“What’s the matter with the one you’re using now?” suggested Gaynor. “And what is it, by the way?”
“That? just the certain knowledge that if one man does a wrong thing, the rest will go under. That leads to an instinctive rectitude of decision where necessary, and to the toleration of deliberation where that is indicated.”
“Virtually an early Wells utopia,” murmured Gaynor. The car stopped and they felt themselves being transferred to another pocket of the monster.
“Now,” continued the monster, “we’re walking right through a wall into the fortalice of our enemies. I’m warning you now to be ready to be deposited on little or no notice. I hope you’ll be able to escape in the confusion and get under cover before they pay very cursory attention to the surroundings.”
“What confusion?” asked Io.
“Why, this—approaching in the form of several guards, friends. We’re very near the council room. We’re in it, now— ” The abrupt end of the thoughts of their carrier brought sudden shock to the three cowering in the dark of his pocket. They could hear confused roarings and explosions, then a hand yanked them out, none too gently, and they fell far to the floor.
“Come on,” snapped Gaynor, “damn our size—can’t see a thing!” He yanked Jocelyn and shoved Io under the ledge of a colossal- piece of furniture; they crouched in a passage no more than three feet high to their senses.
“My guess,” said Io, “is that Joe is a suicide, practically. He must have known he wouldn’t get out of this alive. These people deserve to win, Paul.”
Gaynor was still fretting. “Now,” he growled, “I know what a fly feels like—can’t see more than a couple feet before its proboscis and even then doesn’t comprehend what’s going on. Jos, it makes me feel stupid and unimportant. Let’s all tune in on the War Council. Relax, and open your minds.”
“Paul, I can’t understand the setup,” said Jocelyn worriedly. “Everything’s confused. Who’s that mind receiving and broadcasting without a thought of his own? I don’t get it.”
“That mind,” said Io thoughtfully, “seems to be an idiot of some kind.”
“Of course!” cried Gaynor. “The War Council hasn’t got one-way helmets; this is their dodge. The idiot is under some sort of hypnotic control, I’d say offhand.”
“Being lice, and double or, if necessary, triplecrossers, they don’t trust each other with the two-way helmets. They don’t do things the easiest way—by language—hmm, that’s rather odd, too.”
“Maybe they don’t all speak the same language,” suggested lo.
“That would explain it. Then this system, even though roundabout, is quick enough. They telepath to the idiot, who telepaths it to the others, and so it goes. Simple in a complicated sort of way. Now maybe you’ll be able to follow them.”
He relapsed into brooding silence and tuned in. The thin, dry mind-voice of a councillor was discussing something utterly unintelligible in the way of high-order chemistry. All Gaynor got was, in a gloating tone at the very end: “—phenol coefficient of two hundred and ninety-eight, gentlemen!”
A murmur of mental congratulations, then, from another. “How do you produce the poison?”
“Hot poison, corrosive.”
“Corrosive, then. How do you make it?”
More alien technical terms, then the second voice. “Thought so. Lovely idea, but not practical yet. Work on it, man—work on it! This is a war of money as well as spraying liquids. If we could wipe them out in one advance with your stuff, it would be okay. Otherwise, it isn’t worth the money we’d have to put out for it. But work on it, nonetheless. Phenol coefficient two-nine-eight, you say? Very good….”
Then a sharp mind-voice of command. “Tactically, what is there to report? You—nothing? You—nothing? You?”
“Something, chief. No much, but something. How’d you like to hear that the new air-field’s caved in the center?”
“Speak up, rot you! Has it or hasn’t it?”
“It has. Somebody’s error in Engineering No. Eight, Chief. That ought to affect plans considerably, eh, sir?”
“I’ll decide that, young one. And somebody. swings for that error; make a note of it. See who initialed the final plans for the beaming and poured metal.”
“Right, Chief. Now—what’s the big news, sir? What’s the time for it to pop?”
There was something like a pleased smile from the mind-pattern of the commander, they thought. Gaynor concentrated furiously to catch the precious next words. “The advance? In three days. Three days exactly. I shouldn’t call it crucial at all—simply the operation on which we’ve been planning for a full long time. Naturally it will be successful. We shall go now. See that the idea is taken care of, someone. You.”
“I’ll be back for him in a moment.”
There was a tremendous shuffling of feet, and when Gaynor cautiously poked his head out of the shelter, the room was empty except for the idiot, who, face high up, was blank as a dumbbell.
“C’mon out, all,” he called, giving Jocelyn a hand. “We can case the joint.”
They essayed a little stroll along the baseboard, feeling futile as a jackrabbit. The shuffling of two enormous feet gave a pause; he looked up with some trepidation. “Awk!” he groaned. The idiot, a bright beaming smile of interest on his face, dove two hands like twin Stukas at them. The hands closed about the struggling humans, and they were swooped up and violently deposited in a dark, dismal spot.
“So this,” said Jocelyn finally, “is what an idiot’s vestpocket is like.”
VI.
“Total blank,” said Gaynor despairingly. “He doesn’t radiate thoughts at all. Just a something like the noise of an electric razor, implying hunger and fatigue.”
“Doesn’t he have any opinions of us?” asked Jocelyn timidly.
“Not a one. Just picked us up out of some kind of reflex. No intention behind it at all; if lie knew what he was doing, he’s already forgotten about it. Oops!” Gaynor started. “They just took off his helmet, I suppose. Anyway the buzzing came to an abrupt end. Here we go!”
They jounced around wildly in the pocket of the idiot as he moved slowly and with great dignity out of the room. The three miniatures were too busy clutching onto the course fabric of the pocket’s lining to wonder where they were going, in general. The motion stopped; they heard the gigantic thud of a door closing on an unprecedentedly big scale.
“Locked in, I surmise,” mused Gaynor. The pocket dropped like an elevator. “Hmm, he sat down.”
“Shall we make a break now?” asked Io.
“Now or never; come on, it’s over the top.” Taking firm hold of the stuff of the pocket, he climbed carefully, hand over hand, popping his head finally over the pocket’s top. Jocelyn and Io appeared beside him.
“Can’t get the scale of things here,” he complained bitterly. “Can’t tell where we are—whether that’s a chair or the floor. Anyway— ” He let go and fell heavily to the plane below. The great bulk of the idiot’s body was beside him like a cliff. From the noises, one hazarded that it was eating—not very daintily. His wife and Ionic Intersection hit the ground beside him.
“Easy does it,” he cautioned, clasping a chair leg with every limb he had. Braking carefully, he slid far down to the floor, then picked Jocelyn and Io off the huge trunk as they followed.
“Thanks,” said Jocelyn, brushing herself. “What now?”
“Under the door, I suspect,” said Gaynor. “We make one very quick run for it. If the dope sees us moving, we’re probably through for good.”
“For good?”
“Yep,” he nodded. “The thing’s likely as not to step on us.” Abruptly he kissed the two of them. “Now!” he whispered, and they scampered across the floor in a mad spring for the door, hundreds of feet away. The crack beneath it would be ample for escape.
Behind them was a stir and the crash of breaking pottery, like the crack in Krakatoa. “Oh Golly!” moaned Gaynor, catching his w
ife’s arm and hurrying her on.
“Leggo!” she panted. “Keep running—I’ll— ” What she would have done remained unsaid. Blocking their way were the immense feet of the idiot. They stopped short and stood like statues. “Here it comes,” murmured Jocelyn.
The idiot was going through some mighty complicated maneuvers; the sum total of which was to bring his face to the ground, about eight feet away from the miniatures. He was grinning happily.
“Paul,” gasped Io, almost hysterically. “Look at his face!”
Gaynor and Jocelyn stared fascinatedly. “No,” whispered Jocelyn, “no! It can’t be. It just couldn’t possibly be!”
“But it is!” said Gaynor. “That thing, idiot or no idiot, fifty feet high or not, is my partner, Arthur Clair!”
Gaynor clasped the little brunette’s shoulders. “It’s all right, Io, believe me, it’s all right!”
“But—Pavlik—my Arthur couldn’t be— ”
“I always knew he was an idiot,” marvelled Jocelyn, “but never in this sense—that is, precisely in this sense. Will he find us, Paul?”
Gaynor shook his head. “I think he’ll forget us in short order and get back to his dinner. Then I act and act fast.”
“How, Paul?”
“Clair’s under hypnotic control. I don’t know how he got to that size, Io, but he’s very obviously been ordered to forget everything and act as a sounding board for the ginks in the War Council. Now if I can yell loud enough for him to hear me— ”
“But what good will that do?” interrupted Mrs. Clair.
“Just this, Io: When Arthur and I were younger, and much foolisher, we were simultaneously addicted to hypnotism and practical joking. My idea of a practical joke at the time was to give Art some pretty silly orders and postsuggestions when he was under.
“He, being fundamentally a bright sort of cuss, had himself immunized to that kind of thing by having a professional give him a very solid conditioning—to come out of any hypnotic states at the mention of—among other things—my name.”
“So if he can only hear your name he’ll be all right?” asked Io excitedly.
“Yup. And here I go. I see our partner has reverted to type.” Clair was licking porridge from the floor, where his bowl had broken.
In one quick scampering run, Gaynor darted out from under the ledge and made it to the idiot’s head, with Io close behind him. He bawled out the words: “PAUL GAYNOR!”
The idiot looked at him. “Why, Pavlik,” it said with gentle concern. “How on Earth did you get here?”
“Arthur!” sobbed Io running toward him.
With a puzzled look on his face, Clair picked up his wife gently and brought her toward his face. Tenderly he caressed her hair with his fingertips. “What did you three do to yourselves?”
“Look, dope!” yelled Gaynor. “What do you remember last?”
“Oh, I remember everything. Including picking you up. And I have in my mind a complete record of the transactions of the War Council for the week I was used to replace their last idiot, who got a fuse blown somewhere. They had me under a limited kind of control—not really efficient. No oblivifaction coefficient at all. What do we do now?”
“Suppose,” shrieked Jocelyn, coming out, “you get us to hell out of here. They won’t stop you, will they?”
“Up to a certain point, no. They won’t harm me at any rate. I have religious connotations of some kind, I think.”
“Arthur—Paul—wait!” said Io. “I have an idea. You and Jocelyn go back to our friends; Art and I will stay here. Paul, you don’t suppose these people have any screens against thought helmets, do you?”
“They haven’t,” said Clair. “What’s on your mind, pet?”
“This. They’ll be needing Arthur again soon when they start the offensive. And as far as they knew, he’ll be as he was before.
“Only, I’ll be in Arthur’s pocket, relaying everything that comes into his mind to you back in the citadel. While you relay to me the suggestions of their War Council, or whatever they have like it.
“Do you get it, Paul? These birds will be getting orders from their idiot, only it will be our orders! That is—if you can make a screen, dearest.”
Clair grinned. “I can.”
“That’s all very nice,” protested Jocelyn, “but how do Paul and I get out of here?”
“The idiot will get you over the wall— or under it— ” said Clair. “Before you go, you can send a message to your friends to be waiting. I’ll rig up an apparatus so your thoughts won’t be interrupted by the wrong people—wow, the things I’ve learned here, Pavlik!” He picked up the two and put them in his pocket again. “Let’s go,” he said. “No one pays any attention to the idiot in his time off, and they’re too busy to notice what he’s doing anyway—unless he yells for help.”
And again the three went on a bumpy sort of ride in the pitch blackness of Clair’s pocket.
VII.
“It doesn’t take you birds any time at all to go to town on a new device once you have the idea,” marvelled Gaynor as he fiddled with the dials of the spy-screen several of Joe’s friends had constructed. The giants had a screen for their use—the room wasn’t long enough for Gaynor to be able to see it all— and a small one had been made for the visitors.
“But it wasn’t much of a problem,” came the thoughts of the giant Jocelyn had dubbed “Luke.” “As soon as you told us about it, it was quite simple. We had all the makings—only thing is, it never occurred to us—or to them, either, apparently.”
“What’s the program?” asked Jocelyn.
“At the moment, we’re getting the layout of their citadel,-and the disposition of their forces. Luke and Oley here (Oley’s the blond, sweet) are very busily engaged in making a map of the works—giving all the data we need.”
“Their layout seems to be that of a seven-pointed star;” mused Jocelyn. “No encircling rings of fortifications—just points.”
“Probably all they need,” said Gaynor. “Don’t be too sure that there isn’t a solid ring of some kind aroung their citadel. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if those seven points weren’t the terminals for a virtually unpenetrable vibrational barrier.”
“But we had no trouble in getting through!”
“Only because they see no point in keeping it up constantly. They probably have some sort of detectors. Don’t forget, Joe was discovered and disposed of in virtually no time at all after he got in.”
Gaynor plugged in a connection. “Ah, here we are.” The screen lit up to show an office where several giants, apparently of high rank in the enemy’s forces, were also poring over war maps. As a light on the desk flared, they straightened up and took down what were obviously thought-helmets from a nearby rack.”
“We do likewise,” said Gaynor suiting his words to action.
“Then?”
“Then the fun begins. It’ll work like this: I will be the mental sounding board for our side, little more than an extrapolated dimwit like my partner, Art Clair. As messages from their staff come to him, he shoots them over to me via to and Luke and his friends pick them up. Luke and his friends decide whether the order will go through as is, or whether it’ll be changed, and if so, how. In the meantime, Art’s screening his mind against intrusion; soon’s our misdirection gets to Art, he relays it to whoever it’s supposed to go to.”
“Sounds frightfully complicated,” mused Jocelyn. “And won’t those dopes get suspicious—won’t it take time?”
Gaynor shook his head. “There’s nothing as fast as thought.” He made a final adjustment on the helmet. “If they’re noticing such things, they may be aware of a slight pause, but it’s doubtful that they’ll notice—particularly when the fun starts. Which will be soon, now.”
“This is all very ducky, husband mine, but what am I supposed to be doing all the time? Am I an orphan?’
“Suggest you watch the screens and keep in contact with our friends—never can tell when you migh
t be able to make a bright suggestion. Matter of fact, you’ll have to keep contact if you want to know where to send the spy-beams in order to see what’s going on. Oh, it’ll be exciting enough for your bloodthirsty tastes, pet. Just think of poor me—I won’t know what’s happened until it’s all over.”
“What! Won’t you be in on this?”
“Yeah, with my mind a perfect blank.”
“Huh,” she snorted, “that’ll be simple for you!”
Out of the bad guys’ citadel came the air fleet, rank after rank of slender, black arrows, floating gracefully upward. In a few moments’ time, thought Jocelyn, they would be over and beyond the outlying star-points and into the no-man’s land area. But at that precise instant, hell broke loose.
The neat, orderly arrangement of the first rank was suddenly shattered as four shells exploded simultaneously in its midst. Jocelyn gasped, twirled the dials of the screen seeking the source of the deadly fire. In a moment she had found it; a battery in one of the outlying fortresses had turned its guns upon their own air forces.
Misdirection with a vengeance, she thought. It worked beautifully when used upon such a set-up as the enemy had. Their whole training was that of blind obedience to superiors—she guessed what the orders must have been: attack and destroy the air fleet which has become a traitor to the fatherland.
Before the Universe Page 19