“Leave her out of this.”
Y-9 grinned. “You can arrange that by telling us what your mission is, how far advanced the defensive nanotechnology is, other things we want to know.”
“I can’t. Believe me, I can’t tell you anything. I don’t belong in this world. I come from something totally outside it.”
Y-9 narrowed his eyes and looked down his nose at Gene. “Very interesting. You’re asking me to believe that you’re mentally unbalanced.”
“I’m not asking you anything except for you to leave Alice out of it.”
“Who?”
“The woman.”
“I see. Well, we can’t do that, I’m afraid. Only you can. The decision is up to you.”
Gene could think of nothing to say or do.
“We’ll let you think about it for a while. But you ought to keep this in mind. We know you people know about our research in biological transmission of InnerVoice. Well, you might as well be the first on your side to know that we’ve solved the main problems. Through gene-splicing we have come up with a bacterium large enough to carry the complete complement of InnerVoice nanomachines within its protoplasm. The ailment it causes is quite communicable and produces most of the symptoms of the common cold. All the world will soon have InnerVoice.”
Gene shook his head. “But you think the other side has defensive measures.”
Y-9 leaned back in his chair. “That’s where we’ve got you. We’ve developed countermeasures, nanomachines that will defend the computers. We think they’ll work.”
Gene burned inside. He wanted to get up and choke the man.
Y-9 suddenly began coughing. He wheezed and choked, sounding as though he were having trouble breathing. His face turned gray as he gasped for breath.
Gene sat there, watching, nonplussed. By the time the Group Leader managed to catch his breath his face was purple. Recovered, he sat back, taking deep breaths. He coughed once more and straightened his collar.
His smile was sheepish and he seemed a little embarrassed. “Must be coming down with a cold myself.” He stood. “Well, as I said we’ll let you think about it. Let the guards know when you want to see me. Otherwise, the interrogation will begin tomorrow morning.”
The man left, and the guards came in and took Gene away.
His cell was an unused windowless office with a cot. Two guards were posted outside the door.
He lay in contemplation, giving particular thought to what had happened in Y-9’s office. Gene had wanted the man dead. And the man had begun to choke to death.
Curious. Was there some connection between Gene’s wish and its fulfillment?
He tried to imagine a reason for there being such. If this thing stirring in him was supernatural, maybe it was the power of precognition. He had seen what was going to happen.
He had ESP? But why? How? It didn’t make sense.
Maybe, just maybe, it was psychokinesis, the ability to influence matter, to manipulate things from a distance. Perhaps he had willed the Group Leader to start choking to death.
No. He knew it was something else.
It was magic!
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what Linda had often tried to explain to him, the lines of force. They were supposed to crisscross, intersect, weave into nodes or focus points, and from those points one drew power. Could he sense them?
He tried. He thought of the weave of fabric, enmeshed strands of fiber. No. Farther apart, looser. Like intersecting pipelines carrying energy, they crosshatched the earth in an endless grid of power. You just had to know, first, that this network was there, and, second, how to tap its power.
How did you tap its power? He thought of a transformer on a high-tension line, stepping down the voltage into usable range, controlling the energy, transforming it into something that could serve useful purposes.
Like what, for instance?
He stood up to try a little experiment. He thought that it would be a fine idea if the shabby plastic cot would lift up in the air. Just rise up, of its own accord, and settle back down.
He had no spells, no incantations. He couldn’t work that way. It was simply a matter of focusing power, of directing energy.
Nothing happened.
Okay, use an incantation. Something to concentrate his mind on the task. Maybe that’s what incantations were for. Say something, say anything.
“Do it,” he said.
The cot didn’t do anything.
“Do it. Do it.”
He pointed a finger at it.
“Do it. Do it. Do it now.”
The cot moved, and it surprised him. Don’t blow it, he told himself. It’s real, use the power.
“Do it, do it, do it now,” he intoned.
One end of the cot rose.
“Do it, cot.”
The other end rose and the cot lifted into the air. It floated almost to the ceiling before stopping. He held out both hands and urged the thing back down. It came back down and settled to the floor.
Was that it? Was that his limit? Just being able to move inconsequential objects around? Or was he more powerful than that?
He was feeling very powerful, very powerful indeed. He knew now what had defeated InnerVoice. Not willpower, but magic power.
He sat back down. What would happen if, say, he wished the guards outside the door to lose consciousness? He asked himself how that would be accomplished. The best way would be to imagine the blood draining away from their heads. That would put them out cold. Or maybe it would be better to picture them just keeling over, don’t worry about the mechanics of it. No need to —
Something thumped against the door.
He got up and went to it, listening. He heard nothing outside.
How to get out? Imagine the door unlocking, the metal tab pulling out of the slot in the jamb.
He tried the door, and it opened. One of the guards had been slumped against it and he spilled into the room. Gene looked at him. His eyelids were fluttering. The man would be coming around shortly. Gene didn’t know how it would be accomplished, but he imagined the guard falling asleep and staying asleep for a long time.
He did the same to the other guard. Neither moved.
He reached for one of their guns, but had second thoughts. He’d never shoot his way out. Besides, he really didn’t think he’d need the gun.
He went out a back window.
Thirty
Garage
“How you comin’ under there, Dolbert?”
Dolbert gibbered happily as he turned a ratchet wrench.
“Okay, keep ’er up.”
“How’s he doing?” Jeremy asked.
“He says he almost has ’er licked.”
“Good.”
Jeremy went to the picnic basket and pulled out another leg of fried chicken — at least he thought it was chicken. It tasted a little strange, but good. Very good. The food had been supplied by Mrs. Gooch, the Gooch boys’ mother, a tall, unsmiling, white-haired woman in a faded flower-print dress. She had brought the basket and left it without a word. Luster invited Jeremy and Isis to dig in, as he wasn’t hungry and Dolbert was too busy. Isis had declined but Jeremy had been famished. Besides chicken there were biscuits and corn bread and several cold bottles of soda pop.
Something occurred to Jeremy as he munched. It made him put the chicken down and look at Isis.
She raised her eyebrows questioningly. Jeremy motioned her outside.
“What is it, Jeremy?” Isis asked when they had stepped through the door.
“How the heck are we going to pay for this? I completely forgot.”
Isis frowned. “I hadn’t thought about it. That is a problem, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, they’ve been so nice.”
“We could give them an IOU.”
“Boy, I sure wouldn’t trust me if I were them. And it’s going to be hard to get back here to pay them even if they did.”