Читать книгу The Scheme of Things - Lester Del Rey - Страница 7

CHAPTER 2

“So I lost a wife I didn’t even know I had and punched a character who’d taken her away from me in a theater I’d never seen before.”’

After making that statement, Mike gulped at his scotch and soda and waited for Paul Bender’s comment. It came in due course.

“You’ve been a busy little man.”

“Please, Paul. I’m serious. This thing’s got me scared silly.”

“I don’t blame you, but let’s keep the blood pressure down and see what we can figure out.”

Paul Bender was the prestige member of Kane’s faculty. By merely being there, he got the college jots and tittles of publicity it could never have merited otherwise. He knew as much about space age technology—theoretical and practical—as any living man, and far more than perhaps a scant dozen or so. He owned patents on such curious things as airborne sensor stabilizers and isolators and inertial reference analyzers that were the envy of giant corporations. His genius circled the moon and went to Venus in the form of supersensitive gadgetry that made the trips possible.

But he’d spent only a minor part of his sixty-five years in fussing with such absolutes. As a young man he’d acquired his first financial success by superintending a small revolution in Central America.

He then went on to larger ones on the South American continent proper, and then retired from righting political wrongs because he found it to be a fruitless business. Nothing was ever really solved by violently heaving out the ins.

Besides, he had made a good deal of money at it and he wanted to be a musician. It took him four years to become really accomplished at the piano and the cello. To prove his grasp of the instruments, he wrote music for both—irritating, mocking compositions that went into most professional portfolios but were seldom played.

Then he went to India to find out exactly why those people felt singularly honored when cows wandered into their homes and evacuated on their floors. This led him down many happy bypaths and his years kited by.

Paul Bender would have been welcomed to the faculty of any college or university in the world. Why he chose insignificant little Kane was a question he refused to answer at press gatherings but it was certainly indicative of his complete contempt for public honor.

When he arrived at Kane, he selected his friends by rebuffing those petitioners for the honor who didn’t qualify. The ones he did select were supposed to be friends in every respect. He hated being looked up to above all other dislikes. And it followed of course, that Mike Strong saw his acceptance by Bender as a precious thing.

Bender smoked the strongest tobacco known to man and as Mike peered through the cloud around Benders chair to see if he were still there, Mike said, “I imagine you can prove, in a few incisive words, that it was all a momentary daydream.”

“Is that what you’re hoping for?”

“Not necessarily. But I would like some assurance that I haven’t gone off a weird deep end.”

“It seems to me it must have been quite an experience. Tell me more about it.”

“That’s one of the problems. I know so little.”

“About this other life you’re living on a different plane—”

“I haven’t got the foggiest idea of any such life. Except for the incident itself, I know nothing about it. At the time, from what was said, I assume I had money. I was married to Vera Spain, whoever she was, and I must have been seven lands of an idiot because she was obviously carrying on an affair with that Russian character right under my nose.”

“Have you talked to your psychiatrist?”

“No, and I see no point in doing so. He’s busy right now trying to convince me that I hated my father. He’d be certain to call this thing an hallucination and start digging into my id.”

“Did you hate your father?”

“I didn’t hate him. But I didn’t think much of him, either.”

“Do you think it was an hallucination?”

“No. It was too real. There was none of the haziness of a dream. Maybe that’s not quite the word, but you know what I mean, Paul. When you awaken from a dream, you automatically know that you’ve been dreaming and that you’ve returned to reality. What I went through was just as real as sitting here talking to you.”

“Maybe you aren’t sitting here. Maybe this is the dream.”

Paul Bender had a deeply lined, heavily tanned face. His thick white hair looked like a halo, one he certainly did not merit, and his eyes were so clear blue and so young that they contradicted all the other indications of age. Also, you could never be sure that what he said was necessarily a statement of what he believed.

Mike Strong pulled a hand across his eyes. “Please! Don’t push me onto a merry-go-round. Right now I’ve got to stick to basics.”

“Have you got any to stick to?”

“That’s why I came running like a whipped pup to you. I need some.”

“I can only give you one: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio—”

“Great!” Mike muttered. “So I just sit around and come apart.”

“They could put you in an asylum,” Paul Bender mused.

“Would you sign the papers?”

“No. Documents of that sort should be signed by people with something to gain—relatives who can get their hands on the nut’s money. Would you like to sign your fortune over to me?”

“I haven’t any.”

“Hmmm. Improvident and wasteful. A black mark “

“Paul! Will you please take this thing seriously?”

“I am, but let’s not tense up over it.”

Mike’s brow was wrinkled in heavy thought. “What I can’t reconcile is the time element.”

“What about it?”

“On that other plane, I got home from wherever I worked about six o’clock. I confronted Solonoff around seven-thirty. But when I came back to this plane it was only five—or fifteen minutes after I’d dismissed my class.”

“That shouldn’t bother you. Why should time on that plane obey the laws of this one?”

Mike sighed. “We seem to be taking it for granted that I was on another plane.”

“We’ve got to have terms of reference and that’s as good a one as any. But tell me this—what do you have against leading two lives? They’re both active, interesting existences. Why not just consider yourself lucky and wait to see what happens?”

“Good God! Do you want me to crack up?”

“The two lives don’t seem to interfere with each other.”

“But it’s contrary to all sanity!”

“Mike! Stop talking like a child. The word sanity is nothing more than another term of reference. The world’s most brilliant people may be locked in asylums for all we know. Right now, your problem is the fear of something that exists only in human judgments. I repeat—you may be the most fortunate of men.”

“I’ll sign all my good fortune over to you when the gates close on me,” Mike said.

Paul relit his nauseous pipe and allowed a little sympathy to show through. “Let’s dig a little deeper,” he said. “You aren’t reacting to a single, phenomenal incident. There’s more to this. You were running scared when this one happened.”

“There have been a few others,” Mike said guardedly.

“Well, don’t go coy on me all of a sudden. Tell me about them.”

“One happened years ago—when I was a high school student. I found myself in a very cold place among primitive people. I was one of them. It could have been Outer Mongolia or even Siberia. I lived in a village with my parents and I had a shaggy little pony of which I was very fond. It was a blustery, bitterly cold day and we were all excited because a great man was going to visit us—a holy man.”

“What was your religion?”

“We were Buddhists, I think. I remember standing outside our hut for hours, afraid I would miss the man. Then I came and I was the only one there. He was incredibly old but he wore only a light robe. Still, he did not seem to be in the least uncomfortable. He got off his horse and put his hand on my head. He asked me where the others were and I said I would get them. But he shook his head and spoke cryptically. ‘Let the virgins sleep,” he said. ‘You alone have waited.’ He continued to look into my eyes and I remember that I was tremendously uplifted. Then he said, ‘Your life here is but a moment, my son. You will go many places and see many things.’ Then he got back on his horse and left.”

“Who was he? You should remember whom you were expecting. It was part of the phenomenon.”

“A holy man. From India, I think.”

Paul Bender pondered that. “I don’t know what an Indian mystic would be doing in Outer Mongolia—or why he would have been speaking in Christian parables. Did that incident frighten you?”

“Not to any great extent. I put it down as a dream.”

“Perhaps you had more faith in those days. You said there were others.”

“Once when I was in my mid-twenties—about seven years ago—I was riding a jet to San Francisco. I was rushing to my mother’s death bed. When the plane put down, a limousine was waiting for me. The family chauffeur drove me to where my family lived—in Oakland. It was a beautiful mansion. I’d spent my childhood there. I rushed inside and upstairs and I was too late. My mother had died half an hour earlier.”

“Tragic,” Paul Bender commented.

“I never saw her. After that one, I wasn’t so much frightened as saddened. I wondered what my mother had looked like; if she in any way resembled my true mother.”

“Is your mother dead? Your true mother?”

“She died when I was twelve years old.”

Bender waved the stem of his pipe toward the liquor cabinet. “Your glass is empty.” While Mike refilled it, Bender said, “It appears that none of these incidents hinges in any way upon the others.”

“I could have lived in San Francisco and still married an actress named Vera Spain.”

“What was your name in San Francisco?”

“I don’t know—nor in any of the other incidents. My name was never spoken. I suppose I knew it at the time. But I can’t remember now.”

“You could hardly have done any backtracking in Outer Mongolia, but San Francisco was different. Did you do any checking to see if—?”

“I was living in New York City at the time and funds were a little short. But the next year I made a trip West. I went to San Francisco—to the airport—and tried to retrace the route in a cab. I wasn’t very successful. I landed in a decent enough neighborhood, but there were no estates, no mansions. I had to give up.”

“All right,” Paul Bender said. “Your first incident was long ago. Over seven years have elapsed since the last one. That would put the next one years into the future. So why are you so upset about this one?”

“A feeling I have. I’m sure they will come thicker and faster now. It’s as though—well, as though something has finally slipped. I—this one scares me, Paul.” Paul Bender studied his friend keenly. “You’re afraid you’re going out of your mind, is that it?”

“It panics me to think I may be losing control over myself. I’m afraid of what might happen.”

“You should be able to control your fears. You’re a mature, educated man. And I take it there’s no history of insanity in your family.”

“None whatever.”

“Then if I were you, I wouldn’t look upon myself as either a freak or a person out of step with the rest of the world. Just keep your affairs to yourself and see what happens.”

“Do you think they are just hallucinations of some kind?”

“I haven’t the least idea. But look at it this way. Perhaps what’s happening to you happens to everyone. Maybe you’re just a rare specimen with the ability to carry memories of other lives back and forth with you.”

“That’s beyond all concept of—”

“What’s the difference!” Paul Bender snorted. “We’re nothing more than countless miniscules of awareness—sparks flashing off some vast conscious reality we know nothing about. We’re under the absolute control of awareness and unawareness. We walk between them as though they were two great walls. And they both terrify us for opposite reasons. We fear one because we know it and the other because we don’t know it. Our name for God is Mystery.”

“You’ve never indicated much of a religious leaning,” Mike said slowly.

“Nevertheless, I’m deeply religious. We’re all parts of a great and infinite Force and that Power knows what it’s doing. So why don’t you have another drink and stop wasting time by being afraid of God?”

The scotch had had a mellowing effect and Mike was beginning to appreciate Paul Bender’s wisdom although he couldn’t quite put his finger upon anything of great value that Bender had imparted. But at least Bender appeared to understand and that was a comfort.

“Have you told Donna any of this?” Bender asked.

“Good lord, no. She’d put her guard up every time I came around.”

“You don’t seem to have much faith in her.”

“She’s a beautiful girl. She’s popular. She doesn’t have to waste her time on kooks.”

“Also, you don’t seem to have much faith in yourself.”

Paul Bender was putting an edge on Mike’s temper. “For God’s sake, quit bugging me!”

“You could do with a little prodding at times. I’ve noticed a distinct inversion in you. And being a bully at heart, I enjoy it.”

Mike was scowling at his empty glass. “What if these phenomena increase? Suppose they begin to have longer duration? Then the time might come when I can’t return.”

“In that case,” Paul Bender said, “let me wish you success in finding a pleasant existence.”

Mike raised his eyes to study his friend. “Nothing I told you seemed to surprise you in the least. Have you had previous experience with this sort of thing?”

“I’ve met men who claimed the ability to go from one plane to another at will. But I never necessarily believed they could do it. In fact I’ve never had any definite proof that any inhabitable planes other than this one actually exist. That puts you at an advantage. You do have proof.”

“Suppose this had happened to you?”

“I’d consider myself most fortunate. And I’d probably give up this Chair and spend all my time traveling from one plane to the other.”

“I guess you would,” Mike sighed.

“To me, it all sounds incredibly fascinating. So as a friend I beg of you—please keep me informed.”

Mike left the house at the end of Faculty Row, not quite sure whether he had been wise in confiding his problem to Paul Bender or not. He was sure of one thing, though. Bender would respect the confidence.

He was plagued by the feeling that Paul Bender had held much in reserve. Had Bender really believed him? As he’d talked he’d sensed the wheels turning in Bender’s mind and was sure Bender had been making mental references to which he’d given no voice. Nor had much sympathy been extended.

Perhaps it had all been a fantastically clear daydream. Maybe Bender had been really pitying him for his childish apprehension.

More disturbed than ever, Mike took his eyes from his pocket. As he pushed the door key toward its slot in the lock, he stopped and held his hand motionless for a long moment. Then he slowly raised it and stared at his knuckles. They were bruised. He flexed his fingers into a fist. There was a swelling.

He had practically convinced himself that the lapse had been entirely mental. Now that hope was suddenly dashed.

As he opened the door, the fears came back—with a new one added. He hadn’t seen Solonoff move after going to the floor.

Was Mike Strong, among other fantastic things, a murderer also…?