And she was screaming and running down the aisle away from that sight, terrified. She lurched into the bean shelf, hurting her shoulder and sending cans toppling down about her and bouncing to the floor and rolling across the aisle. People turned to look at the commotion, surprised.
“No!” she cried shrilly. “I reject it! I refuse—”
So negative was her reaction that the scene itself wavered, losing its reality. She knew it was a vision, and she had a strong will and a fundamental aversion, and it was enough. The setting could not hold her any more than a nightmare could hold the sleeper who once consciously realized that it was dream-fabric and rejected it.
The room in the destroyer station came into view, the other people floating in their places. She had broken out.
Harold and Beatryx appeared to be conscious also, until she saw that they were not reacting to tangible events. Their eyes moved, their limbs worked, and now and then one of them would speak — but they paid no attention to her or to each other. They were deep in vision.
Ivo still played his instrument. His hands did all of it; he did not need to blow into any type of mouthpiece. The sounds were a medley of instruments, an entire orchestra, but with four predominating: the violin, the flute, the French horn and the bassoon. She could even pick out the individual themes. Strongest, for her, was that of the bassoon, though she knew it to be a difficult instrument to play effectively. Once someone had told her a story of a bassoonist who had gone crazy because of the reaction of his body to the reed vibration, tight lip-compression and extended breath pressure; he had suffered from chronic suffocation during long passages because he never had enough time to breathe out, and so his brain had been starved of oxygen. She had rejected this notion even in childhood, but knew that the bassoon in certain respects defied the conventional laws of sound, and that standard fingering did not guarantee proper notes.
She remembered hearing — minutes ago? hours? — one of the distinctive bassoon passages that composers were fond of; they were typically enamored of the coloring of this instrument’s tone, and of the clownlike propensities of its upper register. She had experienced both a short while ago, when she had been a—
A goat?
She shrugged away the suggestion. Evidently music did have power — the power to project the members of the present company into individual visions. Was Ivo himself having a vision? He was playing — yet his eyes moved and his lips parted as though in speech, without a sound. A partial vision, perhaps.
She had escaped the nightmare planned for her, but did not seem to be much better off. She was with the others physically, but in effect alone. What had gone wrong? Surely she should have entered an illumination of history or philosophy, not a supermarket!
Beatryx spoke: first an embarrassed laugh, then words. “I am not fair! I’m almost forty!”
Almost. Harold had of course made up one of his horoscopes on her, saying something about a “seesaw” planetary typing. From that, ironically, he was able to conclude that Beatryx was the proper wife for him. Was he right? It did seem so. And what did he have to say about Afra’s own marital propensities, determined by her moment of birth? She had never admitted it to him, but she was quite curious.
As though in answer to his wife, Harold said: “One static brush for the Queen.”
Ivo went on playing, and from his weird instrument the music of the symphony projected throughout the chamber. Afra continued to respond to the passages of the bassoon, neither loud nor sharp yet truly penetrating in their fashion. Almost, as she watched, she could make out the outline of the unique woodwind within the framework of his moving hands. Eight feet of tubing, narrowing and folding back upon itself, with the tilted slender mouthpiece containing the double reed, and with holes to govern the notes. The theme was expressive, distinctive, evocative, expert, soulful; it moved her, drew her down into—
She yanked herself out, refusing to reenter that vision.
“It’s very nice,” Beatryx said. “But—”
“The Drone will assume command,” Harold replied.
A pause. “Thank you so much.”
Afra watched and listened, confining the encompassing music to the background of her awareness. They were participating, and she was not, and that bothered her — but her own vision was unacceptable. Could she enter one of theirs?
“What is the immediate objective?” Harold asked. Afra arched an eyebrow at him. “The immediate objective? To find out exactly what is—”
“And the mines will prevent subsequent attacks?”
“That depends what—”
“How does the Felk armament compare to ours?”
Afra shrugged. “I don’t think you’re paying proper attention, Harold.”
“How much time do we have?”
She looked at Beatryx and at Ivo. “We may have forever, Harold, if we don’t get out of here before we starve. If we can starve in vision-land. Dreaming may be entertaining, but, as Frost said—”
“How much time do we have before the enemy breaks through and destroys the station?”
“Really, Robert Frost is hardly an enemy. He—”
“You plan to wait for them to attack?”
“As Frost said: ‘The dreams are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And—’ ”
“Why?”
“Harold, you don’t ask ‘why?’ to a poem!”
“Yet with their ships massed and traveling at high velocity, our scattered forces cannot hope to stop them all. And one ship should be sufficient to blast the station.”
“Of course Frost said ‘woods’ rather than ‘dreams’ but I thought I’d—”
“You have no manuals of strategy?”
“No I don’t, damn you! I stick to simple sex appeal.”
“Provided he lives.”
“Provided you live. You are impossible, Harold.”
“And the Felks are similarly organized? No study of the lessons of history?”
She turned away from him, finding the amusement shallow. The mellow bassoon theme surrounded her again, and she fought it off again. She could even make out the rosewood length of the instrument, the distinctive circle of ivory around the top opening. Despite the bizarre circumstance she was moved by the poignant beauty of Ivo’s music. He had taken this alien contraption and produced — a symphony, each theme, each instrument of which was discrete and perfect. He was a skilled bassoonist, as well as a remarkable flutist. If only she had known about his musical gifts earlier!
Beatryx looked unhappy. “Here?” she inquired.
Afra wondered what it was that so disturbed the woman; then, observing her actions, began to understand. Inadequate sanitary facilities, in that particular vision. She went to help Beatryx, so as to spare her embarrassment when she came out of it. It turned out to be the motions only, and a little later the older woman slept.
Time passed.
Harold talked again, of ships and tactics and negotiations. Never, oddly, of astrology. She would have been happier if he had.
Afra practiced swimming in the air, and made her way away from the others. She searched for the boundaries of the chamber, but the mist became dense — “lovely, dark and deep,” she thought — and in this free-fall state she had no internal sense of direction. She realized that she could lose herself here, from even that pseudo-companionship the others provided, and did not relish the prospect.
She returned to the group, fixed her eyes on Ivo and his mythical band, and allowed herself to drift toward sleep. When this was over, there would be — oh, important matters — to discuss with him. His — well, his talents, and… his…
Nothing had changed when she woke.
“I really don’t know anything about campsites,” Beatryx was saying.
Several hours had passed, certainly — yet she was not hungry or otherwise in distress, physically. It was as though bodily processes had ceased for the duration, except as suggested (but not c
onsummated) in the visions for verisimilitude. Somehow consciousness, direct or indirect, persisted in each person in spite of this stasis. Another marvel of galactic science? Why not.
Ivo still played. She wondered how his steadily agile hands were enduring. No fatigue either, here? At any rate, the visions were likely to end when the music finished. Then what?
Their mission — her mission — had brought them to this dread place, yet the climax was oddly insubstantial. Where was the enemy? Where the denouement? She had not really expected to struggle bloodily against a horde of ravening monsters; but this?
More hours passed. Harold slept. Beatryx went through a mysterious episode of terror, crying “Kill it!” and after subsiding from that, “That’s a man!” Then she was very quiet.
Harold talked to someone or something evidently inhuman, unhuman. Portions of his dialogue were revealing. “You are the one-in-a-thousand! The species that is immune to the destroyer… You — you built the destroyer!… Why are you doing this? Why are you reserving true space travel for yourselves?” Then: “And I am supposed to — to participate in the other side too? When I’m not even certain I agree with this side?”
Waking or dreaming, at least Harold seemed to know which side he was on. He was putting up, in his fashion, a good fight. Afra, in his (assumed) position, would have deleted the polite qualifications and told somebody to go to hell sideways.
“The destroyer — only destroys evil minds?”
Afra was forming more of the picture. Evil minds — like that of Bradley Carpenter? Surely Harold would not succumb to casuistry of that ilk.
But certain other bits he uttered stirred the beginnings of a profound doubt in her. Had they misjudged the destroyer, after all this? Impossible — yet…
Beatryx began to speak again. She was talking with someone about fire, and water, and humanity. Before that she had spent considerable time calling “Black — black — where are you?” Afra had had to tune out the plaintive repetition. Now they were talking together, and Harold was finally on the subject of astrology. It was difficult to follow both conversations simultaneously, and she had to settle for snatches from one or the other.
Then: “You were not wrong, Dolora.”
Beatryx went through an inexplicable series of contortions, then was walking or swimming strenuously, while Harold continued blithely discoursing on astrological technology. Then a sudden outburst: “But you don’t understand! You have to listen—”
Her voice was cut off by an inarticulate noise, and Beatryx doubled over, her face twisted in agony.
Afra paddled over as rapidly as she could, aware that a new and ugly element had been added. A crisis of some sort was at hand.
Ivo went on playing.
Beatryx was lying quietly by the time she got there. Afra tried to lift the older woman, but in the null-G only wrestled herself around. It was pointless, anyway — position made no difference, when there was no weight to support. She was acting without thinking, and to no avail.
Suddenly she realized that Beatryx was not breathing.
Afra clasped the woman’s head, poked a finger in her mouth to clear it of any possible obstruction, and applied the kiss of life: mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
There was no immediate response, but she kept on, exhaling into Beatryx’s lungs, breaking to inhale herself while hugging the inert chest to force out the air. Again, she could not depend on gravity to assist.
As she labored in such measured desperation, hearing Ivo’s bassoon and Harold’s intermittent remarks in the background, scenes of their association illuminated her vision.
Beatryx, at the torus-station, carrying a platter of food in to their first meal as a foursome: She and Harold, Afra and Ivo… and Brad too, then. Beatryx, beside her as Joseph blasted into space with the macroscope. Beatryx, trying to comprehend a difficult concept during an early discussion. Beatryx, declaring “Meeting come to order!” Beatryx in spacesuit, tentatively exploring the Schön-moonlet of Triton.
Beatryx, always ameliorative. Unimportant flashes — yet so poignant now, as Afra realized how important the quiet presence and support of the older woman had been to her.
Older? Beatryx had never looked so young as she did at this moment…
Still she did not breathe — and there was no heartbeat.
Beatryx, tending her garden on Triton. Beatryx, waxing hysterical in Afra’s defense, during that mock, not-so-mock trial.
“Tryx, Tryx!” she cried. “You were the only one who understood—”
It was no use. Beatryx was dead.
Afra wrenched away and launched herself at Harold. She took hold of his shoulders and shook, rocking herself more violently than him. “Wake up! Wake up!”
Harold did not respond.
“Harold — your wife is dead!” she cried in his ear, slapping him.
Now he began to react. “But—”
“She just died and I can’t — I can’t — you’ve got to do something! Wake up!”
He looked stunned. “How — when — ?”
Hastily Afra explained, continuing to shake him so that he could not relapse.
His eyes widened. “I must go back to her!”
Then, gradually, he went limp, and nothing she could do revived him. The dream had reclaimed him.
Afra looked around in a fever of desperation — and saw Ivo, still playing. It was time for the music to end.
She went to Ivo and yanked the instrument from his grasp.
The orchestra stopped, the sound dying away from all the misty reaches of the hall.
The floor reappeared beneath them, and walls around them, much closer than she had supposed, and doors in front and back. Weight returned.
She watched Ivo, waiting for his awareness. He sat for a moment, eyes unfocused. Then he raised his head with a sharpness of decision that was not typical and looked directly at her.
“Thanks, doll,” he said.
“Ivo — something terrible has happened. Beatryx—” He stood up smoothly, flexing his fingers as though they were stiff. “I know. A black shot her with a speargun. Silly woman.”
Afra stared at him.
“And your engineer — he’s in stasis on the way to deep space. He’s beyond the reach of this toy, now. It’ll be years before he comes out of it, if he ever does. That cuts it down to two, baby.”
She backed away. “You’re not Ivo! You’re—” He picked up the orchestral instrument. “Ivo — Ivon — Ivan — Johan — John — Sean — Shane — Schön! You broke the chain, blue-eyes. You interfered — again! — and Ivo-at-the-idiot-end lost out, just as Brad did. You do have a talent for that. Now—”
A memory — something important — nudged the surface of her awareness, but she had no time for it now. Afra raced toward the door, not pausing to consider where she might be going or why.
“Not so hasty, dish,” Schön called after her. “I am not finished with you.” He lifted the musical device and held it dramatically before him. “In fact, I have not yet begun to fight.”
She had almost reached the door, and could see a lighted hall beyond. It was not the one they had entered by. She reached toward it—
And rebounded from a pliant rail.
The recoil threw her to the floor. She landed on her fanny, facing back toward the center of the room.
It was not a room any more. It was a stadium, filled by faces peering up, none distinguishable, and by crowd noises that remained in the background. She perched on a raised platform enclosed by resilient cord. It was a square: the type of arrangement known as a boxing or wrestling ring.
Schön was entering at the far corner, dressed in fighting trunks and laced footwear. His muscular torso shone brown in the glare of the overhead light, and his eyes and teeth were brilliant.
Her glance caught him in that pose: a pugilist entering the ring. It was, as she saw it, the moment of supreme power for him; he dominated. There was nothing she could do to stop him or even inhibit him, whate
ver he intended.
As though recognizing the strength of the image, he paused, head inside the ring, one foot outside, the rope held up by one hand. “You don’t understand, do you, stupid,” he said. “You don’t know what any of this means. Hell, you purebred clod, you can’t even face your own symbol.”
She pulled herself up, but hesitated to climb out of the rope enclosure until she knew what Schön was planning, and what other barriers he was able to conjure. It just might be safer in the ring than out.
He did not move immediately, and in that interim of tension she assessed herself. She was dressed as she had been: culottes halted above the knee, snap-slippers designed to fit within the large space-suit shoes, elastic blouse, ribbon tie-down for her hair. The outfit was brief, for the sake of mobility and air-circulation within the space suit, and attractive, for the sake of appearances outside. She cared about those appearances and didn’t mind admitting it, and she had had special reason to be presentable at this time.
Now Beatryx was dead and Harold gone, and Ivo had given way grotesquely to Schön. Beatryx, looking raptly at alien pictures. Harold, fascinated by strange machines. Ivo—
Her aspirations of yesterday were meaningless. She could not even spare attention for proper grief, though that would come the moment this chase abated.
Her assessment was now in terms of physical fitness: the clothing she wore would not encumber her in any way, and she had the health to move quickly and with stamina. She knew from fairly intimate observation that the Ivo/Schön physique was not particularly impressive. The apparent musculature of his present body was a function of the illusion, the waking vision he had somehow simulated for them both. She had no doubt that Schön, with his multiple and devastating skills, could overcome her readily if he once caught her — but he might not be able to catch her.
She confined her assessment to those physical terms. She did not question his mental superiority. Emotionally he might be a child, or at best an adolescent; intellectually he was the leading genius mankind had produced.
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