"A Totalitarian," Rod muttered. "I might've known. They come in batches."
"What's VETO?" Whitey demanded.
"A secret society that works for PEST." Rod turned away to the litter of unconscious bodies. "Come on, let's get these bozos off to dreamland."
Whitey frowned, but he turned to help David heave a thug up onto a couch.
A few minutes later, the whole dozen were drugged and dreaming.
Rod turned to the hostess, and she shrank back at the look in his eye. "Any preferences?" he asked.
The girl just stared at him for a moment. Then, reassured, she gazed off into space, and a reverent look came over her face. "Jane Eyre," she murmured. "I always wanted to be Jane Eyre."
"With him as Rochester?"
The hostess' gaze focused again; she turned to look down at Roksa. Then she implored, "Can't you manage separate dreams?"
Rod and Gwen exchanged glances, and her thoughts said, Grant what mercy thou canst, I prithee.
Rod nodded. "Yeah, why not? You set up the couches and the dreams."
The hostess stared at him for a moment, then slowly smiled. She turned away to punch some buttons on the computer console. Mirane stepped over to watch her closely, and her eyes widened.
The hostess turned away with a bright smile. "I'm ready. Shall we try it?" And she stretched out on one of the couches, pulling the helmet on and pressing the injector against her arm. Then she tossed it aside, stretched luxuriously, and closed her eyes.
Rod gazed at her, chewing at the inside of his lip. "Well, the quality of our mercy sure isn't strained. Give me a hand with this hulk, will you, Yorick?"
As they left the dreamhouse a few minutes later, Rod asked Mirane, "What dream did she give him?"
"The Dunwich Horror."
"Hurry, will you?" Yorick demanded. "That dream will buy us time, but not a lot of it. We need to get off-planet, and fast! I don't think even Whitey, Stroganoff and Mirane will be welcome here after this number."
Whitey's face set. "No. I'm afraid you're right."
Stroganoff stared. "You don't mean it! What about Dracula Rises Again?"
"We'll send back orders for the company to finish it."
"But they'll destroy it!" Stroganoff wailed. "They'll ruin it! It won't even pull a decent box office!"
Mirane was pale. "That'd be money down the drain, Whitey, without you there—750,000 therms!"
"Graves are even more expensive," Whitey answered, "especially on Otranto. And for myself, I don't plan to go on working after I'm dead."
Mirane and Stroganoff paled, and followed.
Rod clenched his jaw. "It's all because of us. You wouldn't be in this bind, if we hadn't crashed your set. I'm sorry, Whitey—very."
"Don't worry about it," the poet growled. "I had a hunch you were worth it."
The tour guide held up a hand to stop them, and pointed down a narrow, winding stair. "We're about to go down into the dungeons—and beyond them. You see, Palazzo Montressor was built on top of the catacombs."
"Which were built especially for Palazzo Montressor," Whitey muttered under his breath.
"Take note of the niter on the walls." The guide smiled cheerfully. "Farther on, you'll notice a pile of bones. We'll move a few of them aside, and you'll notice a brand-new brick wall. Fortunato's behind it, of course. All set? Here we go!"
He set off down the stairway, holding his torch high. The tourists followed him, single file, with the eight fugitives in their midst. The walls quickly dampened and darkened; patches of moss appeared here and there.
Whitey leaned forward and muttered into Rod's ear, "If only Poe could've collected the royalties while he was still alive!"
Rod nodded. "He would've lived longer."
Whitey frowned. "Yeah… Maybe it's just as well…"
They trooped down a long and winding stairway. The tourists began to mutter in excitement over the decrepitude of their surroundings, but Gwen pressed close to Rod, for which he was infinitely grateful. "My lord, 'tis eldritch."
"Yeah." Chornoi glanced up at the dripping walls. "This place gives me the creeps."
"That's what it's supposed to do," Stroganoff explained.
"You mean people pay to feel so lousy?"
They came out into a low stone hallway. The guide sauntered away ahead of them, carrying the torch and whistling. They followed the wavering flames, as masonry gave way to bedrock. They passed by a niche in the wall, with something in it that was wrapped in old, brittle cloth.
Gwen stared. "What is that?"
"A fake corpse, dear. We're in the 'catacombs.'"
The rest of the tour group oohed and aahed at the sight. One lady giggled.
Rod scowled. "Now, if I were Wirlin Eaves, where would
I have hidden my scoutship?"
The tunnel broadened out into an open space, about ten feet on a side. Three tunnels branched off from it. There was a pile of very realistic-looking skeletons stacked up to the ceiling against one wall.
One lady stared at it, her face a fascinating blend of disgust, loathing, and delight. "Is that…"
"Yes, ma'am." The guide gave her a solemn nod. "That's Fortunato's personal crypt."
Rod lifted his head, a gleam coming into his eye.
"What do you scent, O peerless leader?" Yorick whispered.
"Look," Rod said, "if you were Wirlin, you'd want your ship stashed out of sight, but in a place where you could get at it any time you wanted it, right?"
"They're moving on without us." Chornoi sounded nervous.
"Let 'em." Rod waved a hand. "I find this particular exhibit fascinating."
Yorick was running his hands over the wall by the pile of bones. "Here's the button."
Rod nodded. "Press it."
Machinery purred, and the whole wall-full of bones swung outward. The space behind it was huge and unlit.
"Got a match?" Rod said softly.
"Not since Shakespeare," Whitey grunted, but he lifted out a lighter, struck a flame, and held it aloft. "Sometimes it's handy, having vices."
The flickering glow revealed unused maintenance robots lined up against the walls, a pile of construction material— and the nose of a sleek spaceship, streamlined for atmospheric flight.
"Pay dirt," Rod breathed.
They stepped forward, awed by the bulk of the ship. It wasn't really all that big, but in an enclosed space, it seemed gigantic.
"Excelsior," Rod called softly.
Lights brightened around the craft. With a grunt of satisfaction, Whitey let his lighter snap closed and slipped it into a pocket.
"You are not Wirlin Eaves," stated a voice from the ship.
Rod nodded. "Eaves couldn't make it. In fact, he may not be able to get loose if we don't go get help."
Silence hung for a moment, then the ship said, "Ready to transmit."
Rod stared, strapped for a moment.
"Code," Chornoi suggested. "The renegades broke it."
Rod nodded, with a grin of relief. "That's right. We can't send word; it would be intercepted, and so would we. We have to get back to base to call for help."
The ship was silent.
"Excelsior," Rod said again. "Eaves told us that word. How else would we have known it?"
Slowly, an iris opened in the ship's side.
With a sigh of relief, Rod beckoned his people aboard.
PART III
TERRA
If any detectors noticed their takeoff, there was no sign of it. Still, Rod didn't relax until the ship had isomorphed with H-space. Then he sighed and hobbled back to the wardroom, weak-kneed.
As he came in, Gwen was shaking her head in dismay. "I do not understand. How can people become naught but numbers?"
"Not become," Brother Joey corrected, "just described as. I can describe you with words, can't I? Then believe me, I can describe you even more faithfully with numbers."