PRISONER OF FIRE
Edmund Cooper
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Contents
Title Page
Gateway Introduction
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
CODA
Website
Also By Edmund Cooper
Author Bio
Copyright
1
It was a late spring afternoon. Vanessa was free—if the term could be used appropriately—until roll call and the evening meal at 18.00 At 19.00 there would be a group session with half a dozen other paranormals and Dr. Lindemann or Dr. Dumbarton, or both. At 20.00 she and most of the other paranormal children would be allowed a couple of hours of censored tri-di, or chess, or table tennis, or card games. After that bed, the end of another day.
Vanessa sighed. Life at Random Hill Residential School was dreadfully, boringly predictable. Dangerous thought (low key). Somebody might be listening (also low key). Vanessa suddenly changed gear and gave high-key thinking to the lovely words of The Golden Journey to Samarkand. That left her low-key thoughts private. It was a form of intellectual schizophrenia to which she had disciplined herself over the last few years.
Low key, for the hundredth time, she contemplated the prospects of escape. She had sufficient discipline to keep the transmission areas going strong on the poetry of James Elroy Flecker, which, at least, gave her enough privacy to contemplate her situation.
Random Hill was an institution, according to the staff, where there was greater freedom for gifted children than at any other similar school in the country.
Why, then, the electrified fences beyond the high thorn hedges that contained its one hundred acres? Why the perimeter guards and the tracker dogs? Why the infinite variations on mañana if anyone expressed a desire to see the outside world?
I am seventeen years old, thought Vanessa (low key). I have been a prisoner here for more than ten years. I must get out, even if the world is as dangerous as they say. I must get out.
But where were the paranormal powers that would enable one to pass through an electrified fence?
Vanessa was sitting on a grassy knoll under a huge oak tree, barely two hundred yards from the large nineteen-century house that had been converted into a school for paranormals. She was in full view of the staff wing, and had deliberately chosen her spot for that very reason, reasoning that if she remained visible, people would probably be less curious about what she was thinking. Sometimes it worked that way, sometimes it didn’t. But if you hid yourself away or appeared secretive, there was a very strong chance that they would use a rapport or a seeker to find out what you were thinking and where you were.
You could never feel a rapport, though you could feel a seeker. She had always interpreted the probe of a seeker as a mental sensation analogous to a very gentle hand stroking her hair. The moment she experienced such a sensation, she knew that her thoughts were no longer private.
Vanessa lay back on the grass, stretching herself luxuriously. She got tired of the Samarkand block and switched to music—a simple folk tune: Greensleeves. Somebody had once told her that it had been composed by an ancient king of England.
With Greensleeves dominating the high-key area, Vanessa allowed her low-key thoughts to roam. Really, she told herself, she was in danger of becoming paranoid. There was no one at Random Hill of whom she need be afraid. She had the best extra-sensory rating of all forty-three children. The next esrate was Dugal Nemo, and he was only nine years old. Also he was Vanessa’s friend. The trouble with Dugal was that he was a trusting boy, easily led; and he was a first-class seeker as well as a developing rapport. But surely there could be nothing to fear from Dugal?
Both she and Dugal were orphans, knowing nothing at all of their parents. It was a bond. Even if they had not had high esrates, they would still have felt like brother and sister.
Vanessa dismissed her fears of surveillance and concentrated on the problem of escape.
Dugal tried to make himself comfortable in the chair that was far too big for him, and took the proffered bar of chocolate from Dr. Lindemann.
“May I eat it now?”
Dr. Lindemann laughed. “What would you do if I said no? You would clutch it in your hot little hand until it became a sticky mess. Yes, Dugal, eat the chocolate—but please don’t get it all over your face, there’s a good fellow.”
They were in Dr. Lindemann’s study. Through the window it was possible to see Vanessa lying on the grass under a big tree. Dugal liked Dr. Lindemann very much. He was the youngest of the scientists at Random Hill, and he had a sense of fun, and he laughed a lot. Also he was an inexhaustible source of chocolate bars.
“We are very pleased with you, Dugal. You are our star pupil. One day, when you are grown up, you will maintain a communications link with the solar colonies. You will be an important man.”
Dugal munched his chocolate and shot a wild probe at Dr. Lindemann’s mind. As expected, he hit the barrier. Funny how all these scientists had the same mind barrier. Perhaps they were deformed.
“Vanessa is better than me,” said Dugal.
Dr. Lindemann shrugged. “She’s much older, and she is only a girl.”
“Some girls are all right,” said Dugal carefully. “I mean, Vanessa doesn’t have to be no good just because she is a girl.”
“No. But girls are not usually as ambitious as boys, Dugal. Probably, Vanessa will marry and have children and forget all about her special gifts.”
“I want to be the best ‘path
in the world,” said Dugal, munching. “I want to be able to talk to people out among the stars.”
“And you might be,” said Dr. Lindemann. “You know people like me are blind, Dugal. But even we blind scientists know a great deal about paranormal powers. If you follow our teaching, you might well become the best telepath in the world… You like Vanessa a lot, don’t you?”
“She’s the greatest—for a girl, I mean.”
Dr. Lindemann laughed. “I bet you can’t probe her.”
Dugal looked surprised. “Of course I can, Dr. Lindemann. You know that. Ask her to open, and I’ll probe all you want.”
“What I mean,” said Dr. Lindemann silkily, “is that I don’t think you can probe her if we don’t ask her to open.”
Dugal finished his chocolate, licked his fingers. “I could, too. But—but would it be right?”
“She is your friend, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Then, of course it would be all right.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure… Try it, Dugal. Tell me what she is thinking.”
Dugal closed his eyes. “When the great markets by the sea shut fast,” he said. “All that calm Sunday that goes on and on. When even lovers find their peace at last. And earth is but a star that once had shone.” He opened his eyes. “That is what she is thinking, Dr. Lindemann. It doesn’t make much sense, does it? But that is what she is thinking.”
“Poetry,” said Dr. Lindemann. “That is what it is. Vanessa is amusing herself.” He gazed at her through the window. She did not seem to have moved. “Do you think Vanessa felt your probe, Dugal?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I was very gentle. Can I go now, Dr. Lindemann?”
The scientist smiled. “Soon. Soon. You want to be rushing about in the sunshine, no doubt. Very right and proper. Children should be like healthy young animals. Do you like Random Hill, Dugal?”
“Yes, sir. Very much.”
“You are happy with us here?”
“Yes, sir. Everybody is very kind.”
“Good. Good… Just for fun, Dugal, try to probe Vanessa again. Let us see if she is still enjoying her poetry.”
Obediently, Dugal closed his eyes once more. “It’s music,” he said after a moment or two. “Nice music. Shall I whistle the tune?”
“No. There’s no need. Vanessa seems to be in a happy mood… I wonder if she is thinking of anything else but the music? Sometimes people make little tunes for themselves while one part is busy with other thoughts. Can you probe deeper, Dugal?”
Dugal looked anxious. “Vanessa might not like it.”
Dr. Lindemann shrugged. Miraculously another chocolate bar had appeared in his hand. “It’s only an experiment, Dugal. We make experiments like this all day long, don’t we?”
Dugal was hesitant. “Shall I run out and ask her, Dr. Lindemann? Ask her if I can try a deep probe, I mean?”
Lindemann pretended to stifle a yawn. “It is not that important, Dugal.” He handed over the chocolate bar.
“Besides, we could make secrecy part of the experiment, couldn’t we? But if you don’t think you are good enough to make a deep probe in secret…”
“Oh, I can do it,” said Dugal with all the confidence of a child.
“Well, then, let us make our secret experiment. And after that you can go and run off all the energy you have absorbed from two bars of chocolate.” Dr. Lindemann laughed. “But if you get spots and have to see Matron, I shall deny having given you any chocolate at all.”
Dugal grinned conspiratorially. Then he closed his eyes. “The same nice music. Very loud. I’m going underneath it, but she feels me. She knows someone is there… The music is louder, her thoughts—her thoughts are scrambling away… There is something about electricity. That is all I can get. The music is now very loud.” Dugal opened his eyes. He looked troubled.
“Electricity,” said Dr. Lindemann. “Music and electricity. How interesting. You did very well, Dugal.”
“Can I go now?”
“Yes, you can go, Dugal. Remember it was a secret experiment. I can assure you Vanessa won’t mind.”
“Yes, sir.” Dugal left the room feeling vaguely unhappy.
Vanessa shivered. Twice she thought she had felt the wind in her hair. But when the deep probe came, she knew it had not been the wind. Only one person could pass her blocks—if he wanted to. But why would Dugal do it? Not for his own childish curiosity. He was too gentle, too sensitive for that. Someone had conned him. Lindemann, Dumbarton, Professor Holroyd—somebody.
Did it matter who? They were all the enemy, all jailers. All that mattered was what Dugal had found and what he had told. While she was contemplating the situation, Vanessa used what she considered to be her strongest block—an old nonsense song with a monotonous refrain: Ten Green Bottles. Once she started that compulsive sequence running through her head, she could be reasonably sure that even Dugal would be blocked by the idiotic repetition.
The important thing was not to let anyone know that she had noticed the probe. The important thing was just to lie back on the grass and appear to enjoy the blue sky, the spring sunlight.
Vanessa had closed her eyes, and did not seem to be aware of Dr. Lindemann’s presence until he spoke to her.
“Are you asleep, Vanessa?” he said softly.
She opened her eyes, squinted up at him against the sky. He was not bad-looking for a middle-aged man of forty, or thereabouts. She knew that, apart from his professional concern, he found her sexually interesting also.
“Not asleep, Dr. Lindemann. Just daydreaming.”
“Oh. About anything special?”
So he was the one who had used Dugal. She had an inspiration. Carry the war to the enemy. “Nothing important. I was just thinking about the electrified fences.”
Dr. Lindemann appeared to stroke a beard that did not exist. “Interesting. Do you know why you were thinking about the electrified fences.”
She sat up. “Yes. It seems so sad—especially on a spring day—that we are shut off from the rest of the world, and it is shut off from us.”
Dr. Lindemann smiled. “Precautions, Vanessa. Nothing but precautions. You lead a sheltered existence. You are lucky. The outside world could be a very dangerous place to people such as you. You watch tri-di. You know the level of violence that exists in our so-called civilised society. The masses are always looking for scapegoats—communists, Catholics, immigrants, anarchists, spies. Even espeople like you. Have you considered that you are fortunate in being so well protected?”
“Yes. And I am thankful that I have a secure life with good friends and good teachers. But, just occasionally, I feel like a prisoner.”
Dr. Lindemann laughed. “A morbid thought. You are not a prisoner, Vanessa. You are a privileged person. Soon you will be eighteen. For a few months you are still a minor, and your welfare is our responsibility. But when you attain your majority, if you still want to leave, we shall not stand in your way. If you still want to leave, you will be able to walk out through the gate with nearly a thousand Euros in your pocket and no obligations to Random Hill whatsoever.”
Vanessa remembered (low key) the last person who had done just that. James Grey, a boy who was the best telepath that Random Hill had ever developed. It was nearly a year ago.
Vanessa and James had been psychologically intimate. By mutual consent they had agreed not to use blocks with each other. James had been convinced that the Random Hill set-up was a complicated conspiracy to restrict the liberty of paranormals. On his eighteenth birthday, he had decided to leave the institution and try his luck in the outside world. He had been given money, his identity card and the clothes he needed. Within an hour of leaving Random Hill, he had been found dead—horribly murdered.
His body had been brought back, and the older children had been allowed to see it, if they wished. Some of them did so wish, Vanessa among them. The wounds had been skilfully concealed, but not too skilf
ully. Especially for young people with some imagination.
Vanessa recalled his last, anguished transmission. “Don’t try it. Not this way. They have thugs waiting…”
So she said to Dr. Lindemann: “I don’t suppose I shall ever want to leave Random Hill or reject the training I have been given. I have too many friends here. Where would I find such friends outside?”
“Perhaps you are right. But don’t let me influence you, my dear. Make up your own mind. There is plenty of time.”
“Yes,” said Vanessa. “There is plenty of time.”
Though she knew that time was running out. How long could you live in a situation where you had to use mental blocks to maintain your privacy and be yourself?
2
IN THE SUMMER of 1973, Jenny Smith, aged eighteen, daughter of a Sussex farmer, had run away from home. Jenny had been an exceptionally intelligent child and had distinguished herself at school. Her teachers had discovered a peculiarity. In any form of oral examination, where the teacher already knew the answers to the questions being asked, Jenny invariably gained one hundred per cent. In any oral examination where the teacher did not know the answers to the questions, she still scored outstandingly high marks, but never one hundred per cent. In written examinations, whether the presiding teacher knew the answers or not, Jenny still scored one hundred per cent or very near to it.
Her teachers wanted her to go on to university. So did Jenny. Her father, a kindly but stolid man of fifty-three, did not. Having recently buried his wife, he saw no reason why he should continue to pay good wages to a housekeeper when Jenny was old enough to take over.
Jenny had wanted to take a degree in English Literature. Her father vetoed the notion. Jenny became an unpaid housekeeper on an isolated down land farm that was ten miles from the nearest town. She stood the isolation—physical, emotional, intellectual—through one long winter. Then she ran away.
She took ten pounds out of the housekeeping money, packed her few clothes in a battered hold-all, walked five miles to the main road and thumbed a lift to London.
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