The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  The ultimate paranoid egotism. Perfectly rationalized insanity!

  Pastor said, "Didn't you see what I did? You weren't watching—"

  DuBrose was rather surprised that he spoke instead of screaming. "Oh, I saw it. It surprised me, that was all. My reaction was pretty complicated. There's an instinctive attempt at rationalization." He was choosing carefully the words with useful emotional indexes.

  Pastor looked surprised. "But rationalization with what? You can't do it. Only I can. You can't possible perceive that everything's hollow as a soap-bubble. You instinctively accept the expected. I'm able to do this because I'm skeptical."

  "That's true, I guess," DuBrose said. Too facile agreement would strike the wrong note; but provoking an argument would be dangerous, because the physicist could so convincingly demonstrate the truth of his argument. "Anyway," he went on, "I'm glad you remembered to vise me. You've an almost miraculous power. Or—is it miraculous?"

  Pastor smiled. "I don't know. I'm still surprised. I don't really know the extent of my power."

  "It's a responsibility, I can see."

  The physicist didn't quite like that. He scowled a little. DuBrose went on quickly, "I'm not presuming to inquire about your plans—" He had almost used the word advise. But he had suddenly found a key to Pastor's personality; there was a parallel of sorts in history—an isolated mountain retreat, cluttered with disorganized and tasteless furniture—a magpie's nest—and a man who studied occultism instead of composing unorthodox color-treatments. Dr. Emil Pastor had much in common with the German Hitler.

  Pastor said doubtfully, "My plans? I don't want—" He hesitated.

  "I'm extremely interested," DuBrose said. "You can do miraculous things, Dr. Pastor. But you know much more about the possibilities than I do. You remember you showed me one of your Fairyland compositions?"

  "Yes," Pastor said. "You didn't pay much attention, though."

  "I wanted to see more, but I knew you were busy. I did see enough to realize what sort of creative mind you must have. And now you'll be able to compose on an indefinitely larger scale."

  Pastor nodded. "I've just been destroying some things so far. Do you think that was wrong? I don't know if I can create—"

  "Right and wrong are arbitrary values. They can be transcended." Dangerous words, but necessary. DuBrose was trying to work on Pastor's subconscious, which knew it was God, even though the conscious mind had not yet felt the impact of that delusion. "As I said, I'm very glad you vised me. I appreciate it. And, while I don't know what you intend, I'm sure it will be—remarkable. I'll be expecting an extraordinary composition."

  Pastor said helplessly, "But I haven't made any plans yet."

  "The power is still new to you. You'll need to learn how to handle it to the best effect, I suppose—is that right? Even if you make a few mistakes through being hasty, it won't matter—right and wrong are arbitrary. But I would like to see what you'll do. Would that be possible?"

  The flood of words had disconcerted Pastor. "You're seeing me now."

  "The visor screen's limited. Would you let me come to your lab by copter? Don't forget," DuBrose said, "you can do exactly as you want. Nobody can stop you now. Forget my ideas if you don't like any of them. I can't help being enthusiastic. Sometimes I talk before I think. I've often jumped the gun and regretted it. If I were smart, I'd plan my moves in advance. But—" He shrugged.

  "Planning's wise," Pastor said. "Yes, it is! I want to think." The screen suddenly went blank.

  DuBrose took a few steps and caught the edge of his desk. His whole body began to shake uncontrollably.

  -

  He got that under control and vised Wyoming Emergency again. The same medic in charge came on.

  "Has that ambulance copter gone out for Pastor yet?"

  "Hello, Mr. DuBrose. Yes, we sent it out stat. You said emergency."

  "Recall it. Double emergency. Don't let your men get near Pastor."

  "But if he's psychotic—is he a violent case?"

  "He's homicidal en masse." DuBrose said grimly, "But as long as he's sitting on top of the Rocky Mountains, it's O.K. I hope. I don't want him disturbed. He mustn't be disturbed. Recall that copter!"

  "Right. I'll call you back."

  DuBrose said, "Yeah," broke the connection, and put in a call to the Secretary of War. When Kalender's heavy, hard face appeared on the screen, DuBrose was ready.

  "I need help," he said. "You're the only man who can authorize this, Mr. Secretary. It's extralegal. But it's absolutely vital."

  "You're Ben DuBrose," Kalender said. "Well? What is it?"

  "Dr. Pastor—"

  "Has he solved the equation?"

  "He's gone insane," DuBrose said. Kalender grimaced.

  "Like the others. Well—"

  "Worse than the others. You remember that sanatorium case—M-204? The one who could nullify gravity. Pastor's got hold of a power a lot more dangerous."

  Kalender's harsh face changed. Brass hat though he was, he was competent in his job.

  "How dangerous? Where is he?"

  "His Rocky Mountain lab. I just talked to him on the visor. I think he'll stay put for a little while anyhow, making plans. And he's expecting me. A copter can rocket down and blast him before he has time to retaliate."

  "Retaliate how?"

  "By making the copter disappear." DuBrose said carefully. "By making the Rocky Mountains disappear or by making the whole world disappear."

  Kalender's lips parted. His eyes tightened.

  DuBrose said, "I'm not insane. I haven't been working on the equation myself. Pastor showed me proof, that's all. Put a scanning ray on him, but be careful he doesn't detect it. He's destroyed most of his lab already."

  "That's fantastic," the Secretary of War said.

  The visor hummed. DuBrose twisted a dial, saw a cameo face blink into view at one corner of the screen, and instantly snapped it blank again. He nodded at Kalender.

  "Pastor. Calling me back. Oversee this."

  -

  Kalender's face faded as Pastor's gnomish features checkered into a recognizable pattern. "Mr. DuBrose?"

  "You just caught me. I was about to leave—"

  "Don't come. I've changed my mind."

  "What?"

  "I thought it over," Pastor said slowly, "and I saw the possibilities. I hadn't quite realized before. I was intoxicated. At first. But when I sat down and tried to make plans, I realized what having this power means. I'm not going to use it. I'm not meant to use it."

  DuBrose said, "You've decided that?"

  "Don't you agree?"

  "I can see you must have your reasons. May I hear them?"

  "I think this may be—a test of humility. I know I have the power. That's enough. I know all things are hollow. That's enough too. On this mountain I have been shown the kingdoms and powers of the world. I have been tempted. But I'll never use the power again."

  "What do you intend to do?"

  "Think," Pastor said. "Thoughts are the only real things in a hollow world. Gautama knew that. I'm wiping out my past. I was too much concerned with the hollow things ... technology—" He smiled slowly. "So I won't need to use my power. It was given to me as a test. And I survived that test. I know that meditation is more important than anything else."

  DuBrose said, "You're wise, I think. I agree with you."

  "You can see why I mustn't use the power again."

  "Yes," DuBrose said, "you're right. And it's symbolic that you destroyed your laboratory. It was the symbol of your past, and I believe you were meant to destroy just that much."

  "Do you think so? Yes, I suppose ... yes. My past has vanished. I can go forth without chains to a new life of meditation."

  "Did you destroy all the past?"

  Pastor brought his eyes into focus. "All my—what?"

  "The laboratory. If you leave one part of your past still alive, it'll be a bond, won't it? And the lab is the symbol."

  Pastor said, "One
wall still stands."

  "Should it stand?"

  "But I swore never to use the power again. It won't matter."

  "The symbol represents the truth," DuBrose said. "It will matter. You must start fresh. A single bond now—"

  "I won't use the power again!"

  "You haven't completed your task. The power was given to you so you could destroy the symbol of your past. Until you fulfill that command you won't be free. You won't be able to enter into your new life."

  Pastor's mouth twisted. "I ... must I? Do you believe ... that was what was meant?"

  "You know it was. The last symbol. Destroy it. Destroy it!"

  "All right," Pastor said. "But it's the last time I'll ever use the power."

  DuBrose said, "Push the visor away so I can see the wall go, will you? I want to be sure of your complete success."

  Pastor's face slid aside; there was a shifting panorama, and then the half-ruined wall of the laboratory stood against a cold gray sky. DuBrose said, "Stand where I can see you. Now."

  "Well ... but ... DuBrose, must I—"

  "You must."

  Pastor looked at the wall.

  The wall vanished.

  "Good." DuBrose said. "The last symbol is gone."

  Pastor's face was puzzled. "No. I forgot—"

  "What?"

  "The visor. That's the last—"

  The screen went blank.

  -

  Kalender's face came back. The Secretary of War was sweating.

  "You're right, DuBrose. That man can't stay alive."

  "Then have him killed. But be careful. You'll have to catch him by surprise."

  "We'll manage." Kalender hesitated. "Why did you talk him into destroying that wall? Just to convince me?"

  "Partly."

  "But he was determined not to use the power again—"

  DuBrose said angrily, "I had to be sure. He meant it then. But how long could he have held out. If I was able to talk him into using the power, the devils in his subconscious mind would eventually have done the same thing. If he had refused to destroy that wall, no matter how much I urged him, I might have figured it would be safe to let him live. Though even then—"

  "He can destroy—anything?"

  "Anything at all," DuBrose agreed. "Or everything. And since he's broken his word to himself once, he'll do it again. Kill him. Fast. Before he can get off that mountain."

  "I'll send a warplane from Denver," Kalender said. "I'd like ... there's no time now, though. Good-by."

  As his face faded, the medic at Wyoming Emergency called.

  "I recalled the hospital copter, Mr. DuBrose—"

  "In time?"

  "Yes. They'd gone only a few miles. But have you made other arrangements, or—"

  DuBrose said, "Other arrangements have been made, yes. Forget the affair. Good-by."

  He clicked the visor off.

  The room was empty and silent. The window ports showed the blue sky and sunny meadows of a hillside landscape miles above Low Chicago. Time slowed down and stopped.

  Then he knew that Seth Pell was gone.

  -

  VIII.

  No one else must know. Seth's disappearance must be explained away, somehow, for a while. Because no hint of the real problem must reach Cameron; the director had to be shielded from realization of his responsibility, or he would go mad.

  There was not even time for grief.

  DuBrose went into Pell's office and stood silent, considering. The room's vacancy chilled him. An hour ago Seth had been sitting on that desk, swinging his heels and talking in his lazy, casual voice. Suppose DuBrose, not Pell, had been Pastor's victim? How would Seth have reacted?

  With competence, anyhow.

  DuBrose fumbled out a cigarette, stared at the desk, and tried to imagine Seth sitting there, white hair gleaming under the pale lights, youngish face faintly amused.

  "How about it, Seth?"

  "How about what?" Yes, that was it. Careless, casual, but—

  "You know what. You're dead."

  "O.K. So you're in charge. Take over, Ben."

  "But how? One man can't—"

  "Oh, stop worrying. You'll do all right. It's only that sense of responsibility that can break you. You had one idea already. The chief mustn't know I'm dead."

  "He'll want to know—something!"

  "Well, tell him something. Use your memory. Didn't I anticipate trouble?"

  "Not this trouble. You did with Ridgeley."

  "So?"

  "Yeah. You said you'd put some papers in your safe, just in case. And the chief's got the combination."

  "Smart boy. This is a good trick, you know. You're so used to kicking ideas around with me that it's hard for you to think on your own. O.K. Imagine me any time you want. Put words in my mouth. It'll help a bit."

  It had helped. Seth wasn't sitting on the desk. He hadn't been sitting there. But, briefly, DuBrose had recreated Seth Pell as surely as Pastor had destroyed him.

  DuBrose headed for the director's office. Cameron was at the window; he had slid aside the pane and was watching the shadowy, red-lit darkness of the Spaces. Thunder of the great machines came through the port. DuBrose saw that Cameron's luncheon hadn't been touched.

  "What is it, Ben?"

  "I'd like you to open Seth's safe."

  Cameron turned. His face was under iron control. "Why? Where's Seth?"

  DuBrose said carefully, "I just got a message from him. He wants you to open his safe. That was all."

  Cameron hesitated, smoothed back his gray hair, and grimaced. Without a word he went past DuBrose into Pell's office. The safe was a dual-control, attuned to open only to the radiation pattern of Pell's brain or Cameron's.

  The panel slid aside. A bulky envelope was propped up against a shelf. It was addressed to Cameron, who slit it open and took out a paper and another thick, sealed envelope.

  The director's eyes moved swiftly across the letter. He handed it to DuBrose.

  DuBrose read:

  -

  Bob,

  I've been called away. Can't tell you details yet. Till I get back, let Ben take over. He knows the set-up. Give him full charge. If he isn't available, open this envelope yourself. See you later.

  Seth

  -

  Cameron held out the envelope. "Here it is. Now—what is all this funny business?"

  DuBrose said, "First of all, are you going to do what Seth wants?"

  "Yes. He knows what he's doing."

  "He gave me my orders."

  Cameron smiled. "I'm in danger of being assassinated? Is that the answer?" Pell had led the chief to think that, DuBrose knew, to keep him from guessing the truth. As a red herring, it might prove useful.

  "It might be the answer. Or it might not."

  "I'm not a child, Ben."

  "Chief, I'm just following Seth's orders."

  "All right," Cameron said abruptly. "Go ahead and follow them. Let me know any time you want my resignation." He took a folder out of the safe and said, "I'd meant to ask for this back. That new propaganda line ... it may need some work."

  Harmless stuff. DuBrose knew what it was. He watched Cameron's broad back out of the room.

  The director had forgotten to close Pell's safe. DuBrose shut the panel himself, frowning speculatively. The action wasn't at all like Cameron. He was meticulous about details. And he was a hearty eater.

  Yet he hadn't touched the luncheon tray.

  Had Cameron learned the truth, somehow, after all? Was an anxiety neurosis beginning to work?

  Symptoms: absent-mindedness, loss of appetite—

  -

  Cameron glanced at the papers outlining the new indoctrination lines, but he couldn't focus on them. His mind wasn't under its usual tight control. He was conscious of the luncheon tray on the desk, and the soup spoon that had behaved so—abnormally.

  Automatically he scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.

  There was a pattern to a
ll these things. All these hallucinations. They were aimed at making him feel insecure.

  Aimed?

  A directive purpose?

  Persecution, then. Why dodge the word? A persecution mania. What would a psychiatrist say?

  It was either hallucination or it wasn't. If it wasn't, it was persecution. Or—

  It was difficult to think clearly when at any moment the floor might tilt unsteadily beneath your feet.

  Impossible to work on the propaganda papers now. Cameron shuffled them back into their folder and went to his own wall safe. He opened it.

  There was an egg in the safe.

  Cameron knew he hadn't put it there.

  It wasn't a real egg either, because as he reached for it, it went away—somewhere.

  -

  Seth had written:

  -

  Ben,

  Anything can happen now. Ridgeley's found out we know he's from the future, and he's plenty dangerous. I'm allowing for the possibility that I'll be killed and you'll survive. If we're both killed—well, you won't be reading this.

  But play it this way. The equation's got to be solved, and the chief's probably the only one who can find somebody to solve it. Maybe Pastor will do the trick. Maybe he won't. He's got further than anyone else so far. Keep screening, and do your best for the chief.

  And don't let this throw you. In a few million years, what will it matter? Luck, though!

  Seth

  -

  The other papers in the envelope were the equation itself and the research material Pell had gathered on it. None of it was new to DuBrose. He sat back and considered.

  Seth was dead. (I'll mourn you later.)

  Daniel Ridgeley was alive. DuBrose had almost forgotten the courier. At the moment, he could be discounted, though not permanently. The Secretary of War might help on that score. Ridgeley might be in the pay of the Falangists. Though why a man from the future would bother with temporal-local wars DuBrose could not imagine. Why did Ridgeley apparently feel pleasure when he faced enemies? It had been that, an odd, illogical delight that had flamed behind the courier's dark eyes when DuBrose had pulled a vibropistol on him, and when Pell had managed that business last night, when Ridgeley had been dissuaded from murder.