“Oh. Yes, Herr von Einem.” The voice had a vague quality about it, a preoccupation; Greg Gloch heard, but did not really seem able to focus his faculties. “I was . . . um . . . daydreaming or . . . some darn thing. Ummp!” Gloch noisily cleared his throat. “What, ah, can I, eh, do for you, sir? Um?”
“Who’s that constantly addressing you, Greg? That irritating voice which impedes every attempt you make to perform your assigned tasks?”
“Oh. Well. I believe—” For almost an entire minute Gloch remained silent; then, at last, like a rewound toy, he managed to continue. “Seems to me he identified himself as Charley Falks’ little boy Martha. Yes; I’m certain of it. Ol’ Charley Falks’ little boy—”
“Das kann nicht sein,” von Einem snarled. “It simply can’t be! No one’s little boy is named Martha; das weis’ Ich ja. ” He lapsed into brooding, introverted contemplation, then. A conspiracy, he decided. And one that’s working. Our only recourse is the homotropic weapon released to follow the carrier wave of this deceptive transmission back to its source; I hope it is already in motion.
Grimly, he strode back to the command key, punched it down.
“Yes, Herr Doktor.”
“The homotropic foil; has it—”
“On its way, sir,” the technician informed him brightly. “As you instructed; released before indent.” The technician added in a half-aside, “I do hope, sir, that it’s not someone you have positive inclinations toward.”
“It can’t be,” von Einem said, and released the key with an abiding sense of satisfaction. But then an alternate—and not so pleasing—thought came to him. The homotropic foil, until it reached its target, could act as a dead giveaway regarding its own origin. If the proper monitoring equipment were put in use—or already had been put in functioning condition—then the foil would accomplish a handy, quick task for the enemy: it would tell him—or both of them—where the disruptive signal entitling itself “ol’ Charley Falks’ little boy Martha” et cetera had gone . . . gone and accomplished vast damage in respect to von Einem and THL in general.
I wish Herr Ferry were immediately here, von Einem growled to himself gloomily; he picked at a poison-impregnated false tooth mounted in his upper left molars, wondering if the time might come when he would be required by obtaining conditions to do away with himself.
But Theodoric Ferry busied himself at this moment preparing for a long-projected trip via Telpor to Whale’s Mouth. A most important journey, too, inasmuch as there he would complete the formulation of contemplated final schemes: this was the moment in which the vise of history would clamp shut on the unmen such as Rachmael ben Applebaum and his doxie Miss Holm—not to mention Herr Glazer-Holliday, who might in fact well already be now dead . . . or however it was phrased.
“There,” von Einem mused, “is a no-good individual, that Matson person, that slobbering hyphenater.” His disgust—and satisfaction at either the already-accomplished or proposed taking-out of Glazer-Holliday—knew no limit; both emotions expanded like a warm, unclouded sun.
On the other hand, what if Weiss and Lupov managed to obtain the reverse trace on the homotropic foil now dispatched them-wards? An unease-manufacturing thought, and one which he still did not enjoy. Nor would he until the manifold success of the foil had been proclaimed.
He could do nothing but wait. And meanwhile, hope that Herr Ferry’s journey to Whale’s Mouth would accomplish all that it entertained. Because the import of that sally remained uncommonly vast—to say the least.
In his ear the monitor covering aud transmissions entering Gloch’s anti-prolepsis tank whined, “Say, you know? An interesting sort of game showed up among us kids the other day; might interest you. Thingisms, it’s called. Ever hear of it?”
“No,” Gloch answered, briefly; his retort, too, reached the listening Herr von Einem.
“Works like this. I’ll give you this example; then maybe you can think up a few of your own. Get this: ‘The hopes of the woolen industry are threadbare.’ Haw haw haw! You get it? Woolen, threadbare—see?”
“Umm,” Gloch said irritably.
“And now, little ol’ Greg,” the voice intoned, “how ’bout a Thingism from you’all? Eh?”
“Keerist,” Gloch protested, and then was silent. Obviously he had directed his thoughts along the requested direction.
This must stop, von Einem realized. And soon.
Or Theo Ferry’s trip to Whale’s Mouth is in jeopardy.
But why—he did not know; it was an unconscious insight, nothing more. As yet. Even so, however, he appreciated its certitude: beyond any doubt his appraisal of the danger surging over them all was accurate.
To the exceedingly well-groomed young receptionist wearing the topless formal dress, a gaggle of dark red Star of Holland roses entwined in her heavy, attractive blonde hair, Theodoric Ferry said brusquely,
“You know who I am, miss. Also, you know that by UN law this Telpor station is inoperative; however, we know better, do we not?” He kept his eyes fixed on her; nothing could be permitted to go wrong. Not at this late date, with each side fully committed to the fracas on the far side of the teleportation gates. Neither he nor the UN had much left to offer; he was aware of this, and he hoped that his analysis of the UN’s resources was not inadequate.
Anyhow—no other direction lay ahead except that of continuation of this, his original program. He could scarcely withdraw now; it would be an immediate undoing of everything so far accomplished.
“Yes, Mr. Ferry,” the attractive, full-breasted—with enlarged gaily lit pasties—young woman responded. “But to my knowledge there’s no cause for alarm. Why don’t you seat yourself and allow the sim-attendant to pour you a warm cup of catnip tea?”
“Thank you,” Ferry said, and made his way to a soft, comfortable style of sofa at the far end of the station’s waiting room.
As he sipped the invigorating tea (actually a Martian import with stimulant properties, not to mention aphrodisiac) Theo Ferry unwillingly made out the complex series of required forms, wondering sullenly to himself why it was that he, even he!, had to do so . . . after all, he owned the entire plant, lock, stock et al. Nevertheless he followed protocol; possibly it had a purpose, and in any case he would be traveling, as usual, under a code name—he had been called “Mr. Ferry” for the last time. Anyhow for a while.
“Your shots, Mr. Hennen.” A THL nurse, middle-aged and severe, stood nearby with ugly needles poised. “Kindly remove your outer garments, please. And put away that cup of insipid catnip tea.” Obviously she did not recognize him; she, a typical bureaucrat, had become engrossed in the cover projected by the filled-out forms. He felt amiable, realizing this. A good omen, he said to himself.
Presently he lay unclothed, feeling conspicuous, now, while three owlish Telpor technicians puttered about.
“Mr. Mike Hennen, Herr,” one of the technicians informed him with a heavy German accent, “please if you will reduce your gaze not to notice the hostile field-emanations; there is a severe retinal risk. Understand?”
“Yes, yes,” he answered angrily.
The ram-head of energy that tore him into shreds obliterated any sense of indignation that he might have felt at being treated as one more common mortal; back and forth it surged, making him shrill with pain—it could not be called attractive, the process of teleportation; he gritted his teeth, cursed, spat, waited for the field to diminish . . . and hated each moment that the force held him. Hardly worth it, he said to himself in a mixture of suffering and outrage. And then—
The terminal surge dwindled and he succeeded in opening his left eye. He blinked. Strained to see.
All three Telpor technicians had vanished. He lay now in a vastly smaller chamber. A pretty girl, wearing a pale blue transparent smock, busied herself strolling back and forth past the entrance-doorway, a hulking hand-weapon at ready. Patrolling in case of UN seizure or attempted seizure, he understood. And sat up, grunting.
“Good morning!??
? the girl said blithely, glancing at him with an expression of amusement. “Your clothing, Mr. Hennen, can be found in one of our little metal baskets; in your case, marked 136552. Now, if you should by any chance find yourself becoming unsteady—”
“Okay,” he said roughly. “Help me to my goddamn feet.”
A moment later, in a side alcove, he had dressed; he gathered together his portable possessions, examined his reflection in a rather dim-with-dust mirror, then strolled out, feeling much better, to confront the prowling girl in the lacy smock.
“What’s a good hotel?” he demanded—as if he did not know. But the pose of being an ordinary neocolonist had to be maintained, even toward this loyal employee.
“The Simpy Cat,” the girl answered; she now studied him intently. “I think I’ve seen you before,” she decided. “Mr. Hennen. Hmm. No, the name is new to me. An odd name; is it Irish?”
“Who knows,” he muttered as he strode toward the door. No time for chitchat, not even with a girl so pretty. Another time, perhaps . . .
“Watch out for Lies, Incorporated police, Mr. Hennen!” the girl called after him. “They’re everywhere. And the fighting—it’s really getting awful. Are you armed?”
“No.” He paused reluctantly at the door. More details.
“THL,” the girl informed him, “would be glad to sell you a small but highly useful weapon which—”
“Nuts to that,” Ferry said, and plunged on outdoors, onto the dark sidewalk.
Shapes, colorless, vast and swift-moving, sailed in every layer of this world. Rooted, he gaped at the new ghastly transformation of the colony which he knew so well. The war; he remembered, then, with a jolt. Well, so it would be for a while. But, startled, he had difficulty once more orienting himself. Good god, how long would this last? He walked a few steps, still attempting to adjust, still finding it impossible; he seemed to sway in an alien sea, a life unanticipated by the environment; he was as strange to it as it to him.
“Yes sir!” a mechanical voice said. “Reading material to banish boredom. Newspaper or paperback book, sir?” The robot ’pape vendor coasted eagerly in his direction; with dismay he observed that its metal body had become corroded and pitted from the discharge of nearby anti-personnel weapons’ fire.
“No,” he said rapidly. “This damn war, here—”
“The latest ’pape will explain it entirely, sir,” the vendor said in a loud braying voice as it pursued him; he peered about hopefully for a flapple-for-hire, saw none, felt keen nervousness: out here on the pavement he remained singularly exposed.
And in my own damn colony planet’s own main hub, he said to himself with aggrieved indignation. Can’t walk my own streets with impunity; have to put on a cammed identity—make it appear I’m some nitwit nonentity named Mike Hennen or whatever . . . he had already virtually lost contact with his false identity, by now, and the loss frankly pleased him. Damn it, he said to himself, I’m the one and only—
At that moment he caught sight of the single main item which the ’pape vendor had to offer. The True and Complete Economic and Political History of Newcolonizedland, he read. By who? Dr. Bloode. Strange, he thought. I haven’t run across that before, and yet I’m in and out of this place all the time.
“I perceive your scrutiny of this remarkable text which I have for sale,” the vendor declared. “This edition, the eighteenth, is exceptionally up-to-date, sir; possibly you’d like to glance through it. No charge for that.” It whipped its copy of the huge book in his direction; reflexively, he accepted it, opened it at random, feeling restless and set-upon but not knowing precisely how to escape the ’pape vendor.
And, before his eyes, a passage dealing with him; his own name leaped up to stun him, to hold and transmute his faculties of attention.
“You, too,” the ’pape vendor announced, “can play a vital role in the development of this fine virgin colonial world with its nearinfinite promise of cultural and spiritual reward. In fact, it is a distinct possibility that you are already mentioned; why not consult the index and thereby scout out your own name? Take a chance, Mr.—”
“Hennen,” he murmured. “Or Hendren; whichever it is.” Automatically obeying the firm promptings of the vendor he turned to the index, glanced up and down the H’s, then realized with a start that he had already been doing exactly that: reading about himself, but under his real name. With a grunt of irritation he swept the useless pages aside, sought his actual, correct name in the index.
After the entry Ferry, Theodoric, he found virtually unending citations; the page he had formerly been reading consisted of but one out of many.
On impulse he chose the first entry, that with the lowest page number.
Early in the morning Theodoric Ferry, chief of the vast economic and political entity Trails of Hoffman Limited, got out of bed, put on his clothes and walked into the living room.
Damned dull stuff, he decided in bewilderment. Is this book full of everything about me? Even the most trivial details? For some strange and obscure reason, this rubbed him the wrong way; once more he sought the index and this time selected a much later entry.
That early evening when Theo Ferry entered the Telpor station under the false code-indent, that of one Mike Hennen, he little glimpsed the fateful events which would in only a short time transpire in his already baroque and twisted
“For godsake,” he complained hoarsely. They already knew; already had hold of his cover name—in fact had had time to print it up and run off this weird book concerning him. Slander! “Listen,” he said severely to the alert ’pape vendor, “my private life is my own business; there’s no valid reason in the galaxy why my doings should be listed here.” I ought to bust this outfit, he decided. Whoever these people are who put together this miserable book. Eighteenth edition? Good lord, he realized; it must have to lack this entry if for no other reason than that I just may be lacking some of these entries about me. In fact it would have to lack this entry if for no other reason than that I just within the last day or so hit on my name-cover.
“One poscred, sir,” the vendor said politely. “And the book becomes yours to keep.”
Gruffly, he handed over the money; the vendor, pleased, wheeled off into the clouds of debris created by the warfare taking place a few blocks off. The book carefully gripped, Theo Ferry sprinted surefootedly for the security of a nearby semi-ruined housing structure; there, crouched down among the fragmented blocks of building-plastic, he once more resumed his intent reading. Fully absorbed in the peculiar text he became totally oblivious to the noises and movements around him; all that existed for him now was the printed page held motionless before his intense scrutiny.
I’m damn near the main character in this tract, he realized. Myself, Matson, that Rachmael ben Applebaum, this girl named Freya something and of course Lupov—naturally Lupov. On impulse he looked up a citation regarding Dr. Lupov; a moment later he found himself engrossed in that particular section of the text, even though admittedly it did not deal with himself at all.
Peering tautly into the small vid screen, Dr. Lupov said to the sharp-featured young man beside him, “Now, is the time, Jaimé. Either Theo Ferry examines the Bloode text or else he never does. If he turns to page one-forty-nine, then we have a real chance of—”
“He won’t,” Jaimé Weiss said fatalistically. “The chances are against it. In my opinion he must somehow be maneuvered very clearly and directly into turning to that one particular page; somehow an instrument or method must be employed which will first of all provide him with that page number out of all possible page numbers, and, when that’s done, somehow his curiosity must
Hands shaking, Theo Ferry leafed through the book to page one hundred and forty-nine. And, compulsively, unblinkingly, studied the text before him.
With a snort of exultation, Jaimé Weiss said, “He did it. Dr. Lupov— I was absolutely right.” Gleefully, he slapped at the series of meters, switches and dials before the two of them. But of course
the ploy had succeeded because of the ’wash psychiatrist’s accurate diagnosis of all the passive factors constellating in Theo Ferry’s psyche. Inability to resist danger . . . the suggestion that it constituted a hazard, his turning to that one page: the very notion that an extreme risk was involved had caused Ferry to thumb frantically in that direction.
He had gone unresistingly to that page—and he would not be coming back out.
“Sir,” one of Lupov’s assistants said suddenly, startling both Weiss and the psychiatrist, “we’ve just picked up something deadly on the scope. A detonation-foil tropic to both of you has passed through the Telpor gate that we made use of to reach Greg Gloch in his chamber.” The man’s face shone pale and damp with fright.
Jaimé Weiss and Dr. Lupov looked at each other wordlessly.
“I would say,” Lupov said presently, his voice shaking, “that everything now depends on how rapidly the foil moves, how accurate it is, and—” He gestured convulsively at the microscreen before them, “—and how long it takes Mr. Ferry to succumb to the ’wash instructions on the page.”
“How long,” Jaimé said carefully, “would you estimate it would take for a man of Ferry’s caliber to succumb?”
After briefly calculating, Lupov said huskily, “At least an hour.”
“Too long,” Jaimé said.
Lupov, woodenly, nodded slowly, up and down.
“If the foil reaches us first,” Jaimé said then, “and takes both of us out, will Ferry’s pattern be altered?” What a waste, he thought; what a dreadful, impossible waste, if not. Everything we set up: the pseudo-worlds, the fake class of “weevils,” everything—with no result. And to be so close, so incredibly close! Again he turned his attention to the small screen; he deliberately forgot everything else. Why not? he asked himself bitterly. After all, there was nothing they could do, now that the defense-foil from von Einem’s lab had passed through the gate and had come here to Fomalhaut IX.