The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "We can't find out through his War Department record," Cameron said, studying graphed psych-lines. "He'd built up an assumed personality for that role. We've got to study his environment, his actions and reactions—and Billy's very useful on that score."

  DuBrose watched the mutant, sleeping quietly under hypnosis, an encephalogram charting his brainwaves. "We've found that temporal anchor, anyway."

  It was merely a sea anchor so far, with guided hypnosis to aid. The radiation-pattern of Van Ness' brain had showed distinctive variations under certain stimuli. By leading the mutant to concentrate his ETP upon the time-sector they wanted, by checking, on the chart, the stimuli that distracted him or, conversely, helped him to focus, it had been possible to learn something of Ridgeley's past—in the future. But it was always necessary to allow for a margin of error, due to Van Ness' confusion over duration. Thus there were blanks and snarls in the story; some of these could be straightened out by applying the yardstick of familiar experience, but when that failed, the unknown X had to be supplied.

  It took days.

  Meanwhile nothing had been heard from Dr. Pastor. Cameron had finally decided to use guards. Low Chicago was on alert. Only the most necessary warmen were allowed into the cavern that teemed with guards and specialized technicians. In the Integrator rooms, Eli Wood and his staff of co-ordinators worked at top speed, though the mathematician did not seem to be affected by the tension. Puffing thoughtfully at his pipe, he wandered through the forest of huge semicolloid mechanical brains, making notes on his cuff when he couldn't find a pad, and occasionally discussing his progress with Cameron and DuBrose.

  "Won't we need machines?" DuBrose had asked once. "To utilize the equation once we crack it, I mean? Some sort of transmitter—"

  "Probably," Wood said. "Though I'm not sure even of that. You see, this thing is working out as a group of variable truths, so very variable that we can't anticipate what we'll need to harness it. That mental case of yours—he used mental energy, and he neutralized gravitation. I might find one basic, arbitrary truth that would presuppose the transmission of controlled variable-truths through the medium of a lead pencil or a block of iron. Or a hair follicle," he added, blinking mildly.

  "But you're getting it?"

  "Why, sure. However, the counterequation is 'way beyond me. I might crack that too, but it would take months."

  "Can we wait months?" DuBrose said, and answered his own question. "No. We've a chance now to smash the Falangists. Their chief weapon is controlled use of the equation. More of those bombs of theirs have penetrated our shields. If they launched an all-out invasion now—"

  "Their robots might win," Cameron broke in. He stared at the huge Integrator pulsing softly in the distance. "That was their plan. The bombs were nothing. They were aiming at the technicians."

  Wood said, "There can't be more than a hundred top men in this country. Electrophysicists, electronic engineers—and so on. Men who are trained to think up fast countermoves—"

  "It's a technological war," Cameron agreed. "Once they drove our best technicians insane, we'd be as helpless as the blood-stream without a liver. In a position where we needed new ideas fast—we'd go down. Because the men who could supply those ideas would be insane."

  "Even when we crack the equation, though," DuBrose said, "it'll be deadlock."

  "Yeah—We'll be on even terms with the Falangists again." Cameron moistened his lips; without a counterequation, there would be no help for him. The psychic assault had not halted. An hour ago, in his office, he had watched a lighted cigarette crawl out from between his fingers and loop up his forearm like an inchworm, burning his skin as it moved.

  DuBrose was watching the director. "We'll manage it," he said. "Somehow. There's got to be a way. We've enough resources—"

  Cameron nodded. "I finally got Kalender to stop all research on the equation. All but yours, Wood. So that'll save some technicians—but the top ones are either dead or insane already."

  DuBrose said, "We can't get back the dead ones, but we can cure the others. Just show them the solution to the equation."

  "Not quite as easy as that, Ben—but that's the cure. They went insane because they couldn't shoulder their responsibility. If we can make 'em realize there is no more responsibility along that line, they should snap out of it fast."

  "Well, I've got to get back to work," Wood said, rekindling his pipe. "All this, you know, is a form of fairy chess in which the rules aren't clearly stated." He blinked at the great Integrator. "Amazing things. I don't understand—" He went off, shaking his head thoughtfully.

  "He'll crack it," DuBrose said confidently.

  "Yeah. When? Let's look up Billy." Flanked by guards, they returned to the psychometrics sanatorium and another session with the mutant. Bit by bit, more notes were being added to the file on Daniel Ridgeley.

  -

  Van Ness could be no more than a spectator. He saw duration, but he was a psychotic case himself, and had the reactions, though not the vocabulary, of a child. He would answer questions and tell what he saw, but no more than that. And, while he had learned to identify Ridgeley easily because the courier's protracted duration-line was perceptible to him, a chronological charting was obviously impossible. He skipped; in one sentence, Ridgeley would be seen as an infant, in another an adolescent, in a third, a mature adult, and in a fourth, an invisible something suspended in what must have been a pre-birth incubator, though it seemed extraordinarily complicated.

  And very slowly, very faintly, the picture of Ridgeley's own world began to swim out of the clouded vistas of time.

  It took shape. Like a land seen from above, fog-shielded, peaks and rises gradually emerged from that misty dimness. It was possible to assign a tentative chronology, too, by making Van Ness describe Ridgeley's appearance thoroughly. Lines of experience appear and deepen on a man's face as he grows older.

  Routine. Tedium. Anxiety, as the days dragged past and the status quo held. Dr. Emil Pastor stayed invisible. Cameron's hallucinations continued, till he allowed DuBrose to dope him whenever that drastic step was necessary. The insane technicians stayed insane. M-204, in his sanatorium, was still Mohammed and remained afloat a few feet above his bed, ignoring the undignified force-feedings as he passively ignored everything else.

  Unofficially, GHQ moved to Low Chicago. A concentration of equipment and men began to flow into the cavern city. No one knew what might be necessary, but everything was made as available as was possible.

  Ridgeley, they learned from the scanners focused on the courier, was moving through the country, sometimes by copter, sometimes afoot, using something resembling a directional compass. He was obviously trying to locate Dr. Pastor. When he did, GHQ would know it.

  Cameron came in one day nervously excited. DuBrose looked up from the papers on his desk, automatically expecting trouble.

  "Anything wrong?"

  "Found Pastor yet? No? Well, listen in on this. I've got an idea." He used DuBrose's visor to get Eli Wood. The mathematician, as quietly imperturbable as ever, nodded at them from the screen.

  "Morning. We're coming along nicely. I just found out that people ain't. According to that particular truth, it's quite accurate. We're reaching the end, incidentally."

  "And you're still O.K.? But I can see that you are. Listen, Wood—check with me. How does this sound? We're assuming that Ridgeley brought the equation with him when he hopped back through time. He gave it to the Falangists. Well, the mutant Van Ness is giving us some of Ridgeley's background, and he comes from a remarkably advanced world—technologically speaking. The equation is used there. I can't pump out too much from Van Ness, but I gather it's a war weapon—not the one, just one of 'em. Wouldn't the counterequation, the nullifying factor, have been known to Ridgeley's contemporaries?"

  Wood pursed his lips. "Seems like it would. Can't you get that through your mutant?"

  "He's a superficial observer. Even if he saw the counterequation used, he couldn't de
scribe the set-up clearly enough. He'd miss too much. Besides, we can't guide him easily—and if we could, we wouldn't know what to look for. But assuming that Ridgeley knows the answer to the equation and how to handle it, can't we also assume he knows the counterequation?"

  "Seems like. You've got scanners on him."

  "That," Cameron said, "is what I mean. He's looking for Pastor. And Pastor's got that obliterative power that's part of the equation. Ridgeley must know how to protect himself against Pastor."

  "The only protection would be the counterequation."

  "If he uses it against Pastor—"

  "The application," Wood said thoughtfully, staring at his pipe bowl. "I see. If he should do that, we could break down whatever he does into the counterequation. If a scientifically trained observer sees a gun go off for the first time, he should be able—theoretically, anyway—to work out a formula for gunpowder. Huh. I'd suggest cameras equipped for quantitative and qualitative analysis; keep them focused on Ridgeley through the scanners. Attach ultraviolet, infrared and any other stuff you can think of. That'll do to start. If Ridgeley does use some application of the counterequation against Dr. Pastor, we can crack that problem, too."

  As Wood checkered out, Cameron turned to DuBrose. For the first time in weeks, the chief's eyes lost their tight fixity.

  "You know what it would mean?" he asked softly.

  "Yes," DuBrose said. "You wouldn't be ... haunted ... any more."

  Cameron shrugged. "Natural for me to think of the personal application first. But it would also mean we could smash the Falangists. They don't have the counterequation. Because Ridgeley wouldn't have given it to them. The counterequation is his own life insurance. In his position, he's automatically a target for assassination—because the Falangists can't trust him."

  "Wouldn't he be too valuable to them?"

  "More dangerous than valuable. He gave them a weapon that could win the war, in exchange for ... something. I don't know what. But if they should win, what use would they have for Ridgeley? And suppose Ridgeley sold out to us? A mercenary will change sides if it's profitable enough. The Falangists may be afraid of Ridgeley, they may find him tremendously useful, but they can't possibly trust him. He could win the war for either side, from the Falangist point of view. So Ridgeley would know enough not to trust his allies, and he wouldn't sell 'em his armor as well as his weapon."

  "Sounds sensible," DuBrose admitted. "But suppose he doesn't find Pastor?"

  "Mm-m. Cheerful, aren't you? Let's try Billy again."

  -

  The pattern emerged.

  There had been war in Ridgeley's time, too. But an absolute war. One that was served by the mightiest technological system the planet had ever seen.

  It had gone on for a long time. It had sealed its impress into every part of the socio-economic system. Before birth, the sensitive germ-plasm was impregnated with radiations that would permit the later development of certain necessary talents. Ridgeley's people were warriors in bone, sinew, nerve, and brain. Psychologically they were beautifully equipped for their job.

  And, in that time, there was but one job. War.

  Exquisite muscular co-ordination blended with a super-fine neural structure. Ridgeley had whiplash responses. He could make split-second decisions. He was the embodiment of Mars.

  He had been trained to fight and conquer, with all the tremendous facilities of his time-era. To fight and win.

  But only that.

  -

  In Cameron's office—

  "You started the wheels going around in my head," Wood said, "when you suggested that Ridgeley wouldn't trust his Falangist allies. He wouldn't give them the counterequation. But the big point—the one that was holding me up—is something else. There's been a certain screwiness to the equation itself."

  "The whole thing's screwy," DuBrose said. "That's the basic idea, isn't it?"

  Wood blinked. "Nevertheless I was assuming the gambits were all there. Until yesterday. Has it occurred to either of you that the Falangists aren't making full use of their weapon?"

  Cameron said slowly. "Our technicians are going insane—"

  "A few factors of variable logic have been used. All that can be used by application of the incomplete equation."

  "Incomplete!" DuBrose said.

  Wood tapped ashes from his pipe. "It is. It's beautifully disguised, camouflaged so that it almost seems like a complete equation, but there's a factor missing. I didn't realize that till I realized the possibility of its absence. A jig-saw puzzle with a piece missing. If you know that, if you fit the rest together, you can see the shape of the missing piece. In its present incomplete form the equation's applications are limited."

  "But why?" Cameron asked.

  DuBrose said, "By God, I know the answer to that! The complete equation must be dangerous to Ridgeley! It could be used against him! Naturally he wouldn't trust that to the Falangists, or to anyone."

  The Director studied his hands. "We've been assuming that the Falangists have the ... the complete weapon. Whereas you say they probably have the bomb but not the bomb-sight. Eh?"

  Wood nodded. Cameron went on:

  "Well ... the Falangists aren't fools. They have good technicians. They'd have discovered that the equation isn't complete."

  Wood nodded again, "They've had time enough."

  "But they haven't found the missing factor, or they'd have used it against us in an all-out attack. I'm assuming that the completed equation, in practical application, would be rather invincible."

  "Can't be sure. I'd say it might be. Except, of course, against the counterequation."

  Cameron smiled. "Then the Falangist technicians would be working on the problem, too. They'd have an occupational illness too. They'd have to get the missing factor, for fear we might get it first, and for fear of Ridgeley. I wonder how many top Falangist technicians are insane by now?"

  DuBrose said excitedly, "It's a two-edged sword. It must be. If Ridgeley—"

  The Director grunted. "Can you find that missing factor?"

  "I think so."

  "Then why couldn't the Falangists?"

  "A racial psychological handicap, perhaps," DuBrose suggested. "They've always been reactionaries. Their culture as a unit is fairly new, but it's based on very old, established lines. They—"

  "They don't play fairy chess," Wood said. "Oh, it's possible they might get the answer, but they couldn't have done it yet, or we'd be smashed. That's how powerful the complete equation can be. Here's another point." He chuckled. "If I should fail, I know I won't be shot or have to commit honor-suicide. The Falangists have a strict, arbitrary code of ethics. They serve the State, but they worship it too. Failure to them is unthinkable."

  Cameron seemed to agree. "The Danes conquered the Saxons plenty of times, but Alfred and his men kept coming back. When the Danes were defeated at Ethandune, they were psychologically broken as well. The Falangist culture is inflexible. It had to be, in the beginning, or it would have broken up. But now ... yeah, our technicians worry if they can't solve the equation; and they go insane. But a Falangist technician would be conditioned to worry a lot more. Cultural handicap."

  Wood said mildly, "I'm having fun. I just don't have time to worry. So I may crack the equation, missing factor and all, quite soon."

  Cameron looked at him. "We can win the war. We've the chance to do so. But if we do, I'll always wonder why Ridgeley joined the losing side?"

  "He wouldn't," DuBrose said, "if he knew. So he couldn't have known. Maybe no records survived to his time-period. There'd be only a vague legend that there was a war about now. But the legend might not say who won. Even if there were records, they might be so incomplete that—"

  "Incomplete or incorrect," Cameron said. "Then there's another possibility. Alternative time-lines. In Ridgeley's original past, the Falangists might have won. But by coming back in time, he changed the set-up and switched the historical line across to an alternative future."

/>   The mathemetician got up. "I must get back to work. Now that the matter is clarified somewhat, perhaps—"

  Cameron didn't hear from him, then, for three days.

  -

  In the cool of the evening God, nee Emil Pastor, walked through the wheat fields of Dakota. A small, slight figure, he trudged on, while the silvery ocean of wheat rippled softly around him in the moonlight. He was following his shadow.

  The shadow is the reality; the reality, shadow. Under his feet the hollow earth boomed deeply, and the sound crashed again and again into his aching head. He hated to stop. There had been enough delay. The sooner he reached his goal, the sooner his questions would be answered.

  God should be omnipotent. That was the trouble. He was a dual personality. He had a dim, uneasy feeling that he might be not only God, but Apollyon. He might not be God at all. He might be merely the demon of destruction.

  Why hadn't he been able to heal his own arm?

  The neural tissues had been burned out. The pain he felt in that arm was imaginary, a familiar phenomenon in amputation cases. He had bound the withered member to his body; the loose swinging distracted him.

  Physician, heal thyself. God, heal Thyself. Apollyon—

  He was very, very puzzled as he slowed to a halt and stood silent in the great quiet wheat field, staring at his black, one-armed shadow. But far away and dimly he could still remember something called Emil-dear, and that meant safety, and his shadow would take him to that sanctuary.

  There he could learn his name. God or Apollyon. That would tell him his destiny. God must rule with justice and forbearance. Apollyon must destroy.

  Something was moving in the wheat.

  No—it was the wind.

  He willed the pain to stop, but it did not stop.

  Slow, helpless, easy tears spilled down his cheeks, and he did not see the movement coming quietly through the wheat, under the white, relentless moonlight.

  The iconoclast slipped noiselessly toward God.