The Stuff of Dreams: 2/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
3
Twenty-seven hours later, a sleek, compact private yacht landed at the Los Angeles Interstellar Spaceport and six people emerged.
The first was a tall, dark-haired man in the uniform of a private pilot, accompanied by another large, dark-haired man, just as obviously the co-pilot. The remaining four were apparently passengers -- a pair of big blond men, a smaller man who appeared to be no more than eighteen, and a girl, also quite young, who walked beside him, her hand in his.
The group passed through the Customs scanners and into the main terminal, and porters came running to take the bags of these obviously wealthy travelers.
Griffen led the way through the terminal toward a booth labeled Reynold's Rent-a-Car. The tall, half- American Indian ex-Strike Commander spoke crisply into the little transmitter, signed his alias in the space provided on the lighted screen, thumbprinted the appropriate spot with his specially synthaflesh-coated thumb, and stepped out.
"The car's on its way, sir," he told Mark deferentially and then turned and gestured to the porters. "This way."
Alan suppressed a grin at his manner. When the Jils were beaten, Griffen could take to the stage and make a huge fortune for himself. He and Lyn trailed their four larger companions to the front of the terminal.
The rented car was just pulling up as they emerged. A young man hopped cheerfully out and presented a small device to Griffen, who again pressed his thumb to the little screen. The device beeped a series of notes.
"Okay, mister, it's yours," the young man told him. Captain Griffeth, is it? Fine. Turn it in at any Reynold's Rent-a-Car booth when you're done. They're all over the city."
"Thanks." Griffen, a native of Corala, spoke English with a crisp accent, sounding, Alan thought, almost like a Jil. The driver nodded cheerfully and stepped onto a moving slidewalk, which bore him away to the west.
The porters loaded the luggage into the trunk. Griffen tipped them liberally, climbed behind the controls and glanced at his passengers. "Everybody set?"
"All set," Alan told him from the rear seat. "Let's go."
The aircar lifted off. Griffen glanced over his shoulder. "What was that address?"
Alan gave it to him. Griffen set the coordinates into the car's computer, which tied into the city's huge traffic control computer, and then sat back as the car dived into the stream of traffic departing the spaceport.
"Where is this hotel we're headin' for," Bronson asked curiously.
"Hollywood," Alan told him. "Ever seen it, Kev?"
"Nope," Bronson said. "I've heard plenty about it, but I ain't never seen it. Only been on Terra twice while I was in the Patrol, y'know. First time, I was in the brig for somethin' or other --"
"Kevin!" Lyn sounded shocked. "I didn't know you were ever in the brig!"
Bronson glanced back at her. "I was only a second classer at the time, baby -- 'bout eighteen or so. Kid stuff -- y'know the kinda thing. Gettin' drunk with the guys an' raisin' hell, or somethin' o' the kind."
"Oh," Lyn said. "You know, when Dad was in the Patrol, I remember a guy got in trouble because of me, once. He was a second classer too -- but pretty nice looking. He made a pass at me -- I guess he didn't know who I was. Dad found out." She laughed. "Poor guy was in the brig for a week."
"Only a week?" Mark sounded surprised.
"Yes." Lyn's cheeks had grown pink. "Then I found out what had happened and talked Dad into letting him out. I sort of hoped he'd come back and try again, but he never did."
"Chicken liver," Bronson said.
Lyn smiled a little wistfully. "I was only sixteen at the time and Dad didn't like for me to have anything to do with 'trols."
Linley chuckled. "He knew what they were like."
"When was the second time you were here?" Alan asked.
"Oh, yeah. I was a sublieutenant on the 'Javelin' then. Got a thrillin' view of Siberia from an aircar. Didn't impress me a whole lot. Then I was here once with you guys -- in Ireland."
"Oh," Alan said. "Well, Hollywood's sort lf a landmark on Terra. It's been the entertainment capital of the planet for about three centuries, I guess -- before Terra ever broke into space. It was almost completely destroyed when the San Andreas Quake of '59, hit, but they rebuilt it almost like it was because it's got so much history attached to it." He grinned. "I guess they didn't feel so sentimental about the rest of the city. Kaley says the boss has connections in the film industry here. We'll have professionals handling this propaganda film from beginning to end. Ought to make quite a splash when we play it."
"Assumin'," Bronson said sourly, "that we don't make total asses of ourselves, an' they don't hafta scrap this work o' art t'keep people from laughin' 'emselves t'death."
"Don't be such a pessimist." Lyn said, reassuringly. "Most directors seem to think their actors are ham-handed clods, anyway. We can't be much worse."
"At least they'll appreciate their own actors more after us," Wolenski said cheerfully. "Besides, if I can't act better than that Lance Miller guy, I'm going to be surprised. Take it easy, Kev."
"That's a lotta help," Bronson said. "You guys are all encouragement."
The Underground station in Hollywood, twenty minutes from the spaceport by aircar, was a small apartment over a drugstore, which was also run by the Underground. It consisted of a sitting room, a bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchen. There was no thought in their minds of staying there, for ten minutes away from it was the Angels Motel, a small, modest establishment overlooking the Angels Canal. This famous canal had been built after the great quake of '59 which occurred the year Alan was born -- the same day, in an odd coincidence, within an hour of his birth. The San Andreas Fault had been responsible for one of the worst quakes of California's history. It leveled the city of Los Angeles and damaged almost beyond repair the primitive water transportation system of the time. The city was rebuilt from the ground up and the Angels Canal had been constructed to new, environmentally calculated standards to replace the antiquated and almost totally demolished waterworks of Old Los Angeles.
The quake was a disaster in more ways than one. Nearly two thousand died in the catastrophe, due to the fact that the actual quake had unaccountably struck nearly a full week before the prediction date. Looking down at the lights of New Los Angeles flowing below them as the aircar moved through the late evening sky, Alan decided that if Los Angeles ever had another quake prediction, he was going to make sure he was nowhere near the place until the disaster was over.
The Angels Motel was a pleasant little establishment set among palm trees. He and Mark had stayed there a few times when their work for the Underground brought them to the area. Mark checked them in and then led the way to the two-bedroom suite that the C.O. of the local Underground station had reserved for them.
Mark and Alan carried their own bags and Lyn's into one room. Lyn, as usual, preferred not to sleep in a room by herself while in enemy territory. The other three members of their party occupied the second room.
"Man!" Mark dropped onto one of the beds and stretched out. "Glad the trip's over. Listen, are you kids sure you want me stayin' in here with you? I'll understand if you wanna kick me out."
Lyn flushed dark red. "Please, Mark, we really want you to stay."
Linley shrugged good-naturedly. "Sure honey; whatever you say." He looked quizzically at Alan, who nodded emphatically.
"Okay," he said, shaking his head, "but if I find m'self alone tonight, I'll understand. I sure wish Jul coulda come along. This really ain't the kinda assignment where she'd be likely to run into much trouble."
"That's what Kaley thought, three weeks ago," Lyn said dryly. "If I hadn't been so sick, I'd have been worried out of my mind about you three. As it was, Matt didn't tell me anything when I started to get well, so the first I heard about it was when Borantia started screaming about you hijacking the 'Guardian'. Then a little while later we heard about Strevolthvar." She opened her suitcase, extracting an evening dress. "Go shave, both of you. You look like fugitives from a fishing expedition."
"Yes ma'am," Linley said meekly. He picked up his razor and retired to the bathroom. Alan heard the hum of the instrument a moment later. Lyn was hastily shedding her rumpled slacks and blouse, changing into fresh clothing. Alan went past her toward the bathroom, his own razor in one hand. He gave her a telekinetic pinch on one buttock as he did so. Lyn yipped and threw her blouse at him.
Alan grinned, closing the bathroom door behind him, and unwound the garment from his neck. Lyn was the only woman he had ever known, barring his mother and sister, who could not embarrass him. They were psychic partners -- the standard variety that occurred between functioning psychics, not the sort of partnership that he shared with Mark Linley -- and each understood the other as well, or perhaps better, than each understood him- or herself. Linley raised an eyebrow at him.
"Havin' fun, kid?"
Alan laughed and began to remove the whiskers from his chin. The door to the other room opened, revealing Ronald Griffen, razor in hand. He glanced over his shoulder, speaking to Bronson and Wolenski. "You guys'll have to wait. The dynamic duo is already here."
"Well, tell 'em to hurry up," Bronson's voice grunted from somewhere beyond the door. "I'm starvin'!"
"Be right out!" Alan called cheerfully.
In spite of the crowding, their party assembled in the downstairs dining room barely half an hour later. Alan seated Lyn and then slid into the seat beside her. The waitress appeared within moments, took orders for drinks, glanced curiously at Lyn with her five escorts, and departed. Wolenski relaxed in his chair, glancing out at the Angels Canal, shimmering palely under the moonlit sky, the protecting force field above it almost invisible in the moonlight. Some of the brighter stars could be see and, across the water, the city was ablaze with lights. "Nice little town, this."
"Yes," Alan agreed. "My dad went to medical school here. He used to tell me what it was like before the quake -- pretty awful, I guess. Sort of like New York."
Griffen made a face. "Sounds like that quake might have been a blessing in disguise. I've been to New York. Nearly got mugged twice in one evening -- the second time by a little old lady with a switchblade. Worse than Knitsmye!"
"No," Alan contradicted. "If it had been Knitsmye, she'd have had her gang work you over with brass knuckles. I've spent some time in Knitsmye." He glanced sideways at Mark, who grinned, not speaking.
"Oh?" Wolenski said curiously. "I thought you were Terran born and bred. When did you live in Knitsmye?"
"Right after Mark and I got away from you back on Midgard," Alan told him. "I was greener than grass and awfully wet behind the ears. Boy, did *I* get a fast education!"
"I'll bet," Griffen said.
The waitress reappeared with their drinks. Alan saw Lyn glance curiously at Mark's, a reddish fluid with a generous layer of foam atop it.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Wombari firewater, baby."
"Could I taste it?"
"Sure." Linley passed it over. "Take it easy, though. It packs a punch."
Lyn did take it easy, but her eyes widened slightly as she sipped.
"My goodness!" She gasped slightly, returning the drink. "What's it made from?"
"I ain't sure, really. Some kind of cactus stuff that grows in the jungles there. They ferment it and distill it." Mark took a healthy swallow without apparent distress. "Some kinda secret process that belongs to the winemaker's guild, I think. None of 'em are supposed to know the whole process, so even the Jils ain't learned the secret, far as I know. Stuff's got somethin' in it that makes Jils happier'n a trenchcrawler in a garbage heap -- an' the Wombari, too -- but it don't bother us Terrans." He took another swallow.
The waitress was back. "Are you ready to order?"
"Yep," Bronson told her. "What'll you have, Lyn, baby?"
It was full dark when they left the restaurant. Griffen had fallen rather silent during the last ten minutes, a condition that Alan attributed to the wine that he had consumed. They went up the outer stairs to the suite that they had rented and Alan opened the door to their room for Lyn. She entered and he let the door close behind her and then followed Wolenski, Bronson and Griffen to their room. Mark entered after them and the door slid shut behind them. Kevin grinned at his half-brother.
"You really gonna spend the night in there with 'em? Why don'tcha let the kids have it to 'emselves. They're over eighteen."
Alan felt the maddening flush creep up his neck. Mark gave his younger brother a stern glance. "Dry up, Kev," he said. "The kids want it that way."
"Still being virtuous, huh?" Wolenski chuckled softly.
Mark turned to face his former subcommander. "Knock it off! An' that's an order!"
Wolenski snapped to attention, looking a little worried. "Yessir! Sorry, sir!" He glanced quickly at Alan. "Sorry, Colonel."
Alan laughed. "Can't you tell when Mark's joking, Wolly?"
"*Is* he?" Wolenski relaxed. "Not always. You know, we used to call him Old Blah-face on the 'Wolverine'. Never could tell what he was thinking."
Linley raised an eyebrow at him. "'Sides, there's things to be said for virtue."
"Nothing good, though," Wolenski said. "Oh well, it'll only be a couple of weeks now, kid. Grit your teeth and hang on."
"Couple of weeks 'til what?" Griffen asked, his voice sounding a little slurred.
Bronson glanced at him in surprise. "'Til Lyn an' Alan get hitched, o' course. Man, Ron! You musta drunk more'n I thought!"
"Didn' drink much. Gonna go over to the Officer's Club; have a drink --"
"Officer's Club?" Wolenski stared at him in confusion. "Hey, Ron, you dreaming or something? We're not at the base -- we're on Terra, remember?"
Griffen didn't respond. He took two halting steps forward, lurched suddenly and grabbed at the window frame for support. H blinked stupidly for a moment at the dark glass and then grasped the filmy lace curtains, yanking them forcibly aside. One tore, leaving shreds hanging from the rod above. Alan started forward. "Hey!"
Again, Griffen didn't appear to hear him. He peered out at the night sky and the Angels Canal. "Pretty --" He fumbled with the window's controls and after a moment the glass slid silently upward. Griffen leaned far out, enough so that Alan felt a stab of alarm.
"Ron!" He took a long step forward and grabbed Griffen's arm. "Be careful! You'll fall!"
Griffen shook him off. "Leggo. Gonna take a nice ride --"
"*What*?" Alan grabbed his arm again. "Ron, what are you talking about? Get back in here!"
Griffen moved suddenly and Alan staggered back with a yelp, clutching his shoulder. Griffen put one foot on the sill, obviously intending to hoist himself upward. Linley and Wolenski grabbed him together.
"Hey!" Mark snapped. "A joke's a joke but -- ow!"
Griffen swung at him with one arm. Mark jerked his head sideways and the other Strike Commander's fist just grazed his jaw. Griffen began to struggle clumsily, shouting incoherently, his movements oddly uncoordinated. Mark and Wolenski pinned their writhing comrade to the floor. Lyn came charging through the bathroom, clad only in her high heels and slip. She stared in horror at the struggling men. "What's going on?"
"I don't know." Alan bent over Griffen. "Ron?"
Griffen cursed lividly, one flailing foot upsetting the tall, graceful lamp that stood beside a chair. It crashed to the floor and the light went out in a shower of sparks. Bronson appeared from nowhere, a length of torn sheet in his hands. With considerable difficulty, due to Griffen's struggles, they bound his hands and feet, and then, as an afterthought, gagged him as well. By the time they had finished, Mark was nursing what promised to be a black eye of magnificent proportions and Wolenski was gripping an index finger and cursing between his teeth. Alan, still massaging his bruised shoulder, became aware of someone pounding on the door.
He put a finger to his lips and took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound calm. "Yes?"
"Open this door!" an outraged voice shouted. "I don't know what's going on in there, but I intend to find out!"
Alan swallowed. "I'm sorry," he said placatingly. "We were having some trouble with the video. It won't happen again."
"Video, my eye!" the voice snapped. "Open this door or I'm going to report you to the manager!"
Bronson stood up, smoothing his hair. "Lemme handle this, kid." He went to the door, his large bulk almost filling the opening, and pressed the control to open it. "Yeah, mister, can I helpya?"
Past Kevin's large form Alan caught sight of a short, stocky man with a red, angry face. His head came about to Bronson's collarbone. The former subcommander glowered down at him, appearing to grow slightly.
The other man took a step back. "I want to know the reason for this unholy racket! I'm trying to sleep --"
"M'friend toldya already," Kevin growled. "We was havin' some trouble with the video. It's all fixed now. Can I do anythin' else for you?"
The man took another step back. "No, I suppose not. As long as it doesn't happen again --"
"It won't." Kevin closed the door in his face.
Alan found himself laughing a little hysterically. Kevin turned back to them, dabbing a little at his forehead where a small cut still bled slightly. "We better get outta here. If he calls the manager we're gonna be in trouble."
"What's wrong with Ron, kid?" Mark straddled Griffen's heaving form, looking a good deal the worse for wear. Griffen's eyes above the gag were wild and dilated, and he was breathing raggedly.
"I don't know," Alan said again. "It isn't just the wine, though."
"No kiddin'!" Bronson said. "He acts like he's on somethin'!"
"Ron doesn't take drugs!" Lyn protested. "He's too smart for that!"
"Just the same, he coulda got somethin' by accident," Linley said. "We gotta get him to a doctor. 'Sides, Kev's right. If the manager shows up, we're gonna have a lotta explainin' t'do."
"I'll phone the station," Alan said. "Get him to the aircar as quietly as you can."
"Yeah, right," Linley said. "Can you just see us tryin' t'be inconspicuous, carryin' him to the car all tied up this way?"
"Sorry." Alan felt silly. "What'll we do?"
"I'll go get the car and pull it up to the window," Lyn said. "We can load him in from here."
"All right, baby," Mark said. "Better put some clothes on, though. You'll be almost as conspicuous that way as haulin' him down the stairs'd be."
"What? Oh!" Lyn disappeared hastily through the bathroom.
**********
4
They arrived at the Underground station twenty minutes later. Griffen was in the rear seat of the vehicle, still fighting furiously. Between them, Bronson and Linley lifted their struggling comrade and carried him through the rear entrance of the store, hastily ascended a flight of rickety steps and paused as Alan knocked at the door.
It opened at once and Waldorf Cross, the C.O. of the station, gestured the hurriedly inside. They entered a sitting room where the doctor, Captain George Melbourne, was awaiting them.
Melbourne was a short, nondescript young man with brown curling hair and blue eyes. He was presently in his residency at the Hillside Medical Center in the rolling hills of Hollywood. He didn't appear in the least formidable, but Alan knew that Melbourne was an extremely powerful empath and clairvoyant, who had lost an older brother to the Jilectans four years previously. Alan had met him once, briefly, two years before. His psychic partner, a young nurse from the medical center, was present as well, her eyes widening in shock at the sight of the Strike Commander.
"What happened?" Melbourne asked crisply, kneeling beside his patient, whom Mark and Kevin had placed on the carpet.
Alan described the situation tersely, kneeling by Griffen's head. "So we loaded him into the aircar and came here," he concluded. "What's wrong with him, Doctor? Can you tell?"
"In a minute, Colonel," Melbourne said. "Judith, draw me a blood sample, please." He peered into Griffen's eyes, hampered somewhat by the former Strike Commander's struggles. "Hmm -- dilated pupils. Looks like some sort of drug. Has the colonel ever taken drugs, do you know?"
Alan shook his head. "Before he joined the Underground, Ron suffered from blinding tension headaches, but even then he used to hold off until he couldn't bear it anymore before he'd take his prescription. He told me once that he was glad he'd left the Patrol, if only because he didn't have to take those blasted pills anymore."
"Hmm. Judith, do you have that blood sample yet?"
"Almost. Captain, hold him still, please ... there!" She drew a small sample of blood from Griffen's arm and handed the tube to the doctor. Melbourne popped it into the portable analyzer unit. A readout appeared on the small screen.
Melbourne's eyebrows went up. "What th --" He tapped the unit with a forefinger but the readings didn't change. "Holy space!"
"What is it?" Lyn asked.
The doctor frowned, glancing thoughtfully at Griffen. Mark, straddling his legs, cussed softly as Griffen twisted, nearly kneeing him in a delicate spot. He shifted his position slightly. "What *is* it, Doc?"
"The colloquial name," Melbourne said softly, "is Ceregon dream dust."
Bronson whistled. Ceregon dream dust was a contraband drug on Terra. Its origin was Ceregon, the third planet in the Arcturus system, and to the natives of the planet it was a wonder drug, but to Terrans, it was deadly. Very light doses caused vivid hallucinations, but slightly higher doses could cripple or kill, depending on how much the individual got -- and it didn't take much. The hallucinogenic drugs of the Twentieth Century had been soda pop by comparison. It was soluble in water, a fact that made it childishly simple to take, as it could get into the system in food or drink, inhalation of an aerosol, or merely by touching it. It would dissolve in the perspiration on a person's skin and absorb through the pores.
"Ceregon dream dust!" Wolenski said incredulously. "Where the hell did he get that?"
"How much did he get?" Alan asked. "Will he be all right?"
"I think so, Colonel." Melbourne fumbled in his bag and withdrew a syringe. "He seems to have only a trace of it. I'm going to give him a tranquilizer. He should sleep it off by morning."
Suiting his action to the word, the doctor injected Griffen in the thigh. After several moments, Griffen began to relax and at last his eyes closed. He began to snore heavily.
Slowly, they removed his bonds and between them Mark and Kevin lifted him to the sofa. Major Cross brought a blanket that Alan helped spread over the sleeper.
Melbourne was frowning, watching Griffen. "Colonel Westover, are you sure he --"
"Not Ron!" Mark, Kevin and Wolenski chorused. "He ain't a fool," Linley added. "Nobody with brains messes around with dust!"
"All right," the doctor said mildly. "I'll take your word for it. But if he encountered it accidentally, where was it?"
Alan shook his head. "I can't imagine. How long would it take after he encountered it for it to begin to show?"
"Well, that would depend on many things, of course." Melbourne rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Individual response and mode of administration are the main ones. If he took it intravenously, the symptoms would become apparent almost at once. Orally, it would take longer. If he inhaled it --"
"He ain't inhaled nothin' since we got off the ship," Bronson said, a little resentfully, at the doctor's apparent doubt. "'Cept air, that is. Seems to me the most likely source was from dinner. It'd been just about twenty minutes after we ate that he started actin' funny."
"Logical," the doctor agreed, smiling faintly at Kevin. "What did the colonel have for dinner? Do you remember?"
"Sure I do. He had spaghetti an' meatballs, green beans an' garlic toast -- an' cherry pie for dessert."
"Say, that's an idea!" Wolenski was clearly excited. "Spaghetti sauce -- it would be easy to slip some dream dust into that without a customer noticing. Maybe they've got a junkie in the kitchen who'd been messing with the stuff beforehand --"
"Maybe," Alan said dubiously. "Nobody else ate the spaghetti sauce or the pie, so it sounds logical --"
"Might not be a bad idea to check it out," Linley said slowly. "An' if that's what happened, the guy who did it is gonna gonna be real sorry."
"I'll keep you informed on his condition," Melbourne said reassuringly. "I'm sure he'll be all right."
"Okay." Mark stood up. "We'd better get back to the motel an' let poor Major Cross get some sleep."
Alan hesitated and then nodded. "You be sure to call us if he gets any worse."
"I will, Colonel," Melbourne assured him. "It's under the name of Mark Svenson, isn't it?"
"That's right," Alan said. "Thanks, Doctor."
**********
tbc
