A Matter Of Taste by Fred Saberhagen (best reads .TXT) 📗

traces of sunlight. Today’s sun in any case was so muffled by fog that it presented only a minor danger, aside from preventing any change of shape that he might contemplate. Having followed this second girder for some distance, at the proper moment he slid off, and carefully resumed his progress straight down, window ledge by window ledge, supporting his weight by toes and fingertips. He knew precisely which window he was aiming for.

      Methodically he had been counting floors during the whole descent, and he was below the fiftieth level now.

      Shortly after resuming his straight-down descent he was able to hear, faintly, unfamiliar voices above him. Someone was leaning out of his window and speculating audibly on where he might have gone. Knowing he was down too deep in fog for them to see him now, the old man grinned mirthlessly and did not bother to look up.

      The street, now not much more than four hundred feet below him, had grown much easier to hear, and the conglomerate glow of headlights was beginning to be visible.

      Far enough. He reached the window that he wanted, on the forty-fourth floor. The broad, high inside surface of its double glazing was faintly steamed by warmth and moisture, and beyond that heavily screened by live plants, growing in a kind of artificial ditch stuffed deeply with loam and neatly drained. It was unlikely that anyone inside was going to observe his entrance. In a moment his fingers had found the concealed catch whose installation, along with the necessary hinges, had taken him so much time and effort to arrange; and in another moment one vertical edge of the aluminum frame had silently swung out.

      The climber listened carefully, then eased the weak, weighty, and comparatively fragile solidity of his body in through the narrow gap. Once inside, he pulled the window shut again immediately, then took the opportunity to rest his trembling arms. He was standing in the men’s locker room, at the end farthest from the doors that led out to what they called the health facilities, on the right to the pool, on the left to something known as the fitness room, a chamber filled with exercise machines that impressed the old man as depressingly grotesque and ugly.

      At the moment Fate was smiling upon him, and he had the locker room, or this aisle of it anyway, entirely to himself. Safely indoors, standing on a firm floor again, even swaying a little as he was with weakness, he felt that the most difficult part of his escape had been accomplished.

      All around him, occupying more than half of the forty-fourth floor, were locker rooms, exercise facilities, showers, and toilets, and his senses informed him that at this pre-dinner hour they were all practically unoccupied Those among the building’s tenants who enjoyed daytime leisure and cared to exercise, or most of them, had been here in the morning; the folk who toiled from nine to five in offices were not here yet, though their vanguard ought to be hitting the locker rooms at any minute now. He had no time to waste.

      In another moment he was swiftly dialing the combination on his own locker, seldom visited but well stocked for emergencies.

The locker provided several items of which he stood in immediate need—swimming trunks to go on under his bathrobe, shower clogs, and so on. It held a full set of street clothes also, but for the moment they could wait.

      Small change, also, of course. A public phone was available nearby and he made some calls. His first was to Joe Keogh, but he had to be content with leaving a message on the answering machine in Joseph’s house. The second call went to Mrs. Hassler’s apartment—fortunately her number was available in the public directory beside the phone. But, ominously enough, this effort went unanswered.

      Where was John? Matthew Maule considered phoning his own apartment; if he got through, he’d give whatever villain might answer something to think about. But his phone had been dead, and he saw no reason to think service might have been restored.

      Wasting no time, he hung up the receiver and moved on with unhurried speed, down the corridor in the direction of the pool. He had avoided the blow struck by his enemies, and now he would strike back—as soon as he was strong enough.

      To accomplish that, there was one more thing he needed, the most vital resource, which neither his carefully prepared locker nor the telephone had been able to provide him. One thing he required, above all, to cure his trembling weakness. Forcing his legs to carry him with long, firm strides, he walked on toward the source of small watery sounds. Deliberately he inhaled, treating himself to the smell of dampness.

      On entering the natatorium, he was not surprised to behold Mrs. Hassler alone in the pool at this off-hour. Several times she had, all unbidden, described her daily habits to him.

      Smiling, he approached.

* * *

      He remained unobserved until he reached the actual water’s edge, because the lady was not dallying idly in the pool, but doing laps with her goggles and noseclip on, her face submerged. When she became aware of his presence she ceased this drill at once, made for the side, and pulled herself out lithely—displaying an energy, if not a shape, that would have been admirable in a woman half her age. Sitting on the damp rim, she caught the towel the visitor had just picked up from one of the nearby lawn chairs, and began to dab her shoulders with it.

      She was disturbed by his unexpected presence, delighted, almost frightened. “Mr. Maule! I had almost despaired of ever persuading you to join me.”

      He smiled. He actually bowed. “And I, dear lady, of ever finding the right opportunity to do so.”

      She kicked at the water, demonstrating energy, struggling almost like a child to repress excitement. Suddenly he could find her attitude endearing.

      Worriedly she asked him: “But are you quite well enough to swim? Your