“I can assure you,” he told Robert, “that this office is proof against any form of snooping. Your secrets and those of the Navy can safely be uttered in these chambers.” He waved a large hand. “Around you are the confidential files of Astral Emprise, which are discussed freely in this room. Not that I rank my secrets with those of the Navy, you understand. Of course not.”
“Yes,” Robert said, glancing around the room. “Well . . .”
“My secretary? Have no fear. Leah is as a part of me. She is my memory, my hands, and my saving grace. What other parts she assumes is our business only. You may speak.”
Robert shifted in his chair. “When Admiral Dennison suggested that I see you he said I should rely on your judgment, and I shall. It’s not that. It’s—how much did he tell you?”
“Nothing!” Friendly boomed. “He said to expect you, and you would explain. I have no idea why you’re here. I expect you to explain.”
“I am a little puzzled,” Robert said. “I confess that I did not expect to be seeking help from the head of Astral Emprise. You are the head? I am not altogether sure that what I am dealing with is a, um, mystical problem.”
“Ha!” Friendly said. He lifted a cap and ball pistol from the mess on his desk and squinted through the sights at the far wall. “I see it all now. Dennison didn’t bother to explain to you either. You have no idea why you’re here. You wonder how much to tell me; what good I can do. Why, you ask yourself, did the admiral in charge of NavSecDet One—is that right?—send you to talk to the president and founder of Astral Emprise, a mumbo-jumbo company that preys on those who believe in the occult and astrology and all that supernatural hogwash. Is that close?”
Robert leaned back and nodded weakly. He felt as though Friendly were picking his brain. “Since you’ve said it: it’s true. I’m not at all sure why I’m here.”
Friendly planted his feet on the floor and leaned across the desk towards Burrows. “I can sense doubt,” he said. “I could point out that in this age of overcrowding and fear, of science rampant producing wonders which few can understand and terrors which none can ignore, it’s necessary for many to have something to believe in. Religion, astrology, reincarnation, occultism, telepathy, graphology, the Tarot, the I Ching, vegetarianism, spiritualism, or chanting the Twelve Names of the True God: they all serve the same purpose. Some have more validity than others, perhaps, to the scientist or rationalist: but to the Believer they are all a crutch. They give him a lever with which to handle the daily flow of frightening information, and the comforting feeling that he Understands.”
“Then in a sense,” Robert suggested, “you feel that you are perpetrating a socially useful fraud?”
Friendly huffed back in his seat. “Nothing of the sort! We are teaching universal truth that is just as valid and useful as your scientific axioms. The trouble with following any path is the tendency to see it as the only road.”
“Astrology. . . .” Robert said.
Friendly nodded. “Astrology,” he agreed. “We study it and teach it. Along with parapsychological phenomena: telepathy, precognition, telekinesis; that sort of thing. We investigate flying saucers and swimming cigars. We have a study group trying to establish reliable two-way communication with the dead.”
“Fascinating,” Robert said. “With what luck?”
Friendly shrugged. “It may be that the dead are basically non-verbal,” he said. “We’ve had greater luck with telepathy and telekinesis.”
“Have you actually established their existence?”
“We’re past that point,” Friendly said. “We train people here to use demonstrated talents—with varying degrees of success, I admit.”
Burrows pondered for a minute. “That may be it,” he said. “That may be why I’m here. Telepathy.”
“Ah!”
“We may have a case of it.”
“Very gratifying. Explain.”
“We found a girl—that is, a girl was found—in a room in a hotel. She was naked, she was drugged, and some kind of gadget was strapped to her arm. She was, apparently, muttering naval secrets.”
Friendly leaned forward, interested. “What secrets?”
Robert shrugged. “I can’t tell you, I have no idea. I can tell you what she said: ‘Siren and tire and possibly air,’ is what she said. But what it means I have no idea. I tried convincing the brass that it would be helpful if I had some notion of what it’s supposed to mean, but all I got were a lot of stony stares. As a matter of fact, I don’t think Admiral Dennison knows.”
“Then why do you think they’re secrets?”
“There was a convention of the John Paul Jones Society on the floor of the hotel the girl was concealed on. One of the various brass at the convention must have attached some significance to what he heard.”
“What about the gadget attached to her arm?”
“Evidently some sort of metering device for a drug. We didn’t have a chance to examine it—it imploded. The girl was on some drug—probably psychedelic—in picogram quantities, according to the doctor. He was unable to recover enough of it to identify. Somebody tried to kill the girl in the hospital.”
“But they failed?”
“Yes. They tried to be too subtle. They used a slow-acting alkaloid that would not have shown up in a postmortem unless you were looking specifically for it, according to the doctor. He caught it in time by doing a complete blood exchange.”
“Clever man. What does the girl say?”
“Besides ‘siren and tire,’ nothing. It’s not clear whether she actually speaks English.”
“I see,” Friendly said. “So the hypothesis is drug-induced telepathy. Not unreasonable.”
“Is there such a drug?”
“There are several substances which, under certain conditions, have been known to induce something approaching telepathy in some small number of the people using them. One in particular, called ‘silver ice,’ is believed to be most particularly efficacious.” Friendly swung his legs off the desk and stood up. “This is most interesting,” he said. “I’m glad you came by, Lieutenant. I shall be delighted to help you resolve this little mystery.”
Robert nodded. It looked as though Friendly might indeed be useful. “I’ll see about getting you a clearance, sir. It might be a few days.”
“No need,” Friendly assured him. “I hold a commission as Lieutenant-Commander in the United States Navy Intelligence Reserve. I’m sure Admiral Dennison would be only too pleased to activate the commission. He’s been trying to for years.” He stuck out a bear-paw-like hand. “Shake, Lieutenant. We shall work well together, I can tell. We start tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Certainly.”
“Where?”
“Soho. We shall investigate the acquisition of silver ice—an expensive, not too common drug.”
“I should think that a drug which induced telepathy would be very popular.”
“It induces telepathy only in the few. Principally it induces dreams.”
“Dreams?”
“Strange and wonderful lifelike alternate-worlds where you are what you always wanted to be.”
“It should be very popular, I would think.”
“Oh, it is popular,” Friendly assured him. “Among those who deal in illicit drugs it is very popular. But it is also rare and expensive. Which is why we might be able to trace its use.”
Leah escorted Robert to a side door and touched hands briefly with him as he went out. “I hope I get to see more of you,” Robert told her.
“You undoubtedly shall,” she said. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”
Robert sighed and walked down the street toward Madison Avenue. Who could settle for a wish-fulfillment dream, he thought, when there was any chance of getting the real thing. But then, if the dream were realistic enough. . . .
Chapter Nine
Picture a globe: a ping-pong ball, a grapefruit, the planet Earth. They all have the same surface geometry, and the sa
me rules apply. No matter how crowded a globe gets, there’s no edge to fall off. Everyone has to be somewhere, everyone has to make room for everyone else.
But they don’t have to like it.
*
1: Peking
The two men stood in the great, empty hall, staring at a map that covered one wall. “Somewhere,” one of them said. “Somewhere out there. We will find them.”
“Pah!” The other gestured. “Throw darts! Six thousand miles across, from the North Pole to the South—that map does not even show the South Pole—and over six kilometers deep in places. That’s more surface area than the moon—and the moon is not covered with salt water.”
“We have made progress already,” the first man insisted. “We have knowledge we did not possess before.”
“Names! We have some names. And a few depths that might mean anything. Telepathy! Why not spread the map out on the floor and go over it with a dowsing rod?”
“You do not trust the technique?”
“I await results. Confirmable results.”
“Patience. We shall have them.”
*
2: Chicago
Sword in hand, he faced the horde of half-men who came pounding up the rough-hewn stone staircase. Blocking the entrance to the turret room with his body, he fought to give the others time to make ready the spells that would get them the hell out of there. His blade sparkled with an inner light as he swept it in a half-circle in front of him, daring the first of the semihuman brutes to come within its reach. They kept back, as he knew they would, impotently snarling their rage.
Soon the leaders would gather their courage and the fight would begin in earnest. The pack would not give up its goal easily, but would keep coming time after time until he was borne down by the sheer animal mass of the—the—
Words were going again. Somewhere in some corner of his head he knew what that meant, but there was no time to consider it now. The important thing was to protect the princess until the preparations were complete. Even if he did not get away, the others must. They must not get the—the—
He shook his head. The first of the—the first of them leapt at him, war hammer whirling. Parry, and he could feel the shock of the blow clear back to his shoulder, almost unbalancing him. A step back to avoid the return swing, and then two steps forward, thrusting point outstretched, to regain the ground.
Swing, to feel the solid thud of blade on hammer: then reverse to parry the descending blow. Thud, step, reverse, thud. The universe narrowing down to a small circle enclosing just himself and his half-human adversary. Thud. The pattern of blow and encounter was all. Thud. Thud. The pattern was all.
Thud. There was nothing now but the steady repetition of sound and shock. There had been more—what was it? Something to defend. Some reason for living. All was gone now, dissolved in the triphammer repetition of meaningless sound. Meaningless.
A black whirlpool swept him around and around, punctuated only by the steady thudding of his heart. The corner of his brain that had been shut out reintegrated. “I’m coming down now.” it observed. “Silver ice. So nice. Which is dream and which real? For I on honey dew have fed. . . .” Now came the time that most frightened him. The momentary flooding of his brain with thoughts that he knew were not his own. Unimportant, meaningless, prosaic, but not his own.
[Liver again. She knows I hate . . . clause three in the lease, but he’ll never notice . . . that’s two. Now easy around and slowly—there! Third tumbler dropped. Open up, baby, open up . . . Styrofoam injections will make a new woman . . . The holdout’s not working! I must have dropped the card on the floor. Not even under the table. I’d better get the . . . Oh, baby—oh, baby—oh, baby—oh, baby—ohhh!. . .If he doesn’t get his fucking hand off my thigh, I’m going to stick this fork in his. . . Snart truedes Kongemagten imidlertid atter af Fare . . . It’s up my nose! Migod, it’s up my nose . . . Up and down, in and out, that man has no imagination . . . Yellowbacks! A whole safe full of yellowbacks—son of a bitch! . . . Everyone else in the whole school, practically, has a vibrator. Mom is such a . . . These points lie on an ellipse with foci at N and E; in space they are . . .]
Now silence, and the whirlpool stops. For a brief second he was almost conscious, could feel the thick Indian rug under him; then, physically tired from his illusory, but something more than imagined battle, he plunged into a formless, dreamless sleep.
*
3. Los Angeles
Ten o’clock at night, and the streets were empty. Cars left private garages and didn’t slow down until they were in well-policed parking lots. The traffic was sparse and swift; most people remained home, behind thick, locked doors. The wealthy traveled to their restaurants and clubs in chauffeured armored cars.
A late model Seville-Panther armored sedan turned off the Hollywood Freeway at Sunset Avenue, headed towards Beverly Hills. It made good time until it reached Fairfax.
Mene, mene, Shiva, Shiva; mene, mene, Shiva, Shiva.
A group of saffron-robed, bald-headed Shivaites turned onto Sunset from Laurel Avenue, blocking the street and trotting slowly toward the car. The front row stretched from sidewalk to sidewalk, arms linked as they dog-trotted forward. Their chanting rolled ahead of them like summer thunder.
Mene Shiva—mene Shiva—Shiva, Shiva—mene, mene.
The Seville-Panther braked to a stop, its headlights full on the advancing horde. The slap-slap . . . slap-slap of sandals hitting the asphalt set the tempo for the chant.
Mene, mene, Shiva, Shiva. Mene, mene, Shiva, Shiva.
In front of the group two girls danced slowly forward, tapping skull-shaped tambourines in time with the chant. Their robes were pierced by hundreds of vertical slits, revealing in the car’s headlights the lithe, nude, oiled bodies beneath. Their heads were shaven, and the pates painted bright orange. Orange paint also replaced shaven body hair.
The sedan was backed up and turned around in a neat, obviously well-practiced maneuver. But now a second group of Shivaites trotted around the corner from Hayworth, completely closing off that block of Sunset. The chanting speeded up as the two groups closed in.
Mene, mene, Shiva, Shiva, mene, mene, Shiva, Shiva.
Shi-va! Shi-va! Shi-va! Shi-va! Shi-va! Shi-va!
Mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, mene, . . .
The car had no way out. The chauffeur, a young man in a gray uniform, stopped the engine. He and the couple in back—wealthy, middle-aged, dressed and groomed for an evening of refined entertainment—prepared to wait out the crowd. The Seville-Panther was well armored, its stresglass windshield would stop a magnum bullet with no more than a deep gouge, and help could be called. The man in back folded his dress cape over his knees and picked up the handset to the car telephone. He looked annoyed.
One of the saffron-robed multitude that now surrounded the car darted forward and tossed a length of wire around the stubby roof antenna, grounding it to the metal body of the car. The phone is dead.
Mene, Shiva; mene Shiva. Shiva, Shiva, mene, mene.
For the first time the people in the car looked concerned. The Shivaites formed a wide circle around the vehicle.
Shiva, Shiva, mene, mene. . .
Three men stepped forward into the circle and produced gas-filled bottles with rag plugs from beneath their robes. One of the girls struck a long wooden match and danced from man to man, lighting the rag plugs. Her ankle bells tinkled as she moved.
Shi-va! Shi-va! Shi-va! Shi-va!
The chauffeur, his eyes wide, gestured violently to the couple as the men approached the car, burning bottles raised. Pushing his door open, he dashed out of the car. After a few seconds of watching the approaching men, the couple followed their driver onto the street.
As they cleared the car, the bottles were thrown, arcing onto the roof and breaking where they struck. Burning gasoline covered the now-deserted sedan.
The crowd moved forward, encompas
sing and enveloping the driver and the couple.
Shi-va! Shi-va! Shi-va! Shi-va!
Orange flames surrounded the car for a few seconds, then, with a crumping sound, it exploded. The blast of heat seared those at the front of the circle, who stood with arms outstretched in attitudes of religious, or sexual, rapture.
The crowd resumed the chant, and moved west, leaving the blazing car behind.
After a few hundred meters the first of the passengers was dropped out behind—and then the second—and then the chauffeur. Their clothes were gone, and their bodies were twisted, mangled, and partly eaten.
Mene, mene, Shiva, Shiva; mene, mene, Shiva, Shiva. . . .
Chapter Ten
Robert surveyed the collection of civilian clothes he had scattered over his bunk. Although fairly extensive for a naval officer, the assortment might not meet his present requirements. “What I am in need of,” he told himself, “is the services of a professional costumer. How the hell do I know what’s the proper attire for a visit to the Unworld?”
“Soho,” the area south of Houston Street in lower Manhattan, was the heart of New York’s Unworld. From small patches of slum—old lofts that had once been the center of an artists’ colony—the Unpeople came out at night to control all of south Manhattan. For a few blocks around Houston, the infamous “South Village,” a sort of carnival Bohemia existed. Catering to the more adventurous tourists, who traveled in guided, armed groups, the South Village was storefront-to-storefront bars, coffee shops, grog halls, doper dens, art galleries, and other establishments of infamous odor. A stranger there could expect to get propositioned twelve times each block and mugged once every three blocks. The area of Soho, to the South and East of the Village, was far more dangerous.
The police stopped patrolling Soho at ten every evening and did not begin again until six the next morning. Then the bodies of the unwary were collected and distributed to next of kin with form letters expressing regret and an offer by an involved insurance company to return one-third of paid premiums.
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