Джеффри Лорд: The Towers Of Melnon

It was a discussion now bordering on an argument. In fact, somebody who didn't know the two men involved would have said they were both working themselves into a foul temper. Blade knew them both too well to believe that. Neither of them would ever give up an argument without stating his position clearly and at length, and neither would push an argument beyond that point. Once each knew where the other stood, they would settle down to hammer out a compromise. Project Dimension X, and what it might do for England, was too important for anything else. So Blade listened, and tried to keep an amused smile off his face as he did so.

«Now damn it, Leighton,» J was saying, «anyone would think you didn't want us to come up with more people besides Richard.»

«That's nonsense and you know it perfectly well,» retorted the scientist. «It's just that I can't see delaying a mission that's all ready to go so Richard can do a simple consultant's job.»

«Why not? Particularly when he's the only one who can do this job?»

«If you're going to insist on bringing the Project to a standstill every time you develop some new notion-«

«You're certainly the last person to talk about new notions. What was the bill for your last proposed sub-Project?»

To that Leighton could not come up with a quick reply. He glowered in mock fury at J, then painfully levered himself up out of his chair. On his polio-twisted legs he walked with surprising speed twice around the table. His hunchback was visible under a tweed coat old enough to have been worn at Queen Victoria's funeral. Then he sat back down, fixed J with a penetrating stare from those large and surprisingly alive eyes, and grinned.

«A point well taken, J. Now-how long is this really going to take, with Richard?»

J was about to speak when Blade broke in. «It seems to me there's no need at all to delay the mission. If the estate is as run-down as J says, I imagine it would be wise to get a surveyor and an architect to give it a thorough going-over. Otherwise we might wind up putting in a new office one day and then having the whole thing drop through the floor the next. That would be rather embarrassing. And of course you'll be wanting to set up full security arrangements before you even start surveying. All this will take time. And in the meantime I can head out to Dimension X and be back-«

«In time for tea?» interrupted Leighton with a grin. «Quite so, quite so. Well, J?»

J nodded. «It seems reasonable enough, if it's all right with Richard. And if there's any-delay-in getting you back, we can go ahead with some of the planning anyway.»

It was obvious to Blade that J was simply trying to remind Leighton that Blade was not his property, to be sent hither and thither like a case of canned asparagus. Blade appreciated J's efforts, but he couldn't see the point of them.

All his debriefings after Dimension X missions were down on tape where any trainer or psychologist could settle down with a beer and play them to his heart's content. And he didn't want to spend days or weeks waiting around for «consultation» with a Dimension X mission hanging over his head. He wanted to go down into the complex, into the computer, and into Dimension X as quickly as possible.

He did just that the next afternoon. The preliminary routine was the same as it had been fourteen times before. In fact, the preliminary routine was threatening to become a crashing bore. But not even Lord Leighton knew that much about Dimension X or the processes that would put Blade there. Not even Lord Leighton could say for certain if leaving out any of the procedures would help or hinder. So Blade and the scientist went through the same old routine with the conscientious care of fighter pilots doing preflight checks on their planes.

Blade goes into the changing booth-check.

Blade strips himself naked-check.

Blade smears foul-smelling black grease all over his body, to prevent electrical burns-check.

Blade leaves the changing booth and sits down in the master chair-check. (And as usual, the chair sitting in its glass booth reminds him of an electric chair, and the rubber of the chair's seat is cold against his bare bottom.)

Lord Leighton comes up to the booth and busies himself attaching cobra-headed electrodes all over Blade's body-check. (And as usual, by the time Leighton finishes, Blade looks as though he is being overgrown by some bizarre tropical growth. Wires of a dozen different colors run off from the electrodes into the guts of the computer.)

Lord Leighton steps back, surveys his work with both care and pride, and then goes over to the master console-check.

Blade leaned back in the chair as far as the attached electrodes would let him, and stared upward. The vast computer consoles in their crackled gray finish loomed over him like the ruins of some abandoned and forgotten city.

Lord Leighton, standing at the main console in his dirty white lab smock, looked like some cheerful gnome inhabiting the ruins. Blade took a deep breath, and forced as much of the tension out of his body as he could. From this point on there was no routine. He could not predict, he could only hope to survive.

Leighton turned toward him. For a moment Blade thought the scientist was going to ask if he was ready. But the questions appeared only in Leighton's eyes, not on his lips. And Blade replied in the same way, nodding silently. Leighton's gnarled hand flexed once or twice, then came down. The red master switch came down with it.

As the switch moved, a low muted whine rose up from somewhere far below. It filled Blade's ears and made his teeth ache. It sounded like a gigantic dentist's drill, and in instinctive reaction Blade shut his eyes and clenched his fists.

But no sharp pain seared through any of his teeth. Instead the whine increased in volume until it was a deafening roar. Now it sounded more like a jet engine winding up for takeoff than any kind of drill. Blade felt the blackness around him become tangible and start to shake and quiver and pulse against his skin. It was like being in an immense bowl of jellied soup that someone was shaking violently. And all the while the whining roar tore at his ears.

The sound rose still further, and Blade knew that his mouth was open and he was screaming in agony as it tore through him. This was sound that could reduce a man's eardrums to powder, his brain to jelly, his whole body to an oozing red paste. If the sound was real, Blade knew he had only a few more seconds to live. But the terrible whine filled his brain so completely that there was no room left in it for any kind of fear or panic.

The sound rose yet further. It passed the point where Blade's brain would accept it any more. Silence fell down on Blade like an enormous weight, crushing him down into blackness.

Blade first became aware of the sound of insects. They were in the long grass that rose up around his aching head, whining softly to themselves. Hearing them was an agreeable surprise. After the nightmare sounds of his transition from home dimension, he would not have been surprised to wind up deaf. Perhaps the sound had never had any physical reality? It might have been merely a hallucination produced by his brain as it writhed in the grip of Lord Leighton's computer.

The grass was not only long, it was stiff and sharp. Blade felt it prickling and jabbing against his bare skin. Slowly, painfully aware of his throbbing head, he sat up and looked around him. The movement startled the insects around him into silence or frantic efforts to escape. Some of them flew across his field of vision, bright darting splotches of red, black, and purple. The whine and hum from the grass died away as he became more aware of his surroundings.

It was just after dawn, with a morning mist hanging low over the ground. A yellow glow higher up told of the rising sun, and patches of blue sky promised a clear day. But in the swirling grayness of the mist, six gigantic dark shapes loomed up tall and grim. They soared up to incredible heights-a mile or more, if Blade was judging their distance correctly in the mist. But even through the mist their outlines were too regular to be natural.