The Lost Perception

by Daniel F. Galouye

  “The Valorians’ first objective was to reach persons in high authority, heads of state if possible,” he explained. “But almost every official they contacted turned out to be a hyper-perceptive ex-Screamer who belonged to the conspiracy. The Prime Minister of Great Britain was the first to be approached. That was when the bureau learned that its materializing dream of absolute world power had been complicated by the arrival of aliens who wanted to prevent just such a conspiracy.”

  “The first Valorian we saw—the corpse in Rome…?”

  “He was one of the last to try to get through to established authority. But the President of Italy was also an ex-Screamer who held his office only through design of the bureau.”

  Gregson tried not to appear too skeptical. “But certainly there were other ways of getting their message across.”

  “Hardly. Years before then, the bureau and its civilian co-conspirators had already begun seizing control of all communications media as a prerequisite to absolute rule over Earth.”

  The Englishman rose abruptly. “It’s back to the mines for me if we expect to get that transmitter assembled. Whenever you feel equal to a chore, let me know. You’ll fit in somewhere.”

  Gregson said nothing. Evidently they expected to gain his confidence merely on the strength of persuasive argument—until they had an opportunity for more thorough treatment.

  At the stairway, Wellford turned and said, “Incidentally, stay close at hand, Greg. We should hate to lose you back to the bureau. You’re quite a significant cog, you know.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Don’t pretend modesty. You’re aware that you’re the only one the bureau’s located who can handle Vega Jumpoff Station. And they must be fairly frantic now over losing you.”

  “They’ll eventually manage without me.”

  “Granted, But not in time.”

  “Not in time for what?”

  “Earth is rapidly pulling out of the Stygumbra. Persons are going Screamie by the thousands—all over. The incidence of dawning hyperperceptivity is too great for the new Screamers to be controlled within the framework of the bureau’s isolation institutes. Unless VJO can quickly cast its cloak of artificial stygumness over Earth, things are apt to get out of hand for the bureau.”

  Pacing the stone floor, Gregson waited a half hour after the other had left. Then dismay suddenly distilled into determination and he made his way cautiously into the courtyard. He had to know whether everything was as Wellford had convincingly represented it—or whether all was deception, with the Englishman merely serving as an unwitting instrument of Valorian intrigue.

  He stood staring at the chapel, where work was under way on the raultronic transmitter.

  Everything in the castle, except in the immediate vicinity of the transmitter, was engulfed in artificial stygumness generated by the hopper’s rault suppressor. But the chapel’s working area was hyperilluminated by rault casters.

  Perhaps if he went to the fringe of that isolated field, he might zylph the Valorians at a time when they were too intent on what they were doing to notice Ms interest in them. In which case he might learn whether their purpose was benevolent, or whether they were merely vying with the Security Bureau for despotic control over Earth’s population.

  Advancing on the chapel, however, he was confronted by an alien who sternly announced, “You may not enter.”

  It was evident, then, that there were restraints on his freedom, limitations to his supposedly open-armed acceptance.

  Yet, as he subsequently strolled indecisively about the castle grounds, his movements were not contested.

  He wandered through a tunnel under the inner rampart and was even more perplexed to find himself between the two long-range hoppers with no one challenging him.

  Suspecting a trap, he nevertheless entered the craft whose suppressor was blanketing the castle. And a moment later he sent the hopper surging up through the foliage, steering sharply westward as he climbed to transoceanic altitudes. If it had been a trap, he had escaped with the bait.

  * * *

  Within three hours he crossed the United States coastline and flew on toward the deepening twilight of dawn. Easing his grip on the controls, he finally acknowledged his inability to bring order out of confusion.

  The Valorians, despite his profound mistrust of them, were still nothing more than a defiant question mark. It was, of course, possible that they were on a mercy mission. Yet, they might instead be laying a vicious snare which would lead to an oppression even more terrible than that planned by the bureau.

  But if those suspicions were valid, the price of verifying them would be immediate enslavement, blind compulsion to serve the aliens.

  Grim-faced, he crossed the New Jersey-Pennsylvania line and descended steeply, reducing speed as the hopper plunged into denser ah”.

  Coming in low over the ridge east of Forsythe’s farm, he verticaled swiftly down to the bull’s-eye, cut the engine and leaped out.

  “Bill!” he shouted. “Helen!”

  But Forsythe’s house was somberly quiet, its windows darkened in the early morning light.

  Disturbed by the desolate stillness, he stared uncertainly back at the hopper. Then he realized that if he turned off the craft’s rault suppressor he might be able to zylph through the mystery which seemed to enshroud everything.

  But a coarse voice shattered the quiet. “Hold it! Don’t move!”

  Wielding laserifles, two Guardsmen came out of the barn.

  “You Gregson?” one demanded.

  “Of course he is,” the other assured. “Who else would vertical down here with a rault suppressor on?”

  The first approached and ordered, “Turn around.”

  As he did so, a hypodermic needle plunged into his neck.

  * * *

  He regained consciousness in the glare of fluorescent lights strung along an acoustical tile ceiling. Shielding his eyes, he sat up on the plastic couch, numb from the aftereffects of the injection.

  When finally he brought his vision in focus, he was staring out a window upon a vast concrete apron lined with scores of shuttle craft whose sleek, gleaming noses were pointed toward space. In hangars and around the buildings bordering the strip scurried personnel in the uniforms of the International Guard, the Space Division and the United States Army. Beyond, rugged and bare mountain peaks imparted a harmony of upward striving to the entire scene.

  There was a rustling of paper and he turned to see Weldon Radcliff sitting at a polished desk and riffling through a file folder. Plush carpeting stretched like a lawn from wall to mahogany-paneled wall. By the door stood an alert Guardsman, laserifle cradled in his arms. At the head of the couch was another.

  Among the articles on the desk was a rault suppressor, its red light aglow. But Gregson suspected that the instrument had only recently been turned off while the Security Bureau director had zylphed his unconscious thoughts.

  Radcliff glanced up and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment. You are at Space Division Command Central.”

  After a while he stored the folder and the suppressor in a drawer and motioned to the nearer guard. “Bring him over here.”

  Gregson was prodded to the chair indicated by Radcliff.

  “I trust you don’t consider yourself excessively inconvenienced,” the director said. “But if you were foolish enough to return to Forsythe’s farm, then you have mostly yourself to blame.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “We blast off tonight for Vega Jumpoff. I am transferring my top-echelon personnel there. You will be in charge of Maintenance and Station Propulsion.”

  He folded his hands on the desk. “I am indebted to you for the wealth of information you supplied. We had been searching for that transmitter. However, it is now something with which we need no longer concern ourselves.”

  “You destroyed it?”

  “Hours ago.”

  “What about the people who were there?”

&nbs
p; “Wellford and the Valorians? They escaped, unfortunately. All except one. We managed to pick up the Valorian girl. It’s regrettable you didn’t find out where their other bases are now located.”

  Somehow Gregson found himself regretting Andelia’s capture. She had seemed so sincere, and helpless. He rose and hunched over the director’s desk. “Are the Valorians here to take advantage of us?”

  Radcliff gestured impatiently. “Good God, man! Use your head! What else would they be here for?”

  “They say they want to help us become hypersensitive.”

  “You sound as though you’re acting under Valorian compulsion.”

  “Is there such a thing as Valorian compulsion?”

  “I…” Radcliff glanced up in exasperation. “You’ve seen what they can do. You’ve just come from observing Wellford acting like their bootblack.”

  Gregson sank back into the chair, aware now of the thoroughness with which the director had zylphed his unconscious thoughts.

  Radcliff came around the desk and gripped his shoulder. “You’ve been over on the Valorians’ side and you realize now that there is no easy way through the Screamie barrier. So let’s have a look at the practical side of matters.”

  Gregson stared up at him.

  “The world is up for grabs,” the other went on. “It’s as simple as that. If the bureau doesn’t do the grabbing, the Valorians will. I think it should be us. After all, we’re human. They’re not. And, we’re offering an end to the Screamies.”

  “Will the suppressor on VJO work? Can you stop the Screamies?”

  “We’ve already canceled all rault within a radius of ten thousand miles of the station. As soon as we expand the field to twelve thousand miles, we can bring an end to all hyper-sensitivity—if you help us move Vega Jumpoff to a low enough orbit.”

  “And then the bureau hierarchy will continue using personalized rault casters so they’ll have the advantage of zylphing whenever they need it. That’s how you intend to perpetuate yourselves in power.” ”

  Radcliff thought about it a moment. “I’m afraid so. But you’re considering only secondary matters. However, you’ve already realized the main issue: Unless some group establishes world-wide control and maintains that control as a bulwark against both hyperradiation and the Valorians, then billions of persons will die screaming.”

  “The Valorians say we can become completely rault sensitive with no ill effects—in just a few weeks’ time.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Apparently Forsythe’s learning to tolerate hypersensitivity without going Screamie. He’s come through scores of seizures.”

  “Good God, man, you can’t generalize from Forsythe’s case! He’s blind. And, as I zylphed from your unconscious, he had often expressed a desire to ‘see those damned lights.’”

  Out on the base someone went Screamie, but the inevitable howl of the siren brought an end to his shrill cries.

  “Over and above what I have said,” the director went on, ignoring the distraction, “the fact remains that mankind isn’t ready for the sixth sense.”

  He permitted himself his first smile. “This is proved both by our economic upheaval and the relative ease with which the early ex-Screamers were able to seize the reins everywhere. But the power grab terminates with the bureau. Otherwise, as more persons emerge as scheming hypersensitives, the struggle for control would become chaotic.”

  Gregson was silent a long while. “Suppose I refuse to go along with you.”

  “You won’t,” Radcliff assured. “You see, we hold a cudgel. We have Forsythe and his niece. And we know how concerned you are about them.”

  Gregson lunged up. But one of the Guardsmen leveled his laserifle. The director only sat there unperturbed, regarding his folded hands.

  * * *

  The desk viewer buzzed and Radcliff energized its screen.

  “Colonel Reynolds to see you, sir,” said a feminine voice.

  “Send him in.”

  Reynolds, short and somewhat thin, wore a U.S. Army uniform. Standing there before the desk, he used a wadded handkerchief to dab at his forehead—but it was not warm in the building.

  “We have another civilian at the gate telling us the Screamies are actually some kind of new way of—ah, seeing things,” he said.

  Radcliff leveled a finger at the officer. “If you’ve forgotten the prescribed procedure, let me remind you that you are to hand him immediately over to the International Guard detail.”

  “But…”

  “Colonel Reynolds, we have discussed this before. Your government subscribes to the authority of the Security Bureau in these matters. You will therefore not only execute my orders, but you will also explicitly carry out the directives of the Space Division commander in charge of this base.”

  Reynolds seemed both frustrated and determined. “I’d like to question the man at the gate.”

  “Under the Compact, that’s the Security Bureau’s responsibility.”

  Reynolds drew erect and his jaw firmed. “I’ve already spoken with him. He named every article in my pockets, even told me about the metal pin in my thigh.”

  Silence descended upon the room. Without having been announced, another Army officer strode in. Tall, elderly, he wore a silver star on each epaulet. His appearance was thoroughly in the military tradition, except for the hypodermic pouch that disturbed the drape of his blouse.

  “What seems to be the trouble, Colonel Reynolds?” he asked.

  But it was Radcliff who answered. “Reynolds has arrested another civilian. Wants to question the man himself.”

  “Is this true, Colonel?”

  “Yes, General Munston.”

  “But certainly you understand we would be pre-empting a Security Bureau function.”

  “That’s not the only function I’d like to pre-empt!” Reynolds blurted out. “All we do is sit on our butts, polish hardware and wait for the bureau and the Space Division to tell us what to do!”

  “Under the Compact,” the general reminded, “certain matters are legally in the hands of those international organizations. However…” he seemed to relent, “why do you think we ought to question the man at the gate?”

  “Because I believe what he says!”

  General Munston stiffened. “Very well, Colonel. I’ll back you up and the Compact be damned. Let’s go. We’ll both question him.”

  Moments after they left, however, a hypodermic siren began sending its shrill ululation through the corridor. Eventually General Munston returned, the pouch at his waist hanging open.

  “Isn’t it unfortunate?” he said blandly. “Colonel Reynolds just went Screamie and had to be rushed to an isolation institute.”

  Radcliff shook his head. “How dreadful.”

  “How brave,” the general amended. “He didn’t even scream.”

  That afternoon, when they locked Gregson in the guardhouse, he was still waiting for the moment when he might find himself out of range of a rault suppressor. Then he would be able to zylph around Space Division Command Central and perhaps learn whether Helen and Bill were on the base. But the stygumness was impenetrable.

  Pacing in his cell, he was even more frustrated in the realization that once aboard Vega Jumpoff Station he wouldn’t be able to zylph any information from Radcliff or the others. Not at the very center of a field of stygumness twenty thousand miles in diameter.

  He dropped down on the edge of his cot and sat there with his hands gripped together, wondering whether he could force himself to cooperate with the conspiracy. A conspiracy more callous and powerful than any the world had ever known. He recalled the brutal slaying of the man in London, Simmons’ body in the pool at Versailles, the woman who had been hurled out of the isolation institute window in Rome. Even more recently, there had been the indifferent and fraudulent consignment of Colonel Reynolds to another isolation facility.

  Could he bend his efforts to the interest of the oligarchy?

  Then he t
hought of Helen and Bill as hostages of the bureau and of the billions who would soon be screaming and dying if the rault suppressor aboard the satellite did not accomplish its purpose.

  He had no choice—not even if the Valorians were altruistic. For weren’t they powerless before the bureau’s might?

  And even if they had intended summoning help for Earth’s screaming millions, they wouldn’t be able to do that now—not with their transmitter destroyed.

  Gregson saw then that the most immediate necessity was a world-wide field of stygumness so that the Screamers would scream no more.

  CHAPTER XV

  Vega Jumpoff Station was a huge doughnut that rotated serenely about its nodular hub in the quiet of space. Encouraging its resemblance to a wheel were eight spokes connecting nave with outer ring. Tapering toward the hub, the radial members contained living quarters, workshops and offices. But where they joined the gravityless focal structure, they were scarcely thick-stemmed enough to enclose the elevator shafts that ran the quarter-mile length of each.

  The outer doughnut was six hundred feet in cross section. Traveling its peripheral corridor in an electric cart, one would have to drive more than a mile and a half before returning to his starting point. Along the outer extremities of the wheel were arranged, alternately, iris-diaphragm air locks, to receive the noses of docking shuttle craft, and pairs of fore-and-aft spin-stabilization jets.

  A city in itself, the circumferential ring housed the more desirable living quarters, Command Central, Life-Support Control, Gravity Management, Earth Communications General, recreational facilities, assembly halls, dining rooms and even a miniature park with its tiled swimming pool and equisolar radiation.

  “Spinward” and “contraspinward” were curvilinear directions along the ring. “Up” meant toward the hub. And the ceilings of all the rooms and halls and public facilities were so oriented.

  Gregson, at the moment, was in Gravity Management before a control board perhaps twenty feet long. At his direction, two men were making adjustments along an accessway behind the panel.

  “Another turn to the right should do it,” he instructed.