The Science Fiction Anthology. Филип Дик
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“We will watch, and then we’ll take off for home. I’m anxious to see what the modernists have to say when I show them my notes on this flare-up.—And of course,” he added with grave humor, “you want to show your family that I haven’t ill-treated you.”
He was the barest trace impatient, but Nodalictha’s thoughts were with the female biped in the spaceship. Her expression was distressed.
“Rhadampsicus!” she said angrily. “The other bipeds are being unkind to my pets! Do something! I don’t like them!”
A sailor in a soiled uniform led them into the space yacht’s saloon. The airlock clanked shut, and the yacht soared for the skies. The sailor vanished. Nobody else came near. Then Lon stiffened. He got the flavor of his surroundings. He had Cathy with him. On her account, his flesh crawled suddenly.
This was a space yacht, but of a very special kind. It was a pleasure ship. The decorations were subtly disgusting. There were pictures on the walls, and at first glance they were pretty enough, but on second glance they were disquieting, and when carefully examined they were elaborately and allusively monstrous. This was the yacht of someone denying that anything could be more desirable than pleasure—and who took his pleasure in a most unattractive fashion.
Lon grasped this much, and it occurred to him that the crew of such a yacht would be chosen for its willingness to coöperate in its owner’s enterprises. And Lon went somewhat pale, for Cathy was with him.
The ship went up and up, with the dark shutters over the ports showing that it was in sunshine fierce enough to be dangerous on unshielded flesh. Presently there was the feel of maneuvering. After a time the shutters flipped open and stars were visible.
Lon went quickly to a port and looked out. The great black mass of the night side of Cetis Gamma Two filled half the firmament. It blotted out the sun. The space yacht might be two or three thousand miles up and in the planet’s umbra—its shadow—which was not necessary for a space wedding, or for anything involving a reasonably brief stay in the excessive heat Cetis Gamma gave off.
There were clankings. A door opened. The skipper came in and Cathy smiled at him because she didn’t realize Lon’s fierce apprehension. Four other men followed, all in soiled and untidy space yacht uniforms, then two other men in more ordinary clothing. Their expressions were distinctly uneasy.
The four sailors walked matter of factly over to Lon and grabbed at him. They should have taken him completely by surprise, but he had been warned just enough to explode into battle. It was a very pretty fight, for a time. Lon kept three of them busy. One snarled with a wrenched wrist, another spat blood and teeth and a third had a closed eye before the fourth swung a chair. Then Lon hit something with his head. It was the deck, but he didn’t know it.
When he came to, he was hobbled. He was not bound so he couldn’t move, but his hands were handcuffed together, with six inches of chain between for play. His ankles were similarly restricted. He could move, but he could not fight. Blood was trickling down his temple and somebody was holding his head up.
The skipper said impatiently, “All right, stand back.”
Lon’s head was released. The skipper jerked a thumb. Men went out. Lon looked about desperately for Cathy. She was there—dead white and terrified, but apparently unharmed. She stared at Lon in wordless pleading.
“You’re a suspicious guy, aren’t you?” asked the skipper sardonically. “Somebody lays a finger on you and you start fighting. But you’ve got the idea. I’ll say it plain so we can get moving. You’re Lon Simpson. Carson, down on the planet, reported some nice news about you. You made a gadget that converts any sort of leaf to thanar. Maybe it turns stuff to other stuff, too.” He paused. “We want to know how to make gadgets like that. You’re gonna draw plans an’ explain the theory. I got guys here to listen. We’re gonna make one, from your plans an’ explanations, an’ it’d better work. See?”
“Carson sent for you to do this,” Lon Simpson said thickly.
“He did. The Company wants it. They’ll use it to make zuss fiber and sicces dust, and stuff like that. Maybe dream dust, too, an’ so on. The point is you’re gonna tell us how to make those gadgets. How about it?”
Lon licked his lips. He said slowly, “I think there’s more. Go on.”
“You made another gadget,” said the skipper, with relish, “that turns out power without fuel. The Company wants that, too. Spacelines will pay for it. Cities will pay for it. It ought to be a pretty nice thing. You’re gonna make plans and explanations of how that works and we’re gonna make sure they’re right. That clear?”
“Will you let us go when I’ve told you?” Lon asked bitterly.
“Not without one more gadget,” the skipper added amiably. “You made something that put a screen around the planet yonder, so it didn’t get burned up. It’d oughta be useful. The company’ll put one around Mercury. Convenient for minin’ operations. One around that planet that’s too close to Sirius. Oh, there’s plenty of places that’ll be useful. So you’ll get set to draw up the plans for that, too—and explanations of how it works. Then we’ll talk about lettin’ you go.”
Lon knew that he wouldn’t be let go in any case. Not after he’d told them what was wanted. Not by men who’d work on a pleasure craft like this. Not with Cathy a prisoner with him. But he might as well get all the cards down.
“And if I won’t tell you what you want to know?” he asked.
The skipper shrugged his shoulders. “You were knocked out a while,” he said without heat. “While we were waitin’ for you to come to, we told her—” he jerked his thumb at Cathy—”what would happen to her if you weren’t obligin’. We told her plenty. She knows we mean it. We won’t hurt you until we’ve finished with her. So you’d better get set to talk. I’ll let her see if she can persuade you peaceable. I’ll give her ten minutes.”
He went out. The door clicked shut behind him and Lon knew that this was the finish. He looked at Cathy’s dazed, horror-filled eyes. He knew this wasn’t a bluff. He was up against the same system that had brought colonists to Cetis Gamma Two. The brains that had planned that system had planned this. They’d gotten completely qualified men to do their dirty work in both cases.
“Lon, darling! Please kill me!” Cathy said in a hoarse whisper.
He looked at her in astonishment.
“Please kill me!” repeated Cathy desperately. “They—they can’t ever dare let us go, Lon, after what they’ve told me! They’ve got to kill us both. But—Lon, darling—please kill me first....”
An idea came into Lon’s mind. He surveyed it worriedly. He knew that he would have to tell what he knew and then he would be killed. The Cetis Gamma Trading Company wanted his inventions, and it would need him dead after it had them.
The idea was hopeless, but he had to try it. They knew he’d made gadgets which did remarkable things. If he made something now and persuaded them that it was a weapon....
His flesh crawled with horror. Not for himself, but for Cathy. He fumbled in his pockets. A pocket knife. A key chain. String. His face was completely gray. He ripped an upholstered seat. There were coiled springs under the foamite. He pulled away a piece of decorative molding. He knew it wouldn’t work, but there wasn’t anything else to do. His hands moved awkwardly, with the handcuffs limiting their movements.
Time passed. He had something finished. It was a bit of wood with a coil spring from the chair, with his key chain wrapped around it and his pocket knife set in it so that the blade would seem to make a contact. But it would achieve nothing whatever.
Cathy stared at him. Her eyes were desperate, but she believed. She’d seen three equally improbable devices perform wonders. While Lon made something that looked like the nightmare of an ultimatist sculptor, she watched in terrified hope.
He had it in his hand when the