Steven Spielberg's Innerspace

by Nathan Elliott

  ‘So the lady says to me, real calm, “I don’t carry that kind of cash on me, sweetie. Will you take this instead?” ’

  Jack could feel the terror gripping him now, and he clung on hard to the edge of the table.

  ‘And she reaches down into her purse and comes out with this pearl-handled silver revolver. She points it at me and pulls the trigger - and that's when I wake up screaming!!’

  Jack knew that his voice had gone out of control, rising to a frenzied shriek. Sweat had sprung out all over his forehead. He grabbed a tissue from a box lying on the examination table and began to mop his face. Greenbush patted him on the shoulder and nodded.

  ‘Jack,’ he said softly, ‘you know how I feel about you. I’m more than your doctor, I’m your friend. So listen to me . . . You’re suffering from stress, Jack, the worst kind of stress possible. Empty stress.’

  Jack peered up at him, the terror of reliving his dream fading only slowly. ‘Empty stress?’

  Greenbush nodded again. ‘There’s two kinds of stress, Jack. Empty stress and focused stress. Focused stress is when you really have something specific to worry about, some crisis, danger or simply a tough task that you have to tackle. Usually focused stress is good, it’s helpful. It’s the kind of stress surgeons feel when they have to cut a patient open from here to here . . .’

  Greenbush pointed to Jack’s throat, then ran an imaginary line down to his naval. Jack recoiled in horror, as if he was actually proposing to perform a similar operation on him.

  ‘. . . and climb in there up to their elbows,’ Greenbush was continuing, ‘and hope to God they don’t make that one fatal error - that one small, accidental slip - that ever so critical miscalculation - that results in years of costly, time-consuming, career-threatening lawsuits from the patient or the family who’ve survived him.’

  Jack was consumed with terror once more, imagining himself paralysed on a life-support system or a hacked-apart corpse.

  Anyway,’ Greenbush said dismissively, ‘you don’t have that. Your stress is empty. Directionless. Counter-productive. Unmotivated.’

  Jack trembled, watching the doctor’s lips form every word. ‘You mean there’s no hope for me?’

  ‘On the contrary, there’s plenty of hope. What you need is rest. Rest and relaxation. Maybe a nice vacation. But no excitement. Got it?’

  Jack was so relieved he almost leapt off the table and hugged Greenbush.

  ‘Believe me, Oz,’ said Tuck, ‘I’ve done my homework. I could do this job blindfolded and backwards.’

  Ozzie Wexler slipped a pen into the top pocket of his lab coat. He blinked somewhat shyly at Tuck from behind his glasses. In his eyes Tuck could see a combination of nervousness and excitement. The project had been his baby for several years, and now its time had come.

  ‘Let’s just review the “Neuromuscular Facial Response Experiment” one more time,’ he suggested to Tuck.

  Tuck glanced up at the window of the observation room, more interested in what was going on beyond it. ‘Let’s not,’ he said.

  A lab technician with a videotape camera on his shoulder entered the room. He pointed the camera at Tuck and Tuck eyed it suspiciously, as if it was a gun.

  ‘I want a complete visual diary of the entire experiment,’ Ozzie said to him. ‘We’re taping everything.’ Tuck decided to let it pass. ‘It’s your show, Ozzie.’

  He went over to the window and peered into main laboratory of Vectorscope. The lab was housec in a rather ramshackle warehouse-like building in one of the poorer quarters of San Francisco. At the centre of the lab a team of white-coated technicians were clustered around the pod, hiding it from view. Wires and cables snaked between banks of monitors and control-boards; stacks of equipment had been mounted on bolted metal shelving. Everything had a cobbled-together look.

  Tuck removed a silver pocket flask from his jumpsuit.

  ‘Stop the tape,’ Ozzie said to the video cameraman. And then to Tuck: ‘Is that really necessary?’

  Tuck thought it over for a moment before pointing to the video camera. ‘Turn that thing back on. You’ll want a record of this.'

  Then he went over to a sink and poured the contents of the flask down the plughole.

  When he was finished he turned to Ozzie. ‘Okay?’ Ozzie nodded. Tuck returned the now empty flask to his pocket.

  ‘You’re taking it anyway?’ Ozzie asked.

  ‘I have to,’ said Tuck. ‘It’s my lucky flask.’

  The big burgundy Ford was caught in a traffic snarl-up on the outskirts of the city. Inside, Pete Blanchard was talking to a studious-looking man named Dr David Niles.

  ‘Hard?’ Blanchard interrupted. ‘Try impossible.’

  Niles honked his horn at the driver in front of them who was slow in getting moving. ‘That’s why I want you to be there,’ he said. ‘To see for yourself. Then, if you’re interested, the project’s yours.’

  Blanchard wound down the window and tossed out a piece of chewing gum. ‘First amaze me. Then we’ll talk about funding.’

  The line of cars moved on for a while, then ground to a halt again.

  ‘Damn this traffic,’ said Niles. ‘We’re going to be late.’

  ‘Just out of curiosity,’ said Blanchard, ‘who’s your guy? Who’s going to be your pilot?’

  ‘Somebody you might know of,’ Niles hesitated. ‘Pendelton. Tuck Pendelton.’

  Blanchard stared at him for long moments, not saying or doing anything.

  ‘What made you choose Pendelton?’ he finally asked.

  ‘He had the right qualifications,’ Niles told him.

  ‘Such as?’

  Straight-faced, Niles said, ‘He was the only one we could find who’s crazy enough to do it.’

  Blanchard was not amused. ‘Let me tell you something about Tuck Pendelton. He could have been one of the best. He was a fine pilot, exceptionally gifted. But he hates authority. Can’t take orders. And likes to make up his own rules. Other than that... his attitude stinks.’

  Niles looked as if this was news to him. He looked sick, Blanchard thought, sick at the prospect of having Pendelton at the helm now that he knew the worst.

  ‘Don’t look so depressed,’ Blanchard said to Niles. The experiment is bound to fail long before Pendelton has a chance to screw it up.’

  * * *

  Tuck and Ozzie mounted the steps of the platform. The two halves of the protective shield were open, with the pod sitting at the centre. Tuck carried an aluminium briefcase. He was tense, but he liked that. It showed he was ready for the job which lay ahead.

  Technicians stepped aside for them while the P.A. system broadcast a stream of data which formed a backdrop to all other conversations. Tuck stared at the pod.

  It was constructed of tough fibreglass, but it resembled a deep-sea diving sphere with plenty of adornments - stabilizers, rotors, thrusters, two mechanical articulating arms and a pair of floodlights mounted on top of the craft above the viewing dome. Inside was a cramped cockpit, with just a single chair.

  The pod’s preparations were hastily completed, a long hiss marking the filling of the air tanks. The batteries were charged, the fuel lines had been tested, all mechanical parts had been given a final lubrication.

  Ozzie turned to address the video cameraman, who was still stalking them: ‘We are using the experimental Kraken II Submersible Pod,’ he announced. ‘It’s modified with a fifty-milliwatt helium-neon laser scalpel.’

  'Zero minus five,’ the P.A. system intoned. ‘All personnel to their stations, please. We have zero minus five.’

  Ozzie turned back to Tuck. ‘Good luck, Lieutenant.’

  The pod’s hatch was opened, and three technicians helped Tuck inside. The project was so secret he hadn’t talked to anyone about it, not even Lydia. But if it was successful, he might end up famous - more famous than any of the astronauts.

  The hatch was closed over him and locked into place.

  On either side of the pod were the two halves o
f the protection shield. Now Tuck could really feel the adrenalin surging through his veins. He was as ready as he would ever be for the experiment.

  The technicians wheeled their equipment away from the pod. Tuck placed the aluminium briefcase to one side and strapped himself into the body-contoured swivel seat. The instrument panels surrounding him comprised computer terminals, keyboards, display monitors and numerous switches and gauges. It had taken him over a month to memorize their various functions.

  The two halves of the shield began to draw together, closing around the pod like an enormous metal egg, leaving only a narrow gap between them. Tuck switched on the pod’s interior lights, and the cockpit filled with a soft green luminescence.

  ‘Here goes everything,’ he murmured to himself.

  Outside, Ozzie Wexler was seated in front of a bank of monitors which displayed interior and exterior views of the pod from a variety of angles. Ozzie consulted the clock, then slipped on a headset.

  ‘Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘do you read me?’

  ‘Loud and clear,’ came Tuck’s voice.

  ‘Okay. Stand by.’

  Ozzie leaned forward to adjust a dial on the control panel. A technician came up and said, ‘Dr Niles isn't here yet.’

  Ozzie gave a rueful shrug. ‘That’s his problem. We’re going ahead as planned.’

  ‘Zero minus three,’ said the voice from the P. A.

  Everything was ready. Ozzie gave all the instruments one last scan. It was hard to believe that they were finally ready to take the plunge.

  Insert PEM Number One,’ he said as casually as possible. But he felt a thrill at the words.

  A robotic arm nearby reached out and plucked a silicon chip from its container with metallic fingers. The chip was like a small ochre cogwheel little bigger than a coin. With perfect precision, the arm fitted the chip into its slot on a bank of instruments.

  PEM Number One functional,’ announced the voice from the P.A.

  Ozzie found himself grinning. ‘Insert PEM Number Two,’ he ordered.

  The same robotic arm now picked up a second chip and snapped it into a cylindrical circuit module. Two technicians then lifted the module and inserted it into the body of the pod itself through the gap in the shield.

  'PEM Number Two functional,’ announced the P.A.

  One of the screens showed Tuck lowering a protective visor over his eyes as the laser grille aboard the pod began to glow brightly.

  Stand by for “Activate Centrifuge”,’ Ozzie said.

  Tuck checked the buckles on his seat harness. A CLACK-CLACK-CLACKING sound began as the centrifuge was activated. Slowly the pod began to spin on a vertical axis. Brightening yellow light shone out through the gap in the shield.

  Centrifuge activated,’ Ozzie announced for Tuck’s benefit. ‘Hold on to whatever you had for breakfast, Lieutenant. This is it!’

  On the screen, Tuck was bracing himself in the cockpit. The pod was spinning faster and faster as the clacking sound increased pitch and gradually turned into a continuous high-pitched whine.

  One of the dials on the control panel in front of Ozzie was labelled MOLECULAR RECLAMATION DEVICE. Ozzie turned the dial slowly but steadily, going all the way around. The whine turned into a shriek, and the pod was now spinning so fast that it had turned into a blur.

  Ozzie and the other technicians lowered face shields similar to that which Tuck was wearing. The P.A. system, which had kept up a constant flow of informational chatter above the noise, now began to count down:

  ‘Five - four - three - two - one - Ignition!'

  The shriek had continued rising in pitch, and at that instant it ceased to be audible so that a shattering silence suddenly broke out. There was a flash of light, radiating inwards rather than out, like an explosion in reverse.

  The technicians, watching from their seats, were sucked forward slightly. Styrofoam cups and papers swirled towards the centre of the laboratory. The silence was deafening.

  Ozzie stared at the central monitor screen, which showed the platform on which the pod had been standing.

  It was gone.

  Chapter 3

  The security guard in the lobby of Vectorscope stifled a vawn and scratched his ear. Just as he was thinking that things were quiet, the doors opened and a small group entered, all dressed in blue overalls and peaked caps. They walked straight over to the guard’s command station desk.

  ‘Can I help you fellas?’ the guard asked.

  ‘Phone repair,’ said the leading man. He was middle-aged, with grey-white hair. The guard thought dimly that he looked more an executive or scientist type.

  The red light above the entrance to the labs was still flashing.

  ‘You’ll have to wait,’ the guard told the men.

  He looked puzzled as they delved into their bags and started putting things over their faces. Gas masks, he realized too late, for one of them had also raised a canister. There was a sudden hiss, and a gout of white gas was blasted into the guard’s face.

  He tried to rise, but felt his limbs going rigid. A blackness overwhelmed him and he slithered off his chair to the floor.

  The group, all gas-masked and armed with canisters now, moved past the command station and pushed open the door to the labs.

  They went down the corridor swiftly, purposefully, the white-haired man leading the way.

  In the main lab, Ozzie Wexler extracted a pinkish fluid from the end of the Molecular Reclamation Device with a hypodermic syringe. Then, very delicately, he took the syringe and emptied it into a shallow Petri dish which sat directly under the lens of a powerful electron microscope. Finally he put his eyes to the binocular-viewing eyepiece of the microscope.

  He adjusted the focus, and the pinkish fluid swam into view. And there, floating in the middle of it, was the pod. Ozzie was still wearing his headset, and suddenly he heard Tuck’s voice: ‘I don’t believe this . . . Oz? Can you hear me? I think you did it. I’m little. I’m shrunk right down to nuthin’.’

  The P. A. system was rattling off details of air pressure, fluid density, molecular ratios, and much else. In the background, unseen by Ozzie, the repairmen entered the lab.

  ‘Okay, Lieutenant,’ Ozzie said into his headset. ‘Now let’s get you into Bugs.’

  Close by, a white laboratory rabbit sat in a cage. It was Ozzie’s intention to inject the pod - and Tuck -into the animal so that he could explore at first hand the creature’s internal anatomy. Wires from various terminals were embedded under the rabbit’s skin and connected to monitors and display screens. The rabbit’s nose twitched nervously, as if it suspected what was at hand.

  But Ozzie never had the chance to perform the experiment. At that moment the telephone repairmen stepped forward and began spraying gas into the faces of the technicians.

  There was a moment of panic and confusion as the technicians tried to stop them. But very quickly their movements slowed, their eyes glazed over, and they slumped unconscious to the floor.

  Only Ozzie remained awake. He had retracted the fluid containing the pod into the hypodermic, and now he ducked down behind a bank of instruments, hidden from view. He put a handkerchief over his face and breathed slowly through it.

  The intruders began to ransack the lab, obviously booking for data in the form of records, readouts and videotapes. It was clear to Ozzie that they were no ordinary criminals. One of them, slimmer than the others, seemed to have a better idea of precisely where to look.

  The gas began to dissipate without having affected Ozzie. The intruders removed their masks and hats and an avalanche of auburn hair cascaded down the slim one's shoulders. Ozzie recognized her immediately.

  ‘Margaret,’ he breathed. ‘Margaret Canker.’

  He remembered her only too well, for he had been captivated by her stunning looks and forceful personality when they had worked together at another lab. Eventually she had disappeared from the lab under cloudy circumstances, and it did not entirely surprise him to see her engaged in a b
latantly criminal activity. She was a brilliant scientist, but quite ruthless in her ambition.

  ‘Look at this design,’ Canker was saying to an older man with white hair. She indicated the paraphernalia of the control panels. ‘Look at the waste, the inefficiency, the sheer inelegance of it all.’

  Canker paused to study a piece of equipment more carefully. ‘Here’s the chip,’ and she slipped it into an envelope. Her expression changed.

  ‘What is it?’ the older man asked.

  ‘Something’s wrong, Victor. Something doesn’t make sense.’

  She stepped back to view the equipment from another angle. Suddenly she turned and saw Ozzie crouching behind the instrument bank.

  She showed no surprise but merely smiled.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘If it isn’t Ozzie Wexler.’

  Syringe in hand, Ozzie made a dash for a set of doors, bursting through them and darting down the corridor. Behind him, Canker raised a two-way radio.

  ‘Igoe?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ came a deep gravelly voice.

  ‘A man wearing a lab coat is about to exit this building. He’s carrying a syringe. Stop him and recover the syringe.’

  Outside in the Vectorscope car park, Igoe sat at the wheel of a black Mercedes 450 SL. He was a well-built, granite-faced man with black hair and glittering steel-blue eyes. He rested a black-gloved hand on the steering wheel of the car.

  Moments later Ozzie burst out of a door and ran off along the shoulder of the busy highway next to Vectorscope. Igoe started the Mercedes and drove after him.

  Ozzie glanced around and saw the Mercedes on his tail. He tried to flag down passing vehicles, but none of them stopped for him. Finally he dashed straight across the highway and into a large shopping mall, leaving Igoe unable to cross the highway in his car.

  Ozzie ran into the mall, breathing hard and sweating profusely. He still carried the syringe in his hand. The pink fluid inside it was sloshing around, and he reflected ruefully that Tuck was probably having a rough ride of it in the pod, being tossed about like a ship in a stormy sea. But there was nothing he could do about that now.