by Hal Annas
It was physical as well as mental, a true pain-drive. He recognized it as the hot lances moved along nerves, touched with the cutting edge to make him understand that he must obey; that he must kill the girl and remove the diadem, or have his own body destroyed by unbearable agony.
He hesitated. The pain lashed through his body like a length of barbwire swung by a brute. It cut to the quick. Had it been solely physical he would have passed into unconsciousness, he knew. But a pain-drive could keep him conscious far beyond the last threshold of physical pain.
Shrinking from the girl brought the pain anew with nerve-shattering force, but as his fingers bent into claws to throttle her the pain eased.
It was a phenomenon known to psychologists and those in high places who seek to break the will of others.
Driscoll knew. He knew also that flesh has a peak for pain. Beyond that point the mind blanks out. But there is no peak when the mind can’t blank out. The agony then becomes mental.
As his hands touched the girl’s neck the pain eased and he felt almost elated. The relief brought a counter-surge, the will to struggle again to resist. Again the pain in every nerve. And then came the cutting in his neck, the itching in his temples, to warn him the girl was in danger—danger from him.
The warning would not come, he knew, if there was not a high probability the pain would overwhelm him and drive him through madness to the relief that would be offered upon the death of the girl.
He resisted as he would have resisted death itself, and the pain flamed anew, cutting deeper, reaching into the nerves of the brain and torturing the source of reason itself.
Hate came, distorting his features, bringing a chaotic will to violence, bending his thoughts to the shape of madness. He spun toward the depths of insanity.
Something else bobbed dimly on the fading horizon of clear reason, a wisp of light, elusive as an ignis fatuus. It hung there, a faint beacon, offering hope, a way out.
But he did not look. Two alternatives stood out more clearly: he could kill himself and cheat the pain; he could succumb to the pain and kill the girl and find relief. This last, he knew, was madness. But it was all that remained.
Again the light bobbed dimly from the final evanescent shade of reason. This, he knew, was his last chance. The light would not return. He must look now or what he would see afterward would be a true will-o-the-wisp of the mind. It would not be a beacon showing the way out. The body and mind could endure but so much. Beyond that all things were distorted.
In obedience to the will to survive, he turned and twisted through the pain-racked corridors of his mind, searched for the light. In every conceivable direction he mentally turned until he saw it, ages old, but bright as the day the first sentient creature used it.
A physical body makes its own pain to call attention to damage or threat. When the mind conceives damage or threat it likewise conceives pain compatible with the condition.
He suddenly realized that no pain could exist within him except that he himself furnish the energy to sustain it. He knew now that his mind had been tampered with. The knowledge gave him the will to fight.
He would never kill Vivi. As his hands went about her neck he knew without doubt that nothing could ever drive him to harm her.
A sense of exaltation came. He had defied the necromancy of the gods or Darklings and found it to be a mortal phenomenon long known to men. He believed now that he was dealing with advanced science, not supernatural things.
LIFTING the girl’s relaxed body, he started toward the washroom, then remembered. In the confusion he had lost the thread of events. Now he found it again in all of its awesome mystery and terror. Doubt crept back to challenge his newfound conviction.
After strapping the girl in a seat, he approached the washroom cautiously, advancing at an angle that would give him a clear view. He studied the archway. The shoes and ankles were now moving, drawing out of sight behind the facing. He heard a groan.
Still cautious, he advanced and looked in. Flat on the couch provided for air-sick passengers Boxer lay and groaned. Of Jesse there was no sign.
He probed Boxer’s body, found no injuries. He filled a paper cup with water and hurried back to Vivi. Lowering himself beside her, he held the cup to her lips. She made no response. He moistened his handkerchief and touched her temples. She stirred.
Seconds passed before full awareness surged back into her body. Her glazed eyes rolled and a frown of puzzlement brought back the lines of tension. Her eyes discovered him, held steady briefly, then went wide.
She shrieked.
The strap held as she tried to break free, and it was he himself who drew back. She watched him as a cat will watch a dog of doubtful intention, and terror trembled through her being.
“Vivi,” he said softly.
She screamed again.
Confused, and yet understanding her terror, he put out a hand—very gently—to comfort her.
With her shriek this time came a jolting weight on his back. A powerful hand spun him about. He failed to see the blow coming in time to block it. It caught him on the jaw and was dynamic evidence of Boxer’s training.
Pushing himself off the floor, he stared from Boxer to Vivi and back. He shook his head, got his feet under him.
Boxer came in again, his long left out, his right cocked. The left seemed to move not more than six inches, a light jab, just enough to make him blink, and then the right exploded against his jaw.
Again he worked his feet under him. There was no time to think. As he straightened his legs and stood erect he got his own left up. There was still no time to think, to reason the thing out, for Boxer came boring in again. It was Driscoll’s own training, rather than thinking, that made his own left jab in rhythm with the swaying of his body, made his right drive out, twisting down, from the shoulder.
Boxer now struggled to his feet. He shook his head, as Driscoll had done, and came in more cautiously, in a half-crouch. There was no doubt about his intention. Driscoll rolled with the jab, waited for the right. It came lower this time, curving upward, and instead of countering, Driscoll blocked it with the palm of his right hand. It still jarred him, drove him back, and he barely managed to get under the curving left that followed with such force that it carried Boxer with it as it missed and momentarily unbalanced him.
Driscoll struck upward, left, right. Both blows landed under Boxer’s chin. His legs sagged. Driscoll started the left for the body, the blow that would snap Boxer’s head forward and in range of the right, but never finished it. He somehow managed to pull the punch before it landed against the soft flesh of Vivi. She had leaped between them.
“No,” she cried. “No!” She stared at Driscoll, then turned to Boxer. “It’s Edward,” she said. “Look! His face is changing. It’s becoming its natural color. The blackness is going away. It’s Edward.”
Boxer wiped the blood from his mouth. “Good God! I thought—”
Before he could say what he thought, the plane rocked and they were flung back and forth in the aisle.
The speaker hummed, grated, “Fasten your straps, please!”
The rocking eased, but the pilot’s warning carried a note of urgency. They lowered themselves into seats, buckled the straps.
Again the plane rocked. Boxer grabbed the headphone, plugged it in under the window, said, “Winslow to pilot. What the hell’s happening?”
“We don’t know,” the speaker replied. “Keep your straps fastened. We’re going down.”
“Where’s Jesse?” Driscoll demanded.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Boxer said. “I found him in the washroom. And guess what?”
“I’m not in a mood for guessing,” Driscoll said.
“What?” Vivi asked. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
Boxer looked from one to the other. “He was running water into the basin and turning it into wine.” Driscoll frowned.
Vivi said, “This is no time for joking.”
“I wi
sh it was a joke,” Boxer admitted. “But it isn’t. He ran water into a cup and handed it to me and I tasted it. It was wine.”
“You must’ve stopped at the bar,” Driscoll said. “I saw your feet sticking out from the end of the couch. It was so out of the ordinary, especially for you, I thought something had happened.”
“Something did happen. I took a sip of that wine and that’s all I knew until I woke up aching as if I’d been in a brawl.”
“Is that all you remember?”
“All except when I came out here and saw—”
“Saw what?” Driscoll prodded. Boxer looked at Vivi, said, “You tell him. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“He saw you,” Vivi said. “But you didn’t look as you do now.”
“How did I look?”
Pain came into her features. “Don’t make me tell you.”
“Brace yourself,” Boxer said. “If ever I have to imagine a ghoul I’ll think about how you looked as you leaned over her.”
“Your features had turned black,” Vivi put in.
“And you had two long tushes coming down over your lower lip,” Boxer added. “I’ve never seen a more gruesome brute.”
Driscoll shook his head. “You two were imagining things. And we’re not getting anywhere. We ought to round up Jesse.”
The speaker hummed. The voice was low, tense, restrained. “Keep your straps fastened. Descent will be faster now. The reason we haven’t told you what’s happening is that we couldn’t believe our eyes. But both of us see the same thing. A man keeps stepping in front of the plane and we have to maneuver to keep from hitting him.”
“That tears it,” Boxer groaned. “The pilot and co-pilot have gone nuts. If you can fly this crate, Ed, get on up there.”
“I’ve never checked out on a jet,” Driscoll said. “Explain to them they’re just imagining they see something. Same thing happened to you when you were back there imagining water was turning to wine.”
“I wasn’t imagining. It happened just like I told you.”
The itching came in Driscoll’s temples. His neck throbbed. “Tell the pilot to fly straight and level regardless,” he said, unfastening his strap. “I’m going to find Jesse.”
“Hold on!” Boxer spoke into the headphone, then turned back. “You’re not supposed to leave the girl. I’ll find that guy. And this time he won’t get a chance to do anything to me.”
Driscoll said, “Better let me look for him. I’ve a hunch I can beat him at his own game.”
Before he could rise he was crushed deeper in his seat. He heard a gasp from Vivi, an expletive from Boxer.
“Get into your parachute gear,” the speaker ordered. “We’re in a spin.”
Vivi made a sound that was half gasp and half scream. Her features drained of color. She pointed through the window.
Driscoll looked. His breathing became difficult; his senses reeled. He turned to Boxer, made sure he was looking and that his expression told the same story.
“Is it real?” Vivi gasped.
“Looks real to me,” Boxer said, picking up the headphone. His voice rose, became brittle. “Do you guys in the pilot’s compartment see what we see?”
The speaker replied: “We see a man on the wingtip. He’s running through the air and making the plane spin. His robe is fanning out like wings. If one of us is crazy, both of us are. We both see the same thing.”
“Are we going to be killed?” Vivi cried, trying to rise. “Edward, are we going to die?”
“Don’t try to stand,” Driscoll warned. “Too much centrifugal force.”
Boxer said, “Maybe we can shoot that guy off the wingtip.”
Driscoll frowned. “Anybody who can stand out in open air and twist an airplane won’t likely be bothered by bullets. But I’m in favor of trying a shot at him.
Check with the pilot on the altitude. If we smash a window in thin atmosphere the pressure in here will escape.”
“Wait!” Vivi said. “Let me try something.” She stared at the wingtip.
Driscoll alternately looked at her and through the window.
A sense of twisting was present as well as a crushing downward force. Clouds seemed to move downward on one side of the plane and upward on the other. The centrifugal force varied as in a car taking an unevenly banked curve.
Driscoll saw Vivi bow her head toward the figure on the wingtip. He saw the diadem among the waves of the flame-colored hair. It seemed to him that it suddenly sparkled, sent out rays. But he was more interested in the movement of Vivi’s lips. The words that came forth were soft: “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”
The figure vanished from the wing as though it had never been there. The spinning ceased, but the downward pressure increased, became unbearably heavy.
“The pilot’s pulling out of it,” Boxer said. “It will take some time to level off because we’re diving at terrific speed. We may black out. Bend forward and contract your stomach muscles.”
AT length the pressure ceased l. and the plane was again in level flight.
The speaker sounded: “Don’t know what happened, but we’re under control again. Keep your chutes on and straps buckled. Something else might happen.”
It did—at that moment.
Jesse appeared leaning against the forward bulkhead. It was as though he had been there all the time. His features were sharp, softened somewhat but a fine down of blond beard. His fine hands were clasped in prayer and his fiery blue eyes were turned upward.
Boxer whipped out his gun, aimed.
“Don’t shoot,” Driscoll warned. “That’s a high-velocity gun. The bullet would go through him and the bulkhead. Might kill the pilot.”
“Right,” Boxer acknowledged. “I ought to carry a lighter gun.”
“This has to be done another way,” Driscoll said, moving forward.
“Wait!” Vivi cried. “Don’t harm him.”
“I won’t unless he brings it on himself.”
Driscoll advanced toward Jesse who seemed unaware that he was not alone.
“Bring him back here,” Boxer called. “We’ll strap him down and tie his hands with his shoelaces.”
“His feet are bare,” Vivi exclaimed. “Look! They’re visible below the robe. They’re as fine as his hands.”
Boxer snorted. “He had on shoes when we brought him aboard. Bring him back here, Ed. We can cut strips from that nightgown and tie him with them.”
Driscoll was hesitant about touching a man who was manifestly praying. He waited in the hope that he would finish. And as he waited, Jesse moved. He took one step to the left and stood before the door to the pilot’s compartment.
There was nothing strange about that part of it. The strange part was that he left, in the position he had been standing, a dark outline.
Driscoll heard the word “Darkling” murmured with awe, knew the sound had come from Vivi. Again Jesse moved and again left a dark outline where he had stood. He advanced in halting steps toward Driscoll, and after each pause left a dark outline.
Driscoll became aware that he was backing away as the man advanced. Boxer had come to his side, and he, too, backed before the advancing figure.
There was something aweinspiring about the halting way Jesse came on, leaving dark outlines wherever he paused. The outlines remained immobile as though awaiting a signal.
“Good God!” Boxer breathed.
A faint sound escaped Vivi. It was not intelligible but was suggestive of the awe that came from Boxer. Driscoll himself could not escape the feeling.
Abreast of the seat in which Vivi sat, Driscoll stopped. Glancing at her, he experienced a moment of indecision, but held his ground.
Not knowing what to expect and trying to decide on a course of action, he felt in his pocket for his cigaret lighter. As though reading the thought behind the action, Jesse halted.
There was quiet. Everyone in the cabin of the plane, including the outlines, remained in tense expectancy.
Outsid
e, the distant clouds floated lazily by; the nearer ones flashed, vanished. Hardly a tremor could be felt in the smooth flight of the plane. The jets in the wings expelled their heat with an even pulsing, their thunder always far behind. Bright sunlight came through the windows. To anyone on the ground it would have appeared a commonplace west to east passage.
Inside the cabin the drama went on.
The co-pilot’s voice sounded through the speaker: “Think it’s safe to remove your chutes now. Perfect weather. We’re climbing steadily to pick up a tailwind. Everything checks normal. We must’ve been dreaming a while back. It may be a good idea to forget what happened unless you want to get us all psychoed. We’ll report that we went into a spin, no explanation, and came out of it okay. They’ll check the plane and find out what caused it. Probably something jammed the controls and worked loose as we went down.
The controls are working perfect now. Nothing is wrong, not a solitary thing, and the scare is over. Relax and take it easy.”
Tension mounted with each passing second. Nerves ached, twanged signals to body-control centers for screams that would bring relief. One center responded, sent a scream echoing about the cabin. Vivi had endured, now wisely released the pressure. Nothing so simple for Driscoll and Boxer, but the shriek acted as a signal and their built-up tension drove their limbs to action.
Shoulder to shoulder, they advanced. And just as they had retreated earlier, now retreated Jesse. He backed into the outline behind him, and as he went on the outline went with him. As he had left outlines in his advance he collected them in his retreat.
For the third time Boxer breathed, “Good God!” Had Driscoll been of a mind to speak he would have echoed the words in equal awe. The seeming unreality was more than the mind could take in without associating it with the supernatural.
The doubt which had assailed him in front of the tabernacle in Los Angeles returned and rode him like a brutal master. It confused his effort to decide what to do, forced indecision upon him.
That Boxer and Vivi experienced the same was evident. Boxer hesitated. Vivi strained forward in the seat, eyes on Jesse.