by Robert Bloch
Wanda’s fingers dug into his arm. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked. “You don’t want to start any trouble.”
“If my theory is correct, the trouble’s already started. And I intend to stop it.”
“Graham, think a moment. You shouldn’t go ahead without competent advice. Why not see Warner, your Psycho, first?”
“Sure. And have him tell me to relax, forget it? The way my father does, during our vox-box sessions? The way you’re doing now?” He paused. “That’s pretty funny, you know—you telling me to relax, when all the while you’re digging into my arm clear through to the bone.”
“All right,” Wanda murmured, but she didn’t release her grip. “So I’m concerned about you. I admit it. I don’t want you to get mixed up in anything, I don’t want you to be hurt.” She raised her voice and the tempo of her speech quickened. “Suppose you are right, Graham? Suppose your father was laundered, and all the rest of them? Is that so terrible? He’s happy, isn’t he? Everyone’s happy. Everyone who has the sense to conform, to adjust, to stop asking questions that only lead to doubt and torment. Look, Graham, I’m begging you—for your sake, for my sake—let things alone! I won’t turn in a report—”
She stopped short and her hand fell away.
Graham stared at her. “Report?” he sighed. “I might have guessed, the way you’ve been talking lately. Quite a change from that simple little take-another-pill routine. You were planted here with me, weren’t you? It’s all part of the routine, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m with Intelligence. Zank was worried about you and he wanted to check.”
“I suppose you’ve been recording?”
“No, Graham. I swear it! I haven’t, and I won’t. You aren’t just a case to me. You haven’t been, not since—”
“Well? Since when?”
“Since you asked me to take off my glasses.”
She came into his arms and she was all softness and warmth, and in her flesh he sensed surrender.
“Graham, don’t you understand what we can have together? It doesn’t happen very often any more, and I never believed it would ever happen to me. But it did, and I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to lose you.”
Graham stared down at the girl-face, the woman-face, the utterly ageless countenance. She might have been twenty, or thirty, or forty—it was hard to tell because of the makeup. And her words might be true, or part-true, or false: he couldn’t tell that either. All he could do was listen as she went on.
“Listen, darling. I have important connections. More important than you think. I can arrange it so that you won’t have to be troubled any more. We could go away together. Even outside the Domes if you like. There’s so much you don’t know about, so many wonderful possibilities for the two of us. We can have some of this freedom you seem to want so badly. Just as long as you don’t ask questions. Just as long as you take what’s given to you freely and without reservation.”
“Something for nothing?” Graham murmured gently. “Is that what you offer me? Or nothing for something?”
“Does it really matter?” She pressed close and her eyes said no and her lips said no and then her body said yes, yes, yes.
Graham released her and stepped back.
“I’d be a bombed fool to turn down an offer like that,” he said.
“Then you’ll forget about the call?”
He smiled. “Trouble is,” he continued, “I am a bombed fool.” And moved away.
“Where are you going?”
“To arrange for my call. I still think my father’s in trouble.”
Wanda shook her head. “Maybe he is and maybe he isn’t,” she told him. “But one thing is definite. You’re in trouble, now. No, stay where you are.”
Her hand sought her shoulder-kit, and emerged from it in a quick gesture. Graham halted as he caught the gleam of a stunner.
“You’re turning me in, eh?”
“Yes, but not for punishment. You’re still worth saving, darling, and I intend to save you in spite of yourself. And for myself.”
Holding the stunner, she motioned him back, then moved toward the wall service-slot. “It’s my turn to make an emergency call,” she said.
“To Warner?”
“No.” The eyes behind the glasses glinted in determination. “I told you I had important connections, didn’t I? So I’m taking you right to the top, Graham. I’m going to turn you over to Sigmond himself, in Holywood.”
FLASHBACK: OUR GLORIOUS PAST
They never told Mike the name of the place, if it had a name. Mike wouldn’t have understood it anyway, because he didn’t know the language of the country.
They never told Mike the purpose of the mission which brought him to this particular place, but that didn’t matter either: all he had to do was follow orders.
Mike followed orders because he was in the service, and he was in the service because he’d been drafted, and he’d been drafted because there was a war going on, and there was a war going on because of the enemy.
Mike had never seen one of the enemy, but that wasn’t too surprising. He was only eighteen years, three months and eleven days old, and this was his first day up here.
It was very hot and there was a lot of noise going on and the sergeant said, “All right, let’s move,” and Mike fell in, single file, with the others behind him.
Then something exploded.
Maybe it was a land-mine, maybe it was a grenade, maybe a rocket-missile. Whatever it was, it blew.
The sergeant’s head rolled down the trail like a bowling ball. The guy behind Mike tripped in a tangle of his own intestines.
Mike was thrown twenty feet and came down with a thud in a clump of bushes off the side of the trail.
He didn’t feel the thump when he landed. He didn’t feel anything. There was a steel splinter lodged at the base of his spine and the impact of penetration knocked him out.
Mike must have been out for a long time, because when he came to again the moon was shining in his eyes.
The moonlight was very bright. Mike tried to close his eyes but the lids didn’t move. He tried to turn his head away, but his neck wouldn’t move either. He tried to raise his hands but couldn’t.
Then he knew he was paralyzed, and he started to scream. Just started, because his mouth didn’t open.
All Mike could do was lie there in the bushes and wait for the Medics to come and find him.
The moonlight hurt his eyes so he knew he could still feel. But his muscles wouldn’t work. When he concentrated on turning over, the pain was so bad he passed out again.
Maybe it was just as well, because the Medics wouldn’t come until morning.
Morning was hot again. The moonlight had disappeared, but now the sun started to climb and the sunlight was worse. Mike figured if the Medics didn’t come soon he’d go blind.
After a while he wondered if the Medics hadn’t come yesterday and missed him. But he didn’t want to think about that and he didn’t want to think about what was happening to his eyes with that glare beating down. Mike couldn’t think anyway, his eyes hurt so, the sun was frying them in their sockets. He passed out again.
When he came to it was dark, but he could still feel the heat and that was funny. There was a wetness on his cheeks and face and that was funny too. And he could hear the screeching and cawing in his ears and feel the thumps of something landing on his chest and the fluttering and flapping around his head.
Birds.
That’s what they were—birds. But he couldn’t see them.
They’d pecked out his eyes.
And their pointed bills dug into the empty sockets and they tore and shrieked and fought over bits of flesh and Mike couldn’t move.
Then the warmth went away and the birds left and it was night and the animals came. The little animals: the biters, the chewers. They ate Mike’s fingers, nibbling delicately around the nails, grinding the bones in their sharp, rodent teeth. Mike passe
d out and came to and passed out again.
By this time the little animals were gone because the wild dogs had chased them away.
The wild dogs ripped at Mike’s clothing with their claws and burrowed into his trousers to get at what they wanted. They slavered and they snapped and they fastened their canines on his genitals. When they started eating, they savaged Mike’s body with their teeth and the movement dislodged the metal splinter in his spine.
So Mike could scream again and he could raise his dripping, fingerless hands to beat blindly at the wild dogs as they now gouged and gorged chunks of flesh from his legs and inner thighs. Then teeth fastened on his face, jaws crunched, and the blood gushed up into Mike’s throat and windpipe and he drowned in it.
The dogs left something for the birds and the birds left something for the ants and the ants left something for the beetles.
Within a week the lush vegetation, rain-nourished and seeking the sun, covered the scraps of metal and buried the bones in a green blanket.
And that was the way it ended for Mike, in a place he never knew, on a mission unfulfilled, killed by an enemy he didn’t see and who didn’t see him.
Such are the fortunes of war . . .
CHAPTER 4
Wanda held the stunner on him while she made the call. She held the stunner on him afterwards, while they took the vator down to the level. She held the stunner on him as she flashed her idento to one of the coptercab pilots and arranged for immediate launching from Laguna Dome to Holywood.
The pilot took them to the jet, and again Wanda used her idento to good effect.
Graham began to believe that part about her important connections. It was quite a remarkable thing to arrange for a special jetflight—just the two of them in the huge ship. But Wanda had no trouble doing it. Each step was smoother than the last.
She had no trouble with Graham, either, because the stunner was always ready. Graham respected the stunner. It couldn’t kill him, but the excruciating pain preceding paralysis and unconsciousness was something he urgently wished to avoid. And he knew she’d use it.
So he sat there silently during the flight, not even gazing down at the countryside as they launched. Usually he was fascinated by the movement through the hatchway leading out of the Dome, the thrill of propulsion, and the view of the alien land beneath. Now he preferred to sort his thoughts and impressions, unpleasant though the task might be.
And it was unpleasant.
Despite his talk of freedom and his contempt for conformity, Graham realized he’d always had a great measure of security and unconsciously relied upon it.
Ever since his father had arranged for his job in Space Opera Division, five years ago, Graham had held an assured place in his world—the microcosm of the Talent Building in Laguna Dome. He’d been assigned his own apartment, his own Techno staff and crew of assistants. He had his work to rely on.
The departure of his father was a shock, but in a sense Zank took his father’s place as mentor and authority. Graham had sensed discontent, inner turmoil, but always he had expressed it against the comfortable counterpoint of security—security in his job, his status, his environment.
Now his job was in jeopardy. Zank obviously had lost his trust in him. The very least that could happen would be a demotion—possibly even a laundry-job, if the Psychos started to probe deeply.
And they would probe deeply, no doubt about it. Graham had heard of Sigmond; who hadn’t? He was the Head Shrinker himself, chief of the entire Psycho Division on Coast. Wanda was taking him directly to the top.
Why?
That in turn raised still other disturbing questions. There was only one obvious answer. Somehow, Graham had stumbled on the truth—his father, the parents of other Talents, perhaps all parents who had been Socially Secured, were being given laundry-jobs. And for a yet unknown reason. Whatever it was, Graham had a pretty definite idea it wouldn’t be a pleasant one.
And just what was he going to do about it?
That was the most bothersome question of all. What could he do about it? Graham suddenly realized that for all his vaunted intellectual freedom, he was powerless. He’d been trained only to question, not to act upon his questioning. He had experience in exercising his doubts, but there were times when it was more important to exercise his muscles. And he had no training, no experience here.
He couldn’t jump Wanda with her stunner. How could he hope to struggle against Sigmond and his staff?
As they descended, off-jet, into the great Holywood Dome, she offered him a temporary reprieve.
“I’m taking you straight to Psychocenter,” she said. “But you won’t see Sigmond immediately. He’s tied up in a very important top-level.”
Graham nodded but remained silent. He was silent all during the copter trip across Holywood, but now he permitted himself to observe their progress.
They passed over the suburb area of Angeles and headed into the capital itself. Here was the emotion picture plant of TV-Yes, there the production headquarters of NB-See networks. He recognized the cluster of buildings familiarly known as Microcity, from which emanated all the microfilms sent for educational purposes to Big Family Units throughout the country. The ground levels of Angeles had been swarming with workers moving from consumer areas to industricity locations between shifts, and above them the copters of the Technos and Chiefs whirled restlessly. Here in Holywood the ground levels were deserted, save for an occasional Jag or Caddy whizzing along a speedway as it bore some dignitary to a top level meeting. And the few copters in evidence moved only from one landing-spot to another as Talents went their necessary ways.
For Holywood was the Home-Dome of the leaders, the planners, the shapers of destiny in these, the Ideal States of America.
Graham found the spire of the Intelligentsium, and near it the huge Technoquarters, dominated by its roof symbol of a giant T-square. Then he felt the copter descend and recognized directly beneath him the broad, flat landing platform of the Psychocenter itself.
He waited until the copter settled and the pilot opened the doors. Wanda motioned toward him with the hand holding the stunner.
“You first,” she said. “We’re expected.”
“So I see.” Graham tried to smile as he watched the two white-robed men approaching their copter from the far side of the huge roof.
Wanda flashed her idento at them and murmured something. The two men nodded in unison. One of them was short and thin, the other tall and portly. Both wore the pince-nez of their rank and profession.
“Graham,” said the short man. “Would you step this way, please?”
There wasn’t much choice. Graham glanced around hesitantly as if to confirm the fact. He could jump off the edge of the roof, of course, but—
“Please,” Wanda said, putting the stunner back into her shoulder-kit. “Don’t be stubborn, darling. They won’t harm you, I promise. It’s just a routine checkup. Sigmond is interested in you, and I made him promise not to do anything drastic.”
“That’s correct,” said the short, thin man. “You can see we’re not armed. This isn’t coercion.”
Graham nodded, but edged back. The pilot had left the copter and was walking across the roof toward an exit-vator. There were several other copters in anchor-slots lining the edge of the roof, but the area about them was deserted, except for a few mechanics a considerable distance away.
Graham watched Wanda and the two men and calculated his chances. If he could just move back to the door of the copter, get into it and take off before they could stop him—
“For your information, the pilot locked the panel before he left.” The tall, stout man’s voice cut his thread of thought suddenly. “So there’s no use trying what you have in mind. You see, Graham, we anticipate.”
His voice carried conviction.
Wanda stepped forward. “Let me talk to him,” she said, over her shoulder, then faced Graham once more. “Be patient, lover, and try to understand. You’re not officiall
y in custody—I wouldn’t risk calling you ‘lover’ in front of them if you were, now would I?” She came up to him. “See Sigmond when he’s ready, and cooperate. I’ll visit you before the night is over.” Kissing his forehead, she whispered, “Don’t make trouble. I can only protect you within limits.”
Graham nodded and squared his shoulders as she stepped back and walked away. He waited until she had disappeared inside the nearest exit-vator.
“All right,” he said. “I’m ready.”
“Then follow me,” said the short man. He began walking across the rooftop. His tall companion fell into step beside Graham.
“That’s better,” the big man smiled. “By the way, we haven’t introduced ourselves, have we?” He nodded in the direction of the short figure ahead. “That’s Rankin,” he said. “And I’m West.”
Somewhat to his surprise, Graham noted that the big man was extending his hand in greeting. The familiar gesture evoked the familiar response. Almost before he knew what he was doing, Graham found himself extending his own hand.
Their palms met, and the man named West began to pump his arm up and down enthusiastically. His grip was strong, and Graham started to draw away as his skin encountered an unexpected abrasive substance that pricked him.
Suddenly a sharp tingling ran up his arm.
He pulled his hand free, shaking it as the pain rose to his elbow, then to his shoulder. At the same time he gazed at West’s palm and saw the tiny needle cradled there.
“Tricked me,” he said. Or started to say. For his mouth was suddenly numb, just as his arm was numb, and his shoulders and chest. And his legs were melting, his brain was melting.
He noted, with rapidly glazing eyes, that the short man was now standing behind him, ready to catch him when he fell—as he was falling—right now—