The Unteleported Man Page 8

  The seasoned, hard-eyed, paunchy one said, "Miss Holm, when they get into the luggage, they'll know."To his companion he said, "Bring it out."

  Together, as she watched, the two experienced field reps of Lies Incorporated assembled a small intricate weapon of a type she had never seen before; evidently it was from their advanced weapons archives.

  To her the younger man said quietly, "Send the signal. For a fight. As soon as our people come through; keep the signal going so they'll pick it up as they emerge. We'll fight at this spot, not later, not when they have us cut down into individuals, one here, one there."

  She. Touched. The. Signal-tab.

  And then she said, quietly, "I'll try to get a message-unit back to Terra via Telpor. Maybe in the confu­sion — " Because there was going to be a lot of confu­sion as the Lies Incorporated men emerged and immedi­ately picked up the fracas-in-progress signal. " — maybe it'll slip by."

  "It won't," the hard-eyed old tomcat of a fighter said to her. He glanced at his companion. "But if we focus on a transmission station maybe we can take and keep control long enough to run a vid track through. Pass it back through the Telpor gate. Even if all two thous of us were to — " He turned to Freya. "Can you direct the reps to make it to this point?"

  "I have no more microwave patterns," she said, this time truthfully. "Just those two."

  "Okay, Miss Holm." The vet considered. "Vid trans­missions through Telpor are accomplished over there." He pointed and she saw an isolated multi-story struc­ture, windowless, with a guarded entrance; in the gray sun of midday she caught a glint of metal, or armed sen­tries. "You have the code for back home you can trans­mit?"

  "Yes," she said. "One of fifty. Mat and I both had them; committed to memory. I could transmit it by aud in ten seconds."

  "I want," the wary, half-crouching veteran police­man said, "a vid track of this." He swung his hand at the landscape. "Something that can be spliced into the central coaxial cable and run on TV. Not just that we know but that they know." They. The people back home — the innocents who lay beyond the one-way gate; forever, she thought, because eighteen years is, really, forever.

  "What's the code?" the younger field rep asked her.

  Freya said, " 'Forgot to pack my Irish linen handker­chiefs. Please transmit via Telpor.' " She explained, "We, Mat and I, worked out all logical possibilities. This comes the closest. Sparta."

  "Yep," the older vet said. "The warrior state. The troublemaker. Well, it is close geographically to Athens, although not quite close enough." To his companion he said. "Can we get in there and transmit the aud signal?" He picked up the weapon which they had assembled.

  "Sure," his younger companion said, nodding.

  The older man clicked the weapon on.

  Freya saw, then, into the grave and screamed; she ran and as she ran, struggled to get away, she knew it for what it was: a refined form of nerve gas that — and then her coherent thoughts ceased and she simply ran.

  The armed sentry-soldiers guarding the windowless building ran, too.

  And, unaffected, their metabolisms insulated by pre-injective antidotal hormones, the two field reps of Lies Incorporated dogtrotted toward the windowless struc­ture, and, as they trotted, brought out small, long-range laser pistols with telescopic sights.

  That was her final view of them; at that point panic and flight swallowed her and it was only darkness. And a darkness into which people of all sorts — she glimpsed, felt, them dimly — ran along side in company with her; she was not alone: the future radiated.

  Mat, she thought. You will not have your police state here at Whale's Mouth, and I warned you; I told you. But, she thought, maybe now they won't either. If that encoded message can be put through. If.

  And if, on the Terran side, there is someone smart enough to know what to do with it.

  8

  In his ship near the orbit of Pluto, Al Dosker received, routinely, the message transmitted from Freya Holm at Whale's Mouth to the New New York office of Lies Incorporated.

  FORGOT TO PACK MY IRISH LINEN HANDKER­CHIEFS.

  PLEASE TRANSMIT VIA TELPOR. FREYA.

  He walked to the rear of the ship, leisurely, because at this distance from the sun everything seemed entropic, slowed down; it was as if, out here, there was a slower beat of the sidereal clock.

  Opening the code box he ran his finger down the Fs. Then found the key. He then took the message and fed it directly into the computer which held the spools that comprised the contents of the box.

  Out came a paper ribbon with typed words. He read them.

  MILITARY DICTATORSHIP. BARRACKS LIFE ON SPARTAN BASIS. PREPARATION FOR WAR AGAINST UNKNOWN FOE.

  Dosker stood for a moment, then, taking the original encoded message, as handled by Vidphone Corpora­tion, ran it through the computer once again. And, once again, he read the message in clear and once again it said what it had to say — could not be denied from saying. And there was no doubt, because Matson Glazer-Holli­day himself had programmed the computer-box.

  This, Dosker thought. Out of fifty possibilities rang­ing from the Elysium field to — hell.

  Roughly, this lay halfway on the hell side. By a gross count often. It ranked about as bad as he had expected.

  So, he thought, now we know.

  We know... and we can't validate it.

  The scrap of ribbon, the encoded message, was, in­credible as it seemed, completely, utterly worthless.

  Because, he asked himself, whom do we take it to?

  Their own organization, Lies Incorporated had been truncated by Mat's action, by the sending of their best men to Whale's Mouth; all which remained was the staff of bureaucrats in New New York — and himself.

  And, of course, Rachmael ben Applebaum out in 'tween space in the Omphalos. Busily learning Attic Greek.

  Now, from the New New York office, a second mes­sage, encoded, arrived; this, too, he fed to the com­puter, more quickly, this time. It came out drearily and he read it with futile shame — shame because he had tried and failed to stop what Matson planned; he felt the moral weight on himself.

  WE CANNOT HOLD OUT. VIVISECTION IN PROGRESS.

  Can I help you? he wondered, suffering in his im­potent rage. Goddam you, Matson, he thought, you had to do it; you were greedy. And you took two thousand men and Freya Holm with you, to be slaughtered over there where we can't do anything because "we" consist of nothing.

  However, he could perform one final act — his effort, not connected with the effort to save the multitude of Terran citizens who, within the following days, weeks, would be filing through Telpor gates to Whale's Mouth, but to save someone who deserved a reprieve from a self-imposed burden: a burden which these two encoded messages via Telpor and the Vidphone Corp had ren­dered obsolete.

  Taking the risk that a UN monitor might pick up his signal, Al Dosker sent out an u.h.f. beamed radio signal to the Omphalos and Rachmael ben Applebaum.

  When he raised the Omphalos, now at hyper-see velocity and beyond the Sol system, Dosker asked brut­ally, "How's the odes of Pindar coming?"

  "Just simple fables so far," Rachmael's voice came, distantly, mixed with the background of static, of inter-system interference as the signal-gathering cone aboard Dosker's ship rotated, tried to gather the weak, far-distant impulse. "But you weren't supposed to contact me," Rachmael said, "unless — "

  "Unless," Dosker said, "this happened. We have, at Lies Incorporated, an encoding method that can't be broken. Because the data are not in what's transmitted. Listen carefully, Rachmael." And, amplified by his ship's transmitter, his words — he hoped — were reaching the Omphalos; a segment of his equipment recorded his words and broadcast them several times: a multiplica­tion of the signal to counter, on a statistical basis, the high background; by utilizing the principle of repetition he expected to get his message through to Rachmael. "You know the joke about the prison inmate," Dosker said, "who stands up and yells, 'Three.' And everyone laughs."

>   "Yes," Rachmael said alertly. "Because 'three' refers to an entire multi-part joke. Which all the inmates know; they've been confined together so long."

  "By that method," Dosker said, "out[our] transmission from Whale's Mouth operated today. We have a binary computer as the decoder. Originally, we started out by flipping a coin for each letter of the alphabet. Tails made it zero or gate-shut; heads means one or gate-open. It's either zero or one; that's the binary com­puter's modus operandi. Then we invented fifty mes­sage-units which describe possible conditions on the other side; the messages were constructed in such a way that each consisted of a unique sequence of ones and zeros. I — " His voice came out ragged, hoarse. "I have just now received a message, which when reduced to the elements of the binary system consists of a sequence reading: 11101001100111010110000010011010100111 0000100111110100000111. There is nothing intrinsic in this binary sequence that can be decoded, because it simply acts as one of the fifty unique signals known to our box — here on my ship — and it trips one particular tape. But its length — it gives a spurious impression to cryptographers of an intrinsic message."

  "And your tape — " Rachmael said, "that was tripped — "

  "I'll paraphrase," Dosker said. "The operational word is — Sparta." He was silent then.

  "A garrison state?" Rachmael's voice came.

  "Yes."

  "Against whom?"

  "They didn't say. A second message came, but it added relatively little. Except that it came through in clear and it told us that they can't hold out. They're be­ing decimated by the military, over there."

  "And you're sure this is authentic data?" Rachmael asked.

  "Only Freya Holm, Matson and I," Dosker said, "have the decode boxes into which the messages can be fed as a binary tripping-sequence. It came from Freya, evidently; anyhow she signed the first." He added, "They didn't even try to sign the second one."

  "Well," Rachmael said, "then I will turn back. There's no point to my trip, now."

  "That's up to you to decide." He waited, wondering what Rachmael ben Applebaum's decision would be; but, he thought, as you say, it really doesn't matter, because the real tragedy is twenty-four light-years away, and not the destruct, the taking-out, of Lies Incorporated's two thousand best people, but — the forty million who've gone before. And the eighty million or more who will follow, since, though we have this knowledge on this side of the teleport gates, there's no means by which we can communicate it over the mass info media to the population —

  He was thinking that when the UN pursuit ships, three of them like black sliding fish, closed noiselessly in on him, reached a.-to-a. missile range; their missiles fired, and Dosker's Lies Incorporated ship was cut into fragments.

  Stunned, passive, he floated in his self-contained suit with its own air, heat, water, transmitter, waste-disposal deposit box, squeeze-tubes of food... he drifted on and on, seemingly for eternity, thinking about vague and even happy things, about a planet of green forests and of women and the tinkling noise of get-togethers, and yet knowing dully that he could live only a short time like this, and wondering, too, if the UN had gotten the Omphalos as they had gotten him; obviously their vigilant switchboard of monitors had picked up his radio carrier-wave, but whether they had picked up Rachmael's too, which operated on another band... god, he thought, I hope not; I hope it's just me.

  He was still hoping when the UN pursuit ship moved up beside him, sent out a robot-like construct which fished at him until it had with great care grappled him without puncturing his suit. Amazed, he thought, Why don't they just dig a little hole in the suit-fabric, let out the air and heat, let me float here and meanwhile die?

  It bewildered him. And now a hatch of the UN pur­suit ship was opening; he was reeled in, like an en­meshed quarry; the hatch slammed shut and he felt the artificial gravity which prevailed within the expensive, ultra-modern vessel; he lay prone and then, wearily, got to his feet, stood.

  Facing him, a uniformed UN senior officer, armed, said, "Take off your suit. Your emergency suit. Under­stand?" He spoke with a heavy accent; Dosker saw, by his armband, that he was from the Nordic League.

  Piece by piece, Dosker shed his emergency suit.

  "You Goths," Dosker said, "seem to be running things." At the UN, anyhow. He wondered about Whale's Mouth.

  The UN officer, still pointing the laser pistol at him, said, "Sit down. We are returning to Terra. Nach Terra; versteh'n?" Behind him a second UN employee, not armed, sat at the control console; the ship was on a high-velocity course directed toward the third planet and Dosker guessed that only an hour's travel lay ahead. "The Secretary General," the UN officer said, "has asked to speak to you personally. Meanwhile, compose yourself and wait. Would you like a magazine to read? We have UN Back-peop Assist. Or an entertain-spool to watch?"

  "No," Dosker said, and sat staring straight ahead, blindly.

  The UN officer said, "We tracked the Omphalos by her carrier-wave transmission, also. As we did your ship."

  "Good bit," Dosker said sardonically.

  "However, due to the distance involved, it will take several days to reach her."

  Dosker said, "But you will, though."

  "That is a certainty," the UN officer said, with his heavy Swedish accent, nodding. He had no doubts. Nor did Dosker.

  The only issue was the time-factor. As the officer said, some few days; no more.

  He stared ahead, sat, waited, as the high-velocity UN pursuit ship hurried toward Terra, New New York and Horst Bertold.

  At the UN Headquarters in New New York he was given a thorough physical examination; the doctors and nurses attached one testing apparatus after another, checked their readings, located no grafted-in subdermal devices.

  "You survived your ordeal amazingly well," the doc­tor in charge informed him, at last, as he was given his clothing and allowed once more to dress.

  "And now what?" Dosker asked.

  "The Secretary General is ready to see you," the doc­tor said briefly, marking his chart; he nodded his head to ward a door.

  Having dressed, Dosker walked step by step to the door, opened it.

  "Please hurry it up," Horst Bertold said.

  Shutting the door after him Dosker said, "Why?"

  Seated at his large antique oak desk, the UN Secretary General glanced up; he was a heavy man, red-haired, with a pinched, elongated nose and almost colorless small lips. His features were small but his shoulders, his arms and his ribcage, bulged, as if from countless steam baths and from handball; his legs, his feet, showed the tonus of great childhood walking trips and miles of bike riding: this was an outdoor man, confined by his job to a desk, but longing for open spaces which did not now exist. A thoroughly healthy man, physically-speaking, Dosker thought. Strange, he thought, and, in spite of himself, received a good impression.

  "We picked up your radio communication with the Omphalos," Bertold said, his English perfect — in fact overly perfect; it had a tape-like quality, and probably it had been so learned. The impression here was not so good. "Thereby as you know we located both ships. We also understand that you are now the ranking executive of Lies Incorporated, Miss Holm and Mr. Glazer-Hol­liday having crossed via Telpor — under cover names, of course — to Whale's Mouth."

  Dosker shrugged, said nothing, imparted no free in­formation; waited.

  "However — " Horst Bertold tapped his pen against the top document on his desk, frowned. "This is a transcript, verbatim, of the interchange between you and the fanatic, Rachmael ben Applebaum. You in­itiated the radio exchange; you raised the Omphalos."Bertold glanced up and his blue, light eyes were sharp. "We have put our cryptographers on the sequence in code which you transmitted... the same which you previously received from the Vidphone Corp. Intrin­sically it means nothing. But in the wreckage of your ship we located your decoding computer, the intact box with its fifty tapes. We therefore matched the transmis­sion and recorded binary sequence to the proper tape. And it was as you info
rmed ben Applebaum."

  "Did that surprise you?"

  "Of course not," Bertold said swiftly. "Why should you deceive your own client? And at the risk — a risk which should not have been taken, as it so turned out — of revealing the location of your own vessel? Any­how — " Bertold's voice sank to an introspective mur­mur. "We still were not satisfied. We therefore checked over our monitoring — "

  "They're being wiped out, over there," Dosker said. "The two thousand field reps and Mat and Freya." His voice was toneless; he told this because he knew they would get it by a 'wash anyhow — they could get any­thing that was there, any memory, any motives, plans, projects; after all, his own organization, far smaller than the UN, could do so — had done so, over many years, and to many persons, by means of psychiatrists and their techniques.

  Bertold said, "Trails of Hoffman Limited and Theo­doric Ferry entirely control Newcolonizedland. The UN has no staff at Whale's Mouth. All we know is what we have received, as a courtesy, in aud and vid form. The info signals through the Telpors, over these years of col­onization; our original monitoring satellites have been inoperative ever since THL auspical jurisdiction began."

  There was silence and then Dosker said incredulously, "Then this is as much news to you as it is to — "

  "We believed the fifteen years of aud and vid tapes; we saw no reason to check for ourselves. THL had vol­unteered to underwrite the colonization economically; they picked up the tab and we gave them the franchise because they owned the Telpor patent and equipment. Dr. von Einem's patents are possessed exclusively by THL; he had the legal right to so arrange that. And this — " Bertold picked up the top document from his desk, showed it to Dosker; it was a typed transcript, in its entirety, of his own conversation by radio with Rachmael. "This," Horst Bertold said, "is the result."

  Dosker said, "Tell me what it means." Because, he thought, I don't know. I saw the original messages when they arrived; I understand the literal meaning of the words. But that's all.