through the computer - and God help Blade - was pretty well set up. But Lord Leighton thought like a chess master - many moves ahead.
Lord Leighton took a sip of brandy. Very softly he said: 'You will remember, Mr. Anthony, that Richard Blade had trouble with his memory his first time through the computer. I thought I had explained all that rather thoroughly?'
He was having difficulty keeping the old lion snarl from his voice. J took a hasty gulp of brandy.
Mr. Newton Anthony caught a hint of the snarl. Rather hastily he said, 'Oh, that, of course I remember. I recall our conversation distinctly. It is the precise technique that I do not recall. Just how you enlarged Blade's memory, how you 'stretched it,' as it were, and provided him with this memory reservoir?'
Lord Leighton lit a cigar with fingers that were like yellow claws, then continued. 'Blade began to lose his memory almost as soon as he landed in the X-Dimension. We use that term for convenience. Actually it was in a land, or world if you will, called Alb. Blade did not, you understand, lose his memory totally either way. Going into Dimension X or coming out of it. But his memory was very bad. He could remember very little of our dimension while he was in Alb, and when he returned to us he could remember very little of Alb. Some things, of course, but not many. Obviously something had to be done.'
'Obviously,' said Mr. Newton Anthony, then looked as he wished he had not spoken.
'Since the whole purpose of these explorations through the computer is to acquire knowledge - treasure perhaps, but knowledge first, by which I mean the possible exploitation of civilizations that have acquired a vaster knowledge than our own. And I must admit that in this the journey to Alb was certainly a failure. Still, none of it is much good if our messenger cannot remember what he sees and learns and then bring it back. On Blade's first journey through the dimensional rift it did not make much difference. But I could not risk it again.
'I had to begin work on the memory molecule, Mr. Anthony. And I did, at once. I tried everything. I used known techniques and I invented my own. I tried any number of combinations of disciplines, even complex permutations of the portmanteau theory, in which Blade himself would have to consciously do the work. But this I really did not want - that Blade should have to consciously remember. I wanted to create an automatic memory and a storage well, so that Blade could be left free to fight for his existence in whatever new dimension he lands this time.
'I isolated the memory molecule, Mr. Anthony, and I borrowed a drug from the Americans, something called pentylenetetrazol...'
Here J winced and had a large drink of brandy. 'I also borrowed - some might say stole - a great deal of data on the famous 598 rat experiment.' Lord Leighton chuckled a little evilly. 'We scientists can be just as big thieves as any other profession, including burglars, and when I finally had what I wanted I invented the chronos computer - not to be confused with the dimensional computer - and I stuck it on poor Blade's head like a ladies hair dryer. For three months I subjected his molecular structure to moderate heat and intense pressure. 'And it worked. Now, when Blade's brain is addled by the computer, for that is as good a word as any, and he is enabled to see and experience a dimension that we cannot, even though it might be in this very room with us in a spatial sense, his memory molecules will stand firm. They will even be improved. And as a bonus there is the memory tank. Blade will make no conscious effort to remember anything, yet he will forget nothing. He will not even know that he has remembered it. And when he returns from Dimension X I shall simply tap that memory tank and pour the stuff out of him like wine out of a barrel!'
J smiled. For once Mr. Newton Anthony was looking more impressed than pompous. Before he could interrupt, Lord Leighton went on: 'Now, sir, if we can make that call to Downing Street for final clearance! I am a very weary old man and I want to go to bed. I must be in London early tomorrow.'
'I should certainly think we can,' said Anthony, and picked up a phone in front of him.
The conversation was brief. Mr. Newton Anthony hung up and nodded to J. 'It's on. You may call your man Blade now.'
J picked up the green phone. The Treasury boffin said: 'I should like to meet this Richard Blade before he goes through the computer. I cannot begin to imagine what sort of man he is.'
J shook his head sternly. 'Very few people can. For the simple reason that there are no others like him. But you can't meet him, sir. Strictly against security regulations. Sorry.'
He dialed a single digit on the green phone.
Blade had slipped off Zoe's very brief panties and flung them to one side in the tall growing thyme and heather. By now they were dew sodden.
He put down an old mack, in a small depression along the cliff top that Zoe called 'Blade's Snuggery,' and after making love for the first time they lay close together and, by looking down a sort of winze, could see the Channel. It lay broad and flat, dead calm but for a fleck of lace here and there, and marred only by the lights of a freighter, far out, beating up to Thamesmouth. Just below them, on a ledge, gulls stirred and ruffled and dreamed their gull's dreams. The surf was only froth on shingle. The moon sailed away from them, a silver galleon showing its high stern in disdain.
Blade, his mouth against Zoe's ear - as small and soft and velvety as a pet mouse - said: 'The moon is fair tonight along the Straits.'
She had taken her mouth from his and turned away, and now she stirred but did not turn back to kiss him again. She muttered: 'And idiot armies struggle on the darkling plain.'
It was a game they often played, quoting and requoting from a favorite poem, and her reply was not exactly what Blade had expected. She had not used the word love. And she nearly always did, when she could. Love. For, of, about, to, Richard Blade. Not this night. Zoe had not, even in the last gasping throes of passion, murmured that she loved him.
Blade, dark-muscled giant that he was, was acute without being particularly intellectual. In many ways he was a sensitive man, an image belied by his rugged good looks and his outsize, Greek athlete's body. He was as tough as concrete, an efficient killer in England's service, and one of the best secret agents in the world.
Had been. Lord Leighton's computer had changed all that.
Now he kissed her ear and said, 'What is it, Zoe? What's wrong? Something is wrong, I've known it all day.'
She went tense for a moment, then relaxed. 'Who is Taleen?' she asked.
For a moment he really did not know. His memories of Alb were faint, tenuous, like smoke drifting and disappearing, faint beacons flashing for an instant and then doused in black. Lord L had explained it. His memory
