"Wilhelm, Kate - The Dark Door" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilhelm Kate)

THE DARK DOOR
Hate Wilhelm


ST. MARTIN'S PRESS II
NEW YORK
THE DARK DOOR. Copyright 1988 by Kate Wilhelm. All rights reserved, Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Design by Judith Stagnitto Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Wilhelm, Kate, The dark door / Kate Wilhelm. p. cm. ISBN 0-312-02182-8 I, Title. PS3573.I434D37 1988 813'.54dc19
88-14777 CIP
1098765432

Prologue
The pursuit of knowledge was the only endeavor worthy of intelligence, the master had taught, and the student Kri believed without question. As time passed, the student Kri achieved high status, not yet a master, but already an associate, and together he and the master developed and launched the first probe for life among the stars.
The tiny cylinder passed through interspace and back as programmed, but in the messages it now sent were streaks of clashing colors, wavery mud-gray splotches, even a black spray that swelled and shrank, appeared and vanished. With regret the master shadowed the self-destruct panel. The fountain of multihued lights that recorded the probe existence dimmed and faded. The messages ceased.
The second probe, much altered, did not send any messages after its passage through interspace, but now a column of blackness marred the fountain of lights. This black column did not waver, nor did it grow; however, it shifted, first here, then there. It persisted despite all their efforts to remove it. Again the master shadowed the self-destruct panel; the column of darkness continued to lash within the fountain of lights. No messages were forthcoming.
Reviewers were appointed to examine the work, test the equations, study the methods; they could find no flaw, yet the fountain of many colors remained disfigured and hideous, marred by darkness that had become the darkness of ignorance, and then the shadow of fear.
"We cannot find the probe," the master said at the review hearing. "Once it passed through interspace, it was lost to us. We know it still exists somewhere. We know it is seriously flawed, perhaps fatally flawed. It will pass out of the galaxy eventually, and until it does, it poses a problem, perhaps even a threat to any life form it locates. It is beyond our ability to stop it or to correct it. We have tried to no avail."
The reviewers gazed at the marred fountain of light, a pale, sad flicker here and there the only visible reaction among them. After the adjournment, the master own lights dimmed and faded; before the associate could follow his example, the reviewers intervened.
"Associate Kri," the master of reviewers said, "the pursuit of knowledge is to the academy the highest order of intelligence, second only to love and respect for intelligence itself. You and your master have brought dishonor to the academy, and a threat to life. However, in doing so, you have also alerted us to the dangers of unknown hazards that lie in interspace. We thought ourselves ready to travel among the stars, and we find instead that we must be resigned to roam no further than the reaches of our own star system until we have solved the problems your probe has revealed. Because the good you have brought to your own race is overshadowed by the evil that you may have brought to other life forms, it is the decision of this review panel that you must complete the project you have begun. Until the lights of the probe fade, you will monitor them, for however long the probe continues to exist."
Kri's own lights dimmed and flickered. "May I," he asked in a low voice, "continue to work on the probe in order to try to solve this mystery?"
"Yes, Associate Kri. That is the only task you will have for as long as it exists."
The cylinder emerged from interspace in the star system of a primary with five satellites. One by one it orbited the satellites until it found life. When it completed its examination of the planet, it left behind a trail of destruction-death and madness. Associate Kri prayed to the intelligence that ruled all life to destroy it, but the fountain of many lights remained undiminished; the blackness at its heart continued. It did not respond to shadowing of the destruct panel; it did not send any messages.
On the planet Earth fur-clad hunters pursued shaggy mastodons across the ice sheets to the steppes beyond, and some kept going south, always south. They came in waves, seeking better hunting, more hospitable territory, and then the ice crashed into the sea, and the retreat vanished.
In time, Kri people launched an interspace starship, then another, and another. Some of them even searched for the tiny cylinder, but they could not find it in the immensity of space. Kri continued to monitor the fountain of lights with the blackness of evil at its core. He knew exactly when it emerged from interspace, when it reentered. He could not know what it did in the intervals. He no longer saw the multihued lights; all he could see was the blackness, the dark door of evil.

Chapter 1
June 1979. Carson Danvers knew he was being overly cautious, getting insurance quotes for all four places he was considering, but he had time, and it was better to be cautious before the fact than have cause for regrets afterward. Although River House was fourth on his list, he and Elinor had already decided this was the one they really wanted. Half an hour out of Washington, D.C., through lush countryside with gentle hills and woods, a tiny village a few miles past the inn, it was perfect. He would keep the name, he had already decided. River House, a fine gourmet restaurant for the discriminating. He glanced at Elinor's profile, caught the suggestion of a smile on her lips, and felt his own grin broaden. In the back seat his son Gary chatted easily with John Loesser. Gary was seventeen, ready for Yale in the fall; it was time to make the change if they were ever to do it. He suppressed the urge to laugh and sing; John Loesser would never understand.
Carson pulled off the Virginia state road onto a winding blacktop driveway and slowed down to navigate the curves, several of them before the old inn came into sight. The grounds were neglected, of course-rhododendrons thirty feet high, blackberry brambles, sumac-and the building had the windows boarded up. But even so its air of regal affluence was unmistakable. Three stories high, with a wide antebellum porch and beautifully carved pillars that reached to the third level, it bespoke the graciousness of the century past.
"We'd keep the upper levels for our own living quarters," he said over his shoulder to John Loesser. "A main dining room downstairs, several smaller rooms for private dinners, a lounge, that sort of thing. I'll have to do a lot of remodeling of course, but cheaper than trying to build at today's prices."
"If it's structurally sound," John Loesser said in his precise way.
He did not have stars in his eyes, and that was all to the good, Carson thought. One of them should stay practical, add up the pennies, add in insurance costs. That was John Loesser's department, assessing the insurability of the place. He stopped his Buick at the front entrance. As soon as they left the airconditioned car, the heat of late June in Virginia assailed them. Carson pulled off his coat, and after a moment John Loesser did also. Elinor was sensibly dressed in a cotton shift and sandals, her legs bare, and Gary had on shorts and a tank top. Only the businessmen, Carson thought with some amusement, went through the motions of suits and ties. And after he bought River House, made it the restaurant he had long dreamed of owning, he promised himself never to wear a necktie again in his life, or a coat in the summer.
"I have flashlights," he said, opening the trunk of the Buick. "I loosened some of the boards on the windows last week, but the basement's like a cave." He handed John Loesser a large flashlight, took another for himself, and saw that the other man was staring at two rifles also in the trunk.
"Gary's going to get in some practice while we're going over the building." He closed the trunk and tossed the keys to his son.
Elinor watched the three men remove some of the window boards, then go on to the next bunch and take them down. How alike they were, she thought, surprised, all three over six feet, all blond. Of course, Gary was still somewhat frail-looking, having shot upward over twelve inches in the past year; it might take him three or four years to fill in the frame he was constructing for himself. Seventeen, she found herself marveling. A sharp image superimposed itself before her eyes, eclipsing for a second the three men: an image of herself walking with Carson, with Gary in the middle swinging from their hands, laughing. Yesterday. Ten years, twelve years ago. She shook her head and turned to the front door of the inn, put the key in the padlock, and opened it. When she entered, she left the door wide open to admit air and more light.
On one side was a wide sculpted staircase sweeping up in a graceful curve. They would have a women's lounge up there; permit the customers to fantasize briefly of being the lady of the house, making a grand entrance to a crowded, suddenly hushed ballroom, glittering with the wealth of the Virginia aristocracy. Elinor smiled to herself. That was her fantasy. The area to the right had held the registration desk; nothing was there's now. A closed door led to a narrow hallway and small offices. To the left of the entrance stretched a very large room with a centered fireplace built with meticulously matched river stones. She could visualize the palm trees, the velvet-covered lounges and chairs, low, ornately carved tables, brass lamps .... Only faded, rose-colored flocked wallpaper remained. She moved through the large open space toward the back of the building. Suddenly she stopped, blinded by a stabbing headache; she groped for the doorway to steady herself.
An overwhelming feeling of disorientation, of dizziness, swept her, made her catch her breath and hold onto the door frame; her eyes closed hard. The moment passed and she could feel a vein throbbing in her temple, a knife blade of pain behind her right eye. Not now, she moaned to herself, not a migraine now. She opened her eyes cautiously; when the pain did not increase, she began to move again, through a corridor to the rear of the inn. She unlocked another door and threw it wide open, went out to another porch to lean against a railing. She took one very deep breath after another, forcing relaxation on her neck muscles, which had become like iron. Gradually the headache eased, and by the time Carson and John Loesser moved into sight, it was a steady throb, no longer all-demanding.
Carson saw her leaning on the rail and felt a familiar twinge of pleasure. Standing like that, in profile, as trim and as slender as she had been twenty years ago, she looked posed. She looked lovely. "Are you married?" he asked John Loesser.
"My wife died five years ago," Loesser said without expression.
"Oh, sorry." Loesser was already moving on. Carson caught up again. "Here's the back entrance. We'll have a terrace down there, and tables on the porch overlooking the river. The property extends to the bank of the river. I want it to be like a garden, invite strolling, relaxing."
They went through the open back door, on to the kitchen, which would need a complete remodeling, walls to come out, a dumb waiter to go in. Carson was indicating his plans when John Loesser suddenly grunted and seemed about to fall. He reached out and caught a cabinet, steadied himself, stood swaying with his eyes shut. By the time Carson got to him, he was pushing himself away from the cabinet. A film of perspiration covered his face; he looked waxy and pale. Carson's first thought was heart attack, and with that thought came the fear men his age, mid-forties, always suffered. Loesser was that age, too, he knew. He took Loesser's arm.
"Let's go outside, get some air. Are you okay?"
"I'm all right," John Loesser said, pulling free. His voice was faint; he sounded puzzled, not afraid. "A dizzy spell. Could there be some gas in here? Bad air?"
Carson looked at him doubtfully. "How? I've been all over this building three times already Elinor, Gary, we've been in every room, and that was with the boards on the windows, before we were allowed to open it up at all."
Loesser drew in a deep breath, his color back to normal, a look of irritation the only expression Carson could read. "Whatever it was, it gone now. I have a bit of a headache, maybe that's to blame. You understand any figure I come up with is a ball park figure, contingent on many other reports. A termite inspection, for example."
Carson nodded and they wandered slowly throughout the other rooms on the main floor. Something was different, he thought suddenly, It was true that he and Elinor and Gary had prowled through the building three times, but now something was changed. He felt almost as if something or someone lurked just out of sight, that if he could swivel his head fast enough, without warning, he might catch a glimpse of an intruder. He had had a violent headache ever since their arrival. Pain throbbed behind his eyes. It was the damn heat, he decided; maybe a storm was building, the air pressure was low. Or high; it felt as if the air was compacted, pressing against his head. He and Loesser went up the wide, curving staircase to the second floor, where he began to outline the plans for a women's lounge.
Suddenly he heard Elinor scream, a piercing shriek of terror, cut off by a gunshot. He turned and raced through the upstairs hallway to the rear stairs, John Loesser ran toward the stairs they had just ascended. Before Carson reached the first floor there was another gunshot that sounded even louder than the first. He tore out to the porch, pounded to the far end of it, and saw Elinor crumpled on the floor.
One of her sandals was gone, he thought distantly. How could that have happened? He touched her face. One eye was open, as blue as the dress twisted about her thighs. The other side of her face was gone. He touched her cheek, whispering her name. He started to gather her up, to lift her, carry her inside, straighten out her dress. From a long way away he heard a man's anguished wail. Angered by the noise, he jerked up, snapped around, and saw his son Gary leveling the rifle at him. He was still moving when the gun fired, and fired again. He was flung backward by the momentum, stopped briefly by the porch rail. Then he toppled over it to fall to the thick underbrush below.