crawling across his lips shortly after he first began to doze. He slapped the disgusting insect away and then he could hear Caster breathing evenly. She was asleep. It was bad. He'd never been in the same room with a female. Even though he was fully clothed and she was sleeping in her clothing, too, he knew it was wrong. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed that the intent of the mission would make up for the sin of sleeping in the same room with a female. Finally, long after the factory horns blew midnight, he dozed. He awoke with a headache. His limbs were stiff. His hipbone felt as if he'd been sleeping on rocks. Caster, awake before him, had a meal ready. Fish meal and coffee. After the decent food of the underground, it was terrible. In the streets, they were assailed by the ever-present noise, harsh, ear-achingly persistent. Their lungs felt the burning, acrid fumes which closed the city from the sky. Around them people moved in streams. The streets crawled with ground cars belching more smoke into the already overladen air. They walked, caught up in the hopelessness of the city, a feeling Luke had never experienced. Before the Brothers had taken him to the Hall of Justice, he'd known no life but the city, if one discounted his brief stay at the University. He had accepted it. There was the knowledge
that he'd lived half or more of his life, true. There was the knowledge that the lung sickness or his heart would kill him, but, before he went underground and learned that there were alternatives, he had been only one of a billion people who faced the same fate and he had not asked why. He had accepted it as God's will. Now he found himself asking why and suffering guilt for having asked it. For one does not question God. «You forget,» Caster said, after they'd walked for blocks in silence. He knew she meant the city, the teeming, hopeless life, the ear-hurting
noise, the lung-searing air, the jostling and fighting for a place to stand. «Somewhere west there's a place where they work on nothing but space
travel,» Caster said. «They think that would be the answer, to ship millions of people to other planets, give those who are left a chance to breathe and move.» «Watch what you say,» Luke said. «You're not underground.» «Sorry.» Two ground cars collided. Thin metal crumpled. Heavy engines broke loose, crushing the people in one car, one engine bouncing along the street into a crosswalk, mangling pedestrians. They halted. Luke accepted it as a matter of everyday course. Caster was appalled. Wrecking machines came. Cars were lifted, crushed, moved toward the big barges which would carry them down the river to the dumping grounds in the gulf. Bodies were tossed into other vehicles. The wounded, if unable to walk, were taken to—Luke paused in his thoughts. Taken where? He'd never thought about that before. What became of seriously injured accident victims? Once he'd seen an aid station in Old Town. Those with nonfatal injuries were given Newasper. Broken arms were set roughly by aid attendants and wrapped in slings. But what happened to the more seriously injured victims? There was a neighbor who had been hit by a ground car in the street in front of Luke's building in Old Town. He'd been taken away. Luke never saw him again. Were such people given the benefit of medicine? Near them, as they watched the bodies and the wounded being taken away, stood a woman with a horribly scarred face. One eye was raw and protruding with deep, livid scars running away from it. Her mouth was twisted and scarred. Her cheeks were pocked and rutted. And, looking around, Luke saw others. He felt like crying. He could imagine the agony those people went through, healing from such injuries with only Newasper to help. «I've just decided that I hate them,» he said. «Yes,» Caster said. «I mean the Brothers.» «Yes.» That night they found a small park. Caster stood in the shadows while Luke, armed with a permit from the local Brotherfuzz, preached. He was shy, at first. Then, standing on a rock, he began to see that Middle City was no different. It was like Old Town, without the tall, crumbling skyscrapers. The people were the same. They spoke the same. Regional accents had long since been replaced with a speech patterned after the countrywide viewscreen network, the great leveler. People in Middle City were the same, Fares, Techs, Lays. He preached. He talked quietly about the Lord and his promise of everlasting life. A Tech, high on Soul Lifter, razzed him, grew bored, moved on. Two old Fares nodded and said, «Amen.» The Tireds moved in close, some with the bloodfleeks of the lung sickness on their lips, others looking up at him with glazed eyes, drinking in the promises. «Amen, brother.» «You tell it so sweetly, brother.» «Praise the Lord!» And Luke crying inside thinking of them going through each day not even knowing that there was another way. And then crying openly and
they, his little audience, thinking he was in a religious ecstasy and saying «Amen» and «Praise the Lord» and Caster standing in the shadows looking on sadly. And Luke talking about faith and how it could move mountains. But man could and had moved mountains to build the sprawling, acid infections called cities and no one wanted to move mountains but faith could do more. It could heal man of his ever-present miseries and, come forward, brothers and sisters, come and give me your faith and be healed and then laying on his hands and not feeling it and looking up and praying through his tears for help and not getting it. Back in the room, tired, lying on the floor with Caster breathing evenly from the bed. «Oh, God, look down on me and send me a sign.» And, bitterly: «In your mercy, help us. Help us overcome them and help us be human again.» And only the sounds of the city outside seeping through the thin walls. And the people next door high on Soul Lifter yelling and singing and banging things against the wall. Uneasy sleep. Caster and the morning meal. She was dressed in a Fare one-piece, her hair wrapped in a faded cloth. She looked as young as a girl. They ate in silence. It was raining outside. The meal finished. Caster washed the two plates at the
sink and put them on the rack to dry. Luke was sitting silently in the chair. «It makes me feel guilty,» Caster said, wiping her hands on her one-piece not looking at Luke. «Huh?» «I mean, I see them and I know what they are and how they live and
then I think that for twenty-five years I've been living, I mean really living, not just getting past one day after the other the way they do. I've been eating good food and I've had proper medical care and filtered air to breathe and they breathe this stinking air every day, not just one time in twenty-five years the way I'm doing.» «It's not your fault,» Luke said. Inside, he cringed. Whose fault was it, then? God's? He would not allow it to form, that terrible thought. «Oh, I know that,» Caster said. «I've told myself that I wasn't even alive
when it all started. I've told myself that it was the people, themselves, who threw it all away. God knows they were warned. I've read and seen how the thinking men warned us. They warned about the dirtying of the waters and the air and about overpopulation and about excesses in the name of freedom. No one listened, because it was all so good then, when it all
started. I guess when a person lived in a whole house all to himself and his immediate family in the good, green countryside he couldn't get too excited because people were being crowded into the ghettos of the cities and because chemical plants went into the good, green countryside and built and poured wastes into clear rivers. And knowing that people in West City couldn't breathe sometimes was terrible, but it didn't touch those who didn't live in West City and who didn't know that gradually the city was creeping outward like some kind of all-devouring monster to take
up the good, green countryside and to spread its poisoned air over the hills and then the very desert and all. They were warned, God knows, but they didn't listen and it isn't my fault except that I am a member of the race and I can do some little something, maybe, to help make it better.» «Oh, sure,» Luke said. «Everyone does what he can.» But he spoke without conviction. «But you can get into trouble caring about people,» Caster went on. «It's
all so complicated. I read where, back in the First Republic, they paid sort of Fare checks to people who couldn't find work or who wouldn't work. I find it hard to believe, but there were women who had children—uh—without being married.» She swallowed. Luke looked away in silent embarrassment. «And the government paid them so much for
each child. They were trying to help, you see, because the women, after all, were human and they couldn't help it, they said, because they, uh, had children and—well, anyhow, you see what I mean. They were encouraging the growth of population when that was one of the main problems, so while trying to help they were really bringing us to this.» She spread her hands to the ten by ten cubicle. «And back in those days families might have as many as five or six or even more children and—» Luke was cringing. She'd promised not to talk dirty. «Oh, stop it,» Caster said. «You've got to grow up sometime, Luke.» «I don't like that kind of talk,» he said, almost angrily. «Don't you ever have the feeling that you're missing something?» she asked. «No.» «I'm not talking dirty I'm talking about life. I'm wondering how it came to be this way. There was a time, Luke, when a woman married and had a home and had children and the old books talk about this as if it were something wonderful. I read one which said giving birth is one of the natural functions of a woman and I've always wondered if that isn't so.» «You're talking in circles,» Luke said. «First you talk about overpopulation and then you talk about having—children—being the natural order of things. You're not making sense.» «Does any of it make sense? This world used to be a good place to live. That made sense. And why did God make us different? Why in all that's holy did he make men and women?» «The Fares have children.» «Yes. And they die at birth and when they're babies and they get killed on the streets and they die of sickness and the lung thing and there's something terribly wrong with all of it. Something should be different.» «I don't know,» Luke said.
«All I know is that I don't feel as if I've lived a full life, Luke. Oh, I'm no pervert. I'm not going to be bad. God knows, the very thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. But I am a female. Am I just supposed to live out my life and do what I can, nursing the underground people, waiting for that long-distant day when something can be done?» «Don't fight it too hard,» Luke said. «You do understand a little of what I'm saying?» «I think I do. I know that I'm not satisfied,» Luke said. «I was, once. Just one time. The night I made that Fare whole again I felt, well,
complete. I felt, I dunno, I guess I felt as if I'd finally done something.» The rain stopped at midafternoon. In the early evening, Luke preached again in the small park. He laid his hands on an aging Tired and prayed for the healing power. When it wouldn't come, he felt despair. He walked away. Caster took his arm. «You can do it,» she said. «You can do it if you believe.» But he couldn't. He tried. He tried night after night. A Lay woman said she was healed. She sang and praised God. She danced. But Luke hadn't felt it. Her faith alone had made her feel better, he thought. Not his. Caster was encouraged. For the first time she took out her instruments, small, compact things hidden in a bedraggled shoulder bag, and measured Luke's bodily processes. She found no change. Two weeks after they had entered Middle City as man and wife, Luke realized that he had come to like Irene Caster better than he'd ever liked another human being. Their long, soul-searching conversations in the tiny room had become a source of pleasure. He looked forward to them. For the first time in his life he was entering a new day with expectations of something pleasurable. Breakfasts, fish meal and coffee, were not just the tasteless meals of the past. They were made almost enjoyable by the presence of Caster. They talked and ignored the bitter taste of the fish meal and laughed and dreamed together about what would come to pass when the Brothers were overthrown and the world was made into a better place. They walked, exploring the city. They visited the museums and walked along the great, stinking river, their nostrils now numbed to the
smells, their lungs taking in the black, evil pollution of the poisoned air. Caster developed a cough. Her lungs, hit once by the lung sickness, were more sensitive than Luke's. Concerned, he told her she would have to go back. She said she would be all right. She would not leave him and she would not allow him to go back until he'd rediscovered the power to heal. Luke preached. He prayed. He looked for his sign and he put his hands on the weak and the sick and said, «Heal!» In his mind, he screamed, «Heal, damn you, heal,» but there was no sign. After three weeks, Caster's cough was bad. One morning, when they first went down into the streets, she coughed blood. Luke held her arm and she leaned on him weakly. When the spasm passed, she smiled. «It's all right. When we get back they can fix it. Don't worry.» «Let's go back to the room. You can rest.» «No. I don't want to. I don't want to sit inside on a day like this.» It was a beautiful day, as days went. The ever-present smog had lifted to a height which made it seem that there was clear air above them. Luke held her arm, no longer embarrassed by personal contact with a female. After all, it was only his friend Caster. And she needed his support. She seemed to be recovered from her coughing spasm and she talked brightly, helping Luke plan what he would preach that night. Luke walked a half pace ahead, pushing his way through the swarms of people, making a way for her. Traffic was unusually dense. Ground cars and huge landships roared and smoked and stopped and growled into motion. At an intersection, they joined a swarm waiting for the lights to change. When the light went green, they joined the crowd moving in hurried masses across the street, being pushed, spilling out of the crosswalk, hurrying, fighting, looking nervously up as the pent vehicles roared in impatience and eased forward until their bumpers brushed the crowd and then, like a scream from hell, a Brotherfuzz vehicle roared through, zigzagging in and out of traffic, ignoring the massed people in the crosswalk, scattering them, coming directly toward Luke and Caster. «Watch out!» Luke yelled, reaching for her arm. Panicked people pushed him, engulfed him, as the Brotherfuzz vehicle screamed and its engine roared and it leaped forward and just as Luke went down under the panicked crush of people he saw Caster, eyes wide, mouth open, being felled by the speeding vehicle. He screamed. His fingers were stepped on as he crawled, pushed, fought his way toward her. People yelled and cursed and screamed and the lights changed and the waiting vehicles leaped forward. She was lying in a pool of her own blood, her hair falling from under the faded cloth, blood matting it. He lifted her, the way suddenly cleared as people ran, scratched, fought their way to the safety of the sidewalk. A huge, red groundship growled toward them. Luke lifted her, finding the strength with the aid of massive injections of adrenal fluids into his bloodstream. He dodged the landship, danced through a maze of roaring, honking ground cars, reached the sidewalk, and then he could pause, his lungs spasming for air, his heart pounding, his stomach aching with the force of the glandular action. Her head had been crushed. Her hair was matted with blood and, when he put her gently down onto the sidewalk and felt her head, there was an open wound through which he could see the white of bone and the frightening, fatal gray of her very brain matter. She was gasping, her body still except for spasmodic jerkings. She was, he realized with a painful certainty, dying. He screamed. He raised his fist. He cursed. «I hate you,» he screamed. «God, I hate you. And I hate them. All of them. I wish they were all dead and I wish you were dead and—» And he could look at her and see the fatal wound and know that sharp pieces of skull had pierced her brain and that only the last, desperate efforts of her being kept her breathing in those fitful gasps and then he saw, with his stomach spasming with the rush of adrenal fluid, the order
of things inside her head, could see the damage, and his fingers flew to her head and pushed and his mind went into her brain and dislodged the splinters and all the time he was crying and cursing and people stood by gaping and making sounds and he was not even aware of them because he felt the power and pushed and probed with his mind until the splinters were pushed out and the intricate gray matter grew back into its little whorls and cells and the bone rejoined bone and the break-split closed and the blood stopped and Caster opened her eyes and said, «Luke!» Then he was leaning over her, putting his face near the gutter to vomit bile and acid, because his stomach was full of it and she was looking up at him in wonder and the people were silent, awed. Then the storm broke about him. «Did you see?» «He healed her?» «Dead if I ever saw one. Head split open.» «Healed!» «Healed!» «He healed her.» «Heal me!» A babble of voices, grunts as people pushed, fought to be near him, cried out, begged. «Help me, brother. Heal me, brother Heal! Heal! Heal!» Caster, with her hand on her head, bringing it away bloody Looking at Luke with wonder in her eyes. «I saw the landship—» «Help me, brother. Heal. Help. Help. Heal—» «You did it, Luke,» Caster was saying, as Luke sat up weakly, wiping his mouth. The realization hit Luke. He laughed through tears, his voice rising toward hysteria. «Thank you, Jesus. Thank you. Lord Oh, God, thank you.» And a new sound in the babble of the gathering crowd, an awed outrush of wind from diseased lungs, a low, awe-stricken gasp and, looking up, his face ecstatic, Luke saw his sign. An angel it was, a female angel with blazing red hair and a diaphanous, long garment which clung and revealed without being vulgar because she was sent from God, lowering, moving, looking down, descending from the cloud of smog and the crowd falling back and Luke on his knees beside Caster, his hands clasped, saying, «Thank you sweet Jesus.» And the angel, his angel, sent from God, coming lower and lower and then her feet touching and no words, just a look at Luke and a beckoning gesture. Trembling, Luke arose. She beckoned. He took two tremulous steps forward and she reached out in impatience and her hand on his arm was soft and yet like fire filled with the power of God and then Luke was crying and praying because below him he could see them, the people, and Caster, standing now, holding up her arms, her lips moving, but Luke couldn't hear as she cried out, «Luke, Luke.» And ever swifter, rising. Angel-borne, her hand on his arm. Like the time he was in the Brotherfuzz atmoflyer and seeing the city below and this time there was no atmoflyer, only a solidity under his feet and the feeling of being enclosed, and down below the Brotherfuzz vehicles moving in and before he was so high he could no longer tell one
from another, the little ants on the streets, the Brotherfuzz seizing Caster and him saying, «We've got to help her. Don't you see, we've got to help her.» But the angel was silent, looking past him, looking up, her beautiful face expressionless. «Please, please help her.» And God opened up his heavens and sent down a ship which opened for them, taking them in. CHAPTER ELEVEN Brother Kyle Murrel, President of the Republic by the grace of God and
a long wait for his father to die, stalked into Colonel Ed Baxley's study with a scowl on his face. His long robe swished with his powerful strides. His cleric's cap was low on his forehead at a somewhat rakish angle. Baxley, trim in a white uniform much like that worn by his cadets at University One, stood. «Brother President,» he acknowledged. Murrel, without
waiting for an invitation, sat in the chair facing Baxley's desk, his long legs outthrust. «You read the report?» «I read it,» Baxley said. «Then you realize the urgency involved.» «Urgency?» Baxley was fingering the thick sheaf of papers stamped TOP SECRET—EYES ONLY. «Yes, dammit,» Murrel said. «Something's going on, colonel. We've got to move before it goes any further.» «The measures you've suggested seem rather drastic to me,» Baxley said. «Drastic?» Murrel leaped to his feet and began to pace. «Drastic? Let's review the situation, colonel. We've known for years that there is a scientific underground. Yet we've never been able to find it. We keep getting vague reports, hints, smatterings of information which, when checked out, lead us nowhere. Then there is a series of events. First, the Nebulous disaster. Our last foothold in space, for what it was worth, destroyed. At first we didn't suspect. We accepted it as an accident. But then a ragged Apprentice Brother, formerly one of your students—» «For a short while, Brother,» Baxley said. He'd been briefed thoroughly on the incident. «—heals a fatal wound with some sort of instant medicine. Still we see nothing which indicates a connected conspiracy. Yesterday, however, a preacher whose description fits exactly with that of the principal in the first instant-medicine incident perpetrates another feat of instant, miraculous medicine on a woman whose head was crushed by a motor vehicle—» «A police cruiser, to be exact,» Baxley said drily. «—and then is spirited from under the very nose of the police by a woman dressed in a nightgown who came down from the sky without any apparent vehicle.» «That is the part that sounds somewhat fanciful to me,» Baxley said. «Substantiated by hundreds of witnesses, among whom were half a dozen experienced police officers,» Murrel said, still pacing. «You've not proven that it was one and the same man,» Baxley said. «No, but the coincidence is worth noting, isn't it? Two impossible feats of curing performed by a thin, lank-haired young preacher hardly seem disconnected. Moreover, if the feats were performed by two different men, this is even more indication that they have developed something of which we have no knowledge.» Murrel ran his hand under his cap, replaced it, sat down. «That's why, colonel, that the Cabinet and I feel it's time to make a move.» «But to put the entire country under martial law'?» Baxley smiled. «Isn't that overreaction?» «There is one thing that you may not know,» Murrel said, looking at Baxley through narrowed eyes. «I said that we had accepted the Nebulous accident theory.» «Yes.» Baxley said. «It was no accident, my dear colonel.» «Yes?» Baxley said. His face was expressionless. «Government scientists ran some routine checks on some of the space
debris which fell in this country. There was undeniable evidence that a fire gun had been used.» «Impossible,» Baxley said, controlling himself with a great effort. «Impossible,» Murrel said. «I agree. And yet it happened. The residual
effects of a fire gun, as you yourself well know, are duplicated by no other force known to man.» «Sir,» Baxley said, standing stiffly. «I must, of course, take this as a direct challenge to my loyalty, since I and I alone control the fire gun arsenal.» Murrel was President, but the man before him was Colonel Ed Baxley. He stood, holding out his hand. «No, colonel. No. Your loyalty is without question. Please believe me. No one in the government has even intimated that you could be at fault in any way. However, there has been a suggestion that your security procedures be reviewed.» «If the government doubts my ability to control the arsenal, then I hereby tender my resignation,» Baxley said stiffly. «Please, colonel,» Murrel said, showing his nervousness. After all, the man before him was, so to speak, the father of the Second Republic. «Please, colonel, don't say such things. No one is more respected. No one further above suspicion. But you've been busy, colonel. You've been concerned with the administration of the University, with a dozen other things. All we're asking is could it be possible that someone, some trusted subordinate perhaps, could have smuggled a fire gun out of the arsenal?» «It is not only impossible,» Baxley said, «it is patently absurd to even suggest such an idea.» «Then we have to assume that they have developed the fire gun,» Murrel said. «And that makes the matter all that more urgent. For not only have they devised a means to move through air without apparent vehicle, not only have they come up with some magical method of healing fatal injuries, they are now in possession of the weapon which has guaranteed the security of this state since the revolution.» Baxley, still standing, sighed. «So it would seem,» he said coldly. «We have drawn up a plan for the most thorough search operation of all time,» Murrel said. «We must find them. If we have to tear down every building in every city in this country—if we have to dig into the very bowels of the Earth.» «Do you plan to personally search one billion people?» «If necessary,» Murrel said. He mused, his chin in his hand. «It may not be necessary. Bystanders reported to our police that the woman who was healed in Middle City was seen walking with the man who healed her before the accident. We are now questioning her.» «With shakeshock'?» Baxley asked contemptuously. Murrel smiled. «No. We lose too many of them that way. There are, however, other methods.» «Are we going back to Inquisition methods of torture now?» Baxley asked. Murrel smiled. «I detect a touch of bitterness, colonel. No, no Inquisition. However, we have found that kindness does not make these people respond. I assure you, the woman will talk.» Later, when Murrel had gone, Baxley sat looking out the huge glass windows. Yes, he had spoken in bitterness. Lately, he was feeling more and more bitter about a lot of things. The Brothers had been in power for thirty years. He had helped them seize that power. He had helped overthrow a government which, once, gave more things to more people than any other government the Earth had known. He'd helped, had been instrumental, in fact, because the old government was failing and people were suffering. He'd helped because the Brothers, with their clean, wholesome approach, had seemed to be the solution. Men of God in power. God's mercy administered by men of the faith. The people benefiting and being made whole again, misery abolished, sickness conquered, overcrowding somehow eliminated, perhaps through reclaiming some of the vast land masses which had been made unlivable by the great Communist war. Yet, in thirty years, the situation had, in fact, become worse. There were no more people, the leveling-off aspect of severe overcrowding and lack of medical care had seen to that, but there were just as many people and they still died. The Brothers gave them, even the Fares, a new ground car every year, but they ate whole fish meal three times a day and coughed blood from seared lungs. Yes, he questioned. Yes, he was bitter. Now they were turning, all those faceless millions. Now another force was moving. He knew that there had been no fire gun developed, but, then, they wouldn't need a fire gun. If they had medicine, and the reports on the miraculous cures in the streets of Old Town and Middle City seemed to indicate that something had developed there, that would go a long way toward winning the confidence of the people. If they had some miraculous method of air transport, as indicated by the reports on the last incident in Middle City, they might, also, have a start, at least, toward a safety valve for the overcrowding. A scientist who could move through the air without apparent support might just also have the power to move through space. Baxley felt a kind of excitement. Space! There were people on his staff at the University who talked of space as the cure-all, the answer. And the government did not agree, choosing to squander the remaining wealth of the nation on ground cars and other status consumer items while the race moved in retrograde back to bare subsistence levels. He questioned the administration decision to forgo any further space research following the Nebulous disaster. But, alone in his office, looking down on the well-clipped parade ground, seeing his cadets move pridefully and quickly during a change in classes, he remembered when his first question was asked. His son, Ronnie, spared the filth of sexual knowledge, thinking that God was sending his little brother on the moon rocket, had destroyed man's last outpost in space. He didn't blame Ronnie. Ronnie had been a willful,
spoiled child, but it had been adults who spoiled him, the colonel included. And questioning the thinking which led Richard Skeerzy, the late preaching Brother, to tell Ronnie the modern fairy tale about birth did not mean that the colonel was ready to throw away all decent values in the false name of truth. There were things a young boy should not know. Almost wryly he wondered if, with Ronnie dreading having to share his father with a little brother so much, if the boy would have killed his own mother had he known the real method of arrival of a baby. But that was silly. The question was, had they been wrong? Should they have told Ronnie something more akin to the truth? Ask one question— Now they, the administration, had requested that he, as the nation's number-one military hero, take personal charge of the effort to ferret out the new rebels. He had said no. But sitting alone, wondering, questioning, thinking about what source it would mean if the new rebels had come up with a new power source capable of sending man into space again, and not just in fuel-burning rockets with limited speed and range, he reconsidered. He was not in sympathy with anyone who wanted to overthrow the government. He had been that route and thirty years of experience had shown him that overthrow is not necessarily the answer. But if anyone found a group of scientists who could so change the world that there might be some hope, after all, he wanted it to be him. Otherwise the Brothers, in their iron-boot mentality, might put all of the rebels on the rack and shakeshock all knowledge out of them. He could not allow such a waste. He punched a button Brother President Murrel had just returned to his office. «Baxley here. Brother President,» the Colonel said in his most
impressive voice. «After thinking over your request, I would like to say that it is not only my duty but my honor to serve the Republic in any manner for which I have the capacity.» «We are pleased, colonel,» Murrel said. «You'll take command immediately. The Vice President will brief you on progress made to date. Meanwhile, is there anything you'd like. Equipment? Personnel? Information?» «I'd like to question the girl.» Murrel frowned. «Her interrogation is being conducted by qualified experts.» «Nevertheless, I'd like to see her.» Murrel made a gesture of impatience. He'd been against dragging the old warhorse back into harness from the first, but the others had insisted
that, in a time of crisis, the active participation of the national hero would lend a certain respectability to the operation. «That can be arranged,» he said, finally. «I'll get back to you.» «Brother Murrel,» Baxley said, «if I'm to be in command of this
operation I shall expect to have full authority. I shall expect access to all information.» «She's being held in the old Pentagon,» Murrel said sullenly. CHAPTER TWELVE The sensor mechanisms of the ship blanketed the Third Planet. The
ship, itself, was lying in the protective shadow of the rather large satellite
of the planet, safe from detection. For five planetary rotations the ship lay there, motionless in space, while automatic things hummed and searched in vain for any trace of suspicion. She checked the information eagerly, wanting to find the offending
radiations, wanting to collect her specimens and start the long, boring trip home. In frustration, after the fifth rotation, she demanded a recheck on the original sensor, the ancient device which was still in operation out beyond the Ninth Planet. Once again the reliability of the sensor was proved. Since the ship's instruments showed no anti-detection activity from the planet, she ordered that the vessel be moved in closer. From the new distance, visual observation was possible. She was sickened. The incredible conditions on the planet below seemed to offer conclusive proof that the original condition of the inhabitants had not changed significantly. The total technological progress of eons seemed to be expressed in an inefficient internal-combustion-primitive mechanicalism. After the quiet splendor of the home worlds, the planet below seemed to be nothing more than a hive of unattractive insectlike beings crowded into huge, cancerous cities. Since the city concept had been discarded early in
the history of the race as being hopelessly detrimental to well-being, this, too, proved to her the inferiority of the racelike beings who peopled the world below. We will go back. The observation is inconclusive. Positive readings of a planet-killing weapon cannot be ignored. She used the name of the ancient deity, a knowledge which had been stirred by the opening of the closed areas of her brain. But she agreed to wait. Two rotations near the planet. Nothing. The burning of bodies fascinated her. Huge quantities of them. Around each city vast complexes of ovens into which death was pushed each day. It was incredible. A people who faced death could not accomplish a
technical feat such as the manufacture of a planet killer. It was against all reason. But there was the quiet, eternally circling space debris which had been discovered shortly after moving the ship to its new location. She joined with a section of what was apparently a primitive combustion rocket, locked it into a port, examined it with the aid of a technology so far advanced that the secrets of the rocket were revealed within minutes. It was puzzling. Those hopeless people down there had, at some time not too far past, been in space. Pursuing this aspect, she searched the surface of the satellite by scoutship and found traces of activity there. Discarded vehicles were detected. However, there was no sign of permanent occupation of the airless satellite. Those who had come had gone, and left only discarded machines and pitiable plaques reading, she assumed, not taking the trouble to run the primitive printed language through the computers, proudly of the conquest of the tiny bit of space between the satellite and the planet. Yet, even that much accomplishment did not fit the pattern. The beings on the planet were not supposed to be in space at all. As a matter of fact, the primitive mechanical technology, expressed mainly in ground vehicles and a few atmosphere flying machines, was, according to the long-range predictions of the ancients, beyond the capacity of the beings on the planet. Thus, she was forced to stay. Frustration and anger activated the glands of her body. She required almost constant attention. It was a bore. She knew the working of her body intimately. Under normal circumstances, periodic checks were sufficient. Now it was necessary to make checks twice each rotation of the planet, otherwise she began to feel the vague uneasiness of excess glandular activity, the nagging ache of dying cells. She wanted, more than anything, to activate one of the weapons and burn the offending planet from the skies. Thus, when the sensors alarmed, she was in a vindictive mood. The
populated areas of the planet were half-in, half-out of the light of the sun. The twilight line was passing through the midsection of the populated northern continent. She was sleeping when the alarm entered her mind and brought her into instant awareness. Report. Life force action. Coordinates— She located instantly with the aid of the computers. The area involved was in daylight. She chose to go down with the protection of merely a forcefield and antigravity belt. She went as she was, in a long, flowing garment designed for comfort. The life-force action, incredible emanation coming from such a place, guided her. She could sense it. It was strong.
When she neared the surface, the residual effects of the action clung to the person of a lank-haired, thin, vilely unhealthy male who knelt beside a female on a crowded sidewalk. There was blood in the hair of the female and the male was voiding his stomach contents into the street. She was disgusted. Yet, incredibly, there were the emanations of the life force coming from the ugly male and that was even more serious than the original report of a planet-killing device, for it was impossible for these beings to develop so far. She swallowed her distaste, lowered into the midst of the most nauseating mob of beings she'd ever seen. In order to include him in the force of the belt, she had to touch him. She caught the stink of him. It was unbelievable. And in the short moment when she had to let down the forcefield to take him in, she caught a short breath of the poisoned air. She performed quick repair on the damaged lung cells and closed the field about them, forcing herself to touch him. He made noises with his mouth, like an animal. Silence, she sent. Silence or— The things with which she threatened him would have awed an intelligent being, yet he seemed unaffected, continuing to make noises with his mouth and to look at her with an unmistakable rapture in his eyes. She could not believe
that such as this could exude the life force, for his body was a wreck, a vast open sore of disease and disorder. Luke, rising to the heavens on a cloud, like the Christ resurrected, was in a state of near shock. Ecstasy bubbled in words of praise. At first, he begged the angel to save Caster, but since God lived, since God cared,
since God was lifting him to the heavens, it really did not matter if Caster perished down below, for she would gain eternal life with Him. And the words tumbled from his slack lips in a paroxysm of religious bliss as he
rose and rose and rose and the angel, serene, blindingly beautiful, held his arm and lifted him to—a huge sphere which opened to them and closed behind and heaven was functional metal and materials unrecognizable to him and he was being led by the angel to a small room where a small bed shared space with weird machines which moved toward him, extending tendrils and, suddenly, he was horribly frightened, for heaven was not machines and hard metals and cold surfaces. «Please,» he said, «please, please…» He was being pushed down onto the bed and the machines were closing and he screamed, once, before his mind fuzzed, darkened, went black. She had to stay in the room for decontamination. The sub-being had brought with him a wide array of microorganisms and some of them were already infecting her body. She utilized maximum life force, cleansed herself. The machines were at work. The sub-being was being subjected to an analysis and a purification process. And it was writhing and gasping. Life force, please. But do only the necessary. Its heart— Was failing. She looked into it. The heart was enlarged, weakened. She made minimum repairs. The being was eased and ceased writhing. She left the room, leaving the being to the machines for analysis and study. She stripped out of the long, comfortable garment. She felt unclean. Later, she communicated with the computer. She was vastly relieved when the computer, having contacted the central section on A-l, announced immediate departure. It would require a more thorough study, but the preliminary findings, having compared the brain structure and function of the sub-being aboard the ship with the living brains of a random selection of the population below, indicated that the male aboard the ship was a one-in-a-billion mutation. That, in itself, was cause for concern. Back on A-l, responsible authorities were being brought out of Trang to consider the implications. If cold machines could have expressed consternation the words would have been impossible, incredible. In a way, consternation was expressed in frenzied activity as entire planetary systems of automation and empire wide networks of computers were checked and rechecked. Automated servomechanisms replaced millions of components, discarding any one item which was not one-hundred percent efficient and yet the answer was the same. The odds against a being on Planet 3 of Section G-1034876, Star R-875948 developing even an erratic, uncontrollable life-force potential was expressed in astronomical numbers. Aboard a huge ship of the line, the woman whose mind emanated a beautiful, rosy glow stood over the being who was causing so much activity throughout an empire which spread over the central portions of the galaxy. Her face expressionless, she examined his thin body, his pocked face. There was a smell about him. She felt a mixture of revulsion and pity. He was of a form to the race. His physical makeup was the same down to the minute cells. Yet, he was different. It was more, this difference, than a general wasting of the body mechanisms. The poor condition of every functioning aspect of his being was the most evident defect, but there was a more important one. On a scale of mental ability he would, when compared to the race, rate so low as to be almost off the scale. Before she saw him, this being who had emanated the life force, she'd had fleeting thoughts of having someone for company on the long, boring ride back to the home system? Now, having seen him, having looked into the shallow, worse than retarded mind, she was moodily irritated. The ship made its first jump. Behind them, the star R-875948 was lost amid thousands of other stars. Ahead was a long, deadly period of waiting. She prowled the living quarters, scorning the entertainment possibilities of the central memory bank, thinking now of the male from A-7 who had been free, for some rotations now, to make a new commitment. Her frustration caused a slight acid unbalance in her stomach. Impatiently, she adjusted. Her mind, usually a bright, rosy glow, was aureate, a blaze. For lack of something better to do, she forwarded a bitter protest regarding the thoughtless, absolutely punitive lack of Trang aboard the ship. It was explained, once again, that the old-empire planners had deemed it necessary for the autosystems aboard a ship of the line to be backed up by an alert member of the race. It was explained to her, as if she were a child, that emergencies in space can happen with a devastating swiftness. In the time it would take for a member of the race to recover from the euphoria of Trang, an entire ship could be lost in the event of a major system failure. And when has there ever been a systems failure? Never. So it is impossible. On the contrary. It is almost inevitable. Explain. This ship was built in— The date had meaning only to a member of the race. She was surprised. So long ago? No ship has left the old empire in— Again, she was surprised. But no wonder. Who would want to leave? Space was cold and lifeless and lonely and endless and dull. Space was endless sun after endless sun. Space was dull, dead planets and sworls of cosmic dust and beyond the boundaries of the empire there was only
worlds such as the third planet of that sick little yellow sun she'd just left behind. Who would want to leave the comfort and the euphoria and the bliss of eternal love? She had not closed the communications circuit. And a machine, the huge, eternal central computer said, They did. And her mind was filled with a series of outward movements, the first swing into space in quaint, accident-prone chemical vehicles, the first leap to a near star, the vast enthusiasm of exploration and the zesty battles of conquest as one segment of the empire fought another for domination. They did. Ancient barbarians. Who built an empire which covers vast distances, a starfield of glory and achievement. Achievement? You're programmed for the past. We'll have to see about changing your mode. I am programmed for all contingencies which would affect the well-being of the race. The well-being of the race is Trang. And love. We do not need to go out to the stars anymore. Why do we need more planets ? Yes. With Trang we have reached the highest limits of racial fulfillment. The empire was projected into her mind, far-flung systems peopled by the race, all beautiful, all Trangized, scattered widely, isolated in pairs in splendid structures on a thousand thousand worlds. Exactly, she sent. Would you want it differently? I am not programmed for emotions. But she was shown vast autosystems lying idle. Sections capable of directing the landing and takeoff of one ship per heartbeat from a million ports were idle. Fleets of ships were stationary on the ground. Vast places for the making of a million things were silent. I don't care. What right have you, a mere machine, to chide me, a member of the race? Angered, she broke off. She paced the spacious room. She was dressed in a close-fitting singlet which showed her beautiful form to perfection and there was no one to see. She, the most desirable woman on the old, home planet, perhaps in the original system, was alone. With only a sub-being within countless light years. But the sub-being was a male. Once, when she committed with a male from an outlying planet, she was told of an ancient custom. Women of the planet, in the early days of the lovely Trang euphoria, in order to experience the completeness of sexual love, had, said the male, experimented with a form of animal life, an upright animal covered with hair. At the time it had seemed deliciously funny. A woman couple with an animal? Now she was to be isolated on a ship of the line for long, long revolutions with a sub-being. If members of the race had once coupled with animals. It could be amusing, in a revolting sort of way. She stood before him, radiant in a tightly fitted one-piece thing which clung to rounded curves. She had had to wait for the machines to finish with him. Now he had been examined, rated, cataloged. She was not interested in that. She was alone. She was bored. It would be a long, long time before she was back on A-l and it would be in the middle of a commitment period and she would have to join in the conference regarding these sub-beings from Section G-1034876 and, meanwhile, he was looking at her with a stupid, wide-eyed stare, making sounds with his mouth like an animal. An animal. She would pretend that he was one of the hairy, upright beasts of the outlying planets. I am—her mind spread out—Blaze. He made sounds with his mouth. He fell to his knees and held his hands clasped in front of him. She projected the idea she had in mind in all its sweet possibilities. He made noises with his mouth. She moved toward him in a graceful, floating, sensuous walk. She was, to him, eye-burningly beautiful. He'd never seen so perfect a woman before. And, although heaven was, apparently, a thing of metals and other materials he didn't know with machines which probed and searched him and machines which fed and watched him, she was divine, an angel sent from God. Blaze—wants you. Blaze—soft and warm and willing—will make things so nice for you. He cringed away from her. She couldn't read him. Inside his head were the usual arrangements of
things, but in the receptive center was a ball of blackness, a dull non-life which puzzled her. The structure was there. And yet he did not acknowledge her generous invitation. She could not even get his thoughts. He was not sending. He was black inside. Stop making noises with your mouth. He prostrated himself at her feet, looking up at her fearfully, making the noises. Angered, she sent strongly. I am—Blaze. Arise. It is not necessary for you to crawl at my feet. He was making a series of strangled, wet sounds. Tears were running from his eyes. With growing impatience, she probed at the dark ball of nothing in his receptive center and could find nothing. Yet, she thought, he'd exuded the
life force, so that part of his brain was not totally useless. She searched for the crack, the opening which had to be there, a vent leading into that dark, shelled portion of his mind from which the healing force had to come. The ship's system was sending. Stop! Stop! But she felt an entrance and probed it. The male, still groveling at her feet, moaned and made noises with his mouth. She had to reach him. Her need was great. Stop! the machines warned. Don't force it. The examination concludes that there is a potential there, but it is dangerous. She listened. This is an alien mind. Should you penetrate it, the effects could be traumatic. We do not, yet, understand. There have been developments in this mind, developments which should not have happened. Yet, behind a
—shield—an encasing—a madness—there is potential. It is best not to tamper with it except under the most rigidly controlled conditions. She laughed. What did she care for his traumas? She needed. Not him, the ship's system sent frantically, its warning reinforced by a joint communication from the base on A-l, but she had found the crack, the opening, the entrance. I am —Blaze. I need. And with an effort of concentration, her mind entered, probed, saw horror and tried to retreat but too late; for the shell, the shield, the encasing, weakened by the emergence, at odd times, of the life force, split and exploded and her mind flowed in an opened and madness leaped out at her and overwhelmed her with a power which sent her reeling back, physically, as her mind trembled and cringed under the onslaught of the alien things, the mad, sick, evil things which filled the male mind before her. Her mind screamed and fought, but was helpless to overcome the terrible power of the raw sickness which poured out of the male. Weakly, she fell against the door and it opened and she stumbled out into the corridor, her mind retching, crying out in agony, knowing for the first time fear and hopelessness and rot and death and horror, knowing torture on the rack and the illness of body she'd never experienced and the worst of it was the repulsion which was the strongest immediate force which drowned her in putrid, mad, raw emotions. Stop! Stop! But compared to the power of the emanations coming from the alien male her mind was weak and she could do nothing to stop the horror. It sapped her strength. It oozed and slimed her own sanity and she could only retreat, get as far from it as possible. Huddled in her bed, hands to her head as if to stop the flow of horror, she sobbed and cringed in real pain as she was deluged, her mind helpless to stop it, her barrier down from the sheer power of it. Help me. Help me. Help me. CHAPTER THIRTEEN When Luke awakened in heaven he saw only a pastel ceiling and then, turning his head, walls lined with machines. He was not able to move. At first, he thought he was back on the rack, and he braced himself for the jolt of pain, but it didn't come. Flexible, snaky things were moving about his body. Things touched and probed and moved and there was not pain. There was in fact, a feeling of well-being much like that he'd experienced while he was being treated back in Zachary Wundt's underground hospital. Gradually, he was able to relax. When he was offered food, he ate. Afterward, he rose, unhindered, from the bed. He walked the small space of the room, tried the door. It had no visible way of opening. He prayed. There was a sort of hum about him. He could feel it in the floor, in the
walls. Once there was a slight, internal jolt, as if he'd been moved in some way. He was in a high state of excitement, his adrenals pumping, his pulse pounding. God was near. He had been raised. He'd risen above the miseries of the Earth and was now—where? «Oh, God,» he prayed. «Blessed be thy name and praise everlasting. Lead me to understanding. Show me the light. Help me to serve you, Lord.» And, in answer to his prayers, the door opened. The angel was there,
tall, radiant, beautiful, serene. He feel to his knees and clasped his hands. «Praise be to God in His glory and eternal wisdom. Thank you, Jesus.» She looked at him. She was disturbingly exposed. And he hated himself for seeing not her glory, her godliness, but her body with rounded breasts half exposed, her long legs bare. «Forgive me, Lord, I am unworthy.» And, in punishment, there was a pain in his head. He fell to his stomach and groveled in shame and atonement. He could not, however, resist turning his head to look up at the angel. «Speak to me,» he begged. «Blessed being, tell me where I fail. Help me to be worthy.» She looked down at him calmly, a half-smile on her beautiful face. She was trying to help him! He sobbed in grateful emotion, his heart pumping,
his entire being trembling with ecstasy. «Oh, beautiful, blessed angel, help me. Tell me what I must do.» The pain in his head, far back, deep, doubled, grew to be more than he could bear. He screamed and writhed on the smooth, warm softness of the floor. He sobbed and begged, his words incoherent as the pain grew and exploded and, suddenly, she was speaking to him. No, not speaking. Suddenly there was in his mind her. I am Blaze. And he screamed again with fear and horror as he knew the rest, the filthy, perverted things she was saying, the dirty, pornographic, lasciviousness of it. And he was aware then that she was no angel but a thing of the devil sent to punish him and that he was not in heaven but on his way to hell and she was there to do horrible, sickening things to him and he screamed and fell back as she left the room, an unreadable expression on her face, leaving him to fall onto the bed, his mind in agony, still seeing the filthy things. Fear, horror, madness. So beautiful she was and so filthy, so evil. The pictures in his mind of her beautiful body in contorted, perverted
positions doing filthy, evil things and he was going to be forced to do them and, oh, God, what had he done? What had he done? And somewhere in the distance, as he lay on the bed curled into a fetal position, knees clasped, rocking in terror and agony, a small voice saying, Help me. Help me. But hell's fires were reaching for him to burn him in eternal agony and he was afraid, afraid. And the filth and degradation washed over him and made him violently sick. Servomechanisms cleaned away the spew of his stomach. The ship jumped, the guidance section working independently as the mind of the ship communicated frantically and the sanity of a member of the race was assaulted by incredible force and lost, retreating slowly toward the point of no return. Help me, help me, Luke was saying. And, far off an echo said, Help me, help me. And another voice, stronger, Stop, stop, you're killing her! And the fires of hell burning and filth and degradation seeping into the fibers of his being, polluting him, making him one with the devil and him fighting, fighting, fighting, his mind a swirl of near madness and—help me, help me. With memories of the rack and the crowding and the suppression and the death and bodies burning in huge ovens and people lying in their own blood in the streets and Fares coupling in filthy little Fare rooms and she wanted him to do that and the devil was laughing and—stop, stop. And an image of Caster appearing in his mind saying,
with the strong voice. «It's all right, Luke. You are not in hell. It's all right. Stop now. Stop it. Don't think. Do this.» And through his fear and shock came a realization. He could see himself. Inside him he could see the working of him, the flow of blood
through veins and the seeping of blood into tiny capillaries, the beating of his heart and the functioning of glands and the pull of muscles as he rocked back and forth, back and forth, his head down, his heels dug into the bed, his knees clasped. And—do this. And a small thing happening inside his head and closing off and still there was the awareness and fear fought, failed, retreated before the wonder of knowing the very makeup of his brain, the flow of impulses, the sending and receiving of messages from parts of his body, the glow of sight and the sense of touch and—WONDER! And the strong voice—Good, good… «Where am I?» Luke asked aloud. «What is this place?» It is not hell. Not aloud. In his mind. A strange feeling of competence. A knowledge. A total awareness. Like the two brief times when God opened up the heavens and he could heal. «Oh, God—» I am not God. «Who are you?» A picture. Complex things mixed and totaled into a vast, strange machine. «How?» He didn't voice the question. And then the answer directed him to the part of his brain which seemed to pulse with power and he knew that something strange had happened and he had to understand. The machine was trying to tell him, but it was too fast, boiling fonts of information which he was unable to absorb. His head ached. But there were all mixed up, things—an opening of a potential which should not have been there, an assessment of himself which gave him the impression of—more than stupidity and then a childish thought that he could read so he was not stupid and it was more than retardation He was not a moron but more and then he wasn't and there was astonishment from the communications in his mind and mixed-up pictures of people who were eternal and eternally happy and vast, empty, luxurious worlds of parks and silent wilderness and it was too much for him. «Stop!» And then, silence, a wailing, weak cry for help. And blame. «How could I hurt her?» Raw power of never-before-used cells. An alien strangeness hitting at a mind grown defenseless during eons of peace and—love—sickness in Luke at the picture—SHE WAS HURT. «How can I help?» His mind. Pushed open. And the feeling of healing and so he went to her and found her huddled on her bed. She was breathing weakly. «I don't know how,» he said. And a picture of his mind entering hers. «But she's evil! She wanted me to—» She is a fellow being. It is her way. To her it is not evil. «But she is evil.» She is dying. The power of your mind— «Am I, then, more powerful than she, who has had this power forever?» A reluctance. But a member of the race was dying. The newness. The rawness. The unused potential building— «But if she tried to—» The vile pictures unwordable. No. Because he was more powerful. And suddenly they were afraid of him. The machines and all the people with eternal life were afraid of him and he looked into her mind and saw the ripping, the burning, the damage and he, knowing how it went, healed; and she looked up at him eyes wide, frightened. He closed. For a moment he felt the fright and he said aloud, «It's all right.» And then, looking into her and seeing her as she was and catching in that unguarded moment, the past, the love, the vileness and anger, shame, shock causing her to reel back in pain. Don't. Don't please. He closed. You must not! It hurts so. «We will talk,» Luke said. A view of her mind. Perversions. Slime. Filth. Anger, shock and pain to her and a further plea. «Don't spread your filth on me,» Luke said. Filth? You hopeless—images of worse than stupid, more than moronic, beyond retarded. You call me filth— And a sudden assault on his mind which was repelled with amazing ease and then she was cringing as he called down the fear of God onto her, preached to her of her shame her degradation, her evilness and she begging, begging, begging, her mind reeling under the assault. When his anger was gone, she was weak. He thought in silence. «If we are to communicate, we will have to keep partially—-closed—» «Yes.» «I know a little from your machines I want to know more.» Fear. A barbarian loose among the civilized worlds, a monster with hurtful power and a sick mind loose amid the beautiful, Trangized people. «I don't want to hurt you. I cannot approve of you, but you are not like us. You are alien. I want only—» He paused. What did he want? There was Caster, in the hands of the Brotherfuzz. He wanted her out. He wanted her safe. There were Wundt and the others who were trying to do something for the unfortunates of the world. He wanted them to be able to do it. He wanted to go back. He wanted to see Caster. He wanted— A sharp, huge pain crossed his chest. He gasped. His hands flew to his chest, clawed there. Agony doubled him. He fell. His heart speeded, stopped, leaped, tore at his chest as a portion of it died, ruptured. His mind was paralyzed by the enormity of the pain and panic joined terminal pain as he looked death over from up close and, above him, having leaped from her bed, the woman looked down. Hope. In the midst of fatal pain, hope. She could help him. She could heal. She watched him spasm in agony. She waited for him to look into himself, heal himself. He was open. He had a vast power, so vast that it threatened her, threatened her world. So with that power he could stop the pain, heal the ruptured heart. But he did not. He writhed and made sounds with his mouth and it was then that she realized that he would die if she didn't help. If she didn't heal, since he apparently was too stupid to know his own powers over himself, he would die and then the threat would be ended. He was gasping, his lungs spasming, his diaphragm pumping in a strange non-rhythm. She smiled. Now it would be over. Now, with the danger clearly demonstrated, they would send ships to the fringes of the galaxy, to the hundred exile worlds, and burn them from the skies. Then it would be over. Then she could go home. Home to eternal euphoria, to eternal love. She watched, eyes wide. She'd never seen a being die before. CHAPTER FOURTEEN On a wasted, sick planet the latest chapter in a long history of cruelty had begun. Where once there had been a sincere attempt to bring true equality to man, there was now an equality of persecution administered by
an elite corps who had control. Fare, Tech, Tired, and Lay suffered alike as vast armies of police, reinforced by the Army of the Second Republic, searched and ripped a world apart. The racks hummed with power as all suspects were questioned with degrees of severity determined only by the sadism of the Brothers in charge of the individual interrogation centers. A section of Old Town, in East City, burned, ignited by a careless search team who poured explosive Soul Lifter into a storm sewer. Fire protection was obsolete, unable to cope with the conflagration which spread to cover an area of several crowded blocks, burning the ancient buildings and their inhabitants in a great roar which produced odd and erratic wind currents throughout the remainder of the old section and threatened to take the entire section in one vast firestorm. The glow from East City was visible when Colonel Ed Baxley lifted his personal atmoflyer from the Washington port and headed west. He asked for reports and was given skimpy information. His attention was on his mission and he didn't push the matter. Below, as he crossed the big river in mid-continent, Middle City seethed with activity. Martial vehicles blocked the streets as soldiers searched ground cars. Then he was past and checking with West City control for landing instructions. He was stopped leaving the port. He showed his identification and was treated with awed respect. One of the junior officers in charge of the roadblock was a former cadet and greeted the colonel with a snappy salute and a smile. It was impossible to remember all the cadets from years past, but the colonel smiled and said, «Good show.» «We'll get the bastards,» the cadet said. «Sir.» He flushed with confusion, having let slip the profanity without conscious thought. «I'm sure you will,» Baxley said. «The search is being conducted in a closing circle,» the former cadet said, eager to make a good impression. «There are five hundred thousand troops plus the city police. We're covering the city building by building.» Baxley frowned. He had given no orders for the search to begin. As he was driven past the block, he contacted Washington. Brother President Murrel was unavailable. He spoke with an aide. «Who ordered the operation to begin?» he asked. «The President himself,» he was told. Baxley closed contact without comment. He leaned back, frowning. Around him there was chaos. A group of sorry looking Tireds was being forced at gunpoint from a dilapidated building. As he passed, he saw a policeman strike a Tired female. She went down to her hands and knees. Blood sprang from her nose. The ground car eased through a mass of military vehicles. People were being loaded aboard vans, their faces contorted in panic. Baxley resisted an impulse to stop and order the troops to cease the senseless brutality. He realized, however, that such a move would be a relatively empty gesture. When he left, the troops would fall back on the only method they knew, the art of violent repression. Where had it all gone wrong?» The suspect was in central police headquarters. He showed his papers and the vehicle was admitted to the parking area An elevator took him to a top floor. The woman was in a small room, surrounded by Brothers and police officials. A doctor was present. The Brother Mayor of West City was a corpulent man with a sweating, bald head. He greeted Baxley with respect and, formalities over, pointed toward the seated woman. «She hasn't talked, but she will.» The woman's face was contorted into a mask of fear and pain. Her hands were tied behind her. The chief of West City police was questioning
her. As Baxley watched, he inserted an electrode into her left nostril, threw a line switch on the power cord, and Baxley heard a small, sickening sizzle of burning flesh. The woman jerked, screamed. «That's enough,» Baxley said, stepping forward. He jerked the electrode
from the hand of the startled police official and threw it violently into a far corner of the room. «You don't understand, colonel,» the Brother Mayor said. «In order to get these people to talk—» «How long do you think she could take this?» Baxley asked angrily. He whirled to the doctor, who was standing a short distance away, his eyes downcast. «Have you used truth drugs?» «They were not effective,» the doctor said. «Some of them are immune—» «Bull,» Baxley said. «Now listen, you quack, you're not talking to some ignorant Lay. Don't give me your fairy tales. You don't develop an immunity to truth drugs. Not in a million years.» «Not exactly an immunity,» the doctor said, strangely unruffled. «A protection. They've come up with some sort of long-range protection, a drug, something, which keeps the truth drugs from working.» Baxley made an impatient gesture. «What have you used?» The doctor named three drugs. Baxley knew them. They had never failed to produce results in the past. He'd often advocated their widespread use in questioning prisoners. The excuse was their expense.
«All right,» Baxley said. «I'll talk to her.» He moved behind the woman, cut her bonds with his pocket knife She looked up at him fearfully, tears streaming down her cheeks. «It's not all right,» he said. «I won't tell you that. You are in serious trouble. Do you know that.?» She nodded. «There is a threat to the Republic. We are going to see that the threat comes to nothing. Nothing you can do will stop that. We will crush the rebels. We will do it with any means necessary Nothing you can do will help your friends. On the contrary, your silence will make it worse for them and for everyone. Do you understand?» She was silent. «I am going to give you a chance to save yourself. Tell us all you know about the man who healed you. Tell us about your friends. Tell the truth and there will be no more torture. You will be held in confinement and then you will be treated.» «Shakeshock to idiocy?» she asked, making a face. «No thanks.» «You see, colonel,» the Brother Mayor said, «it's no use trying to reason