Monster Of The Maze rb-6

by Джеффри Лорд

  Monster Of The Maze

  ( Richard Blade - 6 )

  Джеффри Лорд

  Лайл Кеньон Ингел

  Monster of the Maze

  by Jeffrey Lord

  Chapter 1

  Richard Blade had not given much thought to getting bald. He was too young and his hair much too luxurious, though well kept and clipped, for such worries. Old age, senility, the palsied pace-all that was years in the future. If he lived. If he made this final trip through the great computer and came back alive.

  But at the moment he was bald. He was wearing a most expensive toupee-courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government-and beneath his shorn skull, implanted in the dura mater enveloping his left frontal lobe, was a paper-thin wafer of crystal. Blade’s brain was in direct communication with Lord Leighton’s computer. That monster, really a connected bank of nine 7th-generation computers, was telling Blade exactly what to do. At the precise moment it directed him to leave Bayswater Road at Marble Arch and stroll down Park Lane to Piccadilly, then to his right to Wellington Place and into Constitution Hill and past Buckingham Palace into the Mall. He was headed for the Thames now, and the tang of salt and the sludgy smell of oily mud mingled with the fumes of a million cars.

  No stranger, nor even a friend, could have guessed that Blade was at the moment little more than an automaton; and this was not, in the usual sense, true. The computer, directed by Lord L, was directing his steps, but in no other way did it interfere with his sentience. He smiled back at the pretty miniskirted birds that smiled at him-and many did-and walked briskly on. He was still Richard Blade, never mind the sliver of crystal in his brain, and he was a handsome and superbly conditioned young giant. He had been through the computer five times and was soon to go for the sixth and last time and then his life would be his own again. He could go back to working for J and MI6, instead of for Lord L and MI6A, and never in all his thirty years had he been happier about anything. It was nearly over. One more time into the dangerous mystery and it was over-he had done his time in hell, served England and St. George and Western civilization and all the other rot, and he would be alive and his own man and free of it all.

  Blade came to Northumberland Avenue and turned toward the river. It was an early November day, dour and with what the Scots call a louring sky, and dusk was falling. The amber-silver splash of car lights on Hungerford Bridge was incessant. He came to the Victoria Embankment and swung to his left toward Blackfriars. When he reached the Temple Steps he halted and stood at the rail, gazing out at the busy river, here known as King’s Reach, and watched the tugs bully their barges to and fro and admitted that, to a point, Lord L’s experiment with the brain crystal was a success. He had just walked the route chosen by his Lordship, who at the moment was in his lab far below the Tower of London. Lord L, using an ordinary street map of London, had penciled a route and fed it into his computer and Blade had obeyed. He had, of course, been cooperating. He had exercised no volition of his own. He felt sure now, as he realized that the computer control had ended, that he could have broken away from the machine at any time he chose. Or could he?

  Richard Blade grinned, shrugged his big shoulders and went in search of a taxi. At that hour in London it was not easy and, as he turned back toward Waterloo and then over to the Strand, hailing cab after cab with no luck, it occurred to him that here was a minor irony. Blade was the only man in the world, the only man born, ever to escape his own dimension and go out into X, into spaces that the ordinary mortal was not even capable of conceiving, and he could not get a taxi.

  As he waited impatiently at the curb on the Strand, a group of youths approached and demanded «something for the Guy.» They had blacked their faces and wore rags and tatters and carried bags of chalk dust to mark those who did not pay.

  Blade paid, a shilling all around, remembering that it was indeed Guy Fawkes day, November 5. Until now he had forgotten. He had been preoccupied as usual before a mission into Dimension-X, and matters were not going well between Lord Leighton and J, who was Blade’s real boss in MI6 and who had screamed bloody murder when Lord L suggested implanting the crystal in the young man’s brain. J had done more than scream. J had gone to the Prime Minister and made an official protest. The project had nearly been called off, then the election had put in a new Government, and a new PM, and the project was on again. This last time.

  The new PM had been most emphatic. Millions of pounds had been poured into Project DX so far with no results. This meant, in political language, no profits. Science, and especially Lord L, had reaped vast benefits. Very good. But England was so many million pounds the poorer. There had been, in short, no treasure in Dimension X. The old PM had been sympathetic; the new PM was not. Produce or close down was now the order of the day. One more chance: Venture No. 6 into DX. And if the sliver of crystal in Blade’s brain would help in any way then the Prime Minister was all for it.

  Blade could understand J’s bitterness. He should, he supposed, be a little bitter himself. Yet he was not. England was a commercial nation fighting for her life in the world marketplace. The politicians could not be expected to understand Project DX. It was as far beyond their comprehension as the quantum theory was beyond the comprehension of that poor little street cur, just now so nearly struck by a taxi.

  Blade realized that the taxi was empty. He ran for it, shouting, feeling very insecure beneath the damned toupee, and as he slammed into the musty leather-smelling interior he came to a sudden decision.

  He had intended to go down to Dorset and stay at his cottage while his hair grew in again. The weather would not be pleasant on the Channel at this time of year, but he had a lot of reading to do and he could always have a girl down for the weekend. He would have to think up some excuse for looking like a young Yul Brynner, but his wits should be equal to that. There would be a little drinking-he had cut way down-and a little lovemaking and many long afternoons and nights before a snug fire.

  And then, one day without warning, the crystal in his brain would summon him to London and he would go through the computer for the last time. That had been the plan.

  Blade now changed the plan. He directed the driver to take him to the Tower of London, the old Watergate side.

  The cabby, an ancient character with a Bairnsfather moustache, advised against it.

  «Be closed now, mate. Them bloody beefeaters locks up shop at four sharp. Wasting your time, you’d be.»

  Blade was surprised at his own reaction. It was most unlike him, yet he heard himself snapping, «Take me to the Tower fast, and keep your bloody advice bloody well to yourself. Understood?!»

  «Yessir.» The cabby turned to his wheel with a shrug. You got all kinds. But if this toff was a tourist he was Prince Philip.

  Chapter 2

  Lord Leighton was not pleased with Blade’s decision. He sat hunched sideways in his chair and stared at the younger man with yellow eyes, looking every bit the hunchbacked and evil-tempered little gnome he was. Lord L was very old and very famous and quite properly considered himself the foremost cybernetic genius of his time.

  «It is not nearly time,» he complained. «We’ve only just implanted the crystal. Your hair hasn’t even grown in yet.»

  «Damn my hair,» said Blade. «I want to get on with it. Otherwise I might not go at all. I might funk it.»

  J had been sitting quietly in a corner, sucking on his pipe and listening and watching, rather enjoying himself. Enjoying Lord L’s discomfiture. J had noticed that in himself of late-more and more he had come to dislike Lord L, and all scientists, and he had struggled against it and lost.

  Now he said, «Funk it, Richard? Not you. You never
funked anything in your life, much less a mission of this importance.»

  «I might this one,» said Blade. He smiled at J. Theirs was very nearly a father-and-son relationship. Blade was fond of the older man even though they were opposite types and the generation gap was great. J was dry as dust, Establishment to the core, something of a fussy old woman in dress and manner-and as much a genius as Lord L in his own line of work. He was a security man, head of MI6 and also of MI6A, the special security branch created for Project DX. He did his job superbly and hated it. As he spoke again he found himself almost wishing that Blade would funk it, would drop out and refuse the upcoming mission. They had a new man on tap, a trainee, and though he was no Richard Blade he would do.

  Lord Leighton said: «Look, my boy. You don’t really understand the problems. The telemetry is working, and the laser microprogramming is coming along, but there is still a tremendous amount of work to be done on the encephalographic code. And that is the crux of the whole matter! What we have just done, directing your route this afternoon by computer impulses, is primitive compared to what I hope to do. I tell you, Richard, the possibilities are limitless. There is literally no end-«

  «And that,» said J dryly and with some malice, «is just the trouble. There never is any end to it, Lord L. There never will be, if you have your way. In any case, I’m sure that Dick has his reasons for wanting to start the mission now»

  They were in the office suite far below the Tower of London. All three men were at present living there. J had given up his comfortable quarters on Half Moon Street and Blade had closed his flat in Kensington. His Lordship, though he owned a house in Prince’s Gate, had to all intents and purposes lived under the Tower since the missions into Dimension X began. It was J’s private opinion that Lord L would have slept with his precious computers if possible.

  They were waiting for his answer. Lord L left his chair and shuffled about, looking frail and with his hump grotesque beneath his smock. Blade recognized the implicit appeal and steeled himself-he had seen it all before: Lord L representing himself as an old man, an aging genius about to die, a poor old fellow with a polio-wracked body who must be granted this last favor. Let things be done his way, just this last time.

  J also recognized the gambit and his smile was icy. He nodded to Blade. «Speak up, Dick. You have never complained before, or tried to interfere in any way. You have obeyed orders, kept your mouth shut and performed splendidly. Surely you must have your reasons now. We’re listening.»

  The trouble was that Blade could not put his finger on it, really could not explain the feeling, the hunch or intuition, or whatever you wanted to call it, that had swept over him so suddenly when he leaped into the taxi. One moment it had not been there. The next moment it was. The urge to go, to begin the mission. It was almost as though the computer itself, working through the crystal in his brain, had spoken to him.

  Blade did the best he could. «It is a feeling I have,» he told them. «A strong, an overpowering feeling, that I should go now. I can’t name it and I won’t try, but it’s there. I think I had better obey it.»

  Lord L snorted and said something vulgar. He was given to bad language when thwarted.

  J nodded and smiled and said, «If you feel that strongly about it, my dear boy, by all means I think you should go. As soon as you like. I see no drawbacks, no reason for delay. The Prime Minister need not be consulted, though he will have to be informed after the fact. So I think-«

  «Who gives a bloody good goddamn about the Prime Minister!»

  Lord L hobbled around and around his desk. His thin white hair floated atop his pink skull and his leonine eyes had a baleful gleam. He pointed a graphite-stained finger at J.

  «You know what you can bloody well do with the PM! It is my experiment I’m concerned with. This is our last chance, damn it. You know that, J. After this mission they will cut off our funds, and that will be the end of Project DX. It’s a shame, a crime, a criminal waste and worse stupidity, but that is what they will do.»

  J crossed his tweedy knees, blew on his pipe and gave the old man an insincere smile. «Maybe not. Not if we bring back some treasure this time.»

  Lord L clenched a gnarled fist and shook it at the ceiling. «Treasure shit. Those fools can only think in terms of material things-gold, platinum, gems, uranium! Stupid pots that can’t see beyond their noses. Project DX is treasure, damn it. The greatest discovery ever made by man. DX makes the moon landings look like a row on the Thames. We send a man into new dimensions, into dimensions that people do not even know exist, cannot conceive of existing, and we get him back safely. Five times we have done this, and those misbegotten bastards want to close us down because we aren’t showing a profit. Suppose the Americans had thought so-they would never have landed on the moon!»

  «A nation of shopkeepers,» J said smugly. «Profit or we don’t play.» He began to ream his pipe. The worst was over. Lord L had forgotten his immediate displeasure with Blade, and with J, and had taken off on the powers that be. The thing was-and J, even loathing the X missions as he did, had to admit it-that the old man was right.

  The outburst was over. Lord L went back to his desk and slid into his chair like an old crab, easing his hump.

  Blade said: «About being out there five times, Lord L–I am the man who has done it and it has been my intuition, my hunches, if you please, that have kept me alive more often than not. I have survived all those various hells because I have followed my instincts. I think I had better follow my instinct now.»

  The old man was making scribbles on onion-skin paper. He did not look up. «Very well. If you are so determined-it is your life, Richard, and you know best how to safeguard it. And, no matter what J thinks, your safety has always been my chief concern. It was, in fact, my main reason for implanting the crystal in your brain-so the machine could tap your stream of consciousness and, by means of the encephalographic code, give me a printout of your thoughts at the very instant they were occurring. I would know, Richard, exactly what you were thinking every moment. I would be aware of every situation in which you found yourself. In times of great danger I might be able to help by reversing the process and feeding my thoughts to you through the machine. Two heads are often better than one, Richard. It might save your life.»

  Both Blade and J recognized the last appeal. The old man did not give up easily.

  Richard Blade went to a chair, sat down quietly and did not speak for a few minutes. He had given much of himself to the DX experiments and he had not shirked duty. His body was still intact, but for the myriad scars, and he was not mad. Yet his brain was not the same and never would be again. Each time the computer altered his brains cells, restructuring them so he could perceive and exist in a new dimension, new deviation from the norm took place. The machine never restored the cellular configuration to exactly what it had been. The Blade who sat in this room now, thinking these thoughts, was as different from the Blade who had undertaken Mission No. I as the puling infant Blade was different from the grown man who had graduated Oxford and gone straight into MI6. No help for it. But there was a law of averages. Once more to the brink and let that be an end to it. He did not particularly fear the physical dangers, the battles he fought, the monsters he faced, the sexual exhaustion at times forced on him. He feared that his brain would be destroyed. He feared death, yes, but that was a secondary fear. Lord L and J. . they could not dream of what it was like out there. He could not tell them. Words did not do the job. It was like war. You had to undergo it personally to know what it was like.

  And there was this urge, this hunch or intuition, telling him to go now.

  He tried to tell them. He spoke briefly and saw, after a few moments, that even J did not understand. Lord L sulked and only half listened.

  Blade faced them. «So if you like, sir, I am refusing to obey an order.» This to Lord L. «I go tonight, sir, or I do not go at all. You do have a backup man, after all, and maybe it would be better if-«

 
Lord Leighton suddenly looked like a peevish child. He waved a pencil and said, «Come now, my boy. Nobody said anything about orders or any of that rot. Forget that. It is just that I am a scientist and I distrust intuition. But have it your way, by all means. I will make the setting on the machine-it may take me an hour or so before the cycle is right and then we will go. By all means.»

  The old man hobbled out of the room, mumbling to himself even as he fussed with a slide rule.

  J had his pipe going at last. He peered at Blade through blue smoke. «You are feeling all right, my dear boy?»

  Blade shrugged his massive shoulders. «Never better. In the pink. I really can’t explain any of this, sir, except that somehow I know it is better to go now. Other than that I suppose it is just another DX mission. Routine. I am sorry to upset Lord L’s schedule, but it is the way I feel and-«

  J nodded. «You do as you damn well think best, boy. Don’t let that bloody old boffin get to you. He really can’t help it, you know. He doesn’t mean to be insensitive or inhuman-he just is! He is a scientist, not really a person.»

  Blade had to chuckle. «Oh, come now, J. He really isn’t all that bad.»

  J very seldom used bad language. Now he said, «The hell he isn’t. But as I say-he can’t help it. Well, lad, this is the last time out.»

  «I hope so,» Blade said. «I sincerely hope so, sir.»

  And he did. He had had quite enough. Yet he knew that if there was a reason for more ventures, if duty called him, if his country needed him, he would go. He did not foresee the possibility, and never had he more devoutly wished that a circumstance would not arise. He had had it up to his neck with Dimension X. He knew now what a bomber pilot must feel like before embarking on his last mission before going home.

  J, his pipe steaming, had picked up a ruler and was tapping it on his palm. «You’ve been worried about your mind, eh?»

  «A little, sir.»

  J would never understand that, either. The nightmare of black sweat and screaming, the pitiless alcoholism, the raging drive of satyriasis, the double and triple vision and loss of memory, the old friends offended and the girls lost because he could not explain. The Official Secrets Act that bound him like a net.