by Anthology
TWELVE
In the chair, Mallory writhed, went limp.
“Is he . . . ?”
“He’s alive, Excellency! But something’s wrong! I can’t get through to a vocalization level! He’s fighting me with some sort of fantasy complex of his own!”
“Bring him out of it!”
“Excellency, I tried. I can’t reach him! It’s as though he’d tapped the chair’s energy sources and were using them to reinforce his own defense mechanism!”
“Override him!”
“I’ll try—but his power is fantastic!”
“Then we’ll use more power!”
“It’s . . . dangerous, Excellency.”
“Not more dangerous than failure!”
Grim-faced, the technician reset the panel to step up the energy flows through Mallory’s brain.
THIRTEEN
The subject stirs! the Perceptors burst out. Massive new energies flow in the mind-field! My/our grip loosens . . . !”
HOLD THE SUBJECT! RESTIMULATE AT ONCE, WITH MAXIMUM EMERGENCY FORCE!
While the captive surged and fought against the restraint, the segmented mind of the alien concentrated its forces, hurled a new stimulus into the roiling captive mind-field.
FOURTEEN
. . . Hot sun beat down on his back. A light wind ruffled the tall grass growing up the slope where the wounded lion had taken cover. Telltale drops of dark purple blood clinging to the tall stems marked the big cat’s route. It would be up there, flattened to the earth under the clump of thorn trees, its yellow eyes narrowed against the agony of the .375 bullet in his chest, waiting, hoping for its tormentor to come to it. . . .
His heart was thudding under the damp khaki shirt. The heavy rifle felt like a toy in his hands—a useless plaything against the primitive fury of the beast. He took a step; his mouth twisted in an ironic grimace. What was he proving? There was no one here to know if he chose to walk back and sit under a tree and take a leisurely swig from his flask, let an hour or two crawl by—while the cat bled to death—and then go in to find the body. He took another step. And now he was walking steadily forward. The breeze was cool on his forehead. His legs felt light, strong. He drew a deep breath, smelled the sweetness of the spring air. Life had never seemed more precious—
There was a deep, asthmatic cough, and the great beast broke from the shadows, yellow fangs bared, muscles pumping under the dun hide, dark blood shining black along the flank—
He planted his feet, brought the gun up, socketed it against his shoulder as the lion charged down the slope. By the book, he thought sardonically. Take him just above the sternum, hold on him until you’re sure. . . . At a hundred feet he fired—just as the animal veered left. The bullet smacked home far back along the ribs. The cat broke stride, recovered. The gun bucked and roared again, and the snarling face exploded in a mask of red—and still the dying carnivore came on. He blinked sweat from his eyes, centered the sights on the point of the shoulder—
The trigger jammed hard. A glance showed him the spent cartridge lodged in the action. He raked at it vainly, standing his ground. At the last instant he stepped aside, and the hurtling monster skidded past him, dead in the dust. And the thought that struck him then was that if Monica had been watching from the car at the foot of the hill she would not have laughed at him this time. . . .
FIFTEEN
Again the reaction syndrome is inharmonious with any concept of rationality in my/our experience, the Recollector cells expressed the paradox with which the captive mind had presented the Ree intelligence. Here is an entity which clings to personality survival with a ferocity unparalleled—yet faces Category Ultimate risks needlessly, in response to an abstract code of behavioral symmetry.
I/we postulate that the personality segment selected does not represent the true Egon-analog of the subject, the Speculators offered. It is obviously incomplete, non-viable.
Let me/us attempt a selective withdrawal of control over peripheral regions of the mind-field, the Initiators proposed, thus permitting greater concentration of stimulus to the central matrix.
By matching energies with the captive mind, it will be possible to monitor its rhythms and deduce the key to its total control, the Calculators determined quickly.
This course offers the risk of rupturing the matrix and the destruction of the specimen.
THE RISK MUST BE TAKEN.
With infinite precision, the Ree mind narrowed the scope of its probe, fitting its shape to the contours of Mallory’s embattled brain, matching itself in a one-to-one correspondence to the massive energy flows from the Interrogation chair.
Equilibrium, the Perceptors reported at last. However, the balance is precarious.
The next test must be designed to expose new aspects of the subject’s survival syndrome, the Analyzers pointed out.
A stimulus pattern was proposed and accepted. Aboard the ship in its sublunar orbit, the Ree mind-beam again lanced out to touch Mallory’s receptive brain. . . .
. . . Blackness gave way to misty light. A deep rumbling shook the rocks under his feet. Through the whirling spray he saw the raft, the small figure that clung to it: a child, a little girl perhaps nine years old, crouched on hands and knees, looking toward him.
“Daddy!” A high, thin cry of pure terror. The raft bucked and tossed in the wild current. He took a step, slipped, almost went down on the slimy rocks. The icy water swirled about his knees. A hundred feet downstream, the river curved in a gray metal sheen, over and down, veiled by the mists of its own thunderous descent. He turned, scrambled back up, ran along the bank. There, ahead, a point of rock jutted. Perhaps . . .
The raft bobbed, whirled, fifty feet away. Too far. He saw the pale, small face, the pleading eyes. Fear welled in him, greasy and sickening. Visions of death rose up, of his broken body bobbing below the falls, lying wax-white on a slab, sleeping, powdered and false in a satin-lined box, corrupting in the close darkness under the indifferent sod. . . .
He took a trembling step back.
For an instant a curious sensation of unreality swept over him. He remembered darkness, a sense of utter claustrophobia—and a white room, a face that leaned close. . . .
He blinked—and through the spray of the rapids his eyes met those of the doomed child. Compassion struck him like a club. He grunted, felt the clean white flame of anger at himself, of disgust at his fear. He closed his eyes and leaped far out, struck the water and went under, came up gasping. His strokes took him toward the raft. He felt a heavy blow as the current tossed him against a rock, choked as chopping spray whipped in his face. The thought came that broken ribs didn’t matter now, nor air for breathing. Only to reach the raft before it reached the edge, that the small, frightened soul might not go down alone into the great darkness. . . .
His hands clawed the rough wood. He pulled himself up, caught the small body to him as the world dropped away and the thunder rose deafeningly to meet him . . .
“Excellency! I need help!” The technician appealed to the grim-faced dictator. “I’m pouring enough power through his brain to kill two ordinary men—and he still fights back! For a second there, a moment ago, I’d swear he opened his eyes and looked right through me! I can’t take the responsibility—”
“Then cut the power, you blundering idiot!”
“I don’t dare! the backlash will kill him!”
“He . . . must . . . talk!” Koslo grated. “Hold him! Break him! Or I promise you a slow and terrible death!”
Trembling, the technician adjusted his controls. In the chair, Mallory sat tense, no longer fighting the straps. He looked like a man lost in thought. Perspiration broke from his hairline, trickled down his face.
SIXTEEN
Again new currents stir in the captive! the Perceptors announced in alarm. The resources of this mind are staggering!
MATCH IT! the Egon directed.
My/our power resources are already overextended! the Calculators interjected.
WITHDRAW ENERGIES FROM ALL PERIPHERAL FUNCTIONS! LOWER ALL SHIELDING! THE MOMENT OF THE ULTIMATE TEST IS UPON ME/US!
Swiftly the Ree mind complied.
The captive is held, the Calculators announced. But I/we point out that this linkage now presents a channel of vulnerability to assault.
THE RISK MUST BE TAKEN.
Even now the mind stirs against my/our control!
HOLD IT FAST!
Grimly, the Ree mind fought to retain its control of Mallory’s brain.
SEVENTEEN
In one instant, he was not. Then, abruptly, he existed. Mallory, he thought. That symbol represents I/we. . . .
The alien thought faded. He caught at it, held the symbol. Mallory. He remembered the shape of his body, the feel of his skull enclosing his brain, the sensations of light, sound, heat—but here there was no sound, no light. Only the enclosing blackness, impenetrable, eternal, changeless. . . .
But where was here?
He remembered the white room, the harsh voice of Koslo, the steel chair—
And the mighty roar of the waters rushing up at him—
And the reaching talons of a giant cat—
And the searing agony of flames that licked around his body. . . .
But there was no pain now, no discomfort—no sensation of any kind. Was this death, then? At once he rejected the idea as nonsense.
Cogito ergo sum. I am a prisoner—where?
His senses stirred, questing against emptiness, sensationlessness. He strained outward—and heard sound; voices, pleading, demanding. They grew louder, echoing in the vastness:
“. . . talk, damn you! Who are your chief accomplices? What support do you expect from the armed forces? Which of the generals are with you? Armaments . . . ? Organization . . . ? Initial attack points . . . ?”
Blinding static sleeted across the words, filled the universe, grew dim. For an instant Mallory was aware of straps cutting into the tensed muscles of his forearms, the pain of the band clamped around his head, the ache of cramping muscles. . . .
. . . was aware of floating, gravityless, in a sea of winking, flashing energies. Vertigo rose up; frantically he fought for stability in a world of chaos. Through spinning darkness he reached, found a matrix of pure direction, intangible, but, against the background of shifting energy flows, providing an orienting grid. He seized on it, held. . . .
EIGHTEEN
Full emergency disengage! The Receptors blasted the command through all the 6934 units of the Ree mind—and recoiled in shock. The captive mind clings to the contact! We cannot break free!
Pulsating with the enormous shock of the prisoner’s sudden outlashing, the alien rested for the fractional nanosecond required to re-establish intersegmental balance.
The power of the enemy, though unprecedentedly great, is not sufficient to broach the integrity of my / our entity-field, the Analyzers stated, tensely. But I / we must retreat at once!
NO! I/WE LACK SUFFICIENT DATA TO JUSTIFY WITHDRAWAL OF PHASE ONE, the Egon countermanded. HERE IS A MIND RULED BY CONFLICTING DRIVES OF GREAT POWER. WHICH IS PARAMOUNT? THEREIN LIES THE KEY TO ITS DEFEAT.
Precious microseconds passed while the compound mind hastily scanned Mallory’s mind for symbols from which to assemble the necessary gestalt-form.
Ready, the Integrators announced. But it must be pointed out that no mind can long survive intact the direct confrontation of antagonistic imperatives. Is the stimulus to be carried to the point of non-retrieval?
AFFIRMATIVE, the Egon’s tone was one of utter finality. TEST TO DESTRUCTION.
NINETEEN
Illusions, Mallory told himself. I’m being bombarded by illusions. . . . He sensed the approach of a massive new wave front, descending on him like a breaking Pacific comber. Grimly he clung to his tenuous orientation—But the smashing impact whirled him into darkness.
Far away, a masked inquisitor faced him.
“Pain has availed nothing against you,” the muffled voice said. “The threat of death does not move you. And yet there is a way. . . .” A curtain fell aside, and Monica stood there, tall, slim, vibrantly alive, as beautiful as a roe deer. And, beside her, the child.
He said “No!” and started forward, but the chains held him. He watched, helpless, while brutal hands seized the woman, moved casually, intimately, over her body. Other hands gripped the child. He saw the terror on the small face, the fear in her eyes—
Fear that he had seen before. . . .
But of course he had seen her before. The child was his daughter, the precious offspring of himself and the slender female—
Monica, he corrected himself.
—had seen those eyes, through swirling mist, poised above a cataract—
No. That was a dream. A dream in which he had died, violently. And there had been another dream, of facing a wounded lion as it charged down on him—
“You will not be harmed.” The Inquisitor’s voice seemed to come from a remote distance. “But you will carry with you forever the memory of their living dismemberment. . . .”
With a jerk, his attention returned to the woman and the child. He saw them strip Monica’s slender, tawny body. Naked, she stood before them, refusing to cower. But of what use was courage now? The manacles at her wrists were linked to a hook set in the damp stone wall. The glowing iron moved closer to her white flesh. He saw the skin darken and blister. The iron plunged home. She stiffened, screamed. . . .
A woman screamed.
“My God, burned alive,” a thin voice cawed. “And still walking!”
He looked down. There was no wound, no scar. The skin was unbroken. But a fleeting almost-recollection came of crackling flames that seared with a white agony as he drew them into his lungs. . . .
“A dream,” he said aloud. “I’m dreaming. I have to wake up!” He closed his eyes and shook his head. . . .
TWENTY
“He shook his head!” the technician choked. “Excellency, it’s impossible—but I swear the man is throwing off the machine’s control!”
Koslo brushed the other roughly aside. He seized the control lever, pushed it forward. In the chair, Mallory stiffened. His breathing became hoarse, ragged.
“Excellency, the man will die . . .”
“Let him die! No one defies me with impunity!”
TWENTY-ONE
Narrow focus! the Perceptors flashed the command to the sixty-nine hundred and thirty-four energy-producing segments of the Ree mind. The contest cannot continue long! Almost we lost the captive then . . . !
The probe beam narrowed, knifing into the living heart of Mallory’s brain, imposing its chosen patterns. . . .
TWENTY-TWO
. . . the child whimpered as the foot-long blade approached her fragile breast. The gnarled fist holding the knife stroked it almost lovingly across the blue-veined skin. Crimson blood washed down from the shallow wound.
“If you reveal the secrets of the Brotherhood to me, truly your comrades in arms will die,” the Inquisitor’s faceless voice droned. “But if you stubbornly refuse, your woman and your infant will suffer all that my ingenuity can devise.”
He strained against his chains. “I can’t tell you,” he croaked. “Don’t you understand, nothing is worth this horror! Nothing . . .”
Nothing he could have done would have saved her. She crouched on the raft, doomed. But he could join her—
But not this time. This time chains of steel kept him from her. He hurled himself against them, and tears blinded his eyes. . . .
Smoke blinded his eyes. He looked down, saw the faces upturned below. Surely, easy death was preferable to living immolation. But he covered his face with his arms and started down. . . .
Never betray your trust! the woman’s voice rang clear as a trumpet across the narrow dungeon.
Daddy! the child screamed.
We can die only once! the woman called.
The raft plunged downward into boiling chaos. . . .
“Speak, damn yo
u!” The Inquisitor’s voice had taken on a new note. “I want the names, the places! Who are your accomplices? What are your plans? When will the rising begin? What signal are they waiting for? Where . . . ? When . . . ?”
Mallory opened his eyes. Blinding white light, a twisted face that loomed before him goggling.
“Excellency! He’s awake! He’s broken through. . . .”
“Pour full power to him! Force, man! Force him to speak!”
“I—I’m afraid, Excellency! We’re tampering with the mightiest instrument in the universe: a human brain! Who knows what we may be creating—”
Koslo struck the man aside, threw the control lever full against the stop.
TWENTY-THREE
. . . the darkness burst into a coruscating brilliance that became the outlines of a room. A transparent man whom he recognized as Koslo stood before him. He watched as the dictator turned to him, his face contorted.
“Now talk, damn you!”
His voice had a curious, ghostly quality, as though it represented only one level of reality.
“Yes,” Mallory said distinctly. “I’ll talk.”
“And if you lie—” Koslo jerked an ugly automatic pistol from the pocket of his plain tunic. “I’ll put a bullet in your brain myself!”
“My chief associates in the plot,” Mallory began, “are . . .” As he spoke, he gently disengaged himself—that was the word that came to his mind—from the scene around him. He was aware at one level of his voice speaking on, reeling off the facts for which the other man hungered so nakedly. And he reached out, channeling the power pouring into him from the chair . . . spanning across vast distances compressed now to a dimensionless plane. Delicately, he quested farther, entered a curious, flickering net of living energies. He pressed, found points of weakness, poured in more power—
