Bob Shaw - Vertigo

“Can’t say I do. I thought you were acrophobic.”

“What made you think that?”

Werry shrugged. “Just an impression. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, is it? Lots of people can’t fly after a smash.”

“That’s true, but it doesn’t apply in my case,” Hasson said, wondering why he felt the need to lie.

“Well, do you want me to go up with you just to be sure?” Werry put aside the cloth he had been using to polish his boots and stood up, his uniform making him seem like an invader in the domesticity of his own kitchen, On returning from his walk Hasson had found him alone in the house and had decided to waste no time in setting up his private experiment.

“I can manage by myself,” Hasson said, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

“Okay, Rob.” Werry looked at him with a rueful expression. “I can’t tell where helpfulness ends and nosiness begins. Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’d feel self-conscious if…”

“This is what I was telling you about, Rob. This morning at the station Henry Corzyn — that’s one of my patrolmen, the fat one — started griping about being short of money this month, and Victor — that’s the kid — offered him a loan. Henry said he wasn’t that hard up and didn’t need to borrow money from anybody. And do you know what the kid did then?

Hasson blinked. “Sighed with relief?

“No. The kid took some bills out of his wallet and stuffed them into Henry’s shirt pocket — and Henry let them stay there. After saying he wouldn’t take a loan from anybody, he let the money stay in his pocket!”

“He must have wanted the loan, after all.”

“That’s what I’m getting at,” Werry said with something like anguish in his eyes. “He must have wanted a loan, but he said he didn’t — so how did the kid know? If that had been me I’d have believed Henry, and I’d have walked off and he’d probably have been calling me all kinds of bastard from now till Christmas. Or else I’d have got it wrong another way and forced money on him and hurt his feelings, and he’d still have ended up bad-mouthing me from now till Christmas. What I want to know is — how did young Victor know what was expected of him?”

“He’s on an empathin kick,” Hasson suggested.

“Not a chance! None of my …” Werry paused and gave Hasson a solemn stare. “I suppose that was a joke.”

“Not much of a one,” Hasson apologised. “Look, Al, you’re not alone. Some people are naturally simpatico and the rest of us can only envy them. I’d like to be that way myself.”

“I’m not envious — just puzzled.” Werry sat down again and resumed polishing the already glossy toecap of a boot. “Would you like to go to a barbecue tonight?”

Hasson considered the idea and found it attractive. “That sounds good. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a genuine barbecue.”

“You’ll enjoy this one. Buck’s entertaining some visitors from out of town, so you can bet your life there’ll be plenty of good food and good booze. He always lays it on thick.”

Hasson did a mental double-take. “Are we talking about Buck Morlacher?”

“Yeah.” Werry looked up at him with the calm innocence of a child. “Buck throws great parties, you know, and it’s all right — I can bring as many guests as I want.”

There’s something wrong with one of us, Hasson thought incredulously. Al, you’re supposed to be the law around here.

“May’s going too,” Werry said. “The three of us will shoot over to Buck’s place around eight and drink the place dry. Okay?”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Hasson went out into the hail, selected a CG harness from the several that were hanging there, arid checked its power unit. The familiar action evoked a stirring of unease, and the confidence he had felt earlier began to fade. It was possible, after all, that he was rushing his fences, making unreasonable demands on himself. He hesitated for a moment, then slung the harness over his shoulder and left the house. The sun was curving down towards the west, cubes of shadow filled the spaces between the houses and there was a touch of coolness in the air. Hasson estimated there were less than two hours of daylight left, but it was enough for his purpose.

It took him some forty minutes to reach a deserted area where old quarry works had permanently disfigured the ground to such an extent that it was unsuitable for any form of agriculture. An occasional flier could be seen overhead, speeding into or away from Tripletree, but he knew from experience that in such terrain he would be practically invisible to airborne travellers. He scanned the immediate surroundings, seeing everything with rich clarity in the coppery light, and began putting on the CG harness.

It was a standard model, with straps which felt too thin to Hasson’s fingers. In normal flying there was no need for heavy webbing, because the counter-gravity field surrounded both the generator unit and the wearer, affecting them equally and creating no differential such as existed with a parachute or early troop-lifting jetpack. Police harnesses were much heavier and more positive in their connections, but for reasons which were unconnected with the laws of physics. The object was to ensure that no officer became separated from his CG unit during the aerial man-to-man combat which sometimes accompanied an arrest, Hasson was accustomed to heavy-duty straps and buckles, and although the benefit would have been purely psychological he would have preferred using police-style equipment for his crucial venture into the air.

He finished the flight preliminaries and, sensing that any further delay was inadvisable, rotated the master control on the belt panel to the primary position.

There was no perceptible effect. Hasson knew that was because the ground intersected the field in which he was now englobed, disrupting its onion-layer pattern of forced lines. He also knew that he had only to perform a standing jump to make himself airborne, floating in geometrical equilibrium a short distance above the yellowed and dusty grass.

He bent his knees and raised his heels a little, making ready for the snapping release of muscular energy which was all that was needed to promote him from the status of man to that of a minor god. Seconds went by. Malicious, heart-pounding, blood- thundering seconds went by — and Hasson remained as much a part of the earth as any of the rocks which lay all about him. An audio alarm began a muted but steady chirping at his waist to remind him that power was being expended to no good effect. His thighs quivered from the effort of maintaining what should have been a transitory pose. And still he was unable to jump. Sweat prickled out on his forehead and cheeks; his stomach muscles clenched in nausea. And still he was unable to jump…

“To hell with it,” he said, turning back the way he had come, and in that instant one part of his mind — representing the intolerant, unbending facet of Hasson’s character, the side of him which regarded cowardice as the ultimate shame — took unilateral action. What he had intended to be an ordinary stride became an ungainly one-legged leap into the air, and he found himself drifting with nothing under his feet.

Sick, cheated and afraid, he reached for the master control, determined to kill the CG field. Hold on, came the silent shriek. Don’t waste the chance. You’re off the ground now, and you’re all right, and you can survive this. Make the best of it. Fly, man, FLY!

Hasson was unable to believe what was happening to him as he touched the clinoselector, trading off a small fraction of lift to gain horizontal movement, and the ground began to flow underneath him. This was the moment. All he had to do now was advance the master control and he would go swooping up into the metallic sunlight, free of earth and all its petty restrictions, with new horizons unfurling on all sides and nothing above, around or below him but the pureness of wind-rivers…