Wine of the Dreamers (22 page)

“Is … it over?” Leesa called.

“I think so.”

“What do you see? Quickly!”

“Wait. I must turn the ship. Now I see a sun. Blazing white, Leesa.”

“Their sun, Raul.”

“I’ve seen their sun from Earth. It is yellow, Leesa.”

“Look for the planet.”

He turned the ship. A tiny distant planet was ghostly in the reflected sun glow.

“I see a planet!” he called.

“Take us there, Raul. Quickly. Oh, very quickly.”

Cautiously he made the sound that drove the ship ahead, gave them weight after so many days. He felt the slick movement of the great cylinder which compensated in part for the force of the acceleration on their bodies. He made the sound again and the planet began to grow. He watched it grow, and it did not seem that he could breathe deeply enough.

And then he knew. He did not speak for a long time. He called to her and his voice was old.

“What is it, Raul?”

“The planet has nine moons, Leesa. Theirs has but one.”

In the long silence he heard the muffled sound of her weeping. The planet grew steadily.

“Raul, are we still heading toward it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember your promise?”

“I remember.”

“Close your eyes, Raul. Do not touch the controls. It will be quick, Raul.” Her voice had a curiously haunting quality, as though she were already dead.

He closed his eyes. Resignation. An end of struggle and rebellion. It would have been better to accept, to force belief in the warm, slow world of the Watchers. He thought of Earth. Possibly he had misread the metallic sheets, selected the wrong index. Out of so many millions of numbers, it could easily have been the wrong one.

Bard Lane and Sharan Inly would never be able to convince Earth that the Watchers existed. Just as he could not convince the Watchers that Earth was another reality, as true as their own.

He opened his eyes. The planet was alarmingly close. They were diving toward it. He closed his eyes again.

Someday maybe Earth would build such ships as this one. First they would go to the other planets of their own …

As the thought came he opened his eyes wide. He gave the replica ship a brutal twist and in the same instant the vowel sound. As the acceleration hammered him into unconsciousness he kept the thin impression of the face of the planet sweeping slowly off the screen.

In Bard Lane’s dream he was back at Tempo watching the Beatty One rise into the arc of destruction. But this time the drive impetus was not steady. It came in hard flaring jolts that made the ship rise erratically on her suicide course. The dream faded and the jolting sounds turned to a heavy knocking at the door. He rubbed sleep-stuck eyes, rose painfully from his cramped position in the chair in which he had fallen asleep after Sharan had gone to bed.

“Coming, coming,” he called with annoyance. He stretched and looked at his watch. Ten in the morning. The windows were gray, patterned with rain flung against them by a gusty wind. For a moment he could not remember why he felt so thoroughly depressed. And then he remembered Hallmaster’s talk the night before.

He was in a completely foul mood when he yanked the suite door open. “Why didn’t you just batter it down?” he said.

A thick-jowled man mouthing a cigar stub stood
planted in front of the door, two uniformed policemen behind him.

“Another minute and that’s just what we would have done, friend,” the man said. He walked flatfooted toward Bard, forcing Bard to step aside. The two policemen followed him into the suite.

“Maybe it would help if you tell me what you want,” Bard said.

The jowled man knuckled his hat back off his forehead. “You’re Lane.” It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

“Nice of you to come and let me know so early on Monday,” Bard said.

“I could learn to dislike you, friend.” The stocky man turned and nodded at one of the two policemen. The uniformed man walked casually over and trod heavily on Bard’s foot.

“Gee, excuse me,” he said. He took his weight away, trod heavily on the other foot. Bard’s fist swung automatically, all the strain and heartache and disappointments of months erupting into a rage that was like ice.

The policeman partially blocked the blow, but it slipped off his forearm and landed on the heavy cheekbone with a satisfying crack.

The two policemen moved in with deft efficiency and pinned both of Bard’s arms. The jowled man took the cigar from his mouth and rolled it between his fingers.

“It was reported to me, Dr. Lane, by the management of this hotel, that you were acting strangely. I am Hemstrait, the health officer. I came here to investigate the report and find that it was true. You attacked Patrolman Quinn without provocation.”

“Just what do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. I’m committing you to the state hospital for sixty days of observation and treatment. Nuts like you can’t run around loose.”

“Whose orders are you following, Hemstrait?”

The man had the grace to blush. “Hell, Lane. They’ll do you some good out there. Where’s the Inly woman?”

“You don’t need her too.”

“The hotel says that she’s crazy too. I got a job to do. I got to investigate all reports.”

At that moment Sharan, flushed with sleep, a white robe belted around her, opened the bedroom door and came out. “Bard, what is—–” She stopped and her eyes widened as she saw Bard being held.

“You let him go!” she said.

“Lady, you’re irrational,” Hemstrait said.

“Don’t say or do anything,” Bard said quickly.

Hemstrait gave Bard a look of annoyance. He moved close to Sharan, rested a beefy hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. He replaced it. She moved away. He followed her, grinning. She cracked her palm off his thick cheek. He grinned and grabbed her. “Lady, as health officer I’m committing you to the state hospital for sixty days of observation and treatment. You ought to know better than to attack the health officer.”

“It’s no good, Sharan,” Bard said in a bleak tone. “Somebody gave him his orders. The same people who took care of Path, probably. And gave Hallmaster that paper to read. We’re a disturbing influence.”

“Shut up, friend,” Hemstrait said jovially. “Come on, lady. They’ll be good to you out there. We picked up Lurdorff and Kornal in the lobby this morning. Kornal made such a fuss we had to put him in a jacket. Now you people are going to be more sensible than that.”

On the following Wednesday morning, Sharan Inly, clad in the gray shapeless hospital garment, was taken by a matron-attendant to the office of the young state psychiatrist. The matron waited behind Sharan’s chair. The psychiatrist was a thin-faced young man with an earnest, dedicated look.

“Dr. Inly, I’m very happy to meet you. I had hoped that when we did meet, it would be under … more pleasant circumstances. I particularly remember some of your papers that appeared in the Review.”

“Thank you.”

“I know that you must be interested in your own case.
An unusually persistent delusion and, what is more startling, a shared delusion. Most unusual. And, as you may be aware, an unfavorable prognosis.” He hitched himself uncomfortably in the chair. His smile was wan. “Usually I have to explain to the patient the implications of deep shock. Of course, you worked with Belter when he was perfecting the technique.…”

His voice trailed off.

Sharan fought the fear back. She made her voice calm. “Isn’t that treatment a bit extreme in this case, Doctor? Memory patterns never return. That means complete reeducation from mindlessness, and sufficient damage so that on the Belter Scale, intelligence never goes beyond the DD level.”

“Frankly,” he said, “it makes me feel uncomfortable to prescribe it in the case of this delusion the four of you share. Dr. Lurdorff grew quite violent. He will be treated this afternoon. A shame, actually. So brilliant a mind … but misdirected, of course. All of you can be turned into productive members of society. You’ll be quite capable of leading a satisfying life, of doing routine work. And you know how we’ve speeded up reeducation. Speech is adequate in a month. Incontinence ends in a week.”

“May I ask if a consulting psychiatrist can be called in, Doctor?”

“Oh, this treatment is the result of consultation, Dr. Inly. Very good men. Now, outside the delusionary cycle, you are quite capable of making decisions. With the nonviolent cases it is policy here to give you time to write letters, make wills, dispose of property, that sort of thing. We’ll give you false memory of a different life, a new name, a slightly altered face. You’ll be sent, of course, to one of the critical labor areas, and a competent social worker will get you started.”

“Actually, it’s death, isn’t it?”

“Now let us not be emotional, Dr. Inly. I had hoped that as a psychiatrist and a neuro-surgeon, you would—–”

Sharan forced a smile. “I guess it’s time for confession,
Doctor. We all thought up this Watcher business as a publicity thing. We all needed money.”

He shook his head sadly. “Surely you know better than that! Such a perfectly standard reaction, Dr. Inly. Under induced hypnosis you all clung to every single phase of the shared delusion.”

“A question then. If a delusion can be shared, possibly it isn’t a delusion.”

He chuckled, at ease for the first time in the interview. “You people! Don’t you see that basically it’s a desire for escape? The world as you know it has become unbearable for the four of you. Too bad you didn’t recede into a catatonic state. We could have treated that. Instead you invent a delusionary race on a far planet on which you can blame your own inadequacies. Dr. Inly, we are the only race in the universe. Anything else is a dream. The only reality is here. And we must accustom ourselves to live with it, unpleasant as it may be, or else be treated by someone who can make the world bearable to you by some artificial means.”

“And you, Doctor, are a blind, simpering, egocentric fool.”

He flushed. “I have too much sympathy for you, Dr. Inly, to permit you to anger me. Use a long view. You are a healthy young woman. Dr. Lane is a sturdy man. Your validity from now on will be in work units for society and in the bearing of children. I was prepared to reeducate the two of you as a family unit. It would be interesting to see what degree of devotion could be induced. That choice, of course, is up to you and Dr. Lane. I shall see him next.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sharan said tonelessly. “It won’t be … me. I shall be dead. You forget, Doctor, that I worked with deep shock techniques. I have seen that … mindlessness.”

“Then I shall tell Dr. Lane that you are willing. We’ll be ready for the two of you tomorrow morning. The attendant will arrange legal help for you, and see that you have writing materials.”

Sharan turned at the door and tried to speak to him again. The young doctor was making notations on her file. He did not look up. The attendant urged her into the hall with gentle force.

Bard Lane stood in the hall with two guards, waiting. His face was gray. He looked at her and did not seem to recognize her. Sharan did not speak to him. Sharan Inly would never speak to Bard Lane again. Two strangers would speak to each other, and that was no longer important.

EIGHTEEN

It is a pleasant Thursday morning in October over most of the country. One high is static over most of the Gulf Coast. Another is apparently anchored in the Chicago area. The Secretary of Weather is conferring with Agriculture on the advisability of securing Canadian permission to dissipate the front building up in the northwest.

An Atlanta hostess decides to continue the party that started Wednesday afternoon. She stirs guests out of their stupor, smilingly hands them the amphetamine cocktails which will bring the gaiety back to life.

A bemused broker shivers in the web seat of his heli-cycle as he laboriously forces it above its operational ceiling, hoping that the Air Police won’t intercept him until he is quite ready to loosen the strap and take the long, long drop into the corduroy canyons of the city far below.

Timber Mulloy, sullen and hung over, leads his protesting musicians through an early-morning practice session for a new visi-tape album which may bring in enough royalties to catch up on back alimony payments.

At Fonda Electric seven hundred girls are waiting for the ten
A.M
. cigarette break.

A teen-age heiress in Grosse Point stands nude before her full-length mirror and cuts her throat with a hard, ripping pull of her right hand and wrist.

In an isolated radar station, Major Tommy Leeber stares at his tarnished major’s leaf and curses the day he was selected as aide by General Sachson. Sachson, a continent away, stands in front of a steel mirror and carefully clips gray nostril hairs while he thinks of the two years before he can retire.

Sharan Inly lies face down on her cot, waiting for them to come for her. On the other side of the building Bard Lane sits on his cot, slowly leafing through the memories that will be taken from him.

It is a pleasant morning.

In Connecticut a sanitarium attendant is being cursed by his superior for not finding Walter Howard Path in time to save his life.

It is thirty seconds after ten o’clock. Seven hundred girls are striking matches and clicking lighters.

Twelve miles from Omaha, a radar-radak technician frowns as he studies the pip on his screen. He adjusts for a new focus, and, as he puts the track on automatic, he runs his eye down the list of EXP flights. On automatic track the height, speed, and direction appear below the screen.

Speed is a constant. Direction almost due south. Altitude decreasing at the rate of a half mile a second.

His next moves are deft and quick. He punches the station alarm button, then throws open the switch which sounds the alarm instantaneously in twelve interceptor stations and puts them in direct communication with his board.

A nurse lays out the salve to be applied to temples and electrodes. The technician checks the dials on the shock equipment. The young state psychiatrist shuts the door of his room behind him and walks down the hall without haste.