The little boat scraped against bottom. He saw that the current at a bend had brought him to the bank. He hopped awkwardly out, his congealed joints complaining, and drew the bow of the skiff up onto the sand. Then he thought better of it, pushed it out once more, shoved as hard as he was able and watched it disappear around the meander. No need to advertise where he had landed;
He slept most of that day, rousing himself once to move out of the sun when it grew too hot. But the sun had cooked much of the cold out of his bones, and he felt much better by nightfall.
Although the Barrier was only a mile or so away, it took most of the night to reach it by following the river bank. He knew when he had reached it by the clouds of steam that rose from the water. When the sun came up he considered the situation. The Barrier stretched across the water, but the juncture between it and the surface of the stream was hidden by billowing clouds. Some place, down under the surface of the water—how far down he did not know—somewhere down there the Barrier ceased, and its raw edge turned the water it touched to steam.
Slowly, reluctantly and most unheroically, he commenced to strip off his clothes. The time had come and he did not relish it. He came across the scrap of paper that Magee had handed him, and attempted to examine it. But it had been pulped by his involuntary dip in the mountain stream and was quite illegible. He chucked it away.
He shivered as he stood hesitating on the bank, although the sun was warm. Then his mind was made up for him; he spied a patrol on the far bank.
Perhaps they had seen him; perhaps not. He dived.
Down, down, as far as his strength would take him. Down, and try to touch bottom, to be sure of avoiding that searing, deadly base. He felt mud with his hands. Now to swim under it. Perhaps it was death to pass under it, as well as over it; he would soon know. But which way was it? There was no direction down here.
He stayed down until his congested lungs refused. Then he rose part way and felt scalding water on his face. For a timeless interval of unutterable sorrow and loneliness he realized that he was trapped between heat and water-trapped under the barrier.
Two private soldiers gossiped idly on a small dock which lay under the face of the Barrier. The river which poured out from beneath it held no interest for them, they had watched it for many dull tours of guard duty. An alarm clanged behind them and brought them to alertness. “What sector, Jack?”
“This bank. There he is now—see!”
They fished him out and had him spread out on the dock by the time the sergeant of the guard arrived. “Alive or dead?” he inquired.
“Dead, I think,” answered the one who was not busy giving artificial resuscitation.
The sergeant clucked in a manner incongruous to his battered face and said, “Too bad. I’ve ordered the ambulance; send him up to the infirmary, anyhow.”
The nurse tried to keep him quiet, but MacKinnon made such an uproar that she got the ward-surgeon.
“Here! Here! What’s all this nonsense?” the medico rebuked him, while reaching for his pulse.
Dave managed to convince him that he would not quiet down nor accept a soporific until he had told his story. They struck a working agreement that MacKinnon was to be allowed to talk—”But keep it short, mind you!”—and the doctor would pass the word along to his next superior, and in return Dave would submit to a hypodermic.
The next morning two other men, unidentified, were brought to MacKinnon by the surgeon. They listened to his full story and questioned him in detail. He was transferred to corps area headquarters that afternoon by ambulance. There he was questioned again. He was regaining his strength rapidly, but he was growing quite tired of the whole rigmarole and wanted assurance that his warning was being taken seriously. The latest of his interrogators reassured him. “Compose yourself,” he told Dave, “you are to see the commander this afternoon.”
The corps area commander, a nice little chap with a quick, birdlike manner and a most unmilitary appearance, listened gravely while MacKinnon recited his story for what seemed to him the fiftieth time. He nodded agreement when David finished. “Rest assured, David MacKinnon, that all necessary steps are being taken.”
“But how about their weapon?”
“That is taken care of—and as for the Barrier, it may not be as easy to break as our neighbors think. But your efforts are appreciated. May I do you some service?”
“Well, no—not for myself, but there are two of my friends in there—” He asked that something be done to rescue Magee, and that Persephone be enabled to come out if she wished.
“I know of that girl,” the general remarked. “We will get in touch with her. If at any time she wishes to become a citizen, it can be arranged. As for Magee, that is another matter—” He touched the stud of his desk visiphone. “Send Captain Randall in.”
A neat, trim figure in the uniform of a captain of the United States army entered with a light step. MacKinnon glanced at him with casual, polite interest, then his expression went to pieces. “Fader!” he yelled.
Their mutual greeting was hardly sufficiently decorous for the sanctum sanctorum of a commanding general, but the general did not seem to mind. When they had calmed down, MacKinnon had to ask the question uppermost in his mind. “But see here, Fader, all this doesn’t make sense—” He paused, staring, then pointed a finger accusingly, “I know! You’re in the Secret Service!”
The Fader grinned cheerfully. “Did you think,” he observed, “that the United States army would leave a plague spot like that unwatched?”
The general cleared his throat. “What do you plan to do now, David MacKinnon?”
“Eh? Me? Why, I don’t have any plans—” He thought for a moment, then turned to his friend. “Do you know, Fader, I believe I’ll turn in for psychological treatment, after all. You’re on the Outside—”
“I don’t believe that will be necessary,” interrupted the general gently.
“No? Why not, sir?”
“You have cured yourself. You may not be aware of it, but four psychotechnicians have interviewed you. Their reports agree. I am authorized to tell you that your status as a free citizen has been restored, if you wish it.”
The general and Captain “the Fader” Randall managed tactfully between them to terminate the interview. Randall walked back to the infirmary with his friend.
Dave wanted a thousand questions answered at once. “But, Fader,” he demanded, “you must have gotten out before I did.”
“A day or two.”
“Then my job was unnecessary!”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Randall contradicted. “I might not have gotten through. As a matter of fact, they had all the details before I reported. There are others— Anyhow,” he continued, to change the subject, “now that you are here, what will you do?”
“Me? It’s too soon to say. It won’t be classical literature, that’s a cinch. If I wasn’t such a dummy in math I might still try for interplanetary.”
“Well, we can talk about it tonight,” suggested Fader, glancing at his telechronometer. “I’ve got to run along, but I’ll stop by later.”
He was out the door with an easy speed that was nostalgic of the thieves’ kitchen.
Dave watched him, then said suddenly, “Hey! Fader! Why couldn’t I get into the Secret Ser—”
But the Fader had gone. He could only ask himself.
THE OTHER WORLD
By Murray Leinster
DICK BLAIR dug up a Fifth Dynasty tomb in Lower Egypt and found that one object, and one only, had been spoiled by dampness in a climate which preserved all the other objects in the tomb to perfection. Almost simultaneously, in New York, a plumber carrying a kit of tools turned into a doorway on Eighth Avenue and was never seen again, living or dead. Shortly after, a half-ton of dried figs vanished inexplicably from a locked warehouse in Smyrna, and—in New York—a covered barge complete with a load of bricks and building materials evaporated into thin air while a night watchman gazed goggle-eyed. His account of the event was not believed.