Slowly, groggily, Porgie pulled himself up out of the broken wreckage. The Eagle had made her last flight. She perched precariously, so near the outside edge of the wall that part of her rear wing stretched out over nothingness.
Porgie crawled cautiously across the slippery wet surface of the top of the Wall until he reached the center. There he crouched down to wait for morning. He was exhausted, his body so drained of energy that in spite of himself he kept slipping into an uneasy sleep.
Each time he did, he’d struggle back to consciousness trying to escape the nightmare figures that scampered through his brain. He was falling, pursued by wheeling batlike figures with pug faces. He was in a tiny room and the walls were inching in toward him and he could hear the voice of Bull Pup in the distance chanting, “You’re going to get it.” And then the room turned into a long dark corridor and he was running. Mr. Wickens was close behind him and he had long sharp teeth and he kept yelling, “Porgie! Porgie!”
He shuddered back to wakefulness, crawled to the far edge of the Wall and, hanging his head over, tried to look down at the Outside World. The clouds had boiled up and there was nothing underneath him but gray blankness hiding the sheer thousand-foot drop. He crawled back to his old spot and looked toward the East, praying for the first sign of dawn. There was only blackness there.
He started to doze off again and once more he heard the voice: “Porgie! Porgie!”
He opened his eyes and sat up. The voice was still calling, even though he was awake. It seemed to be coming from high up and far away.
It came closer, closer, and suddenly he saw it in the darkness—a black figure wheeling above the Wall like a giant crow. Down it came, nearer and nearer, a man in black with arms outstretched and long fingers hooked like talons!
Porgie scrambled to his feet and ran, his feet skidding on the slippery surface. He looked back over his shoulder. The black figure was almost on top of him. Porgie dodged desperately and slipped.
He felt himself shoot across the slippery surface toward the edge of the Wall. He clawed, scrabbling for purchase. He couldn’t stop. One moment he felt wet coldness slipping away under him; the next, nothingness as he shot out into the dark and empty air.
He spun slowly as he fell. First the clouds were under him and then they tipped and the star-flecked sky took their places. He felt cradled, suspended in time. There was no terror. There was nothing.
Nothing—until suddenly the sky above him was blotted out by a plummeting black figure that swooped down on him, hawklike and horrible.
Porgie kicked wildly. One foot slammed into something solid and for an instant he was free. Then strong arms circled him from behind and he was jerked out of the nothingness into a world of falling and fear.
There was a sudden strain on his chest and then he felt himself being lifted. He was set down gently on the top of the Wall.
He stood defiant, head erect, and faced the black figure.
“I won’t go back. You can’t make me go back.”
“You don’t have to go back, Porgie.”
He couldn’t see the hooded face, but the voice sounded strangely familiar.
“You’ve earned your right to see what’s on the other side,” it said. Then the figure laughed and threw back the hood that partially covered its face.
In the bright moonlight, Porgie saw Mr. Wickens!
The schoolmaster nodded cheerfully. “Yes, Porgie, I’m the Black Man. Bit of a shock, isn’t it?”
Porgie sat down suddenly.
“I’m from the Outside,” said Mr. Wickens, seating himself carefully on the slick black surface. “I guess you could call me a sort of observer.”
Porgie’s spinning mind couldn’t catch up with the new ideas that were being thrown at him. “Observer?” he said uncomprehendingly. “Outside?”
“Outside. That’s where you’ll be spending your next few years. I don’t think you’ll find life better there and I don’t think you’ll find it worse. It’ll be different, though, I can guarantee that.” He chuckled. “Do you remember what I said to you in my office that day—that Man can’t follow two paths at once, that Mind and Nature are bound to conflict? That’s true, but it’s also false. You can have both, but it takes two worlds to do it.
“Outside, where you’re going, is the world of the machines. It’s a good world, too. But the men who live there saw a long time ago that they were paying a price for it; that control over Nature meant that the forces of the Mind were neglected, for the machine is a thing of logic and reason, but miracles aren’t. Not yet. So they built the Wall and they placed people within it and gave them such books and such laws as would insure development of the powers of the Mind. They were right, too. There is magic down there now. Not as much as you might think, though. Broomsticks aren’t, for example—they’re really disguised machines, machines built Outside containing tiny anti-gravitational units, and controlling devices that will react to the human voice. So with all the other things that words seem to activate.”
“But—but why the Wall?” asked Porgie.
“Because their guess was right. There is magic.” He pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. “Lift it, Porgie.”
Porgie stared at it until he had the picture in his mind and then let his mind take hold, pulling with invisible hands until the keys hung high in the air. Then he dropped them back into Mr. Wickens’s hand.
“What was that for?”
“Outsiders can’t do that,” said the schoolmaster. “And they can’t do conscious telepathy—what you call mind talk—either. They can’t because they really don’t believe such things can be done. The people inside the Wall do, for they live in an atmosphere of magic. But once these things are worked out, and become simply a matter of training and method, then the ritual, the mumbo-jumbo, the deeply ingrained belief in the existence of supernatural forces will be no longer necessary.
“These phenomena will be only tools that anybody can be trained to use, and the crutches can be thrown away. Then the Wall will come tumbling down. But until then—” he stopped and frowned in mock severity—“there will always be a Black Man around to see that the people inside don’t split themselves up the middle trying to walk down two roads at once.”
There was a lingering doubt in Porgie’s eyes. “But you flew without a machine.”
The Black Man opened his cloak and displayed a small gleaming disk that was strapped to his chest. “Little ones like this are what make your broomsticks fly. The only difference is that this one has no built-in limits.” He tapped it gently. “A machine, Porgie. A machine just like your glider, only of a different sort and much better. It’s almost as good as levitation. Mind and Nature—magic and science—they’ll get together eventually.”
He wrapped his cloak about him again. “It’s cold up here. Shall we go? Tomorrow is time enough to find out what is Outside the Wall that goes around the World.”
“Can’t we wait until the clouds lift?” asked Porgie wistfully. “I’d sort of like to see it for the first time from up here.”
“We could,” said Mr. Wickens, “but there is somebody you haven’t seen for a long time waiting for you down there. If we stay up here, he’ll be worried.”
Porgie looked up blankly. “I don’t know anybody Outside. I—” He stopped suddenly. He felt as if he were about to explode. “Not my father!”
“Who else? He came out the easy way. Come, now, let’s go and show him what kind of man his son has grown up to be. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” said Porgie.
“Then help me drag your contraption over to the other side of the Wall so we can drop it Inside. When the folk find the wreckage in the morning, they’ll know what the Black Man does to those who build machines instead of tending to their proper business. It should have a salutary effect on Bull Pup and the others.”
He walked over to the wreckage of the Eagle and began to tug at it.
“Wait,” said Porgie. “Let me.” He stared
at the broken glider until his eyes began to burn. Then he gripped and pulled.
Slowly, with an increasing consciousness of mastery, he lifted until the glider floated free and was rocking gently in the slight breeze that rippled across the top of the great Wall. Then, with a sudden shove, he swung it far out over the abyss and released it.
The two stood silently, side by side, watching the Eagle pitch downward on broken wings. When it was lost in the darkness below, Mr. Wickens took Porgie in his strong arms and stepped confidently to the edge of the Wall.
“Wait a second,” said Porgie, remembering a day in the schoolmaster’s study and a switch that had come floating obediently down through the air. “If you’re from Outside, how come you can do lifting?”
Mr. Wickens grinned. “Oh, I was born Inside. I went over the Wall for the first time when I was just a little older than you are now.”
“In a glider?” asked Porgie.
“No,” said the Black Man, his face perfectly sober. “I went out and caught myself a half-dozen eagles.”
From broomsticks to rocket ships in one easy apport—and from fantasy to science fiction in the same jump. There is absolutely nothing in common between Mr. Cogswell’s story and Mr. Sheckley’s, except that both of them consider the hypothetical use of PK (also known as telekinesis and apportation) as an aid to mechanical means of travel.
Robert Sheckley, one of the brightest of the new talents in science fantasy, here combines the two favorite themes of the genre today:—psi functions and space travel.
Operating Instructions by Robert Sheckley
Since this was such an important moment, Captain Powell walked into the main room with a light, inconsequential air. He thought fleetingly of whistling, but decided against it. Spacemen were adept at smelling out little inconsistencies.
“Hi,” he said, dropping into a padded chair. Danton, the navigator, yawned elaborately and nodded. Arriglio, the power engineer, glanced at his watch.
“We still blasting on schedule, Sam?”
“Sure,” Powell said. “Two hours.” Both men nodded, as though flights to Mars were an everyday occurrence. Powell paused, then said in an offhand manner, “We’re adding another crew member.”
“What for?” Danton asked at once, suspicion in every plane of his tanned face. Arriglio’s mouth tightened ominously.
“Last-minute order from Command Three,” Powell said casually. The two men didn’t move, but they seemed to come physically closer. Powell wondered what made spacemen so clannish.
“What’s this job going to be?” Arriglio asked. He was small and dark, with close-fitting, curly black hair and sharp teeth. He looked like an unusually intelligent wire-haired terrier; one prepared to bark at a strange dog even before seeing him.
“You boys know about the psi’s, don’t you?” Powell asked, with seeming inconsistency.
“Sure,” Arriglio answered promptly. “Those crazy guys.”
“No, they’re not crazy,” Danton said, his broad face thoughtful.
“I suppose you know,” Powell said, “that a man named Waverley has been organizing the psi’s, trying to find jobs for them. He’s got telepaths, lightning calculators, all sorts of things.”
“I read it in the papers,” Danton said. He raised a thick blond eyebrow. “That’s the extrasensory stuff, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Well, Waverley has been taking these psi’s out of the side shows and placing them in regular work. He feels that there’s a place for their talents.”
“So our extra crew member is a psi?” Danton said.
“That’s right,” Powell said, observing the two men carefully. Spacemen were funny ducks. Many of them adjusted to their lonely, dangerous work by adopting an intense asociality. Spacemen were extreme conservatives, also, in the world’s newest work. Of course, that conservatism had survival value. If something old works, why try something new that may cost you your life?
It all tended to make acceptance of the psi very difficult.
“Who needs him?” Arriglio asked angrily. He had a notion that his authority in the engine room might be superseded. “We don’t need any mind reader aboard this ship.”
“He’s not a mind reader,” Powell said. “The man we’re getting will fill a very important place.”
“What’s he supposed to do?” Danton asked.
Powell hesitated, then said, “He’s going to help us in our take-off.”
“How?” Danton asked.
“He’s a telekinetic psi,” Powell said quickly. “He’s going to push.”
Danton didn’t say anything. Arriglio stared for a moment, then burst into laughter.
“Push! You mean he’s going to run along behind and shove?”
“Maybe he’s going to carry Venture on his back!”
“Sam, where did you leave your brains?”
Powell grinned at the taunts, congratulating himself on his phrasing. It was better to have them laughing at him than fighting with him.
He stroked his mustache and said, “He’ll be here pretty soon.”
“You’re serious?” Danton asked.
“Absolutely.”
“But Sam—”
“Let me explain,” Powell said. “Telekinesis—which is what this man does—is an unexplained form of power. It involves moving masses—often large ones—with no evident physical interaction. And it does work.”
The two men were listening intently, though skeptically. Powell glanced at his watch and went on.
“Command figured that if this man could exert some of that force on our take-off, we’d save an appreciable amount of fuel. That would give us a nice safety margin.”
Both men nodded. They were all for saving fuel. It was the biggest single problem in space flight. Only so much could be packed; and then, a little error in calculation, a little added expenditure of the precious stuff—and that was it. Of the five ships that had gone out so far, two had been lost for that very reason.
“I assure you,” Powell said, “he won’t infringe on your jobs. All he’s going to do is try to give this thing a push.” He smiled, and prepared to give them the rest of the unpleasant news.
“Well, as long as he leaves me alone,” Danton said.
“Sorry,” Powell told them, “but you can’t leave him alone.”
“What?”
Powell had many qualifications for his job. The most important one couldn’t be taught in college, though. Powell knew how to handle people. He called upon that ability now.
“Psi’s, you know, aren’t normal people. They’re maladjusted, unhappy. There even seems to be some correlation between that and their psi abilities. If we want this psi to help us, we’re going to have to treat him right.”
“I wasn’t planning on spitting on him,” Arriglio said.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Powell said. “I had a long talk with Waverley about this. He gave me a list of operating instructions.” He drew a piece of paper from his breast pocket.
“He gave you operating instructions?”
“Sure. For the psi. Listen now.” He straightened the paper and began to read:
“Psi ability has perhaps existed as long as man himself. But operationally, it is very new. Already it has shown some of its potentialities as an extension of man’s will. But it will be a while before we understand the why and how of it.
“Therefore, for the interim, these empirically derived operating rules are given as an aid to those working with the psi. We have found that the best results—and often the only results—are obtained by using them.
“Operationally, the psi may be considered a unit of tricky, delicate, powerful machinery. Like all machines, certain maintenance and operating rules must be observed.
“To function, any machine must be:
1. Well-seated.
2. Fueled.
3. Oiled.
4. Regulated.
Taking these in order we find:
1. In or
der to function at all, a psi must feel at home, secure, wanted.
2. Praise must he afforded the psi at frequent intervals. Since the psi is unstable, his ego must he periodically boosted.
3. Understanding and sympathy must he used at all times when dealing with the psi.
4. The psi must he allowed to run at his own pace. Excess pressure will break him.”
Powell looked up and smiled. “That’s all there is to it.”
“Sam,” Danton asked softly, “isn’t it enough trouble running a ship without wet-nursing a neurotic?”
“Sure it is,” Powell said. “But imagine what it would mean to us—to space flight—if we could get off Earth with most of our fuel intact.”
“That’s true,” Arriglio said, remembering times he had sweated blood over the fuel gauges.
“Here’s a copy of the operating instructions for each of you,” Powell said, taking them out of his pocket. “I want you to learn them better than you know your own names.”
“Great,” Arriglio said, frowning at the typed sheet. “Are you sure he can do this pushing?”
“No,” Powell admitted. “No one knows for sure. His ability works about 65 per cent of the time.”
“Oh, no,” Danton said.
“I’m going to bring him in now, so get those papers out of sight when you hear us.” He smiled, showing his teeth. “Rest ye merry.” And left the room. He began to whistle as he walked down the corridor. They had taken it very well, on the whole.
In ten minutes he returned. “Boys, this is Billy Walker. Walker, Steve Danton, Phil Arriglio.”
“Hiya,” Walker said. He was tall—a good six-three, Powell estimated—and impossibly thin. A floating nimbus of pale yellow hair remained on his bald, bony skull. He had a long-nosed, homely, unhappy face, and at the moment he was biting his flat lower lip.
A nice-looking companion for a few months, Powell thought.
“Have a seat. Walker,” Arriglio said, shaking Walker’s hand enthusiastically.
“Sure. How’s everything, boy?” Danton said.
Powell suppressed a smile. In order to function at all, a psi must feel at home, secure, wanted. The boys were making the best of the bargain. They knew what that extra push at take-off could mean.
Beyond the Barriers of Space and Time Page 31
