E. C. Tubb - Death Is A Dream

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2024-12-24 0 0 240.46KB 107 页 5.9玖币

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Proofed by an unsung hero.

DEATH IS A DREAM

E.C. Tubb

TOG HALSEN, scavenger extraordinary, glowered as he stared into his immediate future.

Everyone knew that he was one of the best in the business, but unless he had a break and soon, that

reputation wouldn't last. He had failed twice running. If he failed again it would be hard to find backers,

good workers, decent equipment and official assistance. He had seen it happen to others. He would drop

to scraping a living on a contingent basis, trying to cut corners and dodge safety factors.

And that, he thought grimly, was the beginning of the end.

Tiredly the scavenger stretched and looked at the maps on his field desk. Damn all retros anyway. He

had a growing conviction that he had been conned into something and he didn't like it.

Irritably he jerked to his feet and crossed the uneven ground of the camp. The thin column of smoke

from the metfire rose to one side but he ignored it. He timed his expeditions well and there was no

immediate danger from southern winds—not unless nature had decided to change the habits of centuries.

But the fire, and attendant, and the fee for radioed weather reports were all added expense. His scowl

deepened as he approached the diggings.

"Where's Saul?"

"On the job." A square man with a scarred face jerked his thumb toward a crumpled opening in a

mound of vegetation-shrouded debris. Fresh-turned earth lay to either side and the white-clad figure of

the Life Institute operator was busy with his culture plates.

"How long?" Tog didn't look at the lifeman. Sometimes official approval of a thing cost more than it

was worth but you never knew when you might need a doctor.

"He's been gone about thirty minutes." The scarred man glanced at the opening. "He was just going to

take a quick preliminary." He grunted as a figure filled the opening. "Here he comes now."

Saul was a big man, bigger by reason of the padded body armor and protective helmet he wore. He

pulled the respirator from his mouth, the glove from his right hand and wiped the back of it across his

mouth. He looked dusty, tired and irritated. He shook his head at Tog's expression.

"No luck. It looks like it was a warehouse or a factory of some kind. The basement is holding up but I

wouldn't like to gamble for how long. The upper structure has collapsed and only a few beams are

supporting the weight."

"Anything—?"

"No." Saul didn't wait for Tog to ask the inevitable question. "Some junk machinery, boilers for

heating I think. Some packing cases, a little wire, a few heaps of rust. Some bones, too," he added as an

afterthought. "Not many—the rats could have been busy, or few made it in time. Not that it did them any

good." He shrugged at the scavenger's expression. "Sorry, Tog, but there isn't a thing in there worth the

trouble of digging out."

"Damn!" Tog sensed the disappointment of his men and it added to his own. "Is the structure what

we're looking for?"

"No." Saul was emphatic. "The walls are concrete, the beams metal. The thing can't be more than four

hundred years old."

"No hewn stone? No overbuilding or incorporating of an older structure?"

"No." Saul eased the helmet from his head. His hair was damp with perspiration. He didn't look at the

scavenger. "And nothing below, either. The floor is solid—I tested it with sonar. It's another bust, Tog."

Another bust. Two flopped expeditions and now this—still nothing after the sixth attempt, despite the

most careful planning and preliminary investigation. Tog looked down at his hands—they were clenched

into fists at his sides. Deliberately he opened them, spreading and flexing the fingers, taking deep breaths

to quell his anger.

"All right," he decided. "Well have a conference. Get cleaned up and report to my tent. You," he

snapped to the lifeman. "Find that retro and report to me in an hour." He was being impolite but things

were too serious for him to worry about trifles. "The rest of you scatter and see what you can find.

Move!"

The retro was arrogant. He came into the tent, tall, thin and emaciated with long hours of fasting and

prayer, the deep-set eyes in his tonsured skull burning with a fanatical light. Despite the chill of early

spring, open sandals framed dirty feet. He was naked beneath his habit. A massive crucifix hung from a

leather belt, and in his hands he carried a rosary of large wooden beads.

Tog gestured toward a chair.

"Sit down, Elkan," he said. "You've—"

"My name is not Elkan." His voice was harsh. "I am Brother Ambrose of the Most Holy Order of—"

"All right," snapped Tog. "I know who you are."

He felt his anger rising and fought for control. Damn these retros! It was one thing to have

memories—he had them himself—but to literally live a previous existence was something he couldn't

understand. And from the look of Elkan, it hadn't been such a wonderful time. Nothing but fasting and

prayer and… He shook his head. Such thoughts were getting him nowhere.

"You have failed," said Brother Ambrose. His voice and eyes were scornful. "Six times you have tried

and each time the hand of Satan has misguided your efforts. Once again I exhort you to—"

"Satan had nothing to do with it," snapped Tog bitterly. "I followed your guidance and drew a bust.

Now it's time for us to talk."

"Deeds, not words are needed here!" The retro lifted his rosary as if to break into another of his

interminable diatribes. Tog slammed his hand on his desk.

"Shut up! If you start preaching at me again I'll shove that thing down your gullet! Now sit down and

listen!"

His hands were clenched again and he felt the tension of anger. It didn't help to know that his rage

stemmed from fear—fear of failure and what failure would mean. But rage was useless here—anger had

never yet been an aid to the finding of loot.

"Now, Brother Ambrose," he said quietly when the retrophile was seated. "You lived in the first part

of the sixteenth century and were a monk at the monastery attached to the abbey at Waltham. Is that

correct?"

"It is."

"Please continue."

Brother Ambrose looked surprised. He glanced at the lifeman seated at his side, looked at the dour

face of Saul, and let his eyes rest on Tog's grim features. For a moment the scavenger thought he was

going to protest, then he swallowed and shrugged.

"Life at the monastery was very—satisfying. It … but never mind that, you would not be interested.

Sufficient to say that Waltham Abbey was not without those who sought to aid Mother Church. Many

generous benefactors deeded gifts of land and money. There were other gifts of gold and precious

stones—but enough of that. The hand of Satan made itself manifest in the antichrist, Henry VIII. In 1539

came the general dissolution of the monasteries. Father Abbot took obvious precautions."

"You are certain as to that?"

"Of course. I was there. I and two other brothers were entrusted with the task of safeguarding much

of the altar furniture together with other precious objects. We buried them deep beneath the walls of the

chapter house, sealing them with stone and mortar, piling earth so as to hide what we had done. Then we

waited with prayer and fasting for the coming of the hordes of Satan who …"

"Never mind that," said Tog hastily. "We know what happened then." He glanced at the lifeman.

"Truth?"

"Without question. You have our sworn attestation as to that."

The scavenger nodded. Without it he wouldn't have given this project a second thought. The retro

was genuine enough—the Life Institute had made sure of that—but one man's memory was a risky thing

on which to chance the future.

Especially when that memory was stretched over eight hundred years.

With death and rebirth in between.

"The loot," he said. "The treasure. Tell me about it again."

"There is a monstrance," said the retro dreamily, "of pure gold heavier than a man can easily lift,

studded with three hundred and sixty-five precious gems, a crucifix of silver edged with gold and inlaid

with costly stones, and two incense boats and many plates of gold and silver. There is a wealth of chains

and brooches—offerings from the faithful. There—it took many hours for the three of us to carry the

treasure to where we buried it."

"And?"

"There is a reliquary containing a fragment of bone from the blessed St. Stephen. That is my reward

for leading you to the treasure."

"You can have it," said Tog moodily. "If we find it." He leaned back and scowled at the maps littering

his desk. Too few, too undetailed, too frustrating. Waltham Abbey was the name of a place to the north

of London—but just where was the abbey?

It was easy enough to point to a place on a map and give the answer but that was no help at all. Not

when the maps were three hundred and fifty years out of date. Not when the very terrain had altered

since then and landmarks had vanished. The maps were almost useless and the memory of the retro even

more so.

For the forests of early England had yielded to open fields and enroaching hamlets, the hamlets to

villages, and the whole engulfed in the brick tide of London. Then the woods had returned so that now

verdure stood where streets had wound and even the hills had altered. No, he could not blame the

retro—but he had relied on him.

He rose and strode to the open flap of the tent and stood staring outside. He had made a mistake,

and a bad one, and he would have to pay for it. Here, on the outskirts, not even the general run of loot

could be expected. Here had stood suburbs and small factories, dormitories for the workers of London.

They could probe for years and find not even the cost.

Someone moved behind him. The retro stood at his side.

"You will try again," said Brother Ambrose. "The lifeman has agreed to help me remember. The

reliquary must be found."

Tog nodded, not answering, listening to the distant sounds his men made as they searched. He had

always despised the shotgun technique. Good loot couldn't be found that way; the laws of chance and

reason were against it. He liked the sharpshooter technique much better. The tracking down of probable

loot, the organizing of an expedition, the probes and tests and then, with luck, the strike.

But there had been no strike for too long and now, he knew, his reputation was over. A scavenger

lived by his luck.

"The reliquary." Brother Ambrose was insistent. Tog cut him short.

"We will try one more time," he said, "if you agree to go into deep-hypnosis, track in sleep—and if

you can guarantee the basic cost." He turned to where the lifeman sat with the patience of his profession.

"He can arrange the details."

"But …"

"Shut up!" Tog brushed aside the other's protest. He leaned forward, head tilted a little, listening.

"You can't do this to me!" The retro was desperate. "You …"

"Hold your tongue!" This time the sounds were louder, more distinct. Tog stepped forward as a man

burst into the camp. He was sweating, his face red with effort, but he was grinning too.

"Tog!" He shouted. "Saul! Come quick! We've found something!"

It was a hole, but a hole rimmed with metal and sealed by a door. It rested in a pit which had been

dug with furious haste and a man crouched over it, burner in hand, the flame spreading as it bit into the

metal. Another stood, sonar in hand, listening to echoes.

"Give me that!" Saul grabbed the instrument, clamped earphones over his head, frowned as he made

adjustments. "Quiet!" he yelled. "All of you, shut up!"

In the silence the thin trickle of falling soil sounded very loud.

"It's hollow." Saul handed back the instrument. "Who found it?"

"I did." A man thrust his way forward. "I was probing around with a rod." He lifted a thin shaft of

weighted steel. "The place looked promising so I gave it the works." He chuckled, semi-intoxicated with

his find. "I don't know what made me stick at it so long. Instinct, I guess."

Tog nodded, eyes narrowed as he surveyed the area. A good scavenger needed a nose for loot and

he employed only the best.

"Keep working at that door," he ordered. "Let me know when it's open." He stepped back, Saul

close at his heels, ignoring the excited babble rising from the men. "What do you think of it, Saul?"

"It could be a find." The probeman searched the area with experienced eyes. "The upper structure's

fallen but that's natural—the trees would see to that—but that door looks as if it was built to last.

Rust-proof alloy and well-mounted in thick concrete and, from what I could tell from the sonar, the

interior is clean."

"Strong roof?"

"It would have to be to stand that weight." Saul looked at the hill of debris, the thick roots of

encroaching trees, the weight of almost four centuries. "A tall building," he mused. "Four, maybe six

stories, and if it was recent that means lots of reinforced concrete and plenty of mass." He shrugged. "It

could be another bomb-proof," he pointed out. "Full of bones and nothing else."

"So far from the center?"

"It could be." Saul shrugged again. "Well, we'll soon know."

It took twenty minutes to burn open the door and, fast as Saul was, the guildsman was faster.

Hooded and shapeless in protective clothing, he waved them back as he advanced with his geigers.

Carefully he tested the area, thrust himself through the opening, and vanished from view. The men of the

Power Guild had never lacked courage.

"It's clean," he said five minutes later. He'd thrown back his hood and gratefully breathed the cool air.

"Residual stuff only and it falls off from the opening. It's all yours, Tog, but remember to call me if you

break into anything new."

Tog grunted, already fastening the protective armor which the engineers claimed would withstand half

a ton of falling debris. Quickly he followed Saul into the opening, then halted as the probesman inched

ahead. This was no time for impatience.

"Firm," said Saul, his voice echoing. "Built to last."

"What's ahead?"

"Looks like a maze. It could be a bomb-proof, Tog. Most of them were built with similar

radiation-baffles." His light shone from the roof. "As solid as the day it was built. Reinforced concrete, by

the look of it—you can see the marks of the shuttering. I wonder … ?" Metallic noises and the sudden

stutter of a burner filled the air. Hastily Tog adjusted his respirator.

"What are you doing?"

"Testing the wall. I read somewhere that …" Saul gave a satisfied grunt. "Tog! This wall's filled with

lead!"

"Lead!" Lead was money. Saul stepped back as the scavenger thrust forward, his light shining into the

charred, grayish hole. He dug at the metal which was sandwiched between walls of concrete. "You're

right! There must be tons of it!" Tog felt a tremendous relief. If all the walls were similar… He stopped

dreaming. "What's ahead?"

There were narrow corridors and sealed doors. They burned them open and waited impatiently as the

guildsman checked for radiation. There was no radiation, but in the heart of the underground structure

they found something else.

Something incredible.

EDWARD MAINE, Master of Hypnotic Therapy, Comptroller of the Life Institute, South-East Region,

leaned on the low parapet of the upper promenade of the Lifetower and stared thoughtfully toward the

setting sun. Behind him a novice stood in respectful attendance. Maine ignored him. He had other things

on his mind.

It hadn't rained for ten days now, and during all that time the wind had blown steadily from the west;

yet still the radiation monitors remained silent. It could only mean one thing. Soon now the great

necropolis of London would be ready for safe entry, the moldering ruins no longer the prerogative of

daring scavengers but open to all for systematic looting.

The prospect was intoxicating. No one could guess the wealth of knowledge resting in the wilderness

of brick and stone, but there was no doubt that the value of salvageable material would be fabulous.

During his few moments of relaxation Maine imagined what it would be—metal, rare stones, forgotten

mechanical techniques … the list was endless. Thinking about it he leaned a little further over the parapet

and sensed rather than felt the novice at his side.

"I'm not going to fall, young man."

"No, sir." The novice was young, very conscious of his duties, very proud at having been attached to

the retinue of the Comptroller. But he stayed close to his master's side.

Maine sighed, half-tempted to keep the young man in suspense, then sighed again as he recognized

the petty application of authority. He stepped back from the edge and immediately noted the signals of

relief.

"Your emotions are showing," he said coldly. "You must practice better self-control. You must always

remember that no matter what you feel, your patients must never know it. You recognize your fault?"

"Yes, sir. I feared for your safety and …"

"You feared!" snapped Maine. "And you displayed relief at the removal of that fear. Such emotions

must never be revealed. Assurance, yes; confidence, certainly; fear, doubt, anxiety, never. Such emotions

are destructive. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. See that you remember it."

"I will, sir, and—thank you."

The novice was sincere. Maine was a hard master but one of the best. A lesser man would have

broken him for his fault—but then a lesser man might never have spotted the fault at all. And the

Comptroller was right. If a lifeman could not control himself, how could he hope to control others?

"To work," said Maine, dismissing the incident. "I want you to send for two companions from the

psychiatric wards. They are to be strong, agile and skilled at visual diagnosis. They are to attend me here

but to remain unobtrusive. Select them with care. I will not tolerate any failure."

"You are completing the treatment, sir?"

"Yes. There is no point in further delay."

The novice nodded, walked to a communicator and spoke into it. He looked at Maine. "Do you

expect trouble, sir?"

"No, but it would be foolish to risk the work of months by neglecting to take an elementary

precaution."

"I understand, sir." The novice turned back to the communicator, listened, spoke, and broke the

connection. "Fifteen minutes, sir. Is that satisfactory?"

"It will do," said Maine casually. "There is no great hurry." The corners of his mouth lifted in a shallow

smile. "After all, he has waited so long that a few more minutes won't hurt him."

He had waited three hundred and thirty-eight years.

His name was Brad Stevens. He was an atomic physicist—tall, thin, scholastically handsome. He was

forty-two years of age—correction, he had been borne in the year 1927.

How old was he now?

He sat in a little room on a soft chair and stared between his knees at a floor covered with seamless

plastic. The plastic held a pattern of abstract swirls and unconnected curves so that it was easy to let his

mind drift and allow the pattern to take on familiar shapes and recognizable forms. Things and buildings,

flowers and—faces.

Sir William's face.

"… sorry to have to tell you this but you're man enough to take the truth. There is no

possibility of successful surgery. I can ease things a little with drugs but …"

The Queen's surgeon. Old, kind, sympathetic, but devoid of hope. He vanished in the swirls and

another took his place. A strong face—square-jawed, hard, dynamic, the planes carved from stone. The

face of a man who had learned to face harsh reality.

Edgar Cranstead, Director of Atomic Research. The real Director—not the political puppet who

stalked in borrowed glory.

"… give you a choice. You can live out your life knowing what's to come and what the end will

be or you can take a chance. You can go into the Cradle. The choice is yours."

Choice!

There had been no real choice. To live out the rest of his life under constant surveillance or to take the

chance offered that, one day, a cure might be found for the cancer eating into his body. The government

was willing to give him that chance for the sake of the knowledge he carried in his brain, the skills he

possessed. A short life and a painful death or—

He had chosen the Cradle.

"An appropriate name, don't you think?" Doctor Lynne smiled up at him from the patterned floor.

"Some of the boys wanted to name it the Tomb but that was a little too macabre. Don't you

agree?"

He had agreed.

"Suspended animation," continued the doctor. "Simple, really, once we managed to iron out the

bugs. Just a matter of slowing down the metabolism to almost zero and keeping it that way." He

beat his hand against a wall. "This place is built like a vault. You'll be safe enough in here until we

wake you and when we do, we'll have the know-how to cure what's wrong. All you have to do is to

go to sleep and when you wake, your troubles will be over."

Well, he was awake.

He looked up from the memory-triggering patterns on the floor, conscious of a sudden, tremendous

glow of life.

He was awake!

And he had a second chance!

A novice escorted him upstairs, falling behind as they reached the promenade, standing silent and

watchful as Brad looked at the city.

"You are disappointed?" Maine, thought Brad, seemed to have the uncanny knack of reading minds.

Or perhaps it was just that he had trained himself to read the most minute change of expression.

"A little," he admitted. He looked again over the city, a part of his mind wondering at the absence of

noise, another part supplying the answer. Electric power, clean and silent. The buildings were

unambitious—flat roofed, some tiered, the majority low, with here and there a tower reaching toward the

sky.

Phoenix was neat enough—but it didn't seem much for three hundred years of progress. He said so.

Maine shrugged.

"Perhaps. But the progress of your time was somewhat violently interrupted. You know that."

"Yes," Brad agreed. "I know it."

It was, he thought, surprising just how much he did know about this new age. Little, everyday things

had caused him no embarrassment. He knew the rank and purpose of those whom he met. He knew

how to operate various devices with their unfamiliar controls. Even the distortions of the language

presented no problem.

Obviously he had been taught and they must have done it before he awoke.

It had been a strange awakening. He remembered a time of confusion like a distorted dream when he

had lain wrapped in an endless darkness which had rocked and lulled him to tranquility. The amniotic

tank, of course, he knew that now—a simulacrum of a womb. It had shielded him and protected him

while he regained his strength and there had been a voice, deep and compelling, commanding and

directing him through the trauma of birth.

The trauma of birth!

Now why should he think of a thing like that?

The air was warm with the sultry heat of late summer but here, high on the tower, there was a

refreshing breeze from the west. Brad stepped closer to the edge of the parapet, resting his elbows on

the stone, leaning over as he stared below.

From the wall behind him two men stepped forward, their eyes watchful. Impatiently Maine waved

them back and joined Brad where he stood. The novice ignored the command. He was a shadow behind

them both. Coincidence gave Brad's comment an added depth.

"I'm not going to fall over, young man."

"No," said Maine. "I don't think that you will—now."

"Did you think that I might?"

"The death-wish can be very strong," said the Comptroller. "You are fresh from the comfort of the

womb, faced with the necessity of adjusting to a new age—in many ways, perhaps, a frightening age.

Many would choose not to face it."

"I'm not one of them." Brad drew a deep breath, enjoying the taste and smell of it, the feeling of life it

gave. "I like life too well to want to end it before I have to. You don't have to worry about me."

Maine remained silent, his eyes searching the other's face. Brad didn't turn.

"Tell me about it," he said quietly. The Comptroller knew what he meant.

"The Debacle came about fifteen years after you entered the vault," he said. "In the following period of

chaos much was forgotten, including your resting place. Not that it mattered—the radioactivity precluded

entry into the area. But your engineers built well and the structure was basically unharmed."

"And?"

"The vault was found by some scavengers guided by a retro who claimed to have knowledge of the

whereabouts of buried treasure. They did not find the treasure. Instead they found your vault. It

contained, among other things, thirty-seven capsules, eleven of which were found to still contain viable

life. We managed to resurrect three."

"Three?"

"Yes," said Maine calmly. "You have two companions from your own age."

The young man was Carl Holden. He was big with a rugger-player's physique, about twenty-eight

years of age with golden, close-cropped hair. He waved to Brad as he lounged in a chair.

"Hi, pal!"

Brad ignored him, his eyes unbelieving as he stared at the woman.

"Helen!"

"Brad! Oh, Brad!" Their hands met, squeezed, lingered before falling apart. "Brad! How wonderful!"

"Didn't you know?"

"They said there was another but not who." She gave a little laugh of delight. "Brad! I can't believe it!"

It was coincidence but not as outrageous as it seemed. They had worked at the same place, Helen in

the biochemical laboratories, and had had the same boss. She too must have…

"Leukemia," she said. "About two years after you went abroad." She smiled at his expression. "That's

what the answer was when I asked after you. A special assignment, very hush-hush, questions not

wanted and answers not given. The Security of the Nation depended on utter secrecy and all that rot.

Anyway, when I fell sick—but I'm forgetting. You know the drill."

"Yes," he said. "Are you all right now?"

"Of course. They filled me with dope and told me that twenty years would see me better than new

and twice as beautiful. Were they right, Brad?"

"Yes," he said. Helen Shapparch was a beautiful woman. She had always been beautiful. Once—but

that was more than three hundred years ago. No torch could burn that long.

"When you two love-birds have finished …" said Carl. He sounded peevish and Brad guessed that he

felt a little jealous. "Maybe we can get down to business. When did they stick you in the Cradle?"

" 'Sixty-nine. You?"

"Two years earlier. I was the first after they revived the five-year dog and found it could be done. I

had the same trouble as Helen, only they told me ten years not twenty. The damn liars!"

"You're living," said Brad curtly. "Be thankful for that. The others didn't have our luck."

"So I'm living!" Carl jerked from his chair and paced the floor. "So when do I start? I want to get out

of here and start catching up. If these quacks think that I'm going to be one of their prize exhibits, then

they want to think again. I've had enough of hospitals to last me this and every other life."

"That's an odd way to put it," said Brad.

"That's the only way to put it. A new age. A new way of looking at things. Or don't you believe in

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ScannedbyHighroller.Proofedbyanunsunghero.DEATHISADREAME.C.Tubb ITOGHALSEN,scavengerextraordinary,gloweredashestaredintohisimmediatefuture.Everyoneknewthathewasoneofthebestinthebusiness,butunlesshehadabreakandsoon,thatreputationwouldn'tlast.Hehadfailedtwicerunning.Ifhefailedagainitwouldbehardtofind...

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