by Kate Wilhelm
Summary of the day’s testimony:
Through long and arduous cross-examination repeatedly interrupted by the prosecutor, Mr. Jackson today tried to establish that those men charged with the murder of three and the castration of thirteen members of the Voice of God Church had in fact nothing to do with the inception of the crimes, or the execution of them. At no time did Mr. Jackson mention the defendants, but concentrated instead on the character of those who did the actual operations in alleyways and in basements of the lower South Side. In spite of his efforts to shake the story given yesterday by Harry Scallopini, the witness for the State continued to maintain that the idea had been hatched in the basement of the Church of the Sacred Heart, that all of the men who participated were at that time practicing Catholics, and that he became converted to the Voice of God Church only six weeks ago.
Tomorrow the State will present its third star witness, a self-confessed participant in the castrations that resulted in death for three. And so the grisly story continues to unwind.
Transcript from a tape made of the news flash that interrupted the 3D program Rainbow’s End:
We interrupt this program to bring you the following special report. Tonight Monsignor Bellamy succumbed to what his doctors call a massive heart failure. Monsignor Bellamy was found by his housekeeper, Mrs. Louella Day, who could make no immediate statement due to what doctors call a condition of deep shock. Mrs. Day has been hospitalized at Sts. Mary’s and Magdalene’s Hospital where she is under sedation….
Chapter Fourteen
HIGH on a mountain in Pennsylvania Blake inspected the hunter’s shack that he had appropriated for his own use. He didn’t want it to look inhabited. Not that it mattered. There hadn’t been any game in this area for twenty years or longer, and the shack hadn’t been used for fifteen. Once a dirt road had wound up the mountain to the rough building, but it was covered now with new growth and fallen trees and shale slides so that the only way up was on foot, horse, or by air. Blake used all three on occasion. The gray frame three-room house leaned crazily against the stone of the mountain behind it, dependent on the stone for support apparently, but only apparently. Blake had done things to the shack. Still unpainted splintery wood on the outside, there was a thin layer of insulation on the inside that served as a practical building material, conserving heat in the winter, keeping it out in the summer, and was in itself very nice to look at, soft, with a deep finish that changed from blue to a warm rosy yellow depending on the temperature. Too, the view through the windows of the shack was deceptive. All one could see from outside was shadowy interior filled with cobwebs and dirt, and no one ever suspected that the view was in the window only. Actually the inside was a quite large, very neat and well-stocked laboratory-house. Blake lived in one of the rooms and worked in the other two. For his work he needed quantities of electricity and running water, and he provided both from the land beyond his doors. There was a small brook that fell through a mountain gorge twenty feet away and it served admirably as a power source, even though nothing showed to a casual observer.
For a year and a half Blake had been working in the shack sporadically. He had come across it accidentally, and he had returned with equipment in his copter, some of it stolen, some bought and paid for, all of it necessary. That year he had invented a filter that would pass only pure H20 through a permeable membrane, regardless of the source of the water. Equally interesting to him had been the idea of the direct manufacture of electricity from the molecular excitation of various alloys spun out into wires. He had accomplished this also. At the bottom of the swift brook there were half a dozen long wires being whipped continually. Anchored upstream the loose ends danced against a plate with a feeder line that vanished into art insulated cable in a tree trunk that housed a storage battery; the wires shimmied and twisted and made electricity. But he hadn’t finished with this yet. The wires wore out too fast.
There had been other things that he had tried, some he had been able to bring off, some would take more hard work, some probably never could be done. His work was taking him into all fields of science, and he had many ideas drawn up ready for patenting. He had been biding his time until he knew Obie Cox couldn’t touch him again, but when that time had come around, he had been busy, and had forgotten to pack up until he realized that the leaves had fallen and the air had the bite of frost and the smell of snow. So he packed his copter with notebooks and sketches and schematics of those things that he knew were ready for a patent search, and he locked up all else in the shack. He knew that barring a landslide that would bury the shack completely, it was impervious to any outside interference. The material he had lined it with would withstand flames and heat up to four thousand degrees, and would deflect any kind of explosives. The snows would come and cover it for him, hiding it until his return. He left in his single-seater copter and headed south.
Blake was a fugitive on several accounts. His copter was stolen. In a credit card economy anyone without a proper credit card is automatically suspect, and it is illegal to sell a copter or plane, or hovercraft, or underwater craft, or spacecraft or the atomic engine, or turbine motor, or jet pack, or rocket cluster to run any of the foregoing to a minor. Although Blake had several different sets of papers, all forged, none of them would have stood up for the sort of investigation that buying a copter entailed. So he had stolen one several years ago. Too, most of the big equipment he had in the shack was stolen, for much the same reasons. He could have paid cash for anything he had wanted or needed, had tried hard to buy equipment with cash, but it had drawn unwanted attention to him, so he had been forced to steal. Also, there were a lot of policemen scattered from city to city who remembered the golden-haired boy who could jump a General, or goose a vehicle of any make into running. He was something of a legend in those cities. Never booked, never picked up for anything, never identified in any way, except as the well-built blond boy with the books, he was suspected of being the gang leader in any town where he showed up. None of those who got to know him ever put the finger on him, but there were others, the ones on the fringes who knew him by sight only, and they were the ones who added to the myth of the boy with the golden hair. He could leap from building to building; he could outrun a cop car; he could make people do things they didn’t want to do, and he could do things to them from a distance; he could heal….
This last was the elusive spoor that Merton’s men kept running across and following. Those who got fixed up by him never talked about it, so that it was hard to track them down. But there were the rumors that were like ripples on a pond; everyone knew someone who knew someone who had been taken care of by the kid.
Blake grinned at the reports and never denied anything or admitted anything. He flew low over the mountain, under the Air Patrol radar. He didn’t want to be challenged. It always upset the Air Patrol to challenge his craft and see it elude them. The copter he had stolen over two years ago had undergone radical changes, so that although it looked much the same, it was not. Near Harrisburg the challenge came. Blake sighed. He hadn’t really expected to be allowed to fly from upper Pennsylvania all the way to Cincinnati without being hailed. Any unauthorized craft was a menace to air traffic, theoretically, and there could be no exceptions.
“Aircraft of E designation, heading west, number 927-083, proceed immediately to Air Patrol strip A-27. You will be escorted by an Air Patrol craft.”
Blake looked at his instruments, setting his course, then looked for the A.P. craft. It was a hovercraft outfitted with a booster jet. It dipped at him, turned slightly to the left, slowing down somewhat for him to follow. He maintained his course. They were passing north of Harrisburg, well out of the traffic lanes. The voice repeated the message, this time more stridently. They were now west of Harrisburg. The designated field was changed from A-27, to C-33. The hovercraft drew in closer and Blake could see the cop making a hand signal for him to turn to. He thumbed his nose and pressed his acceleration stud. The copter lifted vertically, shoo
ting up like a rocket. At two thousand feet he leveled and, still accelerating, streaked westward. There was a moment of leeway while the cop got over his stunned surprise, then he used his booster and came after Blake. The copter dropped as suddenly as it had risen, dropped and reduced speed so that the hovercraft overshot it and lost it before the pilot could make a turn. Blake hugged the ground and headed for the nearest wooded area, half a mile away, folding his blades all he went. When he entered the woods the craft was a ground effect vehicle. The cop searched the area for half an hour before giving up.
When Blake got near Cincinnati, he crossed the river to approach from the Kentucky side. It was less heavily populated here, and the hills that lined the river made better cover than the myriad subdivisions where the houses stood window to window, matched up like dominoes over the flatter Ohio land. It was a dark, frosty night, no moon, no stars either, hidden as they were by the dense layers of smoke, smog, and airborne wastes of all sorts. The copter made the only noise, and not wanting to attract more attention, Blake converted it again to a ground effect vehicle and skimmed over the black earth. Excitement and anticipation were rising in him.
He took a wide detour around the U.N. area of the spaceship, and his new direction took him within two blocks of the Voice of God Memorial Temple erected as near the spot as had been possible where Obie first communicated with God. Blake saw the roadblocks in time to turn again; every road leading to the river was blocked off. He stopped at the side of the woods and considered his next move. He didn’t know what was happening in the area, but he’ did know that he didn’t want to get mixed up in anything at all, not now, not when home was within hailing distance practically. The sky was being patrolled by police copters and hovercraft, so he didn’t even consider taking to the air. He knew his little craft would get through the woods without any trouble, but there was the river after that, and he was certain that if there was an official net out, the river would be heavily patrolled. While he was sitting there quietly trying to decide what to do, he heard a distant rumble as indistinct and rolling as summer thunder. He cocked his head. He knew the sound. Here? Out in the middle of the woods?
He lifted the craft from the roadbed so he could get a better view and he saw them coming. People, thousands of people, carrying electric torches, kerosene torches, flares. Over them the police craft hovered, spotlights blazing down on the masses. Blake couldn’t hear the message being directed at them, but he suspected that they were being ordered to turn back. The police craft dipped and swayed, and others joined it. A line of ground cars was across the road, and there were more police manning that barricade. Blake shook his head. There were thousands of marchers. And four, five hovercraft. Where were the National Guards? Why didn’t the cops release anti-mob gas? His eyes narrowed. They wanted them to get through. The cops were going through the motions only. He watched the oncoming mob for another moment, then turned into the woods, keeping high enough to see them. They stretched across the road, coming in like a tidal wave, chanting, yelling, screaming, roaring. The hovercraft over them simply lighted their way, and now and again Blake could catch snatches of the messages being sent down: “…turn back… arrest… anti-mob gas…”
It meant nothing. If they had wanted to stop the mob they would have done so already. If they made a move now, with so many people packed along the road, there would be a stampede. Thousands would be trampled. Blake had thought at first that they were heading toward the U.N. area and the spaceship; now he realized that they should have turned left. They were still coming directly toward him. The temple! They were attacking the Voice of God temple.
Very cautiously he retreated, keeping in the woods, invisible against the black of the trees, until he had a view of the temple. The long hairs were there. Not as many as the gang marching down the road, but ready for them. He nodded then. It was as predictable as a slum war when the short hairs and long hairs mixed it up on Saturday night. Predictable if bigger than any slum war he had seen. He was too far from either group to see what their weapons were. He knew he should leave before the battle started. He had no desire to enter into it on either side. He retreated the way he had come, was stopped again by the instruments on his control panel. Interference ahead. He directed his scanners to probe the source and his mouth tightened. The defenders had set up ambushes, probably throughout the woods to pick off those that decided to run. He crept cautiously to his left until he spotted another patrol. They were taking up positions up and down the woods paralleling the road.
The advancing mob was much louder. when he realized that he was not going to be allowed to leave. He began to search for a place to sit it out, and brought his craft to a stop high in a gigantic spruce tree that was thick and black all the way to its peak, over one hundred feet above the ground. The short hairs coming up the road made such a din now that the trees trembled. Blake sealed off his craft and opened his oxygen supply to escape the noise. He trained his receiver toward the park where the temple stood, adjusted the volume so that the oncoming roar was bearable, then waited.
When the mob got within a hundred feet of the park, brilliant lights suddenly came on on both sides of the road. The scraggly hordes were illuminated and blinded. There were screams and a milling about as of hens terrorized in an enclosed barnyard by the unexpected incursion of a drooling fox. From his position high over it all Blake could see clearly the panic on the faces, the fear of instant death. He expected to hear the soft stutter of stun guns, but there was nothing. Only the glare of spotlights. Those farther back on the road were pushing on, an irresistible force that would have overrun those who had halted had they not moved ahead. The mob became tighter, body against body, flares and torches and electric lights now hanging down unused, unusable. The noise lessened. Those approaching the park were silent and very afraid. From off to the right there came three quick explosions, not very loud, leaving a deeper stillness afterward. There was one more explosion, then silence. Blake turned his gaze to the park and studied the encircling woods. A movement had caught his eye. He saw it again. The short hairs had split off from the main crowd and were gathering at the edge of the clearing. He couldn’t tell how many of them there were. The masses below him were being pushed reluctantly toward the clearing and the approach to the temple grounds now.
Suddenly there was singing, a chorus of children’s voices, incredibly sweet and compelling. The mob stopped again in confusion. The chorus was singing a paean to their leader, calling on all to adore him, to hear his words, to obey his commands. The hymn ended on a high note, a note of hallelujah, and after a silence of no more than five seconds, Obie’s voice was in the air, everywhere:
“And the Lord spake unto me, and the Lord said, ‘This ground shall evermore be sacred. Let no man desecrate this ground whereon I walk. Build here a temple that all men might come and worship and see the glory of the Lord.’ Come, come. Come see the glory of the temple of the Lord. Feel the presence of the Most Holy. I shall show you the power. and the might of the Lord. Walk forward, drop your weapons on the side of the road. Walk forward and approach the temple of the Lord. ‘Come unto Me,’ saith the Lord. Walk forward, drop your weapons and walk forward. Come forward slowly, with downcast eyes that you may not be blinded by the Radiant Light of the Lord. Fall on your knees and open your hearts to the presence of the Lord….”
Blake watched as the mob surged into the clearing, dropping clubs, knives, guns, torches, everything. They were obeying the voice that was everywhere. He turned his gaze to the smaller group at the edge of the woods across the park. He couldn’t make out any details of that group yet. There was a flash and a phut, and the light that had been directed generally toward that area went out. The men rushed forward at the same instant. Then he could see them, perhaps fifty or sixty of them. They were met in the park by long hairs armed with stun guns. The battle started among the trees and shrubbery of the park, but slowly worked its way toward the temple. More long hairs emerged from the temple, circling the fi
ghting men, trying to get behind the attackers. Another dozen or more short hairs ran out from the woods and engaged them. Blake nodded. The cleared area, carefully planted with specimen trees and shrubbery was being filled with the now kneeling short hairs who were being stumbled over by the newcomers to the temple park. And those on the road, beyond the lights and the voice were shouting and roaring and pushing to get to the temple.
In the frosty air Blake could see vapor where the lights were focused on the road; it also hung like mist over the park, settling very slowly while new layers formed, hung, then sank. On the side where the fighting was taking place then; was no such effect. .
“Form a line and come to the temple,” the voice said, everywhere. “Come to the temple with downcast eyes, and feel the presence of the Lord. Let the Voice of God soothe you and comfort you. Form a line and come to the temple.”
Again, as before, there was the repetition, the strong voice that was everywhere and sourceless. There was an incredible scene below Blake then. On the road the people were being told to drop their arms and enter the park where they were to kneel. In the park they were being told to make a line and come into the temple. The voice carried over the choir, which continued to sing. And still around the side of the parka fierce battle was being waged, with stuttering stun guns, and blue arcing electric clubs that could deliver a range of hits from mild shock to electrocution. There was hand to hand fighting with no weapons, and this was the most brutal of all. The people in the park, and those on the road still appeared oblivious to the fighting.
A third wave of attackers appeared from the dark woods and swarmed into the grounds, and this time their force was visibly driving the defenders back, up the incline toward the temple. At the edge of the woods three men worked over a piece of equipment, a portable mortar. They got it set up and aimed it at one of the many terraces that led to the temple. When the mortar exploded there were many screams of terror, and one of the bright lights went out. The men aimed again and scored a hit on another of the lights, and with the diminution of light, it seemed that some of the people entering the grounds were strengthened; they didn’t fall to the ground to make obeisance to the ubiquitous voice, but charged blindly over the kneeling figures to take cover within the shrubbery.