Don Pendleton's Science Fiction Collection, 3 Books Box Set, (The Guns of Terra 10; The Godmakers; The Olympians)

by Don Pendleton

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Pat,” the President said.

  “In this room sir,” Honor explained, “there are multiple billions of air molecules. This is the air we breathe. It is all about us, and you have access to as much as I. This is the Law of Chaos, keeping these micro-miniature particles in an even distribution, or diffusion, in the space about us. Even so, it is a rather thin sprinkling—so thin that if the Law of Chaos were set aside, we could compress the multibillions of molecules now diffused throughout this room into your hat. This is actually what occurs any time we compress and bottle a gas of any sort. Air itself is a gas.”

  “So?” Wilkins asked faintly.

  “So I want some oxygen bottles spaced around the apartment for easy access,” Honor replied. “The Rogue could deprive you of the very air you are breathing, and in a twinkling.”

  “Then why has he not already done so?” the President asked.

  “I guess he just hasn’t thought about it, sir.”

  “I hope that you are not giving him the idea, sir.”

  “I hope not too, sir.”

  “I just had a terrible idea,” Clinton spoke up. “If it is possible to make ordinary air collect and compress into any desired space, why couldn’t it collect and compress in our lungs?”

  The President paled. “I’d like to talk about something else,” he said.

  “Yes sir,” Honor replied. “We didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  “You did just the same,” Wilkins admitted. “By the way, I have been totally unsuccessful in my attempts to set up a Pan-World Summit Conference. The smaller nations would have gone along if I could have persuaded the major powers, but I struck out miserably in that arena. The Soviet Premier very politely laughed at my “very funny joke.” Karl Marx is the only God they recognize, and the Premier assured me that he has been harmlessly dead for quite some time.

  “The British PM listened solemnly to my pitch, then suggested that I confer with the heads of the Church of England. You can just imagine what they told me in Rome, and the French President laughed himself into an hysterical fit.”

  “How about the Eastern powers?” Honor asked.

  “Even worse. Delhi mumbled something about the final peace of Karma, or something. Israel assured me that their Covenant was still firm and that they had not yet begun to fight. Peking wouldn’t even accept the call, and I doubt that there’s anyone over there with any authority to speak, anyway. Tokyo declined in view of their unstable home situation. Just the phone call probably cost them a thousand demonstrations.”

  “So we go it alone,” Clinton said. “We don’t need them.”

  Wilkins glanced sharply at his intelligence chief. “That’s a bit different tune from the last one,” he observed.

  Honor smiled. “Milt’s been doing some intelligence work on the other side,” he said. “He has the girls scanning some geometers right now.”

  “On the ‘other side’?” the President asked, his gaze wavering.

  “Yes sir.”

  “But I saw them in the next room, just a few minutes ago.”

  “Yes sir. We keep them close by.”

  “But they . . . “ Wilkins scratched his head and dropped that line of conversation. “How is Curt Wenssler coming along?”

  “He’s pulled a total cop-out,” Clinton said. “Won’t talk about any of this. Refuses to leave Bethesda. Says he wants to die there.”

  “Can’t blame him, Milt,” Honor observed softly.

  “It must have been a shattering experience,” Wilkins murmured.

  “Yes sir, I’m sure it was,” Honor said.

  “I’d like to join you fellows,” the President said, sot to voce.

  “That would be too risky, Mr. President,” said Honor. “The Rogue has your number, and—”

  “He has yours also, Pat.”

  “Yes sir, but I have out-evolved him.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means simply that my understanding of truth is greater than his understanding of error.” His eyes met Clinton’s. “We know how to avoid him. We would not dare venture into the ethers, as Wenssler did. I, uh, understand your interest in psychism, Mr. President. I’m just afraid that you would slip into the wrong parallax.”

  “If you do not venture into the ethers, then how do you get to ‘the other side’?” He studied Clinton’s face. “I had the impression that you were in contact with various people of other nations. How have you been doing this?”

  “We travel geometrically,” Honor explained. “And, yes sir, we are in contact with others. The numbers grow daily.”

  “I’ll want you to explain that to me when we have more time,” Wilkins replied, sighing. “I am beginning to feel less and less the President.”

  “You are the President, sir,” Honor said. “And your touch, at the proper time, will be the one to tip the balance our way. This is primarily why I advise you against adventuring with us.”

  The President was silent for a moment, then he said, “These other persons you are contacting. Are they, uh, evolvers also?”

  “Yes sir, they are.”

  “Are there quite a number of them?”

  “Individually, Mr. President, the numbers are small. Geometrized, though, the value is considerable.”

  “I see.” Wilkins sighed. “I, too, would like to be an evolver.”

  “I’m sure that you will be, sir. When the danger is—”

  The President cut him off with a wave of the hand. “Don’t patronize me, Pat,” he said heavily. “What do you think of ghosts?”

  “Ghosts?” Honor smiled. “Not much, sir, I’m afraid.”

  “What would you say if I told you I saw Lincoln tonight, just before the pipes burst?”

  Honor and Clinton exchanged glances. Clinton commented, “The ghost of Lincoln is a White House legend. Many visitors have claimed to have seen him here. Queen Wilhelmina, on a state visit during FDR’s time, said she saw him standing at the door to her bedroom. Even Eleanor said that she frequently felt his presence; she used Lincoln’s old bedroom as a sort of office. He’s scared the pee out of White House maids.” Clinton laughed drily. “Even old ‘give ’em hell’ Truman said that he frequently ad phantom knocks at his door. Lot of people think they’ve seen him.”

  “I did see him,” Wilkins soberly reported. “Tonight. In my study. He seemed agitated, as though he wanted to tell me something.”

  “It was an illusion, sir,” Honor said positively.

  “How can you be so sure of that?”

  Honor and Clinton again exchanged glances. Honor said softly, “I probably shouldn’t be speaking of this, sir, but Mr. Lincoln is an evolver. If you should truly see him now, it is unlikely that you would recognize him.”

  “So what did I see?” Wilkins snapped.

  Honor looked troubled. “This is what I meant by, uh, the danger of your, uh, psychic sensitivity, sir. I am not saying that there are no ‘ghosts’ but I also know that Abraham Lincoln is not, uh, dead.”

  Wilkins stared at Honor thoughtfully for a long moment. “If he is not dead then where is he?” he asked presently, .. and if I did not see Lincoln, then what did I see?”

  “I’m afraid I am not at liberty to answer that first part, sir,” Honor replied stubbornly. “As for the second, I can only say that the ethereal world contains many errors and is now under the conscious direction of the Rogue. You must avoid it at all costs.”

  “So Lincoln lives again,” the President said musingly. “Did you know, Honor, that he spoke of that same infinite sea you’ve told me about?”

  “Uh, I do not find that surprising, sir.”

  “He had many psychic experiences.”

  “And he died tragically, sir.”

  “Yes, he did that. He did that. Goodnight, gentlemen. I am suddenly quite tired.”

  “Were you entirely serious, sir?” Honor asked softly. “Would you like to venture with us to the other side?”

 
; “I was entirely serious. I’m 51, Pat, and the years are getting heavy. I would very much like to know what you know.”

  “I believe I can work something out,” Honor said. He arose and quietly took his leave, Clinton at his heels.

  They paused outside the door and Clinton said, “That was some wiggling, Pat. I thought I’d die when he started talking about Lincoln.”

  “History has a way of repeating itself,” Honor said, frowning thoughtfully. “I want to get him resolved, and the sooner the better. See somebody about doubling his personal bodyguard. I’ll collect the girls and meet you downstairs. Let’s flip a coin, or something, and select a partner for him. Evolution can be nipped in the bud by revolution. It’s happened before. I don’t want it to happen again. Not in this case.”

  “Hadn’t you better consult Hadrin first?”

  “I already did. He’s in favor of evolution.”

  Clinton grinned. “Me too. See you in five minutes.”

  Standby, Mr. President, Honor said to himself as he went in to pick up the girls. Your deliverance is at hand. The first octave awaits.

  3: The Carnal Truth

  Honor briefed Barbara and Dorothy on the evening’s developments, concluding with, “So now we’ve decided that the President must be resolved. He’ll need a guide to the other side.”

  The two women looked at each other and, in unison, said, “I’ll go.” Barbara laughed and squeezed Honor’s hand. “We’ll work it out between us,” she assured him. “The point to be considered is will the President go?”

  How does one go about seducing a President?” Dorothy said thoughtfully.

  Honor replied, “Can’t be that way and you know it. It has to be a willful decision on his part.”

  “It also must be a libido projection,” Barbara added. “Right?”

  “Right. We can’t risk any other method. And I’ll want . . .” He stared at Barbara briefly, then continued. “It will have to be you, Barb. Dotty, you and Milt had better go along also. Watch him very—”

  Clinton banged into the room at that moment. “All set,” he sang out. “We now have the best guarded President in history.” He looked from Honor to the two women. “Well, who’s going to be the lucky girl?”

  “Barb will guide,” Honor told him. “You and Dotty had better go along with them. Watch him, Milt, and make sure he understands every step of the way.”

  What’re you going to be doing?” Clinton queried.

  "I’m going to check out something on this side.

  Something very ominous, if my understanding isn’t too clouded.”

  Clinton grinned and said, “You make it sound very mysterious. Okay.” He punched Dotty lightly on the shoulder. “What’ve you been up to, old gal?”

  She smiled. “Would you believe me if I told you I’ve been seducing students in Pakistan?”

  Barbara giggled and leaned against Clinton. “Not carnally, of course. We stumbled onto a very dedicated study group at a university in Karachi.” She rolled her eyes at Honor. “I don’t know what they were studying, but it sure didn’t take much nudging to geometrize them.” The dancing eyes flashed to Dorothy Clinton. “It was a very strong erotic field, wasn’t it?”

  “I know what they were studying,” Dorothy replied solemnly. “The boys were studying the girls and the girls were studying the boys.” She smiled winsomely at her husband. “We helped them cement their studies.”

  Honor’s brow was furrowed with thought. “Net value?” he asked tersely.

  “A very strong octave to the fifth progression,” Dorothy reported.

  “Great. That should wrap up that area. Now if we can get a comparable harmonic out of Australia and ... let’s see, where would be the best geometer in, uh . . . yeah, let’s say Paraguay, then we—”

  “I get the Latins,” Barbara squealed delightedly.

  Down, girl,” Honor said, grinning. “First we must resolve a President.”

  “Carnally,” she agreed, nodding her head. “I hope he, uh ... he is able, isn’t he?”

  “He’s only 51, Barb,” Honor reminded her. “I’m sure you can, uh, get the necessary response.”

  Clinton grinned, commenting. “She could get the necessary response from Methuselah.”

  “Okay,” Honor said, sobering. “You guys know what to do. May as well get started. I’ll swirl with you as soon as I can.”

  “Be careful,” Clinton said soberly.

  Honor kissed Barbara, pecked Dorothy quickly on the lips, and left them. He went down the side hallway, nodding absently at the guards who were placed here and there along the way, took the elevator to the ground level, and made his way quickly to the south lawn. The skies were overcast and the feel of summer showers was in the air. He went directly to the flower garden in the southwest comer, plucked a blossom, smelled of it, crushed and rolled the petals between his fingers, then smelled of it again. He dropped the blossom to the ground and put the finger to his tongue, tasting sensitively.

  Troubled and quiveringly alert, Honor walked to the center of the lawn and stood gazing speculatively toward the large white building. It was ablaze with lights, sending out a sort of aura into the enveloping blackness. His eyes carefully traced the skyline projections, and he began mentally measuring the angles formed by the geometrical dimensions.

  A soft voice said, “Hello, Pat.”

  Honor’s eyes focused on a spot several feet to his side. A familiar-looking figure stood there in the darkness. “Yes?” Honor said tightly.

  “Don’t you know me?” The figure moved closer, until Honor could make out the teasing smile and the faintly quizzical eyes. Honor had already recognized the voice. It was a damn good facsimile, he decided, of his dead father, Steven Honor.

  “I know the face and the voice,” Honor said quietly. “Who uses it?”

  The figure now stood directly in front of him, an arms-length distant. “Your mother and I are worried about you, Pat. We want you to cut out all this morbid business and get back to the business of life.”

  “You are an error,” Honor flatly stated, without emotion. “Go back to the home of errors.”

  The laconic voice of Honor’s long-dead father said, “You always were a rebel. Where did I fail you, Pat? Don’t you understand what you’re doing? You’re throwing in with the devil, boy.”

  “Go back to the error from which you arose,” Honor commanded quietly.

  The figure wavered, then faded. Another quickly took its place. Honor recognized his “mother.” She was weeping in inconsolable grief.

  “You can see what you’re doing to your mother,” said his father’s disembodied voice from the darkness. “All this rotten vulgarity, this running around with loose women. What has happened to your conscience, boy?”

  Honor set his jaw and walked right through his weeping mother. Other figures rose up to join him in his walk and to add their pleas that he give up his life of “sin” and “deviltry”—all cherished personalities of the dead past. Honor reached the South Portico with a group of discarnates clustered about him.

  “I am truth incarnate,” he declared, raising his voice above the din of weeping and wailing. “The God of Error has no power in my field. Return to the error that spawned you.”

  A uniformed guard stepped from the shadow of a pillar of the porch. “Mr. Honor?” he called. “Is something wrong?”

  Honor mounted the first two steps before responding to the query. The wraiths had faded away. “Did you see or hear them?” Honor asked the guard.

  “No sir, I just heard you talking. Who’s out there?”

  “No one, I guess,” Honor replied. He had moved into the light. A distant, intercloud discharge of electricity lit the sky momentarily. Honor whirled to gaze across the lawn just as a strong wind sprang up. Something partially lifted him and spun him down the stairs. He landed on all fours on the sidewalk, then was rolled into the grass.

  The guard had yelped a startled warning and was running down the stairs to as
sist him. The wind was pulling at Honor’s hair and whipping his coat tail like a flag in a stiff breeze. The guard seized him by the arm and helped him regain his feet, then the two of them staggered up the steps and beneath the overhang of the porch.

  “I thought I’d seen dust devils in Kansas,” the guard said, his voice awed. “I never seen anything like that. It was a baby tornado.”

  “Is that what it was?” Honor muttered.

  “Yes sir, I’ve seen hundreds of them, as a kid, whipping up the dust around the farm. But never nothing like this. You okay?”

  Honor assured the guard that he was “okay,” thanked him, and re-entered the White House. He wanted to find the geometric center of the building. Something about its angular projections were bothering him. Something frightening kept whispering into his inner mind, too faintly to understand. Something about the geometer . . . Something about the . .. Honor’s head jerked to stiff attention, his nostrils quivering. Good God! Barbara, stop! Don’t go! It’s a trap!

  Wilkins had almost seemed to be expecting them. He had, as obviously, been preparing for bed. He wore silk pajamas beneath an Oriental smoking jacket, bedroom slippers, and carried a heavy congressional report under one arm. He gravely shook hands with the women and led the trio to a small lounge area just outside his bedroom. Clinton, in as few words as possible, had explained the reason for the visit and the mechanics of libido projection. Except for appraising glances at Barbara, the President had sat stony-faced during Clinton’s monologue. Then be had nodded his head in understanding and said, “Well, I was more or less prepared for something like this.” He had looked at Barbara, smiled, and added, “Curt was keeping me abreast of his findings. I must admit, though, that this business of libidinal projection has seemed more far-out than all the rest.”

  Barbara had felt compelled to smooth the thing out for the Presidential mind. “That is mainly due to our social and religious training,” she told him. “Millions of Westerners, though, have accepted the principle of soul-liberation through physical alignments—Yoga postures and such, I mean—the idea being that this harmonizes the physical structure into a total dominance by the mind. Libidinal projection goes far beyond that, being the ultimate harmony and geometrized on the square. The psychic energies released in that instant of unitary harmony can only be expressed as powers of powers.”