SIXTEEN
The Sunday dusk slowly darkened the street. Bard Lane turned from the window. The one suite had grown to two connecting suites. Bess Reilly had been found, and it did not take much encouragement to bring her back to work for Dr. Lane.
The phone on her desk rang constantly. Sharan and Lurdorff, using the octagonal cards, played quad-bridge on a lamp table. Kornal lay on the couch, his fingers laced over his stomach, peacefully asleep.
“What’s the matter with them?” Bard demanded. “They stand down there in the street and just stare up at the windows!”
Heintz Lurdorff grinned. “You must aggustom yourself to being the high briest of what is bractically a new religion.”
“It makes me nervous,” Bard said. “And those phone calls make me nervous. That woman who called up this afternoon and called me the Anti-Christ. What was she talking about?”
“You are either the most honored or most detested man in America, Bard,” Sharan said. “I’ll bid eleven spades, Heintz.”
“Always she geds all the gards,” Heintz said dolefully.
“Anyway,” Bard said. “We’re doing it. We’re doing what we set out to do. I almost hate to think of what will happen when and if that ship does set down. I don’t know why all this … took the public fancy so strongly. Do you know, Heintz?”
“Of gorse. Mangind has always wanted a whipping boy. You gave them one. They love it. That governor of Nevada, he has helped.”
“Investigating the senseless murder cases and pardoning people. I wonder.”
Kornal yawned as he awakened. He looked at his watch. “Nearly time for our favorite man, isn’t it?”
Bard turned on the video. The screen brightened at once. He turned off the sound while the commercial was on, then turned the dial up as Walter Howard Path’s announcer appeared on the screen.
“… regret to announce that Walter Howard Path will be unable to appear as usual. Mr. Path has suffered a breakdown due to overwork and has been given an indefinite leave of absence. This program is being taken over by Kinsey Hallmaster, distinguished reporter and journalist. Mr. Hallmaster.”
Mr. Hallmaster sat behind a vast desk and smiled importantly at the video audience. With his twinkling eyes and projecting front teeth he looked like a happy beaver.
“I am honored to be asked to take over this weekly newscast. I am sorry, however, that Mr. Path cannot be with you as usual. He has my every hope for a speedy recovery.
“My first duty is to read you a statement prepared by Mr. Path.
“ ‘This is Walter Howard Path telling you that I have just received additional information regarding the space ship which has been alleged to—–’ ”
“Alleged!” Bard shouted angrily. The others shushed him.
“ ‘—–and these investigators, hired by me out of my own pocket, have brought me additional information which now leads me to believe that I, as well as many of the public, have been misled by Lane, Inly, Lurdorff and Kornal. I have before me the notarized statement, among other things, of a tavern owner which states that for a period of three weeks Dr. Lane, in a consistently drunken condition, gave speeches in his tavern regarding so-called mental visitations from space. I sincerely regret that I was taken in. There is no space ship. There are no Watchers. The alien brother and sister are figments of the overripe imaginations of Lane, Inly, Lurdorff and Kornal. I say to all of you who through an honest mistake have become Kinsonians, just mark it all up to the rather unusual gullibility of your reporter, Walter Howard Path.’ ”
Hallmaster put the document aside, folded his hands on the edge of the desk. “There you have it,” he said. “Mr. Path’s health was broken by the discovery that he had been misled. I have a few other words to say about this entire matter, however. From an official and informed source high in Washington, I have it on good authority that there is something far more sinister involved than the efforts of a little clique of greedy people to make money out of being in the public eye.
“We know, for an absolute fact, that Inly, Lane, Lurdorff and Kornal were … shall we say, financially embarrassed at a time two weeks before Mr. Path’s unfortunate backing of their wild tale. Now they are well enough off to spend money freely, living in expensive hotel suites, employing stenographic help. This money did not come from Mr. Path. Where did it come from?
“Now bear with me a moment. Suppose this nation were to be attacked. Interceptor rockets would flash up at the first target. But suppose that in advance we as a nation had been led to expect the arrival of some mythical space ship. Maybe the Kinsons will arrive in twenty simultaneous space ships which land in twenty industrial cities. Maybe their point of origin will not be some far planet, but rather the heartland of Pan-Asia. What then?
“Need I go further?”
For a jolly moment he let the implications settle into the minds of the vast audience. “And now for the more serious side of the news. We find that—–”
Bard snapped off the set. The room was silent. The phone rang. Bess lifted it off the cradle and set it aside without answering it.
“That … low … dirty …”
“In five minutes,” Sharan said softly, “he destroyed the whole thing, everything we’ve done. Every last thing.”
“Maybe enough of them will still believe,” Kornal said.
“After that?” Heintz Lurdorff said with a mild, dignified contempt. “I think now I go. I am sorry. There is nothing more we can do.”
“The kiss of death, neatly administered,” Sharan said. “Kissed off by a Wilkins’ Mead culture. We need a new symbol. A monkey with six arms, like Vishnu, so he can simultaneously cover his eyes, ears and mouth.”
“Give him one more hand, honey, so he can hold his nose,” Kornal said.
After an hour on the phone, Bard Lane found out that Walter Howard Path was in a private sanitarium, committed by his wife, for an indefinite stay.
SEVENTEEN
As closely as Raul could estimate, it was ten days before the keening whine of a warning device startled them into immobility. They had been eating at the moment it sounded.
Leesa, startled, lost her grip on the wall railing and floated out beyond any chance of grasping it again. She writhed in the air, but could not appreciably change her position.
Raul calculated, pushed against the wall with his hand as he let go of the railing. As he passed Leesa he grasped her ankle and the two of them made one slow pinwheel in the air before touching the high railing on the opposite side of the cabin. He strapped her in, then made a slow shallow dive toward his own position. He arranged his own straps, slid forward into proper position, staring up at the panel.
Five long minutes passed before there was any change.
And then came an indescribable twisting. It was as though in one microsecond, vast hands had grasped him, turning as though wringing moisture from a bit of cloth, releasing him. Dimly he heard Leesa’s startled cry. His vision cleared at once and he saw that the value of the first dial had returned to zero. A softer bell-note sounded, and he guessed that it meant an end to the warning period. Adjusting the screen he looked at strange star patterns.
Days later, when the warning sound came again, they strapped themselves in. The second time jump was like the first, but easier to bear because it was expected.
For the third, one day later, they did not go to position. They waited near the rail, and as the twisting came, her fingernails dug into his arm. He watched the convulsed look fade from her face as they smiled at each other.
An hour later the warning sound was more shrill. Again they went to their positions. One twisting, wrenching sensation followed closely on the heels of the next. When at last he was able to look at the dials, he saw that all of them had returned to zero. With a weakened hand he adjusted the image screen.
“Is … it over?” Leesa called.
“I think so.”
“What do you see? Quickly!”
“Wait. I must turn the ship. Now
I see a sun. Blazing white, Leesa.”
“Their sun, Raul.”
“I’ve seen their sun from Earth. It is yellow, Leesa.”
“Look for the planet.”
He turned the ship. A tiny distant planet was ghostly in the reflected sun glow.
“I see a planet!” he called.
“Take us there, Raul. Quickly. Oh, very quickly.”
Cautiously he made the sound that drove the ship ahead, gave them weight after so many days. He felt the slick movement of the great cylinder which compensated in part for the force of the acceleration on their bodies. He made the sound again and the planet began to grow. He watched it grow, and it did not seem that he could breathe deeply enough.
And then he knew. He did not speak for a long time. He called to her and his voice was old.
“What is it, Raul?”
“The planet has nine moons, Leesa. Theirs has but one.”
In the long silence he heard the muffled sound of her weeping. The planet grew steadily.
“Raul, are we still heading toward it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember your promise?”
“I remember.”
“Close your eyes, Raul. Do not touch the controls. It will be quick, Raul.” Her voice had a curiously haunting quality, as though she were already dead.
He closed his eyes. Resignation. An end of struggle and rebellion. It would have been better to accept, to force belief in the warm, slow world of the Watchers. He thought of Earth. Possibly he had misread the metallic sheets, selected the wrong index. Out of so many millions of numbers, it could easily have been the wrong one.
Bard Lane and Sharan Inly would never be able to convince Earth that the Watchers existed. Just as he could not convince the Watchers that Earth was another reality, as true as their own.
He opened his eyes. The planet was alarmingly close. They were diving toward it. He closed his eyes again.
Someday maybe Earth would build such ships as this one. First they would go to the other planets of their own …
As the thought came he opened his eyes wide. He gave the replica ship a brutal twist and in the same instant the vowel sound. As the acceleration hammered him into unconsciousness he kept the thin impression of the face of the planet sweeping slowly off the screen.
In Bard Lane’s dream he was back at Tempo watching the Beatty One rise into the arc of destruction. But this time the drive impetus was not steady. It came in hard flaring jolts that made the ship rise erratically on her suicide course. The dream faded and the jolting sounds turned to a heavy knocking at the door. He rubbed sleep-stuck eyes, rose painfully from his cramped position in the chair in which he had fallen asleep after Sharan had gone to bed.
“Coming, coming,” he called with annoyance. He stretched and looked at his watch. Ten in the morning. The windows were gray, patterned with rain flung against them by a gusty wind. For a moment he could not remember why he felt so thoroughly depressed. And then he remembered Hallmaster’s talk the night before.
He was in a completely foul mood when he yanked the suite door open. “Why didn’t you just batter it down?” he said.
A thick-jowled man mouthing a cigar stub stood planted in front of the door, two uniformed policemen behind him.
“Another minute and that’s just what we would have done, friend,” the man said. He walked flatfooted toward Bard, forcing Bard to step aside. The two policemen followed him into the suite.
“Maybe it would help if you tell me what you want,” Bard said.
The jowled man knuckled his hat back off his forehead. “You’re Lane.” It was a statement of fact rather than a question.
“Nice of you to come and let me know so early on Monday,” Bard said.
“I could learn to dislike you, friend.” The stocky man turned and nodded at one of the two policemen. The uniformed man walked casually over and trod heavily on Bard’s foot.
“Gee, excuse me,” he said. He took his weight away, trod heavily on the other foot. Bard’s fist swung automatically, all the strain and heartache and disappointments of months erupting into a rage that was like ice.
The policeman partially blocked the blow, but it slipped off his forearm and landed on the heavy cheekbone with a satisfying crack.
The two policemen moved in with deft efficiency and pinned both of Bard’s arms. The jowled man took the cigar from his mouth and rolled it between his fingers.
“It was reported to me, Dr. Lane, by the management of this hotel, that you were acting strangely. I am Hemstrait, the health officer. I came here to investigate the report and find that it was true. You attacked Patrolman Quinn without provocation.”
“Just what do you want?”
“I don’t want anything. I’m committing you to the state hospital for sixty days of observation and treatment. Nuts like you can’t run around loose.”
“Whose orders are you following, Hemstrait?”
The man had the grace to blush. “Hell, Lane. They’ll do you some good out there. Where’s the Inly woman?”
“You don’t need her too.”
“The hotel says that she’s crazy too. I got a job to do. I got to investigate all reports.”
At that moment Sharan, flushed with sleep, a white robe belted around her, opened the bedroom door and came out. “Bard, what is—–” She stopped and her eyes widened as she saw Bard being held.
“You let him go!” she said.
“Lady, you’re irrational,” Hemstrait said.
“Don’t say or do anything,” Bard said quickly.
Hemstrait gave Bard a look of annoyance. He moved close to Sharan, rested a beefy hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. He replaced it. She moved away. He followed her, grinning. She cracked her palm off his thick cheek. He grinned and grabbed her. “Lady, as health officer I’m committing you to the state hospital for sixty days of observation and treatment. You ought to know better than to attack the health officer.”
“It’s no good, Sharan,” Bard said in a bleak tone. “Somebody gave him his orders. The same people who took care of Path, probably. And gave Hallmaster that paper to read. We’re a disturbing influence.”
“Shut up, friend,” Hemstrait said jovially. “Come on, lady. They’ll be good to you out there. We picked up Lurdorff and Kornal in the lobby this morning. Kornal made such a fuss we had to put him in a jacket. Now you people are going to be more sensible than that.”
On the following Wednesday morning, Sharan Inly, clad in the gray shapeless hospital garment, was taken by a matron-attendant to the office of the young state psychiatrist. The matron waited behind Sharan’s chair. The psychiatrist was a thin-faced young man with an earnest, dedicated look.
“Dr. Inly, I’m very happy to meet you. I had hoped that when we did meet, it would be under … more pleasant circumstances. I particularly remember some of your papers that appeared in the Review.”
“Thank you.”
“I know that you must be interested in your own case. An unusually persistent delusion and, what is more startling, a shared delusion. Most unusual. And, as you may be aware, an unfavorable prognosis.” He hitched himself uncomfortably in the chair. His smile was wan. “Usually I have to explain to the patient the implications of deep shock. Of course, you worked with Belter when he was perfecting the technique.…”
His voice trailed off.
Sharan fought the fear back. She made her voice calm. “Isn’t that treatment a bit extreme in this case, Doctor? Memory patterns never return. That means complete reeducation from mindlessness, and sufficient damage so that on the Belter Scale, intelligence never goes beyond the DD level.”
“Frankly,” he said, “it makes me feel uncomfortable to prescribe it in the case of this delusion the four of you share. Dr. Lurdorff grew quite violent. He will be treated this afternoon. A shame, actually. So brilliant a mind … but misdirected, of course. All of you can be turned into productive members of society. You’ll be quite capa
ble of leading a satisfying life, of doing routine work. And you know how we’ve speeded up reeducation. Speech is adequate in a month. Incontinence ends in a week.”
“May I ask if a consulting psychiatrist can be called in, Doctor?”
“Oh, this treatment is the result of consultation, Dr. Inly. Very good men. Now, outside the delusionary cycle, you are quite capable of making decisions. With the nonviolent cases it is policy here to give you time to write letters, make wills, dispose of property, that sort of thing. We’ll give you false memory of a different life, a new name, a slightly altered face. You’ll be sent, of course, to one of the critical labor areas, and a competent social worker will get you started.”
“Actually, it’s death, isn’t it?”
“Now let us not be emotional, Dr. Inly. I had hoped that as a psychiatrist and a neuro-surgeon, you would—–”
Sharan forced a smile. “I guess it’s time for confession, Doctor. We all thought up this Watcher business as a publicity thing. We all needed money.”
He shook his head sadly. “Surely you know better than that! Such a perfectly standard reaction, Dr. Inly. Under induced hypnosis you all clung to every single phase of the shared delusion.”
“A question then. If a delusion can be shared, possibly it isn’t a delusion.”
He chuckled, at ease for the first time in the interview. “You people! Don’t you see that basically it’s a desire for escape? The world as you know it has become unbearable for the four of you. Too bad you didn’t recede into a catatonic state. We could have treated that. Instead you invent a delusionary race on a far planet on which you can blame your own inadequacies. Dr. Inly, we are the only race in the universe. Anything else is a dream. The only reality is here. And we must accustom ourselves to live with it, unpleasant as it may be, or else be treated by someone who can make the world bearable to you by some artificial means.”
Wine of the Dreamers: A Novel Page 17