Doorways in the Sand (9 page)
"Then it vanished. Either it got mixed in and thrown out with some of the inferior replicas, or it was the one given to us in error. . ."
"To you, to you," I said, "and not in error."
"Paul arrived at this conclusion, too," he continued, ignoring the assignment of guilt. "He panicked, went looking and roughed us up in the process."
"What precipitated his wising up?"
"Someone spotted the ringer and asked him for the real one. When he looked it wasn't there."
"And he got dead."
"You said the two men who questioned you in Australia as much as admitted having done him in as a by-product of questioning him."
"Zeemeister and Buckler. Yes."
"The undercover wombat told you they were hoodlums."
"Doodlehums, but go ahead."
"The UN informed the member nations-which is where the State Department comes into the picture in our case. Somewhere there was a tear in the beanbag, though, and Zeemeister decided to locate the stone first in order to claim a large ransom. Pardon me, a reward."
"It does make a kind of surrealistic sense. Continue."
"So we might have had it and everybody knows it. We don't know where it is, but nobody believes us."
"Who is everybody?"
"UN officials, the Foggy Bottom boys, the doodlehums and the aliens."
"Well, granting that the aliens have been informed and are actually assisting in the investigation, Charv and Ragma become a little more understandable-with their thing about security and all. But then, something else bothers me. They seemed awfully sure that I knew more than I thought I did concerning the stone's whereabouts. They even felt that a telepathic analyst might turn up some useful leads in my subconscious. I wonder what gave them that idea?"
"You've got me there. Perhaps they have eliminated almost everything else. And maybe they are right. It did seem to vanish rather strangely. I wonder. .. ?"
"What?"
"If you do know something useful, something you may have suppressed for some reason? Perhaps a good nontelepathic analyst could drag it out, too. Hypnosis, drugs . . . Who knows? What about that Doctor Marko you used to go to?"
"It's a thought, but it would take a long while to convince him as to the reality of all the preliminaries he'd need to know before he could go to work. Might even think I've lost touch, trank me up and give me the wrong therapy. No. I'll hold off on that angle for now."
"Where does that leave us?"
"Drunk," I said. "My higher cerebral centers all just moved off center."
"Want me make some coffee?"
"No. Consciousness is losing six to nothing and I'd like to retire gracefully. Mind if I sleep on the couch?"
"Go ahead. I'll get you a blanket and a pillow."
"Thanks."
"Maybe we'll have some fresh ideas in the morning," he said, rising.
"Thinking them will be painful, whatever they are," I said, going over to the couch and kicking off my shoes. "Let there be an end to thought. Thus do I refute Descartes."
I sprawled, not a cogito or a sum to my name.
Obliv-
There was a teletype machine in a room at the back of my mind. It had never been used. Within the uncreation where the not-I didn't exist for a peaceful interval of non-time, however, it stuttered and spewed, synthesizing some recipient who resembled myself for purposes of pestering him...
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DO YOU HEAR ME. FRED?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
DO YOU HEAR ME. FRED?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
YES
: : : : : : : : : : : :
GOOD
: : : : : : : : : : : :
WHO ARE YOU?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
I AMXXXXXXXXXXXXX
: : : : : : : : : : : :
DO YOU HEAR ME, FRED?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
YES. WHO ARE YOU?
I AMXXXXXX IXXXXXXXX ARTICLE 7224 SECTION C. I BROUGHT IT TO YOUR ATTENTION
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ALL RIGHT
: : : : : : : : : : : :
CAN YOU OBTAIN AN N-AXIAL INVERSION UNIT?
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NO
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IT IS IMPORTANT
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IT IS ALSO UNDEFINED
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NECESSARY
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WHAT THE HELL IS AN N-AXIAL INVERSION UNIT?
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TIME NAMES CORRESPONDENCESXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX THE RHENNIUS MACHINE. THAT MECHANISM
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I KNOW WHERE IT IS. YES
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GO TO THE RHENNIUS MACHINE. TEST ITS INVERSION PROGRAM
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HOW?
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OBSERVE THE PROGRESSIVE TRANSFORMATIONS OF AN OBJECT PASSED THROUGH ITS MOBILATOR
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WHAT IS A MOBILATOR?
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THE CENTRAL UNIT THROUGH WHICH ITS BELT MOVES
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IMPOSSIBLE TO GET THAT CLOSE TO THE THING. IT IS UNDER GUARD
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VITAL
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WHY?
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TO REFORMULATEXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX TO REFORMXXXXXXXXXXXXX TOXXXXXXXX
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DO YOU HEAR ME. FRED?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
YES
: : : : : : : : : : : :
GO TO THE RHENNIUS MACHINE AND TEST ITS INVERSION PROGRAM
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SUPPOSING I CAN DO IT. WHAT THEN?
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THEN GO AND GET DRUNK
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PLEASE REPEAT
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TEST THE INVERSION PROGRAM AND GO INTOXICATE YOURSELF
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ANYTHING ELSE?
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SUBSEQUENT ACTIONS CONTINGENT UPON UNDETERMINED EVENTS
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WILL YOU DO THIS?
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WHO ARE YOU?
: : : : : : : : : : : :
IXXXXXXXXXXXXXSPEICUSXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXSPEICUSXXXXXXX
XXXXSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXEICUSPEIXXCUSPEXXICUSXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXPECXXXUSPEIXXXXCUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEICUSPEBCUSXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I AM A RECORDINGXXXSPEICUSXXXXXXXXXX I AM A RECORDINGXXXSPEICUSXXXXXXXXXX I AM A RECORDINGXX
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: : : : : : : : : : : :
IT FIGURES
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WILL YOU DO AS I HAVE ASKED?
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WHY NOT?
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YOU INDICATE ASSENT?
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ALL RIGHT, RECORDING. ALL RIGHT. AFFIRMATIVE. I AM PROGRAMMED CURIOUS
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VERY GOOD. THAT THEN IS ALLOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
-ion.
It raineth on the just and the unjust; likewise shineth the sun. I came around with the latter doing that thing, in my eyes, through the front window. And I must have been just-or just lucky-as I was not only unhung over but felt fairly good. I lay there for some time, listening to Hal's snores coming from the other room. Reaching a decision as to who and where I was, I rose and set a pot of coffee to gurgling in the kitchen and went to the bathroom to find some soap and a razor and do some other things.
Later, I had some juice, toast and a couple of eggs, took a cup of coffee back to the living room. Hal was still buzzing. I loafed on the sofa. I lit a cigarette. I drank coffee.
Caffeine, nicotine, the games the blood sugars play-I do not know what it was that pierced the dark bubble as I sat there assembling the morning and myself.
Whatever prompted it, the thing I had gotten in lieu of the usual unsolicited dreams returned to me between a puff and a sip, far clearer than my id-sponsored late late monster shows ever were.
Having decided earlier to accept the peculiar in the proper spirit, I confined my considerations to the matter of content. It made as much sense as any of a number of things I had recently experienced, and possessed the virtue of requiring a positive action on my part at a time when I was weary of being acted upon.
So I folded the blankets and placed them in a neat heap with the pillow on top. I finished my coffee, poured a second cup and turned the pot down to a simmer. I located some writing paper atop a miscellaneous chest of drawers and scrawled a note: "Hal-Thanks. I've a thing I'm off to pursue. It came to me last night. Quite peculiar. Will call in a day or so & let you know what comes of it. Hope everything is happily ever after again by then. -Fred. P.S. The coffee is on." Which covered everything I could think of. I left it on the other end of the sofa.
I got out and headed for the bus station. A long ride lay ahead. I would arrive too late, but the next day I would see the Rhennius machine during normal viewing hours and figure a way to get at it for a private showing later on.
And I did.
Voila! Lincoln stared to my right again and everything else seemed in its proper place. I pocketed the cent, steadied myself, began to climb.
Halfway up, brassy bongs bloomed in my ears, my nervous system came unzipped and my arms turned to putty. The free end of the line was swinging widely. Perhaps it had struck something, or gotten into range of the camera. Academic, whichever.
Moments later, I heard a shouted, "Raise your hands!" which probably came to mind a lot more readily, say, than "Stop climbing that rope and come back down without touching the machine!"
I did raise them, too, rapidly and repeatedly.
By the time he was threatening to shoot, I was across the beam and eying the window. If I could spring, catch hold, pull, vault, pass horizontally through the eighteen inch opening I had left myself and hit the roof rolling, I would have a head start with a variety of high routes before me. I would have a chance.
I tensed my muscles.
"I'll shoot!" he repeated, almost directly beneath me now.
I heard the shot and there was glass in the air as I moved.
Dennis Wexroth didn't say a damn thing. If he had, I might have killed him just then. He stood there with his palms pressed against the wall behind him, a deepening redness about his right eyesocket where it would eventually puff up and go purple. The receiver of his uprooted telephone hung over the edge of the wastebasket where I had buried it.
In my hand was a fancy piece of parchment which told me that ydissaC mahgninnuC kcirederF had received a .ygoloporhtnA ni etarotcoD fo yhposolipP
Fighting for some measure of control, I slipped it back into its envelope and dammed my river of profanity.
"How?" I said. "How could you possibly do such a thing? It... It's illegal!"
"It is perfectly legal," he said softly. "Believe me, it was done under advice."
"We'll just see how that advice holds up in court," I said. "I was never admitted to grad school, I haven't submitted a dissertation, I never took any orals or language exams and no notice was filed. Now you tell me how you justify giving me a Ph. D. I'd really like to know."
"First, you are enrolled here," he said. "That makes you eligible for a degree."
"Eligible, yes. Entitled, no. There is a distinction"
"True, but the elements of entitlement are determined by the administration"
"What did you do? Have a special meeting?"
"As a matter of fact, there was one. And it was determined that enrollment as a full-time student was to be deemed indicative of the intention to take a degree. Consequently, if the other factors were met-"
"I've never completed a major," I said.
"The formal course requirements are less rigid when it comes to the matter of an advanced degree."
"But I never took a B.A.!"
He smiled, thought better of it, erased it.
"If you will read the regulations very carefully," he said, "you will see that nowhere do they state that a baccalaureate is a prerequisite for an advanced degree. A 'suitable equivalent' is sufficient to produce a 'qualified candidate.' They are phrases of art, Fred, and the administration does the construing."
"Even granting that, the dissertation requirement is written into the regs. I've read that part."
"Yes. But then there is Sacred Ground: A Study of Ritual Areas, the book you submitted to the university press. It is sufficiently appropriate to warrant treatment as an anthropology dissertation."
"I've never submitted it to the department for anything."
"No, but the editor asked Dr. Lawrence's opinion of it. His opinion, among other things, was that it would do for a dissertation."
"I'll nail you on that point when I get you in court," I said. "But go on. I'm fascinated. Tell me how I did on my orals."
"Well," he said, looking away, "the professors who would have sat on your board agreed unanimously to waive the orals in your case. You have been around so long and they know you so well that they considered it an unnecessary formality. Besides, two of them were classmates of yours as undergraduates and they felt kind of funny about it."
"I'll bet they did. Let me finish the story myself. The heads of the language departments involved decided I had taken sufficient courses in their respective bailiwicks to warrant their certifying as to my reading abilities. Right?"
"That, basically, is it."
"It was easier to give me a doctorate than a B.A.?"
"Yes, it was."
I wanted to hit him again, but that wasn't the answer. I drove my fist into my palm, several times.
"Why?" I said. "Now I know how you did it, but the really important thing is why." I began to pace. "I've paid this university its tuitions, its fees, for some thirteen years now-a decent little sum when you stop to add things up- and I've never bounced a check here, or anything like that. I have always gotten along well with the faculty, the administration, the other students. Except for my climbing, I've never been in any really serious trouble, done anything to give the place a black eye . . . Pardon me. What I am trying to say is that I've been a pretty decent customer for what you are selling. Then what happens? I turn my back, I go out of town for a little while and you slip me a Ph. D. Do I deserve that kind of treatment after giving you my patronage all this time? I think it was a rotten thing to do and I want an explanation. Now, I want one. Now! Do you really hate me that much?"