CHRYSALIS Page 3

  Simon put down the comic book. Something was wrong. The room was suddenly very quiet, as if he and the room had been taken to a place without street noises, without house noises, without passing car noises.

  “This is impossible,” he said aloud, his voice filling the tiny room to overflowing. “It's the same dog. A comic book dog is now in the brain of the mother of the boy who bought the comic book!”

  He felt a curious sensation, as if he were expanding, as if the molecules of his body were moving away from each other. He had the sudden irrational thought that he was turning into a gas, that he’d expand to fill the room. Drenched with cold sweat, he whispered, “Help me, Marykate,” and settled slowly to the floor, coming to rest on his back, legs bent at an unnatural angle, arms outflung.

  He tried to move, but found he could not. His legs were disassociated from his body, disconnected, severed. He pushed at his fingers, but they remained as rigid as tire irons.

  Eyes closed, in the enveloping blackness, in the soundless darkness, he was nonetheless aware of his surroundings. He saw the room in crystal clarity, all of it, four walls and ceiling, the floor beneath and behind him. He saw every dust mote. He saw behind the walls, saw every crawling insect, watched, fascinated, a spider stalk its prey.

  He began to be afraid, and he wondered how long he’d lie here before Marykate realized he was in trouble. He thought she wouldn’t begin to worry until sometime tomorrow afternoon, maybe even tomorrow evening, so it looked like at least twenty-four hours. She would call his cell phone and he would not answer. And when he didn’t answer she would call the police and they would come get him.

  The thought that the cleaning woman might come tomorrow made him feel even better. He had it covered now, he knew what the parameters were, he could feel the dimensions of his problem, and he could live with it. He had a time frame now, twenty-four hours at most, maybe fourteen or fifteen if the cleaning woman came tomorrow.

  He began to visualize the sequence of events, Rose or Rosa arriving tomorrow morning, early, she’d be an early riser, an early worker, probably come right to the house from early Mass. She’d walk into the room and see him and immediately call the rescue squad. The words rescue squad had no sooner formed in his mind than the number 911 flashed on, tumbling violently and redly, blinking rhythmically, blocking all other thought. He began counting the seconds until they got here, even though another part of his brain said it was too soon to begin counting.

  He noted that the walls and ceiling were now further away from him, and the dresser and bed seemed smaller, as if moving steadily outward. He thought, irrationally, of the explanations of the expanding universe, of the dots on the balloon, and how when the balloon was blown up all the dots moved away from each other.

  He tried to understand what was happening to him, but the only part of his brain that seemed to be working was the metronome ticking off the seconds. Was that right, was he only up to seventeen? No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think of any rational reason why the room should be getting darker, and the furniture transparent, and why voices should be coming nearer, for he was only up to nineteen, and they couldn’t possibly have gotten here so quickly.

  The room was entirely dark now, and he lay there, breathing slowly, listening to the footsteps coming nearer. He sat up, waiting.

  He heard a sound, as of a bolt being drawn, and a small light appeared. He looked up, to see a smiling face on the other side of a barred grille, a face surrounded by what seemed to be a tangled mass of snow-white hair, a face whose smile broadened slowly into a wide, gap-toothed grin, as if the owner of the face were enjoying himself hugely.

  “Well, my friend,” the grinning face said, “we have you at last.”

  8

  The wicket grille closed abruptly and Simon was again in complete darkness. Thoughts and images tumbling wildly, he thought the only workable hypothesis was that he was dreaming. He told himself he was perfectly all right, that many hours had gone by and he was still on the bedroom floor, and that the light was someone from the rescue squad shining a flashlight on his pupil. He felt better, now that he knew what was happening. He allowed his mind to collapse in upon itself, slowly erasing all thoughts and images, till he was left with a blank slate, a black and empty void. Deep in the recess of his soul, deep in the blackness of the void, he felt the metronome. He was still counting. With mounting horror he heard the steady count. Twenty-five...twenty-six. The light couldn’t be the rescue squad, it had been less than thirty seconds since he’d collapsed.

  He forced himself back up through the void, aware now that he was no longer lying on the bedroom floor, but standing on a cold, hard floor in a cold, damp room. Cold and dampness permeated everything, as if the room had been constructed of masonry, and situated far underground. He knew where his brain was taking him. Everything suggested he was in a dungeon.

  He seemed able now to move, and he flexed his fingers. He moved his arms, then his legs. Everything seemed to be in order. He reached out with his hands and touched the cold, damp, rough stone walls.

  He moved to where the light had been and felt for the door he knew must be there, reasoning that a barred grille implied a door. His fingers found the rough wood planking, and he knew that any opening in the door would be at eye level. His fingers felt the cold metal bars of the grille, with, as expected, a solid cover on the outside face of the door.

  The door suddenly opened and the white haired man appeared, not grinning this time, accompanied by two very large and very heavily armed uniformed men.

  “Bring him!” the white haired man commanded.

  They quick marched him down the narrow stone corridor, dimly lit by unshaded, widely spaced electric light bulbs. For some reason the light bulbs reassured him, for he expected burning rushes.

  The soldiers followed the white haired man into a small, dimly lit, sparsely furnished room. The white haired man waved the soldiers out and motioned Simon to a chair on the far side of a small table. “Gaeton Thon,” the man said. “I have no doubt the name is familiar to you.”

  They sat opposite each other, Simon tense and uneasy, completely mystified, not yet afraid, though he felt himself fighting off the tiny crawling things in his stomach. The name Gaeton Thon meant nothing to him.

  A large portrait hung on the wall, a portrait of a skull-like face, head and eye ridges clean shaven, the black eyes looking straight out, the thin, bloodless mouth unsmiling. To Simon, the face looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t place it.

  “So,” Thon said, pursing his tiny lips, “the great Simon Pure, the Tal Avenger, is brought to earth! How sad. How foolhardy of you to try to rescue the hound. Brave, of course, but foolhardy, particularly since you must have known that’s exactly what the Director would expect you to do. Indeed, sir, it’s not impossible that’s what the Director wanted you to do, so as to deliver yourself into his hands.”

  Simon had no idea what the man was talking about, and decided silence was his best course of action, at least until he obtained enough information to make an educated estimate of his position. If this was a FantasyLife production, it was a particularly elaborate one. He looked intently at the white haired man, and tried to fit him into a picture that made sense. The man's clothes looked foreign, or at least not American, not early twenty-first century American. He was dressed in a dark red, one-piece, form fitting uniform, and on him it looked ridiculous. The man was obese. His huge gut strained the tensile strength of what had to be a miracle fabric to hold such a mass in place. When he sat down, his stomach rested on his legs almost to his knees, and lay there, quivering like a just released tub of gelatin. Curiously, the rest of him didn’t quite match his stomach. His arms and legs were muscular, but not hugely fat. His face was round, and red, and his nose and mouth were much too small for such a body. He looked at Simon with interest out of red, half closed, eyes.

  “Nothing to say, Mr. Pure? That surprises me. Then again, it may be you’re mute and helpless w
ithout the emerald.” He opened a drawer in the table and pulled out a heavily ornamented gold chain, on the end of which was a large and brilliant emerald, an emerald that emitted a dim green glow, as if lit from within.

  To Simon, the jewelry meant nothing, and he looked from the emerald to the white haired man.

  “Still not speaking, eh?” Thon smiled, laying the emerald on the tabletop, poking playfully at it with a sausage-like finger. “Well, it doesn't matter. We’ll soon have you before the Director, who is delighted, I assure you, that the two of you will finally meet.”

  “Who or what is the Director?”

  Thon looked at Simon quizzically, small mouth pursed, pig eyes narrowed. “Speak or not speak, as you will,” he said ominously, “but do not treat me as a child. Dr. Sariot Kosh is as well known to you as he is to me.”

  “Is that his picture?”

  Thon searched Simon’s face, looking for a smirk, a hidden smile. Finding none, he said, “You’re serious, aren't you? I’ve heard a violent crash may cause loss of memory.”

  “What crash?”

  “Your crash. Your aircar. Our instruments picked you up, I shall not say how, or at what distance, but we followed you eastward, at very low altitude, and when you crossed the Mississippi into Illinois, we shot you down.”

  “I remember none of that. I’m not who you think I am. My name is Simon Pure, as you seem to know, but I’m not the Tal Avenger, whoever he may be. I’m from Philadelphia, I’m a neurosurgeon, and if you’d be so good as to release me, I shall return to my patients.”

  “That was very well done,” Thon smiled. “I may even have believed you for a moment. You were quite excellent, but then, I expected no less.” He pushed a button on the table and the door opened instantly.

  “Bind the Avenger over,” he ordered. “As soon as the aircar is ready, he’s to be flown straight to the Director.”

  At that instant a brilliant flash filled the room. Stun waves swept through the room, temporarily disabling everything living in their path, causing great pain as the flesh rolled and contracted with the flowing energy field. Simon, the soldiers and the white haired man were flung furiously about, coming to rest all entangled in a writhing heap in a corner of the room. Billowing clouds of thick, stinging black smoke poured into the room. Gasping for air, struggling to get up, Simon was conscious of a firm hand on his arm, a firm voice in his ear.

  “This way, sir! Quickly!”

  Down the corridor they ran, thick smoke stinging his eyes, filling them with water. He ran rapidly alongside his rescuer, unable to see, but trusting the firm grip, trusting the voice. Footsteps echoing hollowly in the smoke filled corridor, the voice yelled, “Four steps down, sir! Jump!”

  Simon jumped, landing unevenly, but the hand caught him again and they raced on. The smoke was thinner now, the air clearer, and Simon opened his stinging eyes to get his bearings.

  A door loomed ahead. They hurtled through it and into a large common room, free of smoke.

  “Can you see yet, sir?” his rescuer gasped.

  “Well enough,” Simon said, and the man cried, “Up the stair, quick!”

  They raced for the metal stair at the far end of the room, an alarm screeching a continuous series of short, sharp blasts. Whistles shrilled in the distance, unseen running feet pounded heavily. Up the metal stair they raced, coughing and gasping, to be confronted by another heavy metal door. A shoulder thrust and they were outside, in total blackness. The cold, clear night air bit harshly into Simon's smoke filled lungs.

  “Where are we?”

  “Parade ground, sir,” the unknown voice said. “We’ll be out of here toot sweet.”

  Simon turned to his rescuer, but all he could make out was a slim form standing alongside him.

  “Come on, Jack,” the man whispered, scanning the dark night sky, “where are you?”

  He was answered by a fast approaching scream, a banshee shriek. Something large and hot and metallic set down hard, and not a moment too soon, for at that instant a siren wailed and the parade ground was flooded with light. In the sudden glare Simon saw a large object, painted black, shaped like half a grapefruit, flat side down, bouncing up and down on its stubby landing gear. A big white star was painted on its side, and inside the star the blue silhouette of a winged shoe, the Talaria of the god Mercury, patron of the swift and friend of the daring.

  “Let’s go, sir!” the rescuer cried, and they ran for the ship. A door in the black side of the ship burst open and a voice called, “Come on! Come on!”

  They dove through the door and into the ship, landing heavily. Screaming engines flung them suddenly skyward, gravity pressing them into the hard metal deck. Red and green and yellow tracers were starkly visible through the open hatch, following them as they headed for the low cloud cover.

  “Hold on!” the pilot yelled, and Simon and his rescuer lay face down on the deck, arms wrapped around seat stanchions, gee forces pulling at them fiercely. They leveled off in a few minutes, the engine scream subsiding to a steady roar as the door mechanism finally got the hatch closed. His rescuer helped Simon to his feet and strapped him into a seat.

  “Well, that's that,” the rescuer said, grinning. “Close, but a miss is as good as one point six kilometers, so they say. How are you, sir?”

  “I'm fine,” Simon answered, unsure of what he should say or do. Disconcerted at being called sir all the time, he had the uneasy feeling it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. These people obviously think I’m someone else, he thought, or just as obviously I am someone else. The very idea sobered him.

  “Nice work, Jack!” the rescuer called to the pilot, who gave a thumbs up, but didn’t take his eyes from his task. “Even if you were close to seven seconds late.”

  Jack gave another thumbs up, this time with a finger.

  For the first time, Simon had a chance to look at his surroundings, to look at, and really see, the slim young man who had rescued him. The interior of the ship was dimly lit by a narrow strip of faint red light down the middle of the overhead. A faint red glow came from the instrument panel, silhouetting the pilot. He looked across the aisle at his rescuer, and the friendly, smiling young face looked easily back at him. Simon felt a tug of recognition. The young man was wearing what appeared to be conventional military style clothing, baggy pants and blouse in camouflage green, a wide leather belt around his waist, ankle height combat boots with pants legs tucked inside. The three stripes and rocker on his sleeves signified a staff sergeant. The pilot was similarly dressed, and so, to his surprise, was he. He hadn’t noticed his clothing before, but now he did, and wondered how he had come by them.

  The ship suddenly nosed downward into a steep glide, and the slim young man said, “All clear now, sir, at least from the barrack. We'll hug the ground from here on out. Should reach the Mississippi in about twelve minutes, unless Jack runs us into a haystack, or an outhouse.”

  “Cows are bad, too,” Jack said.

  Simon smiled, but otherwise remained silent. He went through the routine again, trying to make his mind blank, trying to get back to Jimmy Shallcross's bedroom, just to see if he was still there, but he couldn’t concentrate. The ship swayed gently, coming down fast. They leveled off and Simon felt an increase in power as the pilot built up the speed.

  “On the deck, sir,” Jack said, “and heading for home. Dawn in thirty-one minutes.”

  Simon said, “Very good,” because he couldn’t think of anything else to say, and because it seemed he’d have to say something sometime. He was beginning to feel foolish. He didn’t want to ask them who he was, or who they thought he was, and he couldn’t think what else he could do. He was fairly certain he was still on the floor of Jimmy Shallcross's bedroom, having an ordinary dream, though perhaps more realistic and more intense than usual. He didn’t want to do anything that might turn the dream ugly, something he thought might be dangerous to his unconscious self. He tried to estimate how long it had been since he passed out, and fo
und he had no idea, but believed it could not have been long. Satisfied with his rationalization, he smiled to himself and settled back to wait for Marykate to miss him or the cleaning woman to find him, knowing that either eventuality would result in the arrival shortly thereafter of the rescue squad.

  “What did you say, sir?” the young man shouted, above the din of the craft's engines, leaning close.

  Simon smiled and said, “I said I’ll just sit here and wait for the rescue squad.”

  The man looked puzzled. “Your pardon, sir,” he said finally, “but we are the rescue squad. Jack Pearlman and Jimmy Shallcross, Seventh Regiment, US Marines.”

  9

  The Institute for Time History of the University of Sao Paulo was nearly deserted, the corridors dark, the offices empty. Near quitting time, the Friday before a long holiday weekend, Professor Jorgim Thorstenssen was anxious to be off. He and Amanda had much to talk about, and his mountain cabin seemed the place to do it. He wasn't sure he wanted to marry Amanda, or anyone else for that matter, and Amanda gave every indication she felt much the same. A long weekend together would do much to clarify things.

  He cleaned up his desk and walked down the hallway to the control room. A lone white-coated graduate assistant sat at the console beneath the big three-dimensional liquid crystal monitors. Thorstenssen watched him for a moment, needing to be certain this final duty was performed before heading home.