by Damon Knight
In the dream, he wakened to a sense of danger.
He struggled, gasping as he straightened his limbs. A thin mechanical voice was shrilling, “Attack! Attack in the Fifth Sector! Guardians, awake! Attack! Attack!”
All around him in the big globular chamber, his comrades were rousing from sleep, squirming in the air, reaching for weapons. The automatic guns and other protective devices, floating at the outskirts of the chamber, ceaselessly revolved, their red lenses glowing.
The vision was so clear that Naismith accepted it without question. He had never really been Naismith; that was a dream. He was Dar of the Entertainer caste, and he was trying to get his wits about him. He had been on a thirty-hour patrol in the Eightieth Sector, and had barely fallen asleep, it seemed, before the robot alarm had wakened him.
His equipment drifted toward him as he grasped for it, half-blindly. He put on the helmet and plastron, seized the familiar shape of his flame rifle.
Other men were already pouring through the circular orifice of the doorway. “Assemble! Assemble!” shrilled the mechanical voice. Still not thoroughly awake, he aimed his director at the doorway and followed.
In the huge assembly room outside, throngs of armed Entertainers were moving. “Form squads!” another robot voice shrilled. Dar set his director to “Group” and felt himself drifting across the chamber.
The whole mass of men were already in motion toward another open doorway. He recognized the men of his squad as they drifted together—Yed, Jatto, Opad. They exchanged glances and a few brief words. “How many?” “Don’t know.”
The words were not English, but he understood them.
Then they were moving across the room; the doorway loomed up. Tensing himself, Dar dived through.
Acrid smoke bit at his nostrils; clouds of it rolled down the green-lit corridor, so dense that he had to switch on his helmet ultravision. In the luminescent glow, he saw greenskinned bodies afloat, flesh torn apart, eyes staring blindly, mouths agape.
There was a thunderous roar from somewhere down the corridor. Dar felt something pluck at his arm, glanced down and saw blood welling. There was no pain, only a dull aching sensation.
A patrol officer came darting by. “All over,” he said as he passed. “We got them. Any wounded here?”
Dar signaled him, showing his pierced arm. The pain was beginning. The patrol officer signaled a robot, which cleaned his wound, extracted the sliver of metal, sprayed bandage on it.
“Dismiss,” someone was calling. “Dismiss.” The men were crowding toward the doorway again, and Dar joined them.
The press was so great that it was several minutes before he could go through. Grumbling voices sounded all around him.
“Waked us for nothing.” “I’m going back to sleep.” “No point to it—they’ll just wake you up again.” “Myself, I’m hungry.”
They were in the assembly room. Some dispersed through other doorways, but Dar’s overwhelming need was for sleep.
He passed through into the sleeping chamber, found himself a clear space, curled up in the air and lost consciousness almost at once.
Naismith awoke and sat up with a start. His heart was hammering. His own familiar bedroom, in the darkness relieved only by the glow from the living room, seemed almost bizarre
… the dream had been so vivid.
He got up, turned on a light, stood blinking at his image in the mirror, then sat down on the bed. “Dream” was not the word—he had been Dar. Looking back on it now, the experience had nothing of the incoherence or fantasy of a remembered dream. Every detail was clear and vivid, and as he thought about it now, he could even call up things that had been hinted at in the dream itself.
The “director,” for example. Naismith absently stroked his left forearm. He could almost feel the shape of the thin, flexible device strapped to his arm. Whenever he wanted to move, in that curious place without gravity, he had merely had to tense his forearm slightly, and point in the direction he wanted to go.
That place existed. Sitting hunched on the bed in the pre-dawn darkness, Naismith grimly strove to bring back all the details he could.
There were cloudy memories of dances performed in mid-air by troupes of Entertainers like himself… a vision of a girl’s face, and the name Liss-Yani…. Naismith pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. The memories were fading.
Disturbed, he sat and smoked for half an hour before he went back to bed. Even then, he could not rest, and it was hours before he dropped into an uneasy sleep.
Sometime before dawn, he dreamed again of the staring, green faces of the dead men in the smoke-filled corridor. It was truly a dream this time, and he knew it; yet he could not shake off a feeling of horror as those hideous dead faces swam up toward him through the mist. They were silently trying to explain something; one in particular appeared again and again, face distorted, mouth agape….
Naismith awoke, with a confused sense that he had almost understood something important. At last, as he stood with razor in hand in front of the bathroom mirror, he realized what it was.
The face of the dead man, except for its green color and the lack of a beard, might have been Churan’s.
It was Saturday; Naismith had nowhere to go, but the idea of staying in the apartment, even long enough to eat breakfast, was intolerable. He left the building and began walking up the curving street toward the park on the crest of the hill.
Suddenly and without surprise, he knew what he must do.
He calculated rapidly: he had some four hundred-odd dollars in his checking account. That would be enough to take him to the East Coast, and allow him some breathing space to find a job until he could earn a teaching certificate in whatever state he chose….
His branch bank was only five blocks away. It would be better not to go back to the apartment at all.
The teller greeted him pleasantly. “What can we do for you this morning, Mr. Naismith?”
“I’d like to close my account. Can you tell me what the exact balance is?”
The teller’s smile grew fixed. “I don’t quite understand, Mr.
Naismith.”
Naismith scowled irritably. “I want to close out my account,”
he repeated.
“But, sir,” the teller said, “don’t you remember, you closed it out yesterday?”
“I what?” Naismith said, flushing with anger.
The teller’s smile had vanished. “Well, sir, if you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll get the records.”
He came back with a bundle of papers. “Here is your closing statement, Mr. Naismith—we were just about to mail it to you.
Here are your canceled checks—and here is your withdrawal slip, dated yesterday.”
Naismith stared at the paper. It was exactly what it seemed to be: a withdrawal form, made out for $412.72, and signed by himself.
“But this is a forgery,” he said at last, and stared at the teller.
“Who paid this put—was it you?”
The man blinked at him. “I can’t just recall,” he said vaguely, and turned. “Oh, Mr. Robinson.”
The manager drifted over; he was a portly young man with a pale, dissatisfied face. “Anything the matter?”
The teller explained it, adding, “Mr. Naismith claims the withdrawal slip is forged—but I know we paid it to him.”
“Well, I’m sure we can straighten this out. Howard, will you get on the phone to Jack Gerber and ask him to come over here?” To Naismith he said, “Mr. Gerber is our attorney. While we’re waiting for him, let’s step into my office.”
Naismith crumpled the paper in his hand. “Never mind,” he said abruptly. He turned and walked out.
He understood now what was happening; but understanding it made no difference to the wave of helpless anger that swept through him.
He was being pushed from one untenable position to another, like a king being driven by a series of checks across the chessboard.
Lall and Churan were making it imp
ossible for him to leave Los Angeles, and impossible to stay. Under such pressure, how long could he hold out against them?
Back in the apartment, he realized abruptly that he still had one possible way out—the machine. If he could get it open, discover how it worked…
But when he opened the closet door, it was gone.
That night he dreamed again. He was afloat, in a crowded spherical room of pale green light. His own body was somewhere off in the darkness, lost in time and space: here was the City and the time was now.
“… only a few hours’ sleep since the last attack,” the Dance Master was saying. His eyes were red-rimmed. “However, it can’t be helped. Assume formation for Turbulent Wreaths.’
We enter at position 25, follow the silver for twenty-one and one-half spirals, and exit at position 32. Any questions?”
The others stirred in the air around him, beginning to form a long slightly curved line aimed at the glowing disk of the doorway. “What about afterward?” called one of the girls.
“Afterward,” said the Master grimly, “we regroup for
‘Spheres and Fountains.’” There were a few groans, but no protests.
The Dance Master came nearer. “Dar,” he said in a low voice, “how is your arm?”
Dar flexed his biceps. “Better,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“I would have let you opt out,” said the Master, “but there simply is not another man available. Do the best you can.”
Dar nodded. The Master hesitated, as if about to speak again, then went back to the head of the line. “Ready,” came his voice.
The Entertainers faced each other, wiped their hands dry on their clothing, breathed deeply. A tone sounded. The Entertainers began to move, some gripping hands, revolving around each other, then letting go to dart ahead—the whole ensemble flowing forward in an intricate pattern.
Beyond the doorway, they emerged into a lighted sphere a hundred times the volume of the first one. As he went through his assigned movements, Dar was dimly aware of the crowded room whirling around him—the gaily costumed Lenlu Din, as raucous as a flight of parakeets; the robots drifting here and there, the greenskinned servants.
He gripped hands with the next man, whirled, released, twisted his body as he flowed forward around the silver streak of light. There was still no pain in his arm, but it was growing more and more awkward; once his grip failed, and he barely recovered.
The ensemble spiraled half across the room, past the little knot of dignitaries that clustered around the Highborn. Dar glimpsed her through the crowd—a fat, puffed little woman with mad eyes.
The room revolved again. “Turbulent Wreaths” was a double-spiraled pattern, with a rolling movement that progressed along the line, checked, progressed again. It was not as difficult as it appeared, but when properly done it was pretty to watch.
Around once more. Dar felt a spasm of pain as he reached for his partner’s hand. The man’s eyes widened in horror; he reached quickly for his wrist, but Dar was already off balance, out of rhythm, the pattern broken.
Cursing under his breath, he spun in mid-air, put full power to his director and managed to slide into his place in the line.
Somewhere off in the distance, a woman’s voice was squawking indignantly. The Highborn—had she seen?
As they approached the exit doorway, a spindle-shaped robot drifted up, its yellow signal light blinking into Dar’s eyes.
Despairingly, he fell out of the pattern and watched as the rest of the line swirled through the doorway.
“Your name and designation?” the robot asked pleasantly.
“Dar-Yani, 108 class 3.”
“Thank you.” The robot revolved, tilted, drifted away.
Dar hung where he was for a moment, then thought of the marshaling room and dived through the doorway.
The others were waiting for him, pale and anxious. Their voices came at him all together: “What happened?” “Did he break the pattern?” “What was the matter?”
“It wasn’t his fault,” said Ten-Yani. “I saw it. It was his arm.”
The Dance Master came forward. “They say a robot stopped you. What did it want?”
“Just my name and designation,” Dar said. He and the Dance Master stared at each other hopelessly.
“I blame myself,” the Master said, drifting away, pounding one palm with his other fist. “I should have refused the performance—told them we were under strength.”
“What about ‘Spheres and Fountains’?” someone asked.
The Master’s face contorted. He reached out and touched the doorway, turning the big silvery disk transparent. “Look for yourself. They’re using a recording.”
A chorus of groans went up. Through the doorway, Naismith could see a line of Entertainers, apparently solid and real, gliding through the air.
There were tears in the master’s eyes. He reached out angrily, opaqued the doorway again. “It couldn’t be helped. It couldn’t be helped,” he said as he turned away.
After a moment the doorway cleared and a robot glided through. It was dark blue, a complex mathematical shape. It revolved slowly, picked out Dar, blinked its light at him. “Come with me, please.”
Dar followed it to the doorway. The other Entertainers did not look at him.
The room beyond was tinted a dim violet rose, and Dar’s heartbeat quickened. This was one of the Lenlu Din retreats, rooms whose location was known to no one but the owners and the robots.
Floating in the middle of the chamber was a hawk-nosed man in flaring striped garments. Various small memocubes and other equipment were scattered in the air around him.
Faint music came from the wall.
“As you commanded, sir,” the robot said. It dipped, turned, and floated through the doorway again.
“Dar-Yarni,” said the hawk-nosed man, consulting a memocube which he held in plump, jeweled fingers. “Number 108, class 3.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You spoiled the formation of your dance troupe and caused acute esthetic pain to the Highborn,” said Hawknose severely.
“Yes, sir.”
“What punishment do you think you merit?”
Dar swallowed hard. “Destruction, sir.”
“True. Well said. Now suppose I were to offer you a dangerous task instead—something to make up for your fault?”
“Sir, you would be most lenient.”
“So I think, myself. Well, Dar-Yani—” Hawknose consulted another memocube, pressing its sides impatiently until he had the information he wanted. “You know, I suppose, that we have word from the future that a Zug has somehow got through the Barrier.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It will be necessary to kill it. The Shefthi, as you also know, are no longer with us.”
Dar’s throat was dry. “Yes, sir.”
“We are trying to retrieve one Shefth in order to kill this Zug, but in case of failure, it will be necessary for someone else to do it. Do you follow me?”
“Sir, I am untrained—I have fought Lenlu Om, but a Zug—”
“Quite understood. You need not be afraid of failure. At this time, we merely want to ascertain if an Entertainer can kill a Zug. We are not counting too much on you, Dar-Yani; however, do your best, do your best.” He smothered a yawn.
“You will have one hour with the training machines in which to perfect your approach. Then a robot will take you to the doorway into the Old City. As you know, there are Zugs in plenty there. The crucial thing to remember—”
Chapter Five
The voice receded, became unintelligible. Naismith awoke.
The dream had been so vivid that for a moment it seemed absurd to find himself in darkness, pressed by gravity into a spring mattress, with the smells of fabric and dust around him.
He sat up in the darkness, realizing that another night had passed without his coming any closer to a solution. The simplest thing would be to give in to the aliens—
“No!”
he said aloud, swinging his legs out of bed. He showered, shaved, prepared food and ate it.
After breakfast, he sat with paper and pencil, drawing up another list:
1. Capitulate.
2. Escape and hide.
3. Resist passively.
He drew lines through the first two entries; the first was out of the question, the second impossible. The third seemed to offer some hope; but he sensed in his bones that it would never succeed. Again he thought of a chessboard. A player under attack, his king driven by a series of checks toward the mating square, had only one chance: not to be driven passively, but to attack in turn.
He crumpled the paper, tossed it aside, stood up. Slowly a plan began to take shape in his mind.
In the first place, he must assume that he was under constant observation, even here in his own apartment. Even if he had the money, he could not take the risk of buying a weapon of any kind.
He looked at his broad, powerful hands, the thick fingers.
Once, challenged by another student, he had bent a piece of iron pipe in half. The aliens had already made it clear that they were afraid of him… and, Naismith told himself grimly, they had good reason.
He set about acting a part for an invisible audience. Preparing to go out, he counted the change in his pockets, closed his fist on the few coins with a gesture of anger.
He walked for an hour through the streets of Beverly Hills, head down, shoulders slumped; then he visited an ex-classmate and tried to borrow money. The man was an electrical engineer named Stevens; he looked startled at Naismith’s request, but handed over five dollars, apologizing, “Sorry I’m a little short this week, Naismith, but if this is any help—”
Naismith took it, walked two blocks as before, then abruptly threw the money into the gutter. He said aloud, “I’ve got to give in to them. I’m licked.” He took a deep breath, turned back and picked up the crumpled bill he had just thrown away.
He smoothed it out, his face set in lines of despair and resignation. When a cab cruised by, he hailed it and gave the aliens’
address. Outside, he was all surrender; inside, all murder.
He knocked at the red door. A voice called, “Come in—the door is not locked.”
