Only one God has let his side . . .
Be wounded by a soldier’s spear!
What was that? Some old poet; he couldn’t remember the name.
Trying to kill me! Trying to kill their God!
He had acted instinctively. Self-preservation was almost a taxis. Co-incidentally with the burning agony in his shoulder, he had used the power. They had vanished.
Now his left arm hung withered and useless. The pain throbbed in dizzying rhythms through his head and body. He kept walking. The stars glared, coldly and unapproachably, but he could quench them if he wanted. He could turn that blazing vault black for ever and ever.
Dr. Emil Pastor. Dr. Emil Pastor. Emil-dear. A name, a word, a spot of cool, friendly light in the raging turmoil—
But what was Dr. Emil Pastor? What was Emil-dear?
If he could find his way to that spot of light—
Where was it? There was only the dark here, and night winds, and grass that rustled under his feet. A tree loomed up before him. He destroyed it without thinking. Realization came back then.
There was some reason why he mustn’t use the power.
Good intentions. The other God had had good intentions, too. But they had tortured him, hated him . . . What about the Deluge?
Emil-dear. That meant something. It meant peace and safety, words he had almost forgotten. He didn’t want to be God, really. He hated being God. If he could get to the place where he had left Dr. Emil Pastor, he could slip out of that incarnation and find rest once more. But he didn’t know where it was.
Colorado. He was somewhere in Colorado. But that told him nothing. Without transportation or communication, he was lost, even He.
The woman—
He was going to her. To find the Dr. Emil Pastor he had left with her. She could help him. He was going to her.
Nothing was going to stop him!
DuBrose met the Director of Psychometrics outside Dr. Fielding’s office. Cameron’s face was haggard, his gray hair rumpled, and his eyes had lost their steadiness. A nerve jumped in his cheek.
He said, “What do you want?”
“We got trouble.” DuBrose said shortly.
“Nela told you I was here?”
“Right. She said you were going to see Fielding.”
“Didn’t you wonder why?”
“It’s not unusual for our department to consult a psychiatrist sometimes,” DuBrose said. “But you’ve been acting funny. So, since you ask—yeah, I wondered why.”
Cameron’s gaze flicked past Du-Brose’s shoulder. He gave a low exclamation, turned, and nodded for DuBrose to follow. As they walked, he said, “Was that Ridgeley?”
“Yes.”
To DuBrose’s surprise, the director exhaled with relief. “Not a hallucination, anyhow. I’ve been seeing him everywhere tonight . . . I’ve been on the run through Low Manhattan, trying to dodge him. Haven’t seen Fielding yet. I don’t know—”
DuBrose guided Cameron on to a Way. The courier, he saw, was still following, though at a distance.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve been out in the Spaces,” Cameron said dully. “Trying to dodge him. It’s getting so I can’t—”
He paused. His questioning gaze probed DuBrose’s. “Where’s Seth?”
“I can’t tell you, chief. I only wish I could. Why not trust me?”
“It’s—Ridgeley. Why should he be following me? I’ve spoken to guards twice. Each time, when they looked for Ridgeley, he was gone.”
DuBrose said, “I asked the Secretary of War to check on him. We think he’s in Falangist pay.”
“A Falangist?”
“No-no. But in their pay.”
“Assassination doesn’t worry me too much,” Cameron said. “It’s this other—” Again he stopped.
DuBrose glanced at an overhead marker and urged the director to a crosstown Way. Low Manhattan was crowded, even at this late hour. On a full-time production schedule, even the graveyard shift roared.
“Ben. Are you trying to dodge Ridgeley?”
“I know a place where we can get away from him. I hope.”
Blue Heaven was mildly notorious. At its garish portals DuBrose took out a blue key and used it as a passport, while Cameron frankly stared. “I didn’t know you went in for these diversions,” he said.
“Seth gave me this key,” DuBrose explained. “He thought I needed an emotional catharsis. Ever been here?”
“No. Seth’s told me about it.
Rather—high powered, I gather. But—” He peered along the Way. There was no sign of the courier.
DuBrose said, “He can’t walk through walls. It’d take him a while to get hold of one of these keys, and I don’t know for sure that he can.” They went along a mirrored hall through pale clouds that glowed faintly. Some energizing radiation pulsed through the dim air. An attendant appeared.
“Your pleasure? What type of enjoyment would you prefer? We have a new pattern for Creepies—”
“That’ll do,” DuBrose said. “Where is it?”
Clouds billowed up and surrounded them; they were conscious of smooth motion through that warm opacity. They were relaxed upon padded cushions before they quite realized that the movement had stopped. The soft voice of the attendant said, “The clouds will thicken a little. We don’t bother with awkward neural attachments here. The water vapor is the conductor.”
“Wait a minute,” DuBrose said. “Suppose we want to take a break? How do we turn off the program?”
“This lever, at your right hand. Now—”
The clouds thickened. DuBrose was not sure the attendant had gone. He waited. The first tingling vibrations of a Creepy neuropattem began to whisper through him. He felt drowsy, comfortable, infinitely relaxed. Images moved slowly through his mind.
Greek theaters had been one of the early forms of audience-projection. Later the cinema had expanded the scope, and television. All these art-forms had been aimed at making the receptor identify himself with the artist—and the Creepies, with their delicate patterns of pure sensory impressions, were the current development. DuBrose had felt Creepies before—you didn’t see them—and knew they were excellent in entertainment-value. But this semibootlegged stuff was different.
It was rough!
Shock—shock—slam! Through the drowsy inertia the racing sensory currents plunged into DuBrose’s brain, with a violence that sent adrenalin pumping into his blood. Fear, hatred, passion—these emotions and others, stepped up abnormally, mingled in a cacaphonic symphony that jolted him horribly. His hand twisted the lever. Instantly the nerve-racking violence stopped, but he was sweating.
The fogs faded. Beside him, Cameron grinned faintly.
“Better than a Turkish bath,” he said. “But leave it off. I want to be able to see if Ridgeley shows up.”
DuBrose took a few deep breaths. “Any idea why he’s chasing you?”
“I might have. But do you?”
“I told you. He’s probably in Falangist pay. Why don’t you tell me the real trouble, chief?”
“I can’t. Not yet. Unless . . . answer a question for me. Has anything turned up that might make me . . . indispensable?”
DuBrose thought that over. He was a psychotechnician; he could see how close Cameron was to the verge. If he could take the risk now, it might solve a good many problems.
“Well—answer a question for me first.” He’d chance it—with his fingers crossed. “Remember that hypothetical equation we were talking about yesterday?”
“The truth-variable? I remember.”
“Could a guy who plays fairy chess solve that equation? Or would he go insane?”
Cameron sensed the significance of the query. His eyes narrowed, but he took a long time to answer.
“He could solve it. If anybody could, I imagine.”
DuBrose swallowed. “And . . . if he couldn’t . . . you’d still have enough dope to find somebody else who could, I suppose. I . . . I’ll answer yo
ur question, chief. I don’t want to. But I’m afraid.
I’m afraid of what’s happening to you. You’re screwed up, and you won’t tell me what it is, and I’m betting it’s tied up with—this business.”
“Ridgeley?”
“He’s part of it. Seth and I couldn’t tell you before because we were afraid the responsibility would—have bad results. But you know the answer now.”
“What answer?”
“That equation isn’t hypothetical.” DuBrose said. “The Falangists have got it and have solved it.
They’re using it against us. We’ve got it, but we haven’t been able to solve the thing. Our technicians have been going nuts. It’s been your job to find a type of mind that could solve the equation.”
Cameron hadn’t moved. “Keep talking.”
“Seth and I had to keep the knowledge of that responsibility from you. You understand why now, don’t you, chief?”
The director nodded slowly. But he didn’t speak.
“We had to present the problem to you as theoretical. We were afraid you’d catch on. But I saw that fairy chess man tonight, and he’s certain he can work out the equation. Even if he can’t, we know, now, the type of man who can handle truth-variables. It’s a matter of selection. If you fail, it’s because the right man can’t be found. But that won’t be your fault. You know what sort of mind to look for.”
“It’s close to casuistry,” Cameron said. “But it’s sound logic. Only I don’t know enough about the set-up. Tell me. Where’s Seth?”
“Dead.”
Silence. Then—
“Start at the beginning. Let’s have it, Ben. And fast.”
Nearly an hour later Cameron said, “If I’d known this from the beginning, I wouldn’t have had my own trouble. But if you’d told me the set-up, the responsibility would probably have driven me insane. Listen.” He told DuBrose about the rippling mirror, the soft doorknob, the mobile spoon, the shifting floor. “All aimed at my sense of security, you see. Trying to make me incapable of decisions. Building up an anxiety neurosis—to say the least. I knew it was impossible, except through science we haven’t attained yet. But—”
DuBrose’s throat was dry. “Lord! If you’d told us!”
“I didn’t dare. I was mixed up at first. I thought it was all objective and tried to find explanations.
There weren’t any. There were two possible answers. I was going insane. Or I was the victim of a planned campaign. In the latter case, there was some motive—I didn’t know what. But I guessed that it was to drive me insane by artificial means. I decided to string along. I knew there might be scanning rays on me. Any word I said might be picked up by—the Falangists, or whoever was attacking me.” Cameron sighed. “It wasn’t easy. I decided I could learn more by pretending to believe the manifestations were subjective. That way, the enemy might discount me, and I might find out what they were after. I knew you and Seth were up to something, and I guessed it was connected with this business—my hallucinations—but I trusted Seth. More than I trusted you, Ben. Till now.”
DuBrose said, “You’ve been playing along, then—”
“It sounds easy, doesn’t it? But a man can never be sure whether or not he’s going insane. I haven’t been sure. My mind . . . well, I’ve been in a genuine psychotic state, artificially induced.
They succeeded in that. Tonight I had to have some help. I had sense enough not to tip my hand by seeing you or . . . Seth. I thought if I talked to a psychiatrist, I could get the value of catharsis, anyhow, without giving away what I suspected. But now it doesn’t matter. Even if there’s a scanner on me now—the Falangists can’t make use of any information they gather. Because they can’t stop us.”
“Don’t underestimate them,” DuBrose said. “They’ve solved the equation. They can use it as a weapon. They know how to make bombs that can penetrate our force-shields, for one thing. And I’ll bet that isn’t all.”
Cameron closed his eyes. “Let’s see. First, the equation must be solved. That’ll put us on even terms with the Falangists. Second, a counter-equation must be solved. But I don’t know if even a fairy chess player could work that out.”
DuBrose blinked. He hadn’t foreseen this possibility. It was an entirely new and unexpected responsibility—the need for finding a man who could not only solve the equation, but nullify its effect.
“Eli Wood’s a fine mathematician—”
“Of this era. He can break down the equation; I’m willing to accept that. It’s easier to analyze than to create. Ben, don’t you realize yet where that equation must have come from?”
“The Falangists—”
“Are contemporaries. Their science is no more advanced than ours. And the equation is the product of another type of technology entirely. Ridgeley’s the answer.
“He’s responsible.”
“If he’s from the future, it’s probable that he brought that equation with him. And gave it, or sold it, to the Falangists. You were right in thinking one key to all this is Ridgeley. I want to try my hand at hypnotizing that mutant of yours . . . what’s his name? Billy Van Ness? We may be able to learn something valuable.”
“Ridgeley seems to me the most dangerous opponent we’ve got.”
“He may be the most valuable,” Cameron said thoughtfully. “I’ve an idea—Mmm. You asked Kalender to put a scanner on Ridgeley?”
“I don’t know if he’s managed it yet. You’ve got to locate the subject before you can adjust the scanning ray.”
“All right.” Cameron said. He got up. “We’ve work to do. But I feel better. I . . . know now, that I’m not going insane, or going to be driven insane. For a while I was beginning to feel like a medieval peasant, attributing everything to my personal god—and devils. Now—”
He turned toward an arched opening visible through the thinning mists. “Now we’ll find a visor—fast. Then we’ll start integrating. Come on, Ben, You’ll have to be ready to take over for me—in case.”
“But you’re all right now, chief. You know what the Falangists were trying to do to you.”
“I know,” Cameron said coldly. “But you’ve forgotten one thing. Even now, they could succeed.
They could drive me insane through sheer pressure. They can use that equation on me till my mind cracks and retreats into insanity as an automatic defense measure.”
“It’s still happening?”
“Centipedes,” Cameron said. “Little bugs. Spiders. If I took my tunic off and looked, I wouldn’t see them, so there’s no way of knowing what they are. But they’re crawling all over me, and insanity would be a relief, Ben.” He shivered.
XI.
At a public visor they called Kalender. The Secretary of War wasn’t at GHQ, but it didn’t take long to get the beam relayed. The strong, harsh face showed strain and annoyance. “So you’ve finally decided to talk to me, eh? I appreciate it, Mr. Cameron.”
“Mr. DuBrose was acting under my instructions,” Cameron said briefly. He didn’t want to quarrel now. “It was important that I be kept incommunicado while I worked on a certain matter. The slightest distraction might have been fatal.”
“Fatal?”
“Yes. What’s the latest on Dr. Pastor? DuBrose has kept me posted on current stuff.”
“Have you solved the equation? Or found anyone who can?”
“Not yet,” Cameron said. “I’m doing my best. But what about Pastor?”
“Oh . . . well, nothing. We’ve a dragnet out. Your man DuBrose thought he might head for his home. We’ve a cordon there. Enough camouflaged equipment to blast him into electrons. Or quanta. We haven’t told his wife anything. If he shows up—”
“He’s left no trail?”
“Of . . . obliteration, you mean?”
“No, I doubt if he’s using the power.”
“You’re doing all you can,” Cameron said. “Now what about Daniel Ridgeley?”
Kalender said, “It’s ridiculous. The man’s invaluable to us.
DuBrose must be wrong.”
“Did you check his case history?”
“Naturally. And it checks.”
“Could it have been faked?”
“Not easily.”
“But it could have been, eh?”
“He can’t be a Falangist,” the Secretary of War snapped. “If you knew the valuable enemy information his espionage work has given—”
“A lot of good that will do you now,” Cameron said. “The equation can simply wipe us out, and you know it. Have you put a scanner on Ridgeley?”
“Haven’t been able to locate him. I called him on his private wave length, but he’s turned off his receiver.”
The director didn’t comment on that. “He’s in Low Manhattan. Put a scanner on me. Here’s the visor number where I am now. I think Ridgeley may try to get in touch with me; if he does, scan him. And don’t lose him! Better put three or four beams on the man.”
DuBrose whispered something; Cameron nodded. “Ben DuBrose is with me. Scan him, too. We can’t miss a bet on picking up Ridgeley.”
Kalender said, “Do you want shadows?”
“No guards, no.” Cameron thought for a moment. “All I want is to have Ridgeley under close supervision. But don’t restrict his movement. That’s important. I’ve got an idea.”
“You’re scanned,” the Secretary said, after nodding to someone offscreen. “Both of you. Anything else?”
“Not now. Luck.”
“Luck.”
DuBrose said, “You told him we hadn’t found anybody to solve the equation.”
“Well, the beam might have been tapped. We don’t want Wood murdered. I’m probably scanned already by Falangists. Otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to direct their mumbo-jumbo so accurately. It never happens when anyone else could notice.”
“They’re still . . . working on you?”
“Yeah,” Cameron said. “Well, I’ll call Nela. Then—”
He did.
“Then what, chief?”
“Seth had an apartment not far from Low Manhattan, I want to see if he left anything.”
“What about Ridgeley?”
Cameron met DuBrose’s eyes and grinned. What about Ridgeley? The courier was almost as much of an unknown quantity as the equation itself.
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