Your mirror, Logan 3.
He was staring at himself!
Logan slowly circled the figure. “Is this…some kind of robot?”
He is quite real. A human of flesh and blood, as you are.
Logan studied the face of the sleeping man: his own. The hands: his own. The body: his own. Hair, mouth, curvature of cheek and chin: his own.
“You’ve altered another man to look exactly like me!”
The reverse is true, the aliens told him. We have altered you to look exactly like him. Since he is over a decade younger than you, we had to erase certain lines in your face, subtly rework your body flesh, alter the pores of your fingers to match his. Now the two of you are identical.
The pillar gradually dimmed as the Logan mirror-figure dissolved in a soft flicker of diamonds. Fading…gone…swallowed in blackness.
The silver wallpanel once again hushed open behind Logan, and he walked numbly back into the medchamber.
He faced the aliens.
It was necessary for you to see him in order to understand your mission.
Logan’s jaw was hard-set; he glared at the flickering flame shapes. “Damn you! What kind of trick is this?”
No trick, Logan. The man you saw is a younger version of yourself.
“Version?”
From another Earth. A parallel world, in which Sandmen still pursue runners. On that world he was fanatically loyal to the system of computer-directed death at twenty-one—the same system you helped end forever on your own planet.
Logan felt himself caught in a dream from which he could not wake—yet he knew this was no dream. It was real. It was all actually happening to him. To maintain his base of emotional sanity, he had to keep telling himself this, over and over. No dream…no dream.
From the wall, a shapechair appeared.
Sit down, Logan. Watch what we show you. Watch—and listen.
Without choice, Logan obeyed. The chair shaped itself around him as the room darkened.
Holographic images materialized: an emerald universe of endless depth. Like a mute god, Logan sat surrounded by an infinity of stars and planets, silver-dusted galaxies, exploding nebulae.
The cool, emotionless voice of the aliens entered his mind: Each planet in universal space is paralleled by many other near-identical worlds. We are concerned in monitoring certain of these alternate worlds, utilizing basic vibrations in the space-time continuum to effect a passage from one world to another on a direct line. This direct line limits our activities and knowledge on any given world.
“Just what does that mean?”
It means we cannot enter the past or future of any world. We can monitor them only in their current, present-time status.
As the aliens spoke, their words were enhanced for Logan within the holographic universe. A tiny craft, representing the alien starship, hovered above a twin solar system on a direct line between two Earths. The configurations of the planets were identical.
With the elimination of a computerized death system, your Earth has now stabilized. It is this second planet that now concerns us. We know that some thing—or someone—controls its world-computer programming. A dark force, possibly supernatural, guides the system.
One of the two tiny Earths darkened, as if denied the light of the sun.
This dark force must be rooted out and destroyed. We feel that you are uniquely qualified for this mission. For you, it will be much like a time trip—a return to your yesterdays.
Now the holographic show was over. The images died.
Logan swung back to face the aliens.
We sense confusion. You have many questions. Ask them.
“I’m just one man. How can I change a world?”
You changed your own.
“I don’t see the logic of this. With the powers you possess, why not simply brainwash the other me and send him back to change his own planet?”
Our powers are limited. We have no way of effectively overcoming young Logan’s lifelong conditioning. You must take his place.
“And do exactly what?”
Prior to our removing him, young Logan had been preparing for a ritual known as Godbirth, which for certain Sandmen of high rank is an alternative to Deep Sleep. We think that through Godbirth you will be able to penetrate the planet’s central power base.
“Will I be given any special weapons?”
No weapons. But, since there appears to be a form of indoctrination connected with this ritual, we have provided mental shielding. You are now immune to any mind technique they may attempt to employ.
Logan found the concept of a double world hard to assimilate: the same, yet not the same.
“Is there a Ballard on this Earth?”
Ballard does not exist. No Sanctuary Line. No base in Washington. No escape rockets at Cape Steinbeck.
“Then—there’s no Sanctuary for runners!”
A few female runners seem to have vanished, but we have not been able to determine their fate. They may still be alive somewhere on the planet. There is much we do not know.
“What of Francis? If Ballard does not exist—”
Each world has its own structure, Logan. Francis is very real on this world, a key Sandman, a Master of the Gun. He has also been selected for Godbirth, and will accompany you through the ritual.
“But as a fanatic to the system, won’t he be dangerous?”
Not at first. He is young Logan’s best friend. Thus, he will trust you. Eventually, of course, you will have to kill him.
“And just what becomes of young Logan?”
We shall return him safely to his world as we shall return you to yours. But only if your mission is a success. His life, therefore, depends on you.
Logan’s emotions toward his duplicate were mixed: he didn’t want to be responsible for the death of this young man. He would, in effect, be killing himself. Yet, face to face, one would be forced to destroy the other, runner against Sandman. A paradox, the two of them—exactly the same, yet so different. Literally, worlds apart.
New questions kept crowding into Logan’s mind; there was so much he needed to know. Was there another Jessica on this new Earth? Would she recognize him?
The reply came instantly: She exists. But Jessica and Logan have never met. Your strong emotional ties to your own Jessica make it imperative that you avoid contact. Keep away from her. Jessica need not concern you—and is no part of your mission.
“How do I contact you from this new Earth?”
Contact will not be possible.
“You mean, I can’t—”
We never leave this environment. We were always here. We will always be here.
The enigmatic reply failed to satisfy Logan.
“But what if I need help?”
A man named Kirov 2, who works at CenControl in Moscow, may be able to assist you in case of emergency. There is no one else.
“What about the place and time of my pickup if I succeed?”
Leave this to us. A hesitation. There is a limitation.
“Yes?”
We have no control over the spatial time shift that dictates the reality phase of the two planets. Eventually, these parallel worlds will cease to exist on the same cosmic plane. We cannot maintain our dual-world position indefinitely.
“How long?”
Fourteen Earthdays. If you have not exposed and destroyed the planet’s power source within this period, we will be forced to abandon you.
“Impossible!” raged Logan. “It took years to destroy the Thinker…I don’t even know who or what I’m searching for!”
Fourteen days, Logan.
And a rolling, milky substance, like white smoke, began to fill the chamber. The aliens faded…the walls rippled…Logan felt himself losing consciousness.
He was on an endless chute, plunging down…down…and down.
To another life.
To another Earth.
* * *
RETURN TO YESTERDAY
New California.
A glasshouse, where citizens seek voyeuristic sexual release in the rainbow-tinted night…
A hallucimill, dispensing dream-lifts to the jaded.
A nursery, with its robot tended rows of hypno-sleeping children.
Sleepshops, where silver darts deliver oblivion to those whose Lastday has ended.
DS Headquarters, a hive of black-garbed Sandmen, intent on their death-duty to the system.
Arcade, a fire-dazzle of blazing lights and frenzied pleasure.
The maze, with its swift, deep-tunnel beetle cars converging from a thousand major cities of the world…
And in the heart of the midnight city, in one of the glittering boxbeam lifeunits, an off-duty Sandman stirs to the sensual play of soft fingers caressing the skin of his chest…
Logan awakened to the smiling female on the flowbed beside him. In the rich spill of moonlight from an open skyvent her body was flushed ivory. She wore a sheergold loverobe, accenting the peaks and hollows of her soft flesh. Her beauty was flawless.
“Remember me?” she asked in a voice of velvet. “I’m Phedra 12…from Arcade.” She frowned, studying his face. “You look strange. Are you lifted?”
Her question supplied Logan with an answer to mask his obvious confusion: “I took some Y-16 earlier tonight.”
“Y-16?”
“New formula,” Logan improvised. “Not in the ‘mills yet.”
She smiled again, relaxing against him, melding her body to his. “You DS have the best.always.”
He kissed her pouting lips. “How’d you get in?”
“With this,” she said, holding up a thin slotkey. “Remember? You gave it to me at the firegallery last week…I dance there.”
Young Logan had been attracted to her, had made contact, had invited her here. “I remember now,” said Logan, taking her firmly into his arms.
She was here for sex, and he’d oblige. Any other reaction would appear perverted; a young Sandman was expected to fulfill his natural urges with many women. But as Logan reached out to caress her face he flinched, jaw muscles tightening.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
His hand glowed crimson against her cheek; the time-crystal in his palm was alive again! He smiled, shaking his head. “Nothing…nothing’s wrong.” “It’s the Y-16,” she said. “Can you—I mean, are you able to—”
In answer, he tongue-kissed her deeply, fitting himself into the heated curve of her waiting body. He thrust into her, bringing a soft cat-cry from her arching throat.
But as Logan made love to Phedra 12 he felt a sense of dread building darkly within him. His glowing hand was a terrible reminder of the world he thought he had escaped forever. It was back, now, all around him—as real as the cry of passion he wrung from her trembling lips…
He did not sleep after Phedra left. In a loose velvrobe, he prowled the lifeunit, probing, analyzing, examining the artifacts of young Logan’s life—as an ancient anthropologist might sift through the habitat of a lost tribesman.
He was trying to understand this other self, this dedicated young Sandman who homered runners with cool dispatch, who wore the death-black uniform of DS with pride, who guiltlessly helped perpetuate a system of mass murder.
Logan stared at him, at this trim-bodied young fighting machine of a man, carefully studying the sharp reflection in the wall mirror. Me, more than a decade ago. Me, still on red, well short of twenty-one, still on the hunt, still able to coldly track a fellow human, corner him, rip and unravel him with a homer. But me with something inside that cried: No!
And that was the difference.
From the beginning, in his own world, buried deep in his psyche, Logan had experienced a sense of wrongness; a faint, insistent pulsebeat of rebellion had existed beyond his conscious awareness. With Jessica’s entry into his life that rebellion had burst forth; her love had nurtured and encouraged it. She had been the bridge that took him from Sandman to runner.
Could it happen again, here on this Earth? Could young Logan have changed, given the love of a woman like Jessica? Could he, too, have broken free of the system? From all the evidence here in this unit, and from what he already knew of this world, it seemed unlikely.
Each world was different; each man must form his own personal code of morality. Young Logan was one kind of man; he was another.
Turning his back on this reflection of a darker self, Logan walked to the plexwindow. He stood, unmoving, more than a mile above the city, watching the sun lay its thin morning fire across the eastern sky.
Then a timebird stirred the air around his head, reminding him that he must report for duty. He drew the bird from his shoulder, clicking it off; he cleared his mind, steeled himself for what lay ahead.
Time to report to DS. Time to put on the black uniform of a Sandman once more.
Time to live another man’s life.
,,,Areturn to your yesterdays.
As the aliens had promised him it would be, this world beyond the lifeunit was an instant relive: the moving tide of young citizens, many with fear-haunted eyes (already anticipating Lastday); the black-garbed DS men, seeded darkly through the crowd, always separate from those around them (Give a Sandman space, never crowd him, keep your proper distance, he may be on the hunt!); the festive children with their flushed, excited faces, pleasure-bent and as yet untroubled by thought of Sleep; the police paravanes, hovering like predatory metal insects above the crowd, patrolling the upper levels of the Complex. All of it, painfully familiar.
And now the dropway, leading down to the maze platform.
Riding the car to DS Headquarters, Logan stared at his right palm, at the unblinking red glow of the flower-shaped crystal imbedded in the flesh of his hand. The aliens were brilliant; no one on Earth had ever been able to reprogram a timeflower—yet Logan’s crystal was alive again, ticking off the hours of life.Even for a Sandman, at twenty-one, when his palmflower blinks red-black, red-black, red-black, Lastday begins and there is no escape from Deep Sleep.
Except here, thought Logan, in this world, where a select few could achieve Godbirth, that mysterious ritual promising life, salvation, a higher existence.
Was it real?
When would it begin?
“Where’s your Gun?”
Startled, Logan turned toward the back of the mazecar. The question had come from an eager-eyed blond youngster in a splitsleeve recsuit. He wore red hikeboots, and he smiled at Logan, obviously unafraid of Sandmen.
“I’m reporting in,” said Logan. “My weapon’s at DS.”
“Then how come you’re suited up?” asked the boy. “Off-duty Sandmen are required to wear—”
“I know the rules,” cut in Logan. “So I’m bending one.”
“You could be fined. It could go on your Statsheet. You could be blackmarked, and that would lower your unit average.”
“You know a lot about DS.”
“I’m going to be a Sandman when I’m old enough,” declared the boy, eyes shining. “My name’s Timson 4.”
“How old are you, Timson?”
“Seven.” He held up his right hand, palm out. “I just went to blue. Released from Nursery last month.” He slapped his left boot. “I’ve already climbed the Matterhorn. Not many blues make it all the way. Three others in our group were killed trying it, and they were all older.”
“Congratulations,” said Logan.
“I even helped a Sandman Gun a runner! Along the Mississippi, near the Orleans Complex. He tried to get across in a small boat. I saw him steal it and I dived in and tipped the boat over. The Sandman who’d been after him used a ripper on him as he was swimming for shore. Cut him in half! The water was all red. It was exciting!”
“Why do you want to be a Sandman?”
“To kill runners. Somebody has to kill them.” The boy’s eyes grew cold. “They’re scum. They have to die.”
�
��For all you know, your mother might have been a runner,” Logan found himself saying. “Or your father.”
The boy was shocked. His face clouded with anger. “Whoever they were, they wouldn’t run! Not ever!”
“You never know who might run,” said Logan. “You get surprised sometimes.”
Now the boy was staring at him with cool distrust. “Just who are you, anyway? What’s your name?”
“Logan 3.”
Timson’s eyes popped wide. “Have you heard of me?’
The boy gulped breath, spilling out a rapid stream of words: “You work with Francis and your killscore next to his is highest in the Complex and I’m sorry I said that about your uniform and about getting fined for breaking a rule and—” He broke off abruptly and extended a trembling hand. “Will you shake hands with me, Logan?”
Logan shook his hand. He wanted to tell this boy, Don’t worship me! Don’t try to become like me. Killing runners is wrong. Joining DS is wrong. The system is wrong. It will destroy you as you destroy others.
But he remained silent. Saying these things would be useless; the boy was beyond moral logic. The tapes had done their work. Timson 4 was a product of the system, as carefully manufactured as a robot, programmed to hate, to kill. Thus, Logan said nothing more as the silver car slotted into its destination platform.
He could feel the boy’s eyes on him as he left the maze.
* * *
THE HIGHEST SCORE
DS Headquarters.
Unchanged, timeless, grimly austere—a windowless gray monolith rising starkly into the sky of the Angeles Complex, set apart from its surrounding buildings as a DS man is set apart from the crowd, a structure designed to strike fear into the heart of any citizen wavering between accepting Sleep or becoming a runner.
Logan mounted the steps as two men exited the building. He immediately recognized the taller: Evans 9! The childhood friend who had betrayed him at Crazy Horse, who had lured him into a deathtrap on his own world.
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