STEVEN SPIELBERG’S
Innerspace
A novel by Nathan Elliott
DRAGON
Dragon
An imprint of the Children’s Division of the Collins Publishing Group 8 Grafton Street, London W1X 3LA
Published by Dragon Books 1987
Copyright © Warner Bros. Inc. 1982
ISBN 0-583-31274-8
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Collins, Glasgow
Set in Times
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed n the subsequent purchaser.
Chapter 1
There was the sound of metal trays crashing and glasses shattering . Shouts and curses filled the air. The door burst open and Lieutenant Tuck Pendelton backed out somewhat unsteadily. He was in his late twenties, dressed in a smart black suit with a white shirt and bowtie. The cook appeared in the doorway, a big man dressed in white. He waved a meat cleaver at Tuck and jabbered furious oaths in a foreign language.
'Okay, okay.' Tuck said to him, backing off. ‘Accidents happen. I was looking for the Reunion Meeting. Common mistake. ’
The cook brandished the meat cleaver, then withdrew,the doorsswinging shut behind him. Suddenly Tuck realized that he was in another room, full of people mostly me. They wore smart tuxedos and they were sipping cocktails and talking. A banner hanging overhead read SPACE PIONEERS REUNION.
Tuck looked around. All eyes had turned to him. Through the crowd he glimpsed Lydia, conducting an interview with someone. She glanced in his direction, but the crowds closed up, blocking her from view.
Standing directly below the banner were the guests of honour. There were at least a dozen of them, all done up in their Sunday-best outfits. They glared at him with dissaproval. He gave them his best smart-ass grin,
‘Well, lookee here,’ he said. ‘If we’re not wall-to-wall with All-American Hero-types tonight. I see space-walkers and Moon-walkers and Earth-orbiters galore!’
The astronauts were standing beside a display of large rocket models which charted the history of the space programme. With their crisp clothes, erect postures and frowns they looked like real stuffed shirts to Tuck.
‘Hell,’ he said, ‘the most excitement I ever had was the time I landed a crippled F-14 with stubborn nose gear on the deck of a rocking flat-top in zero visibility.' He lurched towards the rocket models. ‘But you boys have gone up in these babies. I envy you ... I salute you!’
Tuck snatched a drink from a table. He tried to raise it to toast the astronauts, but his legs weren’t working properly and he staggered back, bumping the table on which the models stood. A Saturn rocket teetered and collapsed, hitting another, which in turn hit its neighbour. They fell like dominoes, reducing an impressive display into chaos in a matter of seconds.
Several of the astronauts exchanged fraternal expressions. One of them, a ginger-haired man, glowered at Tuck with a special intensity.
‘How you doing, Rusty?’ Tuck asked as if nothing had happened.
‘Why don’t you get yourself a new act, Pendelton?’ said Rusty. ‘You’re a disgrace. And give that crippled Tomcat story a rest. We’ve heard it all before.’
He made to walk away, but Tuck said, ‘Hey. Rusty - ’
Rusty turned back to him.
‘At least when my moment of truth came, I didn't wet my flightsuit in fright.’
Rusty's eyes blazed in anger. He swung a punch at Tuck's face. But Tuck, though drunk, had been anticipating it. He ducked and drove a fist into Rusty's midriff.
Rusty went reeling back into a table, which promptly overturned scattering hors d’oeuvres. A small cheese tart in shape of a crown ended up on Rusty’s head.
Tuck began to laugh. Then he saw the other astronaughts gathering around him, looking menacing. He stepped back giving them a goading smile.
‘C'mon boys,’ he said. ‘This is what you’ve always wanted, isn't it? A piece of Tuck Pendelton!’
Swiftly the astronauts grabbed him and dragged him back into the kitchen.
They flung him down on the floor. Tuck scrambled up,saw them ready to converge again. He snatched up a big metal pan and raised it in front of him as a shield. there was a CLANG! as a fist collided with it,and one of the astronauts yelped in pain. Tuck swung a punch. knowing that the odds were against him, but determined to give as good as he got.
The fight was hectic but brief. Pans clattered to the floor plates were shattered as Tuck battled against the inevitable. He flung punches out at random, often connecting but he got as many back in return, one colliding painfully with his left eye. Finally he sank down against a wall, accepting defeat. But he was pleased to see that he had managed to inflict some damage on all of his assailants. One of the astronauts was nursing a cut lip. another a bruised chin, a third had a lump on his cheek. They wouldn’t forget this fight in a hurry.
A burly black man entered and peered down at Tuck. It was strange to see him in a dinner jacket.
‘Where’s your uniform, Pete?’ Tuck asked, working his jaw.
‘Where yours should have been a long time ago,’ Pete Blanchard replied. ‘Hanging in the closet.’
Don’t worry, Pete, the wait is almost over. You know I’ve resigned my commission.’
Blanchard offered his hand to Tuck and hauled him to his feet. Several other people had entered, among them Lydia. She looked gorgeous in a stylish black satin dress. Tuck winked at her. She wore her press pass on her breast, and her tape recorder was slung over one shoulder. She did not look pleased to see him.
‘Take him home, Lydia,’ Blanchard said wearily.
Tuck allowed Lydia to lead him out of the hotel and into her car. As they drove home, he kept telling her how glad he was to see her, and what a bunch of party-poopers the astronauts were. Lydia said very little and Tuck began to wonder if she was perhaps annoyed with him for some reason.
His apartment had a good view out over San Francisco Bay, but inside the place was cluttered with old newspapers, meal cartons, cast-off clothes and all the other debris of a single man’s life. Tuck could see Lydia surveying it all with dismay. She hadn’t been to his place in weeks, and since her last stay-over he’d bought a Harley-Davidson that he was in the middle of renovating. It lay in pieces at the centre of the room like some exotic exhibit of modern art.
Lydia, used to his eccentricities, scarcely paid it any attention. But she was interested in the robotic arm which stood on the coffee table.
‘Smoke?’ Tuck said, pressing a button on the arm.
It immediately went into motion, flipping open the lid of the box of cigarettes which he kept on the table for guests. Effortlessly its metal fingers plucked out a cigarette and held it up.
Tuck knew that Lydia didn’t smoke, but he just wanted to show off the arm. Lydia did her best to look unimpressed. Instead she picked up a cut-away model of a rabbit that showed its internal organs and its circulatory system. Pinned on the wall were colour posters showing various aspects of the animal’s inner workings.
What’s all this?’ she asked.
‘Something new I’m involved in,’ Tuck told her.
‘Rabbits?’
‘Yeah. Sort of.’
She gave him an odd star
e. ‘You resigned your commission to study rabbits?’
Tuck shrugged. ‘I didn’t turn my back on the Navy, Lydia. The Navy turned its back on me.’
He knew she didn’t approve. They’d had the argument a few weeks ago, and he’d hardly seen anything of her since then.
‘Have you seen your eye?’ she said to him. ‘You’d better get some ice on that shiner.’
Tuck went over to a mirror. The eye wasn’t as bad as he had feared. With luck, there wouldn’t even be a bruise.
‘I’ve had worse,’ he murmured, and then he saw Lydia moving towards the door.
He spun around. ‘Hey . .
I have to go, Tuck.’
Not yet,’ he said, going over to her. ‘Please stay.’
She shook her head.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘There’s something I want you to hear.’
He hurried over to the stereo stack and slotted a cassette into the tape-deck. Immediately Sam Cooke began to sing ‘Cupid’.
It was their song, they’d played it over and over on their first night together. That had been one of the best nights of Tuck’s life. And one of Lydia’s, too, he was sure. He could tell she was responding to the music.
‘That’s not fair . . .’ she said softly.
He approached her again and put his arms around her.
‘Don’t go,’ he whispered into her ear.
‘I have to . . .’
‘You don’t. I want you here. With me.’
He began to cover her face with kisses.
‘Tuck, I . .
‘You wouldn’t desert a man when he’s down, would you? You wouldn’t forget how much we mean to one another?’
He indicated a framed magazine article on the wall. The photograph accompanying it showed Tuck sitting in the cockpit of an F-14 Tomcat, helmet off, giving his best smile to the camera. The byline at the end of the article was LYDIA MAXWELL.
‘You can’t live in the past, Tuck,’ she tried.
‘Why the heck not?’
He kissed her again, searching for her lips. She tried to struggle against him as Sam Cooke sung on. Then she gave in.
Tuck awoke to find himself hugging his pillow. From the next room there was the faint click of the front door being closed.
Tuck sat up with a start. Instantly his head began to pound. There was a queasy feeling at the pit of his stomach, and his eyes were hurting. He remembered the events of the previous evening, remembered how drunk he must have been. The hang-over was going to be a bad one.
He climbed from bed and saw a scrap of paper on the bureau. Doing his best to focus in the curtained gloom of the room, he saw Lydia’s scrawled signature at the bottom. Then he managed to read the note itself.
A car tooted outside. Tuck yanked the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his waist. Then he charged out of the bedroom, stubbing his toe on the door as he wrenched it open.
He hurried down the stairs as fast as he could go, stumbling like Hopalong Cassidy. He flung the front door open and saw Lydia approaching a cabbie who was leaning agaist his taxi. The Golden Gate Bridge rose up behind them in sharp relief.
Lydia was carrying her shoes in one hand and brushing her hair with the other. Tuck heard her call to the cabbie.
‘I said to the man on the phone: “Don’t honk your horn. I’ll see him.” ’
The cabbie shrugged. ‘Lady, all I got was an address, not a book of instructions.’
‘Lydia!’ Tuck called. ‘Wait!’
She turned as he hobbled towards her as fast as he could, clutching the sheet around his midriff, holding the note in his other hand.
Tuck decided to try and play it cool.
‘Hey, Lydia,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Any bags?’ the cabbie said to her.
She slipped on her shoes and said, ‘No.’
‘Lydia . . .’ Tuck said impatiently.
‘You know what’s going on,’ she told him. ‘You read the note.’
The cabbie was interested. He nodded. ‘Good. Nice clean break. Leave everything behind.’
‘Yeah,’ Tuck said to Lydia. ‘I read the note.’
Lydia had turned to the cabbie. ‘I don’t live here,’ she told him.
Now the cabbie nodded knowingly and winked at Tuck. ‘One-nighters.’
‘Hey!’ said Lydia, insulted.
‘Just get in the cab,’ Tuck told him, ‘and mind your own business.’
The cabbie looked disgruntled. He retaliated by climbing in and starting his meter.
Tuck’s toe was throbbing and he grabbed it with the hand holding the note, hopping in front of Lydia.
‘I read the note,’ he told her. it’s your Standard Farewell Address. I almost know it by heart.’
Her face went stony. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and tried to push past him to get into the cab. But Tuck wouldn’t budge. The cabbie revved the engine.
‘What’s this going to prove?’ Tuck said to Lydia, i’m not going to change. I am who I am, Lydia. You know that - and you love me anyway.’
‘You’ve got a high opinion of yourself!’
So what’s the point in going? I’ll call you. You’ll call me. A week from now, we’ll be back together again.’ ‘No, we won’t. Not this time. This time I mean it, Tuck.’
She said it with such conviction that he was taken aback.
‘I don’t get it’ he said. ‘I got a little drunk. I made an ass out of myself. What’s the big deal?’
Lydia stared at him, and he felt as if she was pitying a stupid child.
Things are different now,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough. It just hurts too much to be with you, Tuck.’ She slid into the back seat of the taxi. Tuck, perplexed, desperately tried a plea for sympathy: ‘I stubbed my toe running after you, Lydia. You know . . I think it may be broken.’
‘Better your toe than your heart, Tuck.’
She slammed the door, giving him a last despairing look. Then to the cabbie she said: ‘Let’s go!’
The taxi roared off - wrenching the bedsheet with it. Tuck was spun around like a top, and the sheet went fluttering away with the taxi. Tuck, suddenly naked on a busy San Francisco street, hopped for the safety of his apartment.
Chapter 2
Jack Putter stared at the mural on the wall of Dr Greenbush’s examination room. It depicted a tropical paradise with palms, sun-kissed beaches and a foam-flecked blue sea. It was pretty enough, but the colours were a bit too bright for Jack; they made his eyes ache.
Jack hummed to the Muzak that was playing in the background, even though he normally hated Muzak. He thought he recognized the tune: it was something by Sam Cooke.
Dr Greenbush entered and turned a dial on the wall, silencing the Muzak. The sight of his white coat always comforted Jack.
‘Okay, Jack,’ he said. ‘Sorry for the interruption. Now, where were we?’
Jack was sitting on the examination table, and he began to feel highly nervous all over again. He was convinced that terrible things had begun to happen to his body. It was all going wrong, in ways too mysterious to fathom. Yet at the same time he was anxious that Dr Greenbush might be getting impatient with him: he’d been there over an hour.
‘I’m taking up too much of your time,’ he said. ‘I think I’d better go.’
‘Nonsense,’ Greenbush said magnanimously. ‘Take all the time you want. Your regular visits are the cornerstone of my entire medical practice.’
He paused to glance at Jack’s chart. The longer he stared at it, the more worried Jack became. Did it reveal some horrible disease with an unpronounceable name that even now was in the process of striking him down?
‘Okay,’ Greenbush said. ‘Let’s review what we have: we've got nausea; we’ve got shortness of breath; we’ve got headaches - ’
‘Big pounding headaches,’ Jack said.
Greenbush made an amendment to the chart. ‘Excuse me. Big pounding headaches. What else?’
‘My hair.’
Greenbush blinked through his glasses. ‘Your hair?’ Jack nodded earnestly. ‘It’s a big problem. I’ve tried everything. Regular and Extra Hold. Aerosol and an unpressurized pump. It doesn’t make any difference. Whatever I use gives me a rash and makes me sneeze. What does that mean?’
Greenbush peered at him with the expression of someone whose mind is boggling.
‘It means,’ he said slowly, ‘that you’re allergic to hair sprays.’
To Jack, this was a medical diagnosis of a major order.
‘What can I do about it?’ he asked.
‘Stop using it.’
Jack was flabbergasted at the simplicity of the treatment. Greenbush smiled benignly at him.
‘This is great,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it? I think we’re making real progress here today.’ He touched his pen to his lips. ‘Anything else?’
Jack shrugged. He wasn’t sure he wanted to reveal what was really bothering him.
‘You can tell me,’ Greenbush assured him.
‘The dream,' Jack whispered.
'The dream?’
Jack nodded. ‘Want to hear it?’
Greenbush shrugged. ‘It’s not my field, but go ahead.’
Jack made himself comfortable on the examination able. Then he took a deep breath before beginning:
‘Okay . . . I’m at work. I’m at the supermarket, working on the check-out counter as usual. The next customer is this lady with bright orange hair. She’s wearing those pointy - you know - Harlequin sunglasses.’ Jack demonstrated their shape with his fingers. ‘With the little sparkly things in them. And a lime-green jumpsuit with a three-inch wide red vinyl belt.’
‘Very vivid,’ Greenbush observed.
‘Yeah. I have the same dream every night.’ Jack could feel himself getting hot at the very thought of it. He swallowed. ‘Anyway, I’m passing her stuff over the bar-code scanner, and I don’t notice it, but the computer’s gone nuts and it’s ringing up all the wrong prices. I mean, twelve hundred dollars for a can of coffee! So when I’m all done I look at the register and the total’s like way over a hundred thousand dollars.’
Jack paused for another breath. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and his palms were sweating.
Steven Spielberg's Innerspace Page 1
