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 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 beachheads. 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 Canal.”
Hanmer sat down. The House exploded. Through the cheering and applause he made his way out into the division lobby where Gladstone, Canning and Peel 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 Beaconfield 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 trousers, polished Hessians and undergarments. He put on a gray shirt and gray 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 Carpenters’ office, PFC Nathan Riley, M/Sgt Lela Machan, and Corp/2 George Hanmer. They were in their hospital grays. They were torpid with sodium thiomorphate.
The office had been cleared and it blazed with blinding light. Present were experts from Espionage, CounterEspionage, 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 disappearance act, Dimmock. They’ll start with you.”
The experts worked over Dimmock with preconscious softeners, id releases and superego 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 disappearers. 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. “We’ll 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!”