III
Roger Nimron shifted in his chair, puffed on his black pipe, and continued. "You see, the environment we create becomes our only method of describing our role in it. Printing created sequential thought, linear thought. Then came television, making all men closer together, less individual. Then Show. We have reverted from the village stage of society to a stage man has never seen before—a sort of gestalt. Something even worse is bound to happen if this continues."
IV
"I don't understand it," he said to the doctor as they stood in the hallway outside of his wife's hospital room. "I simply don't understand."
There was the smell of disinfectant, antiseptics, alcohol.
"It must have been longer than you said," the doctor argued. He was an elderly physician whose years of experience gave him the right to argue, or so he seemed to feel.
"It was only seven hours. I was only gone that long!"
The doctor scowled. "No one enters an Empathist trance in seven hours. It takes days!"
The door to the room opened, and a younger doctor stepped into the hall. "The electric shock won't work. She's too far gone."
Seven hours, I swear," the husband said.
Other places, in other cities, there were presently twenty-three similar cases being attended to. . . .
V
Jake Malone held the phone very close to his ear and waited. He was nervous, but he knew he could control it. He could clamp firm hands on any case of nerves he had ever met up with, choke it into submission. He raised his hand, stared at it. Not one tremble. Or was it that his eyes were trembling too, thus voiding any possible neutral observation? His mouth was dry, certainly. He swallowed a bit of water, lubricated his lips.
"Yes?" the ghost tone said on the other end—ghost thunder, rather.
"Sir, this is Jake Malone. Head of Research?"
"What is it?"
He used his most humble voice. "I have come up with something that may be valuable in the search for Roger Nimron, but my superior, Mr. Connie, refuses to include it in the report. He says there is no value in it."
There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then: "Go on."
"I think, Mr. Cockley, that there may be a chance that Nimron is hiding in one of the old Presidential rest spots or nuclear weapon shelters. I would have to go back into the written records, of course, use a translating computer that can read them. But I strongly believe that we may find Nimron if we research this." He stopped. He had had his say. Now there was only the waiting.
"You come up to my office, Jake. In . . . half an hour."
"Yes, Mr. Cockley. I just thought this should be aired. I don't want to cause Mr. Connie any trouble."
"Half an hour." The connection was suddenly broken.
He sat numb, nearly paralyzed, for a time. The intervening half hour would be when Cockley talked to Connie. Who would he believe? It was one helluva chance to take. If Cockley thought he, Malone, was lying, he would be out of Show altogether. But if he thought Connie was the liar, Malone would very possibly be advanced to a higher position—Connie's position.
Half an hour later when he walked through the door of Cockley's office and saw Howard Connie's inert body on the floor, sticky and red, he knew the answer. He had been promoted. But he was no longer so very sure that he wanted the job.
"Let me see your hand," Pierre said, taking Mike's long, thin hand in his hammier one,
"I've been pounding the bricks like you said."
The Frenchman examined the callus that had built up, yellow-brown and tough. He pressed a nail into it, watched Mike's face. When the taller man did not wince, he let go. "Thick enough, I guess. Now you will go to the surgeon for the rest of this session."
"Surgeon?"
"A minor operation, nothing serious."
"But why—?"
"Look," Pierre said, taking a human bone and placing it in the practice vise, drawing it in tight. "This is a plastic model of the hip bone of a man with all the strength of the real bone." He raised his hand, swung it down. The bone cracked. A second blow split it wide open, sent it tumbling out of the vice.
"So? You've broken bricks and lumber before."
"Yes, but this is an object lesson. Karate is a gymnasium sport. It is not always something you can use in a fight. Almost anyone can break a brick or board. It is a matter of confidence—and of aiming at a point beyond the object you really wish to strike so as not to unconsciously check your blow. But in a fight, there may be too much happening for you to remember this look-beyond-the-target rule, and you may not have as much self-confidence as in the gym. That is why you will have a steel plate embedded in your callus."
"Steel plate?"
"A smooth, rounded plate. Thin but tough enough to greatly fortify your callus. It is backed by very tiny shock rings that will absorb the blow to protect the bones of your own hand. Remember, your opponent will not be willing to climb into a practice vise and tighten his arm, leg or neck into striking position for you."
Mike laughed, feeling more at ease. At least he would be losing no more of his identity. He would not have liked to have his voice changed again, for he was finally used to that. And his blue eyes were brighter and more intriguing than his brown ones had been. This was a utility incision, not a major change.
He found the surgeon's quarters, allowed the kindly, gray-haired man to strap him in, and was propelled into the wall slot. There was no anesthetic this time, for the slitting of the callus would not engender pain. There was only womb-like warmth and womb-like darkness, sterile, pure, and endless. Far into the machine's innards, there were whirring sounds and the clicking of programmed tapes falling into place. Nearby, there was the smell of antiseptic, the feeling of it cool as it slopped onto his hand. Then there was a tickling, a dull scraping sensation, then quiet. His hand was held perfectly motionless in the steel fingers that were somehow soft. He could tell when the plate was slipped in, for it sent an odd shiver through his body. He could tell when they were welding the callus shut, slapping a little speedheal over the last traces of the incision. Then there was a whirring, grinding, ratcheting. He slid into light again.
"Let me look," the surgeon said.
He held out his hand.
"Perfect."
Mike nodded, started to speak.
But the old man went by him and approached the cavernous maw of the machine, the robo-surgeon. Mike realized the compliment had been meant for the machine. The doctor bent over it, cooing, complimenting the incision and the welding. He left him with his metal friend and went to Nimron's office.
Nimron had been the most vital influence on Mike's acceptance of all things expected of him. The man was warm, capable, friendly. There was nothing he refused to take time to explain. Mike now understood the workings of the Media Revolution. The purpose was to bring back books, movies, poetry, and writing. In this way, the Romanticists hoped to bring man back to the way he had once been. A return to the past. Nimron was always quoting some poet named Walt Whitman. Mike also understood that though his part was a major one, the rest of them worked just as hard and risked just as many things as he. They were all, actually, risking their lives. And there was no greater thing to risk.
The outer door to the Presidential quarters opened after the camera had surveyed him. The door in the mirrored foyer, however, was already open when he entered. He stepped into the main room, still somewhat awed by it, even after so many visits.
"How is the hand?" Nimron asked.
He knew everything that went on in the complex, what each man was doing. He had a fantastic memory for details like personal and family history of each conspirator. He could talk conversationally about the affairs of any man he met during the course of a day if that man was a conspirator. Anything he said ceased to amaze Mike, no matter how all-knowing the comment seemed to be. "It's okay," he answered. "It feels a bit stiff though."
"In a few days, you'll forget it is there." He smiled. "Until you have occasion
to use it, that is."
Mike plopped into the familiar chair, fingered the lion heads at the end of each arm. "What is it today, Roger?"
Today we talk about your assignment."
"No more background?"
"No."
"When do I start?"
Tomorrow."
He swallowed a lump in his throat. There was supposed to be a longer break between training and action, a few days to rest. "I was under the impression—"
"Things have changed. We have word that Cockley is doing some shaking up in his staff. He dumped his top executive for a younger man, Jake Malone. Malone is going to go as far back in the written records as he can. He will be searching for Presidential hideaways like this one. That means they are going to find us sooner or later—most likely sooner."
"But are the rest of the Revolutionaries ready? The commando teams? The broadcasting facilities for when Lisa and I—"
"All prepared, all ready."
Mike wriggled in the chair, watched the flames leaping in the fireplace, the smoke rising to be filtered in some huge water jug up in the concrete walls somewhere.
"Malone's promotion is a blessing we had not expected," Nimron said. "This is Malone." He handed over a photograph, hesitantly.
"But this is me!"
Nimron didn't speak.
"You changed me to look like Malone!"
"You were not told you would look like another man, I admit. We tried to make you think you had a one hundred percent choice in the matter of your looks. It was disturbing enough to your ego to have any change at all. The knowledge that you were going to be a carbon copy of someone else—well, that may just have been too much at the time. You might not have stood for it. You may have caused problems." Nimron watched him carefully for a reaction.
At one time, he would have had a very violent reaction. But now it did not matter so much. He was part of something bigger than himself, yet he worked for himself. In Show, it had not been like that; he had worked for everyone but himself, for Show and its executives, for Cockley, and for the seven hundred million at home, the drooling ones. Now he was living a better life. If a look-alike plan was called for, it was something he would just have to swallow. And he did. "Go on," he said.
"I'm glad you aren't upset. We were afraid, even this much later, that you might react negatively."
"I'm in this too deeply to argue anymore. Besides, I look better now than I ever did."
Nimron smiled, continued. "We're going to remove the real Malone and replace him with you. He was the only man in Show who had your general bone structure in the face, your exact height. You can pass for Jake Malone through any test they care to run."
"My blood and eyes and new voice . . . ?"
"His."
"And perhaps I can stop the correct information about this shelter from getting to Cockley," Mike said after a protracted pause. "According to the reports I give him, there will be no shelter like this."
"Unless he already has those reports."
"Then the dance is drawing to a finish."
"And we will be working on just that assumption. You have to get Lisa out of there and to the rendezvous point in the basement garage of Cockley Towers within twenty-four hours of your replacement in the Show buildings."
"That is very little time."
"There isn't much time left for anyone," Nimron said, the weariness suddenly showing through worn spots in his perpetual shield of energy.
Mike looked back to the photograph. "I look like, smell like, even sound like this man. But how do I know what his personality is like?"
"We have that," Nimron said, producing a folio of yellow papers, opening it. "Malone is arrogant with everyone but Cockley. He is intelligent and he knows it. He is extremely ambitious. There is some question whether he may have been instrumental in getting his previous superior done in. He has reached the top of his profession, and he can be expected to rub it in to everyone else while letting the boss know he is still humble and still subservient and probably always will be where the old man is concerned. He instinctively fears Cockley."
"Everyone fears Cockley."
"And Cockley knows it. But from our records, Malone manages to conceal the outward symptoms of his fear while letting Cockley know he has it beneath the surface just the same."
"In other words, I can't let my knees shake when I'm with Cockley."
"Exactly."
Mike wondered about that. He thought that, perhaps, it would be an impossible thing.
Malcom Malcom and his wife sat down and flicked on their auras. He was feeling lusty tonight. She was in the mood for bathos. They would get a good deal of both on the evening program. Show always gave the viewer the right thing: just so much violence, so much sex, this much love, that much hate, violence, and happiness.
They began flowing into the minds of the two young Performers. They were watching what was happening; but Malcom Malcom realized he was becoming, somehow, less aware of things instead of more aware. His mind seemed to be slipping even beyond the mind of the Performer he wished to be a part of. It slipped through the mind, kept going. At first, he thought it was merely a new sensation Show had devised. Then it was more frightening than curious. Then downright horrifying. He tried to call his mind back to his body, but he could not. He fought harder. There were now only bursting bubbles around him. . . .
Emp . . .
path . . .
ist. . . .
The bubbles said "Empathist" like wind scraping against bare trees.
They said it like seafoam on seafoam on—
Like voices of birds. Messages of terror.
Malcom Malcom, screaming, gave up his body and became part of something else, something infinitely larger. And Mrs. Malcom Malcom was screaming too. . . .
They had been under the aura only four minutes.
That night, Mike Jorgova dreamed a dream. It was a replay, actually, of one of his performances with Lisa. But
it seemed fresher now than it had the first time. It bit, scraped, caressed his senses.
They were on a picnic. The table was set with all sorts of delicious things: fruits of red, fruits of yellow, sandwiches both tiny and large, coffee and cake.
And there was Lisa.
Her hair was golden, framed by the blue sky where an almost-but-not-quite-equal goldness burned. Her eyes were blue. It was as if pieces of her head had been cut out, allowing the sky to show through. Her lips were like the skins of the apples lying on the tablecloth.
Her hand trembled. Lisa always trembled through every performance.
In her eyes, he could see himself—tall and handsome. With brown eyes. No, blue. Brown. Blue. He became increasingly confused about the color of his eyes. And the shape of his nose. The line of his chin. From that moment on, the dream became a nightmare.
PART THREE:
REVOLUTION!
I
At two o'clock in the morning, the main spire of Cockley Towers stood like a giant concrete and steel tree, its main shaft the trunk, its balconies and overhanging, glass-floored rooms the branches and the leaves. There were scattered lights glowing in the upper floors. The ground lobby was a blaze of warm, orange light. The dark floater drifted silently across the lawn, lights out, a slow, nocturnal butterfly. There was a driver, a second bodyguard, and Mike Jorgova seated within the cave-like interior.
"Alarm line directly ahead," the bodyguard said.
"Breaks anywhere?" the driver asked.
"Hmm. No. Solid. Rings the building, apparently."
The craft slowed behind a line of shrubs, stopped. Mike leaned over the seat to watch the green scope pulsate yellow in one thin line that curved from one corner of the screen, down to the middle, and back up and out of the opposite corner.
"How broad?" the driver asked.
"Ten, maybe twelve feet."
"If we trip it, every guard in the tower will be down here, pulverizing us with vibra-pistols." The driver motioned to a gate that ha
d no fence on either side of it. It stood, absurd and improbable, alone. The pathway to the glass lobby doors, however, led from it. "That's the visitor post. Mike, do you suppose you could go over and ring the bell? They ought to let a resident in, especially one as important as Malone. Tell them you forgot your card-key to activate the lock. We'll be right behind you in those bushes to the left of the gate."
Mike fingered the gas pistol that lay up his sleeve in a leather strap affair. One sharp downward jerk would bring it into his hand, in firing position, spitting destruction. He had not yet fired it upon a human target, but he had seen pictures of its victims. Pierre thought it wise that he see the results of the weapon prior to actual combat so that the shock might not slow his reflexes. There were headless corpses in those pictures, faceless heads, inside-out people. Even for Lisa, even to save his own life, it was a horrible death to visit upon a man. But he felt he could depress the stud if he had to. It was depress it and kill or not depress it and be killed.
They got out of the floater, crawled, hunched, and ran across the lawn to other shrubs. Mike stood then and approached the bellpost, a waist-high, simu-wood sentry capped with a white, plastic button.
Dingadingading.
There was a stirring in the lobby. A large, dark man in a greatcoat came to the glass doors, looked down the hundred feet of walk to the bellpost. He hesitated for a long moment, then opened the door, came out walking warily but not slowly.
Koontz, Dean - The Fall of the Dream Machine Page 7
