“I can take a hint!” Arthur yelled from the aft-cabin.
“Not you, Arthur dear,” Darla said as she went aft to strap herself back into her seat.
“Thanks, sweetie.”
I floored the power pedal. The main engine was operating, but somehow it didn’t feel quite right. A brief image came to me: inside the engine, atoms whacking into each other with astonishing violence—but they were hitting off center, not head-on.
Nevertheless, it was too much for Mr. Moore. He began to drop back.
I laughed. “He’s on auxiliary power. His Goddess won’t even fix his wagon for him.”
On the rearview screen, Moore’s battered armored vehicle dwindled to a gray dot.
“He can still track us,.” Sam said. “He may be able to tell what portal we shoot.”
“Not if we get far enough ahead of him,” I said, reaching to switch the auxiliary engine back on. I watched the velocity readout edge up.
“There we go,” I said. “Even if he’s at full power, we’ll lose him completely.”
We watched Moore’s vehicle become vanishingly small. “Good,” I said. “Good.”
Sam bent over the computer terminal. “Getting back to the map—Jake, it looks like the minimum speed requirement for this portal should be a little higher than average. Just guessing from the number of cylinders and their placement, the conflicting stresses should be horrendous. Shooting this thing is going to be like trying to walk an elephant over a rope bridge.”
“What do you figure?”
Sam’s long fingers darted over the keyboard. “I’m estimating over fifty meters per second. Say fifty-five to be safe. That’s 198 kilometers per hour.”
“High,” I said, “but we can make it. As long as there’re no hairpin turns.”
“Well, that’s exactly what I’m looking at here.”
“Oh.”
“No problem for a Roadbug, probably, but for us—tricky, to say the least. Going to call for some fancy driving. Computer assistance, maybe.”
“Piffle.”
“Piffle, is it? Hey, Arthur! Why the hell is this portal so screwed up?”
“How should I know?”
“I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Well, neither do I. I do know that washouts don’t usually shoot this portal all by themselves. They go back with a Roadbug escort.”
Sam was astounded. “What do you mean, ‘usually’? You mean to say there’ve been other washouts?”
“No, you’re the first. You were also the first group of candidates. What I meant to say was that it was my understanding that a Roadbug escort through the portal would become standard procedure.”
I said complainingly, “Why the hell didn’t you ever tell us that we were the first? And if you say we never asked, I’ll dismantle you with a rusty powerdriver.”
“You’re not giving me much choice, are you? Okay, I never told you because I’m a rotten s.o.b. Satisfied?”
Darla said, “It’s true. We never asked him.”
“Thanks again, honey,” Arthur said.
“How come we don’t rate a Bug escort?” Sam wanted to know.
“Nothing with you people has gone according to standard procedure.”
“I believe that,” Sam said. “If it weren’t for bad luck, we wouldn’t have any luck at all—”
“Alert,” the computer said offhandedly. “Incoming ballistic object. Take evasive action.”
I wheeled hard to the left and went into the grass, taking the rig in a wide parabolic arc away from the road. It wasn’t wide enough. There was a hollow explosion to the rear, followed by a steady rumbling, scraping sound.
“What’s the damage?” I asked as I steered back toward the road.
“Looks like an encore of the last performance. Rear door is sprung, no pressure seal…” He bent forward to peer at a readout. “Jesus. Looks like the lift is down. Blast must have activated the servo.”
“That’s bad,” I said. “I can feel it. It’s dragging and making it difficult to steer.” I looked at the velocity readout. “Well, it won’t hamper us too much.”
“I’ll go back and crank it up. Can’t have that thing banging around back there.”
“Sit tight a minute, Sam. He may have a missile left.” Darla said, “Moore wants us dead, even at the price of his own life.” There was a disturbing sense of fatalism in the way she said it.
I was worried. If Moore was doomed to be stranded here, he’d try his damnedest to see that we never made off the planet either. I hadn’t helped the matter any by rubbing his nose in it.
The portal was coming up fast. A forest of black towers thrusting at the sky, it looked like the skyline of a city of dark gods. Not exactly the kind of place for a getaway weekend. But I just wanted to pass through, if they’d let me.
Then, suddenly, the main engine died again and our speed dropped precipitously.
Sam slammed the terminal down and frantically jabbed at it. “The program’s looping,” he said grimly. “My quick fix didn’t fix.”
“What a time,” I said, looking downroad and seeing our doom. Two solid white lines began demarcating a lane in the middle of the road. It was the guide lane, the safe corridor, and once we got into it, we were committed. Once committed, straying out of that slot was a very bad idea. But stopping was worse, and there was no time to avoid committing, even if Moore hadn’t been back there. I looked at the readouts. Our speed was still dropping, and at this rate, we would soon fall below minimum speed. It was the dragging lift platform. The auxiliary engine wasn’t powerful enough to compensate.
“John!” I yelled. “Do you know where the manual crank on the load lift is?”
“I’m afraid not,” John said as he unstrapped, “but I’ll find it.”
“On the right-hand side at the rear,” I said. “There’s a panel, and there’s four toggle bolts.”
“He’ll need me,” Darla said.
“No, Darla—” I began, but knew unmechanical John would need help. “Be careful!”
Even though we had passed the commit point, the portal proper was still some distance away. I hoped that meant that we had a bit of leeway, that speed and direction wouldn’t be hypercritical until we neared the edge of the forest of cylinders. But this was a portal unlike any of the Skyway. No telling what it demanded in the way of portal-shooting expertise. I knew that it was not for amateurs.
“Sam, how’s it coming?” He didn’t answer.
Side roads began shooting off to the left and right with increasing frequency.
I said, “Computer!”
“Acknowledged,” the A.I. answered.
“Display planned route, show present position.”
“Done.”
“Assist navigation, stand by to take control in the event of emergency.”
“Orders acknowledged.”
Even though its voice was a little too cold-blooded, I was glad that Sam had shut down most of the A.I.’s “personality.” I, for one, was a little tired of disembodied intelligences, friendly or otherwise, hanging out in my truck.
“Prepare to bear left,” the computer warned as we approached a fork in the road.
I bore left. We were well into the maze of roads now. An array of cylinders stood off to the right, the road I had taken skirting them by an ungenerous margin. The sky was murky now, and it seemed that the sun’s light had dimmed. There were no clouds—the darkness was a result of the intense and focused gravitational fields distorting and refracting the space around us.
“Keep left,” the computer instructed.
I chanced a fleeting look at the small monitor that showed the trailer interior, but couldn’t see anything. Then I noticed that our speed was still dropping, but not as fast as before. Nevertheless, accelerating or decelerating whilst shooting a portal were not recommended procedures.
“Sam?”
“Almost,” Sam answered.
“Alert,” the computer announced. “Incomin
g projectile. Possible missile. Take evasive action. Defensive firing has commenced.”
Which wouldn’t do us much good, as Moore’s missiles had been too tricky even for Sam. And I couldn’t take any evasive action, none at all. Unless the computer got in a very lucky shot, we would have to eat that missile. As soon as the warning came, I was on the intercom to the trailer.
“Darla!” I screamed. “Take cover! Incoming missile—get to the front of the trailer and get down! Repeat, get—”
A horrendous explosion sent shudders through the rig. The trailer yawed to the left and I did everything I could to keep it from wandering out of the guide lane. I could see smoke streaming from it and pieces dropping off.
I was on the intercom as soon as I regained control. The trailer monitor was showing nothing but noise.
“Darla! John!” I yelled. “Report!”
No answer. I looked back. Zoya was on her feet. “I’ll go back,” she said.
“No! Strap in!”
She did, and it was all I could do not to countermand my own order. But I didn’t want to lose Zoya, too.
“Airborne object tailing,” the computer announced.
“What?” I croaked. “Another missile?”
“Negative. Unidentified object, possibly hostile.”
I didn’t know what it was talking about, and didn’t have time to look. The blast may have played hell with the scanners.
Sam’s face was drawn into thin, grim lines, and beads of sweat had sprung to his forehead like a sudden dew. His fingers worked furiously yet efficiently, accurately.
“Prepare for tight turn to right,” the computer droned.
If I slowed for the turn we would drop below the minimum speed, so I took it with fully juiced rollers, hoping the trailer wouldn’t slide out and end it all for us. It didn’t. I checked the speed readout again. We were holding steady. Maybe the blast had ripped the lift completely off. A bit of luck if it had.
“Darla, answer!” I shouted into the mike. “Report!” Again no reply. I didn’t want to think about it now.
I checked the sweep scanners again. Moore was gaining. I could see nothing that could account for the computer’s warning about an airborne bogey. The forest of cylinders grew thick. I drove among them, my heart a ball of ice, the gloom of the distorted spaces around me reflecting my fear, my despair.
The Paradox Machine was working fast; its wheels had sharp, shiny blades that whirled and whirled, and they were coming straight for me.
We were in the heart of the black city now, and light was scattered and dim. The road was lost in the murk, but the white guide lane was still visible. The rig’s running lights had come on automatically, but there was almost nothing to see except the guide lane and a fuzzy patch of road. The cylinders were vast walls of blackness in a landscape of gloom and obscurity. And … quite suddenly, a crazy funhouse apparition, a view of the land surrounding the portal, refracted and distorted wildly out of shape as if by a fish-eye lens … then, darkness again. Gone. Nothing left but gritty road rolling underneath us, a circle of light leading us farther into a strange dark night.
“Extremely sharp left turn ahead,” the computer told me. It was, but I made it.
“Estimate ETA to aperture,” I instructed.
“ETA three minutes thirty-two seconds, at present speed. Stand by to bear to extreme right at next intersection.”
Ahead the road branched off at weird angles. The extreme right was almost too sharp a turn to make without slowing down. But you can’t slow down in the middle of a portal, so I juiced up the rollers, swung the control bars hard to the right, and prayed. We almost tipped over.
“Sam, we have to get our speed up.” I figured I had enough time here to increase speed slowly enough to avoid surging, which made a vehicle unstable when in the grip of extreme tidal forces.
“Almost, almost, almost,” Sam breathed as he continued to punch madly at the keyboard.
So I drove on through the streets of the dark city.
Then came a hand on my shoulder, unexpected, improbable, a calm hand, and a calm voice, saying, “Jake.”
I knew who it was. For some reason I wasn’t surprised. “Yuri,” I said, without looking back.
“Think of it, Jake,” he said. “Each corner here a gateway to different eras of the history of the universe.”
“You think of it, Yuri. I’m busy.”
“Of course. But you’ll be needing the Substratum again.”
“Sure could use it.”
The rig lurched as something smacked into us from the rear.
“Jesus,” I said, “he’s gone completely nuts. Trying to kill us all.”
Moore’s buggy gave the rig a further nudge, backed off, then smashed into the back end. The trailer gave a shudder, slid out a bit, then swung back into line.
“Sharp left ahead,” the computer said phlegmatically. “Very dangerous under present circumstances.” It could have been giving a weather report.
“Not just yet, Jake,” Yuri told me gently.
“No?”
“GOT IT!” Sam shouted as the main engine kicked in.
I surged, preferring to take the awful risk rather than let Moore keep trying to knock us into a cylinder. But I lost the gamble. Something took hold of the rig, lifted us right off the road…
… then had second thoughts and let us drop. Part of the trailer landed outside the safe lane, and the cab set down at a forty-five-degree angle to the trailer. I fought at the controls as every safety servo in the rig struggled to straighten us out. The rear of the trailer floated up again like a paper in the wind, set gently back down, this time within the guide lane, but jackknifing to the right. I wrenched the control bars to correct. The trailer wafted back into line, then rebounded to the left, which I corrected for as well.
The rig was squirming now like a snake wriggling our of an old skin. It wouldn’t stop. Every correcting maneuver seemed to generate an unexpected new counterforce, offsetting and negating the correction. It seemed there was nothing I could do to make the rig stop swaying, swerving, shaking, buffeting this way and that, nothing I could think of doing that I hadn’t already done.
“You have missed the left turn,” the computer informed me.
We were not going back to Terran Maze. We would never go back.
“He’s coming alongside!” Sam shouted, looking out the port to the left.
I couldn’t see, but felt Moore banging his armored buggy against the rig as he edged his way toward the front. There must have been at least some space to squeeze through an the side. I had no control over the rig, and couldn’t make a move against him.
“He’s not in the safe lane!” Sam said. “He’s—”
Then I saw Moore’s rig as it rose from the road, lifted by an unseen gravitational hand. And for just the barest instant, I saw Moore’s face through the small front port of his doomed vehicle. He looked right at me, and his ghastly smile chilled me to the core.
I’ll see you in Hell.
Then the vehicle was gone.
“Cover your eyes!”
Strange thing to say to a starrigger while he’s operating his vehicle, but I knew why. The atoms of Moore’s vehicle, after being torn one from another, would make a few orbits about a cylinder before being sucked into it, and would in the process release synchrotron radiation, along with a lot of light.
The flash didn’t blind me, but it left sparkling dots chasing each other in front of my eyes. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t see that the road made a sharp right up ahead. The computer saw it, tried to warn me, too late. Sam leaped out of his chair and tried to take the controls.
Too late. We were out of the safe lane, off the road completely, but still on the ground. Giant fists batted at us, and invisible forces pushed and pulled at us. I became increasingly amazed that we were still alive, still traveling. I was still in my truck, my rig. My senses were heightened now, here in these last moments of my existence. I was still where I wanted to
be, doing what I wanted to do, what I had always wanted to do. Sam was with me, and we’d had a good run.
Then Yuri said to me, “You’re about to make history, Jake. In a very real sense.”
Suddenly the rig was airborne, rising into the dark sculpted spaces of the portal like some ungainly; impossible aircraft on its first and last flight, hurtling through the darkness toward a hole in the sky—a hole with blurred edges, and as it loomed near, about to suck us up, I remarked to no one in particular that it looked like an aperture—the hole in space that a portal creates. And it did, it did look like an aperture; I made a mental note to someday look into the mystery of what an aperture would be doing this far off the road’s surface, as they were usually lower down, like right off the road, so vehicles could drive into them. I was thinking this as the rig somehow, miraculously, straightened out and entered the aperture in a more or less head-on manner.
And then there was nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.
28
NOTHING. WHICH I thought rather impossible, so I filled the void with something. “Let there be anything,” I said.
And lo. Yuri beside me. “Consider the following events as happening in no time at all,” he said.
“Hey, I’m easy,” I said.
He laughed. “I’ve known you for only a short while, Jake, but I can say that you’re one of the most remarkable individuals I’ve ever met.”
“Everyone tells me that.”
“As well they should. Shall we go?”
“Where? There doesn’t seem to be anyplace to go around here. Fact is, there doesn’t seem to be…” I put an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, Yuri, old buddy, listen. You’re not going to tell me that you’re the Ghost of Christmas Past or something, are you?”
He hesitated for a moment. “Dickens? Dickens. I’m rather weak in English literature, I’m afraid.”
“Now, I’ve always loved Dostoevsky. I can quote you chapter and verse of The Possessed.”
“I’ve never read him.”
I was shocked. “And you call yourself educated?”
“Hardly. The universe must be protected from scientists with literary pretensions.”
“Well, you’ve done your duty, Yuri, old pal. Now. What did you have in mind?”
Paradox Alley Page 28
