Within the bun of cloth slightly beneath her ribcase, Freya Holm compressed the activating assembly of the defense-gun.
"Shloonk," Theodoric Ferry wheezed. His single eye rattled and spun as his body rocked back and forth; then, without warning, the great dark orb popped from his bulging forehead and hung dangling from a spring of steel. At the same time his entire head burst; screaming, Freya ducked as bits of gears, rods, wiring, components of power systems, cogs, amplifying surge-gates, all failing to remain within the shattered structure bounced here and there in the flapple. The two THL agents ducked, grunted and then retreated as the rain of hot, destroyed metal pieces condensed about them both. She, too, reflexively drew back; staring, she saw a main-shaft and an intricate cog mechanism... like a clock, she thought dazedly. He's not a deformed, nonTerran water-creature; he's a mechanical assembly — I don't understand. She shut her eyes, moaned in despair; the flapple, now, had faded momentarily into obscurity, so intense was the hailstorm of metal and plastic parts from the bursting entity which had posed as Theodoric Ferry just a moment before — had posed, more accurately, as an aquatic horror masquerading as Theodoric Ferry.
"One of those damn simulacrums," the THL agent who was not Frank said in disgust.
" 'Simulacra,' " Frank corrected, his teeth grinding in outrage as a major transformer from the power-supply struck him on the temple and sent him flailing backward, off-balance; he fell against the wall of the flapple, groaned and then slid to a sitting position, where he remained, his eyes empty. The other THL agent, arms windmilling, fought his way through the still-exploding debris of the simulacrum toward Freya; his fingers groped for her ineffectually — and then he gave up, abandoned whatever he had had in his mind; turning, he hunched forward, lurched blindly off, in the general direction of the entrance hatch of the flapple. And then, with a clatter, disappeared. She remained with the disintegrating simulacrum and the unconscious THL agent Frank; the only sound was the metallic thump of components as they continued to pelt against the walls and floor of the flapple.
Good lord, she thought indistinctly, her mind in a state of almost deranged confusion. That book they showed me — it was wrong! Or else I failed to read far enough...
Desperately, she searched about in the rubbish-heaped flapple for the book; then all at once she remembered what had happened to it. The smaller THL agent had escaped with it locked in a briefcase chained to his wrist; the book had, so to speak, departed with him — in any case, both the agent and the volume were gone, now. So she would never know what had come next in the printed text; had it corrected its own evident misperception, as she had hers? Or — did the text of Dr. Bloode's book continue on, manfully declaring that Theodoric Ferry was an aquatic — what was the term it — and she — had used? Mazdast; that was it. She wondered, now, precisely what it meant; until she had read the word in the text she had never before encountered it. But there was something else. Something at the rim of consciousness, crowding forward, attempting to enter her mind; it could not be thrust back, odious as it was.
The Clock. That term, referring to one of the so-called paraworlds. Had this been — The Clock? And if so —
Then the original encounter between the black space-pilot, Rachmael ben Applebaum, and the sim of Theodoric Ferry — that, back in the Sol system, had been a manifestation — not of a Ferry-simulacrum at all — but, like this, of the paraworld called The Clock.
The delusional worlds somehow active here at Whale's Mouth had already spread to and penetrated Terra. It had already been experienced — experienced, yes; but not recognized.
She shuddered.
15
For more than thirty minutes nothing had emanated from the anti-prolepsis chamber of Gregory Gloch, and by now Sepp von Einem realized with full acuity that something dreadful had gone wrong.
Taking a calculated risk — Gloch in the past had ranted against this as an illegal invasion of his privacy, of his very psyche, in fact — Dr. von Einem clicked to on the audio monitoring mechanism which tapped the input circuit of the chamber. Shortly, he found himself receiving via a three-inch speaker mounted on the wall the same signals which passed to his protégé.
The first rush of impulses almost unhinged him.
"Pun, there," a jovial masculine — somewhat elderly voice — was in the process of intoning. "Life of you, life lived over... see?" It then chuckled loudly in a comical but distinctly vulgar fashion. "Heh-heh," it gloated. "How you doin', ol' boy, Gloch there, ol' fella?"
"Fine," Greg Gloch's retort came. But to von Einem it had a very distinctive weak quality about it, a vivid loss of surgency which chilled him deeply, caused him to hang on each following word of the exchange. Who was this person addressing Gloch? he asked himself. And got no response; the voice was new to him. And yet —
At the same time it acutely resembled a voice he knew. A voice he could however not identify, to save his life. He had the intuition, then, that this voice had deliberately been disguised; he would need a video breakdown by which to identify it. And that would take time, precious time which no one, at this moment in the struggle over Whale's Mouth, could afford to spare — least of all he.
Pressing a command key, von Einem said, "Emergency call. I want an immediate trace put on the audio signal reaching Herr Gloch. Notify me of the origin-point, then if you must, obtain a video pic of the voice-pattern and inform me of the caller's identity." He paused, pondering; it was, to say the least, a decision of gravity which he now entertained. "Once you have the locus detailed," he said slowly, "run a homotropic foil along the line. We can obtain the voice-ident afterwards."
The microscopic feedback circuit within his ear spluttered, "Herr Doktor — you mean take out the caller before identification? Das ist gar unmöglich — gar!"
Von Einem rasped, "It is distinctly not out of the question; in fact it is essential." For, underneath, he had an intuition as to who the disguised voice consisted of. It could only be one person.
Jaimé Weiss. The enfant terrible of the UN, probably operating in conjunction with his brother-in-law, the 'wash psychiatrist Lupov. Thinking that, von Einem felt nausea rise like a gray tide within him. Them, he reflected bitingly; the worst pair extant. Probably in orbit in a sealed sat at Whale's Mouth... transmitting either at faster-than-light directly to our system or worse still: feeding their lines during routine traffic through one of our own Telpor stations.
Savagely, he said to the technician brought into contact by means of the command key at his disposal, "There is an exceedingly meager latitude for the performance of successful action against this party, Mein Herr; or don't you believe me? You suppose I am mistaken? I know who has infiltrated the anti-prolepsis tank of poor Herr Gloch; mach' snell!"And you had damn well better be successful, he said to himself as he released his command key and walked moodily to the chamber to look directly at his protégé to discern Gloch's difficulty with his own eyes.
I wonder, he thought to himself as he watched the youth's face twist with discomfort, if I shouldn't obliterate the alien audio signal that's so successfully jamming the orderly process within the chamber. Or at least reroute it so that I receive it but Gloch does not.
However, it appeared to von Einem that the interloping audio transmission had already done its job; Greg Gloch's face was a mass of confusion and turbulence. Whatever ideas Gloch had entertained for a counter-weapon against Bertold had long since evaporated. Zum Teufel, von Einem said to himself in a near-frenzied spasm of disappointment — as well as an ever-expanding sense that the Augenblick, the essential instant, had somehow managed to elude him. Somehow? Again he listened to the disruptive voice plaguing Gregory Gloch. Here it was; this was the malefactionary disturbance. This: Jaimé Weiss himself, wherever in the galaxy he had now located himself and his fawning sycophantic retinue.
Can Gloch hear me now? he wondered. Can he hear anything beyond that damned voice?
As an experiment, he cautiously
addressed Gloch — by means of the customary time-rephasing constructs built into the chamber. "Greg! Kannst hör'?" He listened, waited; after a time he heard his words reeled off to the man within the chamber at appropriate velocity. Then the lips of the man moved, and then, to his relief, a sentence by Gloch was spewed out by the transmitter of the chamber.
"Oh. Yes, Herr von Einem." The voice had a vague quality about it, a preoccupation; Greg Gloch heard, but did not really seem able to focus his faculties. "I was... um... daydreaming or... some darn thing. Ummp!" Gloch noisily cleared his throat. "What, ah, can I, eh, do for you, sir? Um?"
"Who's that constantly addressing you, Greg? That irritating voice which impedes every attempt you make to perform your assigned tasks?"
"Oh. Well. I believe — " For almost an entire minute Gloch remained silent; then, at last, like a rewound toy, he managed to continue. "Seems to me he identified himself as Charley Falks' little boy Martha. Yes; I'm certain of it. Ol' Charley Falks' little boy — "
"Das kann nicht sein,"von Einem snarled. "It simply can't be! No one's little boy is named Martha; das weis' Ich ja."He lapsed into brooding, introverted contemplation, then. A conspiracy, he decided. And one that's working. Our only recourse is the homotropic weapon released to follow the carrier wave of this deceptive transmission back to its source; I hope it is already in motion.
Grimly, he strode back to the command key, punched it down.
"Yes, Herr Doktor."
"The homotropic foil; has it — "
"On its way, sir," the technician informed him brightly. "As you instructed: released before ident." The technician added in a half-aside, "I do hope, sir, that it's not someone you have positive inclinations toward."
"It can't be," von Einem said, and released the key with an abiding sense of satisfaction. But then an alternate — and not so pleasing — thought came to him. The homotropic foil, until it reached its target, could act as a dead giveaway regarding its own origin. If the proper monitoring equipment were put in use — or already had been put in functioning condition — then the foil would accomplish a handy, quick task for the enemy: it would tell him — or both of them — where the disruptive signal entitling itself "ol' Charley Falks' little boy Martha" et cetera had gone... gone and accomplished vast damage in respect to von Einem and THL in general.
I wish Herr Ferry were immediately here, von Einem growled to himself gloomily; he picked at a poison-impregnated false tooth mounted in his upper left molars, wondering if the time might come when he would be required by obtaining conditions to do away with himself.
But Theodoric Ferry busied himself at this moment preparing for a long-projected trip via Telpor to Whale's Mouth. A most important journey, too, inasmuch as there he would complete the formulation of contemplated final schemes: this was the moment in which the vise of history would clamp shut on the unmen such as Rachmael ben Applebaum and his doxie Miss Holm — not to mention Herr Glazer-Holliday who might in fact well already be now dead... or however it was phrased.
"There," von Einem mused, "is a no-good individual, that Matson person, that slobbering hyphenater." His disgust — and satisfaction at either the already-accomplished or proposed taking-out of Glazer-Holliday — knew no limit; both emotions expanded like a warm, unclouded sun.
On the other hand, what if Weiss and Lupov managed to obtain the reverse trace on the homotropic foil now dispatched them-wards? An unease-manufacturing thought, and one which he still did not enjoy. Nor would he until the manifold success of the foil had been proclaimed.
He could do nothing but wait. And meanwhile, hope that Herr Ferry's journey to Whale's Mouth would accomplish all that it entertained. Because the import of that sally remained uncommonly vast — to say the least.
In his ear the monitor covering aud transmissions entering Gloch's anti-prolepsis tank whined, "Say, you know? An interesting sort of game showed up among us kids the other day; might interest you. Thingisms, it's called. Ever hear of it?"
"No," Gloch answered, briefly; his retort, too, reached the listening Herr von Einem.
"Works like this. I'll give you this example; then maybe you can think up a few of your own. Get this: 'The hopes of the woolen industry are threadbare.' Haw haw haw! You get it? Woolen, threadbare — see?"
"Umm," Gloch said irritably.
"And now, little ol' Greg," the voice intoned, "how 'bout a Thingism from you'all? Eh?"
"Keerist," Gloch protested, and then was silent. Obviously he had directed his thoughts along the requested direction.
This must stop, von Einem realized. And soon.
Or Theo Ferry's trip to Whale's Mouth is in jeopardy.
But why — he did not know; it was an unconscious insight, nothing more. As yet. Even so, however, he appreciated its certitude: beyond any doubt his appraisal of the danger surging over them all was accurate.
To the exceedingly well-groomed young receptionist wearing the topless formal dress, a gaggle of dark red Star of Holland roses entwined in her heavy, attractive blonde hair, Theodoric Ferry said brusquely,
"You know who I am, miss. Also, you know that by UN law this Telpor station is inoperative; however, we know better, do we not?" He kept his eyes fixed on her; nothing could be permitted to go wrong. Not at this late date, with each side fully committed to the fracas on the far side of the teleportation gates. Neither he nor the UN had much left to offer; he was aware of this, and he hoped that his analysis of the UN's resources was not inadequate.
Anyhow — no other direction lay ahead except that of continuation of this, his original program. He could scarcely withdraw now; it would be an immediate undoing of everything so far accomplished.
"Yes Mr. Ferry," the attractive, full-breasted — with enlarged gaily-lit pasties — young woman responded. "But to my knowledge there's no cause for alarm. Why don't you seat yourself and allow the sim-attendant to pour you a warm cup of catnip tea?"
"Thank you," Ferry said, and made his way to a soft, comfortable style of sofa at the far end of the station's waiting room.
As he sipped the invigorating tea (actually a Martian import with stimulant properties, not to mention aphrodisiac) Theo Ferry unwillingly made out the complex series of required forms, wondering sullenly to himself why it was that he, even he!, had to do so... after all, he owned the entire plant, lock, stock et al. Nevertheless he followed protocol; possibly it had a purpose, and in any case he would be traveling, as usual, under a code name — he had been called "Mr. Ferry" for the last time. Anyhow for a while.
"Your shots, Mr. Hennen." A THL nurse, middle-aged and severe, stood nearby with ugly needles poised. "Kindly remove your outer garments, please. And put away that cup of insipid catnip tea." Obviously she did not recognize him; she, a typical bureaucrat, had become engrossed in the cover projected by the filled-out forms. He felt amiable, realizing this. A good omen, he said to himself.
Presently he lay unclothed, feeling conspicuous, now, while three owlish Telpor technicians puttered about.
"Mr. Mike Hennen, Herr," one of the technicians informed him with a heavy German accent, "please if you will reduce your gaze not to notice the hostile field-emanations; there is a severe retinal risk. Understand?"
"Yes, yes," he answered angrily.
The ram-head of energy that tore him into shreds obliterated any sense of indignation that he might have felt at being treated as one more common mortal; back and forth it surged, making him shrill with pain — it could not be called attractive, the process of teleportation; he gritted his teeth, cursed, spat, waited for the field to diminish... and hated each moment that the force held him. Hardly worth it, he said to himself in a mixture of suffering and outrage. And then —
The terminal surge dwindled and he succeeded in opening his left eye. He blinked. Strained to see.
All three Telpor technicians had vanished. He lay now in a vastly smaller chamber. A pretty girl, wearing a pale blue transparent smock, busied herself st
rolling back and forth past the entrance-doorway, a hulking hand-weapon at ready. Patrolling in case of UN seizure or attempted seizure, he understood. And sat up, grunting.
"Good morning!" the girl said blithely, glancing at him with an expression of amusement. "Your clothing, Mr. Hennen, can be found in one of our little metal baskets; in your case, marked 136552. Now, if you should by any chance find yourself becoming unsteady — "
"Okay," he said roughly. "Help me to my goddam feet."
A moment later, in a side alcove, he had dressed; he gathered together his portable possessions, examined his reflection in a rather dim-with-dust mirror, then strolled out, feeling much better, to confront the prowling girl in the lacy smock.
"What's a good hotel?" he demanded — as if he did not know. But the pose of being an ordinary neo-colonist had to be maintained, even toward this loyal employee.
"The Simpy Cat," the girl answered; she now studied him intently. "I think I've seen you before," she decided. "Mr. Hennen. Hmm. No, the name is new to me. An odd name; is it Irish?"
"Who knows," he muttered as he strode toward the door. No time for chitchat, not even with a girl so pretty. Another time, perhaps...
"Watch out for Lies Incorporated police, Mr. Hennen!" the girl called after him. "They're everywhere. And the fighting — it's really getting awful. Are you armed?"
"No." He paused reluctantly at the door. More details.
"THL," the girl informed him, "would be glad to sell you a small but highly useful weapon which — "
"Nuts to that," Ferry said, and plunged on outdoors, onto the dark sidewalk.
Shapes, colorless, vast and swift-moving, sailed in every layer of this world. Rooted, he gaped at the new ghastly transformation of the colony which he knew so well. The war; he remembered, then, with a jolt. Well, so it would be for a while. But, startled, he had difficulty once more orienting himself. Good god, how long would this last? He walked a few steps, still attempting to adjust, still finding it impossible; he seemed to sway in an alien sea, a life unanticipated by the environment; he was as strange to it as it to him.
The Unteleported Man Page 18
