The Pritcher Mass

by Gordon R. Dickson

  The worst part was there was nothing he could do to help her. At least—nothing he could do unless he could pass the Pritcher Mass test now and end his own need to keep running. It all depended on his pass­ing that test. Once more he made the effort to imagine the feel of the catalyst in his fist.

  It would not come. Anger twisted itself up, like a tight, hard knot within him. There was no good rea­son he should not he able to evoke the catalyst. For that matter, he ought to be able to pass the test even without it. Either he had the talent to pass, or not; and he knew he had it. Letting anything get in the way was as ridiculous as Eileen letting some childish superstition get in the way of her talents when she had tried to control the Gray Man. What was it the Gray Man had accused her of having—a psychological block? That was nothing more than his own trouble with the catalyst in different form. The catalyst was a psychologi­cal prop—an emotional prop, for that matter—in his case.

  The thought of the catalyst as nothing more than a prop brought a sense of relief to him. It was as if, somewhere inside him, a barrier had gone down. But before he had time to examine the feeling of relief, Waka came back.

  "That was Communications Cen­tral, running what they said was a routine spot check," Waka said. "When you called here, were you us­ing somebody else's credit card?"

  "That's right," said Chaz.

  "Get rid of it then, before they catch you with it on you. Will you?" Waka was not obviously sweating, but he passed a hand across his fore­head as if to wipe away perspiration. ''Do you realize records will show that particular card made a call to my number? If they connect the card with you, it'll he known you called me."

  'What difference would that make?" Chaz asked, looking at the examiner closely. "It's natural I'd make one last try to get accepted for the Mass. And, once accepted, the authorities can't do anything about it to me—or you."

  "You don't understand," said Waka, shortly. He turned away to sit down at a small table—a real table, not one extruded from floor or wall. He opened a drawer and took out a pair of achromatic goggles and a tube of mixed colors. "Sit down. Just get rid of it, I tell you."

  Chaz seated himself.

  "Who are you worried about, ex­cept the authorities?" he asked. He looked thoughtfully at Waka. "You don't happen to have anything to do with the Citadel, yourself?"

  "Put on the glasses," said Waka, shoving them across the tabletop. "What color do you want to try to separate from the rest?"

  "Wait a minute." Chaz let the glasses lie. "The only people you could be worried about would have to be from the Citadel. But if you be­long to them, why are you giving me this test? From what I've seen so far, for some reason the last place the Citadel wants me is on the Mass. How is it you're giving me a chance to go there?"

  "Because I'm a goddam fool!" burst out Waka. "Stop asking ques­tions! Put on the glasses."

  Chaz picked them up, but he did not immediately put them on.

  "Tell me something else first," he said, 'just one more thing; and then I'll put them on and we can get into the test. Did you ever know anybody you thought ought to qualify for work on the Mass, but who didn't seem to be able to pass the test be­cause of some psychological block?"

  "Yes, yes—of course! I told you they were always self-convinced if they did it! Now, if you don't start taking this test right away, I'm not going to give it to you. Choose a color."

  "Right," said Chaz.

  He spoke absentmindedly. A strange thing was happening inside him. it was as if his inner world of personal knowledge was being turned upside down so that what had been west was now east and north had become south. If Waka was tell­ing the truth, and his own inner feelings were correct, then a catalyst had never been necessary to anyone. How had the idea of such a thing gotten started, then? And yet, though it did not jar him to give up the idea of the catalyst, his conviction about the figure of the crystal growing in the nutrient solution was stronger than ever,

  Suddenly, he felt perfectly sure and certain inside about his ability to pass the test, with or without a catalyst. He put the glasses on: and everything in the room around him went gray.

  "Choose." said Waka.

  Chaz looked and saw the rice grains spread out on the tabletop be­fore him.

  "Red." he answered.

  He stared at the grains. They were all one identical color: but when he looked for those that might be col­ored red they appeared to stand out to his eye as if they had been indi­vidually equipped with flags. Some­thing shouted "red" at him although his eye refused to see any color dif­ference whatsoever.

  This time he did not bother to take the grains one at a time and line them up so that later he would he able to tell where he had gone wrong. There was simply no way he could go wrong. He merely brushed away all grains of the wrong color and corralled those he was after in a small pile.

  Then he took off the glasses. He had not failed. The red-colored grains were all together in the pile he had made.

  Waka sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh. All at once the tension he had shown earlier was drained out of him.

  "Well, that's it, then," Waka said. "It's done now."

  He reached over and pressed the buttons on his phone. There was a second's hesitation, then a single mu­sical note sounded briefly from the speaker.

  "Pritcher Mass Central," said a voice. "Recording your report. Ex­aminer Alexander Waka."

  "I've just examined and found qualified a volunteer for work on the Mass." Waka said. "His name is Charles Roumi Sant. Citizen Num­ber—" he looked at Chaz. raising his eyebrows.

  "418657991B," Chaz supplied.

  "41865799lB,"Waka repeated to the phone. "He'll want to leave for the Mass as soon as possible. Mean­while, he may need immunity from Earth's legal procedure."

  The phone said nothing for a mo­ment. Then the voice at the other end spoke again.

  "We check the name Charles Roumi Sant with the records earlier supplied us by you, on a volunteer tested five times previously without success. We have already signalled Police Central that this man is signed for work on the Mass and no inter­ference with his departure for the Mass must be permitted. Charles Roumi Sant may place himself directly under Mass protection at our Central Headquarters Chicago of­fice, or he may have free time for nine hours until 2000 hours this eve­ning; at which time he will report to the office, ready for departure to the Mass."

  "He'll come immediately—"

  "No I won't!" Chaz interrupted the examiner. He leaned over to the phone. "This is Charles Sant. I'll be there at 2000 hours."

  "Bring no possessions," said the phone. "Nothing from Earth, even from the sterile areas, is allowed on the Mass."

  The connection was broken from the other end. The phone speaker hummed on an open line.

  "You're taking a chance," said Waka, punching the phone off.

  "I need those nine hours," said Chaz, "to find someone."

  "You won't," said Waka.

  "I won't?" Chaz leaned forward above the table. "What do you know about it?"

  Waka's face twisted unhappily. "Enough," he said. "Too much. Don't you know once you've gone to the Mass, you can never come back here? You'd have to forget her anyway. Forget her now and make it easier on both of you."

  Chaz reached across the table and took hold of the front of his sleeping robe.

  "What do you know about Eileen? What do you know about all of this?"

  Waka did not move.

  "You're an amateur," he said al­most contemptuously to Chaz. "Do you think you can scare me? I've been scared by professionals." Chaz let go of the robe.

  "All right," he said grimly. "I think I can put most of it together. You're tied up with the Citadel, too. So you know about what happened to Eileen and me. You know where she is now."

  "Not now. I swear I don't," said Waka.

  "You're tied up with the Citadel. But the Citadel doesn't want me to go to the Mass; and, you've just passed me so that I can go. If you're willi
ng to go against the wishes of the Citadel to pass me, why won't you help me find Eileen?"

  Waka slumped in his chair.

  "I told you I was a fool," he said heavily. "But there's a limit to how much a fool any man can be. Now, get out of here."

  "No," said Chaz, thoughtfully. "No. Maybe I'll stay here the whole nine hours."

  "Get out!" Waka shot to his feet. "Now!"

  "All right," Chaz said, without moving. "If you answer a few ques­tions for me, I'll go. Otherwise, not."

  "It'll mean the end for you, as well as me, if you're found here by the wrong people," said Waka, a little hoarsely. "Doesn't that matter to you?"

  "I'll risk it," said Chaz. "Want to talk?"

  Waka sat down again, heavily.

  "Oh, damn it, damn it, damn it!" he said helplessly. "What am I going to do?"

  "Talk," said Chaz.

  "All right." Waka stared at him. "I work for the Citadel as well as the Mass. I passed your name on to the Citadel when you first came to be tested. They did some computer and other checking and came up with the opinion that you on the Mass would be bad medicine for them—don't ask me why, or how. And that's all I know."

  "Not quite. What about Eileen?" "They said they were going to put someone on you," Waka answered sullenly. "It was her, evidently."

  "Put someone on me? What does that mean?"

  "Someone . . ." Waka made a helpless gesture with his hand. "Someone to find out all about you, to find a weak spot in you, some­thing that would make it easy for them to keep you off the Mass." He looked at Chaz still sullenly. "She's not witch-born for nothing. She must have taken you apart one night and found out what made you tick; so she could report back to the Citadel on it."

  "Eileen?" The happenings the night of the party began to glimmer up vaguely into Chaz' consciousness, like the shape of sunken objects dimly seen in deep water. "But she said she didn't have to do anything she didn't want to—and she helped me escape from them. Why help me escape, if she was working on me for the Citadel in the first place?" "You don't know?" Waka almost sneered. "She's a woman as well as a witch. She fell in love with you—don't ask me why. A witch ought to know better."

  "What do you know about witches?"

  Waka glared at him for a second, then slumped again.

  "I'm one," he said, miserably. "What did you think?"

  "You?"

  A wild suspicion roared like a tor­nado suddenly into Chaz' mind. He took two steps to where Waka sat, reached down and ripped open the blue sleeping robe. Underneath was a padded or inflated device, which fitted around the man's waist to make him look thirty pounds heavier than the rest of his body now showed him to be.

  "You're the Gray Man!" Chaz ex­ploded. "Answer me! You are the Gray Man, aren't you?"

  Waka drew the robe hack around himself with a hiding motion, as if he would try to escape inside it.

  "Leave me alone," he said in a husky whisper. "Get out of here, and just leave me alone!"

  "Oh, no," said Chaz, grimly. "If you're the Gray Man, you really do know where Eileen is—"

  Waka began to laugh bitterly.

  "Know? Me?" he said. "Do you think I'm that important to the Cita­del? You saw how that witch of yours was ready to push me around and bully me. I'm a go-between, that's all. I tell the coven what the Citadel wants from them; and the witches in the coven tell me how much they'll do. I'm—do you know what I am?"

  Tears brimmed unexpectedly in Waka's eyes and slid down his cheeks.

  "I'm a slave!" he said, hoarsely. "I've got paranormal talents just like you; but not the kind that makes me able to stand up to anybody. The Citadel owns me—owns me!"

  He caught himself, shook his head abruptly, swallowed and sat up. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger.

  "No," he said. "Cancel that. Not quite. They don't quite own me. Part of me belongs to the Pritcher Mass—and that part's free of them. Some­day the Mass is going to find a new, clean world for people; and when it does, it's the ordinary people who'll be left behind and the talented ones who'll escape. Someday there'll be no Citadel to make a slave out of anyone like me!"

  He got to his feet. Curiously, he seemed to have refound some of the stature and dignity Chaz had seen in him on the day in his office when he had told Chaz of his commitment to the Mass.

  "Now," he said, calmly, "if you've got any sense at all, you'll clear out of here. The Citadel will be sending someone around to check up on me; as soon as they get the record of your call to me, with that credit card you're carrying. By this time they know that card's being used and it means you're using it. So, if you use your head, you'll go right to the Prit­cher Mass Chicago office. But in any case, stay clear of me. Because when they come I'll have to tell them you're looking for Eileen Mortvain; and then they'll know where to look for you."

  "You're sure you don't know where she is?" Chaz demanded. Waka shook his head.

  "I wouldn't tell you if I did," he said. "But I really don't. They took her right after they took you. I've no idea where."

  Chaz turned and went out the door. As it closed behind him, he heard Waka's phone chime with an­other call.

  On the odd chance that that call was from someone involved with the Citadel, he wasted no time. Half an hour later saw him once more on a train from Chicago to the Wisconsin Dells, the passage paid for by the credit card from the hospital atten­dant, which he still carried.

  He arrived at the Dells with seven and a half hours left of his available time before reporting to the Mass Chicago office. He took a PRT car to his own condominium. Happily, the dock in the condominium basement was empty of travelers, any one of which might have been a resident who could recognize him. He took the elevator tube.

  His attic memory had preserved the number of Eileen's apartment, following that one visit he had made with her to pick up the wolverine. But when he came to the doorway he remembered, the door itself was standing wide open in locked posi­tion as was customary with tenant­less apartments; and all the furniture had been retracted into the floor or the walls, so that the automated hall-cleaning equipment could do main­tenance here until a new tenant took over.

  He stared into the empty apart­ment for a moment. Then he left it and went down the hall to the phone stand and called the building directory.

  "Do you have a forwarding ad­dress for Ms. Eileen Mortvain, apartment 1433?" he asked.

  "I'm sorry," the computerized voice of the directory fluted from the speaker. "No Eileen Mortvain has been listed among the tenants in this building during the past year."

  "Check for error, please," said Chaz. "I happen to know she was oc­cupying apartment 1433 just a day or two ago, at most."

  There was a very slight pause.

  "Checked for error. None, sir. No Eileen Mortvain listed in this build­ing during the past year. Previous oc­cupant of 1433 was male and de­parted apartment eighteen days ago."

  There was no point in arguing with a machine.

  "Thanks," said Chaz, automati­cally, and closed off the phone con­nection.

  He stood thinking for a moment. Then he reached for the phone again and punched the call number of an­other apartment in the building whose occupant he knew.

  "Mrs. Doxiels?" he said, when a female voice answered. "This is Chaz Sant."

  "Why, yes Chaz." There was a slight pause before Mrs. Doxiels went on. "We were just wondering if you'd been hurt more than you thought in that train wreck. No one's seen you since—"

  "No, I'm fine," he interrupted. "I've just been unusually busy. I wanted to ask you something, though. You know Eileen Mortvain?"

  "Eileen Mortvain?"

  "1433," Chaz said, harshly. "She came to at least one of your con­dominium parties in the amusement rooms. You must know her. Well she's moved, it seems; and I was wondering if you knew where, or when she left?"

  There was a peculiar pause for second at the far end; then Mrs Doxiel's voice answered on an entirely different note.

  "Oh
yes, dear!" she said. "I'm so sorry; but Eileen didn't want anyone to know she was here. We've been taking care of her in our little place. She's here now, and when she heard me say your name she started waving at me. You're to come right away.'

  Chaz sighed with relief.

  "I'll be right down," he said.

  "We'll be waiting—but, Chaz dear!" cried Mrs. Doxiel's voice over the phone, "if you run into anyone, don't say where you're going!"

  "I won't," he said, and broke the connection.

  He was turning from the phone rank when a strange noise sounded before him. It was like a low-pitched animal whine, half-chewed into words. He heard it clearly, but it was a second before it translated in his head into understandable speech.

  "Lie," it said. "Lie. Not go."

  He turned. What he saw, crouched next to the wall into such a small shape that he had to look twice to be sure it was actually there in the soft lighting of the hallway, was a wolverine.

  "Tillicum?" he said, hardly able to believe that it was Eileen's pet or fa­miliar he was seeing.

  "Don't go," the wolverine's whin­ing was twisted into a mewing sort of speech. "Eileen not there. Woman lies."

  "Where then? Where is Eileen?" Chaz lowered his own voice to a whisper just in time, as a door far­ther down the hall opened and a man came out. However, the man turned away from them, going off toward the elevator tubes.

  "Other place. Sent me—watch for Chaz. Chaz mustn't try find. Must go Mass. Message—go Mass, Chaz."

  Chaz felt his eyes start to burn as he stared down at the strangely hard-­to-see animal.

  "Why should I believe you?" he muttered. "I can't trust anyone else."

  "Save Eileen," mewed the wol­verine. "Save Eileen by going Mass. No other way. Go now. Or all die—Ei­leen, Chaz, Tillicum, all."

  "No," said Chaz, softly but fiercely. "No, I don't think I will. Show me where she is and I'll go."

  "Can't show." Tillicum seemed to shrink even smaller. "Out of talk now. Last message. Remember spell—think Eileen name but once you are there. On Mass, think Eileen name. Now ... gone ..."