Cargill was beginning to lose some of his own doubts. He had his first sharp feeling that this was real. Here were not just a few angry relatives. He let go of the chair, uncertain now. Here was danger, definite, personal, immediate. And that was something that he could face. For more than a year he had been conditioned to a series of reactions when he was threatened —a remorseless alertness and an almost paradoxical combination of keyed-up relaxation.
He said, "What is all this? "Where am I?"
That was becoming tremendously important. He needed information now to stabilize himself. This situation was new and different from anything that he had ever experienced before. What was particularly vital was that he had taken the first step necessary to combat a threat: he tentatively accepted the danger as real.
Someone was doing something against him. Whoever it was had enough money to set up these two quarters in this curious fashion. It looked very expensive, and for that reason alone, convincing. From the air, the voice, ignoring his question, continued:
"It would not be enough to tell the descendants of Marie Chanette that you had been killed. The girl has to see the death scene. She has to look down at you after you have been killed. She has to be able to touch your cold flesh and realize the finality of what has happened. Only thus can we assure adjustment on the electro-colloidal level." The voice finished quietly. "But now, I would suggest that you rest awhile. I want you to have time to evaluate my words. You will hear from me once more this evening—prior to the therapy."
Cargill did not accept the finality of the words. For several minutes he asked questions, talking directly at the point from which the voice had come. There was no reply. In the end, grim and determined, he gave up this approach and returned to an earlier, more violent one. For ten minutes he struck against the glass barrier with the chair. The wooden chair creaked and vibrated from each blow, and shattered section by section. However, the glass was not even scratched.
Reluctantly, Cargill accepted its impregnability. He headed for the bathroom and tested the door that led from it. He gave one tug at the knob and his heart sank —the door was made of a hard metal. For an hour he worked on it without once affecting it in any visible fashion.
Finally, he headed for the bedroom and lay down, intending to rest briefly. He must have instantly fallen asleep.
Somebody was shaking him. Cargill came out of the stupor of sleep to the sound of a woman's voice saying urgently in his ear, "Hurry! There's no time to waste. We must leave at once."
He was a man who expected to be murdered, and that was his first memory. He jerked so spasmodically he felt the wrench of muscles.
And then he was sitting up. He was still in the bedroom of the apartment with the glass wall. The girl who was bending over him was a complete stranger. As he looked at her, she stepped back from him and bent over a small machine. He saw her profile: intent now and almost girlish in the anxiety she was feeling. Something must have gone wrong, for she began to swear in a low tone in a most ungirlish fashion. Abruptly, in evident desperation, she looked at him.
"For... sake,"—Cargill didn't get the word—"don't just sit there. Come over here and pull on this jigger. We've got to get out of here."
He was a man trying to grasp many things at once. His gaze flicked apprehensively toward the open door. "Ssssssh!" he whispered instinctively.
The girl's eyes followed his gaze. "Don't worry about them . . . yet. But quick now!"
Cargill moved heavily. His mind held him down. Her presence baffled him. He knelt beside her and grew aware of the faint perfume that emanated from her body. It gave him a heady sensation. For a moment, the tiny pin she was tugging at wavered in his vision. And then once more the girl spoke:
"Grab it," she said, "and pull hard."
Cargill sat there. The expression on his face must have penetrated to her at last for she paused and looked at him hard.
"Oh, mud," she said—it sounded like "mud"—"tell mother all about it. What's eating you?"
He couldn't help it. His mind was twisting, turning, writhing with doubts and fears. "Who are you?" he mumbled.
The girl sagged back. "I get it," she said. "Everything's too fast. You haven't had time to think. You poor little grud you." It sounded like "grud." She shrugged. "Fine, we'll stay here until one of the Shadows comes."
"The what?"
The girl moaned. "Won't I ever learn to keep my mouth shut? I've started him off again."
Her tone cut him at last. A flush touched his cheeks.
He said harshly: "What's all this about? What are you doing here? What—"
The girl held up one hand as if to defend herself from attack. "All right, all right," she said. "I give up. Let's sit down and have a cozy chat, shall we? My name is Ann Reece. I was born twenty-four years ago in a hospital. I spent my first year more or less lying on my back. Then—"
The anger she aroused in him acted like an astringent. It tightened his thoughts and pulled back a dozen wandering impulses into a sort of unity. His very intentness must have impressed her. She parted her lips as if to say something light. After looking at him—she closed them again.
Then she said, "Maybe we're going to get somewhere, after all. All right, my friend, a minute ago I wouldn't have told you anything. You've been pulled out of the twentieth century to the—well, the present. And that's all I'm going to tell you about that. I belong to a group who are opposed to the Shadows. And I was sent here after you—"
She stopped. Her brows knitted. "Never mind! Now, please, don't ask me how we knew you were here. Don't ask any more questions. This machine brought me into this room in the heart of Shadow City and it will take the two of us out if you will unjam that pin. If you don't want to go with me, loosen the pin anyway, so that I can get to"—Cargill missed the word completely —"out of here. You can stay and be murdered for all I care. Now, please, the pin!"
Murdered! That did it. It wasn't that he had forgotten. It was the insensate wriggling of his mind that pushed that danger into the background. He leaned forward, his fingers forming to take hold. "Do I pull or push?" he whispered.
"Pull."
Cargill snatched at it. The first touch startled him. It was as if he had grasped a film of oil. His skin slid over the immense smoothness of it as if there were nothing there. He grabbed again, sweating abruptly with the realization of the problem.
"Jerk!" said the girl harshly.
He jerked. And felt the slight tug as it yielded a fraction of an inch. "Got it!" It was his own voice, hoarse and triumphant.
The girl reached past him. "Quick, grab that smooth bar." Even as she spoke her hand guided his. He snatched for a hold. Her hand clutched the same bar just above where he was clinging.
He remembered then a dull glow from the bulbous section near his face. His body tingled. And then he was lying on a hard smooth floor in a large room.
3
Cargill did not look at the girl immediately. He climbed gingerly to his feet and put his hand to his head. It was an instinctive gesture, part of his absorption with himself. He found no pain, no dizziness, no sense of unbalance.
Why he had expected such reaction he didn't know. He began to brace up to the situation. With brightening eyes, he glanced around the room. It was bigger and higher than his first impression had indicated. It was made of marble and seemed to be an anteroom. Except for minor seating arrangements for temporary visitors it had virtually no furniture. There was a high arched doorway at either long end of the room, but in each case the doors merely opened onto a wide hallway. A single large window to Cargill's left faced onto shubbery, so he could not see what was beyond.
He was staring avidly at the window when he became aware that the girl was watching him with an ironic smile. Cargill turned and looked at her. "Why shouldn't I be curious?" he asked defensively.
"Go right ahead," she said. She giggled. "But you look funny."
He stared at her angrily. She was a much smaller girl than he had
thought and somewhat older. He remembered her language and decided she was probably around twenty-five—and unmarried. Young married women with children watched their tongues. And besides, they didn't go out risking their lives by joining exotic groups of adventurous rebels.
The shrewdness of the analysis pleased Cargill. It helped to relax his taut mind. For the first time since leaving the cell, he thought, "Why, I'm way up in the future! And this time I'm free." He had a sudden desperate desire to see everything before he was returned to the twentieth century. A will came: to know, to experience. He had a thrill of imminent pleasure. Once more he whirled toward the window. Then again he stopped, remembering what the girl had said: "you look funny."
He glared down at his body. He was naked except for a pair of something similar to gym shorts. His clothing was not exactly indecent but Cargill felt irritated, as if he had been caught in an embarrassing position. His legs were hard and strong, but they looked thinner than they actually were. He had never been at his best in a bathing suit.
He said in annoyance, "You could have had some clothes waiting for me here. It's getting chilly."
It was. Through the window he could see that it was also becoming darker. If he were still in California then the late afternoon sea breezes were probably blowing outside. Even in midsummer that meant coolness.
The girl said casually, "One of the men will bring you something. You're to leave here as soon as it becomes dark."
"Oh!" said Cargill.
He shook his head as if he would drive out the blur that was confusing him. All these minutes he had been standing here, adjusting to the simpler aspects of his new environment. They were important—it was true— but they were the tiniest segment of all that was happening to him.
His restlessness derived from several major facts. He was in this far future world because an inter-time psychological society was using him to cure one of its patients. The morality of that was a little too deep for Cargill, but just thinking about it brought a surge of fury. What kind of curative agency was it, murdering him to soothe somebody else's upset nerves?
He fought down the anger, because danger was temporarily behind him. Ahead was the mystery of the group that had rescued him and that, tonight, intended to take him—elsewhere.
Cargill parted his lips to ask the question that quivered in his mind when the girl said, "I'll leave you here to look around. I've got to go and talk to somebody. Do not follow me, please."
She was at the door to the left of the window before Cargill could find his voice. "Just a minute," he said. "I want to ask some questions."
"I don't doubt it," said Ann Reece, with a low laugh. "You may ask him later." She turned and was gone before he could speak again.
Being alone soothed him. The presence of other people while he was trying to adjust had been a severe pressure upon him. Everybody else appeared to have plans about and for him. He had none for himself except perhaps to see more of what was outside the window.
Peering out through the glass, Cargill had the initial impression that he was looking onto a well-kept park. The impression changed. For through the lattice work of the shrubbery he could see a street. It was the kind of street men dream about in moments of magical imagination. It wound through tall trees, among palms and fruit trees. It had shop windows fronting oddly shaped buildings that nestled among the greenery. Hidden lights spread a mellow brightness into the curves and corners. The afternoon had become quite dark and every window glowed as from some inner warmth. He had a tantalizing vision of interiors that were different from anything he had ever seen.
All this came from only a glimpse as viewed through the lattice work of a rose arbor. Cargill drew back, trembling. He had had his first look at a city of hundreds of years in the future. It was an exhilarating experience.
He took another long look, but what he could see was too fragmentary to satisfy his expanding need. He retreated from that fascinating view and peered through the door beyond which the girl had disappeared. He saw the hallway, lit by a drab light that reflected from another doorway some score of feet to the right. He hesitated. Ann Reece had forbidden him to follow her, but she had made no threats. He was still standing there, undecided, when he grew aware that a man and woman were talking in the lighted room.
Cargill strained his ears. But he could hear nothing of what was said. It was the tone of the man's voice that interested him. He seemed to be giving instructions and the girl was protesting. Cargill recognized Ann Reece's voice. He noted how subdued it was. Her reaction dictated his own. This was not the time to barge in on her—better to sit down and wait.
He was halfway across the room, heading toward a chair, when his foot struck something that clanged metallically. In the almost complete darkness it took a moment to recognize the machine that had brought him and the girl out of the glass-walled room. Gazing at the strange object, conscious of the wonder of it, Cargill had a wild thought—if he could take this machine and sneak off into the descending night, then he'd be free not only of his original captors but also of the new group with its schemes. That last was important, now that he had heard the determined voice of the man in the next room.
Like a burglar in the night Cargill knelt beside the instrument. It was two-headed, like a barbell used by weight-lifters. In the gloom, his quick eyes searched for the "pin" that had caused the earlier trouble. It was not visible. Using only the tips of his fingers, he pushed the bar, rolling it slowly. It was warm to his touch but showed no other animation. Cargill withdrew his fingers. This was not really the time to test its power.
Uncertain, he climbed to his feet. He became aware that footsteps were coming along the hallway. He turned to face the doorway. The footsteps entered the room, there was a rustling sound and the place blazed with light.
A Shadow shape stood in the doorway.
Shadow shape, shadow substance . . . shadow. Car-gill's mind kept trying to play a trick on him, kept trying to put solidity where there was nothing but form. He could see the wall through the shadowy thing; and yet, even as he saw it, he tried to blot out the reality of it.
His gaze finally stopped jumping, and he saw that he was looking at a ghost-like human shape, a gaseous, dark being, an improbable creature, a human thing that said:
"He's one of them all right. I can detect nothing."
From a point close behind Cargill, Ann Reece said, "About how many are there?"
"Not more than a dozen in this whole area of time. It's an interesting phenomenon."
The conversation was both literally and figuratively over Cargill's head. There was the statement that he was an interesting phenomenon; and to Cargill, who had been under enormous strain for many hours, that was funny—considering the fantastic phenomenon that had said it. He began to laugh, uncontrollably. He laughed until the tears came to his eyes, and then, weakening, laughed until he sank down on the floor. He was lying there, exhausted, when something touched him, and he had a sense of being—moved.
He was walking. It was hard to understand how it had happened, but he could feel the pressure of the dirt under his shoes and the play of muscles in his legs as they moved back and forth.
For a long time, in the reflection of the flashlight in the hands of the girl, he watched the rise and fall of her heels. Every little while she kicked up loose soil. The soft sounds suddenly shocked the blur out of Cargill's mind. His legs continued their automatic movement, but his brain flashed to awareness of his environment.
It was pitch dark. There was no sign of a city. He seemed to be on an unpaved rural road. Cargill looked up. But the sky must have been thick with clouds for he saw no stars and no moon. Cargill groaned inwardly. What could have happened? One instant he was in a large marble anteroom inside a city; then the shadow shape had come in and- seemed to examine him—one look, a few words—and then, this dark road behind a silent companion.
"Ann!" said Cargill softly. "Ann Reece."
She did not turn or pause. "So you're
coming out of it," she said.
Cargill wondered briefly just what it was he was coming out of. Amnesia, certainly—temporary amnesia. The thought faded. To a man who had been unconscious several times now, another period of blankness didn't matter.
Here he was. That was what counted. "Where are we going?" he asked, and his voice was quite normal.
The girl's tone oddly suggested she was shrugging. "Couldn't leave you in the city," she said.
"Why not?"
"The Shadows would get you."
The phrase had an irritating rhythm that snatched Cargill’s attention. The Shadows will get you. The Shadows will get you. He could almost imagine children being frightened by the threat.
His thought poised on the fact that at least one Shadow had seen him. He said as much. There was a pause. "He's not . . . one of them," she finally answered.
"Who is he?"
"He has a plan"—she hesitated—"for fighting them."
Cargill's mind made a single, embracing leap. "Where do I fit into this plan?"
Silence answered. Cargill waited, then strode forward and fell in step beside her. "Tell me," he said.
"It's very complicated." She still did not turn her head. "We had to have somebody from a time far past so the Shadows couldn't use their four-dimensional minds on him. He looked at you and said he couldn't tell what your future was. Here and there through history are individuals who are ... complicated . . . like that. You're the one we selected."
"Selected!" Cargill exclaimed. Then he was silent. He had an abrupt impossible picture that everything that had happened to him had been planned. In his mind's eye he saw a drunken soldier being selected to wreck a car and kill a girl. No, wait, that couldn't be. He had deliberately got drunk that night. They couldn't have had anything to do with that.
The Universe Maker Page 2
