Ozzie paused to glance over his shoulder. Just then Igoe's black Mercedes thundered into the parking lot and came screeching to a halt. Ozzie bolted again.
Inside the shopping mall, Muzak played softly and people strolled past, gazing into shop windows. Ozzie flung himself into a glass elevator. The doors immediately closed and the elevator began rising to the next level.
But, Igoe had caught sight of him. He swung up his black-gloved hand, the index finger pointing. Fire spat from the fingertip and a bullet smashed into the glass of the elevator.
A small boy was the only person who noticed. He stared at Igoe’s smoking finger with amazement, then began to tug on his mother’s sleeve. But she took no notice of him.
Inside the elevator Ozzie was unharmed. Igoe headed off swiftly to a nearby escalator which was carrying a line of people upwards. He pushed past them, striding up two or three steps at a time.
Ozzie stepped out of the elevator, trembling with fear at having been shot at. He huddled in a small niche next to a travel agents, peering around for a sign of his pursuer. There was none. For the first time since the intruders had burst into the lab, Ozzie began to think that he might get away.
Inside the travel agents, the man behind the desk was smiling as his customer made out a cheque.
‘Congratulations, Mr Putter,’ he said. ‘I envy you. Fun, excitement, relaxation . . .’
Jack handed over the cheque. ‘I’ll take the relaxation. You can forget about all the other stuff.’
‘It’s a cruise,’ the travel agent said. ‘You get them all.’
‘No excitement,' Jack said as firmly as he could manage. ‘Doctor’s orders.’
‘Ah, but what about a little shipboard romance?’
‘Well ... as long as it isn’t too exciting.’
Jack took a brochure off the travel agent, then left. He paused to stare at the ‘Mexican Cruise’ poster in the window, wondering if he had made the right choice of holiday.
A man came out of a camera shop opposite, fitting a new lens on to his Nikon. He looked around, and Jack smiled as the man snapped him, obviously wanting to test the lens.
Unseen by Jack or Ozzie, Igoe reached the top of the escalator. He spotted Ozzie immediately, huddling near the doorway of the travel agents, looking the other way.
Igoe raised his gloved hand, and once again a bullet spat from his index finger. It hit Ozzie in the back.
Ozzie lurched forward, colliding with Jack and putting his arms around him to support himself. Slowly he began to sink to the ground. He knew he was mortally wounded, and in desperation he pushed the needle of the hypodermic into Jack’s bottom and pressed the plunger with all his might.
The man with the camera continued snapping them, amused by the display. Jack was mortified at the stranger who had suddenly grabbed hold of him. He felt a pinching sensation in one of his buttocks and immediately wrenched himself away, bolting for the down escalator.
Ozzie sank to the floor and lay still, the hypodermic rolling from his hand. Igoe walked calmly over and picked it up. When he saw that it was empty, he looked around and for the other man. But Jack was gone.
The man with the camera was still standing there, now looking a little horrified. People had begun to converge on Ozzie’s fallen form. Igoe walked quickly across and wrenched the camera from the man, who was too startled and too intimidated by Igoe’s physical presence to do anything. Igoe headed for the down escalator as security men hurried forward to inspect Ozzie, who was already dead.
Igoe went straight back to his Mercedes. Alone inside the car, he pulled off his leather glove to reveal an artificial arm extending down from his elbow. Attached to the stub, in the shape of a forearm and -.and, was an automatic pistol. He snapped it off and attached a more traditional prosthetic hand, then covered it with a fresh black glove.
He drove swiftly away from the shopping mall, travelling down the freeway for ten minutes before turning off on to a slip road which led to a modern white building in a quiet sidestreet. It looked sleek and sterile, one of the latest examples of functional modern architecture.
In one of the gleaming labs he found Margaret Canker sitting before a TV monitor. It was showing a Videotape which had been stolen from Vectorscope. Igoe handed the empty hypodermic to Canker while Ozzie Wexler, on screen, addressed the camera:
Miniaturization is achieved through the pairing of two 500-Series Photon Echo Memory Chips - called PEMs for short. The first chip is called a ‘Controller’ and the second a ‘Remote’. Only the controller is necessary for miniaturization, but both chips are required to re-enlarge.’
Canker pressed a button which froze Ozzie’s image on the screen.
‘I knew it, Ozzie,’ she said. ‘I knew it the minute I looked at your set-up. There are two chips.’ She turned to Igoe. ‘He used a dual chip system. You’re sure the syringe was empty when you found it?’
Igoe gave her a full account of what had happened in the shopping mall.
‘Wexler is dead,’ he concluded. ‘I made sure of that.’ ‘What about the other man? The one who bolted?’
‘I never saw him before,’ Igoe said. ‘But I got some pictures.’
He put the camera down on the desk in front of her.
‘We need that other chip,’ Canker said greedily.
Chapter 4
Tuck was lost in a maelstrom of confusion. First he had tried to radio Ozzie at Mission Control, but had got no reply. Then he had been bounced around, the pink fluid outside the pod swirling and bubbling as if someone was shaking it. It had made him feel positively sea-sick. He continued trying to radio Ozzie, but still there was no response. Then the shaking had stopped.
And something worse had happened.
Completely without warning, Tuck was slammed back into his seat by an unexpected burst of speed. He had been thrust forward, the tremendous acceleration causing him to black out.
When he finally regained consciousness, he was in another world entirely. It was completely dark outside, and he immediately switched on the pod’s searchlights.
He found himself in a thick, soupy sea, travelling down a fibrous tunnel. He had no idea where he was.
Ozzie!’ he said again into the radio. ‘Mission Control! Do you read me? Can anybody hear me?’
Nothing.
It was like being on the bottom of the ocean floor, travelling through a silty sea and glimpsing only vague details here and there. Wherever he was, the place seemed to be pulsing steadily, rhythmically, dull throbbing sounds echoing around the pod.
Then a cluster of globules appeared. They were lighter in colour than the rest of the sea, and they moved like amoebae, constantly changing their shapes.
‘What are these?’ Tuck wondered to himself. ‘Fat cells?’ Was he already inside Bugs the Rabbit?
Something quite disgusting splattered across the viewing dome. It hung there for a moment like a lump of granular jelly, then slithered away.
‘Mission Control,’ Tuck said into the radio. ‘What the hell’s going on out there? I think I blacked out. Am I inside Bugs, or what?’
He waited for a reply. Still there was nothing.
‘Ozzie, come in. Do you copy?’
Silence.
‘What’s wrong with this damn radio!’ Tuck punched it with the flat of his hand, but he knew it was just desperation. There was nothing wrong with the radio, he was pretty sure of that. But there was something he could try to be sure.
‘Ozzie,’ he said, ‘if you can hear me, I’m going to try to restore radio contact by activating one of these electromagnetic booster cells. Stand by . . .’
He punched a button on the glowing instrument panel in front of him. There was a loud BUZZZZ.
Jack, still trembling with fright after his strange encounter with the man in the shopping mall, hurried through the doors of the Safeway supermarket. Mr Wormwood, his white-haired supervisor, was waiting for him at the check-out counter. He made a point of glancing at his watch.
<
br /> ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry, Mr Wormwood,’ said Jack, settling himself into his check-out station. You wouldn't believe what just happened to me - ’
Tell me later,’ Wormwood said firmly. ‘We have plenty of customers who would welcome your attentions.’
A queue of people quickly formed, and Jack began passing their goods across the bar-code scanner. Wendy, an attractive young blonde, began putting the groceries into a bag.
Wendy,’ Jack asked her, ‘do I look okay?’
She peered at him, turning gum around in her mouth.
No,’ she said bluntly. ‘You look like hell.’
Jack raised his right hand. ‘I’m still shaking.’
What happened?’ Wendy asked.
I had a terrible experience - ’
Talk about terrible experiences! Have you ever tried Slam-Dancing? I went last night. Wow, never again.’ ‘Oh,’ said Jack, ‘so that’s where you were.’
‘Huh?’
‘We had a date last night. Maybe you forgot.’
Oh, yeah. I forgot.’
Jack stared at her with a mixture of longing and severe irritation. He had been trying to get her to go out with him for weeks and had waited for two hours outside a cinema before he had realized that she wasn’t going to show up.
‘You forgot,’ he said. ‘How could you forget? We work together all day.’
She munched on her gum. ‘Look, Jack, I told you already, if you wanna be part of my life, then don’t hassle me.’
Jack was baffled. ‘Wendy,’ he said, ‘I’m not part of your life. That’s just the point.’
Wendy simply blew a big pink bubble and popped it in front of him.
Jack turned back to his next customer. And gasped with amazement. She had bright orange hair and pointed glasses with bright flecks in the frames. She wore a lime-green jumpsuit with a wide scarlet vinyl belt.
It was the woman from his dream!
Jack began to quiver with fright. He swallowed hard, tried to calm himself. He took the first of her groceries and made to pass it over the scanner, little knowing that Tuck, inside him, had activated the electromagnetic booster at that instant.
The charge began to play havoc with the cash register. For a loaf of bread, it charged two thousand five hundred dollars. Six thousand for a tin of dog food. Fifteen hundred for a box of muesli.
Jack looked up and saw the figures glowing redly on the display. A paralysis of terror overtook him. The woman had noticed it, too, as had several other customers who were waiting. The total amount of the groceries was a hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars.
The woman was staring at him. Jack could feel the blood draining from his face. Suddenly Wormwood arrived, glancing at the register, then at Jack.
Jack gazed blankly at him. This isn’t real, he thought. None of this is real. I’m just imagining it all.
‘Jack!’ said Wormwood. ‘What have you done!’
‘It’s a dream,’ Jack murmured. ‘I’m living my dream.’
One of the customers grinned at Wormwood. ‘We thought you ran an honest supermarket here, Wormwood.’
Boy, Jack,’ came Wendy’s voice. ‘You really crewed up this time, didn’t you?’
Jack scarcely heard her. He had eyes only for the ady with the orange hair and the lime-green jumpsuit. He tried to say something, but no words would come cut. Terror was engulfing him, and he couldn’t move.
Listen, sweetie,’ the woman said softly, ‘I don’t carry that kind of cash around with me.’
Alarm bells went off in Jack’s head. It was just what she said in the dream! He saw her reach down into her purse. And pull out the silver pistol!
Oh, no . . .’ he said, closing his eyes.
There was a click. Then nothing. Jack opened his eyes and saw the woman lighting a cigarette with the flame that was coming out of the pistol barrel. He almost collapsed with relief.
‘Jack!’ Wormwood was saying; ‘Jack! Get a grip on yourself!’
Jack became aware that he was positively vibrating with fright.
‘I need some aspirin!’ he gasped, grabbing Wormwood’s lapels. ‘Please! I’m begging you for an aspirin!’
‘Unhand me, Putter!’ Wormwood shouted, wrenching Jack’s hands free and backing away.
Jack stared down at the array of groceries which he had just checked out. He spotted a bottle of aspirin. With trembling hands he picked it up, wrenched off the top and pulled out the cotton plug. Then he raised the bottle to his mouth and began to pour its contents into his mouth.
‘Hey!’ said the lady from his dream. ‘I’m not paying for those aspirins now!’
‘At eight hundred dollars a bottle,’ said another customer, ‘who’d want to!’
Laughter erupted. Wormwood tore the bottle from Jack’s hand, the remaining tablets scattering everywhere.
‘You’re coming unglued, Jack,’ Wormwood said. ‘You’re coming apart at the seams!’
Jack nodded his head at Wormwood as if to say that he agreed with everything he said. The anger began to fade from Wormwood’s face, to be replaced by genuine concern.
‘My God,’ he said. ‘He’s completely spaced-out.’
‘I’ll handle this,’ said Wendy.
She stepped forward and slapped Jack across the face as hard as she could. Jack’s head spun around, and he was startled back into some semblance of normality.
‘Come with me,’ Wormwood said, dragging him gently but firmly from his chair.
Inside the pod, deep within Jack’s body, Tuck felt the impact of the slap.
‘Hell’s bells,’ he said. ‘What was that?’
The pod swirled around for a moment, and then the disturbance subsided. Jack spoke into the radio:
‘I hope you can hear me, Mission Control. I can't restore radio contact from my end, so you’ll have to do it from yours.’ He leaned forward to the control panel. ‘I’m going to proceed with the experiment as planned. Phase One: Optic Nerve Interface.’
Anything was better than just hanging around, wondering what had happened. Tuck tapped the keyboard of a computer terminal.
Okay, baby, show me the way.’
The pod’s monitors could show sophisticated computer-graphic images created by combining information from on-board sensors with pre-programmed digital terrain’ maps of a rabbit’s insides. Together they produced a realistic three-dimensional simulation of the environment surrounding the pod.
But to Tuck’s surprise, the screen remained dark. Then the words PLEASE WAIT flashed up in green.
‘Please wait?’ said Tuck, confused. ‘Wait for what?’
Tuck’s question was answered by the message which now flashed across the screen: ENVIRONMENT ADJUST REQUIRED.
Strange sounds started coming from within the computer to the accompaniment of this message.
‘What is this?’ said Tuck. ‘I thought all the equipment in this baby had been checked out.’
He waited, drumming his fingers on the instrument panel. Lights blinked on and off, pulses and ripples passed across the screen. Then finally the monitor displayed a schematic map entitled CIRCULATION SYSTEM.
To Tuck, it didn’t look quite right. He was sure it wasn’t the same as that on the charts in his apartment. Then a synthetic computer voice broke his reverie:
‘Pathway to Optic Nerve is as follows: Superior gluteal vein to common iliac vein . . .’
Outside the pod, there was a flash of orange light as the laser scalpel sliced into a vein.
'. . . inferior vena cava past right atrium to superior vena cava . . .’
The pod slipped through into the vein. Immediately a powerful rushing current swept it away. The liquid was straw-coloured, but it was packed with scarlet globules which moved with a life of their own.
‘. . . to right internal jugular vein to optic chiasma,’ concluded the computer voice.
The pod was in the bloodstream.
Jack sat in a chair in Wo
rmwood’s office, recovering. Wormwood stood over him.
‘I know I lost my temper, Jack,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve been like a son to me.’
Jack peered up at him, wondering. A son? Like a son to Wormwood?
‘Well, a nephew, anyway,’ Wormwood said hastily. ‘You’ve got a big future in retail food marketing ahead of you, Jack, I hope you know that. I’d hate to see you throw it all away now by going psycho on us.’
Jack smiled weakly.
‘How’re you feeling now?’ Wormwood asked.
‘Better,’ Jack assured him. He still felt like hell, in fact, but it seemed the polite thing to say.
Wendy entered, carrying a cup of coffee in her hands. Jack smiled appreciatively at her.
‘Coffee,’ he said. ‘Great, Wendy. That’s just what I need.’
She put the cup to her lips and took a swallow.
‘I got it down the hall,’ she told him.
At that moment Jack’s eye started to twitch. He looked away from Wendy in case she could see the movement and might think he was winking at her. Not that he had any objection to doing so in principle. But under the present circumstances . . .
His eye kept twitching. Little did he know that inside him Tuck had steered the pod to the optic chiasma, a here the optic nerves crossed to the opposite hemisphere on their way from the eye to the brain. To Tuck, the nerves looked like ropes as thick as a man’s body. The whole landscape was weird, and Tuck was still amazed to think that he was travelling inside something living.
‘Deploying Optic Remote,’ he said into the radio, just in case anyone was listening.
Straight ahead of him was the softly shining hemisphere which was the back of the eyeball. The Optic Remote device was attached to a dart which was ready to be fired from the pod. Once planted, it would enable Tuck to see through the eyes of his host, no matter where he travelled in its body.
He punched a button, and the dart shot straight and true to its target.
‘Optic Interface complete,’ Tuck announced.
At that moment, Jack screamed and slapped his hands over his eyes. Wendy and Wormwood recoiled in alarm. Jack rocked back in his chair.
Steven Spielberg's Innerspace Page 3
