Gateway to Never (John Grimes)

by A Bertram Chandler

  “Meanwhile, he is hoping that there will be dissension in our ranks. That was why he gave us time to think things over; not long, but long enough.” He looked at Smith. “As you know, at least one of us present puts his own interests before the well-being of Faraway Quest’s crew.”

  “Mphm.” Grimes puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. Then, “Do you concur, Mr. Metzenther?”

  “Yes, Commodore. Commander Mayhew has summarized the findings of all four of us.”

  “And now you know,” said Grimes II, who did not seem to be enjoying his cigarette, “what are you going to do about it? Not that you can do much. You haven’t a ship of your own, even though . . .”

  “Even though I’m carrying on as though this were my own ship?” asked Grimes. “In a way, she is. Just as . . .”

  “She’s not. And neither is Maggie.”

  “Shut up!” snapped the wife referred to. “Shut up! This is no time to let your personal feelings get in the way of important business.”

  “You should have thought of that last night,” her husband told her.

  Flandry laughed.

  “Just what has been going on aboard this rustbucket?” asked Irene curiously, looking at Sir Dominic speculatively.

  “It’s a pity that you weren’t here,” he told her, while Sonya looked at him nastily.

  “Just a slight domestic problem,” said Grimes airily.

  “Some people’s idea of what’s slight . . .” snarled Grimes II.

  “Don’t forget that I, too, am an injured party.” Flandry laughed again.

  “Please . . .” pleaded Grimes. “Please. We’re getting no place at all with this petty squabbling.” He turned to Mayhew. “You’ve given us the general background. It’s obvious that we have to do something before Blumenfeld gives Druthen the okay, or before Druthen acts off his own bat. I’ve already thought of something that we—that Clarisse especially—can do. I take it that there are writing materials in your watch room aboard my Quest?”

  “Of course.”

  “And writing materials are also drawing materials. . . .”

  “Yes. But to call up some peculiar deities or demons at this juncture could make the situation worse than it is now.”

  “Who mentioned deities or demons?” Grimes saw that Flandry, Irene and Trafford were looking at him curiously, as were his alter ego and Maggie Lazenby. He said slowly, “I suppose I’d better put you in the picture. Clarisse is more than a mere telepath. She is descended from a caveman artist who, displaced in time, was found on Kinsolving’s Planet many years ago. He, it seems, had specialized in painting pictures of various animals which, consequently, were drawn into the hunters’ traps. Clarisse inherited his talent. . . .”

  “Impossible,” said Grimes II flatly.

  “Not so, Commodore. I’ve seen it happen. Ken Mayhew has seen it happen. So has Sonya.”

  “It’s true,” she agreed soberly.

  “So Clarisse could be a sort of Trojan horse . . .” murmured Flandry.

  “You’re getting the idea. Of course, there’s one snag. Each time that she’s . . . performed she’s been under the influence of some hallucinogenic drug.”

  “And the rest of you,” sneered Smith.

  “No. Most definitely not. The main problem now is to get her suitably high.”

  “That’s no problem,” said Mayhew. A great load seemed suddenly to have dropped from his thin shoulders. He had something to do at last—something to help to save Clarisse. “That’s no problem. Two telepaths who are married have more, much more in common than any pair of nontelepaths. There is far greater sensitivity, far more . . . sharing than in any common marriage. If I get high on anything at all, so will Clarisse. If I go on a trip, so will she.”

  “Good,” murmured Grimes. “Good. So buzz the quack and tell him what you need to put your mind in the proper state. Try to get instructions through to Clarisse. All she has to do is sketch us, one by one, and we’ll be with her. . . .” He looked rapidly around the control room. “Not you, Ken. I’m sorry, but you’ll be too muzzy with dope. What about you, Mr. Metzenther? Good. And you, Flandry? And myself, and Sonya. . . .”

  “Count me in,” Irene said gruffly. “I still don’t believe it, but if it works I’d like to be in the party.”

  “And me,” said Trafford, although not overenthusiastically. “Tallentire can look after the ship.”

  Smith did not volunteer.

  Maggie Lazenby was about to, Grimes thought, but lapsed into silence as her husband looked at her long and coldly.

  And Grimes II said, “I’ll not be sorry to see some of you off my vessel and back aboard your own ships.”

  Chapter 21

  THIS SHOULDN’T BE HAPPENING, thought Grimes. Magic—and what else can it be called? in the control room of an interstellar ship. . . . But this was the Rim, where the Laws of Nature, although not repealed, were not enforced with any stringency. This was beyond the Rim.

  He looked at Mayhew as the telepath regarded dubiously the little glass of some colorless fluid that he was holding. “This,” the too-jovial ship’s doctor had assured him, “will give you hallucinations in glorious technicolor and at least seven dimensions. . . .” Grimes looked at Mayhew, and everybody else looked at Mayhew. The PCO quipped, “Now I know how Socrates must have felt.”

  “Get on with it, Ken,” urged Grimes.

  “I’m drinking this muck, not you. All right, then. Down the hatch.” He suited the action to the words.

  His prominent Adam’s apple wobbled as the draught went down. He licked his lips, enunciated slowly, “Not . . . bad. Not . . . too . . . bad.” An odd sort of vagueness crept over his face. His eyes went out of focus. He wavered on his feet, groped almost aimlessly for a chair, slumped down into it.

  Grimes whispered to Metzenther, “Clarisse—is she ready? Are you and Trialanne standing by to help?”

  “Of course, Commodore.”

  Mayhew said with surprising clarity, “The black lambs of Damballa. But they shouldn’t. No.”

  Never mind the bloody black lambs, thought Grimes testily.

  “Clarisse . . .” Mayhew’s voice was very soft, almost inaudible. “Clarisse. You shouldn’t have killed Lassie.”

  “Damn Lassie,” muttered Grimes.

  “A man’s best friend is his . . . is his . . . is his . . .? But the black lambs. And no sheep dog. Yes.”

  Metzenther looked toward Grimes. He whispered reassuringly, “It’ll not be long now, Commodore. She’s started on her pictures. And they won’t be of black lambs. Black sheep, more likely.”

  “You can say that again,” grunted Grimes II. Grimes I allowed himself a smile. Let Metzenther enjoy his play on words, and let the other Grimes make what he liked of it. It didn’t matter. He would soon be back aboard his own ship. He looked down at the Minetti automatic pistol that he was holding, ready, in his right hand. (Luckily, his counterpart shared his taste in personal weaponry—as in other things.) He, he was sure, would be the first to be pulled aboard the Quest. After all, he knew Clarisse, had known her before Mayhew had. He took one last look around at the other members of the boarding party. All were armed. Sonya, Trafford and Metzenther wore holstered laser handguns; and Irene, two ugly looking pistols of .50 caliber. Flandry had something that looked as though it had been dreamed up by an illustrator of juvenile science fiction thrillers.

  Grimes remembered the two occasions on which he had seen Clarisse at work. He recalled, vividly, that bare, windswept mountaintop on Kinsolving, with the black sky overhead, the Galactic Lens a misty shimmer low on the horizon. He visualized, without any effort on his part, the floodlit easel with its square of canvas, the pots of pigment, the girl, naked save for a scanty scrap of some animal pelt, working with swift, sure strokes on her brushes.

  Sudden doubt assailed him.

  Those had been ideal conditions. Would conditions aboard the hijacked Faraway Quest be as ideal?

  Mayhew seemed to be completely out, sprawl
ed loosely in his chair, his eyes closed, his mouth slack. A thin dribble of spittle crawled down his chin. Had the telepath taken too much of whatever concoction it was that the doctor had prepared? Was Clarisse similarly unconscious?

  Metzenther smiled reassuringly at the commodore, whispered, “Any time now. . . .”

  Flandry, overhearing, snorted his disbelief.

  Grimes turned to admonish him, and . . .

  Flandry was gone.

  Chapter 22

  FLANDRY WAS GONE.

  Grimes wondered why there had been no miniature clap of thunder as the air rushed in to fill the vacuum caused by his abrupt departure. Had the exactly correct volume of atmosphere been teleported from the room in which Clarisse was imprisoned to fill the space that the imperial captain had occupied? What did it matter, anyhow? Magic is an art, not a science.

  Flandry was gone—and who next?

  Grimes was more than a little hurt. He had known Clarisse for years. Sonya had known her for almost as long. And yet she called a stranger to her. She had met Sir Dominic only once; he must have made an impression on her.

  He turned to the others. “Well, it seems to be working. But why him?”

  “Why not?” asked Sonya sweetly. “He’s resourceful. He’s tough.”

  “And he’s out of my hair,” added Grimes II. He did not say aloud that he hoped that other people would soon be out of his hair. He did not need to.

  Mayhew, still unconscious in his chair, twitched. He looked as though he were having a bad dream.

  “Is she all right?” demanded Grimes of Metzenther.

  “Yes, Commodore,” answered the telepath. “Yes.” He looked as though he had been about to say more but had decided against it.

  “Can’t you tell her to get the rest of us shifted across?”

  “I . . . I will try. But you must realize that teleportation is a strain upon the operator.”

  “Damn it all, this is urgent.”

  “I know, Commodore. But . . . she will not be hurried.”

  “Druthen, von Donderberg . . . Do they know that Flandry is aboard the ship?”

  “No. And with von Donderberg actually in charge everything—including the prisoners’ meals—is very much to timetable. There is little chance that Clarisse and Sir Dominic will be disturbed.”

  Disturbed? thought Grimes. An odd choice of words. . . .

  “You must be patient, Commodore,” said Metzenther.

  Grimes was never to know if it was his own imagination, or if the telepath had deliberately planted the picture in his mind. But he knew what was happening, what had happened. He saw Clarisse, her clothing cast aside the better to emulate her savage forebears, working at the sketch she was making on a signals pad. She saw the picture growing out of her swift, sure stylus strokes, the depiction of Sir Dominic. What subconscious desires had been brought to the surface by the drug that Mayhew had taken, the effects of which he had shared with her?

  And then . . .

  And then Flandry was with her.

  Flandry, the unprincipled, suddenly confronted with a beautiful, naked, available and willing woman.

  If Metzenther had not put thoughts, impressions into Grimes’ brain he had read the commodore’s mind. He said, telepathically, “Mayhew will never know. We shall make sure of that.”

  “But . . . but how can she?” asked Grimes silently.

  He got the impression of quiet laughter in reply. “How could you? How could Sonya? How could Maggie? Some of us—even you, Commodore—have regarded this straying into other continua as a sort of a holiday. A pubic holiday . . . Forgive me. That just slipped out. And Clarisse has been under strain as much as any of us, more than most of us. What’s more natural than that she should greet her deliverer in the age-old manner? Are you jealous, Commodore?”

  Frankly, yes, thought Grimes. He grinned ruefully.

  “What the hell do you find so amusing?” asked Sonya sharply.

  “Oh, er . . . I was just wondering where Sir Dominic had finished up. As we both of us know, this talent of Clarisse’s is rather . . . unreliable.”

  “You have an odd sense of humor,” she told him. She was beginning to look anxious.

  There were no pictures in Grimes’ mind now. He was rather thankful for that. But still he did not know how long it would be before Clarisse resumed her magical activities. He knocked his pipe out into one of the large ashtrays that were placed all around the control room. He refilled it. He lit it.

  “Please, John,” said Clarisse, “not in here. It’s dreadfully stuffy.”

  She was, as he had visualized her, naked. She was standing at the desk, adding the last touches to the sketch she had made of Grimes. Flandry was seated on the bunk. He was fully clothed.

  But . . .

  “Wipe the lipstick off your face, Sir Dominic,” said Grimes coldly.

  Chapter 23

  CLARISSE IGNORED THE EXCHANGE. She tore the sheet upon which she had portrayed Grimes off the pad, put it to one side. She started a fresh sketch. The commodore peered over her smooth, bare shoulder as she worked. The likeness was unmistakable.

  “Now!” she whispered intently.

  Grimes was almost knocked off his feet as Irene materialized. She exclaimed cheerfully, “Oops, dearie! Fancy meeting you here!” And then, to Clarisse, “Hadn’t you better put something on, ducks? All these men . . .”

  “I work better this way,” she was told.

  “Ssshh!” hissed Grimes. “This cabin . . . bugged . . .”

  “It was,” remarked Flandry, in normal conversational tones. “And very amateurishly, if I may say so.”

  “So you did, at least, take precautions before . . .” Grimes began.

  “Before what?” asked Flandry, smiling reminiscently. “I always take precautions, Commodore.”

  Clarisse blushed spectacularly, over her entire body. But she went on sketching.

  Sonya appeared, looking around her disapprovingly. What’s been going on here? she asked silently. Then it was Trafford’s turn, and finally Metzenther’s. The little cabin was uncomfortably crowded. Grimes didn’t like the way that his wife was sitting close beside Flandry on the bunk. She, obviously, didn’t like the way that he was being pressed between Irene’s flamboyance and Clarisse’s nudity. Somebody knocked over the tank in which the psionic amplifier was housed. It did not break, but the cover came off it, allowing the stagnant nutrient solution to spill on the deck. It smelled as though something had been dead for a very long time.

  Sonya sniffed. “And now what do we do?” she demanded. “I’d suggest that Clarisse get dressed, but I realize that it’s almost impossible in these circumstances.”

  “This is your ship, Commodore,” said Flandry.

  “Mphm. When is your next meal due, Clarisse?”

  “I . . . my watch . . . with my clothes. On the bunk . . .”

  Flandry rummaged in the little pile of garments and found the timepiece. He announced, “It is 1135 hours, this ship’s time.”

  “Twenty-five minutes,” said Clarisse.

  “So we wait,” said Grimes. “It’ll not be for too long. Then we overpower whoever brings the tray and any other guards and take over.”

  Flandry laughed jeeringly. “Brilliant, Commodore. Really brilliant. And if anybody fires into this dogbox he’ll get at least four of us with one shot.”

  “Have you any better ideas, Captain?”

  “Of course,” Flandry replied smugly. “If I am not mistaken, those weapons being toted around by Sonya, Captain Trafford and Mr. Metzenther are laser pistols. They are not used much in my continuum, but you people seem to like them. A laser pistol can be used as a tool as well as a handgun. A cutting tool . . .”

  “So we break out, rather than wait to be let out.”

  “A truly blinding glimpse of the obvious, sir.”

  Trafford was nearest the door. “Go ahead, please, Captain,” said Grimes.

  The little man unholstered his weapon. He pulled
out a slender screwdriver that had been recessed in the butt of it. Carefully, not hurrying, he made adjustments to the power settings. He replaced the screwdriver.

  Grimes took a pencil from Clarisse. He managed to shove his way through the crowd to stand beside Trafford. He drew a rough circle on the smooth, painted metal panel of the door. He said, “The lock should be there, Captain. If you burn around it . . .”

  “I’ll try, Commodore.”

  The narrow beam of intensely bright light shot from the muzzle of the pistol. Metal became blue white incandescent immediately but was reluctant to melt. The structural components of a starship are designed to withstand almost anything. Trafford removed his finger from the trigger, used the screwdriver to make further adjustments. Then he tried again.

  Grimes had foreseen what was going to happen. After all, as Flandry had pointed out, this was his ship. Grimes should have warned the others, but this chance to see the silly grin wiped off Sir Dominic’s face was not one to be passed over.

  The air in the watch room became stiflingly hot, and acrid with the fumes of burning paint and metal. And then . . .

  And then there were bells ringing, some close and some distant, filling the echoing shell of Faraway Quest with their clangor. A klaxon added its stridency to the uproar. From the nozzles of the spray system jetted a white foam that blanketed everything and everybody. Flandry cursed, but he could never hope to match Irene’s picturesque obscenities and blasphemies.

  The door sagged open.

  Grimes, pistol in hand, shoved past Trafford, out into the brightly lit alleyway. Sonya, looking like a figure roughly hacked from white foam plastic, was behind him, then Trafford, then Irene. Metzenther staggered out supporting Clarisse, who looked as though she had just emerged from a bubble bath.