Cities in Flight

The center of government of the King’s city was enormously impressive: ancient, stately, marmoreal. It was surrounded on a lower level by a number of lesser structures of equally heavy-handed beauty. One of these was a heavy, archaic cantilever bridge for which Amalfi could postulate no use at all; it spanned an enormously broad avenue which divided the city in two, an avenue which was virtually untraveled; the bridge, too, carried only foot traffic now, and not much of that.

He decided finally that the bridge had been retained only out of respect to history. There seemed to be no other sentiment which fitted it, since the normal mode of transportation in the King’s city, as in every other Okie city, was by aircab. Like the City Hall, the bridge was beautiful; possibly that had spoken for its retention, too.

The cab rocked slightly and grounded. “Here we are, gentlemen,” the Tin Cabby said. “Welcome to Buda-Pesht.”

Amalfi followed Dee and Hazleton out onto the plaza. Other cabs, many of them, dotted the red sky, homing on the palace and settling near by.

“Looks like a conclave,” Hazleton said. “Guests from outside, not just managerial people inside this one city; otherwise, why the welcome from the cabby?”

“That’s my guess, too, and I think we’re none too early for it, either. It’s my theory that the King is in for a rough time from his subjects. This shoot-up with Lerner, and the loss of jobs for everybody, must have lowered his stock considerably. If so, it’ll give us an opening.”

“Speaking of which,” Hazleton said, “where’s the entrance to this tomb, anyhow? Ah—that must be it.”

They hurried through the shadows of the pillared portico. Inside, in the foyer, hunched or striding figures moved past them toward the broad, ancient staircase, or gathered in small groups, murmuring urgently in the opulent dimness. This entrance hall was marvelous with chandeliers; they did not cast much light, but they shed glamor like a molting peacock.

Someone plucked Amalfi by the sleeve. He looked down. A slight man with a worn Slavic face and black eyes which looked alive with suppressed mischief stood at his side.

“This place makes me homesick,” the slight man said, “although we don’t go in for quite so much sheer mass on my town. I believe you’re the mayor who refused all offers, on behalf of a city with no name. I’m correct, am I not?”

“You are,” Amalfi said, studying the figure with difficulty in the ceremonial dimness. “And you’re the mayor of Dresden-Saxony: Franz Specht. What can we do for you?”

“Nothing, thank you. I simply wanted to make myself known. It may be that you will need to know someone, inside.” He nodded in the direction of the staircase. “I admired your stand today, but there may be some who resent it. Why is your city nameless, by the way?”

“It isn’t,” Amalfi said. “But we sometimes need to use our name as a weapon, or at least as a lever. We hold it in reserve as such.”

“A weapon! Now that is something to ponder. I will see you later, I hope.” Specht slipped away abruptly, a shadow among shadows. Hazleton looked at Amalfi with evident puzzlement.

“What’s his angle, boss? Backing a long shot, maybe?”

“That would be my guess. Anyhow, as he says, we can probably use a friend in this mob. Let’s go on up.”

In the great hall, which had been the throne room of an empire older than any Okie, older even than space flight, there was already a meeting in progress. The King himself was standing on the dais, enormously tall, bald, scarred, terrific, as shining black as anthracite. Ancient as he was, his antiquity was that of some featureless, eventless, an antiquity without history against the rich backdrop of his city. He was anything but an expectable mayor of Buda-Pesht; Amalfi strongly suspected that there were recent bloodstains on the city’s log.

Nevertheless, the King held the rebellious Okies under control without apparent effort. His enormous gravelly voice roared down about their heads like a rockslide, overwhelming them all with its raw momentum alone. The occasional bleats of protest from the floor sounded futile and damned against it, like the voice of lambs objecting to the inevitable avalanche.

“So you’re mad!” he was thundering. “You got roughed up a little and now you’re looking for somebody to blame it on! Well, I’ll tell you who to blame it on! I’ll tell you what to do about it, too. And by God, when I’m through telling you, you’ll do it, the whole pack of you!”

Amalfi pushed through the restive, close-packed mayors and city managers, putting his bull shoulders to good use. Hazleton and Dee, hand in hand, tailed him closely. The Okies on the floor grumbled as Amalfi shoved his way forward; but they were so bound up in the King’s diatribe, and in their own fierce, unformulated resistance to the King’s battering-ram leadership tactics, that they could spare nothing more than a moment’s irritation for Amalfi’s passage among them.