Джеффри Лорд: Dimension Of Dreams

More than half. How many was that, exactly? Blade didn't know. But he knew as if he had seen it engraved on a wall in front of him that the power of the Wakers was broken. They would have to follow Krog north-follow him, or die in Pura. The Dreamers-no, the Purans-would see to that.

But there were still things to be done. His brain was working with unnatural clarity, and he knew it.

«Yekran, give me a light.»

«A light?»

«Yes, of course.» Why couldn't the idiot see as clearly as he what needed to be done? «Some of the Wakers may be hiding in the buildings. Patrols have to go in after them, bring them out. Give me a light and half a dozen men, and I'll start.»

Yekran handed him one of the marconite lights but shook his head as he did so. «Blade, you are wounded and tired. And you have already saved us three times this night. You should lie down and rest.»

The word seemed to echo in Blade's mind for a moment-rest, rest, REST-the last echo flaring sharp, agonizing pain in his head. He staggered but kept his face expressionless. Another near-miss by the computer.

«Afterwards, Yekran, afterwards.» Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked slowly toward the nearest building. The strength seemed to be draining from his legs, but perhaps if he walked very slowly-?

His path took him toward the wall and toward a body lying about fifty feet behind it. A familiar body, among all the strangers. Erlik. The little man who had doubted that Pura could be saved. And he had died helping to save it. His sword was still clutched in his hand, and three Waker bodies lying near him told how well he had learned what Blade had taught. Blade kept on walking, holding the light tightly in both hands.

The pain came again, pulsing harder and harder, increasing steadily as the computer's grasp on his brain tightened. The wall of the building ahead seemed to fade from purple to lavender to white. Then it was transparent, and then it was gone entirely. A great flood of golden light poured out. Blade kept walking past where the wall had been, feeling nothing now, seeing only the golden light. It grew brighter until it was almost blinding him. At the same time a hot wind seemed to be blowing on him from all directions. A strange heat. It did not burn, did not take his breath away. It matched the light though. The light itself was still getting brighter and brighter.

Blade closed his eyes and let the heat envelop him bit by bit until all sensation faded away.

In the west-bound train Richard Blade unfolded the newspaper, re-read the article in the society column, and grinned. Now that it was no longer a surprise, he could savor the amusing quality of it even more.

Annie was getting married-Annie, the wild and free. Had she simply been having a final fling with him on that cruise? Possibly, since she must have met the fellow she was marrying before that. But Annie must not have been planning to marry him at the time; Blade doubted that she would have sailed with him without telling him about the other man. She was much too honest to play games.

However, that was a rather fruitless line of speculation. What was down in black and white in the paper was very simple. Lady Annette Cecile Pangborn, second daughter of the Earl of — , had announced her engagement (Nobody announced anything for Annie!) to Commander Edward Francis Martin, R.N., currently commissioned on HMS Devastation. Place and date and the other inevitable social details followed.

So Annie was going to marry the C.O. of the Royal Navy's latest thing in nuclear submarines. All things considered, it was a good match-or at least it sounded like one. A Royal Navy officer, particularly one who had qualified for a plum assignment like command of Devastation, would be likely to have the kind of mind Annie would respect. She might even be completely faithful to Commander Martin for as much as five or six years.

For a moment Blade wondered what Commander Martin would say if he learned about marconite and what it might do for submarine design. If the scientists sweating over it now could crack the secrets of the marconite, by the time Martin had put up his fourth stripe, the nuclear submarine might be as obsolete as the battleship. Blade was very glad that it was the scientists who were tearing their hair out over the lamp he had been clutching when he materialized in the computer room. It looked like a long job, one that he wouldn't have for the Crown Jewels of the realm.

In fact, life generally looked very good at this point. After a week of debriefing, interrogation, and all the usual tests-the idea behind some of them apparently being to make him sick if he wasn't already-he was on leave. A summer month in the Cornish cottage would get the knots out of his system. The only minor fly in the ointment was that the MG was in the shop for a new transmission; so he was taking the train down and then renting a car. But he could think of nothing sillier than to complain about that after surviving yet another Dimension X trip. And a remarkably satisfactory one, too. He had done good work for the people there, survived a half dozen battles with no more than comparatively minor wounds, and come back with a major find.

J was happy about that, certainly-particularly the fact that for once he had come back from Dimension X without being maimed, mauled, and mangled half to death. Blade had arrived that way several times before, and he had to admit that it hadn't done much for his own health or peace of mind. It hadn't done much for J's peace of mind either, so Blade was glad to have spared the old man the worry this time.

J was also being spared another common problem. The mission had been simple, straightforward, and it had not, by some miracle, suggested to Lord Leighton six or even two new avenues of research to explore at further expense and further danger to Blade. Even the old scientist had to admit that it would have been nice, no doubt, to have a sample of the life-sustaining gas from the vaults; but they would have to make do with the marconite. Not that Lord Leighton, sour expression or not, was really dissatisfied with the marconite-but he was a perfectionist. He wanted everything to be exactly right, and in that search for perfection he had at times said «Hang the expense!» or «Hang Blade's safety!» The first had brought him into head-on collisions with the Prime Minister, the second with J. But this time Lord Leighton was on good terms with everybody.

A month at the cottage. Then he was going out to the Mediterranean for a few weeks of diving off Smyrna with an underwater archaeologist friend. That wasn't entirely a vacation-his friend was gong to teach him the basics of underwater searching for relics. Then if he ever landed in a dimension where all the interesting things were fifty feet underwater, he could dive for them. It was another possibly useful skill he wanted to have-another string to his professional bow-although it would be a damned sight more useful if Leighton could figure out how to send a few accessories through the computer! Such as a face mask and swim fins, for example.

Well, Leighton was working as hard at that as he could manage with all the other subprojects to keep going. Sooner or later he would make a breakthrough. Meanwhile there was another three hours of train ride to get through, and that was a depressing thought! Blade had never liked riding as a passenger, except in an airplane. He bent over to rummage in his briefcase for a book.

He was so busy rummaging that he did not notice the train slow, come to a stop, and the trainman pass along the corridor bawling out the name of a station. What he did notice, a minute later, was that somebody was standing in the door of his compartment. He looked up.

About five feet five and all of it nicely curved as far as he could see inside a well-tailored green suit. Blue eyes, so dark they were almost purple, hair the color and consistency of corn silk. He smiled.