"I don't believe you," he said when I had finished.
"I can't lend you my memories in any better condition."
"Okay, okay," he said "It's weird. But then, so are you. No offense. Let me fog my brain a little more and I'll try to consider it. Right back."
He went and freshened the drinks again. I was beyond caring. I had lost count during the time I'd been talking.
"You were being serious?" he finally said.
"Yes."
"Then those fellows are probably still back at the apartment."
"Possibly."
"Why not call the police?"
"Hell, for all I know they may be the police."
"Toasting the Queen that way?"
"Could be their old alma maters Homecoming Queen. I don't know. I'd just as soon no one knew I'm back till I've learned more and done more thinking."
"Okay. Silence here. What can I do to help?"
"Think. You've been known to have an original idea every now and then. Come up with one."
"All right," he said. "I have been thinking about it. Everything seems to go back to the star-stone facsimile. What is it about the thing that makes it so important?"
"I give up. Tell me."
"I don't know. But let's consider everything that is known about it."
"Okay. The original came to us on loan as part of that cultural exchange deal we've joined. It was described as a relic, a specimen of unknown utility-but most likely decorative-found among the ruins of a dead civilization. Seems to be synthetic. If so, it may be the oldest intelligently fashioned object in the galaxy."
"Which makes it priceless."
"Naturally."
"If it were lost or destroyed here, we could be kicked out of the exchange program."
"I suppose that is possible ... "
" ‘Suppose,' hell! We can. I looked it up. The library now has a full translation of the agreement, and I got curious enough to see what it said. A hearing would be held, and the other members would vote on the matter of our expulsion."
"Good thing it hasn't been lost or destroyed."
"Yeah. Great."
"How could Byler have gotten access to it?"
"My guess is still the UN itself-that they approached him to create a duplicate for display purposes, he did it and then there was a mixup."
"I can't see the mixup on something that important."
"Then suppose it was intentional."
"How so?"
"Say they loaned it to him, and instead of returning the original and a copy he returned two copies. I can see him as wanting to hang onto it and study it for as long as he could. He could have given it back when he was finished or caught, whichever came first, and claimed he had made a simple error. No fuss could be raised, with the entire enterprise that clandestine. Or perhaps I am being too devious. Maybe he'd had it on a legitimate loan all the while, studying it at their request. Whichever, let us suppose that he'd had the original up until a while back."
"All right, say that."
"Then it vanished. Either it got mixed in and thrown out with some of the inferior replicas, or it was the one given to us in error ... "
"To you, to you," I said, "and not in error."
"Paul arrived at this conclusion, too," he continued, ignoring the assignment of guilt. "He panicked, went looking and roughed us up in the process."
"What precipitated his wising up?"
"Someone spotted the ringer and asked him for the real one. When he looked it wasn't there."
"And he got dead."
"You said the two men who questioned you in Australia as much as admitted having done him in as a by-product of questioning him."
"Zeemeister and Buckler. Yes."
"The undercover wombat told you they were hoodlums."
"Doodlehums, but go ahead."
"The UN informed the member nations-which is where the State Department comes into the picture in our case. Somewhere there was a tear in the beanbag, though, and Zeemeister decided to locate the stone first in order to claim a large ransom. Pardon me, a reward."
"It does make a kind of surrealistic sense. Continue."
"So we might have had it and everybody knows it. We don't know where it is, but nobody believes us."
"Who is everybody?"
"UN officials, the Foggy Bottom boys, the doodlehums and the aliens."
"Well, granting that the aliens have been informed and are actually assisting in the investigation, Charv and Ragma become a little more understandable-with their thing about security and all. But then, something else bothers me. They seemed awfully sure that I knew more than I thought I did concerning the stone's whereabouts. They even felt that a telepathic analyst might turn up some useful leads in my subconscious. I wonder what gave them that idea?"
"You've got me there. Perhaps they have eliminated almost everything else. And maybe they are right. It did seem to vanish rather strangely. I wonder ... ?"
"What?"
"If you do know something useful, something you may have suppressed for some reason? Perhaps a good non-telepathic analyst could drag it out, too. Hypnosis, drugs ... Who knows? What about that Doctor Marko you used to go to?"
"It's a thought, but it would take a long while to convince him as to the reality of all the preliminaries he'd need to know before he could go to work. Might even think I've lost touch, trank me up and give me the wrong therapy. No. I'll hold off on that angle for now."
"Where does that leave us?"
"Drunk," I said. "My higher cerebral centers all just moved off center."
"Want me make some coffee?"
"No. Consciousness is losing six to nothing and I'd like to retire gracefully. Mind if I sleep on the couch?"
"Go ahead. I'll get you a blanket and a pillow."
"Thanks."
"Maybe we'll have some fresh ideas in the morning," he said, rising.
"Thinking them will be painful, whatever they are," I said, going over to the couch and kicking off my shoes. "Let there be an end to thought. Thus do I refute Descartes."
I sprawled, not a cogito or a sum to my name.
Oblivion.
There was a teletype machine in a room at the back of my mind. It had never been used. Within the uncreation where the not-I didn't exist for a peaceful interval of non-time, however, it stuttered and spewed, synthesizing some recipient who resembled myself for purposes of pestering him ...
: : : : : : : : : : : :
DO YOU HEAR ME. FRED?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
DO YOU HEAR ME. FRED?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
YES
: : : : : : : : : : : :
GOOD
: : : : : : : : : : : :
WHO ARE YOU?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
I AMXXXXXXXXXXXXX
: : : : : : : : : : : :
DO YOU HEAR ME, FRED?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
YES. WHO ARE YOU?
I AMXXXXXX IXXXXXXXX ARTICLE 7224 SECTION C. I BROUGHT IT TO YOUR ATTENTION
: : : : : : : : : : : :
ALL RIGHT
: : : : : : : : : : : :
CAN YOU OBTAIN AN N-AXIAL INVERSION UNIT?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
NO
: : : : : : : : : : : :
IT IS IMPORTANT
: : : : : : : : : : : :
IT IS ALSO UNDEFINED
: : : : : : : : : : : :
NECESSARY
: : : : : : : : : : : :
WHAT THE HELL IS AN N-AXIAL INVERSION UNIT?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
TIME NAMES CORRESPONDENCESXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX THE RHENNIUS MACHINE. THAT MECHANISM
: : : : : : : : : : : :
I KNOW WHERE IT IS. YES
: : : : : : : : : : : :
GO TO THE RHENNIUS MACHINE. TEST ITS INVERSION PROGRAM
: : : : : : : : : : : :
HOW?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
&
nbsp; OBSERVE THE PROGRESSIVE TRANSFORMATIONS OF AN OBJECT PASSED THROUGH ITS MOBILATOR
: : : : : : : : : : : :
WHAT IS A MOBILATOR?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
THE CENTRAL UNIT THROUGH WHICH ITS BELT MOVES
: : : : : : : : : : : :
IMPOSSIBLE TO GET THAT CLOSE TO THE THING. IT IS UNDER GUARD
: : : : : : : : : : : :
VITAL
: : : : : : : : : : : :
WHY?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
TO REFORMULATEXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX TO REFORMXXXXXXXXXXXXX TOXXXXXXXX
: : : : : : : : : : : :
DO YOU HEAR ME. FRED?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
YES
: : : : : : : : : : : :
GO TO THE RHENNIUS MACHINE AND TEST ITS INVERSION PROGRAM
: : : : : : : : : : : :
SUPPOSING I CAN DO IT. WHAT THEN?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
THEN GO AND GET DRUNK
: : : : : : : : : : : :
PLEASE REPEAT
: : : : : : : : : : : :
TEST THE INVERSION PROGRAM AND GO INTOXICATE YOURSELF
: : : : : : : : : : : :
ANYTHING ELSE?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
SUBSEQUENT ACTIONS CONTINGENT UPON UNDETERMINED EVENTS
: : : : : : : : : : : :
: : : : : : : : : : : :
WILL YOU DO THIS?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
WHO ARE YOU?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
IXXXXXXXXXXXXXSPEICUSXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXSPEICUSXXXXXXX
XXXXSPEICUSPEICUSPE ICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICU SPEICUSPEICUSXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXEICUSPEIXXC USPEXXICUSXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXPECXXXUSPEIX XXXCUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSP EICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEIC USPEICUSPEICUSPEBCUSXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I AM A RECORDINGXXXSPEICUSXXXXXXXXXX I AM A RECORDINGXXXSPEICUSXXXXXXXXXX I AM A RECORDINGXX
: : : : : : : : : : : :
: : : : : : : : : : : :
IT FIGURES
: : : : : : : : : : : :
WILL YOU DO AS I HAVE ASKED?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
WHY NOT?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
YOU INDICATE ASSENT?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
ALL RIGHT, RECORDING. ALL RIGHT. AFFIRMATIVE. I AM PROGRAMMED CURIOUS
: : : : : : : : : : : :
VERY GOOD. THAT THEN IS ALL
It raineth on the just and the unjust; likewise shineth the sun. I came around with the latter doing that thing, in my eyes, through the front window. And I must have been just-or just lucky-as I was not only unhung over but felt fairly good. I lay there for some time, listening to Hal's snores coming from the other room. Reaching a decision as to who and where I was, I rose and set a pot of coffee to gurgling in the kitchen and went to the bathroom to find some soap and a razor and do some other things.
Later, I had some juice, toast and a couple of eggs, took a cup of coffee back to the living room. Hal was still buzzing. I loafed on the sofa. I lit a cigarette. I drank coffee.
Caffeine, nicotine, the games the blood sugars play-I do not know what it was that pierced the dark bubble as I sat there assembling the morning and myself.
Whatever prompted it, the thing I had gotten in lieu of the usual unsolicited dreams returned to me between a puff and a sip, far clearer than my id-sponsored late late monster shows ever were.
Having decided earlier to accept the peculiar in the proper spirit, I confined my considerations to the matter of content. It made as much sense as any of a number of things I had recently experienced, and possessed the virtue of requiring a positive action on my part at a time when I was weary of being acted upon.
So I folded the blankets and placed them in a neat heap with the pillow on top. I finished my coffee, poured a second cup and turned the pot down to a simmer. I located some writing paper atop a miscellaneous chest of drawers and scrawled a note: "Hal-Thanks. I've a thing I'm off to pursue. It came to me last night. Quite peculiar. Will call in a day or so & let you know what comes of it. Hope everything is happily ever after again by then. -Fred. P.S. The coffee is on." Which covered everything I could think of. I left it on the other end of the sofa.
I got out and headed for the bus station. A long ride lay ahead. I would arrive too late, but the next day I would see the Rhennius machine during normal viewing hours and figure a way to get at it for a private showing later on.
And I did.
Voila! Lincoln stared to my right again and everything else seemed in its proper place. I pocketed the cent, steadied myself, began to climb.
Halfway up, brassy bongs bloomed in my ears, my nervous system came unzipped and my arms turned to putty. The free end of the line was swinging widely. Perhaps it had struck something, or gotten into range of the camera. Academic, whichever.
Moments later, I heard a shouted, "Raise your hands!" which probably came to mind a lot more readily, say, than "Stop climbing that rope and come back down without touching the machine!"
I did raise them, too, rapidly and repeatedly.
By the time he was threatening to shoot, I was across the beam and eying the window. If I could spring, catch hold, pull, vault, pass horizontally through the eighteen inch opening I had left myself and hit the roof rolling, I would have a head start with a variety of high routes before me. I would have a chance.
I tensed my muscles.
"I'll shoot!" he repeated, almost directly beneath me now.
I heard the shot and there was glass in the air as I moved.
Chapter 6
It was the sound of the steam, whistling through, rattling the ancient pipes, that drew me across the fine line to the place where identity surprises itself. I balked immediately and tried to go back, but the heating system wouldn't let me. In close-eyed preconsciousness I clung to the transitory pleasure of being without memory. Then I realized that I was thirsty. And then that something hard and uncomfortable was indenting my right side. I did not want to wake up.
But the circle of sensations widened, things fell together, the center held. I opened my eyes.
Yes ...
I was lying on a mattress on the floor in the corner of a cluttered, gaudy room. Some of the clutter was magazines, bottles, cigarette butts and random articles of clothing; some of the gaud was paintings and posters that clung to the walls like stamps on a foreign parcel, bright and crooked. Strings of glass beads hung in a doorway to my right, catching what seemed like morning light from a large window directly across from me. A golden blizzard of dust fell through its rays, stirred perhaps by the donkey who was nibbling at the potted pot that occupied the window seat. From the sill, an orange cat blinked at me in yellow-eyed appraisal, then closed her eyes.
A few small traffic sounds came from a point beyond and below the window. Through the sun patterns on the streaked glass, I could make out the upper corner of a brick building sufficiently distant to indicate that a street did indeed lie between us. I made my first dry swallowing movement of the morning and realized again how thirsty I felt. The air was dry and rank with stale odors, some familiar, some exotic.
I shifted slightly, testing myself for aches. Not bad. A small throbbing from the frontal sinuses, not sufficient to herald a headache. I stretched then, feeling a fraction fitter.
I discovered the sharp object prodding my side to be a bottle, empty. I winced as I recalled how it had gotten that way. The party, oh yes ... There had been a party ...
I sat up. I saw my shoes. I put them on. I stood.
Water ... There was a bathroom around the corner through the beads in the back. Yes.
Before I could move in that direction, the donkey turned, stared at me, advanced.
By a splinter of a second, I'd say, I saw what was coming coming, before it came.
"You are still fogged up," the donkey said, or seemed to say, the words ringing strangely in my head, "so go quench you
r thirst and wash your face. But do not use the window back there for an exit. It could result in difficulties. Please return to this room when you have finished. I have some things to tell you."
From a place beyond surprise, I said, "All right," and I went on back and ran the water.
There was nothing especially suspicious beyond the bathroom window. No one in sight to be the wiser, no one to do anything about it if I decided to cross over to the next building, then up, up and away. I had no intention of doing it just then, but it made me wonder whether the donkey might be something of an alarmist.
The window ... My mind went back to that bar of black, to the snap of the gun, to the glass. I had torn my jacket on the frame and scraped my shoulder where I hit. I'd kept rolling, rolled to my feet and taken off running, crouched ... .
An hour later I was in a bar in the Village carrying out the second part of my instructions. Not too quickly, though, as-the fugitive feeling was still with me and I wanted to hang onto my faculties long enough to regroup myself emotionally. Consequently, I ordered a beer and sipped it slowly.
Small gusts of wind had been tumbling bits of paper along the streets. Random flakes of snow had angled by, turning to damp splotches wherever they touched. Later, the middle state was omitted and cold raindrops alternately sprayed, dripped, ceased altogether, drifted in patches of mist.
The wind whistled as it slipped about the door, and even with my jacket on I felt chilly. So ten or fifteen minutes later when I'd finished the beer, I went looking for a warmer bar. That was what I told myself, though from some more primitive level the flight impulse still operated, assisting in the decision.
I hit three more bars in the next hour, drinking one beer per and moving on. Along the way, I stopped in a package store and picked up a bottle, as it was late and I was loath to go too blotto in public. I began thinking about where I would spend the night. I'd get a taxi by and by, I decided, let the driver find me a hotel and complete the intoxication business there. No sense in speculating what the results would be and no need to hurry things along. At the moment I wanted people about me, their voices, walls that echoed a tinny music. While my last memories of Australia were messy and blurred, I had been bright-eyed and strung tight as a tennis racket on departing the hall. I could still hear the snap and the brittle notes of the glass. It is not good to think about having been shot at.
Doorsways in the Sand Page 7