Chief Ramm’s men were waiting for him as he stepped from the public booth on the Broadway axial.
“Are you Olmstead Packer?”
“Who?” Packer asked, feigning stupidity.
“Come with us, please. We’d like to ask you some questions.” One of the men stepped forward and took his arm.
Since the axial was crowded with shift traffic, the guards had no doubt counted on the full cooperation of their prisoner—most people do not care to make a scene of their public disgrace. But Packer, having imposed upon the benefits of Ramm’s protective custody once already, did not relish the thought of another stay. He shook off the guard’s hand and yelled that he was being accosted. Immediately they were surrounded by curious onlookers.
The confused guards told the crowd to move along, and when they refused the guards got angry. Somebody said something and someone else yelled—all the while Packer was hollering that his rights were being violated—and when the guards went for their tasers Packer dived through the crowd and ran.
The security men followed him, but lost him in the crush around one of the radial tubes. A breathless Packer described the scene to a gravely nodding Kalnikov when he reached the safety of their hidden nest. Kalnikov then informed him that the guards had orders to kill.
“Are you certain?” Packer asked incredulously. His eyes showed white all around.
The big Russian chuckled mirthlessly. “We are both considered dangerous. We are marked men. You, my friend, will not be so stupid next time. You can tell your wife all about it when it is over. Until then—”
“Don’t worry. There won’t be any next time. I’m not that much of a fool to get caught in the same trap twice.”
“You’re learning, friend. Soon I’ll make a real freedom fighter out of you.” A big hand clapped the physicist on the back. “Did I ever tell you that my great-grandfather fought with Vyenkotrovitch in the War of the Commissars? He was one of the original Moscow Saboteurs. There was a real freedom fighter.”
“You’ve mentioned him only about fifty times.”
“Well, then, how about Grandfather Nikko and how he saved the President’s life on the eve of the first election? Did I tell you that one?” Packer was not quick enough to pretend he had heard it. “No? Ahh, now there’s a story.”
Packer had grown used to Kalnikov’s interminable stories, and was even beginning to enjoy them. They had, after all, a lot of time on their hands while waiting for this or that corridor to clear, or for one or another contact to appear with information. The two men had become very good friends and wily conspirators.
As Kalnikov warmed to his tale. Packer sat thinking of their future as fugitives. Their cramped hideout beneath the docking bay in the hydraulics service area had become a prison; Packer longed for the run of his lab again and vowed that he would never complain about his small office again.
“When are we getting out of here?”
“Eh? What’s that?” Kalnikov was lost in his narrative.
“When is all this going to be over?”
“You are getting anxious, my friend.”
“Who wouldn’t be? I’m tired of all this sneaking around.”
“Do not be impatient. We will find out more at the second shift meeting. I am expecting a report from our contact inside the director’s office.”
“We already have all these reports. They tell us nothing.”
“I disagree. They tell us a great deal. They tell us that the mutineers are doing nothing. They are waiting. In the meantime they are trying to maintain the illusion that everything is running smoothly and normally. Though of course we know differently.”
“We could disrupt that illusion.”
“We could—and we will. But not yet. The time is not ripe.”
“When?” moaned Packer. He did not have Kalnikov’s disposition for waiting.
“Soon. Very soon. When the mutineers openly make their bid for taking control of the station—then we act. The citizens of Gotham will know which side to come in on. We will let the momentum of their own actions fuel their undoing.”
“A lot of people could get hurt.”
Kalnikov lifted his great shoulders. “Yes, some may be hurt. Freedom is a costly thing; it exacts a heavy toll always. But fewer will be hurt this way than if we acted too soon. We must not let the mutineers think there is any reason to act sooner than they wish to. Let their plans harden with certainty of success. Then when we arise to oppose them, they will have to abandon their plans and improvise. That is always a great disadvantage in struggles such as this.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime there is always MIRA.”
“Yes, always MIRA. But that is a long shot. We need proper equipment to even begin.”
“The equipment is coming. It is coming. Trust me.”
Packer sometimes feared that Kalnikov mouthed his revolutionary rhetoric the way a parrot mouthed saucy endearments— full of the bravado and dash, but utterly lacking in the ability to follow through. That the Russian pilot was a romantic dreamer he already knew; whether Kalnikov could back up what he so ardently espoused remained to be seen. Still, Packer had no better plan himself, so he clung to Kalnikov’s ideas like a man dangling from a tightrope and prayed the drop wouldn’t kill him.
20
THERE’S NO QUESTION ABOUT it, Adjani. This is what we saw last night. It could not have been anything else.” Spence turned the charm over in his hands, studying it closely. “But it doesn’t do justice to the genuine article by half.”
“You saw a naga spirit. Spencer Reston? I cannot believe it— though a great many unbelievable things seem to be happening to me of late. Do you also say you saw this creature?” He looked at Adjani with a half-skeptical, half-awed expression.
“I saw it, Gita. And I agree, it is undoubtedly what this charm represents. But Spence is right, the creature far surpasses this trinket for strangeness.”
They were huddled together in the shade of the troop carrier while the governor’s palace guards ate a leisurely midday meal. The thin mountain air was cool on their faces, the sun was hot, and they were grateful for a brief respite from the back-breaking ride over the wretched road.
“And not only that,” Spence continued. “We found a temple with an image of the Dream Thief. The real Dream Thief!”
“Undoubtedly it was Brasputi—the ruler of the Rsis and Vidyadharas. You will find his image all over Darjeeling.”
“This one was in the old section.”
“And it looked just like a Martian.”
“I wish I could have seen it, in that case.”
“Don’t worry, Gita, we’re all going to see the real live Brasputi very soon.”
“What are we going to do?” moaned Gita. “To be delivered into our enemies’ hands like chickens for the plucking … ahh!” His round face convulsed in an expression of deepest grief for their impending plight.
“We’re not there yet,” soothed Adjani.
“Far from it,” said Spence. “I have something up my sleeve here I’ve never told you about—either of you.” He reached into a zippered pocket of his jumpsuit and pulled out a small, flattened shelllike disk. He held it in his hand and felt its strange power quicken to his touch.
“What is it?”
“It’s called bneri—it’s some sort of signaling device. Kyr gave it to me. He said that if I ever needed him I was to take this and hold it while thinking about him, and he would know I was in trouble and he’d come to help.”
“Let me see it,” said Adjani. “A psychoactive instrument. Fascinating. Why didn’t you show me this sooner?”
“I don’t know. Maybe there’s still a part of me that thinks I’m going to wake up and find this has all been one grand absurd dream. But this—this tangible object reminds me it’s real—too horribly real. I don’t like to dwell on it.”
“Try it,” said Gita excitedly. “Oh, please try it now.”
Spence looke
d at the disk in his hand and felt its warmth filling his palm. He closed his eyes and began to concentrate, but before he could even frame a single thought he felt it snatched from him. His eyes flew open and he stared into the barrel of a rifle.
One of the guards, watching them closely, had come up while they were talking. He held the bneri in his hand and turned it over, frowning.
“Gita, tell him it is nothing—a shell. Ask him to give it back, please.” Spence smiled at the guard as he spoke, but his voice was taut as drawn wire.
Gita rapidly conveyed the message to the guard. He looked at the object and at Spence and then took the device and flung it into the brush at the side of the road. The last Spence saw of his valuable gift, it was skimming through the bush-tops down the side of the mountain.
“No!” he cried, jumping up.
The soldier shoved him back with the butt of his rifle and Spence fell against the side of the truck. The leader of the guards called his men to him and there was a short secretive conference.
“I don’t like the look of this,” said Gita. “What are they planning?”
Spence, horrified, ignored the comment and stared at the place where he had last seen their only hope sailing away and moaned, “Well, that’s that. We’re in it now.” He turned to his friends. “I’m sorry. I never should have gotten you mixed up in any of this. It’s my fault.”
“Spence, for the last time stop apologizing. Do you have such a monumental ego that you believe this to be all your doing? This is just one more battle in the age-old struggle between the powers of light and darkness.”
Spence could take no comfort from this speech. He still thought of his trouble as his trouble; the thought that it might indeed have some larger significance did not console him at all.
THE TRUCK RUMBLED UP a winding mountain track and rounded a curve cut in the side of the mountain. A tiny village swung into view.
“There it is,” said Adjani. “Rangpo—that is where the seminary of Ari’s grandfather is located. You can see the walls of the old monastery just off over there. See them?”
Despite his black mood, Spence looked eagerly at the village. It was much as he had imagined it. “Why a seminary in such a small, backward place? Why not Darjeeling?”
“Who knows? Perhaps Rangpo was more receptive to Christianity. It is often the way of God to choose the least among us to do his will.”
It did not make sense to Spence, but he was learning that little about God made sense in the normal, rational way. “It isn’t much of a place.”
Just then Gita, who had been gazing at the scenery, looked up and said with a shout, “What was that? Did you see it?”
“See what?” Spence looked in the direction Gita’s wiggling finger pointed—behind them and skyward. He saw nothing.
“It was a flash of light. Very bright. Just there.”
“Lightning, most likely,” replied Spence, watching the gray clouds flowing down from the mountains. The sun had become a dim, hazy, dirty yellow ball without much warmth or light. “Looks like it’s going to rain.”
“It was like no lightning I ever saw,” Gita maintained, though he offered no other explanation.
All three searched the sky from the back of the open truck, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. They settled back as the truck bumped along the steep, rutted road. They passed through Rangpo, barely slowing down, and reached the mountain road when the truck slowed and then stopped.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Gita, jumping up as the truck rolled to a halt.
Spence looked around. They were hemmed in on every side by tall trees and brush; he could neither see the mountain ahead nor the town behind. One of the guards came around the side of the truck and motioned them out with his rifle.
“Do as he says,” said Adjani. “I don’t think this was in the plan.”
“What are they doing?” whined Gita. “Oh, something is very wrong!”
“Quiet!” snapped Spence. “Keep your wits about you! Adjani, ask him what’s going on.”
Adjani spoke to the guard who seemed to be in charge and received no answer. Two of the guards hung back, as if fearing what was about to happen.
The three prisoners were shoved to the side of the road and the leader cried, “Halt!” He raised his rifle. The other guards stood close by, but did nothing. Their faces were pale and their eyes were afraid.
“They mean to kill us!” said Spence. He glanced at Adjani. “Tell them we’ll pay them to let us go. Talk to them!”
Adjani raised his hands and called to the soldiers. Spence could not understand what he said, but it seemed to have little effect on the men—they still stood indecisively hanging back, waiting for the deed to be over. The leader gave a curt reply.
“It’s no use,” said Adjani. “He says he has his orders.”
“Then let’s run for it!”
But it was too late. The leader of the guards spoke a stern order to his men, and they reluctantly raised their guns and aimed at the prisoners.
“God, have mercy!” cried Gita, covering his face with his hands.
“Run!” screamed Spence.
He heard a sound and realized that it was the click of a trigger. He saw the glint of sunlight on the steel barrel of the gun and looked into the black bore, from which issued a tiny projectile. He threw himself to the ground and rolled toward the shelter of the trees behind them. Then he heard the report of the rifle exploding into the silence, shaking the leaves on the trees and sending birds into flight.
Spence glanced back, even as he rolled, and saw an amazing thing. The bullet cleared the barrel of the gun and drifted toward him leisurely. It moved with aching slowness, and appeared to lose power and sink back to earth. The missile tumbled end over end and dropped in a lazy arc to land before him in the road in a little puff of dust. It lay there gleaming and spent.
A look of wonder appeared on the faces of the guards. They glanced at one another nervously.
“Look!” yelled Adjani. He pointed ahead of them up the road.
There stood a tall, thin figure clothed in a radiant blue, skintight garment, his arms outstretched, holding a long glowing rod. Behind this figure stood a squat, roundish, bell-shaped object that shimmered as if through waves of heat.
The soldiers, too, saw the figure. They drew back. One of them fired his rifle and all watched his bullet sink feebly into the dirt at his feet. At this the soldier threw down his gun and backed away. The others turned and fled with him, leaving only the leader who mumbled something under his breath and then turned and ran after his men.
Spence was on his feet running toward the strange figure. Adjani and Gita came on more cautiously behind him.
When they reached their friend they found him embracing an extremely tall humanoid who gazed at them with great round amber eyes.
“Kyr!” shouted Spence, almost beside himself with relief. “You came! You saved our lives!”
Adjani’s jaw dropped and Gita rubbed his eyes.
“Adjani, Gita …” said Spence turning to the astonished men, “Kyr, these are my friends.”
The Martian regarded them with a long, unblinking gaze as if reading their thoughts. “Men of Earth,” he said at last, “I am happy to meet you.” With that he slowly extended his long, three-fingered hand.
21
I SHOULD MELT YOUR flesh where you sit! I should blast your shriveled body to atoms! How dare you defy me!” The ancient eyes flashed fire and the voice croaked with murderous rage.
Hocking, for once, appeared at a loss for words. “I … I did not defy you, Ortu. Th-there must be some mistake.”
“There is a mistake and you made it when you gave heed to your own overreaching ambition. You will pay for this error, but first I want to know if you have any notion at all of what you have done. Do you have the slightest idea what you have ruined with your trifling, puny efforts? No answer?”
Hocking had never seen his master so angry. He thought it best to keep hi
s mouth shut and weather the blast if he could.
“No? Well then, I will tell you,” Ortu spat. He raised himself up and sat on his cushions erect and commanding, though he had not moved from his place. His hairless head gleamed like a polished knob; the hanging folds of skin around his neck jerked with every venomous word. The gleaming circlet across his forehead glowed hotly, and the great yellow eyes, burning out of their enormous sockets, undimmed by age, pierced the object of their focus like laser beams. Hocking shrank even deeper into the yielding cushions of the pneumochair.
“Your meddling has jeopardized the work of a thousand years. Centuries of cultural and social conditioning have brought us to the precise moment of maximum vulnerability. The tanti is at last attuned to the exact mental frequency of the collective human mind. Mankind trembles on the threshold of our new world order, and does not even guess what is about to happen. Like dogs they await the coming of a master to lead them.”
“How has anything changed, Ortu? It is still as it was. Nothing has been lost.”
“Silence! A great deal has been lost! I thought you were smarter than others of your kind. Use that miserable brain of yours, then—think what you have done!”
Try as he might Hocking could not think what had gone wrong. He did not even know exactly how Ortu had found out about his plan to eliminate Spencer Reston.
“Does your tongue fail you? Well it might, since you do not fathom even the tiniest fraction of the whole.
“The tanti is ready, is it not? It has been tested relentlessly for many years.” Ortu sank back into himself, and glared dully at Hocking. “Its power has been increased a billion-fold.”
“Correct.” Hocking’s mouth was dry and he croaked.
“With the tanti we possess the ability to control the universal subconscious and thereby control the behavior of every human being on earth. With it we can literally rule the world.”
“Control a man’s dreams and you control his mind,” said Hocking. He had heard the maxim often enough.
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