American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58 (42 page)

“And then there are vasty shafts of fire thrusting up and swaying, weaving, dancing, sweeping. What are they?”

“Interceptor beams. You’re seeing the whole electronic defense system.”

“And I can see the bombs coming down too . . . quick streaks of what you call red. But not your red; mine. Why can I see them?”

“They’re heated by air friction, but the inert lead casing doesn’t show the color to us.”

“See how much better you’re doing as Galileo than Galahad. Oh! There’s one coming down in the east. Watch for it! It’s coming, coming, coming . . . Now!”

A flare of light on the eastern horizon proved it was not her imagination.

“There’s another to the north. Very close. Very. Now!”

A shock tore down from the north.

“And the explosions, Fourmyle . . . They’re not just clouds of light. They’re fabrics, webs, tapestries of meshing colors. So beautiful. Like exquisite shrouds.”

“Which they are, Lady Olivia.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Then run away.”

“No.”

“Ah, you’re defiant.”

“I don’t know what I am. I’m scared, but I won’t run.”

“Then you’re brazening it out. Making a show of knightly courage.” The husky voice sounded amused. “Just think, Fourmyle. How long does it take to jaunte? You could be safe in seconds . . . in Mexico, Canada, Alaska. So safe. There must be millions there now. We’re probably the last left in the city.”

“Not everybody can jaunte so far and so fast.”

“Then we’re the last left who count. Why don’t you leave me? Be safe. I’ll be killed soon. No one will ever know your pretense turned tail.”

“Bitch!”

“Ah, you’re angry. What shocking language. It’s the first sign of weakness. Why don’t you exercise your better judgment and carry me off? That would be the second sign.”

“Damn you!”

He stepped close to her, clenching his fists in rage. She touched his cheek with a cool, quiet hand, but once again there was that electric shock.

“No, it’s too late, my dear,” she said quietly. “Here comes a whole cluster of red streaks . . . down, down, down . . . directly at us. There’ll be no escaping this. Quick, now! Run! Jaunte! Take me with you. Quick! Quick!”

He swept her off the bench. “Bitch! Never!”

He held her, found the soft coral mouth and kissed her; bruised her lips with his, waiting for the final blackout.

The concussion never came.

“Tricked!” he exclaimed. She laughed. He kissed her again and at last forced himself to release her. She gasped for breath, then laughed again, her coral eyes blazing.

“It’s over,” she said.

“It hasn’t begun yet.”

“What d’you mean?”

“The war between us.”

“Make it a human war,” she said fiercely. “You’re the first not to be deceived by my looks. Oh God! The boredom of the chivalrous knights and their milk-warm passion for the fairy tale princess. But I’m not like that . . . inside. I’m not. I’m not. Never. Make it a savage war between us. Don’t win me . . . destroy me!”

Suddenly she was Lady Olivia again, the gracious snow maiden. “I’m afraid the bombardment has finished, my dear Fourmyle. The show is over. But what an exciting prelude to the New Year. Good night.”

“Good night?” he echoed incredulously.

“Good night,” she repeated. “Really, my dear Fourmyle, are you so gauche that you never know when you’re dismissed? You may go now. Good night.”

He hesitated, searched for words, and at last turned and lurched out of the house. He was trembling with elation and confusion. He walked in a daze, scarcely aware of the confusion and disaster around him. The horizon now was lit with the light of red flames. The shock waves of the assault had stirred the atmosphere so violently that winds still whistled in strange gusts. The tremor of the explosions had shaken the city so hard that brick, cornice, glass, and metal were tumbling and crashing. And this despite the fact that no direct hit had been made on New York.

The streets were empty; the city was deserted. The entire population of New York, of every city, had jaunted in a desperate search for safety . . . to the limit of their ability . . . five miles, fifty miles, five hundred miles. Some had jaunted into the center of a direct hit. Thousands died in jaunte-explosions, for the public jaunte stages had never been designed to accommodate the crowding of mass exodus.

Foyle became aware of white-armored Disaster Crews appearing on the streets. An imperious signal directed at him warned him that he was about to be summarily drafted for disaster work. The problem of jaunting was not to get populations out of cities, but to force them to return and restore order. Foyle had no intention of spending a week fighting fire and looters. He accelerated and evaded the Disaster Crew.

At Fifth Avenue he decelerated; the drain of acceleration on his energy was so enormous that he was reluctant to maintain it for more than a few moments. Long periods of acceleration demanded days of recuperation.

The looters and Jack-jaunters were already at work on the avenue, singly, in swarms, furtive yet savage; jackals rending the body of a living but helpless animal. They descended on Foyle. Anything was their prey tonight.

“I’m not in the mood,” he told them. “Play with somebody else.”

He emptied the money out of his pockets and tossed it to them. They snapped it up but were not satisfied. They desired entertainment and he was obviously a helpless gentleman. Half a dozen surrounded Foyle and closed in to torment him.

“Kind gentleman,” they smiled. “We’re going to have a party.”

Foyle had once seen the mutilated body of one of their party guests. He sighed and detached his mind from visions of Olivia Presteign.

“All right, jackals,” he said. “Let’s have a party.”

They prepared to send him into a screaming dance. Foyle tripped the switchboard in his mouth and became for twelve devastating seconds the most murderous machine ever devised . . . the Commando killer. It was done without conscious thought or volition; his body merely followed the directive taped into muscle and reflex. He left six bodies stretched on the street.

Old St. Pat’s still stood, unblemished, eternal, the distant fires flickering on the green copper of its roof. Inside, it was deserted. The tents of the Four Mile Circus filled the nave, illuminated and furnished, but the circus personnel was gone. Servants, chefs, valets, athletes, philosophers, camp followers and crooks had fled.

“But they’ll be back to loot,” Foyle murmured.

He entered his own tent. The first thing he saw was a figure in white, crouched on a rug, crooning sunnily to itself. It was Robin Wednesbury, her gown in tatters, her mind in tatters.

“Robin!”

She went on crooning wordlessly. He pulled her up, shook her, and slapped her. She beamed and crooned. He filled a syringe and gave her a tremendous shot of Niacin. The sobering wrench of the drug on her pathetic flight from reality was ghastly. Her satin skin turned ashen. The beautiful face twisted. She recognized Foyle, remembered what she had tried to forget, screamed and sank to her knees. She began to cry.

“That’s better,” he told her. “You’re a great one for escape, aren’t you? First suicide. Now this. What next?”

“Go away.”

“Probably religion. I can see you joining a cellar sect with passwords like
Pax Vobiscum
. Bible smuggling and martyrdom for the faith. Can’t you ever face up to anything?”

“Don’t you ever run away?”

“Never. Escape is for cripples. Neurotics.”

“Neurotics. The favorite word of the Johnny-Come-Lately educated. You’re so educated, aren’t you? So poised. So balanced. You’ve been running away all your life.”

“Me? Never. I’ve been hunting all my life.”

“You’ve been running. Haven’t you ever heard of AttackEscape? To run away from reality by attacking it . . . denying it . . . destroying it? That’s what you’ve been doing.”

“Attack-Escape?” Foyle was brought up with a jolt. “You mean I’ve been running away from something?”

“Obviously.”

“From what?”

“From reality. You can’t accept life as it is. You refuse. You attack it . . . try to force it into your own pattern. You attack and destroy everything that stands in the way of your own insane pattern.”
She lifted her tearstained face. “I can’t stand it any more. I want you to let me go.”

“Go? Where?”

“To live my own life.”

“What about your family?”

“And find them my own way.”

“Why? What now?”

“It’s too much . . . you
and
the war . . . because you’re as bad as the war. Worse. What happened to me tonight is what happens to me every moment I’m with you. I can stand one or the other; not both.”

“No,” he said. “I need you.”

“I’m prepared to buy my way out.”

“How?”

“You’ve lost all your leads to ‘Vorga,’ haven’t you?”

“And?”

“I’ve found another.”

“Where?”

“Never mind where. Will you agree to let me go if I turn it over to you?”

“I can take it from you.”

“Go ahead. Take it.” Her eyes flashed. “If you know what it is, you won’t have any trouble.”

“I can make you give it to me.”

“Can you? After the bombing tonight? Try.”

He was taken aback by her defiance. “How do I know you’re not bluffing?”

“I’ll give you one hint. Remember the man in Australia?”

“Forrest?”

“Yes. He tried to tell you the names of the crew. Do you remember the only name he got out?”

“Kemp.”

“He died before he could finish it. The name is Kempsey.”

“That’s your lead?”

“Yes. Kempsey. Name and address. In return for your promise to let me go.”

“It’s a sale,” he said. “You can go. Give it to me.”

She went at once to the travel dress she had worn in Shanghai. From the pocket she took out a sheet of partially burned paper.

“I saw this on Sergei Orel’s desk when I was trying to put the fire out . . . the fire the Burning Man started . . .”

She handed him the sheet of paper. It was a fragment of a begging letter. It read:

 . . .
do anything to get out of these bacteria fields. Why should a man just because he can’t jaunte get treated like a dog? Please help me, Serg. Help an old shipmate off a ship we don’t mention. You can spare Cr 100. Remember all the favors I done you? Send Cr 200 or even Cr 50. Don’t let me down.

Rodg Kempsey

Barrack 3

Bacteria, Inc.

Mare Nubium

Moon

“By God!” Foyle exclaimed. “This
is
the lead. We can’t fail this time. We’ll know what to do. He’ll spill everything . . . everything.” He grinned at Robin. “We leave for the moon tomorrow night. Book passage. No, there’ll be trouble on account of the attack. Buy a ship. They’ll be unloading them cheap anyway.”

“We?” Robin said. “You mean you.”

“I mean we,” Foyle answered. “We’re going to the moon.

Both of us.”

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re not leaving. You’re staying with me.”

“But you swore you’d—”

“Grow up, girl. I had to swear to anything to get this. I need you more than ever now. Not for ‘Vorga.’ I’ll handle ‘Vorga’ myself. For something much more important.”

He looked at her incredulous face and smiled ruefully. “It’s too bad, girl. If you’d given me this letter two hours ago I’d have kept my word. But it’s too late now. I need a Romance Secretary. I’m in love with Olivia Presteign.”

She leaped to her feet in a blaze of fury.
“You’re in love with her? Olivia Presteign? In love with that white corpse!”
The bitter fury of her telesending was a startling revelation to him.
“Ah, now you have lost me. Forever. Now I’ll destroy you!”

She disappeared.

Captain Peter Y’ang-Yeovil was handling reports at Central Intelligence Hq. in London at the rate of six per minute. Information was phoned in, wired in, cabled in, jaunted in. The bombardment picture unfolded rapidly.

ATTACK SATURATED N & S AMERICA FROM 60° TO 120° WEST LONGITUDE . . . LABRADOR TO ALASKA IN N . . . RIO TO ECUADOR IN S . . . ESTIMATED TEN PER CENT (10%) MISSILES PENETRATED INTERCEPTION SCREEN . . . ESTIMATED POPULATION LOSS: TEN TO TWELVE MILLION . .

“If it wasn’t for jaunting,” Y’ang-Yeovil said, “the losses would have been five times that. All the same, it’s close to a knockout. One more punch like that and Terra’s finished.”

He addressed this to the assistants jaunting in and out of his office, appearing and disappearing, dropping reports on his desk and chalking results and equations on the glass blackboard that covered one entire wall. Informality was the rule, and Y’angYeovil was surprised and suspicious when an assistant knocked on his door and entered with elaborate formality.

“What larceny now?” he asked.

“Lady to see you, Yeo.”

“Is this the time for comedy?” Y’ang-Yeovil said in exasperated tones. He pointed to the Whitehead equations spelling disaster on the transparent blackboard. “Read that and weep on the way out.”

“Very special lady, Yeo. Your Venus from the Spanish Stairs.” “Who? What Venus?”

“Your Congo Venus.”

“Oh? That one?” Y’ang-Yeovil hesitated. “Send her in.” 

“You’ll interview her in private, of course.”

“Of course nothing. There’s a war on. Keep those reports coming, but tip everybody to switch to Secret Speech if they have to talk to me.”

Robin Wednesbury entered the office, still wearing the torn white evening gown. She had jaunted immediately from New York to London without bothering to change. Her face was strained, but lovely. Y’ang-Yeovil gave her a split-second inspection and realized that his first appreciation of her had not been mistaken. Robin returned the inspection and her eyes dilated. “But you’re the cook from the Spanish Stairs! Angelo Poggi!”