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.