Ralph shifted in his chair. “Maybe I’m a little paranoid,” he said. “After what happened in L.A.” It didn’t sound as ironic as he had intended it to sound.
“That was all most unfortunate. I really only wanted a little information from Gunther Ortiz. The only way to get it was for my psych-technicians to induce a memory flashback from his army experiences, and to identify the Alpha Fraction in his mind with his former enemies. No one, though, was prepared for the violence of the associations he had with that material. He broke loose and got away from us, with the results you saw. I’m very sorry about it all.”
“I bet.” Ralph pressed his fingers into the thick upholstery of the chair’s arms.
“Mr. Metric.” The world-famous head moved sadly from side to side. “I sense a great deal of hostility here. And it’s needless.” He pushed himself up from the chair. “Perhaps someone else can put your mind to rest. Come over here.”
The senator led him to a curtain, heavy with an intricate brocade, that was suspended from a curved track on the plane’s ceiling. “Still asleep?” said Muehlenfeldt, pulling the curtain aside. “No, I didn’t think you would be.”
He stood beside the senator without speaking as he gazed at Sarah. She was half-reclining on a small couch, one arm resting along its back. From a circular window she turned her face to them. An elegant dress of some glittery black stuff extended to her ankles, but left her tanned shoulders bare.
“Sarah’s my daughter, you know,” said Muehlenfeldt. “Since she was a little girl, she’s been a great one for secrets.”
Her eyes met Ralph’s, but no expression came into her face. She looks rich, he thought, feeling again the bitter sense of betrayal. Now that she’s in her proper environment.
The brocaded curtain moved along its overhead track, cutting the little space off from the rest again. Muehlenfeldt had withdrawn, leaving the two of them. Sarah drew her legs up so that Ralph could sit down on the end of the couch. When he had settled onto the cushion, he leaned forward with his arms on his knees and saw a long-stemmed wine glass that had fallen over and made a wet blot on the carpet. Sarah’s face had the partly hooded eyes of a joyless, infrequent drinker.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she announced flatly.
He looked over at her but said nothing.
“You think I fingered the Alpha Fraction. Got them all killed. You think I was working for my father all along.”
For a few seconds he watched her. “Yeah,” he said at last.
“Forget it,” she said. “He had us bugged all the time. Didn’t even need anybody on the inside.” She tilted her head, letting her hair fall across the top of the couch. “Believe that?”
“Maybe.” Who knows, he thought. Maybe it’s to the point now where it doesn’t even matter. “Is he really your father?”
“I don’t know. I’m not that wise a child.”
“Come on,” said Ralph. “Is he?”
She sighed. Her bare shoulders raised in a tired shrug. “Spencer used to tell me all those ideas of his, too. They might be true. I never knew my father very well. No rich kid ever does. If a being from another star took his place, I couldn’t tell you.”
Ralph nodded, wondering if the difference between the man and other men was due to the amounts of money and power he commanded, or to something even more alien than that. A part of himself, he knew, was watching Sarah, looking for that same difference in her.
“I just don’t know.” She sounded tired. “I was just about to a place where I thought I’d gotten away. From all this.” She lifted a hand to indicate the jet’s interior. “That’s why I left, went to L.A. in the first place, so long ago; even though I knew I could never make it into anybody else’s world. At best I could be free of any connections with here.” Her voice grew faint as she fell into some private reverie. “Billions of dollars and light-years away . . .”
He turned, leaned across the couch, and brought his hands to each side of her head. Her eyes stayed open as he kissed her, in a silver jet in the desert bright with light.
Then he let go of her, stood up, and drew aside the curtain enough to pass into the larger area. A dizzying confusion rolled through him. I still can’t tell, he thought. Maybe everybody’s from some other star.
“Ralph.” From some direction Muehlenfeldt appeared and put his arm around Ralph’s shoulder. The world-famous face of power and authority smiled pleasantly into his. “It was pure good luck that my men were able to get her out of there before that madman showed up and killed the others. Things aren’t working out the way I want them to. But you can help. You know what I’m talking about.”
“No.” Ralph shook his head. “I don’t.”
“That’s not necessary.” Muehlenfeldt steered him past the dark leather chairs. “There’s time for you to think about it. Then, when you’re ready to give me the info—well, I’m right here. Waiting for you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” An eerie perception of words dissolving free of their meanings floated over him. The senator let go of him, a door opened, one of the men—guards?—drew him away.
A few moments later, he was standing on the sand beneath the jetliner, watching the metal steps glide back up into the glistening belly. A hard rock of anger fell through him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he shouted at the closing door.
Chapter 12
Through the apartment window the bright desert stars were visible.
Ralph sat up on the couch in the front room and rubbed his taut face.
Sleep had eluded him for hours.
Maybe she’s telling the truth, he thought again. Maybe she didn’t betray the Alpha Fraction. Just a poor little rich girl, playing at revolutionary. Just to get back at her father. Only he turned out to be bigger and more dangerous than she could’ve guessed. He sorted through his fragmented thoughts again, wondering what sort of picture they would reveal if he could ever put them together in the right way. The senator, the jet, everything that had already happened—it all weaved in and out of his mind. He pressed his fingers to the corners of his eyes and wondered what time it was.
The room’s silence dissolved with the ringing of a telephone. For a moment he didn’t even recognize the sound. After several rings he stood up and went into the kitchen. He lifted the receiver from its mounting on the wall beside the refrigerator. “ ’Hello?” he said into it.
“Ralph—” The voice jumped into his ear, taut beneath an overlay of static. “Hey, is that you?”
He closed his eyes and felt the room sway a little. “No,” he murmured.
“You’re dead. I can’t take any more stuff like this.” It was Spencer’s voice on the other end of the line.
“No, I made it.” Spencer’s words came in a rush. “I got away from Gunther. But there’s somebody else after me now. Must be some of Muehlenfeldt’s people, about seven or eight of ’em. I’ve been running all this time. Don’t know how much longer—” He broke off, his voice replaced for a moment by the sound of deep, rapid breathing. “You’ve got to listen,” he spoke again. “They’ll find me any minute. It’s up to you. The Master Historical Program—I read it as it was printed out. After you unlocked it.”
Ralph’s spine went rigid. “Slow down,” he said, pressing the phone tighter to his ear. “I can’t understand you, you’re talking so fast.”
“I can’t slow down.” Spencer’s voice wavered, as though he were about to break into tears. “I’ve been running all day and they’re gonna find me any minute.”
“The program.” Ralph’s own voice was tight with urgency. “What was in it?”
The sound of a few more ragged breaths came from the receiver.
“Operation Dreamwatch,” he spoke at last, his voice only a fraction slower and more controlled. “It’s like the Manhattan Project of 1942. You know, the first nuclear pile? Zip rods—”
The phone went silent for a few seconds, then clicked sharply and began an elec
tronic buzz in his ear. “Spencer?” he shouted into the whining phone, but knew already there would be no answer.
He threw the receiver against the wall. It struck and dangled on the end of its cord, still sounding its faint idiot note. He glared at it, at the wall behind, at everything with a growing anger. This universe was still bent on hiding its secrets from him.
That does it, he thought disgustedly. He strode into the front room and picked up his jacket. I’ve got to talk to Sarah. Maybe she knows more—even just a little bit more—that I have to know.
* * *
Between the moon and the desert three jets left trails into the south.
The red lines healed and faded among the stars. Ralph felt like a ghost as he passed the silent line shack. The watchers, he calculated, were halfway through their shift, wandering around bored on the dreamfield.
And here I am, he thought, heading for the gate. Not bored, at least. Is that an improvement?
The dunes were a luminous blue in the moonlight. He followed the double trail of his previous footsteps out to Muehlenfeldt’s jetliner. Only when he was standing in the darkness beneath it, looking up at the tightly sealed metal flank, did he think, Now what? The thought of throwing pebbles up at the circular windows struck him as stupid, but he had no other idea. One of the scruffy bushes behind him rustled.
Before he could turn around, he was on his stomach, his face pressed into the sand. Someone’s knees were heavy on his back. Both his arms were brought up behind him and he was jerked painfully to his feet.
Twisting his head around, he could see over his shoulder the face of one of Muehlenfeldt’s guards. The malice underneath had split open the surface with a grin.
“Whatcha looking for?” the guard shouted in Ralph’s ear. “Looking for something? Huh?” He pulled the captive arms even farther up. “Whatcha snooping around for?”
Ralph couldn’t speak. The pain in his spine was making the stars go out one by one.
“Come on then. Jerk.” The guard trotted him forward. “The senator wants to talk to you.”
Another guard stepped out from behind one of the massive wheels. He pressed a button on a stubby-antennaed box in one hand. The jet’s stairs began their hissing descent.
Muehlenfeldt was alone in the jet, or at least there was no sign of Sarah.
The guards dropped Ralph in the middle of a curved section of sofa. He brought his arm out from where it had been twisted behind him, and felt the blood start to seep back into it. In a fluorescent blue dressing gown with a large red M embroidered on the front, Muehlenfeldt paced, scowling, back and forth in front of him. That looks ridiculous, thought Ralph, surprising himself with his calm. Like a cartoon of the world’s richest man.
“All right, Metric,” growled the senator, pointing a leathery finger at Ralph. “I’m not fooling around any more. You’d better open up pretty damn quick.”
Ralph massaged his aching arm. “I don’t know whatever it is you think I’m supposed to be able to tell you.”
“Cut out the games. I want all the details, all the names, everything you know about the Beta group.”
Puzzled, Ralph frowned. “You mean the Alpha Fraction, don’t you?”
The bony hand curled into a fist a few inches from Ralph’s nose. “Cut out the games!” shouted Muehlenfeldt. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about! Beta! Beta! Beta!”
Pushing himself back into the sofa’s upholstery, Ralph looked into the senator’s eyes. It didn’t matter whether he was from another star or not—another type of alienness blazed in the lean face. Insane, thought Ralph. The man’s crazier than—
“All right?” said Muehlenfeldt, his voice softer but still trembling with suppressed rage. “There’s no point in trying to fool me. I know all about it.”
“Great,” muttered Ralph. A weary disgust pushed aside his apprehension for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me about it, then?”
“Get him out of here.” As Ralph was jerked up from the couch Muehlenfeldt slapped the guard on the side of the head. “Careful! Remember what happened to the last one!”
In a few seconds the guard pushed Ralph from the bottom of the jet’s stairs. He stumbled forward, landing on his hands and knees in the sand.
Rolling over on his back, he watched the guard’s scowling face disappear as the ramp retracted into the silver fuselage. The hissing stopped and the silence of the night desert crept up around him.
He got to his feet and walked out from beneath the wing. His hands looked so pale and inhuman in the moonlight he thrust them in his jacket pockets and trudged over the sand.
“Ralph.” Sarah’s voice.
For a moment he thought some residue of the senator’s madness had twisted his hearing. Then he saw her standing on the little trail, waiting for him. Some part of the spectrum was missing, the part that had made her dress sparkle when he had seen her inside the jet. Now the fabric appeared as a featureless black against her skin.
“What are you doing out here?” he said. “I thought your father would’ve kept you locked up.”
She shrugged, listless. “Why should he? Where’s to go?”
“Anywhere. Away from him.”
“No.” She reached out and took his hand. “All that money is very comfortable. I know. It even fills up a little bit of the hole left by the Alpha Fraction.”
“What’s this other thing he was talking about? The Beta group?”
“Who knows? He’s insane.” She brought her hand up and held Ralph’s against her shoulder. “Something he dreamed up.”
Of course, he thought. We’re all operating out of them now. “Now what,” he murmured. The words were sucked lifeless by the empty spaces around them.
Sarah let go of his hand and turned away. Silently, her figure withdrew into the darkness surrounding the jetliner.
It’s all dreamfields, he thought. The dunes wheeled around him as he looked for the trail he had been following. No difference between this and any other one. And the worst is to know you’re lost on them.
* * *
He lay down on the sofa in darkness. As soon as he closed his eyes, or so it seemed, he was driving down a freeway in his parents’ old Ford. Beside him sat Michael Stimmitz with one arm draped casually out the side window. “I suppose you’re pretty mad at me,” said Stimmitz. “For getting you into all this.”
“No, it’s all right. Really.” Ralph had the sensation that the car was going very fast, faster than he’d ever gone in anything, yet everything beyond the windshield was a featureless gray haze. This is all a dream, anyway, he thought. A weary hollowness slid through his muscles, It doesn’t matter.
“Ah, that’s the trouble with you, Ralph.” Stimmitz shook his head. “That’s always been the trouble with you. You just don’t get mad at things, do you? If you did, they’d go better for you.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t feel like arguing. Patiently he waited for the dream to end and for comfortable unconsciousness to slip over him again. “You’re a fine one to talk about things going better. You’re dead.”
Michael Stimmitz shrugged. “That’s not important. You’re still dreaming about me, aren’t you? I must’ve made some impression on the universe, or part of it at least, if people are still thinking about me when I’m gone. Right? I mean, your memory is evidence that I existed once. But you, Ralph—boy, I just don’t know.” The dream image of Stimmitz kneaded his forehead with one hand. “It’s going to be one of those names-written-in-water deals for you if you don’t shape up pretty soon.”
“Come on. Give me some slack, will you?” Ralph felt a point of resentful misery penetrate his apathy. “I’m going through enough crap right now without you coming back from the grave and bitching at me.”
“I’m only doing it for your own good, Ralph. You don’t want to die and just be forgotten, do you? No accomplishments?” Stimmitz’s voice dropped in volume and pitch as he leaned closer. “Take a look at what’s in the back se
at.”
“I don’t want to,” sulked Ralph. “You’ve probably got something disgusting back there. I don’t want to see it, whatever it is.”
“Go on,” coaxed Stimmitz. “Take a look. What’s the harm? Maybe you’ll even wake up.”
Slowly, Ralph turned his head, his hands still gripping the wheel. Sarah lay curled up on the back seat, her head resting on her bare arm. Her hair spilled down to the floor. She’s dead, thought Ralph. Or at least here she is.
Her skin was white and cold-looking. A tiny drop of red glistened in the corner of her mouth, far below the bruised eyelids.
“What the hell’s that for?” said Ralph angrily. He swung around and leaned over the steering wheel, looking for an offramp. “How do I get off this damn thing,” he muttered.
“There’s more to be considered than just yourself.” Stimmitz gestured with one of his long-fingered hands.
“Thanks a lot. If you’re trying to be so goddamn helpful why don’t you tell me what’s going on with Muehlenfeldt and all the rest of that stuff?”
“Come on, Ralph. I’m just a product of your subconscious. I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”
“What’s the point, then. What’s the damn point.” Who needs this, he thought. He turned to face Stimmitz with more angry words forming on his tongue. But instead of Stimmitz, the slithergadee swelled and clattered its scales as it moved across the seat toward him, its jaws gaping hot and wide. The space outside the car grew dark and Ralph could feel the car falling, falling.
* * *
He woke up on the couch, surrounded by the dark apartment. Through the window he could see the cold stars still glittering over the desert. What time is it? he wondered. Everything seemed very still, the world in abeyance.
In his stocking feet he padded to the kitchen and looked at the little clock on top of the stove. Three a.m. A dark hour, he thought. So quiet.
Back in the living room, he gazed out the sliding glass door at the base and the desert. Nothing moved out there. In the distance, blue moonlight slid over the flanks of Muehlenfeldt’s jet. The pale luminescence on the ground had large, jagged black rips in it, the shadows of buildings and dunes and other objects, as the moon ebbed closer to the horizon.
The Dreamfields Page 11
