Dream Thief (7 page)

“Yes—we've already met,” replied the stranger as they shook hands. Spence looked at him a little closer; though the cadet seemed familiar, he could not place him.

“I'm sorry…”

“I don't expect you'd remember,” said the cadet. “I bumped into you in the garden concourse one day a week or so ago.”

“Kurt, wasn't it?” He did remember the incident.

“That's right. Kurt Millen. First year. D-level; sector 1.”

“Well, very good to have you aboard. I hope we can make this an interesting assignment for you.”

“I take it you approve of my choice?” asked Tickler. Spence did not see the queer smirk which accompanied the question or he might have had second thoughts.

Instead he said, “Yes, yes. I think Kurt will do just fine. He can begin by helping you ready the scanner test while I prepare the encephamine.”

The shift proceeded uninterrupted, and as he worked Spence thought again of his talk with Ari and embarrassed himself with the warm feelings which accompanied those thoughts.
There is something about that girl,
he told himself.
Be careful,
his cautious inner voice replied.

THE GOLDEN MIST HAD
vanished in the empty howl of frigid winds roaring down from untold heights. The lush, green valley withered and turned brown. The whitened wisps of dried grass and the petals of tiny yellow flowers flurried around him in the savagely gusting wind.

He shivered and wrapped his arms tightly across his chest in an effort to keep warm. He stared down at his feet and saw that he stood upon hard, barren ground. Around him he saw the sparkling glint of diamonds glittering in the icy glare of a harsh, violent moon.

They were his tears—frozen where they had fallen. The hard earth would not receive them.

Spence turned and lurched away, and he was instantly standing on a vast open plain under a great windswept sky where thin clouds raced overhead to disappear beyond the horizon. As he watched he was overcome by the urge to follow those feathery clouds, to see where they went.

He began to run, lifting his feet and leaning ahead. But his legs did not obey properly. Each step dragged more slowly than the last, as if his strength were being mysteriously sapped away.

Soon his legs had grown too heavy to move. He felt himself sinking into the arid soil, sucked down as by quicksand.

He struggled to move as the dry red sand rose above his knees, but his weight pulled him down and down by centimeters. He screamed and his voice rang hollow in his ears. He looked around and saw that he was trapped in a great glass bubble and the sand continued to rise.

Now it seemed to be falling out of the sky, burying him alive. He felt the gritty sting and heard the dry, bristling hiss as it pelted down on him. It filled his hair and eyes. He looked up and saw the glass bubble narrow far above him and sand pouring through a tiny opening to come trickling down. As the sand rose to his chest he pushed it away with his arms, but it fell relentlessly and soon he was deeper than before.

He screamed again and heard the ring of silence, knowing that his cries could not be heard beyond the glass. As the sand closed over his head he realized that he was trapped in an hourglass, and the sand had just run out.

SPENCE AWOKE WITH A
gasp and sat bolt upright on the couch. The sleep chamber was perfectly dark—a black, velvety darkness which pressed in on him with an oppressive weight. He could feel it enfolding him, covering him, smothering him.

He wanted to get up, to run away and escape the awful presence of the dream. But an unseen force held him in his place. He lay back down slowly and as he did so he saw something in the heavy darkness which made his breath catch in his throat.

Directly above him, midway between the couch and where he judged the chamber ceiling to be, a very faint, greenish glow hovered, shimmering in the dark. He sank back into the cav couch and watched as the glow intensified and took the shape of a luminous wreath with tiny tendrils of light radiating out from it. The center of the wreath was dim and unformed, but he sensed that something dark and mysterious boiled within the radiant halo.

There was a familiarity about the glowing green halo which puzzled him. He felt as if he had seen or experienced it before somewhere—but where? He could not remember. Still, the sense of recognition persisted, and with it mounting fear.

His body began to tremble.

In the center of the halo the dim outlines of amorphous shapes could be seen weaving themselves of blue light. Subtle and indistinct, they flared and subsided; shifting, roiling, synapsing inside the green aura. The transparent, blue fibrils sparked silver flashes that glittered when they touched the green halo.

The thing seemed to tug at him, drawing him up and into it. He had the sensation of falling. He reached out a trembling hand to ward off the fall. Fear arced through him like a high-voltage shock. His heart seized in his chest, clamped tightly in an unseen fist. Blood drummed in his ears.

The swirling inner eye of the shining wreath distilled into a translucent core, a round, glimmering mass made up of tiny, pinpoint flecks of pure light. The ovoid shape spun slowly on its axis. Spence dug his fingernails into the fabric of the couch as his flesh began prickling to the thin, needlelike tinkling of a sound felt rather than heard. The sound of his dreams.

Spence fought a wave of nausea rising in him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. He struggled weakly to look away, but the force of the shining thing held him fast. His mouth opened in a silent scream of terror; his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

Still the shimmering mass rotated slowly and Spence sank even further into the depths of the nightmare. He watched it— turning, turning, refining itself, pulling together, creating itself out of atoms of light. With eyes wide and horror-filled Spence at last recognized the solidifying shape. It was a face. And a face he knew too well to feel anything but the utmost dread and repulsion.

Staring out at him from the blazing halo were the skeletal features of Hocking.

H
ELLO, DAD. LISTEN, THANKS
for coming down to the center…" The image on the screen peered back at him apprehensively. “Can you see me okay? Fine. I said, 'Thanks for coming down to the base.' I know it isn't easy for you.”

“Are you all right. Spencer? When they said you wanted to talk to me I was afraid something had happened to you. I hurried over as fast as I could. The lady here said you were ill.”

“Not ill—I had an accident. A
minor
accident. I fell down and hit my head, that's all. But when I went in for an aspirin they popped me into the med bay.” Spence had stuck with his story about falling down and saw no reason to change it now. He did not want to worry his father any more than he already had.

“You're sure you're all right?” The face in the vidphone screen did not look reassured.

“Of course I'm all right; it was nothing. But since they wanted to keep me in here for a few hours I thought I'd have them patch in a signal to the base for me. You get to do that when you're sick.”

“Oh,” was all his father said.

“Anyway, I haven't been able to write or anything so I thought it might be fun if we could phone each other—almost as good as being there.”

“Is your work going all right?”

“Fine, Dad. Everything's fine. Listen, I wanted to tell you that I won't be able to call you again for a while. I'm going to be pretty busy. I may be going out with one of the research teams on a field assignment.”

“How long would that last. Spencer? You wouldn't be gone too long?”

“No, not too long,” Spence lied. “A couple months, that's all. I'll vidphone you when I get back.” He could see that his father did not understand what he was talking about. He looked worn and worried, and was apparently struggling to accept the fact that his son would be away longer than anticipated. Spence wished he had not called; his breaking-the-news-gently strategy was not working. “How have you been, Dad? Is Kate taking care of you?”

“Kate is very busy with the boys. She has her hands full, you know. I don't like to bother her.”

“The boys are in fourth form, Dad. They're in school all day. You won't bother her. Call her if you need anything. Will you do that?”

“I suppose so,” Mr. Reston said doubtfully.

“Listen, I have to go now. I can leave here in a few minutes. I only wanted to tell you not to worry about me if you don't hear from me for a while. I'll be working, that's all.” He hated to tell his father like this, but there was no way of telling him directly. He would not have understood.

In all of Spence's growing-up years his parents had never understood. They did not comprehend his work, nor could they follow his explanations when he tried to describe it to them. He was simply too far beyond them. He had eventually given up trying to make them understand; he stopped trying to bridge the gap.

The image on the vidphone screen licked its lips nervously and leaned into the picture. “You'll call when you get back?”

“Yes, it's the first thing I'll do.”

“I miss you. Spencer.”

“I miss you, too, Dad. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Son. Take care of yourself” The screen went blank.

Spence sat staring at the blank, flickering screen for several moments, then pushed the unit away. It retracted back into a nook in a panel beside the bed. He looked up just in time to see his physician approaching.

“Feeling better, Dr. Reston?” The medic came to stand at the head of his bed. He entered a code on the data screen above the bed and read Spence's chart.

“Feeling fine. Dr. Williams. With a good word from you I'll be on my way,” said Spence as cheerfully as he could. “I'm taking up too much of your time.”

“Not at all. We're having a special this week. Free tune-ups for all first-time customers. You're a lucky guy.”

“Thanks, but if it's all the same to you, I'll take you up on that some other time.” He made a move to get up, but a troubled look from the doctor stopped him. “What's the matter?”

“I was hoping you would tell
me.”

“I—I don't understand. Have you found something?”

“No, you're perfectly healthy as far as we can determine. But I think we should have a talk.”

Spence had a sinking feeling. “There
is
something wrong.”

“I think so, yes.” The doctor drew up a stool and sat down beside Spence, who chewed his lip nervously, “Not physically,” continued Williams, “that is, at least not in any of the areas we have checked out.”

He gazed at his patient intently and Spence got the idea he was being measured for his tensile strength, like a spring being stretched to see how much it could take before snapping. He waited for the tension to break.

“Spence…” The doctor started, then hesitated.

Bad sign,
thought Spence.
Whenever they use your first name it means trouble.

“Do you have any idea why you're here?” The calm physician's eyes watched him carefully, his face a mask of impassive interest which gave away nothing.

“Yes,” Spence laughed. “I tripped over a stool in the lab. I bumped my head, that's all.”

“You weren't in your lab, Spence.”

Spence had had another blackout—that much he knew. He thought his story about bumping his head had been accepted without question. He cringed at the thought of—what? His memory was blank, and that scared him more than anything.

“No?” Spence asked, more timidly than he would have liked. “Where was I, then?”

“You were in the cargo bay air lock.”

“Impossible! Who told you that?”

“The workers who found you. They brought you in. And I see no reason to doubt their story; it's on videotape. All air locks are monitored for security.”

Spence was dumbfounded. He could not believe what he was hearing.

“There's something else.”

He didn't like the doctor's tone of voice. “What's that?”

“The air lock was depressurizing. You were bleeding off air preparatory to opening the outer doors.”

“That's absurd! Why would I do a thing like that?”

“I don't know, but I'd like to find out.” The doctor pulled a thin metallic object out of his pocket and began fingering it.

“Look, if you think I wandered into an air lock and then depressurized it on purpose … you're crazy. That would be suicide!”

The doctor shrugged. “Sometimes people can't take it. They want so badly to get out they don't wait for a shuttle. You were lucky. A cadet saw you heading for the air lock and reported it to the crew chief. There were some workmen in pressure suits nearby. Another few seconds and you'd have been … beyond repair.”

“No. I'm not buying it. I'll have to see the tapes before I believe it.”

“That can be arranged, of course. But I was hoping you'd level with me. If there is something bothering you I could help.”

“You don't understand. I don't know what you're talking about. I tripped and bumped my head.
That is all!”