Collected Short Fiction, page 614
The loudspeakers again. It was the circuit around the lake, Ryeland guessed. And the tone was becoming irritable, as though the guard in his microphone room atop the Clinic was being annoyed by higher authority . . . and was passing his annoyance on to the cadavers at Heaven.
Then closer still; and Ryeland heard the name this time. His own name. “Ryeland!” Only it came bouncing off half a dozen speaker at once, each delayed a tiny fraction of a second by distance and echo: “RYELANDReylandryeland,” ricocheting away.
He was not surprised; he had been more than half expecting it. He listened to the measured words, cadenced to let the echo of each fade before the next word was spoken: “You . . . are . . . ordered . . . to . . . report . . . to . . . the. . . South . . . Clinic . . . at . . . once!” And off toward the lake Ryeland could see lights moving.
Ryeland took a deep breath. He would have to chance it, even if the guard did not look away—
He caught himself, poised. The guard moved. He turned his head and nodded, to someone out of sight; and then, so quickly that Ryeland might scarcely have noticed he was gone if his eyes had not been glued to the man, the guard stepped inside.
Ryeland ran, climbed, swung him self over the fence, ripped off his clothes, balled and hid them under a body and flung himself, naked and acrawl with revulsion, onto the heap of pale, cold corpses.
There was classic terror. It was like the buried-alive man of humanity’s oldest, most frightening story: the awakening in the narrow box, the dark, the smell of damp earth, the hollow muffled sound of the hammered coffin lid with six feet of graveyard dirt above. It was like the war wounded given up for dead, awakening in one of Grant’s wagons after Shiloh, or the mass graves of Hitler’s Sixth Army outside Stalingrad—the dead all around, the man himself as good as dead.
Ryeland thanked God for meprobamate. He lay face down and limbs under him, as much as he could. No reason to make a guard wonder why a relatively intact corpse should be on the heap. He did not move. He smelled an acrid, sour reek that nearly made him vomit and he was, in a moment, bitter cold. He swore silently. It had not occurred to him that the metal walls of the trashbin would be refrigerated.
He waited. And waited.
He dared not look up, dared hardly breathe. It would be, he calculated, at least a matter of hours before the bin would tip and chute its contents into the barge. His flesh crawled and tried desperately to shiver, but he would not allow it.
A bright light flared.
Ryeland froze. He heard a murmur of voices. But that was all right; it probably was time for changing the shift of guards, and that was good, because it meant time was passing even faster than he had dared hope. The light would be only a routine inspection, of course . . . Another light flared, and another.
The area of corpses was flooded with light, he was drowning in light; over him he could hear the wash of copter vanes adding their light to the scene. He dared not move. He dared not even blink, though the lights were cruel; but it was in vain; everything was in vain. There was a sudden string of orders and a commotion at the steel ladder that admitted workmen to the sump. Four guards ran in. They did not hesitate; they picked their way rapidly across the stainless-steel floor, stepping on torsos, pushing limbs aside. Straight to Ryeland.
“Good try,” one of them grinned. Then, without humor, “But don’t do it again.”
They hurried him to the ladder and up it. They had not allowed him to retrieve his clothes. Now that it was too late his body was racked with shivering. He stammered. “How—how did you know?”
The guard caught his elbow and lifted him to the roof of the North Clinic. He was not unkind. He gestured to the row of searchlight-like things that Ryeland had feared might be floodlights. “Infrared scanners, Ryeland. Sniffed out your body heat. Oh, you can fool them—but not while you’re alive, not without clothes on to hide your heat. And clothes would have given you away anyhow,” he added compassionately, “so don’t feel bad. You just didn’t have a chance.” He opened a door and shoved Ryeland, reeling, into a hall of the Clinic. “Now get a move on. Somebody wants you. Somebody important.”
TO BE CONCLUDED
The Reefs of Space
His past had been destroyed. He had no future. Yet he bore, buried within himself, the seeds of Man’s only hope!
The Characters
STEVE RYELAND knew that he was a criminal who had failed the Plan of Man but he could not remember his crime, though the iron collar he wore around his neck reminded him of it night and day. Chosen by
THE PLANNER, the great, powerful spokesman for the Planning Machine, to take charge of a special research project, Ryeland found himself giving orders to generals, colonels, celebrated scientists—who resented it, and showed their resentment in a thousand ways. It was a puzzling situation. Even more puzzling was the project itself, which was simply to develop “a jetless drive”—a new space-propulsion system which would allow the forces of the Plan of Man to expand into the half-mythical bodies that circled the Sun far beyond Pluto. It seemed impossible. And yet—there was the spaceling, the queer creature from the distant Reefs of Space that itself seemed to have such a drive. Ryeland was given the captive spaceling to experiment on, though it was the property of
DONNA CREERY, the lovely daughter of the Planner, half child and half tempestuous woman, who would surely find revenge if ho harmed the creature that was her pet. It was a difficult life, and it led to catastrophe . . . for Ryeland’s rebellious subordinates found a way to discredit him with the Machine, and he was ordered off the jetless-drive project and thrown into the Body Bank, that scrapheap for waste citizens and criminals too far gone for salvage, where their sole remaining task was to give up the organs of their bodies to repair more useful men and women. It was the end of the line, there was no doubt of it. Yet fate held a still more shattering blow. In the Body Bank Ryeland met again
ANGELA, the girl who had testified against him, the girl who could tell him what his crime had been and why he could not remember it. To his horror, she did. Ryeland learned why so much of his memory was shadowy and confused . . . for he was not a natural man! He was a “junk man”—created out of castoff parts and bits of tissue, nothing but a dummy that some more fortunate victim of the Body Bank had contrived as a screen to cover his escape!
Desperate, Ryeland tried to flee the Body Bank—but he was caught and hurried to the Administration Building where someone waited to see him. Ho did not know who; he did not know why. But surely it could not matter any more. Nothing worse could happen—he had nothing left, not even a body of his own!
PART III
XIV
They rushed him through the corridors, into a room, left him there for a moment; they threw a pair of coveralls at him, gave him barely time to squirm into them and paid no attention to the fact that they were four sizes too small. “It doesn’t matter where you’re going,” rumbled the guard with the white tunic and the red heart. “Come on!” And they led him to another room and once again left him.
Through an open door Ryeland saw an operating theater.
Thank heaven for meprobomate, he thought without emotion, for this was undoubtedly the end of the trail. The asepsis lights were burning over the twin tables; a full O. R. crew was in view behind the transparent contamination-bar. On one table was a man of Ryeland’s approximate build, with a great sighing bellows box pumping air through a complicated nest of piping. A lung machine? Yes. And the man, Ryeland knew, was about to get new lungs. And the lungs would have to come, of course, from Ryeland . . .
Or would they? Ryeland was baffled. For both tables were occupied, the one with a cadaver from Heaven as well as the one with a useful citizen come to collect a new part.
It was very queer.
But it only meant, probably, he assured himself, that he would be the donor for the next useful part. It was not kind of them to make him witness the operation, of course. But the Plan of Man was only impersonally kind. He glanced at the scene, looked away, then watched with helpless fascination. Faintly he could hear the brisk, businesslike orders of the surgeon, slitting skin, slicing through muscle, sculpting bone . . .
The operation was nearly over when he heard a sound behind him.
He turned.
Donna Creery walked in the door.
Donna Creery! She looked at him as though he were furniture. “Took you long enough to get him,” she said grumpily to the man behind her—chief surgeon of the Clinic, by his bearing and his frown. “All right. I’ve got this—” she waved a radar gun—“so he won’t give me any trouble. Will you, Ryeland?”
The surgeon said doubtfully, “It’s most irregular.”
“You’ve seen the Machine’s order,” purred Donna Creery, and waved a strip of factape.
“Oh,” said the surgeon hastily, “of course, Miss Creery. You know I wouldn’t—But it’s most irregular, all the same.”
Donna nodded coldly and beckoned to Ryeland. “The Machine does not have to be regular,” she said. “Now show us how to get to my rocket.”
They were out of the clinic beyond the wall, out to a landing pit. And there was Donna Creery’s rocket speedster, squatting on its fins. The girl whispered: “Chiquita!”
Ryeland said strongly, “Wait a minute, Miss Creery Where are you taking me?”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “I have orders from the Machine,” she said after a moment. “They direct me to take you to another Heaven, where you are needed for a rush repair job on an important member of the Planning staff.”
“That sounds peculiar,” he protested.
“Oh, very. Chiquita!” The girl stamped her foot and glared into the ship.
There was a golden movement inside, then a faint blue luminous haze.
The spaceling floated out.
Its tawny eyes were fixed worshipfully on Donna Creery. It wriggled felinely in the air, curled, spun—in pure joy, it seemed—and halted, poised in the air, before her.
Ryeland started to speak. “Shut up,” whispered the girl. “There isn’t time to argue. You’ve got to get out of here before they come to take you back.”
“Back? But why should they do that? The travel orders from the Machine—”
“—are forged.” She met his gaze calmly. “Yes. I forged them myself, so I should know. So the surgeon will be looking for you, as soon as he gets around to filing a routine report of compliance with the Machine. And that will be—what would you say? Five minutes?”
“But I don’t understand!”
“You don’t have to understand!” the girl blazed. “There isn’t time! I’m trying to save your life. Also—” she hesitated. “Truthfully there’s another reason. My father needs you.”
“The Planner? But—but—why would he have to forge orders from the Machine?”
“I can’t tell you now.” She stared around. No one was in sight. She said grimly, “Heaven help you if anything goes wrong. I can’t take you in my rocket; there isn’t room. Anyway, that’s the first place they’ll look. I don’t think they’ll bother me. But if you’re there—” She shrugged.
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Do?” she cried. “Why get on Chiquita’s back! What do you think I brought her for? Just get on—she knows where to take you!”
Ryland rode the spaceling; it was like mounting a running stream.
A slim golden shape, more slender than a seal, floating in the air; gold, pure gold that blended into black at the tail, it was the strangest mount a man ever bestrode. Donna said a quick word of command. The spaceling purred faintly, rippled its lazy muscles and whoom. It was like a muffled slap of metal. Suddenly they had leaped a hundred feet into the air.
There was no shock, no crushing blow of acceleration. There was just a quick vibrant lift, and they were high in the air.
Through the thin coveralls that were his only garment Ryeland felt the purring vibration of the spaceling’s body. Down below he saw the Planner’s daughter already entering her rocket. She did not intend to wait for trouble. The jets flared. Ryeland heard the sound—but it was receding, receding although the rocket had already begun to climb; they were climbing too, and fast. Ryeland was breathless. He clung to the spaceling. There was no pressure; only his arms held him to that bare, warm, smooth back. His stomach fluttered. His breathing caught. Down below he saw men moving, insects on the lawn and the walks. But they were not looking up, probably couldn’t see him if they did; it was still night, and the hovering helicopters, with their floodlights were between him and the ground.
They were nearly a thousand feet in the air now. Donna’s rocket, a black dot in the center of its own petaled flame, seemed plastered against the concrete of the pit below. Only the fact that its size stayed constant showed that it was following them; then even it began to dwindle.
Off to the northeast was a storm, the warning cirrus veil across the sky, the dark towering cumulonimbus, the rain squalls already marching across the dark mountains of Cuba. The spaceling turned toward the storm. “Wait!” cried Ryeland. “Don’t go into that!” But the spaceling didn’t understand, or wouldn’t. It purred warmly, like a fat kitten, and arrowed toward the menacing cloud with its violent gusts.
And still Ryeland felt no motion.
All his body was accelerated uniformly by the spaceling’s field, whatever it was. The air came with them, the pocket which the spaceling wore like a halo, its blue shroud of faintly glowing light. Their flight was not quite noiseless, though nearly; the only sound was a faint distant tearing, though they were barreling through the sky at surely sonic speed. Incredible! Ryeland’s mathematician’s mind fitted pieces together; the spaceling, he thought, must form a capsule which instantly shapes itself to meet the resistance—forming the perfect streamline shape for its needs, blunt teardrop at a hundred miles an hour, needle as it approached sound’s speed, probably wasp-waisted area-rule profile at higher speeds.
And still there was no sense of motion, though Heaven had dropped away behind them and was gone.
Now they were over water. All around them was cloud. They were hurtling into the furious wall of towering thunderstorms that was the forefront of a hurricane.
Cold rain drenched him in an instant. That was curious, thought the objective, never-stilled part of his mind; rain penetrated the capsule where the rush of air did not! But there was no time to think of it. The rain was pelting icewater, uncomfortable, chilling. It disturbed the spaceling, too. Its satisfied purr changed to a complaining mew; it shook and shuddered. But it plunged on.
Ryeland was hopelessly lost.
The storm was the same in all directions, a dim void of fog and icy water, flickering with distant lightning. But the spaceling knew where it was going. . . he hoped.
They drilled through the top of the clouds and came out above them into clear air. Underneath them the shape of the storm revealed itself in a great spiral, the hurricane wheeling around its open eye. A bright light burst on him. It was the sun, rising again on the western horizon—they were that high! It was a blaze of incandescence in the dark; and still they climbed.
A great elation possessed Ryeland.
He had done the impossible! He had escaped, with all his limbs and faculties, from the hell they called Heaven!
He was no longer a numbered carcass; he was a man again. And Donna Creery had done it, where he had failed; he owed her something. He wondered briefly what it was she had failed to tell him about her father; then dismissed it. That wonder was lost in the greater soaring wonder of free flight. The sky was black around them—surely the air was thin now. And still they climbed, while the vast hazy floor of sea and cloud became visibly convex.
And still they climbed; and the air was thin now.
That was all wrong! Ryeland knew that much; the spaceling’s field should hold the air. But the creature itself was gasping now, panting. Its purring and mewing had turned into the choking cough of a tiger. They still climbed, but Ryeland could feel the creature falter.
They were at a dangerous altitude. Suddenly he was breathless. His drenched body was chilled through, even in the white, bright glare of the naked sun.
It was the spaceling’s wounds that were endangering them now, Ryeland realized. Gottling’s torture chamber had left its marks. The creature’s symbiotes had been destroyed, or some of them had. Its fusorians that gave it power, its parasitic Reef animalcules that made it possible for a warm-blooded air-breather to live in space in the first place, their numbers had been greatly diminished. They were not all gone, for there was still some air. It filled his grasping lungs, kept his body fluids from boiling out, screened him at least a little from the cold and the even more deadly UV of the sun. There was some air . . . but was there enough?
Ryeland laughed grimly, with almost the last of his breath. “That’s what I’ll find out,” he panted, hoarsely . . . and passed out. He was not conscious of the moment when he blacked out; he only knew that he was going.
When he awoke, it was with sheer wonder that he was alive.
Donna Creery’s perfect face bent over him, making the wonder all the greater. “I made it,” he whispered incredulously.
The girl said seriously, “Yes, so far. But don’t crowd your luck, Ryeland. We’re still in trouble.”
He stirred to get up—and floated free, until the girl’s restraining hand pushed him back against the metal acceleration couch. They were in a spaceship, apparently in free-fall. He looked around. Automatically he said, “I’ve got to find a—” He stopped. He had been about to ask where the teletype was, so that he could check in with the Machine. But that was no longer necessary, of course.
Donna Creery gestured at the cabin of the spaceship. “You like it, Steven? It’s yours.”
He was startled. “Mine?”
“Oh, yes. Do you remember the ship that General Fleemer equipped for you, with remote controls from Point Triangle Gray? This is it—with some changes. I’ve removed the remote controls. But it was a perfectly good interplanetary rocket, right in orbit where Chiquita could bring you to it. Only—” she looked worried. “Only I’m surprised that Father isn’t here.”
