Thin Air

by George Simpson

  He picked up Hammond's head by grabbing a tuft of hair and asked coldly, "Where's McCarthy?"

  Hammond blinked, his jaw slack and throbbing. "I ate him," he said thickly.

  Coogan flung him aside and marched out.

  Hammond had a fleeting image of Coogan doing the same thing to Jan, flinging her away like a rag doll after doing other things to her, unspeakable, unthinkable things. Hammond went on thinking about it. It kept him mad—and that would keep him alive.

  Coogan returned a few minutes later with McCarthy, who had a tennis-ball-sized lump on his head. Coogan's jaw worked, but he said nothing about the dead guard in the captain's cabin.

  They were silent for nearly ten minutes, eyeing each other across the bridge—Hammond and Yablonski forced to sit in a corner of the deck, while Coogan leaned against the engine room telegraph stand. McCarthy paced impatiently.

  Footsteps echoed along the main deck below, then clanged on the ladder up to the bridge. The hatch opened and Traben looked in uneasily. He entered carrying a doctor's bag, which he set with conspicuous significance at Coogan's feet.

  Francis Bloch stepped in after him, gazed impassively at his prisoners, and shook his head in regret. "I had hoped we would work out our differences amicably," he said. "But your actions have made that impossible."

  Hammond sighed. "I hope we're not going to get another lecture."

  "Hardly." Bloch smiled. "What would be the point?"

  "As long as we both realize that you're not in this to relieve the world of anything but dollars."

  "I never said I was different, Commander. It's my way of going about it that's unique."

  "No, it isn't." Hammond groaned. It hurt to speak. "You're like any other thief. It's just the scale of it that's frightening."

  "I'd like to know something," Yablonski said, then waited for complete attention. "What were you intending to use that device in the satellite for?"

  Bloch continued to smile as he replied, "A hole card, Mr. Yablonski. I've spent years perfecting something I believe I can handle better than anyone else. When it's brought out in the open, there's going to be uproar about how it was financed. If anyone tries to come in and take it away from me, I want the ability to protect myself—and I want it immediately apparent how."

  There was silence, then Yablonski continued, playing dumb, "I don't get it. So you've got a receiving station in space. So what?"

  Hammond gave a cracked laugh, then said dryly, "It's simple. He's going to put his satellite into orbit, then teleport some kind of nuclear device up to it. Probably got little gnomes building it in some back room right now."

  Bloch shook his head sympathetically. "It pains me, Commander, to see such a bright man throw away a promising future. You've added up one and one too many times."

  "I just did it again," said Hammond. "You'll have to build another satellite. The present one is a wash. Forgive the pun."

  Bloch shrugged. "It'll take some time to fix."

  "Rebuild," Hammond corrected.

  "You've actually set the Navy back, not us. We just won't be able to deliver their satellite on time. But in any case, what have you accomplished? You're not going to be around when it's launched."

  He turned to Coogan. "They're all yours."

  Bloch moved to the door, held it open for Traben, who shook his head and said, "I want to be sure."

  Bloch nodded and went out. Hammond listened for the footsteps retreating down the ladder and across the deck.

  "Okay, boys," Coogan said. "Up against the wall."

  The security men hoisted Hammond and Yablonski up and threw them face first against the aft bulkhead.

  "Take off your shirts," Coogan ordered. "Come on!"

  Slowly they complied, stripping down to the waist. Hammond looked at his belly. It was bruised and aching.

  "Okay, turn around."

  They turned and Coogan studied them, his eyes glinting in the weak light. He pushed himself away from the engine stand and reached down for the black bag.

  "You first, wise guy," Coogan said, and came over to Hammond. One of the security men grabbed Hammond's arms and pinned them behind his back. Coogan opened the bag and drew out a teleporting harness, like the one he had shown them attached to his body. He held it up. for Hammond to inspect and smiled.

  "This is going to be an interesting experience for you, Hammond." Coogan strapped the neck-piece under Hammond's jaw. He ran the extension wires down each arm and fastened them with little squares of masking tape which he tore from a roll.

  "See how simple it is? We'll have you all dressed up and ready to go in just a moment. McCarthy! You take care of the other one."

  McCarthy stepped forward, snatched another harness from the bag, and strapped it to Yablonski, while the second guard held him fast.

  Coogan finished running the last wire down from the neck strap to the pancake computer he was taping to Hammond's side.

  "Where are you sending us?" Hammond asked.

  "Where?" Coogan laughed.

  There was something about the force of that laugh that sent a chill up Hammond's back.

  McCarthy laughed, too.

  "He wants to know where!" Coogan roared. "Why, bless me for a fool, Hammond. I really don't know where you're going! You see"—he pushed his face close to Hammond's—"we didn't bother pre-setting a station for you. You're just not going to land! You're going to disappear, Commander, into thin air!"

  He looked into Hammond's eyes, eagerly anticipating a terrified plea. But Hammond was sizing up his chances of getting to the hatch before the guards could raise their weapons.

  McCarthy was chuckling. Yablonski's lips curled in an animal snarl. McCarthy poked him in the Adam's apple and his head snapped back. He recovered, his jaw quivering as he glared at the doctor. He muttered, "Come on, come on..." goading McCarthy.

  But McCarthy didn't fall for it. He finished taping the harness and stood back. "I'm not about to blow this," he said.

  "You better not," Coogan said, then ordered Hammond to turn around. When Hammond didn't comply right away, the guards whipped him into position and again shoved his face against the bulkhead. They did the same to Yablonski, who got just a glimpse of the binnacle light starting to glow and wondered why...

  Coogan bent over Hammond's side and punched a code into the computer. He stood back, waiting for McCarthy to do the same with Yablonski. Then he snapped, "Put your shirts back on. We wouldn't want you to catch cold."

  The guards handed them their shirts and Coogan waited patiently until they were buttoned up. Then he said, "I'd like to say this is going to be painless, gentlemen, but I just don't know."

  "You said you were businessmen," Hammond reminded him, "not murderers."

  "We're flexible."

  Hammond stared at the bulkhead in front of him. He closed his eyes, anticipating the slight pressure at the back of his neck that would send him whirling into oblivion. Jan, Christ, I'm sorry. Then he heard Coogan's voice:

  "Dr. Traben, would you do the honors?"

  Hammond sensed excitement next to him as he listened to Traben coming closer. He slid a look at Yablonski, who met his gaze and mouthed something. His face wrinkled frantically, and he cast furtive glances at the ship's compass behind them.

  The guards released them and stepped out of the way as Traben stopped behind Hammond.

  Yablonski tensed to make his move.

  Hammond threw a quick look at the ship's compass and saw the binnacle light glowing brightly. The generator for the engine room pedestal?

  He heard someone grunt.

  Traben cursed, "Christ Almighty!"

  Hammond looked at them. They were all staring at him. Had Traben pressed the button? Was he already on his way? He became aware of a strange feeling creeping up his legs, a vibration, at first gentle then increasing, mounting steadily. Then Yablonski grabbed his arm and Hammond followed his eyes to the bulkhead they were braced against.

  A hole was opening up in the stee
l plates.

  They could see molecules jumping and swirling away from a widening edge, and on the deck near their feet a second hole opened up and spread outward, radiating up toward their faces.

  They whirled and saw more of the bridge beginning to dissolve in similar spreading patches. A portion of the starboard bulkhead had already evaporated.

  The two armed guards panicked. They stepped backwards, flattening against the port side, raising their weapons as if to ward off evil.

  Traben leaped back to the huge square window, his face convulsed with alarm.

  Coogan stood petrified, gaping as the deck disintegrated beneath his feet.

  Traben yelled, "Something's wrong! She's recycling! We've got to get off!"

  Hammond sprang at Coogan, who reached for his gun but was too late. Hammond brought him down hard. Under their bodies, wood melted like a spreading pool of ink, forming a translucent hole. The ship's machinery was exposed below.

  Hammond wrestled Coogan for the gun. He felt clawlike fingers grabbing his side.

  McCarthy bolted for the door. Yablonski plunged after him, crashing through the swinging steel hatch. It clanged back against the bulkhead. He saw McCarthy fleeing down the ladder and rushed to catch him, shuddered to a stop as invisibility seeped up to consume the bridge deck.

  The ladder had disappeared. He knew it was there, but he couldn't see it—

  McCarthy was already below on the super deck. He had jumped off the ladder when it began to dissolve in his hands. He stumbled forward, groping along the three-inch cannon for support. Yablonski forced himself to step across the vanishing gun deck as he prepared to leap over the shield—

  At the bridge port, Traben saw Yablonski hesitate, then make that leap into space. The shield forward of the gun deck eroded suddenly to a small patch of metal, giving him a glimpse of Yablonski scrambling after McCarthy. Traben gaped as more of the ship dwindled to shreds of steel and rivets.

  Behind him, Coogan was still wrapped in a struggle with Hammond, trying to reach pressure points—

  One of the two guards glanced at the bulkhead he was flattened against and saw it yawn open. A convulsive shudder tore through his body and he screamed. He screamed again, as another hole opened in the deck directly beneath his partner's feet, then expanded to devour the man's legs.

  The second guard shrieked in abject fear.

  The forward section of the bridge shimmered and evaporated. Traben flung himself out of the way.

  The first guard bolted for the new opening and tried to dive to the deck below through what he presumed to be empty space. The window shattered around him and he crashed to the gun deck, his body splintered by invisible shards of glass.

  The second guard remained rooted where he stood, his cries becoming insane laughter as the emptiness shot up his body, until he was reduced to nothing more than a gaping mouth echoing a maddened howl throughout the compartment....

  Hammond kicked with all his strength and worked Coogan's body away from his, shoving until he trapped that grasping hand under his ribs. With both hands free, he bent Coogan's gun arm back at the elbow, the wrong way. Coogan grunted and released the gun. Hammond rolled away quickly and came to a crouch with the gun leveled. He stopped to see what was going on and froze, paralyzed with awe.

  Coogan frantically clamped himself to the small patch of deck that was still visible.

  For a costly moment, Hammond was blind to Traben, standing directly behind him, staring at the gun. Hammond was looking at the glowing binnacle light and the gyrating compass. The ship was being overcome by a wildly fluctuating field.

  Traben reached out and grabbed Hammond in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides. With the strength of desperation, Traben hauled him toward the open space that had been the bridge window. One visible piece of glass! hung in the emptiness; Traben was determined to impale Hammond on it. Hammond tried to get the gun around—

  Coogan saw his chance and lurched toward him. Hammond fired from the hip. Coogan took the bullet just under his collarbone and toppled forward like a falling wall. He landed in a push-up position on the invisible deck and saw his hands become transparent shadows. Strength and fear kept him from succumbing to the shock of his wound. He looked up painfully at Hammond, his teeth clenched and his face contorted.

  Hammond gathered his waning strength and hurled himself backwards, smashing Traben against the disappearing helm stand. As soon as he broke Traben's grip, Hammond stumbled away. Then he felt himself pressed up against something soft, yielding, yet invisible. He dropped the gun in the nightmare that followed. He touched soft, giving flesh, and a form spread into visibility outward from his hand, the molecules swirling into vague shape.

  Traben flung himself at Hammond again, trying to regain his hold, yelling for Coogan to do something. Hammond ignored him and clutched the flesh-form: it unfolded from his touch both upwards and downwards at the same time.

  "The button!" yelled Coogan.

  Hammond felt Traben's fingers clawing up his back, inching toward the device strapped to his neck— He groped with his free hand to push Traben's face away.

  He glanced down and saw Coogan crawling painfully across the transparent deck. Coogan stared up at Hammond, but his hatred gave way to bloodcurdling horror when he realized there were not two men struggling above him—there were three.

  The new face was unfamiliar to him: pallid and ghostly, the eyes staring out of another world. Coogan saw Hammond's fingers clutching the third man's chest and the molecules settling into place. He gave an involuntary gasp as he realized the third man was becoming visible.

  "Traben!" Coogan screamed.

  Traben's fingers still fumbled to reach the button that would send Hammond to oblivion. At Coogan's scream, his eyes flew to the man looming only a foot away, the face an overpowering shock to his memory. He released Hammond with a shout of disbelief:

  "SARTOG!"

  On the loading platform, Francis Bloch sensed something wrong, something in the way the lights and shadows were flickering. But by the time he turned back to see, the Sturman was dissolving—in great, expanding patches, like paper consumed by fire.

  Bloch broke into a run, charging back up the narrow platform to the deck, not knowing what he could do to stop the horror, realizing once he reached the flat level that there was no hope.

  McCarthy fell to the main deck, into the forward gun mount enclosure. He scrambled to his feet and limped toward something still visible, a piece of the enclosure on the starboard side. If he could feel along the edges till he was out, he could find the side and jump to the dock.

  But Yablonski was after him in a headlong rush, jumping from the blast shield to the deck, then scurrying monkeylike, his hands flung ahead to keep him from crashing into anything. The light began to go dim and things that had faded completely now swam back into view as transparent, outlined shadows.

  McCarthy heard Yablonski behind him and whirled. Yablonski hurled himself at McCarthy and they landed in a tangle of flailing arms and legs. Yablonski got a leg-lock on McCarthy's middle and held him down, then pounded his face into the deck, hard.

  McCarthy continued to flounder, but the strength had gone out of him.

  Yablonski looked up at the bridge and his heart pounded with dread at the incredible sight of decking, bulkheads, machinery, instrumentation, guns—everything—rapidly sinking into a vague, shadowy outline.

  The overhead work lights were fading; everything outside the ship was darkening to blacks.

  The ship itself seemed to be gathering for a final jump across space.

  Through the shattered port on the bridge, Yablonski could see Hammond and Traben in a standoff and, between them—Sartog!

  "Hang onto them!" Yablonski yelled. "We're going zero!"

  He threw his arms over McCarthy and held him down, flattening both their bodies firmly to the deck.

  Hammond heard the command and hesitated, undecided which of these villains to grab hold of. Traben was ju
st a couple of yards away, shaking catatonically at Sartog's presence.

  Then he saw Coogan edging toward where the gun had fallen. It was invisible now. But Coogan groped with trembling fingers. Hammond dove to the deck and grabbed him. Coogan snapped around with a snarl of frustration and pain, blood oozing from the wound high in his chest.

  "Traben!" Hammond shouted. "Here!"

  But Traben raised his hands and with a madman's force drove himself forward, intending to shove Sartog off into the black space beyond the open port. He never expected Sartog's hand to come up in a hideous gesture of welcome.

  Traben's Cossack yell turned into a howl of terror as he ran right into the arm, felt it encircle his body, grasping for the contact that would bring its owner back among the living—

  Traben back-pedaled, trying to escape the monster, but Sartog's grip was too firm. He had been hanging in limbo too long to be left there again. Traben's momentum was enough to carry them backwards until they plunged off the bridge together into black space, out of the force field.

  For a fleeting second, they hung in mid-air, having lost contact with the deck. Then a convulsion of energy from within tore their molecules apart! Both bodies twisted into impossible shapes, then became wisps of matter dissipating into space.

  Coogan and Hammond saw it all just as the ship made a final rush into blackness. Coogan thrust himself to his feet and backed away, terrified, pulling Hammond with him, going deeper into the compartment—

  "Hang onto him!" Hammond heard Yablonski shout from below, and then all the vague outlines, even his own, went black once again.

  Bloch shrank back, aghast, until he was flat against the Wall of the shed. He watched the destroyer fade from sight, his dreams disappearing with it.

  25

  He could see nothing, but Hammond still shut his eyes and tried to tune out the sensations that swarmed around him. Motion buffeted his body and a retreating wave of pressure dropped into his center of gravity like surf pulling back from the shore, leaving him at peace. The ringing in his ears faded, to be replaced by crashing sounds, water surging around metal and metal straining rivets with ear-splitting creaks.