[Jan Darzek 01] - All the Colors of Darkness

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  “Then you reason that someone bought the plans, built a transmitter, and rigged all those disappearances, maybe hoping to panic us into stopping our operations. Then Darzek dropped in on them and put their transmitter out of commission.”

  “I suppose.”

  “That’s your next logical step. Why else would the disappearances stop so suddenly? Darzek busted the transmitter, and got his head busted for his trouble.”

  Arnold scowled. “I’ve always considered Darzek to be indestructible.”

  “I hope you’re right. I hope he’s hanging around to smash their next transmitter, because if he isn’t, our disappearances will start up again as soon as they can build another one.”

  “I’d like to run an experiment,” Arnold said. “I want to tune a transmitter to two receivers, and see what happens.”

  Perrin stared. “Two receivers?”

  “It’s the next logical step,” Arnold said dryly. “That has to be how they worked it. They tuned their clandestine receiver to one of our commercial transmitters. The odds would be precisely fifty-fifty that the passenger would come out of their receiver rather than ours. That would account for those dry runs Rucks has been tracking down. Get a couple of the boys to help you, and run a thousand tests. I’m going to ask the Boss to put some extra pressure on Grossman. Maybe we can find out who he sold the plans to.”

  The executive offices were deserted that Saturday morning, except for Miss Shue, who was loyally watching over Watkins’s door. “There was a man looking for you,” she told Arnold. “Did he find you?”

  “I don’t think so. What sort of man?”

  “A newspaperman. A Mr. Walker. I think he was trying some maneuver to get to the Old Man by asking for you. I sent him down to your office.”

  “Splendid. Perrin will send him back up here, and with any luck at all he’ll never find me. Is the Boss available?”

  “To you—usually. Go on in.”

  Three minutes later Arnold was sole spectator to a rare and entirely unexpected event: Thomas J. Watkins III lost his temper. He seized the dictaphone on his desk and hurled it to the floor. Then he stomped on it twice and kicked it.

  Immediately contrite, he sat down again and buried his face in his hands. “Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that. The theft of money I can understand. Theoretically every man has a breaking point where, under certain conditions, he may be tempted to steal, but peddling his firm’s trade secrets to a competitor is dishonesty on an entirely different level. Are you positive it was Grossman?”

  “All I’m positive about is that it was done. It could have been any of several hundred people. I suspect Grossman because a director had a better opportunity than most, and because as far as I know he’s the only crook among them.”

  “He still denies knowing anything about Darzek. He offered to take a lie detector test. Supposing I ask the D.A. to give him the test, and slip in a few questions about—this other—”

  “I’d be in favor of that,” Arnold said. “It couldn’t do any harm.”

  “This test you’re going to do. Will it help us?”

  “Only to confirm what we already know. But I think I can come up with a gimmick that would prevent this kind of outside interference.”

  “I hope you can, Ted, but it won’t solve the problem. Not really. The people responsible will still be free to devise some other form of harassment. The problem won’t be solved until we find out who is behind this, and take appropriate action to stop them.”

  “Grossman might know,” Arnold said.

  “I’ll certainly see that he’s asked,” Watkins said grimly.

  Ron Walker was waiting in the outer office, familiarly perched on a corner of Miss Shue’s desk. “Here’s my Own Favorite Scientist,” he said, extending a hand. “Put her there, Own Favorite Scientist.”

  Arnold pushed the hand aside. “If it’s a loan you’re after, I recommend the Rainy Day Pawn Shop. It’s just down the street from Darzek’s office.”

  “Speaking of Darzek—”

  “Which we weren’t. What do you want?”

  “Authoritative information. An interview. In familiar parlance, a story.”

  “I haven’t got any.”

  “Of course you have.”

  “About what?”

  Walker smote his brow, and turned imploringly to Miss Shue. “I spend years cultivating my Own Favorite Scientist. Now comes the one time I can use him, and he pulls the three-monkey gag on me. ‘What about?’ he asks me. The world is clamoring for information on that Moon explosion, and all the scientists are crawling into their holes and pulling the holes in after them.”

  “I don’t know anything about the Moon. Go find yourself an astronomer.”

  “The astronomers have passed a union agreement not to mention the Moon.”

  “Good idea,” Arnold said. “Now if you reporters would only do the same thing—”

  “It’s news, man! We have a solemn obligation to keep the public informed. Just answer a few simple questions—that’s all I ask.”

  “If that’ll get rid of you, go ahead and ask.”

  “What caused the explosion?”

  “This is your idea of a simple question? How the devil would I know? I haven’t even read a newspaper story, let alone a scientific report.” Arnold wheeled disgustedly, and started for the door.

  Walker caught up with him and grabbed his arm. “Aw, have a heart. Just tell me this—can there be a volcano on the Moon?”

  “I don’t know. If the Moon wants to have volcanos, that’s perfectly all right with me. Why, is that what the explosion was?”

  “Well, at first everyone assumed that it was an atomic explosion. But the Russian Government said it wasn’t, and then ours said it wasn’t, and finally the astronomers agreed. Before they got around to saying what they did think it was, some jerk in Egypt who happened to have an amateur telescope pointed in the right direction claimed it looked like a volcano erupting. The astronomers immediately clammed up. The only official word is that—how did he put it?—’an apparently previously unknown substance’ exploded.”

  “I can’t help you,” Arnold said. “I don’t know any apparently previously unknown substances. Why don’t the Moon stations send someone over to have a look?”

  “It’s too far. Our New Frontier City is the closest, but that’s still some seven hundred miles away as the crow flies, with lots of rough country in between, and on the Moon the crow doesn’t fly and neither does anyone else. They aren’t equipped for that much overland traveling, and it might take them months even if they were.”

  “Here’s a suggestion,” Arnold said. “Why don’t you interview Miss Shue? A lovely young thing like her knows all about the Moon.”

  He got through the door in time to dodge Miss Shue’s accurately thrown paper weight.

  Perrin had the test under way when he got back to his office. “It’s working out roughly fifty-fifty,” he said. “To be exact, eighty-seven to a hundred and four. A hundred and five,” he corrected, as a bored engineer stepped from a receiver and recorded the result in the appropriate column on a blackboard. “The interloper ran ahead at first, but now it’s slipping back. We’re cutting it in on every trial, which is what they must have done. Otherwise they’d have picked up unsuspecting passengers instead of their own people.”

  “Good idea,” Arnold said.

  “It brings up an interesting question. They must have had an effective means of communication if they were able to cut in just when their own people were stepping through and cut out immediately afterwards. They couldn’t have worked it on timing alone, because no one could predict just when a particular passenger would reach the turnstile. Could a small portable radio get through from inside the terminal?”

  “I don’t see why not. Let’s say a very small radio, since no one noticed one.”

  “Which means that it couldn’t have had much range. If I were looking for Darzek, I’d check the area around the Br
ussels Terminal.”

  “I’ll suggest it to Ed Rucks, though I think he has something like that in mind anyway.”

  “It should have been done Thursday,” Perrin said. “By now—”

  “I know. By now he could be anywhere.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Darzek’s next conscious impression was of a soft tube being gently but firmly inserted into his mouth. For a time he was content to contemplate its unnatural presence resentfully, exploring the oddly serrated surface with his tongue and attempting, once or twice, to jerk his head away from it.

  Then it occurred to him that a tube meant food or drink. He sucked on it exploratively, and instantly spat out the gummy fluid that oozed into his mouth. It was tepid, its stinging tartness puckered the mouth and brought tears to his eyes, and its faint odor seemed more appropriate to a motor fuel additive than to a substance intended for human nourishment.

  The tube was offered again, and he rejected it with clenched teeth. His waxing consciousness brought a flow of strength, and he attempted to sit up, to open his eyes. In a surge of panic he pawed desperately at his head. His eyes were tightly bound. His head was bandaged, as were his hands, and as far as he was able to determine his entire body was swathed in yards of soft, elastic gauze.

  He sank back helplessly. When the tube was offered again he accepted it, and swallowed as much as he was able. He mumbled through his bandages, “It’ll never replace orange juice. Where are we?”

  “In the supply capsule,” a voice said.

  “Let’s see,” Darzek mused. “There were a couple of things, and Miss X and Madam Z, and a young man—that was you. Did all five of you come out of it all right?”

  “Oh, yes. We are all right.”

  “Supply capsule.” He paused to consider this. “The metal thing in the corner where it—she—got the first-aid stuff after I shot Miss X?”

  “Miss X? I do not quite understand your terms. Yes, that is the supply capsule.”

  “The blast got my eyes, I suppose.”

  “I do not think so. Your eyelids are badly burned, so perhaps you closed your eyes at just the right instant. Your head is burned, and your arms and hands, and part of your body, and we had to cut off what was left of your hair, but you should be fully recovered soon, except perhaps for your hair. We do not know how long it will take for the hair to replace itself. The question has not arisen before, and there is nothing in our files.”

  “A long time, I’m afraid,” Darzek said. “The question hasn’t arisen before for me, either.”

  “I have often wondered if that unfortunate animality brought accompanying inconveniences.”

  “You really should be commended on your English,” Darzek said. “It’s flawless, except for some very subtle inflections that I might not notice if this eye bandage didn’t make me concentrate on my hearing. Where did you learn?”

  There was no answer.

  “You’re sure my eyes are all right?” Darzek asked.

  “We treated them, just in case, but I do not think they were damaged.”

  “What knocked me out?”

  “Something struck your head, I believe.”

  “Nice of you to look after me, under the circumstances.”

  “You should not have done it,” the voice said. Did that rising inflection indicate anger? “ * * * will never forgive you.”

  “Who was that?”

  He said the word again, an impossible blurring of sounds. “Our Group Leader and Head Technician,” he added.

  “Is that the one who treated Miss X’s arm?”

  After a long pause, “Yes.”

  “Let’s hear the name again.”

  Darzek tried to repeat it, and sputtered hopelessly. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll refer to her as Alice.”

  “I do not mind, but she might.”

  “Alice is a perfectly respectable name. I had an aunt named Alice. By the way, just what did happen?”

  “Our power plant exploded. You should not have done it.” Again there was the rising inflection.

  “I’ll have to admit it wasn’t exactly what I intended,” Darzek said. “What did I do?”

  “I do not precisely understand that myself. It should not have happened. There are many safety devices, but the kind of thing you did was never anticipated.”

  “Something I threw into the works made a short circuit?” Darzek suggested.

  “Perhaps. In your terminology, perhaps something like running the short circuit through a transformer. Instantly it became tremendous.”

  “It certainly did. But even if it was a fluke, it was nevertheless a highly effective one. I agree—I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Appallingly uncivilized behavior,” the voice said, swooping upwards. “Destroying the property of others—”

  Darzek struggled to a sitting position. “Hold on, fellow! Just who has been destroying all that expensive Universal Trans equipment? Was that civilized behavior?”

  “There is no parallel between the two actions,” the voice said. “Of course you could not possibly understand.”

  “I don’t believe I could. Vandalism is vandalism, regardless of whose property it is and who is doing the destroying. Never mind. I seem to remember that the roof blew off, and if we are on the Moon, as someone said, you must have saved my life by dragging me in here—not to mention treating my burns. I thank you for that. I’ll thank the others when I have a chance.”

  The voice exemplified commendable modesty by remaining silent. Darzek stretched himself, tested the wonderful softness of the bed he was lying on, and stretched out luxuriously. In the process he discovered that the supply capsule had not been designed as a sleeping accommodation. His feet struck something solid, and when he attempted to edge backwards to give himself more room, so did his head. But none of this distracted from the superb comfort of his bed.

  “I’d like to buy a mattress like this one,” he said.

  “It is only a sleeping pad.”

  “I’d still like to buy one. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

  “It would be less comfortable on Earth. You would weigh much more.”

  “Killjoy! I wonder if the day will come when people take a jaunt to the Moon to get a good night’s sleep. Where do you come from?”

  “I am not at liberty to tell you, though I do not think it would be meaningful to you even if I did.”

  “Probably not. I wouldn’t recognize your name for the place, and if our astronomers have given it a name it still wouldn’t mean anything to me. If it’s outside the Solar System, that is. Is it?”

  There was a long pause. “There can be no harm in telling you that,” the voice said. “Yes. My home is outside your Solar System. Would you like more to eat?”

  “No, thank you. My stomach hasn’t quite decided what it’s going to do with the stuff I’ve already had.”

  “I suggest that you rest, then.”

  Darzek was moved to protest that he had just awakened, but there was no answer. When he had convinced himself that he was alone, he began to investigate his wounds as thoroughly as his bandaged hands would permit. He had no sensation of pain—only a slight tenderness about his face and head. Eventually, for the want of anything else to do, he slept.

  There followed a dreary period in which he rested, took nourishment, rested again. He had so completely lost track of time that he could not even hazard a guess as to the day. It had started on a Thursday, a Thursday morning, he kept reminding himself. Thursday morning in New York, and almost noon in Brussels. He fell to pondering what time that might have been on the Moon, and thus managed to occupy himself for an hour or so—or perhaps for only a few minutes.

  The young male administered to him conscientiously, but Darzek was unable to draw him into conversation again. His statements were so politely noncommittal, and he avoided Darzek’s questions so awkwardly, that Darzek had the feeling he was suffering acute pangs of conscience for his meager confidences of their fir
st conversation.

  Finally the moment came when his bandages could be removed. All five of them gathered closely around him in the cramped space by his bed. One at a time the strips of gauze were expertly unwound, and the young male delivered a running commentary on the results. He had healed up very nicely. No, there were no scars. He had not been burned that badly.

  In the background he heard the subdued buzzes and hisses of the ridiculous alien language.

  The bandage that blindfolded his eyes was left until last. It fell away, and he looked onto a dazzling whiteness that made him wince and move to shield himself. His eyes quickly became accustomed to the light, and the whiteness resolved itself into the same softly glowing material that had covered the curved walls and ceiling of the room his explosion had demolished. He blinked, blinked repeatedly, and as he focused on the alien faces all five turned away abruptly and avoided his eyes.

  His own face must have mirrored his astonishment. One of them said, “There seemed no point in maintaining the illusion. And we are much more comfortable this way.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” Darzek said, thinking he would have a devil of a time telling them apart.

  Three had undergone transformation. Now all of them were things, looking down at him from hideous, coldly inexpressive thing faces.

  There was no mistaking his original things. They were more than two feet taller, and much wider. The three who had been maintaining the illusion were now triplet things on a much more modest scale.

  “Which of you three is—was—the male?” Darzek asked.

  “All three of us are males,” was the answer.

  “You mean Miss X and Madam Z—” He stared unbelievingly. “All three of you are males,” he repeated slowly. “Well, I suppose you know if anyone does. A lot of males on Earth would be shocked to hear it. That was quite an illusion that you staged.”

  “It seemed to work satisfactorily.”

  “And the other two are females. It may take me some time to get used to the idea, but I won’t knock it. For all I know, it’s a more practical arrangement than the one we humans have arrived at. While we’re together, I want to thank you for saving my life.”