May become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms
And the Autumn moon shines bright.”
Talbot made a face. “And other songs from the same album.”
“Still saying your prayers at night?”
“I stopped that when I realized the damned thing didn’t scan.”
“Hey. We aren’t here getting pneumonia just to discuss forced rhyme.”
The lines of weariness in Talbot’s face settled into a joyless pattern. “Victor, I need your help.”
“I’ll listen, Larry. Further than that it’s doubtful.”
Talbot weighed the warning and said, “Three months ago I answered an advertisement in Forbes, the business magazine. Information Associates. It was a cleverly phrased, very reserved, small box, inconspicuously placed. Except to those who knew how to read it. I won’t waste your time on details, but the sequence went like this: I answered the ad, hinting at my problem as circuitously as possible without being completely impenetrable. Vague words about important money. I had hopes. Well, I hit with this one. They sent back a letter calling a meet. Perhaps another false trail, was what I thought…God knows there’ve been enough of those.”
Victor lit a Sobranie Black & Gold and let the pungent scent of the smoke drift away on the fog. “But you went.”
“I went. Peculiar outfit, sophisticated security system, I had a strong feeling they came from, well, I’m not sure where…or when.”
Victor’s glance was abruptly kilowatts heavier with interest. “When, you say? Temporal travelers?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ve been waiting for something like that, you know. It’s inevitable. And they’d certainly make themselves known eventually.”
He lapsed into silence, thinking. Talbot brought him back sharply. “I don’t know, Victor. I really don’t. But that’s not my concern at the moment.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry, Larry. Go on. You met with them…”
“Man named Demeter. I thought there might be some clue there. The name. I didn’t think of it at the time. The name Demeter; there was a florist in Cleveland, many years ago. But later, when I looked it up, Demeter, the Earth goddess, Greek mythology…no connection. At least, I don’t think so.
“We talked. He understood my problem and said he’d undertake the commission. But he wanted it specific, what I required of him, wanted it specific for the contract–God knows how he would have enforced the contract, but I’m sure he could have–he had a window, Victor, it looked out on–”
Victor spun the cigarette off his thumb and middle finger, snapping it straight down into the blood-black Danube. “Larry, you’re maundering.”
Talbot’s words caught in his throat. It was true. “I’m counting on you, Victor. I’m afraid it’s putting my usual aplomb out of phase.”
“All right, take it easy. Let me hear the rest of this and we’ll see. Relax.”
Talbot nodded and felt grateful. “I wrote out the nature of the commission. It was only seven words.” He reached into his topcoat pocket and brought out a folded slip of paper. He handed it to the other man. In the dim lantern light, Victor unfolded the paper and read:
GEOGRAPHICAL COORDINATES
FOR LOCATION OF MY SOUL
Victor looked at the two lines of type long after he had absorbed their message. When he handed it back to Talbot, he wore a new, fresher expression. “You’ll never give up, will you, Larry?”
“Did your father?”
“No.” Great sadness flickered across the face of the man Talbot called Victor. “And,” he added, tightly, after a beat, “he’s been lying in a catatonia sling for sixteen years because he wouldn’t give up.” He lapsed into silence. Finally, softly, “It never hurts to know when to give up, Larry. Never hurts. Sometimes you’ve just got to leave it alone.”
Talbot snorted softly with bemusement. “Easy enough for you to say, old chum. You’re going to die.”
“That wasn’t fair, Larry.”
“Then help me, dammit! I’ve gone farther toward getting myself out of all this than I ever have. Now I need you. You’ve got the expertise.”
“Have you sounded out 3M or Rand or even General Dynamics? They’ve got good people there.”
“Damn you.”
“Okay. Sorry. Let me think a minute.”
The corpse barge cut through the invisible water, silent, fog-shrouded, without Charon, without Styx, merely a public service, a garbage scow of unfinished sentences, uncompleted errands, unrealized dreams. With the exception of these two, talking, the barge’s supercargo had left decisions and desertions behind.
Then, Victor said, softly, talking as much to himself as to Talbot, “We could do it with microtelemetry. Either through direct microminiaturizing techniques or by shrinking a servomechanism package containing sensing, remote control, and guidance/manipulative/propulsion hardware. Use a saline solution to inject it into the bloodstream. Knock you out with ‘Russian sleep’ and/or tap into the sensory nerves so you’d perceive or control the device as if you were there…conscious transfer of point of view.”
Talbot looked at him expectantly.
“No. Forget it,” said Victor. “It won’t do.”
He continued to think. Talbot reached into the other’s jacket pocket and brought out the Sobranies. He lit one and stood silently, waiting. It was always thus with Victor. He had to worm his way through the analytical labyrinth.
“Maybe the biotechnic equivalent: a tailored microorganism or slug…injected…telepathic link established. No. Too many flaws: possible ego/control conflict. Impaired perceptions. Maybe it could be a hive creature injected for multiple p.o.v.” A pause, then, “No. No good.”
Talbot drew on the cigarette, letting the mysterious Eastern smoke curl through his lungs. “How about…say, just for the sake of discussion,” Victor said, “say the ego/id exists to some extent in each sperm. It’s been ventured. Raise the consciousness in one cell and send it on a mission to…forget it, that’s metaphysical bullshit. Oh, damn damn damn…this will take time and thought, Larry. Go away, let me think on it. I’ll get back to you.”
Talbot butted the Sobranie on the railing, and exhaled the final stream of smoke. “Okay, Victor. I take it you’re interested sufficiently to work at it.”
“I’m a scientist, Larry. That means I’m hooked. I’d have to be an idiot not to be…this speaks directly to what…to what my father…”
“I understand. I’ll let you alone. I’ll wait.”
They rode across in silence, the one thinking of solutions, the other considering problems. When they parted, it was with an embrace.
Talbot flew back the next morning, and waited through the nights of the full moon, knowing better than to pray. It only muddied the waters. And angered the gods.
When the phone rang, and Talbot lifted the receiver, he knew what it would be. He had known every time the phone had rung, for over two months. “Mr. Talbot? Western Union. We have a cablegram for you, from Moldava, Czechoslovakia.”
“Please read it.”
“It’s very short, sir. It says, ‘Come immediately. The trail had been marked.’ It’s signed, ‘Victor.’”
He departed less than an hour later. The Learjet had been on the ready line since he had returned from Budapest, fuel tanks regularly topped-off and flight-plan logged. His suitcase had been packed for seventy-two days, waiting beside the door, visas and passport current, and handily stored in an inner pocket. When he departed, the apartment continued to tremble for some time with the echoes of his leaving.
The flight seemed endless, interminable, he knew it was taking longer than necessary.
Customs, even with high government clearances (all masterpieces of forgery) and bribes, seemed to be drawn out sadistically by the mustachioed trio of petty officials; secure, and reveling in their momentary power.<
br />
The overland facilities could not merely be called slow. They were reminiscent of the Molasses Man who cannot run till he’s warmed-up and who, when he’s warmed-up, grows too soft to run.
Expectedly, like the most suspenseful chapter of a cheap gothic novel, a fierce electrical storm suddenly erupted out of the mountains when the ancient touring car was within a few miles of Talbot’s destination. It rose up through the steep mountain pass, hurtling out of the sky, black as a grave, and swept across the road obscuring everything.
The driver, a taciturn man whose accent had marked him as a Serbian, held the big saloon to the center of the road with the tenacity of a rodeo rider, hands at ten till and ten after midnight on the wheel.
“Mister Talbot.”
“Yes?”
“It grows worse. Will I turn back?”
“How much farther?”
“Perhaps seven kilometer.”
Headlights caught the moment of uprootment as a small tree by the roadside toppled toward them. The driver spun the wheel and accelerated. They rushed past as naked branches scraped across the boot of the touring car with the sound of fingernails on a blackboard. Talbot found he had been holding his breath. Death was beyond him, but the menace of the moment denied the knowledge.
“I have to get there.”
“Then I go on. Be at ease.”
Talbot settled back. He could see the Serb smiling in the rearview mirror. Secure, he stared out the window. Branches of lightning shattered the darkness, causing the surrounding landscape to assume ominous, unsettling shapes.
Finally, he arrived.
The laboratory, an incongruous modernistic cube–bone white against the–again–ominous basalt of the looming prominences–sat high above the rutted road. They had been climbing steadily for hours and now, like carnivores waiting for the most opportune moment, the Carpathians loomed all around them.
The driver negotiated the final mile and a half up the access road to the laboratory with difficulty: tides of dark, topsoil-and-twig-laden water rushed past them.
Victor was waiting for him. Without extended greetings he had an associate take the suitcase, and he hurried Talbot to the sub-ground-floor theater where a half dozen technicians moved quickly at their tasks, plying between enormous banks of controls and a huge glass plate hanging suspended from guy-wires beneath the track-laden ceiling.
The mood was one of highly charged expectancy; Talbot could feel it in the sharp, short glances the technicians threw him, in the way Victor steered him by the arm, in the uncanny racehorse readiness of the peculiar-looking machines around which the men and women swarmed. And he sensed in Victor’s manner that something new and wonderful was about to be born in this laboratory. That perhaps…at last…after so terribly, lightlessly long…peace waited for him in this white-tiled room. Victor was fairly bursting to talk.
“Final adjustments,” he said, indicating two female technicians working at a pair of similar machines mounted opposite each other on the walls facing the glass plate. To Talbot, they looked like laser projectors of a highly complex design. The women were tracking them slowly left and right on their gimbals, accompanied by soft electrical humming. Victor let Talbot study them for a long moment, then said, “Not lasers. Grasers. Gamma Ray Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation. Pay attention to them, they’re at least half the heart of the answer to your problem.”
The technicians took sightings across the room, through the glass, and nodded at one another. Then the older of the two, a woman in her fifties, called to Victor.
“On line, Doctor.”
Victor waved acknowledgment, and turned back to Talbot. “We’d have been ready sooner, but this damned storm. It’s been going on for a week. It wouldn’t have hampered us but we had a freak lightning strike on our main transformer. The power supply was on emergency for several days and it’s taken a while to get everything up to peak strength again.”
A door opened in the wall of the gallery to Talbot’s right. It opened slowly, as though it was heavy and the strength needed to force it was lacking. The yellow baked enamel plate on the door said, in heavy black letters, in French, PERSONNEL MONITORING DEVICES ARE REQUIRED BEYOND THIS ENTRANCE. The door swung fully open, at last, and Talbot saw the warning plate on the other side:
CAUTION
RADIATION
AREA
There was a three-armed, triangular-shaped design beneath the words. He thought of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. For no rational reason.
Then he saw the sign beneath, and had his rational reason:
OPENING THIS DOOR FOR MORE THAN 30 SECONDS WILL REQUIRE A SEARCH AND SECURE.
Talbot’s attention was divided between the doorway and what Victor had said. “You seem worried about the storm.”
“Not worried,” Victor said, “just cautious. There’s no conceivable way it could interfere with the experiment, unless we had another direct hit, which I doubt–we’ve taken special precautions–but I wouldn’t want to risk the power going out in the middle of the shot.”
“The shot?”
“I’ll explain all that. In fact, I have to explain it, so your mite will have the knowledge.” Victor smiled at Talbot’s confusion. “Don’t worry about it.” An old woman in a lab smock had come through the door and now stood just behind and to the right of Talbot, waiting, clearly, for their conversation to end so she could speak to Victor.
Victor turned his eyes to her. “Yes, Nadja?”
Talbot looked at her. An acid rain began falling in his stomach.
“Yesterday considerable effort was directed toward finding the cause of a high field horizontal instability,” she said, speaking softly, tonelessly, a page of some specific status report. “The attendant beam blowup prevented efficient extraction.” Eighty, if a day. Gray eyes sunk deep in folds of crinkled flesh the color of liver paste. “During the afternoon the accelerator was shut down to effect several repairs.” Withered, weary, bent, too many bones for the sack. “The super pinger at C48 was replaced with a section of vacuum chamber; it had a vacuum leak.” Talbot was in extreme pain. Memories came at him in ravening hordes, a dark wave of ant bodies gnawing at everything soft and folded and vulnerable in his brain. “Two hours of beam time were lost during the owl shift because a solenoid failed on a new vacuum valve in the transfer hall.”
“Mother…?” Talbot said, whispering hoarsely.
The old woman started violently, her head coming around and her eyes of settled ashes widening. “Victor,” she said, terror in the word.
Talbot barely moved, but Victor took him by the arm and held him. “Thank you, Nadja; go down to target station B and log the secondary beams. Go right now.”
She moved past them, hobbling, and quickly vanished through another door in the far wall, held open for her by one of the younger women.
Talbot watched her go, tears in his eyes.
“Oh my God, Victor. It was…”
“No, Larry, it wasn’t.”
“It was. So help me God it was! But how, Victor, tell me how?”
Victor turned him and lifted his chin with his free hand. “Look at me, Larry. Damn it, I said look at me: it wasn’t. You’re wrong.”
The last time Lawrence Talbot had cried had been the morning he had awakened from sleep, lying under hydrangea shrubs in the botanical garden next to the Minneapolis Museum of Art, lying beside something bloody and still. Under his fingernails had been caked flesh and dirt and blood. That had been the time he learned about manacles and releasing oneself from them when in one state of consciousness, but not in another. Now, he felt like crying. Again. With cause.
“Wait here a moment,” Victor said. “Larry? Will you wait right here for me? I’ll be back in a moment.”
He nodded, averting his face, and Victor went away. While he stood there, waves of painful
memory thundering through him, a door slid open into the wall at the far side of the chamber, and another white-smocked technician stuck his head into the room. Through the opening, Talbot could see massive machinery in an enormous chamber beyond. Titanium electrodes. Stainless steel cones. He thought he recognized it: a Cockroft-Walton pre-accelerator.
Victor came back with a glass of milky liquid. He handed it to Talbot.
“Victor–” the technician called from the far doorway.
“Drink it,” Victor said to Talbot, then turned to the technician.
“Ready to run.”
Victor waved to him. “Give me about ten minutes, Karl, then take it up to the first phase shift and signal us.” The technician nodded understanding and vanished through the doorway; the door slid out of the wall and closed, hiding the imposing chamberful of equipment. “And that was part of the other half of the mystical, magical solution of your problem,” the physicist said, smiling now like a proud father.
“What was that I drank?”
“Something to stabilize you. I can’t have you hallucinating.”
“I wasn’t hallucinating. What was her name?”
“Nadja. You’re wrong; you’ve never seen her before in your life. Have I ever lied to you? How far back do we know each other? I need your trust if this is going to go all the way.”
“I’ll be all right.” The milky liquid had already begun to work. Talbot’s face lost its flush, his hands ceased trembling.
Victor was very stern suddenly, a scientist without the time for sidetracks; there was information to be imparted. “Good. For a moment I thought I’d spent a great deal of time preparing…well,” and he smiled again, quickly, “let me put it this way: I thought for a moment no one was coming to my party.”
Talbot gave a strained, tiny chuckle, and followed Victor to a bank of television monitors set into rolling frame-stacks in a corner. “Okay. Let’s get you briefed.” He turned on sets, one after another, till all twelve were glowing, each one holding a scene of dull-finished and massive installations.
Deathbird Stories Page 26