Beyond The Barrier Part 2

1. The Zug. [Twice underlined.]

2. Miss Lall. (?) 3. Things burned-Ramsdell, Mrs. Becker, the chair.

4. Churan. (?) 5. Ramsdell's machine, similar to gun.

6. Why did Churan accuse me, then get me out of jail?

7. Why???

Naismith stared at the list he had written. A pattern was forming in it, but it was maddeningly obscure. He rose fromhis desk and took a turn around the living room, moving nervously, combing his hair back with an impatient gesture. It was mid-morning: he had finally fallen asleep again toward dawn, and had slept until nearly ten.

He sat down at the desk again, staring at the list with nar- rowed eyes. The pattern ... He drew a light pencil line between Miss Lall's name and Churan's. The two of them, evidently connected, similar in origin ... one East Indian, the other, by the sound of the name, probably Iranian. ... He felt a touch of uneasiness at this thought, but could not identify it, and went on. He remembered now that Miss Lall always sat alone in cla.s.s; the other East Indian students invariably sat in close, gossiping groups. Did she avoid them because they would know she was not Indian, in spite of her name?

Why did Churan wear actor's makeup?

Why, why, why... ?

The pencil snapped between his fingers. Naismith sat back, deep in thought. He had done the one right thing last night, he knew intuitively, in hurling the chair at the spectral gun.

Immediately afterward he had felt an overpowering sense of relief, almost of reprieve. But why? What would have happened if he had touched the gun?

He thought of the blackened chair, and shuddered. But he knew, somehow, that was not the answer.

He checked off the points on the list again, one by one.

After a moment, hesitantly, he drew a doubtful line between "Things burned" and "Ramsdell's machine."

Now the thought that had come to him last night in the jail cell began to take shape. Ramsdell had died after handing him the machine from Churan. Mrs. Becker had died after moving the machine from the desk to the closet. A common denomin- ator: both had held it in their hands.

Naismith got up and went to the closet. The machine gleamed dully at him from the shelf. Reluctantly, he reached up and pulled it down. It lay heavy and solid in his hands; it was just heavy enough that, to hold it comfortably, an ordinary person would have to keep it at the level of his chest.

That was what Ramsdell and Mrs. Becker must have done.

And they had been burned in the chest, face and arms-that is, in a radius of about a foot and a half from the point where they had held the machine.

If he was right, he had in his hands a thing of frightful power.

And yet he had held the machine, not once but several times, just as he was doing now.

Slowly he put the machine back on the closet shelf. He returned to the desk, leaning over it and staring intently atthe list.

The gun-similar in appearance to the first machine, and evidently wielding the same terrible power. He picked up the pencil, drew another line between the gun and the machine.

Then he traced it again, making it heavier. The gun had appeared after he brought the machine into the apartment.

There was one more connection: if he could trace them all, he would have the answer to the mystery.

He frowned at the last items, the questions of motive, then left them and went back to the head of the list.

The Zug. The word had a teeth-grating unpleasantness for him now, remembering the shadowy creature he had seen in his bedroom last night. What was it? He had no more know- ledge than before: but he knew in his viscera that it was real.

Miss Lall. There at least was a place to start. It was she who had begun the whole thing, with that abrupt question: "What is a Zug?" Her voice . . . was it similar to the one that had whispered to him out of emptiness last night? He could not remember: but he felt certain that Miss Lall knew more about what a Zug was than he did.

She had not asked because she wanted to know.

Why then? To start him thinking, to create a state of mind in which other things might happen . . . ? Naismith's fingers tightened on the broken stub of pencil. Yes, he wanted very much to meet Miss Lall again.

He thought briefly of taking the machine with him to the university laboratories, then dismissed the idea. It was too dangerous; he couldn't take the chance of injuring any more innocent people. Actually the thing ought to be in a vault by itself somewhere . . . but barring that, it was as safe here as anywhere. He locked the door carefully behind him.

Youngsters were strolling on the shadowed campus lawns, oblivious as he went past them. Naismith called first at the Registrar's office. "Dolly," he said to the brown-haired woman at the desk, "can you tell me something about a freshman named Lall-Samarantha Lall?"

The a.s.sistant registrar looked up, startled. "Oh-Professor Naismith." She hesitated. "But, Professor, aren't you sus- pended? Professor Orvile said-" She stopped, embarra.s.sed.

"It was all a terrible mistake, Dolly," Naismith told her in a confidential tone. "I had nothing to do with Ramsdell's death. They asked me a few questions and then released me.

You can call up the police and verify that, if you like."

"Oh, no," she said, still looking doubtful. "Well, I'm sure it's all right then. What was the name?"

"Samarantha Lall."The woman turned to her files. "Yes, here we are. Just a minute, I'll give you a stat of her card." She dropped the oblong of plastic into a copying machine, handed the duplicate to Naismith.

Naismith examined the card. "I see Thurmond has her in freshman English this morning."

The woman glanced at the wall clock. "Better hurry if you want to catch her there, Professor.- That cla.s.s is just letting out."

Naismith thanked her hastily and left. He knew she would notify Orvile and there would be trouble-perhaps an expul- sion. But he had no time for that now.

He saw her among a group of students scattering out of the main entrance of the Humanities Building. She stood com- posed and erect, in a dark blouse of figured silk and a short white skirt, with her books and equipment in her arms, waiting for him while he walked toward her.

Now that he observed her closely, she was an unusual- looking girl. Her skin was a dull tan, without gloss, even her prominent cheekbones. Her hair was black and dull. Her rather heavy features remained expressionless as he approached, but her long, amber eyes regarded him with veiled amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Yes, Professor?" she said in her thin voice.

"Miss Lall." He was fighting to control a sudden anger that made his hands tremble.

"Yes?" she repeated.

"What is a Zug?"

They stared at each other for a moment in silence. "So you still don't remember?" she said. "A Zug-" she p.r.o.nounced the word with an intonation of hatred and disgust-"is a mutated ortholidan."

"That means nothing to me."

"An ortholidan is a monster. Some grow thirty feet long.

They are flesh-eaters, very fierce, and the mutated ones are also very intelligent."

"What species do they belong to? Where are they found?"

"They belong to no Terrestrial species. As to where they are found-" She hesitated. "I can't tell you that yet."

"Why not?"

"You aren't ready. We thought you were, but we were mistaken."

"Ready for what? What do you want of me?"She said slowly, "I'm going to be frank. We want you to kill a Zug. The Zug is in a certain place, very hard to get to. When you are ready, we'll take you there, then when you have killed it, we will reward you liberally." She smiled, showing small, separated white teeth.

Oddly repelled, Naismith said, "Then all this has been just to drive me into a position where I'd have to do what you wanted?"

"Yes," She smiled again, and again Naismith felt a wave of repulsion.

"But why me?"

"Because you're a Shefth. Look-" She fumbled in her handbag. "Catch this." Her hand came up; something small and white hurtled toward him.

Naismith's left hand went out, caught the thing in mid-air, batted it violently away. It bounced on the gra.s.s and came to rest.

"You see?" she asked, a little shakily, staring at him with her luminous amber eyes. "That's why. Your reflexes are twice as fast as any-normal human being's." She stopped. "But I've said enough. Just one more word, Professor Naismith! Struggle against us. That's what we want. The more you struggle, the more ready you'll be. Now good-by."

She turned away. Taut with anger, Naismith stepped after her, took her by the arm.

Her bare flesh burned cold into his palm. She was as cold as a lizard-or a corpse.

Naismith let go hastily. Her amber eyes stared coldly into his as she said again, "Good-by, Professor Naismith." Then she turned, and this time Naismith did not try to stop her. He watched until she disappeared around a curve of the flame-tree- bordered path.

After a moment his eye was caught by a glint of white on the lawn a few yards away. He went to it, stooped and picked it up. It was the object Miss Lall had tossed at him: a chrome tube like an oversized lipstick. He removed the cap gingerly: there was a brown substance inside, the end apparently worn by use. On his thumb it left a brown smear, which would not come off, although he rubbed it vigorously with his handker- chief.

Turning the tube around, he saw lettering stamped into its side: "WESTMORE CHARACTER SKINTONE No. 3: DARK SUNTAN.".

Naismith went home in a mood of suppressed fury. He pulled the machine down from the closet shelf again, set it on his kitchenette table, and stared at it while he ate a sandwichand drank coffee. The food satisfied his hunger, but his atten- tion was not on it. He looked at the sleek, gleaming metal case as if by sheer force of staring he could penetrate its secrets. The metal was blue, like blued steel, but with iridescent glints of color. When he looked closely, he could just make out the fine parallel lines of the machining. That was what, gave it the iridescence, apparently. He examined the three oval inlays, tried again to turn or depress them, tried to force his fingernail into the cracks around them, but the separation was too fine. He turned the machine over, looking again for any joint, but there was none: except for the three inlays, the case was all one piece.

A p.r.i.c.kle of uneasiness went up his spine. A machine is incomplete without controls. This had none. Therefore it was incomplete: the controls were elsewhere.

Someone, out there, invisible ... sitting in a room, watching Naismith every moment . . . with his finger on a b.u.t.ton?

Naismith's fists clenched. The thing was dangerous, lethal; the fact that it came from Churan was proof enough that it was meant to work against him. And yet it was the only solid piece of evidence he had.

What else was there? He cast his mind back over the con- versation with Miss Lall: all of it seemed subtly unpleasant now. Like an electric current, that cold touch of her arm had run back over all his memories of her.

After a moment he got up and took his notepad from the desk. Sitting again at the kitchenette table, he turned to the page where he had already listed what he knew about Lall and Churan, and wrote underneath: "Shefth. Mutated ortholidan (sp.?). Not Terrestrial species."

Under that again, he scrawled, "Am I?" And immediately crossed it out with two heavy black lines.

He stood up, paced back and forth twice across the small room, then went with sudden decision to the visiphone and punched a number. To the university switchboard operator who answered, he said, "Professor Sturges, please."

"I'll see if he's available." The screen went gray, then blinked to life again. A pale young man peered myopically out of the screen. "Bio office."

"I'd like to talk to Professor Sturges, please."

"Okay, I'll get him." He disappeared from the screen, and Naismith heard his distant voice calling, "Hey, Harry-run down and tell Prof Sturges there's a visi for him."

After another wait, Sturges' cropped gray head and sallow, intelligent face came on the screen. Sturges held the Chair of Xenology; he was a quiet man, said to be well thought of in his field; Naismith had only met him once or twice, at faculty luncheons."Sturges, I need some information in your line, if you will."

"Of course, but aren't you-" Sturges blinked at him with faint suspicion.

"It's all been cleared up. I'll explain when I see you," said Naismith quickly. "Meanwhile, what I chiefly want to know is this: according to my understanding, no intelligent humanoid race has ever been discovered off Earth. Is that correct?"

"Quite correct," Sturges replied, still in reserve. "In fact, no intelligent race at all. One or two are about as smart as a chimpanzee, according to the Europeans. Why?"

"A student of mine asked me to criticize an imaginative story of his," Naismith said, improvising. "Now this may be a little harder. Does the word 'Shefth' mean anything to you?"

Sturges repeated it without interest, then shook his head slowly. "No."

"Zug?"

"No."

"Have you ever heard of an organism called an ortho- lidan?"

"Never," said Sturges succinctly. "Is that all?"

Naismith hesitated. "Yes, that's it. Thank you."

"Any time," said Sturges distantly, and broke the connection.

Naismith sat looking at the blank screen. He had been on the point of asking Sturges, "Could a living human being be as cold to the touch as a lizard?"

But he knew the answer. Reptiles and amphibia are cold to the touch because they have no self-regulating temperature mechanism. The temperature of warm-blooded animals varies between narrow limits; if it rises or falls beyond those limits, generally speaking, the animal dies.

But a cold-blooded animal's body temperature is always within a degree or two of the temperature of the air. And it had been cool and overcast this morning on the campus, when he met the Lall creature....

Naismith stood up, his muscles murderously taut. These people, whatever they were, knew more about him than he did himself. And that was intolerable.

"A Shefth," he said aloud. The word still meant nothing to him, called up no image.

Where had he been, what unimaginable things had he done, during the thirty-one years that were blank in his memory?Where on Earth... or off it?

Naismith thought frozenly, "Everything depends on what action I take at this moment." With every nerve alert, he could sense the gathering danger around him as if it were a visible, geometric web.

Suddenly he remembered the card the a.s.sistant registrar had given him, and took it out of his pocket. According to the schedule, Lall had no cla.s.ses this afternoon. Her address was given as 1034 Colorado Avenue, Apt. C30, Santa Monica.

The tube took Naismith to within a block of the address he wanted-one of the old gray-stone apartment complexes, built during the Cold War, with deep shelters and storage vaults underneath. The "C30" in Lall's address, he knew, meant that she lived in the third sub-bas.e.m.e.nt of the converted shelters.

The foyer with its peeling plastic walls was empty. Naismith took the elevator down into a narrow corridor, poorly lighted, with numbered red doors at intervals. The ceiling was oppres- sively low; the floor was scuffed gray tile.

In a dead-end pa.s.sage, he found the door marked "C30." A plastic card gummed to the door read "Lall."