Night Walk

four

For Tallon there was no pain; that would come only when the paralysis drug began to be absorbed by his system. At first he was not even sure of what had happened, for darkness did not come at once. Instead, his distorted view of Cherkassky and the wavering gun muzzle was replaced by an incoherent universe of light — splintering flashes, marching geometric patterns of color, pine-tree shapes of amethyst and pink.

But there was no escaping the processes of logic. A hornet-gun charge from a distance of twelve inches …

My eyes must be gone!

TalIon had time for a moment of anguish; then all his consciousness contracted to focus on a new phenomenon: he was unable to breathe. With all physical sensation blanketed by the drug, he had no way of knowing why his breath had been shut off; but it was not too difficult to guess. Blinding him had been only the first installment; now Cherkassky was out to finish the job. Tallon discovered he was not very afraid, considering what was happening, perhaps because the ancient reaction of panic — the downward, air-seeking thrust of the diaphragm — Was blocked by his paralysis. If only he had kicked in Cherkassky’s head while he had the chance.

There was the sound of running feet drawing near, then voices:

“Corporal! Lift Mr. Cherkassky to the car. It looks like he’s seriously injured.”

“Right, Sarge.”

The second voice was followed by the sound of boots scufflng on the concrete, and Tallon suddenly gulped air. Cherkassky must have passed out and fallen across his face. Tallon accepted the air gratefully; then he heard voices again.

“Sarge! Look at the Earther’s eyes. Can a hornet gun do that?”

“You want me to show you? Get Mr. Cherkassky into the car, then shove the Earther in the tender.”

Vague shifts in his sense of balance told Tallon the orders were being carried out. Whistles sounded; vehicle turbines were spun up noisily. And indeterminate time went by; then Tallon began to feel pain… .

Less than twenty-four hours had passed, but already Tallon thought he could feel the quickening of the other senses that accompanies the loss of sight.

In the police headquarters in New Wittenburg somebody had jabbed a hypodermic into his neck, and he had regained consciousness with the comforting feeling of bandages across his face. He had been given a hot drink and escorted to a bed — all without having a word addressed to him — and, miraculously, had slept. While he was sleeping someone had removed his shoes and replaced them with thin-soled boots several sizes too large for him.

Now he was being transported in another vehicle, accompanied by three or four anonymous E.L.S.P. officers, who communicated with him by occasional pushes and nudges. Tallon was too helpless to try to get them to talk to him. His mind was unable to encompass anything but the fact that he was unable to see.

The vehicle slowed down, heeled twice as it turned corners, then stopped. When Tallon was helped out he knew with certainty he was on an airfield. He felt the random slap of air currents, which spoke of open space, and smelled aviation fuel; then, in confirmation, he heard the sound of huge turbines winding up near by.

Tallon felt a faint flicker of interest. He had never flown on Emm Luther because it was expensive, and traveling this way would have made him too conspicuous. The civil aircraft were large, but carried comparatively small payloads owing to governmental regulations controlling their design. The fuselages were heavily armored, and the wings were inefficient by Earth standards, because they carried the complete power, fuel, and control systems. In the event of a crash landing the wings, with their deadly fuel load, were shed by explosive bolts. The planetary government had made flying safe on Emm Luther, regardless of economics, and in that respect had earned Tallon’s reluctant approval. He wished the Temporal Moderator would display such good sense in the staffing of governmental agencies.

Unseen hands helped him up steps into the warm, plastic-smelling interior of the plane and into a seat. Other hands fastened the safety webbing, and suddenly he was left alone. Tallon listened intently, using his newly discovered trick of consciously seeking different sound frequencies, but the only voices he picked up were those of the E.L.S.P. men conversing in whispers. Evidently they had laid on a special flight just for him. Feeling cold, Tallon slumped down in his seat and wished he could at least look through the windows.

His eyes no longer hurt, but the outraged nerves were still throwing up pseudo images, some of which were painfully brilliant flashes of color. Tallon wondered how long it would be before they gave him proper medical attention. It was not until he heard the whump of the door closing, followed by an increase in engine pitch, that he wondered where he was being taken. There was, he decided, only one real possibility: the Pavilion.

The prison reserved for political enemies of Emm Luther was on the southernmost tip of the single continent. It had originally been the winter residence of the first Termporal Moderator, who had intended to fill in the marshy region that joined the rocky islet to the mainland. But he had changed his mind and moved north instead. In those early days of colonization when construction materials were still scarce, some unknown civil servant had seen the possibilities of the Pavilion as an escape-proof prison. Several well-placed cutting charges had broken the spine of the little peninsula, allowing the warm waters of the Erfurt Sea to lap across it. Within a few years the original marshy area had become a superswamp that could be crossed only by air.

The Pavilion held fewer prisoners now than in the years when the present political overlords were emerging. And it had confirmed the civil servant’s foresight: Nobody had ever escaped from it.

After an extremely smooth takeoff and a short climb the aircraft settled in its course, with near-silent engines; only an occasional slipping sensation let Tallon know he was moving through the sky. He sat listening to the whisper of air and the infrequent whine of control servos, then drifted into an uneasy sleep.

He awoke to the sound of the engines in full throat, the big jets hammering fierce vibrations through the plane’s structure. Tallon gripped the armrests of his seat. A few agonizing seconds went by in his private night-world before he realized what was happening: The big aircraft was making a vertical landing. At Emm Luther’s gravity this maneuver involved such a prodigious expenditure of fuel that it would only be done either in an emergency or in a landing where there was no room for even a primitive airstrip. Tailon decided they had arrived at the Pavilion.

Coming down the steps from the passenger door, Tallon’s first impression was of the warmth of the air in contrast to the bitter winds of the New Wittenburg winter. He had forgotten that the thousand-mile flight would bring him close to the planet’s tropics. As he was being guided across an area of rippled concrete, with heat coming through the soles of his thin boots, Tallon sensed the nearness of the sea with a sudden stab of anguish. He had always liked looking at the sea. He was led through a doorway and along a succession of echoing corridors, then finally into a quiet room, where he was pushed into a chair. The booted feet withdrew. Wondering if he was alone, Tallon turned his head from side to side, aware of his utter helplessness.

“Well, Tallon, this is just about the end of the line for you. I guess you’ll be glad to rest for a while.” The voice was deep and strong. Tallon visualized its owner as a big man of about fifty. The important thing was that he had been spoken to personally, and not unkindly. Another human mind was reaching out through the darkness. He opened his mouth to reply, but his throat felt tight. He nodded his bead, feeling like a schoolboy.

“Don’t worry, Tallon. The reaction is catching up with you. I’ll see you get something to help you over the next few days. I’m Dr. Muller, head of the psychology department attached to the prison. I’m going to give you a routine check to make sure that you-know-what has been permanently erased from your memory; then I’m going to hand you over to my colleague, Dr. Heck, who’ll see what be can do about your eyes.”

“My eyes!” Tallon felt an irrational surge of hope. “Do you mean … ?”

“That’s not my department, Tallon. Dr. Heck will examine you as soon as I’m finished, and I’m sure he’ll do everything that can be done.”

Absorbed with the idea that perhaps his eyes were not so badly damaged as he had imagined, Tallon sat patiently through the testing procedures, which took nearly an hour. The program involved more than a dozen tiny injections, some of which brought on sharp attacks of nausea and dizziness. Questions were thrown at him continually, often in women’s voices, although he had heard nobody else enter the room. Sometimes the interrogative voices seemed to be originating right inside his head — persuasive, seductive, or frightening in turn, and always irresistible. Tallon heard his own voice gasping out incoherent replies. Finally he felt the terminals being stripped from his head and body.

“That appears to be that, Tallon,” Dr. Muller said. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re clear. I’m going to certify you as a normal class-three security risk, which means you’ll join the other detainees and will have all the customary privileges. In a way, you’re lucky.”

“I take it you use the word in a very loose sense, Doctor.” Tallon fingered the bandages over his eyes. “Or do you mean lucky in comparison with some of the others Cherkassky has brought in here?”

“I mean, considering the sort of information you had, any other government in the universe, including that of Earth, would have executed you immediately.”

“Cherkassky tried to execute my mind. Do you know he kept on pressing the red button on that — ”

“Enough!” Muller’s voice had lost its friendliness. “That isn’t my department.”

“My mistake, Doctor. I thought you said you were head of psychology. Or is it that you don’t want to think too much about the kind of men you work for?”

There was a long silence. When Muller spoke again he had regained his professional warmth. “I’m prescribing something to get you through the backlash period, Tallon. I’m sure you’ll find you’ll settle down here very well. Now Dr. Heck will see you.”

Muller must have given a signal of some kind, for a door opened quietly and Tallon felt a hand grasp his arm. He was led out of the room and along more corridors. The medical block, if that’s what it was, seemed a lot bigger than he had expected. Although lagging behind Earth in many fields of research, it was possible that Emm Luther could be advanced in surgical techniques. After all, Tallon thought, this is the twenty-second century. There are all kinds of things that can be done for an injured person — microsurgery, cell regeneration, electron surgery, tissue welding.

By the time he was escorted into a room that smelled of antiseptics, Tallon was drenched with perspiration and shaking uncontrollably. Someone guided him to what felt like a high couch and made him lie down. A feeling of warmth on his forehead and lips told him that powerful lights were shining on his face. There was a short delay during which he heard soft footsteps and the rustle of clothing near by. He fought to check the trembling, but it was impossible; the single breath of hope had shattered his control.

“Well now, Mr. Tallon.” The man’s voice had the slight German accent common on Emm Luther. “You’re nervous, I see. Dr. Muller said you’d be in need of medication. I think we’ll give you a couple of cc’s of one of our blends of distilled tranquility.”

“I don’t need it,” Tallon said determinedly. “If it’s all right with you, I’d just like to get on with the … with the …”

“I understand. Let’s see now.”

Tallon felt the bandages being gently cut away from his eyes; and then, incredibly, Dr. Heck began to whistle.

“Oh, yes, I see … I see. An unfortunate accident, of course, but things could have been worse, Mr. Tallon. I think we can fix this up for you without too much difficulty. It will take a week or so, but we’ll be able to patch you up all right.”

“Do you mean it?” Tallon drew in an ecstatic, shuddering breath. “Do you really mean you’ll be able to do something with my eyes?”

“Of course. We’ll start work on the eyelids in the morning — that’s the trickiest part — and we’ll clean up the bridge of the nose and do something about the brows.”

“But my eyes — what about my eyes?”

“No problem. What color would you like?”

“Color?” Tallon felt a chill of fear.

“Yes,” Heck said cheerfully. “It’s small recompense for being blind, but we can give you a really beautiful pair of brown plastic eyes. Or you can have blue — but with your coloring I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Tallon made no reply. An icy eternity went by before he felt the welcome needle slide into his arm.