Again desperate, on the ghastly verge of extinction, he abandoned all disciplines and habits of living; or, perhaps, they were stripped from him. He reverted from a conditioned product of environment and experience to an inchoate creature craving escape and survival and exercising every power it possessed. And again the miracle of two years ago took place. The undivided energy of an entire human organism, of every cell, fiber, nerve, and muscle empowered that craving, and again Foyle space-jaunted.
He went hurtling along the geodesical space lines of the curving universe at the speed of thought, far exceeding that of light. His spatial velocity was so frightful that his time axis was twisted from the vertical line drawn from the Past through Now to the Future. He went flickering along the new nearhorizontal axis, this new space-time geodesic, driven by the miracle of a human mind no longer inhibited by concepts of the impossible.
Again he achieved what Helmut Grant and Enzio Dandridge and scores of other experimenters had failed to do, because his blind panic forced him to abandon the spatio-temporal inhibitions that had defeated previous attempts. He did not jaunte to Elsewhere, but to Elsewhen. But most important, the fourth dimensional awareness, the complete picture of the Arrow of Time and his position on it which is born in every man but deeply submerged by the trivia of living, was in Foyle close to the surface. He jaunted along the spacetime geodesics to Elsewheres and Elsewhens, translating «i,» the square root of minus one, from an imaginary number into reality by a magnificent act of imagination.
He jaunted.
He jaunted back through time to his past. He became the Burning Man who had inspired himself with terror and perplexity on the beach in Australia, in a quack's office in Shanghai, on the Spanish Stairs in Rome, on the Moon, in the Skoptsy Colony on Mars. He jaunted back through time, revisiting the savage battles that he himself had fought in Gully Foyle's tiger hunt for vengeance. His flaming appearances were sometimes noted; other times not.
He jaunted.
He was aboard «Nomad,» drifting in the empty frost of space.
He stood in the door to nowhere.
The cold was the taste of lemons and the vacuum was a rake of talons on his skin. The sun and the stars were a shaking ague that racked his bones.
«GLOMMHA FREDNIS!» motion roared in his ears.
It was a figure with its back to him vanishing down the corridor; a figure with a copper cauldron of provisions over its shoulder; a figure darting, floating, squirming through free fall. It was Gully Foyle.
«MEEHAT JESSROT,» the sight of his motion bellowed. «Aha! Oh-ho! M'git not to kak,» the flicker of light and shade answered. «Oooooooh? Soooooo?» the whirling raffle of debris in his wake murmured. The lemon taste in his mouth became unbearable. The rake of talons on his skin was torture.
He jaunted.
He reappeared in the furnace beneath Old St. Pat's less then a second after he had disappeared from there. He was drawn, as the seabird is drawn, again and again to the flames from which it is struggling to escape. He endured the roaring torture for only another moment.
He jaunted.
He was in the depths of Gouffre Martel.
The velvet black darkness was bliss, paradise, euphoria.
«Ah!» he cried in relief.
«AH!» came the echo of his voice, and the sound was translated into a blinding pattern of light.
The Burning Man winced. «Stop!» he called, blinded by the noise. Again came the dazzling pattern of the echo:
A distant clatter of steps came to his eyes in soft patterns of vertical borealis streamers:
It was the search party from the Couffre Martel hospital, tracking Foyle and Jisbella McQueen by geophone. The Burning Man disappeared, but not before he had unwittingly decoyed the searchers from the trail of the vanished fugitives.
He was back under Old St. Pat's, reappearing only an instant after his last disappearance. His wild beatings into the unknown sent him stumbling up geodesic space-time lines that inevitably brought him back to the Now he was trying to escape, for in the inverted saddle curve of space-time, his Now was the deepest depression in the curve.
HE WAS ON THE BRAWLING SPANISH
STAIRS. RE WAS ON THE BRAWLING
SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS ON THE
BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS
ON THE BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS.
HE WAS ON TIE BRAWLING SPANISH
STAIRS. HE WAS ON THE BRAWLING
SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS ON THE
BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS
ON THE BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS.
He could drive himself up, up, up the geodesic lines into the past or future, but inevitably he must fall back into his own Now, like a thrown ball hurled up the sloping walls of an infinite pit, to land, hang poised for a moment, and then roll back into the depths.
But still he beat into the unknown in his desperation.
Again he jaunted.
He was on Jervis beach on the Australian coast.
The motion of the surf was bawling: «LOGGERMIST CROTEHAyEN!»
The churning of the surf blinded him with the lights of batteries of footlights:
Gully Foyle and Robin Wednesbury stood before him. The body of a man lay on the sand which felt like vinegar in the Burning Man's mouth. The wind brushing his face tasted like brown paper.
Foyle opened his mouth and exclaimed. The sound came out in burning star-bubbles:
Foyle took a step. «GRASH?» the motion blared.
The Burning Man jaunted.
He was in the office of Dr. Sergei Orel in Shanghai.
Foyle was again before him, speaking light patterns:
He flickered back to the agony of Old St. Pat's and jaunted again.
The Burning Man jaunted.
It was cold again, with the taste of lemons, and vacuum raked his skin with unspeakable talons. He was peering through the porthole of a silvery yawl. The jagged mountains of the Moon towered in the background. Through the porthole he could see the jangling racket of blood pumps and oxygen pumps and hear the uproar of the motion Gully Foyle made toward him. The clawing of the vacuum caught his throat in an agonizing grip.
The geodesic lines of space-time rolled him back to Now under Old St. Pat's, where less than two seconds had elapsed since he first began his frenzied struggle. Once more, like a burning spear, he hurled himself into the unknown.
He was in the Skoptsy Catacomb on Mars. The white slug that was Lindsey Joyce was writhing before him.
«NO! NO! NO!» her motion screamed. «DON'T HURT ME. DON'T KILL ME. NO PLEASE. . . PLEASE. . .»
The Burning Man opened his tiger mouth and laughed. «She hurts,» he said. The sound of his voice burned his eyes.
«Who are you?» Foyle whispered.
The Burning Man winced. «Too bright,» he said. «Less light.» Foyle took a step forward. «BLAA-GAA-DAA-MAWW!» the motion roared.
The Burning Man clapped his hands over his ears in agony. «Too loud,» he cried. «Don't move so loud.»
The writhing Skoptsy's motion was still screaming, beseeching: «DON'T HURT ME. DON'T HURT ME.»
The Burning Man laughed again. She was mute to normal men, but to his freak-crossed senses her meaning was clear. «Listen to her. She's screaming. Begging. She doesn't want to die. She doesn't want to be hurt. Listen to her.»
«IT WAS OLIVIA PRESTEIGN GAVE THE ORDER. OLIVIA PRESTEIGN. NOT ME. DON'T HURT ME. OLIVIA PRESTEIGN.»
«She's telling who gave the order. Can't you hear? Listen with your eyes. She says Olivia.»
WHAT?WHAT'?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
The checkerboard glitter of Foyle's question was too much for him. The Burning Man interpreted the Skoptsy's agony again.
«She says Olivia. Olivia Presteign. Olivia Presteign. Olivia Presteign.»
He jaunted.
He fell back into the pit under Old St. Pat's, and suddenly
his confusion and despair told him he was dead. This was the finish of Gully Foyle. This was eternity, and hell was real. What he had seen was the past passing before his crumbling senses in the final moment of death. What he was enduring he must endure through all time. He was dead. He knew he was dead.
He refused to submit to eternity.
He beat again into the unknown.
The Burning Man jaunted.
He was in a scintillating mist a snowflake cluster of stars a shower of liquid
diamonds. There was the touch of butterfly wings on his skin. There was the taste of a strand of cool pearls in his mouth. His crossed kaleidoscopic senses could not tell him where he was, but he knew he wanted to remain in this Nowhere forever.
«Hello, Gully.»
«Who's that?»
«This is Robin.»
«Robin?»
«Robin Wednesbury that was.»
«That was?»
«Robin Yeovil that is.»
«I don't understand. Am I dead?»
«No, Gully.»
«Where am I?»
«A long, long way from Old St. Pat's.»
«But where?»
«I can't take the time to explain, Gully. You've only got a few moments here.»
«Why?»
«Because you haven't learned how to jaunte through space-time yet. You've got to go back and learn.»
«But I do know. I must know. Sheffield said I space-jaunted to 'Nomad' six hundred thousand miles.»
«That was an accident then, Gully, and you'll do it again . . .after you teach yourself. . .But you're not doing it now. You don't know how to hold on yet. . . how to turn any Now into reality. You'll tumble back into Old St. Pat's in a moment.»
«Robin, I've just remembered. I have bad news for you.»
«I know, Gully.»
«Your mother and sisters are dead.»
«I've known for a long time, Gully.»
«How long?»
«For thirty years.»
«That's impossible.»
«No it isn't. This is a long, long way from Old St. Pat's. I've been waiting to tell you how to save yourself from the fire, Gully. Will you listen?»
«I'm not dead?»
''No.''
«I'll listen.»
«Your senses are all confused. it'll pass soon, but I won't give the directions in left and right or up and down. I'll tell you what you can understand now.»
«Why are you helping me . . . after what I've done to you?»
«That's all forgiven and forgotten, Gully. Now listen to me. When you get back to Old St. Pat's, turn around until you're facing the loudest shadows. Got that?»
«Yes.»
«Go toward the noise until you feel a deep prickling on your skin. Then stop.»
«Then stop.»
«Make a half turn into compression and a feeling of falling. Follow that.»
«Follow that.»
«You'll pass through a solid sheet of light and come to the taste of quinine. That's really a mass of wire. Push straight through the quinine until you see something that sounds like trip hammers. You'll be safe.»
«How do you know all this, Robin?»
«I've been briefed by an expert, Gully.» There was the sensation of laughter. «You'll be falling back into the past any moment now. Peter and Saul are here. They say au revoir and good luck. And Jiz Dagenham too. Good luck, Gully dear. .
«The past? This is the future?»
«Yes, Gully.»
«Am I here? Is . . . Olivia…?»
And then he was tumbling down, down, down the space-time lines back into the dreadful pit of Now.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
His senses uncrossed in the ivory-and-gold star chamber of Castle Presteign. Sight became sight and he saw the high mirrors and stained glass windows, the gold tooled library with android librarian on library ladder. Sound became sound and he heard the android secretary tapping the manual beadrecorder at the Louis Quinze desk. Taste became taste as he sipped the cognac that the robot bartender handed him.
He knew he was at bay, faced with the decision of his life. He ignored his enemies and examined the perpetual beam carved in the robot face of the bartender, the classic Irish grin.
«Thank you,» Foyle said.
«My pleasure, sir,» the robot replied and awaited its next cue.
«Nice day,» Foyle remarked.
«Always a lovely day somewhere, sir,» the robot beamed. «Awful day,» Foyle said.
«Always a lovely day somewhere, sir,» the robot responded. «Day,» Foyle said.
«Always a lovely day somewhere, sir,» the robot said.
Foyle turned to the others. «That's me,» he said, motioning to the robot.
«That's all of us. We prattle about free will, but we're nothing but response . . mechanical reaction in prescribed grooves. So. . .here I am, here I am, waiting to respond. Press the buttons and I'll jump.» He aped the canned voice of the robot. «My pleasure to serve, sir.» Suddenly his tone lashed them. «What do you want?»
They stirred with uneasy purpose. Foyle was burned, beaten, chastened, and yet he was taking control of all of them.
«We'll stipulate the threats,» Foyle said. «I'm to be hung, drawn, and quartered, tortured in hell if I don't . . .What? What do you want?»
«I want my property,» Presteign said, smiling coldly.
«Eighteen and some odd pounds of PyrE. Yes. What do you offer?»
«I make no offer, sir. I demand what is mine.»
Y'ang-Yeovil and Dagenham began to speak. Foyle silenced them. «One button at a time, gentlemen. Presteign is trying to make me jump at present.» He turned to Presteign. «Press harder, blood and money, or find another button. Who are you to make demands at this moment?»
Presteign tightened his lips. «The law. . .» he began.
«What? Threats?» Foyle laughed. «Am I to be frightened into anything? Don't be imbecile. Speak to me the way you did New Year's Eve, Presteign, without mercy, without forgiveness, without hypocrisy.»
Presteign bowed, took a breath, and ceased to smile. «I offer you power,» he said. «Adoption as my heir, partnership in Presteign Enterprises, the chieftainship of clan and sept. Together we can own the world.»
«With PyrE?»
«Yes.»
«Your proposal is noted and declined. Will you offer your daughter?»
«Olivia?» Presteign choked and clenched his fists.
«Yes, Olivia. Where is she?»
«You scum!» Presteign cried. «Filth . . . Common thief . . . You dare to. . .»
«Will you offer your daughter for the PyrE?»
«Yes,» Presteign answered, barely audible.
Foyle turned to Dagenham. «Press your button, death's-head,» he said. «If the discussion's to be conducted on this level. . .» Dagenham snapped. «It is. Without mercy, without forgiveness, without hypocrisy. What do you offer?»
«Glory.»
«We can't offer money or power. We can offer honor. Gully Foyle, the man who saved the Inner Planets from annihilation. We can offer security. We'll wipe out your criminal record, give you an honored name, guarantee a niche in the hail of fame.»
«No,» Jisbella McQueen cut in sharply. «Don't accept. If you want to be a savior, destroy the secret. Don't give PyrE to anyone.»
«What is PyrE?»
«Quiet!» Dagenham snapped.
«It's a thermonuclear explosive that's detonated by thought alone by psychokinesis,» Jisbella said.
«What thought?»
«The desire of anyone to detonate it, directed at it. That brings it to critical mass if it's not insulated by Inert Lead Isotope.»
«I told you to be quiet,» Dageuham growled.
«If we're all to have a chance at him, I want mine.»
«This is bigger than idealism.»
«Nothing's bigger than idealism.»
«Foyle's secret is,» Y'ang-Yeovil murmured. «I know how relatively unimportant PyrE is just now.�
� He smiled at Foyle. «Sheffield's law assistant overheard part of your little discussion in Old St. Pat's. We know about the space-jaunting.»
There was a sudden hush.
«Space-jaunting,» Dagenham exclaimed. «Impossible. You don't mean it.»
«I do mean it. Foyle's demonstrated that space-jaunting is not impossible. He jaunted six hundred thousand miles from an O.S. raider to the wreck of the 'Nomad.' As I said, this is far bigger than PyrE. I should like to discuss that matter first.»
«Everyone's been telling what they want,» Robin Wednesbury said slowly. «What do you want, Gully Foyle?»
«Thank you,» Foyle answered. «I want to be punished.»
«What?»
«I want to be purged,» he said in a suffocated voice. The stigmata began to appear on his bandaged face. «I want to pay for what I've done and settle the account. I want to get rid of this damnable cross I'm carrying . . . this ache that's cracking my spine. I want to go back to Gouffre Martel. I want a lobo, if I deserve it . . . and I know I do. I want…”
«You want escape,» Dagenham interrupted. «There's no escape.»
«I want release!»
«Out of the question,» Y'ang-Yeovil said. «There's too much of value locked up in your head to be lost by lobotomy.»
«We're beyond easy childish things like crime and punishment,» Dagenham added.
«No,» Robin objected. «There must always be sin and forgiveness. We're never beyond that.»
«Profit and loss, sin and forgiveness, idealism and realism,» Foyle smiled. «You're all so sure, so simple, so single-minded. I'm the only one in doubt. Let's see how sure you really are. You'll give up Olivia, Presteign? To me, yes? Will you give her up to the law? She's a killer.»
Presteign tried to rise, and then fell back in his chair.
«There must be forgiveness, Robin? Will you forgive Olivia Presteign? She murdered your mother and sisters.»
Robin turned ashen. Y'ang-Yeovil tried to protest.
«The Outer Satellites don't have PyrE, Yeovil. Sheffield revealed that. Would you use it on them anyway? Will you turn my name into common anathema . . .like Lynch and Boycott?»
The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) Page 22
