by Brian Lumley
In worlds beyond. Except, you must never think of following her, Nathan cautioned. For you’re forbidden, until your natural time. And then she’ll be waiting. But not alone, for all of her friends are waiting with her.
The man let himself down onto a couch with his wife in his arms. “Who … are you?” he sobbed then.
A friend of Cynthia’s, Nathan answered, simply. just one of … of a Great Many …
And as the man began sobbing, and crying, “God forgive me that I haven’t believed! Thank you, thank you!” Nathan withdrew his telepathic probe.
On their way back to the car, Zek said, “Will they be all right?”
“We’ll return at first light and see,” Nathan answered.
They did, and they saw. Woodsmoke rose from the chimney and the husband was in the garden in his shirtsleeves, dismantling the swing. Cynthia wouldn’t be needing it anymore, not now that she was with her friends in the worlds beyond. In a little while, as they watched, the man’s wife came out of the house and threw her arms round his neck. Talking, and holding tight, they moved inside …
Returning to the hotel, Nathan requested that Trask park for a moment or two outside the cemetery in Blackhall Road. Then, as they drove off again:
“Her mother and father will be fine now,” the Necroscope sighed, relaxing and closing his eyes in the back of the car. “And so will Cynthia …”
Back at the hotel, a Special Branch man came running from his anonymous-looking car. “Sir?”
Trask could tell by the look on his face that it was important. “What is it?”
“Message. Urgent. Came in over our radio.” He handed over a note and went back to his car. Trask watched him go, thinking: His not to question why. Then he read the note:
For Bravo-Tango:
Golf-Tango requests to speak to you about Tango-Tango at your
earliest. Suggest you use a blender, preferably ours …
Delta-Charlie.
It was David Chung telling him that Gustav Turchin wanted to chinwag about Turkur Tzonov, ASAP. “Blender” was Branch jargon for a communications scrambler …
8
Doors!
The drive down to London was uneventful. Back at E-Branch HQ, at three o’clock in the afternoon, Trask got Turchin on-screen; also, in the background and slightly out of focus, the Ministry Responsible’s “man in Moscow.”
The Russian Premier was short, blocky, apparently unshakable. In his position he had to be. Currently he “presided” over food riots in Kazakhstan, massive radiation pollution in the Black Sea, terrorism in the Ukraine, Mafia-style gang wars in Moscow itself, and minor territorial and border disputes just about everywhere.
“And now this,” Turchin said, his words clipped, pared to a minimum, allowing for no misunderstanding, no misrepresentation. “In response to your timely—warning?—I found a way to access certain restricted information. So far as I am able to ascertain, your fears with regard to a high-ranking official of the USS’s security services, no, let us simply say Turkur Tzonov—are borne out—apparently. There is some evidence of modest weapon shipments to the Perchorsk Projekt, and—”
“Modest?” Trask put in. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but we saw more than a ‘modest’ arms cache in Perchorsk! In fact—”
“Please!” Turchin held up a hand. “I have a good idea of what you saw. But modest, yes, in terms of the ordnance of a full-scale war.”
“But sumcient”—Trask wouldn’t be put off—“to mount an invasion on a technologically defunct country—or world! And let’s face it, there is no other requirement. Not in Perchorsk. The precautions against any kind of incursion from the Gate are more than adequate as they stand. So why—”
“—Why … is the big question, Mr. Trask. Yes, I agree.” Turchin had gone very quiet, which warned Trask that even his diplomatic patience had its limits. His dark eyes were glinting under bushy black eyebrows, and his thin lips had tightened. “Please let me finish.” And in a moment: “I did say that your fears were well founded, did I not? Indeed, I have had my eye—severa! eyes—on Mr. Tzonov for quite some time. Alas, it is not my position to prosecute but merely to advise, in certain circumstances, prosecution. When the evidence is to hand, then there will be time enough to—”
“But not yet?” Again Trask interrupted. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but surely time is of the essence. Tzonov is known to have megalomaniac tendencies, and in at least one instance we know him to be guilty of murder! Or at the very least attempted murder.”
“Siggi Dam—” the Premier paused and his lips tightened more yet “—is missing, yes.” He half turned from the screen, then faced it head-on. “Fled to the West, according to Turkur Tzonov, rather than face an inquiry into her part in the—”
“Escape of an alien from Perchorsk? But didn’t we tell you that would be his excuse?”
“Yes,” Turchin nodded. “And as excuses go, it would appear to be a good one. For after all, you do have the alien.”
“The … alien?” Trask countered. “He’s here, of course. But if he hadn’t been treated like an animal, not to mention threatened with Tzonov’s machine, he could just as easily be there, in Moscow. Ergo: Nathan ‘the alien’ is where he wants to be. But isn’t that his right, in a Europe with no borders or passports or persecution? And isn’t it obvious how Tzonov would build all of those old barriers again, and draw an iron curtain across the world, if he were given the chance to further his cause? Don’t give him that chance, sir!”
“I don’t intend to. He is under scrutiny. Both Tzonov and … his cause.” The glint in Turchin’s eyes was now dangerous. “But slowly-slowly catchee monkey, Mr. Trask. Slowly-slowly.”
“That’s an old one.” Trask wound down a little, allowed himself the luxury of a strained smile. “But if I may advise, not too slowly.”
“Tzonov’s cause, yes.” Turchin didn’t acknowledge Trask’s smile. “Treason, if we’re correct. But he has many tentacles, reaching out into almost every province of the USS. I can see how eventually he might even use insurrection to further his ambitions—if he could find a way to fund it.”
“Indeed,” Trask nodded. “And I think he believes that he has found just such a way. Sunside/Starside is rich in gold. There, it’s a common metal.”
“But just as I have my—what, informers?—so he has his spies, too.” Turchin still didn’t appear to be listening too well; but just looking at him, Trask’s lie detector told him that he was. “In fact he controls some of our best intelligence agents. Mindspies, Mr. Trask, in your parlance. Or perhaps, ‘the Opposition’?”
“In the old days, yes. And Tzonov would bring those old days back again. Except we can’t allow that, which anyone but a raving lunatic—or a megalomaniac—must surely see. But the damage he could do in the attempt …”
“Is unthinkable, I know. He could destroy what we’ve all been trying to rebuild for fifteen years, and in so doing destroy my country.”
“My apologies, sir.” Trask shook his head. “But you seem to have missed the point. Much as I appreciate your concern for your country, my concern is for the whole world. To be frank, I wouldn’t mind a bit if Turkur Tzonov went through the Gate into Starside tonight. I would quite like it—if I could guarantee that he wasn’t going to come back. Or that if he did come back, it would be as a man! It’s not what he plans to steal from the vampire world that worries me, but the fact that he’ll advertise this world to whatever is waiting in there for him. That’s what really worries me: that he’ll bring something back inside him!”
For a moment Turchin was silent, thoughtful. Then he said, “Is the threat really that terrible?
And Trask told him, “I know as much about it as any man of this world, and you may believe me that there is no greater threat! The Gates are doorways to pestholes; they could release a plague that would sweep across the entire planet and destroy or enslave each and every one of us. Eventually we must find a way to seal those Gates forever. Even the Pe
rchorsk solution isn’t good enough; no way, not with men like Tzonov around. And especially not with him in charge of it! Why not simply recall him, get him out of there, give him a job in Moscow where you can keep an eye on him?”
Now it was Turchin’s turn to smile, however grimly. “Ah, if only it were that easy. But do you know how limited my real resources are? If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. And you advise me to recall him? Tzonov comes and goes as he pleases, Mr. Trask. He’s a power in his own right. And the last thing I want to do is frighten him, perhaps precipitating … whatever he intends.” He shrugged, but not negligently. “Please don’t forget: Perchorsk is a fortress.”
Trask was mystified. “So if we’ve already reached the same conclusions, why are we having this conversation?”
Turchin sighed, perhaps wearily, and his shoulders slumped a little. “I love my country, too,” he finally said. “I mean, I love it as well as Tzonov—no, better than Tzonov. Because I love it for itself, not for myself. And so I am torn two ways. You are worried about the Wamphyri … quite right, so should we all. But there is also this question of the exploitation of another world. What I’m asking is, which is the greater worry? As you and everyone else know, my country has been desperately depleted. Could it be you’re afraid we’ll get there first, and that Russia will be strong again?”
Trask shook his head, maybe in disgust, perhaps in disbelief. “Let me repeat myself,” he said. “Getting there isn’t the problem. Containing what’s there already is. If we—I mean if E-Branch—ever has cause to send men into that vampire world, it will be as a last resort, or an attempt to destroy the Wamphyri at source. It will not be for exploitation.”
“And you’ll let me know if that time should come?”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Very well. And in future we must speak—tike this, face to face—on a more regular basis.”
“We might very well have to,” Trask told him.
“As for now … well, as you can see, I have a great many things to do.”
“I’m sure you do,” Trask replied.
Throughout, the Ministry Responsible’s man had remained a blurred, silent figure in the background …
Days became weeks became months. Nathan was so immersed in his studies, he scarcely noticed the days flying by. But that was a cliché, for of course he noticed them. And indeed they flew! Seven complete cycles to one of Sunside’s … the sheer velocity of the sun across the sky was a never-ending wonder to him. He could actually see it move!
He studied engines, but only those which would have application on Sunside. Steam engines fascinated him especially, and he acquired a tiny model to take home with him. The benefits to the Thyre would be enormous! Couple a thing such as this to the long-dead artisan Shaeken’s Wheel of Irrigation; why, the furnace deserts could be made to bloom!
Nathan could see it clearly in the eye of his mind: with a bank of wonderful Thyre mirrors focused on the boiler of an engine through all the long hours of daylight—not to mention the heat of the desert itsetf—the requirement for solid fuel would be minimal. And as for water: no lack of that with Shaeken’s Water Ram and Hydraulic Hoist, and the Great Dark River to draw upon where it coursed its way through black bowels of rock deep beneath the surface.
He looked at agriculture, the incredible variety of cultivated vegetables, and remembered the tales Lardis Lidesci had told of The Dweller’s garden: its wonderful produce. And every chance that came his way, he procured seeds to take back with him. Oh, the Szgany grew their own crops, be sure, but never in such abundance, with the consistency, yield, and high quality of these. The potato was quite amazing, and completely unheard of on Sunside!
He went from math to science: dynamics, which was simply another branch, or rather, the application of numbers. And he enjoyed it, for here at last Nathan could see that they could be applied. But of course! No more guesswork required to work out how many cogs were required on a wheel: the baffling mathematics of circles was a mystery no more. Not with the principle of π fixed firmly in his head.
He undertook all of these studies with gusto; for this was the knowledge—these were the benefits—he would take home with him. But not all the benefits, and not all of them harmless. For he also studied weapons and practiced with a variety of handguns, semiautomatics, shotguns, submachineguns, and grenades, even rocketlaunchers, on an all but obsolete army firing range in the old garrison town of Aldershot.
Last but not least (foremost, in many ways), Nathan practiced his deadspeak. Except now it was easy, for the teeming dead talked back to him without reservation. However unintentionally, he had done himself the greatest possible favour in going to the aid of poor little Cynthia in the Hartlepool cemetery. It stood him in great stead, for the dead knew now beyond a shadow of a doubt that they had found a new champion in Nathan. Whatever his fight or quest was or would be, from this time forward it would also be theirs.
Frequent trips to Hartlepool, Harden, Edinburgh, and all the many graveyards Harry Keogh had frequented furnished him with an almost complete picture of the man who had been his father, the man whom the dead had known as the Necroscope. And despite what Harry had been at the end, Nathan was not ashamed of him. For not one of Harry’s many dead friends had a bad word for him, and as a man they regretted the fact that they’d ever turned their backs on him.
In every possible way the dead put themselves at Nathan’s command; he received introductions to members of the Great Majority in many lands, and only had to reach out his mind to find them, however far distant. Along with all of his new scientific knowledge, his esoteric talent grew apace almost as if to accommodate the unaccustomed demands he placed upon it. And whenever he met with difficulties, the dead were there to help out …
Except in the one area where their help would be most appreciated. For not one of them knew Harry’s greatest secret, or was able to offer a clue as to where Nathan might find the answer. The metaphysical Möbius Continuum seemed as far from his grasp as ever.
And suddenly, it was the middle of May.
The changing seasons astonished Nathan, but all in all his senses were becoming used to abrupt changes: the ever-changing concrete “scenery” of the cities, eye-blurring transport systems such as cars, trains, subways, and airplanes, the dramatic variety of the countryside—especially the coastal regions of the northeast, with their crumbling shale cliffs, brooding grey ocean, and plaintive seagulls, a species unknown on Sunside—and a hundred other concepts away and beyond all previous experience. Now he was much more given to taking things in his stride.
The one thing he was not ready for, because he had put it out of his mind (his yearning was too great; it was too much of a distraction), was that which Trask sprang on him one Tuesday morning in the middle of the month.
“The resurgent tributary at Radujevac is down to its lowest level in five years,” Trask told him, waking him up in his father’s old room. “I’ve arranged our flight to Belgrade for a week Friday. Anna Marie English has been out there for months now, and she’s really got things moving. She tells me that our potholers have been up the sump to the Gate. They can get you there with all the stuff you’ve been gathering together, weapons, ammunition, anything you can carry. Plus all that you’ve learned, of course, locked away in your head.”
“But not the thing I most wanted to learn.” What Trask had said was still dawning on Nathan; he was still waking up, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “And will some of your men be coming with me?”
“No.” Trask shook his head. “We’ve made a deal with Gustav Turchin. We sit still until Turkur Tzonov makes his move, if he makes it. Meanwhile, men loyal to Turchin are infiltrating Perchorsk. Turchin thinks he can stop Tzonov right there, on his own ground.”
Nathan paused in getting dressed to blurt out, “I hope he fails to stop him! I’d like to meet up with that man in my own world. Better by far, I’d like some of its inhabitants to meet up with him! For by compariso
n, Turkur Tzonov is only a very small monster.”
“Still thinking about Siggi?”
“If Siggi Dam went through into Starside deprived of her senses, her mind, by that machine—” Nathan shook his tousled head “—then thinking about her really won’t do us much good. But I would like the chance to avenge her, yes.”
“Take care of your own first, Nathan,” was Trask’s advice. “For if there’s any justice in the world—and it’s my experience that there is—Tzonov has enough of hard times coming without your help.” And as he headed for the door: “Zek wants you to have breakfast with her, down in the hotel. Something that’s important to her.”
And Nathan knew what it was …
Three days later they flew out to the Greek islands. Nathan’s main interest was Sámos: the teeming dead had told him Pythaoras was there, buried on the selfsame island where he’d been born. It would be Nathan’s last shot at speaking to an expert, one of the greatest-ever experts, who might yet help him. Oh, he had spoken to a good many mathematicians, orthodox and “lateral” thinkers alike, but the numbers vortex had baffled them all no less than it had baffled J. G. Hannant. It was the way the thing mutated, the way it wouldn’t sit stilt—not for a moment—to let itself be studied. And anyway, how could you ever be sure you were studying the right part of it?
Zek’s interest, of course, was Jazz Simmons; her husband’s grave was in Zákinthos close to her villa. And mid-May in the Greek islands is a wonderful time; it would be Nathan’s chance to rest and recuperate, while she … would have the opportunity to say those few extra things which at the end she’d never had the time to say to Jazz. He knew them anyway—of course he did—but a last fond farewell couldn’t hurt.
Ben Trask had wanted to accompany the pair, but when Zek declined he had understood. He hadn’t been thinking, that was all. For despite all that had happened, all of the accumulated evidence, and the evidence of his own lie-detector talent, it was just—no, it was still—a very hard thing for Trask to believe in Nathan’s “art,” what he was and did, as it would be for any man who was not himself a Necroscope. But this was Zek’s last chance to be “together” with Jazz, and Ben had to accept that, at least.
