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.Dallon's mind was just the conductor between your mind and mine.But—can you get back?"Briefly the communication between the two entities broke down.It was not an act of conscious volition on the writer's part.He could not tell if it were so on the part of Lloral.And for a second or so he hoped that his unwelcome guest had returned to the distant age, the distant world, from which he had unwittingly been invited.But it was not to be so.Lloral was back—and the very texture of his thoughts exuded a smug satisfaction.I have seen your world, came the message.It is crude, and coarse, and noisy.But in it I … we.could gain great power.Pictures flickered across Whitley's mind.He saw a sign in neon tubing, GEORGE LLORAL, PSYCHIC CONSULTANT.He saw the long stream of those who would pass through the door under the sign.First, silly, neurotic women of the working and middle classes.Then—even sillier and more neurotic—the womenfolk of the well-to-do.And there would be men as well, and there would be secrets of business and politics, and there would be the secrets that are in every private life—and there would be blackmail.There would be power.And it would all come from the little crystal ball that Lloral, using everyday chemicals, would make with George Whitley's hands.It would come from the alien entity in Whitley's mind, the entity that would, in a long time or a short time, oust the intangible bundle of memories and habits and conditioned reflexes that was George Whitley."No!" cried the writer aloud."No!" But you must.Look.Again Whitley saw pictures.He saw himself on the bridge of a ship, at night.He saw, to starboard, a long coastline with its flashing lights.And he saw himself go to the open door of the wheelhouse and give an order to the helmsman, and he saw the order unquestioningly obeyed.Short minutes later came the grounding.But you can't.You couldn't make me give the wrong order There was a pause.Then—Perhaps not.But—I can stop you from giving the right one.Look.Again came the pictures.This time it was collision at sea, in heavy rain with poor visibility, with disaster to be averted only by each ship doing exactly the right thing with no time lag.One ship acted and acted fast.But it wasn't enough.The other ship did nothing, held her course and speed.It was Whitley's ship.And in the silence of his room he could hear the screaming of rent plates, the hissing roar of escaping steam, the cries of those trapped below decks.You see? I can ruin you.Somebody was stumbling up the stairs leading to the officers' section.Somebody who came along the short alleyway to Whitley's door, who noisily pulled the curtain to one side and peered into the room.It was the Fourth Officer.His hair was untidy, his face was flushed and the knot of his tie was under his left ear."Jusht back, Mr.Whitley," he said thickly."Jusht back." There was no help here.Still—"Look, four-oh," said the writer quickly, "I've been hammering away at my old typewriter all night, and I feel like having a breath of air.Do you mind holding the fort?""No, no.S'a pleasure."The Fourth staggered away from the open door.Whitley heard him collapse heavily upon the settee in his own room.The writer went to his wardrobe and took out a pair of gray flannel trousers and a light sports jacket.He took off his white uniform shorts and pulled on the gray flannels.He replaced his white shoes with a pair of brown ones.He buttoned up the collar of his shirt, hastily knotted a gaily colored tie about his neck.And when he put on his jacket his epaulettes were hidden from view.What are we.you.doing?Going ashore.Why? Then— Oh, I see.You hope that if you show me how harsh and noisy this world is I shall go back to my own place and time.Yes.It won't work.Your mind has shown me pictures of all of this world that you know.And I can endure it.Whitley chose his seat carefully in the bus from Pearl Harbor to Honolulu.He sat right over the rear axle.It was not comfortable —and he hoped that Lloral would find the continual vibration even more uncomfortable than he did.But it did not work.And then, in the city itself, the alien developed the urge to experiment with the many and various potables offered for sale.He finally settled on rum and coke.He liked it.This was not too great a hardship—but Whitley was paying and it seemed to be getting him nowhere fast at forty cents a time.He tried the juke boxes, tried getting his nickel's worth of the noisiest, most unmelodious melodies of those in stock, hoping that the harsh cacophony would convince Lloral that Earth was far too noisy and crude a place for one from the soft culture of Loalon [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]