He stopped, for a moment trembling on the verge of hysteria. And then, in a single second, it left him. Understanding took its place. He smiled. “Evidently,” he said, “paradox is a fundamental principle of the Maze.” He looked at Et-dir-Mor’s ward-stone. The Center was nowhere to be seen. He looked at his own ward-stone. The blazing circle of its sun was almost full. “Paradox,” he repeated. “A fundamental principle of the Maze …”
Et-dir-Mor nodded. In a low voice he said, “It may even be that the Et-dir-Mor and the Red Fish Land you see now are not the same as those you saw before. I said once to Nathaniel Gordon … perhaps, indeed, to you; perhaps to one who is now only at the start of his quest — I do not know — that the Maze crosses dimensions, times, sections, sectors, parallels and places, and things for which we have neither name nor conception nor capacity.”
“It crosses paradoxes, too.”
Someone struck with a staff the pillar of sounding wood at the outer gate, and was on his way in before the resonant echo of it had gone away. “I must be on my way, in any case,” Nate said, getting to his feet.
“Not so fast, young man,” said the newcomer.
Et-dir-Mor’s lined face brightened. “Am-bir-Ros!”
“Let a fellow countryman take a gander at you before you take off again,” the newly arrived old man said, smoothing his white mustachios. “Yes … You’re one of that ugly race of homo saps, all right. I can hardly stand looking at you; too much sugar for a penny. Ugh. Brr.” He shook his head like a dog. “Ambrose Bierce, late of the United States Army, the fourth estate, the State of California, and all the rest of that nasty nonsense. Tell me,” he haid, abruptly; “do you still have God back there?”
“Yes … I guess we do.”
Bierce made a noise in his throat. “The Old Testament one?”
“Some say so.”
“The great, mighty, and terrible God who made Heaven and earth? The God of wrath, the God of vengeance, the jealous God, ‘the Lord is a man of war, the Lord is His name?’ That God?”
“Some say so,” said Nate.
“Only God that makes any sense,” Bierce said, reflectively, suddenly calm. “That’s where Mrs. Eddy’s soothing science made its first big mistake. She kept confusing Him with Lydia Pinkham … Good-bye, young fellow. Good luck. I’d ask you if there’s still a G.A.R. in your America, but I’m afraid of what the answer would be.”
• • •
The corridor sloped so steeply that he had to lean backward. It was so hot that he had discarded the last of his clothing. True, for all he knew, he might next find himself in the roaring middle of a Fimbul-blizzard. But … somehow … he did not think so. Nor was he altogether surprised when he came to the place whence issued the clanging and banging which had been growing stronger and louder. The ground leveled out, and he saw the giants ahead of him. Twenty feet tall and more, they towered, made of jointed iron in which their molded muscles stood out, and sweat like oil streamed down their faces, flanks, and limbs. Faces contorted with their effort, each in his turn raised far over iron head an iron flail … poised it there a moment … brought it down upon the ground. He was in the courtyard of the Castle of Vergil the Nigromancer.
They did not beat the floor in unison, though, or anything like it. Nate stood stock-still, admiring the spectacle, but all the while his brain was storing up information. He did not, as on an earlier and somewhat similar occasion, dash across. He walked. Flails crashed behind and before him, shaking the ground, shaking the air. He walked, now slowly, now swiftly, he never stopped, and presently the noise died away behind him. Vergil sat at his desk in wide-eyed sleep, leaning upon his book, and his visitor did not disturb him. Only the hound at the sorcerer’s feet twitched and growled a bit without awakening.
The great glowing sun filled almost all the ward-stone, with only a few lines left, like an aureole, around it.
It had been so long since he had heard any noise except the small sound of his feet, that his mind did not at first clearly register or clearly report what — suddenly, retroactively — he became aware of having been subliminally aware of for … how long? … he did not know. Nor did he know what it was. Only that there seemed to be and to have been a whispering. Looking around, looking back, he saw nothing. A sound increasing to the sound of a wind, perhaps, strong enough to rustle the leaves of a tree. But he felt no wind. There was no tree.
The noises multiplied, increased, became nasty little noises, became frightful, frightening little noises. The things which made them scuttled and lurched across the very periphery of his vision, and the scant, abrupt glimpses he could catch of them before they vanished made him shudder. They stank, these things, these abominable things making the abominable sounds, not in any familiarly noisome fashion, but in a way which simultaneously wrenched his stomach and buffeted his mind. His mouth gagged, his tongue fell in revulsion away from the palate. Parts of his body began to crawl and twitch, inside and out; pain assaulted him, and sickness, in muscles and organs of whose existence he had never been before reminded by so much as slight discomfort. His skin prickled, his face fell into a frozen grimace, and the drums of his ears trembled and shuddered in fear.
The things were getting inside of him even more, they had gotten inside his body, now they were getting inside his mind. He could see them and smell them and taste them in his skull now, their gromly noises were both muffled and heard more acutely, as they flopped and hunched and squirmed their way along the convolutions of cerebrum and cerebellum. No sensation of feeling had ever been anything like this. Pain? It transcended pain, it was the sickness unto death, and in a short time he was surely going to die — die from the sheer shock of this horror. His heart lurched in the grip of the titan fist which squeezed it, his breast was pierced with arrows.
There was only one escape. If he could cut off the communication of his senses, he could rest and gather strength. If he could, for just the shortest time, cease to relate, to be aware, find refuge in himself alone …
If he could go mad …
This, of course, was what was wanted. But it was not he who wanted it: it was they!
Nate opened his eyes and the blaze of glory which was the Maze in that moment fell into blackness, and in that blackness he neither saw nor heard nor smelled nor tasted. For a moment he still continued to feel. But for a moment, only. Then his body was merely weak and trembling, and he felt only the things which it was fit to feel. He walked along like a blind man without a staff, his hands touching one wall. And when, after one hundred thousand years, he felt it yield, he turned and went on through.
He lurched against the dirty gilt decorated side of a sedan chair, he went down and it went over. The yellow-faced, mustached woman inside of it tore at the masses of rusty black lace which slipped over her eyes and began to scream a long long scream, with lots of palatal sounds and glottal stops. But Nate had not fallen nor had the sedan chair gone over because he had lurched against it. Everything was falling, all was going down: the towering slums running up the hills like scabby serpents, the masked mansions of the Hidalgos and the coats of arms hanging over them, the ornate baroque gingerbread churches, the foreign consulates, wine warehouses, the Palace of the Inquisition …
Some ran through the buckling streets crying out that it was the end of the world, others knelt upon the heaving earth to pray their sorrow and contrition for their sins; others yet, maddened for the moment into forgetfulness of the Inquisition, seemed to have thought and word only to take the advice of Job’s wife: Curse God and die … And there were those who seemed not to think of themselves but only of tearing with their fingers at the rubble beneath which protruding and broken, bleeding limbs yet twitched and jerked. The lead chairman was one of these, and so, perhaps surprisingly, was the sallow widow he and his flight fellow a moment ago were bearing through the streets of Lisbon; together they toiled and pried and pulled, she never for a moment leaving off screaming.
But most of the people paused neit
her to pray nor curse nor aid others: they streamed toward the great, broad quay in the harbor. No buildings were there to topple over and crush them; here, on the contrary, were ships to carry them to safety. Thither, then, unto the port they fled, in their hundreds and their thousands and, at last, their many scores of thousands. There, too, must Nate have gone, because it was there — in that direction — that the golden path of the Mazeway glowed. It gleamed for his eyes alone; it neither glowed nor showed for others.
And now it led to the great quay of Lisbon, on this, the 1st day of November, in the year 1755.
And this, of course, was impossible.
More often than not Nate had not known where (or when) he had been, in his progress from outside to outside through the Maze. But he knew now. And he knew what would happen there at the great broad curving quay where the mobbing multitudes of Lisbon pressed and waited for the salvation which would never (in this world) come: that the sea, which had retreated at the first shock of the quake, would come rushing — flooding — roaring — crashing back. How those in front were unable to escape because of those who still pressed frantically forward, pressing in from behind. How, at last, sea and earth met together in one great and grinding blow, the quay and all who thronged upon it slipping, falling, sinking…. And the waters rolling, at first restlessly, then at length peaceably, rolling, rolling over all.
There was no way through. There was no way around.
It behooved him, then, to find a way back. And this could be only a way back for himself. To retreat through the Maze and face again the horror was not to be thought of. That he would ever again locate another way onward was, while perhaps not utterly impossible, unlikely in the most extreme degree. What then remained? To remain as an exile and a castaway in the eighteenth century? There were worse things. He had two functioning hands, a strong back, a good mind, a store of common sense, and a wealth of knowledge and experience beyond that of others of the time. He could make out, as his own age put it. Perhaps the Chulpex would come through and find him, perhaps not; perhaps not till after he was dead. All that remained (thus concluding the pulsating thought of a second) was to turn in his tracks and head for the broad, high places of the city, and safety.
He went onward toward the harbor, following the gleaming, glowing Mazeway. Dust from thousands of shattered buildings filled the air and cast a pall of darkness before the face of the astonished sun, and the Maze-path, as it left the street of Lisbon and led, though aslant, straight enough up into the air, gleaming like a great beam of light. Below, one single man cried out to see the other single man walk up into the air as though he did but tread a steep, steep path. But no one else paused to look. And Nate passed through the golden circle to the Center of the Maze.
CHAPTER TEN
In the upper room of the fortified ranch in the lower Ozarks where he prepared his radio lectures on Revitalized Americanism and Lower Taxes — and incidentally, very incidentally — raised prized Tunis ewes at a deductible loss, John Augustus Horn was dreaming dreams and working out plans.
A safe man had to be groomed to assume the office of Speaker of the House; this was essential. The great changeover, whereby the United States was to be restored to its proper status as a republic and confederation (such as it had been prior to the unfortunate Compromise of 1850, which John Augustus Horn, perhaps alone among contemporary students of politics, clearly recognized as the Mortal Wound: the base surrender of the Whigs, the useless efforts to truckle to Abolitionism) — this change was to be accomplished by entirely constitutional means! No man loved the constitution more than Horn; it had to be cleansed of its corrosive accretions, that was all. Yes … Major Flint — he had better be made a General, a General in the as-yet-to-be organized American Republican Armies: the Army of Texas, the Army of California, and so on, one for each sovereign State — Flint, with the aid of his right-thinking allies, the Chulpex, would first take over the Soviet Union and China, of course. Then the decadent British Empire, Africa … after that, well, the timetable would be worked out in good time. Yes.
Then, the President and Vice-President of the United States, presented, cold turkey, with the unassailable facts, would resign. Public pressure alone would require that. A sudden thought occurred to the spare, freckled, tight-mouthed old man. He frowned, then, almost instantly, smiled. Of course, of course. The Vice-President would have to resign first, otherwise he would become President himself immediately on the resignation of the President. Yes … Horn made a note. Well. So. Then, naturally, the Speaker of the House automatically succeeded to the Presidency. A safe man, a safe man.
Horn began to jot down a list of names. A form showing the members of the Houses of Congress in order of the lightness of their voting records (in committees, as well as on the floor) was in the top right-hand drawer of his vast, tidy desk; but Horn knew it almost by heart.
However, the Representative with the best voting record was not necessarily for this purpose the best. The Honorable Hughes Boynton (“Hughie Boy”) Searles had ambitions; this was not bad; this was good — for the Welfare State, in removing from the workingman the fear of his children’s certainly starving to death unless he worked for what wages his employer chose to pay him, had destroyed the man’s ambition — that is, generally speaking, it was good. But in this case it formed a slight but definite impediment. John Augustus Horn was not ready to employ his huge and hard-earned fortune (“Left school at age ten to peddle mule harnesses. By age thirteen, owned largest entirely locally owned harness business in Scatt Smith County. Sold it to buy his first block of oil leases. Drilled first well by hand with aid of one negro man, brought him to Jesus. Well dry.”) and to take the risks involved in working with these foreign Chulpex in order to place the powers of the American Presidency in Hughie Boy Searles’s hands. No. Searles was entitled to a place of importance on the as-yet-to-be-formed Presidency Advisory Council … but not to the office of First Magistrate itself.
The likeliest candidate for that post (via the Speakership) seemed to be … Horn’s hand paused. Chulpex. Foreigners. He hoped that none of them expected under any circumstances to settle in the United States! Certainly, they were entitled to a reward for their assistance, but the reward would have to be found somewhere else. Mars, maybe. Or Venus. Or — at most, at the very most — a limited number might be allowed to undertake contract labor in, say, New Guinea. He hoped that Flint would make them understand this clearly. The work of restoring the Electoral college to its proper function, extending the criminal syndicalism statutes to ban all forms of labor organizing, revival and up-scaling of property qualifications for the elective franchise, outlawing of sugar refining and milk pasteurizing: all, all of these stern and meritorious projects were essential — but none so essential as rigid immigration controls. Although — the idea came to him like a flash of heat lightning — might not a freer entrance of them as contract laborers into the United States prove even more effective as a means of keeping the cost of labor down? Down where it belonged? Of course it would. Of course it would!
John Augustus Horn smiled happily and made more notes.
• • •
Major Flint had long ago (it seemed long, long ago) sent “Jackson” off to try and relay messages about the necessity of intercepting and stopping Nathaniel Gordon. He hoped that by now the word had gotten to that vast, low-density planet, swarming like a termite-hill as it circled slowly around the cooling star which was Sun Sarnis. In fact, it might be that the Chulpex had already located Gordon, and cut him off. In such a case the goddamn gooks might have killed him. “I hope not,” he said, aloud.
Jack Pace looked up. His dark face had gone somewhat sallow under its stubble of fresh, black beard. The two men marched with measured caution through a vast park-land in which they had seen two gigantic and snow-white stags, and nothing else. The truth of the matter was, that Jack Pace was frightened, terribly, terribly frightened. So much so that he had almost ceased to think about automobiles and wo
men. He tried recalling them now, in this perhaps the least strange of the many places they had passed through, which was nevertheless most horribly strange to him. For a brief moment the old familiar images took on form once more: Bentleys, Rollses, Hispano-Suizas, long red Jaguars and cream-colored Cadillacs; queens and princesses and movie stars and wives of presidents … he would have them all: he: Jack Pace: standing at the right hand of Major Flint when Major Flint became governor or emperor or whatever it was …
The images faded, faded quickly.
“ ‘Hope not’ what?” he asked, his voice low. There, bulging out of Flint’s pocket was that damned crazy thing which was supposed to show him the way in and the way out, the way forward and the way back. Every time the Major looked into it along with the goblin — for so Jack had thought of Chulpex as a boy before he had ever seen one; so he continued to think of them, and would do so as long as he lived — when the Major and the goblin looked into that crazy stone to find out where they were and where they were going, the Major had him look into it too. He’d point here and there and ask Jack if he noticed this or that thing about some line here or there. Jack said he did, because it did no good if he said he didn’t — the Major would just talk some more and move the stone.
But what if anything happened to the Major?
Jack would shoot the goblin, he would have to shoot the goblin, of course. Otherwise the thing would maybe kill him, and even if it only touched him — So he’d have to kill it first. He’d killed plenty of them back there at the bottom of the mine-shaft in Flint’s Forge. They’d be poking through and telling him about all the great cars and women they were going to get him, and this in fact had helped him a lot to think clearly about this for the first time, but nobody could trust a goblin and he had his job to do and so he shot them and he’d shoot this one, too. And then what? He’d be stuck forever — never in a million years be able to figure out that stone thing. His ammunition would run out. And then what? And then what?
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