by C. L. Moore
-
"I don't drink," the mathematician said, "but I've some brandy I keep for guests. Or do you prefer Pix? I've got some somewhere. I don't use them either, but—"
"Never mind," DuBrose said. "I just want to talk, Mr. Wood." He laid the portfolio across his knees and stared. Wood sat rather uneasily in a plain relaxer chair, a tall, thin man with old-fashioned non-contact spectacles and a thatch of neatly-combed, mousy hair. The room was meticulously, fussily clean, an odd contrast to Pastor's cluttered, garish eyrie lab.
"Is it war work, Mr. DuBrose? I'm already working in Low Orleans—"
"Yes, I know. I've investigated. Your record shows you're extremely capable."
"Why—thanks." Wood said. "I ... thanks."
"This will be confidential. We're alone here?"
"I'm a bachelor. Yes, we're alone. I gather you're from Psychometrics, though. That's rather out of my line."
"We have our fingers in a lot of pies." Watching the man, DuBrose found it difficult to believe how many degrees Wood held and how many papers had been published under his name—some of them advancing remarkable theories of pure mathematics. "Here it is. You're interested in fairy chess, aren't you?"
Wood stared. "Yes. Yes, I am. But—"
"I've got a reason for asking you. I'm not a chess player. Can you give me some idea of what fairy chess is?"
"Why ... certainly. You understand this is merely a hobby of mine." DuBrose thought Wood blushed slightly as he reached for a pile of chessboards and laid them out on a table. "I don't quite know what you want, Mr. DuBrose—"
"I want to know what fairy chess is. That about covers it."
Some of Wood's shyness was dissipated. "It's a variation of ordinary chess, that's all. About 1930 a number of players got interested in the possibilities offered. They felt there wasn't enough scope in orthodox chess, with its variation of problems—two-man moves and so on. So fairy chess was created."
"And—?"
"Here's a regulation board—eight squares by eight. Here are orthodox chessmen, king, queen, knight, bishop, castle, pawn. Knight moves two squares in one direction and one at right angles, or one and two. Castle in straight lines, bishop—diagonally in any direction on a single color. The idea, of course, is to checkmate. There've been a great many variations, but some themes are simply impossible on the regulation board, especially certain geometrical themes."
"You use a different board?"
"In fairy chess, you may have men of different powers and boards of different types. Modified space compositions—here's one." He showed DuBrose an oblong board, eight squares by four. "Here's another, nine by five; here's a larger one, sixteen by sixteen. And here are fairy chessmen." DuBrose stared at unfamiliar pieces. "The grasshopper. The nightrider—though that's merely an extension of knight's move. Here's the blocker, which can block but never capture. Here's an imitator."
"What does that do?"
"When any man moves, the imitator must move for the same number of squares in a parallel direction. It's rather difficult to explain unless you're familiar with chess principles, I'm afraid."
"Well—I gather it's chess, with a new set of rules."
"Variable rules," Wood said, and DuBrose leaned forward sharply. "You may invent your own men and assign them arbitrary powers. You may design your own boards. And you can have rule games."
"Meaning?"
"Here's one." Wood set up a few pieces. "Let's say, on this, that black never plays a longer move than his previous move. A one-rule game."
DuBrose studied the board. "Wait a moment. Doesn't that presuppose a certain arrangement of men?"
Wood smiled, pleased. "You might make a good player. Yes, you'd automatically have to assume that black's longest move is always available to begin with. Here's another. Black helps white mate in two moves. Oh, there are plenty of problems, the castling mutation, the camel-hopper, the actuated revolving center, checkless chess, the cylinder board—the variations are endless. You can have irreal men. The possibilities are endless."
"Assigning these arbitrary values—wouldn't that bother a man who'd been trained with orthodox chess?"
"There's been a minor war since 1930," Wood said. "The orthodox players, some of them, call fairy a bastard and unacceptable form. Still, we have enough fairy chess players to hold tournaments once in a while."
A thoroughly elastic mind ... one that isn't bound too much by familiar values ... a man who makes up rules of his own.
Jackpot!
But DuBrose kept his fingers crossed as he opened the portfolio.
-
Three hours later Eli Wood pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and laid down a curve-stemmed pipe. "It's fascinating," he said. "Most extraordinary thing I've ever encountered."
"But it's possible? You can accept—"
"I've been accepting ridiculous things all my life," Wood said. "I've seen some peculiar things." He didn't elucidate. "So your equation is founded on the variability of truths."
"It's far over my head. But—several sets of truth."
"Certainly. Several sets." Wood searched for his spectacles, found them, and pulled them down into place. He blinked at DuBrose through the lenses. "If mutually contradictory truths exist, that proves they're not contradictory—unless," he added mildly, "they are, of course. That's possible, too. It's simply fairy chess, applied to the macrocosm."
"If I remember right, part of the equation says that a free-falling body drops at the rate of five hundred feet a second. Later on the body is dropping at nine inches a second."
"Black never plays a longer move than his previous move. Remember? That's the rule in this part of the equation, I'd say."
"Presupposing a certain arrangement of men."
"Which would be the constant factor. I don't know what it is; this will take a great deal of study."
"You can nullify gravity, then—"
"Some themes are impossible on a regulation board. Set up the equivalent of a board in which the rule is—no gravity—and you've got it."
A macrocosmic board, one of the conditions of which is that the earth doesn't revolve. Within the limits of that board—it doesn't. Nevertheless it doesn't move. Galileo was wrong.
"Can you solve this equation?"
"I can try. It'll be a fascinating problem."
There was more to discuss, but finally DuBrose was satisfied. He left, having secured Wood's promise to consider the problem top priority. At the door DuBrose, troubled by doubt, turned.
"You're not—bothered—by the idea of variable truths?"
"My dear man," the mathematician said mildly. "In this world?" He chuckled, bowed, and let the door panel slide shut.
DuBrose went back to Low Chicago.
-
X.
Two visor calls were waiting. DuBrose turned on the playback attachment. The Secretary of War should have come first, but he listened to Nela Cameron instead.
"Ben. I tried to get Seth, but he's out. I'm worried about Bob. He's gone to New York to see a Dr. Fielding. He's ... I don't know. It's probably something at the office. Call me if there's anything I should know, will you? That's all."
Dr. Fielding. DuBrose knew him; a psychiatrist. Mm-m.
The Secretary of War said that there had been an inexcusable mistake. Dr. Emil Pastor had been located leaving Low Denver. He had been wounded—but not killed.
Result: that whole group of intercepter guards had disappeared. There was no trace of Pastor. He couldn't get far. Kalender had ordered double precautions. Pastor must be killed on sight without mercy.
Any suggestions?
DuBrose could think of none. Kalender had muffed the job. Anything could happen now.
He left messages and headed for Low Manhattan. No use calling Dr. Fielding. It might be better if Cameron had left before DuBrose arrived. That way, DuBrose might get some valuable information from the psychiatrist.
Very definitely, something was wrong with the chief.
Flying southeast, DuBrose thought of Eli Wood. Could the mathematician solve the equation? A man trained to the variables of fairy chess—well, the very fact that Wood had taken up fairy chess showed the elasticity of his mind. DuBrose remembered that Pastor had composed unorthodox stories of his own on the Fairyland gadgets. Why hadn't the War Office given Wood the equation already?
The answer was obvious. Only the top-flight men had been selected to solve the equation. Wood was competent enough, but his record lacked the brilliance necessary to impress the brass hats. And he didn't, after all, have one of the Bib Jobs.
Would the mathematician go mad, like the others?
No use putting all the eggs in one basket. There might be other technicians who played fairy chess—or the equivalent.
The copter roared toward the nearest Gateway to Low Manhattan. DuBrose tried to visualize Seth.
"Something's wrong with the chief."
"Has he got wind of what's going on, Ben?"
"I don't know. I wish you weren't dead. If I could only be sure what's the best thing to do—"
"You've got Eli Wood on the job. That's something. As for the chief, he may be the Civilian Director of Psychonamics, but he's got a colloid in his head. You're a psychotechnician. Get busy."
"I'll try. But I'm walking six tightropes at once—"
-
Only one God has ever died ...
Only one God has let his side ...
Be wounded by a soldier's spear!
-
What was that? Some old poet; he couldn't remember the name.
-
Trying to kill me! Trying to kill their God!
-
He had acted instinctively. Self-preservation was almost a taxis. Co-incidentally with the burning agony in his shoulder, he had used the power. They had vanished.
Now his left arm hung withered and useless. The pain throbbed in dizzying rhythms through his head and body. He kept walking. The stars glared, coldly and unapproachably, but he could quench them if he wanted. He could turn that blazing vault black for ever and ever.
Dr. Emil Pastor. Dr. Emil Pastor. Emil-dear. A name, a word, a spot of cool, friendly light in the raging turmoil—
But what was Dr. Emil Pastor? What was Emil-dear?
If he could find his way to that spot of light—
Where was it? There was only the dark here, and night winds, and grass that rustled under his feet. A tree loomed up before him. He destroyed it without thinking. Realization came back then. There was some reason why he mustn't use the power.
Good intentions. The other God had had good intentions, too. But they had tortured him, hated him ... What about the Deluge?
Emil-dear. That meant something. It meant peace and safety, words he had almost forgotten. He didn't want to be God, really. He hated being God. If he could get to the place where he had left Dr. Emil Pastor, he could slip out of that incarnation and find rest once more. But he didn't know where it was.
Colorado. He was somewhere in Colorado. But that told him nothing. Without transportation or communication, he was lost, even He.
The woman—
He was going to her. To find the Dr. Emil Pastor he had left with her. She could help him. He was going to her.
Nothing was going to stop him!
-
DuBrose met the Director of Psychometrics outside Dr. Fielding's office. Cameron's face was haggard, his gray hair rumpled, and his eyes had lost their steadiness. A nerve jumped in his cheek.
He said, "What do you want?"
"We got trouble." DuBrose said shortly.
"Nela told you I was here?"
"Right. She said you were going to see Fielding."
"Didn't you wonder why?"
"It's not unusual for our department to consult a psychiatrist sometimes," DuBrose said. "But you've been acting funny. So, since you ask—yeah, I wondered why."
Cameron's gaze flicked past DuBrose's shoulder. He gave a low exclamation, turned, and nodded for DuBrose to follow. As they walked, he said, "Was that Ridgeley?"
"Yes."
To DuBrose's surprise, the director exhaled with relief. "Not a hallucination, anyhow. I've been seeing him everywhere tonight ... I've been on the run through Low Manhattan, trying to dodge him. Haven't seen Fielding yet. I don't know—"
DuBrose guided Cameron on to a Way. The courier, he saw, was still following, though at a distance.
"What's up?"
"I've been out in the Spaces," Cameron said dully. "Trying to dodge him. It's getting so I can't—" He paused. His questioning gaze probed DuBrose's. "Where's Seth?"
"I can't tell you, chief. I only wish I could. Why not trust me?"
"It's—Ridgeley. Why should he be following me? I've spoken to guards twice. Each time, when they looked for Ridgeley, he was gone."
DuBrose said, "I asked the Secretary of War to check on him. We think he's in Falangist pay."
"A Falangist?"
"No-no. But in their pay."
"Assassination doesn't worry me too much," Cameron said. "It's this other—" Again he stopped. DuBrose glanced at an overhead marker and urged the director to a crosstown Way. Low Manhattan was crowded, even at this late hour. On a full-time production schedule, even the graveyard shift roared.
"Ben. Are you trying to dodge Ridgeley?"
"I know a place where we can get away from him. I hope."
Blue Heaven was mildly notorious. At its garish portals DuBrose took out a blue key and used it as a passport, while Cameron frankly stared. "I didn't know you went in for these diversions," he said.
"Seth gave me this key," DuBrose explained. "He thought I needed an emotional catharsis. Ever been here?"
"No. Seth's told me about it. Rather—high powered, I gather. But—" He peered along the Way. There was no sign of the courier.
DuBrose said, "He can't walk through walls. It'd take him a while to get hold of one of these keys, and I don't know for sure that he can." They went along a mirrored hall through pale clouds that glowed faintly. Some energizing radiation pulsed through the dim air. An attendant appeared.
"Your pleasure? What type of enjoyment would you prefer? We have a new pattern for Creepies—"
"That'll do," DuBrose said. "Where is it?"
Clouds billowed up and surrounded them; they were conscious of smooth motion through that warm opacity. They were relaxed upon padded cushions before they quite realized that the movement had stopped. The soft voice of the attendant said, "The clouds will thicken a little. We don't bother with awkward neural attachments here. The water vapor is the conductor."
"Wait a minute," DuBrose said. "Suppose we want to take a break? How do we turn off the program?"
"This lever, at your right hand. Now—"
-
The clouds thickened. DuBrose was not sure the attendant had gone. He waited. The first tingling vibrations of a Creepy neuropattern began to whisper through him. He felt drowsy, comfortable, infinitely relaxed. Images moved slowly through his mind.
Greek theaters had been one of the early forms of audience-projection. Later the cinema had expanded the scope, and television. All these art-forms had been aimed at making the receptor identify himself with the artist—and the Creepies, with their delicate patterns of pure sensory impressions, were the current development. DuBrose had felt Creepies before—you didn't see them—and knew they were excellent in entertainment-value. But this semibootlegged stuff was different.
It was rough!
Shock—shock—slam! Through the drowsy inertia the racing sensory currents plunged into DuBrose's brain, with a violence that sent adrenalin pumping into his blood. Fear, hatred, passion—these emotions and others, stepped up abnormally, mingled in a cacophonic symphony that jolted him horribly. His hand twisted the lever. Instantly the nerve-racking violence stopped, but he was sweating.
The fogs faded. Beside him, Cameron grinned faintly.
"Better than a Turkish bath," he said.
"But leave it off. I want to be able to see if Ridgeley shows up."
DuBrose took a few deep breaths. "Any idea why he's chasing you?"
"I might have. But do you?"
"I told you. He's probably in Falangist pay. Why don't you tell me the real trouble, chief?"
"I can't. Not yet. Unless ... answer a question for me. Has anything turned up that might make me ... indispensable?"
DuBrose thought that over. He was a psychotechnician; he could see how close Cameron was to the verge. If he could take the risk now, it might solve a good many problems.
"Well—answer a question for me first." He'd chance it—with his fingers crossed. "Remember that hypothetical equation we were talking about yesterday?"
"The truth-variable? I remember."
"Could a guy who plays fairy chess solve that equation? Or would he go insane?"
Cameron sensed the significance of the query. His eyes narrowed, but he took a long time to answer.
"He could solve it. If anybody could, I imagine."
DuBrose swallowed. "And ... if he couldn't ... you'd still have enough dope to find somebody else who could, I suppose. I ... I'll answer your question, chief. I don't want to. But I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what's happening to you. You're screwed up, and you won't tell me what it is, and I'm betting it's tied up with—this business."
"Ridgeley?"
"He's part of it. Seth and I couldn't tell you before because we were afraid the responsibility would—have bad results. But you know the answer now."
"What answer?"
"That equation isn't hypothetical." DuBrose said. "The Falangists have got it and have solved it. They're using it against us. We've got it, but we haven't been able to solve the thing. Our technicians have been going nuts. It's been your job to find a type of mind that could solve the equation."
Cameron hadn't moved. "Keep talking."
"Seth and I had to keep the knowledge of that responsibility from you. You understand why now, don't you, chief?"
The director nodded slowly. But he didn't speak.
"We had to present the problem to you as theoretical. We were afraid you'd catch on. But I saw that fairy chess man tonight, and he's certain he can work out the equation. Even if he can't, we know, now, the type of man who can handle truth-variables. It's a matter of selection. If you fail, it's because the right man can't be found. But that won't be your fault. You know what sort of mind to look for."