"What?" A peculiar coolness slid along Greg's spine.
"Maybe they won't see us," repeated Drakeson, and then he smiled wryly.
"Listen, Greg. You're way ahead of me in the Dream Continuity. You're a
lot further away from reality than I am. More impractical. So listen to
a word or two before we try to break through the Cowl.
"We've never been Outside, don't forget that. It's dangerous. You
haven't considered any of the angles. For example, I picked up a couple
of shielding suits which you hadn't thought of. And two small wrist
Geigers. If I hadn't thought of them, then we'd probably have been
contaminated with hard radiation out there, and would have been thrown
into the septic pools for about six months."
Greg shivered. That would have been very bad.
"It's deadly out there; poisonous, Greg. Only the insane have wanted
to go Outside for the last few years, and only the Controllers have
been out, and then only to try to track down the hiding places of the
Colonists. You hadn't considered that, but I did. So I had to steal a
couple of heat-blasters, from the Museum...."
"You what?" Greg stared at the two deadly coiled weapons Drakeson
dragged from beneath the seat. "Do the Controllers know?"
"They've probably found out by now, or will very soon," Drakeson looked
grim. "They'll be after us with sky-cars and para-guns. And they're
sure to slap a psycho label on us. They would anyway, probably, for
just going Outside. But having destructive forbidden weapons on us,
they're sure to, and we couldn't go Outside without weapons, Greg."
That was right, Greg knew. Paralysis guns wouldn't have been enough out
there. Drakeson said softly:
"Is she worth it, Greg? We may have to be brain-probed. Is she worth
that kind of pain?"
* * * * *
Greg's stomach seemed to tie up in knots. Brain-probing, psychometry.
Greg whispered hoarsely. "She's worth it, Drake. And besides, it's
ridiculous to think that we'll be suspected. I'm only interested in
preventing Pat from making that suicide trip. The Controllers have the
same interest."
"But that's their job. You and I aren't supposed to be concerned with
reality. They've gotten very sensitive this last year. They can't
take any chances. At the least sign of disintegration, they have to
apprehend and send you to psychometry."
Greg said. "You trying to get out of your bargain, Drake? If you don't
want that carton of Stage Five dream capsules, then--"
"Oh no, I'll take a chance to get that carton. I never thought I'd get
a chance to experience such premature dreams. It's worth the gamble, we
might get away without being probed."
Greg's head ached. Reality always gave him a headache. He wasn't used
to it. A man who had reached Stage Five had been an anesthesiac too
long to find reality comfortable.
"I know the Codes," Greg whispered. "Legally, there's no reason to
be apprehended just for leaving the Cowl. And as for the blasters,
well--we can drop them off, hide them, if the Controllers get after us."
The cruiser moved down the sloping arc of the Cowl toward the dark
patch that Greg recognized as a merging chamber. The plastic spires
of the City reached up around them as though reaching for the sun.
Only a few human figures could be seen far below, on roofs, and in the
streets. A few low stage humans not in anesthesia.
Greg crawled into the shielding suit. He took over the unfamiliar
controls while Drakeson got his own shielding suit on. They weren't
heavy, but were sluggish material that could throw off ordinary
radiation.
Behind him Greg heard Drakeson's harsh yell. "Sky-cars! Ten of them!
Shooting up out of the Control Tower and coming right toward us! Merge,
and merge fast, Greg, if you still want to go Outside."
Inside the thick sheeting of the suit, Greg's skin was soaked with
perspiration. His face was strained as he moved the cruiser into
the first lock chamber. The cruiser had to move through a series of
locks to the Outside. A precaution to keep bacteria, radiation, other
inimical elements from coming in while an exit from the Cowl was being
made.
One by one the locks opened and closed as grav-hooks pulled the cruiser
through. It was a precariously balanced culture, this one inside the
Cowls, Greg thought. Like living inside a gigantic sealed test-tube.
Any slightly alien elements introduced into that test-tube could make
it a place of sealed death in a short time. A rigidly controlled,
non-changing environment. That was fine, except that some humans within
it had a habit of changing, and for the worse. Retrogression, psychosis.
Psychometry was trying frantically to find the cause. It seemed obvious
that the Venusian Colonists might be causing psychotics to appear in
order to swell their ranks of volunteers to go to Venus to start a "new
dynamic, progressive order." Madness. Suicide.
Progressive evolutionary philosophies meant change, and change might
lead anywhere. But eventually it could only lead to another horrible
_Chain_. One Chain had been enough.
The earth had been thoroughly wrecked. The few survivors had set
up the anti-reality standards, the Cowls and the Codes--and the
Controllers. They established the Dream Continuity that led to the
various anesthetic stages.
But people went insane. They disagreed. They fled the Cowls. Venusian
Colonial Enterprises resulted. It was organized insanity. A neatly
planned psychosis, with grandiose delusions of justification. They
would save humanity! Madness. Schizophrenia.
Venusian Colonization had been organized three years before. At least
four known spaceships had been constructed, stocked, and blasted. They
changed their subterranean hideouts after each blast. It had just never
occurred to Greg that Pat could go psycho and join them.
It was even more ridiculous for the Controllers to suspect _him_ of
being psycho.
He felt a little better as the cruiser broke out beyond the Cowl and
into the blazing natural sun of noon. It blinded Greg. Frightened him a
little.
He'd never seen the sun before, except dimmed by the Cowl.
He sent the cruiser climbing rapidly above the weird grotesque terrain.
Drakeson jumped into the seat beside him. His face was white.
"Open the converter feed valves wide, Greg! Clear open! The Control
cars aren't stopping at the merger. They're coming on through. They're
right behind us."
Greg looked back. Ten sky-cars, and within neuro-gun range. He jerked
the converter wide open. Acceleration slammed him back hard. He knew
now what fear was. In dreams you never suffered it.
* * * * *
The audio in the control panel cracked out.
"Dalson! Drakeson! Turn around! Re-enter the Cowl. Return immediately.
This is a Control Council order. Do so or we fire with full charge
neuro-blasts."
Paralysis guns. And full blast. Greg swallowed. They meant business.
And without even a formal enquiry!