“Oh, it’sinteresting, all right. Dragons, volcanoes — what next?”
Something came out of the rocks to the right of the fairway. It was a strange animal about ten feet long and five and a half high at the shoulders. It had a feline body and the head and wings of a bird of prey. Talons tipped its two front feet, cat paws the rear.
“Looks familiar,” Thaxton said.
“I believe I had two of those on the front stoop of my brown-stone,” Dalton said.
“Yes, I know what you mean. Sphinx?”
“Gryphon.”
“Right. Beautiful thing, in a way.”
The beast turned its head and regarded them. It opened its curved beak and emitted a piercing cry.
Thaxton took a step back. “Then again …”
It did not move toward them. Instead, it flapped its wings, stalked across the fairway, and went out of sight behind a multicolored outcropping.
“You’re up,” Dalton said.
“But …that. No telling if it might come back.”
“I promise we’ll stop and have lunch after nine.”
“Lunch? What does that have to do —?Where, for the love of God?”
“We’ll find someplace. This is a golf course. It’s open for business, and patrons must be served. There’ll be something.”
“You’re a bit balmy, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Well, we can hardly go back, can we?”
Thaxton seemed defeated. “Bloody hell, I suppose that’s true.” He snorted and drew himself up. “Right! Well, then.”
“About a par seven,” Dalton mused.
Thaxton teed his ball, cupped a hand to his mouth, and yelled, “Fore!”
“Nice touch.”
“Well, we don’t want any gryphons getting their craniums whacked, do we?”
“Certainly not.”
“All due respect for endangered mythical species.”
A geyser of smoke and fire burst forth from the desert to the right of the fairway, close to where the gryphon had broken from cover.
“Uh-oh.” Thaxton stared at the incipient volcano for a long moment. Then he glanced back at Dalton. “Right!” He addressed his ball.
They played through, dodging the occasional globules of red-hot magma that shot out of the brewing caldera, trailing a white streamer of smoke, and landed on the fairway. Noxious gases drifted by, and Thaxton choked and coughed. Dalton tied a handkerchief around his face and carried on. Despite it all, Thaxton hit a beauty of a five-iron that threaded between two enormous bunkers and landed an easy chip shot away from the green.
“I’ll be on in five!” Thaxton enthused.
Dalton fared not so well, ending up in one of the Saharas of sand. Wedge in hand, he struck out across the wastes.
Thaxton was on the green in no time and marked his ball. Dalton’s explosion shot came out of the bunker trailing a streamer of sand. The ball bounded across the green, barely missing the pin, and came to a halt in the taller grass at the edge.
“If it weren’t for the heat, the monsters, the falling bloody lava, and the fact that I’d bloody well kill for a drink and something to eat, I’d actually be enjoying this,” Thaxton said.
“Best course I’ve ever played,” Dalton agreed.
Ash began to drift down as the volcano grew angrier. The fumes got worse.
“We’ve got to get out of here pronto,” Dalton said calmly.
Thaxton sank his ball in one putt. “An eagle! A veritable eagle!”
“Congratulations.”
By the time Dalton two-putted his way to par, ash covered the green and the fumes were just short of lethal.
Thaxton gasped, “It’s like bloody Pompeü!”
They ran.
The next tee was thankfully far enough away to be out of danger, but this hole had its own peculiar problems. There was a lake around the green, but that was the least of the worries.
Thaxton surveyed the fairway. “Lava hazard,” he said.
A river of liquid fire ran down the left side of the fairway, bowing out in one place to leave a narrow strip of grass as a bridge to the green. There were two volcanic cones, one on each bordering strip of wasteland. The left one was the source of the lava. The one on the right spouted smoke only, but thickly.
They played. Sure enough, Thaxton’s drive hooked sharply and landed on the island of grass hemmed in by the lava stream. He cursed mightily.
“There’s no way to get over there!” he screamed.
“So you lose a stroke.”
Thaxton was adamant. “I’m not going to lose a stroke.”
“Then swim.”
There was an alternative. Near the tee the stream curled sharply back into the rocks, and at the bend the lava had slowed and cooled, turning solid and forming a partial dam. The flow was pinched in on the other side. The breach was narrow enough for a foolhardy soul to try jumping it, if he could get across the clot of congealed stuff without burning his feet off.
Thaxton was foolhardy enough.
“Surely you’re joking,” Dalton said, staring with fascination into the viscous, glowing goop. Sections of a scum of cooled matter floated on the surface.
“I’ve got spikes,” Thaxton said, lifting a shoe.
“I wouldn’t try it.”
“I’m not losing a stroke to a spot of liquid rock.”
“Suit yourself.”
Driver in hand, Thaxton jumped onto the shoal of solidified lava. He dashed across it and leaped the gap, landing with a roll on the singed grass. The soles of his shoes were smoking.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine, no problem.” Thaxton fanned his shoes, got up, and stamped his feet. “No damage.”
“How are you going to get back?”
“Same way, of course.”
“Hold on, now. If you fall on the solid stuff you’ll get burned.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Don’t quite know. Make your shot and I’ll think about it.”
“Right.”
Thaxton found his ball and whacked it, then went to the edge of the lava stream and scouted. He shook his head. No way. He watched Dalton, who was on the other side of the fairway making his shot.
He heard the screech of a bird above, and looked.
“Hmph. Now what.”
It was an enormous black bird, and it was gliding straight for him, sharp talons at the ready. The wingspan was staggering. The eyes seemed to have intelligence in them. Or was it malevolence? Thaxton pondered the question as the creature swooped.
The claws hit him and he was yanked into the air. The grip was like a vise’s but not crushing. He caught his breath and tried to pry the huge toes apart as the ground dropped away.
Of all the rotten luck, he thought, after my only good hole!
He wriggled and squirmed and managed to get one shoulder free. He lifted a leg and tried to kick the bird’s stomach, but couldn’t reach. He upended himself and kicked at the leg instead. He connected once, missed, connected again, thinking that he’d landed a good one.
He must have; the bird let go.
Of course by this time he was a good two hundred feet off the ground.
Nine
Hospital
He woke up in a hospital bed. At least it looked like one. Wires connected him to beeping machines and tubes ran into his veins. A single white sheet draped him.
He looked around. The room was windowless but bright, and was otherwise featureless, except for a slogan on the far wall.
DISCIPLINE COMES FROM WITHIN
“Sounds pretty kinky to me,” he said, trying to sit up. He was thirsty, and there was a pitcher and a glass on a small table nearby.
While he was pouring, a young man in a white coat came in carrying a small device with a screen. He was short and had a receding chin.
“You’re up!”
Gene took a long drink, then sat back. “Yup. What was it? Knockout gas?”
“What was
what?” the man said, punching the keyboard on his device.
“Never mind. What am I doing here?”
“Oh, we’ve taken a good look at you. Ran some tests.”
“I’ll bet. And?”
The man looked up. “And?”
“What did you find?”
“Nothing much. You’re in perfect health physically. Mentally, fine. Spiritually, not so good, though.”
“Oh? What’s wrong in that department?”
“You don’t have InnerVoice.”
“I see. What’s that?”
“A guide to right behavior. Nothing more than that.”
“And I don’t have it.”
“Didn’t have it. We corrected that.”
“Oh, good.”
The man stepped to the machines and noted readings, entering them into the device.
“Is that standard procedure when you find someone without this inner voice stuff?”
“Pretty much.”
“I see. What did the police say about me?”
“Police?”
“I was brought here by the police, wasn’t I?”
“No, you were referred to us by the Citizens’ Committee on Solidarity.”
“Uh-huh. Not the police.”
“There are no ‘police,’ citizen. That’s a very old-fashioned concept.”
“No police?”
“They’re not needed.”
“Who were the guy and gal with the guns who brought me in?”
“Well, it sounds like you were picked up by the Citizens’ Committee for Constant Struggle.”
“You mean the army?”
“More or less.”
“You don’t need police, but you do need the army.”
“When the whole world has InnerVoice, then there won’t be any need for constant struggle.”
“Ohhh, I see. It’s all so clear now.”
The man smiled. “It will be. Hungry?”
“No. Actually I have a date for lunch. So, if you’ll get these tubes out of my lymph nodes — ”
“You can’t leave.”
“No? Is the Citizens’ Committee for Constant Struggle outside the door?”
The man shook his head.
“Are you going to stop me?”
He shook his head again.
“Right.”
Gene began yanking off tubes and wires.
“You’re not allowed to do that,” the man said.
“You seem like a nice enough guy, but up yours.”
The white-coated man shrugged. “It’s useless. You have InnerVoice.”
“I’m hearing exactly nothing, pal.”
“It might take a while for the systems to establish themselves.”
“Sorry, I can’t wait.”
Wincing, Gene plucked the needle-end of a tube out of his wrist and cast it aside. Blood welled from the hole, and he stanched the bleeding with a sheet. The flow stopped quickly enough, and he got unsteadily out of bed. He was naked.
“I suppose it wouldn’t do any good to ask for my clothes.”
“They may be in the storage closet near the unit station.”
“Thanks.”
Gene left the room. The hall outside looked like a conventional hospital floor but most of the rooms were unoccupied. He saw the unit station, a glassed-in office with monitoring instruments. Two female nurses sat inside. They looked up in surprise when he appeared.
“Excuse me, ladies,” he said.
He tried a narrow door and found a broom closet. A door across the hall proved to be a room with metal shelves holding a number of boxes. He rummaged in these and found his clothes. He got dressed in a hurry.
He peered out of the storage room. The nurses had gone back to whatever it was they were doing. Neither of them looked to be making frantic phone calls or sending out alarms. He left the room and walked down the corridor, keeping close to the wall.
He reached the entrance to a stairwell and entered.
It hit him at the top of the steps. First it was just a strange feeling, turning quickly to low-grade nausea. As he went down the stairs, anxiety welled up. It was instant and all-consuming. Stunned, he collapsed on the landing, shaking and sweating.
He remained there for several minutes, totally immobilized, the walls closing in, nameless terrors chewing at him.
At length he was able to climb back up the stairs. He staggered back to the room and collapsed on the bed.
After a while he became aware that someone had entered the room. He turned over and sat up. It was the doctor — or was he just a technician? — and a woman dressed in a shapeless gray suit.
“Hello,” the woman said brightly. “How are you feeling?” She wore no makeup and had lines at the corners of her gray eyes. Her salt-and-pepper hair was drawn up into a bun.
“What kind of drug is it?” he asked.
“We didn’t give you any drugs,” the doctor said.
“You have InnerVoice,” the woman said. “It tells you when you’re doing something wrong.”
“What was I doing wrong?”
“You were leaving against medical advice,” the woman said. She smiled again. “I’m from the Citizens’ Committee for Social Improvement, Orientation Subcommittee. My cognomen is M-D-E-T-F-G. My omnicode is one-dash-seven-oh-nine-oh-six-three-one-two-eight.”
“Don’t you have a name?”
“You can call me M-1.”
“Mine’s B-7,” the medic said.
The woman read from a small recording device: “And your cognomen is B-K-F-V-G-D. Your omnicode is — ”
He waved her silent. “Never mind. Just tell me what you did to me. What is InnerVoice?”
“It’s a guide to behavior. It tells you — ”
“I know that. What is it?”
“Can you explain it to him, B-7?”
“Sure. When I said we didn’t give you any drugs, I was telling the truth. What we did inject you with was a solution, but in that solution were tiny little machines.”
“Machines?”
“Call them computers, that’s what they are, in part. Some of them are no bigger than a bacterium, and most of them are smaller. They’re constructed at a very small level of magnitude, the molecular level. Instead of electronic parts, they have protein parts, enzyme parts. Biological parts. But they’re computers all the same.”
“What do they do?”
“Lots of things. But mainly they monitor things in your blood and lymph. Watch your emotional states, look for telltale chemical signs.”
Gene said, “Signs of what?”
“Well, for instance, when you do something that you shouldn’t be doing, your body reacts in certain ways. It changes chemically and electrically. When the monitoring machines detect these changes, they send signals to your glands to secrete certain things. They also send signals to the brain.”
“I understand,” Gene said. “So, if I don’t do what I’m told, this automatic punishment system goes on-line.”
“Oh, it’s not punishment. It’s your own body’s shame and guilt for doing the socially unacceptable thing. The reactions are just amplified, that’s all.”
“Oh, yes. I got that much.”
“If you didn’t feel any shame or guilt, InnerVoice couldn’t affect you.”
“I feel absolutely no shame or guilt, friend. Stop bullshitting.”
“Of course you feel it. You have to. You had the reaction, didn’t you? InnerVoice was speaking to you.”
Gene had no answer.
“It will take time,” M-1 said. “You’ll get used to it. In time, InnerVoice won’t need to guide you at all. You’ll guide yourself.”
“I bet I will, if I know what’s good for me.”
She grinned expansively. “You’re learning already! I’m so pleased. It will make my job so much easier!”
“Yeah. Glad to oblige.”
Ten
Laboratory
Linda sat at the terminal reading Incarnadine’s m
essage, which Jeremy had assigned to a file in one of the computer’s data storage areas. (The computer had exotic data storage devices as well as conventional ones. One of the former resembled a 1950s jukebox.) She keyed as she read, scrolling the text upscreen.
She was a little distracted. Jeremy’s new “assistant” was unsettling, to say the least. Computer programs usually didn’t wear slinky dresses and have legs that wouldn’t quit. Computer programs ordinarily didn’t vamp their users. Isis had lots of other handy features; among these was the capability of fetching coffee for the chief of data processing.
“How many sugars, Jeremy?”
“Uh … four.”
“Ummm, sweet.”
“Yeah. Linda? What do you think?”
Linda said, “I don’t know. It sounds like Incarnadine is going to have problems getting back. Can you write the program he’s talking about?”
Jeremy shrugged. “You got me. I’ve been looking through the data from the magic books. Some of these spells are, like, enormous! Translating them into computer language will take … Jeez, I dunno.”
Isis set the coffee cup in front of Jeremy. “We might have compiler programs that will do that automatically,” she said.
“We might? I’ll have to check the file directory. But the problem for me is the magic part. What spells would be effective? How do you stabilize the whole universe? Lord Incarnadine will have to make it back, or we’re sunk.”
“Maybe we can hold on till he does,” Linda said. “Gene’s okay, and we should be finding out about Mr. Dalton and Thaxton soon. The guards at Halfway should be all right, too. I mean, I can’t believe anything’s happened to Earth. The castle’s temporarily cut off, but we can live with that. And Sheila’s world is fine, too. I checked that out myself.”
“I hope we can hold on,” Jeremy said. “Because it’s gonna be a while before I can get this gadget working.”
Osmirik came in carrying a stack of loose sheets. He went to the sheet feeder and loaded it, then started the machine. The first sheet slid into the scanner, which began to hum softly.
“That is the last of the cosmology texts,” he said.
“Okay. Isis, can you analyze all that stuff and come up with the technical parameters?”
“I can try, Jeremy,” she said, lightly running her fingers through his hair.
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