Дэймон Найт - Orbit 11

“Are we out of East Germany?”

The Graf shook their heads. It was a stop for einer Tankfüllung und Entwässerung. While the twins emptied jerricans into the tank, the tourists emptied bladders. The twins were on the last gurgles of the first jerrican when Liza danced toward a fairy ring of mushrooms.

Wait: hold it.

Streamers of visual purple filled the night sky, the yellow spot of moon solarized; the universe alligatored like a bad paint job, breaking up into test patterns on their retinas.

Ben’s right, Liza. Better not wander from the truck. They might try to ditch us here.

Not before we fork over the rest of the payoff, they won’t.

No sweat anyway. It’s only a dream.

That’s just it: its lasting too long for only a dream.

How do you know? You can’t time a dream from within.

We can make a guess. Things take as long to happen in dream as in real time. Look at all’s been happening. Even with jump cuts, at least twenty-four hours’ worth. How many times have we dreamed together? A dozen? Never before went over eight hours.

Alarmist. We’ll wake when it’s time.

Just try and wake up now.

I still say it’s only a dream. Maybe getting nightmarish, but still only a dream.

(A warm nourishing darkness.)

But why aren’t we picking up sensory cues from outside?

That’s so. I can’t feel or hear or smell a thing.

I can’t open my eyes.

Don’t panic. Dr. Embry will bring us out.

The twins—they’re supposed to be getting us out from behind the Iron Curtain. Do you trust them? Did you notice who they look like without the shrubbery?

Dr. Embry!

Right. I think we’re trying to tell ourselves something’s wrong. Dr. Embry should’ve brought us out before now. Look, we know we’re not here—wherever here is. We know we’re dozing in the sleep-monitoring lab at the research center. We are, aren’t we? You’re each in a cubicle, same as me?

Yeah / Check / Yes / Right on / Right on (A voice-print of laughter / Yep.

Well— Hold it. Wasn’t that six yeses? Is that nutty Grepo right? Are we really seven?

You must’ve counted wrong. Go on.

Well, we know Dr. Embry taped electrodes all over us, hooked us up to an EEG brainwave machine and a computer. We know he shocked the thalamus in each of us to put us to sleep. The thalamus integrates stimuli into an awareness of everyday reality and forwards this awareness to the cortex. If we can’t sense anything, that means the thalamus is still in shock. If we’re cut off from our bodies we’re in danger of hypostatic congestion. Did we just now empty our bladders or only dream we did?

A hypochondriac’s nightmare. I have faith in Dr. Embry. He can snap us out of this.

Suppose he can’t.

How, can’t?

Maybe the world blew up. Maybe the good doctor dropped dead.

Dead!

I heard he has an artificial pacemaker in his heart. Interference from our alpha rhythms could’ve syncopated it, frozen him at the key of the thalamus-shocker.

Ugh.

But whatever happened we’re stuck in the dream. I don’t know about you other men—or the women—but one of Dr. Embry’s lab assistants stuck a hypodermic needle in my vein and taped it down to draw blood samples, shoved a tube into my stomach, wrapped a plethysmograph around my penis, belted a hose around my chest. I hate to think we’re lying here helpless, but I can’t feel any of it.

Same here. Still, even if Embry’s dead, or just blacked out, someone’s bound to come along soon and—

You’re forgetting. After the lab assistant looked me up, and before Embry hit the thalamus-shocker, I heard the guy wish Embry happy holiday and say, “See you next year.”

Ouch. This is the eve of the Christmas-New year vacation.

And Dr. Embry has no family to worry about him.

We have families. At least I do.

But ours don’t know we’re here, taking part in this. It’s all hush-hush, so we won’t meet in real life and compare notes and spoil the experiment. They think we’re at some cover address.

Meanwhile, there’s no providing for us. Say the body functions without our knowing, say we don’t suffer hypostatic congestion; we can still starve.

I don’t buy any of that. You’re just laying your death wish on Dr. Embry. There must be a reason. Let’s get back to the dream and find out.

I hope you’re right, Liza; this sure isn’t getting us anywhere.

The twins had stowed the empty jerricans. Franz tapped the crystal of Emil’s wristwatch. The tourists climbed aboard, the twins upped tailgate, lashed tarp, the LKW rolled on. Time lost meaning stretching in all dimensions. They grew aware of the engine again when it cut off.

The bullet holes showed a railway siding belonging to some factory. The chimneys were dead but smudges of cloud floated like puffs of brown smoke the shape of fossil salamanders buried in lignite. Barracks. Watchtowers. Rows of neat red-brick buildings. They made out letters over the main gate: “ARBEIT MACHT FREI.”

Birds twittered in the birches. The Graf unlashed tarp, dropped tailgate, and the escapees climbed down. The Graf upped tailgate.

“Sorry if it seemed we took you von Pontius zu Pilatus, but we had to detour, you understand.”

“We understand.”

They paid the remaining half of the Reisebüro fee.

Just within the barbed wire enclosing the factory stood a skeletal scaffold with a heavy iron hook at the top. The birds fell still. A chill breeze came up and the dawngilt grass whispered muffled heehaws. Bray for us. It was all wrong, Ben whirled. Sweat broke out on him.

“This isn’t West Germany.”

Twin Lugers whipped out to cover the group.

“We guaranteed to spirit you out of East Germany. This is Poland: once the realm of King Boleslaw the Bold, later part of the Greater Third Reich. We’re at Oswiecim. Auschwitz.”

“We should’ve guessed you’re a double agent.”

“Now, now. Let’s part like civilized people.”

The Lugers waved them away. The twins clicked, bowed, and began to lash the tarp. The others hid Ben as he stole around to the cab. He climbed up, reached in, Torschlusspanikknopf. He jumped down, ran, flung himself to the ground.

Vavoom! The earth hemingwayed, seamed. Stormy flames devoured the wreckage. Something clammy struck Ben and clung to his flesh. He forced open his eyes. He dripped with King Coleslaw the Cold, out of the hamper. There was nothing to see of the twins. He got up and joined the others; the heat drove them away.

A road map of East Europe had blown clear; Frank took charge of it and they tramped and farmcarted back toward East Germany. Only, when they sneaked across a border, they found themselves inside Czechoslovakia. The sky swung like a censer.

“How’d we get so far off course?”

“Take a good look at the map.”

It was one of the new Soviet maps. The cartographers had shifted towns, railroad lines, lakes, and rivers from their true sites, by as much as twenty-five miles, to mislead Western strategists when guiding and targeting missiles.

“We’re near Prague—if we believe the signposts. The American embassy; let Uncle Sam get us out.”

They found a station, a waiting train, and a compartment to themselves. The conductor punched six one-way tickets, smiling at Liza and nodding reassuringly. Almost at once, they were in Prague, taxiing to the U.S. Embassy. The Marine guard stopped them at the door. Carol snuggled up to him.

“We want to see the Ambassador.”

“May I see your passports?” They handed him their passports. He looked from photos to faces and shook his head and handed them back. Their passports were blank. “Sorry.” He scraped off the marine growth and shut the door in their faces.