Barrent nodded. He was having a difficult time staying awake. Uncle Ingemar’s low, monotonous voice lecturing about so commonplace a thing as Evil had a soporific effect on him. He struggled to keep his eyes open.
“One might well ask,” Uncle Ingemar droned on, “if Evil is the highest attainment of the nature of man, why then did The Black One allow any Good to exist in the universe? The problem of Good has bothered the unenlightened for ages. I will now answer it for you.”
“Yes, Uncle?” Barrent said, surreptitiously pinching himself on the inside of the thigh in an effort to stay awake.
“But first,” Uncle Ingemar said, “let us define our terms. Let us examine the nature of Good. Let us boldly and fearlessly stare our great opponent in the face and discover the true lineaments of his features.”
“Yes, let’s,” Barrent said, wondering if he should open a window. His eyes felt incredibly heavy. He rubbed them hard and tried to pay attention.
“Good,” said Uncle Ingemar in his even, monotonous voice, “is a state of illusion which ascribes to man the non-existent attributes of altruism, humility, and piety. How can we recognize Good as being an illusion? Because there is only man and The Black One in the universe, and to worship The Black One is to worship the ultimate expression of oneself. Thus, since we have proven Good to be an illusion, we necessarily recognize its attributes as non-existent. Do you understand?”
Barrent didn’t answer.
“Do you understand?” the priest asked more sharply.
“Eh?” Barrent said. He had been dozing with his eyes open. He forced himself awake and managed to say, “Yes, Uncle, I understand.”
“Very good. Understanding that, we ask, why did The Black One allow even the illusion of Good to exist in an Evil universe? And the answer is found in the Law of Necessary Opposites; for Evil could not be recognized as such without something to contrast it with. The best contrast is an opposite. And the opposite of Evil is Good.” The priest smiled triumphantly. “It’s so simple and clear-cut, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is, Uncle,” Barrent said. “Would you like a little more wine?”
“Just the tiniest drop,” the priest said.
He talked to Barrent for another ten minutes about the natural and charming Evil inherent in the beasts of the field and forest, and counseled Barrent to pattern his behavior on those simpleminded creatures. At last he rose to leave.
“I’m very glad we could have this little chat,” the priest said, warmly shaking Barrent’s hand. “Can I count on your appearance at our Monday night services?”
“Services?”
“Of course,” Uncle Ingemar said. “Every Monday night we hold Black Mass at the Wee Coven on Kirkwood Drive. After services, the Ladies’ Auxiliary usually puts out a snack, and we have community dancing and choir singing. It’s all very jolly.” He smiled broadly. “You see, the worship of Evil can be fun.”
“I’m sure it can,” Barrent said. “I’ll be there, Uncle.”
He showed the priest to the door. After locking up, he thought carefully about what Uncle Ingemar had said. No doubt about it, attendance at services was necessary. Compulsory, in fact. He just hoped that the Black Mass wouldn’t be as infernally dull as Ingemar’s exposition of Evil.
That was Friday. Barrent was kept busy over the next two days. He received a shipment of homeopathic herbs and roots from his agent in the Bloodpit district. It took the better part of a day to sort and classify them, and another day to store them in the proper jars.
On Monday, returning to his shop after lunch, Barrent thought he saw the girl. He hurried after her, but lost her in the crowd.
When he got back to his store, Barrent found that a letter had been slipped under his door. It was an invitation from his neighborhood Dream Shop. The letter read:
Dear Citizen, We take this opportunity of welcoming you into the neighborhood and extending to you the services of what we believe to be the finest Dream Shop on Omega.
All manner and type of dreams are available to you—and at a surprisingly low cost. We specialize in memory-resurrecting dreams of Earth. You can be assured that your neighborhood Dream Shop offers you only the finest in vicarious living.
As a Free Citizen, you will surely wish to avail yourself Of these services. May we hope that you do so within the week?
At your service twenty-four hours a day,
The Proprieter.
Barrent put down the letter. He had no idea what a Dream Shop was, or how the dreams were produced. He would have to find out. Even though the invitation was graciously worded, it had a peremptory tone to it.
Past a doubt, a visit to a Dream Shop was one of the obligations of a Free Citizen.
But of course, an obligation could be a pleasure, too. The Dream Shop sounded interesting. And a genuine memory-resurrecting dream of Earth would be worth almost any price the proprieters wished to ask.
But that would have to wait. Tonight was Black Mass, and his attendance there was definitely required.
Barrent left his store at eleven o’clock in the evening. He wanted time for a stroll around Tetrahyde before going to the service, which began at midnight.
He started his walk with a definite sense of well-being. And yet, because of the irrational and unexpected nature of Omega, he almost died before reaching the Wee Coven on Kirkwood Drive.
CHAPTER 7
IT HAD turned into a hot, almost suffocatingly humid night when Barrent began his walk. Not the faintest breath of air stirred along the darkened streets, and the big thermometer in front of the Assassin’s Guild registered ninety-eight degrees. Although he was wearing only a black mesh shirt, shorts, gunbelt and sandals, Barrent felt as though he were wrapped in a thick woolen blanket. Most of the people of Tetrahyde, except for those already at the Covens, had retired to the coolness of their cellars. The dark streets were nearly deserted.
Barrent walked on, more slowly. The few people he met were running to their homes. There was a sense of panic in that silent, dogged sprint through heat which made walking difficult. Barrent tried to find out what the matter was, but no one would stop. One old man shouted over his shoulder, “Get off the street, idiot!”
“Why?” Barrent asked him.
The old man snarled something unintelligible and hurried on.
Barrent kept on walking, nervously fingering the butt of his needlebeam. Something was certainly wrong, but he had no idea what it was. His nearest shelter now was the Wee Coven, about half a mile away. It seemed best to keep on moving in that direction, staying alert, waiting to see what was wrong.
In a few minutes, Barrent was alone in a tightly shuttered city. He moved into the center of the street, loosened the needlebeam in its holster, and prepared for attack from any side. Perhaps this was some special holiday like Landing Day. Perhaps Free Citizens were fair game tonight.
Anything was possible on a planet like Omega.
He thought he was ready for any possibility. But when the attack came, it was from an unexpected quarter.
A faint breeze stirred the stagnant air. It faded and returned, stronger this time, perceptibly cooling the hot streets. Wind rolled off the mountains of the interior and swept through the streets of Tetrahyde, and Barrent could feel the perspiration on his chest and back begin to dry.
For a few minutes, the climate of Tetrahyde was as pleasant as anything he could imagine.
Then the temperature really began to fall.
It dropped rapidly. It sank fantastically. Frigid air swept in from the distant mountain slopes, and the temperature fell through the seventies into the sixties.
This is ridiculous, Barrent thought to himself. I’d better get to the Coven.
He walked more rapidly, while the temperature plummeted. It passed through the forties into the low thirties. The first glittering signs of frost appeared on the streets.
It can’t go much lower, Barrent thought.
But it could. An angry winter wind blew through th
e streets, and the temperature dropped into the twenties. Moisture in the air began forming into sleet.
Chilled to the bone, Barrent ran down the empty streets, and the wind, rising to gale force, pulled and tugged at him. The streets glittered with ice, making the footing dangerous. He skidded and fell, and had to run at a slower pace to keep his footing. And still the temperature dropped, and the wind growled and snapped like an angry beast.
He saw light through a heavily shuttered window. He stopped and pounded at the shutters, but no sound came from inside. He realized that the people of Tetrahyde never helped anyone; the more who died, the more chance there was for the survivors. So Barrent continued running, on feet that felt like chunks of wood.
The wind shrieked in his ear, and hailstones the size of his fist pelted the ground. He was getting too tired to run. All he could do now was walk, through a frozen white world, and hope he would reach the Wee Coven.
He walked for hours or for years. At one corner he passed the bodies of two men huddled against a wall and covered with frost. They had stopped running and had frozen to death.
Barrent forced himself to run again. A stitch in his side felt like a knife wound, and the cold was creeping up his arms and down his legs. Soon the cold would reach his chest, and that would be the end.
A flurry of hailstones stunned him. Without conscious transition he found that he was lying on the icy ground, and a monstrous wind was whirling away the tiny warmth which his body was able to generate.
At the far end of the block he could see the tiny red light of the Coven. He crept toward it on hands and knees, moving mechanically, not really expecting to get there. He crawled forever, and the beckoning red light always remained the same distance from him.
But he kept on crawling, and at last he reached the door of the Coven. He pulled himself to his feet and turned the doorknob.
The door was locked.
He pounded feebly on the door. After a moment, a panel slid back. He saw a man staring at him; then the panel slid shut. He waited for the door to open. It didn’t open. Minutes passed, and still it didn’t open. What were they waiting for inside? What was wrong? Barrent tried to pound on the door again, lost his balance and fell to the ground. He rolled over and looked despairingly at the locked door. Then he lost consciousness.
When he came to, Barrent found himself lying on a couch. Two men were massaging his arms and legs, and beneath him he could feel the warmth of heating pads. Peering anxiously at him was the broad, swarthy face of Uncle Ingemar.
“Feeling better now?” Uncle Ingemar asked.
“I think so,” Barrent said. “Why did you take so long opening the door?”
“We almost didn’t open it at all,” the priest told him. “It’s against the law to aid strangers in distress. Since you hadn’t as yet joined the Coven, you were technically still a stranger.”
“Then why did you let me in?”
“My assistant noticed that we had an even number of worshippers. We require an odd number, preferably ending in three. Where the sacred and the profane laws are in conflict, the profane must yield. So we let you in despite the government ruling.”
“It’s a hell of a ruling,” Barrent said.
“Not really. Like most of the laws of Omega, it is designed to keep the population down. Omega is an extremely barren planet, you know. The constant arrival of new prisoners keeps swelling the population, to the enormous disadvantage of the older inhabitants. Ways and means must be sought to dispose of the excess newcomers.”
“It isn’t fair,” Barrent said.
“You’ll change your mind when you become an older inhabitant,” Ingemar said. “And by your tenacity, I’m sure you’ll become one.”
“Maybe,” Barrent said. “But what happened? The temperature must have dropped nearly a hundred degrees in fifteen minutes.”
“A hundred and eight degrees to be exact,” Uncle Ingemar said. “It’s really very simple. Omega is a planet which revolves eccentrically around a double star system. Further instability, I’m told, comes from the planet’s peculiar physical makeup—the placement of mountains and seas. The result is a uniformly and dramatically bad climate characterized by sudden violent temperature changes.”
The assistant, a small, weasly, self-important fellow, said, “It has been calculated that Omega is at the outer limits of the planets which can support human life without gross artificial aids. If the fluctuations between a hot and cold were any more violent, all human life here would be wiped out.”
“It’s the perfect punitive world,” Uncle Ingemar said proudly. “Experienced residents sense when a temperature change is about to take place, and get indoors.”
“It’s—hellish,” Barrent said, at a loss for words.
“That describes it perfectly,” the priest said. “It is hellish, and therefore perfect for the worship of The Black One. If you’re feeling better now, Citizen Barrent, shall we proceed with services?”
Except for a touch of frostbite on his toes and fingers, Barrent was all right. He nodded, and followed priest and the worshippers into the main part of the Coven.
After what he had been through, the Black Mass was necessarily an anticlimax. In his warmly heated pew, Barrent drowsed through Uncle Ingemar’s sermon on the necessary performance of everyday evil.
The worship of Evil, Uncle Ingemar said, should not be reserved solely for Monday nights. On the contrary! The knowledge and performance of evil should suffuse one’s daily life. It was not given to everyone to be a great sinner; but no one should be discouraged by that. Little acts of badness performed over a lifetime accumulated into a sinful whole most pleasing to The Black One. No one should forget that some of the greatest sinners, even the demoniac saints themselves, often had humble beginnings. Did not Thrastus start as a humble shopkeeper, cheating his customers of a portion of rice? Who would have expected that simple man to develop into the Red Slayer of Thorndyke Lane? And who could have imagined that Dr. Louen, son of a dockhand, would one day become the world’s foremost authority on the practical applications of torture? Perseverance and piety had allowed those men to rise above their natural handicaps to a preeminent position at the right hand of The Black One. And it proved, Uncle Ingemar said, that Evil was the business of the poor as well as the rich.
That ended the sermon. Barrent awoke momentarily when the sacred symbols were brought out and displayed to the reverent congregation—a red-handled dagger, a T-square, and a plaster toad. Then he dozed again through the slow inscribing of the magical pentagon.
At last the ceremony neared its end. The names of the interceding evil demons were read—Bael, Forcas, Buer, Marchocias, Astaroth and Behemoth. A prayer was read to ward off the effects of Good. And Uncle Ingemar apologized for not having a virgin to sacrifice on the Red Altar.
“Our funds were not sufficient,” he said, “for the purchase of a government-certified peon virgin. However, I am sure we will be able to perform the full ceremony next Monday. My assistant will now pass among you . . .”
The weasly assistant carried around the black-rimmed collection plate. Like the other worshippers, Barrent contributed generously. It seemed wise to do so. Uncle Ingemar was clearly annoyed at not having a virgin to sacrifice. If he became a little angrier, he might take it into his head to sacrifice one of the congregation, virgin or not.
Barrent didn’t stay for the choir singing or the community dancing. When the evening worship was finished, he poked his head cautiously out the door. The temperature had gone up to the seventies, and the frost was already melted from the ground. Barrent shook hands with the priest and hurried home.
CHAPTER 8
BARRENT had had enough of Omega’s shocks and surprises. He stayed close to his store, worked at his business, and kept alert for trouble. He was beginning to develop the Omegan look: a narrow, suspicious squint, a hand always near his gun butt, feet always ready to break into a sprint. Like the older inhabitants, he was acquiring, a sixth sens
e for ever present danger.
At night, after the doors and windows were barred and the triplex alarm system was set, Barrent would lie on his bed and try to remember Earth. Probing into the misty recesses of his memory, he found tantalizing hints and traces, and fragments of pictures. Here was a great highway curving toward the sun; a fragment of a huge, multi-level city; a close-up view of a spaceship’s curving hull. But the pictures were not continuous. They existed for the barest fraction of a second, then vanished.
On Saturday, Barrent spent the evening with Joe, Danis Foeren, and his neighbor Tom Rend. Joe’s poker had prospered, and he had been able to bribe his way to the status of Free Citizen. Foeren was too blunt and straightforward for that; he had remained at the Residency level. But Tom Rend promised to take the big forger as an assistant if the Assassin’s Guild accepted his application.
The evening started pleasantly enough; but it ended, as usual, with an. argument about Earth.
“Now look,” Joe said, “we all know what Earth is like. It’s a complex of gigantic floating cities., They’re built on artificial islands in the various oceans—”
“No, the cities are on land,” Barrent said.
“On water,” Joe said. “The people of Earth have returned to the sea. Everybody has special oxygen adaptors for breathing salt water. The land areas aren’t even used any more. The sea provides everything that—”
“It isn’t like that,” Barrent said. “I remember huge cities, but they were all on land.”
Foeren said, “You’re both wrong. What would Earth want with cities? She gave them up centuries ago. The Earth is like a big landscaped park now. Everybody has his own home and several acres of land. All the forests and jungles have been allowed to grow back. People live with nature instead of trying to conquer it. Isn’t that right, Tom?”
“Almost but not quite,” Tom Rend said. “There are still cities, but they’re underground. Tremendous underground factories and production areas. The rest is like Foeren said.”
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