“No,” von Einem said.
“Think back to your childhood. When you were, say, eight years old or maybe a little more. Recall a backyard and you playing, and ol’ Charley Falks leaning over the fence and—”
“This is what your verfluchte fly brought back from the UN Advance-weapons Archives?” Time for a replacement of both Behren and his dipterous insect, both of them with one arboreal, American orthopterous katydid; it could carry twice the minned receptors and recording spools of 33408 and probably would possess the same brain-convolutions as Behren and his housefly put together. Von Einem felt gloomy; in fact his depression bordered on despair. At least Theo Ferry managed to handle the tricky situation at Whale’s Mouth effectively—in contrast to this. And that, more than anything else, counted.
Effectively except for the unhappy weevils and their destroyed, ridiculous crypto-perceptions. The old comrades back in 1945 would have known how to dispatch those Unmänner, von Einem thought to himself with irritable satisfaction. It’s a clear sign of genetic decay to be possessed by such subrealities, he brooded. Inferior type-basics overwhelming weak, unstable character-structures; degenerate idioplasm involved casually, beyond doubt.
“Ol’ Charley Falks,” operator Behren said, “is the individual back in your childhood days who more than any other human being formed your ontological nature. What you have been throughout your adult life depends absolutely, in total essence, on what ol’ Charley—
“Then,” von Einem said witheringly, “why is it that I fail to recall his existence?”
“The UN wep-x tacticians,” operator Behren said, “have not as yet placed him there.”
Within his anti-prolepsis membrane—the environment manufactured by Krupp und Söhne years ago which permitted him to collaborate with the conventionally time-oriented personalities linked indirectly to him—the warped, inspired protégé of Sepp von Einem contemplated the message-packets discharged at intervals by the data-storing houses of his intricate mechanism. As always, he felt weary; the release of stimuli came too frequently for his overtaxed metabolism . . . the adjusting of periodic discharge control gate lay unfortunately outside his manual reach.
What reached him, at the moment, consisted of what seemed the most miserable idiocy he had ever encountered; bewildered, he attempted to focus his depleted attention on it, but only ill-formed fragments of the intel-repo material constellated for his mentational scrutiny.
“. . . fettered fetus of homemade apples lurching . . . searching . . . something like pataradical outfits of lace. Iron beds of red hot sabratondea flashes just jib FRIB—”
Resignedly, Gregory Gloch listened on helplessly, wondering what transistorized turret-control of the chamber had gone astray this time.
“. . . medicine ice
“man.
“cone-shaped melting dripping
“away—away—”
As apathy began to seep over him an interval of almost startling meaning abruptly caught his ear; he awoke, paid rapt attention.
“Operator Behren, here, with really thrilling data on ol’ Charley Falks, who, you’ll remember, was placed in the formative years of Herr von Einem on an alternate time-path by the UN wep-x tacticians in order to deflect Herr von Einem from his chosen—and militarily significant—profession to a relatively harmless vocation, that of—” And then, to his chagrin, the lucid segment of verbal data faded and the meaningless chatter—with which he had, over the years, become so familiar—resumed.
“. . . fiber-glassed. Windows
“stained with grease
“Off a polyhemispheric double-overhead-cam
“EXTERNAL compulsion engine
“floating out
“into the vast gigantic money-thing-making machine
“. . . diaperashis phenomenon disintegrating
“into foul fierce
“pressure
“spinning spinning
“lifting harsh
“harsh—a breath, a beat—a being still present
“—thank god . . .”
And, in the midst of this, the steady but interrupted by the far stronger signal-strength of the babble, the authentic intel-repo continued to make its vital point; he brought his internal attention to bear on it and managed to follow its thread of meaning.
Evidently fly-technician Behren had gathered at last the crucial material as to the UN’s disposition of its near-absolute device. With vigorous, virtually relentless logic, Jaimé Weiss, the top-strategist now working under Horst Bertold—he who at one time had been von Einem’s most brilliant and promising new discovery in the field of weapons inventiveness, but who had turned: gone over to the better-paying other side—this renegade had come up with the correct answer to the UN’s strategic needs.
To kill off Sepp von Einem was now pointless; Telpor existed. But to abolish von Einem sometime in the past, before his discovery of the basic mechanism of teleportation . . .
A less skilled manipulation of past-time factors would have sought as its objective cheap outright murder—the total physical elimination of Sepp von Einem. But this, of course, would simply have left the field open to others, and if one man could locate the principle on which teleportation could be effectively based, then so, eventually, given enough time, could someone else. Telpor, not Sepp von Einem, had to be blocked—and it would require the presence of a uniquely strong personality to block it. Jaimé Weiss and Bertold could not do it; they were not that formidable. In fact, probably only one man in the world could manage it . . . successfully.
Sepp von Einem himself.
To himself Gregory Gloch thought, It’s a good idea. This, his professional, official appraisal of the tactical plan which the UN had put in motion to abort the evolution of the Telpor instrument, had now to be said aloud; Gloch, selecting his words carefully, spoke into the recording microphone permanently placed before his lips, simultaneously activating the tape-transport.
“They want for their disposal,” he declared, “the use of yourself, Herr von Einem—nothing else is adequate. A compliment . . . but one which you could no doubt do without.” He paused, considered. Meanwhile, the tape-reel moved inexorably, but it was dead tape; he felt the pressure on him to produce a counter-tactic in response to what those opposed to his superior had so artfully— and skillfully—advanced. “Umm,” he murmured, half to himself. He felt, now, even more truly out of phase in the time-dimension: he felt the gulf between himself and those, everyone else in the universe of sentient life, beyond his anti-prolepsis chamber. “In my estimate,” he continued, “Your most profitable avenue of action—” And then abruptly he ceased. Because once again the random word-salad noise had burbled into seeming spontaneous existence in his ears.
This, however, appeared to be a radically different—startling so—interference than was customary.
Rubbish that it was it nonetheless made sense . . . sense, but it had obliterated—for the time being, at least—his counter-tactical idea.
Could this be a UN electronic signal deliberately beamed so as to disrupt the orderly functioning of his chamber?
The thought, theoretical as it was, chilled him as he involuntarily, without the possibility of evasion, listened to the curious mixture of nonsense and—meaning. Of the highest order.
“. . . I think, though, I see why Zoobko lards, butters, marginates and otherwise fattens up the word ‘spore’ into the rather sinister male spore slogan. Their house brochure in Move-E 3-D kul-R is directed (heh-heh) at women consumers, to fumble lewdly a metaphor, ahem, no offense meant (gak). More fully articulated, it would read, ‘The male spore, my dears, is as we well know tireless in its half-crazed struggle—against all sanity and moral restraint— to reach the female egg. That’s the way men are. Right? We all realize it. Give a male (sic) spore half an inch and he’ll take seventy-two-and-a-sixth miles. BE PREPARED! ALWAYS READY! A HUGE, SLIMY, SLANT-EYED YELLOW-SKINNED MALE SPORE MAY BE WATCHING YOU THIS VERY MINUTE! And, considering his almo
st demonic ability to wiggle for miles upon miles, you may at this moment be in dire, severe danger! To quote Dry-den: ‘The trumpet’s loud clamor doth call us to arms,’ etc. (And don’t forget, ladies, the handsome prize awarded yearly by Zoobko Products, Incorporated for the greatest number of dead male (sic) spores mailed (pun) to our Callisto factory in an old Irish linen pillow case, attesting to (one) your tenacity in balking the evil damned things and (two) the fact that you’re buying our lather-like goo in one-hundred-pound squirt cans. Also remember: if you are unable to adequately prepare yourself with a generous, expensive portion of Zoobko patented goo in the proper place, ahem, in advance of marital lawful pawing, then merely squirt the spray can with nozzle directed directly into the grimacing fungiform’s ugly face as it hovers six feet high in the air above you. Best range—”
“Best range,” Gregory Gloch said aloud, against the din of the obsessive noise in his ears, “approximately two inches.”
“—‘two inches,’ ” the tinny, mechanical racket reeled off, accompanying him, “ ‘from his eyes. Zoobko’s patented goo is not only—’ ”
“—‘a top-drawer killer of male spores,’ ” Gloch murmured, “ ‘but it also blasts the tear-ducts out of existence. Too bad, fella.’ ” End brochure, he thought. End monolog. End sex. End of Zoobko, or zoob of Endko. Is this an ad or a contemplation of a squandered life? Check one. I know this discourse, he thought. By heart. Why? How? It’s as if, he thought, I said it; as if it’s happening inside my brain—not coming to me from the outside. What does this mean? I have to know.
“Always bear in mind,” the inexorable din continued, “that male spores have an almost appalling capacity to progress under their own power. If, ladies, you constantly ponder that—”
“Appalling, yes,” Gloch said, “But FIVE MILES?” I said all that, he realized. A long time ago. When I was a child. But no, he thought; I didn’t say all that—I thought it, worked it out in my mind, a prank, a lampoon, when I was a kid in school. What’s being piped to me now here in this goddamn chamber, what’s supposed to be rephased sensory-data from the outside world—it’s my own goddamn former thoughts returning to me, a loop from my brain to my brain, with a ten-year lag.
“Splub gnog furb SQUAZ,” the aud input circuit rattled away, into his passive ears. Relentlessly.
My counter-weapon, Gloch thought. They’ve blocked my counter-weapon with a counter-weapon, their own. Who—
“Yes sir, gnog furb,” the aud input circuit declared in a hearty but garbled voice, “this is good ol’ Charley Falks’ little boy Martha signing off for now, but I’ll be back with you soon and with me a few more chuckles to lighten the day and make things SQUAZ! cheery and bright. Toodeloo!” The voice, then, ceased. There was only distant background static, not even a carrier wave.
I don’t know any little boy named Martha, Gloch thought. And, he realized, there’s more wrong; the a-ending is out of the first Latin declension, so “Martha” can’t be a boy’s name. Logically, it would have to be Marthus. Or maybe they didn’t know that; Charley Falks didn’t know that. Probably not well-read. As I recall, from what I saw of Charley he was one of those self-educated simps ignorant as hell on the inside but lathered over on the outside with a thin layer of bits of cultural, scientific, odd, dubious half-facts which he always liked to drone out for hours on end to whoever was listening or if not listening then anyhow in the vicinity and so at least potentially within earshot. And then when he got older you could practically walk off and he’d still be talking, to no one. But then of course I didn’t have my chamber in those days, so my own time-sense was so faulty that what actually lasted only minutes seemed like years; at least that’s what they told me, those ’wash psychiatrists, back in the early days, when they were testing me and setting me up so I could function, getting this chamber designed and built.
I wish for chrissake’s, he thought mournfully, I could remember the concept for the counter-weapon I had in mind or almost had in mind or anyhow think I almost had in mind, before that garbage started coming in over the conduit.
It would have been one hell of a counter-weapon to use against Horst Bertold and the UN. He was sure of that.
Maybe it’ll come back to me later, he reflected. Anyhow strictly speaking it was merely the nucleus of the counter-tactic idea; hardly had begun to grow. Takes time. If I’m not interrupted any further . . . if that dratted rubbish doesn’t start up again promptly the second I begin to really fatten up the original notion into something Herr von Einem can put to use functionally, right out into the field to see action in the overall struggle we’re bogged so darn down in at Whale’s Mouth and wherever else they’re all tangling . . . probably all over the universe by now; I’m probably six weeks behind, with data stored up ready to be fed to me from for instance last Thursday if not last year.
Martha, he thought. Let’s see: “The Last Rose of Summer” is from that. Who wrote it? Flotow? Lehár? One of those light opera composers.
“Hummel,” the aud input circuit suddenly stated, startling him; it was a familiar, dry, aged male voice. “Johann Nepomuk Hummel.”
“You’re a goldmine of misinformation,” Gloch said irritably, in response, automatically, to one more of garrulous ol’ Charley Falks’ typical tidbits of wrong knowledge. He was so used to it, so darn, wearily resigned out of long experience. All the way back to his childhood, back throughout the dreary procession of years.
It’s enough to make you wish you were a carpenter, Gloch mused grimly. And didn’t have to think, just measure boards, saw and pound, all that purely physical activity. Then it wouldn’t matter what ol’ Charley Falks blabbled out, or what his pest of a kid Martha chimed in with in addition, for that matter; it didn’t matter who said anything, or what.
Damn nice, he thought, if you could go back and live your life over again from the start. Only this time making it different; getting on the right track for once. A second chance, and with what I know now—
But exactly what did he know now?
For the life of him he couldn’t remember.
“Pun, there,” the voice from the aud circuit commented. “Life of you, life lived over . . . see?” It chuckled.
TWELVE
Within its bow-shaped mouth the half-chewed eyes lay, rolling on the surface of its greedy, licking tongue. Those not completely eaten, those which still shone with luster, regarded him as they rolled slightly; they continued to function, although no longer fixed to the bulbed, oozing exterior surface of the head. New eyes, like tiny pale eggs, had already begun to form, he perceived. They clung in clusters.
He was seeing it. Not a deformed, half-hallucinated, pseudo-image, but the actual presence of the underlying substrate-entity which inhabited or somehow managed to lodge itself in this paraworld for long periods of time—possibly forever, he realized with a shudder. Possibly for the total, absolute duration of its existence.
That might be a time-span of such magnitude as to smother any rational insight; he intuited that. The thing was old. And it had learned to feed on itself. He wondered how many centuries had passed before it had encountered that method of survival. He wondered what else it had tried first—and what it still resorted to, when necessary.
There were undoubtedly a number of techniques which it could make use of, when pressed. This act of consuming its own sensory-apparatus . . . it appeared to be a reflex act, not even consciously done. By now a mere habit; the creature chewed monotonously, and the luster within the still-watching half-consumed eyes was extinguished. But already the new ones expanding in clusters against the outer surface of the head had begun to acquire animation; several, more advanced in development than the others, had in a dim way discovered him and were with each passing second becoming more alert. Their initial interchange with reality involved him, and the realization of this made him sick with disgust. To be the first object sighted by such semi-autonomous entities—
Hoarsely, its voice thickened by the mouthful which it
still continued to chew, the creature said, “Good morning. I have your book for you. Sign here.” One of its pseudopodia convulsed and its tip lathered in a spasm which, after an interval, fumbled forth a bulky old-style bound-in-boards volume which it placed on a small plastic table before Rachmael.
“What—book is this?” he demanded, presently. His mind, numbed, refused to interfere as his fingers poked haphazardly at the handsome gold-stamped book which the creature had presented him.
“The fundamental reference source in this survey instruction,” the cephalopodic organism answered as it laboriously filled out a long printed form; it made use of two pseudopodia and two writing instruments simultaneously, enormously speeding up the intricate task. “Dr. Bloode’s great primary work, in the seventeenth edition.” It swiveled the book, to show him the ornate spine. “The True and Complete Economic and Political History of Newcolonizedland,” it informed him, in a severe, dignified tone of voice, as if reproving him for his unfamiliarity with the volume. Or rather, he realized suddenly, as if it assumed that the title would have overpowering influences alone, without additional aid.
“Hmm,” he said, then, still nonplussed—to say the least. And he thought, It can’t be, but it is. Paraworld—which? Not precisely as it had manifested itself before; this was not Blue, because his glimpse of that, ratified by the other weevils, had contained a cyclopsic organism. And this, for all its similarity to the Aquatic Horror-shape, had by reason of its compound multi-eye system a fundamentally different aspect.
Could this actually be the authentic underlying reality? he wondered. This macro-abomination that resembled nothing ever witnessed by him before? A grotesque monstrosity which seemed, as he watched it devour and consume—to its evident satisfaction—the remainder of its eyes, almost a parody of the Aquatic Horror-shape?