But Paul Stoner had the interests of the nation at heart, which justified a lot of things. To him, anyway. Peter Lukas had friends. Paul Stoner found two of them. They were young artists like Lukas himself, but nowhere nearly as successful. They were poor and a little jealous, and they could be bought.
He set them up to rob Lukas' house one night about a week later. Theoretically Lukas would be away in town, hosting patrons and the press at his show. Even if Stoner's two proteges should get caught, it would look as if a pair of artists were just copping an idea from another. No one would suspect that the CIA was quietly trying to procure an interstellar drive from a man who didn't know he even had it.
Yes, it was a good plan. If all went well, Cidi Osborn could find out what she needed, the sculpture could be returned, NASA would have their drive—and that idiot Lulcas would probably live his life out without ever knowing what he'd invented.
All did not go well.
Lukas was home early.
When he threw the light switch on in the garage, something was wrong. The switch worked harder than it should have, and up at the house, something went beep. Someone after Nereid!
He sprinted across the garage floor, out the side door, and up the stone steps to the cottage. Only a fragment of the moon lit his way, but there was enough animal in him to make it on instinct. And enough to put a sour taste in his mouth and make his neck itchy and his armpits tight.
He shoved at the kitchen door, found it bolted. Lukas knew how to take down doors; you could tell just by looking. Backing up two steps, dropping to his palms, he kicked himself through the weathered pine planks in a bony ram.
Up the stairs. Clump, clump, lunge, and rattle round the landing. He could hear them now, scuttling across the studio floor overhead. Like rats. Up the second flight. The studio door was ajar and he could smell the Bolger tank. So they'd turned it on, had they?
He swung through the door to see Pete Santini's blue-jeaned backside drop out of sight over the window ledge. Well, now he knew who. Couldn't trust anyone. He rushed over to the window.
Out on the hummocky lawn a girl ran. Herkie Albright. Long hair streaming behind, a little cup of moonlight at her forehead, all good. Lukas wished it wasn't her.
Immediately below him Santini was just getting up after oofing. He had the projector for Nereid in one hand, while two filters still spun in the grass near the other.
"Pete!"
No answer. All right, have it your way. I can catch your lardy ass. Lukas vaulted lightly over the sill, saw fifteen feet of night sky slide by, and sank to his ankles in the pine needles by the back door. Santini was halfway down the hill, running and falling and sucking wind, but moving. Lukas sprinted after him.
Herkie had Pete's old Healey revved up, and as Pete heaved his loot into the back and himself into the front, she popped the clutch. There was a whorkk of bald tires in gravel and rubber stink, and Lukas knew he'd have to jump—now.
It was a flat dive from the bank of soft dirt that edged the road. Nothing as orderly as a Hertz ad. Arms out, flying low, he landed spread-eagled across the cockpit, as if making love to the car. His belly took most of the shock, from the top of the windshield. It left stars and stripes and no breath. By the time he'd grabbed the fender mirror, the rest of him was sliding forward so that the only thing left for his other hand to hold was the bumper. Still sliding forward.
The dirt and rocks of the mountain road whipped by six inches from his chin as Herkie pushed the rusty blue bomb as high as it would go in low and speed-shifted. The car lunged. At that precise instant, Santini got hold of Lukas' ankles and pitched them over the side.
Lukas was flying again, whipping in helpless cartwheels beside the car and then behind it. Then all it was was sound, and a hot exhaust glowing between two little taillights, and then not even that.
He didn't stop to consider that in leaping to his feet he was taking a lot for granted. But no bones gave, and he was running back up the drive. The garage door stood half open as he'd left it. Two minutes ago. The Beezer sat there glowing black, rocked up on the center stand, still warm.
Lukas threw a leg over, brought his weight down hard on the starter pedal, and got noise for an answer. Wheeling to face down the hill, Lukas wound it on.
He knew that road by Braille. He'd been up and down it a hundred times and always on this bike. Shift to second and bank for the hard right-hander; hang out that foot and slide, baby, or eat trees.
But did Herkie know where she was going? Hardly. She'd only been up here a few times. Always with Pete and Pete always drove. No, he'd catch them, probably before they hit the county road.
Lukas went up to third for the long straight, braked lightly, banked and cut it off for the gravel esses. Up ahead he saw the two little taillights again, heard the Healey howling, mercilessly overrewed. Oh, he'd get them.
But then what? Force them to stop? A four-hundred-pound bike against a ton of car? Still, he might scare her into it. Nothing else to do, anyway. Try it.
The Healey burned oil. Lukas could smell it; he was that close. Only fifty yards separated them now, which opened on the straights and closed on the curves. Way down the mountain, ahead of them both, occasional headlights slid down Eighty-seven.
He was gaining fast. Good, because they were running out of his kind of road—the car could outrun him on the highway. Just one hard right-hander to go, which brought his driveway parallel to Eighty-seven before angling down the face of a thirty-foot bank to meet it.
Herkie was still in second from the sound of it. But no, as they approached the final corner she shifted—and missed. Gears grinding, louder. Engine wailing, dropping, wailing. Taillights weaving but not turning, then dropping out of sight. Human voice, male, high. A crash, a sliding sound, a car horn, and another crash. And now one steady, skyward headlight beam and silence.
Lukas paused at the corner, looking straight down the muddy bank they'd gone over. The Healey had hit the road, slid across, gone through the rails, dropped another fifteen feet into the creekbed on the other side. Just where she'd turned over he couldn't guess. A car had stopped, another was stopping. He left the bike and walked down.
Troopers swarmed in from both directions. He'd never seen so many so fast; it was as if they were expecting something. And—what the hell?—that CIA guy Stoner who'd rented Nereid last week, with some woman. They came over, stood beside him, all watching the troopers.
The bodies were dragged out. Lukas was sick, seeing what had happened to Herkie. But Pete Santini was all in one piece, except for the lack of an ear and a hole underneath it.
The woman at his elbow whispered, God!" and Stoner nodded.
"You ran them off the road!"
"They robbed me, I chased them. But I was behind when—hell. Are you sure you called my lawyer?" As Lukas spoke, the trooper's face swung out of the 500-watt glare, to get its forehead wiped. Nothing subtle about these guys. Bare bulbs, handcuffs, and threats.
The jowly face came back. Robbed, hell. We found no stolen goods in the car."
"Then look again. A hologram projector and two filters. Burned maybe." Hadn't all this sort of stuff gone out with Jack Webb?
"Who'd bother with those?"
"Read the papers much?"
"Don't get wise, kid."
"Look, my name's Peter Lukas. I'm all over Section Two of last Sunday's Times. Read the goddam thing and leave me alone."
Whap. They even had nerve enough to hit him. Everything had a phony ring. Should they be working him over before Jack Adams got here? Or at all? And what were Stoner and that skinny bitch doing, watching from the back of the room?
"What sort of blowup is this? You guys act like a Grade B movie."
Whap, again.
Lukas was getting mad, which was not good; not with his temper. They might wring some sort of incriminating statement out of him if he blew. Or he might just get up out of his chair and kick that big bastard in the teeth, and get shot for it. These guys wer
e out to get him. Why, he didn't know. Better shut up, shut up, shut up until Jack Adams gets here. If they'd even called him.
"Look kid. You admit you were chasing them when they went over. You admit they were friends, so why would they rob you? I say you all got gassed and were screwing around and started racing and you got serious and ran them off. It reads like manslaughter. Unless you—"
The trooper was about to go on, but glanced up frowning against the glare, nodded and backed away. Bootsteps retreating, scuffling in the room, door opening, figures going out, door closing. Two people were left. Stoner and the woman.
She came over, stretched to reach the spotlight rather than walking to it, turned it off, backed away.
"What's the matter, honey? Afraid of the big bad killer?"
"Yes, frankly." Not a glimmer of expression in her voice, or on her face. Ice.
Stoner shuffled over with two chairs, put one facing Lukas and one facing away. He straddled the backward one, rested his chin on it, took off his hat and smiled. The woman sat in the other, legs tightly crossed.
"I sort of got you into this," Paul Stoner said. I can get you out. If you cooperate. I had a better scheme but you messed me up."
"I was wondering where you figured in this. So you put Pete and Herkie up to—?"
"Yes."
"Baby, you're lucky I've got these cuffs on."
"I suppose so." Stoner's eyes were watering. He fumbled in his coat, drew out a bottleful of white pills. All Dr. Osborn here wants is a look at Nereid's projector."
Lukas' control was slipping again. Who do you think you are? Rob a guy, frame him, blackmail him? And get people killed."
Stoner gulped, replaced the cap, replaced the bottle. I am the CIA, looking after the best interests of the country."
"Screw the CIA." Stoner smiled that sleepy smile of his, while the angular Dr. Osborn only blinked.
Lukas waited for the man to say something more, but no. He just sat and looked. He was done, it seemed. So I do what you say or I'm up for manslaughter?"
"Now you've got it." Stoner stretched over to the desk, picked up the key to Lukas' handcuffs.
Only the three of them went up to the studio. Two of the crewcut German Shepherdy-looking men waited downstairs, two more outside. It was the next morning.
Cidi Osborn walked to the middle of the room, hands on hips, and looked around bleakly. The studio was twenty by fifteen, the entire upper story of Lukas' cottage. It was old, wooden, creaky, and poorly lit. It stank of plating solutions and fried onions. It was a mess. The back third of the room was more or less filled with Bolger equipment, which stood out to her like a diamond in a toilet bowl. Lukas, his world, his manners—were all things she actively hated. And he knew it.
A step away, arms folded across his chest, Lukas was thinking the same sort of thoughts about her. And she knew it.
Paul Stoner, whose mind ran to generalities from time to time, saw them as art versus science, fire versus water, everything versus everything else. It made him uncomfortable. He would be more than happy when this job was done.
"All right. Nereid." Lukas stepped to the back of the room, picked a labeled hatbox from two dozen like it, carried it to the tank, opened it. He took out the projector and snapped it into place.
Then he stepped to the console, brought up power, and they waited while the thing warmed up. In two or three minutes, Nereid took shape within the tank. Shall I plate it?"
"No, thank you. This is all I need. For now. Thank you."
Lukas went over to the side of the room, his face a stone. The CIA man took a seat on the bench opposite. Cidi worked.
There was no loudly ticking clock in the room, so Lukas had to suppose he was making it up. Time and more time. He felt like a patient in surgery. She even looked like a doctor, as she bent over the holotank with her optical micrometer, measuring Nereid. And Nereid was him. He imagined her dispassionately measuring his fingernails with that mike, weighing the dirt underneath, learning more about him than even he knew—or would ever know.
There was no loudly ticking clock in the room, so Cidi imagined it was her pulse. She felt like a thief. Like someone copying homework. While he stood there watching. She kept telling herself that you can't rob an animal, hut it wasn't working.
Other things weren't working. Even while measuring the hologram she knew it wouldn't be enough. Sure, she could duplicate this particular shape, complex though it was. She could see all the internal curves now, and trace them back to their source geometries. But everything was so random. She doubted any correlations would come out of this.
After four pages of notes and measurements, she no longer doubted, she knew. Paul."
"Ah?" He came over, stretching a sleepy knee between paces.
"It's not going to work. I know what but not how. I've got to see him work."
Lukas laughed; the room rang. So they couldn't reduce him to a punched card, after all. And somehow he didn't think watching him sculpt would help that skinny broad much either. So when Stoner asked him, he consented. He shouldn't have.
Lukas sat in the leather armchair facing the tank, a microphone in his hand, a vocoder in his lap. A cord ran from it to the TST that filled one wall. "Heyyy . . ." sung not said, brought a sheet of fire dancing into the Bolger tank. He chuckled. "Just warming up." The words flickered through the tank, like bubbles in an animated beer sign.
"Roouunnnd," he codeworded. He got his sphere. Then, "Woomb," and the sphere went flaccid and hollow. "We need wings. Wings, are like—aaarms that are—flat. Dig? Tankie, do you dig?" Little green light. "Okay. Winngs. Good. Now, biig wiings. Clooverleeaf, at the bottom. And—damn." He waited for the green light. "And a faace right. And—another face left."
The tank was warming up, the light went green almost as soon as the words left his lips. Inside, a totem of monstrosities grew, a three-dimensional doodle. It got more and more complicated, more and more grotesque. And bigger. Now it had arms and legs, a sausage man of little things and shapes.
It was hard to look at the thing. Lukas must have had thirty percent of the tank's volume supporting an image. That's a lot of light, a lot of power. It dazzled. The room grew hot. The tank's fans speeded up.
He kept on going, his words coming faster and faster. Some were sung, some said, some whispered. He was sweating, oblivious to Stoner and the woman. The room began to smell: of insulation, old wooden house, food, of Peter Lukas.
He was chattering now. There was danger of blowing the breakers and losing the whole thing. They didn't know it but Lukas had long since put junipers around them.
He stopped. In the glow of the monstrous shape of shapes, his own face was fanatically outlined, eyes wide, lips parted, pressed right against the mike. He strained forward in the chair. Then he said, Aaand noowww," and heaved himself from the chair.
He walked over to the tank, stared into the dazzle. "That bubble should come off," he muttered to the mike, "on the upper left limb. Just the bubble. There's—something underneath. Only it's hidden. Take off the next, too. Make it lighter, lighter. Level off between and keep that twist, that's probably her hand. Her hand. But make it lighter. Just run from point, to point . . ." He never stopped talking.
Cidi watched, fascinated. This was sculpture, the art of paring away. Lukas had merely been making his raw material before. What he did now was what counted. But the very idea of just "paring away" overshadowed everything he did. Like derivation, she thought, wasn't it the physical equivalent of mathematical derivation?
The convolutions smoothed under his hands, his pleadings to let the shape out, uncover it, make it lighter. Hours came and went.
He was reeling before the tank, eyes glazed, clothes sweat-soaked. She stood beside him, listening, watching. Paul Stoner stood at the back of the room feeling nauseated, afraid of what was going on. The shape in the tank—the thing in the tank was Cidi Osborn.
Peter Lukas passed out at four-thirty in the afternoon. His eyes were so bloodshot
and dry that the lids would not slide down to cover them. The tip of his nose was blistered. There was dried blood on his lips, a spray from a throat that hadn't been silent for eight hours straight.
While Paul Stoner repaired the man, Cidi Osborn pumped thirty pounds of electrolytic nickel into the tank's hopper, and plated out a permanent cast of her own effigy. She tried not to look at it. Even though she'd seen it coming at her for hours, she tried not to look at it.
It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. It stimulated odd thoughts about God and mathematics. Cidi Osborn was a Madonna, but in her arms she carried not a Christ but a void. She knew what it meant but didn't care. She was shattered but didn't care. She would never be the same, but it didn't matter. Because Cidi Osborn knew how. She knew how he did it.
Again, Dangerous Visions Page 75