Dream Thief

by Stephen Lawhead

  NO SOONER HAD SPENCE and Adjani stepped out onto the lawn than a knock sounded at the door. Thinking it was the nurse, Ari had gone to tell her that her mother was a little tired and would not be coming down to lunch just yet.

  As she opened the door she turned back into the room saying, “You take a little rest, Mother. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  The next thing she knew she was jerked through the doorway. An arm shot around her neck and a hand covered her mouth—so quickly she did not even have time to scream.

  “Don’t struggle! Don’t make a sound!” a voice whispered harshly in her ear. “We are going to walk down the hall. If you try to escape you will be hurt.” With that she was dragged away.

  Another figure pushed past them and she recognized the man’s pinched features and rounded shoulders as belonging to Spence’s assistant. Tickler.

  When they reached the end of the corridor they paused and turned to Tickler, who was still standing in the doorway to her mother’s room. Some signal must have passed between the two men because Tickler reached into his pocket and took out something which he tossed into the room. He then closed the door and came running up the hall toward them.

  Ari was shoved out a side entrance marked with a red Emergency Exit Only sign. As the door swung open she heard a woman scream—it might have been her mother; it seemed to come from that end of the hall.

  Then she was hustled into the back seat of a late-model tri-wheel which sped off with the man she now recognized as Kurt Millen behind the wheel. She yelled and scratched at the windows, and then at Tickler sitting beside her in the cramped backseat.

  “You can scream all you want to, it really won’t do you any good,” said Tickler. “No one can hear you now. You might as well save your strength; we have a long trip ahead of us.”

  Ari’s eyes were blue fire. She threw herself forward over the seat and tried to jerk the steering wheel from the driver. The car lurched to one side and skidded in the white gravel of the drive. Kurt swore and cuffed her with the back of his hand. “Keep her back there! She’ll kill us all!”

  Tickler pulled her back into her seat and brought out a taser. Ari looked at the gun and slumped back. “That’s better,” said Tickler. “I assure you I will use this if there is another outburst.”

  “I demand to know where you are taking me!”

  “We’re taking you somewhere, where you can talk to your father, Miss Zanderson. He’s very worried about you.”

  “Worried about me! Why? What have you been telling him?”

  “Nothing all that serious, but you know how parents can get. I wouldn’t trouble myself over it.”

  “They’ll find me. Spence and Adjani will know what happened. They’ll find me.”

  “Oh, we hope so. Miss Zanderson. We hope they do indeed.”

  THE SKY GLOWERED WITH a gray, angry look, threatening rain before nightfall. A chill, shadowy dusk crept across the landscape as the car silently slid off the old highway and up a long, narrow gravel drive lined with towering elm trees, black in the failing light.

  The angry sky and dark branches mirrored Ari’s mood. She seethed in a silent black rage. Someone was going to know how she felt, and soon!

  The car had passed up the regional headquarters of GM, as well as every other opportunity of stopping within the city. Instead, the driver had headed out on the expressway toward the country and, hours later, they were creeping up the road to an aging country house.

  The house, pale in the yellow beams of the car’s headlights, swung into view as the vehicle rounded a bend and pulled into a wide driveway. A falling-down barn loomed nearby, the darkening sky showing through the spaces between its loose boards as through the ribs of a skeleton. A light shone in a single window of the two-story frame house, glowing behind a stained and tattered shade.

  On the whole the scene which met Ari’s eyes was best described as dismal. But after riding in the car for the several long hours of their trip she was glad to get out, no matter how bleak the surroundings. She was careful not to let the relief she felt at stepping out onto the crunchy gravel of the drive show in her face or actions. She wanted to maintain a hard, angry appearance. This plan, however, was abandoned as soon as she set foot in the house.

  “Daddy!” The next instant she was in his arms and he was hugging her as if she had been rescued from the sea after forty days in a lifeboat.

  “Oh, Ari! You’re all right! I was so worried about you.”

  She stepped back out of his embrace. “Just what did you think had happened to me? And what are we doing here?”

  Her questions went unanswered, for at that moment a large white ovoid object came gliding into the room. It was a pneumochair, and in it sat a sharp-eyed skeleton of a man, grimacing at them with a malicious twist of his thin lips.

  “So, the wandering maiden has arrived. I trust you had a pleasant trip, Ariadne. Yes?”

  “You!” she shouted, hands on hips in a show of defiance. She turned quickly to her father, who was wearing a sickly expression. “Daddy, who is this man?”

  “Ari, please calm yourself.” Her father placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “I demand to know what is going on here!”

  “You’re safe now, that’s all that matters, dear.”

  “Safe! I was safe before those two kidnapped me!” She threw an accusing finger at Tickler and Millen.

  “There must be some mistake, daughter.”

  “There’s been a mistake, all right. Daddy, answer me—what’s going on?”

  “Well, go ahead,” said Hocking. “Tell her. She has a right to know.”

  Her father glanced dubiously at her and said, “Mr. Hocking has been helping me rescue you. I asked him to—”

  “Rescue me? I didn’t need rescuing. For heaven’s sake. Daddy, Spence and Adjani were not holding me. We were escaping him!” She glared at Tickler again. “They were trying to kidnap Spence!”

  Director Zanderson seemed to shrink into himself somewhat. He looked at Hocking. “Is that true? Answer me!”

  Hocking’s lips twitched; his eyes narrowed slyly. It was clear he was savoring the moment fully.

  “Well, go on.”

  “Your daughter’s absolutely right. It’s Reston we’re after. You just have the misfortune of being in a position of influence, you might say.”

  Director Zanderson’s mouth dropped open. “I’m aghast!”

  “You’re more than that, you old buffoon. You are a hostage!”

  “You can’t do this! Mr. Wermeyer knows my whereabouts. If I’m not back soon, he’ll—”

  “He’ll do nothing. Perhaps he’ll tell people you’re vacationing, or that you’ve embezzled the payroll—it really doesn’t matter. You might say that from now on Mr. Wermeyer takes his orders from me.”

  Director Zanderson’s face went gray. Ari scowled furiously and her eyes became blue lasers burning out at her captors.

  Hocking continued, “I’m afraid that’s all the explanation we have time for. I have made some traveling arrangements for us all. Come along, please.”

  Just then the old house was shaken by the vibration of a jet engine firing up, and a low whine climbed to a scream.

  Hocking disappeared through the doorway. Tickler and Millen followed, pushing the Zandersons before them out the back of the house where a small hoverjet was rolling across the grass in a clearing ringed with tall trees.

  The plane turned and stopped. A hatch popped open and steps were lowered. The party boarded and the hatch resealed itself. The whine of the engines increased and the plane rose vertically until it cleared the treetops, then streaked off into the night.

  3

  SUPNO KAA CHOR,” SAID Adjani. The afternoon light slanting in through the woven screen over the window cast a diamond-studded shadow on the walls. Gita sat nodding on the bed like a Buddha. He leaned forward and Spence saw his dark face glistening with perspiration.

  “Ah. the Dream Thief,” whispered the little man.
“It has been a long time since I heard of him.”

  “We believe,” said Adjani, carefully choosing his words, “that he exists. The Dream Thief is real.”

  Gita did not burst out laughing, nor did he show any outward signs of disbelief—like throwing up his hands or rolling on the floor, which was what Spence expected. Instead, the linguist-dentist flicked his quick eyes from Adjani to Spence and back again in an expression that said he was prepared to suspend all judgment until the facts were heard.

  Spence decided then and there that they had come to the right man; he liked Gita from that moment on.

  “I see.” The Indian smoothed the folds of his trousers. “I suspect you are prepared to support that assertion.”

  “We are,” said Spence. “Kyr told me that their race fled Mars as soon as their technology made starships possible. The Martians went in search of new worlds to colonize, finding none within our own solar system which could sustain life.”

  “What about the Earth?”

  “I asked that, too. Kyr said that they have known of Earth’s life-sustaining capabilities for thousands of years. Some of them even visited our planet in times back, but found it already inhabited by sentient creatures well on their way toward domination of the planet. They elected not to interfere with human development. Their mere presence would have drastically changed the course of our history.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “Yes, quite. Considering that they could have come and taken control of the entire planet at any time and no one could have stopped them, I think they showed uncommon restraint. It took them several thousand years to perfect interstellar travel; meanwhile they lived in their underground cities and watched the wind and sand erode their planet to a dry red powder.

  “But what if all the Martians did not leave the solar system as planned?” Spence underscored his point with the thrust of his finger. “What if some of them came back to Earth and established a colony here? What form would it take? How would their presence impact on the local civilization?”

  “All very good questions, Spencer Reston.” Gita watched him through narrowed eyes, his head thrown back. “Do you have answers?”

  “No answers—suppositions. Theories.” Spence stood and began pacing as he talked.

  “The air of the Himalayas is very thin—much like the atmosphere of Mars must have been before the Martians left. Also those mountains are perhaps the most remote part of the whole planet, except for the poles and ocean bottoms. A colony settling there would never be bothered by curious Homo sapiens.

  “But as the Earth became more populated they perhaps would be noticed. Suppose also that as they came and went they encountered various tribes of human beings with which they developed some sort of commerce. Over time these interactions, although rare, would become the subject of speculation and wonderment among the primitive human beings they encountered. And since the Martians lived apart in places inaccessible to normal men, and their ways were far above the ways of men, they would be looked upon as godlike, and their advanced technology would be regarded as magic.”

  “We have seen this in the last century,” added Adjani. “The aborigines of Borneo considered airplanes magic and the white men who flew them were called gods. Any technology very far advanced beyond the accepted explanations of science is viewed as sorcery by the unenlightened.”

  “True, true,” replied Gita. “Most of my patients still believe my drill is a magic serpent whose bite is only too real.”

  Spence stopped his pacing and came to stand in the center of the room in front of Gita. “Exactly. You would expect all sorts of stories and legends to grow up regarding these gods and their civilization—and all with at least a grain of truth to them.”

  “Yes, but after all these years … surely you don’t think there can be any left? Do you? Either they would have died out, or become intermingled with human races. Or they would still be present and in such numbers that we would have known of them from long ago.”

  “I can’t answer that,” said Spence. “I don’t know. But Martians have incredibly long life spans—thousands of our years. Suppose one is still alive and living here on Earth?

  “I reawakened one of them. What if another never slept?”

  Gita sat very still for a long time. Only the rise and fall of his full round belly showed he was still with them physically. Then as one starting from a spell he said, “Supno Kaa Chor, eh? The great thief of dreams still among us. Well, why not? It makes sense.” He fixed twinkling black eyes on Spence. “I believe you. What do you think of that?”

  Spence wanted to hug the man.

  “What is more, I’ll help you all I can—though I can see that will be far from easy.”

  “Good!” shouted Spence. “That’s terrific.”

  “Maybe not so terrific,” muttered Gita. “Before we are through you may well have reason to curse the day you ever set eyes on me.”

  OLMSTEAD PACKER SAT WITH folded hands in the director’s outer office. He was well into his rehearsed speech when a tall, stringbean of a fellow came out of the director’s den.

  “I’m terribly sorry. Dr. Packer, but the director has asked me to convey his regrets. He has canceled your meeting for this afternoon.”

  “I don’t understand. I talked with him only yesterday.”

  “Yes, I know. He was suddenly called away on an important matter. He may be gone several days. Is there anything 1 can do until he returns?” Wermeyer gazed officiously at the big physicist.

  “No, I can wait.” Olmstead turned to leave. “I only wish he’d have let me know. That’s all.”

  “Accept my apologies. He sometimes forgets these things.” The way he said it gave the impression that Wermeyer was used to covering up for the director. With a shrug Packer walked out of the office.

  This is strange, he thought as he walked along Gotham’s trafficways. First Adjani and Spence disappearing and now the director. A strong hunch told him the two incidents were connected, but how? As he walked along he became more and more determined to get to the bottom of things as he saw them.

  “And I know just where to start,” Packer said to himself, making an abrupt about-face in the center of the trafficway. “Kalnikov.”

  He arrived at the infirmary and stood tapping his fingers on the spotless white counter until the young woman looked up.

  “Yes, may I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Captain Kalnikov, please. I understand he’s still here.”

  “Yes, of course.” The white-clad nurse disappeared into another room behind the nurse’s station. She was back in a moment looking at a chart of some sort. “I’m sorry”—she smiled up at Packer—“but your friend cannot receive visitors at this time.”

  “When, then? Can I come back later?”

  “I’m sorry. We don’t discuss our patients’ cases with outsiders,” she said. Packer felt a touch of frost in the air. “You’ll have to ask the doctor.”

  “Bring the doctor,” said Packer flatly. He was starting to resent the woman’s tone.

  “I’m sorry, he’s not in at the moment.” She gave him an icy smile. “Was there anything else?”

  Packer increased his drumming on the counter. “No, you’ve been a world of help,” he said and stepped away from the station. He walked to the door and then paused. His hand reached out for the access plate, but he suddenly grabbed his side and moaned.

  “Oh, no!” Packer groaned. “Help!” He toppled to the floor in a heap

  “What’s wrong?” cried the nurse, rushing out from behind the counter. “Are you having an attack?”

  “It’s my stomach,” wheezed Packer. He squeezed his eyes up and contorted his face. “Oww! Help me!”

  “We’ll have to get you off the floor,” said the nurse. “Can you get up?”

  “I think so,” panted Packer. “Oww!” He grabbed his middle and rolled on the floor.

  “There, there. Easy now. We’ll get you into bed and get some tests
started. You’ll be all right.” She laid a hand on his forehead.

  “You’re not feverish; that’s a good sign. Shall we try it again?” She put her hands under his shoulders and rolled him up into a sitting position.

  With some effort they got him back up on his feet where he swayed precariously and moaned at intervals like a wounded bull moose. She led him into the next room containing three beds, and Packer dropped into the first one.

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” the nurse told him and ran out of the room.

  Packer waited until the door slid shut again and jumped up out of the bed. He approached the figure laying in the last bed.

  “Kalnikov?” His voice was a harsh whisper. “Can you hear me?”

  The man rolled over and opened his eyes slowly. His stare was dull and glassy. “You’re not Kalnikov,” he told the man.

  Fearing he would be discovered Packer jumped back into his own bed and waited for the nurse to return. She came back in an instant and brought with her another nurse who carried a flat, triangular object which she placed on his chest. “Here, put this under your tongue,” the second nurse instructed, pulling a small probe from the instrument.

  Packer did as he was told and sighed now and again to add to the effect—as if he did not expect to tarry much longer in this world and did not greatly mind leaving.

  “Normal, just as I thought.”

  Next he felt a prick on the inside of his arm just above the wrist. The nurse studied the machine on his chest and fiddled with a few knobs. “No trace of salmonella. How do you feel now?”

  “A little weak,” he said weakly. “But the pain is gone.”

  “Probably it was gas,” replied the first nurse. “I’ll bring the doctor in when he returns.”

  “Thank you, you’re both kind. If I could just rest here for a moment I’m sure I’ll be feeling better in a little while.”

  “Of course.” The nurse packed up her instrument. “I’ll check back shortly.” She nodded to the first nurse. “She will stay with you for a few minutes.”

  “You’re too kind,” said Packer benignly

  “Nonsense.” The nurse smiled prettily. “That’s what we’re here for.”