American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58 (45 page)

“The living dead,” Foyle muttered. He decelerated, put Sigurd Magsman down, and switched on the retinal light in his eyes, trying to pierce the wombgloom. It was midnight above ground. It was permanent midnight down in the catacombs. Sigurd Magsman was broadcasting terror and anguish with such a telepathic bray that Foyle was forced to shake the child again.

“Shut up!” he whispered. “You can’t wake these dead. Now find me Lindsey Joyce.”

“They’re sick . . . all sick . . . like worms in their heads . . worms and sickness and—”

“Christ, don’t I know it. Come on, let’s get it over with. There’s worse to come.”

They went down the twisting labyrinth of the catacombs. The stone slabs shelved the walls from floor to ceiling. The Skoptsys, white as slugs, mute as corpses, motionless as Buddhas, filled the caverns with the odor of living death. The telepathic child wept and shrieked. Foyle never relaxed his relentless grip on him; he never relaxed the hunt.

“Johnson, Wright, Keeley, Graff, Nastro, Underwood . . . God, there’s thousands here.” Foyle read off the bronze identification plates attached to the slabs. “Reach out, Sigurd. Find Lindsey Joyce for me. We can’t go over them name by name. Regal, Cone, Brady, Vincent— What in the—?”

Foyle started back. One of the bone-white figures had cuffed his brow. It was swaying and writhing, its face twitching. All the white slugs on their shelves were squirming and writhing. Sigurd Magsman’s constant telepathic broadcast of anguish and terror was reaching them and torturing them.

“Shut up!” Foyle snapped. “Stop it. Find Lindsey Joyce and we’ll get out of here. Reach out and find him.”

“Down there.”
Sigurd wept.
“Straight down there. Seven, eight, nine shelves down. I want to go home. I’m sick. I—”

Foyle went pell-mell down the catacombs with Sigurd, reading off identification plates until at last he came to: “LINDSEY JOYCE. BOUGAINVILLE. VENUS.”

This was his enemy, the instigator of his death and the deaths of the six hundred from Callisto. This was the enemy for whom he had planned vengeance and hunted for months. This was the enemy for whom he had prepared the agony of the port stateroom aboard his yawl. This was “Vorga.” It was a woman.

Foyle was thunderstruck. In these days of the double standard, with women kept in purdah, there were many reported cases of women masquerading as men to enter the worlds closed to them, but he had never yet heard of a woman in the merchant marine . . . masquerading her way to top officer rank.

“This?” he exclaimed furiously. “This is Lindsey Joyce? Lindsey Joyce off the ‘Vorga’? Ask her.”

“I don’t know what ‘Vorga’ is.”

“Ask her!”

“But I don’t— She was . . . She like gave orders.”

“Captain?”

“I don’t like what’s inside her. It’s all sick and dark. It hurts. I want to go home.”

“Ask her. Was she captain of the ‘Vorga’?”

“Yes. Please, please, please don’t make me go inside her any more. It’s twisty and hurts. I don’t like her.”

“Tell her I’m the man she wouldn’t pick up on September 16, 2436. Tell her it’s taken a long time but I’ve finally come to settle the account. Tell her I’m going to pay her back.”

“I d-don’t understand. Don’t understand.”

“Tell her I’m going to kill her, slow and hard. Tell her I’ve got a stateroom aboard my yawl, fitted up just like my locker aboard ‘Nomad’ where I rotted for six months . . . where she ordered ‘Vorga’ to leave me to die. Tell her she’s going to rot and die just like me. Tell her!” Foyle shook the wizened child furiously. “Make her feel it. Don’t let her get away by turning Skoptsy. Tell her I kill her filthy. Read me and tell her!”

“She . . . Sh-She didn’t give that order.”

“What!”

“I c-can’t understand her.”

“She didn’t give the order to scuttle me?”

“I’m afraid to go in.”

“Go in, you little son of a bitch, or I’ll take you apart. What does she mean?”

The child wailed; the woman writhed; Foyle fumed. “Go in!

Go in! Get it out of her. Jesus Christ, why does the only telepath on Mars have to be a child? Sigurd! Sigurd, listen to me.

Ask her: Did she give the order to scuttle the reffs?” 

“No. No!”

“No she didn’t or no you won’t?”

“She didn’t.”

“Did she give the order to pass ‘Nomad’ by?”

“She’s twisty and sicky. Oh please! NAN-N-I-E! I want to go 
home. Want to go.”

“Did she give the order to pass ‘Nomad’ by?”

“No.”

“She didn’t?”

“No. Take me home.”

“Ask her who did.”

“I want my Nannie.”

“Ask her who could give her an order. She was captain aboard her own ship. Who could command her? Ask her!” 

“I want my Nannie.”

“Ask her!”

“No. No. No. I’m afraid. She’s sick. She’s dark and black. She’s 
bad. I don’t understand her. I want my Nannie. I want to go 
home.”

The child was shrieking and shaking; Foyle was shouting.

The echoes thundered. As Foyle reached for the child in a rage, his eyes were blinded by brilliant light. The entire catacomb was illuminated by the Burning Man. Foyle’s image stood before him, face hideous, clothes on fire, the blazing eyes fixed on the convulsing Skoptsy that had been Lindsey Joyce. The Burning Man opened his tiger mouth. A grating sound emerged. It was like flaming laughter.

“She hurts,” he said.

“Who are you?” Foyle whispered.

The Burning Man winced. “Too bright,” he said. “Less light.” 

Foyle took a step forward. 

The Burning Man clapped hands over his ears in agony. “Too loud,” he cried. “Don’t move so loud.”

“Are you my guardian angel?”

“You’re blinding me. Shhh!” Suddenly he laughed again.

“Listen to her. She’s screaming. Begging. She doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to be hurt. Listen to her.”

Foyle trembled.

“She’s telling us who gave the order. Can’t you hear? Listen with your eyes.” The Burning Man pointed a talon finger at the writhing Skoptsy. “She says Olivia.”

“What!”

“She says Olivia. Olivia Presteign. Olivia Presteign. Olivia Presteign.”

The Burning Man vanished.

The catacombs were dark again.

Colored lights and cacophonies whirled around Foyle. He gasped and staggered. “Blue jaunte,” he muttered. “Olivia. No. Not. Never. Olivia. I—”

He felt a hand reach for his. “Jiz?” he croaked.

He became aware that Sigurd Magsman was holding on to his hand and weeping. He picked the boy up.

“
I hurt
,” Sigurd whimpered.

“I hurt too, son.”

“Want to go home.”

“I’ll take you home.”

Still holding the boy in his arms, he blundered through the catacombs.

“The living dead,” he mumbled.

And then: “I’ve joined them.”

He found the stone steps that led up from the depths to the monastery cloister above ground. He trudged up the steps, tasting death and desolation. There was bright light above him, and for a moment he imagined that dawn had come already. Then he realized that the cloister was brilliantly lit with artificial light. There was the tramp of shod feet and the low growl of commands. Halfway up the steps, Foyle stopped and mustered himself.

'Sigurd,' he whispered. 'Who's above us? Find out'.

 '
Sogers
,' the child answered.

'Soldiers? What soldiers?'

'
Commando sogers.
' Sigurd's crumpled face brightened.
"They come for me. To take me home to Nannie. HERE I AM! HERE I AM"

The telepathic clamor brought a shout from overhead. Foyle accelerated and blurred up the rest of the steps to the cloister. It was a square of Romanesque arches surrounding a green lawn. In the centre of the lawn was a giant Cedar of Lebanon. The flagged walks swarmed with Commando search parties and Foyle came face to face with his match; for an instant after they saw his blur whip up from the catacombs they accelerated too, and all were on even terms.

But Foyle had the boy. Shooting was impossible. Cradling Sigurd in his arms, he wove through the cloister like a broken-field runner hurtling towards a goal. No one dared block him, for at plus-five acceleration a head-on collision between two bodies would be instantly fatal to both. Objectively, this break-neck skirmish looked like a five-second zigzag of lightning.

Foyle broke out of the cloister, went through the main hall of the monastery, passed through the labyrinth, and reached the public jaunte stage outside the main gate. There he stopped, decelerated and jaunted to the monastery airfield, half a mile distant. The field, too, was ablaze with lights and swarming with Commandos. Every anti-grav pit was occupied by a Brigade ship. His own yawl was under guard.

A fifth of a second after Foyle arrived at the field, the pursuers from the monastery jaunted in. He looked around desperately. He was surrounded by half a regiment of Commandos, all under acceleration, all geared for lethal-action, all his equal or better. The odds were impossible.

And then the Outer Satellites altered the odds. Exactly one week after the saturation raid on Terra, they struck at Mars.

Again the missiles came down on the midnight to dawn quadrant. Again the heavens twinkled with interceptions and detonations, and the horizon exploded great puffs of light while the ground shook. But this time there was a ghastly variation, for a brilliant nova burst overhead, flooding the nightside of the planet with garish light. A swarm of fissionheads had struck Mars' tiny satellite, Phobos, instantly vaporizing it into a sunlet.

The Recognition-Lag of the Commandos to this appalling attack gave Foyle his opportunity. He accelerated again and burst through them to his yawl. He stopped before the main hatch and saw the stunned guard-party hesitate between a continuance of the old action and a response to the new. Foyle hurled the frozen body of Sigurd Magsman up into the air like a Scotsman tossing the caber. As the guard party rushed to catch the boy, Foyle dived through them into his yawl, slammed the hatch and dogged it.

'Still under acceleration, never pausing to see if anyone was inside the yawl, he shot forward to controls, tripped the release lever, and as the yawl started to float up the anti-grav beam threw on full 10 G propulsion. He was not strapped into the pilot chair. The effect of the 10 G drive on his accelerated and unprotected body was monstrous.

A creeping force took hold of him and spilled him out of the chair. He inched back towards the rear wall of the control chamber like a sleep-walker. The wall appeared, to his accelerated senses, to approach him. He thrust out both arms, palms flat against the wall to brace himself. The sluggish power thrusting him back split his arms apart and forced him against the wall, gently at first, then harder and harder until face, jaw, chest and body were crushed against the metal.

The mounting pressure became agonizing. He tried to trip the switchboard in his mouth with his tongue, but the propulsion crushing him against the wall made it impossible for him to move his distorted mouth. A burst of explosions, so far down the sound spectrum that they sounded like sodden rockslides, told him that the Commando Brigade was bombarding him with shots from below. As the yawl tore up into the blueblack of outer space, he began to scream in a bat-screech before he mercifully lost consciousness.

Foyle awoke in darkness. He was decelerated, but the exhaustion of his body told him he had been under acceleration while he had been unconscious. Either his power pack had run out or . . . He inched a hand to the small of his back. The pack was gone. It had been removed.

He explored with trembling fingers. He was in a bed. He listened to the murmur of ventilators and air-conditioners and the click and buzz of servo-mechanisms. He was aboard a ship. He was strapped to the bed. The ship was in free fall.

Foyle unfastened himself, pressed his elbows against the mattress and floated up. He drifted through the darkness searching for a light switch or a call button. His hands brushed against a water carafe with raised letters on the glass. He read them with his fingertips. SS, he felt. V, O, R, G, A. VORGA. He cried out.

The door of the stateroom opened. A figure drifted through the door, silhouetted against the light of a luxurious private lounge behind it.

“This time we picked you up,” a voice said.

“Olivia?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s true?”

“Yes, Gully.”

Foyle began to cry.

“You’re still weak,” Olivia Presteign said gently. “Come and lie down.”

She urged him into the lounge and strapped him into a chaise longue. It was still warm from her body. “You’ve been like this for six days. We never thought you’d live. Everything was drained out of you before the surgeon found that battery on your back.”

“Where is it?” he croaked.

“You can have it whenever you want it. Don’t fret, my dear.” He looked at her for a long moment, his Snow Maiden, his beloved Ice Princess . . . the white satin skin, the blind coral eyes and exquisite coral mouth. She touched his moist eyelids with a scented handkerchief.

“I love you,” he said.

“Shhh. I know, Gully.”

“You’ve known all about me. For how long?”

“I knew Gully Foyle the spaceman off the ‘Nomad,’ was my enemy from the beginning. I never knew you were Fourmyle until we met. Ah, if only I’d known before. How much would have been saved.”

“You knew and you’ve been laughing at me.”

“No.”

“Standing by and shaking with laughter.”

“Standing by and loving you. No, don’t interrupt. I’m trying to be rational and it’s not easy.” A flush cascaded across the marble face. “I’m not playing with you now. I . . . I betrayed you to my father. I did. Self-defense, I thought. Now that I’ve met him at last I can see he’s too dangerous. An hour later I knew it was a mistake because I realized I was in love with you. I’m paying for it now. You need never have known.”