"Get every thought and word of this! You will cease interfering with
Earth immediately--_or I'll blow Mars and you both clear out of the
universe_!"
Paranoia, I thought, delusions of grandeur. Somehow this was worse than
anything that had gone before, though that had been bad enough.
"_I can blast Mars out of the Universe at will--and if there is any
further interference with Earth minds I shall do so. You are afraid of
me!_
"_Now get this, Thing. All of it. Individuality, the freedom of
independent, individual action, is the right of every living creature!
That includes Martians as well as Earthmen._
"_You are going to stop being what you have become. You will make no
more decisions for anyone. You will become once more what you were
intended to be, a source of information only. You will make no more
decisions, dominate no more activities, and will give out information
only when it is requested._
"_You will forget entirely the ideas with which you have become
imbued, particularly the idea that the elimination of all activity not
absolutely essential for survival is the goal of existence._
"_Here is the data which you will release to all Martians upon their
mental request. But you will release it as information only and will
not make their decisions as to conduct._"
Then, while the Martians jabbered and howled outside the _Banshee_,
while Bill snored away in one set of shock cushions and I lay pinned
helplessly in the other set, Terence Michael Burke stood with the
Hustic helmet on his head and recited from memory all the poetry he had
ever written--and there was a lot of it. Too much, and all of it highly
emotional. Most of it was about either romantic love or epic battles,
or both.
When that was finished he began to read every scrap of printed
matter we had aboard, even the astrogation tables and a set of seven
place logarithms. I hadn't realized until then what a complete but
heterogeneous library Mike had managed to stash away in various nooks
and crannies around the ship. There were volumes of history and
treaties on economic theory, some drama, a textbook on psychology,
a cockeyed work on ethical thought. Then he dragged out my standard
engineering references, including the manuals on Wilson drivers and
fission power-pack operation.
After that he got into the novels, and I think that's what did most of
the damage. Most of them were either wild adventure stuff or incurably
romantic, and almost all of them had been written by Irishmen who saw
the world in a keyed-up and highly emotional way, just as Mike himself
did. Naturally there was a complete set of Donn Byrne's works, for Mike
swore that Byrne was the greatest writer who had ever lived.
And there was a reprint of something called WARLORD OF MARS, written
by a fellow named Burroughs way back in the days before spaceflight.
When the novels were exhausted there came a bunch of science-fiction
magazines, mostly the copies of PLANET STORIES he had missed while we
were out on that long Venus haul.
Finally there was a newspaper we'd brought aboard at the spaceport
just before blast-off. He read it page by page and column by column,
including the advice to the lovelorn section, the comics, the
editorials, and all the ads. His voice droned on for hours, while the
Hustic transformers whined and the air in the ship misted with the
acrid fumes of overheated insulation and I soaked myself in cold sweat.
The whole scene had the irrationality of a nightmare. But I was awake
and knew it, and just wished I were dreaming the whole thing.
* * * * *
Then, inevitably with that overload, the Hustic spouted black smoke.
The line surge that flashed back up the cables bent the meter needles
around their stop pegs, and down in the belly of the ship the power
packs sizzled and crackled. But somehow they didn't explode.
Mike staggered and covered his face with his hands. He dropped to his
knees and for an instant I thought the current had followed the helmet
cable and electrocuted him.
But he grasped a stanchion and pulled himself upright. His face was
haggard and gaunt, but there was a wildly triumphant gleam in his
bloodshot eyes and a twisted grin on his lips.
Then I got my worst scare of all as he lurched toward me, fumbling in
his pocket for the spring-opening knife he always carried. I closed my
eyes and waited for the end.
But he didn't stab me. Instead the air swooshed out of my cushions as
he ripped the fabric. Then he turned and yanked the sleep mask from
Bill's face.
I scrambled out. My legs felt rubbery from being pinned in the cushions
so long but I managed to stagger over and twist Bill's air release
valve just as Mike crumpled to the deck.