The Stuff of Dreams: 3/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
5
Lyn handed the keys to Wolenski and slipped her hand into Alan's. He squeezed her fingers reassuringly.
"Dust!" Bronson muttered as they climbed into the aircar. "D'you suppose we're right -- that somebody in the kitchen spiked his food?"
"It fits." Wolenski got into the driver's seat and started the engine. They lifted off and the former Strike Commander turned them in the direction of the motel.
"Be easy enough to find out." Mark glanced meaningfully at Alan. "O' course, we'll hafta figure out how to meet the cook that made the sauce."
"It could have been any of the waiters, too, though," Alan said dubiously. He shifted uncomfortably. His stomach was tight with apprehension and his neck prickling with nervousness. "Gosh, if it *was* the spaghetti sauce, it could have been anybody!"
Bronson sighed. "Well, maybe you could take a stroll through the kitchen -- check out the facilities ... Lyn, where are you goin'?"
Lyn didn't answer. She was leaning across Alan, reaching clumsily for the handle of the door. The safety prevented her from opening the panel in flight but she wrenched at it for several seconds. Alan grabbed her wrist, feeling a touch of apprehension. "Lyn, are you all right?"
"Out," she muttered indistinctly. "Got to get out. They don't want us here."
"*Who* don't want us here?" Mark had turned in his seat and Bronson caught her shoulders.
"You can't open the door in flight, honey, unless you hit the emergency override. Siddown."
Lyn got to her knees, wrenching at the handle. "They don't want us here," she repeated. "The lemonade's ready, anyway."
"Lyn," Mark said, "are you -- Wol, take us back to the station; quick!"
Wolenski was already doing so. Alan tried to catch Lyn's hands, the knot of apprehension tightening in his gut. The car landed in the parking lot and Bronson took Lyn's arm. "C'mon, honey, let's go for a little stroll."
She tried to jerk her arm free and her mouth opened wide to scream. Alan clapped his hand over her lips and then yelped as she bit him.
In the cramped quarters of the aircar it was difficult to subdue her without hurting her, especially as she had no such compunctions of her own. Bronson at last managed to pin her wrists behind her with one mighty hand and wiped at four long, bleeding scratches on his cheek. "Man, kid!" he remarked, half-amused, half-concerned. "You psychics are feisty li'l characters, ain'tcha? Got that gag tight?"
Alan nodded, securing his handkerchief behind Lyn's head, and then wiped blood from his freely bleeding wrist.
"Anybody around?" Mark inquired.
Alan did a quick scan. "No."
Bronson pushed the button that opened the door, hoisted the struggling girl in his arms, still gripping her wrists behind her, and strode rapidly toward the rear entrance to the drugstore. Wolenski followed the group, keeping an eye on the parking lot behind them. Linley opened the unpowered door and they crowded inside.
The door to the apartment slid open as they reached the top of the stairs. "Bring her in, Captain," she said quickly. "What happened?"
"She started flippin' out in the aircar," Linley said grimly.
"Bring her over here," Melbourne ordered.
Bronson bore the writhing girl into the little sitting room and sat her firmly on the floor, still holding her wrists. Lyn continued to struggle, lashing out with a foot. Melbourne jumped hastily out of range and Wolenski grabbed her ankles. Lyn jackknifed, pulling her feet up and then unfolded again with lithe speed, bending Wolenski's wrist back. He yelped but didn't let go.
Lyn screamed again, her cries muffled by the gag. The doctor studied her for a moment, frowning. "The symptoms are similar. How much does she weigh?"
Alan told him. The doctor gave his struggling patient and injection and waited until the drug took effect. When Lyn slept, Judith drew a blood sample and dropped it into the analyzer. Melbourne checked the readout and nodded to himself.
"Well?" Bronson asked, untying the gag. "What is it?"
"Ceregon dream dust," Alan said.
"I'm afraid so," Melbourne admitted.
"But where the blazes did she get it?" Mark demanded. "She wouldn't take it any more'n Ron would!" He glanced at the figure of Griffen on the sofa, where the former Strike Commander was snoring heavily. "How *is* Ron?"
"He's going to be fine," the doctor assured him. "Now, about Major Parnell --"
"She ain't never took drugs," Bronson said, a bit sullenly. "Alan's her psychic partner. Ask him."
The doctor smiled faintly and then sobered. "Think back to your dinner, please. Is there anything that they both ate that none of the rest of you had?"
Alan thought. "Lyn had fried fish."
"She tasted Ron's cherry pie, though!" Mark's voice was triumphant. "Remember? She said it looked good but she was watchin' her waistline an' couldn't have a piece, so he gave her a bite!"
"That's right," Alan said slowly. "And it might explain why Ron came down with it first. If he got a lot more than she did --"
Melbourne was studying the analyzer readout thoughtfully. "It's hard to be certain but considering the difference in body mass, I would say that Major Parnell got roughly the same dose that Colonel Griffen did."
"Ah, hell!" Linley sighed. "Hey, wait a minute. I got it! They both had white wine, remember?"
"That's right," Alan agreed. "And they both drank just one glassful."
Melbourne sighed. "Did they both drink the wine at approximately the same time?"
Alan's hopes plummeted. "Yes, they did."
The doctor ran a hand through his hair. "I suppose individual response to dust may vary widely. Logically, I would think that Major Parnell would show the symptoms first if they were exposed at the same time, due to the difference in mass."
There was nothing to say to that. Alan bent over his fiancee, brushing the dark curls back from her forehead. "Is she going to be all right?"
Melbourne checked the analyzer readings again. "I think so. The amount is actually quite small -- only a trace, actually -- but I suggest that you try to track down the source of contact as quickly as possible. I don't need to tell you, do I, that this is very serious? Ceregon dream dust is a contraband drug and a health hazard, to say the least. If they contacted it through a common source -- say, the wine, for example -- then it's quite possible other people could."
"We'll find out where it came from," Mark said, flatly.
Melbourne smiled faintly.
Major Cross appeared in the door of his bedroom, wearing striped pajamas and looking sleepy. "What's going on?"
Alan explained. Cross sighed. "Guess she better stay here where Doctor Melbourne can keep an eye on her. Put her on the loveseat, Captain Bronson."
Kevin lifted Lyn's limp form in his arms and deposited her gently on the pillows. He glanced uncomfortably at Alan. "She'll be okay, kid. Y'know, I keep thinkin', Angie ain't much bigger'n her." He stopped, his expression becoming grim. "If I get my hands on the guy behind this ..."
Melbourne had shifted his attention to Wolenski. "Let's see the wrist, Captain."
"It's okay," Wolenski said, but he extended his wrist and Melbourne examined it briefly.
"You have a slight sprain. Go easy on it for a couple of days."
Wolenski nodded. Alan turned back to Lyn and kissed her damp forehead. He looked at the doctor, knowing he couldn't stay but wanting to. "If there's any change, call me right away, Doctor."
"I will, Colonel Westover. I'll be staying overnight here, just in case. Major Parnell will be all right."
After some persuasion, Alan was reluctantly convinced to return to the motel.
"After all," Bronson said firmly, "you wanna catch the joker who laid this one on us, don'tcha?"
"Yes, but --"
"She'll be fine, Colonel," Melbourne repeated patiently for the hundredth time.
"All right." Alan sighed and stood up. "But when I catch the person who did this --"
**********
6
Linley took the keys from Wolenski and slid behind the controls of the aircar, Alan beside him, and the other two men got into the rear. Mark started the engine and a moment later, the car lifted off, turning in the direction of the Angels Motel.
"Man!" Wolenski said. "I'm shot! This is scary, isn't it?"
"Yeah." Bronson rubbed his face thoughtfully. "Helluva thing to have happen. Hey, Mark, there's a liquor store. Let's stop and pick up a couple o' six packs. I could use a beer after all this. Bet Alan could, too."
Linley glanced sideways at his partner. "Okay with you, kiddo?"
"Sure," Alan said.
"All right, then." Linley settled the car into the parking lot of Joe's Liquor Store and cut the engine.
"I'll get it," Bronson said, opening his door. "You guys wait here."
"I'll come with you." Wolenski exited after him and the two large men moved across the dimly lighted lot toward the small, shabby store, half-illuminated by a flickering sign.
Mark looked around. "Great neighborhood," he remarked.
"Yes." Alan shifted uncomfortably.
Linley glanced at him. "Take it easy. They'll be all right. Melbourne's a good one."
"I hope so." A feeling was tugging at the edge of his consciousness -- had been for several minutes, actually, but he had attributed it to worry about his friends. "Mark --"
"Yeah?"
"I -- I'm getting a warning; At least I think I am."
Linley sat up straight. "What is it?"
"I'm not sure." Alan shifted uneasily, cold fingers tracing their way across his neck. "It's nothing definite. Just the *feeling* that something isn't right."
"Oh man! I hope ol' Kev an' Wol hurry. I ain't got no hankerin' t'get mugged tonight along with all the other entertainment."
"Me neither." Alan hitched his shoulders, the vague feeling of something amiss making his skin crawl.
The minutes crept by with agonizing slowness. Mark fidgeted, glancing at his chronometer. "Dammitall, what's holdin' 'em up? It's been almost ten minutes!" He started to open the door. "I'm goin' after 'em."
Alan reached out, catching his wrist. "Here they come."
Wolenski and Bronson appeared, each carrying a bag and strolling leisurely across the parking lot. The two former patrolmen got into the rear seat and Wolenski set his purchase on the floor. Mark glared back at them.
"Took you long enough."
"Sorry," Bronson told him. "We sorta had a difference of opinion about the brands. Wolly here wanted to get that rotgut, an' I wanted to get the good stuff."
Wolenski snorted. "Matter of taste, Kev. Personally, I think the stuff you got is the rotgut --"
Linley started the engine and they soared upward.
Alan's sense of unease had not diminished but the source remained as vague as ever. He gave a sigh of relief as the lights of their motel came into view below them.
One of the tall palm trees that edged the lot slid by on their right. Mark glanced at it, flashed Alan a lazy grin and whipped the car in a tight circle around the huge plant, nearly grazing their stabilizing fin on a neighboring tree.
"Hey!" Bronson sat up straight. "Watch it, big brother!"
The car swooped upward, just missing a street light. The wind whistled past Alan's half-open window as Linley accelerated in a tight loop-the-loop.
"Look out!" Alan shouted. Another car loomed out of the darkness and he grabbed the controls just in time to avoid what would certainly have been a fatal collision.
"Oh hell!" came Wolenski's comprehending voice from the rear seat. Mark brushed Alan away, laughing insanely as they dropped in a flat spin. Alan was thrown sideways into the door, saved from being badly bruised only by his safety webbing. Mark brought the car out of its spin and then, with an ear-shattering war-whoop, threw the vehicle into a series of barrel-rolls.
Somehow, Bronson managed to unhook his webbing and leaned forward to wrap his arms around Mark from the rear. Linley shouted something unintelligible and let go of the controls to wrench at his brother's hands. The car lurched forward and dropped in another sickening spin.
Somehow, although Alan was never sure exactly how, he found himself gripping the controls past Mark's struggling form. Wolenski and Bronson were both attempting to restrain Linley, and the three large bodies, locked in combat, made it extremely difficult for Alan to control the car. They dipped frantically, clipping a fin on one of the large, waving palm leaves, shearing it from the tree and straightened out. Linley's elbow caught Alan on the side of the head. He saw stars for a moment but did not release his grip on the controls. There was a smacking sound, the crack of flesh on bone, and suddenly all was quiet.
Alan's vision cleared. Mark's limp form was half-slumped over the back of the seat and Wolenski was dragging him slowly and painfully into the rear. Kevin Bronson was massaging the knuckles of his left hand.
His head still swimming slightly, Alan slid behind the controls. He glanced back at his large partner. "Is he all right?"
"For a guy high on dream dust, yeah, I think so." Bronson shook his hand. "Guy's got a hard jaw. Sorry 'bout that, kid. I didn't wanna hit him, but if I hadn't we'd've been nothin' but grease spots on the pavement by now. Better take us back to the station pronto -- and if *you* start feelin' funny, say somethin, quick!"
"Don't worry," Alan said firmly, "I will!"
**********
7
Kevin Bronson and Andrei Wolenski bound Mark's hands firmly behind him with his own belt and secured his feet with Wolenski's. Linley groaned and his eyes opened, looking dazed. He began to struggle almost at once, shouting curses at the two men, his eyes wide and crazed. Wolenski held his shoulders.
"Take it easy, Mark. We aren't going to hurt you."
"Trenchcrawlers!" Mark screamed. "They're comin'! Lemme out!"
"He don't understand you, Wol." Bronson pinned his brother's heaving form to the seat. Linley was strong, but so were the two men holding him. At the controls, Alan glanced back, looking worried.
"How is he?"
"Higher'n a kite," Bronson said, grimly. "How much farther to the station?"
"We're almost there." The aircar lost altitude and suddenly, from behind them, there came the sound that made Bronson's hair stand on end.
It was the wail of a police siren.
Alan glanced frantically back and Bronson saw that the police car was right behind them, its red light flashing. "Oh, man!"
Wolenski looked horrified. "What'll we *do*?"
The siren wailed again and a loudspeaker boomed suddenly: "Stop your car at once! This is the police!"
Alan settled the car into the parking lot. Bronson watched two figures emerge from the police car and come toward them. One of the men, he saw, was holding a blaster.
A light shone through the window, flooding over Alan. "Okay, Bud, out of the car."
Alan obeyed. "What's the trouble, Officer?"
"They're comin!" Mark bellowed. "Run, dammit!" He favored his captors with a vivid description of their ancestry. Wolenski tried to muffle the cries with a notable lack of success.
The handlight shone through the window into the rear seat. "Okay, everybody out."
Wolenski and Bronson obeyed, holding Mark between them with some difficulty as Linley continued to struggle. Alan was speaking glibly, his voice betraying no hint of nervousness.
"It's my brother, sir. He's having one of his seizures. We have to get him to the doctor right away."
Mark screamed something in Arcturian, jerking against their hands. The two officers surveyed him with distaste. "Seizures?" one remarked. "He acts like he's out of his head. Why is he tied up?"
"To keep him from hurting himself," Alan returned promptly. "He has a brain injury -- got it in a skiing accident last year. He's had these seizures on and off ever since."
"Oh, really?" The officer was notably skeptical. "We got a call about a car arriving and departing several times this evening. Was it you?"
"Oh no!" Alan's eyes widened with his most innocent expression. "This is the first time we've been here tonight. Please, I've got to get my brother to the doctor."
The other man spoke for the first time. "What doctor? There's no --"
"May I be of help?" Doctor Melbourne's voice spoke suddenly, and the little man appeared out of the darkness. "Oh, there you are, Mr. Svenson. Take your brother upstairs. I'll be there directly. Officers, my identification." He thrust a card into the beam of the nearer policeman's handlight. "Dr. Melbourne, from Hillside Medical Center. This man is one of my private patients -- a sad case -- very sad ..." The doctor's voice was cut off as the door closed.
Bronson's knees felt weak. He drew a deep breath and looked at Alan. "Man, that was close! How'd Dr. Melbourne know? He ain't a telepath, is he?"
"No, but Judith is," Alan said. "I called her. Let's get Mark upstairs, quick."
Judith Fisher opened the door for them as they reached the top of the stairs and stood back as Bronson and Wolenski carried Mark through. They deposited him on the rug and Bronson sat on his legs while Wolenski pinned his shoulders down and Judith bent over him. Linley writhed frantically, screaming curses at them. Bronson saw Alan kneel beside his partner and rest a hand on his shoulder. Alan spoke soothingly and Mark's gaze locked on him at once. Abruptly he quieted.
The door opened and Melbourne entered, wiping his forehead.
"Everything all right, Doc?" Wolenski asked.
The young man nodded. "I explained that I was treating the Colonel in secret to save the feelings of his family. His mother's health is very delicate, and if she were to learn of the deteriorating mental state of her eldest son, it would very likely kill her."
Bronson stared at the unimpressive young man in awe. "Man; what a story! Did they swallow it?"
"Oh yes -- as soon as they checked me out on the Medical Center's computer. No problem. Now, what happened to Colonel Linley? More dream dust?"
"We think so," Wolenski said. "He was driving the car and suddenly seemed to go crazy. Nearly killed us all."
"Judith," the doctor said absently, "I'll need a --"
"I got it while you were talking to the policemen," Judith said. She handed the tube to Melbourne. The doctor dropped it into his analyzer and looked at the readings.
"Dream dust, all right. Is the Colonel's weight about a hundred kilos?"
"A hundred and twelve," Alan said in a strained voice. "Will he be all right?"
"I think so." Melbourne injected Linley in the thigh. Bronson, sitting across his brother's legs, was suddenly aware of something amiss. His link with Alan trembled on the edge of awareness and nervousness crawled over him. He looked quickly at Alan, feeling a stab of apprehension.
"Alan, are you okay?"
Alan was gripping the back of the chair and blinking furiously. "I ... I feel funny." His voice was strangely slurred. "Kind of woozy --"
"Uh oh!" Wolenski was also watching Alan. "You don't think --"
"Stick out your arm, Colonel!" Judith said sharply.
Alan did so, still blinking. Quickly and neatly, she drew a tiny sample of blood and handed it to Melbourne, who dropped it into the analyzer.
A readout flashed on the screen. The doctor glanced at it. "How much do you weigh, Colonel?"
"Sixty-five kilos," Bronson said, when Alan hesitated. The doctor reached for the syringe.
Alan let go of the chair, backing away. "What are you going to --"
"Alan," Wolenski said, "it's all right. The doctor --"
Alan bolted for the door. Bronson felt the half-formed link close suddenly and intensely. Mark, slack on the floor, tensed abruptly, beginning to struggle under Wolenski's hands. Bronson scrambled to his feet and dived for Alan. The psychic dodged with lithe speed and Bronson crashed into the door panel with bruising force, knocking the air from his lungs. Half in a daze, he saw Alan lunge for the window. Wolenski had his hands full with a suddenly plunging, struggling Mark. Bound as he was, Linley half heaved himself erect and all at once the belt lay on the floor, its leather length snapped in two pieces. With one sweep of his arm, Mark hurled Wolenski aside and lunged for his partner, his arms encircling Alan's body. Glass shattered outward as Alan's shoulder hit the window but he didn't go through. Mark's plunging body caught him, hurling him backward over a chair. There was the snapping of wood, the smash of some small piece of bric-a-brac striking the floor, and the two bodies landed in a heap against the opposite wall.
Abruptly, there was silence. Melbourne hurried to Alan, Bronson and Wolenski on his heels. Alan lay face up, a swelling knot on his head just behind and above the right ear. Mark sprawled face down, once again unmoving.
"What the hell happened?" a voice demanded. Major Cross stood in the bedroom door and behind him a slim, dark-haired woman clutched a robe around herself. The doctor knelt beside Alan. Blood oozed from a long slash on his arm, but Bronson could see that the cut was superficial. He turned his brother over. Mark was sound asleep, apparently under deep sedation. There were no bruises on his face, other than the black eye given to him earlier by Griffen, and no lumps on his scalp that Bronson could find. Kevin shook his head wonderingly.
"What happened?" Wolenski asked, his voice sounding hoarse.
"I ain't sure." Bronson, with Wolenski's help, lifted Mark and bore him back to the carpet that covered a large portion of the sitting room floor. Together, they stretched him out and the woman who had entered with Major Cross reappeared with a blanket and pillow. She looked at Kevin.
"You must be Captain Bronson. I'm Eileen Cross -- Major Cross's wife. What happened to Colonel Linley?"
Kevin spread the blanket over his brother and Wolenski put the pillow under his head. "We ain't sure, Mrs. Cross. Somethin' weird's been goin' on. S'cuse me a minute, ma'am." He stepped over to where Major Cross, Dr. Melbourne and Judith were kneeling beside Alan, who was stretched out on the floor. The doctor was bandaging Alan's cut arm.
"How is he, Doc?"
"All right." Melbourne looked up. "He started to come around a moment ago. I sedated him at once. Are *you* all right, Captain? You have the beginnings of a black eye."
Bronson grinned sourly. "Yeah; I'm fine. Man! None of us'll be in shape for makin' a film at this rate."
"I don't understand," Judith said suddenly. "I thought Colonel Linley was unconscious. How could he --"
"So did I." Wolenski rubbed his ribs reflectively. "What happened?"
Bronson shook his head. "Alan was in danger," he said slowly. "I guess we underestimated that link o' theirs -- again."
**********
tbc
