The Fourth Guardian Page 10

  He nodded shortly.

  "Then as once you came, you go. On the wings of fate."

  "I've always liked the way you describe things."

  "Like a snake shedding its skin, you will shed yourself of us."

  "Now that's a little too grim."

  "And when you get to where you're going, what then?"

  "Sell the plane and use the money to go on."

  "I see.” She looked down and then forced herself to look up, a smile of friendship over her lovely face, dark eyes fighting against threatening tears. “One last drink?"

  He winked. “One last drink. Only make mine tea."

  As if they were the only ones there, they went to the end of the wooden bar, where in the privacy of shadow she poured two mugs, her hands cupping, fingers pointing towards the man she wanted more than life itself to have served. With a lift of drinks, they drank as one, eyes meeting over the rims shyly, as if for the first time. Then they looked aside ... and it was done.

  The man known as Regis Taggart came downstairs, his steps making hardly a noise, but the attention of everyone was drawn to him as the eyes of prey are drawn to the movements of a natural predator, and people moved aside.

  He stopped before them. “You're ready?"

  Tate nodded. “Yes. I'll just shower and change. Then I'll pick up my things. I'll be making the trip with you. I won't come back."

  "And where will you go?"

  Tate shrugged. “Everywhere, anywhere."

  "If you wish, you might join me. I need a good man."

  Tate took in his surroundings, and then grinned at Chakeera. “He needs a good man."

  She sighed, but smiled also. Then she looked into Reg-I-Nald's eyes. “And you will have a good man."

  Reg-I-Nald looked at them both and saw what might have been. He knew this was the better road.

  "I am fortunate."

  "He will take care of you. You will take care of him."

  "Yes. That is how it will be."

  She poured him a cup of tea also, and the deal was made.

  When Roger finished up, he went to the landing field, everything packed away, and the man known as Regis Taggart met him.

  "You are certain of this? The road I take is long and hard."

  Roger shrugged. “We made a deal. I'll take care of you. You take care of me. I guess that means I'll tag along."

  "Even were I to tell you that I am alien to your world, coming upon you as a cleansing fire, coming to consume the dross? If you accompany me of your own free will, you might burn as I."

  The telepathic message was given like a blow—brutal, effective and numbing. Tate steeled himself and grinned. “No wonder hawks talk to you. You fly pretty high."

  Through her binoculars Chakeerah had seen Tate stiffen and wondered what it meant. Both boarded the plane, and soon after the engines coughed, the propellers whirled, and they taxied down the runway.

  "Goodbye,” she whispered. “Goodbye, my love."

  * * * *

  Professor Omi Negochi of TransGlobal, Inc., a think tank catering to the needs of homegrown geniuses, was a researcher's researcher. He had always imagined himself above the petty squabbling that confounded others, but now, such a squabble threatened to drag him kicking and screaming into a whirlpool of intrigue and danger. He did not, however, allow it to affect the small ceremony he and a few trusted friends enjoyed.

  What he could not understand was how a segment of the Black Dragon Yakuza infiltrated the firm he worked for without his knowledge.

  He resented it and considered it a personal affront. That was when he became aware of their activities. When he made application to the directorship for confirmation, a ranking subordinate curtly informed him to mind his own business.

  The unheard of slight revealed how deep the corruption ran. He made a formal protest, the result of which was an assurance that he and his colleagues would not be hampered in their work in the slightest degree. It was an empty promise.

  A fresh pot of tea replaced the one before him, but his niece, sensing his annoyance, retired. She wished she could help, but knew he had to do it himself. It was just his way.

  "What,” asked one of his assistants politely, “had the general manager said again? Perhaps he did not understand the significance of allowing sensitive material to slip into the hands of our competitors? Perhaps he failed to realize how counterproductive that would be?"

  Tamuti Isashiro, another of the professor's ex-students, a respected researcher in bio-chemistry, snorted. “My friend, you are missing the point. Who knows what happens to our work, once it leaves our sight? Has it been stolen? Has it been tampered with? You realize some of that material is dangerous. It must be approached in a step-by-step process. In the wrong hands, using the wrong techniques—which allow me to remind you, is a painstaking development—could be disastrous."

  The others looked worried.

  "I don't think the general manager, as he is called, has a clue,” the professor said lightly. “He's told what to do, and then does it. Blindly. Unthinkingly."

  His eyes revealed an inner rage.

  Yamitato Takuza, a reputable man in the field of electromagnetic propulsion shrugged. “What can we do?"

  "I don't know,” the professor replied. “Approach the authorities? Spy on our own people? Let slip the news of the corruption? All of those courses are hazardous."

  "A while ago, I tapped into the General Manager's bank account. Professor, don't look at me that way. I felt it necessary. Anyway, that's what I did, and enormous sums have been deposited, but what follows is interesting. Almost ninety-five percent of it disappears a few days afterward. This confirms our suspicions that he is a front for the Black Dragons."

  He scratched his head. “Something else we should be aware of ... it occurred to me as I was coming here tonight. If I could tap into the bank accounts, so could any of the police agencies. Why isn't he worried? Why doesn't he take more precautions?"

  They looked at each other glumly. Good question.

  The professor frowned. “To get involved any further...” He didn't feel it necessary to complete that statement.

  His five guests, seated around their mentor, pondered the future. Each with a doctorate degree in a chosen field, they were numbed over the findings.

  Professor Negochi fingered his tea bowl thoughtfully and pursed his lips. “Whatever we do from this point,” he murmured, “must be done with delicate tact. I was thinking of approaching the chairman about this, but I'm reluctant to involve him. I know him to be an honest man, but then he's nearing retirement."

  "Soon we will be asked to do something we oughtn't,” said Toshiro Aaso, director of the laser lab. “What then? Refuse? Give in? In either case, we end up hiding. Either from gangsters or ourselves. I think it would be worse hiding from ourselves."

  "That would be worse than jumping at shadows,” said another. “When you hide from yourself, there is no escape."

  Professor Omi Negochi smiled. “In another life, all of us must have been poets and philosophers. You express yourselves so eloquently.” Then he frowned. “I am ashamed to admit though, I have discovered no means to protect you."

  He lifted his tea, ceremonially. “Come, drink with me. This may be our last chance to enjoy each other's company."

  At that precise moment, a thought came to him. A thought that was not his. He looked around, startled. But no one was there.

  His attention was drawn to the garden. Whatever it was, he was certain, came from out there. “Perhaps it would be best to sleep on this.” At that, the others rose to take their leave. They were mindful of the professor's health.

  * * * *

  Oompal, at heart an honest child, was troubled and sought out the High Lama at his meditations, following his attendance at the computer banks where he oversaw how classes were going. She found him upon the parapet overlooking the valley below.

  "High One.” She bowed, glancing up mischievously, astonished that she was
able to do that. When having first gained her sight she was so—so awed.

  He turned, his attention focusing on her, but still elsewhere. “Hmm? What is it, child?"

  "High One, was it right to tell the lieutenant what we told him without telling him everything else?"

  "Such as?"

  "About the gateway in the inner temple, and before he left he studied the ancient texts delving in sorcery. He promised to make contact again as soon as he was able. Yetis are now running all over the place. And the new power source actually represents—"

  "Child, I know I look young, but believe me, at times I feel my real age and am lost."

  "High One?"

  "Listen. You are young in the ways of the world. True, you've learned a great deal, but are you aware of what might happen if that young man you like so much was made to feel so frightened he would—as the westerners say—spill the beans? A little dissembling may be acceptable, but anything else could be disastrous. Have you any idea what might happen, if the world heard, and believed and reacted?"

  She was about to speak, but he stopped her.

  "Enough. Our job was plainly stated. We were to observe. We were to teach. We were to remain hidden. Anything counter to the directions of the Star Lord invites chaos. Do you know that their children, from the place he comes from, are taught high-energy physics? That their first aid regenerates dead tissue? We have enough trouble as it is and do not need to draw attention."

  "But the lieutenant, what we told him—"

  "I'm not worried about that, my dear. I know you can twist him around your little finger.” She colored. “But that's not the point. From the day he came to us, we became an outstation to another world, another civilization. However, we must be realistic. To them, we are just a bunch of barbarians."

  "So, if outsiders came here,” she concluded, “we would be observed by the star people, and judged accordingly."

  "Especially if it turns into a circus.” He sighed. “For good or ill, a superior being is now on our planet. One who studies the ancient texts on sorcery."

  Oompal looked sorry. “So, we tell Ramus only what he needs to know, so he can react in the manner we want...” She shook her head. “We have become manipulators of children."

  "Yes,” he said, looking over the heights. “But then, I suppose, aren't all teachers that?"

  She laughed softly. “Holy One, you've just used irony."

  He smiled. “Believe me, Oompal, it will turn out all right. Your lieutenant will not change his mind and blindly seek his own doom. The Star Lord will not be stopped in his quest, whatever his real quest is, and as for us...” He looked into the cloud-filled sky. “The mountains move at their own pace."

  * * * *

  Regis Taggart relaxed in the lotus position and read once more the phrase he found so intriguing on page 1129. The Blue, a work of seventeen years in the making by a seer living in sixth-century China, explained how a certain facility of the mind acted in a transdimensional form.

  He shook his head in wonder. Amazing that his own people knew next to nothing about such matters. There were passages here that spoke of transcendental states circumventing time and space, giving thought itself the power to overlap, and in some cases, even shape the physical world.

  Looking at it more closely, he was careful not to make any mistakes. There were many traps for the unwary. This phrase for instance ... dealing with the ability of the mind to focus itself into a pattern of energy, and by transecting a pyramidal base enfolded about it, expanding that base around himself, as he proceeded to do. He pulled at its foci point, straight through the epimatrix, and he could perceive partial time values.

  Now he wasn't certain that meant he could see into the future, but the elements for further study were certainly there.

  The door to the room opened, and Tate nodded at the hovering figure. He noted that the ancient book Regis read from was held by some invisible means, while the more than comfortable couch below was abandoned, obviously unsuitable for the purpose of the exercise. He sighed.

  "Regis, old chap, do you think you'd like a ladder with your meal?"

  Chuckling, Regis descended until his weight was taken by the couch, and the book rested itself on the table before him. “Guess I got taken away there for a minute."

  "How about several hours? And the term is ‘carried away,’ not ‘taken away'. It's a common enough phrase, but you have to use it correctly."

  Regis grinned wryly. “Anything else?"

  "Yes. If you use that phrase, don't mention a time factor. ‘I got carried away', or ‘I got carried away there', is all you need. Anything else might draw a curious look."

  Regis glanced at his wristwatch. “Several hours? Has it been that long?"

  Roger hummed and nodded. “Yes, that long."

  The book was closed. “You know, Roger, I'm not sure that idea of yours is going to work."

  "Well, it would help if you started thinking of me as ‘Jeeves,’ instead of Roger, ex-soldier, ex-airplane jock, or ex-recluse. Use that polished style we Brits are so famous for. Start looking at me as if my presence was a necessary evil. Snort once or twice in mixed company, and looked pained about it. You always have this expression of never-ending-goodwill-towards-men, and that alone sets you apart. It makes you seem eccentric, and it's dangerous."

  "Why?"

  "It invites contempt. Remember, you're trying to be invisible."

  "It invites contempt that I look positive?"

  Roger sighed. “In this day and age it's expected everyone is having a difficult time. It's expected that everyone looks the part. And most of all, it's expected that one is ready and willing to complain. You never complain, and believe me, that is decidedly abnormal."

  The man once known as Regis Tregarath frowned. “There was a time when I was full of complaints, but now, with what I've perceived of the human situation, I cannot help but be aware of more than one viewpoint."

  "Yeah, and camouflage as thin as toilet tissue shouldn't be used to blow your nose. Maybe you should keep that in mind."

  Regis smiled. “Cheer up. I've found a client. He will solve a good deal of our troubles."

  "You're talking about the first phase of ‘The Plan'?"

  "Of course."

  "Just wondering."

  Room service knocked and dinner arrived. The service man appreciated the tip and departed.

  "By the way, how are your lessons coming along?” asked Regis. “I haven't had a chance to check on your progress."

  Tate colored. “A good thing, too!"

  "What's wrong?"

  "I was in the elevator yesterday evening, picking out the difference of mental patterns, and damn if I was almost swamped with this woman's thoughts—and there she was, right next to me!"

  "Well?"

  "Well, I was never so embarrassed in my life. The images I picked up were absolutely indecent."

  Regis laughed. “Indecent in what she planned, or in what you judged them to be?"

  * * * *

  Professor Omi Negochi looked at the time, and for a moment, wasn't sure what he was going to do. “Niece..."

  A panel slid aside as she leaned into the room, curious and hopeful. “Yes?"

  "I want you to prepare a setting. I'll be receiving a guest soon."

  "One?"

  "Yes."

  "Do I know who is coming?” she asked.

  "No. That is another matter. I wish his privacy kept intact."

  She nodded, understanding. “Of course."

  "Good."

  "Will I be needed?"

  He was about to nod, then hesitated, and shook his head instead. “No. Just see to it the tea is hot. I wish to meet with this man alone."

  "You will take care?” she asked, sensing the urgency, the careful planning he was undertaking.

  "I always take care,” he chided. “But in this...” His eyes opened in surprise at the thought, and he smiled slightly. “I'm quite sure there's no danger. No danger what
soever."

  She nodded slowly and without further comment slid the panel back. Her uncle did not usually make errors of judgment, and that was all to the good. But lately, watching the political-corporate struggle take place around them, she knew he needed a powerful ally. She could only hope it was the one he was meeting tonight.

  Close to midnight that ally came. The professor knew he was there, sensing the sudden change in the atmosphere, feeling that the other was out there in the night, testing the air, casting his senses like a net to ensnare enemies. He chuckled. He could hardly be called a threat to anyone.

  A door panel slid open and the professor's humor vanished. His heart lurched. It had slid open by itself. Then a shadow slipped over the garden path, stopping at the steps and then ascending. There was no sound.

  "I must ask that you respect this house and remove your—” His throat caught on something, for the figure had come closer still, and he found his guest was just that ... a shadow. A shadow that walked on air.

  "Professor Negochi,” came the soft basso tones of his visitor. “You cannot guess how a mind like yours impresses me."

  "No, I can't,” he admitted. “A mind that can cross distance, contact people by telepathy, and even come as a wraith? I am the one who should be impressed."

  "Ah, professor, all of us have hidden selves. This is one of mine."

  The shadow paused in front of him and then floated gently to the cushion on the mat. “What a pleasant home you have. It is inviting."

  "If I read your message correctly, you implied you could solve my problems. Can you?"

  "In part, professor. We must agree on certain conditions if I succeed."

  The professor swallowed and licked his lips. “My situation has become critical. I would like to say I'm in a position to bargain, but the truth is I'm not."

  The shadow laughed softly. “Honesty becomes you, professor. Really, you have a wonderful mind. It would be a shame to watch some murderer end it with a bullet or a knife."

  "And you would let them?"

  "I consider such barbarism the act of primitives. Coercion, extortion, bribery, murders, enslavement—they are part and parcel of twisted minds. Better to destroy them, else they destroy you. However, I cannot be in more than one place at the same time. Where your life is concerned, others are as important. Let us see if we can strike a bargain."