The Unteleported Man

16

To Freya Holm the flapple repeated in high-pitched anxiety, "Sir or madam, you must evacuate at once; all living humans must leave me, as my meta-battery is about to deteriorate. Due to various punctures in my hull, which punctures having been caused by the demolition of the simulacrum of Mr. Ferry, or rather because of which — in any case I am no longer able to maintain homeostasis, or whatever the phrase is. Please, sir or madam; do heed me: your life, sir or madam, is being risked each moment!"

Furiously, Freya grated, "And go where, once I leave here?"

"Down to the surface of the planet," the flapple said, in a tone of voice suggesting ultimate mechanical smug­ness; as far as the flapple was concerned it had solved everything.

"Jump?" she demanded. "Two thousand feet?"

"Well, I suppose your point is well-taken," the flapple said in a disgruntled tone; it evidently was displeased to have its solution dealt with so readily. "But the enor­mous inter-plan and -system ship which I am now attached to; why not hie yourself there? Or however the expression goes."

"It's Ferry's!"

"Ferry's, Schmerry's," the flapple said. "This way you'll perish when I do. You want THAT?"

"All right," she snarled, and made her way un­steadily toward the entrance hatch of the flapple, the link between it and the huge ship blowing its ceaseless wisps of fuel vapor, obviously ready to take off at an in­stant's command.

"My meta-battery has nowwwaaaa foooof," the flapple intoned hazily; its expiration had accelerated by leaps and bounds.

"Goodbye," Freya said, and passed out through the entrance hatch, cautiously following the shorter of the two THL agents.

Behind her the flapple murmured in its dim fashion, "Tttturnnn uppp yrrrr hearing aaaaaaiddddd, missss­zzzz." And drifted into oblivion.

Good riddance, she decided.

A moment later she had entered the great ship — Theo Ferry's post from which he — obviously — operated when on Fomalhaut IX.

"Kill her," a voice said.

She ducked. A laser beam cut past her head; in­stantly she rolled, spun to one side, thinking, They did it to Mat, but not to me; they can't do it to me. A second last try for us, she thought desperately; if Rachmael can do anything. I can't. "Ferry," she gasped. "Please!"

The prayer proved worthless. Four THL agents, in military brown, deployed strategically at several com­pass points of the ship's central cabin, aimed at her emotionlessly, while at the controls, his face a dull mask of almost indifferent concentration, sat Theodoric Ferry. And, she realized, this was the man himself; this did not constitute a simulacrum.

"Do you know," Ferry said to her quietly, "where Rachmael ben Applebaum is at this moment?"

"No," she gasped. Truthfully.

At that Ferry nodded toward the four THL agents; the man to his

See Note on page V

pseudopodia several remaining unchewed eyes, and these it had placed close to its stomach in order to see properly. "Yes, it's still in there — and you can have it, free! No, but seriously, folks, the twentieth edition is worth a lot more to a collector than the seventeenth; get it while the getting's good or this free money-back offer expires forever."

After a pause Rachmael shut his eyes and reached his hand gropingly into the midsection of the cephalopodic life form.

"Fine, fine," the eye-eater chortled. "That feels really cool, as the ancients said. Got hold of it yet? Reach deeper, and don't mind if the digestive juices destroy your sleeve; that's show biz, or whatever it was they formerly said. Tee-hee!"

His fingers touched something firm within the gela­tinous, oozing mass. The edge of the book? Or — something else. It felt very much as if — incredibly — it consisted of the crisp, starched, lower edge of a woman's bra.

"For god's sake!" a female voice declared furiously. And at the same instant a small but wildly intent hand grabbed his, forced it back toward him.

Immediately he opened his eyes. The eye-eater glowered at him in indignation. But — it had changed. From it long strands of women's hair grew; the eye-eater had a distinctly female appearance. Even its paw­ful of eyes had altered; they now appeared elongated, graceful, with heavy lashes. A woman's eyes, he realized with a thrill of terror.

"Who are you?" he demanded, almost unable to speak; he jerked his hand back in revulsion and the pseudopodium released him.

The pseudopodia of the eye-eater, all of them, ter­minated in small, delicate hands. Like the hair and the eyes, distinctly female.

The eye-eater had become a woman. And, near the center of its body, it wore — ludicrously — the stiff white bra.

The eye-eater said, in a high-pitched voice, almost a squeal of indignation, "I'm Gretch Borbman, of course. And I frankly don't believe it's very funny to — do what you did just now." Breathing hotly, the eye-eater glowered even more darkly.

"I'm — sorry," he managed to say. "But I'm lost in damn paraworld; it's not my fault. So don't condemn me."

"Which paraworld is it this time?" the eye-eater demanded. "The same one as before?"

He started to answer... and then noticed something which froze him into silence where he stood. Other eye-eaters had begun to appear, slowly undulating toward him and Gretch Borbman. Some had the distinct cast of masculinity; some obviously were, like Gretch, female.

The class. Assembling together in response to what Gretch had said.

"He attempted to reach inside me," the eye-eater calling itself Gretchen Borbman explained to the rest of them. "I wonder which paraworld that would in­dicate."

"Mr. ben Applebaum," one of the other eye-eaters, almost certainly Sheila Quam by the sound of her voice, said. "In view of what Miss Borbman says, I think it is virtually mandatory for me to declare a special emer­gency Computer Day; I would say that beyond a reason­able doubt this situation which you've created calls for it."

"True," the eye-eater named Gretch agreed; the others, to varying degrees, also nodded in unison. "Have his paraworld gestalt fed in so it can be examined and compared. Personally I don't think it's like anyone else's, but of course that's up to the computer to deter­mine. Myself, I feel perfectly safe; I know that whatever he saw, or rather sees, bears absolutely no resemblance to anything I ever perceived."

"What did he do just now," an eye-eater which reminded him of Hank Szantho said, "that made you yip like that?"

The Gretch Borbman thing said in a low, sullen voice, "He attempted to diddle me."

"Well," the Hank Szantho eye-eater said mildly, "I don't see where that alone indicates anything; I might even attempt that myself, some day. Anyhow, as long as Sheila feels it's called for — "

"I've already got the forms ready," the one whom he had identified as Sheila Quam said. To Rachmael she said, "Here is 47-B; I've already signed it. Now, if you'll come with me — " She glanced toward the Gretchen Borbman eye-eater. "Miss Borbman already knows her paraworld... I hope her confidence is vin­dicated; I hope that what you perceive, Mr. ben Apple­baum, is not congruent with hers."

"I hope so, too," the Gretchen Borbman thing agreed faintly.

"As I recall," the Sheila Quam eye-eating entity declared, "Mr. ben Applebaum's initial delusional ex­perience, set off by the LSD dart, consisted of involve­ment with the garrison state. Do you remember clearly enough to voluntarily testify to that, Mr. ben Apple­baum?"

"Yes," he said huskily. "And then the aquatic — "

"But before that," Sheila interrupted. "When you first crossed by Telpor. Before the dart — before the LSD."

Hazily, he said, "It's a blur to me, now." Reality, for him, had slipped and floundered too much; he could not be absolutely sure of the sequence of events. With a vast final effort he summoned his waning attention, focussed on his past — it seemed a billion light-years ago, and yet in actuality the experience with the garrison state had been reasonably recent. "It was before," he said, then. "I perceived the garrison state, the fighting; then a THL soldier shot me. So the experience with the garrison state came first; then, after the LSD, the aquatic nightmare-shape."

Hank Szantho said thoughtfully, "You may be inter­ested to know, Mr. ben Applebaum, that you are not the first person among us to live with that hallucina­tion — I refer to the prior one, that of the garrison state. If your delusional gestalt, when you present it to the computer, comes out on those lines, I can assure you that a tru bi-personal view of a paraworld will have been established... and this, of course, is what we fear, as you well know. Do you want to see the garrison state world established as the authentic reality?" His voice lifted harshly. "Consider."

"The choice," Sheila Quam said, "is not his; it's mine. I therefore officially declare this late Wednes­day afternoon and Computer Day, and I order Mr. ben Applebaum to accept this form I hold here, to fill it out, and then return it to me, as Control, to sign. You understand, Mr. ben Applebaum? Can you think clearly enough to follow what I'm saying?"

Reflexively, he accepted the form from her. "A pen?" he asked.

"A pen." Sheila Quam, plus all the other eye-eating quasi-forms, began to search about their bulb-like bodies — to no avail.

"Chrissake," Rachmael said irritably, and searched his own pockets. Not only to be compelled to fill out the 47-B form, but to come up with his own pencil —

In his pocket his fingers touched something: a flat, small tin. Puzzled, he lifted it out, examined it. The eye-eaters around him did so, as well. In particular the Gretchen Borbman one.

MORE FUN

AFTER DONE!

"How disgusting," Gretchen Borbman said. To the others she said, "A tin of Yucatán prophoz. The worst kind possible — fully automated, helium-battery powered, good for a five-year life span... is this what you had in mind, Mr. ben Applebaum, when you diddled me a moment ago?"

"No," he said. "I forgot Ihad these." Chilled, he thought, Have I had this all along? The cammed, hyper­minned UN weapon: the personnel variation of the time-warping construct which constituted the major device in Horst Bertold's arsenal. Naturally he retained it; the effectiveness of the camouflage lay beyond dispute — and had now been tested and ratified in prac­tice... it had even seemed to him, during the first moment of discovery, that this was exactly as it ap­peared to be: a box of prophoz and nothing more.

"Out of respect for decency and the women present here," the Hank Szantho eye-eater stated, "I believe you should put that obnoxiously specific tin away, Mr. ben Applebaum; don't you, on second thought, agree?"

"I suppose so," he said. And opened the tin.

Acrid smoke billowed about him, stinging his nos­trils. He halted, dropped into an instinctive crouch of self-defense; here, on the ninth planet of the Fomalhaut System, Rachmael ben Applebaum held the opened tin of Yucatán prophoz, studied the tiny, intricate con­trols of the time-warping instrument which the UN had provided him. More fun after done, he said to himself. Well, we'll see; we'll wait until we're done — we'll wait until we've found Freya.

That was his purpose, here at Whale's Mouth; noth­ing else mattered.

Directly before him a soldier appeared. Huge owl-like eyes fixed on him... he stared back; he and the THL soldier confronted each other, both shocked into im­mobility by surprise. And then Rachmael dropped, rolled.

Barely in time. The LSD dart, with a muffled pop, passed over his head and exploded somewhere behind him. Out of range.

Fumbling for the prophoz tin, he thought, Too soon; they picked me up almost at once. Standing over him, the THL soldier took careful aim; this time he would not miss. The grubby, professional fingers squeezed the trigger of the dart-launcher —

And Rachmael once more spun the controls of the time-warpage device.

"Genet," the maitre d' called sternly, with overtones of fussiness.

A waitress, wearing the lace stockings and partial jacket-vest now popular, approached; her right nipple, exposed, ornately capped by a complex Swiss construct which played semi-classical music continually and at the same time lit and relit in a series of lovely light-patterns, winked at Rachmael enticingly. "Yes, Caspar," the girl sighed, with a toss of her dark-blonde, high-piled natu­ral hair.

"Escort Mr. Applebaum to table twenty-three," the maitre d' told her, and ignored with haughty indiffer­ence the outraged line of customers who had been wait­ing god knew how long for a table.

"I don't want to — " Rachmael began, but the maitre d' cut him off.

"All arranged. She is waiting at twenty-three." He winked, then, at Rachmael, as if he knew everything. It was, Rachmael decided, a compliment; anyhow he had no choice but to accept it as that.

Through the noise and darkness of the Fox's Lair he followed the light-emitting useful nipple-assist of the waitress. By table after table they walked, and then, all at once, Genet halted.

There, seated in silence, smoking a cigarette, sat Freya Holm.

"You understand," Rachmael said as he took the chair beside her, "that this is the second time. That I've met you here." From her pack he took a cigarette, read the health-warning sticker, then lit up. At least it is for me, he realized. But I suppose not for you.

"No," Freya said, shaking her head. "I don't un­derstand. Do you want to explain it to me, or do you enjoy mystifying young ladies? "

Reaching into his pocket he groped for the tin of Yucatan prophoz...

And found nothing.

"Of course," he said, feeling hot prickles of chagrin ignite the back of his reddening neck. "I'm now back too far." Before the U.N. wep-x people provided me with it, he realized. So I can't use it again; I'm on my own, now. Exactly as I was when I sat here before. It was a darkly sobering realization; the rapprochement with Horst Bertold had not taken place — and possibly never would. The future — and that important moment had again become a portion of the future, not the past — was always in absolute flux. Everything that had been accomplished with Bertold — in fact everything that had been done period — had been expunged, wiped away.

Everything, too, which had gone wrong. That had been obliterated as well — hence his return, here to this spot, to this moment in his life, the moment when the first successful sortie against them had been carried out: the moment when Freya Holm had failed to transfer the deep-sleep components from her possession to his.

"... There is a strip of titanium within the righthand overleaf of the menu," Freya was saying softly to him. "The container of scent within my purse has a titanium-tropic ambulation-circuit; it will within one or two seconds register the presence of the strip and will then rotate itself out of my purse, which I've left open on purpose. It will travel across the underside of the menu. Do you see?"

"I see," Rachmael said, "but I can tell you that it's all a damn waste of technog and time; a robot operating for Ferry's interest is going to intercept the components and I'll never get my hands on them. Take my word for it." Because I know, he said savagely to himself, with overpowering wrath.

"In that case we have another plan." Freya Holm did not appear perturbed. "The Omphalos will be systemat­ically disassembled, reduced to sections small enough to pass through a Telpor station as luggage. On the far side, at Whale's Mouth, technicians from Lies Incorpo­rated will reassemble the ship, and, from the Fomalhaut system, you will travel across deep space back to Terra. How do you feel about that? Would you compromise in that extent? If we can't manage to get the components to you, as you say — "

"Be quiet." He had spotted the busboy who, carrying the chest-high load of dishes, would bump him at the crucial instant and acquire the vital deep-sleep com­ponents before he could transfer them to his cloak pocket. Now that I know, he mused, is it possible that I can deflect it? Does my advance knowledge equip me to deal with this action on the part of Theo Ferry? He did not know enough about time travel to be sure. But if the knowledge proved useless, then why did the UN regard the time-warping construct as a major weapon?

He had to assume — by the logical of the situation — that his prior knowledge would constitute, at least potentially, a decisive new factor; the original scene would not unroll mechanically, to the same termination.

Based on this realization it seemed evident that he should make at least one overt try to thwart the robot busboy. And if he failed — then he was no worse off then before, at the original encounter. And he had made a successful escape from the class of weevils, from the threat

See Note on page V

I can still obtain the deep-sleep components, he realized. Despite what the menu says. But —

Do I still want them?

There was nothing now to learn about Whale's Mouth; he had been there, seen it all.

Or had he?

"All I've seen," he said slowly, aloud, "is one para-world after another." Chilled, he realized, I still don't know which is real. The class, through its Control Sheila Quam, had been on the verge of determining which of the several possibilities was the authentic one. Had he waited fifteen minutes longer he would have found out.

A weak shock made his right hand tingle; the con­tainer of deep-sleep components within Freya's purse had responded to the strip of titanium in the menu and had already crawled across the underside of the page to make physical contact with him.

With his fingers he pried it, clam-like, loose from its grip, its tropism; the object dropped into his lap and he experienced its real, actual weight. After a pause he reached out with his left hand to transfer it sight unseen, even by him, to the pocket of his cloak...

"Oops — sorry." The robot busboy had stumbled against him as it conveyed its chest-high load of dirty dishes back to the kitchen.

At once Rachmael leaped up; seizing the artificial candle in the center of his table he brought it down with all his strength onto the metal head of the robot.

Without hesitation the robot busboy kicked him in the groin.

"It's got the components," he gasped to Freya, shud­dering in abysmal pain. "Don't — let it — get away!"

Swiftly reacting, Freya clouted the robot busboy with her purse. A torrent of metal and plastic parts rained from it, and out of its hand fell the circular container of deep-sleep components; Rachmael, despite his agony, managed to close his fingers around it.

"What's going on here?" Caspar, the maitre d' yelled, striding toward the three of them, his face dark with outrage.

"Come on," Rachmael said, seizing Freya by the arm. "Let's get out of here." He led her among the squeezed-together tables, toward one of the exits; the other diners gaped at them in bewilderment.

"I got it," he said as he and Freya stepped out into the deserted, faintly misty street, the looming down­town section of San Diego; a few for-hire flapples jogged and fluttered past, but that was all — the two of them had gotten away. With, this time, the components.

"You're going to make the trip?" Freya asked as they walked on, away from the Fox's Lair, toward a lighted main intersection.

"Yes," he said, nodding. So everything was changed. He would go to Whale's Mouth, but not as before; not via Telpor. This time he would make the trip across deep space to Fomalhaut as he had intended all along. The way I wanted it from the start, he realized. And no one can stop me, now; not Ferry, not von Einem — not even Lupov, whichever side he's on, if not both sides simultaneously.

The air, in his lungs, the cool cloudy scent of the city, tasted good; he inhaled deeply, and strode on at an in­creased pace.

Freya said, "It's a very good thing you're doing. Very brave. I admire you for it." She wiggled her hand beneath his arm so that she was hanging onto him, ad­miringly; he felt her keen, appraising gaze.

"It's a good thing," he agreed. But, he realized, not so brave; in fact not brave at all, in comparison to what I encountered — and would have to encounter again — by direct teleportation to Whale's Mouth. Theodoric Ferry, the dead, resurrected monster that claimed once to have been Matson Glazer-Holliday — this flight, long as it is, eighteen vast and empty light-years of it, will be much easier. And, he thought, I won't even know its tedious length because at last I have this. His hand, in the pocket of his cloak, closed over and tightly squeezed the cylinder of deep-sleep components, engagingly marked Eternity of Sexual Potency Fragrance #54.

And, he realized, during the intervals in which I am conscious, when it's necessary to recorrect the trajectory of the Omphalos, I could have someone with me for company. Someone I like — and know I would like in­creasingly better as time goes on... goes its regular path, undisturbed. This, he realized, is the genuine solution. Finally. This — and not the UN's time-warping device or any device at all.

Thinking that, he paused before entering the area of light; in the darkness of the side street, unnoticed by passers-by, he scrutinized Freya Holm a long, long period.

"Hmm," he said, half aloud. Contemplatively.

"What are you thinking about?" Freya asked shyly, her dark, full lashes trembling as she returned his stare. "The years of deep sleep ahead of you?"

"Not quite that," Rachmael answered. "Something a little more this side of sleep. But connected with it." He put his arm around her.

"Gee," Freya said after a time.

In his pocket the container of components hummed happily.