Tomorrow was another day.

  EIGHT

  “Aaaugh!”

  The fish eye! The black, distorted sky! The blob that. . .

  “One, two, three, four…

  Sundberg’s pale face under the surgical lights…

  “Listen, listen, listen, listen …

  Wehl House set on the greensward, the eucalyptus . . .

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  Mr. Krant’s candy shop and …

  A horn blaring .. .

  Murds room, Murds room, Murds room …

  “Shut off that damned noise!”

  He awoke, trembling, drenched with sweat, the scream on his lips. A guitar twanged. He threw his hands to his face, shuddering. God, where am I?

  “One, two, three, four…”

  “Shut it off!” he screamed. He tore his hands from his eyes, staring at the white walls and ceiling, then he remembered. Wehl! He was Craxton Wehl, the former premier! Little motes of memory flitted across the horizons of his mind. He was Craxton Wehl, had been ill, had vanished from Sundberg’s clinic. Craxton Wehl, former premier—that was incredible!

  Felix Quigg! He remembered now—Quigg had been retained to … His daughter! He had a daughter! Quigg had …

  “One, two, three, four…”

  He started to scream again, then clamped his lips shut, grasping at the memories before they fled. They’d been trying to probe him! Narcohypnosis, that was it! The man called Meador had stabbed him with a needle! Fragmentary recollections danced in his mind. Lying there, drugged, he had been conscious of words and snatches of conversation that…

  Teleport! Stunned, he gazed upward at the ceiling. He had teleported from Sundberg’s clinic! He could all but hear Quigg’s nasal voice as the words came back. Utterly fantastic.

  “One, two, three, four., ”

  Meador had said …

  “Listen, listen, listen, listen ..

  Mindblock! The word crashed into his consciousness. He had been mindblocked; he clearly remembered that. He groaned. What was true and what was fantasy? It all seemed a hellish nightmare.

  The guitar twanged.

  The horn blared.

  He attempted to close his ears to the cacophony of sound and force himself to calmness. If only he could capture the dim memories that hovered just beyond his grasp. Perhaps it wasn’t all a mad dream. The teleportation would explain his escape from jail, his magical reappearance in Mura’s apartment.

  Why her apartment? The straggle to remember brought strange feelings of unreality; visual fragments floated eerily through his mind. Glade Avenue, the tower at the space terminal, Mr. Krant’s candy store, the distorted sky—they all danced crazily in his brain.

  Mindblock! The word thundered back, staggering him with its import. He had been cut off from his past; all the long years of his life had been torn from him, sealed off in some unreachable part of his brain. Why? In what strange fantasy was he trapped? Craxton Wehl, former premier, the mindblocked teleport! He laughed harshly. Being Gerald Sundberg had been far simpler.

  He struggled …

  “One, two, three, four…”

  to bring his thoughts into order. Quigg was lying, that was evident. Had he been retained …

  “Listen, listen, listen, listen …”

  to return him to his daughter—or was it to Sundberg’s clinic?—he would have done so. Instead, he had brought him here, had subjected him to narcohypnosis, had attempted to burrow into his mind. What had Quigg been after?

  The guitar twanged.

  He threw up his hands to shut out the shrill sound that came with the sharpness of a needle. Bits and pieces and fragments of memory danced, collided, coalesced, splintered—darted to and fro like fireflies in the night of his skull.

  Was he really Craxton Wehl, as Quigg had claimed, or was he Gerald Sundberg? (My God, that horn!) Sundberg … He ran the name slowly through his mind and was rewarded with the vague recollection of a clinic. Not this clinic, he knew; its geometry was all wrong.

  Sundberg and … a nurse! Nurse Caldwell! Her name inexplicably flooded back. There had been an attendant called Kelsey! He trembled with excitement

  Sundberg … He tested the name again, his concentration on the wispy images that leaped like small gray ghosts in the shadowy corridors of his mind. A small cubicle took form, its walls white and gleaming; a surgical light shone down. A narrow face with a high forehead, the skin shiny under the hairline, moved into his field of vision. Close-set dark eyes peered down at him from above a gauze mask.

  Sundberg! My God, there was Sundberg! The knowledge screamed inside him. Then he couldn’t be Gerald Sundberg! He had to be … Craxton Wehl!

  “One, two, three, four…”

  He was Craxton Wehl, former premier!

  “Listen, listen, listen, listen …”

  Craxton Wehl, the mindblocked teleport!

  The guitar twanged.

  The horn blared.

  “Shut it off!” he screamed. Fighting savagely, he pushed against the straps that held him to the bed. “Shut it off! Shut it off!” the words ended in a strangled sob. No use, no use.

  He fell back panting, determined to retain his grip on this new-formed reality. He was Craxton Wehl! He was! He was! He was Craxton Wehl and no one could take that away from him! He had a name and he had an identity that was all his own! A sobbing laugh escaped his lips; dying away, it left him staring at the white ceiling.

  “Am I Craxton Wehl?” He murmured the question apprehensively. Why would Quigg lie about a thing like that? He must be Craxton Wehl. But if so, why was he here, strapped down like a common prisoner? What had Quigg been trying to dredge from the depths of his mind?

  Teleport! The word leaped back. He could teleport, escape! Was that possible? The thought jolted him. How did a teleport teleport? It had something to do with concentration; he remembered that much. Concentration and destination. But how could he concentrate with that crazy music?

  The music! Of course, that was it—the music was 78

  Intended to keep him from concentrating. The music and that raucous voice! They couldn’t stop him. He pressed his hands to his ears to close out the sound.

  “One, two, three, four..

  The words came faintly as if from a distance. Sundberg’s clinic! He struggled to resurrect it in his mind. If he could get there he could force the medic to tell him the truth. Nebulous outlines took form; they wavered and danced at the periphery of reality.

  “Listen, listen, listen, listen . ..”

  “Don’t listen,” he told himself fiercely. Think! Concentrate! There’s a doctor named Sundberg, a clinic in the sky. In the sky? Yes, in the sky! The House of Hope—he remembered now. He had the sudden illusion that he was no longer in the room, but was in the black night of space.

  The stars screamed down!

  He war lying on a table in the white-walled room; a cone of light shone down. Sundberg, the lower part of his face masked, watched him through dark, intent eyes. The nurse hovered at his side. There was .. .

  Danger! The word shrieked in his brain. He jerked back to awareness, caught with terror. His nerves sang like taut wires in a high wind. The sweat sprang to his palms. Danger! Danger! The alarm grew to a wild clamor in his skull.

  He jerked his gaze toward the door; the danger lay just beyond it! How had he sensed that? I have to teleport, he thought desperately. Sundberg’s clinic. He caught his breath as the door opened and a swarthy man stepped quickly inside, lugging an inert body. Kicking the door shut behind him, he dropped the body to the floor. Horrified, Wehl recognized it as that of a private guard. The half-open mouth and glazed eyes told him the man was dead.

  He looked fearfully at the newcomer—the dark, hard face, the slashing scar across the cheek that pulled one corner of the mouth slightly awry. “Who are you?” he gasped.

  “The knowledge won’t do you much good, Wehl.”

  “You killed him,” he accused.

  “He’s dead, all right.” The scar-faced man cocked his bead as a horn blared. “That music makes a good screen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just an observation.” He looked contemptuously at the body. “He was keeping you prisoner.”

  “I know.” Wehl’s jaws worked convulsively.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Wehl regarded him steadily. “What’s your interest?”

  “We haven’t time for that Did Quigg and that medic question you?”

  “They put me under narcohypnosis,” he admitted.

  “Don’t you remember anything?^

  “Not much.” He smiled wanly.

  “You know who you are,” the other reminded pointedly.

  “Quigg told me.”

  “Did he say what he was after?”

  “He said I’d suffered amnesia, had escaped from a clinic. He said he’d been retained to find me.”

  “Did he say who retained him?”

  “My daughter. I have a daughter, you know. Her name is Madelyn.”

  “What else did he say7”

  “That I had passed the power to a man named Bernard Rayburn.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head defeatedly. “But I learned something while I was under the drug. Their words came through.”

  “Learned what?”

  “Quigg said 1 was a teleport.”

  “Oh, that” The scar-faced man’s eyes sharpened. “Are you?”

  “Is such a thing possible?”

  “It happens, Wehl.”

  “That’s difficult to believe,” he murmured. He raised his gaze to the scarred face. “The doctor said 1 was mind-blocked.”

  “Mindblocked?” The other was startled.

  He nodded vigorously. “That’s what he told Quigg.” “Quigg didn’t know?”

  “He seemed quite shocked. He tried to get Meador— that’s the doctor—to break it. Meador said it was impossible.”

  “Mindblocked!” The scar-faced man stroked his jaw. “I’ll have to think about that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you remember actually passing the power to Bernard Rayburn?”

  He shook his head.

  “Perhaps Rayburn pulled a coup, eh?”

  “Tricked me?”

  “It’s conceivable. That opens interesting possibilities.” “What are you thinking?” he cried.

  “You might still be premier. Perhaps that was the reason for the mindblock—to make you forget that the ceremony never occurred.”

  “Would they dare such a thing?”

  “A lot of people don’t like you, Wehl. You were ready to be toppled. Then a smart politician like Rayburn comes along …” The scar-faced man smiled bleakly. “If true, that information is worth a tidy fortune.”

  “Did you come to help me escape?”

  “No.” The other’s eyes grew wintry.

  “Why did you come?” he whispered hoarsely. A terrible premonition gripped him. The man had killed the guard in cold blood. He was mad! He had to get out of here. He had to teleport, teleport, teleport.

  “To kill you.”

  “Why?” He tried to keep the fright from his voice.

  “To keep you from returning to the Big Power Seat.” “Why would I return? Rayburn has it; you said that yourself.”

  “Rayburn’s dying.”

  “Oh!” He remembered Quigg’s words. “Is it true?” “Europa fever, or so he claims. He wants to return the power to keep it from falling into Franckel’s hands.” “Franckel, I remember that name.”

  “You should,” the scar-faced man said tonelessly.

  “But if the succession ceremony never took place, as you appear to believe, why would he want to return the power to me? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “In that event it would make sense to lure you back, kill you, make certain you were out of the way.”

  “Why would he do a thing like that?” Wehl’s head jerked up. “If you believe that’s true, what do you gain by killing me? Rayburn still will have the power.”

  “That’s a surmise, Wehl. I can’t take the chance that he might be telling the truth.”

  “About dying?” Wehl stared into the glittering black eyes. “But suppose he’s not?”

  “You ask too many questions, Wehl.”

  “You can’t … just murder me,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “No?” The scar-faced man gave a terrible smile. “Murder is my business.”

  “No!” The denial exploded from his lips. Sundberg’s clinic! He had to escape! He fought to resurrect it in his mind, recapture the small room with the white walls, white ceiling. The image flickered in his consciousness, receded, came back stronger. He had to teleport, teleport, teleport.

  “The world won’t miss you, Wehl.’’ The words came from far away.

  The horn blared.

  “No!” he shouted again. He had to teleport, teleport, teleport. He had …

  The scar-faced man’s hand came from a pocket bolding a blaster. He lifted it, then let it drop; his jaw went slack.

  He was staring at an empty bed.

  The silence was a thunder in his ears.

  His eyes snapped open and he rolled over on the bard floor, gazing at the white walls that enclosed him. Illuminated only by the dim glow through a partially open door, they appeared forbiddingly austere.

  The music had stopped! With the realization came the memory of the scar-faced man. He shuddered as he pushed himself to a sitting position and looked around. The sole furnishing was a small cot. The scar-faced man was gone!

  It wasn’t the same room! A sudden stillness gripped him. This room was smaller, more barren. He struggled with his thoughts. The scar-faced man had come to kill him: “To keep you from returning to the Big Power Seat,” he’d said. He had pulled a blaster from his pocket and …

  That was all; his memory ended there. Now he was here, in a small cubicle. It was the same as when he’d vanished from jail, only to reappear in Mura’s apartment There had been oblivion, a transition, a reemergence.

  Sundberg’s clinic! Suddenly he understood. He had escaped, had teleported! The knowledge left him awed. Was he mad, deluded? The strange walls enclosing him told him he was not. Somehow he had transcended time and space, or at least space. Then what Quigg told him must be true: he was Craxton Wehl!

  He passed a hand wearily over his face. Craxton Wehl, the former premier—he bad passed the power to Bernard Rayburn, had been mindblocked, had escaped. That was fantastic. But was it true? When he looked into his mind he saw only a wild, disorganized, bizarre thing, filled with fragments of nightmares. It was like a scene from hell in which bats flitted through eerie caverns lighted by the dancing flames from below.

  Was he Craxton Wehl? He forced his attention to the question. Had he passed the power to Bernard Rayburn, or had Bernard Rayburn robbed him of it? The latter might explain the mindblock; it also might explain the attempt to kill him: Rayburn wanted him out of the way. But it didn’t explain everything. Yet he was mindblocked, and he could teleport. That much, at least, was true.

  Quigg wanted to pillage his mind; the scar-faced man wanted to murder him; Rayburn wanted to give him back the power. None of that made sense. Only Mura made sense, he thought. She was the only real person of the lot. The rest were phantoms come to plague him.

  Aware of the absolute silence, he rose and peered out through the partially open door. The strange geometry of the construction momentarily puzzled him until he remembered that he was speeding through space in a satellite. Had Quigg told him that, or had it come from some deeper well? The knowledge that he had teleported to a satellite brought a shiver.

  He studied the empty corridor apprehensively. The doors to the other cubicles were closed. The nurse’s room, Sundberg’s office and private quarters at the far end—the details flooded his mind. He resurrected the locations of the attendant’s room, the galley, the maintenance on the lower deck, the surgery almost across from him. The lander wells were just beyond.

  For an instant he had the impression of standing in front of Mura’s apartment, gazing along Glade Avenue. There was the same sense of familiarity, the same sense of recognition, yet with no real sense of reality. Yet this was reality; be knew it beyond a doubt.

  Faint, flickering pictures tumbled through his consciousness. It was, he thought, as if someone were shaking his brain, stirring the images. Nurse Caldwell, the attendant Kelsey, Doctor Gerald Sundberg—their faces floated through his mind’s eye. A tall, blond giant strode toward him, the eyes tawny in the lean face. Bernard Rayburn! Wehl recoiled and the vision vanished. The place is spooked, he thought; it was filled with visions from the past.

  He stared along the empty corridor, trying to resurrect the image. The tawny face came again; it waxed and waned, danced in his mind, but without the previous clarity. Still it brought a deep sense of recognition. Why was that? It left him with the odd feeling of having viewed a ghost. His heart thumped, a hollow sound.

  A sense of urgency swept him. If he could gain access to Sundberg’s records, perhaps he could find some clue to what had happened to him, and why. Not that Sundberg would commit such a thing to paper. But he had to try.

  Where was everyone? He scanned the empty corridor anew. The nurse was asleep in her room. He jerked violently. How had he known that? The question came with the smash of a fist. But it was true, she was asleep; he knew it with absolute certainty.

  He swung his gaze to the attendant’s room. Kelsey: memory of the name brought a fleeting impression of a square brown face, unruly hair. A big fellow, good-natured, not too bright—the knowledge flooded back.

  Kelsey was … reading! Startled, he suppressed the exclamation about to burst from his lips. Lord, did his mind reach out, touch theirs? That would be a form of telepathy! Or was it clairvoyance? That’s idiotic, he thought. A teleport, yes, but that didn’t make him God.