Альфред Бестер - Star of Stars [Anthology]

“Didn’t occur to you that we mightn’t buy your disappearance story, eh, Dimmock?”

“S-Sir?”

“I’m an expert too, Dimmock. I’ll spell. it out for you. The war’s going badly. Very badly. There’ve been intelligence leaks. The St. Albans mess might point to you.”

“B-But they do disappear, sir. I—”

“My experts want to talk to you and your patients about this disappearance act, Dimmock. They’ll start with you.”

The experts worked over Dimmock with preconscious softeners, id releases and superego blocks. They tried every truth serum in the books and every form of physical and mental pressure. They brought Dimmock, squealing, to the breaking point three times, but there was nothing to break.

“Let him stew for now,” Carpenter said. “Get on to the patients.”

The experts appeared reluctant to apply pressure to, the sick men and the woman.

“For God’s sake, don’t be squeamish,” Carpenter raged. “We’re fighting a war for civilization. We’ve got to protect our ideals no matter what the price. Get to it!”

The experts from Espionage, Counter-Espionage, Security and Central Intelligence got to it. Like three candles, PFC Nathan Riley, M/Sgt Lela Machan and Corp/2 George Hanmer snuffed out and disappeared. One moment they were seated in chairs surrounded by violence. The next moment they were not.

The experts gasped. General Carpenter did the handsome thing. He stalked to Dimmock. “Captain Dimmock, I apologize. Colonel Dimmock, you’ve been promoted for making an important discovery. . . only what the hell does it mean? We’ve got to check ourselves first.”

Carpenter snapped up the intercom. “Get me a combat-shock expert and an alienist.”

The two experts entered and were briefed. They examined the witnesses. They considered.

“You’re all suffering from a mild case of shock,” the combat-shock expert said. “War jitters.”

“You mean we didn’t see them disappear?”

The shock expert shook his head and glanced at the alienist who also shook his head.

“Mass illusion,” the alienist said.

At that moment PFC Riley, M/Sgt Machan and Corp/2 Hanmer reappeared. One moment they were a mass illusion; the next, they were back sitting in their chairs surrounded by confusion.

“Dope ‘em again, Dimmock,” Carpenter cried. “Give ‘em a gallon.” He snapped up his intercom. “I want every expert we’ve got. Emergency meeting in my office at once.”

Thirty-seven experts, hardened and sharpened tools all, inspected the unconscious shock cases and discussed them for three hours. Certain facts were obvious: This must be a new fantastic syndrome brought on by the new and fantastic horrors of the war. As combat technique develops, the response of victims of this technique must also take new roads. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Agreed.

This new syndrome must involve some aspects of teleportation. . . the power of mind over space. Evidently combat shock, while destroying certain known powers of the mind, must develop other latent powers hitherto unknown. Agreed.

Obviously, the patients must only be able to return to the point of departure, otherwise they would not continue to return to Ward T nor would they have returned to General Carpenter’s office. Agreed.

Obviously, the patients must be able to procure food and sleep wherever they go, since neither was required in Ward T. Agreed.

“One small point,” Colonel Dimmock said. “They seem to be returning to Ward T less frequently. In the beginning they would come and go every day or so. Now most of them stay away for weeks and hardly ever return.”

“Never mind that,” Carpenter said. “Where do they go?”

“Do they teleport behind the enemy lines?” someone asked. “There’s those intelligence leaks.”

“I want Intelligence to check,” Carpenter snapped. “Is the enemy having similar difficulties with, say, prisoners of war who appear and disappear from their POW camps? They might be some of ours from Ward T.”

“They might simply be going home,” Colonel Dimmock suggested.

“I want Security to check,” Carpenter ordered. “Cover the home life and associations of every one of those twenty-four disappearers. Now. . . about our operations in Ward T. Colonel Dimmock has a plan.”

“We’ll set up six extra beds in Ward T,” Edsel Dimmock explained. “We’ll send in six experts to live there and observe. Information must be picked up indirectly from the patients. They’re catatonic and nonresponsive when conscious, and incapable of answering questions when drugged.”

“Gentlemen,” Carpenter summed it up. “This is the greatest potential weapon in the history of warfare I don’t have to tell you what it can mean to us to be able to teleport an entire army behind enemy lines. We can win the war for the American Dream in one day if we can win this secret hidden in those shattered minds. We must win!”

The experts hustled, Security checked, Intelligence probed. Six hardened and sharpened tools moved into Ward T in St. Albans Hospital and slowly got acquainted with the disappearing patients who appeared and departed less and less frequently. The tension increased.

Security was able to report that not one case of strange appearance had taken place in America in the past year. Intelligence reported that the enemy did not seem to be having similar difficulties with their own shock cases or with POWs.

Carpenter fretted. “This is all brand new. We’ve got no specialists to handle it. We’ve got to develop new tools.” He snapped up his intercom. “Get me a college,” he said.

They got him Yale.

“I want some experts in mind over matter. Develop them,” Carpenter ordered. Yale at once introduced three graduate courses in Thaumaturgy, Extra Sensory Perception and Telekinesis.

The first break came when one of the Ward T experts requested the assistance of another expert. He wanted a Lapidary.

“What the hell for?” Carpenter wanted to know.

“He picked up a reference to a gem stone,” Colonel

Dimmock explained. “He can’t relate it to anything in his experience. He’s a personnel specialist.”

“And he’s not supposed to,” Carpenter said approvingly. “A job for every man and every man on the job.” He flipped up the intercom. “Get me a Lapidary.”

An expert Lapidary was given leave of absence from the army arsenal and asked to identify a type of diamond called Jim Brady. He could not.

“We’ll try it from another angle,” Carpenter said. He snapped up his intercom. “Get me a Semanticist.”

The Semanticist left his desk in the War Propaganda Department but could make nothing of the words Jim Brady. They were names to him. No more. He suggested a Genealogist.

A Genealogist was given one day’s leave from his post with the Un-American Ancestors Committee but could make nothing of the name of Brady beyond the fact that it had been a common name in America for five hundred years. He suggested an Archaeologist.

An Archaeologist was released from the Cartography Division of Invasion Command and instantly identified the name Diamond Jim Brady. It was a historic personage who had been famous in the city of Little Old New York some time between Governor Peter Stuyvesant and Governor Fiorello La Guardia.

“Christ!” Carpenter marveled. “That’s centuries ago. Where the hell did Nathan Riley get that? You’d better join the experts in Ward T and follow this up.”

The Archaeologist followed it up, checked his references and sent in his report. Carpenter read it and was stunned. He called an emergency meeting of his staff of experts.

“Gentlemen,” he announced, “Ward T is something bigger than teleportation. Those shock patients are doing something far more incredible ... far more meaningful. Gentlemen, they’re traveling through time.”