Or, rather, he had.
Damn it! No! I had.
We had?
All right. I was beginning to accept what had occurred* Things had been sorting themselves out unconsciously_ever since that most recent meshing. All of the pin-pulling, with its resultant restoration of memories I had previously stripped away, produced psychic shocks of varying intensity, but the material revealed was ultimately assimilable because it was mine, it was familiar, it had fit and belonged. Then came the alien nexus, through which other portions of my original self had been filtered.
Alien, though? Not any longer.
No.
For, in an instant, I was on the other side of the mirror, regarding the detestable baggage I had acquired by the pulling of the pins and the killing of Winton. Even so, I had not obtained what I wanted—an understanding of the ultimate motivation of that gang of meddlers.
Meddlers? I was, too, of course. But it was in reaction to them.
Them?
Us. Now.
Funny.
... For none of us knew why we kept winding ourselves up in a certain way—whichever the way—or who we really were. I had indeed been the missing clone, a theft made necessary at that time by virtue of my advanced age and declining powers. It had taken a carefully controlled suicide to effect the transfer without allowing the others to become aware of my true nature. Before that, I had been around for generations, almost from the beginning. But there things grew murky. I had always known that I was of one blood with the enemy; and we had always been enemies, for I had disagreed from the first with their dispositions in the setting up of the House. I had been powerless, though, and had bided my time, disapproving. I knew them both from their actions and as an occasional silent party to their meshings. It was a long while before my distrust of their policy of confinement and progressive control reached the point where I began to consider their removal.
The House had only been intended as a temporary measure—the linking and consolidation of all the outposts as a common shelter for humanity following the disaster that had engulfed the Earth—a place to pause for a second breath, as it were. The family had decided to make it more permanent, however, holding that the same thing would happen again, wherever we went, unless something was done to change man himself. They were for making the human race a prisoner and a patient, as I saw it. My own feelings were that simple dispersal would be sufficient to guarantee human continuity, by virtue of divergence, divergence and the multiplicity of opportunities for development that would lie available. I had been back to Earth in its last days, working with the evacuation teams, and I believed it had all been an accident, a misunderstanding, a mistake, the war, the disaster. And even if this were not so, the same thing need not occur over and over again. I wanted man out of the House and on his way once more.
I lacked the organization and capability of the family. All that I shared was the anonymity. I decided to take advantage of it to the fullest and plan carefully, strike quickly and be thorough. I failed the first time, but they still did not know who or why it was. The authorities were useless, unaware of the family's existence and subject to its influence. I studied their methods, emulated them in concealing myself and, yes, learned something of their early ruthlessness. It was not that difficult.
They changed, though. I knew why. That notion of moral evolution they entertained and practiced, even on a personal level. That finally undid them. This time they were too weak and I had won—in a Pyrrhic sort of way.
I did not know who I really was either. My earliest memories involved wandering in the Cellar of Wing 1, where I eventually came to work, for a time, as a maintenance man. It was only gradually, by observation and telepathy, that I learned of the family and their grand experiment. I resolved to thwart them and I set out to educate myself.
I knew that by destroying them I might be throwing away the key to my own origin. I was willing to make this sacrifice, however . . .
The pins I was able to pull did not bring me this knowledge. If I had responded to the light sooner, I might have . . .
What was it about that light? As soon as it fell upon me back in the lounge I had been drawn to it. If I had not paused to seek knowledge of the pins, I would have reached it. I would have avoided ...
No good.
I would have avoided a conflict that was really necessary for the successful completion of my work. Now it was just a matter of maintaining stability, of keeping the upper hand within my own being. I...
But I no longer wanted to follow the light. Now I was repelled by it. I—
We. ..
Yes. We.
No. I.
We are I.
I stared at the broken machine, sharing its wreckage.
Time ticked by.
The light spilled over my head from the back, casting me in Rorschachs of shadow.
My head continued to throb.
A small breeze herded sheep of mist past the robot
Something dark and quick darted through the air.
Something tiny and not too near croaked and buzzed, briefly.
In the corner of my seeing, the moon was a wheel of ice, rolling.
My teeth began to chatter. My fingertips felt icy where they touched against the stone.
Get up!
You have to climb down now and go back. Get up.
“I am tired."
Get up. Now.
“I don't know whether I can.”
You can. Get up.
"I don't know whether I want to."
What you want is immaterial. Get up.
“Why?"
Because I said so. Now!
"All right! All right!"
I pushed myself up, slowly. I rested a moment on my hands and knees, then sat back on my haunches.
"Betterr
Yes. Now stand up.
I did. After a few seconds’ vertigo had passed, I knew that I could hold it. I kept my back to the light, which had me facing Wing Null.
That is where you are headed. Get going.
I lowered my head, took several deep breaths and set about it
Climbing down, I discovered, was not as difficult as climbing up. Especially when I slipped and slid the last eight feet or so.
Rise. Go on. Go on.
"Am I never to rest?” I asked. But I found my footing once more and began to walk, bent partly forward, clutching my side. My descent had put me out of range of the light again, and that helped some. I passed the robot without granting it a second look. I climbed, I descended, I staggered. I stumbled and rose again, went on.
The exertion warmed me somewhat. After a time, I sighted the dark bulk of my Wing once more. The lighted window reminded me of Glenda, which in turn made me think of her father. He had been my friend, and I had destroyed him. Not the same I. Not then. Not now. I tried to regard it in this fashion and felt the beginnings of acceptance. It was not that I was beyond remorse, but that I was no longer the same person I had been—then, or even a few days or hours earlier. Perhaps the shattering and restructuring of my ego was less debilitating than it might have been because I had had so much practice at it, I understood now who I had been—up to a point. That was a beginning, anyway, of finding out who I was currently.
I had encouraged Glynn, seeing in him a hope for the future, a means of breaking out of the House. I had come to like him personally, however, and when they destroyed him I had taken the child. I had had no special plans for her then. I had done it solely because of my friendship with her father. Later, though, when I saw that her intellectual endowments were quite formidable, I saw to it that along with an extensive education she was also aware of her father's hopes and plans, down to the level of details. She embraced them with enthusiasm. By then though, I had almost come to consider her more mine than his. So it was only natural that I eventually made her privy to some of my own hopes and plans as well. She waa completely sympathetic, which is why I had enlisted her aid. I wished now that I could hav
e done without her. She did not know I was going to kill Engel or force Winton to kill me. Still, it had worked. I could see no other way. I had won . . .
But it had worked and I had won, then why was I headed for Wing Null rather than the ruin?
Because . . .
Keep walking.
There had to be a reason. I just could not recall it. My head was as foggy as the night about me. It still throbbed like a sore tooth.
Do not try to think. Just keep walking.
Glenda. That was it. She was waiting for me. I was going back to see Glenda, to tell her it was all over now.
Get up!
Strange. I did not remember having fallen. I struggled to my feet and almost immediately collapsed again.
It is not very much farther. You must continue. Get up.
I wanted to. I wanted to cooperate. This spirit was quite willing . ..
... Only my legs kept getting tangled, doing the wrong things. Damned uncooperative, this body . . .
Pendulumlike, I could feel my mind doing strange things again, too. It was all right, though, if it would just make me go.
Another try, then down again.
A little thing like that should not bother me, though. It was not necessary that I stand in order to proceed. I had driven bodies beyond this point before. It was all a matter of attitude. Singlemindedness, determination—these were what mattered. Perhaps stubbornness was a better word.
I crawled forward. Time ceased to have meaning. My hands were cold.
Up a slope. I hardly noticed when the light hit me again after a time. When I did realize it, it brought me the passing illusion of being onstage, performing before an invisible audience, utterly silent, so taken were they by my performance.
Just before my arms gave way for the third time, I saw the Wing again, I saw the window.
It was near now, much nearer. Slowly, very slowly, I pulled myself along, like a half-crushed insect. It would be ridiculous to fail at this point. Absurd . . .
It was an effort to open my eyes partway and raise my head. How long had I been lying there?
No good.
One can lash the body, drive it, push it. But the comings and goings of the mind follow a different set of rules.
This one was a going. . . .
Part Three
From a timeless vantage, I saw it all.
The family had picked me up, loaded me and pointed me at Styler. Styler had taken me, manipulating circumstances in a pattern that programmed me to play Othello to his Hamlet, and turned me loose to condition humanity along paciflstic lines he deemed propitious. I could only guess, but it seemed fairly obvious that he had obtained a specimen of my tissues at some point in my early experiments with cloning. He had robots capable of managing that much for him—still had robots—and he had designed Wing Null. The means was not really that material. Somewhere, he had used that sample to clone the original Mr. Black, implanted suggestions that made him something of an anti-me and sent him into the House with amnesia and his survival instinct going for him. He was placed there to check me and balance my efforts when the time came, operating like some sort of sociological time bomb. The time had come and this had happened. A wall was down, Glenda was ready with the Glynn formulations and I had been neutralized. I could almost hear Styler's voice saying, "... Now add 8 cc's of Black base to the di Negri acid."
I glared back at the colored lights. Finally, I reached out and began throwing switches.
I heard a startled noise from my right and a hand came forward and fell upon my arm. I could not turn my head to see her because of the hood. I had a vision from long ago of peasants plowing a small field, its boundary marked by an animal skull mounted on a low post
"It's all right," I said.
The hand slipped away.
"Who—?" she finally said.
How the hell was I supposed to answer that? 169
"I was Legion," I said finally, haltingly, "a whole gallery of faces. I was Black, I was Engel, I was Lange, I was Winton, I was Karab, I was WinkeL And Jordan and Hinkley and Old Lange. And a horde of others of whom you have never heard. I should say that it does not matter, but it does, for I am me. I suppose that I should choose a face. Very well. Just call me Angelo. That is how it all began."
"I am afraid that I do not understand. Are you— V
I raised the hood from my head and turned to regard her.
"Yes," I said, "I am really all right Thank you for doing as I asked. Did I make it all the way back, or did you have to drag me?"
"I helped," she said. "I saw you fall."
"You mean you went outside?"
Her face brightened.
"Yes. I was hoping for an excuse. Not that kind, I mean. But—it was so fine!"
I rubbed my side.
"You patched me up some, I see.*
"You were bleeding."
"Yes, I guess I was, wasn't I?"
I got to my feet, steadied myself for a moment against the back of the chair, moved to the counter and began searching the shelf beneath it
"What are you looking for?"
"Cigarettes. I want to smoke."
"There were some in the other room, where I was waiting."
"Let's go there then."
I refused her arm. We walked into the hallway and up it
"How long since you brought me in?" I asked.
"About an hour and a quarter."
I nodded.
"What has that light been doing recently?"
"I don't know. I haven't looked since I brought you in.**
We came to the room, entered it. She indicated the cigarettes, declined one herself. I moved to the window and looked out as I lit up. A puddle of tawny light, spilled at the far edge of things, was seeping across the sky. I inhaled deeply, sighed smoke.
"You really liked it out there?" I said.
"Yes—and it is so beautiful now, with the sun starting to come up."
"Good. I want you to come take a walk with me outside.**
"You're not in such great shape."
"All the more reason to have someone with me then. Besides, 111 need a secretary."
She cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. I smiled.
"Come on. We'll take it slow and easy. The walk will do us good."
She nodded and followed me out to the locks. We passed through them and entered the cool morning.
"I can't get over the smells," she said, drawing a deep breath. "The air is so different from that in the House!" Then, "Where are we going?" she asked.
I turned my head and raised it.
"Up there."
"To the ruin? That is pretty far ..."
"Slow and easy. No hurry," I said. "We have all the time in the world."
We started in that direction, and I was irritated by my need to stop and rest frequently. We had to go out of our way, also, for I directed our course in such a fashion that we did not pass near to the body I had left. Although I tried to conceal the pull in my side, she noted it and moved around and took my arm. This time I allowed it.
I chuckled.
"Remember when I gave you those skates for your seventh birthday?" I said. "And you slipped and twisted your ankle the very next day? I thought it was sprained, but it was really broken. You wouldn't let me carry you, though. You leaned on me like this. You didn't want to cry, but your face was all wet and you kept biting your lip. You tore that little blue dress you liked so much when you fell. The one with the yellow stitching on the front."
Her fingers had tightened to an almost painful grip upon my arm. A light breeze came out of the east. I reached over and patted her hand, "It is all right now," I said, and she nodded quickly and I turned away.
Before I saw it, I felt the glint from that light in the ruins. It flickered by, returned, stayed with us. It was not quite so overpowering when the air was filling with daylight.
We worked our way among the stones, about the craters, up the hill, down, then up again.
"A bird!" she cried.
"Yes. Pretty. Yellow.' ,
It was a pleasant morning that was being fetched into the world, softening the tones of the landscape where my nightmare had been enacted. Some piled cumulus to the left promised a later rain, as did a cool breeze from that direction, but the east was still clear in its brightening and there was more greenery about than I had thought.
The light he had used to hunt me was finally blocked by the upper edge of that portion of the building's front which still stood, blackened and cracked, doors gaping, as we approached.
"Are we going in there?" she asked,
"Yes."
We moved forward and entered the caved-in, burnt-out lobby, skylighted by the collapsed roof, filled with the detritus of centuries.
"What are we going to do here?" she asked, as we picked our way through the litter in the direction of the more sheltered southwest corner of the room.
"In a minute. I think you will know in a minute or so," I said. "That's why I wanted a secretary."
The rear hallway I had taken so many years before was completely blocked by a cave-in that appeared to have been augmented by a landslide from the high hills to the rear. I led her into a relatively clear waiting alcove where the shapes of furniture persisted within piles of dust. Yes, I had remembered correctly. The dark instrument crouched, tarantula-like, in its recess in the wall. I withdrew my handkerchief.
While I was wiping it off, the telephone rang.
Glenda uttered a brief, incoherent noise that might have been part question.
"There," I said, stepping back, "I have it reasonably clean now. Answer the phone for me, will you?"
She nodded, and with a mixture of great puzzlement and some trepidation, moved forward and lifted the receiver.
"—Hello?"
She listened a moment, then covered the mouthpiece and looked at me.
"He wants to know who I am.'*
"So tell him," I said.
She did, listened again, covered it and sought me once more.
"He wants to know if Mr. Angelo di Negri is here."
Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 Page 17
