his body in the full-length mirror at one end of the locker. He quickly packed his clothes, shoes, and briefcase into a small suitcase, with delivery instructions on the top. Then he climbed into his jungle suit—knee-length shorts, sweat shirt, rubber-soled shoes, and hip holster.
He checked the frequency setting on the sonic pistol, adjusting it to the panthers who were reported in ascendancy. As a last thought, merely a whim, he glanced down at the station emblem on his sweat shirt, just to enjoy the sense of pride he derived from the large red "U-F" above it.
Of course there were getting to be more and more ulcer-frees these days, but that did not make it any less a matter for pride. And anyway several factions were pressing determinedly for a neurosis-free insignia. Though there were complications there. Oh, well, the important thing's the run, he remembered.
In the lobby again he deposited his suitcase at the delivery window. Then he stopped at the bulletin board to read the ascendancy ratings for the day. These were official, therefore several days outdated, but one could extrapolate. Panthers were dropping into third position, behind polar bears, with giraffes at the top by a good margin.
Outside the building he ran into a tipster and decided he had best buy a dope sheet. He gave the seedy little man a dollar bill and looked over the page.
"Keep it right where you got it, Mac," the man whispered hoarsely, nodding toward the pistol at Bernard's side. "I got it straight, dem pant'ers is all over de place. Watch out at de water hole, specially."
Glancing swiftly over the page, Bernard saw that fifty panthers had entered this sector of the jungle overnight, with a herd of fifteen giraffes headed well toward the south. But he also noted that there had been three deaths from polar bears in the past week in his sector alone. Fortunately, the frequency readjustment from panthers to polar bears was an easy one, three clicks clockwise with the thumb. He would have to remember about the water hole, though it was either that or going above the rapids. The sharks below the rapids were pretty thick during the summer.
"Thanks, bud," he told the tipster. Then he strode, still calm, to the wall. Expertly he clambered up its handholds, till he reached the top, thirty feet from the ground. On the other side lay the jungle, its lush tropical growth hiding from his alert eyes the danger that lurked within. He popped a Verve pill into his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully.
Far in the distance, some five miles at the narrowest point, rose the outer wall. Between the two prowled a variety of ambivalent robot beasts, now ready to dismember him, but on weekends adjusted to take small boys and girls for short rides or simply to stalk about picturesquely.
Drawing his pistol and placing it between his teeth, Bernard leaped to the ground between the wall and a large low palm. At once the pistol was again in his hand. But nothing moved. Now he could see clearly the path he must take.
Bending low, he trotted along through the undergrowth. It soon began to clear, and still no danger in sight. He holstered the pistol and advanced, half-walking, half-running, till he could hear the hiss of the rapids. Enough noise to mask the sounds of a dozen panthers, he thought. But it covered his own footsteps, too, and panthers were more phonotropic than polar bears, the latter having a preference for radar spotting.
Coyotes were the worst, of course, with their damned infrared thermo-sensors. They could spot a runner even when he was in cover. Fortunately they were scarce and getting more so. Bernard had only encountered a coyote twice, deactivating it both times. But he had been lucky. He recalled the story about that city councilman....
An hour later he arrived at the river, a half-mile above the rapids and w............