The Darkness on Diamondia, page 19
In the rear there was a room fixed up somewhat luxuriously for the convenience of potential private patients who needed to lie down. Being secretly a kindly person, the apoplectic head of the Hospital for the Incuribili had long formed the habit of inviting certain poor girls of the street to use the bed of this rear room for daytime sleeping. And if by chance the weary prostitute found the good-hearted doctor in the bed without any clothes on, well, after all, a Diamondian physician had to go somewhere when he was not in his office at the hospital, which was a lot of the time.
On this first evening of the clinic’s operation under its new directive, several patients were attracted by a sign on the door, which read: FREE TREATMENT. At eight o’clock they had already been waiting for nearly an hour in the anteroom.
As a result, they were to a degree witnesses when the entire block of old buildings across the street from the clinic suddenly shuddered, lifted (foundations and all) and took off into the sky.
Literally. Up into the air leaped three-story, four story and two-story structures. Being rickety with age, the basic metal almost at once began to shed floors, ceilings, walls, furniture and people in a roaring combination of screeching wood, thudding everything and screaming men and women.
A thick cloud of plaster and other dust drifted into or descended on the Dr. Fondier-Colonel Charles Morton clinic. The patients there abruptly forgot their aches and departed. As for the doctor himself, naturally—after putting up the sign—he had, like any Diamondian male, promptly found that he had business elsewhere. So he was not even in the place at the time of the disaster.
Fondier’s clinic was the second closest strike that the darkness managed against any Colonel Charles Morton. The others consisted of a series of attacks aimed at some three hundred other Colonel Mortons during a time period of about twenty-five minutes. In every instance, the wreckage was fearful. On each hit the number of people killed was… hundreds. But, in fact, they all missed their targets by ten blocks or more. And so, most of the false Mortons didn’t know of the catastrophes until later. And none even suspected that they had been the intended victims of an attacker who normally couldn’t hit anything smaller than a mountain.
At 8:22 p.m. New Naples time the massive destruction ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
…A few minutes before eight o’clock, Morton opened his eyes in his own body. He was lying on his back and directly above him was a brilliant chandelier, which moved even as he looked at it. At least it seemed to move. The reason, it turned out, what that he was still on a stretcher and still being transported.
He had a thought, then, about faraway Earth, and of his mother and sister in the family home. Undoubtedly they would be alarmed if they could see their Charles now. He felt alarmed, also. Yet even in the most severe crisis of his life, he had never really given time to regrets. During the several dozen seconds that now elapsed as he was carried across the huge main room of the spaceship, he recovered what he had often called his “military” courage. Which was an inward stiffening substance of a different order than the biological stuff of a civilian.
But it was also true that he was able to brace himself because he believed something that none of these others did… modern logic, he thought, for this night alone—or maybe for at least five days—you shall exist just as if mathematical sets are real and people are interchangeable.
As he completed that silent reaffirmation, his stretcher was lowered to the floor in front of the dyl who acted as if he were the leader of the merciless killers. Morton had the feeling that unnecessary delays were about to take place. His truth was that Marriott and he ought to be doing something and doing it quickly.
Highly disturbed by that awareness, he nevertheless contained himself, and addressed the Irsk “king.” “Mgdabltt,” he said, “very important things are happening. We need a very urgent discussion.”
The Irsk stared at him with frozen blue gaze. “When did you come to? You were unconscious until a few moments ago.” He stopped, stiffened, said grimly, “I will thank you not use the shorted Diamondian version of my name.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Morton. But he groaned inwardly. He respected these long, original Irsk names. He believed that they had sharpened what was left of Irsk individuality. But this was not the moment.
“Mugadaaabeebeelatata,” he said hesitantly, “I consider it extremely advisable that I turn back control of the darkness to Marriott immediately. He has a method where by this can be done, and I should like you to facilitate his take-over. Will you do so? Afterward, we can have a discussion.”
A piercing Irsk voice from the rear of the group of Irsk interrupted at that exact moment. The voice said, “I don’t think there is any longer any doubt. He is the real Colonel Charles Morton.”
Morton blinked. It was a matter at issue that he had almost forgotten. He had to go back in his mind and think and then realize that Irsk were kind of dumb and were slow at understanding these things. And here was that problem again.
Before he could say anything, the leader whirled on the interrupter. “Water in your mouth,” he yelled.
“That’s easy to say,” the answer came back, “but you didn’t discover Diamondia either.”
The leader screamed something back at the critic and was screamed at in turn.
Morton stared anxiously at the two insane creatures as they shouted at each other. The argument was about him; and that he had to take account of.
Hastily, he cast about for a way to divert the excitement that was now beginning to show in every part of the room. The Irsk were waving their tentacles. And all the Diamondians were on their feet now.
Seeing them, he thought: Of course, it’s what we’re here fore… The best diversion of all was truth.
Urgently, then, he waited. Uneasily, he watched. And then—called out, “We’re all drowning in a glass of water. So it’s time to have that peace meeting.”
The Irsk leader did not even seem to notice that it was a different person. He whirled; and his passion now poured down upon Morton. “We Irsk,” he shouted, “have been to Canossa for over three hundred years eating Diamondian garbage.”
“That will never be true again,” said Morton, “but all Irsk are quicksilver now, just like the worst Diamondians.”
“You’re washing the donkey’s head,” was the bitter reply, “and you weren’t asked. We don’t need your help.”
“I’m in the dance whether I like it or not. I’m a member of the Negotiating Committee.”
“We’re feeding you beard and hair. Why don’t you people go back where you came from?”
“I cannot unload the barrel that easy. My job is to finish making the goose’s beak.”
“You’ve shown no bump for solving problems. The whole Negotiating Committee is at half mouth all the time.”
“Our job is to give one blow to the hoop and one to the cask and no one wants to talk to us on these terms.”
“You act like you’re in an iron cask; as if equality is a fair solution.”
“The cask gives the wine it has.”
The opportunity that occurred after Morton spoke these words was a logical consequence. Everything he had said, though shouted, was without inner passion. Whereas Mgdabltt visibly was in a state. Abruptly, he literally choked with that emotion. And there was between them a measurable silence.
Into that stillness Morton projected loud and clear his own entire peace thought for Diamondia.
“All right,” he yelled, “let’s look truth in the eye. Irsk get total control of all those portions of Diamondia known as the hotlands. Diamondians get the mountains and the adjoining seashores. The green-striped Irsk get to stay where they are, or they can move if they wish.”
As those words completed, there was the sound of a collective screech.
A pale Morton presently realized that the sound had shrilled simultaneously from every Irsk and from every Diamondian throat.
Total objection. Outrage. Stupid. Who did he think they were?—children!
Morton didn’t take time to find out what kind of an S.O.B. they considered him.
He had achieved his diversion.
Even more important, for possibly the first time in Irsk-Diamondian history, somebody had managed to finish stating a set of peace terms. Incredibly, in this entire murderous decade, so violent was everybody’s anger, no one had ever been able to suggest publicly that the territorial lines between the two contending parties be drawn on the basis of the status quo.
That he had now done and simultaneously he had gained the opportunity that he needed. On two sides of him were screaming voices, busy with each other and themselves. Morton chose it as a moment to mind-brother with Marriott. “Can we begin?” he said. “I have a feeling that thing up there is doing its damnedest to locate and kill me, and that it won’t stop until it succeeds or we get it under control. For the sake of God, act.”
Whereupon he returned to his own body.
Lying there, he was greatly relieved to see that Marriott was walking over to Mgdabltt. It took a while even for him to gain the attention of the Irsk leader. Yet, finally, they held a low-voiced conversation. As this progressed, the Irsk delegation began to calm down and was soon silent. It took longer with the Diamondians. But when Marriott presently came to where Morton lay helpless, he seemed to have his audience in hand.
He raised an arm and beckoned Dr. Gerhardt and Lositeen. The psychiatrist walked over in his neutral way. Lositeen came quietly. His eyes stared through Morton when he glanced down and not really at him. Marriott untied Gerhardt. And then the thin-faced, dark-haired man produced the hypnotic gun from his inside breast pocket and handed it to Gerhardt. “I got this from Zoolanyt. I want you to hypnotize these two people—first Lositeen.”
The bespectacled man said that Lositeen was already under. “What do you want?” he asked evenly.
“Put him in my control,” said a grimly smiling Marriott, “and I’ll whisper the instructions.”
He glanced triumphantly at Morton. “It’s got to be this way,” he said. “I can’t let you find out the method.”
It was not a problem. As Marriott turned away, Morton closed his eyes, mind-brothered with Lositeen, listened as Marriott whispered, “When I clap my hands, you will come out of your hypnosis and take back control of the Lositeen Weapon. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” whispered Lositeen.
“You understand,” urged Marriott, “that it’s programmed to be under your control?”
“I understand that,” Lositeen emotionlessly.
Morton hastily detached himself and was in his own body as Marriott turned again to Gerhardt. “Now,” the physicist commanded, “use that hypnotizing gun on Colonel Morton.”
The words startled Morton. He parted his lips to explain that hypnotizing drugs did not work on him for more than a few seconds. What stopped him for a fateful but small period of time was that, as he raised himself to protest, he caught a glimpse of the Diamondians and the Irsk. He had an intense momentary awareness of gray and blue eyes, abnormally bright, staring at this scene; and he had an anxious awareness: They don’t understand what’s going on.
Before he could think further, several things happened almost simultaneously.
Gerhardt, in his cold fashion, raised the gun, aimed it at Morton—and pulled only one of the two triggers.
Morton, who had braced himself for a few seconds of chemical shock, felt no reaction at all. It was a startling turn of events; and as Marriott bent down beside him, evidently intending to whisper his hypnotic instructions here also, it was Morton who whispered first: “Marriott—listen! Hypnotism doesn’t work on me. How else can this be done? I’m willing.”
The shock must have been fantastic.
Obvious from the look that came into the physicist’s face that he knew of no other solution.
The color drained from his thin face. As he straightened, he staggered. And he was clearly in an automatic condition, for he clapped his hands in a mechanical fashion near Lositeen’s head.
Morton was appalled. But that releases the darkness from whatever control the Lositeen Weapon is exerting over it.
Abruptly, he had no alternative. He put through his mind the eleven code thoughts that would activate the D.A.R. building in Capodochino Corapo.
Before he could turn the control of the building over to Marriott, the only person who was qualified to guide the building equipment properly, a man in the Diamondian delegation produced a gun and fired it. The bullet knocked the hypnotic syringe instrument out of Gerhardt’s fingers. It skittered across to a wall and came to rest beside an open grill-work. A steady, shiny, silvery mist rose up from it and was suctioned into the ventilator behind the grill.
Gerhardt smiled his cold smile. “I was trying to figure out how to do that, myself,” he said aloud to no one in particular.
He had no impulse at all to shake the stinging pain out of his hand. Simply, he stood there. Icily, he waited.
In the village of Capodochino Corapo more than 800 miles away, the D.A.R., the “little” military post that had for all these years been commanded by Captain James Marriott, began to fight.
It was set to battle on Marriott’s behalf; and that was the way Luftelet allowed it to operate. His reasoning was that the physicist understood the construction and, in leaving it set in his own favor, had clearly believed that it should be in the control of an expert.
Major Luftelet could only concur with that judgement with every beat of his authoritarian heart.
…Marriott’s first awareness: he sensed Alpha and Beta wave feedback responses in his own brain. At the first sensation in his brain he raised his head, and a vague, hopeful feeling came.
Recognition was sudden.
The shock of excitement brought an instant, huge, wonderful conviction that he might still be able to snatch victory from defeat… This will hold off the darkness during the time I need.
Even as he had that thought, he was heading, running, for the door that would take him out of the ship to ground level. Since he was everybody’s friend, no one tried to stop him.
But his departure caused consternation and confusion.
Everybody froze. In a space of time no longer than a few seconds, the tableau held. During that time, Morton recovered. And saw that the man with the gun was standing near the center of the table and behind it, of course. Who was he? What was his rank in the delegation. What did he look like?
He looked like a Diamondian. No other identification needed, and no time to make any other.
The Irsk delegation chose that moment to retreat several steps. What the movement of so many individuals meant was naturally not visible to the Diamondians.
In the human delegation, each man, including the leaders, dove for some portion of his baggage or reached into some part of his clothing. Almost as one, each man produced his concealed weapon. All thirty odd of them seemed suddenly oblivious of their purpose in being in the ship.
With a crash the table was tipped over. Into its shelter they dove or ducked or crouched or knelt.
After a very few seconds, nothing was moving. All the Irsk had got the hell out of there. They literally dissoved in their gliding fashion through the open doors behind them… Morton caught a glimpse of Lositeen heading for a distant outer door. Of Marriott there was no sign.
During the confusion a number of guns went off—impossible to detect whose. But there was the sinister sound of several other bullets ricocheting in an unfortunate, tuneful fashion from metal walls and unbreakable plastic.
As Morton watched helpless, people did intensely people things. He lay there as vulnerable to stray shots as anyone and noticed that a Diamondian colonel was crawling out from behind the table. The man went over to David Kirk. He produced a knife, turned Kirk over on his face, and cut his bonds. The young man sat up, rubbed his wrists and then asked for the knife. The Diamondian officer unhesitatingly surrendered it.
Kirk hurried over to Bray and cut him loose. Instants later the two men came running toward Morton, who shook his head. “I’m handcuffed,” he said regretfully, and added quickly, “Free Miss Ferraris.”
They were unbelieving. They turned him over and looked; and there was no question. A knife could not free him from the metal that bound his wrists.
At Bray’s gesture, Kirk went off with the knife to Isolina. Hastily the young lieutenant whispered in the ear of his boss what had happened out there in the ravine—his meeting with the Mahala duplicate. He described what it had said.
By the time that was done, Kirk was back. There was a disturbed expression on his face. “She’s been hit,” he said. “Blood is seeping through in the stomach area.”
Even as he spoke, a moaning cry came from the woman. She spoke in a strained voice, “Help me, somebody.”
It was Bray who went over this time. He knelt beside her. Then he stood up and came back, pale. “Dr. Gerhardt,” he said, “is there anything you can do?”
The psychiatrist went over. Without getting up, Gerhardt turned and called out, “Where are those ambulance attendants?”
Lieutenant Lester Bray said, “I’ll get them.”
He was already running for the doors when Morton realized his intent. “Bray,” he yelled, “come back here. You’ll be killed.”
Without a backward glance, as if he had not heard, the young officer continued on through one of the open doors beyond which the main body of Irsk had retreated.
A minute went by. Two. Three.
The woman ceased her sobbing. She said, “Crying does no good, and pain can be endured silently.”
She turned her head. Her eyes, almost as large and moist as an Irsk’s, and as mistily blue, gazed at Morton. “Charles,” she said, “what’s going to happen to the Diamondian people?”
Morton couldn’t answer. The disaster had struck so suddenly that he was still in his own state of shock. He asked, “Where are you hit?”
Her impression: the bullet had pierced the lower abdomen and shattered a bone.
Death! He sensed it.
