The Lost Perception

by Daniel F. Galouye

  Presently, an indicator moved and there was a slight increase in weight as spinward jets came to life and sent Vega Jumpoff wheeling ever so insignificantly faster about its hub.

  The men came out from behind the panel and joined Gregson as he backed off to survey scores of dials. Needles flicked occasionally as lights flashed to report precise firing of spin-control rockets.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Now we’re fully automatic.”

  “It was hell a few days ago—just before you shuttled up here,” one of the men said. “We must have gained a fourth of a G.”

  “That,” suggested the other, “was because they were moving all that heavy equipment contraspinward.”

  Gregson pretended appreciation of the barely perceptible tremors as the nearer peripheral rockets cut on and off. Behind his superficial engrossment, however, he was straining for even the barest hint of rault. But the intense stygumness was oppressive, choking. And once again he wondered where the super suppressor was hidden.

  If he could reach it and find some way to turn it off—even if only momentarily—then he might zylph whether Helen and her uncle were being held somewhere aboard the station.

  An International Guardsman entered Gravity Management and came over to Gregson.

  “You finished here?”

  As before, the man was armed with a laserifle, its selector tuned for a broad beam that would stun rather than kill.

  Gregson nodded.

  “Then you’re wanted in Command Central.”

  Gregson drove his cart slowly back along the peripheral corridor, glancing into transverse passageways, staring at closed doors or through glass walls that partitioned recreation lounges and dining halls.

  Somewhere aboard Vega Jumpoff they had assembled a mighty rault suppressor. He had no idea how large it was, physically. But, certainly, it should be recognizable—if not by its appearance, then perhaps by the flurry of activity that must surround it as new banks of generators were added to increase its output.

  But, he conceded as he glanced back at the guard who would not let him out of sight, it wasn’t likely that he would soon find an opportunity to search for it. For more than a week now, he had been under close surveillance aboard the station.

  Ahead, a party of civilian and uniformed officials was filing out of a conference room.

  Leading them was a tall, distinguished man who bore himself ceremoniously erect.

  Not taking his eyes off the latter, Gregson brought his cart to a halt to watch the group pass.

  The guard pulled up beside him. “You a name-dropper, Gregson?”

  “No. Why?”

  “If you were, you could say you rubbed shoulders with a lot of important people.” The guard nodded at the procession.

  “Important only because they zylphed their way up to the offices they hold.”

  “See the tall, gray-baked man? That’s Stanley Heath.”

  “Met him yesterday.”

  The guard shook his head in mock disapprobation. “And you aren’t even impressed by the President of your country?”

  The group had passed and Gregson turned to watch a stout man with an awkward stride who held a translingual horn to his ear to understand what the two women next to him were saying.

  “Know who that is?” the guard asked, following his stare.

  “No.” Gregson had seen the man come aboard yesterday. Radcliff had made quite a fuss over the arrival.

  “That’s Sergilov Baranovsky,” said the guard impressively. “Premier of the Soviet Union.”

  * * *

  In Command Central, Gregson found Radcliff drawn up before a bank of telescreens, watching shuttle ships close in on the perimeter of Vega Jumpoff and nudge their noses into iris-diaphragm docks.

  Beside the Security Bureau director stood a rangy man with a rather blunt, intense face.

  He wore a Space Division uniform whose epaulets bore five stars.

  Radcliff called Gregson over and said, “This is General Forrester, head of the Space Division. He will work with you when we ease Vega Jumpoff down to its two thousand-mile orbit.”

  Neither acknowledged the introduction.

  “I see you’ve got our spin properly stabilized,” Forrester said.

  “He’s accomplished wonders with Life-Support too,” Radcliff testified. “There’s still much to be done, of course, but that can wait until we become established in our new orbit.”

  “Will the orbital change be difficult?” Forrester asked.

  “Not particularly.” Gregson settled down in an observation chair. “It’s a matter of cross-firing opposing pairs of spin-control rockets as they rotate past orbit-parallel.”

  “Sounds complicated,” said Radcliff. “Is it done automatically?”

  Gregson nodded. “But overall steerage has to be supervised manually, by overriding the auto-control system.”

  “Can you do it?” Forrester seemed concerned.

  “I’ve been checked out in Propulsion Control.”

  “Is the automatic system in proper operating condition?”

  “Practically. As a result of adjustments we’ve just made in Gravity Management. More circuit checks will have to be run, though.”

  Forrester frowned and, on the evidence of his apparent confusion, Gregson gathered that he had earned his position more on the basis of hypersensitivity than as a result of technical qualification.

  “What’s Gravity Management got to do with it?” the general asked.

  Patiently, Gregson explained, “Gravity Management and Spin Control are the same thing. Spin Control’s regulatory jets do double duty as propulsion units.”

  “Oh.”

  But it was obvious Forrester was wishing for a bit of rault so he could zylph his way to full comprehension without having to embarrass himself by asking for details.

  These, Gregson realized, represented the New Order in store for Earth: the oligarchy; the top of the pyramid; the barons of a brutal feudal system that would not oversee its vassals by the authority of bestowed title. They would rule by virtue of an already-achieved control of Earth’s productive means, of its political institutions, its military establishments.

  The general turned toward Radcliff. “You seem to have the right man for the job, Weldon.”

  “I’m quite sure we have. And he works willingly.”

  “Zylph potential?”

  “Awkward. But he’s just crossed the threshold. Given enough time, he’ll zylph as well as the rest of us.”

  Then Radcliff faced Gregson. “Actually, you have us over a barrel, in a sense, Greg. Quite frankly, we need you. And we should like to have you with us—voluntarily.”

  “You have my cooperation,” Gregson pointed out, “not so much because you hold a couple of hostages, but…”

  “If not for the sake of the hostages, Mr. Gregson,” Forrester broke in, “why then are you helping us?”

  It was Radcliff, though, who answered—with an amused smile. “Because he agrees that the time has come to bring Earth within range of Vega Jumpoff’s rault suppressor and stop the Screamies. He will, I imagine, go along with us until we accomplish that purpose. Afterward, he will—shall we put it melodramatically?—do everything within his power to fight the bureau. Right, Greg?”

  Gregson said nothing.

  “In which case,” Radcliff went on facetiously, “I suppose I’ll have to do something to mollify Mr. Gregson, in order that his reprisal will not be too severe. And such mollification has already been arranged. She awaits you at the pool, Greg.”

  * * *

  Gregson sent the electric cart scampering for the park, trying not to imagine Radcliff would have been humane enough to release Helen. Yet, it way possible. For a hostage would lose none of her value or availability if allowed free run of the satellite.

  He drove on into the park and left the cart beside an artificial tree glistening with droplets from a recent sprinkling. Skirting flower beds, he drew up on a tile terrace bordering
the pool.

  There were perhaps thirty persons in swimming, sunning themselves or dozing in beach chairs. More than half were women. His gaze went hastily from one to the other.

  Then he spotted her… lying face-down, wearing a brief two-piece bathing suit and with a towel covering her head. It was she!

  He hastened over and dropped to his knees. “Helen!”

  Evidently having expected him, she said, “Hello, Greg.”

  But the voice was too low-pitched to be Helen’s!

  Karen Rakaar sat up and smiled. She laid a hand on his wrist and said, “Old home week for Versailles alumni?”

  Gregson could not mask his disappointment as he dropped back on his haunches and reluctantly erased the poignant image that had flared briefly in his memory—Helen’s lustrous blond hair sparkling with sun and snow as he had pinned her to the ground an eternity ago.

  “I was so delighted to hear you didn’t leave Versailles in the same manner as Simmons,” Karen said cheerily. “I’m not here because I want to be.”

  “I understand. But you might change your mind, mightn’t you?”

  She shifted her position, drawing shapely legs up beneath her. It was obvious that the slightly sensuous movement had been purposely provocative. Her flesh-colored swimsuit was boldly scant.

  “Oh, Greg,” she chided, tossing her head briefly. “Be practical.”

  “Are you supposed to help me be practical?” “Frankly, yes.” She clung to his arm, holding it tightly against her. “And practicality wouldn’t be a bad idea. In the bureau’s eyes, you’re quite valuable, you know. For your essential services, delivered willingly, you could name your own price.”

  She moved closer still. “For us, Greg, it could be Utopia. And I’m not someone who’s separated from you by the barrier of hypersensitivity. We’re both superior. We’re both zylphers.”

  She had obviously been briefed on all the details, if she hadn’t zylphed them for herself at Versailles. He looked down at her and had to acknowledge her attractiveness. Her eyes were like the blue of the pool and there was a firmness, yet tenderness about her lips that suggested both gaiety and the capacity for consuming sensuality.

  Rising to dry herself, she stood in the equisolar light like a tall, self-assured Grecian figure carved out of the richest Carrara marble. Though youthful, she suggested a woman destined to wield a scepter, yet one who would willingly serve vassalage to her own emotions.

  Evidently encouraged by his appraising stare, she glanced at her watch. “Why, it’s dinner time! I’ll only take a moment to dress. Radcliff says you have nothing to do this evening. How about a cocktail or two, then dinner and—well, whatever you say.”

  He didn’t answer. But she accepted his silence as an .affirmative, caught his hand momentarily and promised, “I’ll be right back.”

  Watching the flowing rhythm of her long limbs as she strode off, he reflected briefly and miserably on the odds arrayed against him. There was nothing he could do to help either himself or Helen and her uncle as long as they kept him under close surveillance. But what if he reacted to their lure in the manner they hoped he would?

  Feeling both purpose and compunction, he waited for Karen. When they left he noticed he was not under guard for the first time since he had come aboard Vega Jumpoff.

  * * *

  Karen had been wrong, though, about the Security Bureau director’s having nothing for him to do the rest of the evening. Quite the opposite was true. They had finished dinner and returned to her suite and she had tuned in soft music and mixed drinks when the knock came at her door.

  Gregson thought they must be overwhelmingly certain of their tactics when the International Guardsman said, “I knew I’d find you here. You’re wanted in Peripheral Auditorium B.”

  Karen pecked him on the cheek. “I’ll keep the drinks chilled.”

  Auditorium B, whose floor curved gently in two directions, was sparsely illuminated because it also served as an observation compartment. Through the one-way transparency of its deck was now visible a half-Earth, its darkened area bathed in moonlight and appearing much like a huge opal in a setting of chip diamonds.

  Gregson waited at the rear of the hall. Altogether, perhaps fifty persons were assembled there, mostly men. On the stage, Radcliff, flanked by a pair of armed guards, leaned casually upon the lectern.

  “… and,” he was saying, “immediately after the isolation institutes are closed, the International Guard will be beefed up by general military conscription throughout the Compact area.”

  “How long will it be before we’re in position to go on the offensive against the Oriental power structure?” asked Soviet Premier Baranovsky through his translingual horn.

  “Within a few weeks. We can’t be certain now how much opposition we’ll meet. But we’ll be well prepared.”

  “And the Peking zylphers?” asked an Oxford-trained voice. “Will they be assimilated by our organization?”

  “Possibly, Mr. Prime Minister. They’re not nearly as well organized as we are, of course. But they do have control of their area. Therefore it will be more convenient to superimpose our authority on top of theirs, rather than tear down their power structure and start from scratch.”

  When there were no more questions, Radcliff added, “That will be all then, until our first strategy session tomorrow.”

  As the audience filed out he motioned Gregson to the stage.

  “As you can see,” Radcliff said when they were alone, “we are finally getting things organized. I trust you were not disappointed with the surprise I arranged for you.”

  “Anything to keep the hired help happy?”

  “If you put it that way. But it needn’t appear so mercenary, you know. Karen, I understand, is somewhat infatuated with you.”

  “What’s in it for her?”

  “The Netherlands. But there could be more—for both of you.”

  With pretended thoughtfulness, Gregson said, “Karen’s a very beautiful girl.”

  Radcliff smiled. “I had hoped you would think so. Well, day after tomorrow we weigh anchor and move toward our two thousand-mile orbit. Can you have the propulsion system ready by then?”

  “Easily. I can run my checks in a couple of hours.”

  “Excellent.”

  “You have your suppressor putting out enough stygumness?”

  “We are now generating a rault-free sphere of fourteen thousand-mile radius. You do your job and within a matter of days the Screamers will stop screaming—permanently.”

  * * *

  It was perhaps three in the morning—with Vega Jumpoff orbiting through Earth’s shadow—that Gregson finally dislodged Karen’s head from his shoulder, fluffed his pillow and went to sleep.

  But his slumber was not dreamless. For soon, with godlike omniscience, he seemed to be drifting languidly through vast reaches of galactic space, the spangled splendor of the Milky Way arrayed about him like a fiercely sparkling tiara.

  Spiraling arms of glittering stars, suffused with the glow of warmly radiant nebulae, wrapped about Gregson, transfiguring him with a giddying sense of oneness with the entirety of cosmic creation.

  During that moment of exalted awareness, it was as though he shared the mysteries of the universe. Countless were the stars that whirled in timeless revolution about the galactic concourse. Yet he seemed aware of each individually, of their sizes and distances, their arrangement into complex systems and clusters, their absolute magnitudes and frequencies and radiation patterns.

  Crying for attention were those distraught stellar cauldrons whose frenzied thermonuclear processes had brought them to the very brink of self-immolation as novae.

  It was his first hyperperceptive dream.

  And in it, as though capable of changing his perspective at will, he was able to zylph the magnificent font of hyperradiance whose lustrous beauty dimmed even the brilliant stars which it bathed in all-permeating rault. Chandeen, he appreciated now as a jewel among jewels that i
mparted meaning and purpose to the Galaxy which it dominated.

  The harmony it lavished upon every atom in its domain was disturbed only by the harsh presence of the Stygumbra of hyperdarkness that was choking countless millions of stars and clusters.

  At the very edge of that awful shadow, Gregson recognized Sol and its family of planets as they drifted on toward their full baptism of rault after immeasurable millennia of stifling stygumbraic obscurity.

  Again his perspective changed—from the cosmic to the mundane. And he was intricately aware of the nude Dutch girl who slept soundly beside him, dreaming her so clearly zylphable dreams of a Utopia in which she reigned regally.

  Gregson shifted his head on the pillow and realized suddenly that it was no dream—this far-ranging excursion into the realm of zylphing while hyperradiance poured from Chandeen.

  He was—had been, all along—awake!

  The powerful suppressor aboard VJO had failed. And its projected sphere of stygumness had collapsed.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Now he listened to the distant sounds of anxious activity that came through the bulkheads of Vega Jumpoff Station. Confounded, he sat on the edge of the bed, unaware that Karen bad stirred beside him before retreating into even deeper sleep.

  Concentrating on hyperperception, he found his glial attention focused on distant Earth, trapped in the fascination of its writhing lines of magnetic force fanning out like fingers of cold fire to pluck at all the seething electrical currents in VJO. The planet’s gravitational gradient was a rustling, bright halo-pulling, tugging, beckoning even this far out in space.

  Intermingled with the cosmic impressions were the superficial features of Earth’s darkened and sunlit surfaces. He could not miss the intriguing patterns of electrical energy that mottled the land areas—flowing, pulsating, trembling—as they marked the location of each metropolis.

  And now he recognized the subtle hyperemanations of desperation that also seemed to rise miasmalike from the cities as Earth was carried more boldly, inexorably out of the Stygumbra and as additional thousands everywhere were experiencing their first horrifying seizures of rault sensitivity.

  Then, abruptly, he was zylphing the station itself in all the awful clarity of hypersensitivity.