Koontz, Dean R. - Flesh In The Furnace (v1.0)

by Flesh In The Furnace(Lit)

  TO BE A GOD

  Pertos was a god, of sorts. Aided only by an idiot who nurtured a dark secret, Pertos created living puppets from the Furnace. Puppets complete with intellect and emotions, lusts and fears.

  But it was not easy to be a god. The puppets had to go back into the Furnace when their task was done. If one created, one also had to destroy.

  In fact, sometimes it was dangerous to be a god. What if one's creations did not wish to be destroyed . . . ?

  THE FLESH IN THE FURNACE

  RLI: VLM 7 (VLR 6-9)

  IL 9-up

  THE FLESH IN THE FURNACE

  A Bantam Book / published tune 1972

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright Q 1972 by Dean Koontz.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or to part, by

  mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  For Information address: Bantam Books, Inc.

  Published simultaneously to the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc., a National

  General company. Its trade-mark, consisting of the words "Bantam

  Books' and the portrayal of a antam, is registered to the United

  States Patent Office and in other countries.

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  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Here is a passion play in five acts of Chinese theater, a cold story for warm people Harry and Diane Record.

  September

  The idiot and the puppeteer rode in the cab of the truck, staring ahead at the darkness and the steadily unrolling gray of the ancient road they followed. The idiot's name was Sebastian, an unfortunate one for him. In one sense, such a name implied a weightiness of personality and a richness of detail. The idiot, however, was devoid of idiosyncrasy. On the other hand, a Sebastian might be expected to exhibit a cheerfulness, a certain Alan. But the idiot was most often somber with the press of insoluble irrelevancies, his black eyes staring from beneath the shelf of bone that was his forehead, his too-full lips somewhat loose and his pale hands limp upon his massive thighs.

  The puppeteer, though, was equal to his appellation. His mother had called him Pertos, after the star legend of Pertos of Arima who had charmed a world with smiles and warm eyes. His father had contributed the surname of Godelhausser before abandoning mother and child, but few used that, the first name being so accurate. Even now, Pertos smiled as he watched the concrete rush under the blades of the air cushion system, illuminated for a brief moment by the yellow lances of the headlamps. It was not that Pertos Godelhausser was a man of humorous disposition. Indeed, he found little to be gay about these days, as old age approached and fortune fled. It was just that, in repose, his face took on the pattern of a smile.

  "Tell be 'bout it," Sebastian said, scrunched so far down in the seat that only his head remained above the dash.

  "About what?" Godelhausser asked. The idiot had been overly pensive the last few hours, which meant he was wrestling with some problem or other.

  "The city," Sebastian said.

  It was not the thing that bothered the brute. Pertos could see that. But he did not mind talking to Sebastian, even when it was a one-sided conversation. "I've told you a hundred times, I think.

  "Again?"

  The puppeteer sighed and leaned back against the cool black plastic of the seat, stretching his neck and shoulders. Once more, he considered the blessing it would be if the idiot could drive. Having given Sebastian the wheel once before, he hastily rejected any notion of repeating that disastrous experiment. "Very well," he said. In truth, he was anxious to hear himself talk, anything to break the dreary hum of the rotars whirling beneath them, to shatter the monotonous pessimism of his private thoughts.

  "Slowly," Sebastian warned.

  "Surely. So . . . The city is called Springsun, but wasn't always. Ages ago, before the Emigration from Earth, it was called Boston. It was dirtier then. Shabbier."

  "I like Springsun more," Sebastian said, shaking his head in agreement with himself.

  "I would think so," Pertos said. "I find it too sweet, myself."

  "What?"

  "Never mind. You're not interested in my opinions. Only in the story."

  "Tell me."

  "Four hundred years ago, just before Emigration, when Earth was the only world and the stars were cold and distant, Boston was a piece of Hell. You know about Hell. Ugly clouds of smoke, noxious fumes, filthy drinking water. Homes were insulated against the tremendous noise of an overpopulated world. Nature collapsed and so did society. Everywhere, small groups with their own interests did subtle--and later not so subtle-battle with one another"

  "Who was the hero?" Sebastian asked.

  "No hero. Champions exist only in fairy tales, and the story of Springsun is true." Pertos did not pretend that the idiot understood all these fine points, though he continued. "Instead of one saviour there was an agglomerate hero, many men working together. They opened the way to the stars, and. tens of millions followed them. The wonders of the universe were irresistible, as was the untainted air of untouched worlds. In time, only a few remained. But those few were stubborn, and they scrubbed the atmosphere and purified the water until everything was as it is today, all within a century and a half."

  "Where are the people?" Sebastian asked.

  "Never returned. The air was clean, the water pure, and the cities had been rebuilt into splendor and mystery. But no one wanted Earth. To shrug off the old image, the cities were renamed and advertising campaigns were launched. But only a few thousand have ever trickled homeward."

  "You did," Sebastian said.

  Pertos sighed. "Yes, and I was foolish. Rumor said every man on Earth was rich, and that alien forms of entertainment were welcomed. So I brought my puppets to make my thousands. And I have made thousands. But I didn't know about the departure fee which makes it impossible for all but the richest immigrants ever to return to the stars. They're determined to keep every man here, even if he'd rather go to the stars to die."

  "I'll die here," Sebastian said.

  For the first time, he looked at Pertos. The green glow from the control console washed across his pallid face, made his eyes seem strangely alive.

  "Yes," Pertos agreed. "But you were born here, and that makes a difference."

  "Where were you born?" Sebastian asked, his voice a slow, measured base as he struggled with each word.

  "In the city of Blackfawn on the planet Uri-two which circles a sun called Ozalius." He looked at the idiot and frowned at the incomprehension he saw there. "I was born near a far star. And I've been trapped on this godforsaken ball of mud for five years now, trying to scrape up a bit of money to pay departure fees and be gone. And I haven't anything to show for it."

  "You have me," Sebastian said.

  Pertos smiled. It was a genuine smile this time, not an accident of his features. "True enough."

  They rode on in silence, watching the darkness blur past them. In time, the idiot dug his left hand into the pocket of his slacks and took out a plastic card. On one side was his picture, his name and a few bits and pieces about his life. He read these with fascination, for he always found something new to ponder over. On the reverse face of the card, there was a simply worded message for him which told him he came from Soldiersville, Kentucky, his hometown, should he ever wish to return there. It also explained how he could contact government representatives for sickness insurance or for pension movies. He read all this twice, which took a long while,
then replaced the card in his pocket.

  "Were you really born . . . in the stars?" he asked Pertos.

  "Yes," Godelhausser answered. He no longer felt like

  carrying on a conversation. Even his permanent smile had a bitter look to it.

  "Imagine," Sebastian said.

  "Imagine what?"

  "The stars. Who would ever think . . .from stars?"

  They rode.

  "Who would ever?" Sebastion asked later. "Stars?"

  There were a great many trees in Springsun, especially along the avenues before and behind the cultural center. In the darkness of that early autumn morning the trees rustled overhead like conspiratorial old women and shed a few

  leaves on the heads of the puppeteer and the idiot.

  The lowering sky rumbled with distant thunder, and the clouds seemed to skim along the peaks of the tallest structures. The air was chilly,and it forced Pertos to stand sheltered by the ogee door of the cargo hold of his truck, t his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his overcoat, shivering, daring from one foot to the other to generate a little heat.

  Sebastian labored to unload the contents of the van and transport everything inside to the theater's guest quarters. He had carried all their personal belongings inside and was now finislitag with the Furnace, which he handled with

  great care even though he knew the pieces were unbreakable.

  As he waited for the idiot to return to take the last piece, Pertos heard footsteps. the stone of the plaza floor that connected all the buildings in the cultural complex. He stepped aroud the end of the truck and watched them:

  three men their midthirties, all lean and handsome, if somewhat harshly dressed is a severity that was not normal

  far Earth whom all manner of alien designs were imported and worn.

  They stopped half a dozen feet before him. "Pertos Godelhausser?" the tallest of the trio asked.

  He nodded.

  "The puppeteer," the tallest said.

  Since it was not a question, he said nothing.

  "My name is Trimkin. I'm President of Springsun's chapter of the Heritage League. I imagine you've heard of us."

  "Once or twice," Pertos said.

  Trimkin smiled, a graceful and self-possessed man. In the short time since he had begun to speak, his companions seemed to lose color, shrink and fade by comparison. "Then you know why I'm here."

  "No. Your people are always speech-making. I never listened. Rhetoric has bored me for as long as I can remember."

  Trimkin grew taut, like a wire suddenly stretched, though his face remained impassive and his manner polite. "I'll be brief. Our organization is small but growing. Our purpose is to banish all art forms of alien origin and to nurture those arts which are indiginant to Earth. Since the Emigration, our cultural heritage has grown poorer. For the last two hundred years, Earth's painting has been a derivative of the work of off-world painters. Her music is pattered after that imported from Pino, Bleden and Treelight. All our culture is imitation, and we grow shallower year by year. The sensitive young people finally manage to Emigrate. And until Earth has her own rich culture, they won't return, and the younger ones will continue to leave when they come of age and make money."

  "Excuse me," Pertos said. "But I've already begun to let my mind wander"

  Color rose on Trimkin's cheeks. "I'll try to be more specific. Don't perform here. Pack your things and leave"

  Irritated, Pertos shook his head. "I have to eat, and I want to leave Earth. Both require money."

  "We could pay...."

  "How much?"

  "A thousand postals"

  "I'd make ten times that much in a week here, and still it would be a pittance!"

  "Ten thousand, then," Trimkin said.

  Pertos smiled grimly. "You would have bought me at a dishonest price if I had been witless enough to accept, eh?"

  Trimkin shrugged. Suddenly, his aristocratic bearing made Pertos feel angry, used. "If you want me off Earth so bad, why not just get the departure fees lifted for me?"

  "We haven't got many people in high office. And even our ranks are split on that issue. But some day we'll be able to do as you ask."

  "Well," Pertos said, "until you can, I'd thank you to stop bothering me with speeches."

  "Perhaps more than speeches are required," Trimkin said.

  "I'd advise against foolishness," Pertos warned. He withdrew a sleek pistol from his overcoat pocket. It was plainly not of Earth design, and no man there wanted to test it to see what results it might have.

  Trimkin and his companions looked at Sebastian who had just returned from the theater.

  "If you want to take on Sebastian, go ahead," Pertos said. "He isn't well educated, but he has other abilities that compensate for that. He moves slowly, but strikes hard. As for my equipment, the Furnace-which you have surely been considering-it's protected by an Olmesclan amoeba which is coded to Sebastian and me. Anyone else will find theft or vandalism quite painful"

  For half a minute they continued to confront each other.

  Blue lightning coursed across the low clouds, and the first fat raindrops began to fall.

  "We'll be to a performance or two," Trlmkin said. He nodded to both Pertos and Sebastian, then walked away, across the plaza. His companions followed like mute, synthetic creatures, though they were not.

  "Trouble?" Sebastian asked.

  "No more than usual. Come on. Let's get inside before the worst of this storm hits us."

  They ran up the steps of the side entrance to the Grande Theater in Blue, through the hexagonal crimson doors and under the roof of their haven for the following week.

  Sebastian could not sleep. It was not that he was afraid of the Heritage League-he had all but forgotten about them. It was just that he felt somehow unfinished for the day, as if he were hungry, though he was not.

  He left his mom and wandered away from Pertos' chamber. He passed empty actors' quarters, made his . way through storage vaults of old costumes that had been sewn and hung in anticipation of the lavish shows that would be performed when Earth's children returned from the stars. Many of them were rotted. In time, he crossed the boards and reached the footlights of the main stage. There, he looked out across the darkened hall at the empty seats.

  He wished there were people here.

  Perhaps that would make him feel better.

  He went on the floor and sat in the front row and tried to pretend he was watching a performance in the midst of a large audience. He smiled at those to either side of him. No one smiled in return.

  In the rear of the auditorium he found the stairs which led to the lightman's perch. He took them two at a time.

  Up there, he sat behind the largest spotlight.

  After a long search, he located the machine's switch. It was on the top, directly in front of his face, a small gray toggle. He laughed at himself for having so much trouble finding something so obvious. He turned the spot on.

  Yellow light sizzled down to the black stage. A curiously perfect circle appeared there, as if a hole had been carved in the boards to allow a hidden sun to show through.

  He watched for a while, then changed the yellow gel for a blue one and settled back on his chair.

  He felt an excitement he could not explain.

  His hands shook on the cold grips of the spotlight casing.

  It wasn't often that he could explain why he felt happy sad or tense or relaxed. He never tried to analyze, merely accepted.

  In a way, the feeling he had now was like that he had had when he had fallen off a theater scaffold in Brightwater and had broken his leg. Falling, he had been certain he was dying. It had not been fear so much, more of a long, sighing release of anxiety.

  The theater was quiet now.

  The center of the stage glimmered bluely as Sebastian waited for someone to come out there and begin doing something. But who?

  Then he remembered that blue was the color that ended the story of Bitty Belina, when she
stands in sequined gown on a small pedestal with her prince kneeling before her and the body of her demon-possessed stepmother lying with the prince's sword buried in its throat. The puppets f That was what excited him. Tomorrow, the puppets would be forged in the furnace, and maybe Bitty Belina would be among them.

  He slid off the stool and crossed the projection room in the dark. He stumbled once, fell. But he did not waste time feeling sorry for himself. He got up and untangled the cord from his feet, went downstairs. He crossed the theater and climbed onto the stage and stood in the circle of blue light and waited.

  His flesh was blue. And if he pretended hard enough, he could believe he was small, a puppet. He was the prince in the story of Bitty Belina, and he had saved her. And now when he looked at the boards he could see Bitty Belina herself, poised on her dainty feet, her smooth legs strained taut, her yellow hair to her shoulders, her eyes shining, her face turned toward him, beautiful, beautiful

  Then she was gone.

  He was alone.

  He got down on his hands and knees, but he could not find a single trace of her. And then he remembered that tonight was tonight and that Bitty Belina would not be forged until late tomorrow afternoon, when Pertos stoked the furnace. If then.

  He walked back through the empty seats up the stairs to the projection room, and he turned out the spotlight with the blue gel capped to the end of it.

  Ten minutes later he was in bed asleep. He knew that he would need all his energy to do well tomorrow. He often got sleepy, but he could not let himself miss a moment of time with the puppets.

  He dreamed of Bitty Belina. She was dancing on a flower. In the dream, he had grown as small as she and held her hand and laughed with her and fled from one bright petal to another, kicking droplets of dew into the air . . .

  On the planet Shaftau, a world eight times the size of Earth with only twice her gravity, there lived a race of creatures that men called spider-lizards and told many tales about. The spider-lizards called themselves Vonopo and spoke little about themselves.