A functioning Telpor station.
She peered. And, gathering in the dense haze that occluded her sight, she made out what normally would have passed for—and beyond any doubt had been designed deliberately to pass for—a mediocre construct: a peripatetic bathroom. It appeared to have landed nearby, undoubtedly to give aid and comfort to some passerby; its gay, bright neon sign winked on and off invitingly, displaying the relief-providing slogan:
UNCLE JOHN’S LI’L HUT-SUT
An ordinary sight. And yet, according to the meter at her belt, not a peripatetic bathroom at all but one end of a von Einem entity, set down here at Newcolonizedland and working away full blast; the recorded line-surge appeared to be maximum, not minimum. The station could not be more fully in operation.
Warily, she made her way toward it. Heavy gray haze, a diffuse mass of drifting airborne debris, surrounded her as she entered Uncle John’s Li’l Hut-Sut station, passed down the quaintly archaic wrought-iron staircase and into the cool, dimly lit chamber marked LADIES.
“Five cents, please,” a mechanical voice said pleasantly.
In a reflexive gesture she handed the nonexistent attendant a dime; her change rolled down a slot to her and she pocketed it with absolutely no interest. Because, ahead of her, two bald women sat in adjoining stalls, conversing in deep, guttural German.
She drew her sidearm and said to them as she pointed the pistol at them, “Hände hoch, bitte.”
Instantly one of the two figures yanked at the handle nearest her—or more accurately his—right hand; a roar of rushing water thundered up and lashed at Freya in a sonic torrent which shook her and caused her vision to blur, to become disfigured; the two shapes wavered and blended, and she found it virtually impossible to keep her weapon pointed at them.
“Fräulein,” a masculine voice said tautly, “gib uns augenblicklich dein—”
She fired.
One of the twin indistinct shapes atomized silently. But the alternate Telpor technician hopped, floundered, to one side; he sprang to his feet and bolted off. She followed him with the barrel of her gun, fired once more—and missed. The last shot I’m entitled to, she thought to herself wanly. I missed my chance; I missed getting both of them. And now it’s me.
A current of hot, lashing air burst at her from the automatic wet-hands dryer; she ducked, half-blinded, attempted to fire her small weapon once more—and then, from behind her, something of steel, something not alive but alert and active, closed around her middle. She gasped in fear as it swept her from her feet; twisting, she managed a meager glimpse of it; grotesquely, it was the vanity-table assembly—or rather a homotropic device cammed as a vanity table. Its legs, six of them, had fitted one into the next, like old-fashioned curtain rods; the joint appendage had extended itself expertly, groped until it encountered her, and then, without the need or assistance of life, had embraced her in a grip of crushing death.
The remaining Telpor technician ceased to duck and weave; he drew himself upright, irritably tossed aside the female garments which he had worn, walked a few steps toward her to watch her destruction. Face twitching eagerly, he surveyed the rapid closure of the vanity-table defense system, oh-ing with satisfaction, his thin, pinched face marred with sadistic delight—pleasure at a well-functioning instrument of murder.
“Please,” she gasped, as the appendage drew her back toward the crypto-vanity table, which now displayed a wide maw in which to engulf her; within it she would be converted to ergs: energy to power the assembly for future use.
“Es tut mir furchtbar leid,” the Telpor technician said, licking his mildly hairy lips with near-erotic delight, “aber—”
“Can’t you do anything for me?” she managed to say, or rather made an attempt to say; no breath remained in her, now, by which to speak. The end, she realized, was close by; it would not be long.
“So schön, doch,” the German intoned, his eyes fixed on her; crooning to himself, he approached closer and closer, swaying in a hypnotic dance of physiological sympathy—physical but not emotional correspondence, his body—but not his mentality—responding to what was rapidly happening to her as the tapered extension of the vanity table drew her back to engulf her.
No one, she realized. Nothing. Rachmael, she thought; why is it that—and then her thoughts dimmed. Over. Done. She shut her eyes, and, with her fingers, groped for the destruct-trigger which would set off a high-yield charge implanted subdermally; better to die by means of a merciful Lies, Incorporated Selbstmort instrument placed within her body for her protection than by the cruel THL thing devouring her piecemeal . . . as the final remnant of awareness departed from her, she touched the trigger—
“Oh no, miss,” a reprimanding voice said, from a distance away. “Not in the presence of a guided tour.” Sounds, the near-presence of people—she opened her eyes, saw descending the stairs of the women’s room a gang of miscellaneous persons: men and women and children, all dressed well, all solemnly scrutinizing her and the remaining Telpor technician, the vanity table with its metal arm engaged in dragging her to her death . . . my god, she realized. I’ve seen this on TV, on transmissions from Whale’s Mouth!
It can’t be, Freya Holm said to herself. This is part of the ersatz reality superimposed for our benefit. Years of this hoax—still? This is impossible!
Yet—here it was, before her eyes. Not on TV but in actuality.
The tour guide, with armband, in carefully pressed suit, continued to eye her reprovingly. Being killed before the eyes of a guided tour; it’s wrong, she realized. True; she agreed. You’re absolutely correct. Thinking that, she found herself sobbing hysterically; unable to cease she shut her eyes, took a deep, unsteady breath.
“I am required to inform you, miss,” the guide stated, his voice now wooden and correct, “that you are under arrest. For causing a disturbance interfering with the orderly unfolding of an official, licensed White House tour. I am also required to inform you that you are in custody as of this moment, without written notice, and you are to be held without bail until a Colony Municipal Court can, at a later date, deal with you.” He eyed the Telpor technician coldly and with massive suspicion. “Sir, you appear to be involved in this matter to some extent.”
“In no way whatsoever,” the Telpor technician said at once.
“Then,” the guide said, as his herded group of sightseers gawked, “how do you explain your unauthorized presence here in the ladies’ section of this Uncle John’s Li’l Hut-Sut station?”
The Telpor technician shrugged, flushing crimson.
“A Thingism,” the guide said in an aside to Freya. “He flushes at his presence in a comfort station.” He sniggered, and the group of sightseers laughed to various degrees. “I hold this job,” the guide informed Freya as he expertly unfastened her from the manual extension of the pseudo vanity table, “for good reason; my wit delights the multitude.”
The Telpor technician said sullenly, “Thingismtry is degenerate.”
“Perhaps,” the guide admitted. He steadied Freya as the vanity table reluctantly released her; in a gentlemanly way he assisted her away from the feral device and over to his throng. “But it helps pass the dull hours away; does it not?” He addressed his tame collection of sightseers.
They nodded obediently, the men eyeing Freya with interest; she saw, now, that her blouse had been neatly shredded by the arm of the vanity table, and, with numb fingers, she gathered it about her.
“No need of that,” the guide said softly in her ear. “A bit of exposed female bosom also helps pass the dull hours.” He grinned at her. “Hmm,” he added, half to himself. “I wouldn’t be surprised if President Jones wanted to interview you personally. He takes a grave interest in matters of this sort, these civil disturbances which upset the orderly—”
“Please just get me out of here,” Freya said tightly.
“Of course.” The guide led her to the stairs. Behind them, the Telpor technician was ignored. “But I don’t think you can
avoid spending a few moments with the august President of Whale’s Mouth, in view of—or perhaps I should say because of—the anatomy which you reveal so—”
“President Omar Jones,” Freya said, “does not exist.”
“Oh?” The guide glanced at her mockingly. “Are you certain, miss? Are you truly ready to invite a little of Dr. Lupov’s S.A.T. to remedy a rather disordered little feminine mental imbalance? Eh?”
She groaned. And allowed the guide to escort her and the group of sightseers up the stairs, out of Uncle John’s Li’l Hut-Sut comfort station and onto the surface of—Newcolonizedland.
“I’d like to have your complete, legal name, miss,” the guide was murmuring to her; he now held a book of forms in his left hand and a pen in his right. “Last name first, please. And if you have any i.d. on you I’d be much obliged to see that, too. Ah, Miss Freya Holm.” He glanced at her wallet, then at her face, with a totally new expression. I wonder what that means, Freya wondered.
She had an intuition that she would soon know.
And it would not be pleasant.
At the top of the stairs two agents of Trails of Hoffman Limited met her and the guide, expertly relieved the guide of his self-assumed responsibilities.
“We’ll take her from here on in,” the taller of the two THL agents explained curtly to the guide; he took Freya by the shoulder and led her, with his companion, toward a parked official-looking oversize flapple.
The guide, perplexed, looking after them, murmured, “Gracious.” And then returned to his customary duties; he herded his group off in the other direction, circumspectly minding his own business; the expression on his face showed all too well that he recognized that somehow he had strayed out of his depth. His discomfort at unexpectedly encountering the two THL agents seemed to Freya almost as great as her own . . . and her awareness of the lethal aspect of THL grew with this recognition—in fact burgeoned into overwhelming immensity.
Even here, on Fomalhaut IX—the power, the dull, metallic size of THL was matched by nothing else; the great entity stood alone, without a real antagonist. And here the UN failed to manifest its own authority. Or so, she reflected somberly, it would seem.
The contest between Horst Bertold and Theo Ferry seemed to have resolved itself before genuinely getting underway; fundamentally it was no contest at all. And Theo Ferry, more than anyone else, knew it.
Beyond any doubt.
“Your operations here,” she told the two THL agents, “are absolutely illegal.” And, having announced this, she felt the utter futility of mere words. How could an empty statement abolish THL, or for that matter, even these two minor instruments of its authority? The futility of the struggle seemed to her, at this instant, beyond compare; she felt her verve, her energy quotient, wither.
Meanwhile, the two THL agents led her rapidly toward their parked motor-on flapple.
When the flapple had achieved reasonable altitude, one of the THL agents produced a large hardbound volume, examined it, then passed it to his companion, who, after an interval, then abruptly handed it to Freya.
“What’s this?” she demanded. “And where are we going?”
“You may be interested in this,” the taller agent informed her. “I think you’ll find it well worth your time. Go ahead; open it.”
With almost occult suspicion, Freya studied the cover. “An economic history of Newcolonizedland,” she said, with distaste. More of the propaganda, lurid and false, of the irreal president’s regnancy, she realized, and started to hand it back. The agent, however, refused to accept the book; he shook his head curtly. And so, with reluctance, she opened to the back, glanced with distaste over the index.
And saw her own name.
“That’s right,” the tall THL agent said with a smirk. “You’re in it, Miss Holm. So’s that fathead, ben Applebaum.”
She turned pages and saw that it was so. Will this tell me, she wondered, what’s happened to Rachmael? Finding the page reference, she at once turned to it. Her hands shook as she read the startling passage.
“What way?” Rachmael demanded, lifting his eyes from the page and confronting the creature before him. “You mean become like you?” His body cringed; he retreated physically from even the notion of it, let alone its presence here before him.
“Good lord,” Freya said. And read intently on.
“All flesh must die,” the eye-eater said, and giggled.
Aloud, Freya said, “ ‘The eye-eater.’ ” Chilled, she said to the two THL agents, “What’s that? In the name of god—”
“Is that in there?” the shorter of the two agents asked his companion; he appeared displeased. Reaching out, he suddenly retrieved the book; at once he put it away out of sight. “It was a mistake to let her see it,” he told his companion. “She knows too much now.”
“She doesn’t know a damn thing,” his companion said.
Freya said, “Tell me. What is the ‘eye-eater’? I have to know.” Her breath caught in her throat; raggedly, she managed to breathe, but with difficulty.
“A fungiform,” the taller of the THL agents said briefly. “One that resides here.” He said nothing further.
“Is Rachmael alive?” she demanded. At least she knew one thing. Rachmael was here at Whale’s Mouth, and that she had not, up until this instant, realized.
The shorter agent was correct. She had learned too much. At least, too much for their purpose. But for hers—hardly enough.
“Yeah,” the taller agent conceded. “He came looking for you.”
“And found it,” the other said.
For a time there was silence. The flapple droned on—heaven only knew where.
“If you don’t tell me where you’re taking me,” Freya said levelly, “I’m going to destruct myself.” Her fingers already touched the trigger at her waist; she waited, eyes fixed on the two men with her in the oversize flapple. Several moments passed. “The UN,” she said, “equipped me with this—”
“Get her,” the taller THL agent rasped; instantly he and his companion leaped toward her, clawing.
“Let me go,” she choked; her fingers, torn from the trigger, dug into their clutching hands. I couldn’t do it, she realized; I couldn’t activate the darn mechanism. Weariness filled her as she felt their hands rip loose the destruct mechanism, tear it apart, then drop it into the waste slot of the flapple.
“It would have destroyed all of us,” the taller agent gasped as he and his companion confronted her accusingly, with indignation mixed with apprehension; she had genuinely frightened them by her near-suicide. As far as they knew, it had been close, very close. But actually she could not have done it at all.
The man’s companion muttered, “We better consult the book. See what it says; assuming of course it says anything.” Together the two of them pored over the book, ignoring her; Freya, with trembling fingers, lit a cigarette, stared sightlessly through the window at the ground below.
Trees . . . houses. Exactly as the TV screen had promised. Jolted, she thought, Where’s the garrison state? Where’s the war I saw? The battle I was a part of, only a little while ago?
It made no sense.
“We were fighting,” she said at last.
Startled, the THL agents glanced at her, then at one another. “She must have gotten into one of the paraworlds,” one said presently to his companion; they both nodded in attentive agreement. “Silver? White? I forget which Lupov calls it. Not The Clock, though.”
“And not Blue,” the other agent murmured. Again the two of them returned to the large hardbound book; again they ignored her.
Strange, Freya thought. It made no sense. And yet the two THL agents appeared to understand. Will I ever know? she asked herself. And if so, will it be in time?
Several worlds, she realized. And each of them different. And—if they’re looking in that book, not to see what has happened but to see what will happen . . . then it must have something to do with time.
Time-travel. The U
N’s time-warpage weapon.
Evidently Sepp von Einem had gotten hold of it. The senile old genius and his disturbed proleptic protégé Gloch had altered it, god only knew how. But effectively; that much was obvious.
The flapple began to descend.
Glancing, she saw below them a large ship moored by its tail, in flight position, poised to ascend at any moment; in fact, wisps of fuel-vapor trickled from its rear. A big one, she decided; it belonged to someone of importance. Possibly President Omar Jones. Or—
Or worse.
She had a good idea that it was not Omar Jones’ ship—even if such a person existed. Undoubtedly the ship belonged to Theo Ferry. And, as she watched the ship grow, a bizarre idea occurred to her. What if the Omphalos had been beaten, years ago, in its flight from the Sol system to Fomalhaut? This ship, huge and menacing, with its pitted gray hull . . . certainly it did have the sullied, darkened appearance of a much-utilized vessel; had it, at some earlier time, crossed deep space between the two star systems?
The ultimate irony. Theo Ferry had made the journey before Rachmael ben Applebaum. Or rather possibly had; she could of course not be sure. But she felt intuitively that Ferry had, all this time, been capable of doing it. So whatever could be learned had long ago—perhaps decades ago—been learned . . . and by the very man whom they had, at all costs, to defeat.
“Better brush your hair,” the taller of the two THL agents announced to her; he then winked—lewdly, it seemed to her—to his companion. “I’m giving you fair warning; you’re going to have an important visitor here in your room in a few minutes.”
Almost unable to speak, Freya said. “This isn’t my room!”
“Bedroom?” Both THL agents laughed in unison, and this time there was no mistaking it; the tone was one of rancid, enormous licentiousness. And, clearly, this appeared to the two men an old story; they both knew precisely what would be happening—not to them but for them to witness; she was overtly conscious of the mood already in progress. They knew what would soon be expected of them . . . and of her. And yet it did not seem to her so much concerned with Theo Ferry as it did with the environment here as a whole; she sensed an underlying wrongness, and sensed further that in some way which she did not comprehend, Ferry was as much a victim of it as she.