Dreaming Jewels (18 page)

“What is it, Solum?” she whispered. “Horty—”

He looked up and nodded rapidly. She stared at him. “Solum—can you hear?”

He seemed to hesitate; then he pointed to his ear, and shook his head. Immediately he pointed to his brow, and nodded.

“Oh-h-h…” Zena breathed. For years there had been idle arguments in the carnival as to whether the Alligator-skinned Man was really deaf. There was instance after instance to prove both that he was, and that he was not. The Maneater knew, but had never told her. He was—telepathic! She flushed as she thought of it, the times that carnies, half-kidding, had hurled insults at him; worse, the horrified reactions of the customers.

“But—What’s happened? Have you seen Horty? Bunny?”

His head bobbed twice.

“Where are they? Are they safe?”

He thumbed toward the carnival, and shook his head gravely.

“Th-the Maneater’s got them?”

Yes.

“And the girl?”

Yes.

She hopped off the bed, strode away and back, ignoring the pain. “He sent you here to get me?”

Yes.

“But why don’t you scoop me up and take me back, then?”

No answer. He motioned feebly. She said, “Let’s see. You took the jewels when he asked you to…”

Solum tapped his forehead, spread his hands. Suddenly she understood. “He hypnotized you then.”

Solum shook his head slowly.

She understood that it had been a matter of indifference to him. But this time it was different. Something had happened to change his mind, and drastically.

“Oh, I wish you could talk!”

He made anxious, lateral circular motions with his right hand. “Oh, of
course!”
she exploded. She limped to the splintery bureau and her purse. She found her pen; she had no paper but her checkbook. “Here, Solum. Hurry. Tell me!”

His huge hands enveloped the pen, completely hid the narrow paper. He wrote rapidly while Zena wrung her hands in impatience. At last he handed it to her. His script was delicate, almost microscopic, and as neat as engraving.

He had written, tersely, “M. hates people. Me too. Not so much. M. wants help, I helped him. M. wanted Horty so he could hurt more people. I didn’t care. Still helped. People never liked me.

“I am human, a little. Horty is not human at all. But when Havana was dying, he wanted Kiddo to sing. Horty read his mind. He knew. There was no time. There was danger. Horty knew. Horty didn’t save himself. He made Kiddo’s voice. He sang for Havana. Too late then. M. came. Caught him. Horty did this so Havana could die happy. It didn’t help Horty. Horty knew; did it anyway. Horty is love. M. is hate. Horty more human than I am. I am ashamed. You made Horty. Now I help you.”

Zena read it, her eyes growing very bright. “Havana’s dead, then.”

Solum made a significant gesture, twisting his head in his hands, pointing to his neck, snapping his fingers loudly. He shook his fist at the carnival.

“Yes. The Maneater killed him…. How did you know about the song?”

Solum tapped his forehead.

“Oh. You got it from Bunny, and the girl Kay; from their minds.”

Zena sat on the bed, pressing her knuckles hard against her cheekbones. Think, think… oh, for guidance; for a word of advice about these alien things! The Maneater, crazed, inhuman; surely a warped crystalline product; there must be some way of stopping him. If only she could contact one of the jewels and ask it what to do… surely it would know. If only she had the “middle-man,” the interpreter, that the Maneater had been seeking all these years…

The middle-man!
“I’m blind, I’m stone blind and stupid!” she gasped. All these years her single purpose had been to keep Horty away from the crystals; he must have nothing to do with them, lest the Maneater use him against humanity. But Horty was what he was; he was the very thing the Maneater wanted; he was the one who could contact the crystals. There must be a way in which the crystals could destroy what they created!

But would the crystals tell him of such a thing?

They wouldn’t have to, she decided instantly. All Horty would have to do would be to understand the strange mental mechanism of the crystals, and the method would be clear to him.

If only she could tell him! Horty learned quickly, thought slowly; for eidetic memory is the enemy of methodical thought. Ultimately he would think of this himself—but by then he might be the Maneater’s crippled slave. What could she do? Write him a note? He might not even be conscious to read it! If only she were a telepath… Telepath!

“Solum,” she said urgently, “Can you—
speak,
up here” (she touched her forehead) as well as hear?”

He shook his head. But at the same time he picked up the check on which he had written and pointed to a word.

“Horty. You can speak to Horty?”

He shook his head, and then made outgoing motions from his brow. “Oh,” she said. “You can’t project it, but he can read it if he tries.” He nodded eagerly.

“Good!” she said. She drew a deep breath; she knew, at last, exactly what she must do. But the cost… it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

“Take me back there, Solum. You’ve caught me. I’m frightened, I’m angry. Get to Horty. You can think of a way. Get to him and think
hard.
Think:
Ask the crystals how to kill one of their dream-things. Find out from the crystals.
Got that, Solum?”

The wall had gone up years ago, when Horty came to the very simple conclusions that the peremptory summonses which awakened him at night in his bunk were for Zena, and not for him.
Cogito, ergo sum;
the wall, once erected, stood untended for years, until Zena suggested that he try reaching into the hypnotized Bunny’s mind. The wall had come down for that; it was still down when he used his new sense to locate the trailer in which Kay was a prisoner, and when he sought the nature of Havana’s dying wish. His sensitive mind was therefore open and unguarded when the Maneater arrived and hurled at him his schooled and vicious lance of hatred. Horty went down in flames of agony.

In ordinary terms, he was completely unconscious. He did not see Solum catch the fainting Kay Hallowell and tuck her under his long arm while his other hand darted out to snatch up soft-faced, tenderhearted Bunny, who fought and spit as she dangled there. He had no memory of being carried to Monetre’s big trailer, of the tottering advent, a few minutes later, of a shaken and murderous Armand Bluett. He was not aware of Monetre’s quick hypnotic control of hysterical Bunny, nor of her calm flat voice revealing Zena’s whereabouts, nor of Monetre’s crackling command to Solum to go to the motor court and bring Zena back. He did not hear Monetre’s blunt order to Armand Bluett: “I don’t think I need you and the girl for anything any more. Stand back there out of the way.” He did not see Kay’s sudden dash for the door, nor the cruel blow of Armand Bluett’s fist which sent her sliding back into the corner as he snarled, “I need
you
for something, sweetheart, and you’re not getting out of my sight again.”

But the blacking out of the ordinary world revealed another. It was not strange; it had coexisted with the other. Horty saw it now only because the other was taken away.

There was nothing about it to relieve the utter lightlessness of oblivion. In it, Horty was immune to astonishment and quite without curiosity. It was a place of flickering impressions and sensations; of pleasure in an integration of abstract thought, of excitement at the approach of one complexity to another, of engrossing concentration in distant and exoteric constructions. He felt the presence of individuals, very strongly indeed; the liaison between them was non-existent, except for the rare approach of one to another and, somewhere far off, a fused pair which he knew were exceptional. But for these, it was a world of self-developing entities, each evolving richly according to its taste. There was a sense of permanence, of life so long that death was not a factor, save as an aesthetic termination. Here there was no hunger, no hunting, no co-operation, and no fear; these things had nothing to do with the bases of a life like this. Basically trained to accept and to believe in that which surrounded him, Horty delved not at all, made no comparisons, and was neither intrigued nor puzzled.

Presently he sensed the tentative approach of the force which had blasted him, used now as a goad rather than as a spear. He rebuffed it easily, but moved to regain consciousness so that he might deal with the annoyance.

He opened his eyes and found them caught and held by those of Pierre Monetre, who sat at his desk facing him. Horty was sprawled back in an easy-chair, his head propped in the angle of the back and a small rounded wing. The Maneater was radiating nothing. He simply watched, and waited.

Horty closed his eyes, sighed, moved his jaws as a man does on awakening.

“Horty.” The Maneater’s voice was mellow, friendly. “My dear boy. I have looked forward so long to this moment. This is the beginning of great things for us two.”

Horty opened his eyes again and looked about. Bluett stood glowering at him, a shuddering mixture of fear and fury. Kay Hallowell huddled in the corner opposite the entrance, on the floor. Bunny squatted next to her, holding limply to Kay’s forearm, looking out into the room with vacant eyes.

“Horty,” said the Maneater insistently. Horty met his gaze again. Effortlessly he blocked the hypnotic force which the Maneater was exerting. The mellow voice went on, soothingly, “You’re home at last, Horty—really home. I am here to help you. You belong here. I understand you. I know the things you want. I will make you happy. I will teach you greatness, Horty. I will protect you, Horty. And you will help me.” He smiled. “Won’t you, Horty?”

“You can drop dead,” said Horty succinctly.

The reaction was instant—a shaft of brutal hatred whetted to a razor-edge, a needle-point. Horty rebuffed it, and waited.

The Maneater’s eyes narrowed and his eyebrows went up. “Stronger than I thought. Good. I’d rather have you strong. You
are
going to work with me, you know.”

Horty blankly shook his head. Again, and twice more, the Maneater struck at him, timing the psychic blows irregularly. Had Horty’s defense been a counter-act, like that of a rapier or a boxing-glove, the Maneater would have gotten through. But it was a wall.

The Maneater leaned back, consciously relaxing. His weapon apparently took quantities of energy. “Very well,” he purred. “We’ll dull you down a bit.” He drummed his fingers idly.

Long moments passed. For the first time Horty realized that he was paralyzed. He could breathe fairly easily, and, with difficulty, move his head. But his arms and legs were leaden, numb. A vague ache in the nape of his neck—and his profound knowledge of anatomy—informed him of a skillfully administered spinal injection.

Kay stirred and was quiet. Bunny looked at her and away, still with that vacant gaping look on her sweet round face. Bluett shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

The door was elbowed aside. Solum came in with Zena in his arms. She was limp. Horty tried frantically and uselessly to move. The Maneater smiled engagingly and motioned with his head. “Into the corner with the rest of the trash,” he said. “We might be able to use her. Think our friend would be more co-operative if we cut her down a bit?”

Solum grinned wolfishly.

“Of course,” said the Maneater thoughtfully. “She isn’t very big to begin with. We’d have to be careful. A little at a time.” Belying his offhand tone, his eyes watched every move of Horty’s face. “Solum, old fellow, our boy Horty is a little too alert. Suppose you jolt him a bit. The edge of your hand at the side of his neck, right at the base of the skull. The way I showed you. You know.”

Solum stalked over to Horty. He put one hand on Horty’s shoulder, and took careful aim with the other. The hand which rested on his shoulder squeezed slightly, over and over again. Solum’s eyes burned down to Horty’s. Horty watched the Maneater. He knew the major blow would come from there.

Solum’s other hand came down. A fraction of a second after it hit his neck, Monetre’s psychic bolt smashed against Horty’s barrier. Horty felt a faint surprise; Solum had pulled the punch. He looked up quickly. Solum, his back turned to the Maneater, touched his forehead, worked his lips anxiously. Horty shrugged this off. He had no time for idle wonderments… he heard Zena whimper.

“You’re in my way, Solum!” Solum moved reluctantly. “You’ll have another chance at him,” said the Maneater, He opened the drawer in front of him and took out two objects. “Horty, d’ye know what these are?”

Horty grunted and nodded. They were Junky’s eyes. The Maneater chuckled. “If I smash these, you die. You know that, don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t be much help to you then, would I?”

“That’s right. But I just wanted to let you know I have them handy.” Ceremoniously he lighted a small alcohol blow-lamp. “I don’t have to destroy them. Single-crystal creatures react beautifully to fire. You should do twice as well.” His voice changed abruptly. “Oh, Horty, my boy, my dear boy—don’t force me to play with you like this.”

“Play away,” gritted Horty.

“Hit him again, Solum.” Now the voice crackled.

Solum swept down on him. Horty caught a glimpse of Armand’s avid face, the flick of a tongue across his wet lips. The blow was heavier this time, though still surprisingly less powerful than he expected—less powerful, for that matter, than it looked. Horty rolled his head with the impact, and slumped down with his eyes closed. The Maneater hurled no bolts this time, apparently in an attempt to force Horty to use up counter-ammunition while saving his own.

“Too hard, you idiot!”

Kay’s voice moaned out of the corner, “Oh, stop it, stop it…”

“Ah.” The Maneater’s chair scraped as he turned. “Miss Hallowell! How much would the young man do for you? Drag her out here, Bluett.”

The Judge did. He said, with a leer, “Save some for me, Pierre.”

“I’ll do as I like!” snapped the Maneater.

“All right, all right,” said the Judge, cowed. He went back to his corner.

Kay stood erect but trembling before the desk. “You’ll have the police to answer to,” she flared.