Read Online The Ninth Configuration by William Peter Blatty - Free Book Online
Authors: William Peter Blatty
Tags: Fiction, Psychological
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act, same old routine. Christ!” He turned back to Kane and began to speak in the manner of a man repressing frustration and terrible anger, his voice growing louder and more belligerent as he spoke. “Yeah, I want my flying belt, okay? Yeah, sure, you’ve never heard of it. Right? Bullshit! Now kindly have the goodness to admit that you’re able to read my thoughts! that my spaceship has crashed on the planet Venus! that this is Venus and you’re a Venusian and that you’ve illegally invaded my mind to try to make me believe that I’m still on earth! I’m not on earth and you’re not an earthman! I’m standing here up to my asshole in fungus,” Price shouted, “and you’re a giant brain!” He abruptly assumed a conciliatory tone: “Come on, now, give me back my flying belt; I won’t use it to escape, I swear it!”
Kane asked him why he wanted the belt and Price reverted to acid hostility. “I want to play Tinker Bell in drag in a fungoid production of Peter Pan. All right? Are you happy? Now, where the hell is it?”
“It’s coming,” Kane said softly.
“But why is it gone?” Price asked. Then he leaned his head conspiratorially, whispering, “Listen! The brain named Cutshaw says you’re not a brain at all. He said that your name is Sibylline Books. Is that the truth?”
“No.”
“Dammit, who can I believe!” bawled Price. He lowered his voice. “Listen, he offered me a deal. He said if I gave him the map coordinates of the factory on my planet that manufactures all those CB radios, he’d get me back the belt. He wants to bomb the fucking factory. But I was loyal. Understand? I told him no, that you’d feel hurt. Now let’s reciprocate, you bastard!” Again Price’s voice was loud and shrill. “Help me out or I might find a way to kill you, to give you ultimate migraine headache! Where’s the belt!”
“We’ll have one soon.”
“What the hell do you take me for, a stupe? Why the Christ do you think my government picked me? Because I see real good in space? I’ve had all the crap and hocus-pocus I can take! Understand? Produce the belt in twenty-four hours or you’re in trouble! Now go and wrap yourself in fronds or whatever you do when you have to sleep! I am sealing off my mind!”
Price’s departure left Kane exhausted. He lay down on his bed and covered his eyes with the crook of his arm. And he was suddenly deeply asleep and dreaming: Rain. The jungle. The man with the Z-shaped scar on his brow. Kane was kneeling by a body again, the Franciscan. And someone was hunting him, coming closer and closer each second. The man with the scar was looking down at him. He looked at his hands: they were holding the ends of a bloodstained wire. “Colonel, let’s get out of here, let’s get out of here, let’s get—”
Abruptly the dream was penetrated by someone’s scream of agony, and Kane found himself jerking bolt upright, awake. He felt a confusion. Someone needed him. He realized with a start that it was morning. He closed his eyes again. There was a light rapping at the door. He stood up wearily and went to answer it, expecting to find an inmate. It was Fell.
“Come on in,” said Kane.
Fell entered.
“What’s wrong?” asked Kane.
“Wrong?”
“Yes, what is it? Can I help?”
Fell scrutinized him intently, then shook his head and sat down in an overstuffed chair near the bed. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just thought I’d check in with you, see how you were doing.”
Kane sat on the edge of the bed near Fell. Fell was wearing a khaki shirt and pants. He lit a cigarette. Fanning out the match, he peered across at Kane. “Jesus, you look beat. Didn’t you sleep?”
“Not till late. There was always an inmate at the door with some problem.”
“Then keep the door locked,” said Fell.
“No,” said Kane vehemently. “They’ve got to be able to see me whenever they need to.”
“Hey, look, can I tell you something?” said Fell. “I’ve got a
Kane asked him why he wanted the belt and Price reverted to acid hostility. “I want to play Tinker Bell in drag in a fungoid production of Peter Pan. All right? Are you happy? Now, where the hell is it?”
“It’s coming,” Kane said softly.
“But why is it gone?” Price asked. Then he leaned his head conspiratorially, whispering, “Listen! The brain named Cutshaw says you’re not a brain at all. He said that your name is Sibylline Books. Is that the truth?”
“No.”
“Dammit, who can I believe!” bawled Price. He lowered his voice. “Listen, he offered me a deal. He said if I gave him the map coordinates of the factory on my planet that manufactures all those CB radios, he’d get me back the belt. He wants to bomb the fucking factory. But I was loyal. Understand? I told him no, that you’d feel hurt. Now let’s reciprocate, you bastard!” Again Price’s voice was loud and shrill. “Help me out or I might find a way to kill you, to give you ultimate migraine headache! Where’s the belt!”
“We’ll have one soon.”
“What the hell do you take me for, a stupe? Why the Christ do you think my government picked me? Because I see real good in space? I’ve had all the crap and hocus-pocus I can take! Understand? Produce the belt in twenty-four hours or you’re in trouble! Now go and wrap yourself in fronds or whatever you do when you have to sleep! I am sealing off my mind!”
Price’s departure left Kane exhausted. He lay down on his bed and covered his eyes with the crook of his arm. And he was suddenly deeply asleep and dreaming: Rain. The jungle. The man with the Z-shaped scar on his brow. Kane was kneeling by a body again, the Franciscan. And someone was hunting him, coming closer and closer each second. The man with the scar was looking down at him. He looked at his hands: they were holding the ends of a bloodstained wire. “Colonel, let’s get out of here, let’s get out of here, let’s get—”
Abruptly the dream was penetrated by someone’s scream of agony, and Kane found himself jerking bolt upright, awake. He felt a confusion. Someone needed him. He realized with a start that it was morning. He closed his eyes again. There was a light rapping at the door. He stood up wearily and went to answer it, expecting to find an inmate. It was Fell.
“Come on in,” said Kane.
Fell entered.
“What’s wrong?” asked Kane.
“Wrong?”
“Yes, what is it? Can I help?”
Fell scrutinized him intently, then shook his head and sat down in an overstuffed chair near the bed. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just thought I’d check in with you, see how you were doing.”
Kane sat on the edge of the bed near Fell. Fell was wearing a khaki shirt and pants. He lit a cigarette. Fanning out the match, he peered across at Kane. “Jesus, you look beat. Didn’t you sleep?”
“Not till late. There was always an inmate at the door with some problem.”
“Then keep the door locked,” said Fell.
“No,” said Kane vehemently. “They’ve got to be able to see me whenever they need to.”
“Hey, look, can I tell you something?” said Fell. “I’ve got a
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