Read Online Prisoner of Fire by Edmund Cooper - Free Book Online
Authors: Edmund Cooper
Tags: Science-Fiction
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have the ability to receive simultaneously and handle simultaneously several different telesends. That person would be an extremely sensitive telepath, passive rather than aggressive. That person would have to be able to accept a total invasion of the mind.
Such a person was Vanessa. For some time, Professor Raeder’s best pupils had been monitoring her uncontrolled transmissions. They knew when and how she had left Random Hill. They had been able to tap some of her experiences thereafter.
Professor Raeder pointed to another rat in a cage by the side of that containing the dead one.
“Kill,” he commanded Quasimodo. This time there was no hesitation. Quasimodo was contented briefly with his intake of Turkish delight. He closed his eyes and concentrated, and the rat fell dead.
“Very good,” said Professor Raeder. “Very good indeed. All we need now is the burning glass.”
Quasimodo opened his eyes, and nodded vigorously. “Vanessa,” he said with a knowing look. “Vanessa Smith. May I have some more Turkish delight?”
10
V ANESSA RECOVERED RAPIDLY . Shewas young and resilient. All she needed was rest, warmth and food. She got it. The man who had conditioned her to call him and think of him as Oliver saw to that. He could not do much to protect her against the frequency with which pleading, insistent, or malign voices entered her mind. She would have to look to her own psychic protection. But he could and did give her physical security. It was enough. She was grateful.
She was grateful even for the monotonous rigours of the conditioning process, the wearing sessions of question and answer. With painstaking attention to detail, he constructed an entirely new past for himself. The conditioning had to be faultless. He, too, had to be convinced of the credibility of his new persona.
One morning, while Vanessa was sleeping, he had taken the car he now used but rarely and had driven fifty miles to a town he had never before visited in his life. There he had bought a great quantity of artists’ materials: canvas, oil paints, brushes, palette knives, an easel, sketch blocks, charcoal sticks, pastel colours and several books on advanced techniques. He had also bought a sheepskin jacket, shirts, trousers and country shoes for Vanessa—but nothing feminine.
When he returned to his cottage, he took the clothesthat Vanessa had arrived in and burned them. Then he began to turn one room of the house into a typical studio. While Vanessa watched in wonder, he deliberately spilled paints and turpentine on to the carpet and trod the colours in. Then he drank some whisky and sloshed quantities of colour on to a large piece of canvas board propped on the studio easel. Somehow, he managed to work the colour with a palette knife so that the final effect was of a primitive landscape, full of violence and mystery. The effect was pleasing or, at least, startling. He regarded it with pleasure. Then he daubed a ragged black line through it, flung the canvas board to one side, and started something else.
While he worked, he invented his past. He had a keen ear for accents and an ability to emulate them. Roland Badel had been born in the south of England, had a cultivated accent and a university education. But Roland Badel was to be put into suspended animation. Oliver Anderson was a northerner, coming from a poor family, and poorly educated. His parents had separated when he was quite young; and, though he had lived with his mother for a time, he had run away from home when he was sixteen. He had drifted for a time, working as a casual labourer for the money he needed to keep from starving. He had washed dishes in restaurants, helped build the monorail tracks that connected London with its four airports, mowed lawns for old ladies, worked as a roughneck on North Sea drilling rigs, picked apples in Devonshire orchards.
All these activities were things that a stranger called Dr. Roland Badel knew about intimately. His patients had
Such a person was Vanessa. For some time, Professor Raeder’s best pupils had been monitoring her uncontrolled transmissions. They knew when and how she had left Random Hill. They had been able to tap some of her experiences thereafter.
Professor Raeder pointed to another rat in a cage by the side of that containing the dead one.
“Kill,” he commanded Quasimodo. This time there was no hesitation. Quasimodo was contented briefly with his intake of Turkish delight. He closed his eyes and concentrated, and the rat fell dead.
“Very good,” said Professor Raeder. “Very good indeed. All we need now is the burning glass.”
Quasimodo opened his eyes, and nodded vigorously. “Vanessa,” he said with a knowing look. “Vanessa Smith. May I have some more Turkish delight?”
10
V ANESSA RECOVERED RAPIDLY . Shewas young and resilient. All she needed was rest, warmth and food. She got it. The man who had conditioned her to call him and think of him as Oliver saw to that. He could not do much to protect her against the frequency with which pleading, insistent, or malign voices entered her mind. She would have to look to her own psychic protection. But he could and did give her physical security. It was enough. She was grateful.
She was grateful even for the monotonous rigours of the conditioning process, the wearing sessions of question and answer. With painstaking attention to detail, he constructed an entirely new past for himself. The conditioning had to be faultless. He, too, had to be convinced of the credibility of his new persona.
One morning, while Vanessa was sleeping, he had taken the car he now used but rarely and had driven fifty miles to a town he had never before visited in his life. There he had bought a great quantity of artists’ materials: canvas, oil paints, brushes, palette knives, an easel, sketch blocks, charcoal sticks, pastel colours and several books on advanced techniques. He had also bought a sheepskin jacket, shirts, trousers and country shoes for Vanessa—but nothing feminine.
When he returned to his cottage, he took the clothesthat Vanessa had arrived in and burned them. Then he began to turn one room of the house into a typical studio. While Vanessa watched in wonder, he deliberately spilled paints and turpentine on to the carpet and trod the colours in. Then he drank some whisky and sloshed quantities of colour on to a large piece of canvas board propped on the studio easel. Somehow, he managed to work the colour with a palette knife so that the final effect was of a primitive landscape, full of violence and mystery. The effect was pleasing or, at least, startling. He regarded it with pleasure. Then he daubed a ragged black line through it, flung the canvas board to one side, and started something else.
While he worked, he invented his past. He had a keen ear for accents and an ability to emulate them. Roland Badel had been born in the south of England, had a cultivated accent and a university education. But Roland Badel was to be put into suspended animation. Oliver Anderson was a northerner, coming from a poor family, and poorly educated. His parents had separated when he was quite young; and, though he had lived with his mother for a time, he had run away from home when he was sixteen. He had drifted for a time, working as a casual labourer for the money he needed to keep from starving. He had washed dishes in restaurants, helped build the monorail tracks that connected London with its four airports, mowed lawns for old ladies, worked as a roughneck on North Sea drilling rigs, picked apples in Devonshire orchards.
All these activities were things that a stranger called Dr. Roland Badel knew about intimately. His patients had
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