"Can you do anything about it?"
"Not one thing. We don't even know where he is."
"Then we have to keep going." Sylvia was more intrigued than she had realized. "Let's find out what we've got here. What's the next step?"
Aybee did not answer for a minute or two, then marked a point on the screen with the cursor. "See that trace? It says there's a program on the main computer system, one designed as an interface with this kernel. It ought to be the code/decode algorithm. We can try it. You stay right here, Sylv, and tell me what happens. I'll go to the upper console and execute that module."
Aybee scampered back up the ladder, leaving Sylvia to wonder what they were hoping to accomplish. It was difficult to see how fiddling with kernels could help them escape from Ransome's Hole. But it was hard to stop Aybee when he had the bit between his teeth—and she did not want to stop any more than he did.
The lighting in the kernel shield chamber was poor, and Sylvia was forced to lean close to see the miniature control display. For another minute or two there was nothing to claim her attention. Then she noticed that the spin-up/spin-down mechanism on the kernel had suddenly been brought into action. It was adding and subtracting tiny bursts of angular momentum, far too little to make sense as power supplies.
"Are you doing that?" she called out.
"Doing what?" Aybee's head appeared at the trapdoor.
"Spin up and spin down. But just little changes. Now it's stopped."
"I've been entering a question about kernel operation. But it shouldn't cause kernel spin change." Aybee was suddenly gone again. "How about that?" his voice called from above.
"Yes. It's doing it again. And now I'm seeing a change in the kernel radiation pattern. What's causing it?"
"I'm not sure, but I've got ideas. Hey!" His voice rose half an octave. "Did you just poke something down there? Touch the sensor leads, maybe?"
"I'm nowhere near them."
"Well, I'm getting something wild on the display here. Come up and look at this."
Sylvia hurried up the stairs and went across to Aybee at the console. The display was flickering with random lights. While they watched, it moved suddenly to a distorted pattern of letters. Sylvia gaped as the screen steadied and an intelligible message began to scroll in.
QUERY . . . QUERY . . . QUERY: ARE YOU READY TO RECEIVE?
"Ready," Aybee said. He added softly to Sylvia, "Let's hope we are."
MESSAGE TRANSFER: DEGREE OF TRANSMITTED SIGNAL REDUNDANCY HAS BEEN REDUCED. ENCODING ENTROPY PER UNIT NOW DIFFERENT FROM ALL PREVIOUS RECEIVED COMMUNICATIONS. DEDUCE PRESENCE OF NEW SIGNAL GENERATOR IN SENDING SYSTEM. QUERY: WHO ARE YOU?
Aybee blinked and stared at the panel. After a moment he shrugged. "My name is Aybee Smith." His voice was suddenly husky and uncertain, and there was a moment's pause before the vocoder could make the adaptation and a transcript of his words appeared on the display screen. "I am special assistant to Cinnabar Baker, general coordinator of the Outer System. I have with me Sylvia Fernald, responsible for control systems in the Cloud. Hey, more to the point. Query: Who the hell are YOU?"
CHAPTER 28
". . . he felt for the first time the dull and angry helplessness which is the first warning stroke of the triumph of mutability. Like the poisoned Athulf in the Fool's Tragedy, he could have cried, 'Oh, I am changing, changing, fearfully changing.' "
—Dorothy L. Sayers
The interior of Ransome's Hole rerninded Bey of a great cluttered warehouse. Scattered through it, seemingly at random, were hundreds of kernels, each enough to power a structure twice the total size. The minute singularities were distributed through the whole structure, held in position by electromagnetic harnesses and floating within their triple spherical shields.
With no other masses to provide gravity, the kernels defined the whole internal field of the habitat. Corridors curled and twisted, following the local horizontal; free-hanging cables snaked their anfractuous and eye-disturbing paths across open spaces, bending to follow invisible equipotentials. The floor of a corridor could veer through a right angle in a hundred feet and still provide a constant-gravity environment.
In Bey's condition, the journey through the interior was one episode in a surrealistic nightmare. The spiraling geometry around him matched perfectly the reeling condition inside his head. He concentrated his attention on following Aybee's instructions and staggered forward. Fortunately, the interior tunnels were almost deserted. He was beginning to hope that he would reach Ransome's quarters unseen when he saw ahead of him an armed group of four security officers. Two of them were facing his way. There was no way he could avoid their attention, and in any case he knew no other way to his destination.
Bey put all his strength into standing upright and walking smoothly forward. When he was five paces from the group, he gave them a curt nod. "Busy?"
"No, sir." The reply was prompt and respectful. "Not particularly."
"Good. There's an important message going out from Com Central, and I don't want anything to disturb it. I want you to go there and make sure there are no interruptions until I return."
It sounded feeble—he sounded feeble. But all he saw was a deferential nodding of heads. As the men moved past him, Bey risked his luck one more time. He reached out to take the hand weapon from the last man's belt. "Let me borrow this. I'll return it to you."
He had gone too far—he was sure of it. But the man did no more than nod, say, "Yes, sir," and hurry along after the others.
Bey stood without moving until they were all out of sight, then allowed himself to sag against the wall of the corridor. Standing erect and talking had been an enormous drain on his energy. He took one step forward and felt in midpace a shock go through his whole body. It was an internal vibration, a tremor of catabolism from every muscle and every nerve. Some inner barrier to destructive change had suddenly crumbled.
He set his mind on the turn in the corridor, twenty meters farther on, and thought of nothing beyond that point. He took one step. His body responded reluctantly and imprecisely to his will—but it moved. Another. One more. One more . . .
He was at the turn. How long had it taken? The next goal was . . . what? A change in color of the corridor, thirty paces away. He had to get to that; there was nothing beyond that. Another step, and then another.
He guided himself along the wall with one outstretched hand. There at last. His eyes sought out and recorded the next objective.
One more effort—twenty steps. Surely he could do that much?
And then one more. Don't think, just move.
On the final approach to Ransome's personal quarters, Bey caught sight of his own reflection in a silvered wall panel. He thought at first that he was facing a distorting mirror. His limbs hung stiff and awkward from his body, his eyes started bloodshot from their sockets, and there was a gray, pasty look to his face. He tried Ransome's confident and commanding smile, and it was a madman's leer.
He stepped closer to the shining surface. It was perfectly smooth and flat, producing no hint of distortion. And the closer he came, the less he looked anything like Black Ransome. He stretched his arms wide and flexed his shoulders. There was the click and crack of frozen joints. His muscles were on fire, and every sign of mobility was leaving him. More and more, he was a poorly made, ungainly scarecrow hung on a misshapen frame. He staggered on.
He had been prepared to bluff, lie, or fight his way into Ransome's quarters. Now he was sure that he had passed the point where he had the strength to do any of those things. Fortunately, they were unnecessary. Perhaps Ransome was so confident of his own power to command loyalty that he scorned protection, or perhaps the area was protected only when Ransome was there; whatever the reason, Bey was able to pass unchallenged through the entrance.
Aybee had told him about the rococo style of the first chamber, with its great water globe filled with exotic fish. Otherwise, Bey would have added that to his growing list of hallucinations. He went on towa
rd the inner suite of rooms. He had no idea how much time had gone by since he had left Sylvia and Aybee. They needed every minute he could give them. In the back of his mind he still held an unvoiced hope: If somehow he could capture or neutralize Ransome himself, the chance of escape from Ransome's Hole still existed. He knew they could not wait for reinforcements. That would take weeks, even with an instant response to Aybee's signal from the fastest ships of the Inner or Outer System.
At the door of the inner chambers he hesitated for a moment. Surely the message would have been completed. In any case, he dared not wait. He could feel the changes coursing through every part of his body. His long training allowed him to compensate for some of them, but he was close to the limits.
The weapon he was holding was set at the lethal level. He raised it, opened the door, and stepped through—and saw, no more than twenty feet from him, not Ransome but Mary.
Typically, she had ignored the standard dress code of Ransome's Hole. She was wearing a dress of russet velvet with puffed shoulders and a choke collar, and on her head she wore a broad-brimmed green hat. She turned slowly at the sound of the sliding door, an imperious look on her face.
Mary was certainly playing a part—but which one? None that Bey recognized. He lowered the gun so that it was no longer trained on her midriff. Mary ignored it, anyway. She moved right in front of him and reached out to put her hands on his chest.
"Bey!" So much for the idea that he still resembled Ransome. "My poor sweet, what happened to you."
"Where is Ransome?" His voice was failing, curdled in his throat.
"Bey, what are you doing here? I wanted to come and see you last week, but I was told you were no longer on the habitat. When did you get back?"
"I never left. Where is Ransome?"
"My poor love." Mary was holding him away from her and inspecting him closely, touching beneath his eyes with a gentle finger. Bey realized for the first time that he was crying. "I don't know what you've been doing to yourself, but I know what you have to do next. You look so sick. We've got to get you to a form-change tank—right this minute."
"Soon. Not yet. Where's Ransome?"
"Bey, you shouldn't even be thinking of Ransome in your condition." She was supporting him, holding him close. "You're shivering all over. I have to look after you."
"Where is Ransome?"
"I don't—" Mary began. She was interrupted.
"If you are so interested in my whereabouts, Mr. Wolf, you might at least look at me." The casual voice came from Bey's left, from a shadowed part of the room. He jerked to face that direction. Ransome was standing there. As Bey raised the gun, the black-clad figure took two steps forward.
"No closer," Bey said. "This is on maximum setting."
"So it is. How very unfriendly." Ransome sounded as calm and rational as ever. "Come now, Mr. Wolf, can we not dispense with these posturings of violence? We are both civilized men, and we have much to talk about."
"Not true. You're a murderer. We have nothing to talk about."
"Let me persuade you otherwise. Do you realize, Mr. Wolf, that this is the third time that I have underestimated you? Really unforgivable on my part. But it makes me more convinced than ever of your value to my operations. You could do wonders for our security systems."
"I'll do nothing for you." Bey waved the gun at Ransome. He was feeling increasingly dizzy and unable to talk. "Move back."
"You will feel differently once you understand my mission." Ransome moved another step closer to Wolf. "You regard the two of us somehow as 'enemies,' people on opposing sides of an argument. But we are not. You will surely admit that you owe no allegiance to the Inner System—they dismissed you after a lifetime's work. As for the Outer System, those people have nothing in common with you. You and I can work together very well. So why not be practical? The old order of the Solar System no longer applies. It will soon be gone forever. Put away that gun and sit down. It is more dangerous to you than it is to me. And you and I must talk."
"I'm past talking."
"No, listen to him, Bey." Mary clutched his arm, but she did not try to interfere with his aim. "He's right. I've followed the reports from the Inner System. It's a total mess there."
"Sure. Because he—" Bey tried to gesture at Ransome and found his arm taking on a spastic movement of its own. "—has been doing his best to make it a mess. Can't you see, Mary? He's the cause of all the trouble." Bey waved his arm again at Ransome. "I don't have the time or taste for talking to you. Get back up against that wall."
"Don't be silly, Mr. Wolf." Ransome advanced another step. "You escaped from your quarters. An unusual achievement, and one that I am quite willing to recognize. But beyond that you are powerless to influence events. You are in desperate physical shape, and you do not seem to understand reality. I can have a hundred people here to overpower you in a few minutes. So put away that gun."
"Get back! Last warning."
But Ransome was still coming forward, still smiling. And Bey was at the end of his strength.
It was now or never. With shaking hands he pointed the gun squarely at Ransome's head, groaned, and fired.
There was the usual dazzling flash of blue. Bey sagged against the wall. Ransome had given him no choice—too many lives depended on stopping the man—but Bey was sick at what he had done. Would Mary forgive him, understand that he had had to do it?
As the Cherenkov radiation pattern died away, Bey raised his head. Unbelievably, Ransome was still moving. He had walked right through a high-intensity beam. That was totally impossible!
Cherenkov fringes appeared. As Bey watched, Ransome's face turned yellow and began to bubble. The skin evaporated in bursting pockets of light, exposing the wall behind as their color swirls faded.
The bubbles of Ransome's face were bursting in Bey's own brain. He dropped the gun and sagged against Mary. "Field interference effects—a holograph!"
"Of course." The image of Ransome was beginning to fade, and only his voice seemed to hover clear in the air. "How else could I appear to you when I am far away? And what a simpleton you must be, Wolf, if you imagine that I would not have taken precautions against both death and discovery!"
Ransome's uniform was becoming transparent. His smile showed a black mouth, black teeth, as he turned to face Mary. "Leave this idiot now. He deserves to die. And from the look of it he hasn't long to wait."
He glared at Wolf and shook his head rebukingly, his face filled with contempt.
"I'm afraid I sadly overestimated you, Wolf. You're a fool, no more intelligent than any of the others. Did you seriously believe that I would expose myself to possible death when my life's work is unfinished? If you had agreed to cooperate, I could have saved you. But you tried to kill me—and that means your own death. Your life is finished. For me, and what I am going to do, it is just beginning."
"No." Bey's throat was tightening. He had little time for more words. "You're crazy, Ransome. You're the one who doesn't know reality. You are finished. A message was sent from here a few minutes ago. All circuits, to the Inner and Outer Systems. People know where you are, what you are, how many your actions have killed. You're done for, Ransome, even if you don't admit it. No matter where you run to, where you hide, you'll be found and caught and brought to trial."
The distorted image of Ransome's face flared with anger and astonishment. "That was a truly intolerable act. And quite a futile one. I am not finished—I have scarcely started! And I have tools available to me beyond your imagining. I would say wait and see, but you will not live long enough for that. Die now, Wolf. Your time is over."
Was it true? Did Ransome have more secret fortresses, other resources? Bey did not know, and he could no longer attempt analysis. If there were to be new battles with Ransome, others would have to fight them.
Black Ransome, Bey thought distantly. The air around Ransome was turning black. Or was it Bey's own failing consciousness?
"Leave this ignorant fool, Mary, and follow
me," a curt voice said. And then even the dark shadow was gone.
Bey struggled to stand upright, to lean away from Mary. She was staring at him, holding him, her eyes wide and her face close to his.
"Bey! Can you hear me?"
Grim, grinning king. Ransome is gone, Ransome is gone. The words drifted through Bey's mind. Ransome's head was dissolved, faded to black. Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget . . . Bey tried to nod, failed, and felt his legs lose all their strength.
"Bey!" The voice was Mary, his Mary, infinitely sorrowful and far away. "I'm here." He could no longer see her. He tried to grip her hand, but as he did so, all feelings withered from his fingertips.
Mary, dressed in white and strewing flowers. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. As he watched, she grew, thinned, paled, became Sylvia, frowned at him in disapproval. Too little, Bey Wolf, too hairy. Hideous. Without warning her features flowed and became those of Andromeda Diconis. Her lower lip was full, her face flushed with passion, her red hair—red hair? Mary's hair, Mary's husky voice saying, "There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned," a pale face beneath flowing dark hair and an elaborate headdress. He had seen that costume before, many times.
Bey's mind was a chaos of quantum states, transitions without warning or control, words and fragmented images intertwined.
I am dying, Egypt, dying; only I here importune death awhile, until of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips. In his mind be heard Mary speaking, saw again the cotton robe, the dark coiled hair, the tall headdress, and he fought against her grasp. But you're not, Mary. I'm the one that's dying. I have a rendezvous with death, at midnight on some flaming hill. But that's not quite right, I'm remembering wrong. And this isn't Earth. I'm dying here, far from Earth. Far from eve and morning, and yon twelve-winded sky.
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