robert Charrette - Arthur 02 - A King Beneath the Mountain Read Free Page A

accosted him. No one called out his name in shock or surprise.
    He felt a little disappointed.
    He felt a lot more disappointed when he reached the entry to the tower. He'd been hoping someone would have propped the door open, a common occurrence on a hopping Friday night. It wasn't. It was shut, sealed. On the wall beside it, the brushed metal and plastic screen of the security panel gleamed softly. The computer behind the security system glared at him with the brazen red eye of the active light. It would know who he was if he put his hand on the recognition panel, a necessary step in activating the system. The computer didn't care about his new clothes and haircut.
    The problem was that he didn't want to tell the computer he was here. The computer was Mitsutomo. He had no interest in letting the paternal corporation know its prodigal son had returned.
    Standing around dithering was only going to attract attention. Just in case someone had noticed him stop, he looked around, switching the line of his gaze randomly and trying to look like a fuzzed-out kid who'd just happened to stop in front of the access corridor. He shuffled away, walking a little unsteadily to keep up the illusion.
    lust in case.
    It might be, probably was, pointless, but he did it anyway. He had taken too long to screw up enough courage to come back here to have it blown just because he was an amateur at this sneaking and poking stuff.
    On his third pass near the corridor, he spotted a couple of mainline straightline wage slave types just as they took the turn. He angled his path and started down the corridor just about the time they reached the door. Still looking at his pal, one of them pressed his hand against the recognition panel. The other caught sight of John approaching.
    John saw the calculation in the man's eyes. What was he facing here? A scuzzy kid coming home, or a mugger? Or worse, a street kid about to lay guilt on them for their well-earned, easy lifestyles and ask for a handout?
    John didn't look Mr. Corporate in the eyes. No threat, Mister. Just a kid. Don't want nothing from you.
    Except that you hold the door.
    John was close enough, and the man's corporate politeness made him hesitate just long enough that John grabbed the door before it clicked shut.
    "Sorry," Mr. Corporate said. His smile was full synthetic and vanished faster than Foamnut™ packing in a heavy rain.
    "Null," John replied.
    The street slang got a twitch from Mr. Corporate and his pal. Mr. C was thinking he'd miscalculated and should have shut the door. His pal was clearly feeling the same way. They were two to John's one but they were still edgy. Too safe, I hey were. Entirely too safe.
    He gave them a grin, showing a little teeth. Not mainline straightline safe, the smile said. They twitched.
    The elevator car arrived and Mr. Corporate's pal slipped in and punched the door closed. The closing panels nipped Mr. C's heels as he boarded. John let them go; they'd had their thrill for the day. He took the stairs.
    The stairway didn't have buttons to push that might get logged in the computer. The well was all concrete, with steel handrails and steel steps. It was all echoes and chill. He paced himself going up, knowing it was a long climb. No need to rush. Not now.
    On the twenty-third floor landing he stopped, staring at the big "23" painted on the concrete. He could see the faint outline of black that had once closed up the three and turned it into an eight. That had been Yael's idea. How long ago? A lifetime. He wasn't a kid anymore.
    At least not that kind of kid.
    Too bad.
    He tugged on the fire door and froze before he'd gotten it more than a couple inches open. An elevator was arriving in the lobby, the doors already opening. It couldn't be his bad luck that those two wage slaves lived on twenty-three. No, ihey'd have reached it a long time ago if they had. He caught sight of a bent figure with a familiar shuffle, ft was worse: Mr. Johnson, a neighbor who knew