Robert Lionel, page 2
Perleberg was a mass of narrow alleyways and ancient
houses. Like the Casbah, it was a perfect spot for fugitives. He wondered as he ran why they had left it as long as they had, why the dictator had not considered obliterating it completely. For surely his spy network must have drifted the news to him. Yet, he wondered as he ran, perhaps the hatred was so widespread that no information'
had gone out. He hoped that his own wild, flurried escape would not be the clue that would bring the hordes of destruction down upon the last drainpipe--the last escape route--the last little pocket of freedom in a corrupt conti nent.
He could hear pounding footsteps and the rattling of guns around the comer behind him. His head swam; the pulses in his temples pounded like hammers. His heart hudded against the waIls of his chest, and he felt that he was almost done for.
Quite suddenly a tall white stranger steppea out from a door in front of him, seizing his arm, dragged him inside and slammed the door. As he stood leaning on the lime-washed wall, gasping faintly for air, he heard the sound of bolts being driven home. With a clang, a huge steel shutter slammed back over the door. For a second he wondered whether he had fallen into the hands of the security police but one glance at the stranger told him that this tall civilian had no more love for the dictator than he had. A swift jerk of the other's head, and the one interrogative word
"Police?" and he knew he was with friends. He was safely in the hands of the resistance.
Pounding feet sounded in the street. The tan. gaunt old man was sparse in his use of words, "Hurry. This way." Still holding Grafton by the arm, he ran on down the lime-washed corridor. Outside, the security men were'
flashing their electronic detectors. He heard confused shouting, and the smashing of rifle butts against the door, as they pounded with the hilts of their electronic disin-tegrators. He wondered how long the steel would hold.
Not long against the power bolts, he knew, but possibly long enough. It depended how many bolt holes there were in this particular neck of the warren. "Name?" asked the old man suddenly.
"Grafton," he panted, "Mike Grafton."
"It was you who destroyed the airship?"
"It was," he grunted.
"Well done." The old man patted his shoulder with almost paternal affec1ion: "Very well done. That will cost Rajak a'millioo international credits, at least."
There was a tearing, reverberating, grinding sound, then a flat, rather frightening clang as the protective shutter yielded to the blows of the weapons and the disintegrating force of the energy bolts from the security men's power blasters. There were pounding footsteps in the lime-washed corridor behind them, and then the air suddenly grew choking hot, as bolts of pure energy flashed and crackled past them, in the narrow confines of the ancient house. "Hurry," ordered the old man, leading Grafton downwards. Another steel door fastened behind them as they sped on. And now they found themselves at the he~
of a flight of steps. The hammering behind them grew loud and insistent, and they could hear the power blasts against the last of their steel shutters. The flight of steps ended in
a small circular room. In the center was a cylindrical glass cabinet.
"Ask no questions. Trust me. Inside, quickly," gasped the old man. And with a lever, he raised the tall glass cylinder. Grafton trusted him instinctively. Anything was better than falling into the hands of the dictator's sadistic guardsman. He found himself standing on something rather like solid crystalline quartz. He looked down into it, and saw that it had been cut with particular skill and care. Its strange ' crystalline surface reflected like a million prism.s of finest glass. It gave him a strange hypnotic feeling, almost of drowsiness, to look down into the strange depths of th~
crystal.
"Take a deep breath," shouted the old man. His voice sounded strange and far away. There was a tearing clang, and the steel door at the head of the stairs burst open
"Now," roared the old man, and pulled a lever at the side of the glass cylinder. A great sheet of flame shot up~
like a burst of natural gas, and obliterated everything from Grafton's view. . . .
The next thing he knew he was enveloped in a strange gray, weird holocaust. On the side of the glass cylinder in huge red print appeared the date, November 25th, 2309.
The brightness of the red lettering turned progressively fainter, and more blurred in outline, as it melted like the wax of a red candle which had been caught in the sunlight; melted and was gone, so there was nothing but the greyish white translucency of the glass.
Grafton touched the confines of his prison and found that it was strangely warm, and vibrated as though charged with many millions of volts of power. As though from a million miles away, separated by enormous leagues of time and space, he could hear what sounded like rifle fire and confused shouting. And then the hypnotic effect of the crystalline flooring seemed to overcome him completely, and he sank down with his face against those reflective, translucent angles, and was mirrored a thousand times in the depths of the strange cylinder. The grey mist got denser and denser, and he was aware of a strange humming, whirring noise in his ears; a noise as of a thousand dynamos, puffing relentlessly on, as though he were enmeshed in the bowels of some maChine, some superb technological masterpiece. And yet there was nothing to be seen but the grey opalescent light that rose and fell in intensity, and Grafton in his semi-conscious state was filled with a feeling of complete andntter unreality. What was this weird cylinder? Where was he? There was a strange sensation of motion, and yet it was not motion as we understand it. It was rather the hallucinatory feeling that we get when sitting in a train at the station, waiting to pull out. We watch another train pull past us, and we get the feeling that it is us, and not the other train, that is moving. The greyness. grew deeper, became tinged with purple, and the purple in turn gave way to the blackness of night. The blackn~ grew thicker and darker and deeper, until it became Stygian in its intensity, until it became almost as tangible as black velvet. He felt that it was crushing him, suffocating him, forcing itself into his lungs and his eyes. He felt like a man who js drowning in a barrel of darkness. It was thick, terrifyingly thick, and it was
everywhere. He realized that was largely psychological; it was largely in his own mind. Yet he had the weirdest obsession that the intensity of the blackness was so great that it was impeding the movements of his body. He felt like a paralyzed sleeper. His pulses and his heart slowed down till he felt that he would surely die of the sheer inertia. Then, imperceptibly at first, gradually more noticeably, the darkness began to lift. It was less gripping, less velvety, less tangible. It became more like the darkness of a subterranean cave, and from there it thinned and was diluted till it resembled the darkness of an ordinary night. From the darkness of night it became the pale grey darkness of dawn, and now the purple tinge was discernible once more.
The purple gave place to grey, and the grey to a.greyiSh white. The greyish white became a kind of opalescent translucency once more. . . and strange red blobs appeared on the wall for a split-second in the place where the date had previously been. They did not remain long enough for him to clarify the outline. Vaguely through the greyness he heard the sound of horses champing restlessly at their bits. It was a sound he had difficulty in identifying for some time, and then he was quite Sure it was horses. "
Through the greyness he saw the outline of an antique carriage.
Chapter Two
Projection Point
The security guards seized the old man, and the grim-faced captain handcuffed him with ruthless efficiency.
"Identification number," he barked savagely. The old man raised his hands to the pocket of the simple tunic he wore and produced the metallic identification disc, which was compulsory for all Eurasian citizens. "I see," snapped the captain. "Eric Rhinegow. You are to come with us.
Yon will be interrogated. In the meantime," his eyes flashed to his minions, "search the rest of the passages.
The other: can't have gone far."
The search was over even before they got Rhinegow to the top of the stairs.
"There was no one else," he said softly, "and there are no passages, Captain."
"You are lying," replied the security man quietly. "We have ways and means of making you talk, of making you tell the truth." He licked his narrow, sadistic lips, as though the anticipation of the interrogation was pleasant to him. The old man was as gaunt and as aloof as the last of the Mohicans. . . .
"You will get no information from me," he said softly,
"you can do what you like." The security officer laughed.
It was not a pleasant laugh. It was cold, metallic and inhuman.
"This way." They reached security headquarters, and Rhinegow was strapped into a heavy leather-backed chair.
"You are under some misapprehension, no doubt," said the captain, "when you foolishly decide-you have nothing to tell us. Believe me, we are not so primitive as
you--er-liberation people--" he spat out the word
"liberation" as though it was a ,dirty sound-"as you liberation people would like to make out," he concluded.
"We are familiar, of course, with all the historic forms of torture. Indeed, at the beginning of our regime we had several methods of our own, but such things are old-fashioned, and Eurasia is a modern power, a very modern power. As far back as the beginning of the twentieth century, the narcotic and hypnotic drug research was going on. It has been perfected in the secret laboratories of Rajak the 'Magnificent." He bowed his head as he spoke the dictator's name. "Our scientists have now produced drugs of an intensity and a concentration far beyond imagination.
You will see a demonstration in a few minutes.-in fact, you will not only see it; you will take part in it. We are only waiting for Dr. Korblenz to arrive to administer the necessary injection. You will then be completely sub-jugated to our power."
Something that might have been the first flicker of fear shadowed the old man's eyes, but he gave no other sign.
"And what is to prevent me from committing suicide before you can apply these drugs, even if they do work, which I very much doubt?" His voice was cold and cynical; as cold, in its own way, as the sharp metallic voice of the security captain. The guards officer laughed.
"I will tell you what is to prevent you from committing suicide." He banged one great fist down on a thick blanket..topped table. "The vigilance of my men. If you die, they will die also. You must remain alive till the troth drugs have been administered; after that, they may do with you as they will. You will be squeezed dry like an ancient sponge, and after that, when you can be of no further use to the glorious powers of Eurasia, you shall suffer the penalty for having opposed us. Then as an old and withered sponge you shall be cast away, as human refuse."
"Have you ever heard of the powers of the mind?"
asked old Eric. "Don't you know that it is possible for a man to will Wmself to death?"
A look of apprehension crossed the captain's face.
"Thank you for your kindness," he said swiftly. And before the old man could speak again, a rubber truncheon thudded down with stunning force at the base of his skull.
"The doctor will be here very shortly," said the captain.
"At the slightest sign of his regaining consciousness, you will administer a mild blow at the same spot." The guards nodded, and the security officer stormed out.
Old Rhinegow was just opening his eyes when the Eurasian security doctor walked in. Their gazes met for long tense seconds, and before the old man could move, think, or speak, he felt the sharp jab of a hyperdermic syringe in his arm.
"It will take about two minutes," said the doctor quietly. "At the end of that time, you will find yourself completely in our power. Not only will you answer our questions, but of your own free will, you will tell us everything you know, everything that could be of any interest.
You are anxious to talk to us," his voice droned on. "You have a burning desire to communicate all your knowledge to us, because you know how wrong it was of you, how
very, very wrong, how evil, how wicked, ,to oppose the great force of right; which is Eurasia. How could you be so treacherous as to oppose the will of the great and holy dictator, Rajak the Magnificent? Soon your conscience will begin to stir. . . ." The hypnotic voice went on and on, like the murmur of a distant waterfall, and struggle as he would against it, Eric found himself sinking down into a kind of oblivion; a pit of little dancing red and blue lights, in which the only thing he could hear was the voice of the security doctor. "You will tell us everything you know, tell us all your ideas, hopes and plans, confess to us everything that you have done wrong. You will then be able to take your place in this great and generous society-the people of Eurasia, followers of Rajak the Magnificent."
Every time the dictator's name was mentioned the security guards bowed their heads forward in a gesture of obeisance. It was a scene of revolting humility.
The doctor glanced at his watch, "The drug should have taken effect now, Captain," he said quietly. "Proceed."
He packed his implements, sterilized his hyperdermic, recharged it, and began making for the door.
"Must you go so soon; Doctor?" asked the captain.
"I have other appointments.. We are, as you know, working at full pressure, for the benefit of our great and glorious society." His voice rang with fanatical en-thusiasm. "Glory to Rajak." the captain said. He raised both hands in the air; the doctor returned the salute and echoed the words. The door closed behind him, and he was gone. The security officer turned his attention to the trance-like figure of old Eric Rhinegow, as he sat bolt upright in the interrogation chair. His voice had lost its sharp, whip-like, bullying tone. It was soft and fatherly as the doctor's had bt'.en as he intoned his hypnotic suggestions.
"Tell us," he began. "Tell us all you can about the world of the resistance movement, and by doing so you will clean your inner self, your very soul, of all that dark stain of treason that you have put upon it. You are sorry now that you have worked against us, but we will forgive you, and you will be able to start again. Speak. The more you tell the happier you will feel."
The old man's lips moved, but at first no sound came out.
"Don't be afraid," persisted the captain gently. "Just speak quietly to us. Tell us all that you know; talk . . ."
His voice, like the doctor's, had assumed a semi-hypnotic quality. "Talk. . . talk . . ." he said the word with a resonance that made it sound like a sharp saw going through a dull old log. "Talk," he repeated again. Eric Rhinegow's eyes opened very wide; he stared before him with the glassy gaze of the hypnotized subject. It was as though mind, body and soul had become separate entities, as though there were no consciousness left to defend the memory at the back of his once magnificent mind. The fiendish truth drug was beginning to work only too well. It was disintegrating his personality. He was as easy to ex-tract information from now as a filing cabinet. If anything it was easier, because the suggestions had taken effect. He was all too anxious to reveal all that he knew, everything which might be of possible interest to the Eurasian security
office. His lips moved again, and the officer motioned for the recorder to be brought. A microphone descended in front of the old man's face, and while one of the technical assistants controlled the volume intake, the old man began speaking.
"You must follow me very carefully. I shall have to convert one or two ideas which are almost universally accepted. I shall have to modify them for you, if you are to understand in any degree all the principles of the machine." The security men exchanged glances. "What machine?" interpolated one of the minions.
"Quiet," commanded the captain. "We shall find out; probably something to do with the disappearance."
"Your geometry, and to a large extent, your mathematical presuppositions are founded on misconception,"
went on the old man softly, intently. "I do not wish to accept anything without reasonable ground for it. You will soon admit as much as I need from you. You know, of course, that a mathematical line, a line with no thickness at all, a line of thickness nil, has no real existence. They taught you that in college, I know. I know." He repeated himself, as is the way with the old who are verging on senility. "A mathematical plane has no existence either.
These things are mere abstractions, mere abstractions," he muttered to himself. He drew a deep breath, and the old head lolled over to one side. His hand attempted to make pictures in the air, but they were tied securely to the chair.
"Nor, having only length, breadth and thickness, can a cube have any real existence." Again the captain and his men exchanged glances. "Of course a cube can have existence," said the captain quietly. "It's a solid object, and a solid body does exist. It's a real thing. . . ."
"So most people think," interrupted the old man. "But wait a moment, and think carefully. . . ponder -. . . concentrate." He paused dramatically. "Can an instantaneous cube exist?"
"Say that again," said the captain.
"Can an instantaneous cube exist?" repeated the old man. "Can a cube that doesn't last any time at all have a real existence?" The captain was silent. "Clearly," went on the old man, "any real body must have extension in four directions. It must have length; it must have breadth and duration. But through natural infirinity of the flesh, which I will explain to you in a moment, we are inclined to overlook this fact. There are really four dimensions.
There are three which we call the three planes of space, and a fourth which we call time. However, we have a tendency in our very finite minds to draw an unreal distinction between the former three dimensions of space and the fourth dimension, which constitutes time. . . . In our consciousness we move intermittently in one direction along the latter, from the beginning to the end of our lives. We are therefore unable fully to comprehend it for what it is.
