Steven Spielberg's Innerspace

by Nathan Elliott

  ‘He’s close by,’ he said hastily, in the area. Somewhere in the immediate vicinity. It’s hard to say exactly.’

  ‘Who has him?’

  Her blue eyes were so penetrating and direct. ‘Who?’ said Jack.

  ‘Yes. Who?’

  Jack surged to his feet. ‘Would you excuse me a minute?’ Then he bolted for the men’s room.

  Outside, a black Mercedes had parked in one of the spaces reserved for disabled drivers. A traffic cop was walking around the car, looking distinctly displeased. But there was no sign of its driver.

  Jack stood in front of the urinal. Another restaurant customer was washing his hands at the sink.

  ‘I blew it,’ Jack said to Tuck. ‘I can’t handle her.’

  ‘You didn’t do so bad,’ Tuck told him. ‘She’s a tough cookie.’

  ‘She’s a beautiful tough cookie,’ Jack said.

  The customer at the sink glanced across at him.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Tuck was saying.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jack replied. ‘But I can’t keep this up. We should tell her the truth.’

  The customer continued staring, watching Jack looking down at the urinal, apparently talking to himself.

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Tuck was saying. ‘She wouldn’t believe it.’ He paused. ‘Besides, it’s humiliating being this small. There - I’ve said it.’

  ‘What’s so bad about being small?’ Jack wanted to know.

  He dried his hands and went out into the restaurant, not noticing Igoe, who was sitting at a small table in a corner, peering over the top of his menu.

  But Lydia saw Igoe rise as Jack went past, and all her instincts told her that something was wrong. At that moment, Igoe made his move, grabbing Jack by the arm.

  Jack, on seeing who it was, immediately panicked and began trying to wrench his arm free. Lydia rose, pulling from her shoulder-purse something that resembled a gun.

  ‘Hold it!’ she shouted across the restaurant.

  The other patrons looked up, and several of them began to scream and take cover under their tables. Igoe froze, still holding Jack’s arm.

  ‘This is an electronic stun-gun,’ Lydia told him. ‘A non-lethal personal defence weapon deploying a charge of 20,000 volts. It will immobilize you for up to fifteen minutes and probably render you unconscious as well. So just let go of that man!’ She turned to a startled waiter: ‘Call the police!’

  Igoe whipped Jack towards him. Instinctively Lydia squeezed the trigger.

  A stun-dart shot from the weapon. It hit Jack straight in the right breast.

  ‘No!’ Lydia shouted.

  The dart penetrated Jack’s plastic name-tag, melting it instantly. Half the charge was released with a loud buzz. The other half entered Jack’s body. He felt a jolt like a strong electric shock, and went limp in Igoe’s arms.

  Inside Jack, Tuck also felt the impact of the electrical charge. Crackling white ribbons of electric current danced around the contours of the pod, lighting the interior of Jack’s body with an unearthly glow. Tuck was slammed back into his seat as he, too, succumbed to the stunning effect of the electric charge.

  Igoe did not hesitate. He grabbed Jack’s limp body and slung it over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Something tinkled on to the floor, but Igoe didn’t notice. Inside Jack, Tuck was turned upside-down. Igoe ran off, bursting out through the restaurant doors before Lydia or the startled customers could do anything further.

  The whole place was filled with yelling and screaming.

  ‘Someone call the police!’ Lydia shouted.

  She darted over and plucked from the floor the keys which had fallen from Jack’s pocket when he was slung over Igoe’s shoulder. Lydia instantly recognized them as the keys to Tuck’s Mustang.

  Igoe emerged with Jack at the very instant that his Mercedes was being towed away by a police truck. He gave an animal-like growl of frustration, then peered around him. A delivery truck was pulling away from a loading dock nearby. Carrying Jack as if he weighed no more than a bag of shopping, Igoe darted over, wrenched the truck’s doors open and bundled Jack inside.

  He slammed the doors as the truck began to pick up speed. Igoe ran alongside it, leapt up on to the running board and threw open the cab door. Before the startled driver could do anything, he yanked him out, flinging him to the ground, and jumped into the driver’s seat, taking over the wheel.

  Lydia saw the truck pull away with Igoe driving. She ran for the Mustang.

  Tuck returned to consciousness. Everything was dark. It took him a few moments to remember where he was. He began fumbling around, found the instrument panel, then pressed the emergency power button.

  The console blinked to life again. Tuck was still lying upside down in the pod, but with the engines working he was quickly able to right it.

  The screen which should have been showing the scene through Jack’s eyes remained blank.

  ‘Jack! Jack!’ Tuck shouted. ‘Are you all right? What happened? Seems like we experienced a massive power surge.’

  There was no response from Jack. Concerned, Tuck studied the instruments which gave readings of Jack’s vital functions. One of the gauges gave him immediate cause for alarm.

  ‘What’s going on, Jack?! Your heart rate’s slowing way down. Jack! Jack!’

  ‘Ummgghh . . .’

  ‘Jack? Is that you? It has to be! Dammit, Jack, wake up!’

  The screen colour altered slightly, still remaining dark. Tuck was certain that Jack had opened his eyes, but there was nothing to be seen.

  ‘I’m f-f-f-f-f-f-’ Jack began.,

  ‘Jack!’ Tuck said with relief. ‘You had me worried there. Thought I’d lost you for a minute, kid.’

  There was no reply from Jack.

  ‘What happened?’ Tuck asked. ‘Where’s Lydia? Where are we? I can’t see a thing. Why’s it so dark?’

  ‘I’m f-f-f-f-f-f-’ Jack started again.

  ‘You’re what? Can’t make you out, Jack. Message garbled. Try again.’

  ‘I’m f-f-f-f-i-freezing!’

  ‘You’re freezing?’

  ‘We must be in the back of a delivery truck,’ Jack told him. ‘It’s refrigerated.’

  ‘What’s that tapping sound?’

  ‘That’s my teeth chattering!’

  Chapter 8

  Lydia turned the Mustang off the secluded stretch of road and parked it out of sight. Then she crept up to the top of a low rise and peered over.

  The truck had BERMAN’S FROZEN FOOD SUPPLY CO. on its side. A limousine had pulled up beside it, and a white-haired man in a five-hundred-dollar suit climbed out. Meanwhile the big guy Lydia had shot at in the restaurant was flinging open the back doors of the truck. He hauled out Jack, whose entire body was covered with a thin layer of white frost. Behind them rose the Golden Gate Bridge, traffic continuing to stream across it, unaware of the little drama being enacted below. Lydia crept forward, trying to get within earshot of the group.

  The white-haired man was tall, and he looked quite ruthless and power-crazy. One of his henchmen tossed a fur-coat over the shoulders of Jack, who stood there, blinking at him, his eyelashes coated with snowflakes. Lydia felt a pang of almost maternal sympathy for him.

  ‘The name is Scrimshaw,’ the white-haired man said to Jack. ‘Victor Scrimshaw. It’s quite a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

  But he made it sound more like a threat than a pleasure, and he did not offer his hand.

  ‘Dr Canker!’ he shouted. ‘Come out here!’

  An attractive woman climbed out of the limousine and walked over to Jack. She produced a stethoscope from the pocket of her expensive overcoat and proceeded to check Jack’s quivering chest.

  ‘Well?’ Scrimshaw said impatiently.

  ‘Hypothermia,’ Canker announced. ‘Quite mild.’

  ‘Will he live?’

  ‘Oh, yes. If you want him to.’

  Scrimshaw appeared to mull it over. ‘Do we need him aliv
e?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Canker said, it would be preferable.’

  Lydia saw Jack almost collapse with relief.

  Scrimshaw turned to the henchman. ‘Bring some blankets from the car.’

  Canker, still scrutinizing Jack, began to smile.

  ‘I know how to warm him up,’ she said, and she ran her hands down Jack’s body. Jack began to quiver even more strongly.

  ‘Knock it off, Margaret!’ Scrimshaw ordered. ‘Here come the blankets.’

  The henchman proceeded to drape them over Jack until only his head was visible above a pyramid of red tartan.

  ‘Time we were going,’ Scrimshaw announced. ‘Put him back in the truck. I’ll accompany him. Jack, isn’t it?’ He patted Jack on the back, and a small shower of frost fell around his feet. ‘We’re going to have a little chat, Jack.’

  ‘Let me sit with him,’ Canker pleaded.

  ‘Forget it, Margaret. You take the limo.’

  Jack was still frozen under the mound of blankets. Scrimshaw sat beside him, wreathed in a big fur coat, puffing on a thick cigar. His manner was very chummy in a perfectly menacing way.

  ‘Nuclear weapons, Jack,’ he said. ‘They mean nothing. Everybody’s got ’em, but nobody’s got the guts to use ’em. Am I right or am I right?’

  Jack had begun to shiver again. He eyed Scrimshaw warily, saying nothing.

  ‘What about space,' Scrimshaw went on.

  ‘I’ve got plenty of room,’ Jack managed to say.

  ‘Not that kind of space, Jack - outer space. It’s a flop - did you know that? Not many people do. It’s just an endless junk yard of orbiting debris.’ He spat a fragment of tobacco from his mouth. ‘Ahhh . . . but miniaturization, Jack. That’s the ticket. That’s the coming thing, you know. It’s the edge everyone’s been looking for. But who will have that edge, Jack? What country will control miniaturization?’

  Jack considered the question. It was a very complex one, and he had no idea of the answer.

  ‘Frankly,’ Scrimshaw said, ‘I don’t give a damn. I’m only in this for the money.’ He paused, smiling again. ‘And that’s why we gotta get that little pod out from inside you.’

  So saying, he jabbed Jack in the ribs with his finger. Even through the mound of blankets, Jack felt it, and he realized that he was finally beginning to warm up. But the idea of Scrimshaw extracting the pod from his body was the stuff of which his worst nightmares were made.

  Scrimshaw settled back to enjoy his cigar. Jack began to squirm in the bucket seat in which he was perched.

  ‘Jack,’ said Tuck’s voice from within him, ‘there’s nobody more dangerous than the man who’s only in it for the money.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me!’ Jack said emphatically.

  ‘What was that?’ Scrimshaw asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jack assured him. ‘Just thinking aloud.’

  Scrimshaw did not press him. Huddled under the blankets, Jack now felt much warmer.

  ‘Glance around slowly,’ said Tuck, ‘so that I can get the lay of the land.’

  It was no longer pitch-black in the back of the truck, Jack belatedly realized. He peered around at the boxes of food, the hulking fur-coated Scrimshaw, and finally at the truck’s doors . . .

  A crack of light showed through them.

  ‘The doors aren’t properly closed, Jack!’ Tuck yelled. ‘The latch isn’t in place.’

  Jack kept silent. His eyes were watering from the noxious fumes of Scrimshaw’s cigars, but at least he no longer felt as if he was freezing to death.

  ‘Jack,’ Tuck said urgently, ‘this is it. The doors are unlocked. We can take them by surprise - bust outta here before they know what’s hit them!’

  Jack stared at the doors. He did not move or speak. ‘Can you do it?’ asked Tuck. ‘Cough if you can.’ Jack’s heart had begun to palpitate at the prospect. He knew only too well that he was the Clark Kent rather than the Superman type. He kept quiet.

  ‘Okay, Jack,’ said Tuck. ‘Listen to me. This is your moment. It’s all come down to this. Remember the phoney messenger with the gun, Jack? Remember how you handled him? You found the strength, Jack. You found the nerve. You reached down inside yourself, and you found it. And I was right there with you, Jack - and I’ll be right here with you again. You can do it.’ Jack began to nibble on his lip. Still he remained silent.

  ‘Jack,’ Tuck urged him, ‘you’re not the same man you were this morning. You’re better. You’re stronger. You’re in control of your own destiny.’

  I’m terrified! Jack thought. But as he sat there, listening to Tuck’s prompting, he began to feel that he had to do something to try to escape. For too long he’d let people push him around, let his life be determined by the whims and demands of others. Without courage, without determination, he was never going to achieve anything worthwhile.

  ‘Psyche yourself up,’ Tuck was telling him. ‘Psyche yourself up. Look at the doors again.’

  Jack looked.

  ‘You’re not gonna stack soup cans all your life, are you, Jack? See yourself leaping to your feet, making a bid for freedom. You’re not going to bag groceries until you die, are you, Jack? See yourself pushing open the doors! See yourself jumping from the truck! See yourself being a hero, Jack! Can you see it! Can you see it!’

  ‘I can see it!’ Jack yelled, flinging off all his blankets and jumping to his feet.

  ‘Eh?’ said Scrimshaw, totally surprised and bewildered.

  Jack leapt forward.

  ‘Jack!’ Tuck shouted. ‘No! Wait until - ’

  But Jack wasn’t listening. He charged towards the truck’s doors and flung them open.

  ‘ - the truck has stopped!’ Tuck finished.

  But it was too late. The doors swung out as Jack barged them, the highway flying by underneath at sixty miles an hour.

  Ohhhhhhhhhh!’ said Jack, clinging on to one of the doors with all his might as it swung right open.

  Scrimshaw lurched to his feet and stumbled forward. He reached out through the open back end and tried to make a grab for Jack, but Jack swung out of his reach.

  The jolting movement of the truck caused Jack to flap back and forth as he clung on to the door. Several times Scrimshaw tried to grab him, but every time Jack swung away again at the last second.

  Jack was frozen with terror, clinging on for dear life. Then he noticed Tuck’s Mustang on the tail of the truck. Lydia was driving. She was some distance back, but quickly she began to close the gap.

  Inside the truck, Scrimshaw went to the front and began to pound on the back wall of the driver’s cab. Igoe was at the wheel. He did not look around. Scrimshaw could hear classical music blasting out from the cab - Wagner’s ‘Entrance of the Gods into Valhalla’. It was coming full volume out of the radio. Scrimshaw pounded again, but Igoe remained completely unaware of him.

  The door on which Jack was hanging began to swing back in again. Scrimshaw darted forward, then slipped on the icy floor and sat down heavily.

  On seeing this, Jack gave a maniacal laugh as the door swung out again. Scrimshaw glared furiously at him, clambering to his feet. The door started to swing inwards once more.

  Grinning evilly, Scrimshaw reached out two clawlike hands to grab Jack. But at the last moment, Jack lashed out with his foot, kicking him in the chest and sending him careening backward into a pile of frozen fish cartons.

  As the door lurched outwards again, Jack heard Lydia shouting: ‘Jump, Jack! Jump into the car!’

  He peered down and saw the Mustang directly below him. He did nothing.

  ‘Jump!’ Lydia urged him. ‘Jump!’

  He shook his head at her. Then he saw Scrimshaw climbing to his feet, brushing off boxes of frozen fish, then starting murderously towards him.

  He let his feet drop down into the Mustang but continued clinging on to the door with his hands. At that moment the two vehicles began to drift apart. Jack felt like a stretching rubber band, his hands attached to the truck, his f
eet tucked under the headrest of the seat next to Lydia’s. Fearful that he was going to be torn apart, he kicked his feet free.

  Lydia instantly reached out and grabbed the leg of his trousers.

  ‘Let go!’ she shouted to him.

  ‘Let go?’ he screamed back. ‘Are you crazy!’

  Jack was fully stretched. Just as he thought he was going to split in half, Lydia managed to steer the Mustang closer to the truck once more.

  ‘Now let go!’ she shouted.

  Jack didn’t want to. But the door was beginning to swing back in again, and Scrimshaw looked like a demon, hell-bent on tearing him apart with his bare hands. Jack loosened his grip, and he fell backwards into the Mustang’s passenger seat. Lydia immediately took her foot off the gas, and the truck surged away, speeding ahead.

  There was a slip-road up ahead. She swung on the wheel, turning the car off the freeway. Jack lay like a shipwrecked man in the seat beside her. Deep within him, Tuck, who had witnessed most of the action, reached for his flask to take a shot of Cutty Sark. Then he thought better of it and put the flask away. He had to stay sober if they were going to have any chance of recovering the second microchip.

  Meanwhile the frozen food van was still hurtling along the freeway, the doors banging open and shut. Scrimshaw resumed his pounding on the back of the driver’s cab, his face going red with frustration and fury.

  ‘Igoe!’ he screamed. ‘Igoe! Stop the goddamned truck!’

  Wagner continued blaring from the radio, and Igoe kept staring straight ahead, his one good hand gripped tightly around the wheel.

  The banging of the doors was giving Scrimshaw a headache. He managed to grab them, wrench them shut. Then he went back and continued hammering his fists at the cab.

  Suddenly the music ended.

  ‘Igoe!’ Scrimshaw yelled. ‘You blockheaded oaf!’

  Igoe finally turned his head, peering through the tiny window.

  ‘Turn the goddamned truck off the road!’ Scrimshaw shouted at the top of his voice.

  At last Igoe obliged, bumping the truck over a stretch of scrubby ground until they were out of sight of all the other vehicles on the freeway.