Dimension Of Horror Part 24

Blade gathered his strength and, with one last mighty push, surged forward and broke out into the open!

For an instant there was nothing between him and the glowing tower of the Ngaa's innermost self but a few feet of bare floor. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the glowing cloud wheel and start for him.

He leaped!

Two hundred and ten pounds of bleeding, bruised, battered flesh crashed into the delicate traceries, shattering fragile gla.s.s, spilling bubbling, foaming liquids that stung his skin. The air was filled with falling crystalline shards, glittering, sparkling, sharp.

In his mind Blade heard the final despairing soundless scream of the voice that was many voices, the scream of a whole race of thinking feeling beings, a scream that ended a history of millions of years, a history longer than man's.

Blade landed, sprawling awkwardly on the bone floor beyond the collapsing Ngaa, the scream echoing in his mind as it would go on echoing as long as he lived.

He sprawled.

And watched.

The slaves froze in position, some falling, some remaining standing like store-window dummies, their arms fixed in a certain way, their heads c.o.c.ked at a certain angle. They did not even blink, but, looking at them more intently, Blade could see their chests move. They were still breathing!

Blade watched the cloud of energy, as it moved toward him, begin to coagulate into a fine white powder. Some of the powder rained down on him, sticking to his b.l.o.o.d.y, sweaty body.

Blade heard the rumble of the engines beneath him die away to silence, saw the dim blue light in the room die away to darkness.

In that darkness he felt himself rise gently from the floor and drift through s.p.a.ce. Free fall! The city, unsupported by its force fields, was falling toward the planet's surface.

He b.u.mped against the body of a floating slave, then against another. He kept his eyes tight shut, for the air was full of wandering bits of broken gla.s.s.

The pain came at last, the familiar pain in his head that told him the computer probe had found him. He welcomed the pain, gloried in it, because it meant that he was going home.

Chapter 17.

The sun had set.

In the afterglow Richard Blade stood on the cliff, hands thrust into the pockets of his rumpled burberry, the salty sea wind whipping his white silk scarf and setting the legs of his white slacks flapping. Far out on the horizon, visible in the gathering darkness only by its running lights, a s.h.i.+p made its slow way.

Blade smiled faintly, remembering.

The PM's bully boys had burst into the Tower of London computer complex, into the very center, the holy of holies, where KALI ruled, and they had smashed KALI, but not before Leighton had s.n.a.t.c.hed Blade back from Dimension X.

The following day Leighton, in spite of a murderous hangover, had gone with J to Downing Street to explain that Blade was alive and sane, the Ngaa was dead, and the Project must go on. The PM had agreed, with the greatest reluctance. The Project would go on, but with a reduced budget. Leighton would have to make do with his old original equipment, at least for a while. There would be no more totally automated KALI-style machines, perhaps for many years to come.

Leighton had not been unhappy. He had visited Blade in the hospital and had said, "I have a new theory, my boy. As soon as you're on your feet again . . ."

The Dorset air grew cooler, and mingled with the scent of the sea was the subtler aroma of hawthorne, rose and wild thyme. Above the booming of the surf there came the wistful lost cry of a cuckoo greeting the moon.

The bandages were off, yes, and Blade was "on his feet." A new trip to nowhere was in the planning stage. But there were scars covering him from head to foot, scars that would be years in fading.

A poem came to his mind. He had always loved poetry, particularly old poetry written before form, meaning and feeling had gone out of style. He began to recite, in a clear light baritone, though there was no one near to hear him.

"The sea is calm tonight, The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits . . ."

It was Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach," that great resonating extended simile, that cathedral-organ chord of lofty sense and sound. Blade intoned the beginning and middle without a slip, but as he neared the end the wording eluded him. He knew the meaning, but what were the exact words?

He frowned, annoyed.

Then a voice he knew well arose from his memory to play an old game one more time. She spoke, and he repeated after her.

Ah, love, let us be true To one another! For the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor cert.i.tude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.

He turned from the sea and trudged toward the cottage.

Darkness had fallen in earnest by the time he arrived at his door. His car, a Rover, stood near the back porch. Why did he think, at that moment, of the old MG he had once owned, that he could not bring himself to part with until it could scarcely run? After standing awhile, he went into the house.

He didn't turn on the electric lights. That would have been too harsh. That would have made everything too real. Instead he knelt before the fireplace and kindled a fire, using driftwood, twigs and old copies of the London Times.

When the fire was crackling, he went into the kitchen and selected, from his small but expensive collection of French wines, a red Burgundy from one of the better years. He opened the bottle with an antique silver corkscrew and poured into a small bell gla.s.s, then raised the gla.s.s to his nostrils to savor the bouquet. It was excellent.

He sipped, eyes closed.

The taste was all the aroma had promised, not too strong, not too sweet, but exactly right. He sighed.

He carried his gla.s.s into the other room and sat down on the worn old couch before the fire, then took another sip. The wind was rising. He could hear it wailing in the eaves. Though he'd seen no clouds, he knew a storm was on the way.

He opened his burberry-the room was warming up-and extracted from his inside breast pocket his gold-plated cigarette case. He opened it and took out a Benson e lit the cigarette with his heavy initialed platinum cigarette lighter. He blew an expert smoke ring.

He lifted his bell gla.s.s in a silent toast to someone or something or nothing. Then he drank, and smoked.

And wept.