by C. L. Moore
-
"What about the application?"
"Simple enough. It's like this, Mr. Cameron. You can't play fairy chess unless you've got a board, the pieces, and unless you know the rules. Now we've cracked the equation, we know the rules."
"The board, though? And the pieces?"
"All around us. Matter, light, sound—things you wouldn't ordinarily think of as ... uh ... machinery. Ordinarily they're not. In orthodox chess you can't use a nightrider or a grasshopper. In orthodox logic you can't use a ... a cigarette as a machine. But even a cigarette can be assigned arbitrary powers when you assume variable truths. This space-time continuum and its properties are the board and the men. By working on certain irreal space-time assumptions, you alter the shape of the board. And when I say irreal, I mean irreal by orthodox standards."
"But the practical application!"
"A gas engine could give us the initial power, or simple nervous energy would do as well. There are vast sources of energy all around us, Mr. Cameron. In a world of orthodox logic we can't tap that energy, or we can't do it without specialized machines, anyhow."
"You've got the complete equation? That missing factor—"
"I found it. It fits. We've got something even the Falangists don't have. But even so it isn't unlimited. The variable-truth microcontinuum can be maintained only as long as there's a sufficient energy output effectively tapped and directed. Which may be lucky, or the universe could go hog-wild. There are limitations. Even mental radiations can't be maintained indefinitely. But a thought can start the ball rolling."
-
DuBrose came into Cameron's office.
"Pastor's dead," he said flatly. "Ridgeley killed him. But he didn't use the counterequation."
The director put his hands flat on the desk and studied them carefully. A muscle jumped in his cheek.
"That," he said, "is unfortunate."
"How... how is it?"
Cameron lifted a ravaged face. "What do you think? They've been hammering at me without a let-up for—a million years! I ... I ... give me a shot, Ben."
DuBrose carried a narcotic kit in his pocket these days. He put the sterilized needle deftly into Cameron's arm and let ultraviolet glow briefly on the skin. A moment later the director settled back, the tic in his cheek subsiding.
"Better. Can't stand much of this. Can't think too clearly in this dreamlike state."
"It keeps the bugs away, chief."
"Not bugs now. Something new—" Cameron didn't elucidate. "Tell me—what you want to."
"The scanner's been on Ridgeley, you know. He located Pastor in Dakota ten minutes ago. He sneaked up and killed him with that little crystal gadget of his. Indian stuff. Pastor never saw him coming. Ridgeley crawled to within range and let go. I don't think any civilized man of this time could have done it."
"Ridgeley—trained for war. All kinds."
"Yeah. Well, he didn't have to use the counterequation. The whole thing was recorded; Wood's looking at the playback now. But I'm sure he won't find anything."
Cameron slowly indicated a paper on his desk. "Been psyching Ridgeley. Read it." He settled back, closing his eyes, the lines of strain still twisting his face. DuBrose studied the director anxiously, knowing that Cameron couldn't stand much more of this. From the moment the doorknob had opened a blue eye and stared at Cameron, the man had been under relentless attack for nearly two weeks. The anxiety neurosis was building up to a true psychosis. Yet if the pressure could be removed, the cure would be speedy.
By the time Eli Wood appeared, DuBrose had finished the paper. He handed it silently to the mathematician.
Wood read it. He nodded at Cameron.
"Doped up, eh? Well, I guess you need it. Ridgeley didn't use the counterequation; did DuBrose tell you?"
"Even if he had," Cameron said rather thickly, "we might not have been able to break it down."
Wood shook his head. "Fallacious logic. We've got the original solved equation as a model now. And it's possible to analyze anything. Just let Ridgeley try that counterequation where I can see him, and I'll guarantee to give you the answer within a few hours, probably. The Integrators are already readjusted for variable logic."
"He might ... not know it, after all."
DuBrose picked up the paper again. "But he might, chief. If we could force him into a position where he had to use it ... mm-m. What dope have we got on him, anyway?"
"He came from ... a world geared to total warfare."
Wood said, "Did you get all that stuff from your mutant?"
DuBrose smiled faintly. "By major operations. This data has been boiled down from eighty thousand words of extraneous material. But as for Ridgeley—we've learned some of his limitations. He's the last of the warriors."
-
Not quite as simple as that. Picture a world geared to absolute warfare, a world so technologically advanced that interdoctrination could begin before birth. And visualize the planet shaking beneath the conflict of two nations, two races, that had been locked in a death-struggle for generation upon generation. By comparison the war with the Falangists seemed brief.
The matrix was war. That was the basic pattern, and all else had to integrate and co-ordinate. The psychology was more easily understandable than the science of that time.
Indoctrination, then, until the individual was a perfect machine for fighting and winning. But only that.
Necessarily the faculty for compromise, for flexibility, had been rigidly trained along certain military lines. Daniel Ridgeley, since his embryonic period, had been shaped to conquer and rule. Even before his conception, the basic genes and chromosomes had been carefully chosen for heredity value.
And Ridgeley's nation had lost the war.
Of the defeated, many died, and very many more submitted and were absorbed into the social scheme of the victors. But Ridgeley was a war criminal. Not a major one; when he disappeared, no one troubled to search through time for him. He was gone—and he could not come back—so he was forgotten.
Temporal travel was beginning to be understood in Ridgeley's period. So he had taken that way of escape. He could not have stayed in his own time-world, because his psychological pattern could not conceivably have fitted into a scheme of failure. He was a machine built for one purpose.
Tigers by heredity and environment are carnivores. On a diet of grass they would die. If they possessed the delicate nervous organisms of men, they might go mad.
Carnivores rule; herbivores submit. The meat of battle—successful war—was necessary to Ridgeley's existence. So, deprived of his natural diet, he had sought it elsewhere.
"Some of this is theoretical," Cameron said slowly.
DuBrose nodded at Wood. "We don't know from how far in the future Ridgeley comes. You'd think he could have referred to a history book and found out whether or not the Falangists will win this war. He'd never choose the losing side."
"Maybe he didn't," Cameron said.
"We worked out another answer, chief. Remember? Histories of this era may not have survived in Ridgeley's time. Perhaps all he had to work on was the knowledge that there was a war around this period. Then, again, time may be flexible after all, so the future can be changed by switching off into different probability lines. But I dunno. The big thing—" He watched Wood. "Listen to this. Time travel was understood by Ridgeley's nation, and a number of people had tried it then. But none of them ever came back, from either the future or the past."
The mathematician blinked. "Why not?"
"We don't know, yet. Don't forget, our mutant contact is technically insane. He's temporarily disoriented, which is enough to drive anybody batty, I'd say. Those creatures that lived in the Duds might have been able to use ETP and stay sane—but they weren't even remotely human, so normal standards of sanity can't be applied to them. When Billy matured and acquired ETP, he went crazy."
Cameron said, "Can anybody—use the equation?"
"Under guidance, yes." Wood told h
im, "And it'll be easier as soon as my gadgets are finished."
Cameron closed his eyes. "Deadlock now. We've solved the equation but so have the Falangists. If we get the counterequation, Ridgeley might give it to the Falangists—and it'd be deadlock again. Ben, we'd better mobilize. Get ready for an all-out attack on the Falangists. See Kalender. Is Ridgeley still scanned?"
"Yes."
On the desk Cameron's hands tightened into fists. "Use the equation on him. Hammer him. Give him the same treatment the Falangists are giving me. But worse. An assault that will tie his nerves into bowknots. Don't let up for a second."
Something crawled down DuBrose's spine and exploded into elation. "Force him to use the counterequation?"
"In self-protection. It won't be easy. He's resourceful. But there's only one shield against the equation, and if we can drive Ridgeley into using it—"
"O.K., chief. Can do, Wood?"
"Can do," the mathematician said laconically. "But—"
"But what?"
"God help Ridgeley."
-
XIII.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
-
The copter was over a mile away. But he could reach it. That was the first step. The second would be to reach the Falangists. With the equation, it should be simple to pass the coastal force-shields. Gray mists of dawn hung over the wheat fields. A few stars faded before the encroaching, pearly light. Under his feet the ground winced and screamed like living flesh.
He blocked his mind.
Concentrate on the single purpose; that was it. Ten minutes to the copter, moving fast. That wouldn't end it. Under his hands the controls might squirm and twist; the variable truths, controlled now by his enemies, could hammer relentlessly at him.
But not effectively.
In his own time-era he had been trained to meet such assaults. Usually they were easy to neutralize with the counterequation—which was so simple. He couldn't use it now. There were scanners on him, and avid eyes watching, ready to study and analyze.
Reach the Falangists and give them the counterequation. They wouldn't be too grateful, probably, but he could protect himself. And he would be one of the conquerors.
Drops of oily, thick liquid crept down his face and crawled toward his mouth and nostrils. He exhaled more strongly. He kept his mind blocked. Expecting the unexpected was the way to fight such an assault as this. And years of indoctrination and training had showed him the way.
He adjusted his pace as the ground changed its texture, now rough as broken rock, now slick as smooth ice.
The wheat fields sank. He stood on a pinnacle at the edge of an abyss.
He began to descend, iron face impassive, the exultant glow of excitement burning behind the black eyes. He was trained for battle. This was war. Only in the face of dangerous odds could he feel this blazing delight.
His mind had been trained to react unusually to adrenalin. He could feel caution, but fear was usually alien to him.
The ground billowed like an ocean.
It slid away from under him. He had been walking for more than ten minutes. The copter was nowhere in sight, nor the grove of trees that sheltered it.
He paused to consider, still keeping that tight rein on his mind. The block held. The invasion glanced off harmlessly.
The landscape had shifted. The copter was over toward the left. He walked in that direction, a sturdy, neckless man trudging through wheat fields—
His eyes shot out on stalks.
-
"No luck yet."
"Let me try."
-
The eyes retracted. Before him stretched a Gargantuan chessboard. He felt a compulsion to move toward one square, but he did not turn from his course. The copter—
Here came the chessmen, bizarre, fantastic shapes, leaping in crazy patterns skyward and down again. But he had seen stranger creatures in the bio-labs of his own time-era.
He walked on.
-
"Three hours, Wood! But at least we've kept him away from his copter."
"He can cope with the imaginations of normal minds, apparently. He's been conditioned—"
"How about psychotic patients? Could you guide their thoughts—project them?"
"It might work. You'll have to help me. Hypnosis, and suggestion. You handle the patients, I'll handle the equation. We'll try it, DuBrose. Can't we get Cameron to help?"
"He's asleep. Drugged. I had to."
-
Hiding around nonexistent corners the shapes of terror gibbered at him. The slow nightmare flight of white birds painfully labored past. A melting face repeated meaningless rhymed phrases. Red and yellow and spotted imps told him he was guilty and had sinned.
Hallucinations of insane minds, given objective reality by the variability of truth. The properties of energy and matter were altered, on the fairy chessboard, so that these arbitrary chessmen assumed form and substance.
The fairy chessmen screamed at him, laughed at him, sobbed and whistled and clicked and gasped—
Lurking, hating shadows. The phantoms of irrational fear and hatred and elation. The world of the insane.
He went on toward the copter. His eyes flamed with their terrible, burning delight.
-
Seven hours.
"I've got one answer," Wood said.
DuBrose turned a white, strained face and mopped sweat from his forehead. "To what?"
"Time travel, I think. Had you realized that Ridgeley could have escaped very easily simply by moving a few days away in time? But he hasn't done that. I've been tying it in with other factors; the fact that in Ridgeley's period nobody ever returned from a temporal trip. And the Duds, too. Our tentative theory about them is that they came back through time searching for something—we'll probably never know what. And they gave up and died right here."
DuBrose kindled a cigarette, noticing that his hand shook uncontrollably. "What does that add up to?"
"One-way time travel," Wood said. He screwed up his face and studied the air. "I've only worked it out in my head, but it adds up. You can move in only one direction temporally. Into the future or the past. But you can't come back."
"Why not?"
Wood gestured. "Why wasn't Ridgeley pursued by his enemies? He's a war criminal in his own period. But he was allowed to escape through time, and he's extremely dangerous. Suppose he'd gone onto the future, far in advance of his own time, picked up some super-weapons, and returned to his period with them? You don't let a criminal run loose if he has access to a vibropistol."
"Unless he can't get back," DuBrose said, frowning. "You mean Ridgeley's exiled?"
"Voluntarily. The creatures in the Duds couldn't retrace their steps either. You can move—and continue to move—in only one temporal direction, either future or past. But you can't return. You'd meet yourself coming back."
"What?"
"It's a one-way track," Wood said. "Two objects can't exist in the same space-time."
"You mean two objects can't occupy the same space at the same time."
"Well? An extension of Ridgeley exists from now to his own period, along the time-line. He can't go home. He'd bump into himself. He'd explode or something."
DuBrose scowled. "Uh. It's a bit hard to swallow. The Duds—"
"They gave up, I suppose. They knew it was no use searching further. So they—died."
"Wait a minute. Why hasn't Ridgeley tried to escape our attack by going into the past? He could do that, couldn't he?"
"He could, but would he? You're the psychologist."
"Yeah ... he wouldn't. He can't give up a fight until he knows he's licked. Suppose he decides he is licked and escapes into the past again? Without using the counterequation?"
"Would he? Even if he has to let that information fall into our hands, he's not lost his private war. He may have other aces up his sleeve."
"We've got to break him down. He's resisted all our assaults so far. He's conditioned to the
unexpected or something. Even those projections of objective insanity haven't cracked him. What would?"
The mathematician grimaced. "I don't know. If we keep pounding at him—"
A vagrant thought moved through DuBrose's mind. He caught at it.
"The mutant ... yeah! Billy Van Ness! Wood, could we use him against Ridgeley?"
"Why—how? We're using psychotic projections now."
"Ordinary insanity," DuBrose said quickly, stubbing out his cigarette. "Van Ness has got something special. ETP. He's a mutation of a nonhuman race, a totally alien one. They gave him a legacy that drove him insane as soon as he could use it. The extra-temporal perception was latent in him till he matured. Then—retreat to insanity. I don't think even Ridgeley's mind could stand ETP."
"We don't want to drive him insane."
"Don't forget his trigger responses. He'll know what we're trying to do. He'll use the counterequation—he'll have to. There won't be time for him to work out other possible solutions. If the ETP is as dangerous as I think it is, Ridgeley will get one whiff of it, panic, and give us the information we want. But—can we transmit Van Ness' ETP?"
"Not according to orthodox logic," Wood said. "Only we'll use a truth-variant in which psychic transmission of the faculty is possible. We can try it."
"If it works, we'll have to be ready." DuBrose spoke into a visor. "Instant mobilization. At the word, smash down on the Falangists with the equation applications we've already charted. Get me Kalender ... Mr. Secretary? Hold ready. The word may come at any time now. An all-out robot assault on the Falangists."
"We're mobilized for that," Kalender said tautly. "What about defense?"
"When we get the counterequation, we can handle it from here. Wood and his staff will tackle it instantly. O.K.?" DuBrose turned from the visor, a tight, cold feeling in his stomach.
He was afraid of what he was going to do.
-
They kept up the unrelenting attack on Ridgeley as they prepared. But the courier, by sheer, dogged nerve—or lack of it—had nearly reached his copter. As Wood re-checked and diagramed the factors of the equation that they would have to use, DuBrose put the mutant under hypnosis and made sure that the warped, half-alien mind was sufficiently under his control.