H. L. Gold (ed), page 44
“Maybe,” Eudalia conceded doubtfully. Then her eyes blazed. “But the things they do—stuffing people, mounting their heads, keeping them on display in their—their whatever they live in. You call that human, Rog?”
“Were you ever in a big-game hunter’s trophy room?” Tennant asked quietly. “Or in a Museum of Natural History? A zoo? A naturalist’s lab? Or even, maybe, photographed as a baby on a bear-skin rug?”
“I was,” said Olga. “But that’s not the same thing.”
“Of course not,” he agreed. “In the one instance, we’re the hunters, the breeders, the trophy collectors. In the other”—he shrugged—”we’re the trophies.”
There was a long silence. They finished eating and then Dana stood up and said, “I’m going out on the lawn for a while.” She unzipped her golden gown, stepped out of it to reveal a pair of tartan shorts that matched his, and a narrow halter.
“You thought those up while we ate,” he said. It annoyed him to be copied, though he did not know why. She laughed at him silently, tossed her auburn hair back from her face and went out of the roofless house, holding the gold dress casually over her bare arm.
Eudalia took him to the nursery. He was irritated now in another, angrier way. The infants, protected by cellophane-like coverlets, were asleep.
“They never cry,” the thin woman told him. “But they grow—God, how they grow!”
“Good,” said Tennant, fighting down his anger. He kissed her, held her close, although neither of them felt desire at the moment. Their captors had seen to that; it wasn’t Eudalia’s turn. Tennant said, “I wish I could do something about this. I hate seeing Dana so bitter and Olga so scared. It isn’t their fault.”
“And it’s not yours,” insisted Eudalia. “Don’t let them make you think it is.”
“I’ll try not to,” he said and stopped, realizing the family party was over. He had felt the inner tug of command, said good-by to the women and returned to his smaller compound within its own barrier dome.
Then came the invisible aura of strain in the air, the shimmering illusion of heat that was not heat, that was prelude to his teleportation … if that were the word. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant; it was, that was all.
He called it the training hall, not because it looked like a training hall but because that was its function. It didn’t actually look like anything save some half-nourished dream a surrealist might have discarded as too nightmarish for belief.
As in all of this strange universe, excepting the dome-cages in which the captives were held, the training hall followed no rules of three-dimensional space. One wall looked normal for perhaps a third of its length, then it simply wasn’t for a bit. It came back farther on at an impossible angle. Yet, walking along it, touching it, it felt perfectly smooth and continuously straight.
The opposite wall resembled a diagonal cross-section of an asymmetrical dumbbell—that was the closest Tennant could come to it in words. And it, too, felt straight. The floor looked like crystal smashed by some cosmic impact, yet it had reason. He knew this even though no reason was apparent to his three-dimensional vision. The ceiling, where he could see it, was beyond description.
The captor Tennant called Opal came in through a far corner of the ceiling. He—if it was a he—was not large, although this, Tennant knew, meant nothing; Opal might extend thousands of yards in some unseen direction. He had no regular shape and much of him was iridescent and shot with constantly changing colors. Hence the name Opal.
Communication was telepathic. Tennant could have yodeled or yelled or sung Mississippi Mud and Opal would have shown no reaction. Yet Tennant suspected that the captors could hear somewhere along the auditory scale, just as perhaps they could smell, although not in any human sense.
You will approach without use of your appendages.
The command was as clear as if it had been spoken aloud. Tennant took a deep breath. He thought of the space beside Opal. It took about three seconds and he was there, having spanned a distance of some ninety feet. He was getting good at it.
Dog does trick, he thought.
He went through the entire routine at Opal’s bidding. When at last he was allowed to relax, he wondered, not for the first time, if he weren’t mastering some of the alleged Guru arts. At once he felt probing investigation. Opal, like the rest of the captors, was as curious as a cat—or a human being.
Tennant sat against a wall, drenched with sweat. There would be endless repetition before his workout was done. On Earth, dogs were said to be intellectually two-dimensional creatures. He wondered if they felt this helpless futility when their masters taught them to heel, to point, to retrieve.
Some days later, the training routine was broken. He felt a sudden stir of near-sick excitement as he received the thought:
Now you are ready. We are going through at last.
Opal was nervous, so much so that he revealed more than he intended. Or perhaps that was his intent; Tennant could never be sure. They were going through to Tennant’s own dimension. He wondered briefly just what his role was to be.
He had little time to speculate before Opal seemed to envelop him. There was the blurring wrench of forced teleportation and they were in another room, a room which ended in a huge irregular passage that might have been the interior of a giant concertina—or an old-fashioned kodak.
He stood before a kidney-shaped object over whose jagged surface colors played constantly. From Opal’s thoughts it appeared to be some sort of ultradimensional television set, but to Tennant it was as incomprehensible as an oil painting to an animal.
Opal was annoyed that Tennant could make nothing of it. Then came the thought:
What cover must your body have not to be conspicuous?
Tennant wondered, cynically, what would happen if he were to demand a costume of medieval motley, complete with Pied Piper’s flute. He received quick reproof that made his head ring as from a blow.
He asked Opal where and when they were going, was informed that he would soon emerge on Earth where he had left it. That told him everything but the date and season. Opal, like the rest of the captors, seemed to have no understanding of time in a human sense.
Waiting, Tennant tried not to think of his wife, of the fact that he hadn’t seen her in—was it more than a year and a half on Earth? He could have controlled his heartbeat with one of his new powers, but that might have made Opal suspicious. He should be somewhat excited. He allowed himself to be, though he obscured the reasons. He was going to see his wife again … and maybe he could trick his way into not returning.
The maid who opened the door for him was new, although her eyes were old. But she recognized him and stood aside to let him enter. There must, he thought, still be pictures of him around. He wondered how Agatha could afford a servant.
“Is Mrs. Tennant in?” he asked.
She shook her head and fright made twin stoplights of the rouge on her cheeks as she shut the door behind him. He went into the living room, directly to the long silver cigaret box on the coffee table. It was proof of homecoming to fill his lungs with smoke he could smell. He took another drag, saw the maid still in the doorway, staring.
“There’s no need for fright,” he told her. “I believe I still own this house.” Then, “When do you expect Mrs. Tennant?”
“She just called. She’s on her way home from the club.”
Still looking frightened, she departed for the rear of the house. Tennant stared after her puzzledly until the kitchen door swung shut behind her. The club? What club?
He shrugged, returned to the feeling of comfort that came from being back here, about to see Agatha again, hold her close in no more than a few minutes. And stay, his mind began to add eagerly, but he pushed the thought down where Opal could not detect it.
He took another deep, lung-filling drag on his cigaret, looked around the room that was so important a part of his life. The three women back there would be in a ghastly spot. He felt like a heel for wanting to leave them there, then knew that he would try somehow to get them out. Not, of course, anything that would endanger his remaining with Agatha; the only way his captors would get him back would be as a taxidermist’s specimen.
He realized, shocked and scared, that his thoughts of escape had slipped past his mental censor, and he waited apprehensively for Opal to strike. Nothing happened and he warily relaxed. Opal wasn’t tapping his thoughts. Because he felt sure of his captive … or because he couldn’t on Earth?
It was like being let out of a cage. Tennant grinned at the bookcase; the ebony-and-ivory elephants that Agatha had never liked were gone, but he’d get them back or another pair. The credenza had been replaced by a huge and ugly television console. That, he resolved, would go down in the cellar rumpus room, where its bleached modernity wouldn’t clash with the casual antiquity of the living room.
Agatha would complain, naturally, but his being back would make up for any amount of furniture shifting. He imagined her standing close to him, her lovely face lifted to be kissed, and his heart lurched like an adolescent’s. This hunger was real, not implanted. Everything would be real … his love for her, the food he ate, the things he touched, his house, his life. …
Your wife and a man are approaching the house.
The thought message from Opal crumbled his illusion of freedom. He sank down in a chair, trying to refuse to listen to the rest of the command:
You are to bring the man through the gateway with you. We want another live male.
Tennant shook his head, stiff and defiant in his chair. The punishment, when it came, was more humiliating than a slap across a dog’s snout. Opal had been too interested in the next lab specimen to bother about his thoughts —that was why he had been free to think of escape.
Tennant closed his eyes, willed himself to the front window. Now that he had mastered teleportation, it was incredible how much easier it was in his own world. He had covered the two miles from the gateway to the house in a mere seven jumps, the distance to the window in an instant. But there was no pleasure in it, only a confirmation of his captor’s power over him.
He was not free of them. He understood all too well what they wanted him to do; he was to play the Judas goat … or rather the Judas ram, leading another victim to the fourth-dimensional pen.
Grim, he watched the swoop of headlights in the driveway and returned to the coffee table, lit a fresh cigarette.
The front door was flung open and his diaphragm tightened at the remembered sound of Agatha’s throaty laugh … and tightened further when it was followed by a deeper rumbling laugh. Sudden fear made the cigarette shake in his fingers.
“… Don’t be such a stuffed-shirt, darling.” Agatha’s mocking sweetness rang alarm-gongs in Tennant’s memory. “Charley wasn’t making a grab for me. He’d had one too many and only wanted a little fun. Really, darling, you seem to think that a girl …”
Her voice faded out as she saw Tennant standing there. She was wearing a white strapless gown, had a blue-red-and-gold Mandarin jacket slung hussar-fashion over her left shoulder. She looked even sleeker, better groomed, more assured than his memory of her.
“I’m no stuffed-shirt and you know it.” Cass’ tone was peevish. “But your idea of fun, Agatha, is pretty damn …”
It was his turn to freeze. Unbelieving, Tennant studied his successor. Cass Gordon—the man, the ex-halfback whose bulk was beginning to get out of hand, but whose inherent aggressive grace had not yet deserted him. The man, that was all—unless one threw in the little black mustache and the smooth salesman’s manner.
“You know, Cass,” Tennant said quietly, “I never for a moment dreamed it would be you.”
“Roger!” Agatha found her voice. “You’re alive!”
“Roger,” repeated Tennant viciously. He felt sick with disgust. Maybe he should have expected a triangle, but somehow he hadn’t. And here it was, with all of them going through their paces like a trio of tent-show actors. He said, “For God’s sake, sit down.”
Agatha did so hesitantly. Her huge dark eyes, invariably clear and limpid no matter how much she had drunk, flickered toward him furtively. She said defensively, “I had detectives looking for you for six months. Where have you been, Rog? Smashing up the car like that and—disappearing! I’ve been out of my mind.”
“Sorry,” said Tennant. “I’ve had my troubles, too.” Agatha was scared stiff—of him. Probably with reason. He looked again at Cass Gordon and found that he suddenly didn’t care. She couldn’t say it was loneliness. Women have waited longer than eighteen months. He would have if his captors had let him.
“Where in hell have you been, Rog?” Gordon’s tone was almost parental. “I don’t suppose it’s news to you, but there was a lot of suspicion directed your way while that crazy killer was operating around here. Agatha and I managed to clear you.”
“Decent of you,” said Tennant. He got up, crossed to the cabinet that served as a bar. It was fully equipped—with more expensive liquor, he noticed, than he had ever been able to afford. He poured a drink of brandy, waited for the others to fill their glasses.
Agatha looked at him over the rim of hers. “Tell us, Rog. We have a right to know. I do, anyway.”
“One question first,” he said. “What about those killings? Have there been any lately?”
“Not for over a year,” Cass told him. “They never did get the devil who skinned those bodies and removed the heads.”
So, Tennant thought, they hadn’t used the gateway. Not since they had brought the four of them through, not since they had begun to train him for his Judas ram duties.
Agatha was asking him if he had been abroad.
“In a way,” he replied unemotionally. “Sorry if I’ve worried you, Agatha, but my life has been rather—indefinite, since I—left.”
He was standing no more than four inches from this woman he had desired desperately for six years, and he no longer wanted her. He was acutely conscious of her perfume. It wrapped them both like an exotic blanket, and it repelled him. He studied the firm clear flesh of her cheek and chin, the arch of nostril, the carmine fullness of lower lip, the swell of bosom above low-cut gown. And he no longer wanted any of it or of her. Cass Gordon—
It didn’t have to be anybody at all. For it to be Cass Gordon was revolting.
“Rog,” she said and her voice trembled, “what are we going to do? What do you want to do?”
Take her back? He smiled ironically; she wouldn’t know what that meant. It would serve her right, but maybe there was another way.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I suspect we’re in the same boat. I also have other interests.”
“You louse!” said Cass Gordon, arching rib cage and nostrils. “If you try to make trouble for Agatha, I can promise …”
“What can you promise?” demanded Tennant. When Gordon’s onset subsided in mumbles, he added, “Actually, I don’t think I’m capable of making more than a fraction of the trouble for either of you that you both are qualified to make for yourselves.”
He lit a cigarette, inhaled. “Relax. I’m not planning revenge. After this evening, I plan to vanish for good. Of course, Agatha, that offers you a minor nuisance. You will have to wait six years to marry Cass—seven years if the maid who let me in tonight talks. That’s the law, isn’t it, Cass? You probably had it all figured out.”
“You bastard,” said Cass. “You dirty bastard! You know what a wait like that could do to us.”
“Tristan and Isolde,” said Tennant, grinning almost happily. “Well, I’ve had my little say. Now I’m off again. Cass, would you give me a lift? I have a conveyance of sorts a couple of miles down the road.”
He needed no telepathic powers to read the thoughts around him then. He heard Agatha’s quick intake of breath, saw the split-second look she exchanged with Cass. He turned away, knowing that she was imploring her lover to do something, anything, as long as it was safe.
Deliberately, Tennant poured himself a second drink. This might be easier and pleasanter than he had expected. They deserved some of the suffering he had had and there was a chance that they might get it.
Tennant knew now why he was the only male human the captors had been able to take alive. Apparently, thanks to the rain-slick road, he had run the sedan into a tree at the foot of the hill beyond the river. He had been sitting there, unconscious, ripe fruit on their doorstep. They had simply picked him up.
Otherwise, apparently, men were next to impossible for them to capture. All they could do was kill them and bring back their heads and hides as trophies. With women it was different—perhaps the captors’ weapons, whatever they were, worked more efficiently on females. A difference in body chemistry or psychology, perhaps.
More than once, during his long training with Opal, Tennant had sent questing thoughts toward his captor, asking why they didn’t simply set up the gateway in some town or city and take as many humans as they wanted.
Surprisingly there had been a definite fear reaction. As nearly as he could understand, it had been like asking an African pygmy, armed with a blowgun, to set up shop in the midst of a herd of wild elephants. It simply wasn’t feasible—and furthermore he derived an impression of the tenuosity as well as the immovability of the gateway itself.
They could be hurt, even killed, by humans in a three-dimensional world. How? Tennant did not know. Perhaps as a man can cut finger or even throat on the edge of a near-two-dimensional piece of paper. It took valor for them to hunt men in the world of men. In that fact lay a key to their character—if such utterly alien creatures could be said to have character.
Cass Gordon was smiling at him, saying something about one for the road. Tennant accepted only because it was luxury to drink liquor that smelled and tasted as liquor should. He raised his glass to Agatha, said, “I may turn up again, but it’s unlikely, so have yourself a time, honey.”
