But Fourmyle was in the library bludgeoning his librarian over the head with Bloch's «Des Sexual Leben» (eight pounds, nine ounces) because that unhappy man could produce no text on the manufacture of perpetual motion machines. He rushed to his physics laboratory where he destroyed an expensive chronometer to experiment with cog wheels, jaunted to the bandstand where he seized a baton and led the orchestra into confusion, put on skates and fell into the scented swimming pool, was hauled out, swearing fulminously at the lack of ice, and was heard to express a desire for solitude.
«I wish to commute with myself,» Fourmyle said, kicking his valets in all directions. He was snoring before the last of them limped to the door and closed it behind him.
The snoring stopped and Foyle arose. «That ought to hold them for today,» he muttered, and went into his dressing room. He stood before a mirror, took a deep breath and held it, meanwhile watching his face. At the expiration of one minute it was still untainted. He continued to hold his breath, maintaining rigid control over pulse and muscle, mastering the strain with iron calm. At two minutes and twenty seconds the stigmata appeared, blood-red. Foyle let out his breath. The tiger mask faded.
«Better,» he murmured. «Much better. The old fakir was right, Yoga is the answer. Control. Pulse, breath, bowels, brains.»
He stripped and examined his body. He was in magnificent condition, but his skin still showed delicate silver seams in a network from neck to ankles. It looked as though someone had carved an outline of the nervous system into Foyle's flesh. The silver seams were the scars of an operation that had not yet faded.
That operation had cost Foyle a 4r zoo,ooo bribe to the chief surgeon of the Mars Commando Brigade and had transformed him into an extraordinary fighting machine. Every nerve plexus had been rewired, miscroscopic transistors and transformers had been buried in muscle and bone, a minute platinum outlet showed at the base of his spine. To this Foyle affixed a power-pack the size of a pea and switched it on. His body began an internal electronic vibration that was almost mechanical.
«More machine than man,» he thought. He dressed, rejected the extravagant apparel of Fourmyle of Ceres for the anonymous black coverall of action.
He jaunted to Robin Wednesbury's apartment in the lonely building amidst the Wisconsin pines. It was the real reason for the advent of the Four Mile Circus in Green Bay. He jaunted and arrived in darkness and empty space and immediately plummeted down. «Wrong coordinates!» he thought. «Misjaunted?» The broken end of a rafter dealt him a bruising blow and he landed heavily on a shattered floor upon the putrefying remains of a corpse.
Foyle leaped up in calm revulsion. He pressed hard with his tongue against his right upper first molar. The operation that had transformed half his body into an electronic machine, had located the control switchboard in his teeth. Foyle pressed a tooth with his tongue and the peripheral cells of his retina were excited into emitting a soft light. He looked down two pale beams at the corpse of a man.
The corpse lay in the apartment below Robin Wednesbury's flat. It was gutted. Foyle looked up. Above him was a ten-foot hole where the floor of Robin's living room had been. The entire building stank of fire, smoke, and rot.
«Jacked,» Foyle said softly. «This place has been jacked. What happened?» The jaunting age had crystallized the hoboes, tramps, and vagabonds of the world into a new class. They followed the night from east to west, always in darkness, always in search of loot, the leavings of disaster, carrion. If earthquake shattered a warehouse, they were jacking it the following night. If fire opened a house or explosion split the defenses of a shop, they jaunted in and scavenged. They called themselves Jack-jaunters. They were jackals.
Foyle climbed up through the wreckage to the corridor on the floor above. The Jack-jaunters had a camp there. A whole calf roasted before a fire which sparked up to the sky through a rent in the roof. There were a dozen men and three women around the fire, rough, dangerous, jabbering in the Cockney rhyming slang of the jackals. They were dressed in mismatched clothes and drinking potato beer from champagne glasses.
An ominous growl of anger and terror met Foyle's appearance as the big man in black came up through the rubble, his intent eyes emitting pale beams of light. Calmly, he strode through the rising mob to the entrance of Robin Wednesbury's flat. His iron control gave him an air of detachment.
«If she's dead,» he thought, «I'm finished. I've got to use her. But if she's dead . . .»
Robin's apartment was gutted like the rest of the building. The living room was an oval of floor around the jagged hole in the center. Foyle searched for a body. Two men and a woman were in the bed in the bedroom. The men cursed. The woman shrieked at the apparition. The men hurled themselves at Foyle. He backed a step and pressed his tongue against his upper incisors. Neural circuits buzzed and every sense and response in his body was accelerated by a factor of five.
The effect was an instantaneous reduction of the external world to extreme slow motion. Sound became a deep garble. Color shifted down the spectrum to the red. The two assailants seemed to float toward him with dreamlike languor. To the rest of the world Foyle became a blur of action. He side-stepped the blow inching toward him, walked around the man, raised him and threw him toward the crater in the living room. He threw the second man after the first jackal. To Foyle's accelerated senses their bodies seemed to drift slowly, still in mid-stride, fists inching forward, open mouths emitting heavy clotted sounds.
Foyle whipped to the woman cowering in the bed.
«Wsthrabdy?» the blur asked.
The woman shrieked.
Foyle pressed his upper incisors again, cutting off the acceleration. The external world shook itself out of slow motion back to normal. Sound and color leaped up the spectrum and the two jackals disappeared through the crater and crashed into the apartment below.
«Was there a body?» Foyle repeated gently. «A Negro girl?» The woman was unintelligible. He took her by the hair and shook her, then hurled her through the crater in the living room floor.
His search for a clue to Robin's fate was interrupted by the mob from the hall. They carried torches and makeshift weapons. The Jack-jaunters were not professional killers. They only worried defenseless prey to death. «Don't bother me,» Foyle warned quietly, ferreting intently through closets and under overturned furniture.
They edged closer, goaded by a ruffian in a mink suit and a tricornered hat, and inspired by the curses percolating up from the floor below. The man in the tricorne threw a torch at Foyle. It burned him. Foyle accelerated again and the Jack-jaunters were transformed into-living statues. Foyle picked up half a chair and calmly clubbed the slow-motion figures. They remained upright. He thrust the man in the tricorne down on the floor and knelt on him. Then he decelerated.
Again the external world came to life. The jackals dropped in their tracks, pole-axed. The man in the tricorne hat and mink suit roared.
«Was there a body in here?» Foyle asked. «Negro girl. Very tall. Very beautiful.»
The man writhed and attempted to gouge Foyle's eyes.
«You keep track of bodies,» Foyle said gently. «Some of you Jacks like dead girls better than live ones. Did you find her body in here?»
Receiving no satisfactory answer, he picked up a torch and set fire to the mink suit. He followed the Jack-jaunter into the living room and watched him with detached interest. The man howled, toppled over the edge of the crater and flamed down into the darkness below.
«Was there a body?» Foyle called down quietly. He shook his head at the answer. «Not very deft,» he murmured. «I've got to learn how to extract information. Dagenham could teach me a thing or two.»
He switched off his electronic system and jaunted.
He appeared in Green Bay, smelling so abominably of singed hair and scorched skin that he entered the local Presteign shop (jewels, perfumes, cosmetics, ionics amp; surrogates) to buy a deodorant. But the local Mr. Presto had evidently witnessed the arrival of the Four Mile
Circus and recognized him. Foyle at once awoke from his detached intensity and became the outlandish Fourmyle of Ceres. He downed and cavorted, bought a twelve-ounce flagon of Euge No. ~ at ~r ioo the ounce, dabbed himself delicately and tossed the bottle into the street to the edification and delight of Mr. Presto.
The record clerk at the County Record Office was unaware of Foyle's identity and was obdurate and uncompromising.
«No, Sir. County Records Are Not Viewed Without Proper Court Order For Sufficient Cause. That Must Be Final.»
Foyle examined him keenly and without rancor. «Asthenic type,» he decided. «Slender, long-boned, no strength. Epileptoid character. Self-centered, pedantic, single-minded, shallow. Not bribable; too repressed and straitlaced. But repression's the chink in his armor.»
An hour later six followers from the Four Mile Circus waylaid the record clerk. They were of the female persuasion and richly endowed with vice. Two hours later, the record clerk, dazed by flesh and the devil, delivered up his information. The apartment building had been opened to Jack-jaunting by a gas explosion two weeks earlier. All tenants had been forced to move. Robin Wednesbury was in protective confinement in Mercy Hospital near the Iron Mountain Proving Grounds.
«Protective confinement?» Foyle wondered. «What for? What's she done?»
It took thirty minutes to organize a Christmas party in the Four Mile Circus. It was made up of musicians, singers, actors, and rabble who knew the Iron Mountain co-ordinates. Led by their chief buffoon, they jaunted up with music, fireworks, firewater, and gifts. They paraded through the town spreading largess and laughter. They blundered into the radar field of the Proving Ground protection system and were driven out with laughter. Founnyle of Ceres, dressed as Santa Claus, scattering bank notes from a huge sack over his shoulder and, leaping in agony as the induction field of the protection system burned his bottom, made an entrancing spectacle. They burst into Mercy Hospital, following Santa Claus who roared and cavorted with the detached calm of a solemn elephant. He kissed the nurses, made drunk the attendants, pestered the patients with gifts, littered the corridors with money, and abruptly disappeared when the happy rioting reached such heights that the police had to be called. Much later it was discovered that a patient had disappeared too, despite the fact that she had been under sedation and was incapable of jaunting. As a matter of fact she departed from the hospital inside Santa's sack.
Foyle jaunted with her over his shoulder to the hospital grounds. There, in a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful. He removed his own costume, watching the girl intently, waiting to see if she would recognize him and remember him.
She was alarmed and confused; her telesending was like heat lightning:
«My God! Who is he? What's happened? The music. The uproar. Why kidnapped in a sack? Drunks slurring on trombones. 'Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.' Adeste Fidelis. What's he want from me? Who is he?»
«I'm Fourmyle of Ceres,» Foyle said.
«What? Who? Fourmyle of…? Yes, of course. The buffoon. The bourgeois gentilhomme. Vulgarity. Imbecility. Obscenity. The Four Mile Circus. My God! Am I telesending? Can you hear me?»
«I hear you, Miss Wednesbury,» Foyle said quietly.
«What have you done? Why? What do you want with me? I…”
«I want you to look at me.»
«Bon jour, Madame. Into my sack, Madame. Ecco! Look at me. I'm looking,» Robin said, trying to control the jangle of her thoughts. She gazed up into his face without recognition. «It's a face. I've seen so many like it. The faces of men, oh God! The features of masculinity. Everyman in rut. Will God never save us from brute desire?»
«My rutting season's over, Miss Wednesbury.»
«I'm sorry you heard that. I'm terrified, naturally. I…You know me?»
«I know you.»
«We've met before?» She scrutinized him closely, but still without recognition. Deep down inside Foyle there was a surge of triumph. If this woman of all women failed to remember him he was safe, provided he kept blood and brains and face under control.
«We've never met,» he said. «I've heard of you. I want something from you. That's why we're here; to talk about it. If you don't like my offer you can go back to the hospital.»
«You want something? But I've got nothing. . . nothing. Nothing's left but shame and…Oh God! Why did the suicide fail? Why couldn't I…”
«So that's it?» Foyle interrupted softly. «You tried to commit suicide, eh? That accounts for the gas explosion that opened the building. . . And your protective confinement. Attempted suicide. Why weren't you hurt in the explosion?»
«So many were hurt. So many died. But I didn't. I'm unlucky, I suppose. I've been unlucky all my life.»
«Why suicide?»
«I'm tired. I'm finished. I've lost everything . . . I'm on the army gray list . . . suspected, watched, reported. No job. No family. No…Why suicide? Dear God, what else but suicide?»
«You can work for me.»
«I can . . . What did you say?»
«I want you to work for me, Miss Wednesbury.»
She burst into hysterical laughter. «For you? Another camp follower in the Circus? Work for you, Fourmyle?»
«You've got sex on the brain,» he said gently. «I'm not looking for tarts. They look for me, as a rule.»
«I'm sorry. I'm obsessed by the brute who destroyed me. I…I'll try to make sense.» Robin calmed herself. «Let me understand you. You've taken me out of the hospital to offer me a job. You've heard of me. That means you want something special. My specialty is telesending.»
«And charm.»
«What?»
«I want to buy your charm, Miss Wednesbury.»
«I don't understand.»
«Why,» Foyle said mildly. «It ought to be simple for you. I'm the buffoon. I'm vulgarity, imbecility, obscenity. That's got to stop. I want you to be my social secretary.»
«You expect me to believe that? You could hire a hundred social secretaries…a thousand, with your money. You expect me to believe that I'm the only one for you? That you had to kidnap me from protective confinement to get me?»
Foyle nodded. «That's right, there are thousands, but only one that can telesend.»
«What's that got to do with it?»
«You're going to be the ventriloquist; I'm going to be your dummy. I don't know the upper classes; you do. They have their own talk, their own jokes, their own manners. If a man wants to be accepted by them he's got to talk their language. I can't, but you can. You'll talk for me, through my mouth . . .»
«But you could learn.»
«No. It would take too long. And charm can't be learned. I want to buy your charm, Miss Wednesbury. Now, about salary. I'll pay you a thousand a month.»
Her eyes widened. «You're very generous, Fourmyle.»
«I'll clean up this suicide charge for you.»
«You're very kind.»
«And I'll guarantee to get you off the army gray list. You'll be back on the white list by the time you finish working for me. You can start with a clean slate and a bonus. You can start living again.»
Robin's lips trembled and then she began to cry. She sobbed and shook and Foyle had to steady her. «Well,» he asked. «Will you do it?»
She nodded. «You're so kind . . . It's . . . I'm not used to kindness any more.»
The dull concussion of a distant explosion made Foyle stiffen. «Christ!» he exclaimed in sudden panic. «Another Blue Jaunte. I…”
«No,» Robin said. «I don't know what blue jaunte is, but that's the Proving Ground. They…” She looked up at Foyle's face and screamed. The unexpected shock of the explosion and the vivid chain of associations had wrenched loose his iron control. The blood-red scars of tattooing showed under his skin. She stared at him in horror, still screaming.
He touched his face once, then leaped forward and gagged her. Once again he had hold of himself.
&n
bsp; «It shows, eh?» he murmured with a ghastly smile. «Lost my grip for a minute. Thought I was back in Gouffre Martel listening to a Blue Jaunte. Yes, I'm Foyle. The brute who destroyed you. You had to know, sooner or later, but I'd hoped it would be later, I'm Foyle, back again. Will you be quiet and listen to me?»
She shook her head frantically, trying to struggle out of his grasp. With detached calm he punched her jaw. Robin sagged. Foyle picked her up, wrapped her in his coat and held her in his arms, waiting for consciousness to return. When he saw her eyelids flutter he spoke again.
«Don't move or you'll be sick. Maybe I didn't pull that punch enough.»
«Brute . . . Beast . . .»
«I could do this the wrong way,» he said. «I could blackmail you. I know your mother and sisters are on Callisto, that you're classed as an alien belligerent by association. That puts you on the black list, ipso facto. Is that right? Ipso facto. 'By the very fact.' Latin. You can't trust hypno-learning. I could point out that all I have to do is send anonymous information to Central Intelligence and you wouldn't be just suspect any more. They'd be ripping information out of you inside twelve hours. . .»
He felt her shudder. «But I'm not going to do it that way. I'm going to tell you the truth because I want to turn you into a partner. Your mother's in the Inner Planets. She's in the Inner Planets,» he repeated. «She may be on Terra.»
«Safe?» she whispered.
«I don't know.»
«Put me down.»
«You're cold.»
«Put me down.»
He set her on her feet.
«You destroyed me once,» she said in choked tones. «Are you trying to destroy me again?»
«No. Will you listen?»
She nodded.
«I was lost in space. I was dead and rotting for six months. A ship came up that could have saved me. It passed me by. It let me die. A ship named 'Vorga.' 'Vorga-T:i339.' Does that mean anything to you?»
«Jiz McQueen-a friend of mine who's dead now-once told me to find out why I was left to rot. That would be the answer to who gave the order. So I started buying information about 'Vorga.' Any information.»
The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) Page 12