So it would be forevermore in Sidra’s brave new world.
IV
After the others had passed the veil, Christian Braugh still lingered in the shelter. He lit another cigarette with a simulation of perfect aplomb, blew out the match, then called: “Er ... Mr. Thing?”
“What is it, Mr. Braugh?”
Braugh could not restrain a slight start at that voice sounding from nowhere. “I—well, the fact is, I stayed for a chat.”
“I thought you would, Mr. Braugh.”
“You did, eh?”
“Your insatiable hunger for fresh material is no mystery to me.”
“Oh!” Braugh looked around nervously. “I see.”
“Nor is there any cause for alarm. No one will overhear us. Your masquerade will remain undetected.”
“Masquerade!”
“You’re not a really bad man, Mr. Braugh. You’ve never belonged in the Sutton shelter clique.”
Braugh laughed sardonically.
“And there’s no need to continue your sham before me,” the voice continued in the friendliest manner. “I know the story of your many plagiarisms was merely another concoction from the fertile imagination of Christian Braugh.”
“You know?”
“Of course. You created that legend to obtain entree to the shelter. For years you’ve been playing the role of a lying scoundrel, even though your blood ran cold at times.”
“And do you know why I did that?”
“Naturally. As a matter of fact, Mr. Braugh, I know almost everything; but I do confess that one thing still confuses me.”
“What’s that?”
“Why, in that devouring appetite for fresh material, were you not content to work as other authors do? Why this almost insane desire for unique material—for absolutely untrodden fields? Why were you willing to pay such a bitter and often exorbitant price for a few, ounces of novelty?”
“Why—” Braugh sucked in smoke and gushed it out past clenched teeth. “I’ll tell you why. It’s something that’s been torturing me all my life. A man is born with imagination.”
“Ah . . . imagination.”
“If his imagination is slight, a man will always find the world a source of deep and infinite wonder, a place of many delights. But if his imagination is strong, vivid, restless, he finds the world a sorry place indeed—a drab jade beside the wonders of his own creations!”
“These are wonders past all imagining.”
“For whom? Not for me, my invisible friend. Nor for any earth-bound, flesh-bound creature. Man is a pitiful thing. Born with the imagination of gods and forever pasted to a round lump of spittle and clay. I have within me the uniqueness, the ego, the fertile loam of a timeless spirit . . . and all that richness is wrapped in a parcel of quickly rotting skin!”
“Ego—” mused the voice. “That is something which, alas, none of us can understand. Nowhere in all the knowable cosmos is it to be found but on your planet, Mr. Braugh. It is a frightening thing that convinces me at times that yours is the race that will—” The voice broke off abruptly.
“That will—” Braugh prompted.
“Come,” said the Thing briskly, “there is less owing you than the others and I shall give you the benefit of my experience. Let me help you select a reality.”
Braugh pounced on the word: “Less?”
And again he was brushed aside. “Will you have another reality in your own cosmos? I can offer you vast worlds, tiny worlds; great creatures that shake space and fill the voids with their thunders, little creatures of charm and perfection that barely touch the ear with the sensitive timbre of their tinkling. Will you care for terror? I can give you a reality of shudders. Beauty? I can show you realities of infinite ecstasy. Pain. Torture. Any sensation. Name one, several, all. I will shape you a reality to outdo even the giant intellect that is assuredly yours.”
“No,” Braugh answered at length. “The senses are only senses at best—and in time they tire of anything. You cannot satisfy the imagination with whipped cream in new forms and flavors.”
“Then I can take you to worlds of extra dimensions that will stun your imagination. There is a region I know that will entertain you forever with incongruity—
where, if you sorrow, you scratch your ear; where, if you love, you eat a potato; where, if you die, you burst out laughing… There is a dimension I have seen where one can assuredly perform the impossible—where creatures daily compete in the composition of paradox and where the mere feat of turning oneself mentally inside out is known as ‘chrythna,’ which is to say, ‘corny’ in the American jargon.
“Do you want to probe the emotions in classical order? I can take you to a world of n-dimensions where, one by one, you may exhaust the intricate nuances of the twenty-seven primary emotions—always taking notes, of course—and thence go on to combinations and permutations to the amount of twenty-seven. Mathematicians would say: 27 x 1027. Come, which will you enjoy?”
“None,” Braugh said impatiently. “It is obvious, my friend, that you do not understand the ego of man. The ego is not a childish thing to be satisfied with toys; and yet it is a childish thing in that it yearns after the unattainable—”
“Yours seems to be a childish thing in that it does not laugh. You have no sense of humor, Mr.
Braugh.”
“The ego,” Braugh continued abstractedly, “desires only what it cannot hope to attain. Once a thing is attainable, it is no longer desired. Can you grant me a reality where I may possess something which I desire because I cannot possibly possess it; and by that same possession not break the qualifications of my desire? Can you do this?”
“I’m afraid,” the voice answered hesitantly, “that your imagination reasons too deviously for me.”
“Ah,” Braugh muttered, half to himself. “I was afraid of that. Why does the universe seem to be run by second-rate individuals not half so clever as myself? Why this mediocrity?”
“You seek to attain the unattainable,” the voice said in reasonable tones, “and by that act not to attain it. The limitations are within yourself. Would you be changed?”
“No ... no, not changed.” Braugh shook his head. He stood for a moment deep in thought, then sighed and tamped out his cigarette. “There’s only one solution for my problem.”
‘‘And that is?’’
“Erasure. If you cannot satisfy a desire, you must explain it away. If a man cannot find love, he must write a psychological treatise on passion. I shall do much the same thing—”
He shrugged and moved toward the veil. There was a slight motion behind him and the voice asked:
“Where does that ego of yours take you, O man?”
“To the truth of things,” Braugh called. “If I cannot slake my yearning, at least I shall find out why I yearn.”
“You’ll find the truth only in hell, my friend.”
‘‘How so?”
‘‘Because truth is always hell.”
“Nevertheless I’m going there—to hell or wherever truth is to be found.”
“May you find the answers pleasant, O man.” “Thank you.”
“And may you learn to laugh.”
But Braugh no longer heard, for he had passed the veil.
He found himself standing before a high desk—a judge’s bench, almost as high as the top of his head. Around him was nothing else. It looked as though a sulfurous fog had filled the room, concealing everything but this clerkly bench. Braugh tilted his head back and looked up. Staring down at him from the other side was a tiny little face, ancient as sin, whiskered and cockeyed. It was on a shriveled little head that was covered with a high-pointed hat. Like a sorcerer’s cap. Or a dunce cap, Braugh thought.
Dimly, behind the head, he made out towering shelves of books and files labeled: A-AB, AC-AD, and so on. Some were curiously labeled: #-, &-1/4, *-c. There was also a gleaming black pot of ink and a rack of quill pens. An enormous hourglass completed the picture. Inside the hourglass a spider
had spun a web and was crawling shakily along the strands.
The little man croaked: “A-mazing! AS-tonishing! IN-credible!”
Braugh was annoyed.
The little man hunched forward like Quasimodo and got his clown face as close as possible to Braugh’s. He reached down a knobby finger and poked Braugh gingerly. Abruptly he tumbled backward and bawled: “THAMMuz! DA-gon! RIMM-on!”
There was an invisible bustle and three more little men bounced up behind the desk and gaped at Braugh. The inspection went on for minutes. Braugh was irritated.
“All right,” Braugh said at last. “That’s enough. Say something. Do something.”
“It speaks!” they shouted in unison. “It’s alive!” They pressed four noses together and began to gabble swiftly. It went: “MostamazingthingDagonhespeaksRimmoncoulditbealiveandhumanBelialtherehastobesomereasonforitThammuzif you thinksobutIcan’tsay.”
Then it stopped.
Further inspection.
One said: “Find out how it got here.”
“Not at all. Find out what it is. Animal? Vegetable? Mineral?”
A third said: “Find out where it’s from.”
“Have to be cautious with aliens, you know.”
“Why? We’re absolutely invulnerable.”
“You think so? What about the Angle Azrael’s visit?”
“You mean ang—”
“Don’t say it! Don’t say it!”
A fierce argument broke out while Braugh tapped his toe impatiently. Apparently they came to a decision. The No. 1 warlock aimed an accusing finger at Braugh and said, “What are you doing here?”
“The point is, where am I?” Braugh snapped.
The little man turned to brothers Thammuz, Dagon and Rimmon. He smirked and said: “It wants to know where it is.”
Dagon said: “Silly animal, ain’t he, Belial?”
Rimmon said: “Oh, get on with it, Belial. Can’t hold up business all day.”
“You!” Belial swiveled on Braugh. “Listen carefully. This is General Administration, Universal Control Center. Belial, Rimmon, Dagon and Thammuz, acting for Satan.”
“Tuts,” said Braugh, “I came here to see Satan.”
“It wants to see Satan!” They were utterly appalled. Then Dagon jabbed the others with his sharp little elbows and placed a finger alongside his nose with a shrewd look.
“Spy!” he said. To elaborate, he jabbed one finger significantly toward the ceiling, then gave a shrewd look.
“Could be . . . could be,” Belial said, flipping the pages of a giant ledger. “It certainly don’t belong here. No deliveries scheduled today. It’s not dead because it don’t smell. It’s not alive because only the dead ones come here. Question still is: What is it? What do we do with it?”
Thammuz said: “Divination. Only answer.” ‘‘Right!’’
“Great mind, that Thammuz!” Belial glared at Braugh and snapped: “Name?” “Christian Braugh.”
“Ha!” cried Dagon. “Onomancy—C, third letter—H, eighth letter—and so on. Take total sum. Double it and add ten. Divide by two, then subtract original total—”
They added and divided. Quills scratched on parchment and a bumbling, muttering noise droned. At last Belial held up the scrap and scrutinized it carefully. They all scrutinized it. As one man they shrugged and tore the parchment up.
“I can’t understand it,” Dagon complained. “We always get five for an answer.’’
“Never mind!” Belial glared at Braugh. “When born?”
“December eighteenth, nineteen thirteen.”
“Time?”
“Twelve fifteen, a.m.”
“Star Charts!” screamed Thammuz. “We’ll try Genethliacs.”
They tore at the books behind them and took out huge sheets that unrolled like window shades. This time it took them fifteen minutes to produce a scrap of parchment which they again examined carefully and again tore up.
Rimmon said: “It is odd.”
Belial said: “It gets odder and odder.”
Thammuz said: “We better take it into the laboratory for a check. The old boy will be plenty peeved if we muff this one.”
They leaned over the bench and beckoned imperatively. Braugh followed their directions, walked around the side of the bench and found himself before a small door set in the books. The four little sorcerers bounced down from the desk and crowded him through. They just about came up to his waist.
Braugh entered the so-called laboratory. It was a circular room with a low ceiling, tile floors and walls covered with cupboards, shelves, glass gimmicks, alchemists’ gadgets, books, bones and bottles. In the center was a large flat rock, the shape of a millstone. There was a slight depression in the center that had a charred look. But there wasn’t any chimney over it.
Belial rooted around in a corner and came out with an armful of dry sticks.
“Altar fire,” he said and tripped. The sticks went flying. Braugh solemnly bent to pick up the pieces of wood.
“Sortilege!” Rimmon squawked. He yanked a lizard out of a box and began writing on its back with a piece of charcoal, noting the order in which Braugh picked up the scattered bits of wood.
“Which way is east?” Rimmon demanded, crawling after the lizard. Thammuz pointed directly overhead. Rimmon nodded curt thanks and began to figure rapidly on the lizard’s back. Gradually his hand moved slower. By the time Braugh had helpfully placed the bundle of wood on the altar, Rimmon was holding the lizard by the tail, gawping at his notations with a look of sickly wonder. Finally he shoved the lizard under the wood pile. Instantly it caught fire.
Rimmon said: “Salamander. Not bad, eh?” and swaggered off.
Dagon screamed: “Pyromancy!” and ran to the flames. He stuck his nose within an inch of the fire and mumbled rapidly in a long, droning whisper. Belial fidgeted uneasily and muttered to Thammuz: “Last time he tried that he fell asleep.”
The droning faded out and Dagon, eyes blissfully closed, fell forward into the crackling flames.
“Did it again!” Belial snapped irritably.
They ran up and dragged Dagon out of the flames. After they had slapped his face awhile, his whiskers stopped burning. Thammuz sniffed the stench of burned hair, then pointed overhead to the drifting smoke.
“Capnomancy!’ he said. “It can’t fail. We’ll find out what this thing is yet!”
All four joined hands and danced around the rising smoke cloud, puffing at it with little pursed lips.
Eventually the smoke disappeared. Thammuz gave a sour look and said: “It failed.”
There was a dead silence and all glared angrily at Braugh. He endured it about as long as he could, then he said: “What’s up, lads? Anything wrong?”
“It wants to know if anything’s wrong,” Belial sneered.
“Deceitful thing!” said Dagon.
“Not at all,” Braugh said. “I’m not hiding anything. Of course I don’t believe a particle of what’s happening here, but that don’t matter.”
“Don’t matter! What d’you mean, you don’t believe?”
“Why,” Braugh said, “you can’t make me believe that you charlatans have anything to do with truth—much less His Black Majesty, Father Satan.”
“Anything to do with— Why, you blasted booby, we’re Satan—”
A second later they looked scared, lowered their voices and added: “So to speak.”
Belial glanced around uneasily and said to unseen ears; “No offense—”
“Merely referring to power of attorney,’ Dagon trembled.
“I see,” Braugh said. “And how, exactly, am I deceiving you?”
“How? We’ll tell you how! You’ve got a devil with you that obstructs official divination. You’re a cacodaemon or maybe a barghest or an ouphe or an incubus. But we’ll get to the heart of the matter.
We’ll ferret you out. We’ll track you down. We’ll make you talk. Bring on the iron!”
Well, Braugh thought, what’s all
this? Bring on the iron. Sounds like dancing girls.
Dagon trundled out a little wheelbarrow filled with lumps of iron. To Braugh he said: “Take one—any one.” Braugh picked up a heavy lump of blue-gray metal and handed it to Dagon, who snatched it from him irritably and plunked it into a small vat. He placed the vat over the fire and got a pair of bellows which he pumped energetically into the flames. The iron heated white-hot. They nipped it out with pincers and waved it over Braugh’ s head, chanting: “Sideromancy! Sideromancy! Sideromancy!”
After a while, Dagon said: “No soap.”
“Let’s try Molybdomancy,” Belial suggested.
They dropped the iron into a pot of solid lead. It hissed and fumed as though it had been dropped into cold water. Presently the lead melted. Belial tipped the pot over and the silvery liquid streamed slowly across the floor.
“Lead, lead, beautiful lead!” chanted Rimmon. “Tell us the story of this creature. Is it a man? Is it a—’’
A crack, loud and sharp as a pistol shot, answered him. One of the floor tiles shattered to pieces, the lead dropped with a gurgle, and the next instant a fountain of water hissed and spurted up through the hole.
Belial said: “We busted the pipes again.”
“Pegomancy!” Dagon cried eagerly. He approached the fountain with a reverent look, knelt before it and began to drone. In thirty seconds his eyes closed rapturously and he fell forward into the water. They dragged him back and wrung out his beard.
“Got to get him dry,” Thammuz said hastily. “He’ll catch his death. Get him over to the fire.”
Taking Dagon by each arm, Thammuz and Belial ran him over to the altar fire. They circled the bright blaze once, and as they were about to stop, Dagon choked:
“Keep me moving. We’ll try Gyromancy. There’s got to be some answer to what that thing is!”
They made another circle while Dagon muttered: “Hubbble-ka-bubble-ka-hubble-ka-bubble—”
Suddenly Rimmon, who was squatting over the broken tile, paddling ineffectually at the food, stopped and said: “Ui!”
The others stopped, too, and said: “Oi!”
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 24
