The fall of the dream machine

The driver motioned to a gate that
had no fence on either side of it. It stood, absurd and improbable,
alone. The pathway to the glass lobby doors, however, led from it.
"That's the visitor post. Mike, do you suppose you could go over and
ring the bell? They ought to let a resident in, especially one as
important as Malone. Tell them you forgot your card-key to activate the
lock. We'll be right behind you in those bushes to the left of the
gate."
    Mike fingered the gas pistol that lay up his sleeve in a leather
strap affair. One sharp downward jerk would bring it into his hand, in
firing position, spitting destruction. He had not yet fired it upon a
human target, but he had seen pictures of its victims. Pierre thought
it wise that he see the results of the weapon prior to actual combat so
that the shock might not slow his reflexes. There were headless corpses
in those pictures, faceless heads, inside-out people. Even for Lisa,
even to save his own life, it was a horrible death to visit upon a man.
But he felt he could depress the stud if he had to. It was depress it
and kill or
not
depress it and
be
killed.
    They got out of the floater, crawled, hunched, and ran across the
lawn to other shrubs. Mike stood then and approached the bellpost, a
waist-high, simu-wood sentry capped with a white, plastic button.
    Dingadingading.
    There was a stirring in the lobby. A large, dark man in a greatcoat
came to the glass doors, looked down the hundred feet of walk to the
bellpost. He hesitated for a long moment, then opened the door, came
out walking warily but not slowly.
    "Forgot my card-key," Mike said off-handedly when the man reached
him.
    The doorguard's shoulders were two oak planks nailed to his neck.
His nose had been broken once, jutting out now at odd angles to itself.
"Mr. Malone?" he asked, obviously confused.
    Mike remembered to act like Malone and not himself. "Who do I look
like? A common doorguard?" It was all in a sarcastic tone.
    "But you went upstairs more than half an hour ago."
    "And I came out again."
    "I been sitting in the lobby," the big man said, scratching his
forehead, "and I didn't see you."
    "You could not see your own face in a mirror if someone didn't
point it out for you." He liked that one and had to refrain from
smiling. "Now open this gate!"
    The doorguard hesitated a moment, then withdrew a card-key from his
pocket, slipped it into the proper slot. The gate swung open, the only
pathway around the alarm band.
    The driver and the bodyguard came from the bushes, rushed the Show
man.
    "Hey!" He moved to bring his own foot down on the nearby alarm band.
    Suddenly Mike found the gas pistol in his palm, his finger on the
cool stud and moving down. Pierre had trained him well. He had not even
wasted a second in deciding upon a course of action and launching
himself on it. The rest seemed like it happened in slow motion, but he
knew he was moving very fast. It was just the detachment from action
that Pierre had taught him, the ability to perceive your actions almost
as a third party

Chapter Two

    He woke to the alarm at eight o'clock sharp. He had listened to
Malone's schedule tape and knew that he was not to go to the Show
studios until ten. He rose, checked the wall freezer while his eyes
were still partially matted, rooted up some synthe-bacon, a few real
eggs, and a can of juice. Gobbling the cooked results, chewing and
swallowing until his stomach had stopped the dragon protest it had set
up, he thought about his next step. He would have to shower and get
dressed, then somehow get to see Lisa before he left the building. The
plan called for a short contact this morning to ready her for the
escape that night. He would have to convince her that he was Mike, that
he wanted to help her, that she should cooperate. It might not be so
very easy, considering he looked nothing like the Mike she knew. He
finished eating and went to the shower.
    Later, he stepped into the hall, letting the door of the apartment
hum shut behind. He walked down the hall, punched for the elevator.
When it arrived, he was confronted by a small young man with a pale and
undernourished face. His teeth were yellow next to his gums. His
uniform was just a bit too large.
    "Top floor, please."
    The boy pulled down on the lever, sending the lift in a smooth
upward rush. "Hear about the excitement, Mr. Malone?" There was no
particular trace of fear or respect in his voice.
    "Excitement?"
    "Murder. Three bodies found between the third