“Stowed is the better word,” Mitchell admitted. “I don’t know at the moment where they are, but as soon as I’ve consulted the passenger list and the plans . . .”
“I’m sure that they’ve something to do with it,” Calhoun stated firmly. Then, to the Commodore, “I suggest that you tell Commander Swinton to get Mr. Mayhew into a suit, and send him across here. As soon as possible.”
“Who is Mr. Mayhew?” asked Mitchell.
“Our Psionic Radio Officer. A trained telepath.”
“So that idea was developed after all. There was talk of it in my time. So you think he may be able to read the minds of my dowsers?”
“I hope so,” said Grimes. Then, “I’ll get Swinton to send one of our suits across for you. It will make things easier if we’re able to speak with each other when we’re suited up again.” He put his helmet back on, called his First Lieutenant aboard the Faraway Quest and gave him the orders.
Chapter 21
THEY DID NOT HAVE LONG to wait for Mayhew.
They watched him, accompanied by one of the junior engineers, jetting across the emptiness between the two ships. Jones squeezed through the sphincter airlock that sealed the hatch in the control room deck, and went down to the airlock proper in the after-hemisphere of the globe. He must have flashed his helmet lantern as a signal, as the two spacesuited figures veered abruptly in midflight and, shortly thereafter, were lost to view from the control room ports. Grimes, still wearing his helmet, heard Jones say, “Mr. Mayhew and Mr. Trent are aboard, sir.”
“Good. Bring them up here, will you?” The diaphragm in the deck bulged and developed a hole in its center, through which appeared the head of the Second Officer, and then his shoulders and finally, after a deal of squirming on his part, the rest of his body. The transparency of his helmet and the fabric of his suit were immediately bedewed with condensation. He stood there to help Mayhew through the Sphincter and, when he was in the control room, the junior engineer. They had been exposed to the cold for a longer period, and the congealing atmospheric moisture clothed them in glittering frost.
The three men put up their gloved hands to remove their helmets.
“You wanted me, sir?” asked Mayhew vaguely.
“Of course,” Grimes bit back a sarcastic retort.
The telepath ignored him, turned his attention to First Captain Mitchell. “You’re the fisherman. You were the one who was dreaming of sitting by a sunlit stream with rod and line—”
“Never mind that now,” snapped the Commodore. “Just listen to what we want, please.”
“I already know, sir.”
“H’m. Yes. I suppose you do. But isn’t it rather against the Institute’s Code of Ethics to eavesdrop?”
“Not in these circumstances, sir. My duty was to receive and to record every impression emanating from the minds of the boarding party.”
“Well, it saves time. As you know, First Captain Mitchell, as soon as he’s got himself into the spare suit you brought, is going to take us into the dormitory sphere, to where the team of dowsers is stowed. There may be some connection between them and the transference of ships and people to this . . . What did you call it, Captain? To this sub-Space.”
Mitchell, out of his own spacesuit but not yet into the one from Faraway Quest, was standing by an open filing cabinet, had pulled from it a bulky folder. “C Level,” he was muttering, “Sector 8. Tanks 18 to 23 inclusive . . .” He put the folder back into the cabinet and then was helped into the suit by Sonya Verrill.
With the Captain to guide them, it did not take them long to find the tanks in which the dowsers slept. There were six of them—two very ordinary looking men and four women, one of whom looked far from ordinary. The telepath stood by the first of the transparent containers, staring at the man inside it, his face behind the helmet viewplate wearing an expression of deep concentration.
“This man,” he said at last, “is dreaming of food . . . I can see a table, a table covered with a snow-white cloth, and an array of crystal goblets, and gleaming silverware. There are other people around the table, but they are blurred, indistinct. They are not important. But the waiter holding up the bottle of wine for my inspection is . . . He is an elderly, portly man, with a ruddy face and gray, muttonchop whiskers. He smiles as he pours a few drops from the bottle into my glass. I sip it. It is a white wine, very dry. I nod my approval.
“Another waiter is bringing in the first course: the oysters, the brown bread and butter, the lemon wedges . . .”
“Not much for us there,” interrupted Grimes.
“Oh, all right. All right. But I was just beginning to enjoy it. It was the first time that I’d seen oysters—me, I mean, not the man who’s having the dream—and I wanted to know what they taste like. But it’s too late now. Time is accelerated in dreams, and he’s polished them off . . .” He glowered moodily at the tank below the first one. “This man works in his dreams. He’s striding up a hillside, over short, springy turf. He is holding a forked twig in his hands. I can feel the odd, soft roughness of it, the—the aliveness of it. There’s a tension, a feeling of pleasurable anticipation, and it comes from the twig itself and from the ground over which I am walking, and from me . . . And I can feel the twig twitching, and I know that it’s water under my feet, running water. . . . But I carry on. There’s no urgency. I can feel all the mineral wealth beneath me, around me—the metals, the radio-actives . . .”
“No,” said Grimes. “That’s not it.”
“I wish you’d let me finish a dream, sir, even though it’s not my own.”
Mayhew moved to the next tank. In this one there was a woman, a tall, angular woman with a narrow face, sharp features. There was a drabness about her—a drabness, Grimes somehow knew, that would still have been there had she been awake and clothed, a coldness that was more intense than the frigidity of her physical environment.
The telepath stared at her, her face frightened. His lips moved, but no sound came. He muttered at last, “She’s dead. She’s dead, but . . .”
“But what?” demanded the Commodore sharply.
“There’s . . . How shall I put it? There’s a—a record . . .”
“A ghost,” said Calhoun.
“No. Not a ghost. There’s the record of her last thoughts still in her brain. . . . But I can’t play it back. There’s the sense—no, not even the sense, just a hint—of some orgasmic experience, something that was too intense, something that was too much for her mind. . . .”
Todhunter said, “But there was no physical cause of her death. In her condition there couldn’t have been. Perhaps we could still revivify her . . .” He turned to Mitchell. “As I understand it, Captain, it would be impossible to deal with people on these dormitory decks individually. If we revive one, we revive them all.”
“Yes,” agreed the First Captain. “That is so.”
“Then would you have any objection if we used the empty tank in your sleeping quarters for this woman?”
“Yes,” replied Mitchell. “I most certainly should.” His manner softened. “But there are eight empty tanks in Carradine’s compartment, and neither he nor his officers are in any state to object.”
“Good.”
“Check the other dowsers first, Mr. Mayhew,” said Grimes.
Mayhew did so. The three remaining women were all alive—if their state of suspended animation could be referred to as life—and all peacefully dreaming. The pictures in their minds were pleasant, humdrum pictures of husbands and homes and children.
The tank was opened, and the rectangular block of solid-frozen gas in which was the woman’s body lifted out quite easily. Even so, it was an awkward burden, even under conditions of free fall. Todhunter and Jones maneuvered it through the tiers of containers to the cylinder that was the axis of the globe, and then it had to be carried from level to level until the final deck was reached, the deck on which were the crew dormitories.
The doctor left Jones in charge of the body, went
with Mitchell and Grimes and Sonya Verrill into what had been the Fourth Captain’s compartment. All the tanks, of course, were empty. Mitchell satisfied himself that Carradine’s container was ready for occupancy, and the ice-encased corpse was brought in, lowered into the rectangular box. Then, when all members of the party were in the wedge-shaped room, the double door was dogged tight and the automatic revivification process initiated.
There was the gradual rise of temperature and the thawing and evaporation of the frozen gases, and there was the thawing of the frozen gas in the coffin. There was the influx and the drainage of the colored fluids, the rhythmic massaging action of the pneumatic padding. Slowly the skin of the woman changed from silvery gray to a yellowish pallor, and then was suffused with the faintest of pink flushes. The eyelids flickered, and one leg began to twitch.
“She’s not dead,” murmured Grimes.
“But she is,” contradicted Mayhew. “And there’s just a spark . . . Just a spark, no more. And I don’t like it.”
The lid of the casket lifted, and as it did so the woman slowly assumed a sitting posture. Her eyes opened and she stared mindlessly. Her jaw hung slackly and saliva dribbled from her mouth. She was making a coarse, disgusting grunting noise.
“The blue sky . . .” Mayhew whispered. “The clear sky, and the aching blue of it . . . And it’s rending, like a piece of cloth between two giant hands. . . . It’s rending, and the noise of its tearing is louder than the loudest thunder. . . . And beyond it is the blackness, the dense blackness, and it’s empty. . . . But it’s not empty. They are there, company after company of them, robed in shining white and with great white wings that span the heavens. . . . And they raise their golden trumpets to their lips, and the sound is high and sweet, high and impossibly sweet, long, golden notes rolling down through that rent in the sky, and the voices, the golden voices and the silver voices, and the flaming swords lifted high to smite the unrighteous, and . . . And . . .
“And that was all,” he concluded. “She’s gone now, finally gone. What’s in the box is no more than a mindless hunk of flesh. But she’s gone . . .”
“So that was what she dreamed?” asked Mitchell in an almost inaudible voice. “So that was what she—dreamed, and with such intensity as almost to drag the ship with her through that rent in the blue sky. . . . But was it her? Could it possibly have been her?”
“Have you any better explanation?” countered the telepath.
“Is it an explanation?” asked Grimes tiredly.
Chapter 22
IT WASN’T MUCH OF AN EXPLANATION, but it was the only one that they had had. What Faraway Quest’s people had achieved by a sophisticated juggling with the laws of physics (but the juggling had not been sufficiently sophisticated, or the laws not properly formulated) these others had achieved, inadvertently, by the function or malfunction of parapsychological principles. Throughout human history—and the history of other intelligent beings in the Galaxy—dowsers had sought, and they had found. And some of these diviners, in dream states, had sought for things and places beyond the bounds of Space and Time. Perhaps some of them had attained their dream countries, but the majority must have fallen into this Limbo, this gulf between the Universes, dragging, in so many cases, their hapless shipmates with them.
“Commodore,” whispered Mitchell, “that’s how it must have been. Our ship isn’t like yours. She’s just an iron drive rocket, archaic by your standards. We’ve no fancy dimension-twisting gadgetry.”
“That’s how it could have been,” admitted Grimes guardedly, but already he was considering ways and means, already he was trying to work out methods whereby both ships, his own as well as First Captain Mitchell’s, could be saved. He was trying to recall all that he had read of the First Expansion, the Interstellar Arks. As in the Ark of Biblical legend the passengers had boarded two by two, an even distribution of the sexes being maintained. So . . . he thought. So . . . there’s just a chance that I may be able to salvage this hunk of ancient ironmongery and, at the same time, exact a fee for the operation. . . . He saw that Sonya was looking at him, realized that already there was a strong bond between them, more than a hint of the telepathy that springs into being between people in love. She was looking at him, and an expression that could have been maternal pride flickered briefly over her face.
“Out with it, John,” she murmured.
He smiled at her and then turned to the Psionic Radio Officer. “Mr. Mayhew, can you enter minds?”
“How do you mean, sir?” countered the telepath cautiously.
“To influence them.”
“It’s against the rules of the Institute, sir.”
“Damn the Institute. Its rules may hold good throughout the Galaxy, but we’re not in the Galaxy. As far as our own ship is concerned, I am the Law, just as Captain Mitchell is the Law in this vessel. Can you enter another person’s mind to influence it?”
“Sometimes, sir.”
“The mind of one of the sleepers aboard this ship. One of the dreamers.”
“That would be easy, sir.”
“Good. Now, Captain Mitchell, this is what I have in mind. You have five diviners, five dowsers, still dreaming happily in their tanks. Mr. Mayhew is going to—to tamper with the dreams of four of them. Mr. Mayhew is a very patriotic Rim Worlder and thinks that Lorn is the next best place to Eden, and he’s going to use his talents to sell Lorn in a big way to the dreaming dowsers. My idea is this. Each of them will dream that he is lost in a dark emptiness—as, in fact, we all are. Each of them will dream that he has his rod in his hand—his hazel twig, or his length of wire or whatever it is that he favors. Each of them will dream that the wand is leading him, pulling him towards a pearly globe set in the black sky. He’ll know the name of it, and Mayhew will be able to supply details of the outlines of seas and continents. The sky isn’t always overcast, and all of us have seen Lorn a few times from Outside with all details visible.
“I’m not saying that this will work, Captain, but it just might. If it doesn’t work we shall none of us be any worse off. And if it does work—well, you’d better get your rockets warmed up before Mr. Mayhew goes to work, so you’ll be able to throw yourself into a safe orbit.”
“It sounds crazy, Commodore,” Mitchell said. “It sounds crazy, but no crazier than all of us being here. I shall have to call my officers first so that all stations are manned.”
“Of course. Dr. Todhunter will lend you a hand.”
Mitchell’s expression was still dubious. “Tell me, sir, why did you make it quite plain that four of the dowsers are to be set to dreaming of Lorn? Why not all five?”
“If this works out, Captain, it will be an act of salvage. And I think that Faraway Quest will be entitled to some reward. I know how the crew and passenger lists of these ships were made up. Male and female, in equal numbers. Husbands and wives. There’s a hunch of mine that the husband of the mindless woman, the religious fanatic who got you into this mess, is one of the five remaining dowsers.”
“I’ll check the passenger list, Commodore.”
Mitchell went to the cabinet and pulled out the files.
“So if it works,” murmured Sonya, “we shall have our own dowser to do the same for us.”
“Yes.”
Mitchell put the papers back into their file. He said, “The mindless woman, as you have called her, is—or was—Mrs. Carolyn Jenkins. Her husband, John Jenkins, is also a member of the dowsing team. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see about waking my staff.” His was somber. “I hope, for all our sakes, that I’m not waking them for nothing.”
They were down once more in the dormitory sphere, on C Level, in Sector 8. There was Grimes, and there was Sonya Verrill, and there was first Captain Mitchell. There were Todhunter and McHenry, and there was Mitchell’s Medical Officer, a woman whose hard, competent features were visible behind the transparency of her helmet and who, when awakened and apprised of the situation, had wished to discuss medical matters with h
er opposite number from Faraway Quest. And, of course, there was Mayhew.
First of all there was the tank in which slept Carolyn Jenkins’ husband to disconnect from its fittings. Jenkins was the man who had been dreaming about food, and who was now dreaming about other pleasures of the flesh. Grimes felt more than a little relieved. This dreamer would not object to his being press-ganged away from his own ship and would not feel the loss of his wife too deeply. The nature of his dreams told of years of hunger, of frustration.
McHenry and Todhunter maneuvered the clumsy tank through the cramped space, vanished with it in the direction of the control sphere. It was to be taken to the Faraway Quest, where the engineers would be able to set up the apparatus for maintaining the sleeper in his condition of suspended animation and for awakening him if Grimes’ gamble paid off.
And then Mayhew went to the second of the male dowsers, the one who, in his dream, was still engaged in the exercise of his talent. The telepath vocalized his thoughts, and his voice was an eerie whisper in the helmet phones of his companions.
“You are lost. . . .
“You are lost. The sky is dark. There is no light anywhere. There is nothing anymore anywhere . . . Nothing . . . Nothing . . . Emptiness around you, emptiness underfoot . . . You are falling, falling, through the nothingness, and the rod is dead in your hands. . . .
“You are falling, falling . . .
“But not for always. The rod twitches. You feel it twitch. Feebly, but it twitches. That is all—now. That is all. But there will be more. In precisely one hundred and twenty minutes there will be more. The rod will twitch strongly, strongly, and pull you with it. You will see that it is pointing to a spark in the darkness—a golden spark. And the spark becomes a globe, becomes a fair world hanging there. There is the blue of seas, the green of continents, the gleaming white of the polar ice caps, and on the night hemisphere the sparking lights of great cities. . . . There is the blue of seas and the green of continents, and the great land mass, hourglass-shaped, that sprawls from pole to pole, with its narrow waist on the equator. . . . And the chain of islands that forms a natural breakwater to the great eastern bay. . . . But you do not see it yet. The time must pass, and then you will see it. Then the rod will come alive in your hands and will draw you, pull you, to the fair world of Lorn, the world of your fresh start, to the sunny world of Lorn . . .”
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