The hostess thought a moment. "How about The Flying Dutchman?"
Rod nodded. "The very thing. I hope Eaves hates Wagner."
They wrestled Eaves up onto one of the couches and set the helmet on his head. Mirane found one of the injectors, pressed it against his wrist, and squeezed. She turned to press the "start" button, but Rod held up a hand. "Just a sec. He should be very suggestible right now." He slapped Eaves' cheek gently. "Come on, wake up, old man! Debriefing time. Report!"
Eaves' eyes fluttered and opened, but they were glazed.
Rod stepped back out of sight. "So. You followed the Gallowglass party from Wolmar in your own ship, and intercepted them on the resort-planet Otranto. What measures did you take to secure them?"
Eaves nodded slowly. "They took refuge in a dream-house. I bribed and coerced the manager into giving them the zombie drug."
The rest of the company stared at Rod, amazed. He nodded, grim-faced. "Where did you leave your scoutship?"
Eaves frowned at the strangeness of the question, but answered, "In the Palazzo of Montressor."
"What password did you use?"
Eaves' frown deepened, but he answered,"Excelsior."
"Send out the St. Bernards," Whitey muttered.
Eaves' eyes closed, and a gentle smile curved his lips.
"When did you become a double agent?" Rod said softly. "When did you begin working for GRIPE?"
Eaves raised his eyebrows. "Never. I am loyal to VETO." Then his face smoothed out, and his breathing deepened.
"A Totalitarian," Rod muttered. "I might've known. They come in batches."
"What's VETO?" Whitey demanded.
"A secret society that works for PEST." Rod turned away to the litter of unconscious bodies. "Come on, let's get these bozos off to dreamland."
Whitey frowned, but he turned to help David heave a thug up onto a couch.
A few minutes later, the whole dozen were drugged and dreaming.
Rod turned to the hostess, and she shrank back at the look in his eye. "Any preferences?" he asked.
The girl just stared at him for a moment. Then, reassured, she gazed off into space, and a reverent look came over her face. "Jane Eyre," she murmured. "I always wanted to be Jane Eyre."
"With him as Rochester?"
The hostess' gaze focused again; she turned to look down at Roksa. Then she implored, "Can't you manage separate dreams?"
Rod and Gwen exchanged glances, and her thoughts said, Grant what mercy thou canst, I prithee.
Rod nodded. "Yeah, why not? You set up the couches and the dreams."
The hostess stared at him for a moment, then slowly smiled. She turned away to punch some buttons on the computer console. Mirane stepped over to watch her closely, and her eyes widened.
The hostess turned away with a bright smile. "I'm ready. Shall we try it?" And she stretched out on one of the couches, pulling the helmet on and pressing the injector against her arm. Then she tossed it aside, stretched luxuriously, and closed her eyes.
Rod gazed at her, chewing at the inside of his lip. "Well, the quality of our mercy sure isn't strained. Give me a hand with this hulk, will you, Yorick?"
As they left the dreamhouse a few minutes later, Rod asked Mirane, "What dream did she give him?"
"The Dunwich Horror."
"Hurry, will you?" Yorick demanded. "That dream will buy us time, but not a lot of it. We need to get off-planet, and fast! I don't think even Whitey, Stroganoff and Mirane will be welcome here after this number."
Whitey's face set. "No. I'm afraid you're right."
Stroganoff stared. "You don't mean it! What about Dracula Rises Again?"
"We'll send back orders for the company to finish it."
"But they'll destroy it!" Stroganoff wailed. "They'll ruin it! It won't even pull a decent box office!"
Mirane was pale. "That'd be money down the drain, Whitey, without you there—750,000 therms!"
"Graves are even more expensive," Whitey answered, "especially on Otranto. And for myself, I don't plan to go on working after I'm dead."
Mirane and Stroganoff paled, and followed.
Rod clenched his jaw. "It's all because of us. You wouldn't be in this bind, if we hadn't crashed your set. I'm sorry, Whitey—very."
"Don't worry about it," the poet growled. "I had a hunch you were worth it."
The tour guide held up a hand to stop them, and pointed down a narrow, winding stair. "We're about to go down into the dungeons—and beyond them. You see, Palazzo Montressor was built on top of the catacombs."
"Which were built especially for Palazzo Montressor," Whitey muttered under his breath.
"Take note of the niter on the walls." The guide smiled cheerfully. "Farther on, you'll notice a pile of bones. We'll move a few of them aside, and you'll notice a brand-new brick wall. Fortunato's behind it, of course. All set? Here we go!"
He set off down the stairway, holding his torch high. The tourists followed him, single file, with the eight fugitives in their midst. The walls quickly dampened and darkened; patches of moss appeared here and there.
Whitey leaned forward and muttered into Rod's ear, "If only Poe could've collected the royalties while he was still alive!"
Rod nodded. "He would've lived longer."
Whitey frowned. "Yeah… Maybe it's just as well…"
They trooped down a long and winding stairway. The tourists began to mutter in excitement over the decrepitude of their surroundings, but Gwen pressed close to Rod, for which he was infinitely grateful. "My lord, 'tis eldritch."
"Yeah." Chornoi glanced up at the dripping walls. "This place gives me the creeps."
"That's what it's supposed to do," Stroganoff explained.
"You mean people pay to feel so lousy?"
They came out into a low stone hallway. The guide sauntered away ahead of them, carrying the torch and whistling. They followed the wavering flames, as masonry gave way to bedrock. They passed by a niche in the wall, with something in it that was wrapped in old, brittle cloth.
Gwen stared. "What is that?"
"A fake corpse, dear. We're in the 'catacombs.'"
The rest of the tour group oohed and aahed at the sight. One lady giggled.
Rod scowled. "Now, if I were Wirlin Eaves, where would
I have hidden my scoutship?"
The tunnel broadened out into an open space, about ten feet on a side. Three tunnels branched off from it. There was a pile of very realistic-looking skeletons stacked up to the ceiling against one wall.
One lady stared at it, her face a fascinating blend of disgust, loathing, and delight. "Is that…"
"Yes, ma'am." The guide gave her a solemn nod. "That's Fortunato's personal crypt."
Rod lifted his head, a gleam coming into his eye.
"What do you scent, O peerless leader?" Yorick whispered.
"Look," Rod said, "if you were Wirlin, you'd want your ship stashed out of sight, but in a place where you could get at it any time you wanted it, right?"
"They're moving on without us." Chornoi sounded nervous.
"Let 'em." Rod waved a hand. "I find this particular exhibit fascinating."
Yorick was running his hands over the wall by the pile of bones. "Here's the button."
Rod nodded. "Press it."
Machinery purred, and the whole wall-full of bones swung outward. The space behind it was huge and unlit.
"Got a match?" Rod said softly.
"Not since Shakespeare," Whitey grunted, but he lifted out a lighter, struck a flame, and held it aloft. "Sometimes it's handy, having vices."
The flickering glow revealed unused maintenance robots lined up against the walls, a pile of construction material— and the nose of a sleek spaceship, streamlined for atmospheric flight.
"Pay dirt," Rod breathed.
They stepped forward, awed by the bulk of the ship. It wasn't really all that big, but in an enclosed space, it seemed gigantic.
"Excelsior," Rod called softly.
>
Lights brightened around the craft. With a grunt of satisfaction, Whitey let his lighter snap closed and slipped it into a pocket.
"You are not Wirlin Eaves," stated a voice from the ship.
Rod nodded. "Eaves couldn't make it. In fact, he may not be able to get loose if we don't go get help."
Silence hung for a moment, then the ship said, "Ready to transmit."
Rod stared, strapped for a moment.
"Code," Chornoi suggested. "The renegades broke it."
Rod nodded, with a grin of relief. "That's right. We can't send word; it would be intercepted, and so would we. We have to get back to base to call for help."
The ship was silent.
"Excelsior," Rod said again. "Eaves told us that word. How else would we have known it?"
Slowly, an iris opened in the ship's side.
With a sigh of relief, Rod beckoned his people aboard.
PART III
TERRA
If any detectors noticed their takeoff, there was no sign of it. Still, Rod didn't relax until the ship had isomorphed with H-space. Then he sighed and hobbled back to the wardroom, weak-kneed.
As he came in, Gwen was shaking her head in dismay. "I do not understand. How can people become naught but numbers?"
"Not become," Brother Joey corrected, "just described as. I can describe you with words, can't I? Then believe me, I can describe you even more faithfully with numbers."
Gwen sighed and shook her head. "I must needs accept the truth of what thou dost say, since I've not the knowledge to judge it for myself."
"I know." Brother Joey had a smug smile. "That's the secret of the clergy's success."
"But if this 'isomorpher' of which thou dost speak, doth make note of me as a mile-long string of numbers which it doth paint on the wall of eternity, which thou dost term 'H-space,' and then doth take those numbers off that wall to build them once again into myself—have I not died, and been reborn?"
Rod noted that she wasn't at all discomfitted by not having felt anything major as they isomorphed into H-space.
But Brother Joey was shaking his head. "No. You've simply changed form, nothing more."
Gwen threw up her hands in despair.
"Let's try something a little more relaxing." Rod held up a hand to forestall Brother Joey. "I know, I know—to you, this is relaxing. But the rest of us like a little help." He touched the base of an air filter, and its telltale glowed to life. "The smoking lamp is lit. Anyone who wants to pollute, come sit next to it, Whitey."
The poet grinned and slouched into the chair right under the filter. He pulled out a long, sinister-looking brown cigarette, then his lighter. "Just wine, if you don't mind."
Rod peered at the synthesizer's list. "Chablis, Liebfraumilch, or Reisling?"
"Reisling, if you please."
"It's all one set of buttons to me." Rod said, as he punched. "What'll it be, Chornoi?"
"Bourbon. Who made you bartender?"
"I watched Cholly. Yorick?"
A few minutes later, with spirits for everyone and Manischevitz for Brother Joey, Rod propped his feet up on the table with a sigh. "Safe at last—for the moment."
Chornoi shrugged. "We were safe enough, in the dream."
"Yeah, except that a bunch of thugs was getting ready to package and ship us."
"As long as we were dreaming, who cared?"
"All dreams must end." Yorick frowned. "I wonder how that one would have come out?"
"Oh, I think it was pretty well wound down." Whitey held his glass up to the light. "After all, boy had gotten girl."
Gwen was gazing at Mirane, but her eyes weren't quite focused.
"Would have been interesting to see what happened to the rest of them," Yorick sighed. "But how did Mirane's computer-pad get pulled into the story?"
"Oh, it was the dog, Deviz."
"I know that, of course." Yorick glared at Chornoi. "I meant, how did it get tied into the dream-computer?"
"Through Mirane." Gwen kept her gaze on the young woman. "I think thou mayest have some trace of Power about thee, my dear."
"She's talking about psi power," Rod explained. "Oh, don't look so horrified! A lot of people have a touch of one power or another. You just happen to have enough to be useful, that's all."
Mirane shook her head. "How can you mind-read a computer?"
"Thine did say that it hath capacity for joining to thy mind," Gwen explained. "Is that not what 'interface' doth mean?"
"Well, yes, but I'd have to wear a transmitter-helmet."
Yorick shook his head. "Apparently you're capable of sending your thoughts without one. Projective telepathy— right, Major?"
Rod nodded. "A little bit of telepathy, period; the computer-pad said it was wireless, so it must be geared to transmit."
"The operative point," Brother Joey explained, "is that the pad has a built-in converter to transform its operating frequencies to human thought-frequencies. But don't take our word for it—ask it." He raised his voice. "How about it, Notem-Modem 409? Did we guess correctly?"
"Preliminary analysis of available data indicates 88 percent probability of validity," the computer-pad confirmed.
Mirane was pale, but she clutched the notepad to her.
"So." Yorick sat back, studying his glass as he spun the stem between finger and thumb."Mirane was Petty Pure, huh? I mean, she was the one who was closest to Deviz."
Mirane blushed, but she nodded.
"Thought so. I was Frank, of course."
Gwen frowned. "Why dost thou say, 'of course'?"
"Monster to monster, Lady Gallowglass. I was the easiest conversion."
Rod nodded. "The dream-computer did seem to match us up by personalities. But you're no monster."
"Tell it to your folklore, Major."
Gwen was frowning again. "Yet wherefore would it match myself with an old hag?"
"She was a witch," Rod explained, "or thought she was. But don't worry, dear, I didn't exactly find it flattering to be depicted as a klutz of a handyman, either."
"Nor I as a devil." Brother Joey was magenta.
Rod shrugged. "At least it had something to do with religion."
"More importantly," the friar said in a very low tone, "I was the voice of Authority."
Whitey snorted. "Well, if you don't like the idea of orthodoxy, Brother, you blasted well better decide that before you take your final vows. Me, I didn't exactly find it complementary to be depicted as an incompetent vampire."
"But you had a heart of gold," Rod pointed out. "Sweets to the sweet, poet."
"Fangs for nothing," Whitey snorted. He turned to Chornoi. "But you didn't really enjoy being a meanie, did you?"
"Oh, but I did." Chornoi nodded sadly. "And I wish I really was. Callous people seem to do so much better in this world."
"You've been hanging around a tyranny too long." Rod frowned. "Besides, I thought you'd already tried that way of life."
Chornoi looked down at her hands, lips tight. "And I couldn't take it. Right."
"Well," Rod sighed, "I guess you'll have to settle for being a good person, underneath it all."
"And that," Whitey said, "leaves only one role uncast." He directed a stare toward Stroganoff.
The producer shifted uncomfortably. "All right, so I was McChurch. So way down deep, all I want to do is lie around. Is that any crime?"
"Only when you really want to bleed for other people," Whitey said softly.
Mirane stiffened, glaring. "That's a wonderful quality!"
"It is, until he bleeds himself dry," Whitey reminded her. "But I think you two are avoiding a point."
Mirane and Stroganoff glanced at each other, then quickly glanced away."None of your business, Whitey," Stroganoff growled.
"Of course not. That's why I enjoy it so much." Whitey leaned back in his chair. "But the rest of us have bared our souls a bit, so it's your turn. Why was McChurch so totally hooked on Petty at first glance, Dave?"
"We were
being controlled by a script," Stroganoff muttered.
"So were we all." Chornoi gave him a look of scorn. "Everybody else turned out to be quite capable of resisting it—except me; I liked it. And you two. You couldn't have cared less."
"How could I care, when I was in a coma? And besides…"
"Strog, cut it off and talk straight!" Whitey demanded. "Are you in love with the lady, or not?"
Mirane paled still further. So did Stroganoff, but he blustered, "That's none of your damn business, Whitey! And besides, I'm a fat ugly fool, and she's way too young."
"Why, thank you." Mirane looked up, some of her color coming back. "Especially because I'm not really all that young—I'm thirty-five. You would have noticed, if you'd ever bothered to look behind the lenses and kerchief. And I think you're handsome!"
Stroganoff stared at her, totally taken aback. Then he glanced about him quickly, and stood up, sliding her chair back a little. "Uh, would you step into my office over here, for a quick conference?"
Mirane stared at him, surprised. Then her chin lifted, and she stood up and walked in front of him, shoulders back, over to the far end of the wardroom. Stroganoff followed her, pantomimed closing a door, and leaned against the bulkhead, hands in his pockets, chatting. Mirane watched him closely.
•
Gwen's lips curved a smile that was both fond and amused.
Quit eavesdropping, Rod scolded silently. He turned to Yorick. "Well. We seem to be in moderately good shape at the moment."
Yorick grinned, but he swung with the change of topic. "Yeah. We're bound for Terra, and we didn't have to pay a dime."
"I like that last part," Whitey agreed.
"Unfortunately, word is probably traveling ahead of us," Rod sighed. "I expect PEST will be ready and waiting for us by the time we get there."
"How?" Brother Joey frowned. "Nothing can travel faster than an FTL ship."
"Nothing except a faster ship," Rod reminded him.
Brother Joey shook his head. "The time we spend in H-space isn't really transit time, Mr. Gallowglass…"
"Rod," Rod prompted.
"Rod. Thank you." Brother Joey nodded. "As I was saying, it isn't really transit time, it's more a matter of seeking and translating."
"Well, then, bigger ships search faster than small ones."
The Warlock Wandering Page 23
