Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  But it worked. The technicians had to discover why. They had to find a shield. That was their responsibility.

  They went insane.

  The bombs were one application of a basic equation apparently understood by the Falangists, but not by America. American technicians had the equation available. If they could solve it, the Falangists’ greatest weapon would be blunted. But no mind trained along orthodox lines could solve an equation based on variable truth.

  Faced by enormous responsibility, unable to crack the equation, the technicians began to go insane—in unusual ways. They could understand a few factors of the equation. There was Case M-204, who thought he was Mohammed, and who remained in a cataleptic state, floating a few feet above his bed. Through variable logic, he had nullified gravity. Others committed suicide. A technician-shortage was beginning. And this was a war of technicians.

  Problem: find a type of mind that could solve the equation. Cameron, trained in applied psych, could locate such a mind. But if he knew the vital importance of his job, the responsibility might drive him insane too. If he himself tried to work out the equation, a psychosis would be inevitable. So Seth Pell, Assistant Director, and Ben DuBrose, Cameron’s secretary, combined to keep their chief in ignorance of the importance of the problem. It wasn’t easy. Kalender, Secretary of War, was a brass hat and insisted on dealing with the director. Pell and DuBrose refused to permit communication. Daniel Ridgeley, Kalender’s courier, tried to force his way into Cameron’s office. And Ridgeley, Pell thought, was neither American nor Falangist. He had come from another time period.

  There was no real evidence, except indirectly. Twenty-two years before, seventy-four huge, impenetrable domes of mirror-silver had appeared out of nowhere, all over America. They had held their secret perfectly. Now they were tattered and split, though still impenetrable; and it was possible to see that they held nothing at all. Only one investigator had contended that shortly after their appearance they had emitted hard radiations for an hour. Nothing else. But those radiations had caused mutations among the children born in the vicinity of the silvery Duds, and Billy Van Ness was one of the mutations. He was in Low Chicago, being examined by Seth Pell.

  Van Ness had seemed normal until maturity. Then he had gone insane. Through hypnosis, Pell and DuBrose discovered the reason: The Duds had held beings from an unimaginably distant time-sector, creatures utterly remote to genus homo. They were genus X. The hard radiations might have been simply their means of communication. They had come back through time searching for something—impossible to guess what—and had failed to find it. So they had died.

  But Billy Van Ness was one of the mutants who had inherited a certain sense from genus X; the hard radiations had altered him before birth, and the latent alien talent had emerged when he matured. He had ETP—extra-temporal perception. He could see duration. And he had gone mad.

  Under guided hypnosis he could talk rationally. He had given DuBrose and Pell one clue; he had said that Ridgeley’s duration was immensly longer than that of any contemporary. Ridgeley, too, Pell thought, had come from the future. But his motives were obscure.

  Dr. Emil Pastor, physicist, was beginning to solve the equation. In his eyrie lab in the Rocky Mountains, he told Pell and DuBrose that the effect of the equation was to suspend the laws of logic. A free-falling body might have a variable rate of speed. Scientific constants were used as variables. But if Pastor didn’t go insane, he could crack the equation—he said.

  DuBrose worried. Pell told him to go to Blue Heaven and get an emotional catharsis at that hedonistic pleasure-palace, but DuBrose preferred to worry. If he had known what was happening to his chief, he’d have worried harder. For the Falangists were still trying to incapacitate Robert Cameron.

  His anxiety neurosis was building up to psychosis as he sat down to lunch, lifted a spoon to his mouth—and the spoon kissed him.

  Seth Pell was in Ben DuBrose’s office when Dr. Emil Pastor televised. Pastor announced his discovery; everything was hollow, and he could make anything vanish by applying will power. He had already destroyed his laboratory, he said—

  He was insane. The equation had smashed him. When Pell became curious, Pastor demonstrated his power. “Like this,” he said, pointing to Pell and concentrating. “You don’t exist—”

  Seth Pell vanished.

  VII.

  The office had not changed. That seemed a minor miracle, somehow. The desk might have sprouted wings, the televisor could have scampered off on its bulky plastic base, and the White Queen should have jumped into the soup tureen. But the office was the same. The background to illogic remained cold, familiar logic. Emil Pastor’s gnomish face blinked at DuBrose from the visor screen, and beyond it Pell’s door stood half open.

  “Like that,” Pastor said quietly. “That’s how I do it, Mr. DuBrose.”

  Psychosis unclassified—but a tentative prognosis was possible. The impossible part of it was that Pastor’s psychosis was founded on paradox. He was insane and believed he could make things stop existing by applying will power.

  He could do it, too. Seth Pell had—blinked out.

  DuBrose didn’t want to move. The numbness of shock held him. But slowly his mind began to work again, and to see the danger. If someone came into the office now—the director, or anyone at all—Pastor’s precarious balance might be upset. The man was responsible, and he held a bomb that could blow up—

  All creation?

  Habit takes over when the planning faculty is paralyzed. Dimly DuBrose sensed that there were a dozen things to be done, but first of all it would be necessary to pacify Pastor. Though it had been years since his internship in Psychometric Base and the sanatoriums, old habits came to his aid.

  He knew he was facing a patient.

  Deliberately DuBrose let his mind go blank. He studied Pastor’s face. Visible symptoms? Case history? That eerie lab in the Rockies, with its clutter of ill-assorted furniture, the nonconventional color “stories” on the Fairyland projector, the very fact that Pastor had settled on this particular wild talent of controlled obliteration out of the variety of powers the equation apparently could bestow—adding up to what? There was a key to the man’s personality somewhere, a familiarity he had not sensed until now.

  Sentiment. That picture of Pastor’s wife and children—an emotional appeal?

  Essential amorality, lack of empathy, tremendous egotism, that could enable Pastor to wipe a man out of existence with utter casualness. As a child destroys a toy.

  A child is to a toy as Dr. Emil Pastor is to mankind—

  That was it. The subconscious motive. The murderous quintessence of rationalization. A madman will believe himself to be Christ, wound himself with the stigmata, and thereafter sincerely believe that the scars have appeared spontaneously and miraculously. Corroborative evidence.

  But Pastor’s mind had worked more clearly. First he had chosen and acquired the power that would prove the reality of his role; as yet he might not even have realized consciously that he was God.

  The ultimate paranoid egotism. Perfectly rationalized insanity!

  Pastor said, “Didn’t you see what I did? You weren’t watching—”

  DuBrose was rather surprised that he spoke instead of screaming. “Oh, I saw it. It surprised me, that was all. My reaction was pretty complicated. There’s an instinctive attempt at rationalization.” He was choosing carefully the words with useful emotional indexes.

  Pastor looked surprised. “But rationalization with what? You can’t do it. Only I can. You can’t possible perceive that everything’s hollow as a soap-bubble. You instinctively accept the expected. I’m able to do this because I’m skeptical.”

  ‘That’s true, I guess,” DuBrose said. Too facile agreement would strike the wrong note; but provoking an argument would be dangerous, because the physicist could so convincingly demonstrate the truth of his argument. “Anyway,” he went on, “I’m glad you remembered to vise me. You’ve an almost miraculous
power. Or—is it miraculous?”

  Pastor smiled. “I don’t know. I’m still surprised. I don’t really know the extent of my power.”

  “It’s a responsibility, I can see.”

  The physicist didn’t quite like that. He scowled a little. DuBrose went on quickly, “I’m not presuming to inquire about your plans—” He had almost used the word advise. But he had suddenly found a key to Pastor’s personality; there was a parallel of sorts in history—an isolated mountain retreat, cluttered with disorganized and tasteless furniture—a magpie’s nest—and a man who studied occultism instead of composing unorthodox color-treatments. Dr. Emil Pastor had much in common with the German Hitler.

  Pastor said doubtfully, “My plans? I don’t want—” He hesitated.

  “I’m extremely interested,” DuBrose said. “You can do miraculous things, Dr. Pastor. But you know much more about the possibilities than I do. You remember you showed me one of your Fairyland compositions?”

  “Yes,” Pastor said. “You didn’t pay much attention, though.”

  “I wanted to see more, but I knew you were busy. I did see enough to realize what sort of creative mind you must have. And now you’ll be able to compose on an indefinitely larger scale.”

  Pastor nodded. “I’ve just been destroying some things so far. Do you think that was wrong? I don’t know if I can create—”

  “Right and wrong are arbitrary values. They can be transcended.” Dangerous words, but necessary. DuBrose was trying to work on Pastor’s subconscious, which knew it was God, even though the conscious mind had not yet felt the impact of that delusion. “As I said, I’m very glad you vised me. I appreciate it. And, while I don’t know what you intend, I’m sure it will be—remarkable. I’ll be expecting an extraordinary composition.”

  Pastor said helplessly, “But I haven’t made any plans yet.”

  “The power is still new to you. You’ll need to learn how to handle it to the best effect, I suppose—is that right? Even if you make a few mistakes through being hasty, it won’t matter—right and wrong are arbitrary. But I would like to see what you’ll do. Would that be possible?”

  The flood of words had disconcerted Pastor. “You’re seeing me now.”

  “The visor screen’s limited. Would you let me come to your lab by copter? Don’t forget,” DuBrose said, “you can do exactly as you want. Nobody can stop you now. Forget my ideas if you don’t like any of them. I can’t help being enthusiastic. Sometimes I talk before I think. I’ve often jumped the gun and regretted it. If I were smart, I’d plan my moves in advance. But—” He shrugged.

  “Planning’s wise,” Pastor said.

  “Yes, it is! I want to think.” The screen suddenly went blank.

  DuBrose took a few steps and caught the edge of his desk. His whole body began to shake uncontrollably.

  He got that under control and vised Wyoming Emergency again. The same medic in charge came on.

  “Has that ambulance copter gone out for Pastor yet?”

  “Hello, Mr. DuBrose. Yes, we sent it out stat. You said emergency.”

  “Recall it. Double emergency. Don’t let your men get near Pastor.”

  “But if he’s psychotic—is he a violent case?”

  “He’s homicidal en masse.” DuBrose said grimly, “But as long as he’s sitting on top of the Rocky Mountains, it’s O.K. I hope. I don’t want him disturbed. He mustn’t be disturbed. Recall that copter!”

  “Right. I’ll call you back.”

  DuBrose said, “Yeah,” broke the connection, and put in a call to the Secretary of War. When Kalender’s heavy, hard face appeared on the screen, DuBrose was ready.

  “I need help,” he said. “You’re the only man who can authorize this, Mr. Secretary. It’s extralegal.

  But it’s absolutely vital.”

  “You’re Ben DuBrose,” Kalender said. “Well? What is it?”

  “Dr. Pastor—”

  “Has he solved the equation?”

  “He’s gone insane,” DuBrose said, Kalender grimaced.

  “Like the others. Well—”

  “Worse than the others. You remember that sanatorium case—M-204? The one who could nullify gravity. Pastor’s got hold of a power a lot more dangerous.”

  Kalender’s harsh face changed. Brass hat though he was, he was competent in his job.

  “How dangerous? Where is he?”

  “His Rocky Mountain lab. I just talked to him on the visor. I think he’ll stay put for a little while anyhow, making plans. And he’s expecting me. A copter can rocket down and blast him before he has time to retaliate.”

  “Retaliate how?”

  “By making the copter disappear.” DuBrose said carefully. “By making the Rocky Mountains disappear or by making the whole world disappear.”

  Kalender’s lips parted. His eyes tightened.

  DuBrose said, “I’m not insane. I haven’t been working on the equation myself. Pastor showed me proof, that’s all. Put a scanning ray on him, but be careful he doesn’t detect it. He’s destroyed most of his lab already.”

  “That’s fantastic,” the Secretary of War said.

  The visor hummed. DuBrose twisted a dial, saw a cameo face blink into view at one corner of the screen, and instantly snapped it blank again. He nodded at Kalender.

  “Pastor. Calling me back. Oversee this.”

  Kalender’s face faded as Pastor’s gnomish features checkered into a recognizable pattern. “Mr. DuBrose?”

  “You just caught me. I was about to leave—”

  “Don’t come. I’ve changed my mind.”

  “What?”

  “I thought it over,” Pastor said slowly, “and I saw the possibilities. I hadn’t quite realized before. I was intoxicated. At first. But when I sat down and tried to make plans, I realized what having this power means. I’m not going to use it. I’m not meant to use it.”

  DuBrose said, “You’ve decided that?”

  “Don’t you agree?”

  “I can see you must have your reasons. May I hear them?”

  “I think this may be—a test of humility. I know I have the power. That’s enough. I know all things are hollow. That’s enough too. On this mountain I have been shown the kingdoms and powers of the world. I have been tempted. But I’ll never use the power again.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “Think,” Pastor said. “Thoughts are the only real things in a hollow world. Gautama knew that.

  I’m wiping out my past. I was too much concerned with the hollow things . . . technology—” He smiled slowly. “So I won’t need to use my power. It was given to me as a test. And I survived that test. I know that meditation is more important than anything else.”

  DuBrose said, “You’re wise, I think. I agree with you.”

  “You can see why I mustn’t use the power again.”

  “Yes,” DuBrose said, “you’re right. And it’s symbolic that you destroyed your laboratory. It was the symbol of your past, and I believe you were meant to destroy just that much.”

  “Do you think so? Yes, I suppose . . . yes. My past has vanished. I can go forth without chains to a new life of meditation.”

  “Did you destroy all the past?”

  Pastor brought his eyes into focus. “All my—what?”

  “The laboratory. If you leave one part of your past still alive, it’ll be a bond, won’t it? And the lab is the symbol.”

  Pastor said, “One wall still stands.”

  “Should it stand?”

  “But I swore never to use the power again. It won’t matter.”

  “The symbol represents the truth,” DuBrose said. “It will matter. You must start fresh. A single bond now—”

  “I won’t use the power again!”

  “You haven’t completed your task. The power was given to you so you could destroy the symbol of your past. Until you fulfill that command you won’t be free. You won’t be able to enter into your new life.”

 
Pastor’s mouth twisted. “I . . . must I? Do you believe . . . that was what was meant?”

  “You know it was. The last symbol. Destroy it. Destroy it!”

  “All right,” Pastor said. “But it’s the last time I’ll ever use the power.”

  DuBrose said, “Push the visor away so I can see the wall go, will you? I want to be sure of your complete success.”

  Pastor’s face slid aside; there was a shifting panorama, and then the half-ruined wall of the laboratory stood against a cold gray sky. DuBrose said, “Stand where I can see you. Now.”

  “Well . . . but . . . DuBrose, must I—”

  “You must.”

  Pastor looked at the wall.

  The wall vanished.

  “Good.” DuBrose said. “The last symbol is gone.”

  Pastor’s face was puzzled. “No. I forgot—”

  “What?”

  “The visor. That’s the last—”

  The screen went blank.

  Kalender’s face came back. The Secretary of War was sweating.

  “You’re right. DuBrose. That man can’t stay alive.”

  “Then have him killed. But be careful. You’ll have to catch him by surprise.”

  “We’ll manage.” Kalender hesitated. “Why did you talk him into destroying that wall? Just to convince me?”

  “Partly.”

  “But he was determined not to use the power again—”

  DuBrose said angrily, “I had to be sure. He meant it then. But how long could he have held out. If I was able to talk him into using the power, the devils in his subconscious mind would eventually have done the same thing. If he had refused to destroy that wall, no matter how much I urged him, I might have figured it would be safe to let him live. Though even then—”

  “He can destroy—anything?”

  “Anything at all,” DuBrose agreed. “Or everything. And since he’s broken his word to himself once, he’ll do it again. Kill him. Fast. Before he can get off that mountain.”

  “I’ll send a warplane from Denver,” Kalender said. “I’d like . . . there’s no time now, though.

  Good-by.”

  As his face faded, the medic at Wyoming Emergency called.