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.
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.