Sneak Preview

by Robert Bloch

  Or was it?

  Suddenly he heard the warning wail without, the shrilling of the sirens. That meant general alert. Instinctively, he reached into his jacket for the stunner. He felt reassured as he grasped the handle.

  Archer was watching him, but he didn’t move. He merely blinked his eyes, once.

  And from somewhere behind him, the other stunners flashed. He saw Rich stumble, saw Hoskins fall, and then he was going down into a whirlpool where the sirens shrieked up into screaming silence.

  His MGMinence nodded towards the Brass in the doorway. “Out,” he said.

  Hix glanced at the stunned victims sprawled on the floor before him. “Want to finish them off now?”

  Archer shook his head. “Plenty of time for that later. We’ll want to question them first, of course. Find out just how it happened, who’s behind it. Then, when we do dispose of them, we’ll plan a fullscale production. A public trial.” His eyes narrowed. “And a public execution.”

  “Naturally.” Hix smiled in agreement. “But right now—”

  His MGMinence picked up the phrase. “Right now your job is to get on top of this situation. You heard the reports. Apparently there are three areas affected—Jetport, Microcity and—”

  “What about the mob reaction?” It was Schwartz who broke in.

  Archer frowned. His MGMinence wasn’t accustomed to being interrupted. Still, this was an emergency. No point in making an issue of it if Schwartz lost his head. The important thing was to keep his own.

  “Brass will take the necessary steps if we run into any trouble. Personally, I don’t anticipate anything except sporadic outbreaks.”

  Schwartz gestured, scowling. “But everyone saw it—the Socially Secured—those bombed bodies dropping into the water! The traumatic effect—”

  “Traumatic effect!” Archer transformed the phrase into an echo of scorn. “Leave that to Sigmond. It’s his department.” His MGMinence stepped forward to confront the still-shaken Psycho Chief. “Are you all right?”

  “Certainly.” Sigmond made an effort to regain outward composure, but his smile wasn’t entirely convincing. “It’s just that I haven’t been informed as to what’s happening.”

  “Don’t you know?” Medic Ormsbee took up the thread of the conversation when Sigmond shook his head. Quickly he told Sigmond about the film.

  “I see.” Sigmond pursed his lips. “So they must have taken over Microcity to beam it, eh? But just who are these people? How many of them do you suppose were involved in this?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” muttered little Dean. “The damage is done. That cast went out on pre-empt. Now everyone knows about the Socially Secured. Everyone knows about the new regenerative formula.”

  “Nonsense! There’s no such formula!” Archer was emphatic, but a quick glance from Ormsbee caused him to temper his tones. “But even if there is, it’s not important now. What’s important is that we get back into Microcity and beam a few orders on pre-empt. Tell everyone we’re in control, and that we’ve dealt with the trouble makers. I’ll plan a personal appearance—”

  “It’s too late for that.” Dean faced them grimly. “You’ve already heard the orders, on the film-narration. There’s been a call for a general revolt.”

  “Revolt?” Hix chuckled. “What does that mean? Do you think that the mob will take over with their bare hands? We have all the weaponry.”

  “But the rebels behind this plan may be armed.”

  “With what? A few handguns and stunners, perhaps? If so, I wish them luck. Chances are they’re running like rats right now, trying to get out of Microcity before they’re caught.” Hix glanced at the dark and crackling wallscreen. “You’ll notice nobody is casting any longer.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Archer stepped forward once again. “No time for discussion now, gentlemen. You all know your duties.” He faced Hix. “Contact GHQ. Tell your people to set up Emergency Plan One. Security regulations—curfew imposed except for Brass. Anyone else in the streets, here and in every other Dome, to be subject to military law. Spell it out—I want rioters shot, not stunned. Now let’s roll it!”

  “Look!”

  Sigmond was staring at the screen. The wall had brightened and now the crackling faded. Suddenly a face appeared before them.

  “I know that man—” Sigmond began. And then his voice was drowned in the words flooding from the wall.

  “Attention, all Brass.” It was Doc’s face that stared, Doc’s voice that spoke. “Attention, all Brass. This is top warning. Repeat, top warning. We have taken over the oxygenerator units. Repeat, we have taken over the oxygenerator units.”

  “No,” said Hix, softly. “They can’t—”

  Doc’s face and voice were grave. “No further supply of oxygen will be released until we receive word of unconditional surrender. Civilian personnel are hereby authorized to receive such surrender and make civilian arrests of Brass.”

  “You hear that?” Archer scowled. “He’s inciting a full-scale riot—”

  No one acknowledged his words. All attention was focused on the wall as Doc’s voice rose.

  “Within thirty minutes normal oxygen supply will be depleted below minimum safety levels. Repeat, top warning. All Brass to surrender immediately!”

  Image and voice faded.

  “I told you it was too late,” Dean muttered.

  “They’re bluffing.” His MGMinence gestured towards Hix. “Get on this, fast!”

  Hix nodded and slipped out of the room.

  “What can he do now?” Schwartz whispered. “Once the oxygen is gone—”

  “Bomb it, we’ll open the Dome,” Archer said. “Plenty of breathable air outside.”

  Dean shook his head. “You had your chance. But now that’s impossible. The vent-openings and controls are based at Jetport and the rebels hold it.”

  “Hix will take over Jetport. He’ll send Brass—”

  “To suffocate out there? They’ll be panicking right now.”

  But Archer wasn’t listening. He stooped over the figures of Graham and his two companions. “How long before they’ll come around?” he asked Ormsbee.

  The Medic chief shrugged. “Depends on what they absorbed. Perhaps an hour, maybe longer.”

  “No good.” Archer straightened, scowling. “We won’t have time to get any pertinent information from them now.”

  “If they’d talk,” Dean murmured.

  “They’d talk.” His MGMinence nodded at Ormsbee. “You have means to persuade them, I’m sure. You and Sigmond.”

  “What good will information do you? Whoever’s behind this is already in control.” Dean smiled wryly. “And that’s what counts.”

  Archer faced the little man, ready with an angry rejoinder that remained unspoken. For Hix was coming back into the room. A panting, perspiring Hix.

  “Well?”

  “It’s true!” Hix spoke rapidly. “They did it. And the coms are jammed—reports coming in from the other Domes. Riot conditions in Miami, Nework, Sanfran, Denver. Black Domes out of contact entirely. Oxygenerators going off in Sainloo, Pitts—sabotage jobs, apparently.”

  “What about GHQ?”

  “Couldn’t get through to them. The men turned back from Microcity when the cast came over. I rounded up a force to throw a cordon around the grounds here, but they won’t be able to hold. There’s a mob outside, growing by the minute—”

  “They’ll suffocate,” Ormsbee said. “Give them two hours at the most.”

  “Of course. But what about ourselves?”

  Archer shook his head. “We’ll stay right here. There’s no danger of suffocation inside for at least eight hours.”

  “We haven’t got eight hours,” Schwartz said. “Or even two. Once that mob breaks through the cordon, we’re finished. They’ll be coming in, and we can’t stop them. We’ll have to move now.”

  “He’s right,” Hix nodded. “Our only chance is to jet out immediately.”

  “Run for
it?” His MGMinence scowled. “Why, you poor, bombed—”

  “Shut up!” snapped Sigmond. “We’d better find ourselves a copter.”

  And with that simple sentence, his MGMinence was deposed. Ignoring Archer, the others moved to Sigmond’s side. The Psycho chief gestured towards the unconscious figures on the floor.

  “Get their weapons,” he commanded. Hix took the gun from Rich’s jacket and Dean reached down to appropriate Graham’s stunner.

  Hix hefted the gun, then glanced down at the semi-rigid forms. Sigmond, sensing his purpose, shook his head swiftly. “No. Archer was right. We’ll need them for questioning.”

  “Questioning? But it’s too late for that now—”

  Sigmond’s mouth was grim. “Perhaps. In which case, we’ll need them more than ever.”

  “What for?”

  “Hostages.” Sigmond’s voice was grim too. “If the worst comes to worst, we can still bargain, as long as we have prisoners. A life for a life—”

  “But we’ve got to get out of here first,” Schwartz muttered. “They can’t walk.”

  “Then carry them!” Sigmond gestured impatiently. “You, Ormsbee, Archer—pick them up.” He moved to Hix’s side. “We’ll take the lead. Dean, you cover the rear.” Striding forward, he opened the door and the group moved out into the once-hallowed halls, and now the unhallowed hell, of Twenty-First-Century-Vox.

  Hix followed, and directly behind him came Ormsbee, Schwartz and Archer, panting with effort as they half-carried and half-dragged the rigid bodies of their stunned captives. Dean was behind them, grasping the stunner. For a moment they pressed against the side walls of the corridor as panic surged past.

  If there was anything more needed to indicate the end of an era, the spectacle of the throngs in these halls provided it. Shouts, screams and curses echoed with nerve-shattering shrillness from throats choked with the tension of terror. A solid mass of Brass, Medics, Psychos and Technobility moved and milled towards the corridor’s end.

  Sigmond glanced across and beyond them and indicated a small door on the opposite side of the hall.

  “Emergency exit,” he said. “Stairs to the roof.”

  “We can’t get through!” Hix panted, underscoring the obvious. “We’re wedged in—”

  “Give me that!” Sigmond twisted the gun from Hix’s hand. He aimed blindly before him, fired. A figure fell, and then another. Those nearest the victims recoiled in shock.

  “Here’s your path,” Sigmond muttered. “Come on!”

  The little group started across the corridor. By the time Sigmond reached the door on the other side, the crowd began to close in. He turned and fired again.

  “Hurry!” The Psycho chief had the door open now, and the others moved up behind him. Once more he fired.

  They breached the doorway and moved into the stairwell beyond before anyone in the crowded hall realized their purpose and sighted this new avenue of escape. Then a part of the group turned and started after them.

  Sigmond gestured hastily to Dean. The little man raised his stunner and swept a swath through the following throng. Men fell with their screams frozen on their faces.

  Then Sigmond slammed the door, bolted it quickly.

  “Will it hold?” Schwartz eyed it anxiously.

  “Not for long. Get moving!”

  Sigmond mounted the stairs and the others toiled and tugged behind him, awkwardly elevating the bodies they were supporting.

  Ormsbee, not too surprisingly, remained calm; his Medic training enabled him to concentrate solely on the task of getting their unconscious prisoners up the stairs. But Hix, deprived of his weapon, was a fumbling eunuch. Panic made of Schwartz a beached whale—a Moby Dick, reduced to blubber. Archer, no longer his MGMinence, was just a thin, sagging figure who wheezed painfully with the effort of hoisting a human burden from step to step, assisted by Dean below.

  Given another time, another moment, Sigmond might have taken a professional interest in analyzing the reactions of his companions. But there wasn’t time; there wasn’t a moment.

  Gasping, grimacing, they clambered upwards to the topmost level, the landing with the door that opened onto the roof.

  “What if there aren’t any copters?” Schwartz panted.

  Sigmond didn’t answer. He tugged at the door, and they emerged.

  Then his grim mouth relaxed. There were copters on the rooftop—three of them, waiting and empty. But empty only because of the knots of struggling men swirling around them, battling for entry. As fast as one reached a position of entry he was pulled down by his fellows. There was no precedence of rank here; Medics clawed at Brass and Brass struck out at Psychos in a mindless melee intent only on escape.

  But the combat was unarmed. Sigmond nodded and pressed forward towards the nearest copter. He raised his weapon and figures dropped, writhing, to line their path. Behind him, Dean was using the stunner. The crowd before the copter melted.

  “Hurry!” Sigmond pulled his companions forward. “No—load the prisoners first!” His gesture of emphasis was a command terminating in gunpoint, so even Schwartz and Archer obeyed. They lifted the rigid bodies of Graham, Rich and Hoskins into the copter, or attempted to; by the time Graham was safely inside, the crowd was edging forward again.

  Somebody grabbed at Rich, and Sigmond shot him down. Other hands reached out to grasp Hoskins, and as Sigmond turned to deal with them, Rich was pulled into the screaming horde. Schwartz released his hold on Hoskins and turned to flee, and a black Brass clubbed him down.

  “Get in!” Sigmond shouted, propelling Archer before him. Dean pumped his stunner but the human torrent flowed forward over the bodies of the fallen. Ormsbee fought with his fists, only to be engulfed in a thrashing throng as Hix mounted his way into the cabin and slid behind the controls.

  Sigmond pushed Dean away, mouthing a command that was drowned in the din. He himself was the last to enter, firing his final shots into the seething sea of faces below. Somewhere on the roof were two of the prisoners, Rich and Hoskins. Somewhere on the roof were two of his own group, Schwartz and Ormsbee. He shut them out of his mind as he shut the door.

  Blades spun a bloody tracery through the throng as the copter lifted off. Archer stared through the red-spattered glass and winced.

  “The others—” he began, weakly.

  Sigmond shook his head. “We couldn’t help them. You know that. Besides, there wouldn’t have been room for more.” He nodded, indicating the cramped confines of their quarters. He, Archer, Hix, Dean and the unconscious Graham filled the cabin-bubble to bursting-point as the rotors whined with the effort of ascent.

  As they took off from the rooftop, Hix guided the copter to the left. Opening an air-vent, Sigmond tossed his empty, useless gun down into the screaming maw of the city.

  Out of that maw a siren still wailed, but overriding it was the rumbled roar of voices. The mob was abroad.

  The mob was swarming into the Intelligentsium—waves of lunacy destroying the functions of the mind. The mob was circling around Technoquarters, around every site and seat of rule by reason. The body politic, bent on revenge against its own brain.

  No Brass opposed its progress. Brass was hiding. Brass was taking cover. Brass was running scared.

  “Look at them!” Sigmond shouted over the clatter of the copter’s passage. “Bombed idiots had better run too. The Dome is starting to smog.”

  And indeed, above them was a halo of haze that seemed to darken and deepen even as they watched.

  “There’s no place to run to.” Hix shook his head, eyes intent on the controls. “What will happen to them when the monoxide count goes up?”

  “What happens to us?” Archer squirmed unhappily in his seat. “Where can we go? We can’t get out of the Dome.” He turned to Sigmond, bitter anger in his eyes and bitter fear in his voice. “This was your idea! What do we do now?”

  “The obvious.” Sigmond’s face was an emotionless, expressionless mask, the professional profile of
the trained Psycho. “We find ourselves a place of shelter. Shelter from the mob, shelter from the smog.”

  “Easier said than done.” Ormsbee spoke over his shoulder, his attention focused on the unconscious Graham. “None of our homes will be safe.”

  “We don’t want a private residence,” Sigmond told him. “The oxygen supply would be insufficient there. We need a large building—but a deserted one, for our own protection. A place where we can have a breathing spell, in every sense of the term. And that place is—”

  “Down there!” Surprisingly enough, it was little Dean who spoke.

  “Where?”

  “To your left.” Dean jabbed a finger of indication before Hix’s face. “In that Sadie.”

  “A Sadie?” Sigmond’s professional mask slipped slightly as his eyebrows raised.

  “Why not? There’s a landing strip on the roof. See for yourself—it’s empty.”

  Archer squinted down, then nodded at Sigmond. “He’s right. You won’t find people patronizing a Sadie at a time like this. We’ll have the place to ourselves, once we lock up.”

  “What about air?” Sigmond turned his head. “Ormsbee?”

  “It’s a big complex. Should give us an ample supply if we don’t overstay and exhaust it.”

  Sigmond pursed his lips. “Hix?”

  “It may be the answer.” Hix nodded to himself. “All Sadies are equipped with com-systems. That means we can put messages through to Domes in other areas. Keep in touch with the situation, organize resistance. That’s what you have in mind, isn’t it?”

  “Right.” Sigmond took a deep breath. “Take us down.”

  The copter hovered, then descended to set down on the roof of the Sadie.

  CHAPTER 14

  A symphony is played.

  A million notes swell forth, surges of sound waves that crest to crash against the granite wall of eternal silence, then subside.

  We hear the symphony, but to truly comprehend its totality we must analyze its individual components. Each note must be audited and assessed in terms of sonic frequency, vibration, atmospheric impingement. To measure music merely in the generalities of themes, of movements, of towering tempo and climactic crescendo is to hear without understanding.