The Unteleported Man

15

For more than thirty minutes nothing had ema­nated from the anti-prolepsis chamber of Gregory Gloch, and by now Sepp von Einem realized with full acuity that something dreadful had gone wrong.

Taking a calculated risk — Gloch in the past had ranted against this as an illegal invasion of his privacy, of his very psyche, in fact — Dr. von Einem clicked to on the audio monitoring mechanism which tapped the in­put circuit of the chamber. Shortly, he found himself receiving via a three-inch speaker mounted on the wall the same signals which passed to his protégé.

The first rush of impulses almost unhinged him.

"Pun, there," a jovial masculine — somewhat elderly voice — was in the process of intoning. "Life of you, life lived over... see?" It then chuckled loudly in a comical but distinctly vulgar fashion. "Heh-heh," it gloated. "How you doin', ol' boy, Gloch there, ol' fella?"

"Fine," Greg Gloch's retort came. But to von Einem it had a very distinctive weak quality about it, a vivid loss of surgency which chilled him deeply, caused him to hang on each following word of the exchange. Who was this person addressing Gloch? he asked himself. And got no response; the voice was new to him. And yet —

At the same time it acutely resembled a voice he knew. A voice he could however not identify, to save his life. He had the intuition, then, that this voice had deliberately been disguised; he would need a video breakdown by which to identify it. And that would take time, precious time which no one, at this moment in the struggle over Whale's Mouth, could afford to spare — least of all he.

Pressing a command key, von Einem said, "Emer­gency call. I want an immediate trace put on the audio signal reaching Herr Gloch. Notify me of the origin-point, then if you must, obtain a video pic of the voice-pattern and inform me of the caller's identity." He paused, pondering; it was, to say the least, a decision of gravity which he now entertained. "Once you have the locus detailed," he said slowly, "run a homotropic foil along the line. We can obtain the voice-ident after­wards."

The microscopic feedback circuit within his ear spluttered, "Herr Doktor — you mean take out the caller before identification? Das ist gar unmöglich — gar!"

Von Einem rasped, "It is distinctly not out of the question; in fact it is essential." For, underneath, he had an intuition as to who the disguised voice consisted of. It could only be one person.

Jaimé Weiss. The enfant terrible of the UN, prob­ably operating in conjunction with his brother-in-law, the 'wash psychiatrist Lupov. Thinking that, von Einem felt nausea rise like a gray tide within him. Them, he reflected bitingly; the worst pair extant. Probably in orbit in a sealed sat at Whale's Mouth... transmitting either at faster-than-light directly to our system or worse still: feeding their lines during routine traffic through one of our own Telpor stations.

Savagely, he said to the technician brought into con­tact by means of the command key at his disposal, "There is an exceedingly meager latitude for the per­formance of successful action against this party, Mein Herr; or don't you believe me? You suppose I am mistaken? I know who has infiltrated the anti-prolepsis tank of poor Herr Gloch; mach' snell!"And you had damn well better be successful, he said to himself as he released his command key and walked moodily to the chamber to look directly at his protégé to discern Gloch's difficulty with his own eyes.

I wonder, he thought to himself as he watched the youth's face twist with discomfort, if I shouldn't obli­terate the alien audio signal that's so successfully jam­ming the orderly process within the chamber. Or at least reroute it so that I receive it but Gloch does not.

However, it appeared to von Einem that the interlop­ing audio transmission had already done its job; Greg Gloch's face was a mass of confusion and turbulence. Whatever ideas Gloch had entertained for a counter-weapon against Bertold had long since evaporated. Zum Teufel, von Einem said to himself in a near-frenzied spasm of disappointment — as well as an ever-expanding sense that the Augenblick, the essential instant, had somehow managed to elude him. Somehow? Again he listened to the disruptive voice plaguing Gregory Gloch. Here it was; this was the malefactionary disturbance. This: Jaimé Weiss himself, wherever in the galaxy he had now located himself and his fawning sycophantic retinue.

Can Gloch hear me now? he wondered. Can he hear anything beyond that damned voice?

As an experiment, he cautiously addressed Gloch — by means of the customary time-rephasing constructs built into the chamber. "Greg! Kannst hör'?" He listened, waited; after a time he heard his words reeled off to the man within the chamber at appropriate velocity. Then the lips of the man moved, and then, to his relief, a sentence by Gloch was spewed out by the transmitter of the chamber.

"Oh. Yes, Herr von Einem." The voice had a vague quality about it, a preoccupation; Greg Gloch heard, but did not really seem able to focus his faculties. "I was... um... daydreaming or... some darn thing. Ummp!" Gloch noisily cleared his throat. "What, ah, can I, eh, do for you, sir? Um?"

"Who's that constantly addressing you, Greg? That irritating voice which impedes every attempt you make to perform your assigned tasks?"

"Oh. Well. I believe — " For almost an entire minute Gloch remained silent; then, at last, like a rewound toy, he managed to continue. "Seems to me he identified himself as Charley Falks' little boy Martha. Yes; I'm certain of it. Ol' Charley Falks' little boy — "

"Das kann nicht sein,"von Einem snarled. "It simply can't be! No one's little boy is named Martha; das weis' Ich ja."He lapsed into brooding, introverted contemplation, then. A conspiracy, he decided. And one that's working. Our only recourse is the homotropic weapon released to follow the carrier wave of this deceptive transmission back to its source; I hope it is already in motion.

Grimly, he strode back to the command key, punched it down.

"Yes, Herr Doktor."

"The homotropic foil; has it — "

"On its way, sir," the technician informed him brightly. "As you instructed: released before ident." The technician added in a half-aside, "I do hope, sir, that it's not someone you have positive inclinations toward."

"It can't be," von Einem said, and released the key with an abiding sense of satisfaction. But then an alter­nate — and not so pleasing — thought came to him. The homotropic foil, until it reached its target, could act as a dead giveaway regarding its own origin. If the proper monitoring equipment were put in use — or already had been put in functioning condition — then the foil would accomplish a handy, quick task for the enemy: it would tell him — or both of them — where the disruptive signal entitling itself "ol' Charley Falks' little boy Martha" et cetera had gone... gone and accomplished vast damage in respect to von Einem and THL in general.

I wish Herr Ferry were immediately here, von Einem growled to himself gloomily; he picked at a poison-impregnated false tooth mounted in his upper left molars, wondering if the time might come when he would be required by obtaining conditions to do away with himself.

But Theodoric Ferry busied himself at this moment preparing for a long-projected trip via Telpor to Whale's Mouth. A most important journey, too, inas­much as there he would complete the formulation of contemplated final schemes: this was the moment in which the vise of history would clamp shut on the unmen such as Rachmael ben Applebaum and his doxie Miss Holm — not to mention Herr Glazer-Holliday who might in fact well already be now dead... or however it was phrased.

"There," von Einem mused, "is a no-good individ­ual, that Matson person, that slobbering hyphenater." His disgust — and satisfaction at either the already-accomplished or proposed taking-out of Glazer-Hol­liday — knew no limit; both emotions expanded like a warm, unclouded sun.

On the other hand, what if Weiss and Lupov man­aged to obtain the reverse trace on the homotropic foil now dispatched them-wards? An unease-manufacturing thought, and one which he still did not enjoy. Nor would he until the manifold success of the foil had been proclaimed.

He could do nothing but wait. And meanwhile, hope that Herr Ferry's journey to Whale's Mouth would ac­complish all that it entertained. Because the import of that sally remained uncommonly vast — to say the least.

In his ear the monitor covering aud transmissions entering Gloch's anti-prolepsis tank whined, "Say, you know? An interesting sort of game showed up among us kids the other day; might interest you. Thingisms, it's called. Ever hear of it?"

"No," Gloch answered, briefly; his retort, too, reached the listening Herr von Einem.

"Works like this. I'll give you this example; then maybe you can think up a few of your own. Get this: 'The hopes of the woolen industry are threadbare.' Haw haw haw! You get it? Woolen, threadbare — see?"

"Umm," Gloch said irritably.

"And now, little ol' Greg," the voice intoned, "how 'bout a Thingism from you'all? Eh?"

"Keerist," Gloch protested, and then was silent. Ob­viously he had directed his thoughts along the requested direction.

This must stop, von Einem realized. And soon.

Or Theo Ferry's trip to Whale's Mouth is in jeopardy.

But why — he did not know; it was an unconscious in­sight, nothing more. As yet. Even so, however, he ap­preciated its certitude: beyond any doubt his appraisal of the danger surging over them all was accurate.

To the exceedingly well-groomed young receptionist wearing the topless formal dress, a gaggle of dark red Star of Holland roses entwined in her heavy, attractive blonde hair, Theodoric Ferry said brusquely,

"You know who I am, miss. Also, you know that by UN law this Telpor station is inoperative; however, we know better, do we not?" He kept his eyes fixed on her; nothing could be permitted to go wrong. Not at this late date, with each side fully committed to the fracas on the far side of the teleportation gates. Neither he nor the UN had much left to offer; he was aware of this, and he hoped that his analysis of the UN's resources was not inadequate.

Anyhow — no other direction lay ahead except that of continuation of this, his original program. He could scarcely withdraw now; it would be an immediate un­doing of everything so far accomplished.

"Yes Mr. Ferry," the attractive, full-breasted — with enlarged gaily-lit pasties — young woman responded. "But to my knowledge there's no cause for alarm. Why don't you seat yourself and allow the sim-attendant to pour you a warm cup of catnip tea?"

"Thank you," Ferry said, and made his way to a soft, comfortable style of sofa at the far end of the station's waiting room.

As he sipped the invigorating tea (actually a Martian import with stimulant properties, not to mention aphrodisiac) Theo Ferry unwillingly made out the com­plex series of required forms, wondering sullenly to himself why it was that he, even he!, had to do so... af­ter all, he owned the entire plant, lock, stock et al. Nevertheless he followed protocol; possibly it had a pur­pose, and in any case he would be traveling, as usual, under a code name — he had been called "Mr. Ferry" for the last time. Anyhow for a while.

"Your shots, Mr. Hennen." A THL nurse, middle-aged and severe, stood nearby with ugly needles poised. "Kindly remove your outer garments, please. And put away that cup of insipid catnip tea." Obviously she did not recognize him; she, a typical bureaucrat, had become engrossed in the cover projected by the filled-out forms. He felt amiable, realizing this. A good omen, he said to himself.

Presently he lay unclothed, feeling conspicuous, now, while three owlish Telpor technicians puttered about.

"Mr. Mike Hennen, Herr," one of the technicians in­formed him with a heavy German accent, "please if you will reduce your gaze not to notice the hostile field-emanations; there is a severe retinal risk. Understand?"

"Yes, yes," he answered angrily.

The ram-head of energy that tore him into shreds obliterated any sense of indignation that he might have felt at being treated as one more common mortal; back and forth it surged, making him shrill with pain — it could not be called attractive, the process of telepor­tation; he gritted his teeth, cursed, spat, waited for the field to diminish... and hated each moment that the force held him. Hardly worth it, he said to himself in a mixture of suffering and outrage. And then —

The terminal surge dwindled and he succeeded in opening his left eye. He blinked. Strained to see.

All three Telpor technicians had vanished. He lay now in a vastly smaller chamber. A pretty girl, wearing a pale blue transparent smock, busied herself strolling back and forth past the entrance-doorway, a hulking hand-weapon at ready. Patrolling in case of UN seizure or attempted seizure, he understood. And sat up, grunt­ing.

"Good morning!" the girl said blithely, glancing at him with an expression of amusement. "Your clothing, Mr. Hennen, can be found in one of our little metal baskets; in your case, marked 136552. Now, if you should by any chance find yourself becoming un­steady — "

"Okay," he said roughly. "Help me to my goddam feet."

A moment later, in a side alcove, he had dressed; he gathered together his portable possessions, examined his reflection in a rather dim-with-dust mirror, then strolled out, feeling much better, to confront the prowling girl in the lacy smock.

"What's a good hotel?" he demanded — as if he did not know. But the pose of being an ordinary neo-colonist had to be maintained, even toward this loyal employee.

"The Simpy Cat," the girl answered; she now studied him intently. "I think I've seen you before," she de­cided. "Mr. Hennen. Hmm. No, the name is new to me. An odd name; is it Irish?"

"Who knows," he muttered as he strode toward the door. No time for chitchat, not even with a girl so pretty. Another time, perhaps...

"Watch out for Lies Incorporated police, Mr. Hen­nen!" the girl called after him. "They're everywhere. And the fighting — it's really getting awful. Are you armed?"

"No." He paused reluctantly at the door. More de­tails.

"THL," the girl informed him, "would be glad to sell you a small but highly useful weapon which — "

"Nuts to that," Ferry said, and plunged on outdoors, onto the dark sidewalk.

Shapes, colorless, vast and swift-moving, sailed in every layer of this world. Rooted, he gaped at the new ghastly transformation of the colony which he knew so well. The war; he remembered, then, with a jolt. Well, so it would be for a while. But, startled, he had dif­ficulty once more orienting himself. Good god, how long would this last? He walked a few steps, still at­tempting to adjust, still finding it impossible; he seemed to sway in an alien sea, a life unanticipated by the en­vironment; he was as strange to it as it to him.

"Yes sir!" a mechanical voice said. "Reading mate­rial to banish boredom. Newspaper or paperback book, sir?" The robot 'pape-vender coasted eagerly in his direction; with dismay he observed that its metal body had become corroded and pitted from the discharge of nearby anti-personnel weapons' fire.

"No," he said rapidly. "This damn war, here — "

"The latest 'pape will explain it entirely, sir," the vendor said in a loud braying voice as it pursued him; he peered about hopefully for a flapple-for-hire, saw none, felt keen nervousness: out here on the pavement he re­mained singularly exposed.

And in my own damn colony planet's own main hub, he said to himself with aggrieved indignation. Can't walk my own streets with impunity; have to put on a cammed identity — make it appear I'm some nitwit nonentity named Mike Hennen or whatever... he had already virtually lost contact with his false identity, by now, and the loss frankly pleased him. Damn it, he said to himself, I'm the one and only —

At that moment he caught sight of the single main item which the 'pape vendor had to offer. The True and Complete Economic and Political History of Newcol­onizedland, he read. By who? Dr. Bloode. Strange, he thought. I haven't run across that before, and yet I'm in and out of this place all the time.

"I perceive your scrutiny of this remarkable text which I have for sale," the vendor declared. "This edition, the eighteenth, is exceptionally up-to-date, sir; possibly you'd like to glance through it. No charge for that." It whipped its copy of the huge book in his direc­tion; reflexively, he accepted it, opened it at random, feeling restless and set-upon but not knowing precisely how to escape the 'pape vendor.

And, before his eyes, a passage dealing with him; his own name leaped up to stun him, to hold and transmute his faculties of attention.

"You, too," the 'pape vendor announced, "can play a vital role in the development of this fine virgin colo­nial world with its near-infinite promise of cultural and spiritual reward. In fact it is a distinct possibility that you are already mentioned; why not consult the index and thereby scout out your own name? Take a chance, Mr. — "

"Hennen," he murmured. "Or Hendren; whichever it is." Automatically obeying the firm promptings of the vendor he turned to the index, glanced up and down the H's, then realized with a start that he had already been doing exactly that: reading about himself, but un­der his real name. With a grunt of irritation he swept the useless pages aside, sought his actual, correct name in the index.

After the entry Ferry, Theodoric, he found virtually unending citations; the page he had formerly been reading consisted of but one out of many.

On impulse he chose the first entry, that with the lowest page number.

Early in the morning Theodoric Ferry, chief of the vast economic and political entity Trails of Hoff­man Limited, got out of bed, put on his clothes and walked into the living room.

Damned dull stuff, he decided in bewilderment. Is this book full of everything about me? Even the most trivial details? For some strange and obscure reason, this rubbed him the wrong way; once more he sought the index and this time selected a much later entry.

That early evening when Theo Ferry entered the Telpor station under the false code-ident, that of one Mike Hennen, he little glimpsed the fateful events which would in only a short time transpire in his already baroque and twisted

"For godsake," he complained hoarsely. They al­ready knew; already had hold of his cover name — in fact had had time to print it up and run off this weird book concerning him. Slander! "Listen," he said se­verely to the alert 'pape vendor, "my private life is my own business; there's no valid reason in the galaxy why my doings should be listed here." I ought to bust this outfit, he decided. Whoever these people are who put together this miserable book. Eighteenth edition? Good lord, he realized; it must have been kicking around for one hell of a long time... but maybe lacking some of these entries about me. In fact it would have to lack this entry if for no other reason than that I just within the last day or so hit on my name-cover.

"One poscred, sir," the vendor said politely. "And the book becomes yours to keep."

Gruffly, he handed over the money; the vendor, pleased, wheeled off into the clouds of debris created by the warfare taking place a few blocks off. The book carefully gripped, Theo Ferry sprinted sure-footedly for the security of a nearby semi-ruined housing structure; there, crouched down among the fragmented blocks of building-plastic, he once more resumed his intent reading. Fully absorbed in the peculiar text he became totally oblivious to the noises and movements around him; all that existed for him now was the printed page held motionless before his intense scrutiny.

I'm damn near the main character in this tract, he realized. Myself, Matson, that Rachmael ben Apple­baum, this girl named Freya something and of course Lupov — naturally Lupov. On impulse he looked up a citation regarding Dr. Lupov; a moment later he found himself engrossed in that particular section of the text, even though admittedly it did not deal with himself at all.

Peering tautly into the small vid screen, Dr. Lupov said to the sharp-featured young man beside him, "Now is the time, Jaimé. Either Theo Ferry examines the Bloode text or else he never does. If he turns to page one-forty-nine, then we have a real chance of — "

"He won't," Jaimé Weiss said fatalistically. "The chances are against it. In my opinion he must somehow be maneuvered very clearly and directly into turning to that one particular page; somehow an instrument or method must be em­ployed which will first of all provide him with that page number out of all possible page numbers, and, when that's done, somehow his curiosity must

Hands shaking, Theo Ferry leafed through the book to page one hundred and forty-nine. And, compul­sively, unblinkingly, studied the text before him.

With a snort of exultation, Jaimé Weiss said, "He did it. Dr. Lupov — I was absolutely right." Gleefully, he slapped at the series of meters, switches and dials before the two of them. But of course the ploy had succeeded because of the 'wash psychiatrist's accurate diagnosis of all the passive factors constellating in Theo Ferry's psyche. Inability to resist danger... the suggestion that it constituted a hazard, his turning to that one page: the very notion that an extreme risk was involved had caused Ferry to thumb frantically in that direction.

He had gone unresistingly to that page — and he would not be coming back out.

"Sir," one of Lupov's assistants said suddenly, star­tling both Weiss and the psychiatrist, "we've just picked up something deadly on the scope. A detonation-foil tropic to both of you has passed through the Telpor gate that we made use of to reach Greg Gloch in his cham­ber." The man's face shone pale and damp with fright.

Jaimé Weiss and Dr. Lupov looked at each other wordlessly.

"I would say," Lupov said presently, his voice shaking, "that everything now depends on how rapidly the foil moves, how accurate it is, and — " He gestured convulsively at the micro-screen before them. " — and how long it takes Mr. Ferry to succumb to the 'wash in­structions on the page."

"How long," Jaimé said carefully, "would you es­timate it would take for a man of Ferry's caliber to succumb?"

After briefly calculating, Lupov said huskily, "At least an hour."

"Too long," Jaime said.

Lupov, woodenly, nodded slowly, up and down.

"If the foil reaches us first," Jaimé said then, "and takes both of us out, will Ferry's pattern be altered?" What a waste, he thought; what a dreadful, impossible waste, if not. Everything we set up: the pseudo-worlds, the fake class of "weevils," everything — with no result. And to be so close, so incredibly close! Again he turned his attention to the small screen; he deliberately forgot everything else. Why not? he asked himself bitterly. After all, there was nothing they could do, now that the defense-foil from von Einem's lab had passed through the gate and had come here to Fomalhaut IX.

"I can't predict," Lupov said, half to himself in a drab mutter, "what Ferry will do, if you and I are — "

The back of the bunker burst in a shower of murder­ing white and green sparks. Jaimé Weiss shut his eyes.

Studying the page before him, Theo Ferry, engrossed, failed to hear the buzzer at his neck-com the first time. At last, however, he became aware of it, grasped the fact that von Einem was attempting to reach him. "Yes," he said brusquely. "What is it, Sepp?"

"You are in extreme danger," the distant, faded voice came to him, a tinny, gnat-like dancing whisper from many light years off. "Throw away that thing you have, whatever it is; it's a Lupov invention — the 'wash technique strictured for you, sir! Hurry!"

With unbelievable effort Theo Ferry managed to close the book. The page of print vanished... and as soon as it did so he felt strength return to his arms; volition flooded back and he at once jumped up, drop­ping the book. It tumbled wildly to the ground, pages fluttering; Theo Ferry at once jumped on it, ground his heel into the thing — hideously, it emitted a shrill living cry, and then became silent.

Alive, he thought. An alien life form; no wonder it could deal with my recent activities; the page actually contained nothing — it was no book at all, only one of those awful Ganymede life-mirrors that Lupov was sup­posed to use. That entity that reflects back to you your own thoughts. Ugh. He winced with aversion. And it almost got me, he said to himself. Close.

"The report back by the foil," von Einem's far-off voice came to him, "indicates that Lupov and Weiss built up over a long period of time, perhaps even years, an intricate structure of subworlds of a hypnotic, delusional type, to trap you when you made your crucial trip to Whale's Mouth. Had they fully concentrated on that and left Greg Gloch alone they might very well have been successful. This way — "

"Did you get Weiss and Lupov?" he demanded.

Von Einem said, "Yes. As near as I can determine. I'm still waiting for the certified results, but it seems hopeful. If I may explain about these mutually exclusive delusional worlds — "

"Forget it," Ferry broke in harshly. "I have to get out of here." If they could come this close, then he was hardly safe, even now; they had spotted him, prepared for him — Lupov and Weiss might be gone, but that still left others. Rachmael ben Applebaum, he thought. We didn't get you, I suppose. And you have done us a good deal of harm already, harm that we know of. Theoretic­ally you could do much, much more.

Except, he thought as he groped in his clothing for the variety of miniaturized weapons he knew were there, we're not going to let you. Too much is at stake; too many lives are involved. You will not succeed, even if you have outlasted Mat Glazer-Holliday, Lupov and Weiss and possibly even that Freya girl, the one who was Mat's mistress and now is yours — you still don't stand a chance.

Thinly, he smiled. This part I will enjoy, he realized. My taking you out of action, ben Applebaum. For this I will operate out of my own ship, Apteryx Nil. When I'm finally there, I'll be safe. Even from you.

And you, he said to himself, have no place equal to it; even if the Omphalos were here at Whale's Mouth it would not be enough.

Nothing, ben Applebaum, he thought harshly, will be enough. Not when I've reached Apteryx Nil. As I enter it your tiny life fades out.

Forever.