The ultimate irony. Theo Ferry had made the journey before Rachmael ben Applebaum. Or rather possibly had; she could of course not be sure. But she felt intuitively that Ferry had, all this time, been capable of doing it. So whatever could be learned had long ago—perhaps decades ago—been learned . . . and by the very man whom they had, at all costs, to defeat.
“Better brush your hair,” the taller of the two THL agents announced to her; he then winked—lewdly, it seemed to her—to his companion. “I’m giving you fair warning; you’re going to have an important visitor here in your room in a few minutes.”
Almost unable to speak, Freya said, “This isn’t my room!”
“Bedroom?” Both THL agents laughed in unison, and this time there was no mistaking it; the tone was one of rancid, enormous licentiousness. And, clearly, this appeared to the two men an old story; they both knew precisely what would be happening—not to them but for them to witness; she was overtly conscious of the mood already in progress. They knew what would soon be expected of them . . . and of her. And yet it did not seem to her so much concerned with Theo Ferry as it did with the environment here as a whole; she sensed an underlying wrongness, and sensed further that in some way which she did not comprehend, Ferry was as much a victim of it as she.
Paraworlds, she thought to herself. They, the two THL agents, had said that. Silver, White, The Clock . . . and finally Blue.
Am I in a paraworld now? she wondered. Whatever they are. Perhaps that would explain the twisted, strained wrongness which the world around her now seemed to possess throughout. She shivered. Which one is this? she asked herself, assuming it’s any of them? But even if it is, she realized, that still doesn’t tell me what they are, or how I got into this one, or—how I manage to scramble back. Again she shivered.
“We’ll be touching ships with Mr. Ferry at 003.5,” the taller of the two THL agents informed her conventionally; he seemed amused, now, as if her discomfort were quaint and charming. “So be prepared,” he added. “Last chance to—”
“May I see that book again?” she blurted. “The one you have there; the book about me and Rachmael.”
The taller of the two agents passed her the volume; at once she turned to the index and sought out her own name. Two citations in the first part of the book; three later on. She selected the next to last one, on page two-ninety-eight; a moment later she had begun rapidly to read.
No doubt could exist in her mind, now; it had been abundantly demonstrated. With renewed courage Freya faced Theodoric Ferry, the most powerful man in either the Sol or the Fomalhaut system and perhaps even beyond, and said,
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ferry.” Her voice, in her own ears, was cool, as calm as she might have hoped for. “I failed to realize what you are. You’ll have to excuse my hysteria on that basis.” With a slight—but unnoticed tremor—she adjusted the right strap of her half-bra, drawing it back up onto her smooth, bare, slightly tanned shoulder. “I now—”
“Yes, Miss Holm?” Ferry’s tone was dark, mocking. “Exactly what do you realize about me, now? Say it.” He chuckled.
Freya said, “You’re an aquatic cephalopod, a Mazdast. And you’ve always been. A long time ago, when Telpor first linked the Sol system with the Fomalhaut system, when the first Terran field-team crossed over and returned—”
“That’s correct,” Theodoric Ferry agreed, and once more chuckled . . . although now his—or rather its—tone consisted of a wet, wailing hiss. “I infiltrated your race decades ago. I’ve been in your midst
“Better get the book back from her again,” the smaller of the two THL agents said warningly to his companion. “I still think she’s reading too damn much.” He then, without further consultation, snatched the book back from her numbed hands, this time put it away in a locked briefcase which, after an indecisive pause he then laboriously chained to his wrist—just in case.
“Yes,” the other agent agreed absently; he had become completely involved in landing the flapple on the flattened roof-indentation of Theo Ferry’s huge ship. “She probably read too much. But—” He spun the unusually elaborate controls. “—it doesn’t much matter, at this point; I fail to see what effective difference it makes.” From beneath them a low scraping noise sounded; the flapple jiggled.
They had landed.
Doesn’t it matter? she thought, dazed. That Theo Ferry is another life form entirely, not human at all? That has invaded our System a long time back? Don’t you two men care?
Did you know it all this time?
Our enemy, she realized, is far more ominous than any of us had at any time glimpsed. Ironic, she thought; one of the sales pitches they gave us—THL gave us—was the need to fight with and subdue the hostile native life forms of the Fomalhaut system . . . and it turns out to be true after all, true in the most awful sense. I wonder, she thought, how many of THL’s employees know it? I wonder—
She thought, I wonder how many more of these monsters exist on Terra. Imitating human life forms. Is Theodoric Ferry the only one? Probably not; probably most of THL is staffed by them, including Sepp von Einem.
The ability to mingle with human beings, to appear like them . . . undoubtedly it’s due to a device compounded either by von Einem or that hideous thing who works with him, that Greg Gloch.
Of all of them, she thought, none is really less human than Gloch.
The door of the flapple swung open; the two THL agents at once stood at attention. Reluctantly, she turned her unwilling eyes toward the now fully open door.
In the entrance way stood Theodoric Ferry.
She screamed.
“I beg your pardon,” Ferry said, and lifted an eyebrow archly. He turned questioningly to the two THL agents. “What’s the matter with Miss Holm? She seems out of control.”
“Sorry, Mr. Ferry,” the taller of the two agents said briskly. “I would guess that she’s not well; she appears to have hallucinated one or more of what is called ‘paraworlds.’ On her arrival here she experienced the particular delusional world dealing with the garrison state . . . although now, from what she’s told us, that delusion seems to have evaporated.”
“But something,” Ferry said with a frown, “has replaced it. Perhaps an alternate paraworld . . . possibly even a more severe one. Well, Miss Holm has turned out as predicted.” He chuckled, walked several cautious steps toward Freya, who stood frozen and trembling, unable even to retreat. “As with her paramour, Rachmael von Applebaum—”
“Ben,” the taller of the two THL agents corrected tactfully.
“Ah yes.” Ferry nodded amiably. “I am more accustomed to the prefix designating a high-born German than the rather—” He grimaced offensively. “—low-class name-structure employed by, ah, individuals of Mr. Applebaum’s shall I say type.” He grimaced distastefully, then once more moved toward Freya Holm.
They didn’t search me, she said to herself. A spasm of fierceness filled her as she realized that—realized, too, its meaning. Within the tied tails of superior fabric caught in a bun at her midsection lay a tiny but effective self-defense instrument, provided by the wep-x people at Lies Incorporated. Now, if ever, the time had come to employ it. True, it had a limited range; only one person could be taken out by it, and if she moved to take out Theo Ferry both of the THL agents—armed and furious—would remain. She could readily picture the following moments, once she had managed to wound or destroy Ferry. But—it appeared well worth it. Even if she had not learned of Ferry’s actual physiological origin . . .
Her fingers touched the bun of cloth at her midriff; an instant later she had found the safety of the weapon, had switched it to off.
“Drot,” Ferry said, regarding her uneasily.
” ‘Drat,’ sir,” the taller of the two agents corrected him, as if routinely accustomed to doing so. ” ‘Drat’ is the Terran ejaculative term of dismay, if I may call your attention at a time like this to something so trivial. Still, we all know how important it is—how vital you rightly feel it to be—to maintain strict verisimilitude and accuracy in your speech patterns.”
“Thank you, Frank,” Theo Ferry agreed; he did not take his eyes from Freya. “Was this woman searched?”
“Well, sir,” the THL agent named Frank said uncomfortably, “we had in mind your overweening desire to obtain a female of this—”
“Blurb!” Theodoric Ferry quivered in agitation. “She has on her some variety of—”
“Sorry, sir,” the agent named Frank broke in with utter tact. “The term of immediate and dismayed concern which you’re reaching for is the word ‘blast.’ The term you’ve employed, ‘blurb,’ deals with a sensational ad for some form of entertainment; generally a notice on a book cover or flap as to—”