The Universe Twister (58 page)

"But actually, everything will turn out fine," he reminded himself for the tenth time. "As soon as I figure out how to get back into my own body, Tazlo Haz will be back in his. He may have a pretty wild story to tell, but it can all be blamed on the bump on my head. And he and Sisli will live happily ever after."

Swell
, he answered himself.
Just as long as you don't get carried away and spend the wedding night with the bride
.

"Which reminds me—that feathered four-flusher is probably romancing Daphne right now!"

Not any more than you're romancing Sisli
.

"You mean he's kissed her?"

Wouldn't you?

"Certainly—but that's different. When I kiss Sisli, it's just . . . just friendly."

So is he. You can count on that
.

"I'll break his other wing, that bird in wolf's clothing!"

Not until he's back inside the birdskin, I hope
.

"Tazlo—who are you talking to?" Sisli inquired.

"Ah—just a fellow named O'Leary. A sort of figment of my imagination. Or maybe I'm a figment of his. It's a question for the philosophers."

"Isn't that who you said you were when you were still delirious?"

"I may have mentioned the name. But I'm much better now, right?" He blinked away the double images and focused a smile on the girl's inquiring face. "After all—I
did
merge—and I walked the branches—and ate birdseed—and—"

"Tazlo—you frighten me when you talk like this. It's as though—as though you were playing a role instead of just being yourself."

"Think nothing of it, m'dear," Lafayette said solemnly. "You're letting what old Wizzy said bug you. Lot of nonsense. Mind-grabbers indeed. Probably just some poor Central agent with a short circuit in his probability wiring, meaning no harm at all."

"Harmless, eh?" an unfriendly voice snapped from near at hand. Wizner Hiz glowered from his perch a few feet above and to one side of the tiny table where Lafayette sat with Sisli. "I've been watching you, Haz—or whoever you are. You don't behave normally. You don't feel right—"

"Of course he's still a little strange," Sisli burst out. "He hasn't fully recovered from the blow on his head!"

"Go away, Wiggy Hig," Lafayette called carelessly. "Or Higgly Wig. Your sour puss bothers me. The night was made for love. Especially tonight, up here in a treetop. Back home they'll never believe all this . . ." He waved a hand to include the paper lanterns strung in the branches, the gaily dressed wingmen and women fluttering gaily about, the high moon riding above.

"Back home? And where might that be?" the Visioner said sharply.

"It's just a figure of speech," Sisli said quickly. "Leave him alone, Wizner Hiz! He's not hurting anyone!"

"Neither did the others—at first. Then they started . . . changing. You don't remember, girl; you were too young. But I saw it! I saw Boolbo Biz start turning into a monster before our eyes!"

"Well, Tazlo's not turning into a monster," Sisli said, and took his arm possessively.

"Course not," Lafayette said, and wagged a finger at the old Wingman. "Just the same old me—whoever that is. Get lost, Wiz—I mean Hiz—" He paused as something fluttered past his face. Twisting on his wicker stool, he saw a large russet feather drifting down through the foliage below.

"Someone shedding?" he asked genially. A second feather followed the first. Something touched his arm: a third feather. He made brushing motions. "What's going on here?" he inquired as more feathers swirled around him. He stood, caught sight of Sisli's horror-stricken expression.

"Wha's . . . what's the matter?" he asked, and blew a downy feather from his upper lip.

"Oh, no—Tazlo, no!" Sisli yelped.

"Aha!" Wizner Hiz screeched.

"Grab him!" Vugli bellowed.

"Grab who?" Lafayette demanded, looking around for the victim. His question was answered as hands caught at him, clamped on his arms, dragged him to the center of the dancing pavilion, amid a cloud of feathers.

"What's this all about?" he yelled. "I've passed your test, haven't I . . ." His voice trailed away as he caught sight of his unbroken wing, held in the grasp of half a dozen wide-eyed Thallathlonians. Even as he stared, another handful of feathers came free to swirl away in a sudden gust of wind.

"Not quite, Mind-grabber," Wizner Hiz rasped. "Not quite!"

3

Four sturdily muscled Wingmen prodded at Lafayette with stout ten-foot poles, keeping him immobilized at the center of the cleared open-work pavilion. All around, the ranked population of the eyrie clustered in a circle, ten deep, all eyes on him. Sisli was gone, borne away weeping by her brothers. So far O'Leary as could tell, there was not a friendly expression in sight.

"Don't do anything hasty," he urged as the pole-tip poked him painfully in the ribs. "I can't fly, remember? I know it looks bad, but I'll think of an explanation if you'll just—
ooof!
" His appeal was cut short by a hearty jab to the abdomen.

"Never fear, we know how to deal with your kind," Wizner Hiz crowed. He rubbed his hands together, skipping about beyond the pole-wielders with the agility of a ten-year-old, shaping up the crowd.

"You there—back a few feet! Hold it! Now you, ladies—just move in here, fill up this gap. You—the tall one—move back! Now, Pivlo Poo, you and Quigli step in here . . . close it up . . ."

"This looks like . . . a public execution," O'Leary pushed the words out painfully. "I hope you're not planning anything so barbaric—"

"All together, now," Wizner Hiz commanded, raising his hands for silence. He whistled a shrill note—like a pitch pipe—and gestured. An answering note came from the massed voices of the eyrie.

"Choir practice? At a time like this!" Lafayette wondered aloud.

"It will be the last choir you'll hear in this world," Wizner Hiz shrilled, fixing Lafayette with a beady eye filled with triumph. "You're about to be Sung Out! Out of the world! Back to the dark spaces you came from, foul Invader!"

"Oh, really?" Lafayette smiled painfully. "What happens if I fail to disappear? Does that prove I'm innocent?"

"Never fear—the Chant of Exorcism has never failed," one of the strong-arm men assured him. "But if it does—we'll think of something else."

"Actually, it's just a simple case of falling feathers, fellows," Lafayette said. "It could happen to anyone—"

At a sweeping gesture from Wizner Hiz, a chorus of sound burst from the choir, drowning Lafayette's appeal.

 
Out of the World
Away and beyond
Back through the veil
Stranger begone
Afloat on a sea
Wider than night
Deeper and deeper
Sinking from sight
Back where you came from
Grabber of souls
Back to the depths
Where the great bell tolls
Out of the world
Far from the sun
Of fair Thallathlone
Forever begone
Borne on the wings
Of the magic song
Forever begone
From fair Thallathlone . . .
 

The chant went on and on, waves of sound that waxed and waned, rolling at Lafayette from all sides, beating at him like the waves of the sea. There was a tune: an eerie, groaning melody repeated over and over.

 
 . . .
Out
of the
world
Away
and
beyond
 . . .
For
ever
be
gone
From
fair
Thallath
lone
 . . .
 

The mouths of the singers seemed to move silently, like fish gaping in water, while the moaning chant, independent of them, rose and fell, rose and fell. The faces were blurring, running together.

 
 . . . Far and away . . .
Stranger begone . . .
Forever begone
From fair Thallathlone . . .
 

The words seemed to come from a remote distance now. The lights had faded and winked out; O'Leary could no longer see the faces of the singers, could no longer feel the wicker floor under his feet. Only the song remained—a palpable force that enfolded him, lifted him, floated him away into lightless depths, then faded, dwindled, became a ghostly echo fading in utter darkness, utter emptiness.

4

Lafayette stared into the inky blackness, making vague swimming motions. Something that glowed faintly appeared in the distance, sailed closer in a great spiral, goggled at him with yard-wide eyes, spiraled off into the darkness.

"Which way is up?" O'Leary inquired; but there was no sound. In fact, he realized there was no mouth, no tongue, no lungs.

Good lord! I'm not breathing . . .
The thought seemed to jump forth and hang in space, glowing like a neon sign. Other bits and pieces of mind-stuff came swirling around him, like flotsam in a millrace:

 . . . oother-boober of the umber-wumber . . .

 . . . try a section ooty-toot, or maybe a number tot noodle . . .

 . . . told him to drop dead, the louse . . .

 . . . eemie-weemie-squeemie pip-pip . . .

 . . . so I says to him . . .

 . . . to the right, hold it, hold it . . . don't move . . .

 . . .HEY—I GOT A ROGUE BOGIE ON NUMBER TWELVE!

 . . . smarmy parmy, wiffly niffly, weeky squeaky . . .

 . . . aw, come on, baby . . .

 . . .HEY—YOU—IDENTIFY!

 . . . poom-poom-poom . . .

 . . . so I ups to him and he ups to me and I ups to him . . .

YOU! WHAT'S YOUR SNAG NUMBER!

 . . . poopie-poopie-poopie . . .

 . . . HELLO, NARK NINE. I'VE GOT A SPOOK READING IN NUMBER TWELVE STAGING AREA.

UH-HUH. I READ IT. JUST GARBAGE, DUMP IT, BARF ONE.

NIX—I PICKED UP A BEEP ON OH SIX OH, NARK NINE. COULD BE A ROGUE.

 . . . NIK-NIK-NIK . . .

DUMP IT, BARF ONE. WE GOT TRAFFIC TO HANDLE, REMEMBER?

HEY—YOU! GIVE ME A BEEP ON OH SIX OH OR I DUMP, YOU READ?

Something that resembled a tangle of glowing coat-hanger wire sailed purposefully up to O'Leary, hovered before him, rotating slowly.

"It looks like a disembodied migraine," he said. "I wonder if it would go away if I closed my eyes . . . if I had any eyes to close."

OK, THAT'S BETTER. NOW LET'S HAVE THAT SNAG NUMBER.

"Since I don't have eyes, obviously I'm not actually seeing things," Lafayette advised himself. "Still, some kind of impressions are impinging on me—and my brain is interpreting them as sight and sound. But—"

ANSWER ME, BUSTER!

"Who," Lafayette said. "Me?"

FLIPPIN A! SNAG NUMBER, PRONTO! YOU GOT TRAFFIC BACKED UP SIX HEXAMETERS ON NINE LEVELS!

"Who are you? Where are you? Where am
I
? Get me out of here!" Lafayette blurted, twisting to look all around him.

SURE—AS SOON AS YOU GIVE ME A SNAG NUMBER TO LATCH ONTO!

"I don't know what a snag number is! It looks as if I'm floating in some sort of luminous alphabet soup. Not the soup, the alphabet, you understand—"

A man came tumbling slowly out of the darkness toward Lafayette, end over end. He was dressed in what appeared to be a sequined leotard, and he glowed with a greenish light; Lafayette leaped toward him with a glad cry. Too far; he braced himself for the collision, caught a glimpse of a startled face twisting to stare at him in the instant before contact.

There was no impact; only a sense of diving into a cloud of whirling particles, tugged at by surging forces—

What in the name of two dozen dancing devils on a bass drum!
a strange voice roared.

Light and sound burst upon O'Leary. He was staring at a plastic plate attached to his wrist, with the stamped legend:

SNAG NUMBER 1705.

LAST CHANGE, BUSTER! GOING . . . GOING . . .

"Snag number one thousand seven hundred and five!" O'Leary yelled.

From somewhere, a giant, unseen hook came, caught him by the back of the neck, and threw him across the Universe.

5

When Lafayette's head stopped whirling, he was standing in a chamber no bigger than an elevator, with opalescent, softly glowing walls, ceiling, and floor. A red light blinked on one wall; there was a soft
snick!
; the panel facing him opened like a revolving door on a large, pale-green room with a carpeted floor, a sound-absorbent ceiling, and a desk behind which sat an immaculately groomed woman of indeterminate age, extremely good-looking in spite of pale-green hair and a total lack of eyebrows. She gave him a crisp look, waved to a chair, poked a button on her desk.

"Rough one?" she asked in a tone of businesslike sympathy.

"Ah . . . just average," Lafayette said cautiously, looking around the room, which was furnished with easy chairs, potted palms, sporting prints, and softly murmuring air-conditioner grilles.

"You want a stretcher, or can you make it under your own power?" the green-haired receptionist inquired briskly as Lafayette edged into the room.

"What? Oh, I suppose you mean my bandaged wing. Actually it doesn't bother me all that much, thanks."

The woman frowned. "Psycho damage?"

"Well—frankly, I'm a little confused. I know it must sound silly, but . . . who are you? Where am I?"

"Oh, brother." The woman poked another button, spoke toward an unseen intercom. "Frink, get a trog team up here; and a stretcher. I've got a 984 for you, and it looks like a doozie." She gave Lafayette a look of weary sympathy. "Might as well sit down and take it easy, fellow." She wagged her head like one subjected to trials above and beyond the call of Job Description.

"Thanks." O'Leary sat gingerly on the edge of a low, olive-leather chair. "You, uh, know me?" he inquired.

The woman spread her hands in a noncommittal gesture. "How can I keep track of over twelve hundred ops?" She blinked as if an idea had just occurred to her. "You're not amnac?"

"Who's he?"

"Mama mia. Amnac means no memory. Loss of identity. In other words, you don't remember your own name."

"Frankly, there does seem to be a little uncertainty about that."