"I-- Brothers! Envy the stone! It suffers not! Rejoice in untainted water and air and rock! Envy the crystal. Soon we shall be like them, perfect, still .
"Do not ask forgiveness, but slowness in the disposition that is to come--that you may savor the return to delicious peace! I-- I-- I--
"Pray, weep, burn ... That is all. I-- Go ... Go!"
Then he set it to replay and resumed his attitude. It was a troublesome emotion that he felt, not unlike the effects of Wagner, whom he kept to a minimum. But one more time ...
"How does this help us ... ?" he began, and then he smiled.
It did not really help. But it made him feel better.
A moment's respite, then.
* * *
Heidel von Hymack moved along the trail that wound its way up and over the shoulder of a rocky prominence. Pausing near its highest point, he looked back and down, across the fog-shrouded distance he had come. He blinked his eyes and rubbed his beard. His vague feelings of uneasiness had intensified. Something was wrong. He leaned back against the glass-slick rock and rested his hands on his staff. Yes, it was difficult to identify, but something had been altered in the world about him. It was more than a pre-storm tension. It was almost as if he were being sought, by someone he was not yet ready to meet.
Is she trying to tell me something? he wondered. Maybe I should hole up and find out. But that would take time, and I feel this need to keep moving. Ought to get out of here before the storm hits. Why do I keep looking back? I--
He ran his fingers through his hair and raked his teeth across his lower lip. A bit of sunlight leaked through a rift in the clouds and caused the mist about him to sparkle with momentary, dancing prisms. Eyes darting, forehead furrowed, he watched them for perhaps ten seconds, then turned away.
"Damn you!" he said. "Whoever you are ..."
He banged his staff against a rock, crossed over the ridge, sought a downward track.
* * *
He sat upon a stone and hunted. After a time, he rose and moved on, tramping among the hills and over the trackless, rock-strewn plains, there in the region of mists. As he walked, birds dipped and darted about him, appearing out of and vanishing back into the shifting curtain of fog.
Hunting, he climbed partway up the face of a steep stone hill, seated himself on a narrow ledge, withdrew a cigar, bit off its end, lit it. As he stared across the plain, a wind washed over it, and for a while it lay bare and bleak beneath his gaze. A spined lizard whose skin reproduced the shifting color display of a soap bubble's surface descended from a rock and came to share the ledge with him, fork-tongue darting heartred, yellow eyes fixed unblinking upon his face. It brushed against his hand and he stroked it.
"What do you think?" he said, after several minutes. "I can't spot a warm-blooded body or mind in the area."
He continued to smoke, and the mists crept back to cover the plain. Finally, he sighed, thumped his heels against the rock and rose. Turning, he lowered himself and began the downward climb. The lizard moved to the edge and regarded his descent.
Pacing another half mile, he acquired the company of a pair of weasel-like predators who frolicked about his feet, tongues lolling, as though greatly amused by the progress of his boots, tiny hisses and barking noises occasionally escaping their throats. They ignored the circling birds and the big-throated wadloper who emerged from his mudhole to follow after, until his awkward, shambling gait left him far behind--at which time he croaked twice and crept back to his wallow.
When, beside a rust-streaked boulder, he paused to hunt with his mind, the animals grew still. An icy stream trickled nearby, dark, diamond-leafed plants swaying in clumps on its banks, the mists skating over its surface. He stared, unseeing, at the flow, chewing his cigar, searching.
Then, "No," he said, and, "Why don't you go home?" to the animals.
They drew back and watched him, and when he departed they made no move to follow.
Crossing the stream, he continued on his way, without map or compass. bearing toward the west, after detecting a party of unsuccessful searchers in the direction he had intended taking, eastward.
And as he walked, he cursed. Between damns, he threw away his cigar. Turning then to the east, he stared for perhaps half a minute.
A roll of thunder sounded in the distance. Moments later, it was followed by another. More occurred then, merging into a steady growling note that vibrated within the ground as well as the air. A wind arose in the west and rushed to investigate the storm.
He moved on, turning farther southward now, paralleling the storm for a time, then leaving it behind him. Half an afternoon later, there came a glimmer of something that drew him farther to the west.
"Who, I wonder?" he said to the shadow that sighed along the ground beside his feet. "Somehow familiar, but still too far ... I had better be very careful."
Probing gingerly, he advanced, and the fogs rushed to conceal him and to muffle the sounds of his passage.
* * *
Hunched within his poncho, Morwin splashed forward, the center of a fifty-foot circle of visibility. Protected from the moisture without, he was nevertheless damp with perspiration, and the palm of his hand felt clammy whenever he touched it against the butt of his pistol. He thought of Malacar and Jackara, moving along a drier course from the cave where _The Perseus_ lay hidden. He thought of the landslide they had brought down to cover the cave mouth, and he tried not to think of the difficulties they might encounter in blasting their way out again.
_Anything, Shind?_ he inquired.
_If I locate anyone, you will be the first to know_.
_What of Jackara--and Malacar?_
_They are just emerging from the storm into an area of greater visibility. They continue to monitor the radio communications among the native searchers, as well as their conversations with Dr. Pels. It appears that these searchers have found nothing but bad weather, so far. Worse than here, actually. At least, they keep complaining about it_.
_The search parties are near enough for you to read?_
_No. I am obtaining this information only from Malacar's mind. It seems that the searchers are about four miles north of us, and farther to the east_.
_This Pels you mentioned-- He is the same one--the Dr. Pels?_"
_It seems so. I gather that he is in orbit directly overhead at this moment_.
_To what end?_
_He appears to be in charge of things_.
_I assume he wants H also_.
_Most likely_.
_I don't like this, Shind--their being aware one man is causing it, and hunting for him at the same time, in the same place. And Pels being in on it. If I decide to do as you suggested, there may be more trouble than we anticipated_.
_I have been thinking about this also. It has occurred to me that it might be safest to see whether there is a way to assure his being turned over to Pels' searchers. If they take him into custody, our problem is solved_.
_How do you propose achieving this?_
_Overpower him, bind him. Bring him to their attention. Failing that, kill him and claim self-defense. They seem to think he is unbalanced, so it would sound plausible_.
_Supposing Malacar finds him first?_
_Then we will have to think of something else. An accident, I suppose_.
_I don't like it_.
_I know that. Have you a better idea?_
_No_.
They continued on for the better part of an hour, achieving higher ground and emerging from the storm into a warmer, somewhat clearer place, more level in character, though still rifted, still dotted with boulders. Dark shapes occasionally passed overhead, emitting high-pitched, trilling notes. The wind continued to blow steadily from out of the west.
Morwin removed his poncho, folded it, rolled it, hung it from his belt. He withdrew a handkerchief and began to wipe his face.
_There is someone up ahead_, Shind told him.
_Our man?_
_Quite possibly_.
He loosened his pistol in its holster.
_"Possibly"?_ he said. _You're the telepath. Read his mind_.
_It is not that simple. People do not generally walk about concentrating on their identities--and I have never met the man_.
_I was under the impression you could do better than just pick up surface thoughts_.
_You know that I can. You are also aware that many factors are involved. He is still a good distance away, and his mind is troubled_.
_What is bothering him?_
_He feels that he is being pursued_.
_If he is von Hymack, he is correct. I wonder how he knows it, though?_
_This not at all clear. He is in an abnormal state of mind. Extreme paranoia, I would say--and an obsession with death, disease_.
_Understandable, of course_.
_Not to me, not completely. He seems aware of what he is doing, and he seems to delight in it. There is a sense of divine mission about it. Finally, he seems somewhat dazed. Yes, this is our man_.
_With a string of defense mechanisms_.
_Possibly, possibly_ ...
_How far ahead is he?_
_About half a mile_.
Morwin moved forward, hurrying now, eyes straining against the gloom.
_I have just been in contact with the Commander. He thought his instruments had detected someone, but it was apparently only an animal. I lied to him about our own situation_.
_Good. What is H doing now?_
_He is singing. His mind is filled with it. A Pei'an thing_.
_Strange_.
__He_ is strange. I would have sworn that for a moment he was aware of my presence in his mind. Then this feeling vanished_.
Morwin increased his pace.
_I want to get this over with_, he said.
_Yes_.
They pressed ahead, almost running now.
* * *
Francis Sandow sighed. The _rnartlind_--out of sight, though still within reach of his mind--continued on at the sluggish pace that had carried it directly past Malacar and Jackara. As this occurred, he had retreated to a point near a powerpull, moving out of range of the other's detection gear. A quick mental probe showed him that Malacar had sighed also, accepting the beast's presence in place of himself.
Should have been more careful, he reflected. No excuse for a blunder like that. I get too cocky on my own worlds. And this calls for some small subtlety, not just force. Got to baffle that gear of his ... There!
Moving swiftly, he again regarded the thoughts of Malacar, and of Jackara ...
Bitter, so bitter he has become, he reflected. The girl hates too, but with her it is such a childlike thing. Would either of them really go through with it, I wonder, if they realized fully what the results would be? He cannot have lost his sense of process to that extent, so that he envisages only the deaths and not the dying. If he had come a greater distance on foot, had seen the results of von Hymack's passing--I wonder? Would he still feel as he does?, He has changed, though, even in that short while since I met him on Deiba--and he was not exactly soft and reasonable that day.
It was then that the prickling sensation began within Malacar's mind, and Sandow dropped his own toward inertia, realizing that he could not withdraw undetected. He did not even curse, for there must be no emotion, no telltale reverberation of feeling. It must be as if he did not exist. No reaction, no response, whatever transpired. Even then ...
Peculiar sensation. Two telepaths regarding the same subject at the same time. One hiding from the other . .
Sandow passively noted an exchange between Shind and Malacar, learning in an instant their aims, their progress, reacting not at all. When the exchange had terminated, his mind moved once more, withdrawing, assessing. He brushed lightly against Jackara's mind, then shied away, almost stung by Shind's presence there now.
He withdrew another cigar, lit it.
Complicated, damn it! he decided. Searchers to the left, still far off, but moving this way. Malacar to the right. Shind liable to pick me up at any time if I am not careful. And somewhere up ahead, probably, my man ...
He began to move, slowly, then, paralleling Malacar and Jackara, out of reach of the man-sniffer, brushing lightly against the fringes of their minds, alternately, at half-minute intervals, beginning with Malacar, walking westward.
Let them find him and then take him away from them? he wondered. But they might not... Then ... No--
And then his questions became unnecessary.
* * *
Moving at a rapid pace, Morwin stumbled when he attempted an abrupt halt. He had mounted a rocky ridge somewhat in advance of Shind, and through the half-lit, eddying haze he had seen the man, thin, dark, staff in hand, standing unmoving, looking back. There was no doubt in his mind as to his identity, and he felt himself taken by confusion at this sudden presence. Recovering, he found that Shind was once more in his mind.
_That is our man! I am certain! But something is wrong. He is aware! He_--
Then Morwin clutched at his head, dropped back to his knees.
He had never heard a mental scream before.
_Shind! Shind! What is happening?_
_I-- I-- She's got me! Here_--
His mind swirling like the mists, there came a sudden series of superimpositions of images and colors, rising and mixing with a clarity and vividness which destroyed his ability to distinguish between that which was externally objective and that which was not. A changing blueness came to overlay everything, and in its midst a myriad of blue women danced, wildly, kaleidoscopically; and as he realized--for no rational reason--that their plurality was but some symbolic illusion, they began to collapse, coalesce, merge, fall in upon themselves, growing more and more stately, compelling, potent. It was then that he felt himself the subject of scrutiny on the part of the swaying women. And they resolved themselves into two: one, tall and soft and lovely, a madonnalike tower of compassion; the other, like yet unlike her in appearance, possessed of an aspect he could only consider menacing. Then these two merged, the countenance and mien of the latter growing dominant. Amid blue lightnings she stared with unblinking, perhaps lidless, eyes that stripped him in an instant of his flesh, his mind, that terrified him with their primal, irrational intensity.
"Shind!" he cried, and he had the gun in his hand, firing.
A wave of something like laughter washed over him.
Then, _She is using me!_ Shind seemed to be saying. _I-- Help me!_
The empty weapon slipped from his fingers. He felt himself in the midst of a dream, a cosmic nightmare. Moving without motion, thinking without thought, his mind twisted reflexively then and, as in all his workings with the stuff of dream, he seized the image and exerted his will. Driven this time by a terror that flashed like fire through the rooms of his existence, he found himself wielding a force he had never before possessed, striking out with it against the mocking woman-thing.
Her expression altered, all traces of amusement vanishing. Her figure dwindled, grew distorted, faded and returned, faded and returned. With each dimming he glimpsed the man, lying now upon the ground.
A painful wailing filled his head. Then it was gone, she was gone, and finally so was he.
* * *
"Stop!"
Malacar turned.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing, now," she said. "But we are finished here. It is time to return to the vessel. We are leaving."
"What are you talking about? What is wrong?"
Jackara smiled.
"Nothing," she repeated. "Nothing, now."
As he regarded her, however, he realized that something _had_ changed. It took him several moments to sort his impressions. The first thing that struck him was her relaxed appearance. It occurred to him that he had never seen J ackara's features pleasantly animated, and that her posture, her entire bearing, had been stiff, tense, semi-military up until then. Her voice, too, was altered. In addition to having grown softer, throatier, it now p
ossessed an unmistakable resonance of command, silken, seamless, resilient.
Still searching for the proper question, he said, simply, "I do not understand."
"Of course not," she said. "But you see, there is no reason to look further. That which you seek is here. The man von Hymack is useless to you now, for I have found me a better place. I like Jackara--her body, her simple passion--and I shall remain with her. Together now, we shall accomplish all that you desire. And more. So much more. You shall have your plagues, your deaths. You shall see the ultimate disease, life, healed by that which shall come to pass. Let us return to the vessel now and be borne to a populous place. By the time that we reach it, I will be ready. You will witness a spectacle which will satisfy even a passion such as yours. And this will only be the beginning--"
"Jackara! I have no time for jokes! I--"
"I am not joking," she said softly, moving nearer to him, raising her hand to his face.
She ran her fingertips up his cheek, bringing them to rest upon his temple. He was paralyzed then by the vision of carnage that swept through his mind. The dead, the dying were everywhere. The symptoms of disease after disease flashed before him, displayed on bodies without number. He saw entire planets rolling in the grip of epidemics, saw worlds stark and barren, emptied of life, their streets, homes, buildings, dead fields filled with corpses, bodies awash in their harbors, choking gutters and streams, bloated, decomposing. All ages and sexes were so strewn, like the aftermath of a killer storm.
He grew ill.
"My God!" he finally gasped. "What are you?"
"You have seen what you have seen, and still you do not know?"
He backed away.
"There is something unnatural here," he said finally. "The blue goddess Sandow said ..."
"How fortunate you are," she told him. "And I also. Your means are vastly superior to those of my previous acolyte, and we have common goals--"
To Die In Italbar Page 15
