Connoisseur's SF Page 2

  “Then why don’t they die?”

  “We don’t know. The metabolism cycle’s broken, but only on the anabolism side. Catabolism continues. In other words, sir, they’re eliminating waste products but they’re not taking anything in. They’re eliminating fatigue poisons and rebuilding worn tissue, but without food and sleep. God knows how. It’s fantastic.”

  “That why you’ve got them locked up? Mean to say… D’you suspect them of stealing food and cat naps somewhere else?”

  “N-No, sir.” Dimmock looked shamefaced. “I don’t know how to tell you this, General Carpenter. I… We lock them up because of the real mystery. They… Well, they disappear.”

  “They what?”

  “They disappear, sir. Vanish. Right before your eyes.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “I do say, sir. They’ll be sitting on a bed or standing around-One minute you see them, the next minute you don’t. Sometimes there’s two dozen in Ward T. Other times none. They disappear and reappear without rhyme or reason. That’s why we’ve got the ward locked, General Carpenter. In the entire history of combat and combat injury there’s never been a case like this before. We don’t know how to handle it.”

  “Bring me three of those cases,” General Carpenter said.

  Nathan Riley ate French toast, eggs benedict; consumed two pints of brown ale, smoked a John Drew, belched delicately and arose from the breakfast table. He nodded quietly to Gentleman Jim Corbett, who broke off his conversation with Diamond Jim Brady to intercept him on the way to the cashier’s desk.

  “Who do you like for the pennant this year, Nat?” Gentleman Jim inquired.

  “The Dodgers,” Nathan Riley answered.

  “They’ve got no pitching.”

  “They’ve got Snider and Furillo and Campanella. They’ll take the pennant this year, Jim. I’ll bet they take it earlier than any team ever did. By September t;. Make a note. See if I’m right.”

  “You’re always right, Nat,” Corbett said.

  Riley smiled, paid his check, sauntered out into the street and caught a horsecar bound for Madison Square Garden. He got off at the corner of Fiftieth Street and Eighth Avenue and walked upstairs to a handbook office over a radio repair shop. The bookie glanced at him, produced an envelope and counted out fifteen thousand dollars.

  “Rocky Marciano by a TKO over Roland La Starza in the eleventh,” he said. “How the hell do you call them so accurate, Nat?”

  “That’s the way I make a living,” Riley smiled. “Are you making book on the elections?”

  “Eisenhower twelve to five. Stevenson—”

  “Never mind Adlai.” Riley placed twenty thousand dollars on the counter. “I’m backing Ike. Get this down for me.”

  He left the handbook office and went to his suite in the Waldorf where a tall, thin young man was waiting for him anxiously.

  “Oh yes,” Nathan Riley said. “You’re Ford, aren’t you? Harold Ford?”

  “Henry Ford, Mr Riley.”

  “And you need financing for that machine in your bicycle shop. What’s it called?”

  “I call it an ipsimobile, Mr Riley.”

  “Hmmm. Can’t say I like that name. Why not call it an automobile?”

  “That’s a wonderful suggestion, Mr Riley. I’ll certainly take it.”

  “I like you, Henry. You’re young, eager, adaptable. I believe in your future and I believe in your automobile. I’ll invest two hundred thousand dollars in your company.”

  Riley wrote a cheque and ushered Henry Ford out. He glanced at his watch and suddenly felt impelled to go back and look around for a moment. He entered his bedroom, undressed, put on a grey shirt and grey slacks. Across the pocket of the shirt were large blue letters: U.S.A.H.

  He locked the bedroom door and disappeared.

  He reappeared in Ward T of the United States Army Hospital in St Albans, standing alongside his bed which was one of twenty-four lining the walls of a long, light steel barracks. Before he could draw another breath, he was seized by three pairs of hands. Before he could struggle, he was shot by a pneumatic syringe and poleaxed by 1½ cc of sodium thiomorphate.

  “We’ve got one,” someone said.

  “Hang around,” someone else answered. “General Carpenter said he wanted three.”

  After Marcus Junius Brutus left her bed, Lela Machan clapped her hands. Her slave women entered the chamber and prepared her bath. She bathed, dressed, scented herself, and breakfasted on Smyrna figs, Rose oranges, and a flagon of Lachryma Christi. Then she smoked a cigarette and ordered her litter.

  The gates of her house were crowded as usual by adoring hordes from the Twentieth Legion. Two centurions removed her chair-bearers from the poles of the litter and bore her on their stout shoulders. Lela Machan smiled. A young man in a sapphire-blue cloak thrust through the mob and ran towards her. A knife flashed in his hand. Lela braced herself to meet death bravely.

  “Lady!” he cried. “Lady Lela!”

  He slashed his left arm with the knife and let the crimson blood stain her robe.

  “This blood of mine is the least I have to give you,” he cried.

  Lela touched his forehead gently.

  “Silly boy,” she murmured. “Why?”

  “For love of you, my lady.”

  “You will be admitted tonight at nine,” Lela whispered. He stared at her until she laughed. “I promise you. What is your name, pretty boy?”

  “Ben Hur.”

  “Tonight at nine, Ben Hur.”

  The litter moved on. Outside the forum, Julius Caesar passed in hot argument with Savonarola. When he saw the litter he motioned sharply to the centurions, who stopped at once. Caesar swept back the curtains and stared at Lela, who regarded him languidly. Caesar’s face twitched.

  “Why?” he asked hoarsely. “I have begged, pleaded, bribed, wept, and all without forgiveness. Why, Lela? Why?”

  “Do you remember Boadicea?” Lela murmured.

  “Boadicea? Queen of the Britons? Good God, Lela, what can she mean to our love? I did not love Boadicea. I merely defeated her in battle.”

  “And killed her, Caesar.”

  “She poisoned herself, Lela.”

  “She was my mother, Caesar!” Suddenly Lela pointed her finger at Caesar. “Murderer. You will be punished. Beware the Ides of March, Caesar!”

  Caesar recoiled in horror. The mob of admirers that had gathered around Lela uttered a shout of approval. Amidst a shower of rose petals and violets she continued on her way across the Forum to the Temple of the Vestal Virgins where she abandoned her adoring suitors and entered the sacred temple.

  Before the altar she genuflected, intoned a prayer, dropped a pinch of incense on the altar flame and disrobed, She examined her beautiful body reflected in a silver mirror, then experienced a momentary twinge of homesickness. She put on a grey blouse and a grey pair of slacks. Across the pocket of the blouse was lettered U.S.A.H.

  She smiled once at the altar and disappeared.

  She reappeared in Ward T of the United States Army Hospital where she was instantly felled by 1½ cc of sodium thiomorphate injected subcutaneously by a pneumatic syringe.

  “That’s two,” somebody said.

  “One more to go.”

  George Hanmer paused dramatically and stared around… at the opposition benches, at the Speaker on the woolsack, at the silver mace on a crimson cushion before the Speaker’s chair. The entire House of Parliament, hypnotized by Hanmer’s fiery oratory, waited breathlessly for him to continue.

  “I can say no more,” Hanmer said at last. His voice was choked with emotion. His face was blanched and grim. “I will fight for this bill at the beach-heads. I will fight in the cities, the towns, the fields and the hamlets. I will fight for this bill to the death and, God willing, I will fight for it after death. Whether this be a challenge or a prayer, let the consciences of the right honorable gentlemen determine; but of one thing I am sure and determined; England must own the Suez Can
al.”

  Hanmer sat down. The house exploded. Through the cheering and applause he made his way out into the division lobby where Gladstone, Churchill, and Pitt stopped him to shake his hand. Lord Palmerston eyed him coldly, but Pam was shouldered aside by Disraeli who limped up, all enthusiasm, all admiration.

  “We’ll have a bite at Tattersall’s,” Dizzy said. “My car’s waiting.”

  Lady Beaconsfield was in the Rolls-Royce outside the Houses of Parliament. She pinned a primrose on Dizzy’s lapel and patted Hanmer’s cheek affectionately.

  “You’ve come a long way from the schoolboy who used to bully Dizzy, Georgie,” she said.

  Hanmer laughed. Dizzy sang; “Gaudeamus igitur…” and Hanmer chanted the ancient scholastic song until they reached Tattersall’s. There Dizzy ordered Guinness and grilled bones while Hanmer went upstairs in the club to change.

  For no reason at all, he had the impulse to go back for a last look. Perhaps he hated to break with his past completely. He divested himself of his surtout, nankeen waistcoat, pepper and salt grousers, polished Hessians, and undergarments. He put on a grey shirt and grey trousers and disappeared.

  He reappeared in Ward T of the St Albans hospital where he was rendered unconscious by 1½ cc of sodium thiomorphate.

  “That’s three,” somebody said.

  “Take ’em to Carpenter.”

  So there they sat in General Carpenter’s office, PFC Nathan Riley, M/Sgt Lela Machan, and Corp/2 George Hanmer. They were in their hospital greys. They were torpid with sodium thiomorphate.

  The office had been cleared and it blazed with light. Present were experts from Espionage, Counter-Espionage, Security, and Central Intelligence. When Captain Edsel Dimmock saw the steel-faced ruthless squad awaiting the patients and himself, he started. General Carpenter smiled grimly.

  “Didn’t occur to you that we mightn’t buy your disappearance story, eh Dimmock?”

  “S-Sir?”

  “I’m an expert too, Dimmock. I’ll spell it out for you. The war’s going badly. Very badly. There’ve been intelligence leaks. The St Albans mess might point to you.”

  “B-But they do disappear, sir. I—”

  “My experts want to talk to you and your patients about this disappearing act, Dimmock. They’ll start with you.”

  The experts worked over Dimmock with preconscious softeners, id releases and super-ego blocks. They tried every truth serum in the books and every form of physical and mental pressure. They brought Dimmock, squealing, to the breaking point three times, but there was nothing to break.

  “Let him stew for now,” Carpenter said. “Get on to the patients.”

  The experts appeared reluctant to apply pressure to the sick men and the woman.

  “For God’s sake, don’t be squeamish,” Carpenter raged. “We’re fighting a war for civilization. We’ve got to protect our ideals no matter what the price. Get to it!”

  The experts from Espionage, Counter-Espionage, Security and Central Intelligence got to it. Like three candles, PFC Nathan Riley, M/Sgt Lela Machan and Corp/2 George Hanmer snuffed out and disappeared. One moment they were seated in chairs surrounded by violence. The next moment they were not.

  The experts gasped. General Carpenter did the handsome thing. He stalked to Dimmock. “Captain Dimmock, I apologize. Colonel Dimmock, you’ve been promoted for making an important discovery… only what the hell does it mean? We’ve got to check ourselves first.”

  Carpenter snapped up the intercom. “Get me a combat-shock expert and an alienist.”

  The two experts entered and were briefed. They examined the witnesses. They considered.

  “You’re all suffering from a mild case of shock,” the combat-shock expert said. “War jitters.”

  “You mean we didn’t see them disappear?”

  The shock expert shook, his head and glanced at the alienist who also shook his head.

  “Mass illusion,” the alienist said.

  At that moment PFC Riley, M/Sgt Machan and Corp/2 Hanmer reappeared. One moment, they were a mass illusion; the next, they were back sitting in their chairs surrounded by confusion.

  “Dope ’em again, Dimmock,” Carpenter cried. “Give ’em a gallon.” He snapped up his intercom. “I want every expert we’ve got. Emergency meeting in my office at once.”

  Thirty-seven experts, hardened and sharpened tools all, inspected the unconscious shock cases and discussed them for three hours. Certain facts were obvious: This must be a new fantastic syndrome brought on by the new and fantastic horrors of the war. As combat technique develops, the response of victims of this technique must also take new roads. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Agreed.

  This new syndrome must involve some aspects of teleportation… the power of mind over space. Evidently combat shock, while destroying certain known powers of the mind must develop other latent powers hitherto unknown. Agreed.

  Obviously, the patients must only be able to return to the point of departure, otherwise they would not continue to return to Ward T, nor would they have returned to General Carpenter’s office. Agreed.

  Obviously, the patients must be able to procure food and sleep wherever they go, since neither was required in Ward T, Agreed.

  “One small point,” Colonel Dimmock said. “They seem to be returning to Ward T less frequently. In the beginning they would come and go every day or so. Now most of them stay away for weeks and hardly ever return.”

  “Never mind that,” Carpenter said. “Where do they go?”

  “Do they teleport behind the enemy lines?” someone asked. “There’s those intelligence leaks.”

  “I want Intelligence to check,” Carpenter snapped. “Is the enemy having similar difficulties with, say, prisoners of war who appear and disappear from their POW camps? They might be some of ours from Ward T.”

  “They might simply be going home,” Colonel Dimmock suggested.

  “I want Security to check,” Carpenter ordered. “Cover the home life and associations of every one of those twenty-four disappeared. Now… about our operations In Ward T. Colonel Dimmock has a plan.”

  “We’ll set up six extra beds in Ward T,” Edsel Dimmock explained. “Well send in six experts to live there and observe. Information must be picked up indirectly from the patients. They’re catatonic and nonresponsive when conscious, and incapable of answering questions when drugged.”

  “Gentlemen,” Carpenter summed it up. “This is the greatest potential weapon in the history of warfare. I don’t have to tell you what it can mean to us to be able to teleport an entire army behind enemy lines. We can win the war for the American Dream in one day if we can win this secret hidden in those shattered minds. We must win!”

  The experts hustled, Security checked, Intelligence probed. Six hardened and sharpened tools moved into Ward T in St Albans Hospital and slowly got acquainted with the disappearing patients who reappeared less and less frequently. The tension increased.

  Security was able to report that not one case of strange appearance had taken place in America in the past year. Intelligence reported that the enemy did not seem to be having similar difficulties with their own shock cases or with POWs.

  Carpenter fretted. “This is all brand new. We’ve got no specialists to handle it. We’ve got to develop new tools.” He snapped up his intercom. “Get me a college,” he said.

  They got him Yale.

  “I want some experts in mind over matter. Develop them,” Carpenter ordered. Yale at once introduced three graduate courses in Thaumaturgy, Extra-sensory Perception, and Telekinesis.

  The first break came when one of the Ward T experts requested the assistance of another expert. He needed a Lapidary.

  “What the hell for?” Carpenter wanted to know.

  “He picked up a reference to a gem stone,” Colonel Dimmock explained. “He’s a personnel specialist and he can’t relate it to anything in his experience.”

  “And he’s not supposed to,”
Carpenter said approvingly. “A job for every man and every man on the job.” He flipped up the intercom. “Get me a Lapidary.”

  An expert Lapidary was given leave of absence from the army arsenal and asked to identify a type of diamond called Jim Brady. He could not.

  “We’ll try it from another angle,” Carpenter said. He snapped up his intercom, “Get me a Semanticist.”

  The Semanticist left his desk in the War Propaganda Department but could make nothing of the words Jim Brady, They were names to him. No more. He suggested a Genealogist.

  A Genealogist was given one day’s leave from his post with the Un-American Ancestors Committee but could make nothing of the name Brady beyond the fact that it had been a common name in America for five hundred years. He suggested an Archaeologist.

  An Archaeologist was released from the Cartography Division of Invasion Command and instantly identified the name Diamond Jim Brady. It was a historic personage, who had been famous in the city of Little Old New York some time between Governor Peter Stuyvesant and Governor Fiorello La Guard la.

  “Christ!” Carpenter marvelled, “That’s ages ago. Where the hell did Nathan Riley get that? You’d better join the experts in Ward T and follow this up.”

  The Archaeologist followed it up, checked his references and sent in his report. Carpenter read it and was stunned. He called an emergency meeting of his staff of experts.

  “Gentlemen,” he announced, “Ward T is something bigger than teleportation. Those shock patients are doing something far more incredible… far more meaningful. Gentlemen, they’re travelling through time.”

  The staff rustled uncertainly. Carpenter nodded emphatically.

  “Yes, gentlemen. Time travel is here. It has not arrived the way we expected it… as a result of expert research by qualified specialists; it has come as a plague… an infection… a disease of the war… a result of combat injury to ordinary men. Before I continue, look through these reports for documentation.”

  The staff read the stencilled sheets. PFC Nathan Riley… disappearing into the early twentieth century in New York; M/Sgt Lela Machan… visiting the first century in Rome; Corp/2 George Hanmer… journeying into the nineteenth century in England. And all the rest of the twenty-four patients, escaping the turmoil and horrors of modern war in the twenty-second century by fleeing to Venice, and the Doges, to Jamaica and the buccaneers, to China and the Han Dynasty, to Norway and Eric the Red, to any place and any time in the world.