Beyond The Barrier Part 4

Lall and Churan were making it impossible for him to leave Los Angeles, and impossible to stay. Under such pressure, how long could he hold out against them?

Back in the apartment, he realized abruptly that he still had one possible way out-the machine. If he could get it open, discover how it worked...

But when he opened the closet door, it was gone.

That night he dreamed again. He was afloat, in a crowded spherical room of pale green light. His own body was some- where off in the darkness, lost in time and s.p.a.ce: here was the City and the time was now.

"... only a few hours' sleep since the last attack," the Dance Master was saying. His eyes were red-rimmed. "However, it can't be helped. a.s.sume formation for Turbulent Wreaths.'

We enter at position 25, follow the silver for twenty-one and one-half spirals, and exit at position 32. Any questions?"The others stirred in the air around him, beginning to form a long slightly curved line aimed at the glowing disk of the doorway. "What about afterward?" called one of the girls.

"Afterward," said the Master grimly, "we regroup for 'Spheres and Fountains.'" There were a few groans, but no protests.

The Dance Master came nearer. "Dar," he said in a low voice, "how is your arm?"

Dar flexed his biceps. "Better," he said. "It doesn't hurt."

"I would have let you opt out," said the Master, "but there simply is not another man available. Do the best you can."

Dar nodded. The Master hesitated, as if about to speak again, then went back to the head of the line. "Ready," came his voice.

The Entertainers faced each other, wiped their hands dry on their clothing, breathed deeply. A tone sounded. The Enter- tainers began to move, some gripping hands, revolving around each other, then letting go to dart ahead-the whole ensemble flowing forward in an intricate pattern.

Beyond the doorway, they emerged into a lighted sphere a hundred times the volume of the first one. As he went through his a.s.signed movements, Dar was dimly aware of the crowded room whirling around him-the gaily costumed Lenlu Din, as raucous as a flight of parakeets; the robots drifting here and there, the green-skinned servants.

He gripped hands with the next man, whirled, released, twisted his body as he flowed forward around the silver streak of light. There was still no pain in his arm, but it was growing more and more awkward; once his grip failed, and he barely recovered.

The ensemble spiraled half across the room, past the little knot of dignitaries that cl.u.s.tered around the Highborn. Dar glimpsed her through the crowd-a fat, puffed little woman with mad eyes.

The room revolved again. "Turbulent Wreaths" was a double-spiraled pattern, with a rolling movement that pro- gressed along the line, checked, progressed again. It was not as difficult as it appeared, but when properly done it was pretty to watch.

Around once more. Dar felt a spasm of pain as he reached for his partner's hand. The man's eyes widened in horror; he reached quickly for his wrist, but Dar was already off balance, out of rhythm, the pattern broken.

Cursing under his breath, he spun in mid-air, put full power to his director and managed to slide into his place in the line.

Somewhere off in the distance, a woman's voice was squawkingindignantly. The Highborn-had she seen?

As they approached the exit doorway, a spindle-shaped robot drifted up, its yellow signal light blinking into Dar's eyes.

Despairingly, he fell out of the pattern and watched as the rest of the line swirled through the doorway.

"Your name and designation?" the robot asked pleasantly.

"Dar-Yani, 108 cla.s.s 3."

"Thank you." The robot revolved, tilted, drifted away.

Dar hung where he was for a moment, then thought of the marshaling room and dived through the doorway.

The others were waiting for him, pale and anxious. Their voices came at him all together: "What happened?" "Did he break the pattern?" "What was the matter?"

"It wasn't his fault," said Ten-Yani. "I saw it. It was his arm."

The Dance Master came forward. "They say a robot stopped you. What did it want?"

"Just my name and designation," Dar said. He and the Dance Master stared at each other hopelessly.

"I blame myself," the Master said, drifting away, pounding one palm with his other fist. "I should have refused the per- formance-told them we were under strength."

"What about 'Spheres and Fountains'?" someone asked.

The Master's face contorted. He reached out and touched the doorway, turning the big silvery disk transparent. "Look for yourself. They're using a recording."

A chorus of groans went up. Through the doorway, Nai- smith could see a line of Entertainers, apparently solid and real, gliding through the air.

There were tears in the master's eyes. He reached out angrily, opaqued the doorway again. "It couldn't be helped. It couldn't be helped," he said as he turned away.

After a moment the doorway cleared and a robot glided through. It was dark blue, a complex mathematical shape. It revolved slowly, picked out Dar, blinked its light at him. "Come with me, please."

Dar followed it to the doorway. The other Entertainers did not look at him.

The room beyond was tinted a dim violet rose, and Dar's heartbeat quickened. This was one of the Lenlu Din retreats, rooms whose location was known to no one but the owners and the robots.Floating in the middle of the chamber was a hawk-nosed man in flaring striped garments. Various small memocubes and other equipment were scattered in the air around him.

Faint music came from the wall.

"As you commanded, sir," the robot said. It dipped, turned, and floated through the doorway again.

"Dar-Yarni," said the hawk-nosed man, consulting a memo- cube which he held in plump, jeweled fingers. "Number 108, cla.s.s 3."

"Yes, sir."

"You spoiled the formation of your dance troupe and caused acute esthetic pain to the Highborn," said Hawknose severely.

"Yes, sir."

"What punishment do you think you merit?"

Dar swallowed hard. "Destruction, sir."

"True. Well said. Now suppose I were to offer you a dangerous task instead-something to make up for your fault?"

"Sir, you would be most lenient."

"So I think, myself. Well, Dar-Yani-" Hawknose consulted another memocube, pressing its sides impatiently until he had the information he wanted. "You know, I suppose, that we have word from the future that a Zug has somehow got through the Barrier."

"Yes, sir."

"It will be necessary to kill it. The Shefthi, as you also know, are no longer with us."

Dar's throat was dry. "Yes, sir."

"We are trying to retrieve one Shefth in order to kill this Zug, but in case of failure, it will be necessary for someone else to do it. Do you follow me?"

"Sir, I am untrained-I have fought Lenlu Om, but a Zug-"

"Quite understood. You need not be afraid of failure. At this time, we merely want to ascertain if an Entertainer can kill a Zug. We are not counting too much on you, Dar-Yani; however, do your best, do your best." He smothered a yawn.

"You will have one hour with the training machines in which to perfect your approach. Then a robot will take you to the doorway into the Old City. As you know, there are Zugs in plenty there. The crucial thing to remember-"

Chapter Five.

The voice receded, became unintelligible. Naismith awoke.The dream had been so vivid that for a moment it seemed absurd to find himself in darkness, pressed by gravity into a spring mattress, with the smells of fabric and dust around him.

He sat up in the darkness, realizing that another night had pa.s.sed without his coming any closer to a solution. The simplest thing would be to give in to the aliens- "No!" he said aloud, swinging his legs out of bed. He showered, shaved, prepared food and ate it.

After breakfast, he sat with paper and pencil, drawing up another list: 1. Capitulate.

2. Escape and hide.

3. Resist pa.s.sively.

He drew lines through the first two entries; the first was out of the question, the second impossible. The third seemed to offer some hope; but he sensed in his bones that it would never succeed. Again he thought of a chessboard. A player under attack, his king driven by a series of checks toward the mating square, had only one chance: not to be driven pa.s.sively, but to attack in turn.

He crumpled the paper, tossed it aside, stood up. Slowly a plan began to take shape in his mind.

In the first place, he must a.s.sume that he was under constant observation, even here in his own apartment. Even if he had the money, he could not take the risk of buying a weapon of any kind.

He looked at his broad, powerful hands, the thick fingers.

Once, challenged by another student, he had bent a piece of iron pipe in half. The aliens had already made it clear that they were afraid of him ... and, Naismith told himself grimly, they had good reason.

He set about acting a part for an invisible audience. Pre- paring to go out, he counted the change in his pockets, closed his fist on the few coins with a gesture of anger.

He walked for an hour through the streets of Beverly Hills, head down, shoulders slumped; then he visited an ex-cla.s.smate and tried to borrow money. The man was an electrical engineer named Stevens; he looked startled at Naismith's request, but handed over five dollars, apologizing, "Sorry I'm a little short this week, Naismith, but if this is any help-"

Naismith took it, walked two blocks as before, then abruptly threw the money into the gutter. He said aloud, "I've got to give in to them. I'm licked." He took a deep breath, turned back and picked up the crumpled bill he had just thrown away.

He smoothed it out, his face set in lines of despair and resigna- tion. When a cab cruised by, he hailed it and gave the aliens'address. Outside, he was all surrender; inside, all murder.

He knocked at the red door. A voice called, "Come in-the door is not locked."

The room was as Naismith had seen it before. Churan sat behind his table, staring across at him with hooded amber eyes.

The Lall creature was leaning against a bookcase to his right, arms folded, smoking a cigarette. Neither spoke.

Naismith moved forward. "I've come to tell you to call off your dogs."

Churan's smile widened slightly; Lall glanced at him and blew a long plume of smoke from her lips.

Naismith measured the distance to the two aliens. Half a step nearer- "Tell me your plans," he began, then launched himself into motion. One hand stabbed out for Churan's throat, the other reached for Lall's. Both missed their targets; his hands closed on air.

Yet the aliens had not moved. With a chill of horror, Nai- smith realized that his arms had pa.s.sed completely through their bodies.

Churan, his face abominably close, began to laugh. After a moment Lall joined in.

Naismith stumbled backward. The two aliens glanced at each other, their eyes welling tears of merriment.

"A nice try, Professor Naismith," said Lall. "But not good enough."

Then, in an instant, both aliens were gone. Shaking, incredul- ous, Naismith nerved himself to step forward again and stare at the place where they had been.

On the floor, between Churan's chair and the bookcase, lay a small black machine with dull red lights fading in its lenses.

When he leaned down to touch it, a numbing electric shock made him jerk his hand back.

The room was empty. But as he backed away, the aliens'

laughter swelled out again from nowhere, malicious and mock- ing. Then, close behind him, Lall's voice whispered in his ear, "A reminder, Professor-"

As he tried to turn, something struck the side of his head.

The room darkened.

Without transition, he was in the City, floating in the center of a vast chamber of carved and fretted ivory, empty and shadowed. When he moved, the faint sibilance of his garments echoed back in sinister whisperings from the walls: "Shhh ...

shhh..."He knew that he was going to die. He had made his fare- wells to all his friends and the members of his troupe; had returned his possessions to the central store; and had himself expunged his name from the register of Entertainers. In a real sense, he was already dead: Dar-Yani no longer existed. He was only a nameless and faceless body, a remnant, a fiction, drifting through the memories of the Old City.

It was the first time he had been here since the building of the New City. It was strange to see these once familiar rooms and corridors in their desolation. Built of material substances, painstakingly decorated and ornamented over a thousand years, this had been the real and only City until the growing Zug threat had forced mankind to leave it for new chambers of Zug-proof energy. After the Barrier was put up, it was said, the people would all move back here; but the man who had been Dar-Yani would not live to see it.

An injustice? Perhaps. He thought of the greenskins, and his lip curled. It was all well enough for them to revolt when they felt their case was desperate. But the Entertainers had their traditions.

He paused to listen. The unfamiliar armor was tight around his chest, and his palms were sweaty where they gripped the stock of the gun.

The only sounds were the ceaseless, unnerving whisperings that echoed back from the walls. He hesitated, then moved toward one of the hundred corridors that gave exit from the room.

Here, in this famous concourse, Ito-Yani had given his recitals, holding an audience of thousands spellbound for hours.

Now, like the rest of the Old City, it had been abandoned to those chill monsters which ...

He froze, listening with all his body. Down the dimness of the corridor, there had been a faint sound.

When the beast attacks, the training machine had told him, you will have at most two seconds to aim and fire. Should you survive the first blow ...