Dream Thief Read online

  “Yes, and much more,” Spence said truthfully.

  “Daddy, I’ve asked Spence to join us for lunch. I know how you love a new audience.” Ari put her arm around her father, who looked amused.

  “Daughter, the decorum of my office!” She kissed him on the cheek. “What will Dr. Reston think? Tell me, did you ever see such an impertinent young lady?”

  Spence was saved from having to answer by Ari who announced, “I’m starving. Let’s go to lunch this instant, or you will both have to carry my limp and languishing body through the garden to the commissary. How would that suit your precious decorum?”

  “Dr. Reston, I regret my daughter’s shocking manners.” His eyes twinkled at the sight of her. “But I reiterate her invitation. Would you join us?”

  There seemed to be no graceful way out, so he said, “I’d be delighted.”

  6

  THEY WERE WALKING BACK to their respective places:

  Spence to his lab, the director to his office, and Ari to the cultural arts center. It had been one of the most enjoyable lunches Spence could remember. They had eaten not in the commissary, as he expected, but in one of Gotham’s four excellent restaurants, the Belles Esprit, a very commendable copy of a French cafe.

  Spence had not previously visited any of the restaurants and was surprised and pleased to find them quite different from the commissaries. He was less surprised to find that, like exclusive restaurants on Earth, they were quite expensive. The commissaries were free; the restaurants were not.

  They had dined on hearts of palm and artichoke vinaigrette and quiche lorraine. And Spence had come away feeling soothed and refreshed—as much by the company as by the food and atmosphere. The Zandersons, father and daughter, proved themselves very convivial hosts. They had so drawn him out that he talked a great deal more about himself than he ever did as a rule, but he had enjoyed it. And more than once during the meal he had looked up to discover Ari’s bright blue eyes watching him with a curious expression.

  Now they were nearing the junction tube where he would leave them to go back to the lab. For one who had inwardly shuddered at the luncheon invitation he was honestly sorry to see their short time together end.

  “I hope you’ll consider my offer,” Director Zanderson was saying. “I think you’d find the experience rewarding. It would even help in your research, I dare say. A smart young man like yourself—I imagine you could devise a few experiments that would make the trip quite worthwhile.”

  Spence was only half listening to the director’s proposition. “I’m afraid that with my review coming up…” he started to object.

  “Oh, that’s just a formality,” grinned the director. “Besides, should you decide to lead one of the research teams on the trip the review could be postponed, or perhaps waived altogether.

  Terraforming is the future—very exciting business. I wish I could go back myself; but … duties, you know.”

  He looked a little awkwardly at the director. Ari noticed his discomfort and came to his aid. “Oh, Daddy. Terraforming is your great mania, it isn’t everyone’s. Quit badgering him about it. I’m sure Spencer has better things to do than to go roaming about on a dusty old rock. I know I do.”

  The director clucked his tongue. “Such a worrisome girl. Well, I won’t press you for an answer. Dr. Reston. But I hope you’ll think it over. The Martian experience is truly fantastic.”

  “I will think it over. And thank you both for a most enjoyable lunch. It was really very nice.”

  “I’m glad you could join us. I always like to get better acquainted with my colleagues. Well, good-bye.”

  “Good afternoon,” said Ari. They turned and strolled arm-in-arm off along the main axial. Spence watched them go and then started back along the tube to the lab.

  Tickler was waiting for him when he returned. The fussy assistant appeared miffed about something; he gave Spence a series of sideways glances which Spence figured were supposed to represent disapproval. Spence happily ignored the vague reproofs—after all, he had just eaten lunch with the director. There was nothing which could even remotely threaten his self-esteem at that moment.

  “Well, Tickler, how are we coming along this afternoon? Are we ready for tonight’s session? I plan to increase the electroencephamine quotient by another five percent. I would like to test the scanner before we run the experiment.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Tickler said. He nodded toward the control room and Spence saw that they had a visitor. “Perhaps you will remember assigning me to secure our new assistant.”

  “So soon? You certainly didn’t waste a minute. Very well, let’s meet him.” He motioned to the cadet who sat watching them through the control window. The young man got up and came to stand beside Tickler.

  Spence offered his hand to the short young assistant. “I see that you have already met Dr. Tickler. If I know him he’s probably put you to work already. I’m Dr. Reston.”

  “Yes—we’ve already met,” replied the stranger as they shook hands. Spence looked at him a little closer; though the cadet seemed familiar, he could not place him.

  “I’m sorry…”

  “I don’t expect you’d remember,” said the cadet. “I bumped into you in the garden concourse one day a week or so ago.”

  “Kurt, wasn’t it?” He did remember the incident.

  “That’s right. Kurt Millen. First year. D-level; sector 1.”

  “Well, very good to have you aboard. I hope we can make this an interesting assignment for you.”

  “I take it you approve of my choice?” asked Tickler. Spence did not see the queer smirk which accompanied the question or he might have had second thoughts.

  Instead he said, “Yes, yes. I think Kurt will do just fine. He can begin by helping you ready the scanner test while I prepare the encephamine.”

  The shift proceeded uninterrupted, and as he worked Spence thought again of his talk with Ari and embarrassed himself with the warm feelings which accompanied those thoughts. There is something about that girl, he told himself. Be careful, his cautious inner voice replied.

  THE GOLDEN MIST HAD vanished in the empty howl of frigid winds roaring down from untold heights. The lush, green valley withered and turned brown. The whitened wisps of dried grass and the petals of tiny yellow flowers flurried around him in the savagely gusting wind.

  He shivered and wrapped his arms tightly across his chest in an effort to keep warm. He stared down at his feet and saw that he stood upon hard, barren ground. Around him he saw the sparkling glint of diamonds glittering in the icy glare of a harsh, violent moon.

  They were his tears—frozen where they had fallen. The hard earth would not receive them.

  Spence turned and lurched away, and he was instantly standing on a vast open plain under a great windswept sky where thin clouds raced overhead to disappear beyond the horizon. As he watched he was overcome by the urge to follow those feathery clouds, to see where they went.

  He began to run, lifting his feet and leaning ahead. But his legs did not obey properly. Each step dragged more slowly than the last, as if his strength were being mysteriously sapped away.

  Soon his legs had grown too heavy to move. He felt himself sinking into the arid soil, sucked down as by quicksand.

  He struggled to move as the dry red sand rose above his knees, but his weight pulled him down and down by centimeters. He screamed and his voice rang hollow in his ears. He looked around and saw that he was trapped in a great glass bubble and the sand continued to rise.

  Now it seemed to be falling out of the sky, burying him alive. He felt the gritty sting and heard the dry, bristling hiss as it pelted down on him. It filled his hair and eyes. He looked up and saw the glass bubble narrow far above him and sand pouring through a tiny opening to come trickling down. As the sand rose to his chest he pushed it away with his arms, but it fell relentlessly and soon he was deeper than before.

  He screamed again and heard the ring of silence, knowing that
his cries could not be heard beyond the glass. As the sand closed over his head he realized that he was trapped in an hourglass, and the sand had just run out.

  SPENCE AWOKE WITH A gasp and sat bolt upright on the couch. The sleep chamber was perfectly dark—a black, velvety darkness which pressed in on him with an oppressive weight. He could feel it enfolding him, covering him, smothering him.

  He wanted to get up, to run away and escape the awful presence of the dream. But an unseen force held him in his place. He lay back down slowly and as he did so he saw something in the heavy darkness which made his breath catch in his throat.

  Directly above him, midway between the couch and where he judged the chamber ceiling to be, a very faint, greenish glow hovered, shimmering in the dark. He sank back into the cav couch and watched as the glow intensified and took the shape of a luminous wreath with tiny tendrils of light radiating out from it. The center of the wreath was dim and unformed, but he sensed that something dark and mysterious boiled within the radiant halo.

  There was a familiarity about the glowing green halo which puzzled him. He felt as if he had seen or experienced it before somewhere—but where? He could not remember. Still, the sense of recognition persisted, and with it mounting fear.

  His body began to tremble.

  In the center of the halo the dim outlines of amorphous shapes could be seen weaving themselves of blue light. Subtle and indistinct, they flared and subsided; shifting, roiling, synapsing inside the green aura. The transparent, blue fibrils sparked silver flashes that glittered when they touched the green halo.

  The thing seemed to tug at him, drawing him up and into it. He had the sensation of falling. He reached out a trembling hand to ward off the fall. Fear arced through him like a high-voltage shock. His heart seized in his chest, clamped tightly in an unseen fist. Blood drummed in his ears.

  The swirling inner eye of the shining wreath distilled into a translucent core, a round, glimmering mass made up of tiny, pinpoint flecks of pure light. The ovoid shape spun slowly on its axis. Spence dug his fingernails into the fabric of the couch as his flesh began prickling to the thin, needlelike tinkling of a sound felt rather than heard. The sound of his dreams.

  Spence fought a wave of nausea rising in him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. He struggled weakly to look away, but the force of the shining thing held him fast. His mouth opened in a silent scream of terror; his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

  Still the shimmering mass rotated slowly and Spence sank even further into the depths of the nightmare. He watched it— turning, turning, refining itself, pulling together, creating itself out of atoms of light. With eyes wide and horror-filled Spence at last recognized the solidifying shape. It was a face. And a face he knew too well to feel anything but the utmost dread and repulsion.

  Staring out at him from the blazing halo were the skeletal features of Hocking.

  7

  HELLO, DAD. LISTEN, THANKS for coming down to the center…” The image on the screen peered back at him apprehensively. “Can you see me okay? Fine. I said, ‘Thanks for coming down to the base.’ I know it isn’t easy for you.”

  “Are you all right. Spencer? When they said you wanted to talk to me I was afraid something had happened to you. I hurried over as fast as I could. The lady here said you were ill.”

  “Not ill—I had an accident. A minor accident. I fell down and hit my head, that’s all. But when I went in for an aspirin they popped me into the med bay.” Spence had stuck with his story about falling down and saw no reason to change it now. He did not want to worry his father any more than he already had.

  “You’re sure you’re all right?” The face in the vidphone screen did not look reassured.

  “Of course I’m all right; it was nothing. But since they wanted to keep me in here for a few hours I thought I’d have them patch in a signal to the base for me. You get to do that when you’re sick.”

  “Oh,” was all his father said.

  “Anyway, I haven’t been able to write or anything so I thought it might be fun if we could phone each other—almost as good as being there.”

  “Is your work going all right?”

  “Fine, Dad. Everything’s fine. Listen, I wanted to tell you that I won’t be able to call you again for a while. I’m going to be pretty busy. I may be going out with one of the research teams on a field assignment.”

  “How long would that last. Spencer? You wouldn’t be gone too long?”

  “No, not too long,” Spence lied. “A couple months, that’s all. I’ll vidphone you when I get back.” He could see that his father did not understand what he was talking about. He looked worn and worried, and was apparently struggling to accept the fact that his son would be away longer than anticipated. Spence wished he had not called; his breaking-the-news-gently strategy was not working. “How have you been, Dad? Is Kate taking care of you?”

  “Kate is very busy with the boys. She has her hands full, you know. I don’t like to bother her.”

  “The boys are in fourth form, Dad. They’re in school all day. You won’t bother her. Call her if you need anything. Will you do that?”

  “I suppose so,” Mr. Reston said doubtfully.

  “Listen, I have to go now. I can leave here in a few minutes. I only wanted to tell you not to worry about me if you don’t hear from me for a while. I’ll be working, that’s all.” He hated to tell his father like this, but there was no way of telling him directly. He would not have understood.

  In all of Spence’s growing-up years his parents had never understood. They did not comprehend his work, nor could they follow his explanations when he tried to describe it to them. He was simply too far beyond them. He had eventually given up trying to make them understand; he stopped trying to bridge the gap.

  The image on the vidphone screen licked its lips nervously and leaned into the picture. “You’ll call when you get back?”

  “Yes, it’s the first thing I’ll do.”

  “I miss you. Spencer.”

  “I miss you, too, Dad. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Son. Take care of yourself” The screen went blank.

  Spence sat staring at the blank, flickering screen for several moments, then pushed the unit away. It retracted back into a nook in a panel beside the bed. He looked up just in time to see his physician approaching.

  “Feeling better, Dr. Reston?” The medic came to stand at the head of his bed. He entered a code on the data screen above the bed and read Spence’s chart.

  “Feeling fine. Dr. Williams. With a good word from you I’ll be on my way,” said Spence as cheerfully as he could. “I’m taking up too much of your time.”

  “Not at all. We’re having a special this week. Free tune-ups for all first-time customers. You’re a lucky guy.”

  “Thanks, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll take you up on that some other time.” He made a move to get up, but a troubled look from the doctor stopped him. “What’s the matter?”

  “I was hoping you would tell me.”

  “I—I don’t understand. Have you found something?”

  “No, you’re perfectly healthy as far as we can determine. But I think we should have a talk.”

  Spence had a sinking feeling. “There is something wrong.”

  “I think so, yes.” The doctor drew up a stool and sat down beside Spence, who chewed his lip nervously, “Not physically,” continued Williams, “that is, at least not in any of the areas we have checked out.”

  He gazed at his patient intently and Spence got the idea he was being measured for his tensile strength, like a spring being stretched to see how much it could take before snapping. He waited for the tension to break.

  “Spence…” The doctor started, then hesitated.

  Bad sign, thought Spence. Whenever they use your first name it means trouble.

  “Do you have any idea why you’re here?” The calm physician’s eyes watched him carefully, his face a mask of impassive int
erest which gave away nothing.

  “Yes,” Spence laughed. “I tripped over a stool in the lab. I bumped my head, that’s all.”

  “You weren’t in your lab, Spence.”

  Spence had had another blackout—that much he knew. He thought his story about bumping his head had been accepted without question. He cringed at the thought of—what? His memory was blank, and that scared him more than anything.

  “No?” Spence asked, more timidly than he would have liked. “Where was I, then?”

  “You were in the cargo bay air lock.”

  “Impossible! Who told you that?”

  “The workers who found you. They brought you in. And I see no reason to doubt their story; it’s on videotape. All air locks are monitored for security.”

  Spence was dumbfounded. He could not believe what he was hearing.

  “There’s something else.”

  He didn’t like the doctor’s tone of voice. “What’s that?”

  “The air lock was depressurizing. You were bleeding off air preparatory to opening the outer doors.”

  “That’s absurd! Why would I do a thing like that?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d like to find out.” The doctor pulled a thin metallic object out of his pocket and began fingering it.

  “Look, if you think I wandered into an air lock and then depressurized it on purpose … you’re crazy. That would be suicide!”

  The doctor shrugged. “Sometimes people can’t take it. They want so badly to get out they don’t wait for a shuttle. You were lucky. A cadet saw you heading for the air lock and reported it to the crew chief. There were some workmen in pressure suits nearby. Another few seconds and you’d have been … beyond repair.”

  “No. I’m not buying it. I’ll have to see the tapes before I believe it.”

  “That can be arranged, of course. But I was hoping you’d level with me. If there is something bothering you I could help.”

  “You don’t understand. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I tripped and bumped my head. That is all!”