Too slowly the bomb heated.
Too slowly the minutes passed.
Too quickly the agony increased.
Peel trembled and whined, and when he reached out a hand to push the bomb a little deeper into the flame, he did not feel the heat. He could see the flesh scorch red, but felt nothing. All the pain writhed inside him—none outside.
It made noises in his ears, that pain, but even above the growl he could hear the dull tread of footsteps far downstairs. The steps were coming toward him, slowly, almost with an inexorable tread of fate. Desperation seized him at the thought of police and Sidra's triumph. He tried to coax the spirit lamp flame higher.
The steps passed through the main hall and began to mount the stairway. Each deliberate thud sounded louder and closer. Peel hunched lower and in the dim recesses of his mind began to pray that it might be Death Himself coming for him. The steps reached the top of the stairs and advanced to his study. There was a faint whisper as the door was thrust open. Running hot and cold in a fever of madness, Peel refused to turn.
A jarring voice spoke. "Now then, Bob, what's all this?"
He could not turn or answer.
"Bob!" the voice called hoarsely, "don't be a fool!"
Vaguely he understood that he had heard the voice somewhere before.
The measured steps sounded again and then a figure stood at his side. With bloodless eyes he flicked a glance up. It was Lady Sutton. She still wore the sequined evening gown.
"My hat!" Her little eyes twinkled in their casement of flesh. "You've gone and messed yourself up, haven't you!"
"Goau . . . a . . . waiyy. . ." The distorted words cracked and whistled as half of his breath hissed through the slit in his throat. "W-will . . . nahtt . . . be . . . haunted . . ."
"Haunted?" Lady Sutton laughed. "That's a good one, that is."
"Y-yoo ded," Peel muttered.
"What've you got there?" Lady Sutton inquired casually. "Oh, I see. A bomb. Going to blow yourself to bits, eh, Bob?"
His lips formed soundless words.
"Here," Lady Sutton said. "Let's get rid of this foolishness." She reached out to knock the bomb off the flame. Peel struggled up and grasped her arm with clawing hands. She was solid, for a ghost. Nevertheless, he flung her back.
"Let. . . be," he wheezed.
"Now stop it, Bob," Lady Sutton ordered. "I never intended this much misery for you."
Her words conveyed no meaning to him. He struck at her as she tried to get past him to the bomb. She was far too solid and strong for him. He fell toward the spirit lamp with arms outstretched to save his salvation.
Lady Sutton cried, "Bob! You damned fool!"
There was a blinding explosion. It crashed into Peel's face with a flaring white light and a burst of shattering sound. The entire study rocked, and a portion of the wall fell away. A heavy shower of books rained down from the shaken shelves. Smoke and dust filled space with a dense cloud.
When the cloud cleared, Lady Sutton still stood alongside the place where the desk had been. For the first time in many years—in many eternities, perhaps, her face wore an expression of sadness. For a long time she stood in silence. At last she shrugged and began to speak in the same quiet voice that had spoken to the five in the shelter.
"Don't you realize, Bob, that you can't kill yourself? The dead die only once, and you're dead already. You've all been dead for days. How is it that none of you could realize that? Perhaps it's that ego that Braugh spoke of—perhaps—But you were all dead before you reached the shelter Thursday night. You should have known when you saw your bombed house, Bob. That was a heavy raid last Thursday."
She raised her hands and began to unpeel the gown that covered her. In the dead silence the sequins rustled and tinkled. They glittered as the gown dropped from the body to reveal—nothing. Empty space.
"I enjoyed that little murder," she said. "It was amusing to see the dead attempt to kill. That's why I let you go through with it."
She removed her shoes and stockings. She was now nothing more than arms and shoulders and the gross head of Lady Sutton. The face still wore the slightly sorrowful expression.
"But it was ridiculous trying to murder me, seeing who I was. Of course, none of you knew. The play was a delight, Bob, because I'm Astaroth."
With a sudden motion, the head and arms leaped into the air and then dropped alongside the discarded dress. The voice continued from the smoky space, disembodied, but when the dusty mist swirled it revealed a figure of emptiness, a mere outline, a bubble, and yet a shape horrible to behold.
"Yes," the quiet voice went on. "I'm Astaroth, as old as the ages; as old and bored as eternity itself. That's why I had to play my little joke on you. I had to turn the tables and have a bit of a laugh. You cry out for a bit of novelty and entertainment after an eternity of arranging hells for the damned, because there's no hell like the hell of boredom."
The quiet voice stopped, and a thousand scattered fragments of Robert Peel heard and understood. A thousand particles, each containing a tormented spark of life, heard the voice of Astaroth and understood.
"Of life I know nothing," Astaroth said gently, "but death I do know—death and justice. I know that each living creature creates its own hell forevermore. What you are now, you have wrought yourself. Hear ye all, before I depart. If any can deny this; if any one of you would argue this; if any of you would cavil at the Justice of Astaroth—Speak now!"
Through all the far reaches the voice echoed and there was no answer.
A thousand tortured particles of Robert Peel heard and made no answer.
Theone Dubedat heard and made no answer from the savage embrace of her god-lover.
And a rotting, self-devouring Digby Finchley heard and made no answer.
A questing, doubting Christian Braugh in limbo heard and made no answer.
Neither Sidra Peel nor the mirror-image of her passion made answer.
All the damned of all eternity in an infinity of self-made hells heard and understood and made no answer.
For the Justice of Astaroth is unanswerable.
Unknown, August 1942
The Push of a Finger
—Or a careless word, for that matter, can wreck the entire universe. Think not? Well, if it happened this way—
I think it's about time someone got all those stories together and burned them. You know the kind I mean—X, the mad scientist, wants to change the world; Y, the ruthless dictator, wants to rule the world; Z, the alien planet, wants to destroy the world.
Let me tell you a different kind of story. It's about a whole world that wanted to rule one man-about a planet of people who hunted down a single individual in an effort to change his life, yes, and even destroy him, if it had to be. It's a story about one man against the entire Earth, but with the positions reversed.
They've got a place in Manhattan City that isn't very well known. Not known, I mean, in the sense that the cell-nucleus wasn't known until scientists began to get the general idea. This was an undiscovered cell-nucleus, and still is, I imagine. It's the pivot of our Universe. Anything that shakes the world comes out of it; and, strangely enough, any shake that does come out of it is intended to prevent worse upheavals.
Don't ask questions now. I'll explain as I go along.
The reason the average man doesn't know about this particular nucleus is that he'd probably go off his nut if he did. Our officials make pretty sure it's kept secret, and although some nosybodies would scream to high heaven if they found out something was being kept from the public, anyone with sense will admit it's for the best.
It's a square white building about ten stories high and it looks like an abandoned hospital. Around nine o'clock in the morning you can see a couple of dozen ordinary looking citizens arriving, and at the end of the workday some of them leave. But there's a considerable number that stay overtime and work until dawn or until the next couple of dawns. They're cautious about keeping windows covered so that high-minded c
itizens won't see the light and run to the controller's office yawping about overtime and breaking down Stability. Also they happen to have permission.
Yeah, it's real big-time stuff. These fellas are so important and their work is so important they've got permission to break the one unbreakable law. They can work overtime. In fact as far as they're concerned they can do any damned thing they please, Stability or no Stability—because it so happens they're the babies that maintain Stability. How? Take it easy. We've got plenty of time—and I'll tell you.
It's called the Prog Building and it's one of the regular newspaper beats, just like the police courts used to be a couple of hundred years ago. Every paper sends a reporter down there at three o'clock. The reporters hang around and bull for a while and then some brass hat interviews them and talks policy and economics and about how the world is doing and how it's going to do. Usually it's dull stuff but every once in a while something really big comes out, like the time they decided to drain the Mediterranean. They—
What?
You never heard of that? Say, who is this guy anyway? Are you kidding? From the Moon hey, all your life? Never been to the home planet? Never heard about what goes on? A real cosmic hick. Baby, you can roll me in a rug. I thought your kind died out before I was born. O. K., you go ahead and ask questions whenever you want. Maybe I'd better apologize now for the slang. It's part and parcel of the newspaper game. Maybe you won't be able to understand me sometimes, but I've got a heart of gold.
Anyway—I had the regular three o'clock beat at the Prog Building, and this particular day I got there a little early. Seems the Trib had a new reporter on the beat, guy by the name of Halley Hogan, whom I'd never met. I wanted to get together with him and talk policy. For the benefit of the hermit from the Moon I'll explain that no two newspapers in any city are permitted to share the same viewpoint or opinion.
I thought all you boys knew that. Well, sure—I'm not kidding. Look. Stability is the watchword of civilization. The world must be Stable, right? Well, Stability doesn't mean stasis. Stability is reached through an equipoise of opposing forces that balance each other. Newspapers are supposed to balance the forces of public opinion so they have to represent as many different points of view as possible. We reporters always got together before a story, or after, and made sure none of us would agree on our attitudes. You know—some would say it was a terrible thing and some would say it was a wonderful thing and some would say it didn't mean a thing and so on. I was with the Times and our natural competitor and opposition was the Trib.
The newspaper room in the Prog Building is right next to the main offices, just off the foyer. It's a big place with low-beamed ceiling and walls done in synthetic wood panels. There was a round table in the center surrounded by hardwood chairs, but we stood the chairs along the wall and dragged up the big deep leather ones. We all would sit with our heels on the table and every chair had a groove on the table in front of it. There was an unwritten law that no shop could be talked until every groove was filled with a pair of heels. That's a newspaper man's idea of a pun.
I was surprised to find almost everybody was in. I slipped into my place and upped with my feet and then took a look around. Every sandal showed except the pair that should have been opposite me, so I settled back and shut my eyes. That was where the Trib man should have been parked, and I certainly couldn't talk without my opposition being there to contradict me.
The Post said: "What makes, Carmichael?"
I said: "Ho-hum—"
The Post said: "Don't sleep, baby, there's big things cookin'."
The Ledger said: "Shuddup, you know the rules—" He pointed to the vacant segment of the table.
I said: "You mean the law of the jungle."
The Record, who happened to be the Ledgers opposition, said: "Old Bobbus left. He ain't coming in no more."
"How come?"
"Got a Stereo contract. Doing comedy scenarios."
I thought to myself: "Oi, that means another wrestling match." You see, whenever new opposition reporters get together, they're supposed to have a symbolic wrestling match. I said supposed. It always turns into a brawl with everybody else having the fun.
"Well," I said, "this new Hogan probably doesn't know the ropes yet. I guess I'll have to go into training. Anybody seen him? He look strong?" They all shook their beads and said they didn't know him. "O. K., then let's gab without him—"
The Post said: "Your correspondent has it that the pot's a-boilin'. Every bigwig in town is in there." He jabbed his thumb toward the main offices.
We all gave the door a glance, only, like I always did, I tried to knock it in with a look. You see, although all of us came down to the Prog Building every day, none of us knew what was inside.
Yeah, it's fact. We just came and sat and listened to the big shots and went away. Like specters at the feast. It griped all of us, but me most of all.
I would dream about it at night. How there was a Hyperman living in the Prog Building, only he breathed chlorine and they kept him in tanks. Or that they had the mummies of all the great men of the past which they reanimated every afternoon to ask questions. Or it would be a cow in some dreams that was full of brains and they'd taught it to "moo" in code. There were times when I thought that if I didn't get upstairs into the Prog Building I'd burst from frustration.
So I said: "You think they're going to fill up the Mediterranean again?"
The Ledger laughed. He said: "I hear tell they're going to switch poles. North to south and vice versa."
The Record said: 'You don't think they could?"
The Ledger said: "I wish they would—if it'd improve my bridge."
I said: "Can it lads, and let's have the dope."
The Journal said: "Well, all the regulars are in—controller, vice con and deputy vice con. But there also happens to be among those present—the chief stabilizer."
"No!"
He nodded and the others nodded. "Fact. The C-S himself. Came up by pneumatic from Washington."
I said: "Oh, mamma! Five'll get you ten they're digging up Atlantis this time."
The Record shook his head. "The C-S didn't wear a digging look."
Just then the door to the main office shoved open and the C-S came thundering out. I'm not exaggerating. Old Groating had a face like Moses, beard and all, and when he frowned, which was now, you expected lightning to crackle from his eyes. He breezed past the table with just one glance from the blue quartz he's got for eyes, and all our legs came down with a crash. Then he shot out of the room so fast I could hear his rep tunic swish with quick whistling sounds.
After him came the controller, the vice con and the deputy vice con, all in single file. They were frowning, too, and moving so rapidly we had to jump to catch the deputy. We got him at the door and swung him around. He was short and fat and trouble didn't sit well on his pudgy face. It made him look slightly lop-sided.
He said: "Not now, gentlemen."
"Just a minute, Mr. Klang," I said, "I don't think you're being fair to the press."
"I know it," the deputy said, "and I'm sorry, but I really cannot spare the time."
I said: "So we report to fifteen million readers that time can't be spared these days—"
He stared at me, only I'd been doing some staring myself and I knew I had to get him to agree to give us a release.
I said: "Have a heart. If anything's big enough to upset the stability of the chief stabilizer, we ought to get a look-in."
That worried him, and I knew it would. Fifteen million people would be more than slightly unnerved to read that the C-S had been in a dither.
"Listen," I said. "What goes on? What were you talking about upstairs?"
He said: "All right. Come down to my office with me. We'll prepare a release."
Only I didn't go out with the rest of them. Because, you see, while I'd been nudging the deputy I'd noticed that all of them had rushed out so fast they'd forgotten to close the office door. It was the first t
ime I'd seen it unlocked and I knew I was going to go through it this time. That was why I'd wheedled that release out of the deputy. I was going to get upstairs into the Prog Building because everything played into my hands. First, the door being left open. Second, the man from the Trib not being there.
Why? Well, don't you see? The opposition papers always paired off. The Ledger and the Record walked together and the Journal and the News and so on. This way I was alone with no one to look for me and wonder what I was up to. I pushed around in the crowd a little as they followed the deputy out, and managed to be the last one in the room. I slipped back behind the door jamb, waited a second and then streaked across to the office door. I went through it like a shot and shut it behind me. When I had my back against it I took a breath and whispered: "Hyperman, here I come!"
I was standing in a small hall that had synthetic walls with those fluorescent paintings on them. It was pretty short, had no doors anywhere, and led toward the foot of a white staircase. The only way I could go was forward, so I went. With that door locked behind me I knew I would be slightly above suspicion but only slightly, my friends, only slightly. Sooner or later someone was going to ask who I was.
The stairs were very pretty. I remember them because they were the first set I'd ever seen outside the Housing Museum. They had white even steps and they curved upwards like a conic section. I ran my fingers along the smooth stone balustrade and trudged up expecting anything from a cobra to one of Tex Richard's Fighting Robots to jump out at me. I was scared to death.
I came to a square railed landing and it was then I first sensed the vibrations. I'd thought it was my heart whopping against my ribs with that peculiar bam-bam-bam that takes your breath away and sets a solid lump of cold under your stomach. Then I realized this pulse came from the Prog Building itself. I trotted up the rest of the stairs on the double and came to the top. There was a sliding door there. I took hold of the knob and thought: "Oh, well, they can only stuff me and put me under glass"—so I shoved the door open.
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