Dimension Of Horror

Chapter 8

Dr. Ferguson waved goodbye with an absurd enthusiasm, standing in front of the hangar in his black plastic raincoat. Lord Leighton, similarly clad, merely hunched his shoulders and glowered like a moody troll. The handshaking and well-wishing was over, and the little scientist was probably already back with his beloved KALI, in mind if not in body.

Then the plane swung around and Ferguson and Leighton were lost to view, though J continued to stare out the porthole-like window into the night. There was nothing to see but an occasional moving point of light as they taxied swiftly but smoothly out onto the field, but J, lost in thought, did not care.

J had been to the United States before, but not since the Fifties, when he and Richard Blade had tracked a defecting agent from New York to San Francisco in cooperation with the CIA, finally catching up with and killing the fellow in a gay bar in the North Beach district.

J smiled, thinking of the CIA euphemism that had appeared in their report on the action. «The operative was terminated with extreme prejudice.» The Yanks were never squeamish about killing, but they were downright Victorian when it came to talking about it.

Some of the CIA men J and Blade had worked with were probably still posted to San Francisco, but J made a mental note not to visit these «old friends.» He did not like the CIA, an organization more or less blueprinted by Kim Philby, a British agent who had turned out to be a Russian spy. In J's eyes the CIA still bore the triple mark of its birth: it was as ruthless and power hungry as the worst Russian communist, as stuffy and bureacratic as the worst Englishman, and, most annoying of all, as crass and businesslike as the worst Yank, with its network of secretly owned businesses, which included airlines, hotel chains, laboratories, munitions factories and even a few publishing companies in New York.

J had heard the rumors to the effect that the CIA had assassinated the Kennedy brothers to prevent an investigation of the agency's worldwide billion-dollar clandestine business operations. The general public had laughed at the idea. but J, who knew the CIA better, had not laughed at all. No, J concluded, the less I see of the CIA, the better.

The plane reached the end of the runway, wheeled about, tested its mighty jet engines, then, after a pause, hurtled down the gleaming wet pavement and was airborne.

J took out his tobacco pouch and began filling his pipe, though the sign above the cockpit door still glowed «No Smoking» as well as «Fasten your seat belts.» The plane banked steeply, and J could see, out of the corner of his eye, the pattern of landing lights spread out far below, rendered indistinct by a curtain of mist, then London came into view, glimmering like a heap of red coals spilled out over a vast black hearth.

J tamped down his tobacco.

The plane entered a cloud and London vanished. Drops of moving water appeared on the outer face of the window.

J took out his lighter.

«Do you mind if I smoke?»

Zoe, strapped into the seat next to him, glanced at the still glowing «No Smoking» sign, then shrugged. «Go ahead.»

The aroma of sailor's rough-cut drifted on the air.

J tilted his seat back to be more comfortable, toying with the idea of going to sleep. He glanced at Zoe. She too had tilted back her seat and her eyes were closed. The lighting was dim.

Richard Blade, he knew, was asleep, strapped into a bunk at the rear of the cabin, under heavy sedation. With Blade was a male nurse and two muscular MI6 men armed with tranquilizer pistols: there were no other passengers on board. Up front rode the crew of three; pilot, copilot and navigator. Though the craft bore the insignia of the Royal Air Force, everyone in it was a member of the Special Branch.

The door under the «No Smoking» sign opened and a tall man in a brown jumpsuit emerged and made his way back along the aisle between the unoccupied seats. It was Captain Ralston, the pilot. When he came to J, he leaned over Zoe and said softly, «Could you come up to the cockpit for a moment, sir?»

J searched the man's impassive face for some clue as to what might be wrong, but there was nothing there. «Certainly, Captain,» J said, unbuckling his seat belt.

«Trouble?» Zoe asked her eyes fluttering open.

«Nothing serious, madam,» Ralston said.

J climbed over her feet into the aisle with a muttered apology and followed Captain Ralston forward. The cockpit, when they entered it, was lit only by the many-colored lights on the control panel and navigation console. The navigator turned in his seat and said, «Good evening, sir.» He was a slender, dapper fellow with a neat Vandyke beard. His name was Bob Hall.

«Good evening, Bob,» J answered. «What's up?»

Bob hunched over his navigation table, his worried face green in the light from his radar screen. He gestured toward the screen. «A bit of a puzzle, sir. A blip on the radar. Something's following us.»

J checked the scope. It was true.

Captain Ralston said, «The control tower picked it up, too, and warned us about it, so it can't be a fault in our equipment.»

«How far away is it?» J asked.

«About two kilometers and closing,» said Bob Hall. «It's fast, whatever it is, but it seems to be, as far as we can tell, smaller than most aircraft.»

The copilot, Floyd Salas, a small dark wiry man, said, «It could be a ground-to-air homing missile.»

«There's a cheerful thought,» Hall said. «Trust Salas to look on the bright side.»

«I don't think it's a missile,» J said. He sucked on his pipe, but found it had gone out.

«Should we turn back, sir?» Captain Ralston asked.

«No. That's what the Thing is hoping we'll do,» J replied.

«The Thing, sir?» the captain said, raising an eyebrow.

«Is there any way we can get a look at it? Direct visual contact?» J asked.

«Not as long as we stay in this overcast,» Ralston answered, glancing at the cockpit windows where nothing was visible but their own darkened and distorted reflections.

«Take her upstairs then,» J commanded.

Captain Ralston sat down in the pilot's seat and strapped in. J strapped down in a jump seat directly behind him.

Bob Hall informed the control tower of their plans and got a clearance.

The plane began to climb steeply.

Ralston glanced at the altimeter and said, «We should break through any second.»

They waited.

Hall said, «The blip's still on the radar. I think… yes, the Thing has changed course to follow us up. It's gaining on us. One and a half kilometers and closing.»

«What did I tell you?» Salas said gloomily. «It's a homing missile.»

No one answered him. The only sound was the rushing muffled roar of the jets.

«One and a quarter kilometers and closing,» said Bob Hall crisply, then added with a slight quaver in his voice, «The static is getting bad. I can't understand the control tower.»

J muttered, «The Thing seems to have the ability to jam radio transmissions.»

Hall reported: «One kilometer… I think.»

«What do you mean you think?» The Captain glanced back at him, scowling. «You're supposed to know.»

«Sorry, sir.» Hall was staring at the scope in frustration. «The radar is malfunctioning, too.»

J noted that a flock of blips had appeared on the screen, like fireflies, forming no consistent pattern.

At that instant the plane broke out of the cloud cover and soared up into the clear thin air of the lower stratosphere. The moon was full, the stars brighter and more numerous than they could ever be to the earthbound Londoners. The upper surface of the overcast spread out on all sides to the horizon like a vast white undulating desert.

J pressed his face against the window, trying to look back and down.

Hall said, «I don't think you'll be able to see the thing. «It'll come up behind us, in our blind spot.»

«Bank then,» J said. «I want to get a look at it.»

Captain Ralston looked worried. «If we bank, we'll lose air speed.»

J snapped, «I don't care. We can't seem to outrun the damn thing anyway. It'll catch up a little sooner, that's all. Bank, Ralston!»

Ralston obeyed.

The area of clouds they had just left came into view. It had a pale red glow to it, but that was the glow of London. There were other areas of muted light across the face of the clouds, each indicating the location of some well-lit city. J knew them; he could have identified each of those cities by the shape and brightness of its glow. He was looking for something else.

And there it was!

A swift-moving sphere of bright blue-white flame burst from the overcast and rose toward him. The color was the same as he'd seen seeping from the seams of KALI's case the night of Richard Blade's return, but much brighter. The Ngaa-for this must be the Ngaa-seemed to fairly seethe and sizzle with energy.

«Beautiful,» J whispered in awe.

The Ngaa was beautiful as a fallen star.

As the plane leveled out, the Ngaa swung out of sight in the blind spot.

«Have you-ever seen anything like that before?» demanded Salas in amazement.

J nodded slowly. «Yes, during the war.»

Though there had been many wars since, all understood he meant World War II.

«You saw something like that in the war?» Captain Ralston was incredulous.

«Yes,» J said thoughtfully. «I was in an RAF bomber over Germany, about to parachute behind enemy lines. I'd heard about them from the Air Force lads, but I didn't believe in them, thought they were airborne folktales, like the gremlins. They often followed Allied bomber squadrons on their missions over the Axis nations, and the flyboys called them Foo Fighters. Yes, that night I saw one just like this, only smaller and dimmer.» He was thinking, There were men under heavy mental stress on those missions. Can mental or emotional stress awaken the same slumbering powers that KALI cart?

Hall, watching his radar screen, broke in, «Your Foo Fighter, if that's what it is, gives off radio waves on the radar wavelengths, and from the way they register, I'd say old Foo is some sort of electromagnetic field, not anything solid. And he seems to be about ten or fifteen times larger than he looks. The outer part of him is visible, nothing but pure energy, and outside the visible spectrum, in the ultraviolet and infrared and beyond. I'm just guessing, though. The damn radar is going crazy! I can't tell anymore, even approximately, how far away he is or where he's located in relation to us.»

«Is the radar getting worse?» J demanded.

«By the second!» Hall answered fervently.

«Then I'd say Foo is getting close,» said J. «We may already be within his outer edge.»

«Here he is!» Salas the copilot cried out.

The wing on his side had become illuminated by flickering blue light and now, as all turned to look, the bright ball of blue-white fire came alongside, not more than a few hundred meters away, drifting with a languid slowness that belied the fact that it was traveling well into supersonic speeds. The instruments on the control panels were registering rapidly changing impossibilities, and J noticed the hairs on the back of his hand standing up and swaying as they had done only once before, on the night of Blade's last return from the X dimensions.

As if racing the hopelessly inferior aircraft, the Ngaa pulled into the lead, passing them with frustrating ease, then rapidly outdistancing them. The instruments resumed some semblance of normality. The hairs on J's wrist stopped swaying.

Captain Ralston sighed with relief. «He's going to leave us alone.»

The Ngaa slowed.

«Oh, oh,» murmured Ralston.

The Ngaa wheeled in a gleaming arc and came rushing toward them, accelerating.

Salas shouted, «He's going to ram us!»

«Hang on!» warned Ralston, throwing the big jet transport into a steep shearing turn, veering away from the impending collision. The Ngaa shot past in a bright blur.

Salas was muttering something in Spanish, perhaps a prayer.

Ralston's anguished voice rang out. «What's that damn fireball doing, anyway?»

J said grimly, «Mr. Foo is trying to communicate with us, in his own quaint way. I believe he is trying to persuade us to turn around and go home.»

«What Mr. Foo wants, Mr. Foo gets,» Ralston said with feeling, hand closing on the master throttle lever between his seat and Salas's.

J touched the pilot's elbow. «No. Wait. We can beat Mr. Foo.»

«Are you insane?» howled Salas. «If that fireball hits the fuel tanks in this plane, we'll go off like a bomb.»

«Mr. Foo won't do that,» J said firmly. «We have Richard Blade on board, and Mr. Foo needs Richard Blade.»

The Ngaa had swung into sight up ahead as they spoke. «Here he comes again,» groaned Ralston.

J commanded, «This time don't veer away. If he wants to ram us, let him.»

Ralston hesitated a moment, then sighed, «Aye, sir.»

Salas whispered, «Madre… «

The Ngaa was on a collision course, accelerating, blindingly bright like a welding torch. J braced himself for the impact. Ralston sat frozen, gripping the wheel with white fingers.

The cockpit filled with shimmering blue-white light and then… the Ngaa passed through them!

There was no impact, but J was somehow aware of a rushing movement in the brightness, as of an unseen, unheard, unfelt wind, a hurricane of nothingness, and in the midst of the nothingness was a consciousness, a mind that was ancient beyond belief and intelligent in ways so different from man that words like superior and inferior lost all meaning. And J felt, for an instant, a rush of nameless emotions no man had ever felt before and stayed sane. And J glimpsed, as if in a memory of a nightmare, a city that was made of living matter, that hung, breathing, in a violet sky beneath a glowering red sun, above a planet burnt clean of the last trace of vegetation. And J knew, because the Ngaa knew, that someday soon that great red sun would explode.

Then, inexplicably, the Ngaa was gone.

J sat blinking, his head aching, his eyes watering numb and uncomprehending. Captain Ralston continued to hold the wheel, pale, eyes glazed. Salas leaned back, eyes closed. Bob Hall sat at his navigator's table, swaying, mouth hanging open. The jet droned on. The full moon stared in at them impassively.

At last J whispered, «Are you all right?»

The others nodded, apparently unable to speak.

«Where did it go?» J asked, beginning to find his voice.

«I don't know,» Ralston said, as slowly as if he were relearning the English language, rediscovering the meanings of the simplest words.

They searched the heavens, but the Ngaa was nowhere to be seen.

«Thank God,» Bob Hall murmured.

Suddenly the cockpit door burst open with a crash and Zoe stood there, dark hair disheveled, wide-set eyes wild. «Richard… «she cried. «He's broken free!»

J began unsnapping his seat belt. «What about his nurse? His two guards?»

She staggered into the narrow cockpit. «He's killed them!»

J stood up and looked through the doorway. Richard, clad only in a hospital gown, was advancing slowly up the aisle, steadying himself by gripping the backs of the seats. Though the light was dim, there was no mistaking the dark wet bloodstains on his gown.

I'm unarmed, J thought, as a vision of his old Webley service revolver hanging in its holster in the closet of his office flashed through his mind. Perhaps it's just as well. Wouldn't want to hurt Richard. J was afraid, but not that afraid.

Ralston's voice was low, guarded. «Shall I flip the plane over on its back, sir. That should… «

J answered softly, «No, not yet.» He stepped through the doorway, outwardly calm. «Richard! What are you up to now, you young scamp?»

Richard halted a few paces away, a puzzled frown on his face. The expression changed, became alien and opaque, then changed back again. J received an unmistakable impression of two separate personalities struggling for control of Blade's features.

«Richard,» J called again. «You know me. It's J.»

«J?» Blade closed his eyes, swayed, and almost fell.

J advanced a step. «You remember me. I know you do. Come along now, no more of this nonsense.» J watched uneasily as Richard's fingers curled into fists. Richard could easily kill a man with one blow of his fist, and J knew it. Killing had always been a routine part of the work of the Special Branch.

J became aware of a curious blue glow in the cabin, a pulsing, shimmering light that was brightest around Richard Blade, but moved over every surface, sometimes so dark a blue as to be all but invisible, sometimes so light as to be nearly white. It was a breathtaking display, like aurora in a polar sky, like reflections in a sea grotto. Here and there a tiny spark arced between two neighboring metal objects, and the bracing smell of ozone was strong. J thought, The Ngaa is here.

Barely audible above the drone of the jets was an irregular crackly hiss, and as he listened, J fancied he could hear voices in the hiss, as of a multitude of whisperers. What they were saying J could not quite make out, though the whispers grew steadily louder.

Richard shuffled forward, then halted. The aircraft shifted in its course and the bright moonlight fell on his face like a searchlight. Richard closed his eyes and turned away from the brightness, his features half in light, half in shadow, beads of sweat clearly visible on his forehead. Richard was struggling, J saw, harder than ever before, harder than he had ever had to struggle against enemies who were outside him, not inside.

J said, «Get a grip on yourself, Richard. You can do it.»

Richard spoke. J leaned forward to catch the slurred, muttered words. «Yes. I think I can. The Ngaa is strong, so strong.»

«But you are stronger.»

«But I am stronger. Yes. Yes.»

Richard's eyes opened, and it was Richard who looked out through them.

J whispered, «A little more, Richard. Fight him a little more.»

«Yes. Yes!»

Abruptly, from everywhere and nowhere came a toneless scream. J heard it not with his ears, but with his mind. Then there was a swirl of glowing fog, a play of cold white flame along the edges of every object in the passenger compartment, then a sensation of dizzy speed as the fog flowed in a rush up through the roof, passing through solid steel as if nothing were there.

From the cockpit Bob Hall called, «The thing's on the radar again, following us, but it seems to be falling back.»

Richard stumbled to one side, and fell into a seat where he sat, head in hands, sucking in deep gasping breaths.

J leaned over him, saying, «Are you all right, Richard?»

Blade answered, «Not really. I'm awfully weak. Good Lord, sir, do you know I almost killed you? The Ngaa was forcing me, but I saw it was you, and I fought it.»

«Had you tried to fight it before?»

«Yes, but not successfully.» Richard's voice was stronger. «Perhaps I needed… more motivation. To tell the truth, I'd begun to believe the thing was omnipotent.»

«It may attack you again.»

«Yes, but I'll know I can beat it, and that should make all the difference.»

«I hope so. I certainly hope so.» J was not one for physical demonstrations of emotion, but he placed his hand on Richard's shoulder.

Captain Ralston called, «What now, sir?»

J answered, «Set a course for the USA. We proceed as planned.»

Richard tried to stand, but fell back into his seat. «I'd like to stay up and chat but… «

J said, «You'd better get back in your bunk.»

Zoe gently pushed past J's elbow, saying, «Here now, Dick. Let me help you.» She did not quite succeed in keeping her voice steady and impersonal.