by Trevor Hoyle
On the illuminated dashboard the green glow of the clock showed 9:52. At this speed – a steady sixty – the driver estimated they would make Griffin by eleven o’clock. Their final destination was somewhere near there, deep in the Adirondack National Park. He doubted that it would be signed, which worried him, but he had hopes that the Troth Foundation wouldn’t be too hard to find in that sparsely populated neck of the woods.
2
Annie Lorentz was perched on the window ledge, one blue-jeaned knee drawn up supporting her elbow, her chin propped on her fist. Her eyes hadn’t moved in the past several minutes, had scarcely blinked, and Gribble had a pretty good idea why.
He guessed that she didn’t like the shiny black motorcycle helmet he had rigged up with wires. It made Jeff resemble an alien monster from a fifties horror movie. For another thing, she probably couldn’t get a handle on the bizarre setup: Jeff Cawdor’s physical body right here in front of her, lying prone on the bed, while his mental being was absent, free to roam anyplace it chose. Even into realms that existed only in the imagination. Pretty creepy, Gribble had to admit.
Annie took a gulp of the Irish whiskey that Gribble had thoughtfully placed in her hand. ‘Can he hear us?’ she asked him. ‘Is Jeff aware of people around him in the room?’
‘The helmet’s insulated to cut out external sound, but some of it might seep in. It’ll come through like voices in the head, you know? Not someone actually talking to him direct.’
Gribble was at the foot of the bed, the laptop with its small green screen on a low table in front of him. He had made a bank of pillows to support the VR headpiece and thus take the burden off Jeff’s shoulders. His body outlined under the single sheet, Cawdor lay motionless, arms by his sides. Sensor pads were attached to his right wrist and to his left forearm, just above the thermoplastic sheath. From these a series of wires transmitted a constant stream of data, measuring pulse rate, skin conductivity and electrical stimulation of the nervous system. These feedbacks were vital. They allowed Gribble to monitor the stress levels Cawdor might be experiencing, and in theory alert him to any sudden fluctuations that might indicate a potentially life-threatening situation. In theory. Gribble hadn’t actually run a test to see if the system would work, but, fingers crossed, no reason why not.
This was another reason he hadn’t sought Doctor Khuman’s permission: being unable, as Gribble readily admitted to himself, to give the doc a copper-bottomed assurance on the makeshift hardware down to the last nut and bolt. Even less could he guarantee with total confidence that the Zone program would perform as it was supposed to. It was his own personal creation, right enough, but the extensive field trials on a wide variety of human subjects had been somewhat limited. In fact, to just one. Him.
The main reason, however, was that Doctor Khuman had already made his opposition abundantly clear, insisting that Cawdor was in no fit state at the present time to undergo such an experience. Reluctantly, Gribble had accepted that professional verdict. He had respected Doctor Khuman’s right to make it. No longer. All bets were off. Jeff had asked for his help as plain and direct as if he’d grabbed Gribble by the arm and begged him on bended knee. Even told him how he could help. That was more than good enough for Gribble.
He glanced up at Annie Lorentz perched on the window ledge, her fingers wrapped tight round the glass of whiskey, her eyes still fixed on Cawdor. He’d been reluctant to involve her in this, but he had no option, needing another pair of hands to assist in setting everything up. And – though Gribble was even more reluctant to confess it – for moral support too.
She took a sip and blinked slowly. ‘How long’s this gonna take, Gil? All night?’
Gribble’s answer was a shrug; he really had no idea.
He said, ‘What you have to remember, Annie, is the passage of time inside the Zone is different to ours. A minute, say, of our “real” time doesn’t relate to a minute of Jeff’s time.’ She gave him a quizzical look. ‘Inside the Zone everything moves at the speed of thought,’ Gribble explained. ‘Jeff might live through a whole raft of experiences – heck, a whole lifetime – that lasts a fraction of a second on our timescale. You know, like in a dream? Like you can fall asleep, see all kinds of stuff, have weird adventures even, and bingo, you wake up to find only a coupla minutes have gone by, maybe even less. That’s what the Zone lets you do.’
‘Just what does it let you do?’ Annie frowned at him.
‘Well, uh, it’s… interactive,’ Gribble began lamely. He tugged at his beard. He had no problem knowing what it was supposed to do (after all, the Zone was his baby). It was putting the concept into words that gave him a problem. ‘With virtual-reality programs you got choices, right?’ She nodded. ‘But the choices are limited to what’s been programmed in. Like you can move at will through a room, say, decide to go left or right or turn around. What you can’t do is decide for yourself what’s in the room or what it looks like or how big it is. Those choices are given, not arbitrary. You’re stuck with ’em. Now, with the Zone, you, the player – you get to create the entire mindscape. You project your thoughts and the scenario you imagined comes up right in front of you. You’re slap-bang in there, seeing, feeling, hearing – the whole experience. But here’s the real zinger. Sometimes the scenario you get is not the one you imagined it would be. Sometimes it’s different, which is all down to the in-built probability curve.’
‘The what?’
‘That’s the beauty of this program, Annie,’ Gribble said, warming to his task. ‘It provides an infinite range of variations. Stuff might happen or not happen, like on the toss of a dice. Every time it’s different, and unpredictable, for everyone who tries it. All depends on the individual and what they –’
‘You’ve been around Doctor Khuman so much you’re starting to sound like him,’ Annie Lorentz remarked dryly.
Gribble was stung by the comparison. ‘Naw, ain’t the same thing at all. The doc’s slant is religious, not scientific. Philosophy and metaphysics, that kinda stuff.’
‘So how do we know what’s going on in there?’
Gribble coughed. ‘Well, to be honest, we don’t,’ he had to admit. ‘I can keep tabs on Jeff’s heart rate and how his nervous system’s reacting, but what’s actually happening to him is a blind guess.’
‘But Jeff can come out, yeah? He can return from wherever he is, anytime he wants to?’
Gribble’s response was hesitant. ‘Er, well, yeah, I guess so. I mean, I’m pretty confident he can.’
Annie Lorentz sat up.
‘What? You’re telling me he could get trapped in there? What if Jeff finds himself in a scary situation, for instance? Threatening or dangerous or …’ But then she calmed down. ‘I guess that can’t happen, can it, because you’re in control, right?’ She fixed him with a piercing look of her pale-blue eyes. ‘You are in control, Gil, aren’t you?’
Gribble nodded, fingers crossed under the table.
‘Suppose he wants out and can’t make it for some reason?’ Annie pressed him. ‘What happens then?’
‘Oh, that’s easy.’ Gribble gestured to the keyboard. ‘We cut the power.’
Annie relaxed. ‘Of course. Close down the program. After all, Jeff isn’t physically anywhere else, is he? His body stays here even if his mind is –’
‘Look!’ Gribble was pointing.
Cawdor’s left arm had risen, the black thermoplastic sheath held directly in front of the helmet’s mirrored visor. It hovered there for several moments, as if Cawdor was studying it.
‘Can he see that?’ Annie asked in a hushed voice.
The arm floated down, a slight tremor in the empty sheath as it came to rest on the bed.
‘I guess so, inside his own world,’ Gribble said. ‘Wherever that happens to be.’
* * *
With long nerveless fingers Graye unzipped the small leather pouch and opened it flat upon his knee. A gold Beamers pin lay there, encased in a sheath of clear plastic. Slowly and with extre
me care, he removed the pin and held it between thumb and forefinger.
‘You will observe no difference, apart from the colour, in shape or appearance to yours.’ Graye jerked his hand. ‘Take that one out and put it in your purse.’
Phyllis did as she was told and removed the silver pin. Graye replaced it with the gold pin, pinching the woollen sweater to insert the pointed end through the fold. The point was open at the tip: a tiny aperture connected to a hollow tube filled with a triple concentration of rattlesnake venom, which would only be released when pressure was applied.
‘Don’t remove it until you judge the time is right,’ Graye instructed her. ‘And hold it by the sacred symbol, nowhere else. Aim for his hand or his arm, but the optimum point of penetration is the side of the neck, into the main artery. Do you understand?’
Phyllis nodded. Her round face with its dimpled cheeks and rosebud mouth was expressionless. Her eyes, usually as bright as buttons, were glazed over. She fastened the gilt buttons of her jacket and sat there, docile, hands in her lap.
Graye turned to look through the side window. The high stone walls were a darker shadowy blur in the darkness outside. Beyond them, the square bulk of the house was outlined against the night sky, a few lights visible in the upper storeys. A single-track road of pale gravel led to the gates. After parking at this distance under the trees, the driver had slipped from the cab and returned a few moments later to report that the gates were standing open. Apparently no one in the Troth Foundation had thought to close them, or perhaps reckoned they were safe from outside intrusion out here in the depths of the countryside.
At Graye’s signal the driver slid open the side door.
‘May the blessings of the Saviour be with you,’ Graye said as Phyllis stepped down. ‘Let His strength and purpose guide your hand. The neck, remember, is the most vulnerable point. Kersh be with you.’
The dumpy figure moved off along the track, low heels crunching on gravel. A few moments later it had merged into the darkness and was gone. The night returned to stillness and to silence.
Annie Lorentz had dozed off, her head resting on her crossed arms supported by her drawn-up knees. Her sleep was shallow, so that part of her knew she was at Cawdor’s bedside while the rest of her mind was thronged with turbulent dream images that chased their own tails in endless circles. Cawdor was also in her dream. He was asking her something – rather, pleading with her – but there was some kind of failure of communication, as if he was speaking a foreign language, and try as she might she couldn’t understand him. She kept repeating, ‘Tell me again, tell me again,’ and, the more desperate his pleading, the more incoherent he became.
Then she was in Gil Gribble’s apartment. He was searching for something on the cluttered workbench. He was very agitated, rooting through piles of stuff, saying, ‘I know it’s here, it’s gotta be, I just put it down this second. It can’t have gone. Have you moved it?’
‘Moved what?’ Annie asked him, heart pounding, his anxiety infecting her too. ‘What have you lost?’
‘It’s gotta be here… Things don’t just vanish into thin air. What have you done with it?’
‘I haven’t touched it!’ Annie protested, feeling guilty even though she didn’t know what he was looking for.
Suddenly he gave a cry and pounced on something and held it up. Something small and shiny, but she couldn’t make out what he was holding even though she strained to look.
In the next dream she was in a hospital corridor with a green floor. The corridor stretched away to a pinpoint in the distance. She had to get down that corridor, but a nurse with a white starched cap was restraining her. Annie struggled to get free. The nurse was hanging on to her arm with both hands, her grip like iron claws, hurting her. Annie tried to wrench her arm away. Her elbow slipped off her knee and her head dropped forward, bringing her awake with a start.
‘Annie.’ Somebody was holding her arm, gently shaking her. ‘It’s getting late, gone midnight,’ Gribble said. ‘Why don’cha go to your room and get a decent night’s sleep?’ He straightened up, smiling. ‘Nothing’s happening right now, and it could take some time.’
She smothered a yawn and looked at Cawdor, the shiny black dome of the helmet giving him the grotesque appearance of half-man, half-insect.
‘Is he OK?’
‘The output levels are pretty normal so far.’ Gribble nodded to the laptop with its tracery of blips arcing sedately across the screen. ‘Nothing to concern us. I’m sure he’s fine.’
Annie Lorentz slid to the floor, rubbing both shoulders. ‘It still bothers me, Gil, that we can’t –’ Then she stopped, remembering her dream.
‘What?’
‘Communicate with him. He’s here in this room with us and yet he’s not here. It’s creepy, Gil.’
‘I tell ya, Annie, don’t worry about it! I’ll keep a close eye on things. You get some rest.’
Annie yawned again, picked up her shoulder bag and went to the door. ‘If you need me, let me know right away. OK?’
Gribble smiled and gave her a wink. He seated himself at the keyboard and gazed at the screen while he listened to Annie’s footsteps fading away. His smile faded with them. Her questions had disturbed him. Every one of her doubts and concerns had hit the bull’s eye, and he wondered if his feeble assurances had actually fooled her. He was working blind here, with nothing to go on except a screenful of data that meant whatever he wanted it to mean. Truth was, if Jeff got into real trouble, he couldn’t rely on these readings to tell him that for sure. They might indicate, for example, an intense and heightened dream state – which was what Jeff was experiencing anyway – but Gribble wouldn’t have a clue whether that was a normal response to imaginative stimuli or whether his friend was screaming blue murder and pleading to be released from some dark torment.
Fretting, Gribble scratched his scrub of beard. It occurred to him – too damn late now! – that he could easily have incorporated in the system a signalling device of some kind: a panic button to be activated if things got too tough. Not a button in the physical sense, of course, because objects inside the Zone had no physical reality; more a mental trigger that would curtail the program and return him to the outside world.
Why the hell hadn’t he thought of that before? He shifted uneasily on the hard chair, recalling Doctor Khuman’s warning about Jeff’s fragile psychological state. He’d spoken about the risk of ‘psychic shock’: the brain overloading on data, receiving too much input too fast for him to handle it. The result of which would be total mental breakdown.
Gribble looked at his wristwatch. It was ten after midnight. He’d give it till two o’clock, he decided. And if before then the readings went haywire, or even looked like doing so, he’d pull the plug at once.
Hunched forward, mouth set grimly, Gribble followed the gentle rhythm of blips on the screen, his eyes continually flicking up to the figure in the bed, which was entirely motionless except for the slight tremor in the empty thermoplastic sheath.
3
Mrs Brandt must have known that when he awoke it distressed him to see splinters of sunlight on the ceiling, and she had considerately closed the blinds so that the room was in subdued and restful shadow.
Cawdor lay back on the pillow, breathing a long sigh of relief.
The constant bombardment of images, spinning round and round in a vicious tightening circle, had drained him to the point where he couldn’t have gone on for much longer. He had been trapped in that endless, nightmarish merry-go-round, moving forward, so he thought, only to find himself back where he started. The weight of the past had been too great, the reliving of those memories too much to bear.
How it had worked – how in hell he’d managed it – getting a message through to the outside, he had no idea; he was just so profoundly grateful that it had. He closed his eyes, flexing the fingers of his left hand. That’s how. His hand was the key. Doctor Khuman had picked up the signal he was transmitting and had the great good sense
to pull him out of his coma and back to the land of the living. Now, after a rest, his strength regained, he could talk it over with Doctor Khuman and plan a way of getting to Kersh. The man was cleverer than he had supposed, Cawdor realised. Kersh had led him along, letting him gain access to the tower, and then constructed a series of images and experiences that led round and round in circles. That poor wretch in the stinking bowels of the sailing ship. The white-shrouded figure in the hospital bed who turned out to be himself. The red-haired kid in the gas station gunned down in cold blood.
Then back to the ship, the hospital, the gas station; on and on and on … It exhausted him even thinking about it.
Cawdor drifted off again into a dreamless sleep, and when he came groggily awake the shadowy room was airless and stifling. He could feel the heat of the sun even through the closed shades.
It was an immense relief, stepping outside, to see, in place of the dark phantoms of Kersh’s twisted imagination, a friendly face. Because there, standing on the sunlit terrace, was the welcome sight of his old friend Gil Gribble beaming at him, his face flushed from the heat, gingerish mop of hair like a fuzzy halo.
‘Better sit down, Jeff. You look kinda wobbly.’
Cawdor sank into a chair. Gribble was right. His legs felt rubbery.
‘It was killing me in there. I needed to rest.’
‘Sure you did!’ Gribble grinned. ‘Take your time:’ He glanced around, as if they might be overheard. But there was no one on the terrace, and the windows of the Troth Foundation were empty. Below them the lawns sloped gently to the sparkling ribbon of water beyond the trees.
Cawdor smiled. ‘It’s good to see you, Gil.’
‘You too, Jeff.’
‘How’s your cat?’ Cawdor asked, his smile broadening.
