The Lost Perception (17 page)

“I can count,” he shot back angrily. “Are they here—on VJO?”

“I don’t know. If they are, they must be in the hub. I don’t suppose I can blame you if you decide to protect them.”

“I haven’t decided that yet—not finally. I know what the stakes are. And VJO isn’t going to leave this orbit on schedule.”

A smile of approval softened her sober features. “Then you’re going to delay them?”

“I’ll foul up something at the last minute—make it look authentic so I’ll have a good excuse.”

She paced in the small, cleared area near the door. “If you could only escape! Then they wouldn’t be able to move the station.”

“I couldn’t leave—not while they have Helen and Bill.”

She turned anxiously toward him. “There’s a shuttle berth in the hub! If there’s a ship in dock, and if your friends are there too…”

Andelia started as a key grated in the door’s lock.

Gregson lunged behind a crate.

The door opened and a Guardsman stepped in and closed it behind him.

His back to Gregson, he confronted the Valorian girl. “Radcliff says you’re excess gear and I’m to do something about it.”

The crimson flash of his pencil-beam laser pistol stabbed into the dimly lit room and Andelia fell clutching the wound in her chest where the fatal ray had sliced through both of her hearts.

Enraged with himself because he had not expected the brutal slaying and had been unprepared to stop it, Gregson leaped out at the Guardsman and dropped him with a vicious chop across the nape.

While the man writhed from the paralyzing effects of the blow, Gregson recovered the weapon and directed its beam back and forth across the guard’s body. It wasn’t until the lethal ray weakened considerably that he realized he was wasting its charge.

Then, pocketing the gun, he stepped into the corridor.

Time for accommodating the bureau was over. The issue had been forced. For there would be no one to suspect except himself when the two bodies were eventually discovered.

He
had
to act now. And his first move must be to determine whether Bill and Helen
were
in the hub, how closely they were being guarded, whether a shuttle craft
was
docked there.

He struck out for the nearest radial-shaft elevator.

Ascending along the spoke toward the nave, he checked the pistol’s charge indicator and saw that the beam would no longer be of lethal intensity.

Slowly his weight decreased until it was only the calculated, gradual acceleration of the elevator that kept his feet on the floor. When the red light flashed, he gripped the horizontal changeover bar. The cage decelerated gently and his body pivoted around the bar in a half somersault until he was standing on the ceiling.

The elevator nestled against its stops and the door slid open. He shoved off into the hub’s peripheral corridor and floated toward the nearest nave entrance. Around the curve, however, he flailed to bring himself to a halt before colliding with the floating body of a Guardsman who had evidently been broad-beamed to death.

Cautiously, he propelled himself from stanchion to stanchion until he reached the entrance. Inside, illumination was sparse. Structural girders cast broad shadows against cylindrical walls. In the axial bulkhead an air lock was irised open around the sleek nose of a coal-black shuttle craft whose hatch was ajar and whose hull was studded with radar impulse-deflection discs.

And then he spotted the station’s rault suppressor—a huge concentration of electronic components anchored by guy wires and trailing off cables to a power box in the bulkhead.

But there were three men drifting around the stygumness generator, pads and inscribers in hand. They paused occasionally, glanced at components and made either notations or sketches.

Gregson pulled himself along an I-beam, approaching for a closer look. But his shoulder came in contact with a floating laser pistol which he hadn’t seen. The weapon rebounded and clanked against a structural member. Instantly the three men twisted around.

The closest was Wellford.

Reflexively, he loosed a laser discharge that was accurately aimed despite his awkward attitude.

Sirens squealed throughout Vega Jumpoff as thick-gasketed hatches thudded shut, sealing off the section whose major air leakage had tripped the alarm. Moments earlier a tremor had jarred the entire station. And spin control jets had labored to reestablish the centrifugal constant.

But it was half an hour before reports began filtering through. Meanwhile, Radcliff scrutinized the screens. In orbit a mile from VJO, one of the telesensors was sending back pictures of a gaping hole in the outer ring.

Eventually the intercom squawked: “Damage restricted to Shuttle Traffic Control. The whole section’s wiped out.”

“Meteor?” the Security Bureau director asked.

“Hardly. The object’s velocity was slow enough to leave a peelback in the outer skin at the points of entry and exit.”

Radcliff suspected it had been a missile—until another station reported: “Shuttle craft SC-142 missing from its mooring.”

Then, shortly thereafter: “The suppressor sentry’s been killed!”

“Locate Gregson,” Radcliff ordered all stations. “Bring him here.”

But, in turn, each station acknowledged Gregson was nowhere to be found. By then, Karen had arrived to report he was not with her.

And the intercom rasped, “Twisted wreckage two thousand miles planetward—in reentry trajectory. Looks like it might be the SC-142.”

Radcliff was reasonably certain of what had happened: Gregson had found a spacesuit, slain a guard, propelled himself to the shuttle and sent it crashing through Vega Jumpoff in a suicidal plunge.

When Gregson regained consciousness, he raised an enfeebled hand to his throbbing head.

“Really, Greg, this is becoming rather tiresome—broad-beaming you and having to wait for you to come around.”

Wellford was straddling a chair, his arms curved around its back rest.

Lying on the floor, Gregson surveyed walls of unfinished wood, with light seeping through slots where sheathing failed to meet.

“If you’re trying to zylph…” Wellford began.

“I know,” Gregson scoffed.
“You’ve
already zylphed
me.
But, since then, the area’s been shielded by a rault suppressor.”

“Quite true. Or rather, almost. We have individual suppressors for each person, each structure, each piece of equipment Yours is in your coat pocket.”

Gregson stared out the window. There were trees everywhere, with but few clearings.

Beyond, distant mountain spurs. A shack here and there. Camouflage netting was provided in spots where overhead foliage was thin. He could see three Space Division shuttles—two gleaming like silver, the other coal-black and profusely equipped with radar impulse-deflection antennae. “Where are we?” he asked.

“I don’t suppose it would be too hazardous to answer that one. In the Austrian Alps.”

Gregson stood up and swore. “I’ve been a damned fool. At the castle I thought you were conditioned by the Valorians and…”

“I can appreciate how you felt. And I’m quite sorry for all those ambiguous circumstances. I regret my oversight, of course. And I zylphed that you’ve realized
your
errors.”

“Mine cost us Andelia.”

“Yes, I know. But we were all responsible, in a sense.”

Gregson went over to the window. “Andelia thought you were working on a major attack plan.”

“Of course we are. And, by making it possible for us to pluck you off VJO, you’ve helped us along considerably.”

“How so?”

“They were going to start bringing the station down tonight. That didn’t give us enough time to act. But now that they don’t have you to pull off then—orbital maneuver, they’ll be delayed. And we shall have time for our move.” “What move?”

The Englishman hunched his shoulders. “Sorry, but I can’t divulge it. Andelia explained why not.”

Gregson could understand his elimination from strategy planning. After all, he did seem to have a propensity for winding up first on one side, then on the other.

But Wellford placed a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t feel excluded. Let me say this: Now that we have you with us, you’ll be expected to play a vital part in the execution of our plan.”

A Valorian appeared in the doorway, motioning toward a peak. “Remanu has just zylphed that Space Division ship in low orbit.”

“Very well,” the Englishman said. “Tell him to keep his zylphing at a minimum. And make certain everything is fully shielded.”

After the Valorian had gone, Gregson motioned toward the three space craft. “You’re probably planning an attack on VJO. But don’t you think Radcliff’ll be prepared after your raid last night?”

“I’d be most surprised if he even knew we were there. We did nothing to the suppressor except study it. And, as for your being spirited away, we managed excellent coverup work on that, seizing one of their moored ships and setting it to home in on Shuttle Control.”

Wellford explained how it had been done and concluded with, “So you see, as far as Radcliff is concerned, you are both the murderer of two of his guards and a martyr to your own cause.”

Gregson had to admire the other’s ingenuity and thoroughness. “Did you get your message off at the castle?”

“We finished the transmitter and watched its subspace antenna sniff out the precise direction in terms of equinormal space orientation. Then the bureau hopper swooped down. We fed in the taped message and ruddy well got out of there. But there was time for the message to be dispatched before the castle was destroyed.”

“Then there’ll be an armed Valorian force here to help out?”

“Indeed not. They wouldn’t step in and upset an established government—no matter how it had established itself. That’s our own business, although they’re not above giving us counsel.”

“Then what
was
the purpose of the message?”

“If we, as humans, can smash the conspiracy, we may expect all the technical personnel and equipment we shall need for setting up clinics and ushering our people into rault sensitivity—painlessly.”

After a moment Wellford added, “And, on that score, it appears you are still somewhat skeptical over the Valorians’ ability to bring an average person through the Screamies in three weeks.”

Gregson shook his head. “It isn’t easy to believe—not after what you and I went through for two years in isolation. Besides, you said you hadn’t heard of anyone who’d been successfully treated.”

“I hadn’t, at the time. But I’d been out of touch with our other bases for weeks.”

“Then there
are
people who’ve come through the barrier in that short a period?”

“Quite a number.”

Its roar muffled by foliage, the long-range hopper verticaled down through a break in the trees and came to rest less than a hundred yards from the window. The pilot and two passengers started down the ramp. One, stout and elderly, groped along the rail, a hand extended before him and resting upon the shoulder of a young woman who led the way.

Gregson strained forward. Helen and her uncle!

Wellford chuckled in amusement. “You see, Radcliff never had them. He knew you had no information on their whereabouts, so he could well afford to pretend they were his prisoners.”

“But how…?”

“The Valorians, too, have made a point of searching for anyone capable of orderly self-introduction to hyperperception. They rounded up Forsythe and his niece less than a month ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know about it myself until after we left the castle.”

Gregson shouted and waved to Helen, then bolted for the door.

But Wellford trapped his arm. “It occurs to me that you should welcome our general prohibition against zylphing.”

“What do you mean?”

The other shrugged. “Really, your behavior was quite normal. Can’t say I shouldn’t have reacted in the same manner myself. But sometimes the male perspective isn’t quite understood outside the sex.”

“I still don’t…”

“Night before last—on VJO—Karen. I shouldn’t imagine Helen would appreciate zylphing what went on.”

“Oh.” Gregson started out again, but less enthusiastically.

Then he stopped in the doorway and spun around. “Helen—zylphing?”

“But of course. She’s proof that Valorians can administer the treatment in three weeks. She’s not nearly a perfect zylpher. But she can do as well as you or I.”

Moments later Helen’s arms were around Gregson’s neck and he whirled her about in order to clasp Bill’s blindly extended hand.

“We were so excited when we heard about you this morning!” she exclaimed, anxiously scanning his face.

“So you were a prisoner aboard Vega Jumpoff,” Forsythe observed. “Must have had a rough time.”

While Gregson muttered an inadequate reply, Wellford offered guardedly, “Greg endured—ah, experiences above and beyond the call of duty. To say more would contribute only to his embarrassment.”

“Oh, Greg!” Helen sympathized. “It must have been awful!”

“But,” Wellford continued, “I’m sure he bore up bravely, sustained by the misapprehension that you were hostages and that whatever he—ah, endured was in your interest.”

They walked toward the shack while Helen clung to Gregson’s arm. She had on synthetic slacks and her light hair seemed even softer than the cashmere pullover she now wore.
She
was attractive too, but in a different, more enduring and subtler manner than Karen.

Just then a Valorian came out of the shack, carrying a compact radio transceiver.

“Remanu has just zylphed three Security Bureau hoppers high in the atmosphere. They seem to be combing the Alps.”

After supper, Gregson and Helen sat on the steps of the shack while Forsythe stood in the doorway smoking his pipe.

In the twilight there was much bustle around the carbon-black shuttle craft. Personnel swarmed over its hull, using sparking electrical instruments to restore the sootlike coating.

Activity about the other two shuttles was swift-paced too. Recesses in their slender, shining hulls were being fitted with heavy laser weapons.

“What’s going on out there now, Greg?” Forsythe asked.

Gregson described the scene. When he had finished, Helen laughed and admonished her uncle, “If you’re thinking of turning off your suppressor again, I’ll call Wellford right over.”

“I won’t,” he said forlornly after a moment.

And Gregson understood then what zylphing meant to Forsythe. Being doomed to blindness was no particular inconvenience—not when hypersensitivity was like a super light.

This new form of perception was a godsend to him. But what about everybody else?

Helen hooked her arm in his. “What are you thinking about?”

“Whether we
need
hyperperception. We got along all right without it.”

“We got along, maybe,” Forsythe rejoined, “but only if you consider an endless history of war and crime, hatred and oppression as being desirable.”

“What do you mean?”

Helen explored his eyes. “Don’t you see what rault sensitivity
really
means? No one will ever again be an island. Each mind will be open. No harmful thought can ever be assured privacy. There’ll be no duplicity, no treachery, or lying, or secrets.”

Gregson recalled that even an instructor at Versailles had philosophically explored “a society in which everyone zylphed,” and had concluded there would be no sanctuary in private thought.

“It will be a different world, won’t it,” he said. “Well have to learn to accommodate one another, be tolerant, understanding, helpful.”

Wellford came over from the blackened shuttle craft and propped a foot on the bottom step. “I didn’t notice when I zylphed you last night, Greg, but—tell me about Vega Jumpoff’s Earth Communications. Is it still in operating condition?”

Gregson nodded. “I checked it out last week.”

“Then it’s evidently a vital part of Radcliff’s strategy.”

“Very vital. First—the end of the Screamies. Second—world-wide military consolidation. Third—the conspiracy comes out into the open, using Earth Communications as its voice of authority.”

Suddenly there was the distant sound of a long-range hopper cleaving low, dense atmosphere.

“One of ours?” Forsythe asked anxiously.

“No,” Wellford said, listening. The roar trailed off into the murky silence of nightfall.

Later, because the evening was quiet and pleasant and because the ah—carried only a negligible chill, Gregson walked hand in hand with Helen toward a clearing south of the shuttle ships.

At the edge of the glade she sat upon a low, broad outcropping, leaning back on straightened arms and tilting her face upward. Crisp starlight seemed to sparkle in her hair, just as snowflakes had once done on a cold Pennsylvania day.

Gregson lighted a cigarette. To the southwest, halfway to the zenith, a pale point of light wheeled solemnly among the stars—VJO. He checked the illuminated dial of his watch.

Within a few hours the station would be sweeping into Earth’s umbra.

He thrust his hand into his pocket and encountered the metal casing of his rault suppressor, feeling the warmth of its glowing red bulb. Suddenly convinced that the night was too tranquil to conceal lurking peril, he turned the instrument’s knob all the way off.

And at once he was conscious of the great flood of hyper-radiance that bathed everything in the vicinity. Only Helen was indiscernible. Even though he could still see her sitting upon the rock, she was nowhere to be zylphed. For her suppressor left an almost imperceptible vacuum in his area of glial perception.

All around, optical darkness persisted but, hypervisually, the emanations from Chandeen were undiminished in intensity. He zylphed the details of the forest. And he was aware of each individual tree and every leaf upon all the branches, the roosting birdlife and dormant insects, the larger animals that slept hidden in the underbrush.

He let his perception sweep outward to celestial range and took in, simultaneously, all the stars of the Galaxy and the great nebulae and clusters and immense suns that were gorging themselves on the free hydrogen of the regions through which they drifted.