Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [199]
"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.
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.
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.
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