They had raced out; they staggered back, trying not to drop or tip the objects they carried. The laden trays. The brimming bowls. The sloshing pitchers. All of which they set down on the long table that fronted the fireplace.
Eager hands then lifted a glittering assortment of covers, releasing a supernova of smells that enveloped Marshall, driving from his mind almost everything except the urge to eat.
He hadn’t realized how hungry he was; he did now. And hurrying towards the table, tried to take stock of the spread.
He saw a standing rib roast and a cloud of whipped potatoes, massive lobsters and dinosaurian drumsticks. But there was more, much more: medallions of veal and long crusty baguettes, a chocolate cake, a meringue pie, pitchers of deep red wine . . . .
And there was more still, he was certain, though what he could not say, since the men, the colleagues, the dream elements—whatever they were—had surrounded the table, blocking his view.
They had started out at one end, where the trays held plates and silverware, crystal goblets and thick linen napkins, but had quickly diffused, staking positions by whatever enticed them most. And now they got to work. Bending over, their mouths agape, their eyes agog, they scooped up mammoth servings, beginning to eat even before they had finished scooping, pouring so sloppily that rivulets of wine flowed from the table edge onto the expensive looking rug below.
Yet they seemed not to notice. Feasting while still they foraged, grunting and slurping, they seemed to notice nothing, save for what was on that table. And Marshall, much as he wanted to join them, could not help realizing that they weren’t noticing him, either.
He looked around. There was the gap in the wall, and there the passageway beyond, and there, at the table, a row of business casual butts, thoroughly engrossed.
Should he? Could he?
He felt his hunger clawing at him, but disregarded it.
And was rewarded, almost at once, with the sense of having done exactly the right thing.
Never mind the food. He loved being out of that room, loved sprinting down the tunnel or corridor or whatever it was at a speed he had never come close to attaining under his own power in his normal life.
And, above all, he loved being away from those men.
What lay ahead of him? An encounter with aliens? With a god he hadn’t believed in? A sudden downcrashing of darkness as finally he ran out of time? Whatever it was, he raced towards it, around curves, past bifurcations, along ramps . . .
Until, reaching a row of door-sized openings in the conduit's wall, he slowed, then stopped, not wanting to pass them before peeking inside.
And, peeking inside the first one, saw . . .
A room. A boxy room with shelves on the side walls, laden with what looked like tools. While against the far wall stood cots—four of them—though so narrow he would have assumed they were just additional shelves if they hadn’t been occupied.
But they were occupied. Three of the four held someone, and that gave their purpose away.
Quickly he surveyed the cot people: a boy of about ten in pajamas decorated with racing cars; a bearded man in a knee-length shirt; an old woman in a robe.
He went to the woman and tried to wake her, speak to her. He touched her arm and shook her. But it didn’t work. She was deeply unconscious. Also, she had an adornment. They all had it. Each wore an amber-colored metallic crescent behind his or her right ear. Did these have anything to do with their being unconscious? He began working a finger underneath the woman's, and might have detached it . . .
But then he too was on a cot, as voices approached in the hall.
“What would satisfy them?" one of these was saying. "If we abandoned the project? I have two tiers of ancestors who devoted their lives to this planet. Imagine coming out for your party only to find that your whole life was a meaningless waste.”
“But that is not going to happen,” said another voice. “Enak, I am telling you: the semi they found will guarantee it.”
By opening his eyes a little, Marshall could see the voices’ owners as they ambled together into the room—and could therefore see how perfectly they’d have fit into one of those cheesy sci-fi movies from the 1950s. Why, even Star Trek: The Original Series wouldn't have concocted them. Their balloonlike heads looked as if made of rubber. Their eyes were black teaspoons. And as for their mouths, they were mere slits in their faces, which didn’t even move when they talked.
But even that wasn't the most absurd thing. The most absurd thing, the most ludicrous thing, the thing that drove Marshall nuts when he saw it in those old movies, was how they talked. THEY SPOKE ENGLISH! PRIVATELY! TO EACH OTHER! Could he actually have been wondering if this was real?
Well, now he knew better. Now, at last, the uncertainty was over. And he realized something else.
That if he could hang on and not die quite yet.
And cooperate with the dream.
And take advantage of what it was offering him.
He would be getting a new peak experience.
Though not a sexual experience this time, or a donut experience.
Rather . . . an adventure experience!
And boy would it crush any movie or video game ever made.
First, of course, he would have to overpower these “aliens.” But how difficult could that be, given their short and spindly bodies? Nor should it be hard to awaken the abductees, by tearing off their metal crescents. With that accomplished, he would lead them on a rampage through the vessel, capturing weapons and causing terrific explosions, until at last they found a docked ship so easy to operate they'd power it right up and streak off to explore the Galaxy.
Holy moly this was going to be great!
So great, in fact, that he might have made a noise while planning it out.
Something, in any case, was attracting the ETs.
He shut his eyes, and a moment later they were standing over him—a fact made plain by the finger probing behind his right ear.
“Do they often remain dormant without the controller?” he heard a voice say nervously. “We are behind no force field, I remind you. And their physical strength is, I believe, far greater than our own.”
Aha! Just as I thought, he thought.
“Well, we are not completely helpless,” said the other voice, which also sounded uneasy. “Do you see this device?” Marshall heard movement on one of the shelves. “I believe it is called a neural hyperstimulator. At a low setting it jolts them—a punishment. But if I adjust the small switch on its side, like so, I am certain it will render this one—”
In the next instant, Marshall was on his feet, with one arm around a neck, the other around a chest. Was his opponent struggling? He could hardly tell, so weak was this creature proving to be.
Nor was there anything the other could do, since its companion was being used as a shield.
“Drop it!” Marshall commanded theatrically. “Drop it or your friend dies.”
“Yes, drop it!” the grabbed alien howled. “I don’t want to perish this way. With no parties? Can you imagine? Please, Enak . . .”
Marshall could not tell if Enak obeyed or if Enak was so frightened he lost his grip. In any case, an object fell to the floor. Marshall slid it towards himself with an outstretched foot and, while still holding his prisoner, picked it up.
“Be careful with that!” Now it was Enak's turn to beg. “You cannot begin to comprehend its operation.”
Marshall examined it. Small and rounded, it resembled nothing so much as a computer mouse—the kind with a single button.
And of course there was the little switch on its side.
“All right, then,” he said, pointing the device at Enak.
He really wanted to try it out, and after all, who would it harm? No one real, that was for sure.
Though from a dramatic standpoint he perhaps needed a touch more motivation.
“What have you done to my crew?” he shouted, gesturing at the cots and trying to work himself into a suitably enraged state. “Tell me now if you value your—”
“Crew?” interrupted Enak. “Are you even slightly sentient?”
And that did it. Motivation established. Marshall pressed the button on the hyperstimulator and Enak jumped—jumped so violently that he literally hit the ceiling, before collapsing into a limp mass of arms, legs and balloonish head.
“Now as for you,” said Marshall, holding the device against the spot on his captive where its ear would be, if it had one. “Your only hope for survival is to restore my fellows and take us to a docked ship.”
“Nooooo!” came a wail. “I’m only a junior, like poor Enak. A junior here for basic exposure to an off-world project. But oh-my-pod why did it have to be this one? Oh-my-pod-oh-my-pod-oh-my-pod . . .” Over and over it said this until it stopped talking and only made noises. Great yowls poured from its unmoving mouth.
Leaving Marshall unsure how to proceed.
“Listen, I promise you. Once you’ve cooperated, I will let you go.”
But it did no good. The creature kept on yowling. And then began spasming and squirming and . . . what? Wilting? Molting? In any case, its head started to lose its integrity, until it had melted Dali-like onto its own chest, which likewise began decomposing from within.
Marshall felt something drop on his feet and, looking down, saw that something rolling across the floor. It had emerged from a large rip that now gaped in the center of the alien, but was a different sort of being entirely. Not at all rubbery and rudimentary. Rather, mottled and wrinkly, with sticklike limbs, a drooping face and no clothes save for a tired pair of underpants.
Also, it had a mouth that had opened improbably wide.
“Hnnnnnhhhhhhh,” it howled, the sound strongly resembling a gasp for air.
“Hnnnnnhhhhhhh,” it vocalized again, clutching its neck while trying to roll into the corridor.
Marshall examined the object still in his arms—the limp, imploded object he had thought was the alien, but now seemed more like a costume, a uniform, a protective suit. Inside it was smeared with a pungent film that made him think of nervous sweat. And it hissed. He traced the hiss to the interior of the headpiece, where a tube emerged from a grommet, ending in a small plasticky mask.
The mask was emitting some form of gas. He took a whiff and regretted it. The gas was abrasive, dizzying. It stung his airways. But if that was what the creature breathed, he could only imagine its predicament in air he breathed.
He knew it was suffocating, and for that to stop he had to get the mask back over its face.
He took two steps after it.
But not three.
For at that moment a racing clump of weight-loss specialists thundered into the doorway he was trying to exit. He'd have heard them coming, if not for the howling alien. As it was, he had no time even to point the weapon. They had it out of his hand in an instant, and had him pinned on a cot, fear and fury shooting from their eyes.
“Hold him!” someone commanded unnecessarily.
“Hold every goddamn piece of him!”
But that was not all he had to deal with. Because now, between the panting chests above him, a hand came snaking. A hand in possession of the neural hyperstimulator. A hand belonging to Myron Crennick whose lower jaw had protruded, whose lips were clenched, and who was breathing in quick little bursts.
Was he really going to . . .?
Any remaining doubt in Marshall concerning what was real and what was not, fled in that instant. The pain that blazed through him could not have been invented by his unconscious; nor could it have come from something endured in a hospital, because . . . well, because it couldn’t. Only a neural hyperstimulator could generate pain like that. A real neural hyperstimulator on a real spaceship with real aliens.
Two of whom he had probably killed.