"To influence them."
"It's against the rules of the Institute, sir."
"Damn the Institute. Its rules may hold good throughout the Galaxy, but we're not in the Galaxy. As far as our own ship is concerned, I am the Law, just as Captain Mitchell is the Law in this vessel. Can you enter another person's mind to influence it?"
"Sometimes, sir."
"The mind of one of the sleepers aboard this ship. One of the dreamers."
"That would be easy, sir."
"Good. Now, Captain Mitchell, this is what I have in mind. You have five diviners, five dowsers, still dreaming happily in their tanks. Mr. Mayhew is going to—to tamper with the dreams of four of them. Mr. Mayhew is a very patriotic Rim Worlder and thinks that Lorn is the next best place to Eden, and he's going to use his talents to sell Lorn in a big way to the dreaming dowsers. My idea is this. Each of them will dream that he is lost in a dark emptiness—as, in fact, we all are. Each of them will dream that he has his rod in his hand—his hazel twig, or his length of wire or whatever it is that he favors. Each of them will dream that the wand is leading him, pulling him towards a pearly globe set in the black sky. He'll know the name of it, and Mayhew will be able to supply details of the outlines of seas and continents. The sky isn't always overcast, and all of us have seen Lorn a few times from Outside with all details visible.
"I'm not saying that this will work, Captain, but it just might. If it doesn't work we shall none of us be any worse off. And if it does work—well, you'd better get your rockets warmed up before Mr. Mayhew goes to work, so you'll be able to throw yourself into a safe orbit."
"It sounds crazy, Commodore," Mitchell said. "It sounds crazy, but no crazier than all of us being here. I shall have to call my officers first so that all stations are manned."
"Of course. Dr. Todhunter will lend you a hand."
Mitchell's expression was still dubious. "Tell me, sir, why did you make it quite plain that four of the dowsers are to be set to dreaming of Lorn? Why not all five?"
"If this works out, Captain, it will be an act of salvage. And I think that Faraway Quest will be entitled to some reward. I know how the crew and passenger lists of these ships were made up. Male and female, in equal numbers. Husbands and wives. There's a hunch of mine that the husband of the mindless woman, the religious fanatic who got you into this mess, is one of the five remaining dowsers."
"I'll check the passenger list, Commodore."
Mitchell went to the cabinet and pulled out the files.
"So if it works," murmured Sonya, "we shall have our own dowser to do the same for us."
"Yes."
Mitchell put the papers back into their file. He said, "The mindless woman, as you have called her, is—or was—Mrs. Carolyn Jenkins. Her husband, John Jenkins, is also a member of the dowsing team. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'll see about waking my staff." His was somber. "I hope, for all our sakes, that I'm not waking them for nothing."
They were down once more in the dormitory sphere, on C Level, in Sector 8. There was Grimes, and there was Sonya Verrill, and there was first Captain Mitchell. There were Todhunter and McHenry, and there was Mitchell's Medical Officer, a woman whose hard, competent features were visible behind the transparency of her helmet and who, when awakened and apprised of the situation, had wished to discuss medical matters with her opposite number from Faraway Quest. And, of course, there was Mayhew.
First of all there was the tank in which slept Carolyn Jenkins' husband to disconnect from its fittings. Jenkins was the man who had been dreaming about food, and who was now dreaming about other pleasures of the flesh. Grimes felt more than a little relieved. This dreamer would not object to his being press-ganged away from his own ship and would not feel the loss of his wife too deeply. The nature of his dreams told of years of hunger, of frustration.
McHenry and Todhunter maneuvered the clumsy tank through the cramped space, vanished with it in the direction of the control sphere. It was to be taken to the Faraway Quest, where the engineers would be able to set up the apparatus for maintaining the sleeper in his condition of suspended animation and for awakening him if Grimes' gamble paid off.
And then Mayhew went to the second of the male dowsers, the one who, in his dream, was still engaged in the exercise of his talent. The telepath vocalized his thoughts, and his voice was an eerie whisper in the helmet phones of his companions.
"You are lost . . . .
"You are lost. The sky is dark. There is no light anywhere. There is nothing anymore anywhere . . . Nothing . . . Nothing . . . Emptiness around you, emptiness underfoot . . . You are falling, falling, through the nothingness, and the rod is dead in your hands . . . .
"You are falling, falling . . .
"But not for always. The rod twitches. You feel it twitch. Feebly, but it twitches. That is all—now. That is all. But there will be more. In precisely one hundred and twenty minutes there will be more. The rod will twitch strongly, strongly, and pull you with it. You will see that it is pointing to a spark in the darkness—a golden spark. And the spark becomes a globe, becomes a fair world hanging there. There is the blue of seas, the green of continents, the gleaming white of the polar ice caps, and on the night hemisphere the sparking lights of great cities . . . . There is the blue of seas and the green of continents, and the great land mass, hourglass-shaped, that sprawls from pole to pole, with its narrow waist on the equator . . . . And the chain of islands that forms a natural breakwater to the great, eastern bay . . . . But you do not see it yet. The time must pass, and then you will see it. Then the rod will come alive in your hands and will draw you, pull you, to the fair world of Lorn, the world of your fresh start, to the sunny world of Lorn . . ."
Grimes thought, I hope that they aren't too disappointed. But even Lorn's better than Limbo . . .
* * *
And so it went on.
Each of the four remaining dowsers was thoroughly indoctrinated, and by the time that the indoctrination was finished only thirty minutes remained before the posthypnotic command would take effect. Grimes and the others made their way back to the control sphere.
Mitchell's officers were in full charge now, and the pilot lights glowed over instrument consoles. With the exception of Grimes, Sonya Verrill and Mayhew, all of Faraway Quest's people were back aboard their own ship. The Commodore turned to Mitchell. "I'll leave you to it, Captain. If things work out for all of us, I'll see you on the Rim."
Mitchell grinned. "I hope so, sir. But tell me, are the Rim Worlds as marvelous as your Mr. Mayhew makes out?"
"You have to make allowances for local patriotism, Captain."
"But you needn't stay on the Rim," Sonya Verrill broke in. "I am sure that my own Service will be happy to assume responsibility for the settlement of your people on any world of their choice."
"The Federation's taxpapers have deep pockets," remarked Grimes.
"That joke is wearing a little thin, John."
"Perhaps it is, Sonya. But it's still true."
The Commodore shook hands with Mitchell and then pulled on the gloves of his spacesuit, snapping tight the connections. His helmet on, he watched Sonya Verrill and Mayhew resume their own armor and then, with one of Mitchell's officers in attendance, the party made its way to the airlock. They jetted across the emptiness to the sleek Faraway Quest, were admitted into their own ship. They lost no time in making their way to the control room.
And there they waited, staring at the contraption of globes and girders floating there in the nothingness, bright metal reflecting the glare of the Quest's searchlights. They waited, and watched the control room clock, the creeping minute hand and, towards the end, the sweep second pointer.
Grimes consulted his own watch.
Mayhew noticed the gesture. He said quietly, "I'm still in touch. They can see the spark in the darkness now. They can feel the rods stirring strongly in their hands . . . ."
"I don't see how it can work," muttered Renfrew.
"T
hey got here without your gadgetry, Lieutenant," Calhoun told him sharply. "They should be able to get out the same way."
And then there was nothing outside the viewports.
Perhaps, thought Grimes, our searchlights have failed. But even then we should see a dim glimmer from her control room ports, a faint flicker from her warmed-up drivers . . . .
"The screens are dead," announced Swinton.
"She made it . . ." whispered Mayhew. "She made it. Somewhere."
XXIII
So it had worked for First Captain Mitchell and his Erector Set of an emigrant ship. It had worked for First Captain Mitchell, and so it should work for Faraway Quest and her people. The shanghaied dowser was sleeping in his tank, still dreaming orgiastic dreams, and Mayhew was working on him, entering his mind, trying to introduce the first faint elements of doubt, of discomfort, trying to steer his imaginings away from overpadded comfort to the cold and emptiness of the Limbo between the Universes.
But it was hard.
This was a man who had lived in his dreams, lived for his dreams. This was a man whose waking life was, at best, purgatorial—a man who never knew in his own home the sweet smoothness of flesh on flesh, a man who was denied even such simple pleasures as a glass of cold ale, a meal more elaborate than a spoiled roast and ruined, soggy vegetables. This was a man who lived in his dreams, and who loved his dreams, and who had fled to them as the ultimate refuge from an unspeakably drab reality.
Mayhew persisted, and his whispering voice, as he vocalized his thoughts, brought a chill of horror into the section of the auxiliary motor room in which the tank had been set up. He persisted, and he worked cunningly, introducing tiny, destructive serpents into the fleshly Eden—the tough steak and the blunt knife, the corked wine, the too-young cheese and the rolls with their leathery crusts . . . . The insufficiently chilled beer and the hot dog without the mustard . . . . The overdone roast of beef and the underdone roast of pork . . . .
Small things, trivial things perhaps, but adding up to a sadistic needling.
And then there was the blonde who, when she smiled, revealed carious teeth and whose breath was foul with decay, and the voluptuous brunette who, undressed, was living proof of the necessity of foundation garments . . . .
So it went on.
The dream, perhaps, had not been a noble one, but it had been healthily hedonistic, with no real vice in it. And now, thanks to Mayhew's probing and tinkerings, it was turning sour. And now the man Jenkins, fleeing in disgust from the lewd embraces of a harridan in a decrepit hovel, was staggering over a dark, windy waste, oppressed by a sense of guilt and of shame, fearing even the vengeance of the harsh deity worshipped by his unloving wife. He was fleeing over that dark windy waste, tripping on the tussocks of coarse grass, flailing with his arms at the flapping sheets of torn, discarded newspaper that were driven into his face by the icy gusts.
The cold and the dark . . .
The cold and the dark, and the final stumble, and the helpless fall into the pit that had somehow opened beneath his feet, and fall into Absolute Nothingness, a negation worse than the fiery hell with which his wife had, on more than one occasion, threatened him.
The cold and the dark and the absolute emptiness, and the rod of twisted silver wire to which he still clung desperately, the only proof of his identity, the only link with sanity, the only guide back to Space and Time . . .
The twisted wire, the twitching wire, and the insistent tug of it in his frozen hands, and ahead of him in the darkness the faint yellow spark, but brighter, brighter, golden now, no longer a spark but a fair world hanging there in the blackness, a world of beautiful, willing women, of lush gardens in which glowed huge, succulent fruit, a world of groaning tables and dim, dusty cellars in which matured the stacked bottles of vintage years . . .
But not Lorn . . . thought Grimes.
"But not Lorn . . ." echoed Sonya.
"Lorn is hanging there in the darkness . . . ." Mayhew was whispering. "A fair world, a beautiful world . . . And the divining rod is rigid in your hands, a compass needle, pointing pointing . . . . You can cross the gulf . . . . You can bridge the gulf from dream to reality . . . . Follow the rod . . . . Let the rod guide you, draw you, pull you . . . . Follow the rod . . . ."
"But where?" interrupted Grimes. "But where?"
"To Lorn, of course," whispered Mayhew. And then, "To Lorn? But his dreams are too strong . . ."
Shockingly the alarm bells sounded, a succession of Morse "A"s.
Once again—Action Stations.
XXIV
There, to port, was the lens of the Galaxy, and to starboard was the gleaming globe that was Lorn, the great, hourglass-shaped continent proof positive. From astern came the rumble of the gentle blasts fired by Swinton, intent on his instruments, that would put Faraway Quest into a stable orbit about the planet. From the speaker barked an oddly familiar voice, "What ship? What ship? Identify yourself at once." And at the controls of the transceiver Renfrew made the adjustments that would bring in vision as well as sound.
"What ship?" demanded the voice. "What ship?"
From his chair Grimes could see the screens of both radar and Mass Proximity Indicator. He could see the bright and brightening blob of light that gave range and bearing of another vessel, a vessel that was closing fast. She was not yet within visual range, but that would be a matter of minutes only.
"What ship? What ship?"
Grimes accepted the microphone on its wandering lead, said, "Faraway Quest. Auxiliary Cruiser, Rim Worlds Confederation Navy. What ship?"
The voice from the bulkhead speaker contrived to convey incredulity with an odd snorting sound. "Faraway Quest? Rim Worlds Confederation? Never heard of you. Are you mad—or drunk?"
"No," Sonya Verrill was whispering. "No. It can't be . . . ."
Grimes looked at her, saw that her face was white, strained.
The big screen over the transceiver was alive with swirling colors, with colors that eddied and coalesced as the picture hardened. It showed the interior of another control room, a compartment not unlike their own. It showed a uniformed man who was staring into the iconoscope. Grimes recognized him. In his, Grimes', Universe this man had been Master of Polar Queen, had smashed her up in a bungled landing at Fort Farewell, on Faraway. Grimes had been president of the Court of Inquiry. And this man, too, had been an officer of the Intelligence Branch of the Survey Service, his position as a tramp master being an excellent cover for his activities. And he and Sonya . . .
The Commodore swiveled in his chair. He rather prided himself on the note of gentle regret that he contrived to inject into his voice. He said to the woman, "Well, your quest is over. It's been nice knowing you."
She replied, "My quest was over some time ago. It's nice knowing you."
"I've got their picture," Renfrew was saying unnecessarily. "But I don't think that they have ours yet."
"Starfarer to unknown ship. Starfarer to unknown ship. Take up orbit and prepare to receive boarding party."
"You'd better go and pretty yourself up," said Grimes to Sonya. He thought, It's a pity it had to end like this, before it got properly started even. But I mustn't be selfish.
"You'll be meeting . . . him. Again. Your second chance."
"Starfarer to unknown ship. Any hostile action will meet with instant retaliation. Prepare to receive boarders."
"Commander Swinton!" There was the authentic Survey Service crackle on Sonya Verrill's voice. "Stand by Mannschenn Drive. Random precession!"
"Ay, ay, sir." The young man flushed. "Ma'am." Then he swiveled to look at the Commodore. "Your orders sir?"
"John!" Sonya's voice and manner were urgent. "Get us out of here."
"No. This was the chance you were wanting, the second chance, and now you've got it."
She grinned. "A girl can change her mind. I want my own Universe, where there's only you . . ." She laughed, pointing to the screen. A woman officer had come into Starfarer's control room, was sta
nding behind the Captain's chair. He outranked her, but her attitude was obviously proprietorial. "Where there's only you," repeated Sonya, "and only one of me . . ."
"Mannschenn Drive," ordered Grimes. "Random precession."
"Ay, ay, sir," acknowledged Swinton, and with the thin, high keening of the precessing gyroscopes the screen blanked, the speaker went dead and, on the port hand, the Galactic lens assumed its familiar distortion, a Klein flask blown by a drunken glass blower.
* * *
"Sir," growled Renfrew, obviously in a mutinous mood, "they could have helped us to get back. And even if they couldn't, I'm of the opinion that the Rim Worlds under Federation Rule would have been somewhat better than those same planets under your Confederacy."
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