At any moment he expected to hear the director scream “Cut!” or security men to pile on stage in spite of the running cameras to drag him away, so he was more than a little nonplussed by the continuing calm. Fortunately he had enough presence of mind to keep talking.
From where he was sitting he couldn’t see the pandemonium which had engulfed the control booth, nor did any noise reach him from inside the soundproof enclosure. It turned out that having gotten Act III successfully under way, the director had left to take a leak, leaving matters of direction in the hands of his capable but presently very bewildered assistant.
That worthy saw no reason to intervene. Everyone on the set including the unidentified actor seemed to know what they were doing, so who was he to break into a live broadcast? Or to think of it another way, where production was concerned, if it didn’t look broke, don’t try and fix it.
Obviously there had been a last-minute script change on which he hadn’t been consulted. Being distinctly peeved hardly constituted sufficient reason to interfere. What else could you expect on a production where peculiar-looking Indians, imperious fat men, and a peripatetic Vietnamese-American reporter kept wandering freely on and off the set? In a few minutes they would break for a scheduled commercial and no doubt it all would be explained to him then.
Meanwhile he sat back, did his best to look unconcerned, and enjoyed the performance. Those technicians on the set who looked to the assistant director for edification saw a man completely in control of himself and his work. They could do no less. The cameras and microphones continued to record.
Carter rambled on, enjoying himself now and wondering if Ashwood was silently applauding from her hiding place behind the backdrop. No doubt this continent-wide exposure would help his career, if he didn’t end up shot. He knew he was delivering a memorable performance.
Once as he was turning he got a good look at the frantically gesticulating technicians up in the control booth. A moment later the booth door burst inward to admit the recently departed Pucahuaman, Apu Tupa, and Bruton Fewick complete with tomcat. While the Contisuyuns ranted wildly at the technical director Fewick turned to stare in disbelief down at the stage. Carter imagined the renegade archaeologist’s state of mind and found the vision pleasing.
Meanwhile no one took any action to interrupt the broadcast.
U’chak was just awakening to what was happening. With everything going as planned he had once again allowed himself to relax completely and as a result it seemed that once again he was to be denied. His fury and frustration knew no bounds as he tried to puzzle out what had gone wrong.
He quickly realized that rather than being technical in nature, the problem lay with the human playacters. At the same time he was shocked to sense that a nonhuman, non-Shihararaneth intelligence was at work nearby, with the result that his design was not merely in the process of being altered but shattered, all because he had for a second time allowed overconfidence to gain sway over him.
A hasty evaluation suggested that the damage to his design might be beyond repair. For all his abilities, the one thing U’chak could not manipulate was time, no matter how angrily he scratched and clawed at it in his repeated attempts to get a grip on the slippery concept.
Seeing his intricate and carefully wrought plans being methodically demolished before his very eyes not by some higher intelligence, not by a Monitor, but by a single low-level human was more than he could stand. Nor could he influence the humans around him to repair the damage, as he had in the past. Their reaction times were too slow, their manipulative abilities far too limited.
His rigorous self-control vanished in the realization that if he didn’t do something right then, that instant, all he had worked for would be lost.
He leaped.
A circular smooth-edged four-foot-wide hole appeared in the thick glass of the control booth, perfectly delineating the diameter of the vortex generated by the Renegade’s passing. The technician nearest the aperture swore as she raised both hands to protect her face from flying glass that did not materialize.
Carter turned as the younger actress playing opposite him screamed and stumbled backward. Pure undiluted hatred in the form of a bulbous silvery teardrop had exploded out of the control booth, expanding as it arced toward him. Claws of fluid stain less steel reached like chrome putty for his face, directed by seething eyes the color of molten sulfur.
Realizing instinctively that if it touched him he would shrivel up and perish as quickly as ash from a cremated newspaper, he tried to duck. He was dimly aware of people around him yelling.
Something hit him in the ribs with the force of a velvet hammer, lifting him completely off the stage and smashing him to his right. He slammed into the false wall of the drawing room set, cracking wood, plaster, and possibly a rib or two. Tumbling to the floor, he rolled over once and lay still, dazedly trying to catch his breath.
At the same time he realized that it was not the hellish teardrop which had struck him.
Revelation!
Even as they exulted, the Monitors sensed the danger. In finally revealing his true self the Renegade had committed a fatal error. Thus exposed he could for the first time be confronted and dealt with on a physical level.
Although the distance involved was slight, there was no time to rejoice in the discovery. Reaching the same conclusion independently and simultaneously, O’lal and her companion chose the shortest slipline through reality and jumped, transforming themselves into two long streams of tightly organized particles able to speed down a short, twisting existential plane between the myriad of friction-inducing molecules which would otherwise have stood in their way. O’lal chose a slightly different path in order to try to save the human whose continued intercession had been so valuable, while her companion moved to deflect the Renegade’s attack.
They knew it would be close. Not that it mattered in the scheme of things if one lone human died. Negation of the Renegade and his intentions was what was important. But she respected each sentient in her charge and had grown fond of this one in particular. It was worth the effort to her to try and save him.
In nanoseconds they coalesced inside the studio, O’lal striking Jason Carter and shunting him to one side as gently as she could, her fellow Monitor interspersing himself between the human and the onrushing Renegade.
A tremendous clap of thunder rolled across the set, accompanied by a brilliant flash of light. The concussion shattered what glass remained in the control booth, bent equipment and burst camera lenses, knocked technicians, crew, and performers to the floor, cut the transmission, and momentarily deafened everyone inside the building.
In the air ten feet above the set, two gleaming metallic wraiths twisted and coiled violently about one another. Successive thunderclaps and rings of glowing light emanated from the sizzling, spherical rainbow which enveloped them. Carter alone was in position to see a third stream of silver hover momentarily above his prone form before turning to smash its way into the fiery bubble overhead.
Suddenly the Renegade found himself fighting no longer to destroy but simply to break free. All had happened in an instant: anger, decision, attack. The realization that he’d made a mistake. The Monitors had been waiting patiently for just that. Now they had him and would not let go.
They were strong, but he was stronger. Rage lent energy to his efforts. He would break free or disbond them in the attempt, then resume his disruptive efforts, even if he had to begin all over again with a different scheme elsewhere.
The Monitors were tenacious. He had never expected to have to do battle with more than one of them at a time and the effort required was physically taxing.
No one had to give the technicians and crew orders to abandon the studio. Hands covering their outraged ears as-they blinked at the bursts of light, they fled the set, running and stumbling toward the exits.
Somehow Marjorie Ashwood got Carter upright and helped the numbed actor stagger through the quivering building. Outside, they spotted Igor and the three aliens milling about in the parking lot and hurried to join them.
“We left when the transmission was cut,” announced Shorty silently. “We heard the explosions. What is happening?” Fleeing technicians ignored them, wholly intent on reaching a place of safety. Those who glanced in their direction doubtless thought of actors in costume.
Carter was able now to stand on his own, for which the exhausted Ashwood was more than a little grateful.
“Something came out of the control booth. Something like nothing you’ve ever seen. I felt sure that it wanted to kill me.” He coughed, one hand going to his bruised ribs. “Something a lot like it pushed me aside and then two of whatever they are set to struggling with the first.” He looked back at the studio complex, which continued to shudder from the force of escalating internal concussions. “As far as I know they’re still in there, fighting.”
Crease regarded the trembling structure. “It can be nothing other than a snark. A phenomenon I believe we discussed with Mr. Dodgson but which confused him greatly. I think he thought we were referring to ourselves. Quite absurd. A snark is most definitely not a Boojum.”
“Then what the hell is it?” Ashwood asked, shuddering slightly. “I saw the damn things, but I don’t believe ’em.”
“To encounter one is rare and always terrifying,” Tree informed them. “Sometimes they are benign, sometimes deadly. They are a life-form, if indeed it is a life-form they are and not a natural force, that is most rare and wondrous. We do not even know if they are fashioned of matter as we understand it.
“The few verified reports of encounters come from different worlds, suggesting that they are either a galactic phenomenon or else able to travel between widely scattered systems by means unimaginable to us. As you see, we know very little about them. According to your description, something has drawn not one but three of them here. Most extraordinary.”
“I know one thing.” They all looked at Carter, who was gazing back at the building. “One of them just saved my life.”
“Their motives are capricious and incomprehensible. We are not even sure if their movements are guided by instinct, sentience, or randomness. Consider yourself privileged to have observed such a phenomenon.”
