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…
NO! NO! NEVER!
He killed the CG field and slanted down into the tough grasses, stiff-limbed as a wooden manikin. Green snares gripped his feet. He pitched forward and rolled over, crying aloud as pain lanced through his hip and lower back. The earth took hold of him and he clung to it, waiting for all sensations associated with flight to depart his body.
When he stood up a few minutes later he was able to move freely, and for that he felt grateful. He had learned a valuable lesson at the cost of only a brief period of mental distress and physical agony, and now that he knew for certain that his flying days were over he would be able to make reasonable and realistic plans for the long-term future. As Hasson might have expected, Al Werry came downstairs prepared to go to the evening’s barbecue in full reeve’s uniform, complete with sidearm. Finding Hasson alone in the living room, he grinned ferociously and advanced on him crabwise, performing an elaborate shadow-boxing routine which ended with light pats on Hasson’s cheeks.
“Where’s May?” he whispered. “Have we time for a warmer before we go?”
Hasson nodded towards the kitchen. “She’s in there with two boys who came round to stay with Theo.”
Then we do have time for a quick belt.” Werry went to the sideboard and picked up a bottle. “Is rye okay? Have we educated your taste buds yet?”
“Rye’s fine. With plenty of water.” “That’s my boy.” Werry made up two largish drinks and handed one to Hasson. “How did things go this afternoon? Did you do any cloud-running?”
Hasson sipped his drink before he spoke, releasing that this was the crucial first moment of his new life. “Things went very badly. I did one short hop, and I hated it.”
“That’s only natural. It’ll take a while for you to get used to going up again.”
“No, it’s more serious than that,” Hasson said, keeping his voice level. “I’m finished flying. I won’t be going up again.”
“It’s an overrated pastime, anyway,” Werry said moodily, staring into his drink. “They’ll give you a desk job, won’t they?”
“I imagine so — acrophobia is a recognised occupational disease in the force.”
The cheerful expression returned to Werry’s face. “That’s not so bad, then. Drink up and forget about it.” He was following his own advice when May Carpenter emerged from the kitchen wearing gold boots, slacks and a quilted gold anorak. She looked at Werry and her jaw sagged.
“My God,” she said, “you’re not going dressed up like that!”
Werry looked down at himself. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”
“What’s wrong?” She glanced at Hasson, then turned back to Werry. “Al, is it a costume ball or are you planning to raid the joint?”
Werry made placating gestures with his free hand. “Honey, this isn’t just a social occasion tonight. Buck has some very important visitors — least he thinks they’re important — and he’ll want them to see that he hobnobs with the city reeve.”
May sighed, looking beautifully disconsolate. “Go into the kitchen and say goodnight to Theo.”
“There’s no need,” Werry said. “He never notices whether I’m here or not. Let’s go, folks — it’s crazy to stay here drinking our own booze when we could be out drinking somebody else’s. Isn’t that right, Rob?”
Hasson set his glass down. “Your argument is economically sound.”
“I’m ready,” May said. “Are we flying or driving?”
“Driving.” Werry opened the door to the hail and ushered May through it with exaggerated courtliness. “Didn’t Rob tell you he’s been grounded?”
“No,” May said incuriously, walking towards the front door.
“It’s true — I can’t fly any more,” Hasson said to her retreating back, putting in some practice at making the admission. She appeared not to notice. When they got into the waiting police cruiser Hasson sat alone in the rear seat, feeling lonely in the spacious darkness and wishing he had a woman with him. Almost any woman in the world would have been suitable, as long as she provided companionship. As the car slid silently along dim streets he stared nostalgically at the windows of the houses they passed — mellow, glowing rectangles, some of them framing tableaux of family life, the figures frozen in mid-gesture by the briefness of the glimpses he received. Hasson distracted himself by trying to invent characters and backgrounds for the waxwork people, but he could smell the light flowery perfume May was wearing and his thoughts kept coming back to her.
Weeks of discreet observation had given him no deeper insights into her personality, and he was still unable to see what had brought Werry and her together in the first place. As far as he could determine, Werry provided accommodation and food for May, and sometimes for her mother, and in return she gave some assistance with the running of the household. It was to be presumed that they had a sexual relationship, but there was an absence of any kind of mutual commitment which Hasson found baffling and disturbing.