He arose and descended from the throne.
Connor followed a step or two. "I'm interested to learn," he whispered, "which of us you believe."
The Master smiled again. "Haven't I just said?" He turned away. "Of course, if I were curious, I could ask you and Jan Orm how you knew what time to set the blast. I hadn't decided on a time for the Conclave until I had it announced in the corridors, and the bomb must have been placed between that moment and the arrival of the guards."
"Or the Princess is telling the truth," suggested Tom Connor.
"Some day Margaret shall explain why detonol causes a cloud of steam," observed the Master. He continued absently, "Evanie has good blood in her. So has Jan Orm." Then he was gone, followed by Martin Sair and the guards.
CONNOR returned to Margaret of Urbs. Evanie's incredulous eyes were fixed on the Princess as she whispered:
"Why did you do that?"
"Because I thought it would please Tom Connor," Margaret of Urbs said frankly.
Evanie stared at her with dawning comprehension.
"The Black Flame herself burned!" she murmured wonderingly. "I see now why we can still learn from the ancients. They're miracle workers." But the next instant her brown eyes glittered vindictively. "I'm glad at least that the conquest of the Flame was during my lifetime." She bowed half in wonderment, half in mockery, before Connor. "I salute the Prince consort of Urbs!"
The Princess flushed faintly, and Connor laughed and glanced away. Something that sparkled in a pile of ashes caught his eye. He stooped to retrieve the marvelous crystalline flower, glowing brilliant and indestructible, untouched—even brightened—by the blast.
"What is this?" he asked.
"My moon-orchid," said Margaret of Urbs. "The only perfect one ever found."
He grinned and turned to Evanie.
"I promised you one. Here—our wedding present to you and Jan."
"Engagement present, rather," said the Princess. "I owe you two somewhat more than you realize." She ignored both Evanie's silence and Jan Orm's protestations of mingled embarrassment, thanks, and refusal as he held the priceless thing. "Tom," she murmured, "would you mind if we were—alone?"
It was dismissal. Jan and Evanie backed away with half-awe-struck glances at Connor. He dropped beside the weary Princess of Urbs, slipping his arm tenderly about her scorched shoulders. Even in the sultriness of that blasted chamber she shivered, her teeth chattered, so recently had the icy face of death withdrawn.
He drew her close, then halted as he heard a distant, thin clamor beyond the windows.
"What's that?" he asked sharply. "Another revolution?"
"Just the newspapers, I guess. You've been in them frequently of late." She smiled wanly. "As often as I, this past week. The Weed who sustained the ionic beams— revealed as a living ancient—proclaimed for immortality —the rescuer of Margaret of Urbs—and now—" She quoted ironically, "Margaret to Wed? Romance Rumored with Rescuer!" She nestled closer to him. "Oh, the downfall of the Black Flame will be well publicized, never fear! Let them add this to their pictures and vision broadcasts. I don't care!"
"Pictures? What pictures?" He glanced about the vast deserted chamber.
"From the seeing room, of course! Don't you suppose we were watched all during the blast, even in here, as much as the steam permitted? Don't you know we're being watched now, photographed for papers, and broadcasts? You're world news, Tom." She frowned. "They must have thought me mad to rush into that inferno with you, out of safety. Well—I was mad!"
"You can't even die in privacy here!" Connor said bluntly. "Do you suppose"-—his voice dropped to a whisper —"they heard what you—what we said?"
"Above the roar of the blast? No. I thought of that when I—said it."
HE smiled at that. It was so typical of the utterly strange and fascinating character of the girl. He drew her against him, and felt the pressure of something hard in his belt—the ivory Venus, still safe, still immaculate in its perfection, since it had been on the left side, shielded by his own flesh when he passed the blast.
"I know what I shall give you as a wedding present," he said slowly. "The original Venus de Milo. The most beautiful statue of the ancient world."
She smiled and a trace of the old mockery showed. "And I know what I shall give you," she said. "Life!" "Immortality?"
"Not Immortality. Life." She turned her emerald eyes on him. "Tom, is it very hard to give up the idea of children? Men want children, don't they?"
"Most of us do—but it's a happiness well lost for you." He glanced down at her. "Listen, can't this immortality thing be undone? Wouldn't it be possible for Martin Sair to render you mortal for—a few years?"
"Of course. Further exposure to the hard rays will do it."
"And then," eagerly, "could we—" The smile she flashed at him had in it a touch of heaven. "Yes," she said exultantly, but instantly a cloud chased away the smile. "But don't you remember what sort of children women bear who've been too long hi the ray? Would you like to be father to a little amphimorph?"
He shuddered. "Thank you. We'll do as we are then."
She burst suddenly into laughter almost as mocking as her old self. Then she was as suddenly serious, tender.
"Tom," she murmured, "I won't tease you. That will be my gift to you. Martin Sair can do what you wish. There is some leeway to the process—enough, perhaps, for a single time. My permanent age is twenty now; it will be twenty-five then. But who in all the world could have anticipated that the Black Flame would assume motherhood—and like it? Tom, that's my gift to you— life! Kiss me!"
For a moment of ecstasy he felt her lips quiver against his.
"Two boys and a girl!" she murmured. "Won't we, Tom?"
"And can Martin Sair," he asked ironically, "fix that for us, too?"
"Of course. Two boys like you, Tom." She was suddenly dreamy-eyed.
"But not a girl like you."
"Why not?"
"Because," Tom Connor laughed, "I don't think society could stand a second Black Flame!"
THE BRINK OF INFINITY
ONE WOULD HARDLY CHOOSE the life of an assistant professor of mathematics at an Eastern University as an adventurous one. Professors in general are reputed to drone out in a quiet, scholarly existence, and an instructor of mathematics might seem the driest and least lively of men, since his subject is perhaps the most desiccated. And yet—even the lifeless science of figures has had its dreamers—Clerk, Maxwell, Lobachewski, Einstein and the rest. The latter, the great Albert Einstein himself who is forging the only chain that ever tied a philosophers' dream to experimental science, is pounding his links of tenuous mathematical symbols, shadowy as thought, but unbreakable.
And don't forget that “Alice in Wonderland” was written by a dreamer who happened also to be a mathematician. Not that I class myself with them; I'm practical enough to leave fantasies alone. Teaching is my business.
At least, teaching is my main business. I do a little statistical work for industrial corporations when the occasion presents itself—in fact, you'll find my name in the classified section: Abner Aarons, Statistician and Consulting Mathematician. I eke out my professional salary, and I do at times strike something interesting. Of course, in the main such work consists of graphing trends of consumption for manufacturers, or population increases for public utilities.
And occasionally some up-and-coming advertising agency will consult me on how many sardine cans would be needed to fill the Panama Canal, or some such material to use as catchy advertising copy. Not exactly exciting work, but it helps financially.
Thus I was not particularly surprised that July morning to receive a call. The university had been closed for some weeks; the summer session 'was about to open, without however, the benefit of my presence. I was taking a vacation, leaving in two or three days for a Vermont village I knew, where the brook trout cared not a bit whether a prizefighter, president, or professor was on the hither end of the line. And I was go
ing alone; three-quarters of the year before a classroom full of the tadpoles called college students had thoroughly wearied me of any further desire for human companionship; my social instincts were temporarily in abeyance.
Nevertheless, I'm not unthrifty enough to disregard an opportunity to turn an honest penny, and the call was far from unwelcome. Even the modest holiday I planned can bite deeply enough into the financial foundation of an assistant professor's pittance. And the work sounded like one of these fairly lucrative and rather simple propositions.
“This is Court Strawn,” the telephone announced. “I'm an experimental chemist, and I've completed a rather long series of experiments. I want them tabulated and the results analyzed; do you do that sort of work?”
I did, and acknowledged as much.
“It will be necessary for you to call here for your data,” the voice continued. Strangely unctuous, that voice. “It is impossible for me to leave.” There followed an address on West Seventieth Street.
Well, I had called for data before. Generally the stuff was delivered or mailed to me, but his request wasn't extraordinary, I agreed, and added that I'd be over shortly. No use delaying my vacation if I could help it.
I took the subway. Taxis are a needless luxury to a professor, and a car of my own was an unrealized ambition. It wasn't long before I entered one of the nondescript brown houses that still survive west of the Avenue. Strawn let me in, and I perceived the reason for his request. The man was horribly crippled; his whole left side was warped like a gnarled oak, and he was hard put to hobble about the house. For the rest—stringy dark hair, and little tense eyes.
He greeted me pleasantly enough, and I entered a small library, while my host bobbled over to a littered desk, seating himself facing me. The deep-set eyes looked me over, and he chuckled.
“Are you a good mathematician, Dr. Aarons?” he asked. There was more than a hint of a sneer in his voice.
“My work has been satisfactory,” I answered, somewhat nettled. “I've been doing statistical work for several years.”
He waved a shriveled left band.
“Of course—of course! I don't doubt your practical ability. Are you, however, well versed in the more abstract branches—the theory of numbers, for instance, or the hyper-spatial mathematics?”
I was feeling rather irritated. There was something about the man—“I don't see that any of this is necessary in statistical analysis of experimental results,” I said. “If you'll give me your data, I'll be going.”
He chuckled again, seemingly hugely amused.
“As a matter of fact, Dr. Aarons,” he said smirking, “the experiment isn't completed yet. Indeed, to tell the truth, it is just beginning.”
“What!” I was really angry. “If this is your idea of a joke—” I started to rise, thoroughly aroused.
“Just a moment,” said Strawn coolly. He leveled a very effective-looking blue-barreled automatic at me. I sat down again open-mouthed; I confess to a feeling of panic at the sight of the cripple's beady little eyes peering along the ugly weapon.
“Common politeness dictates that you at least hear me out, Dr. Aarons.” I didn't like the oily smoothness of his voice, but what was I to do?
“As I was saying, the experiment is just beginning. As a matter of fact, you are the experiment!”
“Eh?” I said, wondering again if the whole thing might not be a joke of some sort.
“You're a mathematician, aren't you?” Strawn continued. “Well, that makes you fair game for me. A mathematician, my good friend, is no more to me than something to be hunted down. And I'm doing it!”
The man was crazy! The realization dawned on me as I strove to bold myself calm. Best to reason with him, I thought.
“But why?” I asked. “We are a harmless lot.”
His eyes blazed up with a fierce light.
“Harmless, eh, harmless! Well, it was one of your colleagues that did—this!” He indicated his withered leg with his withered arm. “He did this with his lying calculations!” He leaned forward confidentially. “Listen to me, Dr. Aarons. I am a chemist, or was once. I used to work with explosives, and was pretty good, too. And then one of you damned calculators figured out a formula for me! A misplaced decimal point—bah! You're all fair game to me!” He paused, and the sneer came back to his lips. “That's simple justice, now, isn't it?”
Well, you can imagine how thoroughly horrified I was, sitting there facing a homicidal maniac with a loaded gun in his hand. Humor him! I'd heard that was the best treatment. Use persuasion, reason!
“Now, Mr. Strawn,” I said, “you're certainly entitled to justice. Yes, you certainly are! But surely, Mr. Strawn, you are not serving the ends of justice by venting your anger on me! Surely that isn't justice.”
He laughed wildly and continued. “A very specious argument, Dr. Aarons. You are simply unfortunate in that your name is the first in the classified section of the directory. Had your colleague given me a chance—any slightest chance to save my body from this that you see, I might be forgiving. But I trusted that fool's calculations!” He twisted his face again into that bitter leer. “As it is, I am giving you far more of a chance than I had. If, as you claim, you are a good mathematician, you shall have your opportunity to escape. I have no quarrel with the real students of figures, but only”—his leer became a very sinister scowl—“only with the dullards, the fakes and the blunderers. Yes, you'll have your chance!” The grin returned to his lips, but his eyes behind the blue automatic never wavered.
I saw no other alternative but to continue the ghastly farce. Certainly opera opposition to any of his suggestions might only inflame the maniac to violence, so I merely questioned. “And what is the proposition, Mr. Strawn?”
The scowl became a sneer again.
“A very fair one, sir. A very fair proposition, indeed.” He chuckled.
“I should like to bear it,” I said, hoping for an interruption of some sort.
“You shall. It is just this: You are a mathematician, and you say, a good one. Very well. We shall put your claim to the test. I am thinking of a mathematical quantity, a numerical expression, if you prefer. You have ten questions to discover it. If you do so you are free as far as I am concerned. But if you fail”—his scowl reappeared—“well, if you fail I shall recognize you as one of the tribe of blunderers against whom I war, and the outcome will not be pleasant!”
Well! It was several moments before I found my voice, and began to babble protests. “But, Mr. Strawn! That's an utter impossibility! The range of numbers is infinite; bow can I identify one with ten questions? Give me a fair test, man! This one offers not a chance in a million! In a billion!”
He silenced me with a wave of the blue barrel of his weapon.
“Remember, Dr. Aarons, I did not say it was a number. I said a numerical expression, which is a vastly wider field. I am giving you this hint without deducting a question; you must appreciate my magnanimity!” He laughed. “The rules of our little game are as follows: You may ask me any questions except the direct question, 'What is the expression?' I am bound to answer you in full and to the best of my knowledge any question except the direct inquiry. You may ask me as many questions at a time as you wish up to your limit of ten, but in any event I will answer not less than two per day. That should give you sufficient time for reflection”—again that horrible chuckle—“and my time too is limited.”
“But, Mr. Strawn,” I argued, “that may keep me here five days. Don't you know that by tomorrow my wife will have the police searching for me?”
A glint of anger flashed in the mad eyes. “You are not being fair, Dr. Aarons! I know you are not married! I checked up on you before you came here. I know you will not be missed. Do not attempt to lie to me; rather help me serve the ends of justice! You should be more than willing to prove your worth to survive as one of the true mathematicians.” He rose suddenly. “And now, sir, you will please precede me through the door and up those stairs!”
Nothing to do but obey! The stubby gun in his hand was enough authority, at least to an unadventurous soul like myself. I rose and stalked out of the room at his direction, up the stairs and through a door he indicated. Beyond was a windowless little cell ventilated by a skylight, and the first glance revealed that this was barred. A piece of furniture of the type known as a day-bed, a straight chair, a deep overstuffed chair, and a desk made up the furnishings.
“Here,” said the self-appointed host, “is your student's cell. On the desk is a carafe of water, and, as you see, an unabridged dictionary. That is the only reference allowed in our little game.” He glanced at his watch. “It is ten minutes to four. By four tomorrow you must have asked me two questions, and have them well thought out! The ten minutes over are a gift from me, lest you doubt my generosity!” He moved toward the door. “I will see that your meals are on time,” he added. “My best wishes, Dr. Aarons.”
The door clicked shut and I at once commenced a survey of the room. The skylight was hopeless, and the door even more so; I was securely and ingloriously imprisoned. I spent perhaps half an hour in painstaking and fruitless inspection, but the room had been well designed or adapted to its purpose; the massive door was barred on the outside, the skylight was guarded by a heavy iron grating, and the walls offered no slightest hope. Abner Aarons was most certainly a prisoner!
My mind turned to Strawn's insane game. Perhaps I could solve his mad mystery; at least, I could keep him from violence for five days, and something might occur in the interim, I found cigars on the desk, and, forcing myself to a degree of calm, I lit one and sat down to think.
Certainly there was no use in getting at his lunatic concept from a quantitative angle, I could waste all ten questions too easily by asking, “Is it greater or less than a million? Is it greater or less than a thousand? Is it greater of less than a hundred?” Impossible to pin the thing by that sort of elimination when it might be a negative number, a fraction or a decimal, or even an imaginary number like the square root of minus one—or, for that matter, any possible combination of these. And that reflection gave me my impulse for the first question; by the time my cigar had been consumed to a tattered stub I had formulated my initial inquiry. Nor had I very long to wait; it was just past six when the door opened.
The Lost Master - The Collected Works Page 58