Barlen’s triumphant oath rattled against the ceiling. “Good, Court! Good! You were a soldier once, and you’re still one. With weapons we’ll have a chance against the Deccans.”
Hardony’s smile twisted into faint wry-ness. “It took you long enough,” he said. “But perhaps that’s a good thing. Lyra’s at white-hot pitch now, and can be moulded easily. Once the people know you’re with us, you—you may be God, after all.”
Court was watching Irelle. Her hard lips had softened, he saw, and the spark had gone from her eyes. Once more she looked like the woman who had kissed him—not the ruler who coldly threatened torture.
“So you did not die, then,” she said, and only Court knew what she meant.
A half hour later Court walked alone on a terrace of the palace, waiting and pondering. Above him an alien sky was glittering with cold stars, immutable as eternity itself, compared to the chaotic affairs of mankind. Beyond the balustrade lay Valyra, a rose-pearl stain against the night. Behind him the palace seethed with subdued excitement.
Soon, now, technicians and scientists, long held in readiness, would be gathered together.
“Speeches aren’t necessary,” Hardony had said. “They want to ask you questions. They want a basis to work on, and there’s no time to waste. Even a single night lost now might be disastrous.”
COURT did not know what to say. How could he describe the world in which he had lived? It was the little things that he remembered most clearly, a tree-lined street, green and cool on a blazing summer day, kids bicycling along it, an ice-cream wagon driving slowly along, bell tinkling. He didn’t want to talk about weapons to the Lyran scientists. He wanted to tell them of other things—the things of peace.
It was so futile now. For, it seemed, there would always be wars to destroy. Was there no solution, ever? He stared up at the unanswering stars. Wars there, too, probably. Hardony was right. Men were vermin.
No, Hardony was not right. For an answer existed somewhere. Not yet, perhaps. Far in the dim, unborn days of the future, in a land and a time not yet come, but it would come. He would not see it. Even after his long, long sleep, the cravings of conquest and death pulsed too strongly in man’s blood. War had almost destroyed the world, but men had forgotten that The sword was being drawn from its scabbard once more.
This time it would flame across an earth that lay unprotected against its edge.
“Science,” Court said under his breath, bitterly. “So it’s got to be used for war again. And this is the future!” His tone was heavy with disgust.
“War is a folly,” a voice said. An enormously fat figure appeared from the gloom, waddling forward awkwardly. The gay colors of Farr’s garments were hidden in the dusk, but Court could dimly distinguish his gross face and body.
“War is folly,” Farr repeated. “But I never argue with folly. The Throne rules, and let her rule, I say, so long as I’m permitted to live my own life. But I’m not. They won’t let me have the equipment I need for my happiness.”
Court turned away, but the fat man dodged in front of him. “Please wait.” His high-pitched voice was thin with anxiety. “You can do me a great favor. Irelle would grant you anything, and it isn’t much I ask. But it means a great deal to me. Don’t go; listen to me for a moment.”
“Well, what is it?” Court said ungraciously. He was annoyed at the intrusion.
“Surely a man’s entitled to happiness, if he interferes with no one?” Farr said. “I need a little more equipment, and they tell me it’s needed elsewhere. But a few power-sources and dynars won’t make any difference to Lyra. You’ll find me a valuable friend, Court, and I’m asking such a small favor. A word in Irelle’s ear would serve the purpose.”
“Settle it yourself,” Court growled. He swung back. “What do you need special equipment for, anyway?”
“To be happy,” Farr said. “I weave dreams.”
“What?”
“I weave dreams,” the fat man repeated. “Science can be turned to other ends than war. Years ago I retired to my castle and made my own worlds. There I can do as I please. I have certain—sciences.” He hesitated. “Not that I’m a scientist. I’m an artist.”
“Yeah?” Court said. “I thought I was one myself, a long time ago.”
Farr smiled. “Then you can understand, I’m sure. In beauty and strangeness and—and new worlds, I forget the ugliness of this one. Science can give art life. If you could step into a picture you had painted, all would be well.”
“If,” Court said.
“But I can,” Farr told him. “I paint with certain—forces, certain energies that can mould matter until it’s real, to the artisan’s eye. And more than that. It isn’t static. It grows. It develops from its seeds of color and designs and sound, as a plant would grow.”
“Do the technicians know about this?” Court asked doubtfully.
“Certainly. Some of them worked out the basic principles for me, as a worker would build a musical instrument. But I am the one who plays that instrument.”
Court’s skepticism fought against his interest. There might be a weapon here, some possible adaptation.
“How does this set-up work?” Court asked.
FARR took a black globe, the size of an orange, from his garments.
“Man is attracted by art-forms, which are the materialization of his subconscious self—his ego. He strives to create his personalized conception of pure thought. By transmuting them into color and form—and sound—the realities possible in this world. Even in your day, I imagine, men did that.”
“They did,” Court said. “Sometimes they succeeded pretty well.”
“Only in art is perfection,” Farr said. “That’s because man can achieve absolute freedom. He is prisoned in his body and limited by his five senses. But his mind can stretch out in the infinity and conceive miracles. If he were not bound by the flesh, if the worlds his mind created were real—to him—there would be perfection. The prison walls would be down. Free mind, in a world self-conceived and self-realized. Here, now, is color.” Farr’s hairy finger traced a line over the black globe, and it became milky white. A slow whirl of color moved in its depths, reminiscent of a spiral nebula.
That gave place to pure abstract design, racing tints that dissolved and grew and darted out brilliantly as Court stared.
“This is incomplete, of course,” Farr said. “It’s a small device I carry with me for—for refreshment. In my castle I have more complete equipment. You will see why I need material that is refused me—and my need is more important than the building of a few more weapons. Here is color, Court—color that isn’t entirely objective. It is a chameleon. It draws shading from your watching mind.”
Tiny, glittering, fascinating, the miniature world of glowing rainbows—lived—in Farr’s palm. Amber and shell-white, sapphire and angry scarlet, the colors raced. The designs formed and reformed. And in those colors was a hint of something utterly alien, yet familiar.
A curious rhythm, exciting as a Ravel piece, touched Court’s nerves with its stimulus. Some mobiles, he remembered, had had a similar fascination to him in his own time.
Now this one was nearly perfection.
Chips and facets of honey-gold spun off. Rays of ocean-green, peacock-blue blazed out. Clouds of velvet purple, almost tangible in their richness, bellowed. Ever the colors built and formed and danced. Ever the light and the rhythm moved like life within the little globe.
The colors died. The sphere went black.
“But now I can show you my real worlds. Court, of which that was a mere sample,” Farr’s voice said.
Court looked up, blinking. His eyes widened with incredulous amazement. For beyond Farr was not the green foliage of the terrace and the rose-pearl vista of Valyra, but the smooth, glass texture of a wall—the wall of a room.
He was no longer in the terrace. His startled survey told him that. He was in a room, bare and unfurnished, with a din glow coming from the low ceiling.
“You are in a dungeon of my castle Court,” Farr said, smiling. “It has beer, nearly five hours since you first looked into my colored ball. You are a long, long way from Valyra now, and not even Hardony will suspect fat, foolish Farr of holding you a prisoner.”
CHAPTER VII
Sinister Dream World
COURT started forward, the muscles of his legs tensing. Farr shook his head.
“You can’t touch me. You’re looking at a projected image now. In the flesh—and a great deal of it there is—I’m many floors above you, in my castle. You, Court, are in a certain chamber I prepared for myself long ago.”
But Farr’s image, if an image it were, seemed tangibly real. Court reached out a tentative arm, and his hand passed through the fat man’s body without resistance.
“You believe me now?” Farr asked. “That’s a step in the right direction, anyway.”
Court glanced behind him, saw a couch, and dropped upon it, watching Farr out of narrowed eyes.
“I’m a prisoner, then,” he said. “Are you a Deccan?”
“Farr a Deccan? Fat old Farr, who does nothing but sit in his castle and weave dreams? No, I’m a Lyran by birth. But by choice I’m a cosmopolitan of many worlds. None of them is real.”
“Why did you bring me here?” Court’s gaze examined the walls. There was no sign of a door in the smooth, unbroken surfaces.
“Because you interfered with my plans. It wasn’t hard. My aircar was in the palace terrace, and no one could suspect Farr of kidnaping. I brought you here without trouble. Since I don’t approve of killing, you’ll stay here.”
“Your plans,” Court said. “For example?”
Farr’s tiny eyes sparkled craftily. “Did you believe what I told you on the palace terrace? Peace at any price? No, Court, no!” And Farr’s gross body seemed to grow taller and harder. “Once I thought so, in the days when I built this castle for my pleasure. It was enough, then, to live in dreams. But I saw a shadow darkening over Lyra, and it darkened even my dreams.”
“Well?”
“If war comes, Lyra must be prepared for it. I know that. But I also know something else. The danger is not from Decca. I have certain sources of knowledge. There is an enemy within, and if you build weapons, Court, you will be supplying that enemy.”
“Who?”
“It does not matter, since there will be no weapons made,” Farr said.
COURT glanced bitterly at Farr. “Fine. When the Deccans come over, you’ll be in a swell fix.”
“They won’t.”
“They have weapons.”
“Do they?” Farr said cryptically. “Well, I know the value of preparedness, and I promise you that if Decca ever plans invasion, you’ll be wakened from your sleep and then you can build your weapons. There’ll be a need for them then, and they won’t be turned to the advantage of a traitor who wants only power and conquest. That, Court, is why I brought you here. You’re in a secret cell, far under my castle, and I have the only key. You will need no food or water because there is energy in the light that you see. You will exist for years in that room, grow old, and die there. But you will not be unhappy, for you will have worlds to live in far lovelier than any on Earth.”
Court’s throat felt dry. “I think you’re insane, Farr,” he said.
The fat man chuckled. “That’s a matter of viewpoint. A madman’s worlds may be a great deal more satisfying than one he did not create himself. You, Court, will have the opportunity of being a creator.”
“Maybe.”
“You cannot help yourself. The energy will draw from your mind, and build—pictures—that will live. Pictures in which you will live. You’ll be happy. You can forget Lyra and the Throne and such folly. They will not matter.”
“I’ll—”
“You cannot reach me. I’m doing you a great favor—letting you share such dreams as only one man has ever had before. So farewell.” The figure of Farr grew misty. The small eyes blinked at Court. “Ah—a word of advice. Lie on the couch. You’ll find it softer than the floor.”
Court said something profane. But Farr was gone; the bare walls threw back the light starkly. Light that—the fat man had said—would be food and drink to the prisoner.
The devil with that!
Court stood up, his mouth tight, his fingers working. He took a step forward, a grin of sheer fury twisting his face. To get his hands on Farr’s gross throat would be a pleasure.
He took a deep breath. There was nothing to be accomplished by beating his head against the walls, much as he felt inclined to do so. He examined those walls, foot by foot, finding no trace of any jointure. The door was well-concealed.
He was drowsy!
Panic gripped him. He shook his head savagely, blinking, fighting down the sleep that seemed to pour like warm golden sand from the hidden lights overhead. He began to walk back and forth, jolting steps that assumed a definite rhythm.
Back and forth, back and forth. He was still awake.
He was sitting on the couch, sinking back!
He sprang up, but his legs could not support him. He was thigh-deep in the warm sand that shifted and moved slowly around him, sending him swaying back to a reclining position on the couch. Blood dripped from Court’s lips as his teeth clamped down. The momentary agony rose to a pitch beyond pain, transmuted into a keen pleasure.
He sank back.
Beneath him the solidness of the couch seemed to give way. The sliding golden sands buried him. He dropped down, through a glowing sheen of warm light, while the surrounding curtains of sand changed into a pattern of ferns—fronds—frost-crystals—
He was standing in a forest of glass.
The air held a clarity that was like a picture of Rousseau, and like Rousseau’s work, too, were the vivid plants that surrounded him. They were ferns, intricate and patterned, and they were of pure, transparent crystal.
He touched a glittering frond, and it dazzled into vibration. And it sang.
PIZZICATO the high tinkle of crystalline notes rang out. Through the glass forest the music whispered.
And the forest replied.
In a million tones, pure as light itself, the forest rustled and shook into blazing move-men! The sound thrilled through Court’s flesh. He was a part of the bright jungle, vibrating with it—
Something touched his feet, warm and gentle. He looked down. From nowhere a blue, liquid pool was flowing, rising like the tears of Niobe about him.
He remembered—the blue sea! The blue sea that had cradled him during his long voyage through time!
Once before he had fought free of that hypnotic azure deep, and now its touch roused anger and terror within him. The blue stillness that had once meant peace now meant the oblivion of death to Court.
He lunged forward—crashed into the crystal forest.
It was fragile, that white wonderland. The intricate branches and fronds crackled and broke as he pushed through them. The crystal song was a discordance, a tinkling cry of protest. Beneath his feet gritty stuff crunched and crackled. A dazzle of whirlwind, a glassy, motion spun before his eyes, pinwheeling into a blinding nebula of light and roaring sound—
It was gone.
There was gray void.
Something leaped into being in that enormous nothingness. A block, asymmetrical, oddly angled, bright yellow.
It grew.
It rose into a tower. Ochre protuberances sprang from it, monstrous growths like fungi. From its base a strip of amber unrolled like a carpet, racing to Court’s feet.
Dots of light grew with enormous speed into rolling spheres, angry orange, shaded with pale gray. They spun into a goblin dance, receding, plunging forward, spinning into infinite distances and returning.
Cubes and polyhedrons mounted jerkily like trees.
The amber carpet whipped back, carrying Court with it. He was drawn into the center of the devil-dance.
The abstracts toppled toward him, disintegrating as they fell. They vanished. Overhead a scarl
et bowl flamed down like a falling sky, bellowing with enormous thunders.
A world self-conceived and self-realized.
Some distantly untouched part of Court thought, “I’m visualizing all this. It’s been recessive in my brain. And Farr’s diabolical machines are making it real to me.”
It was horribly real, and most horrible was the exhilaration that rose within Court. He began to see meaning in the geometrical dance, began to perceive what lay behind the symbolism of abstract cubism that was animate and articulate. A yellow coil rose into a spiral, shrilling a high-pitched note that blended with the deep bass of a shapeless purple blotch that curved and writhed like an amoeba.
He felt himself moving in time with the—the things.
Yellow shrieked into red—red sang into orange—orange murmured into green. The humming chord that was an emerald triangle faded into blue—
Into blue that lapped and rose—beckoning—drawing him down into an abyss where there was no time . . .
Into the blue sea of eternity!.
He struck out at tower and angled globe, saw them give way and disintegrate beneath his blows. As they crashed down the blackness of infinity folded in from above, eating; up color and sound.
He stood alone in the dark.
A dark that was unbroken—but not quite. He sensed, rather than saw, a variation of shades—of faint hints of shapes . . .
Light came.
LUSHLY rich, flaming with tropical color, an Arabian Nights’ jungle hemmed him in. A chain of suns was strung like a necklace across a sky more sensuously deep than any sky on earth. It was brighter than earthly forests was this jungle.
Flamboyant, it—flaunted. The deep green. of great banners of leaves was veined with the purple blood of those plants. The flowery were cupped blossoms that might have grown in Solomon’s gardens—brighter than color!
They were brighter than any artist could conceive, but they were not paint. Chalices of shining silver dripped liquid gold that foamed on the richness of the earth. A seed dropped here would sprout into pure wonder.
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