He was asked to relax upon a couch and given a control button, which would start or stop the recording machinery. Then his head was encased in a translucent helmet.
“Thoughts create vibrations,” the instructor told him. “That was known long ago. If you talk into a microphone, your words can be recorded and repeated. But you must first compose those words coherently. Here you must compose dreams in the same manner.”
Inside the bulky helmet, Woodley tried to nod, but failed.
“I see,” he murmured instead.
“Simply close your eyes and concentrate. Day-dream. Let your mind wander, but guide it. Visualize pictorially and employ all the other senses that you can. If you wish to create a rose, see it mentally, but recall its fragrance and its texture, too. Recreate tactile sensations in your mind. Recreate emotions. When you wish to record, press the button you hold in your hand. Press it again to stop the process.”
That was the entire process. Woodley relaxed and tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort of coherent order. He had a brief flash of warning. If his thoughts were to be recorded, it would be dangerous to reveal his plans of revolt. These must be suppressed rigidly.
Creating a dream symphony was not as difficult as he had expected. At first Woodley experimented fumblingly, as a musician strikes halting chords or an artist sketches. Pictorial impressions came first. He tried to remember tactile sensations, olfactory, auditory, and found it not too difficult. By the time the instructor interrupted him, he was lost in an engrossing work.
Later he was congratulated on his success, and told that with little effort he could become an excellent dream composer.
“You have imagination and willpower. You’re able to concentrate, focus your attention. Soon you can plan out complete dreams. You have a natural talent for this.”
It was like playing a piano “by ear,” instead of spending long years of intensive study. Woodley was jubilant.
“I hope you don’t lose interest,” the instructor said anxiously. “Everyone will be eager to try your dreams. You’ve brought something new into Center, a freshness that’s delightful. Even in those experimental flashes of yours, there was a wonderful gusto.”
Woodley smiled as he left the dream palace. Curiosity would bring the hedonists to “hear” his “symphonies.” Crude they might be and unpracticed, but in decadent Center they were the blast of chill, refreshing wind. Perhaps he would provide a hurricane that might blow away the perfumed, poppyladen air that shrouded the city. Slowly, subtly, the attitude of the hedonists might be changed with propaganda that appealed to the subconscious mind directly.
At last Woodley had the weapon!
SHARN was interested, Rogur skeptical.
“There’s danger in it,” the scientist warned. “You must guard your thoughts every moment. If you let a stray memory of our plans slip through to the recorder, we’re finished.” But when Woodley told Sharn later, she was much intrigued, though she did not realize the significance of the plan.
“You’ll like your work, I know,” she said. “Perhaps you may decide to stay here with us, unless you’ve already done so.”
There was a strange light in her eyes. She wanted him to stay, Woodley realized. He would—till he had accomplished his plan. If only he could find out something about the ray projector! But he did not dare to ask direct questions that would arouse suspicion, nor could an unskilled man request work connected with the machine. He must play for time, try to gain converts, and wait.
So the days passed drowsily. Woodley became completely engrossed now in his dream creations. He could depend on Sharn to make friends, to seek out those who were dissatisfied with conditions in Center. But first of all he had to implant the seeds of unrest in those minds. All the tools were ready to his hand. He had certain memories of the days prior to 1942. Besides, his emotions were primal and strong, more sensitive than the hedonists’. Theirs were slightly dulled by too much pleasure. Yet Woodley knew they were not jaded. Had they been completely sated with experience, his task would have been easier.
He began on the premise that all the hedonistic dreams involved a passive protagonist. The dreamers were content to rest and let the tides of sensation pour over them. Seldom did they become active. The dream of flying was recurrent, a motif.
Woodley drew on his uncertain memories. He was guarded at first, concentrating on fantasies in which the protagonist gradually became more and more active. These “Woodley dream symphonies” became overwhelmingly popular. People flocked to the palaces to experience them. They had novelty, freshness and a certain zest in life that was fascinating to the hedonists.
He swung to legends he recalled—Paul Bunyan and his red ox of the northwest, the saga of John Henry—all of them set in surroundings Woodley knew well. Gradually the element of personal conflict began to enter the dreams. Conflict ended in triumph, without the undertone of bitter-sweet that the hedonists inevitably seemed to add in their own creations.
From his faulty memory Woodley told other stories. With Abraham Lincoln the hedonists vicariously hewed logs in the wilderness, fought against overwhelming hardship, triumphed over opponents like Douglas. With Boone and Crockett they fought Indians and held the Alamo. The saga of America was told through Woodley’s created and guided dreams, for the benefit of those to whom it was not even a name.
Nor did he neglect the thrill of making something with one’s hands, of creating an antitoxin that would cure disease, the pleasure of watching a fire built with wood painfully gathered by oneself. Small things and large, they were alike in eventually having an active protagonist and in stressing the rewards of personal effort.
Often Woodley felt like a silly Pollyanna. He knew his former world was not as he pictured it, but in defense he realized that he needed strong medicine to combat the virus of hedonism.
Curiously he became more and more out of sympathy with Rogur’s violent hatred for the people of Center. They were certainly not cruel. They would protect themselves, but preferably not at the expense of others. From their completely hedonistic viewpoint, it was not wrong for them to seek to preserve their isolated safety. And in truth, Center possessed much that was lovely and good.
There were enchanted nights on the roof gardens, under the jeweled splendor of the stars, with color and sound and scent combining to form an intangible essence of sheer beauty. The soft, kindly people of the city, acting so often on impulse, never wilfully doing harm, might have stepped out of an ancient concept of Paradise.
There was no pain in Center. They would not save the rest of mankind, but they would not have been capable of destroying it. Alone, aloof, harmlessly pursuing pleasure, they went gaily down the long road to the tomb of the ages. The ages would swallow them, leaving no trace but the silent, untenanted beauty of the magic city. No ugliness or stain would mark the memory of these people. Asking nothing, giving nothing, living only for delight, they were happy.
Woodley felt pity for them. They had not asked to be created, yet Rogur, who had made them, was longing and plotting for their complete destruction. And so was he, in another way. If he succeeded, the sunny, laughing faces would be darkened many and many a time. Care would come, and sorrow. Would it be worth the cost? Yes! The compensation would lie in becoming human again.
Yet more than once Woodley felt uncertain. If mankind had not been doomed to mindless savagery, he might have thought it best to leave the hedonists to their own selfish, happy lives. But the memory of Janet’s empty, brutalized face always made him realize that his was a task that must be accomplished at any cost.
One night he was telling Sham about a new dream symphony he had created.
“I like it, Sham. I want you to see it.”
“I can’t see the new dream,” she said, turning her face away so that he saw only the smooth, sleek platinum hair. “Why not?”
“Oh, I am too busy. I saw some of the old ones, though. The girl Janet was in all of them.”
Woodley frowned
. “Why, no. You’re wrong.”
“She wasn’t there visually, but in every other way. It was easy to tell that she was the motif. She was there emotionally, through stray sensations in the dreams, feelings of loneliness and longing.” Sham turned to gaze at Woodley with her grave blue eyes. “You can never forget that girl, you know.”
HE scarcely heard the rest. It was all true, but he had not understood it till now. And if those subconscious longings had slipped unguarded through his mental censor, perhaps other, more dangerous thoughts had also slipped through.
“Your dreams have had other effects,” she added. “You’ve created quite a cult, though the members don’t know you’re heading it. An underground clique is secretly advocating the restoration of intelligence to the rest of the world, tired of the life here in Center. Your dreams have influenced them, Woodley, given them glimpses of something they never knew before. They’re tired of being passive agents. They want to live the sort of dreams you’ve given them.”
Woodley looked at her with hooded eyes.
“Well?”
Sham made an impatient, angry sound.
“Oh, you are stupid, or else a stuffed figure with sawdust inside! I thought we had a leader in you. It was you who made us dissatisfied. Before you came, we were not unhappy, discontented.” Woodley dared not answer. If he committed himself definitely now, it would ruin everything. The new organization would be discovered. Later, at a suitable time, he could align himself with the “underground clique.” Meantime, he felt sure, it would continue to gather in force, while he went on making his dream propaganda.
Yet it distressed him to look at Sharn’s hurt, angry face, especially since he realized that all her words were true. There had been happiness in Center before he came.
He saw Rogur that night. The scientist was coldly bitter, seated in the tiny one-room cubicle hidden in the city’s labyrinth. He looked incongruously youthful, but his voice betrayed him.
“I warned you, Woodley. I knew we faced danger. I didn’t understand this one.”
“What are you talking about?” Woodley demanded, irritated. He settled himself more comfortably in the chair and nervously lit a cigarette. “What’s gone wrong?”
Rogur’s deep-set eyes probed into his. “You. You have.”
The man was senile. He was talking foolishness. Yet, despite himself, Woodley listened as the other went on.
“You’re procrastinating. At least it started as that. You said we’d better wait till we could strike with some assurance of success. That was logical, but you’ve changed.”
“I?” Woodley asked. “What makes you think so?”
“You’re becoming a hedonist, if you haven’t become one already.” Rogur was on his feet, angry, accusing. “You’re content with dreams now! I saw some of them. You’re satisfying yourself the easiest way, by imagining things you’re afraid to do!”
“You’re crazy!” Woodley snapped, springing up. “You can’t even understand that I—” He stopped.
“So you’re beginning to realize it,” Rogur jeered, his young face alight with mocking anger. “You’ve been converting all your desires and wishes into dreams, putting off action, satisfied with drifting. Do you still want to destroy Center?”
“I never wanted to destroy it,” Woodley said hotly. “That isn’t necessary. It would be wanton murder, even if it could be done. If the neutralizing ray is broadcast and man’s memory is restored, that’ll be enough.”
“Enough?” A veil seemed to drop over Rogur’s dark eyes. “You think that would be enough?”
“Certainly. Afterward the hedonists can stay here isolated, or mingle with the rest of the world. That won’t matter. What we’re working for is the restoration of mankind. As for the dreams, you know my purpose in that. There’s an organization already formed that wants the same thing we do.”
“Then what I said was false?” Rogur’s lips twisted wryly. “You can’t deny your hedonism—traitor!”
CHAPTER XIII
The Criminal
WOODLEY hesitated. He realized only too well now that imperceptibly, without realizing it, he had been drifting into hedonism. He had been walking on quicksand, and his own dreams had insidiously begun to snare him.
“All right,” he said at last to Rogur. “You win. I hadn’t properly estimated the attractiveness of hedonism.”
Rogur went to the wall, brought out two cloaks and hoods from a cupboard.
“We understand each other again,” he stated. “Good. I haven’t been inactive, Woodley. I’ve been making my own plans, too. Tonight we can turn on the neutralizing ray.”
“Tonight? But how?”
“I told you I’d been active!” Rogur snapped petulantly. “Put on this robe and hood. After we’ve succeeded, we’ll be in danger. The hedonists will be searching for the culprits, so we mustn’t show our faces. Later Center must be destroyed, but tonight there’s a chance to use the ray.”
Reluctantly Woodley took the robe and hood.
“Are you sure this is wise? If we wait till the anti-hedonists are strong enough, the Senate will be forced to do as we wish.”
“And if the ray is never turned on, would you care very much?” Rogur’s voice was fiercely sardonic.
Grunting in hopeless disapproval, Woodley donned the concealing garments. The chance was worth taking, anyway. Cloaked and hooded, he joined Rogur in the tube-car.
“Destroying Center can come later,” the scientist muttered almost to himself. “But it must come! Many times I have tried to find a way . . . Far up the valley, Woodley, there’s a dam still standing, built before Nineteen-forty-two. Once I thought of dynamiting it and wrecking the city, but now I know Center could resist far greater forces than that. The hedonists have few weapons, know nothing of warfare, but Center is almost impregnable.”
He touched a control stud.
“We must work swiftly,” he continued. “If anyone’s in the laboratory, we can’t wait to argue. I couldn’t get any weapons, so we must use our hands. But don’t be afraid to do that!”
“The projector’s set up?” Woodley asked. “It’s all ready to be turned on?”
“Yes, yes,” the scientist said impatiently. “Be ready now.”
He turned as the door opened. With Woodley behind him, he sprang out into a vast, well lighted chamber.
IT was the central and consequently tallest tower in the city. The ceiling was of transparent plastic. In the room’s center was a complicated machine reminding Woodley somewhat of an atom-smasher. It was not, he realized. It was something far more potent. This machine could broadcast the ray that would lift the curse of immortality from mankind and restore memory and intelligence.
High above the two men’s heads it towered.
“Do you understand its operation?” Woodley whispered.
He knew he himself could never hope to fathom the complicated details of the machine’s construction. Rogur’s face was hidden by the hood, but there was hesitation in his attitude.
“Yes—” he said at last, rather doubtfully, and moved forward.
Woodley cast a wary glance about the huge room before following. There was no sound. The night sky was starry above the transparent roof. White light glowed from the plastic walls.
Rogur was fumbling with a switchboard. He caught his breath in a little gasp.
“Here. The buttons are labeled. This is the one!”
He pressed it. Nothing happened. With a hot muffled curse Rogur tried another button, and then, in a sudden access of fury, one after another.
“Something’s wrong,” he muttered. “There’s no power. The—the machine can’t be operated. Maybe some vital parts are missing.”
That was logical enough. The hedonists would scarcely leave the ray projector in working condition, taking the chance that it might be turned on by accident. Woodley felt like a fool for not having foreseen this obvious precaution.
“Come away,” he whispered urgently. “We’ll have to
try the other plan after all. It’s no use staying here longer.”
“No!” Rogur objected stubbornly. “I’ll find out what’s wrong and fix it.”
He stared up at the towering mass of the still machine, his mind groping for science he had long since forgotten. Woodley started at a sound from nearby.
“Come on!” he urged, tugging Rogur’s arm. “It’s hopeless now. We’ll have to wait.”
“Leave me alone!” the scientist cried, his voice shrill with anger.
Woodley froze at the sound of a door opening. He whirled.
A gray-clad man stood framed in an opening that had appeared in one wall. His eyes were wide in astonishment. Shouting for aid, he sprang forward. At his heels came more men.
“Capture those two!” the foremost cried. “Capture them!”
Woodley’s glance around had showed him that the pneumo-tube door was still ajar. To remain and fight was useless. Still gripping Rogur’s arm, he lunged toward the wall. The scientist was caught off balance, resisting until he nearly fell. Then he understood and followed.
Woodley pushed him into the car and whirled to face the first of the attackers. Through the slits of his hood he saw a slim youth rushing at him, hands outstretched to seize and hold. Realizing the weakness of these people, Woodley planted his fist in the boy’s chest and sent him staggering back. Then he leaped into the car as the panel began to close.
Instantly the vehicle lurched into vertiginous motion. Woodley was hurled against the wall, collapsed on a padded seat. He recovered to see Rogur at the control panel, bent double as he pressed stud after stud on the board before him.
The scientist’s body was shaking. He seemed in the grip of a dreadful fear. And this, Woodley knew, was logical enough. Fear and hate were correlative, in some degree. Rogur wished to destroy the hedonists, and attributed the same motive to them. Woodley was not so certain of their fate, but he knew that capture would mean the failure of any future plan. As yet the two culprits remained unrecognized.
He drew the hood-mask closer about his face.
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