The Far Shore of Time e-3

by Pohl Frederik

“Like batteries?”

  She sighed. “I thought that at first, but Meow-Mrrranthoghrow-says they are not. Or if they are, they are batteries of a kind which never needs to be recharged. Then I thought they might be receivers for some sort of broadcast power, but that means there would have to be some sort of transmitter somewhere. Mrrranthoghrow says-if I understand him-there is not.”

  “Then what?”

  She shook her head moodily. “That is what I have been asking the quantum people at the Observatory. You see, there is this thing called Vacuum energy,’ about which I know little more than the name. When I ask Kit Papathanassiou he tells me that, yes, it is all about us, everywhere, all the time. Virtual particles spring into being and disappear, vast quantities of them. We cannot detect them, but quantum theory says they are there. They are gone almost as soon as they occur-usually-but some scientists think they do not always disappear. They even think that it is such a Vacuum fluctuation’ that caused the Big Bang long ago, and thus created our whole universe.”

  “I never heard of any of that,” I admitted.

  “No. I had heard not much more. But when I ask Papathanassiou he says certainly this vacuum energy exists, the theory is quite complete in this respect, but it cannot be tapped for any useful purpose. He is very positive about that. Yet these little things do tap into something, and I wish I knew what that was.”

  Thoughtfully she replaced the cover over the objects, then looked up. “Ah, here come our Docs.”

  So we got started late, but we made up for lost time: questions pouring out of the techs, Pirraghiz struggling valiantly to make sense of the answers from Mrrranthoghrow and Wrahrrgherfoozh, me translating both ways. I didn’t have much time to think about Rosaleen’s worries.

  But they did stick in my mind, and there was something else that was bothering me, too. When we had finished the session and I saw Hilda’s great white box rolling toward us to take me to my next date, I asked Rosaleen about it. “Isn’t that sort of, well, low priority?”

  “My interest in how the Scarecrows get their power? But it is of great potential, Dan.”

  I waved a hand at her. “In the future, sure. But right now the Scarecrows are maybe going to kill us all, and shouldn’t we be concentrating on doing something about that? I don’t just mean you, Rosaleen. It’s everybody. They don’t seem to be worried.”

  She looked a touch offended, but then she put her hand on my arm and smiled. “You are right, Dan. Have you ever read the story by Mr. Edgar Allan Poe called ‘The Masque of the Red Death’? It is about the time of one of the great old plagues. All over the city people are dying, but in this one place there is a ball and the people there are dancing and drinking and pretending nothing is amiss-although it is only a matter of time before the plague will come to them and they, too, will die. It is denial, Dan. What you cannot face, you deny. Perhaps it is better to do that than simply to dissipate your energies in useless worrying.”

  “Well,” I said obstinately, “I do worry.”

  And Hilda, rolling up just in time to catch the end of the conversation, said irritably, “You sure as hell do, Danno, and you make me nervous. How about if you quit worrying and get on with your job?”

  Well, she was right, too. But that didn’t stop me from worrying. The human race was experiencing some sort of reprieve, sure, but I didn’t think it could last.

  And, of course, it didn’t.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Actually, it was that same night that things began to go sour.

  When I got through with the 1730-1930 debriefing Hilda was waiting for me as usual, but she didn’t hustle me off at once. “Listen, Danno,” she said, sounding either embarrassed or annoyed, I couldn’t tell which. “Do you think you can take yourself to dinner without me?”

  “Well, sure,” I said, startled. “Does that mean you trust me to go off on my own?”

  “It means I’m a little tired tonight, Danno,” she said, sounding irritable. “No argument, just go do it. And listen, I might be going to bed early tonight, so I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I guess I was in my prisoner state of mind again, and any break in the routine made me uneasy. But when I got to their apartment Pat and Dan M. were unsurprised. “Actually,” Dan M. said, “she called me a while ago, asked me to escort you to the rest of your dates if she wasn’t up to it.”

  “She’s about ready for dialysis again,” Pat told me.

  It was the first I’d heard of dialysis; Hilda had never said a word. “So she’s sick?” I asked, trying to imagine Hilda Morrisey allowing herself to be sick.

  Pat looked reproving. “She’s always sick, Dan. That Tepp woman did a good job on her. Do you have any idea what she has to go through every night?”

  I didn’t, so Pat explained it to me while we were waiting for our dinners to arrive. It pretty nearly spoiled my appetite.

  I knew that this religious fanatic named Tepp had killed a Doc and shot Hilda before she offed herself as well. I didn’t know quite how shot up Hilda actually was. There wasn’t much left of some of her organs-thus the dialysis every couple of weeks-and even less of her whole autonomous metabolism. Every night, Dan said, when she rolled herself into her private little clinic, the medics extracted what was left of her body from the life-support box-as gently as they could, but never without pain. Then they did all the undignified things that had to be done for a body that had lost the skills of doing them for itself. Check the Foley catheter, empty the urine bags. Roll her over for the daily high co-Ionic. Patiently massage every last muscle and tendon, kneading hard to keep them from wasting away entirely. Bathe her. Feed her the extra nutrients that weren’t included in her permanent glucose drip. Lift her onto the air-cushion bed that hissed and grumbled at her all night long, but saved her vulnerably fragile skin from bedsores, and, yes, brush her teeth for her, too.

  It sounded like a hell of a life.

  “But,” Dan said, “better than no life at all. At least she can work.” Then he grinned at me. Let’s talk about something else. Pat, did you tell him the news?”

  Pat looked coy. “Oh,” she said, “well, it’s just that Pat Five is going stir-crazy, stuck in the house with the three babies. She wants to get back to work in the Observatory. So they’re setting up a little nursery there-had to kick Pete Schneyman out of his office to make the space, and he’s really mad about it, too.”

  “Yes?” I said, with only moderate interest.

  But then she said, “So that means Patrice might have a little free time. She’s talking about coming down here again for a visit.”

  I stopped eating, with a forkful of lukewarm Bureau mashed potatoes on the way to my mouth. “That-would be nice,” I said.

  Pat was grinning at me. “Just nice? Who do you think she’s coming to see, Dan?”

  “And listen,” Dan M. said sternly, “don’t blow it this time. Take my word for it, this is what you want. When a Dan Dannerman and a Pat Adcock get together, it’s a match made in Heaven.”

  Well, I didn’t doubt that. I didn’t even mind this other me telling me so, either.

  I don’t mean that there were not some residual male-primate flashes of jealousy still floating around in my head. How could there not be? Jealousy is in the genes. No previous male primate had ever had to deal with this particular sort of situation before. My genes weren’t up to the subtleties. They were still loudly complaining that this man had taken this woman away from me, and what was I going to do about it? Settle, for instance, for second best?

  It was an unworthy thought. Patrice wasn’t second-best anything. I knew that, but my genes weren’t sure, and I was too busy refereeing the debate between reason and instinct that was going on in my mind to be very good company at the rest of the meal. And then the news came that took my mind off the pointless interior debate.

  Dan M. stretched and yawned, pushed aside the rest of his uneaten soggy apple pie, glanced at his watch and said, “Well, about time to hit the road for your
nineteen-thirty, Dan.” But as we were standing up there was a call for him on his private screen. He took it in the other room, and when he came back he wasn’t cheerful anymore. “Shit,” he said. “There’s been a leak. Let’s see if I can call it up.”

  Pat said, “What do you mean, a leak?” But he waved her off while he tinkered with the wall screen. It took him only a moment before he got a bare frame with the legend:

  National Bureau of Investigation

  Excerpt from “Maxwell at Night” program

  Recorded at 1850 local time

  The legend disappeared and we were looking at the face of the TV newscaster known as Robin Maxwell. I knew who the man was. Everybody in the Bureau did. Maxwell had been on the Bureau’s watch list for a long time because he seemed to have contacts in some dubious places.

  It looked like he had found himself a new contact now. “The spooks are at it again,” he was telling his audience. “You know what they’ve got at the NBI now? They’ve squirreled away a Scarecrow submarine and a live Horch, would you believe it? Take a look.” The face disappeared and we saw a picture of the sub, with Beert standing on top of it. “They don’t want you to know about it, but hey, that’s what Maxwell’s for, telling you the things the big guys don’t want told ...”

  He kept on talking, but there wasn’t any point in listening anymore. The thing that mattered had been said, and said on broadcast television which the Scarecrows were no doubt monitoring. So the secret was out.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  I never did get to my 1930. All Camp Smolley’s schedules were disrupted for sure, because inside of an hour there were a hundred reporters battering at the gates of Camp Smolley, demanding to know everything there was to know about this Scarecrow submarine and actual living Horch that we were hiding from them, and why hadn’t they been told about them before?

  The reporters didn’t get in, of course. They didn’t even get any answers. What they got was Daisy Fennell, sent out to face them down and tell them that: a, there was no truth at all to the rumor; b, those alleged pictures were obviously morphed fakes; and c, if any of Maxwell’s story had been true, it would be an act of treason to the human race to report it, because the Scarecrows would hear. While inside the camp the deputy director was raging through the hallways, demanding that every living soul in the installation take a PET lie-detector test to find the criminal who had broken security.

  Whether any of the reporters believed Fennell, I couldn’t guess. The funny thing was that part of what she said was true. The photos Maxwell showed weren’t photos, they were morphs, probably made from descriptions he got from someone who had seen Beert and the sub but hadn’t taken their pictures. Beert looked more like the hideous cartoon of a Horch the Scarecrows had showed us than his living self, and the alleged photo of the submarine got the handling machinery at its bow all wrong.

  It made a nice little no-win situation for the Bureau; they could easily prove Maxwell’s pictures were fakes, but only by admitting that the sense of his story was true.

  So the media carried Daisy Fennell’s denials, but that didn’t solve the problem. Wrong as it was in detail, Maxwell’s pictures clearly showed what the Scarecrows would instantly recognize as their missing sub.

  The question on everybody’s mind was: what were they going to do about it?

  As far as anybody could tell, nothing. At least, not right away. Pirraghiz reported no special traffic to or among the Scarecrow submarine fleet.

  All the same, there was a lot of worrying going on around Camp Smelly. Even Hilda was snappish, and the deputy director was hemorrhaging wrath, blame and worry all over the installation. He had his own way of dealing with worry, and it took the form of starting a one hundred percent interrogation of everybody in sight, thirsty for the blood of the despicable traitor who had broken security. By “interrogation” I don’t just mean questioning; he had four PET-scan machines flown in from Arlington for lie-detector tests.

  I didn’t expect much from that. Position emission tomography is pretty good at sorting out facts from fantasy, because those two files seem to be stored in different parts of the brain, but it takes three or four hours to test a single subject. Marcus had not only the couple hundred people at Camp Smolley to test but all the ones at Hampton Roads as well. The good part of that was that it kept him out of my hair.

  And then even Hilda left me alone. When I finished my breakfast it was Dan M. who was waiting for me outside my room. “I’m your new shepherd, Dan,” he told me wryly. “Hope that’s all right with you. Hilda couldn’t put her dialysis off any longer, so she’s out of commission for the rest of the day.”

  “Fine,” I said, more or less meaning it. I still wasn’t entirely easy in the company of this other myself, but as the day went on it got better. He wasn’t just someone to talk to, he was that nearly ideal person for a conversation who was nearly ideal because he had the advantage of thinking exactly the way I did. As we moved from one appointment to another we chatted about what was going on around us, and if nothing new came out of any of the chat, at least it was useful to be able to talk, but then the world obtruded itself on us.

  We were just entering the chamber where the techs waited when every screen in the area turned itself on at once, and when we saw what was on all those screens it took our minds right off the planned questions.

  The Scarecrows were talking to us again.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  At least the Scarecrows were no longer going to the trouble of faking the face of a human being to deliver their little homilies. The creature displayed on the screen was unquestionably a Dopey. He was squatting comfortably on a gold-colored cushion, his little hands busy in his belly bag. Behind his head was a pretty background landscape, distant hills and fleecy white clouds in a blue, blue and very Earthly sky. All faked, no doubt. The Dopey was doing his best to look amiable and trustworthy, not an easy job for a Dopey. When he spoke his voice had the cajoling quality of a late-night, golden-oldie disk jockey.

  “You know who I am,” he said, the little cat eyes gleaming, his fan spread in glorious iridescence. “I have spoken to you before, bearing the generous messages of our Beloved Leaders, who know what is best for all of us and whose patience is great-but not without limit.”

  His plume darkened and his voice became sorrowful. “But you are a willful species,” he scolded. “You have betrayed the trust of the Beloved Leaders. You have wickedly stolen a vehicle which is their property. You have begun the construction of armed spacecraft. And you have done even worse. You have brought to your planet a representative of the despicable Horch.

  “The Beloved Leaders cannot permit this to go on.

  “Therefore they command you to take two steps. Within the next four days you must broadcast an invitation for representatives of the Beloved Leaders to come to your planet. And, as a token of good faith, you must rid yourself of this evil monster, the Horch. Kill him. Do so in a public place. Broadcast his execution. And when he is dead amputate all of his limbs and head. Let it be seen that this is done, so there can be no question of the sort of trickery you have shown yourself capable of.”

  He raised himself on his little legs and peered sternly into the camera. “Four days!” he said sternly. “If you have not complied by that time, at that hour you and your entire race will die.”

  He stood silent for a moment, then sank back on his cushion. The colors of his peacock tail brightened into soft pastels and his tone became wheedling.

  “You must understand,” he said, “that the Beloved Leaders seek no personal gain from you. It is for your own good-indeed, if you force them to put an end to your lives, even that is for your good, since it will speed your way to the Eschaton.

  “The Beloved Leaders know that, in your present primitive state, this is frightening to you, for it is what you call ‘death.’ But death is only an incident. It will come sooner or later to each of you-the temporary death which all organisms experience. It is not to be fe
ared. It is only the way which we must all pass, in order to reach that great eternity of the Eschaton.

  “Yet the Beloved Leaders do not wish to take this step unless you force them to it. It would be tragic if your entire species went prematurely to the Eschaton. You are a young race. You have not attained full development. You cannot ever achieve that on your own. That can only happen to you under the wise and benevolent guidance of the Beloved Leaders. That generous proposal is still open to you, but you must act now. Destroy that vile Horch. Invite our people to come to you. Accept the great gift that is offered you.

  “Remember, four days! And if you have not done as instructed, at the very moment of the end of that time you and all your species will immediately perish.”

  And the Dopey curled his lipless little mouth into what he might have thought of as a friendly smile, and his image faded from the screen.

  Next to me Dan M. was wearing the strangest expression I’d ever seen on his face, part anger, a lot confusion; mostly he looked as though he were either going to laugh or cry. “But, Dan,” he complained, “how? The Pats guarantee that there’s absolutely nothing in orbit that can get here in four days! Do you think he’s bluffing?”

  I was staring at the blank screen, hardly hearing him. “No,” I said, “I think it’s worse than that. I think maybe we’ve been worrying about the wrong thing. I’d better talk to Hilda right away.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-T W O

  When I got to Hilda’s room she was there, all right, but the medics didn’t want to let me in. “She was sleeping,” the doctor in charge told me. “We woke her up after we saw the message from the Scarecrows. She’s watching a replay now, but she doesn’t want any visitors while she’s undergoing dialysis ...”

  I didn’t argue with the man. I just pushed him out of the way. As I opened her door I called, “Hilda? Sorry to break in on you, but-“

  And then I stopped, because I saw why Hilda Morrisey didn’t want any visitors.