"No."
"Rich and Dink Moran built a pollution counter. Dink drew the picture out of the book, and they did it from coffee cans and some stuff they boosted out of cars. It's hid out in an alley. Back in 1978 they had an air pollution scale that went from one to twenty. You understand?"
"Yes."
"When it got up to twelve, the factories and all the pollution-producing shit had to shut down till the weather changed. It was a federal law until 1987, when the Revised Congress rolled it back." The shadow on the bed rose up on its elbow. "I bet you know a lot of people with asthma, that right?"
"Sure," Richards said cautiously. "I've got a touch myself. You get that from the air. Christ, everybody knows you stay in the house when it's hot and cloudy and the air doesn't move-"
"Temperature inversion," Bradley said grimly.
"-and lots of people get asthma, sure. The air gets like cough syrup in August and September. But lung cancer-"
"You ain't talkin about asthma," Bradley said. "You talkin bout emphysema."
"Emphysema?" Richards turned the word over in his mind. He could not assign a meaning to it, although the word was faintly familiar.
"All the tissues in your lungs swell up. You heave an heave an heave, but you're still out of breath. You know a lot of people who get like that?"
Richards thought. He did. He knew a lot of people who had died like that.
"They don't talk about that one," Bradley said, as if he had read Richards's thought. "Now the pollution count in Boston is twenty on a good day. That's like smoking four packs of cigarettes a day just breathing. On a bad day it gets up as high as forty-two. Old dudes drop dead all over town. Asthma goes on the death certificate. But it's the air, the air, the air. And they're pouring it out just as fast as they can, big smokestacks going twenty-four hours a day. The big boys like it that way.
"Those two-hundred-dollar nose filters aren't worth shit. They're just two pieces of screen with a little piece of metholated cotton between them. That's all. The only good ones are from General Atomics. The only ones who can afford them are the big boys. They gave us the Free-Vee to keep us off the streets so we can breathe ourselves to death without making any trouble. How do you like that? The cheapest G-A nose filter on the market goes for six thousand New Dollars. We made one for Stacey for ten bucks from that book. We used an atomic nugget the size of the moon on your fingernail. Got it out of a hearing aid we bought in a hockshop for seven bucks. How do you like that?"
Richards said nothing. He was speechless.
"When Cassie boots off, you think they'll put cancer on the death certificate? Shit they'll put asthma. Else somebody might get scared. Somebody might kife a library card and find out lung cancer is up seven hundred percent since 2015."
"Is that true? Or are you making it up?"
"I read it in a book. Man, they're killing us. The Free-Vee is killing us. It's like a magician getting you to watch the cakes falling outta his helper's blouse while he pulls rabbits out of his pants and puts 'em in his hat." He paused and then said dreamily:" Sometimes I think that I could blow the whole thing outta the water with ten minutes talk-time on the Free-Vee. Tell em. Show em. Everybody could have a nose filter if the Network wanted em to have em.
"And I'm helping them," Richards said.
"That ain't your fault. You got to run.
Killian's face, and the face of Arthur M. Burns rose up in front of Richards. He wanted to smash them, stomp them, walk on them. Better still, rip out their nose filters and turn them into the street.
"People's mad," Bradley said. "They've been mad at the honkies for thirty years. All they need is a reason. A reason... one reason..."
Richards drifted off to sleep with the repetition in his ears.
MINUS 062 AND COUNTING
Richards stayed in all day while Bradley was out seeing about the car and arranging with another member of the gang to drive it to Manchester.
Bradley and Stacey came back at six, and Bradley thumbed on the Free-Vee. "All set, man. We go tonight."
"Now?'
Bradley smiled humorlessly. "Don't you want to see yourself coast-to-coast?"
Richards discovered he did, and when The Running Man lead-in came on, he watched, fascinated.
Bobby Thompson stared deadpan at the camera from the middle of a brilliant post in a sea of darkness. "Watch," he said. "This is one of the wolves that walks among you."
A huge blowup of Richards's face appeared on the screen. It held for a moment, then dissolved to a second photo of Richards, this time in the John Griffen Springer disguise.