I lay in the dark, the memory of towers and trumpets and fountains of
fire in my mind. I put up my hand, felt a coarse garment. Had I but
dreamed...? I stirred. Light blazed in a widening band above my face.
Through narrowed eyes I saw a room, a mean chamber, dusty, littered
with ill-assorted rubbish. In a wall there was a window. I went to it,
stared out upon a green sward, a path that curved downward to a white
strand. It was a strange scene, and yet--
A wave of vertigo swept over me, faded. I tried to remember.
I reached up, felt something clamped over my head. I pulled it off and
it fell to the floor with a faint clatter: a broad-spectrum briefing
device, of the type used to indoctrinate unidentified citizens who had
undergone a Change unprepared....
Suddenly, like water pouring down a drain, the picture in my mind
faded, left me standing in my old familiar junk room, with a humming in
my head and a throb in my temples. I had been about to try the briefing
gimmick, and had wondered if it would work. It had--with a vengeance.
For a minute there I had stumbled around the room like a stranger,
yearning for dear old Vallon. I could remember the feeling--but it was
gone now. I was just me, in trouble as usual.
A rattle of gunfire outside brought me to the window in a jump. It
was the same view as a few moments before, but it made more sense
now. There was the still-smoking wreckage of the PT boat, sunk in
ten feet of water a few yards from the end of the jetty. Somebody
must have tried to make a run for it. The Russian sub was nowhere in
sight; probably it had landed the men and backed out of danger from
any unexpected quarter. Two or three corpses lay in view, down by the
water's edge. From where I stood I couldn't say if they were good guys
or bad.
There were more shots, coming from somewhere off to the left. It looked
like the boys were fighting it out old style: hand to hand, with small
arms. It figured; after all, what they wanted was me and all my clever
ideas, intact, not a smoking ruin.
I don't know whether it was my romantic streak or my cynical one that
had made me drive the architect nuts putting secret passages in the
walls of my chateau and tunnels under the lawn, but I was glad now I
had them. There was a narrow door in the west wall of the strong-room
that gave onto a tight spiral stair. From there, I could take my
choice: the boathouse, the edge of the woods behind the house, or the
beach a hundred yards north of the jetty. All I had to do was--
* * * * *
The house trembled a split second ahead of a terrific blast that
slammed me to the floor. I felt blood start from my nose. Head ringing,
I scrambled to my feet, groped through the dust to my escape hatch.
Somebody outside was getting impatient.
My fingers were on the sensitive pressure areas that worked the
concealed door. I took a last glance around the room, where the dust
was just settling from the last blast. My eyes fell on the cylinder,
lying where I had tossed it. In one jump I was across the room and
had grabbed it up. I had found it aboard the life boat, concealed
among the bones of the man with the bear-tooth necklace. Now I, with
my Vallonian memories banked in my mind, could appreciate just how
precious an object it was. It was Foster's memory. It would be only a
copy, undoubtedly; still, I couldn't leave it behind.
A blast heavier than the last one rocked the house. Snorting and
coughing from the dust, I got back to the emergency door, went through
it, and started down.
The fight was going on, as near as I could judge, to the south of the
house and behind it. Probably the woods were full of skirmishers,
taking advantage of the cover. The best bet was the boathouse, direct.
With a little luck I'd find my boat intact.
* * * * *
The tunnel was dark but that didn't bother me. It ran dead straight
to the boathouse. I came to the wooden slat door and stood for a
moment, listening; everything was quiet. I eased it open and stepped
onto the ramp inside the building. In the gloom, polished mahogany and
chrome-work threw back muted highlights. I circled, slipped the mooring
rope, and was about to step into the cockpit when I heard the bolt of
a rifle snick home. I whirled, threw myself flat. The deafening bam
of a 30 calibre fired at close quarters laid a pattern of fine ripples
on the black water. I rolled, hit with a splash that drowned a second
shot, and dove deep. Three strokes took me under the door, out into the
green gloom of open water. I hugged the yellowish sand of the bottom,
angled off to the right, and kept going.
I had to get out of my jacket, and somehow I managed it, almost without
losing a stroke. And there went all the goodies I'd stashed away in the
pockets, down to the bottom of the drink. I still had the memory-trace
in my slacks. I managed thirty strokes before having to surface. I got
half a gulp of fresh air before the shot slapped spray into my face
and echoed off across the water. I sank like a stone, kicked off, and
made another twenty-five yards before I had to come up. The rifleman
was faster this time. The bullet creased my shoulder like a hot iron,
and I was under water again. My kick-work was weak now; the strength
was draining from my arms fast. I had to have air. My chest was on fire
and there was a whirling blackness all around me. I felt consciousness
fading....
_As from a distance I observed the clumsy efforts of the swimmer,
watched the flounderings of the poor, untrained creature.... It
was apparent that an override of the autonomic system was required.
With dispatch I activated cortical area omicron, rerouted the blood
supply, drew an emergency oxygen source from stored fats, diverting
the necessary energy to break the molecular bonds._
_Now, with the body drawing on internal sources, ample for six
hundred seconds at maximum demand, I stimulated areas upsilon and
mu. I channeled full survival-level energy to the muscle complexes
involved, increased power output to full skeletal tolerance,
eliminated waste motion._
_The body drove through the water with the fluid grace of a
sea-denizen...._
* * * * *
I floated on my back, breathing in great surges of cool air and
blinking at the crimson sky. I had been under water, a few yards from
shore, drowning. Then there was an awareness, like a voice, telling me
what to do. From out of the mass of Vallonian knowledge I had acquired,
I had drawn what I needed. And now I was here, half a mile from the
beach, winded but intact. I felt beat and hungry, but I had to keep my
mind on the problem of getting to the mainland. It was a fifteen-mile
swim, but if the boys on shore could keep each other occupied, I ought
to be able to make it. The full moon would make steering easy. And the
first thing I would do when I got out of this would be to order the
biggest, rarest steak in South America.