Arthur Radclaw, The Falling Man, waited behind the ornamental tapestry, trying not to think too hard on what it depicted. No doubt, for the bloodthirsty priests of this cult, it was an inspiring masterpiece of what their dark goddess would do when the time of her power was here, but for Radclaw it was beginning to remind himself of when he was a younger man, working at the slaughterhouse. Only more so.
His wait was over, as one of the doors to the chamber opened, and men entered.
"But Avatar, why not kill the woman now?"
A pained sigh in a familiar voice grabbed Radclaw by the nerves. HIM? But he should be dead!
"Fool. You know not who we are dealing with. Radclaw will happily sell himself into our clutches for the woman's safety."
The other voice interrupted. "And then we sacrifice her anyway!"
"NO!" The pause was filled with choking noises. "My word is the goddess's, and Her Will is Law. She will not be touched!" Radclaw's well-trained ears knew the sound of a man's body being thrown into a door. "Leave me. I must commune with Her."
"Yes." The voice was low, raw, and resentful. A door opened, and closed, but Radclaw still heard the rustle of fabric.
Holding up the fazzer-gun, he stepped out from behind the tapestry. "A cult, Doctor Winter? Is this not beneath a scientific genius like yourself?"
The man in the ceremonial robes and the ornate native mask froze as Radclaw's voice rang out. And then he spun around, tearing off his mask. "Radclaw. Is there nowhere on this planet I cannot go to escape you?"
Radclaw couldn't help but grin. "Not as long as I still have my zeppelin. Now, really, Maxwell. A cult?"
The doctor laughed, and shook his head. "How the mighty have fallen, eh?" Dropping his mask, he walked over to a small chest standing on a table. "May I open this and pour you a drink, Arthur?"
"None for myself. I'm on duty."
"So you are. I'll have a brandy, then."
Radclaw watched as the doctor opened the chest, and pulled out a simple cut crystal glass and a matching flask of golden liquor.
His nemesis poured himself a drink, and then settled in a chair. "What can I say? This cult has control of one of the few unworked gold mines on the continent. They haven't used it yet because it's the goddess' sacred place, but I think with a little work they could start digging it all up for me. And thanks to your most recent efforts in Morocco, I'm woefully short on operating capital."
***
Arthur Radclaw woke up with the loud explosion of music that always accompanied the beginning of Ms. Winston's workout on 8. Even three floors down, the noise was enough to get him up in the morning. At least he didn't need to spend money on an alarm clock.
Looking up at the cracked and yellowed plaster of the ceiling, he sighed as the memories of his youth were crowded out by the aches and pains of old age. Sitting up, he surveyed the small one-room apartment he lived in.
It was clean, although the faded wallpaper and worn linoleum of the floor gave it a dingy look. His dresser contained most of his clothes, with the rest of them in the wardrobe that was left over from his more active days. Around the third or fourth-hand table in the kitchenette stood three mismatched chairs, the largest on its back after having been glued back together for the twelfth time the night before.
The chair was what got him out of bed, curiosity over how well it was doing propelling him up and into the threadbare slippers waiting for his skeletal feet. His cane was next, and then he slowly made his way over to the table. First he inspected the chair, and then nodded to himself. After that was a simple breakfast of instant oatmeal. Then he made his way back to the wardrobe to select the clothes for today.
As he stepped into the lobby of the NearPoint Inn, he thanked God that the rickety old elevator was working for yet another day. The management of the rundown hotel was loath to spend more money than the minimum necessary to repair anything, and his legs were not up to four flights of stairs. He could go down them in an emergency, but if the elevator gave out he would not be able to return to his apartment.
Stepping out of the hotel into the warm summer air of downtown Denver, he walked half a block along the street to the restaurant where he often sat and drank coffee while reading the paper. The coffee wasn't cheap, but it was good, and the refills were free. The management didn't mind him taking up a booth for a few hours each morning as long as he waited until the breakfast rush ended, and left before the lunch rush began.
Today wouldn't be following schedule, he realized as Barbara brought him his newspaper and coffee. The Colorado Springs institute for the Mentally Disturbed had had a breakout last night, four inmates somehow managing to escape the heavily-guarded ward. Three had already been recaptured. The fourth was at large, and was considered dangerous.
Arthur gave out a gentle cackle of a laugh, and thumped the fourth escapee's face with a neatly trimmed fingernail. "They don't know the half of it, do they?"
Dr. Maxwell Winter's face smiled back at him.
The number 13 bus pulled up in front of the Denver City Library, and Arthur slowly stepped off. He gazed up at the library, and shook his head. The eclectic combination of so many building styles and colors might be thought of as art, to some, but to him it was simply ugly. Ugly or not, he slowly made his way inside, thanking a young woman who held the door for him. Of course, almost everyone was young these days.
A moment's question with a security guard, and he was directed to the third floor, and where the elevators would be. Waiting for an elevator, he was soon joined by a herd of elementary school students on a class trip. They ignored him with the impertinence of youth that believes that nothing old can be good, and he returned it with the disdain of the elder for children who know not their place.
The third floor was quiet, and cool. Arthur took a moment for the air conditioning to sink in, and then made his way to a librarian's desk. For a moment, he thought it was Rose, back again to see him... and then he remembered that Rose was gone. She was as kind and polite as his long-lost companion had been, and directed him to the sciences section. There were three rooms of science books, but luckily they were connected by a common room of tables, desks, and chairs for quiet research and reading.
Arthur nodded. This was where he would wait.
He took a slim, checkered box out of his jacket's pocket. It was too warm to be wearing a jacket, but he needed a pocket, as he could no longer trust his hands to hold something for so long. He set the box down on the table quietly, and then rustled out of his jacket, hanging it on a nearby hook. The library might be ugly from the outside, but thoughtful design touches like this made him want to return again and enjoy the building.
But that would come later. There was work, first.
He sat down slowly, relaxing into the comfortable chair. He spent some time relaxing, and then opened the box, revealing two armies of chessmen nestled in foam. He slowly, carefully removed each piece, setting each one down on the table with an almost imperceptible click. Then he turned the box over, still open, to reveal the chess board the checker design made on the back. After that, it was the work of moments to set the two armies up, black against red, waiting for their conflict.
He waited.
It was only ten minutes later when he saw the old man slowly walk out of one of the rooms, his arms clutching a pair of books tightly to his chest. The other man walked to a desk, dropping his burden with a loud thump.
"You've gotten predictable, old man," Arthur said quietly.
The other man turned a little too quickly to see him, and had to grab onto the desk not to fall. "Radclaw!"
"Doctor Winter."
The doctor smiled. "You've forgotten your fazzer-gun, my friend. Surely you do not intend fisticuffs?"
Arthur shook his head, and pointed to the chessboard in front of him. "I cannot aim as well as I once could, and my bones are too weak for a fight. I am reduced to challenging you to a game of chess, for the world."
Maxwell Winter smiled haughtily. "So, if you win, I am to turn myself in? Go back to that sterile hell they have forgotten me at?"
Arthur nodded.
"And what do I gain if I win, Arthur?"
"I," Arthur sighed, "I shall join you, Max. I will help you with your researches, hide you from the authorities, and help you build your planet-destroying bomb. That is my offer."
Dr. Winter dropped his jaw, for a moment, and Arthur took some gratification from that. "So, it's double or nothing, eh?"
Arthur nodded. "Very well." Dr. Winter made his way to the other side of the table, and sat down, facing him. "As the challenged, I believe I get to go first?"
And he did. The day went slowly.
Neither man's mind had been dimmed with age, and they were racing to outwit the other. Arthur had his natural talent at strategy and tactics, along with several years spent at learning and perfecting his game, but Dr. Winter had been playing all of his life, although he had not been allowed any chess-pieces at the institution since he had killed two orderlies and a guard with a set.
But the only murder today was of plastic pieces, pawns taking pawns, knight taking bishop, queens threatening kings and then running away. The sun shining through the window crept across the carpet like a cat upon an unsuspecting canary. Lunch came and went, ignored.
Arthur advanced his knight to threaten Dr. Winter's King. "Check... and mate?" He had hoped to keep the question out of his voice. Hunger was an angry distraction, and he could only hope it was to his opponent as well.
Dr. Winter frowned at the board.
"Max?"
Nothing. It took Arthur longer than he liked to stand, his legs having cramped slightly from sitting for so long, and then he made his way around the table. He could feel no pulse, no breath, from his long nemesis.
Arthur smiled, and left the chess set on the table. He wouldn't need it anymore. Stepping outside, he stepped into the library's shadow, buying a hot dog from cart.
It tasted of victory, and of a vigil long over, and of the need for a new purpose. He ate it slowly, savoring the feelings, mourning both Max and his calling.
As he prepared to pop the end of the hot dog (more bun than dog) into his mouth, he felt a tug on his pantleg.
"Mister?"
He looked down at the blonde curls of a short girl, maybe eight years old. "Yes, dear?"
"My mommy's lost and I can't find her. Can you help me?"
He smiled, and tossed the end of the hotdog into a trash can. "Of course I can."
Inside, his soul sang. To this little girl, her mommy was the whole world.
Saving the world was his business.
And Business Was Good.
Do not copy or quote the above material
without the consent of the owner of this page.