Sneak Preview

by Robert Bloch

  It took ten minutes—ten precious minutes. But then the matter was settled, and things moved swiftly. The boats moved swiftly out into the Gulf, and the bodies of Krug and the other Brass whirled whitely in the waves and then disappeared forever. Whirled whitely, because they had been stripped naked. Others were wearing their Khaki uniforms as they marched back to the landing area and boarded the jets. With them went a hundred Insanatorium inmates—ostensibly, they were being escorted to board for the return trip to various Domes. Actually, they and their khaki-clad escorts alike carried stunners. Stunners to beam the sentries on duty before the ships! Stunners to silence the men who received them on board, as the party split up into six units working with swift efficiency. There were minor slipups and several skirmishes, but no major disasters. The ultimate objective was to work their way through the jets comparment by compartment, until reaching the pilot cabins—and the imperative need was to overcome pilot and communications crews before any alarm could be sent.

  “We did it!” Clare exulted. “We’ve got the jets.”

  “And their crews?” Doc raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “The boats are going out again, all of them,” Clare said, her voice dropping. “It’s the only way.”

  “Now for the next step,” Graham said. “You say that you have men here with experience at piloting and handling the com-units. That means we’ll have no trouble making the flight. And there’ll be enough uniforms taken from the crews to go around. That means we’ll be able to get into the Dome at Holywood. And after that—”

  “Yes, after that, then what?” Doc frowned. “It’s a crazy gamble, but I’m willing to concede we might make it that far. If we keep sending signals in to the effect that everything is all right, they may not suspect until we arrive. But where do we go from there?”

  “Straight to His MGMinence,” Graham answered. “They won’t expect trouble when we land, so they won’t be prepared to offer any resistance. We can break through without fighting. What happens then depends on just how much we can do during a short flight. You’ve already told me you have people inside the Domes in key positions—I assume you mean men indoctrinated down here who have returned to various Techno jobs in media channels.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, they’ll have to be contacted at once, as many as possible, while we’re in flight. Meanwhile, there’s the matter of processing those Realies.”

  “Masters will be done in another two hours,” Clare informed him. “They’re working in the labs downstairs. At least we’ll have olfac, video and audio.”

  “That’s enough. If we can put through a Universal Attention Beam from Holywood, we can preempt all networks. First the films and then Doc’s speech.”

  “But by that time the Brass will be alerted,” Doc told him. “Even if we get that far, even if we live long enough to beam our message, it won’t help. Brass controls all weapons—do you expect the mobs to fight them with their bare hands? Besides, they aren’t conditioned to fight. The bombed fools do what they’re told, and all their lives they have learned to obey Brass and Psycho orders. You can’t turn the Domes into revolutionary centers with an emotion-picture and a few words. Even if they believe it, they won’t be able to fight.”

  “I know,” Graham said. “But I wasn’t counting on a fight. If His MGMinence issues orders to surrender—”

  Doc exploded. “Bomb it, this isn’t a pornographic fantasy! You can’t hope to play the superman hero, walk into the Home Dome and force the evil mastermind to call for surrender on pain of death. I happen to know Archer. His MGMinence isn’t a coward—he’ll die rather than give in. Sigmond’s loyal, and so is Hix. The most you can hope to gain from all this is panic and civil war for a few hours. Then the Brass will cut down any rebels—not that it will matter to us. Because by then we’ll be finished too.”

  “There’s a chance,” Graham said.

  Doc opened his mouth to reply, but it was Clare who interrupted him. “Yes, there’s a chance,” she echoed. “And we’d better take advantage of it.” The girl rose and faced the older man. “We must take advantage of it because it is a chance and we no longer have a choice. The jets are already captured. The crews are dead, you can’t bring them back again. What’s your alternative to doing as Graham suggests? Do you intend to sit here until they get suspicious back in Holywood and send down another flight of Brass police ships?”

  “But we can’t possibly win this way. His MGMinence won’t surrender, the mobs won’t be able to resist the Brass. I don’t understand why Graham persists in blinding himself to the obvious facts. How can he say there’s a chance, under the circumstances?” Doc sighed. “I’m not cracking. It’s just that I can’t see any sense to dying needlessly for a lost cause.”

  “Can anyone see any sense to dying needlessly? Oh, I’m not talking about men like His MGMinence, or Sigmond—men who feel dedicated by virtue of their power and position. I’m talking about the rank and file of the Brass, the Technos, the Medics. Suppose it isn’t a matter of their fighting a few rebels roused by our message. Suppose it’s a matter of surrender or die?”

  “But how could it be?”

  “You say you have people planted through previous infiltration, in various Domes. How many?”

  “A thousand, perhaps.”

  “Is that all?”

  “They have friends, families. Some of them have made cautious attempts to proselyte. There are allies.”

  “How many that we can count upon in a situation like this?”

  “Four, perhaps five thousand, at most.”

  “In all the Domes?”

  “No. They’re concentrated in the major areas, like Nework, Denver, Sanfran.”

  “That should serve our purpose. If the big centers go, the little ones will have to follow suit. They depend on the others for supplies and materiel as well as orders.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “Are most of your people Technos?”

  “The majority, yes. But not top-ranking. Minor officials, in some cases, and crew workers.”

  “Free to move about?”

  “More or less.”

  “And you have people planted in com-centers at media, to take messages? And they can relay orders to these Technos?”

  “Yes. The point is, there’s no organization, no instructions. We’ve never issued a plan. I presume we could get a certain number of messages through safely to various Domes and our people there could relay to the Technos. But, if we are able to arrange it, what are you going to tell them? How can a handful operate effectively against Brass?”

  “I’ll tell you when we’re in flight,” Graham answered. “No time now. We’ve got a date with His MGMinence at Twenty-First-Century-Vox.”

  CHAPTER 13

  A man named Hoskins was speaking to Sigmond over the com-system. “Krug reporting,” he said, in a surprisingly successful simulation of Krug’s deep voice. “Yes . . . all checked and cleared . . . eighty-two rehabilitees returned to seventeen Domes . . . I’m turning in the reports for processing . . . no . . . oh, by the way, I have your Talent with me . . . yes, Graham . . . thought you might want to check him personally before reassignment . . . what? . . . good . . . I’ll bring him down . . .”

  The circuit broke and Hoskins turned to Graham.

  “I’m supposed to bring you in right away,” he said. “As soon as we land.”

  “We can spare you and another man as escorts,” Doc told him. “No more. We’ll need everyone available just to take over Jetport. And if word gets through to Sigmond and the others before you arrive—”

  He didn’t complete his sentence. There was no need to say anything more.

  Even as he had outlined the sketchy plan of attack and operations, Graham had realized the hopelessness of the task set for them.

  Landing was no problem. The familiar ships would be admitted to the Domes without question; it was improbable that anyone in the signal-towers would questio
n the identity of the pilots and navigators whose voices were transmitted in flat, mechanical tones.

  But once on the ground at the port, everything depended on luck.

  Their people had already donned the uniforms of the dead crew members; the service blue of the Technobility, the khaki uniforms of the Brass. Almost all of them were armed with stunners and a few had the old-fashioned guns as well. But it would be best not to use them. The trick would be to get clear of the field itself and converge on the Control Area.

  It would be nothing short of miraculous if they could capture the Port before someone noticed and put through an alert. But it must be done. From Control they could signal to the Media installations—and pray that their people were ready to act there. Then the selected party must convey the films by jet-cop and get them beamed. By that time, probably, Media units would be besieged, for the alarm would be out.

  “And that’s why it’s up to the other group,” Graham had told them. “You know where to go and what to do. Fortunately, your objective is right at the edge of the Jetport area. But there’s no question of gaining entry by deception here. You’ll have to fight your way. You know the rest.”

  He paused. “As for myself, I’ll get to Sigmond and His MGMinence. Maybe they’ll finish me off—but I think they’ll listen, first. And if they listen, and the casts are beamed, we have a chance. If the rest of you succeed by then.”

  Doc nodded. “We’ll manage,” he said. “We have no choice.”

  Clare turned to Graham, opened her mouth, then closed it. He squeezed her arm gratefully.

  “Thanks,” he said. “You spared me the ‘take me with you’ line. You and the other women will stay here, on the ship. We’ll keep the crew aboard here too. If anything goes wrong, they have orders to take off immediately. Who knows? Some day you may be back.”

  “With nine women and a crew?” Clare tried to smile.

  “We’ll do our best to prevent the necessity,” Graham answered.

  And that was as close to heroics as he ever got.

  It was odd, he mused, as the great ship quivered and settled, sinking down slowly and accurately through the opening in the plexide Dome. This was the time for heroism, for all the adjectives-and-adrenalin which accompanied deeds of daring—or was it derring-do?—in the old pornography. But he wasn’t sure of the adjectives, and he certainly wasn’t aided by any excessive adrenal discharge. All he felt was nervous tension and, beneath it, a sick fear.

  Graham had a suspicion that almost all of them felt like this, now. Even Doc, who was quietly motioning towards the opening cabin-compartments, telling Hoskins and his companion, “You get out first, with Graham. Whatever happens, I want you to be on your way. Nobody will question Brass if you requisition a copter. We’ll wait until you’ve left.”

  Doc smiled, but he was nervous, and his outstretched hand was wet.

  And Clare’s lips, trembling beneath his—which were also trembling.

  Heroism, Graham thought. Where are all the noble sentiments now? I don’t really want to do this. I want to run. Most of all, I have to go to the bathroom.

  It was ridiculous, grotesque; yet, somehow, it reaffirmed reality. From now on all of them would act in fear and trembling, but that didn’t matter. The important thing was that they did act. One step at a time, now . . .

  And one step at a time, Graham was walking across the huge field. Hoskins and the other man, Rich, flanked him on either side. Brass, on official business, escorting a civilian. Nobody glanced at them. Ground-crews were slowly converging on the constellation of six jets. Graham prayed that they’d take their time. For when they finally reached those jets, entered them, there would be no turning back. Not for them, ever—and not for Graham’s people.

  “Over here.” Hoskins had found his copter and his crew. Now he had stepped forward, flashing the idento of the dead Krug. He was speaking casually to a pilot. The pilot nodded. Good. They’d managed, this far.

  Rich helped him into his seat. They were taking off, leaving the port. Out of the corner of his eye, Graham noted that some of the ground crewmen were moving up the landing-ramps into the jets.

  There were stunners waiting for them, even though the hands which directed them probably trembled in nervous apprehension. Just as Graham was trembling now.

  He forced himself to look ahead, at the hills of Holywood. Here was the Intelligentsium’s silver spire and the familiar T-square of Technoquarters, and there—near the historic site of the first Psycho Headquarters, Forest Laundry—was Microcity. That’s the spot where they’d be casting the films. If they managed to get there. Staring at the monumental magnificence of the structures below, Graham felt an added access of anxiety. How could a few ever prevail against so many? The Psycho fortresses seemed impregnable.

  The copter was descending now, descending upon the flat landing-platform of the new Psychocenter. It settled. The doors opened.

  “Wait here,” Hoskins snapped to the pilot. “We’ll be back in a moment with another passenger.”

  I doubt that, Graham told himself. But this was no time for doubts. He had all he could do to walk without faltering. Hoskins slipped him a stunner.

  Then the white-robed man emerged from the exit-vator. Graham remembered another white-robed man on this same roof: a man named West. He used the stunner almost automatically, and the man fell mechanically. The whole episode seemed unreal, and that removed the fear. Graham was just watching a Realie now, or a filmanalysis in which he was both actor and spectator.

  That made it easier. Made it easier to descend with Hoskins and Rich, seek out Sigmond’s office, wait until his sec nodded for them to enter.

  Sigmond was in a posture chair behind his desk, the light reflecting from his high forehead. His pale face was almost as white as his priestly Psycho robe. He glanced at Graham incuriously, but there was questioning in the gaze he directed at Hoskins and Rich.

  “Where is Krug?” he asked.

  Rich stepped closer to the desk and smiled. “Where you’ll be,” he murmured, “if you don’t come quietly.”

  Sigmond’s eyes focused on the gun which had suddenly apppeared in Rich’s hand, and there was no longer a question in his glance.

  “Get up,” Rich said. “Just keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Sigmond rose heavily. The light caught the jewelled rims of his pince-nez.

  “Your doing,” he muttered, staring at Graham. “I might have known. Paranoid. Go ahead and shoot.”

  “Never mind the labels.” Graham was exteriorized; he heard himself talking, but there was no feeling of conscious volition. “If you think we’re here to kill you, then you’re the one with delusions of persecution. We’re taking you to see Archer.”

  “His MGMinence? But he’s in Council, there’s a high-level meeting—”

  “So much the better. All we want is the pleasure of your company, to insure us getting in to see him.”

  “But what’s this all about?”

  “You’ll hear the story when we get there. Now, march.” Graham nodded, and Rich stepped behind Sigmond, pressing the gun into the bulk of his back.

  “Put it away now,” Graham told Rich. “But keep him covered.” He turned to Sigmond. “Just wanted you to know it’s there. And it’ll be there, all the way. You’re going to walk out of this office, tell your sec you have an appointment with Archer, and take a copter with us. That’s all. One slip on your part—” He hesitated. “Oh, yes, you might remember to smile. If it helps, don’t think of it as a gun pointing at your back. Call it a phallic symbol.”

  They went out of the office, went back up to the roof, climbed back into the copter, and took off.

  “Take us to Twenty-First Century-Vox,” Hoskins said.

  And they made it, just like that.

  Graham wondered if the others had made it.

  Had they managed to take care of the ground crews at the Jetport? Had they managed to get into the Controls and take over communications without
alarms being sent out? Had the second group been able to reach Microcity, invade its precincts, beam the films?

  And most important of all, had the third group attained its objective? That was the vital question.

  Heroes. There were no heroes in a situation like this. There were only men with sweating palms, full bladders, queasy stomachs. And there were no great objectives; it was all a matter of living from moment to moment—of taking one step at a time without being observed, of using a stunner quickly, before one was used on you, of trying to anticipate what to do next and trying to remember what had to be done next. Only in the aggregate was the task impressive: infiltrating the communications media and beaming the film to every screen, sounding a preempt alert so that all would listen and all would see, holding off any opposition until the film was run and the message delivered. Each man was part of a hastily-organized team and each man’s job was small. But the result could be incalculable.

  If it worked—

  Graham stopped thinking about the big picture. He was back in the little picture, or at least back watching it. The little picture, in which he was entering the halls of Twenty-First-Century-Vox, watching Sigmond at the outer officentry as he smiled and requested immediate audience with His MGMinence.

  And now they were being buzzed into the Conference Suite—Sigmond in the lead, Rich and Hoskins right behind him, Graham himself in the rear.

  It wasn’t a picture any longer.

  This was real.

  In a moment he’d be face to face with Archer, His MGMinence—

  And then he was.

  Face to face with saturnine, graying Archer, with Technochief Schwarz, with Medic Ormsbee, with Hix from Brass and with little Dean from the Egghead Division. Everyone of them a hateful symbol.

  They were all in a line, confronting him quite silently. This was the moment he’d waited for, the moment to speak.

  But Archer spoke first.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” said His MGMinence, softly. “You see, we’ve just watched your little film.”

  Graham found himself trembling now, but not with fear. There was only exultation. They’d made it, then—they’d made it, and the film had been cast. Now he had only to tell them the rest, deliver his ultimatum—why, it was all as simple as those Space Operas he’d turned out. Bem meets Fem.