Sneak Preview

by Robert Bloch

  There axe times when such thoughts come to all men, and when they do there is only one source of surcease: to cling to the flesh as the sole symbol of salvation. And so it was that Graham turned to Clare, and she pressed against him, and in her response was the illusion of the reality he craved. This is real, he told himself. Forget the philosophies and the psychology, forget all the ologies and isms. Measure life in its moments.

  As he held her, savoring her surrender, the odd and alien thought obtruded. He remembered Sigmond’s filmanalysis, and his subsequent experiences; he remembered Considine and the hypnotape and the long conversational sessions. Had it all been a form of autoanalysis, in a way? Had he actually learned something about himself, learned to establish a viewpoint and an identity distinct from that imposed by pressure and pattern? In the Domes, men didn’t consider themselves the pawns of Nature; when they embraced women it was merely to seek sensation for its own sake. Perhaps it was important that all men be given, once again, an opportunity like this—to stand under a sullen sky and consider their own unimportance, to cleave unto the flesh of their own kind in a search for strength as well as for fleeting fulfilment.

  If so, then what lay ahead was worth fighting for. Freud and Jung and Reik and Adler would never approve of such immature idealism. But they and their followers were not gods—they were men. And the men who came after them had twisted their teachings and distorted their theories into a dogma of deceit. Conditioned civilization was a farce. It was better to be a berserker Viking facing death on a dark sea than an unthinking drone in a Dome whose ironic destiny would be death in the same dark sea—but not death by choice, merely death by decree.

  And Clare, like all women in all times, in the arms of all men, opened her eyes and whispered, “What are you thinking about?”

  “The future,” Graham answered.

  “The future?”

  “Yes. For the first time, I’m beginning to feel that there is a future.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but the answer came from overhead. In throbbing sussuration, the jets droned.

  Clare sprang to her feet and hurried below. “The lights!” she cried. The crew members were already at work, and the beams swept across the waters. And now, as the droning from the skies deepened into thunder, the lights flashed forth from every vessel, flaming against the flaring facets of the waves.

  Graham stood at the rail and Clare rejoined him there. Now it was merely a matter of waiting.

  There was no recording installation or equipment on this little vessel, but Graham knew what must be taking place on some of the other craft. Techno teams were tracking the jets on their course, filming the flight in full sensory range. Lenses and prisms pierced the night, capturing each impression overhead. Now the jets were poised, now the hatches were opening above, and the bodies came hurtling down into doom and darkness.

  This was the way; the way to oblivion, for the recordings registered each instant and incident.

  Now some of the boats edged out of the perimeter and into the circle of luminance. Brass in the jets above would not be alarmed; it was the duty of these ships to search the waters for possible survivors. They could not know that the camera crews were filming a documentary of death.

  At a command from Clare, their vessel turned and bobbed away from the circle. It was followed by a dozen others.

  “But aren’t you going to look for survivors?” Graham asked.

  She shook her head. “No time. Let the others do it. We’ll need every man when the jets come in. Doc must be signalling them now.”

  “You mean, he wants them to land?”

  “Of course. You heard the plan. They’re to pick up the returnees from the Insanatorium and take them back as cured, for reassignment to duty. And when they hear that you’re one of them—”

  “Me?”

  “Considine, of course. He goes back in your place, remember? And there’ll be others. Enough to insure that the films and tracks are smuggled aboard the jets. Enough to infiltrate the Domes, make contact with our people who are already planted there, waiting to act. Next time we’ll send more, and the time after that, still more. Six months from now, maybe less, everything will be ready. We can strike, then. But this is the first step—to get Considine into Holywood. He knows who to contact when he gets there—”

  Graham attempted to reply, but the vibration overhead was deafening. The jets had been signalled; they were wheeling in for a landing on the Key.

  The vessel headed for its harbor.

  As they disembarked, Graham started up the path along the side of the mooring-area, but Clare put her hand on his arm.

  “Wait here,” she said. “You mustn’t be seen. Remember, they are coming to escort ex-patients back to their Domes. Some will go to Nework, some to Sanloo—but Considine goes straight to Holywood. Until he’s left, you’ve got to keep out of sight.”

  “But don’t I even get a chance to say good-bye?” Graham hesitated. “I feel it’s important. We’ve been so close to one another. In a way, it’s like losing a part of myself—”

  “I know. But it is more important that the plans go through. Now, wait here. I’ll come back for you after it’s safe.”

  Clare slipped away and Graham stood alone in the night. He edged into the shadow of the dockside sheds and lit a sig, trying to compose himself. Too much was happening, too quickly. The jets had come, and the plan was operating; he’d found Clare, and now he was going to lose Considine. He’d told the truth about his feelings; it was as though he were losing a part of himself, and a very vital part. Considine was his double, his—what was the word in the fantasy books?—his doppelgänger. He had shared so much of his inner being with the other man that a psychic duality of identification had been established. And there was more to it than that; a stronger feeling, a latent content of emotion. More and more, in their weeks together, he had come to realize how closely Considine shared not only his knowledge but his thought processes. So very frequently he’d found the other man literally anticipating his own words, his own reactions. Now, for some vague reason, he felt impelled to share his latest responses. He wanted to tell Considine about Clare, wanted to talk to him about the events to come. With a shock, he realized that he’d never gotten around to discussing Considine’s past life, or his personal problems. And they had never discussed the problem of invading the Domes. There was danger for Considine in days to come, and yet the self-effacing man had never mentioned it. That was the thing which disturbed Graham the most, he realized; Considine had been so completely self-effacing. He had applied himself wholly to the problem of eliminating his own personality and adopting that of Graham. Why was he so dedicated? How could any man make such a sacrifice?

  In his preoccupied introversion, Graham had never really given the matter a thought. Now he realized that he had undergone a unique experience with a remarkable man. He wanted to see him again, wanted to tell him so. And there was something else, something even more important, buried just below the threshold of consciousness. Another reason for saying good-bye—

  But Clare was right. He must keep out of sight. Most particularly now, because the jets had landed, and the men were coming. Just a few of them, of course, not the entire crews of the six in the fleet—gazing up at the floodlighted area before the Insanatorium buildings he could see a group of about a dozen khaki-clad Brass moving along the walks. Something about the outthrust head of the man in the lead triggered a reaction of recognition.

  Krug was with them!

  Yes, now he could see the profile under the lights. Krug was here, to escort Considine to Holywood. And if he recognized the deception—

  But he wouldn’t. Considine had been briefed. He’d play his role perfectly. There was no danger. Or was there?

  Graham grimaced. No danger? There were a thousand dangers. How could one man, or any group of men, get away with a stunt like this? How could he face Krug, and Sigmond, and Warner, and Zank—people who knew Graham well, who were on the
alert to observe the slightest defection from their rigid concept of the norm?

  He found himself pacing along the walk after the group had disappeared into the building. He couldn’t help it; he coudn’t stand still. Oh, he’d kept out of sight. But he had to see, had to know what was happening inside. Doc’s office—that’s where they all must be. If there was no one in the outer corridors, perhaps he could slip into the adjoining room. Then he could at least hear what was going on. There was no harm in that; there’d be no danger involved.

  Nor was there. The corridor was deserted, and he slipped past the closed door unnoticed, his muffled footsteps muted by the sound of voices from within. He gained access to the next room and switched on the light. Tiptoeing over to the connecting door, he stooped to listen.

  They were all inside; he could hear them. Must be quite a crowd—a dozen Brass from the jets, plus an equal number of Doc’s people. And he could hear Doc, and Krug, and Considine. Or was it himself? Again, a wave of sensation he could not identify swept over him as he heard Considine speaking, speaking levelly and easily, in his voice. The man was a master-mimic.

  “—quite fit again,” Considine was saying. “I’m sorry to have caused all this disturbance.”

  “—no need to feel that way.” Graham recognized Krug’s deeper tones. “Sigmond is most anxious to see you before deciding on a new assignment. Perhaps a change—”

  “—learned a number of things. As a Talent—”

  Graham pressed his ear against the door. Considine was speaking so softly, so casually, that it was hard to catch more than an occasional phrase. He closed his eyes, concentrating in an effort to hear the rest.

  And that, of course, was his mistake. He realized it the moment the hand grasped his shoulder. He hadn’t heard the outer door open, hadn’t heard the big man cross the room towards him. Now he opened his eyes and stared upwards at the smiling stranger.

  He knew that smile, knew that face. Long ago, on a roof in Holywood, with Wanda, he’d been introduced to the big man. He was one of Sigmond’s Medics.

  “West!” he said.

  “That’s right, Graham. How nice of you to remember.”

  “But—”

  “Sigmond sent me down to escort you on your return trip. I imagined Krug had already located you. He’s next door now, isn’t he?”

  “Yes—that is—”

  “Shall we join him, then? I know he’s impatient to see you.”

  Graham nodded, stepping back. If he could jump this man, now, quickly—

  West gestured politely with his left hand. And then Graham saw that his right hand held a stunner.

  “We might as well use this entrance,” West said, still smiling. “After you, Graham.”

  Graham found the activator-button on the side of the door. His thumb went forward to press it. Then he whirled, and brought up his hand. The thumb dug itself between West’s eyes. His other hand went for the windpipe. West reeled back, bringing up the stunner to sweep in a blind arc. Graham’s knee lashed out and caught West on the wrist. The stunner clattered to the floor as West fell back against a desk. Then Graham was on top of him, both thumbs gouging into the big man’s neck. West threshed and threw him off. Graham stepped back to scoop up the stunner. And then—

  The door to the next room opened, and he heard Krug’s voice from behind him.

  “What’s going on here?”

  He had the stunner now, but his face was in the light.

  “Graham!” Krug was shouting. “What kind of bombed nonsense is this? Two of you—”

  Graham turned, raising his weapon. And then something exploded between his fingers. Krug wasn’t using a stunner. He had an old-fashioned gun.

  “Look out!”

  It was Doc’s voice, and barely discernible in the sudden roar of voices. Graham went back against the wall as somebody shoved Krug from behind. The second shot went wild, but then the gun levelled again. This time he wouldn’t miss. The others stood in the doorway, watching.

  “Krug, wait—” Doc was shouting now, but Krug shook his head. He wasn’t waiting. Graham saw the pudgy finger tense against the trigger. And then, emerging from the huddled mass in the doorway, the moving figure of a man. It was Considine.

  He flung himself on Krug, grabbing the hand that held the gun, jerking it to one side. Krug turned, and as he did so, Graham bent forward and picked up the stunner again. He levelled it at the thick neck and squeezed with all his strength.

  Just as he did so, the gun went off for the last time. Krug jerked and buckled in sudden paralysis—but it was Considine who fell first, with a gaping hole where his heart had been.

  Then, for a moment, all dissolved into madness. Graham could hear Doc shouting once more, shouting orders. He was vaguely conscious that all of Doc’s people were armed with stunners, partially aware that Krug’s companions had come here unsuspecting and weaponless. The Brass were falling now, there wasn’t even a struggle; the stunners struck them down like idiotic tenpins. Their bodies slumped along the floor in this office and the one beyond. When it was over, Doc’s group stood above them, poised and ready for command.

  But no command came. For Doc was staring at Considine, just as Graham stared. There were sudden, unbidden tears in the eyes of both men.

  “He saved my life,” Graham whispered.

  “I know,” Doc nodded. “But that doesn’t help us now. He’s dead. Lewis is dead.”

  “Lewis?”

  “You never realized, did you?” Doc sighed and turned away. “Yes, it’s true. He was your father.”

  CHAPTER 12

  It fell into place then; everything made sense. The curious look Clare had given him at their first meeting—the way Doc had singled him out for special treatment—Considine’s odd gentleness and still odder reticence concerning himself—the way in which Considine had so frequently seemed to know what he was thinking, to know what he knew.

  Yes, everything made sense now, including the uncanny natural resemblance which had been heightened by makeup. And yet nothing made sense. Because Graham’s father, Lewis, was still a man of fifty-five and Graham was thirty years younger. Cosmetology alone couldn’t account for his youthfulness.

  “Youth.” It was Doc who explained. “I told you it was our secret weapon. And in one of the laboratories—”

  In one of the laboratories, certain renegade Medics had been working with regenerative hormones. Basically, it was a matter of estrogen-cycle control through an injection process. “No, it’s not eternal youth,” Doc said. “But we have learned a simple, universally-applicable method of retarding the aging process. Of course, in this experimental phase, it’s impossible to predict the duration of the effect, but I’m assured that a regular annual or semi-annual injection will not only slow down senile degeneration but bring physical tonus back to the thirty-year level for an indefinite period. There seems to be no reason why the so-called prime of life can’t be extended until men are well into their seventies or eighties. The manufacture of synthetic hormone-derivatives is inexpensive; the effects thus far leave no cause for doubt. We’ve learned how to eliminate the physical symptoms of what we call old age.”

  “So that’s your weapon,” Graham mused. “When you took over communication-media in the Domes, you’d do more than just expose what happened to the Socially Secured. You’d reveal the news of this discovery just as you’ve been telling me. You’d be able to promise everyone a prolongation of youth, of active life.”

  “Don’t you see how they’d respond?” Clare asked him. “Once the facts came out, the Psychos couldn’t withstand the pressure. And they’d open the Domes. Oh, Doc planned it all so carefully, and when you arrived it was the final touch. We’d already rescued Lewis, but never dreamed of an opportunity like this—to find his son and plan a perfect masquerade. That gave us the ideal combination: the weapon, and the man to wield it. We had everything.”

  “Had!” Doc shook his head. “But he’s dead now.”

  “
I’m alive.”

  They stared at Graham, then, but he didn’t wait for them to speak.

  “Why not? There was no need to send my father, there never was any need. If only you’d told me first—”

  “But you couldn’t take his place!”

  “Of course, I can.”

  “Our plans—” Doc sighed. “It took months to formulate this operation, months of planning, of dealing with every possible contingency which might arise. He was to go back, resume his work, make contact with others of our group all over the Dome system, arrange slowly for concerted action. We wouldn’t strike for at least another year yet, we couldn’t hope to. And now—”

  “And now your plans must be changed,” Graham murmured. “Because my father is dead, and you have less than an hour. You must let me go.”

  “An hour?” Clare glanced at him, then straightened. “That’s right!” She put her hand on Doc’s wrist. “Krug, and West, and the others here—in an hour they’ll recover consciousness. What happens then?”

  “We’ll dump them in the Gulf,” Doc told her.

  “Yes. But what about the crews on the jets?” Graham asked. “They’ll be expecting Krug and his men to return, and bring a party of ex-inmates with them. How long before they come down to investigate? How long before somebody sends in a report to Control down in the Miami Consumarket or back in Holywood? I’d say we have just about an hour in which to do it.”

  “Do what?” Doc muttered.

  Graham told him.