by Brian Lumley
Turning these things over in his mind, Trask was even now making his way past Paul Garvey where he sat in an aisle seat. The telepath was “listening,” however, and caught at his elbow. Trask paused and bent to hear what the other had to say.
“Couldn’t help but, er, ‘overhear you,’ ” said Garvey. “But, boss, you never did tell us how you managed to get the Swiss to cooperate in all this in the first place.”
Keeping his voice low, Trask answered, “It was our Minister Responsible. Working to my brief, and without demanding to know too much, he got in touch with an old school chum from his days at Oxford, someone big in Internal Security over there. He made mention of just four things: inexplicable disappearances; grisly murders; nuclear terrorism—because that’s not impossible—and very large amounts of gold. Of these the first three were passé, apparently. But as for gold: well, that never goes out of style, and certainly not in Switzerland! To be fair and unbiased, however, the Swiss authorities have been more than a little interested in Schloss Zonigen for quite a while now. So this was all the spur they needed. Anyway that was our in, and for once we have the Minister Responsible to thank for it.”
With a nod of acknowledgment to Millicent Cleary, who was seated beside Garvey, Trask straightened and continued down the aisle. He glanced back once at the girl, whose eyes were still following him, and forced a smile. Millie: an intelligent, very attractive young telepath whose talent had matured rapidly over the past six months to a year. While he’d always thought of her and treated her like a kid sister, Trask occasionally suspected she might have a “thing” for him. But while his talent told him this was so, it was also possible that he was projecting a “big brother” or “fatherly” image, and that this was what attracted her.
And moving on down the aisle he thought, Why, you poor old bastard! if only to himself. But still it was a fact that whenever Trask got himself involved in fieldwork and needed volunteers, Millie was usually the first to stick her hand up . . .
Two rows in front of Goodly’s aisle seat, David Chung was seated beside Frank Robinson, a spotter. Robinson was “psychic sensitive”—his talent instantly identified other psychically endowed people whenever he came into close proximity with them. Only twenty-six years old, still Robinson’s jet-black hair was striped with sharply contrasting shocks of pure white, a premature blanching that wasn’t entirely natural. Ben Trask had been there when Robinson had got those white shocks; indeed he, too, had had a “shocking” time of it, the night that he and Robinson and other members of E-Branch had tried to kill the Necroscope, Harry Keogh. That had been the spotter’s first real experience of work in the field; Schloss Zonigen would be his second, and Trask wondered how Robinson felt about that.
And so, leaning across Chung, he spoke to him. “Frank, any problems? Are you okay?”
“For now? I think so.” The other nodded. Then, having seen Trask looking at his hair, he added, “Anyway what have I got to lose? If the rest of it goes white at least it’ll match up!”
And Trask moved on, thinking: At a time like this, humour! It’s just as I always suspected: I’m not the only madman in the Branch after all! So this time around it’ll be lunatics against lunatics!
And as Goodly stood up to let him into his window seat, he said, “You know, this has to be the strangest thing we ever got ourselves involved in?”
“I know,” said the precog, squeezing himself into his seat again. “Principally because we still don’t know what we’re dealing with. What we do know is that an alpine ice cavern houses a very real threat to the entire planet in the shape of a trio of ruthless, probably psychotic individuals commanding ESP talents that may rival and even surpass all of our skills put together. And that three similarly talented, er, beings—not members of E-Branch, we should be so lucky—look all set to go up against our mutual enemies. Unable to announce our availability and our intentions to these last mentioned, however, and having no official contact with them, we haven’t been in a position to offer our advice and assistance. And the most frustrating thing about all this is that they probably know a hell of a lot more about what’s going on than we do!”
“In a nutshell, yes,” said Trask. “We might have contacted them earlier, but—”
“I know,” said Goodly. “And it’s possible I was wrong. But let’s face it, would you really want to risk my being right? We have done the right thing, Ben! And no matter the route we took to get this far—whether we might have done this, that, or the other—our lives are and will be in jeopardy until this thing has resolved itself one way or the other. That’s the way I saw it, and that’s how it is and will be.”
Trask nodded and said, “I’m sure you’re right. And anyway, whatever we might have done was way back then, and all of those possible futures are now the past. Am I making sense? . . . Never mind! But if these crazy people are going to bring about a vast explosion, eruption, or whatever, it means that our job will be . . . well, let’s be totally honest about it: it will be to limit the death and destruction as best possible, or to die trying!”
“And to die trying!” said Goodly, logically. “That is, if they do manage to bring it off.”
“But there’s a chance we can stop them?”
“Ben, how can I answer that?” said the precog. “Anna Marie says the world will go on, and that’s as much as I know. But if we can stop these people—”
“Then that’s all there is to it,” said Trask. “And it’s as simple as that—the bottom line—them or us.”
“Yes,” Goodly answered. “Except I have this feeling there isn’t going to be anything simple about it. No, not at all . . .”
That same afternoon, at Scott St. John’s place in the suburbs of London, he and Shania—and not forgetting Wolf, who was still busy exploring every corner of the house, and marking out territory in the gardens—had finally come downstairs and were now trying to wake up in Scott’s study. There they drank coffee and finalized their plan, covering any last points that they hadn’t yet found time to discuss.
They had stayed up very late last night, as usual, and had seen little reason to get up early this morning. Still catching up on months of poor sleep, Scott had been badly in need of it; and nestled in Shania’s arms, sated with their lovemaking, his dreams for once had been sweet and her presence healing—literally!
This time Shania, more than Scott, had felt anxious to be up and about their business; but there was very little more to be done before making their initial assault on the Mordris, and she had been loath to disturb him . . . or so she excused herself. But to be completely honest, Shania had also loved simply resting there beside him: the warmth of his fine body against hers, and the slow surge if she touched him in a certain place . . .
At the moment the topic of conversation was Shania’s localizer; she was plainly worried about it, and Scott wasn’t at all happy about the fate of a gold ring with a cat’s-eye stone that his mother had left him . . . just about all she’d left him, apart from her love. For right now the ring was gold no longer.
They had left the ring on Scott’s desk in a drinking mug, Scotchtaped to the localizer overnight. And now, tipped carefully out onto a page torn from a newspaper, the localizer was as before—for all the world a silver bangle, or some kind of fancy, art nouveau wristlet watch—but the ring had been converted into a small heap of blue-grey grit, in which the cat’s-eye stone, still intact, lay half buried.
“I had it valued once,” said Scott, sipping from another mug, this one half full of fresh, hot coffee. “That was a long time ago when I was broke. The value of the gold in it was one hundred and twenty pounds sterling. Now it’s dust!”
“But I know it’s not the money,” said Shania, regretfully. “Perhaps we should have gone out and bought something in gold?”
“But that would have been money,” said Scott. “The money I don’t have.”
“I could have got money,” she told him.
He gave her a hug and said, “Don�
�t worry about it.” Then, jokingly: “What, you’d have used what little power was left in the localizer to break into a bank or something?”
She looked surprised, shrugged, and answered, “Well yes, or any other place where they keep money. Or better still, a jeweller’s shop with golden trinkets!” Then, seeing Scott blink, the sudden change in his expression, she continued. “Scott, how did you think I survived when first I got here? I had only my clothing and the localizer, and even my clothes weren’t at all suitable. There were so very many difficulties at first, but after I found out about money most of them went away.”
Scott closed his mouth, shook his head, and laughed. “What? You’re a thief?”
“I had to be!” She tilted her chin at him.
“You used your localizer like some kind of—I don’t know—like the proverbial philosopher’s stone, only in reverse, to turn gold into paper? Paper money?”
“I used it like the proverbial what?”
“I’ll tell you some other time,” he said. And then, picking the cat’s-eye stone out of the gritty grey dust: “So that’s where you get this instantaneous travel thing, eh? Your devices are powered by gold. It explains quite a lot.”
“No,” said Shania, shaking her head. “It isn’t instantaneous. It’s a great many times faster than light, yes, but it has its limits. Nothing is instantaneous, Scott.”
At which Scott frowned, for he was sure that something was . . . just a thought that came and went almost “instantaneously.”
“Still,” he said, “FTL or whatever, this is some fantastic technology your people developed.”
“I’m not very good at the science part of it,” said Shania. “I just know how to work it, not how it works. It has something to do with the precise weight of gold. The, er, battery?—the device storing gravitic power in the localizer—leeches energy from gold, which is later expended with use. The purest form of gold, found in plenty on the worlds and moons of the Shing system, meant an inexhaustible supply. But here on your world, on Earth—”
“It’s expensive stuff,” said Scott. “So tell me, how much energy has your localizer, er, ‘leeched’ from the ring? Do you have any way of knowing?”
“No, but my Khiff does. Born in gravity wells, the Khiffs are . . . they’re as ‘familiar’ with this energy as you are with air or water.”
“But I can’t live without air and water,” said Scott.
“Nor can my Khiff without my localizer. When she needs it, then she draws energy from it, but in such small amounts as to make no difference. Khiff . . . ?” It was as if Shania spoke to no one. But someone, or thing, answered:
Yes, my Shania? Am I required? The “voice” was softer and sweeter in Scott’s mind than any he’d ever heard with his ears.
Shania answered without speaking, and Scott heard what she said. But that at least was something he’d grown used to. Then Shania held the localizer to her brow, shuttered her eyes, and stayed perfectly still. And a moment later:
Ahhh! said her Khiff; or, more properly, Scott “sensed” a sigh of pleasure, of relief. My thanks, Shania. And the answer to your question: the localizer is low on power. One long trip perhaps—for just one person—and one return, and that will be all. Also, and as you know, the localizer is damaged. Even a small additional input might well cause a total malfunction. No more gold, Shania, or you lose it entirely.
“And after this last return trip, what then? I mean, what about you, Khiff?” Shania’s anxiety was very obvious.
While the localizer will be of no use for further travel, it should nevertheless last me your entire lifetime, my Shania.
“Your lifetime?” Scott was puzzled.
Shania took the localizer from her brow and explained, “My lifetime is also my Khiff’s lifetime. We’re like one in so many ways, grown that way with time. But I was born as one and I can live as one if I have to. She, however, only came into sentient being when she came to me. And without me—”
“She would die?”
“They don’t exactly die,” said Shania. “They’re like . . . I don’t know how to express it.”
Scott nodded. “I think I know what you mean. Like old soldiers, eh? They never die, they only fade away.”
“Your pardon?”
“Never mind,” said Scott.
“But I think I know what you mean,” she said. “And you are right. Like those who have passed beyond—like your father and Kelly—the Khiff find another place and perhaps another One. I really don’t know. No one does.”
Scott stirred the remains of his ring with a finger. “This is what happened to your world,” he said. “The power of a giant leap across the light-years reduced Shing to dust.”
But again she said, “No, that’s not quite correct. A vast amount of gold was reduced to this residue, but Shing was destroyed by surplus energy. The Mordris didn’t have to use so much gold; they did so deliberately, close enough to the Shing system to reduce it to ashes!”
“An entire star system?” Scott could scarcely imagine such a catastrophe.
“Oh, yes.” Shania nodded. “I saw it. Returning to Shing, I was still far enough away to survive it.”
“It seems unbelievable.”
“Oh, you can believe it, Scott,” she replied. “And in fact you can see it for yourself, if you so desire.”
“See it? How?”
“My Khiff holds the key to my memories. They can be yours, too. Not all of them, but this one is readily available. It is in my mind—I could even show it to you myself—but my Khiff remembers it far better, because I would rather not.”
Scott considered it for a moment or two, then said, “Maybe it’s time I got to meet your Khiff face-to-face, only this time while I’m awake. Okay, so how do we go about it?”
“Hold me, and kiss me.” Shania drew him to the couch. “And my Khiff will do the rest . . .”
34
Drawing Shania closer, Scott held her, kissing her tentatively at first, and then more fully. But even as his senses swirled, in the middle of the embrace, so he glanced this way and that, not so much apprehensive as curious, and perhaps just a little nervous.
Close your eyes, Shania told him, with their mouths still locked. It’s only her appearance that is strange to you. But I promise you’ll scarcely feel her or know she’s there at all—at most a vague but pleasant sensation of duality—until she speaks to you.
And Scott answered in the same fashion: But I don’t want to insult her. What, I should close my eyes, like I can’t bear to look at her? I mean, she isn’t ugly, is she?
Something moved to the right of Shania’s face, on the very periphery of Scott’s vision. It was pink; it seemed gaseous but yet was opaque; it had small, piercing green eyes and the semblance of a mouth that seemed to smile precociously, even coquettishly. Scott didn’t close his eyes, and he couldn’t look away. The Khiff’s balloon-like “body” elongated; continuing to smile, its face passed from view as its matter formed an almost immaterial bridge or conduit between Shania’s right ear and Scott’s left. And he thought:
Damn! The thing came out of her head, her ear!
Yes, said Shania’s Khiff. I am a thing. And so are you. So is every-thing. But I understand, and I am not insulted.
That soft, sweet voice; like that of a beautiful child but knowing, intelligent . . . persuasive and yet pure.
Shania’s Khiff knew his thoughts, and as Scott sensed its presence in his head, it said: I thank you, Scott! And now you are three.
The kiss was over, but Scott and Shania remained clinging together. And because it came more natural to him, Scott queried the Khiff out loud: “Now I am three? You mean you, me, and Shania?”
Ah, no. With Shania you are four.
“What, Wolf? You mean Wolf?”
No, you fail to understand. You as an individual are more than one. You have been that way for some time. I feel the essence of another in you. Therefore, with me within your mind, we—you and I—are now more t
han two.
“Another within me?” said Scott, momentarily puzzled. But then: “Ah! Now I understand. You mean my dart. Well at least it was part of another.”
An important part, said the Khiff, for you have his powers. I was with you, and with my Shania, in that dream that was more than a dream when he reminded you of his powers . . . your powers now.
“Yes,” said Scott wryly, “one of which I don’t understand, and another that I’m not sure I want to understand!”
But still they are there—the nod of an incorporeal, even insubstantial head—waiting to be called upon.
“And what of your powers?” said Scott. “Shania has told me you store memories, keeping them fresh, and that you can remember things better than even Shania herself.”
Which is why I am here, said the Khiff. And ahhh! You wish to see a very terrible thing!
“The death of the Shing system, yes. It’s just that I want to know what we’re up against.”
A necessary part of your preparations, of course. And yes, I can show you. Now you may close your eyes without fear of insulting me. You’ll see better when there is nothing to distract you.
Scott closed his eyes—and immediately, without a single moment’s pause, it was as if he drifted in deepest space! Star-shot black velvet, with the closest planetary systems drifting by like so much foam along the sides of a slow ship. Except he knew that Shania’s vessel had been anything but slow!
Oh, fast! Very fast! said the Khiff. And yet at this point we were indeed moving “slowly”—because this was when we were approaching Shing. There ahead, that ancient golden star, with its precious worlds: the Shing system, yes . . .
They were even now “drifting” past the outermost planet—a gas giant with many red-spot whirlpools, a ring like Saturn’s, and seven moons in disparate orbits—but Shing the sun was as yet far distant. We can move in closer, said the Khiff. Indeed, we did move in closer, on the far-scry. I remember it well. And Scott found that he was inside a ship of sorts, looking through a porthole. And he saw a hand, or a slender appendage very like a human hand—in fact, Shania’s hand as it had been—reaching to adjust a control . . . at which he saw that his porthole was a view-screen, in which the inner Shing system suddenly sprang up that much closer.
