Chapter 13
In one of his more lucid moments while the machines under Berina Arlan's direction slammed him, twisted him, attenuated him, compacted him, drained him, flooded him and discredited him, the thought came to Keaflyn: Nature is kind.
The normal forces at work in the universe never harmed an ego-field—a soul, a spirit, a life-force. Not directly, the way Berina's hellish gadgets were doing him. No. Nature was rough only on bodies, and thus indirectly on ego-fields—to the degree the ego-fields became fixated on or in bodies. The worst nature could do to an ego-field was tear a body away from it, either the body the ego happened to be inhabiting, or the cherished body of a loved one.
Or it could give a fixated ego-field some solid grief by denying it the favors of a desired lover. Unrequited sexual desire was about as severe as any torture nature dished out, and even that was indirect, requiring fixation on a body.
That was why he hadn't really been bothered when Tinker showed up in a pre-sex eleven-year-old body for their this-lifetime reunion, his thoughts ran on sometime later, in another lucid moment. He loved Tinker, but with a love that was more and less than fixation. Fixations were for the not-sane, and besides, you couldn't very well get fixated on one body during a marriage such as his and Tinker's, which had lasted through several lifetimes . . .
What was it he had been thinking about? Oh, yes—Tinker! It helped to think about Tinker. Think about her even when he could open his eyes enough to see the beautiful but grim Berina Arlan at the control board of one murderous machine after another. . . . Tinker! Mustn't forget Tinker . . . and the kindness of nature—that was part of it, too. Like the reason Tinker was only eleven years old, instead of in a body compatible with his own in age. She had been killed while in a nineyear-old-body—which would have been compatible in age—in the Brobdinagia disaster. A freak accident of some sort, evidently an in-space collision, had blown up the spaceliner Brobdinagia with the whole crew and all passengers, including Tinker.
A sudden, unexpected death like that was the worst kind, because it could catch an ego-field by surprise and have a stunning effect. But Tinker's present lifetime father, Clav Didorik, said she got over it by the time she was two years old. So, even at its worst, nature was kind . . .
What was that nice thought I was thinking? Got to find it quick! Stabilities? Kelly? What was it? Oh. Oh, yes. Tinker. Find something else to think about Tinker before the Senior Sibling gets the next machine lined up on me. Helps a lot to have a thought like that. To hang onto.
But what's Berina up to now? Taking a break or something? Just standing there . . .
The Senior Sibling moved forward and did something to his chair. Then she asked him something, but she ran her words together and no meaning came through. He didn't care what she had asked, anyway. He didn't feel like talking to anybody, much less to such a frightful monster as she. Still, he was going to get a grip on himself and stop shaking like a leaf and stop being afraid . . . Berina asked the same question again.
This time he looked up at her, annoyed because the sight of a beautiful woman could make him flinch with a sudden surge of abject terror.
I'm not going to be cowed! he told himself determinedly. Oh, yes, I am! came a responding thought from the vicinity of the pleasure-impress—I'm going to be cowed, horsed, dogged, rabbited, and even cockroached! But that thought wasn't him, and in spite of everything, he could still speak for himself.
"What goofy language is that?" he growled at her. Berina replied, "I asked if you can stand up now. But I spoke too rapidly for you to understand. Can you stand up?"
"I guess so, but why should I bother? Let your damned chair carry me where you want me. Am I supposed to go to your execution chamber under my own power or something?"
He noticed she was no longer frowning, but she looked unhappy nevertheless. Not nearly as unhappy, though, as he would like to see her. "I'm discontinuing the procedure for a while," she replied. "Something has come up. I want you to go to the quarters I've assigned you, and wait."
Terror hit him. "You mean there's more of this still to come?" he yammered.
Her face creased as if she were going to cry, but the expression was gone almost before he noticed it. "Perhaps not," she said, looking away. "Judging from your verbalization speed, your IQ is now about one hundred and twenty. The Neg will have no further use for you."
"Verbalization speed?" Keaflyn asked in puzzlement.
"Yes. That's why you couldn't understand me when I first spoke a moment ago. I had forgotten to slow down for you, until I heard you speak."
"Oh. Oh yeah," he muttered distractedly. A slower mental tempo was one of the characteristics of a degraded mind. That was the reason why books from the old Earthbound times were still read and enjoyed, while films from that same era were unwatchable. The actors took forever getting a couple of words said.
"Will you please go to your quarters, Mark?" she asked, sounding impatient.
"Any change would be an improvement!" he growled, pushing up from the chair. His body felt clumsy and his mind foggy. Berina's estimate of a 120 IQ was probably about right, he figured dazedly.
"The guide is waiting for you outside," she said. He approached the door, and it opened with such haste that he jumped. "You ought to get your door fixed," he complained without looking back. He went through it and into the hall before the thought came that there was nothing wrong with the door. It had merely seemed to snap open twice as fast as it should, because he was sensing only half as fast as before.
Half as fast! That much? The realization was a stunning shock.
"Plecflomemistrkefln," the guide waiting for him said. Which probably meant "Please follow me, Mr. Keaflyn," or something to the same effect. It didn't matter. The guide was supposed to lead him to his room, and he was supposed to follow the guide. Talk was not necessary.
They walked to the chute tube at a pace only slightly too fast for comfort. The velocity of gross body movements was, after all, a matter governed mostly by size and musculature, not by reaction time. And entering and leaving the tube was not too bad. It required an instant of planned exertion and nimbleness, but he got in and out of the moving tube without stumbling or losing his balance.
The deck the guide took him to had a number of small buildings. Keaflyn was led to the door of one of these. The guide turned and spoke. "Ulstaeremistrkefln comfrwatuned."
"If that's something I need to know, tell it to me slowly," he snapped.
The guide blinked in surprise and stared at him. When he didn't speak, Keaflyn shrugged and went inside.
It was a small, well-appointed apartment. He explored it nervously, then returned to the door. It did not open for him. Well, that was to be expected. This was his prison cell until the Senior Sibling was ready to work on him some more.
Escape?
He giggled at the thought. Even with all his wits about him he couldn't have gotten out of the Calcutta against the Siblings' wishes. And now that he was the equivalent of the old-fashioned village idiot . . .
One good thing: That was his first giggle since before Berina had worked him over. His pleasure-impress was encysted now in the middle of so much additional mental junk that it could no longer force itself into expression. That additional junk could, though. Curiously, he looked around for a mirror and found one on the wall in the sanitizer. He stared at length at his face in it.
It was a backtrack face. His, of course, but changed. There was no glow in the skin, which had a definite pallor. The eyes were dull. And the expression . . .
Well, he had grown accustomed to the reflection of his mouth drawn up in a smile of false glee. Not in the weeks since the pleasure-impress had been forced on him had his face been serene.
But this was far worse. This was a face with the quivering tension of a madman.
I'm not that far gone! he protested silently and desperately. I'm still more or less rational!
Consciously, he tried to make his face relax. Unclenc
hing the jaws helped. Then he worked his mouth until the muscles around his lips loosened. This did not bring his expression back to normal, but it made an improvement.
The realization came that the startling expression was not due to total insanity, but the result of the shock he was still in from the Senior Sibling's torture chamber. He was still tight with terror from that . . . and from the knowledge that more of the same might be forthcoming. He stumbled away from the mirror and slumped down on a relaxer. When he stretched out he realized how exhausted he was. He wondered doubtfully if he could go to sleep, jumpy as he was. How many lifetimes had it been since he had experienced this kind of physical and mental anguish?
And to think, only a few hours ago he had been bothered by the trivial little torments that the Neg was able to inflict him with!
He dropped into fitful slumber.
And woke to dullness. He had slept off the worst of the shock, and his mind was no longer in turmoil. A mild feeling of hunger was all that made getting up seem worth the effort.
The autocate annoyed him when he ordered breakfast. It had no trouble understanding his slow speech, but seemed incapable of slowing down itself and making itself understandable. But no matter. It fed him what he asked for.
Afterwards he returned to the relaxer for a series of broken dozes, ended at last by a tapping on the door. He sat up. "Come in!" he yelled, angry and frightened. The door opened and the Junior Sibling, Bartok Arlan, stepped inside. Keaflyn noted, with mild interest, that his mind's first identification of Bartok was the one word "Negro," whereas on his earlier visit to the Calcutta he had merely noted dark skin among the identifying features of Bartok's present body. Maybe low intelligence was the reason for racial prejudice back in the old days, he mused.
"Hi, Bartok," he said.
"Hello, Mark," the young man replied, speaking barely slow enough for Keaflyn to understand. "I'm taking you to your ship and releasing you. I don't expect interference, but try to move as rapidly as you can. Let's go!" Keaflyn stared, then said, "You're helping me escape?"
"Right. Come on!"
Keaflyn followed him out of the apartment and trotted to keep up as they headed for the chute tube. "What's going on?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "Are you bucking Berina?"
"In a way, yes. Berina's ambivalent concerning you at the moment. But I'm not sure she would release you, now or later. I'm not waiting for her to decide." Keaflyn noticed Bartok wore a frown of pain, indicating his Neg was working hard on him. "I wish she could have felt ambivalent about me earlier," he complained.
"Don't ask questions—they take too much time—and I'll explain," replied Bartok. "Berina was in the process of traumatizing you with her machines when she suddenly realized that her Neg had ceased bothering her. It took her a while to notice that, because her own actions were disturbing to her. When she did notice, she ended the torture immediately and sent you to recuperate." Keaflyn started to speak but Bartok waved him to silence and continued: "We've learned that inactivity of a Neg means, more often than not, that the Neg approves of what we're doing at the time, and ceases its interference. Berina was surprised to find hers inactive, but she's not sure what it means. A Neg can be tricky. Hers might have backed off to make her think it approved her actions when it violently disapproved. So she's taking time to reconsider before doing anything more.
"In the meantime, I'm getting you out of here, because I never approved of this from the beginning," Bartok went on grimly. "Berina's practical and conservative; I tend to be idealistic and progressive. That balances out nicely over the long term. Any policy we can maintain consistently, as each of us in turn is Senior Sibling, has to be reasonably sound, to have the approval of both of us. But in an emergency action, especially one not covered by established Sibling policy, the Junior Sibling may be obliged to sabotage the Senior Sibling's decision. It has happened a few times before this."
Keaflyn stumbled and nearly fell getting into the chute tube. He was having to concentrate to follow Bartok's words, because the Junior Sibling was talking a bit too fast for him.
"What happened to the Resistant Globe—the Insecurity—was very disturbing to a person of Berina's protective inclination," the young man continued. "She was mindful of the potential value of your research, but even more mindful of the damage your loosely-controlled Neg could do. Did she make the comparison to you of a Neg impinging on this universe and an atom of contramatter in a cloud chamber?"
"Yes," Keaflyn gasped, trying to catch his breath.
"It's an apt analogy," the Junior Sibling said. "I can understand my sister's concern. An impinging Neg has the theoretical potential to wreck our universe quite thoroughly. Berina felt that you, handicapped by the pleasure-impress, were letting yours get more and more out of hand. She saw no recourse but to render you too dull a tool for the Neg's purposes.
"I can't abide her decision!" the young man said with angry determination as they exited from the chute tube.
"If idealism counts for anything at all, it must insist on the sanctity of the human spirit! No consideration of practical danger is sufficient to justify the degradation of a single ego-field.
"That's why I'm helping you escape, Mark, while Berina is in her sleep period. I've already given your ship data on how it can deliver you secretly to your friends Alo Felston and Tinker on Danolae, and they will be advised of your coming. I urge you to reach them as quickly and quietly as possible, Mark. Put yourself in Tinker's care and let her clean out the mess Berina's loaded you with. Okay?"
Keaflyn nodded dazedly. "Okay," he said. He had felt a surge of relief when Bartok indicated that Berina was asleep. Now he was getting the shakes again at the thought of her waking before he made good his escape.
"What about the Sect Dualer fleet that was with you?" he asked.
"They've broken up and gone to their homes," said Bartok. "When Berina lured you aboard, taking the responsibility for doing what they thought needed to be done, they were glad enough to wash their hands of the whole affair and scram. They didn't kid themselves about the dirtiness of their business. Just move quietly, Mark, and you won't have to worry about Sect Dualers."
"Right. And thanks, Bartok," agreed Keaflyn, halting at the lock of his ship and facing the Junior Sibling. There were things he wanted to say . . .
"Thanks is enough!" the young man said swiftly, urging him toward the lock. "Good luck, Mark."
Keaflyn allowed himself to be hurried aboard. "Kelly," he told his ship, "get out of here as soon as the bay opens. Warp for Danolae."
"Okamrk mistarlngavme—"
"Stop!" squawked Keaflyn. "If you can't talk as slowly as I do, Kelly, there's no use in talking at all!"
After several seconds of silence, during which Keaflyn felt the ship move out of the bay and go into warp, Kelkontar replied, "This should be a satisfactory adjustment of my speech, Mark."
"Yeah. That's better. Now, what were you saying before?"
"That Mr. Arlan gave me data for a rendezvous with Tinker and Alo Felston in an isolated portion of the planet Danolae."
"Fine. And we're supposed to get there quietly, without attracting attention."
"He explained that, also, Mark."
Keaflyn took a chair and tried to relax, but the knots in his nerves and muscles stayed tight. He thought of asking for aspirin, but that remedy seemed insufficient for his need. What were the old cures for this kind of feeling?
"Kelly, fix me an alcoholic drink. Do you have the data for something like bourbon on ice?"
"My historic chemistry files include that data, Mark," the ship replied. "The drink will be ready in five minutes."
"You may as well mix up a good-sized batch of the bourbon while you're at it. Say half a gallon."
The five minutes seemed long to Keaflyn, but the drink finally rose on a serving pedestal beside his chair. He picked up the glass, took a couple of tentative sips, then quickly drank it all.
"Wow! That's better," he laughed. "That loose
ns me up! Pour me another, Kelly old pal."
"All right, Mark." The pedestal retreated into the deck, to return promptly with a fresh drink. Keaflyn downed half of it and then decided he could drink more slowly.
"We're through probing stabilities, Kelly," he said, feeling a little sad about it. "All through."
"Okay, Mark."
"It's a shame in a way, even if I was on the wrong track. I had my heart set on poking that stupid Whorl with a stick."
"The idea did have promise, Mark."
"It sure as hell did!" he said with belligerent emphasis.
"It had a damned hell of a lot of promise!" He had a large swallow of bourbon. "We might've got somewhere yet, if we didn't have to quit. Dirty shame." He drained the glass. "Fill 'er up again, Kelly."
The new drink came and he nursed it morosely.
"Three lousy lifetimes I spent getting set up to crack them stabilities wide open, Kelly. Three lousy lifetimes! It's not fair!"
"I can grasp that you have reasons for disappointment, Mark," the ship allowed.
"Damned right I do," he glowered. "Who do they think they are, anyway, making me stop? You know what Bartok Arlan told me, Kelly? He said the sanctity of the human spirit wasn't to be trifled with! Bartok's an idealist. Damned good one, too! They better listen to that guy! He knows what it's all about. And he said my spirit wasn't to be trifled with, like they been doing. What do you think of that, Kelly?"
"Debasement of an ego-field is most emphatically in violation of the human code, Mark."
"Right! They've got no business tryin' to put me down!" His new drink was about gone, so he drained the rest of it, then slammed the glass down with a determined gesture. "They ain't goin' to get away with it, Kelly. They can't push me around! We out of detectin' range of the Calcutta?"
"Presumably so, Mark, by a large margin. The Calcutta was on course for the Terra Sector, while our warp toward Danolae is one hundred thirty-eight degrees away from Terra."
"Put me up a graphic on the screen. Show me us and Danolae and where you figure the Calcutta is and the Whorl."
A Sense of Infinity Page 24