Beyond the Barrier

Chapter Five

The voice receded, became unintelligible. Naismith awoke.

The dream had been so vivid that for a moment it seemed absurd to find himself in darkness, pressed by gravity into a spring mattress, with the smells of fabric and dust around him.

He sat up in the darkness, realizing that another night had passed without his coming any closer to a solution. The simplest thing would be to give in to the aliens—

“No!” he said aloud, swinging his legs out of bed. He showered, shaved, prepared food and ate it.

After breakfast, he sat with paper and pencil, drawing up another list:

1. Capitulate.

2. Escape and hide.

3. Resist passively.

He drew lines through the first two entries; the first was out of the question, the second impossible. The third seemed to offer some hope; but he sensed in his bones that it would never succeed. Again he thought of a chessboard. A player under attack, his king driven by a series of checks toward the mating square, had only one chance: not to be driven passively, but to attack in turn.

He crumpled the paper, tossed it aside, stood up. Slowly a plan began to take shape in his mind.

In the first place, he must assume that he was under constant observation, even here in his own apartment. Even if he had the money, he could not take the risk of buying a weapon of any kind.

He looked at his broad, powerful hands, the thick fingers.

Once, challenged by another student, he had bent a piece of iron pipe in half. The aliens had already made it clear that they were afraid of him… and, Naismith told himself grimly, they had good reason.

He set about acting a part for an invisible audience. Preparing to go out, he counted the change in his pockets, closed his fist on the few coins with a gesture of anger.

He walked for an hour through the streets of Beverly Hills, head down, shoulders slumped; then he visited an ex-classmate and tried to borrow money. The man was an electrical engineer named Stevens; he looked startled at Naismith’s request, but handed over five dollars, apologizing, “Sorry I’m a little short this week, Naismith, but if this is any help—”

Naismith took it, walked two blocks as before, then abruptly threw the money into the gutter. He said aloud, “I’ve got to give in to them. I’m licked.” He took a deep breath, turned back and picked up the crumpled bill he had just thrown away.

He smoothed it out, his face set in lines of despair and resignation. When a cab cruised by, he hailed it and gave the aliens’

address. Outside, he was all surrender; inside, all murder.

He knocked at the red door. A voice called, “Come in—the door is not locked.”

The room was as Naismith had seen it before. Churan sat behind his table, staring across at him with hooded amber eyes.

The Lall creature was leaning against a bookcase to his right, arms folded, smoking a cigarette. Neither spoke.

Naismith moved forward. “I’ve come to tell you to call off your dogs.”

Churan’s smile widened slightly; Lall glanced at him and blew a long plume of smoke from her lips.

Naismith measured the distance to the two aliens. Half a step nearer—

“Tell me your plans,” he began, then launched himself into motion. One hand stabbed out for Churan’s throat, the other reached for Lall’s. Both missed their targets; his hands closed on air.

Yet the aliens had not moved. With a chill of horror, Naismith realized that his arms had passed completely through their bodies.

Churan, his face abominably close, began to laugh. After a moment Lall joined in.

Naismith stumbled backward. The two aliens glanced at each other, their eyes welling tears of merriment.

“A nice try, Professor Naismith,” said Lall. “But not good enough.”

Then, in an instant, both aliens were gone. Shaking, incredulous, Naismith nerved himself to step forward again and stare at the place where they had been.

On the floor, between Churan’s chair and the bookcase, lay a small black machine with dull red lights fading in its lenses.

When he leaned down to touch it, a numbing electric shock made him jerk his hand back.

The room was empty. But as he backed away, the aliens’

laughter swelled out again from nowhere, malicious and mocking. Then, close behind him, Lall’s voice whispered in his ear,

“A reminder, Professor—”

As he tried to turn, something struck the side of his head.

The room darkened.

Without transition, he was in the City, floating in the center of a vast chamber of carved and fretted ivory, empty and shadowed. When he moved, the faint sibilance of his garments echoed back in sinister whisperings from the walls: “Shhh…

shhh…”

He knew that he was going to die. He had made his farewells to all his friends and the members of his troupe; had returned his possessions to the central store; and had himself expunged his name from the register of Entertainers. In a real sense, he was already dead: Dar-Yani no longer existed. He was only a nameless and faceless body, a remnant, a fiction, drifting through the memories of the Old City.

It was the first time he had been here since the building of the New City. It was strange to see these once familiar rooms and corridors in their desolation. Built of material substances, painstakingly decorated and ornamented over a thousand years, this had been the real and only City until the growing Zug threat had forced mankind to leave it for new chambers of Zug-proof energy. After the Barrier was put up, it was said, the people would all move back here; but the man who had been Dar-Yani would not live to see it.

An injustice? Perhaps. He thought of the greenskins, and his lip curled. It was all well enough for them to revolt when they felt their case was desperate. But the Entertainers had their traditions.

He paused to listen. The unfamiliar armor was tight around his chest, and his palms were sweaty where they gripped the stock of the gun.

The only sounds were the ceaseless, unnerving whisperings that echoed back from the walls. He hesitated, then moved toward one of the hundred corridors that gave exit from the room.

Here, in this famous concourse, Ito-Yani had given his recitals, holding an audience of thousands spellbound for hours.

Now, like the rest of the Old City, it had been abandoned to those chill monsters which…

He froze, listening with all his body. Down the dimness of the corridor, there had been a faint sound.

When the beast attacks, the training machine had told him, you will have at most two seconds to aim and fire. Should you survive the first blow…

Another sound, nearer.

He backed away from the opening, with a panicky sense that he was not ready, it was too soon, he needed more time…

The noise came again; now he saw a pale glimmer of motion down in the depths.

Every call of his body shrieked its terror; but he stayed where he was, teeth bared, his hand tight on the gun.

Without warning, the distant shape grew near. It floated toward him silently, with incredible speed. Through the view-disk of his helmet he could see its tiny red eyes, its claws outstretched. As if in a nightmare, he strove to bring up the heavy gun, but he could not move fast enough. As the monster loomed nearer, its fanged jaws .opened and—

Naismith sat up on the floor, with the hoarse echo of his own shout echoing in his ears. His head hurt. He was shaking all over, covered with cold sweat. In the darkness, the monster was still looming nearer, still opening its jaws…

The smell of his own fear was thick in his nostrils. His hands found the shape of an overturned chair… Where was he?

He got to his feet, fumbled in his pockets for a match. The flame showed him a littered carpet, books and papers stacked against the walls…

He remembered his last moment of consciousness, and his fingers went to the swelling over one ear.

The match went out. Naismith lit another, found the lamp and turned it on. The machine he had seen on the carpet was no longer there. The apartment was empty.

Naismith sat down for a moment with his head in his hands.

Then, with sudden decision, he rose and went to the visiphone in the corner. He punched a number.

The screen lighted; Dr. Wells’ brown, seamed face looked up pleasantly. “Oh, hello, Naismith. How have you been getting along? Is anything the matter?”

“Wells,” said Naismith tensely, “you told me once there was a crash method we could employ to break my amnesia, if everything else failed.”

“Well, yes, but we’re not down to that yet, man. Be patient, give the routine methods a chance to work. Now, your next appointment—“He reached for his calendar.

“I can’t wait,” Naismith told him levelly. “How dangerous is this method, and what does it involve?”

Wells put his muscular hands together under his chin. “It’s dangerous enough. Some people have been driven into psy-chosis by it—it’s nothing to fool with, I assure you. Essentially, what it amounts to is a psychic leverage to bring up the material the patient’s mind is holding back. Sometimes, when it does come up, it shocks him so that he goes off into a psychotic state. There are good reasons for loss of memory sometimes, Naismith.”

“I’ll take the chance,” Naismith said. “When are you free?”

“Well now, hold on a minute—I haven’t said I’d take the chance. Really, Naismith, my advice to you is to wait—”

“If you won’t do it, I’ll find another psychiatrist who will.”

Wells looked unhappy. “In this town, that wouldn’t be impossible. Come over, Naismith, and we’ll discuss it anyhow.”

Wells finished arranging the head clamps and stepped back, glancing at the meters on the control unit beside the couch.

“All right?” he asked.

“Get on with it.”

Wells’ brown fingers hesitated on the knob. “You’re sure it’s what you want?”

“I told you my reasons,” Naismith said impatiently. “Come on, let’s get started.”

Wells turned the knob; the machine clicked on, and a low hum was audible. Naismith felt a curious tickling sensation in his skull, and resisted an impulse to reach up and tear off the head clamps.

“In previous sessions,” Wells said, “we’ve taken you back through your hospital days, covered that fairly well, and your college experiences after you got out. Now let’s see if we can bring up a little sharper detail from one of those memories.”

He turned a dial; the tickling sensation grew stronger.

“I direct your attention to your first day in the Air Force Medical Center,” said Wells. “Try to recapture the image of your first waking recollection. The first thing you remember, on waking up….”

Naismith tried to concentrate. He had a vague recollection of whiteness—white sheets, white uniforms….

Watching him, Wells did something at the control unit.

Instantly a vivid scene leaped up in Naismith’s mind, so clear and detailed that it was almost like living it over again.

“Yes?” said Wells alertly. “Describe what you see and hear.”

Naismith clenched his fists involuntarily, then tried to relax.

“Young doctor just came into my room. I can see his face as clearly as yours. About thirty, heavy cheeks, cheerful-looking, but his eyes are shrewd. Looked at my chart, then at me. ‘How are we feeling today?’ Nurse glanced at me and smiled, then went out. Big, pleasant room—green walls, white curtains. I said, ‘Where am I?’” Naismith paused, frowning in surprise. “I didn’t remember anything… not anything. Not even the language—he—” Naismith twisted suddenly on the couch.

“Easy,” said Wells. “Can you tell me his reply?”

Naismith clenched his jaw. “I can now. He said, ‘what language is that, old fellow?’ But I didn’t understand it!”

Naismith rose to one elbow. “He was talking English, and I didn’t understand a word!”

Wells pressed him back, looking worried. “Easy,” he repeated. “We knew you were totally amnesic after the crash.

You had to relearn everything.. Don’t let the vividness of this recollection—”

“But what language was I speaking?” Naismith demanded ferociously. “When I asked him ‘Where am I?’”

Wells looked startled. “Can you repeat the actual sounds?”

“Glenu ash i?” said Naismith after a moment, with closed eyes. Tension was mounting in him; he could not lie still. His jaw muscles were painfully tight, and he could feel his forehead beginning to sweat. “Do you recognize it?”

“I’m no linguist. It isn’t German, or French or Spanish, I’m quite sure. But perhaps Rumanian, or Croatian, something from that general area? Is there any influence of that kind in your background?”

“Not according to the records,” Naismith said tensely. Sweat was streaming down his face; his fists clenched and opened, clenched again. “My parents were both native-born and lived in the Midwest all their lives. Both died in the Omaha dusting, and so did all my other relatives; I was the last one. And I nearly bought it.”

“Let’s pass on,” said Wells. “After this is over, I’ll play that phrase back to Hupka or Leary, and see what they say. Let’s try a little farther back now. Try to compose yourself.”

“All right.” Naismith straightened out on the couch, arms at his sides.

“I direct your attention now,” said Wells carefully, in a strained voice, “to your last memory before waking up in the hospital. The last thing you remember.” He touched the controls again.

Naismith started, as another of those vivid images exploded in his mind. A landscape this time, misty and gray.

“The crash,” he said hoarsely, and licked his lips. “Wreckage all the hell over—smoking…. Bodies—”

“Where are you?” Wells asked, bending nearer.

“About twenty yards from the fuselage,” Naismith said, with an effort. “Buck naked, bleeding…. It’s cold. Bare ground. There’s a body, and I’m bending over to see who it is.

No face, all smashed. Dog tags…. Good Christ!” He sat up abruptly, trembling.

Wells went pale under his tan and switched off the machine.

“What was it?”

“I don’t know,” Naismith said slowly, fumbling in his mind for the image that was no longer there. “I was reaching for the guy’s dog tags, and then—I don’t know what. A hell of a shock.

Now it’s gone.”

“We’d better call this a session,” said Wells, about to dis-connect the control unit. “Next time—”

“No!” Naismith seized his arm. “We’re close to it now, I can feel it. I’m not going to quit. Turn that thing on.”

“I don’t think it’s wise, Naismith,” said Wells soothingly.

“You’re reacting too strongly; this is powerful stuff, don’t forget.”

“One more try,” said Naismith. “I can take one more, then we’ll pass it till next time.” He held Wells’ eyes with his.

“All right, then,” said Wells reluctantly. “Let’s see….”

Naismith lay back. The hum and the tickling in his skull began again. “I direct your attention,” said Wells, “to your childhood. Any scene from your childhood. Anything that comes to mind.”

Naismith went rigid. Something swam up toward his consciousness, something so dreadful that if he saw it, he would go mad. Then it was gone.

So it had been a flop. Angrily, as he stood on the path outside Wells’ home, Naismith massaged his temples with his fingers. All he had got out of the whole thing was a headache.

He stood in angry indecision for a moment. One by one, his possibilities of action were being cut off. Ever since that first day, in class—

A thought that had been hovering at the back of his mind began to take definite shape. It was true that everything had started there, while he was under the influence of the Hivert Duplicator…. Was it possible that his experiences since then

—the dreams, everything—were due to some alien tampering with that mechanism? Had they planted something in it to exercise a subtle compulsion on his mind?

Once he had asked himself the question, he could not let it alone. He started off down the path toward the tube entrance.

The headache got no better and no worse. It felt as though the clamps Wells had put on his head were still there, and although it was senseless, he could not get rid of the impulse to brush them away.

Going to Wells had been a mistake. All the discomfort, the paraphernalia, the time wasted, and still they had got absolutely nothing from the blank period that ended four years ago. Some few bits of memory from his time in the hospital after the crash—more than they had got previously—then nothing at all.

He got off at the University stop, walked to the Science Building in bright sunlight. A few students he passed stopped and looked after him; but he met no one he knew well, and no one spoke to him.

As he climbed the rear stair to the classrooms, he met jittery Donald Klemperer coming down, followed by a young preparator named Irving; both were wearing lab smocks, and looked startled to see him. Klemperer was the youngest member of the Physics Department, an anxious, blinking youngster.

Irving was dark, heavy and placid.

“Oh, uh. Professor Naismith,” Klemperer stammered. “Professor Orvile said—”

“Have you been taking over my classes?” Naismith asked pleasantly, continuing to climb the stairs past them.

“Yes, yes, I am, but what I wanted to say—”

“How did the demonstration go today?” Naismith was at the head of the stairs, turning his head to look back. Klemperer and Irving, craning up, both had their mouths open.

“All right, ah, pretty well, but—”

“That’s good, keep it up.” Naismith started briskly down the hall.

“But Professor Orvile said if I saw you, I was to be sure and get your key!” Klemperer wailed.

Naismith did not answer. He unlocked the door of the duplicator room, slipped inside, slammed it behind him. Reacting to his presence, the lights slowly glowed on.

He looked around the room, examining the familiar equipment as if he had never seen it before. The duplicator mechanism, in three metal cases grouped against one wall, and in the two units above and below the object platform, was a standard nine-gang Hivert Duplicator outfit. It had an object field six feet in radius, here marked off by a low railing. The table and apparatus were set up much as he had left them: the tank, the tau accumulator, the release mechanism, now pushed to one side. Several items had been added: a photometer and interferometer, a small theodolite, some prisms, the usual equipment for demonstrating the optical properties of quasi-matter. In addition, the heavy base-plate of a hydraulic jack had been bolted to the floor, and a small traveling crane had been positioned to take the weight of the tank when the table was removed.

Naismith recognized the preparations for the third in the series of quasi-matter demonstrations; Klemperer and Irving must have been setting them up just before he arrived.

He glanced thoughtfully at the tank itself. The liquid inside, still in the quasi-matter state, reflected light like a tankful of mercury. The reflections of the walls, the door and the equipment around the room were distorted by the tank’s curvature, and by something else. From where he stood, Naismith could clearly see the image of the duplicator machinery on the wall to his left, whereas his own reflection was a barely visible stripe at the right rim of the tank.

With some difficulty, he got the front panels off all three units of the control mechanism, and examined the massed tubes and wiring inside. He was not an expert on the Hivert, but was generally familiar with its design, and as far as he could tell, there were no signs of anything unusual. The units in floor and ceiling were less readily accessible, but both were thick with dust and grime: obviously they had not been opened for months.

His ears caught a faint click, and he turned in time to see the door swing open.

In the doorway stood two broad men in maroon jackets.

Light glinted from the guns in their hands. “Hold it!” said one sharply.

Caught off balance, with no time to think, Naismith instinctively slammed one hand down onto the light button on the control pedestal. He pivoted in the same motion and kept going, while the room lights winked out and the room darkened, except for the broken shaft of illumination from the doorway.

Someone shouted. Naismith was moving fast, swinging around the corner of the table. There was a deafening roar as one of the guns went off; then Naismith was crouching, sheltered by the tank. Only two or three seconds had gone by.

In the ringing silence, one of the men called thinly, “Come out of there, Naismith! You can’t make it—there’s only one door!”

By the flickering of the light from the doorway, Naismith could tell that both men had come farther into the room, moving apart, one to each side. Poised and alert, his heart thudding steadily, Naismith was able to think with cold precision: The tank rotates momentum 90° counterclockwise.

Both hands went quickly to the tabletop. One closed on the heavy brass theodolite, the other snatched up two of the prisms.

In his mind he was keeping track of the two men’s positions, diagramming them like an elementary problem in trigonometry.

He waited until the last instant, then sprang up and threw the prisms at the man on his right.

The room roared again, with a volume of sound that made the walls shiver and hurt his eardrums. The glass tank dissolved into a hundred fragments, but the silvery cylinder of quasi-matter stood unchanged. As he ducked down behind the tank, Naismith heard the shots continue: three, four….

There was a faint clatter and a thump from the other side of the room, to his left.

Naismith risked a look: the man on his left was kneeling, arms crossed tightly over his stomach, head forward. His gun was on the floor. The man swayed and began to topple.

Naismith gathered himself, swung the heavy theodolite over the table with all his force, and instantly followed it, vaulting the table. The second man was down, off balance, having ducked to avoid the missile. He snapped one shot at Naismith, filling the room with sound: then Naismith was on top of him.

Naismith felt a brief shock in one hand, and the man was sprawling limply under him, his neck unnaturally bent.

Naismith was up again almost without a pause, running out the door, past the white faces of Klemperer and Orvile; then down the stairs, out into the sunshine. He discovered that he was bleeding freely from a cut on one cheek, probably where one of the slivers of glass had struck him.

Realizing abruptly how fast he had been moving, he forced himself to walk at a normal pace across the lawns toward the tube entrance. A few students were gathered around a gray and blue copter parked on the lawn: the bubble was empty, the blades still. On impulse, Naismith went that way. A prickle of uneasiness went up his spine as he walked. It had been too quick: he had not had time to do more than act instinctively.

There had been a threat to his life; he had met it with the means at hand, making one of his attackers shoot the other, by de-flection from the kinetically inert quasi-matter. If he had thought at all, he had assumed the two men were gunsters hired by Lall and Churan. But…

He was at the copter, ignoring the students who turned to stare. Inside the bubble, a radio voice was muttering indistinguishably. Naismith opened the door, stepped up and leaned his head in to listen.

The uniformed patrolman in the tiny visiscreen was saying:

“… detention and interrogation. This man is wanted for the murder of Dr. Claude R. Wells, a psychiatrist at the University of California in Los Angeles. Wells was battered to death, and his office completely wrecked an hour ago. Naismith is considered extremely dangerous. He is not known to be armed, but is to be approached with caution. His description again, W.M.A., six feet two inches…”

The last words barely registered. Naismith turned away, with a roaring of doom in his head. When they saw his face, the students looked alarmed and backed off. He went through them, past them, moving like a somnambulist.

He could not even reject what he had heard in disbelief. He had realized instantly at the first words from the copter radio, that he had no memory of Wells at all beyond that frightening unseen thing that had come up out of his childhood. After that, a blank.

“Struggle against us,” the Lall creature had said. And he had done it; and this was the crushing result. He had killed Wells and two detectives. Now he was “ready”; he had nowhere left to go, except to Lall and Churan.

Behind him a weak, distant voice was calling. “Hey…”

came faintly over the lawns. “Hey, stop him! Stop him!

Hey…”

Naismith glanced back, saw two doll-figures emerging from the Science Building. One had white hair, and he identified it instantly as Orvile. Both running, waving their arms.

The students around Naismith turned their heads indecisively from the two figures to Naismith. Like most people, they were slow to react. Naismith turned his back on them, careful not to move too quickly, and started to walk away.

At the last moment, a husky senior blocked his path. As he opened his mouth to speak, Naismith straight-armed him and began to run. His last glimpse of the senior showed him on one leg, windmilling his arms for balance, his mouth all amazement.

Naismith sprinted. He had taken four strides when the sound he dreaded broke out behind him: a chorus of yells from many young throats; the sound of mob in pursuit.

As he ran at full speed toward the tube entrance, a second police copter was sidling down out of the sky.