by Brian Lumley
Finally Gill moistened his dry lips and closed his mouth. Maybe he’d better dial a number he knew. Or … why not dial one-zero-zero and get the exchange?
He frowned as the idea took root and finally nodded. The exchange, yes. Where there are screens to be viewed and records to consult, someone—something—had to be there to view and consult them. And the thought occurred: Why, maybe I’m being watched right now! By Bannerman maybe? By the alien creature Bannerman contained? .
Basing his design on what Haggie had told him of it, he pictured a control centre; also, he pictured the redheaded criminal’s description of the alien intelligence he’d seen there, Haggie’s “spook”. And the colours on the screen obligingly warped into another picture.
Gill saw what the screen held, and at first it was almost too much to take in. But this time he refused to be shaken loose and hung on to it with his mind. And this is what he saw:
It was … kaleidoscopic. Whatever else Haggie might or might not have been, certainly he’d been articulate. His description was the control centre of the House of Doors. The walls crawled; they were formed of flowing, ever-changing patterns. And they weren’t true walls but screens, like this very screen. And the metamorphic scenes they displayed weren’t just surrealist pictures but unformed statistics and computerised components of worlds! Gill’s mind staggered—but stayed upright. With the exception of three things the picture on his screen would be as meaningless to him as his Heath-Robinson horrors; and the three things were these:
One: he had the basis for understanding what he was seeing. And two: Bannerman and Sith of the Thone were there to give the picture size and shape and definition. He saw the naked, sexless, flesh-and-blood robot thing which was Bannerman, standing there with its chest laid open and its alien machine innards showing; and also the floating jelly creature which was Sith, swaying and gyrating before a screen much like Gill’s own. And three: he saw what that screen contained:
A moving, living picture of Angela Denholm—on Clayborne’s world!
She lay sprawled at the foot of a dune, mostly naked, gleaming damp and with the sand clinging to her, eyes wide in a weird mixture of emotions, relief and joy and terror. Halfway up the side of the dune was the mark of her recent arrival: a bite taken from the sand where it had collapsed under her weight and sent her tumbling to the bottom. Yes, and there were other marks, too.
Human footprints, a good many of them, all fairly recent, all starting here and heading off towards the mountains and a certain something that glittered up there. Others had landed here before Angela, and Gill thought he knew who they might be. Anderson and Turnbull? God, he hoped so!
Hope, however, was all he had time for. Nothing else. No time for elation or intense emotion of any sort. For he saw that it was already afternoon in that place, with evening only a few hours away and night just one hour beyond that. And Angela was there, on Clayborne’s world.
Which was no longer a safe place for anyone to be at any time, but especially not at the fall of darkness … .
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Gill called up other worlds and locations onto the screen, practiced his newfound skill, felt the edge of his talent sharpening in his mind. Finally he located the great crystal node—the variant House of Doors—in the mountains of Clayborne’s world. And then to Barney he said, “Well, are you with me or not?” Maybe Barney could see what was on the screen, the great sinister crystal, and maybe he couldn’t. But certainly he could sense Clayborne’s world and his memories of the place were not good ones. Stiff-legged, he backed off. “Barney,” Gill told him, “you’ve been too long on your own.” He took hold of the dog’s collar. “Now I say we’re going there.” And dragging Barney after him he stepped through the screen.
For a moment Gill reeled, and he heard a door slam shut behind him. It was door number 777, of course, with the dust still settling as its reverberations died away. He had supposed it would be so. Doors in an ordinary dwelling house allow movement from room to room, but if someone desires to move covertly he may use a secret passage, whose doors are known only to him. Number 777 was the door from which Bannerman had emerged the last time Gill and the others were here. It was in effect a “secret passageway” to and from the alien control centre.
But Gill asked himself: What if that last time we’d accidentally entered 777 instead of 555? Then he pulled a wry face and shook his head. Out of the question! With the alien intelligence at the controls it had already been fixed, programmed. The display of revolving numbers had simply been part of the game. No matter where Gill had let the knocker fall it would always have come out 555. As well try to stop a one-armed bandit on a jackpot combination!
Now that Barney was here (and even though he hadn’t especially wanted to be) he quickly settled down and stuck close to Gill. “What the hell,” Gill comforted him, “we can always move out again if we want to, can’t we?” Couldn’t they? He checked with the great crystal and found that it was so: door number 777 was a gateway to all the other doors. At the moment it was inactive, but Gill guessed that the controller—the gamesmaster—could reactivate it at any moment. Which led to another thought: Gill had spied upon this place, and so presumably could be spied upon.
He reached out his hands to the crystal, closed his eyes and mentally “felt” his way inside. He flowed with the fluid mechanics of the thing and asked: How may I remain undetected, shield mysel from discovery in this location?
The crystal stirred into life and showed him. Activated in a certain way, its energies would cause interference in the event of a locator being used to scan this region. And so Gill activated it in just that way. Nothing appeared to happen, but Gill could feel the great crystal working-this time for him, not against him. So … he now had some protection, from prying alien eyes at least. Now all he could do was hope that the controller didn’t actually scan this area and wonder why he was having trouble with his locator-and perhaps investigate.
But one thing at a time;- worry about what is, not what might be; check out how the others are doing, then make some plans. Any sort o plans, for Christ’s sake!
He climbed to a ridge and looked out across the desert. Something less than three miles away, a tiny dot struggled towards the foot of the range. Perhaps a mile beyond that, another dot, smaller still, trekked the dunes. That one would be Angela, last to arrive here through an “ordinary” door. And the closest one would be Anderson or Turnbull. But there should be three people down there. Gill narrowed his eyes against the glare of a small, blinding white orb which was settling towards the far horizon, and gave the dunes and the foothills his closest scrutiny. Nothing. Then–
Small rocks came tumbling from somewhere higher up the slopes. Gill started, ducked low and hid behind a rocky outcrop, turned his eyes to the heights. Then he saw who was coming down from above and gasped his relief. He stepped back out into view and called, “Jack-Jack Turnbull!”
The big man slid the rest of the way on his backside, sending the loose scree clattering, and Gill and Barney were there to meet him when the dust settled. The two men hugged each other and slapped backs like long-lost brothers, and almost simultaneously said, “God, it’s good to see you! I—” They paused—and then they laughed together, too.
Finally they stood apart, not knowing what to say, shaking their heads. Gill looked out and down across the desert. “Anderson,” he said, pointing. “And Angela. It’s as much as I can do to stop myself running down there to see how they’re doing. But I guess they’re all right. We all have been so far.”
“There’s nothing you could do to help them anyway,” said Turnbull. “And you’d only have to climb back up here again. As for being all right: yes, we have been. But only just!” And he quickly told Gill what had happened to him in his nightmare world. “But I came through it,” he finished, “and here I am.” He showed Gill the black puncture marks of the leech things on his thighs. “Ugly bastards!”
“I had nothing like that.” Gill felt
almost guilty. “I went back to the machine world. But … they don’t bother me anymore. And now it seems we’re all back here. Those of us who’ve survived, anyway.”
“Right,” said Turnbull. “And how do you figure that one, eh? I mean, why have we all ended up back here?”
Gill took a stab at it. “Apart from our own personal nightmares, this world—Clayborne’s world—was the worst. That’s arguable, of course; but Varre’s claustrophobic maze was a one off, and he’s gone now. Presumably his nightmares have gone with him. Also, Varre’s world was a no-hoper—a dead end, literally—and the House of Doors likes to play games. The place you feared most after your torture world was this one; and so here you are. Which doesn’t bode at all well for us. I would guess something especially monstrous is in the works for us.”
Turnbull nodded, looked at the slowly moving dots down on the white sprawl of the desert. “And of course the same goes for them, too.”
“They’ve survived their own little hells,” Gill answered, “so whatever else has been set up for us, it happens here. We all face it together.” Then he told Turnbull about his breakthrough with the alien science of the House of Doors. Turnbull understood part of what he said, at least.
“Fluid mechanics? Machines whose working parts are liquid? All liquid? Is that possible?”
Gill shrugged. “It’s the way it is. Super hydraulics.”
Turnbull shook his head. “I don’t see it. I mean, I can understand the power, the energy, in falling water, or in any liquid under pressure; hydraulics if you like. But entire engines of liquid? What drives them? Did you ever see water run uphill?”
“Not water,” said Gill. “These are alien liquids, manufactured like we make nuts and bolts. Look, for the sake of argument, let’s just say that there’s this liquid—like mercury, perhaps—whose molecules can be programmed like microchips. Are you following me?”
Turnbull looked glum. “Over my head,” he said.
Gill sighed. “Yes, and mine too. But I’m getting there. And anyway, at the moment I’m not so much worried about the how of it as the why. Why would creatures with this kind of technology want to put insects like us through hell? I intend to get there, too—eventually. Let’s go back down to the crystal.”
On their way back down into the hollow between the spurs, Gill asked, “What were you doing up there, anyway?” He indicated the higher slopes.
“Looking for caves, dens, droppings,” said the other.
Gill raised an eyebrow.
“Werewolves,” Turnbull explained.
“You know about that sort of thing?”
“No, but I figured forewarned is forearmed. We had that trouble with them last time we were here, and I wanted to know what tonight would bring. I was thinking like, you know, better the devil you know. I arrived here early this morning and I’ve been scouting around ever since. I’ve covered some miles. This place has a long day, because of its two suns, I suppose. Anyway I didn’t find anything. Maybe Clayborne’s influence is fading.”
Gill doubted it. Clayborne had programmed the place. But of course, I can always try deprogramming it, through the great crystal.
“These liquid machines of yours.” Turnbull cut into his thoughts. “The science is completely different, right? I mean, didn’t these aliens ever discover the wheel?”
“No.” Gill shook his head. “I don’t think they ever did. And I don’t think they could have used it if they had. Let me ask you something: how do you see a machine, an engine?”
Turnbull shrugged. “You put fuel in, which produces energy, which performs a job of work easier and faster than you could do it using just your muscles.”
“That’s right,” said Gill. “We build machines to work like we work. We eat for fuel, turn the fuel into energy. And because we understand the principles involved, we construct our machines along the same lines. They work the way we work. So what if we were intelligent plants? Would our machines work by photosynthesis?”
“Solar cells?” said Turnbull. “We have them.”
“What I’m asking is this,” said Gill. “Do all intelligences build their machines after themselves? To function like themselves? I believe they do—because it’s natural for them to. And I’ve seen the jellyfish who’s in charge of this lot!” He opened his arms expansively. “He’s mainly liquid; so are his machines. They have no switches or levers because he doesn’t have the physical strength to throw them. So what he does is this: he controls them with his mind! Each molecule of their makeup is ‘intelligent’. For machines they’d make good polyps: each smallest part is an individual performing functions to the benefit and for the prolonged existence of the entire organism. And if our alien’s machines are polyps—”
“So is he? Are you telling me we’re being shafted by intelligent slop?”
“I’ve seen him, remember?” said Gill. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you! His only drawback—and our advantage—is his physical weakness … .” He paused and frowned. “Something you said …”
“Oh?”
Gill snapped his fingers. “About water running uphill! You remember the way Bannerman lifted himself out of Varre’s labyrinth through the vertical shaft? Antigravity!”
“What?”
“He made himself weightless. Now think of that: self-repairing machines made of ‘clever’ liquid that can control gravity. How do they work? That’s how they work! And you’d better believe they can run uphill!”
“Eh?” said Turnbull.
“Never mind,” said Gill, shaking his head. “But thanks anyway. Jack, you’re a genius.”
Turnbull scratched his head.
They were down into the hollow. Gill sat on a boulder in the slanting sunlight and let his mind drift, fuse with the great crystal. There were many things he wanted to ask it. It was mainly a matter of how to frame the questions … .
Evening began turning to night and still Gill sat there. Turnbull had watched him for almost two hours before leaving him to it and climbing back up the spur to wait for the others. Even without understanding what Gill was trying to do, he had realised its importance and hadn’t wanted to interfere. And in the end he’d feared that even his close presence might be a distraction. But in fact Gill was totally absorbed and didn’t even realise that Turnbull had left. Barney lay with his head on his paws and whined now and then, watching Gill where he sat hunched on his boulder. The dog was perfectly sure they shouldn’t be in this place, but he accepted that he and Gill were now a team of sorts.
Up on the ridge Turnbull watched Anderson struggling up the steep, final rise, following the same route they’d all used once before. He didn’t call down his encouragement for fear of disturbing Gill; but in any case it wasn’t necessary as Anderson had already seen him; the heavy, overweight man—still overweight, for all that he’d been through—had paused and looked up, and offered a sort of nod. And Turnbull had thought he couldn’t have had such a bad time of it: he appeared to be wearing new clothes, anyway.
A full moon, huge, cratered, was rising from behind the mountains; its rim was orange turning to yellow across its pocked disk. Its upward creep was slow, however, and Turnbull was glad for that. In a place like this, a free-floating full moon could be very significant.
Turnbull glanced down at Gill on his boulder, and at the great crystal lying dull and apparently disinterested, half in its own shadow. He supposed that he could have been out of here easily enough, through any one of nine doors, at any time during the course of the long day. But at the same time he’d known that some of the doors were extremely dangerous—possibly all of them—and he’d learned like all the others that it was best to use them only as a last resort. There was always the chance that the next place would be just as bad, and possibly worse, than this one. Also, he’d always clung on to the small hope that some of the other survivors would somehow make it here. Which they had.
Anderson’s puffing and panting drew Turnbull’s eyes from Gill to the Minister
where he laboured up the last few feet of stony slope. He reached down a hand to him; looking up, Anderson grasped it. Too late Turnbull saw the look in the other’s eyes. Then Anderson had drawn himself up to Turnbull’s level and lunged at his throat with both hands. “Who am I?” He frothed at the mouth, crushing the big man’s windpipe with the strength of a madman. “Now you tell me, you miserable wretch: who … am … I?”
Turnbull forced his hands up and outwards between Anderson’s, breaking his hold; and while Anderson teetered, off balance, the big man went to deliver a blow to his face. Somehow Anderson avoided it, fell on Turnbull, and both of them went tumbling and fighting down into the hollow between the spurs, bouncing and sliding in the scree and the dust all the way to the bottom.
At the same time Gill felt the last rays of the sun fade from his hands where they rested on the boulder, and his eyes were drawn to the long shadows spreading like stains as they blotted their way across the hollow and left it gloomy and hagridden. Looking up, Gill was in time to see Turnbull haul Anderson to his feet and deliver two telling blows: one to the belly to fold him over, and the other to the jaw, straightening him out again. For the moment, Anderson was out of his misery.
Cramped from his long session with the crystal, Gill started to his feet—and at once groaned. Barney groaned, too—but not from stiffness of the joints—and began to growl low in his throat. He’d felt something in the air, something that rasped like a rusty file on his doggy nerves. Nor was he mistaken.
A full, bloated moon had now fought free of the mountains and floated like a fat decayed face in space. In the distance, the first forlorn howl went up from a throat which was only half-human … .
