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the coherence of their parts would begin to give way; older buildings, such as
City Hall, would become taller and of greater volume as the ancient bricks
pulled away from each other-and would collapse the moment the influence of the
friction-field was removed. More modern constructions and machines would last
only a little longer. By the time the cops inherited Gort, the planet would be
a mass of rubble.
And eventually the human body, assembled of a thousand tubes, tunnels,
caverns, and pockets, would strain, and swell, and burst-and only a few city
men had the silver belt; there had not been time.
Puffing, Amalfi threw himself down the stairs, dodging among the paralyzed,
floating guards. The bumblebee sound was very hard on the nerves. At the
seventieth floor he found an unexpected problem; the lights x>n the elevator
board told him that the car had been sealed in' the shaft, probably by the
action of the safety mechanisms when it had been derailed by the
friction-field.
Going down by the stairs was out of the question. Even under normal conditions
he could never have traveled seventy flights of stairs, and in the influence
of the field, his feet moved as if in thick mud, for the belt could not
entirely protect his extremities. Tentatively he touched the wall. The same
nauseous sucking sensation enfolded his hand, and he pulled it away.
Gravity ... the quickest way down ...
He entered the nearest office, threading his way among the four suspended,
moaning figures who belonged there, and kicked the window out. It was
impossible to open it against the field, which had sprung it an inch from its
lands; only the amazing lateral strength of glass had preserved the pane, but
against a cross-sectional blow, it shattered at once. He climbed out.
It was twenty stories down to the next setback. He planted his feet against
the metal, and then his hands. As
an afterthought, he also laid his forehead against the wall. He began to
slide.
The air whispered in his ears, and windows blinked past him. His palms were
beginning to feel warm; they were not actually touching the metal, but the
reluctant binding energies were exacting a toll. It was the penalty he had to
pay for the heightened pull of friction.
As the setback rushed up to him, he flattened his whole body against the side
of the building. The impact of the deck was heavy, but it did not seem to
break any bones. He staggered to the parapet and climbed over, without
allowing a split second for second thoughts. The long, whistling slide began
again.
For a moment after he fell against the concrete of the sidewalk, he was ready
to get up and throw himself over Still another cliff. His hands and his
forehead were as seared as if they had been dipped in boiling oil, and inside
his teflon shoes his feet seemed to be bubbling like lumps of fat in a
rendering vat. On the solid ground, a belated vertigo knotted him helplessly
for long, valuable minutes.
The building whose flank he had traversed began to groan.
All along the street, men stood in contorted attitudes. It was like the lowest
circle of hell. Amalfi got up, retching, and lurched toward the control tower.
The bumblebee sound filled the universe.
"Amalfi! Gods of all stars, what happened to you--"
Someone took Amalfi's arm. Serum from the enormous blister which was his
forehead flooded his eyes.
"Mark---"
"Yes, yes. What's the matter-how did you--"
"Get aloft. Get--"
Pain wrenched him into a ringing darkness.
After a while he felt his head and his hands being laved with something cool.
The touch was very delicate and soothing. He swallowed and tried to breathe.
"Easy, John. Easy."
John. No one called him that. A woman's voice. A woman's hands.
"Easy."
He managed a croaking sound, and then a word or two. The hands stroked the
coolness across his forehead, gently, monotonously. "Easy, John. It's all
right."
"Aloft?"
"Yes."
"Who's ... that? Mark-
"No," said the voice. It laughed, surprisingly, a musical sound. "This is Dee,
John. Hazleton's girl."
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