by Keith Laumer
He'd enjoyed his few hours alone. Cooked himself a tasty supper with fragrant coffee. It all tasted much better up here in the clean air. Stimulating, too, this utter loneliness. He'd established contact with Star Two, clarified his own mind and left Star Two bubbling with eagerness to know more of David's plan. He sensed that David had passed the breakaway point and was heading to a complete link-up.
"If I die there'll be others you can reach in Auto City," David had said. "You'll make that phone call right on time?"
"I will," Star Two had promised. "Does it matter if Gineas Rumbold doesn't recognize the voice?"
"We'll have to take the gamble. I believe that transmutes do not react emotionally. Therefore when you say you are Chick Verrel, he will react only to your message. He won't understand it so he'll need guidance."
"And you think that guidance will come from Seren-da Valley?"
"From there, or from the aliens' main link in Auto City. Anyway, do it and leave the rest to me."
Now he waited and, with a pair of night binoculars he'd found in the hut, scanned the darkness in the direction of Serenda Valley. His arms ached from holding the heavy glasses but he dared not relax his gaze. He sidled to a rock, rested his elbows on it and obtained relief for his overtensed muscles. Night crept up from the plain and down from the sky. The air grew sharply chilly.
David cursed himself for not remembering to ask the distance to Serenda Valley. It wouldn't be the same by road as from the top of Clawgut Mountain. It could well be four times the distance. Suddenly he noticed a flash of light. A shooting star across the backdrop of distant sky? A brief flash of headlights flickering their beam momentarily? No—too high for that, and faintly streaked with red. Too fast for any land-based light.
He lost sight of it, but didn't veer the glasses wildly in an attempt to pick up the light in another area. He exclaimed an excited "Ah! Got you!" as it came again. Moving now in a smaller elliptical zone of flight. He thought of the word "flight" because he was convinced the light came from a flying object. But not exhaust flames from any earth-made craft. That sort of craft would be on fire if it was belching reddish-orange and blue flames of this size.
Then the light grew less bright. Dulled to a faint glow as to the left of it a spinning circle opalesced. The shimmering of colors seen through the night glasses against the sky's velvet backdrop was weirdly beautiful. Slowly the light form lowered, until suddenly it was shut off from David's view. Not extinguished, because a faint glow still remained in the sky as a reflection.
"In the valley!" he exclaimed. "It's landed!" He kept the glasses focused, but in less than a minute the reflection of light also was shut off. David lowered the glasses and massaged his eyes, which had sweated under the prolonged pressure of the eyepieces.
Starlight glowed over the plateau as he walked back to the hut. He paused in the doorway, gazing around, breathing in the crisp air, feeling the beauty of the mountain night around him. And in these moments wishing he were here for a more normal purpose, sharing it, perhaps, with a girl instead of the menace of the invaders.
His mood changed swiftly and he cursed the aliens and the apathy of his own people. He cried aloud, "Dear God! For whom and why do I stand alone—supported by the few, ridiculed by the many? Why me? Why? Why? Why?"
Then quickly the self-pitying mood was cast out as he saw the headlights of a car, like tiny flashlight beams, swinging up into the mountain road. Their size impressed him. He hadn't realized Clawgut was so high. He raised the glasses again, focusing on those little beams of man-made light.
Was it some young driver trying his hand at tackling the mountain road at night? Or an experienced driver out for practice? Or a couple seeking a quiet parking spot? Not many of those, Ollie had told him. The local girls didn't like the mountain. Or most important of all—was it a messenger of death? Death for David Vincent.
One man in Washington knew he was up here. Ollie knew, but would not talk. Only one other person knew. Washington would have been in direct contact with that person. Was it that person in the car, or someone sent by that person? If it wasn't an ordinary member of the public then it had to be one of those two—perhaps both of them!
David waited calmly. Even admired the way the car's driver was handling it around the tight curves of the mountain circuit. Whoever was doing the driving was no slouch. The headlights canted a fan of glowing white across the mountainside as the car angled its way up the road, headlight beams flaring straight ahead for only the short stretches between the turns. As the car neared the last steep gradients before the plateau, David left the glasses in the hut, partially closed the door and ran to a natural hiding place near his car, from where he could see the approach to the plateau and the area between himself and the hut.
The car was a Windflight. David recognized its distinctive engine note before it shot up the final ascent and sped onto the plateau, where it stopped. The driver climbed out, leaving the headlights full on. David almost yelped aloud in surprise. She was tall, exquisitely contoured against the lights, wearing a white sheath dress ornamented with sequins which glistened and twinkled as she moved. Her hair was golden—glinting fiberglass, shimmering in coils around her neck. There was beauty in her face as she turned into the light's reflection, which heightened the features without showing coloring of eyes and lips. In fact, it gave her face a somewhat zombielike appearance. David gasped again as he recognized Liane Verrel. He'd seen her photograph at the club, and in conversations with drivers at the plant learned that she was considered one of the unchallenged beauties in Auto City.
A dreadful fear clutched at him. He'd said—and was convinced of the truth of it—that the aliens did not occupy women. If they did, then this young and beautiful creature was a moving corpse. The impact of what this now could mean made him shiver with a cold far greater than the cool mountain air made him feel.
When she climbed from the car she had taken off her short motor coat and thrown it on the seat. David studied her movements, noting the slowness, the poised deliberate motions—not quick and flowing. She had almost a sleepwalking appearance and certainly wasn't concerned about being seen. She leaned back into the car, groping for something in the coat pocket. Her dress rode up to show the graceful line of nylon leg and bare thigh. As she straightened and turned, so the light reflected on the gun she'd taken from the coat pocket. She looked toward the hut, took a few paces, slow and measured, then turned, came back, switched off the headlights. Then she stood still, obviously focusing her eyes in the sudden darkness, before moving again toward the hut.
David poured concentrated thought into these next few moments. Strangely he'd been relieved to see her with an ordinary but very efficient-looking six-gun. He was no expert on guns, didn't recognize a make, but it was a short-barreled model and not the usual weapon of the aliens. It might not decrease the danger to himself, but it certainly was a more human threat.
He'd found a flashlight in his car, a small pencil-beam gadget, giving a short but powerful beam for such work as checking a car's motor in darkness. He took this from his pocket, holding it ready to switch on, then moved in long tiptoeing strides toward the hut. Liane Verrel had disappeared around the far side. David almost fell over some objects leaning against the hut side, realized what they were and grabbed one. It was a pole about four feet long with a board screwed to the top. The board had an open end in its beading frame. A white card with a black figure 8 under the word lap was fixed in the grooved beading. A squat figure 8 designed for easy reading by a driver speeding past as it was held aloft. In the starlight it looked like a dumpy face outline. It was this appearance that prompted David's hunch to use it.
He tiptoed to the door. Liane was inside. He couldn't actually hear her walking, but heard the rustle of her dress. He stayed still, pondering on this bizarre situation—convinced she was under control of some sort. Her movements were not consistent with those of a young woman, especially one who had just driven a powerful sports car at speed up a twisting mounta
in circuit. So what form of control was it?
Liane had not shown any hesitancy, or any caution either. She had driven up at full power, left the lights blazing for quite a few minutes, taken off a coat despite the cool air,, and in her glistening white dress was very noticeable. This didn't make sense, not by any human reasoning. Why does a beautiful young woman take off a not very elegant coat? Because she wants to look her best. With a gun in her hand! Isn't that carrying vanity a little far? Yet that was the one human action—an assertion of the female desire to look her best. No transmute could react in that way. Vanity was akin to emotion. They wouldn't be concerned with it. So David paused and pondered instead of rushing into the hut.
She was in there, waiting. And very silently and calmly, too. It must be for him, because the message Washington had given was: "David Trome is sleeping tonight in the plateau hut on Clawgut Mountain. Will you see he receives this information by personal messenger at once?" Then followed a small amount of gibberish that sounded like a code message. David looked back as the distant neon sign changed from green to red. Someone had closed the mountain road. Perhaps it was the security guards based at the motel at the foot of the mountain. They would have seen or heard the sports car coming up and, as a precaution, closed the road until the car came down again. It wasn't really an important point, except that it meant no stray cars could come up.
At last he decided on a plan. He crept low to within a few inches of the slightly open door, gripping the base of the pole. Raising the board to about head height he thrust the door open wide. It crashed back on its hinges. The white-faced board waved eerily in the entrance. David lay as flat as he could below the step. Bullets spanged against the board, twisting it in his grip. Other bullets sped wide of their mark and sang whining into the darkness. He counted six shots before he slung the board away and leapt inside the hut, his flashlight beam probing for her face.
She stood, her dark, lovely eyes wide, her face expressionless, the hand holding the gun slowly lowering to her side.
"Good!" said David as quietly and confidently as he could, allowing for his thumping heart and shortness of breath. "You have done very well, Liane. Very well." He held the stubby white beam directed on her eyes, then began to move gently from side to side, repeating: "Good—-very good" in a slow soothing voice. "Now you can sleep, Liane—lovely soft, warm sleep. Sit on the chair, Liane. You're quite safe now, quite safe and very tired, so sit on the chair." His voice was now more under control. He continued talking. "The light is hurting your eyes. Close your eyes, Liane. Close your eyes and sleep, sleep, sleep. Your eyelids are becoming heavy, so heavy. Let them close. Yes, close your eyes. You're safe and warm and going into a deep, deep, sleep. But you can hear me speaking. Tell me you can hear me speaking, Liane."
"I can hear you." The voice was calm, very quiet.
"You do not hear any other sound, no other voice, nothing but my voice speaking to you. You have cast out from your mind all other sounds and voices. You can hear nothing but mine. Tell me what you hear, Liane."
"I hear your voice. I can hear only your voice."
"That is good, very good. D'you know my name?"
"David. It is David Vincent."
"Who told you my name?"
"Mummy told me."
He hadn't expected this. "Mummy told you first. Who else told you? When did they tell you?"
"Gin told me." She began to moan and sway back and forth in the chair. "Just now—he told me."
"Why does it upset you, Liane? What else did he tell you?"
"He said you killed Daddy. He gave me the gun when I said I wanted to kill you for that. He said you'd be waiting for me. No one else knew you were here."
"And you believed Gin when he said I killed Chick? You believe everything Gin tells you, don't you?"
"I have to. Don't you see—I have to. Daddy wants me to."
Suddenly he saw the terrible tragedy as clearly as if he had been aware of it from the start. Saw how the aliens had found another way to infiltrate human beings. Perhaps it was possible only in women—especially young, emotional women at the peak of an emotional shock. He had to probe deeper, despite her distress.
"You couldn't believe he would crash. Not your father, your hero. Not crash and die. It couldn't happen, could it, Liane? He was ageless and indestructible, wasn't he? You were his little girl. He told you everything, shared everything with you. Gineas was his friend so Gineas was your friend too. When your father died on this mountain you felt something died in you, too. Then Gin came to you and you felt a power flowing into you, warm and strong, and everything Gin said from that moment was right. And each day after that, your world became dominated by Gineas Rumbold, just as it had been dominated by your father. Everything he told you to do was right. Answer me, Liane."
"Yes. Yes. Everything. Everything was for Daddy, you see."
"I see," he said gently. "I understand. Now I tell you that Gineas Rumbold is a liar. Gineas Rumbold is plotting against his own father, his own company, his own country. And he is using you to help him. Using your skill with electronics to sabotage and destroy by making you the messenger of an order he receives but cannot understand. You are his power and his translator." David's voice became harsh and authoritative.
"This I tell you because I am your Mend. I, David Vincent, am your friend. I am the friend of your mother and of Wayne Draycott. I am absolutely to be trusted. I am your friend. You trust me because I am your friend. Because I did not kill your father. Because I tell you that I have proved that Gineas Rumbold killed your father on this mountain. What am I, Liane?"
"My friend. You're my friend and I trust you."
"Good. That is good. You will remember that. You will never forget it. In a little while you will wake up, refreshed and clear, and free forever from the domination of Gineas Rumbold. You will never again trust him, nor accept his orders. Now sleep deeper, deeper-very, very deep, deep sleep."
Her breathing grew long and deeply sighing. David switched off the flashlight and sat quietly watching her for five minutes. Then softly he said: "Can you hear me, Liane?"
"Yes. I hear you."
"Who am I?"
"David Vincent, my friend."
"You know you can trust me absolutely?"
"Oh, yes—yes I do."
"Good, good. I trust you too. You're a wonderful person and you're going to marry a wonderful man. I am very happy for you, very happy." He paused. "Liane—there is a deep secret you must release from inside you before you can marry Wayne. You cannot marry with this secret inside you. You must cast it out. The secret of the power of Serenda Valley. Tell me the secret, Liane." He saw her tremble and her hands stiffen, and feared he had probed too far, but persisted. "Tell me," he said sharply.
"Each day they charge me," she said. "I am the chosen one. I am the giver of life."
"How?" he spoke urgently. "How do they charge you?"
"Through the aerial circuit of Gineas Rumbold's special radio. It's a wonderful feeling, but it does not last long. That is why it has to be every day."
"Why don't they charge Gineas? Why you?" She gave a hysterical giggle. "Because he'd blow up. He cannot hold a charge stronger than himself." David felt a surge of excited satisfaction. "And because he cannot love," he said. "But you are a living woman and can receive and give out unlimited love, so you can receive and give out unlimited power. They have at last harnessed the emotional power of a human for their own ends. Through you is transmitted enough power to give birth and life, in their form, to a chosen number and to sustain those already formed."
"I don't understand how, but it seems natural. It is a great power. They have only to tune in to Gineas Rumbold's marvelous radio to receive it."
"The power comes from the Valley," said David. "What else is in the Valley?"
"I don't know. I. haven't been there. Gineas says there is a big mast to help the power—but I don't know." Her voice sounded weak. "I don't know. I don't know."
"
Sleep," he said. "Deep, deep sleep. Quiet now. Just sleep. I will tell you when to wake."
He took the gun from her lap, moved softly to the door, stood inhaling the cool air and mopping perspiration from his face, neck and hands. The session had left him almost exhausted, so great had been the concentrated effort. He threw the gun into a clump of bushes.
He had not dared to probe deeper lest he cause lasting damage to Liane's mind. She could not explain what was virtually unexplainable in human terms, so why keep probing? He'd found what he wanted and knew he could save her. The intricate, almost incomprehensible method the aliens used to transmit their power—the power that kept the transmutes going, the power that entered new transmutes, the power that carried telepathic communications—was the invaders' life force. They were learning to use earth means of transmitting it. That they had achieved such physical manifestations was frightening until—as David now realized—they destroyed their own protection by using these material and physical means. Clever, maybe even brilliant, but it brought them back from the realms of nebulous invincibility down to the man-made levels which were vulnerable to man-made attack.
He returned to face the deeply sleeping Liane. "Do you hear me, Liane?" Sleepily, she said, "I hear you."
"Listen carefully." He spoke clearly and firmly. "When I have counted from ten to one, you will wake up. You will feel refreshed and happy. You will recognize me as your friend. You will not remember anything connected with Gineas Rumbold. You will not remember anything he has told you. You will be free. Completely free. You have come to the mountain to meet me and drive me back to the Racing Wheel Club. You understand?"
"I understand."
"Good. Very good. You are a wonderful, good and kind person. You know nothing about power, or how it is transmitted. You are coming out of a deep sleep. The sleep is growing lighter, lighter, lighter."
He watched as the long sighing breathing gave way to light inhalations, and her body straightened a little in the chair.
"I am going to count from ten to one," he said again. "When I reach three, you will begin to wake up. At the count of one you will be fully awake and laugh because you discover you've had a little nap."
