Psychlone (8 page)

“Dropping from fifteen and a half degrees Celsius to minus one point one degrees ... sixteen point six drop, in less than three hours.” The pencil raced, scratched the paper, and he threw it down, finishing the calculation in his head. “That's about sixty million calories lost.” The air was almost black. “Stop it!"

It was an incredible amount of potential energy going somewhere: at least two hundred and fifty million joules, just in a fifty-meter square around the cabin. Of course, that wasn't taking into account the second law of thermodynamics, but—

He realized what he was aiming at.

If whatever was outside, draining the heat, was only capable of using a thousandth of that energy, it could lift a good-sized car forty or fifty feet in the air. Even a truck. His figures were rough, but he was in the right area.

“Stop it, please,” he groaned. Then again, whatever it was, perhaps it was acting like a battery, storing power and releasing it. So far, it had done nothing overt.

He clenched his fists and backed away from the desk, feeling as if he had been tricked. It was all nonsense. He was babbling, shooting in the dark, fantasizing.

The air cleared and the room lights came back on.

The fire was out. Across the ashes, white frost was forming.

Fowler looked at his watch. The liquid crystal display was blinking erratically, but as it warmed, the numbers returned. Fifteen minutes had passed since the lights began to dim. It was now six o'clock.

He was past being rational. There was nothing to do but admit his ignorance. Something abnormal was in and around the cabin. Whatever it was, he could now guess where it got its energy—from the air, perhaps the ground as well. Direct conversion of heat to other forms.

He walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Frost dripped and melted from the strands of lank hair hanging across his forehead. He brushed melting crystals from his eyebrows. His lips were blue. “But I'm alive,” he said. “And it didn't freeze me like the cat."

He heard a tinkling sound and returned to the living room, his knees shaking. Outside, wind was blowing the fog away in gluey wisps. The forest seemed to be filled with hundreds of tiny wind chimes. He opened the door slowly and listened. It was a sad, dead sound, the embodiment of winter. It made him want to cry. Then he did cry. Jordan and Henry were dead. It had killed them by getting into their minds, driving them mad. Now it was after him.

Arnold Trumbauer picked Jacobs up at the airport and drove him through late-morning traffic. Trumbauer was a thin, stoop-shouldered man with silvery-gray hair arranged in a fancy pomp. Jacobs had often suspected him of being homosexual, not that it mattered much. Inside, where it counted, everyone was the same. (But in his youth, as a sailor and general roughneck, Jacobs would have sooner punched Trumbauer in the mouth than take a ride through town with him.) “We're not going to the hospital,” Trumbauer said.

“Oh?"

“Miss Unamuno was released late last night. She works in a turquoise shop in the tourist area of town. I'm going there now."

“I read in the paper that two of the Lorobu survivors died yesterday. One killed the other, then killed herself."

Trumbauer nodded.

“Any notion what's going on?” Jacobs asked.

“Very confusing. I talked with Miss Unamuno last night. Her first name is Janet but she prefers Miss Unamuno. She's been making up a list for us."

The architecture of the shopping area was patent Mexican, with touches of rustic old-West. The air was warm, as it had been in Arizona, where his garden was at this very minute surviving without him (vanity of vanities). Trumbauer parked the car and Jacobs stood under the sun patiently while he pointed out a few shoddy attractions.

“And where is Miss Unamuno?” he finally asked, dark eyes boring into Trumbauer."

This way. Was your flight pleasant?"

“No.” He shook his head. “I hate flying."

“That's right. You once crashed in a PBY."

Jacobs had never told the man, or anyone else in his acquaintance, about the unpleasant episode, but it didn't surprise him that Trumbauer knew.

“How did you manage to stay healthy?” he asked.

Trumbauer shook his head. “My guide. Her name is Proserpina, you know. She was an oracle in another life."

“Delphic?"

“Heavens, no. Much earlier than that. She might have been the Witch of Endor, for all I know—but she never gives out more than hints. She told me to pull in my antennae, as it were. I did, but I could still feel the ... backwash, if you see what I mean. Then I knew the others would be in trouble. Proserpina is really first-rate. I wish others could afford guides half as good."

The turquoise shop was in a small, well-kept room off an alley, across from a bookstore which specialized in Western Americana. The lighting was fluorescent and the walls were painted a cool, pale blue. It was pleasant, Jacobs thought, but antiseptic and not to the advantage of turquoise. A man was standing behind a glass display case—about thirty years old, blond-haired and balding in the same late-collegiate fashion Jacobs had found so amusing in the Smothers brothers. “May I help you?"

“We're here to see Miss Unamuno,” Trumbauer said. “Is she—"

“She's in the back room now. She wasn't feeling too well, just got out of the hospital.” The man was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt and looked uncomfortable in them, as if he would prefer double-knit suits of beige or slate-gray. Jewelers are a breed unique, Jacobs told himself, looking around nonchalantly. Most of the stones were fake—dyed in purple automobile coolant and sealed with wax. The authentic stones were pale and common. He couldn't see a really desirable piece in the store.

“It's important. We're friends,” Trumbauer persisted.

The man nodded and walked through the rear door. A few moments later a pale young woman with red hair and wary eyes emerged. She was wearing a simple green shift and no makeup, though her skin was ghostly. The room lighting drained her color even more. “Hello, Arnold,” she said tonelessly, looking at Jacobs. “Is this—"

“Franklin Jacobs,” he said, offering her his hand. She looked at it but didn't bother to reciprocate. “Mr. Trumbauer tells me you've had an unusual experience."

“Unusual?” She smiled weakly. “Happens quite a lot, actually. But never this bad."

“I've been told,” Jacobs began, staring significantly at Trumbauer, “that this might have a connection with Lorobu."

The woman's features tightened and her hand began to shake on the counter. “I'm going to lunch in a few minutes. Tom doesn't like this kind of talk in the store, so if you'll wait for me outside..."

“Of course. We're buying,” Jacobs said.

Outside, Trumbauer shook his head and sighed. “From what I've heard—the grapevine, as it were—the poor woman's guide is a true foulup. Rumor has it he was a Roman consul in another life."

“No plumbers?” Jacobs asked. “Only witches and royalty?"

Trumbauer smiled tolerantly. “Consuls were politicians, Frank. Plumbers are usually smart enough to get off this mortal coil and leave everyone to their own troubles. Guides are the misfits of the beyond, wouldn't you say?"

“I wouldn't know,” Jacobs said. “It's always been my fortune to be psychically blind."

“It is a burden,” Trumbauer admitted. Miss Unamuno walked through the door, having difficulty with the heavy glass until Jacobs helped.

“Thank you,” she said. “I know a place around here that doesn't serve Mexican food or hamburgers. Sound good?"

They agreed, and she walked between them under the covered walkway.

The restaurant was small and dark. Jacobs disliked small, dark eating places—he had learned to examine his food closely in the Navy—but Miss Unamuno seemed happier where her paleness wasn't so obvious.

After they ordered, she pulled a piece of paper from her purse and spread it out on the white tablecloth. “I wrote these down in the hospital,” she said. “I don't know if they have any connection with Lorobu or not.” She shuddered involuntarily. “Mr. Jacobs—"

“Frank."

“These—receptions. They caused me a great deal of distress. I've never felt so sickened by a contact. There was nothing but pain and burning and ... incompleteness. I don't know how else to describe it."

Jacobs looked at the list by the candle lantern. “These were the people who talked to you?"

“They weren't the only ones talking. They were just the only ones I could understand. It was cacophony. I'm not even sure whether the background noise was people speaking. Or just animals, or demons...” She stopped as if to gauge his reaction. “Do you believe in demons, Mr. Jacobs?"

“I believe in the forces which create them."

“That's an ambiguous response."

“Miss Unamuno, I have never met a demon. Other people tell me they have, and that demons are real. When I meet one, I'll judge.” He lowered his voice. “However, I've seen things attributed to demons. My attitudes are too complex to explain here.” He reached into his coat pocket for a pencil, then hesitated. “Do you mind if I copy these down? And ask more questions?"

She shook her head. “If anything can be done to ease their misery, I'm only too glad to help."

“Just the names. Is that all you received?"

“And some visual impressions. I believe one of them was a pilot or something. He appeared in an airplane cockpit. Another was on a ship. Not actually, while they communicated with me—if you can call it that—but by way of biographical shorthand. Like we use names."

“Lieutenant William Skorvin, United States Navy,” he read from the top of the list. “Corporal S.K. Percher, U.S. Army Air Force.” He wrote the names carefully on his paper. “I'm surprised there were no serial numbers,” he said.

“There were,” she said, “but I was too sick to write them down."

“What made you sick?” Jacobs asked.

“Like I said, they were in misery. A big bundle of ... agony, suffering. These people, these names, they were caught, I think. Like bits picked up by a cyclone."

Jacobs wrote her description down, then noticed he had misspelled a word. He brought the eraser down and hesitated. He had written psychlone.

“You're going to like it in Salt Lake City,” Richard Townsend said, bending over his younger brother. “Suzanne and I have a real nice home up there. You can meet your nephew—you're an uncle, know that?"

Tim nodded. “Will I have a room to myself?"

“Yes, I think so. They've got good schools in Utah, lots of pretty country. I can take you out hunting, fishing—"

“Don't want to kill anything,” Tim said.

“Huh?” Rick stood up straight and frowned. “No, no,” he said thoughtfully, “of course not. I mean animals, Tim, fish, not people."

Tim saw the nurse who had just entered the room give Rick a disapproving look and shake her head. “Mr. Townsend,” she said, handing him papers, “here are the hospital release forms. A lot of newsmen have been trying to speak to Tim. We don't recommend they be allowed to do so for a long time."

Tim was about to say, “But I want to tell someone—” but he kept his mouth shut. He wanted to talk to someone besides doctors. He already knew they didn't understand.

Rick gathered up the luggage and a cardboard box full of spaceship and airplane models. He opened the lid on the box and peeped in, then smiled. “Got a real fine hobby store near us, too."

“Let's go,” Tim said. He looked up at the nurse and said, “Thank you."

She smiled and tousled his hair. “No problem, Tim,” she said. But he could tell she was relieved. At least he wouldn't go around acting crazy and killing people, she was thinking. Cynthia Furness and Beverly Winegrade, dead. Tim Townsend, alive. He could tell. All the doctors and nurses were afraid of him. Even the FBI agent didn't treat him like a little boy, but like someone in a movie—somebody infected, or perhaps possessed. They would all be glad to see him go.

And just as obviously, they hadn't told Rick about their fear. Something like that couldn't be talked about easily, not by professionals. Since nobody knew what had happened in Lorobu, they couldn't assume Tim was dangerous.

They didn't even know whether he had killed anybody. Neither did he. There was a lot he didn't remember. Not couldn't remember, didn't. Someday.

Rick's car was an old 1965 Ford Fairlane, well-kept but hardly a limousine. Their father had once said Rick was doing well by himself, should be able to afford a new car, but there had never been much explanation for such talk. The luggage was loaded into the trunk. Rick opened the front door for him. “All set?” he asked before turning the key. Tim nodded.

“Off to a new life,” Rick said. “You'll like it."

Rick looked a lot older than Tim remembered, but that was natural. Everybody had died, after all—except myself, Tim amended—and that was quite a burden for someone as young as Rick to bear up under.

The long drive began. “Suzanne's a real nice cook,” Rick said. “Almost as good as Mom."

Tim looked over and saw Rick's face all screwed up, like he was about to cry, but that passed.

Tim hadn't cried yet. After all, he saw his parents almost every night. Now Cynthia and Beverly were with them. All the ones who knew him. Partly they wanted something he didn't understand, or refused to understand, and partly they were afraid. But that wasn't the exact word. They were more than just afraid.

That was why Tim had to grow up very fast, and why eventually he would have to tell somebody. Something had to be done. If they wanted him, then probably they'd want others, too.

He wound back the chart recorder strip and followed the wavy line of the microwave detector. It was smooth and continuous, with the usual random jags, until the time of the freeze. Then it jumped to a plateau for at least twenty minutes. Fowler wanted to calculate the approximate size of a black body—an ideal heat source—large enough to account for such a microwave increase, but he didn't have the texts and his memory was incomplete.