From the far side of the dune came a scrabbling. Natalia's eyelids drooped. A bullet-shaped shadow appeared in the grass at the top of the dune. Natalia's expression became very severe.
For a long moment the tension-system held beautifully. The receptors in the bullet-head belonging to Timofaev Gagarin Ponamorenko focused upon Natalia. Natalia radiated strongly back. The system grew, recruited.
Action became imperative. Timofaev gave a perfunctory glance around—and inhaled yelpingly.
A hundred meters up the little ridge something huge was happening. Part of it was a gassy figure resting on the ground in Natalia's same posture. It was Natalia—but fifty meters long and obscenely distorted. Giant-Natalia solidified, took on color. But it was not alone! On the ridge above it, a great head—Timofaev's head—and his hands—and—
Natalia herself was up in a crouch and staring too. The giant head of Timofaev lacked hair, the hands lacked arms, they were floating in the air. And floating behind them were other portions of Timofaev, partly unrecognizable, part plain as a pikestaff—those portions of his being which had been energetically and reciprocally resonant with Natalia.
The youngsters screamed together and the monstrous images began to boil. Sand, air and grass rose whirling, and the dune imploded round them in thunder.
SOMETHING WRONG! WITHDRAW!
REDEFINE SYSTEM!
Guerero Galvan swung his legs against his burro and gazed sourly down into the great barranca beside the trail. He was hot and dry and dusty. When he was rich he would ride to Xochimilicho in a private avion. But when he was rich he would not live in Xochimilicho. Very surely, he would live in a concrete palace full of girls at Mazatlan, by the sea. The sea? Guerero considered the sea. He had never seen it. But all ricos loved the sea. The sea was full of girls.
The burro hobbled on. Guerero kicked it reflexively, squinting at the trail ahead.
Coming toward him was another rider.
Guerero prodded his mount. The trail was narrow here, and the stranger was large. He too was prodding his mount, Guerero saw. But where had he come from? The trail had been clear to the pass a few moments before. He must have dozed.
As they came abreast Guerero raised three fingers in a studiedly casual greeting. The stranger did likewise. Guerero came fully awake, began to stare. There was something odd here. A diligent student of the mirror, Guerero saw that the stranger, though larger, looked very much like himself.
"Bueno," he muttered, tracing his own dark, slightly adenoidal features, his own proud gold glitter of bicuspid. And the burro—the same! The same tattered blanket! He crossed himself.
"Bueno," said the stranger, and crossed himself.
Guerero took one long look and began to scream prayers, hauling, wrestling his animal, flailing his legs. Next moment he had leaped free and was racing down the trail.
The voice had been his own voice, but it had come from the burro.
Careening, Guerero risked a look behind and redoubled his speed. The false Guerero-devil was trying to dismount too—but the flesh of its legs seemed to be joined to the sides of the devil-burro. Behind the devils the mountain was convulsing. Guerero flung himself into a gully and cowered while trail, pass and devils vomited themselves into the sky.
MISTAKE! WITHDRAW! SUBCIRCUITS IMPRECISE!
Through the noise of his party Ches Mencken was keeping one ear on the moonlit terrace. Majorca moonlight could get chilly. The three couples who'd gone skinny-dipping with Elfa had come dripping and giggling back and were applying themselves to the juice. Where was Elfa?
He mixed rock-vodkas, peeking at the electroquartz timepiece in the wide reptilian band around his wide mammalian wrist. Thirty-five minutes. He jerked his jaw clear of the turtleneck and pressed a glass into La Jones' steamy paw. She breathed at him. Sorry, Jones-baby, Elfa is my score . . . Where the hell is she?
Jones-baby gurgled through her hair. Those earrings are real. But Elfa's got all that glue. Pity Jones doesn't fall on his head and leave you with the basic Xerox, things might be different for you and me, know that?
Automatically his eyes gave her the message: You—me—different—
Only it wouldn't be, he thought. It'd be the same old ratass. Christ but he was tired! Whacked out. . . . Young cunt, old cunt, soft, sinewy, bouncy, bony, wriggly, lumpy, slimy, lathery, leathery cunt squeaking shrieking growling—all of them after him, his furry arms, his golden masculinity, his poor old never-failing poker—Oh Ches I've never oh Ches it's so it's oh Ches oh Darling darling darlingdarlingdarling—
Wonder what it'd be like to go gay? Restful, maybe, he brooded, checking bottles. Better yet, go off the juice onto pot. They say you don't, with pot. After he landed Elfa that's what he'd do: go on pot and retire. Surprise for Elfa. Only, where was Elfa?
Oh God no.
A pale form was wavering about the moonlit terrace. Not a stitch on and slugged. She must have had a bottle down there.
He disengaged fast and raced around through the bedroom, snatching up a rebozo.
"Darling you'll get chilled!" Capturing her in the wool lace, leading her into the bedroom. She was slugged all right but not out.
"Don't know . . . clothes? What this?"
"Warm you, baby. What a doll, num-num—"
Automatically moving in, his expert hands. Really a damn good stack for her age, she's kept herself up. Careful, now. Mustn't upset her. With Elfa it's got to be love. Elfa is special. Elfa is the retirement plan.
"Ches!"
"Sorry baby, I'll be good."
"No, I mean, I feel so—Ches!"
"Little girl, you're—"
"Ches, so intimate, I never—I mean, I loved Maxwell terribly, you know I did, Ches?"
"Yes, little heart?"
"But he never, I never! Oh, Ches—"
Oh God it was the pitch, he saw, and that damn crowd outside. They'd have to go. Life or death.
"—Drink this down for Ches, Ches wants you to drink it so you won't get chilled, see? My little girl sit down light here just one minute, Ches is coming right back—"
"Ches—"
As he closed the door she was saying plaintively, "Ches, why am I so big? So terribly, terribly—"
Somehow he got them out. She was sipping and crooning to herself where he'd put her.
"Li'l bitsy!"
"Ches loves you."
"Ches! Li'l bitsy moon!"
"Li'l bitsy you, m'm m'm." Taking the glass, carrying her to the bed, she saying again, "Ches, I'm so big! Li'l you!"
He didn't hear her. This was serious, this was make or break. She'd remember tomorrow, all right. It had to be the big thing. Was she too drunk? Her head lolled. O Jesus. But his technique was good. Presently he knew he needn't have worried. She was coming into it beautifully, puffing and panting. The nose knows. Mellow relief; I am good. Maybe I should be some kind of guru, give lessons.
She was gabbling incoherently, then suddenly plain. "Oh Ches I'm getting bigger!" Real panic?
"It's good, honey," he panted. "It's what you want, let it happen, let it happen to you—"
He didn't register the white figure wavering on the terrace outside until it stumbled into the glass and began to mouth. He glanced up, blurry—it was Elfa out there! How Elfa? No! ELFA?
The thrashing in his arms went rigid, arched.
"Ches I'm go-oo-ing explo-OO-OOO—"
Under intolerable stress the nebulous extension which had been compressed into a mimic of the woman by the water reverted to its original state. A monstrous local discontinuity comprising—among other things—the subatomic residuals of an alligator watchband, bloomed into the thermosphere from the Majorca cliffs.
NEW ERROR! ONE-TO-ONE INTERMIX? OOH
HOW MORE?
Standing on the wet rocks, helit laughed. Laughing helit laughed more. To feel! To know feeling! To know knowing! A past flooded in—voices—speech-patterns—events—concepts—MEANING! Laughter roared.
The little subsystem was
right! It worked. It lived!
But the little system was not right. The system was under strain, it demanded closure. It demanded to be itself, be whole. Something was outside, disequilibrating it, intruding alien circuits. The little system had integrity, it would not be a subsystem. It fought the disequilibrium, hauled and pulled on the incongruent gap.
He fought back, idly at first, then strenuously—fighting to keep his nucleus outside, to retain the system subsystem hierarchy. It was too late, no good.
Soundless as a soap-film snapping, the great field reorganized. The system inverted, closed and came to equilibrium with everything crammed in.
But it was not the same equilibrium.
. . . The moonlit surf creamed and hissed quietly around the rocks at his feet. Something he did not examine floated further out. After a moment he lifted his head to watch the little moon slicing cirrus cloud. The breeze dried his skin. He felt an extraordinary . . . Pleasure? Pride?
Perhaps that he was still young enough to break a business trip with an impromptu swim?
He began to climb up the rocks. Beneath the pleasure was something else. Pain? Why was he so confused? Why had he come here? Surely not just for an idle swim. Not now. But yet he was happy. He let himself slide into pleasure as he found his clothes, dressed.
Dressing himself was actively enjoyable; he'd never noticed. A moment of panic seized him as he climbed back to Overlook 92 where he had left his car. But it was there, sale. With his briefcase.
Images of the spinning surf, the streaming clouds, wheeled in his mind as he drove, merged with the swirl of the car as the huge coastal cloverleaf carried him up and around over and dip down through the mercury lights flashing—sweeping—
Ooee-ooee-ooee! went his signaler. As his power cut the cop rolled in beside him. He answered automatically, produced his papers. The interchange excited him. It seemed delicious to see the cop's thick lips murmuring into his 'corder. From ID card through the eyes through the brain through the sound-waves through the 'corder tape pulse—
"Who reads the tape?" he asked.
The officer stared at him, tight-lipped.
"Does a human being listen to it? Or does it go to another machine?"
"Where did you say you're going, Doctor, uh, Mitchell?"
"I told you. San Berdoo Research. My meeting up north ended early, I decided to drive back. Fine night."
In fact, he remembered now, he had been unspeakably depressed.
"Doing one fifty in a ninety kay-em zone. Keep it down." The cop turned away.
Mitchell—he was Mitchell—drove on frowning. His dashboard needles fanned, dial lights blinked. Giving him information. The car communicated with him, one way. Whether it wanted to or not.
I was like the car, he thought. He made me communicate with him one-way. There was a roiling inside him. Where is the circuit, he wondered.
He raced on through the night, communications springing at him. Right lane must turn right, he read. Food gas lodging next exit. His black mood lifted. Green-to-red, green-to-amber, flashing-amber, All Night Funeral Home. He laughed aloud.
He was still grinning when the garage opened to his beeper and the house door opened to his thumb. The house was dark, silent. He expected that, he realized. His wife was visiting her mother. Eleanor.
But his wife's name was not Eleanor, his wife was Audrey.
Depression descended. Suddenly he saw he had been evading reality. Swimming and playing games with the cops instead of doing the serious thinking he had planned to do. Before tomorrow's meeting.
He turned out the lights and lay on the bed, trying to concentrate. There were paragraphs in his mind. Other things. He must concentrate. The moon set. It grew darker, and presently, very slowly, lighter. He failed to notice that he did not sleep. When the little sun rose he got up and redressed.
The San Bernardino lot was still quite empty when he pulled in; the guards seemed surprised to see him. His office, though, was sunny. Did not need light. He found the files.
His secretary came in at eight-thirty tip-toeing.
"Miss Mulm," he said brightly. He pushed the files away.
"Yes sir?" She was instantly wary, a small, dark, soft-lipped girl.
"Sir?" he echoed. "Indicating deference, subordination . . . are you afraid of me, Miss Mulm?"
"Why, no, Dr. Mitchell." Staring gravely, shaking her dark head.
"Good. There's too much of that sort of thing. Too much one-way communication. No true interaction. Entropic. Don't you feel it?"
"Well, I guess . . . uh—"
"Miss Mulm. You've been with me five years now. Since before I was Director. You came over from the department with me."
She nodded, watching him intently: yes.
"Have you any feelings about the sort of work we do here?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, Doctor Mitchell."
"Do you—well, do you approve of it?"
She was silent. Wary. But somehow brimming.
"I—of course I don't understand all of it, not really. But it—it seems more military than I expected. I mean, Colonel Morelake, I guess—"
"And you don't feel quite right about military-type research?"
"Doctor Mitchell," she said desperately, "if you think it's all right—"
Her eyes, face brimmed, communicating information.
"My God," he said slowly, studying her. "Do you think I think—does everybody here think I—No. You can't answer that, of course. I guess I, since Hal's been away I've been doing some—" He broke off.
"Miss Mulm! Does it strike you that we are engaged in a most peculiar interaction process?"
She made a helpless confused noise.
"On the one hand we're discussing, verbally, the work of this institution. And at the same time there is another quite different communication taking place between us. Without words. Are you aware of that? I feel it has been going on for some time, too. Don't you think so? By the way, my name is Colin."
"I know," she said, suddenly not confused at all.
He came closer and slowly, experimentally, reached his hands and arms out along the force-lines of the emergent system. The system of two.
"Eleanor," he said. The system tightened, connected body to body, changing both. His body began to move along the field stresses. It felt wonderful. It felt resonant. Resonances tuned, building to oscillation. Feedback began to drive—swelled stress—
"Eleanor!" He was galvanized with delicious danger. "Eleanor—I—"
"Yes Colin!" Brimming at him, five years of small, dark very intense—
"I—I—I—" Bracing against the forcefield's bulge, "What?"
"The intercom! They—they—it's time, Doctor Mitchell!"
"Oh." It was flashing, buzzing, down there very small and far away. The . . . the meeting. Yes. What the hell had hit him. Damp. Damp the circuits. The room came back. And the paragraphs.
He was quite himself when the staff meeting opened. The project leaders, as usual, led off with their reports. There were eighteen bodies and an empty chair: the fourteen project directors, Admin, Security, Colonel Morelake, himself and the empty chair for his deputy Hal, on leave at Aspen. The reports were officially being made to him as Director, but most of the speakers seemed to be talking directly to Colonel Morelake. Again as usual.
Jim Morelake bore a disarming resemblance to a robin. A slim, neat robin with a perfectly good PhD and lots of charm. He bobbed his head in obviously genuine interest at each report. When old Pfaffman got into a tangled complaint—this time to Mitchell—Morelake spoke up.
"Colin, I believe I know where we can get some computer time to help Max."
Pfaffman grunted without looking at him and subsided.
That wound up the routine. They looked at Mitchell.
"About Cal Tech North," Colin Mitchell said. "I spent over six hours with Will Tenneman yesterday, before and after the general meeting. Essentially he was very ready to deal, provided we can work out the detai
ls of the grant allocations, and I feel they'll be reasonable. In fact, there was so little to talk over until we get down to specifics that I came back early. I think the main thing that was worrying him was parking space."
That brought the ritual chuckle.
"However," Mitchell went on. "There's something bothering me. This business brings it to a head. The Cal Tech North link-up is completely logical and desirable, provided we continue as we have been going. I'd like to do a little review. As you all know, especially those of you who have been here from the start—" He paused, momentarily aware of how many new faces were around him.
"This group was set up as an independent research facility annex to the university proper. It was our role to service a wide spectrum of basic research projects which could attract special funding arrangements. We started with eight projects. Two were medical, one was a short-term data analysis on traffic fatalities, another was historical, two were interdepartment teams in the anthro-sociology area, one was concerned with human developmental and learning processes, and one was an applied project in education. Of these, four were funded by N.I.H., one by private industry, one by the Department of Commerce, one by N.S.F., and one by the Department of Defense. Right?"
A few heads nodded, old Pfaffman's the hardest. Two of the younger men were staring oddly.
"At the present time," Mitchell went on, "we have increased to fourteen projects in hand. There has been a three-fold increase in personnel, and a commensurate growth in support facilities. Of these fourteen projects, one is funded by N.I.H., three by private industry, and Commerce is still continuing the traffic study. The rest, that is nine, are funded by the Department of Defense."
He paused. The empty chair beside him seemed to be significant. Things were different without Hal. He had chosen Hal, relied on him as an energizer. And yet—was it since Hal's time that the D.O.D. connections had tightened?
"Everyone is, of course, very pleased," he said heavily. "But I wonder how many of us have taken time to analyze these projects, which we live with daily. If you stand hack, as I have been doing over this past week, and classify them very naively from the standpoint of their ultimate product, I think it is fair to say that five of them have no conceivable application except as means to injure or destroy human life. Three more probably have no other aplication, although they may yield a small return in basic knowledge. That's eight. Number nine is devoted to the remote electrical control of human behavior. Ten and eleven are exploring means for the sterilization of plants. Twelve and thirteen are limited engineering problems in metallic structure. The last is one of the original—I might say, surviving—projects concerned with human cognitive development."
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