Part 8 (1/2)
”I'll show you where. For a cut.”
”Okay. Show me.”
It led him to a roped-off area where Army trucks were parked. Croyd counted ten of them. Uniformed figures stood or rested among them.
”What's going on?” Croyd asked.
”Talk later. Food packages in the four trucks to the left.”
It was no problem to pa.s.s the perimeter, enter the rear of a vehicle, gather an armload of packages, and withdraw in the other direction. He and the dog-man retreated to a doorway two blocks away. Croyd phased back to visibility and they proceeded to gorge themselves.
Afterward, his new acquaintance-who wished to be called Bentley-told him of the events during the weeks following Jetboy's death, while Croyd had slept. Croyd learned of the rush to Jersey, of the rioting, of the martial law, of the Takisians, and of the ten thousand deaths their virus had caused. And he heard of the transformed survivors-the lucky ones and the unlucky ones.
”You're a lucky one,” Bentley concluded.
”I don't feel lucky,” Croyd said.
”At least you stayed human.”
”So, have you been to see that Dr. Tachyon yet?”
”No. He's been so d.a.m.n busy. I will, though.”
”I should, too.”
”Maybe.”
”What do you mean, 'maybe'?”
”Why should you want to change? You got it made. You can have whatever you want.”
”You mean stealing?”
”Times are tough. You get by however you can.”
”Maybe so.”
”I can put you on to some clothes that will fit you.”
”Where?”
”Just around the corner.”
”Okay.”
It was not difficult for Croyd to break into the rear of the clothing store to which Bentley led him. He faded again after that and returned for another load of food parcels. Bentley padded beside him as he headed home.
”Mind if I keep you company?”
”No.”
”I want to see where you live. I can put you on to lots of good things.”
”Yeah?”
”I'd like a friend who can keep me fed. Think we can work something out?”
”Yes.”
In the days that followed Croyd became his family's provider. His older brother and sister did not ask whence he acquired the food or, finally, the money he obtained with seeming facility during his nightly absences. Neither did his mother, distracted in her grief over his father's death, think to inquire. Bentley-who slept somewhere in the neighborhood-became his guide and mentor in these enterprises, as well as his confidant in other matters.
”Maybe I should see that doctor you mentioned,” Croyd said, lowering the case of canned goods he had removed from a warehouse and perching himself upon it.
”Tachyon?” Bentley asked, stretching himself in an undoglike fas.h.i.+on.
”Yeah.”
”What's wrong?”
”I can't sleep. It's been five days since I woke up this way, and I haven't slept at all since then.”
”So? What's wrong with that? More time to do what you want.”
”But I'm finally starting to get tired and I still can't sleep.”
”It'll catch up with you in time. Not worth bothering Tachyon over. Anyway, if he tries to cure you your chances are only like one in three or four.”
”How do you know that?”
”I went to see him.”
”Oh?”
Croyd ate an apple. Then, ”You going to try it?” he asked.
”If I can get up the nerve,” Bentley answered. ”Who wants to spend his life as a dog? And not a very good dog, at that. By the way, when we go past a pet shop I want you to break in and get me a flea collar.”
”Sure. I wonder. . . . If I do go to sleep, will I sleep a long time like before?”
Bentley tried to shrug, gave up.