The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "It's close to casuistry," Cameron said. "But it's sound logic. Only I don't know enough about the set-up. Tell me. Where's Seth?"

  "Dead."

  Silence. Then—

  "Start at the beginning. Let's have it, Ben. And fast."

  -

  Nearly an hour later Cameron said, "If I'd known this from the beginning, I wouldn't have had my own trouble. But if you'd told me the set-up, the responsibility would probably have driven me insane. Listen." He told DuBrose about the rippling mirror, the soft doorknob, the mobile spoon, the shifting floor. "All aimed at my sense of security, you see. Trying to make me incapable of decisions. Building up an anxiety neurosis—to say the least. I knew it was impossible, except through science we haven't attained yet. But—"

  DuBrose's throat was dry. "Lord! If you'd told us!"

  "I didn't dare. I was mixed up at first. I thought it was all objective and tried to find explanations. There weren't any. There were two possible answers. I was going insane. Or I was the victim of a planned campaign. In the latter case, there was some motive—I didn't know what. But I guessed that it was to drive me insane by artificial means. I decided to string along. I knew there might be scanning rays on me. Any word I said might be picked up by—the Falangists, or whoever was attacking me."

  Cameron sighed. "It wasn't easy. I decided I could learn more by pretending to believe the manifestations were subjective. That way, the enemy might discount me, and I might find out what they were after. I knew you and Seth were up to something, and I guessed it was connected with this business—my hallucinations—but I trusted Seth. More than I trusted you, Ben. Till now."

  DuBrose said, "You've been playing along, then—"

  "It sounds easy, doesn't it? But a man can never be sure whether or not he's going insane. I haven't been sure. My mind ... well, I've been in a genuine psychotic state, artificially induced. They succeeded in that. Tonight I had to have some help. I had sense enough not to tip my hand by seeing you or ... Seth. I thought if I talked to a psychiatrist, I could get the value of catharsis, anyhow, without giving away what I suspected. But now it doesn't matter. Even if there's a scanner on me now—the Falangists can't make use of any information they gather. Because they can't stop us."

  "Don't underestimate them," DuBrose said. "They've solved the equation. They can use it as a weapon. They know how to make bombs that can penetrate our force-shields, for one thing. And I'll bet that isn't all."

  Cameron closed his eyes. "Let's see. First, the equation must be solved. That'll put us on even terms with the Falangists. Second, a counterequation must be solved. But I don't know if even a fairy chess player could work that out."

  DuBrose blinked. He hadn't foreseen this possibility. It was an entirely new and unexpected responsibility—the need for finding a man who could not only solve the equation, but nullify its effect.

  "Eli Wood's a fine mathematician—"

  "Of this era. He can break down the equation; I'm willing to accept that. It's easier to analyze than to create. Ben, don't you realize yet where that equation must have come from?"

  "The Falangists—"

  "Are contemporaries. Their science is no more advanced than ours. And the equation is the product of another type of technology entirely. Ridgeley's the answer.

  "He's responsible?"

  "If he's from the future, it's probable that he brought that equation with him. And gave it, or sold it, to the Falangists. You were right in thinking one key to all this is Ridgeley. I want to try my hand at hypnotizing that mutant of yours ... what's his name? Billy Van Ness? We may be able to learn something valuable."

  "Ridgeley seems to me the most dangerous opponent we've got."

  "He may be the most valuable," Cameron said thoughtfully. "I've an idea—Mm-m. You asked Kalender to put a scanner on Ridgeley?"

  "I don't know if he's managed it yet. You've got to locate the subject before you can adjust the scanning ray."

  "All right." Cameron said. He got up. "We've work to do. But I feel better. I ... know now, that I'm not going insane, or going to be driven insane. For a while I was beginning to feel like a medieval peasant, attributing everything to my personal gods and devils. Now—"

  He turned toward an arched opening visible through the thinning mists. "Now we'll find a visor—fast. Then we'll start integrating. Come on, Ben. You'll have to be ready to take over for me—in case."

  "But you're all right now, chief. You know what the Falangists were trying to do to you."

  "I know," Cameron said coldly. "But you've forgotten one thing. Even now, they could succeed. They could drive me insane through sheer pressure. They can use that equation on me till my mind cracks and retreats into insanity as an automatic defense measure."

  "It's still happening?"

  "Centipedes," Cameron said. "Little bugs. Spiders. If I took my tunic off and looked, I wouldn't see them, so there's no way of knowing what they are. But they're crawling all over me, and insanity would be a relief, Ben."

  He shivered.

  -

  XI.

  At a public visor they called Kalender. The Secretary of War wasn't at GHQ, but it didn't take long to get the beam relayed.

  The strong, harsh face showed strain and annoyance. "So you've finally decided to talk to me, eh? I appreciate it, Mr. Cameron."

  "Mr. DuBrose was acting under my instructions," Cameron said briefly. He didn't want to quarrel now. "It was important that I be kept incommunicado while I worked on a certain matter. The slightest distraction might have been fatal."

  "Fatal?"

  "Yes. What's the latest on Dr. Pastor? DuBrose has kept me posted on current stuff."

  "Have you solved the equation? Or found anyone who can?"

  "Not yet," Cameron said. "I'm doing my best. But what about Pastor?"

  "Oh ... well, nothing. We've a dragnet out. Your man DuBrose thought he might head for his home. We've a cordon there. Enough camouflaged equipment to blast him into electrons. Or quanta. We haven't told his wife anything. If he shows up—"

  "He's left no trail?"

  "Of ... obliteration, you mean? No. I doubt if he's using the power."

  "You're doing all you can," Cameron said. "Now what about Daniel Ridgeley?"

  Kalender said, "It's ridiculous. The man's invaluable to us. DuBrose must be wrong."

  "Did you check his case history?"

  "Naturally. And it checks."

  "Could it have been faked?"

  "Not easily."

  "But it could have been, eh?"

  "He can't be a Falangist," the Secretary of War snapped. "If you knew the valuable enemy information his espionage work has given us—"

  "A lot of good that will do you now," Cameron said. "The equation can simply wipe us out, and you know it. Have you put a scanner on Ridgeley?"

  "Haven't been able to locate him. I called him on his private wave length, but he's turned off his receiver."

  The director didn't comment on that. "He's in Low Manhattan. Put a scanner on me. Here's the visor number where I am now. I think Ridgeley may try to get in touch with me; if he does, scan him. And don't lose him! Better put three or four beams on the man."

  DuBrose whispered something; Cameron nodded. "Ben DuBrose is with me. Scan him, too. We can't miss a bet on picking up Ridgeley."

  Kalender said, "Do you want shadows?"

  "No guards, no." Cameron thought for a moment. "All I want is to have Ridgeley under close supervision. But don't restrict his movement. That's important. I've got an idea."

  "You're scanned," the Secretary said, after nodding to someone offscreen. "Both of you. Anything else?"

  "Not now. Luck."

  "Luck."

  DuBrose said, "You told him we hadn't found anybody to solve the equation."

  "Well, the beam might have been tapped. We don't want Wood murdered. I'm probably scanned already by Falangists. Otherwise they wouldn't have been able to direct their mumbo-jumbo so accurately. It n
ever happens when anyone else could notice."

  "They're still ... working on you?"

  "Yeah," Cameron said. "Well, I'll call Nela. Then—"

  He did.

  "Then what, chief?"

  "Seth had an apartment not far from Low Manhattan, I want to see if he left anything."

  "What about Ridgeley?"

  Cameron met DuBrose's eyes and grinned. What about Ridgeley? The courier was almost as much of an unknown quantity as the equation itself.

  They found a pneumocar.

  -

  Seth Pell's "apartment" was really a cottage, a unit affair aimed at convenience amounting practically to hedonism. Cameron had the key-combination. The tinted fluorescents went on automatically as they entered, and the aerothermo-adjusters began to murmur softly. DuBrose looked around the big, pleasant living room. He had never been here before.

  "Seth used this as a hideout," Cameron said. "Here." He went to a night battle scene on the wall. As he approached, rhythmic motion rippled across the panel. The white streaks of rockets flared up, two by two; the pulsing of scarlet-tinged smoke clouds throbbed gently. Cameron watched the scene, waited briefly, and whistled a few bars. The wall opened.

  Cameron took out two vibropistols, handed DuBrose one, and walked to the other end of the room. "It's not a duel," he said. "Let's say it's a trap. Just in case. Ridgeley would catch up with us sometime, and this is the first time we've been away from crowds since I got to Low Manhattan. Stay the room's length away from me."

  DuBrose nodded. He balanced the pistol. He had never fired one in his life, but that wouldn't matter. Aim and press. That was all. He glanced at the doors.

  Cameron had opened another panel, and then a safe behind it. Finally he switched off a force-shield. "Nothing, I guess," he said, hunting through papers. "I didn't expect to find much here. Seth seldom brought work to this hideout."

  DuBrose studied the room. It was a unit, well furnished, with none of the bad taste that had marked Pastor's magpie eyrie. Thousands of books filled the shelves, both ancient and modern; and there were cases of ribbon-volumes, recorded on wire tape. A pillow on a low relaxer still held the impress of Pell's head.

  "Seth told me once that he was a misogynist," DuBrose said.

  Cameron nodded. "I suppose he was. He didn't make many friends. You had to earn his friendship. You'd think he'd have been an antisocial type. But he wasn't; he adjusted surprisingly."

  "He liked his work."

  "Seth would have adjusted to any kind of work. He was—" Cameron pulled out a book, examined it, and thrust it back. "He had a theory that wars were inevitable. He said they were extensions of the individual life pattern. Most people go through a series of personal wars, emotional, economic, and so on. A maturing influence, if they survive. Perhaps not strictly necessary, but Seth thought inevitable, according to the general pattern of existence. Survival of the species and self-preservation—the main factors. Reflected, in petto, by individual wars and by national ones."

  "That sounds like a morbid philosophy."

  "Not if you don't expect happy endings. Ben, when this war with the Falangists is over, that won't bring the millennium. Seth would have said that each war is a hammer blow forging a sword into shape. Tempering it. It works that way on the individual, when the sword isn't spoiled or broken. Perhaps it works that way with the race. A people who'd always lived in Utopia wouldn't have much survival value. Your gun, Ben."

  DuBrose didn't have to elevate the muzzle more than an inch. He kept it aimed steadily at the sturdy, bronze-haired figure standing by the door. Ridgeley's brown-and-black uniform was spotless; the lapel insignia gleamed under the tinted fluorescents.

  DuBrose studied the man. Neckless, compact, very strongly muscled, but built for speed as well as strength. There was nothing to mark the courier as an envoy from another time-period. Unless that glowing exultation deep in the black eyes meant anything.

  Ridgeley held no weapon, but DuBrose remembered the cryptic, glittering gadget the courier had once aimed at him.

  Cameron said quietly, "I don't know your potentialities, Ridgeley. You might be able to kill both of us before we could kill you. But you're in danger of cross-fire. You're between DuBrose and me."

  Ridgeley's face was impassive. "Why, you might kill me," he said pleasantly. "I admit that possibility. But I like taking risks."

  "You intend to murder us?"

  "I'll try to, anyhow," the courier said. DuBrose moved his pistol a little. Ridgeley wasn't infallible. By this time the scanner was focused on him. Did he know that? In any case, he himself had admitted that these odds might be too heavy.

  A man from the future wasn't necessarily a superman. He had his own limitations.

  "I've an ace up my sleeve," Cameron said. "So don't begin till we've finished talking. I think I can make you change your mind."

  "Do you think so?"

  "First—what about trading information?"

  "There's no necessity."

  "Will you tell me what you want?"

  Ridgeley didn't answer, but the quizzical mockery darkened behind his eyes.

  DuBrose watched the courier with one eye and Cameron with the other, trying to anticipate a signal. None came. He could feel perspiration trickling along his ribs.

  "DuBrose and I both want to stay alive," Cameron said. "So do you. This particular combat can come now or later. Is that right?"

  "Why not now?"

  "Because it may not solve anything. Do you know what happened to Dr. Pastor?"

  "No," Ridgeley said. "I've been out of touch lately. I thought it wiser. Pastor—wasn't he working on the equation?"

  Yes—the courier had his limitations. DuBrose watched, trying to find some clue behind those impassive features, while Cameron explained what had happened to Pastor.

  "So that's the immediate danger," he finished. "We might kill you. You might kill one or both of us, or both. Pastor's still free, somewhere. Do you see the latent trouble?"

  Ridgeley apparently had already made his decision. "Pastor must be killed. The Secretary of War might fail. In that case ... yes, he's the immediate problem, Cameron. There'd be little satisfaction in killing you if Pastor destroyed the world afterward."

  "Hold on," DuBrose said. "Don't you know whether or not Pastor used his power—is going to use it—that way? Unless time's a variable—"

  "I don't know," Ridgeley said. "So I can't take chances. I'll see you later."

  He backed out of the room. DuBrose moved forward and closed the door. The window ports were one-way, so privacy was insured.

  "We're letting him go, chief?"

  Cameron was rubbing his forehead. "We'd better. He might do the job for us—get rid of Pastor. And that must be done. A gun battle now wouldn't have meant a final decision. Ben—he said he didn't know."

  "What? Oh. That was odd. If he's really from the future, if he's mastered temporal travel—he ought to know."

  "Yes, he should. At least he should know whether or not time's inflexible or whether there are temporal probability lines. Mm-m. Let's try Kalender."

  -

  Kalender said there were now five scanning rays impinging on Daniel Ridgeley, and that the courier was heading by copter northwest. Also a technician, studying the equation, had suddenly giggled, shrunk to nothingness, and vanished. Microscopic examination revealed nothing but a pinpoint hole in the floor. Presumably the technician had dropped clear to the center of gravity.

  There had been three more cases of straight insanity as well.

  Cameron switched off the beam and nodded at DuBrose. "Try Eli Wood. See how he's getting on. Perhaps I'd better stay out of range." The director listened closely from his vantage point.

  Wood's mild face was ink-stained, but his placidity seemed unruffled. "Oh, Mr. DuBrose. I'm glad to see you. I thought of trying to reach you at Psychometrics, and then—well, you said this was highly confidential."

  "It is. How're you doing?"

  "Ni
cely," Wood said. "It's fascinating work. But it's much more complicated than I expected. Sometimes it's necessary to work on two or three problems simultaneously, in view of the temporal variation. If I could have access to some integrators—"

  "Head for Low Chicago," DuBrose said, in response to a nod from Cameron. "We'll authorize you to use the Integrators. You can have a staff—"

  "Fine. I'll need men, too—trained men."

  DuBrose hesitated. "Won't that be dangerous? For them, I mean?"

  "I don't think so. I simply want certain problems solved fast. I'll give them the material to work on. And I'll want some mechanics. There are a few changes I'd like to make in an Integrator. I've worked out the method, but I don't know how to rig wires."

  "O.K. Any idea when you'll be finished?"

  "I can't tell yet."

  "Well—go ahead."

  "Oh—one more thing, Mr. DuBrose. I've never been to the Integrator rooms. Will it be all right if I smoke there? I can't work very well without my pipe."

  "It'll be all right," DuBrose said, and watched Wood's calm face fade away. Cameron chuckled.

  "He's the right type, I think."

  "What about those helpers he wants?"

  "They won't go insane. It isn't their responsibility. They delegate that to Wood. Well, let's head for Low Chicago ourselves. I want to see that mutant boy—Van Ness? If we can get some information about Ridgeley out of him, that'll help."

  "It won't be easy. He's badly disoriented."

  "I know," Cameron said. "But we've got to fight Ridgeley some time. I'd just like to know why—that's all!"

  DuBrose nodded, thinking that if the courier's motivation could be discovered, a good many problems would be automatically solved. However, matters seemed to be approaching a climax. From now on, these final steps would, at least, be extraordinarily interesting. It would certainly be exciting—

  But it wasn't. It was routine.

  -

  XII.

  Wars are not won by battles. Before the battle must come grueling, intensive preparation, in which every contingency must be planned and charted. In this particular case the unknown quantities had to be found, and there were many of them. Item: Who was Ridgeley? What did he want? What powers did he possess?