The men had followed him inside the store and were standing in front of the door, watching him intently with hands in their pockets.
Lamont’s memory of the conversation played through his mind as faithfully as the tape on which he had recorded it, and to which he had listened at least a dozen times. There were over a thousand members of that original pioneer expedition in 1969, and he had managed to secure interviews with fewer than a dozen. Out of those, Albert was the only one who lent insight into the photograph that had brought Lamont to Mars, and his testimony was second-hand. Albert may not have felt like a true pioneer, but the men and women with him had run power lines and water pipes through hundreds of miles of Martian tunnels, laying the foundations of Cerberus and Medusa. They had facilitated the largest and fastest exodus in human history, and then had quietly receded into the crowd, having simply done their job. In a way, the millions of people who had followed in the three subsequent decades were also pioneers of a sort, building lives and families in a strange subterranean world, atop monolithic structures that had stood silent and alone while humankind descended from the trees. Now, Lamont surveyed the comfortable banality of this Hellas suburb, whitewashed from the planet’s past, and wondered if it was to be the new normal. In another 30 years, would the remaining traces of the first Martians be relegated to museums and tourist attractions?
Even as he pieced an editorial together in his mind, Lamont kept a careful eye on the display windows that he strolled past with forced aimlessness. The three men who had followed him from the soda shop still kept their distance, but had seemingly abandoned their pretenses of other occupations. Their dark eyes were locked on him as they hovered a half-block away. Lamont felt a grim satisfaction that his plan had worked so far. He had drawn them out, and now he would oblige them to make their intentions plain. But he needed bystanders, and all the better if there were a police officer or two among them. He opened the door of a department store, curious to see whether they would follow him inside or wait for him to come out again.
It was mid-morning on a weekday. Lamont didn’t expect the store to be crowded, but felt certain that there would be at least few shoppers. The only person he saw as he walked past the neat displays and well-dressed mannequins was a clerk behind the customer service desk. She was primly appointed in a belted dress of the slim, sleeveless style that represented the latest fashion from Tomorrow.
“Can I help you?” She asked, turning toward Lamont. Her eyebrows lifted at the sight of him; she was perhaps surprised to see a man in a heavy trench coat over ruffled shirtsleeves.
Lamont hesitated. “Er, menswear?” He blurted after an uncomfortable pause. The men had followed him inside the store and were standing in front of the door, watching him intently with hands in their pockets.
The clerk surveyed him suspiciously and, with a barely discernible shrug, lifted a demure hand in the direction of the escalator. Directly above it, a large and prominent sign read, “MENSWEAR.”
Lamont flinched, muttered a thank you, and made his way toward the automated staircase. The men were now walking toward him with steady purpose. Lamont found himself speeding up, climbing up the escalator two steps at a time even as they carried him upward. From the upper floor, Lamont could see that the store was nearly empty of shoppers. He didn’t feel ready for a confrontation yet, but at least he wasn’t out in the open. The men were watching him, standing in a neat row on the escalator and moving steadily closer.
He stood at the bannister near a display of wristwatches and produced a cigarette, lighting it swiftly and casually as he watched the three men emerge at the top of the escalator. Meanwhile, a male store attendant in a slim blue suit slipped away from his station to meet Lamont.
“Excuse me, sir, but we don’t allow smoking inside the store,” The attendant said, gesturing toward a sign posted to that effect on a nearby column.
Lamont ignored him, turning his attention instead to the three men who had stopped several paces away. “All right,” he said. “Let’s sort this out. What do you lot want with me?”
“Is there a problem?” Asked the attendant. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing about the store for fellow employees that could be flagged for help.
The small man with high cheekbones stepped forward from the group. Reaching inside his coat pocket, he pulled out a small leather case and dropped it open to reveal a copper badge. “There doesn’t have to be,” he said in a flat, even voice. “We were just concerned that Mr. Townsend here was trying to give us the slip.” His accent, surprisingly, was English.
Surprised, Lamont scoffed and addressed the attendant. “That’s not real,” he said. “These blokes have been following me from Cerberus.”
The attendant frowned. “It looks real enough to me.”
“Of course it is,” said the man, returning the badge to his pocket. “We’ve been keeping an eye on him for some time now.”
“And why is that?” Lamont asked pointedly.
“We have some questions about Mrs. Elizabeth Townsend, formerly of London, Earth.”
“My wife!” Lamont exclaimed. “What—has something happened to her?”
“That,” said the smaller man, “Is exactly what we would like to know.”
Next: Heads Will Roll
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A surprising development.