by Zach Hughes
of things inside her head, could see the damage, and his fingers flew to her head and pushed and his mind went into her brain and dislodged the splinters and all the time he was crying and cursing and people stood by gaping and making sounds and he was not even aware of them because he felt the power and pushed and probed with his mind until the splinters were pushed out and the intricate gray matter grew back into its little whorls and cells and the bone rejoined bone and the break-split closed and the blood stopped and Caster opened her eyes and said, «Luke!» Then he was leaning over her, putting his face near the gutter to vomit bile and acid, because his stomach was full of it and she was looking up at him in wonder and the people were silent, awed. Then the storm broke about him. «Did you see?» «He healed her?» «Dead if I ever saw one. Head split open.» «Healed!» «Healed!» «He healed her.» «Heal me!» A babble of voices, grunts as people pushed, fought to be near him, cried out, begged. «Help me, brother. Heal me, brother Heal! Heal! Heal!» Caster, with her hand on her head, bringing it away bloody Looking at Luke with wonder in her eyes. «I saw the landship—» «Help me, brother. Heal. Help. Help. Heal—» «You did it, Luke,» Caster was saying, as Luke sat up weakly, wiping his mouth. The realization hit Luke. He laughed through tears, his voice rising toward hysteria. «Thank you, Jesus. Thank you. Lord Oh, God, thank you.» And a new sound in the babble of the gathering crowd, an awed outrush of wind from diseased lungs, a low, awe-stricken gasp and, looking up, his face ecstatic, Luke saw his sign. An angel it was, a female angel with blazing red hair and a diaphanous, long garment which clung and revealed without being vulgar because she was sent from God, lowering, moving, looking down, descending from the cloud of smog and the crowd falling back and Luke on his knees beside Caster, his hands clasped, saying, «Thank you sweet Jesus.» And the angel, his angel, sent from God, coming lower and lower and then her feet touching and no words, just a look at Luke and a beckoning gesture. Trembling, Luke arose. She beckoned. He took two tremulous steps forward and she reached out in impatience and her hand on his arm was soft and yet like fire filled with the power of God and then Luke was crying and praying because below him he could see them, the people, and Caster, standing now, holding up her arms, her lips moving, but Luke couldn't hear as she cried out, «Luke, Luke.» And ever swifter, rising. Angel-borne, her hand on his arm. Like the time he was in the Brotherfuzz atmoflyer and seeing the city below and this time there was no atmoflyer, only a solidity under his feet and the feeling of being enclosed, and down below the Brotherfuzz vehicles moving in and before he was so high he could no longer tell one
from another, the little ants on the streets, the Brotherfuzz seizing Caster and him saying, «We've got to help her. Don't you see, we've got to help her.» But the angel was silent, looking past him, looking up, her beautiful face expressionless. «Please, please help her.» And God opened up his heavens and sent down a ship which opened for them, taking them in. CHAPTER ELEVEN Brother Kyle Murrel, President of the Republic by the grace of God and
a long wait for his father to die, stalked into Colonel Ed Baxley's study with a scowl on his face. His long robe swished with his powerful strides. His cleric's cap was low on his forehead at a somewhat rakish angle. Baxley, trim in a white uniform much like that worn by his cadets at University One, stood. «Brother President,» he acknowledged. Murrel, without
waiting for an invitation, sat in the chair facing Baxley's desk, his long legs outthrust. «You read the report?» «I read it,» Baxley said. «Then you realize the urgency involved.» «Urgency?» Baxley was fingering the thick sheaf of papers stamped TOP SECRET—EYES ONLY. «Yes, dammit,» Murrel said. «Something's going on, colonel. We've got to move before it goes any further.» «The measures you've suggested seem rather drastic to me,» Baxley said. «Drastic?» Murrel leaped to his feet and began to pace. «Drastic? Let's review the situation, colonel. We've known for years that there is a scientific underground. Yet we've never been able to find it. We keep getting vague reports, hints, smatterings of information which, when checked out, lead us nowhere. Then there is a series of events. First, the Nebulous disaster. Our last foothold in space, for what it was worth, destroyed. At first we didn't suspect. We accepted it as an accident. But then a ragged Apprentice Brother, formerly one of your students—» «For a short while, Brother,» Baxley said. He'd been briefed thoroughly on the incident. «—heals a fatal wound with some sort of instant medicine. Still we see nothing which indicates a connected conspiracy. Yesterday, however, a preacher whose description fits exactly with that of the principal in the first instant-medicine incident perpetrates another feat of instant, miraculous medicine on a woman whose head was crushed by a motor vehicle—» «A police cruiser, to be exact,» Baxley said drily. «—and then is spirited from under the very nose of the police by a woman dressed in a nightgown who came down from the sky without any apparent vehicle.» «That is the part that sounds somewhat fanciful to me,» Baxley said. «Substantiated by hundreds of witnesses, among whom were half a dozen experienced police officers,» Murrel said, still pacing. «You've not proven that it was one and the same man,» Baxley said. «No, but the coincidence is worth noting, isn't it? Two impossible feats of curing performed by a thin, lank-haired young preacher hardly seem disconnected. Moreover, if the feats were performed by two different men, this is even more indication that they have developed something of which we have no knowledge.» Murrel ran his hand under his cap, replaced it, sat down. «That's why, colonel, that the Cabinet and I feel it's time to make a move.» «But to put the entire country under martial law'?» Baxley smiled. «Isn't that overreaction?» «There is one thing that you may not know,» Murrel said, looking at Baxley through narrowed eyes. «I said that we had accepted the Nebulous accident theory.» «Yes.» Baxley said. «It was no accident, my dear colonel.» «Yes?» Baxley said. His face was expressionless. «Government scientists ran some routine checks on some of the space
debris which fell in this country. There was undeniable evidence that a fire gun had been used.» «Impossible,» Baxley said, controlling himself with a great effort. «Impossible,» Murrel said. «I agree. And yet it happened. The residual
effects of a fire gun, as you yourself well know, are duplicated by no other force known to man.» «Sir,» Baxley said, standing stiffly. «I must, of course, take this as a direct challenge to my loyalty, since I and I alone control the fire gun arsenal.» Murrel was President, but the man before him was Colonel Ed Baxley. He stood, holding out his hand. «No, colonel. No. Your loyalty is without question. Please believe me. No one in the government has even intimated that you could be at fault in any way. However, there has been a suggestion that your security procedures be reviewed.» «If the government doubts my ability to control the arsenal, then I hereby tender my resignation,» Baxley said stiffly. «Please, colonel,» Murrel said, showing his nervousness. After all, the man before him was, so to speak, the father of the Second Republic. «Please, colonel, don't say such things. No one is more respected. No one further above suspicion. But you've been busy, colonel. You've been concerned with the administration of the University, with a dozen other things. All we're asking is could it be possible that someone, some trusted subordinate perhaps, could have smuggled a fire gun out of the arsenal?» «It is not only impossible,» Baxley said, «it is patently absurd to even suggest such an idea.» «Then we have to assume that they have developed the fire gun,» Murrel said. «And that makes the matter all that more urgent. For not only have they devised a means to move through air without apparent vehicle, not only have they come up with some magical method of healing fatal injuries, they are now in possession of the weapon which has guaranteed the security of this state since the revolution.» Baxley, still standing, sighed. «So it would seem,» he said coldly. «We have drawn up a plan for the most thorough search operation of all time,» Murrel said. «We must find them. If we have to tear down every building in every city in this country—if we have to dig into the very bowels of the Earth.» «Do you plan to person
ally search one billion people?» «If necessary,» Murrel said. He mused, his chin in his hand. «It may not be necessary. Bystanders reported to our police that the woman who was healed in Middle City was seen walking with the man who healed her before the accident. We are now questioning her.» «With shakeshock'?» Baxley asked contemptuously. Murrel smiled. «No. We lose too many of them that way. There are, however, other methods.» «Are we going back to Inquisition methods of torture now?» Baxley asked. Murrel smiled. «I detect a touch of bitterness, colonel. No, no Inquisition. However, we have found that kindness does not make these people respond. I assure you, the woman will talk.» Later, when Murrel had gone, Baxley sat looking out the huge glass windows. Yes, he had spoken in bitterness. Lately, he was feeling more and more bitter about a lot of things. The Brothers had been in power for thirty years. He had helped them seize that power. He had helped overthrow a government which, once, gave more things to more people than any other government the Earth had known. He'd helped, had been instrumental, in fact, because the old government was failing and people were suffering. He'd helped because the Brothers, with their clean, wholesome approach, had seemed to be the solution. Men of God in power. God's mercy administered by men of the faith. The people benefiting and being made whole again, misery abolished, sickness conquered, overcrowding somehow eliminated, perhaps through reclaiming some of the vast land masses which had been made unlivable by the great Communist war. Yet, in thirty years, the situation had, in fact, become worse. There were no more people, the leveling-off aspect of severe overcrowding and lack of medical care had seen to that, but there were just as many people and they still died. The Brothers gave them, even the Fares, a new ground car every year, but they ate whole fish meal three times a day and coughed blood from seared lungs. Yes, he questioned. Yes, he was bitter. Now they were turning, all those faceless millions. Now another force was moving. He knew that there had been no fire gun developed, but, then, they wouldn't need a fire gun. If they had medicine, and the reports on the miraculous cures in the streets of Old Town and Middle City seemed to indicate that something had developed there, that would go a long way toward winning the confidence of the people. If they had some miraculous method of air transport, as indicated by the reports on the last incident in Middle City, they might, also, have a start, at least, toward a safety valve for the overcrowding. A scientist who could move through the air without apparent support might just also have the power to move through space. Baxley felt a kind of excitement. Space! There were people on his staff at the University who talked of space as the cure-all, the answer. And the government did not agree, choosing to squander the remaining wealth of the nation on ground cars and other status consumer items while the race moved in retrograde back to bare subsistence levels. He questioned the administration decision to forgo any further space research following the Nebulous disaster. But, alone in his office, looking down on the well-clipped parade ground, seeing his cadets move pridefully and quickly during a change in classes, he remembered when his first question was asked. His son, Ronnie, spared the filth of sexual knowledge, thinking that God was sending his little brother on the moon rocket, had destroyed man's last outpost in space. He didn't blame Ronnie. Ronnie had been a willful,
spoiled child, but it had been adults who spoiled him, the colonel included. And questioning the thinking which led Richard Skeerzy, the late preaching Brother, to tell Ronnie the modern fairy tale about birth did not mean that the colonel was ready to throw away all decent values in the false name of truth. There were things a young boy should not know. Almost wryly he wondered if, with Ronnie dreading having to share his father with a little brother so much, if the boy would have killed his own mother had he known the real method of arrival of a baby. But that was silly. The question was, had they been wrong? Should they have told Ronnie something more akin to the truth? Ask one question— Now they, the administration, had requested that he, as the nation's number-one military hero, take personal charge of the effort to ferret out the new rebels. He had said no. But sitting alone, wondering, questioning, thinking about what source it would mean if the new rebels had come up with a new power source capable of sending man into space again, and not just in fuel-burning rockets with limited speed and range, he reconsidered. He was not in sympathy with anyone who wanted to overthrow the government. He had been that route and thirty years of experience had shown him that overthrow is not necessarily the answer. But if anyone found a group of scientists who could so change the world that there might be some hope, after all, he wanted it to be him. Otherwise the Brothers, in their iron-boot mentality, might put all of the rebels on the rack and shakeshock all knowledge out of them. He could not allow such a waste. He punched a button Brother President Murrel had just returned to his office. «Baxley here. Brother President,» the Colonel said in his most
impressive voice. «After thinking over your request, I would like to say that it is not only my duty but my honor to serve the Republic in any manner for which I have the capacity.» «We are pleased, colonel,» Murrel said. «You'll take command immediately. The Vice President will brief you on progress made to date. Meanwhile, is there anything you'd like. Equipment? Personnel? Information?» «I'd like to question the girl.» Murrel frowned. «Her interrogation is being conducted by qualified experts.» «Nevertheless, I'd like to see her.» Murrel made a gesture of impatience. He'd been against dragging the old warhorse back into harness from the first, but the others had insisted
that, in a time of crisis, the active participation of the national hero would lend a certain respectability to the operation. «That can be arranged,» he said, finally. «I'll get back to you.» «Brother Murrel,» Baxley said, «if I'm to be in command of this
operation I shall expect to have full authority. I shall expect access to all information.» «She's being held in the old Pentagon,» Murrel said sullenly. CHAPTER TWELVE The sensor mechanisms of the ship blanketed the Third Planet. The
ship, itself, was lying in the protective shadow of the rather large satellite
of the planet, safe from detection. For five planetary rotations the ship lay there, motionless in space, while automatic things hummed and searched in vain for any trace of suspicion. She checked the information eagerly, wanting to find the offending
radiations, wanting to collect her specimens and start the long, boring trip home. In frustration, after the fifth rotation, she demanded a recheck on the original sensor, the ancient device which was still in operation out beyond the Ninth Planet. Once again the reliability of the sensor was proved. Since the ship's instruments showed no anti-detection activity from the planet, she ordered that the vessel be moved in closer. From the new distance, visual observation was possible. She was sickened. The incredible conditions on the planet below seemed to offer conclusive proof that the original condition of the inhabitants had not changed significantly. The total technological progress of eons seemed to be expressed in an inefficient internal-combustion-primitive mechanicalism. After the quiet splendor of the home worlds, the planet below seemed to be nothing more than a hive of unattractive insectlike beings crowded into huge, cancerous cities. Since the city concept had been discarded early in
the history of the race as being hopelessly detrimental to well-being, this, too, proved to her the inferiority of the racelike beings who peopled the world below. We will go back. The observation is inconclusive. Positive readings of a planet-killing weapon cannot be ignored. She used the name of the ancient deity, a knowledge which had been stirred by the opening of the closed areas of her brain. But she agreed to wait. Two rotations near the planet. Nothing. The burning of bodies fascinated her. Huge quantities of them. Around each city vast complexes of ovens into which death was pushed each day. It was incredible. A people who faced death could not accomplish a
technical feat such as the manufacture of a planet killer. It was against all reason. But there was the quiet, eternally circling space debris which had been discovered shortly after moving t
he ship to its new location. She joined with a section of what was apparently a primitive combustion rocket, locked it into a port, examined it with the aid of a technology so far advanced that the secrets of the rocket were revealed within minutes. It was puzzling. Those hopeless people down there had, at some time not too far past, been in space. Pursuing this aspect, she searched the surface of the satellite by scoutship and found traces of activity there. Discarded vehicles were detected. However, there was no sign of permanent occupation of the airless satellite. Those who had come had gone, and left only discarded machines and pitiable plaques reading, she assumed, not taking the trouble to run the primitive printed language through the computers, proudly of the conquest of the tiny bit of space between the satellite and the planet. Yet, even that much accomplishment did not fit the pattern. The beings on the planet were not supposed to be in space at all. As a matter of fact, the primitive mechanical technology, expressed mainly in ground vehicles and a few atmosphere flying machines, was, according to the long-range predictions of the ancients, beyond the capacity of the beings on the planet. Thus, she was forced to stay. Frustration and anger activated the glands of her body. She required almost constant attention. It was a bore. She knew the working of her body intimately. Under normal circumstances, periodic checks were sufficient. Now it was necessary to make checks twice each rotation of the planet, otherwise she began to feel the vague uneasiness of excess glandular activity, the nagging ache of dying cells. She wanted, more than anything, to activate one of the weapons and burn the offending planet from the skies. Thus, when the sensors alarmed, she was in a vindictive mood. The
