Gateway to Never (John Grimes)

by A Bertram Chandler

  A vivid picture formed itself in his mind. Wherever they were, the two telepaths were not very far away and, with a pooling of powers and a great expenditure of psionic effort, transmission of a sort would be possible to the brains of nontelepaths. Had they been in the same cell as Grimes it would have been relatively easy, of course—but not, in those circumstances, necessary.

  Grimes, then, saw quite clearly the interior of a storeroom not unlike the one in which he was imprisoned. There were two benches, on each of which was a mattress. On one of the benches Mayhew was stretched supine, on the other one was Clarisse. Each of them was secured firmly to his bed by manacles at wrists and ankles.

  And Clarisse could function as a teleporteuse only when she was able to paint the people to be moved or the locations to which they were to be shifted.

  Chapter 21

  THEY MUST HAVE BEEN in their prison for all of three weeks.

  They had no means of telling time; Dalzell had seen to it that they were stripped of any and all personal possessions of use or value, including their wristwatches. Meals came at irregular intervals. There was enough to sustain life, but with very little surplus. And always the food consisted of sandwiches so that there were never any table utensils that might be used as tools or weapons—not that knives or forks would have been any good against the machine pistols carried by the guards.

  Time dragged.

  Grimes grew a beard. He could not see it—there were, of course, no mirrors—but had to take Sonya’s word for it that it was not becoming. Williams grew a beard, and it suited him. Carnaby was one of those who had undergone permanent depilation.

  Sonya, although she tried very hard to maintain appearances, lost her elegance. Brenda Coles, never very elegant to start with, lost weight. Ruth Macoboy, skinny rather than slim at all times, began, with her long, unkempt black hair to look like a fairy-tale witch. The tempers of the women soured as their appearance deteriorated.

  Especially trying was the lack of privacy. At first, jokes were made about it, but, as the days wore on it became no laughing matter.

  Meanwhile, what was happening?

  Insofar as the ship was concerned, some not-too-far-off-the-beam guesswork was possible. It seemed obvious that Davis, the chief engineer, was striking troubles with the overhaul of the inertial drive unit. This would have taken no time at all had there been shoreside workshop facilities available—but here, of course, such were nonexistent. Through decks and bulkheads, all day and every day, drifted the noise of spasmodic hammering, but never the irregular beat that would tell of a test running of the engines.

  And outside the ship?

  Now and again Mayhew and Clarisse would succeed in transmitting a telepathic picture of events to Grimes, a relay of a picture which they, themselves, had picked up from some member of a shore party. The commodore watched, with helpless horror, what seemed to be an execution in the main square of the village—three white-bearded old men against a wall, a firing squad of Dalzell’s marines. Laser rifles were used, set at medium beam to ensure a spectacular incineration. Grimes watched, too, as those same marines dragged six girls out of a house, carried them away somewhere out of the sight of the original viewer. Again he was horrified—then realized with disgust that the young women were putting up only a token resistance.

  Dalzell figured, too, in these waking visions. Every time that the major appeared he was wearing dress uniform, but with something that looked more like a crown than a helmet on his head. Some of the time he was supervising the building of what had to be a new palace—three-storied and with a sort of steeple to give it additional height, towering high over all the other houses in the village, including that which had been occupied by Hektor. At other times he was drilling his army—the marines and also a sizeable force of young native men. These latter now had spears tipped with metal instead of obsidian, and short swords that gleamed like steel. That persistent hammering, Grimes decided, was probably not entirely due to the engine overhaul. Some of the engineers must be working as armament artificers.

  Grimes was not the only one to pick up the psionic broadcasts made by Mayhew and Clarisse. Sonya shared them, as did Williams. Carnaby, Ruth Macoboy and Brenda Coles did not, but listened intently to what the others told them.

  “That bloody pongo,” swore Williams, “is having himself one hell of a good time!”

  “We most certainly are not,” stated Sonya.

  “But what does he intend to do with us?” asked Carnaby, of nobody in particular. Then, to Grimes, “You’ve made a study of this sort of thing, sir. Piracy, mutiny and all the rest of it. In the old days, I mean. At sea.”

  “I suppose I have, James,” admitted the commodore.

  “What usually happened to the victims of mutiny or piracy?” The young man looked as though he regretted having asked the question, but persisted with it. “What usually happened?”

  Grimes had already given the matter considerable thought. He said, “It varied. It all depended on how bad a bastard the pirate captain or the leader of the mutineers was, and on how bad his men were. Some victims were made to walk the plank—which was not as funny as it sounds. It must have been a rather nasty method of execution. Some were marooned, on desert islands. Some—like Bligh of the Bounty—were cast adrift in open boats . . .”

  “They had a chance . . .” muttered Carnaby.

  “After this prison,” remarked Sonya, “a desert island would seem like paradise.”

  “Depending, of course,” Grimes told her, “on its location and on its natural resources. Here, we are sheltered from the weather and are getting adequate food.”

  “A defeatist attitude, John.”

  “Mphm. Perhaps. Don’t forget that many a person has wished himself out of the frying pan and found himself in the fire.”

  “But Dalzell must have some intentions as far as we’re concerned,” persisted Sonya.

  “But are they good ones?” asked Williams.

  Probably not, thought Grimes. Almost certainly not. A thought insinuated itself into his mind—from outside was it? put there by Mayhew or Clarisse? A public trial, followed by a public execution . . . Would Dalzell dare? Perhaps the major would consider a trial too risky, but the execution would make it plain to all hands that he now was the leader.

  “And were you thinking what I was thinking?” asked Sonya. “Yes.”

  “Me too,” growled Williams.

  “Did . . . did you receive something?” asked Brenda Coles.

  “I’m not sure,” Grimes told her. “I think we did.” He tried to grin. “I think that Dalzell will turn out to be one of the really bad bastards.”

  “An’ that brings me,” put in Williams, “to something that I’ve been wanting to say for a long time. He, the major, has to do something about the Skipper and Sonya and meself. He can’t afford to have us running around loose. But there’s no reason at all why young James an’ Brenda an’ Ruth should be for the high jump. Next time that the pongoes bring us our tucker we can ask ’em to tell Dalzell that the three of you are willing to be faithful and loyal servants of his Majesty. You all have skills that he’ll be needing.”

  “No,” said Carnaby.

  “No,” said the two girls.

  “If you have any sense,” Grimes told them, “you’ll say ‘yes.’”

  “No!” they told him. And they refused to be persuaded.

  It was some hours later when the door to the storeroom opened.

  And about time, thought Grimes irritably. The next meal wasn’t due; it was considerably overdue. Even those unappetizing sandwiches would be welcome.

  But no packets of sandwiches were tossed in through the barely opened door, which remained open. Grimes got to his feet, feeling the beginnings of hope. Release? Then his brief elation faded. This could only be a squad of marines to lead him and the others to their execution.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.”

  A voice replied—a woman’s vo
ice, unfamiliar yet oddly familiar. It said, “Quickly, John. You must seize the ship.”

  “Who the hell . . . ?” demanded Grimes. He was at the doorway in two swift steps. He was staring at a stranger, a naked, fair-haired girl, obviously one of the women from the village. She stared at him. It was as though, he realized suddenly, somebody else were looking at him from behind her eyes.

  “There is no time to lose, John. Dalzell and most of the crew are at a feast in the village. There is only a skeleton watch on board.”

  “Who . . . Who are you?”

  The woman laughed, then replied, “Believe it or not, I’m Ken. Elena, here, is susceptible to telepathic control. She was kept on board to keep the watchkeepers company. They’ve been having their own party. When they passed out she collected the keys.”

  It made sense—or as much sense as psionic technology ever made. But it was a pity, thought Grimes, that Mayhew hadn’t used this borrowed body to pick up a few hand weapons on the way down. Even so, he and the loyalists would have the advantage of surprise. Once in the control room he would have the ship’s armament at his disposal; within minutes he would plaster the village with Morpheus D.

  “Now you’re cooking with gas!” remarked the woman approvingly in a voice that sounded more and more like Mayhew’s.

  “What about you and Clarisse?” asked Grimes.

  “Never mind about us. Elena will release us while you’re on the way to Control. But hurry!”

  “You heard?” demanded the Commodore, turning to his cellmates. “Then come on!”

  He brushed past the girl, ran out into the alleyway. He made his way to the axial shaft, pushed the button for the elevator. Indicator lights flashed; the cage had been only two decks below, at the marines’ messdeck. The door opened, the freed prisoners scrambled in, followed by the native woman.

  “Let me—let Elena—off at the boat-bay compartment,” said Mayhew through her mouth. “We’re in one of the storerooms there.”

  “We’ll wait for you there,” said Grimes, pushing the right button.

  “No. Get up to the control room as fast as you can. The officer of the guard woke up and is looking for Elena . . .” There was a pause. “And his keys. Never mind us, John. Carry on straight up.”

  After a second’s hesitation Grimes cancelled the boat-bay compartment stop. But there was, unfortunately, no way of controlling the speed of the elevator. Its cage was a cage, in every sense of the word. Once the shipkeepers realized what had happened, what was happening, the prisoners would be prisoners again, trapped between decks.

  The elevator jolted to a halt, just as the stridency of alarm bells shrilled throughout the ship. But luck was with Grimes and the loyalists. Whoever had cut the power had done so hastily, without checking the location of the cage. It had stopped at the level of the boat-bay compartment.

  “Out!” ordered Grimes as Williams strained at the manual door control. “Out!” The floor of the cage was half a meter above deck level, but that did not matter. The compartment, now, was sealed off from the rest of the ship by the airtight doors, but that did not matter either. There was no egress either up or down, forward or aft—but there was still out.

  Number Three was the nearer of the several bays. “Number Three Boat!” snapped Grimes. “How is she, Bill?”

  “Fine, Skipper, last time I checked. She can take us anywhere.”

  “Then open her up. We’ll take her.”

  He ran behind Elena to the storeroom where Mayhew and Clarisse were confined. He snatched the bunch of magnetic keys from her hand; Ken, as he knew very well, always fumbled pitifully with even the simplest magnetic devices, and when he was controlling another’s body the fumbling would be even more pronounced. He opened the door, saw Mayhew and Clarisse stretched on their benches, manacled at wrists and ankles. He released them, was briefly surprised at the agility with which they swung off their beds. But, of course, Dalzell would have allowed them to exercise under guard; he would have had uses for them.

  Grimes had no need to tell the telepaths of his intentions. They followed him without question to the boat bay. As they were about to board the craft the commodore asked suddenly, “Where’s Elena?”

  “She ran off as soon as I got out of her mind. She’s frightened. She’s hiding . . .”

  “Can’t you control her again? We can’t leave her to face the music.”

  “I’m . . . I’m trying, John. But she has a strong mind. She’s . . . fighting back . . .”

  “What’s that noise?” asked Sonya sharply.

  Faintly, but audible now that the alarm bells had stopped ringing, was the wailing of a siren, an externally mounted horn. It would not be long before Dalzell and the mutineers returned from the village. And surely, thought Grimes, not even the major would blame the native girl for the escape of the prisoners. But I wouldn’t like to be in the shoes of the shipkeepers! he told himself with grim satisfaction.

  “All systems Go!” shouted Williams. “It’s time we went!”

  The commodore clambered into the boat, took the pilot’s seat. He sealed the hull. He pressed the remote control button that should open the external door of the bay. Nothing happened; he was still looking out through the forward viewport at an unbroken sheet of metal. Whoever was in the control room had had enough sense to actuate all locking devices throughout the vessel.

  But a lifeboat is a lifeboat, designed to get away from a distressed ship in practically every foreseeable combination of adverse circumstances. The emergency break-out, thought Grimes, should be working. It was. When he pushed the red button one explosive charge blew the door outwards, and another one threw the boat clear of the ship. Had the inertial drive failed to function she would have hit the village like a projectile—as it was, she blundered noisily skyward, pursued by a stream of tracer fired by somebody who was obviously not Hendriks.

  “He, whoever he is,” commented Williams scornfully, “would make a good gunnery officer . . . He’d make a good gunnery officer weep!”

  “Don’t complain,” Sonya told him.

  Chapter 22

  THE BOAT WAS SPACEWORTHY enough. All its equipment was in good working order and it was fully stocked with emergency provisions. Grimes had no doubt of its capability to transport him and the loyalists to Mars, or to anywhere else in the Solar System. The Quest, with her main engines immobilized, could not pursue. Unfortunately, the ship’s armament, both main and secondary, was still in working order.

  Grimes turned to Mayhew. “Ken,” he said urgently, “try to tune in to Hendriks. Get inside his mind, find out what he’s doing, what he’s going to do . . .”

  “I . . . I’m already in touch. I’m picking up his thoughts. Dalzell is telling him to swat us out of the sky.”

  “Hell!” muttered the commodore. And it would be hell, a brief, searing and spectacular inferno if one of Faraway Quest’s missiles found the lifeboat. A near-miss would be enough to destroy her. Her inertial drive unit was hammering flat out, but she could not hope to outrun the vicious rockets. It would be many, many minutes before she was safely out of effective range.

  Grimes glanced nervously out of the viewports, saw that the others were doing the same. There was nothing to see; there would be nothing to see until the boat broke through the heavy overcast. Unless . . . Perhaps a blinding flash, and then oblivion.

  Mayhew was speaking softly. “He . . . he is telling Dalzell that the self-guiding missiles are inoperable . . . But . . .” there was amazement in the telepath’s voice . . . “but I think that he is lying . . .”

  Grimes felt the beginning of hope. Perhaps Hendriks was not, after all, a murderer.

  “Fire . . .” whispered Mayhew.

  “Wait for it!” exclaimed Williams with spurious heartiness. “Wait for it!”

  “We’ve no bloody option, Bill,” remarked Grimes resignedly. He suppressed the temptation to throw the boat violently off course; to do so might convert a miss into a near-miss or even into a direct hi
t. He would stand on, trusting in whatever decency remained in the gunnery officer’s makeup.

  Then it happened.

  Below and to starboard the clouds were rent apart by the explosion, by a brief and dreadful burgeoning of scarlet fire. The ambient mists vanished, flash-dried by the searing heat of the blast. The boat was driving upwards towards the domed ceiling of a roughly globular cavern of clear air in the center of which a man-made sun had been born, had lived briefly and had died. The first shock wave hit her and, even through the insulation, the doomsday crack of it was deafening. The first shock wave hit her, and then the secondary, and then the tertiary, slamming her to port and up. Grimes, sweating, fought the controls, somehow keeping the little craft steady on her heading. She was buffeted by the turbulence engendered by the detonation of the missile’s warhead; it seemed that surely she must break up, spilling her people into the incandescent nothingness.

  Up, Grimes pushed her. Up, up . . .

  And she was clear of the overcast, although only those who had not been temporarily blinded by the blast could see the bright stars in the black sky overhead, the yellow moon, lopsided, in its last quarter, low on the eastern horizon.

  Below them was the cloud—towering cumulus, vaporous peaks and pinnacles that grew and shifted and toppled, that swirled around and above the point where the rocket had burst.

  “Fire . . .” whispered Mayhew again, echoing Hendriks’ thought and spoken word.

  Grimes said nothing. He knew that he must gain altitude, and yet more altitude, and even then there would be no safety. The inertial drive snarled in protest but kept going.

  This time it was a salvo of three missiles, all of them well short of the target. This must have been, the commodore realized, intentional on Hendriks’ part, just as the first miss must have been intentional—although too near for comfort. The rockets burst where the boat had been, not where she was now. They flared dazzlingly beneath the surface of the cloud mass, turning the shadowy canyons into deep rivers of flame.