Tom O'Bedlam

by Robert Silverberg

  Mujer said, “Stidge and Tamale just came back. They say they found a farm down in the river fork that they think can be taken, and they want to go in as soon as it gets dark.”

  “Why you the one telling me, then, and not Stidge?”

  “Buffalo said you’d gone off with Tom and didn’t want to be bothered, and Stidge decided not to bother you.”

  “But you did?”

  Mujer said, “I wanted to talk to you before Stidge and Tamale did. You know, Tamale’s always wrong about everything. And that Stidge, he’s a wild man. I don’t trust them a lot.”

  “You think I do?”

  “When Stidge says a place can be taken, and Tamale says it too, then I don’t know, Charley, I think maybe we ought to keep away. That’s all. I wanted to tell you before Stidge got to you.”

  “Okay, man. I understand what you’re saying.”

  “I wouldn’t have bothered you otherwise,” Mujer said.

  “Sure. But we need to eat, Mujer. I think what I’ll do, I’ll take a look at this place of Stidge and Tamale’s. Maybe they’re right for once and we can take it, and if I think so, we will. And if I don’t think so, we won’t. Okay, Mujer?”

  “Okay. Sorry I bothered you.”

  “Nothing, man.” Charley waved Mujer away. Turning to Tom again, he said, “Okay. The Eye People.”

  Charley doesn’t have much trouble, Tom thought, shifting gears like that. One minute he’s talking about raiding somebody’s farm, the next he wants to be told about worlds in the stars. He didn’t seem like a killer. His eyes were deep and somber, and there was something close to kind and almost poetic about him sometimes. And other times not. He really was a killer, Tom knew. Underneath the kind, underneath the poetic. But what was underneath that?

  Tom said, “They live in a world of light that never goes dark and it’s so thick and dense that they can’t see the rest of the universe. In fact, they can’t really see anything at all, because the light of the Great Starcloud is so bright that there’s no contrast, there’s no way to pick out one thing against another. It like blinds you, there’s so much of it. You overdose on light. Instead of seeing, they sense, and every part of their body picks up images. All over their skins. That’s why they’re called the Eye People, because they’re like one big eye all over. You understand, they don’t exist yet. But they will; they’re one of the coming races. There are a thousand four hundred coming races listed in the Book of Moons, but naturally that’s just the ones in the Book of Moons. In fact there are billions and billions of coming races, but the universe is so big that even the Zygerone and the Kusereen don’t know a thousandth of it. But there they are, the Eye People, and their minds are so sensitive that they can reach out and feel the rest of the universe. They know about suns and stars and planets and galaxies and all that, but it’s by guess and feel and intuition, the way a blind man knows about red and blue and green. Their minds are in contact with the other worlds of the Sacred Imperium, past and future. They learn about the outside universe, and in return they show other people the Great Starcloud, which is holy because its light is so powerful, so complete. It’s like the light of the Buddha, you know? It fills the whole void. And so the Eye People—”

  “Charley? They said you were through talking to him.”

  Stidge.

  “I’m not quite,” Charley said. Then he stood up. “Shit. All right. We’ll finish some other time. What is it, Stidge?”

  “Farmhouse. Seven hundred meters down, in the fork. Man, woman, three sons. They got screens up but the electronics is lousy. We can go right in.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “Absolutely. Tamale saw it too.”

  “Yeah,” Charley said. “Tamale’s got terrific judgment.”

  “I’m telling you, Charley—”

  “Okay. Okay, Stidge. Let’s go down and have a look at this place, you and me? Okay?”

  “Sure,” Stidge said.

  Tom stayed where he was, under a big plane tree at the side of a little mostly dried-up stream that probably flowed only in winter. He watched Charley and Stidge go off into the late afternoon shadows; and then after a while they came back and spoke with the others, and then all eight of them went off together. Tom wondered about that, what was going to happen down at the farm in the river fork. After a while he found himself wandering over that way to find out.

  The farmhouse came into view in just a few minutes. It was a small white wooden building that looked about a hundred fifty years old, with dark green shingles and a huge fat-trunked palm tree out front overshadowing the porch. The red glow of a protective screen surrounded the house. Just as Tom got there the screen winked out, and then he heard shouts and screams and one very loud scream above all the rest of the noise. After that it was quiet for a moment; then there were shouts again, angry ones. Tom went to the door, thinking, Be strong and of a good courage, be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee, whithersoever thou goest.

  He looked in. Two people, a man and a woman, were sprawled on the floor in that peculiar twisted herky-jerk way that indicated they had been killed with a spike. A third person—boy, rather, maybe sixteen, seventeen—was pressed up against the wall, white-faced, bug-eyed, and Stidge had his spike against his throat.

  “Stidge!” Charley yelled, just as Tom entered. “Stidge, you crazy son of a bitch!”

  “I got him,” Mujer said, coming up behind Stidge and smoothly grabbing the red-haired man’s wrist with one hand while locking his other arm around Stidge’s throat. Stidge growled in surprise. Mujer, who seemed incredibly strong for the wiry little guy he was, bent Stidge’s arm outward until the spike in Stidge’s hand was practically touching Stidge’s right ear. “Let me kill him this time,” Mujer begged. “He’s no good, Charley. He’s a wild man. Look what he just did, the farmer and his wife.”

  “Hey, no, Charley,” Stidge cried in a strangled voice thick with terror. “Hey, make him let go!”

  “You didn’t need to do that, Stidge,” Charley said. His face looked bleak and stormy. “Now we got two deads on our hands and two of the sons got loose, and what for? What for?”

  “Should I do him, Charley?” Mujer asked eagerly.

  Charley seemed to be considering it. Tom stepped forward. No one had noticed him come in; now they all looked at him in amazement, all but Stidge, whose face was to the wall. Tom touched Mujer’s arm. His eyes felt strange. He was having trouble seeing straight: everything looked glazed and blurred, as if it were coated with ice.

  “No,” Tom said. “Let him be. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Not yours, Mujer. Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath. Let him be.” Tom took firm hold of Mujer’s arm and pulled it back until the spike was well away from Stidge’s face.

  “What…?”Mujer was astonished. “The lunatic?” He whirled, ripping the spike from Stidge’s hand and bringing it around as if he meant to jab it into Tom’s chest.

  “The Lord my God is with me, whithersoever I go,” said Tom mildly. His eyes were still out of focus. He saw two Mujers and just a red-topped blob instead of Stidge.

  “Jesus,” said Mujer. “Jesus, what do we have here?”

  “All right,” Charley said, irritated. “Enough of this goddamn stuff. Mujer, give Stidge back his spike.”

  “But—”

  “Give it back.” To Stidge, Charley said, “You’re lucky Tom walked in here when he did. I had a half a mind to let Mujer do you. You’re a liability to us, Stidge.”

  “I’m the one turned the screen off, didn’t I?” Stidge shot back. “I’m the one got us in here!”

  “Yeah,” Charley said. “But we could have gotten in and out without killing. Now we got two deads lying here and two missing. Stidge, you got to keep control of those weapons of yours. You don’t let yourself get out of hand again, you hear? Next time we’re gonna do you, you run wild. Hear?” Charley waved his hand at the others. “All right, start packing up anything we c
an use. Food, weapons, whatever. We can’t hang around.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Mujer muttered, staring at Tom. “He hates you, you know? Stidge. I’m about to do him, and you come over and grab my arm. I don’t believe it.”

  “Come out, come out, thou bloody man, thou son of Belial,” Tom said.

  “The Bible again,” said Mujer disgustedly. “Damn looney.”

  Tom smiled. They were all staring at him. Let them stare. He could not have countenanced killing in cold blood. Even Stidge. Tom glanced toward him. There was a cold baleful glare on Stidge’s face. He hates me even more now, Tom realized. Now that he knows he owes his life to me. But I am not afraid. Love your enemies, that’s what He taught us, do good to them that hate you, bless them that curse you. He realized that he was seeing straight again, calming down some. “Thank you,” Tom said to Charley. “For sparing him.”

  “Yeah,” Charley grunted. “Jesus, Tom. You had no business. That was crazy, what you did. Walking in like that. Mujer, he might have put the spike right through you and Stidge both. You know that?”

  “I would not let another life be taken. The Lord is the only judge.”

  “You had no call messing in. It wasn’t your place to decide things here. It was crazy, Tom. Doing what you did just then. Okay? That’s what I call it, crazy. It wasn’t your place at all. Now get the hell out of here until we’re finished. Go on, get out.”

  “Okay,” Tom said. He went out. But he looked back through the window, just long enough to see Charley lift the laser bracelet on his wrist and aim a shaft of fiery light at the terrified farmboy cowering against the wall. The boy fell, most likely dead before he hit the ground. Tom winced and muttered a prayer. A little while later Charley came out of the house. “I saw that,” Tom said. “How could you do that? I don’t make sense out of it. You got angry when Stidge killed the man and the woman. And then you yourself—”

  Charley spat. “Once there’s killing, there got to be more killing. Kill the parents, you better kill the son too, or he’ll track you down no matter where you go. The other two boys got away, and I hope to hell they didn’t see our faces.” Then, shaking his head, he said, “What’s the matter? I told you not to stick around. You had to look, didn’t you? Well, so you saw. You think I’m a goddamn saint, Tom?” He laughed. “This ain’t no time for being a saint. Come on, now. Come on. Tell me some more about the Eye People. You really see all this shit, don’t you? Like it’s really real to you. You’re amazing, you crazy son of a bitch. Tell me. Tell me what you see.”

  4

  FERGUSON said to April Cranshaw, “You’re honest to God not making all this up? The sky full of light? The flying jellyfish beings? Hey, hey, do me a favor and own up to it. It’s all just a big joke, right? Right?”

  “Ed,” she said reproachfully, as if he had just peed on her party dress. “Stop trying to do that to me, Ed. I’m going to walk away from you if you keep messing with my head. Be nice, Ed.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be nice.”

  The bastards were all in a sweat over this stuff. Talked of almost nothing else. First thing in the morning when you went in for your pick, they wanted to know about your dreams. Then they had meetings all afternoon. People being summoned for special testing, questioning, whatnot.

  Not him. Never him. He didn’t get the dreams, not ever. That puzzled them. Puzzled him, too. Made him wonder why he was singled out, the only one. Made him wonder if the dreams were happening at all. Bastards, the bunch of them. Trying to cut him out, trying to fool him all the time.

  “Just give me a straight answer,” he said. “You aren’t making this up? You really do have dreams like that?”

  “Every night,” she said. “I swear.”

  He studied her face like it was a prospectus for an oceanfront development scheme. She looked like a pudding, bland and jiggly. She looked sincere as hell. Sweet wide smile, gentle blue-green eyes. Ferguson didn’t see how she could be capable of lying. Not this one. The others, sure, but not this one.

  “Sometimes even during the day,” she went on. “I close my eyes a minute, still awake, and I get pictures under my eyelids.”

  “You do? Daytimes?”

  “This very day. The jellyfish people, middle of the morning.”

  “After you were picked, then.”

  “That’s right. It’s still fresh.”

  “Go on. Tell me what you saw.”

  “You know we aren’t supposed to tell each other—”

  “Tell me,” he said.

  He wondered if he had ever slept with her. Probably not: she was eighty, a hundred pounds overweight, not his type at all. His recorder didn’t have any information on the subject, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened, only that he hadn’t bothered to feed the data about it into the recorder, and now it was too late to know. He could have shtupped her ten times last month and neither of them would have any way of knowing it now. Things came and went. That time last month when Mariela had visited—she had been like a stranger to him, he didn’t really know her at all. Or want to. His own wife. If he hadn’t put it on the recorder he wouldn’t even know she’d been here.

  Uncomfortably April said, “Dr. Lewis told me I must absolutely not reveal my dream content except during the interrogatory sessions, that it would contaminate the data.”

  “You always do whatever you’re told?”

  “I’m here to be healed, Ed.”

  “You give me a pain, April. You and that sea wind that blows all the time.”

  “Let’s walk a little,” she said.

  They were at the edge of the woods, going along the trail through the redwood forest just east of the Center. It was the free-time part of the afternoon. The wind, cool and strong, was coming in off the ocean like a fist, the way it always did this time of day. Every afternoon they gave you an hour or two of free time. No therapy in the afternoon; they wanted you to go out and stroll in the forest, or play skill games in the rec room, or just futz around with your fellow inmates.

  Ferguson would rather have been with Alleluia right now. But he didn’t know where she was, and somehow April had found him. She had a way of doing that, somehow, during free-time.

  “You’re really obsessed with the space dreams, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Isn’t everybody?”

  “But you keep asking all the time, what are they like, what are they like.”

  “It’s because I don’t get them myself.”

  “You will,” she said softly. “It just isn’t your turn, yet. But your turn will come.”

  Yeah, he thought. When? This had been going on, what, two weeks now? Three? Hard to keep track of time in this place. After you had had a little picking, each day started to flow seamlessly into the one before, the one after. But the dreams, everyone was having them, the inmates and at least one of the staff technicians, that queer Lansford, and maybe even a few of the doctors. Everyone but him. That was the thing of it: everyone but him. It was almost like they were all getting together behind his back to fake up a gigantic mountain of bullshit to pile on top of him, this space-dream stuff.

  “I know your turn will come,” she said. “Oh, Ed, the dreams are so beautiful!”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Let’s go this way. Into the woods.”

  She giggled nervously. Almost a whinny.

  Ferguson didn’t think he’d slept with her. So far as his ring-recorder indicated, Alleluia was the only one since he’d been here. Women April’s size had never been his thing, though he could certainly see the potential prettiness deep down inside all that flesh, the buried cheekbones, the nice nose and lips. About thirty-five, came from L.A. like him, very screwed up like everybody here. What bothered him more than the fat was the way her head worked, so ready to believe all sorts of fantastic things. That we all had lived lots of lives and could get in touch with our previous selves, and that some people really were able to read minds, and that gods and spirits and maybe
even witches and elves were real and existed all around us, and so on. It made no sense to him, all her goofy beliefs. The real world hadn’t treated her very well so she lived in a bunch of imaginary ones. She had showed him pictures of herself dressed up in costumes, medieval clothes, even one in a suit of armor, a fat lady knight ready to go off to the Crusades. Jesus. No wonder she loved the space dreams.

  But he had to know if this crap was really happening.

  It was quiet here in the forest. Wind in the treetops, nothing else. Good clean redwood smell. He was starting to like it here a little.

  “Why don’t you believe we really have the dreams?” she asked.

  Ferguson looked at her. “Two things,” he said. “One is that all my life I been dealing with people who experience things I don’t experience. The ones who go to church, the ones who hang tinsel on their Christmas trees, the ones who think that prayers are answered. Those people have assurances. You know what I mean? I never had an assurance of any damn thing, except that I had to make my own luck because there was no one out there going to make it for me. You follow me? Sometimes I’d like to pray too, just like everybody else, only I know there’s no use in it. So I feel myself sitting outside what a lot of people know for certain. And when these sort of weird dreams come along, and everyone says how beautiful, how wonderful, and I don’t get them you know how I feel? Go on, tell me I’m paranoid. Maybe I am, or I wouldn’t be in a place like this, but I never could believe in anything I couldn’t touch with my own hands, and I’m not touching these dreams.”

  “You said there were two things, Ed.”

  “The other one is, you know I was supposed to go to jail?” He wondered why he was telling her so much about himself. There might be some way she could use this stuff to hurt him. No, he thought, not her. Sweet April. “Convicted of fraud is what I was. Selling trips to the planet Betelgeuse Five is what I was doing. We’d promise to send you I forget how many light-years, fifteen, fifty, not in the actual flesh but just your mind, by a process of metem—metem—”