The Dark Dimensions

by A Bertram Chandler

  The screen went blank, but the other screen, that showing Wanderer's control room, stayed alive.

  "Well?" demanded Irene harshly. "Well?"

  "Suppose," said Grimes, "just suppose that I do knuckle under, to get my people back, my ship back. Suppose that I, as the ranking officer of the Rim Worlds Confederacy, do allow him prior rights to The Outsider. . . . What about you and you, Commodore Grimes, and you, Captain Flandry?"

  "I shall abide by your decision, John," said the other Grimes.

  "Speaking for the Federation," said Sonya, "I shall be with you."

  "You beat me to it," said Maggie Lazenby.

  "I'll have to think about it," stated Irene.

  "As tour charterer," Smith told her, "I have some say. A great deal of say. I sympathize with Commodore Grimes. But it's a matter of evaluation. Are the lives of a handful of people of greater importance than the lives of the millions of oppressed men and women and children who look to GLASS for help?"

  "Anybody mind if I shove in my two bits' worth?" asked Flandry. "I owe allegiance neither to the Federation nor to the Confederacy and certainly not to GLASS. I swore an oath of fealty to the Emperor." He looked at Irene's face in the screen, and added, "My Emperor. But my sympathies are with the Commodore."

  "Thank you, Sir Dominic," said Grimes.

  "Wait till you see the bill. Furthermore, sir, I would remind you that you have at your disposal equipment and personnel which I have not. The same applies to you, ma'am. You have your espers. Can't you make full use of them?"

  "I would remind you, Sir Dominic," said Mayhew, "that my wife is among the prisoners aboard the Quest."

  "All the more reason why you should pull your finger out. All of you."

  You arrogant bastard, thought Grimes.

  "Sir Dominic's talking sense," said Sonya. "We have the telepaths. Adler hasn't. Furthermore, one of our telepaths is aboard your Quest, John. There must be something that Clarisse can do to help herself. And the others."

  "It's all we can do to get through to her," objected Mayhew. "There's too much interference from Lassie. . . ."

  Sonya muttered something about a poodle's brain in aspic. Then she said, "Why don't you silence the bitch? Lassie, I mean. There's three of you here: Metzenther and Trialanne aboard Wanderer, and yourself. You told us once—remember?—that thoughts can kill."

  "I . . . I couldn't, Sonya. . . ."

  "Damn it all!" exploded Grimes. "Do you put that animal brain before your wife? What sort of man are you?"

  "But . . . but Lassie's so . . . helpless."

  "So is Clarisse, unless we do something to help her—and fast. It is essential that she be able to keep us informed as to what Druthen is thinking, and von Donderberg . . . and with that psionic interference snuffed out you should be able to keep us informed as to Captain Blumenfeld's intentions. You must do it, Ken."

  "Yes," agreed the telepath slowly. "I . . . must. Metzenther and Trialanne will help. They have already told me that."

  "Then go to it," ordered Grimes.

  Not for the first time he thought, They're odd people. Too bloody odd. But I suppose when you live inside your pet's brain, and it lives inside yours, you feel more intensely for and about it than any normal man feels for his dog. . . . They'll be guilt involved, too. . . . You'll blame yourself for its absolute helplessness. . . .

  He watched Mayhew stumbling out of the control room, his features stiff, too stiff. He saw the sympathy on the face of Grimes II, and rather more than a hint of a sneer on that of Flandry.

  Grimes II looked at his watch. He said, "There's nothing much that we can do, Commodore, until your Commander Mayhew reports results. I suggest that we all adjourn for dinner."

  "An army marches on its stomach," quipped Flandry. "I suppose that the same saying applies to a space navy."

  "I've never known John to miss a meal," Sonya told him, "no matter what the circumstances."

  Women . . . thought Grimes—both of him.

  "You said it," agreed Maggie Lazenby.

  18

  This was the first proper, sit down meal that anybody had enjoyed for quite a while. Not that Grimes really enjoyed it. He was used to eating at the captain's table—but at the head of the board. To see himself sitting there, a replica of himself, was . . . odd. He derived a certain wry pleasure from the fact that this other Grimes, like himself, was not one to let conversation interfere with the serious business of feeding. He did not think, somehow, that Maggie appreciated this trait any more than Sonya did.

  There were five of them at the Commodore's table. Grimes II was at the head of it, of course, with Maggie Lazenby at his right and Sonya at his left. Grimes I sat beside Maggie, and Flandry beside Sonya. The Imperial Captain was a brilliant conversationalist, and the two women were lapping it up. He made his own time track sound so much more glamorous than the time tracks of the two Grimeses—which, in any case, differed only very slightly from each other. He made the two Commodores seem very dull dogs in comparison with his flamboyant, charming self. And, in spite of the nonstop flow of outrageous anecdotes, his plate was clean before any of the others.

  The meal, Grimes admitted, was a good one. Grimes II kept an excellent table, and the service, provided by two neatly uniformed little stewardesses, matched the quality of the food. There was wine, of which Grimes II partook sparingly, of which the others partook not so sparingly. Grimes thought, with disapproval, That man Flandry is gulping it down as though it were lager . . . then realized that he was doing the same.

  At last they were finished, sipping their coffee. Grimes—both of him—pulled out his pipe. His wife—both of her—objected, saying, "John! You know that the air conditioners can't cope with the stink!" Flandry, sleek and smug, lit a cigar that one of the stewardesses brought him. The ladies accepted lights from him for their cigarillos.

  Grimes, from the head of the table, looked at Grimes with slightly raised eyebrows. He said, "I'm going up to Control, Commodore, to enjoy my pipe in peace. The officer of the watch mightn't like it, but he daren't say so. Coming?"

  "Thank you, Commodore."

  He (they) excused himself (themselves), got to his (their) feet. Flandry and the wives were enjoying liqueurs with their coffee and hardly noticed their going. Grimes II led the way out of the dining saloon, which, as a public room in a much larger ship, was luxurious in comparison with that aboard Faraway Quest I. Indoor plants, the lush, flowering vines of Caribbea twining around every pillar. Holograms, brightly glowing, picture windows opening onto a score of alien worlds. Grimes paused before one that depicted a beach scene on Arcadia. Maggie was an Arcadian. He looked closely to see if she were among the naked, golden-skinned people on the sand and in the surf. But what if she was? He grunted, followed his counterpart into the axial shaft.

  The control room seemed bleak and cold after the warm luxury of the dining saloon. The officer of the watch got to his feet as the two Commodores entered, looked doubtfully from one to the other before deciding which one to salute. But he got it right. Outside the viewports was—nothingness. To starboard, Grimes knew, were his own ship and Adler, and beyond them was Irene's Wanderer—but unless temporal precession rates were synchronized they would remain invisible. One of the Carlotti screens was alive. It showed a bored looking Tallentire slumped in his chair, his fingers busy with some sort of mathematical puzzle.

  "Any word from our tame telepaths yet, Mr. Grigsby?" asked Grimes II.

  "No, sir. Commander Mayhew did buzz me to tell me that he and the people aboard Wanderer are still trying but aren't getting anywhere."

  "Mphm." Grimes slumped into an acceleration chair, motioning to Grimes to follow suit. He (they) filled and lit his (their) pipes. "Mphm."

  "There must be a way," said Grimes thoughtfully.

  "There always is," agreed Grimes. "The only trouble is finding it."

  The two men smoked in companionable silence. Grimes I was almost at ease but knew that he would be properly at ease only
aboard his own Faraway Quest. He looked around him, noticing all the similarities—and all the differences. From the control room he went down, in his mind, deck by deck. And then . . . and then the idea came to him.

  "Commodore," he said, "I think I have it. Do you mind if I borrow your O.O.W.?"

  "Help yourself, Commodore. This is Liberty Hall. You can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard."

  Grimes winced. So that was the way it sounded when he said it. He caught the attention of the watch officer. "Mr. Grigsby. . . ."

  "Sir?"

  "Ask Commander Mayhew to come up here, will you?"

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  The young man spoke into a telephone, then said, "He's on his way."

  "Thank you."

  When Mayhew came in the two Commodores were wrapped in a pungent blue haze. "Sir?" asked the telepath doubtfully, looking from one to the other. "Sir?"

  "Damn it all, Ken," growled Grimes. "You should know which one of us is which."

  "There was a sort of . . . mingling."

  "Don't go all metaphysical on me. I take it that you've made no headway."

  "No. We just can't get through to Lassie. And it takes effort, considerable effort, to maintain Clarisse in a state approaching full awareness."

  "But you are getting through to her."

  "Yes."

  "Good. Now tell me, Ken, where is she? Yes, Yes—I know bloody well that she's aboard my Faraway Quest—but where aboard the Quest? In your living quarters—or in your watch room?"

  "In . . . in the watch room, sir. She hates Lassie, as you know, but she went to the watch room to maintain better communications when we left the ship to go aboard the Shaara derelict. The watch room is fitted up as a living cabin, and Druthen and his crowd left her there after the take-over."

  "That makes things easier, a lot easier. Now, get in touch with your cobbers aboard Wanderer. . . ."

  "I already am." Mayhew's voice was pained.

  "Punch this message through, the three of you. Stop Lassie's life-support system."

  "You can't mean. . . ."

  "I do mean. It's the only way to quiet that helpless hound of yours. With that source of telepathic interference wiped out we might be able to learn something. After all, it's only short range work. You don't need an amplifier."

  "But. . . ."

  "Do it!"

  "All right, Sir." Mayhew's face was white and strained. "But you don't understand. If I could do it myself, kill Lassie, I mean, it wouldn't be as bad. Because . . . because Clarisse has always hated Lassie. She'll . . . she'll enjoy it. . . ."

  "Good for her," said Grimes brutally. "And have Mr. Metzenther inform Captain Trafford of what's going on."

  He visualized Clarisse's slim fingers switching off the tiny pumps that supplied oxygen and nutrient fluid to the tank in which floated that obscenely naked brain—but only a dog's brain—and, suddenly, felt more than a little sick.

  He said, "I think I'll go below, Commodore."

  "As you please, Commodore," replied Grimes II. "I shall stay up here. There should be information coming through at any time now. If things start happening, this is my place."

  "Too right," agreed Grimes. "And there's an old saying about two women in the same kitchen. Two shipmasters in the same control room would be at least as bad."

  19

  He made his way down from the control room to the deck upon which the master's quarters and the V.I.P. suite—in which he and Sonya had been housed—were situated. The general layout was very similar to that of his own ship. There was no extra accommodation in this compartment; everything was on a larger scale.

  Absentmindedly he paused outside the door that had above it, in gold lettering, CAPTAIN. It was ajar. He had started to enter when he realized his error, but too late for him to pull back. He could see through into the bedroom. His wife was there, sitting up in bed, reading. The spectacles that she was wearing enhanced her nakedness.

  His wife?

  But she might have been. On another time track she was. "Come in," she not quite snapped. "Don't dither around outside." He went in.

  She put down her book and looked at him gravely, but there was a quirk at the corners of her mouth. She was very beautiful, and she was . . . different. Her breasts were not so full as Sonya's but were pointed. Her smooth shoulders were just a little broader.

  She said, "Long time no see, John."

  He felt a wild, impossible hope, decided to bluff his way out—or in. He asked gruffly, "What the hell do you mean?"

  She replied, "Come off it, John. She's put her mark on you, just as I've put my mark on him. Once you were identical, or there was only one of you. That must have been years ago, round about the time that we had the fun and games on Sparta. Remember?"

  Grimes remembered. It had been very shortly after the Spartan affair that he and Maggie had split brass rags.

  "Furthermore," she went on, "my ever-loving had the decency to buzz down to tell me that he'd be in Control all night, and not to wait up for him . . ."

  "But Sonya. . . ."

  "Damn Sonya. Not that I've anything against her, mind you. We've known each other for years and have always been good friends. But if you must know, John, she and I have just enjoyed a girlish natter on the telephone, and she's under the impression that you're sharing my John's sleepless vigil."

  Get the hell out of here, you lecherous rat! urged the rather priggish censor who inhabited an odd corner of Grimes' brain.

  "Don't just stand there," she said.

  He sat down at the foot of the wide bed.

  "John! Look at me."

  He looked. He went on looking. There was so much that he remembered vividly, so much that he had almost forgotten.

  "Have I got Denebian leprosy, or something?"

  He admitted that she had not. Her skin was sleek, golden gleaming, with the coppery pubic puff in delicious contrast, the pink nipples of her breasts prominent. He thought, To hell with it. Why not? He moved slowly toward her. Her wide, red mouth was inviting. He kissed her—for the first time in how many years? He kissed her and went on kissing her, until she managed to get her hands between their upper bodies and push him away.

  "Enough . . ." she gasped. "Enough . . . for the time being. Better shut the outer door . . . and snap on the lock. . . ."

  He broke away from her reluctantly. He said, "But suppose he . . ." he could not bring himself to say the name ". . . comes down from Control. . . ."

  "He won't. I know him. I should, by this time. The only thing in his mind will be the safety of his precious ship." She smiled. "And, after all, I am an ethologist, specializing in animal behavior, the human animal included . . . ."

  Grimes asked rather stiffly, "I suppose you knew that I would be coming in?"

  "I didn't know, duckie, but I'd have been willing to bet on it. The outer door was left ajar on purpose."

  "Mphm." Grimes got up, went into the day cabin, shut and locked the door. He returned to the bedroom.

  She said, "You look hot. Better take off your shirt."

  He took off his shirt. It was a borrowed one, of course. And so was the pair of trousers. So were the shoes. (He had boarded this ship, of course, with only the usual long johns under his space suit.)

  Borrowed clothing, a borrowed wife. . . . But was it adultery?

  Grimes grinned. What were the legalities of the situation? Or, come to that, the ethics?

  "What the hell are you laughing at?" she demanded.

  "Nothing," he told her. "Everything."

  She said, "I'll do my best to make this a happy occasion."

  * * *

  It was. There was no guilt, although perhaps there should have been. There was no guilt—after all, Grimes rationalized, he had known Maggie for years; he (or one of him) had been married to her for years. It was a wild, sweet mixture of the soothing familiar and the stimulating unfamiliar. It was—right.

  They were together on the now rumpled bed, their bodies j
ust touching, each of them savoring a fragrant cigarillo.

  Grimes said lazily, "After all that, I'd better have a shower before I leave. I don't suppose I—he—will mind if I use his bathroom. . . ."

  She said, "There's no hurry. . . ."

  And then the telephone buzzed.

  She picked up the handset. "Mrs. Grimes . . ." she said drowsily, with simulated drowsiness. "Yes, John. It's me, of course. Maggie. . . . Yes, I did lock the door. . . ." She covered the mouthpiece with her hand, whispered, "Get dressed, and out. Quickly. I'll try to stall him off." Speaking into the telephone again, "Yes, yes. I know that I'm the Commodore's wife and that nobody would dream of making a pass at me. But have you forgotten that wolf, Sir Dominic Flandry, who's aboard at your invitation, duckie, is prowling around your ship seeking whom he may devour? And you left me all by myself, to sit and brood, or whatever it is you do up there in your bloody control room. . . . No, Sir Dominic didn't make a pass at me, but I could tell by the way he was looking at me. . . . All right, then. . . ."