by Frank Lauria
The completion created the time.
A cataclysmic split of being.
Nothing.
Eternity. Then seconds.
Doctor Orient regained consciousness ten minutes after he had entered hyper-space. Like a miler at the end of his run, however, he was still in the full stride of his momentum. He tried to use an entry maneuver to guide himself to an easy stop but he couldn’t hold… he slipped out again. When he returned, blown back by contact with his entry point, another minute had elapsed. He was still in motion, but now he was able to hold before the entry point deep within himself. He coasted to a stop, the technique his brake.
He began to breathe regularly shortly afterward. The nose, inhale. The mouth, exhale. He checked his watch. Twelve minutes, a long time to be traveling. He got to his feet and fixed his tie. The others were still in trance. He went to the Stretcher and knelt next to Malta.
Softly he called her name. The girl’s lips parted slightly. Her head moved. She opened her eyes.
They were deep green.
II
As usual, Addison Tracey was looking for action.
She walked slowly, with no particular direction, and no particular curiosity, hipping her way through the anxious swarm of people in the city for a weekend fling. All of the people who saw her, men and women, were captivated by the sight of the tall, slim girl, with straight black hair hanging to her waist, and wide, slanted blue eyes which gave her the exotic flair of a Persian concubine. The expensive beaded tunic she wore over the ultra-short suede skirt and the long brown leather coat, flowing cape-like from her shoulders, accentuated the startling effect.
Addison paid no attention to her admirers. She put them down as mental dwarfs, hopelessly stunted by their stupidity and fear. At sixteen she had parsed through more experience than they could find in a lifetime of weekends.
She turned east, wandering now into a section of the city she visited seldom. The streets were comparatively empty here—it was above the brassy sound and neon hilarity of midtown Manhattan and below the moronic tackiness of the preppy hangouts on the upper East Side.
She was looking for a special taste tonight, something farther out than the well-traveled fare of the Village, where she usually assuaged her hunger. What it was she didn’t as yet know, but she knew that eventually she would find it. There was no eagerness in her quest, no sense of adventure. There was only the deliberate movement of her own supple body and the certain knowledge that what she was seeking would reveal itself to her.
It was with this assurance that she walked to the head of the line of people waiting to enter the Seventh Door Discotheque. She had never heard of the place, but the doorman stepped back to let her pass as if she were a regular patron.
It didn’t occur to Addison to question his reaction. She had long been accustomed to service.
Inside, the room was a constantly swirling mixture of flashing lights, smoke, loud talk and the insistent blare of programmed rock. She ignored the stares and comments and eased her way to the crowded bar.
A middle-aged man offered her his stool. Addison took it without a smile. The man made a self-consciously genial attempt at conversation then gave it up in mid-sentence when she turned her back on him. She ordered champagne, looking the place over as she waited for her drink.
The Seventh Door was a long narrow room that might have been a renovated railroad flat. It was divided simply into two sections. The bar was located in the front section, and in the rear was a miniature dance floor. At the far end of the rear section a low platform embellished with dayglo gargoyles served as a stage. Tables were jammed into all the space available in both sections. One wall of the rear room was boarded up. Apparently there was some work in progress. The boards were crudely painted in bright colors.
It couldn’t have cost more than fifty thousand to put up, Addison guessed as she sipped her wine. She didn’t like the place, everything about it was wrong. It was strident and gaudy, and seemed to attract people just as brittle as the decor. Not only was the music too loud, but the souped-up speaker system gave it a tonal quality she found offensive.
She had made up her mind to leave, when abruptly the music quit. Most of the customers left the dance floor, but a few people continued a series of joyless gyrations for a few moments after the tape had stopped.
Addison turned away in something close to disgust. She scorned any lack of control.
The bartender refilled her empty glass without asking. He placed a check next to her glass and stood there, pointedly waiting for payment. Addison raised her head and looked at him. For a full second he looked back into her steady blue eyes before his gaze wavered and then broke. He moved away to another part of the bar.
She smiled as she drank her champagne. People were so weak. She wondered what it was that others found difficult.
The first throb of the electric guitar stopped her hand in mid-air. The first three notes. Three notes and she didn’t even have to turn around. She knew that what she had been looking for was on the bandstand. Slowly she put her glass down.
She knew what she would do. She would stay where she was and not look at the bandstand—just listen—and when the set was over he would come to where she was sitting and ask her how she liked the music, and then she would turn around and look at him.
And if she liked what she saw she would take him.
She was wrong. The music began to build. The three notes turned and spiraled and changed position like the pea in a shell game. She found herself being drawn gently and surely off the stool toward the sound moving past the bar, past the raucous johns, the overdone call girls and underdone teeny-boppers, past the soft-faced suburban druggists, drifting back into the writhing clump of dancers in front of the stage.
She was dancing even before she reached the dance floor, swaying in a delicious rhythmic movement which just caught the edge of the pulsing rock. Other rhythms closed in around her then, other bodies, but she broke clear to where she could move freely. For the first time since she had left the bar, Addison opened her eyes completely.
She was on one side of the platform. She saw the four young musicians bent over their instruments. Three of them had their eyes closed. The fourth, standing closest to her on the apron of the small stage was looking directly at her.
There was something in his silver eyes she recognized instantly. It was the same taut, metallic expression that came into her own eyes when she watched those stunted humans of weekend dreams she so despised.
She abandoned herself to his contempt, sensing in it a strength she understood. Her body coiled, then uncoiled, with the sounds. She arched her body back and reached high with her arms as though she were in the long, rolling embrace of some towering lover.
The silver-eyed youth lifted his guitar and began to intensify the sound. Repeating the three notes that had called her, over and over in a steadily climbing pattern of variation. The second guitar began to follow his ascent, restating previous combinations as the first guitar laid down a fresh sign on the twisting path upward.
The drummer and organ stayed beneath them, fueling the thrust to the shrill peak of tone. Around her, Addison heard the unbelieving gasps of the crowd as she realized she wasn’t the only one who was completely shattered by this strange music.
She danced for what seemed like days. Her body was covered by a fine film of perspiration that soaked through her clothing. Her legs and arms were numb.
And then it stopped, releasing her.
She made her way unsteadily back to the bar. Behind her the group kicked off another tune, but it was just that. There was nothing compelling her now.
She shook off the yahoos who reached out to ask her to dance or talk, and sat down. Her throat was sand. She ordered a split, finished it immediately and ordered another.
“That was some performance, miss.”
Addison looked into the mirror behind the bar. The middle-aged gallant was back.
“If you don’t want
to talk to me, maybe you’ll want to talk to my friend Alex over here. He’s in television.” He let the word roll off his white-coated tongue. “Commercials.”
Alex peered out from around his friend’s unpadded shoulder.
“That’s right,” he said, flashing the ring on his pinky as he held out a business card. “That’s my card.”
Still looking into the mirror Addison took the card and tore it in half. The two men backed away.
“Damned fresh kids,” Alex muttered, mopping his face with a handkerchief as he moved off.
Addison composed herself and waited for the silver-eyed musician. When the set was over she saw him in the mirror, threading his way lithely through the crowd until he stood directly behind her.
He signaled the bartender, who nodded and brought him a goblet of orange juice mixed with champagne. The boy took the goblet and, staring at Addison in the mirror, raised his glass in a curt toast. Addison lifted her glass and returned the gesture.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. His voice was silken. He didn’t smile.
“You are?” Addison challenged. “Whatever made you think I would? I’m here quite by chance, you know.”
The boy raised his glass again. “Here’s to luck.”
Addison turned around and looked into his face. She found it disconcerting. His features were sharp and perfect. His mouth was full. His skin had an unusual quality of smoothness. Not fresh, but ivory smooth. He could have been eighteen years old, or a hundred. Closer to a hundred, she decided, as she looked closely at his eyes. They were a peculiar, almost transparent shade of cold gray. The pupils seemed to be flecked with slivers of bright metal, giving them their intense silver glint. She shivered slightly as she realized that there was no reflection in those eyes, as if they had been cut from a slab of opaque marble.
He smiled slightly. “Don’t be afraid, little bird, everything is cool.”
She was reassured more by the slang than the smile.
“I’m not a bird who scares easily,” she said quickly.
The youth bowed his head in mock deference. “Oh, I know,” he said lightly. “You’ve got heart, Addison.”
Addison Tracey had been telling the truth. She didn’t scare easily, but when this strange boy spoke her name, a chill hit her behind the knees and began to travel up her back.
“All right.” She smiled. “Suppose you tell me how you know my name.” There was no trace of fear in her voice.
“Later.” He put down his glass. “Right now I have to gig.”
“I don’t think I’ll be here that long.” She tried to yawn.
“I think you’ll stay, Addison.” He looked at her steadily. He turned and waved at the bartender. “Give this lady what she needs, George.” He managed to make his voice carry through the garbled bar talk without raising it noticeably. “Put it on the house account.”
George made a circle with his thumb and forefinger.
The young man turned and floated back toward the stage.
Addison sipped her wine and watched him disappear into the crowd, then reappear as he mounted the platform. As he lifted his guitar the canned music switched off. He began to pick out a simple tune. A pink spot emphasized the loneliness of the single figure playing a soft blues line. As he went on, the other members of the group began to drift up the stage one by one. First the organ, signaling his appearance with short heavy chords that moved the simple blues line from its country home into the city. As the duet became more sophisticated the drummer came in loud and fast and convinced them to try another place. The three were just driving off when the other guitar met them, chanting something he had heard a long time ago. The pink spot started to rotate and change color. A flashing light began to pop as the group fused and flared, showering the room with brilliant sheets of jagged sound. The crowd was electrified by the transitions, yelling and stumbling to their feet to dance.
Addison, sitting at the bar, was captivated. She watched the audience, galvanized to a pounding frenzy, and she understood that the group playing on the tiny platform had power. Her eyes narrowed to slits as her young mind contemplated what that kind of power was worth. She was still in the rapture of that contemplation when the set ended.
“Well, that’s my turn, little bird. Shall we split now?” The soft voice in her ear roused her.
“Perhaps.” She looked at him for a long second. “Who’s asking?”
“They call me Seth,” he said, taking her arm and guiding her toward the door.
Outside, the temperature had dropped. She moved close to him, shivering. He put an arm around her shoulders. “You’ll be warm in a minute,” he said gently.
They walked quickly to a building located a few doors from the discotheque. Seth unlocked the street door and went in first. The hallway was barely lit by a fading light bulb hanging from a wire. A stairway led into the darkness. To the left of the stairs was an elevator. Seth pushed the button.
The door slid back immediately. The inside of the car was not shabby as Addison had expected but was carpeted and chromed. She stepped inside. Seth pressed a button on the inside panel and the door closed. He pushed the middle button on the panel once and the top button twice. The elevator whirred into motion.
Addison was curious. She was used to new situations involving men, but there were many variables about this boy that intrigued her. She remained calm. When the time came he would tell her what she wanted to know. Variable or constant, men were essentially alike.
The elevator doors opened directly onto a lushly appointed flat. Originally one large room, it was sectioned off by geometrically shaped dividers which had been sculpted from glaze stone. The lighting was indirect and well placed. A white rug with a black pentagram design woven into its center stretched across the entire floor. An oversized round couch covered with suede was one of the three pieces of furniture in the apartment. Scattered throughout were pieces of sculpture done in wood, metal and marble. Addison recognized one of the forms as the work of Giacometti. This boy is full of little surprises, she thought, stepping inside.
Seth snapped a wall switch. Arabic music began playing.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“Not right now.” She walked over to the couch and sat down. “You can tell me how you happen to know my name.”
He came over to where she was sitting. “I wonder if you would believe me if I told you.” His face was serious.
“I might.”
He touched her face with his fingertips. “Such a brave little bird,” he mused.
“Not so little,” Addison corrected.
“Oh, I know,” he mocked gently, “very hip for just over sixteen.”
“Very good, most people think I’m twenty,” She was uncomfortable. Seth’s fingers were hot on her neck. She moved away from his caress. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
“Addison, you’ve been bored for a long time now,” Seth stated flatly. “You’re smart, you look hot, and you’re rich. But more than all that, you have a special talent. A talent you aren’t even aware of.”
“What’s the point? You’re still circling,” she said.
“In a way,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard her, “at one time I was very much like you are now. I was on top of all the games and I wanted more than just bread. I wanted a certain kind of power, enough power to control others and myself as well. One day I asked for that power—that’s all, just asked—and I was shown how to get it.”
“What are you talking about?” She was interested now. The conversation was making a strange kind of sense.
“You asked for that power, little bird, didn’t you? You asked and I’m here to see that you get it.”
“I didn’t ask for anything, and I’m not sure you’re making any sense.”
Seth laughed. “I’ll show you something, little bird, and maybe you’ll understand a little more.” He went to a low table against the wall. “Come here,” he said.
Addiso
n went over to where Seth was crouching next to the table. He pulled her down next to him. “Look,” he said softly, pointing to a bowl filled with dark liquid standing in the center of the small table. He stirred the liquid with his finger.
As Addison watched she saw patterns appear, then disappear, in the dark water of the bowl. Then the patterns began to take shape. She could make out figures forming in the swirling liquid. A woman laughing, an old man mumbling fervently, a young boy. Although there was no sound she could hear what they were saying. They were all asking for the same thing. Each was swearing their spirit to whatever forces would have them in return for their desires.
“All of these people are asking for something, little bird,” Seth said evenly, “money or beauty. All those people begging to sell their souls and they don’t even know what to ask for. You have a talent, little bird, and you’ve got an idea of how to use it, and that’s why you were called special.”
“You did hear.” Her voice was subdued. “Then souls do exist. Are you a warlock of some kind?”
“In a way, I practice a kind of magic. Right now I’m collecting talent for the Clear One. And you’re a top talent, Addison.”
She was silent.
“The Clear One is the source of all power,” Seth went on. “By offering yourself to him you can get the full measure of any desire, if he wants you. You took the first step when you asked for mastery over humans, and you have what it takes to get what you want from him.”
“When”—Addison’s voice was hard now—“do I get these powers?” She had already decided to go through with anything necessary in order to follow this through to its conclusion. She was stimulated. For the first time in years she felt fully alive.
“I’ll present you tomorrow evening.” Seth took her hand and led her back to the couch. “I can give you your basic instruction here. I’m sure you’re a quick study.”
“That’s right.” Addison leaned back fluidly on one elbow. She looked appraisingly at Seth standing in front of her.
He stroked her neck idly. “Is there any problem with home?”