Before they were turned about and propelled forward toward the tunnel there was a moment when the danger blotted every other thought from his mind and he heard himself frantically whispering: “They don’t have to kill us, Joyce! They’d have nothing to gain by it. But if you keep on struggling, they may hurt you badly. Stop trying to escape. You must.”
A moment later they were stumbling back through the long tunnel, forced to keep moving by fingers that had not relaxed their grip and felt like steel bands biting into their flesh.
Suddenly a voice seemed to be whispering, deep in Joyce’s mind. “Silence…when you are asked what you saw. You are different from the others—as you will discover when this long journey is over. You can be very helpful to us, because your mind is more receptive, more open. Clairvoyance in your era is rare. There have been only a few men and women from your age with minds so receptive. Tell your companion—warn him. He must remain silent too, or we will be forced to take stern measures. It is too early yet, too dangerous, for the others to know.”
The voice paused an instant, then went on more reassuringly. “The journey is almost over. There is no need for you to rejoin your companions before we arrive at our destination. There is a smaller compartment where you will be provided with every necessary convenience.”
CHAPTER NINE
The long hours of uncertainty, torment and strain had receded for a moment. No longer traveling through time, they were standing in shadows, with the great, silvery disk looming up behind them. The other men and women were watching the children, with what appeared to be a shared, if momentary, relaxation of tension.
“It’s incredible,” Joyce said. “Why do you suppose the journey ended here—I mean, in a place that looks exactly like a children’s playground, except that the toys are unbelievably strange-looking.”
“There must be children’s playgrounds in the far future,” Wilmont said. “There will always be children, I should think. It’s a wide open space as well. That may be why they chose it. The machine would have been wrecked if it had come out in that forest right up ahead.”
The children had been quick to recover from their fright and take an interest in their new surroundings.
They raced excitedly back and forth, completely ignoring their parents. They ascended and descended metal ladders that spiraled upwards into a blue eye. Before they reached the top dizziness prevented them from climbing higher. But they had fun seeing how high they could climb without becoming dizzy.
The boys were the noisiest and took delight in tossing back and forth huge crystal balls as light as a feather that made a tinkling musical sound. But a few of them, more scientifically inclined, kept picking up and examining more complicated-looking toys that bore an unmistakable resemblance to instruments of science.
The girls found little metal stick figures to play with. They appeared to be unbreakable, and had four stubby limbs, and fuzzy, metallically gleaming hair spun out as thin as salt water taffy.
Susan Wentworth was the only little girl who seemed to prefer male company, staying close to her brother’s side as she followed him from shining wonder to shining wonder, her eyes saucer-round.
“Where do you think we are?” she asked, as her brother bent to examine a small, glowing cube that had changed color when he touched it. It had been red, but suddenly it became a deep purple and glowed twice as brightly.
“Why don’t you ask Mom and Dad,” Bobby Wentworth said. “I bet they know.”
“No, they don’t, Bobby,” Susan said. “They’re as scared as I am.”
“You always were a’ fraid cat,” her brother said.
He had just made an astounding discovery. The tube changed color when he thought real hard about what color he wanted it to be. It became blue, green, yellow, and finally the dark brown color of his hair.
“Do you want to try something?” Bobby asked.
“I don’t know,” Susan said. “I’m worried about Mom. I’ve never seen her look so scared.”
“We’re having fun, aren’t we?” Bobby said. “If Mom and Dad didn’t want us to have fun they’d stop us. They always do.”
“They will, don’t worry,” Susan said. “What is it you want me to try?”
“This looks just like a building block,” Bobby said, tapping the cube with his chubby forefinger. “When you want it to be blue or yellow or green you just think about it, real hard, and it happens. You don’t have to say anything.”
“I’m not blind,” Susan said. “It was red and now it’s brown.”
“All right. It turned the same color as my hair. See if you can make it turn the same color as your hair.”
Susan shut her eyes and thought very hard. The cube glowed more brightly again and the brown color vanished. It took on a shimmering sheen, as golden as a field of summer wheat, or daffodils dancing in the sunlight on a country lane.
“Well, you did it!” Bobby exclaimed, clapping his hands. “If it’s really a building block…just think what a whole house made of blocks like that would look like.”
Suddenly the cube rose up and struck Bobby a glancing blow on the forehead. He cried out, but more in shock than in pain, and looked toward where the cube had clattered to the ground a short distance away.
“I guess it didn’t like the color of your hair,” Bobby said, frowning and rubbing his forehead. “But it had to do what it was told.”
Susan said nothing in reply. She had turned and was looking toward her parents and suddenly she was tugging at her brother’s arm.
“The very tall men are being mean again. They’re taking Mom and Dad away. We’ll be left here alone.”
“No, we won’t,” Bobby said. “We’ll have to go with them, too. They’re making everyone go with them.”
A few minutes later a procession of adults and children was winding its way through the forest gloom. Joyce recognized many of the trees, shrubs and clinging vines and the forest clearings were just as familiar to her. There were scrub oaks, birches and willow trees, with here and there a stately pine or a small one so symmetrical that it would have made a perfect Christmas tree.
The procession halted from time to time, at the command of the tall, cloaked figure in the lead. Almost ghostlike he seemed as he swung about with his arm upraised, shouting out an unintelligible order. His white and flowing garments were faintly stirred by the breeze that was making the treetops sway, and his movements were strangely abrupt and mechanical. He appeared not so much to walk as to glide, as if he were skating on a sheet of ice instead of progressing over a forest floor that was strewn with small stones and fallen branches.
Often, the children and adults in his wake had great difficulty in keeping up with him. But there was something so frightening about the eight cloaked figures who were spaced at intervals along the entire length of the procession that they almost, ran at times, risking bad falls and ignoring the prickly thorns that tore at their clothes and the nettles with stinging hairs that lashed across their faces.
The cloaked figures carried no weapons. But from them there emanated something far more threatening—a firmness of will that was ominous in its implications. It was a firmness both steel-hard and intangible, a firmness that would brook no disobedience. The cloaked figures did not need to resort to threats of physical violence. They had appointed themselves guardians of the march and it was impossible to ignore or question their authority. It flowed from them in a relentless way. Every man, woman, and child in the swiftly advancing, double column was aware of what would happen to them if they held back or tried to break away and run frantically off in another direction.
They would be struck down instantly, with a terrible kind of mind-numbing paralysis. No one doubted it, no one had the slightest urge to put it to the test. Perhaps the guardians of the procession were not evil, perhaps they merely wished to make sure they would be obeyed because obedience was a n
ecessity. But to Joyce, and the others their dominance was—or seemed for the moment—unassailable.
What it was based on Joyce had no way of knowing. Superior wisdom or knowledge, perhaps, the powers conferred by some undreamed of advance in technological civilization. Or it could have been simply an instinctive or inborn trait in a race that had passed, almost from the beginning of its slow ascent of the evolutionary ladder, brains superior to man’s.
Joyce was hurrying through the woods with one of the older children. Wilmont tugged at her elbow as the child—an eleven-year-old—fell behind and guided the footsteps of a small frightened girl. The Four Children had also fallen behind. A swift glance backward assured her that they were keeping close together and were not in any difficulty.
“Watch the ground in front of you!” Wilmont said concernedly. “A path that cuts through the underbrush as sharply as this can be dangerous.”
For the barest instant, Joyce paused to stare at him with a stricken look in her eyes. “Dangerous? For us—or for the children? Two of them are just past the toddling stage.”
“They’ll be helped along,” Wilmont said. “The Children seldom fall heavily, anyway. They’re too light and agile. It’s you I’m concerned about. One bad fall and they’ll show you no mercy.”
“What makes you so sure?” Joyce breathed. She hoped that Wilmont would ignore the question. She knew what his answer would be.
He let a minute go by before he drew close to her again, his hand tightening on her arm. “There’s something inhuman about them,” he said. “I can sense it. It’s hands off…if we don’t stumble. But if we do, they’ll drag us to our feet and force us to go on.”
“Yes, I know,” Joyce said quietly. “Broken legs won’t save us. I don’t think they’re actually brutal. But they know we’ve been under a terrible strain and if we give way to panic they’ll lose all control over us. That’s why they’re using fear as a weapon.”
She paused an instant, but Wilmont said nothing. His lips were set in tight lines and he was nodding. It came then, in a wild rush of words. “They’re attacking us with their minds, Joseph. You know that, don’t you? There’s a weapon just as powerful as fear we could use against them—the kind of resistance men and women can offer when they’re desperate and have nothing to lose by rebelling. But it’s hard to revolt, when you have to watch every step you take and have no time to think clearly. That’s why they’re keeping us moving so swiftly.”
“There’s no doubt of that,” Wilmont said. “But it’s a controlled kind of attack they’re waging. They want to keep us demoralized, I think. But if the fear becomes too great, we’ll lose all of our capacity for self-preservation. They know that. They’ve gotten inside our minds and are using a great deal of restraint and shrewdness.”
“They’re not inside my mind completely,” Joyce said. She was almost breathless from hurrying, and had to swerve abruptly to avoid colliding with a decaying log, half-embedded in the earth, which had loomed directly in her path. “It’s just a vague uneasiness—and the feeling that I can share some of their thoughts, can know how they feel about us, to some extent, if I make a tremendous effort. It comes and goes in flashes, and, of course, it frightens me. Vague as that mental communication is, it is strong enough to make me realize we’d be in the deadliest kind of danger if we disobeyed them.”
“But you’re still largely your own master?” Wilmont asked, his voice tight with strain.
Joyce nodded. “I think so. In fact, I’m sure of it. I could still disobey them, but it would be a mad thing to do.”
“I feel the same way,” Wilmont said quickly. “Mad…self-destructive. Until we know more about them we’ll have to stay in line. But please, darling—don’t get careless. Remember how disastrous a bad fall would be.”
Joyce had no intention of ignoring Wilmot’s concerned plea. But a boy of ten succumbed to fright and came running toward her, seeking the protection of the nearest adult, and she reached out to reassure him with a firm pat on the shoulder. Instantly he grabbed hold of her arm, nearly causing her to sprawl headlong over a gigantic, purple-domed mushroom.
Wilmont cried out in alarm. But Joyce managed to smile and continue on with a reassuring look at the lad, who had the good sense to let go of her arm and stride on ahead of her with all of his courage recaptured.
The ranks did not remain completely even, but continued to break and reform and occasionally the adults joined hands and walked three or four abreast. The children, too, supported one another, as they marched resolutely along. Surprisingly, a few of them did not seem in the least terrified. There was a look of adventurous expectancy in their eyes, and when the tall, shrouded guardians of the procession drew closer to them they did not shrink back in terror.
No one, however, whistled or hummed in brave defiance as prisoners so often do. Too heavy a burden of fear and uncertainty rested upon them.
Before long, the trees became more widely spaced and the underbrush less dense, so that it ceased to encroach on the trail. There was no need to leap over fallen branches or brush aside the dangling vines that had several times brought the entire column to a halt.
There was something white in the distance that had a sun-gilded look. It was faintly visible between the trees and the thinning foliage, but whether it was a high stone wall, a fence, or a complete building, Joyce could not determine.
After several minutes, the vegetation thinned out and she could see it clearly whenever the wind came in gusts and left wide gaps in the foliage. It was a structure of towering proportions, standing out in sharp silhouette against the sky. It was entirely surrounded for several miles by a slightly elevated expanse of open countryside covered with gorse-like, russet-colored vegetation and broken, here and there, by clusters of small buildings that looked like circular beehives. There were a few small ponds—pools of still, dark water scattered over a wide area.
Wilmont had moved closer to her, his expression strained. There was something chilling and forbidding about a building of such size—a building that appeared to be windowless—arising starkly from a desolate stretch of forest-encircled countryside.
“I don’t think we’ll be traveling much further,” Wilmont said. “The chances are we’re heading straight for that big square building. A tall man couldn’t move around without stooping inside the smaller ones.”
Joyce could not repress a shudder. “Do you know what it looks like?” she asked, meeting Wilmot’s gaze unflinchingly.
“A prison,” Wilmont said.
Joyce could see by his expression that he was immediately sorry he hadn’t remained silent. To spare him further self-recrimination she said quickly: “It may not be a prison, Joseph. There are buildings just as massive and dismal looking in New York and Chicago and Los Angeles—buildings that make you feel that all the people inside are prisoners—shut away from the light. Many hospitals have the same look, and law courts and—”
“Mental institutions,” Wilmont said, without giving her time to finish. “All right—it could be any one of those institutions. Suppose we go over them again. A hospital where men and women taken captive by the navigators of a UFO are nursed slowly back to health, while they’re kept under constant guard. A mental institution where minds shattered by the experience we’ve undergone are patched together again—perhaps in a way we wouldn’t like or appreciate. Or a court of law where we must stand trial for the blackest of all crimes—being born human instead of monster-like. Or even—”
“Stop it, Joseph! You’re accomplishing nothing by anticipating the worst. We’ll find out exactly where they are taking us as soon as we’re out of the woods and can judge for ourselves what kind of building that is.”
“‘Out of the woods’ hits it pretty squarely on the head,” Wilmont said. “Do you honestly believe we ever will be…out of the woods?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to think about i
t. Not right now. You warned me against stumbling and if you keep on talking that way I’ll have the worst kind of fall.”
“I’m sorry,” Wilmont said, quickly. “I’m the worst kind of fool, I guess. I’ll try to keep my thoughts to myself.”
“That’s just it, Joseph. They are not all our thoughts. I don’t think you’d have talked that way if you hadn’t—”
Joyce stopped, her hand darting to her throat. Her heart had begun a furious pounding and as she swayed in alarm a coldness started creeping up her spine. Higher and higher it crept until the base of her neck felt as if it had become encased in ice.
Then, slowly and insidiously, splinters of ice seemed to enter her brain. Her steps faltered, slowed and came to a halt. She saw Wilmont moving past her and realized, with a feeling of utter helplessness, that she had not cried out to warn him not to leave her side. Another man passed her, followed by two women and a child.
“Joseph, don’t leave me! Stop! Come back!” The words echoed in her brain. But her throat muscles remained frozen and she could not move her tongue.
The splinters of ice were inflicting great anguish. Deeper and deeper they seemed to go into her brain, draining away all of its warmth as they dissolved and became a flowing coldness that penetrated every recess of her consciousness.
She could still think and feel, but all of her thoughts had turned cold, terribly cold and remote from the sunlight that was still filtering down between the trees and the voices of the children that seemed now to come from another world.
Then, abruptly, the visions came. A vast corridor, blue-lit, hushed, tomb-silent one moment and echoing the next with voices that were quite different from the voices of children, took shape in the depths of her mind. First she saw it from a distance, as if she were standing apart from it but near enough to be enveloped in its steady glow.
CHAPTER TEN
She looked at her hands. They were faintly luminous, and ribbons of blue light cascaded over the strange, tunic-like dress she was wearing. Then, gradually, the inner vision shifted, looming larger and nearer and all at once she was inside the long, blue-lit corridor, moving silently along it.
The Frank Belknap Long Science Fiction Novel Page 44
