Alone in his cubicle Justin longed for a cigarette. Fortunately he did
not have long to wait. The man who entered with brisk graceful steps
wore soft grey flannels, a comfortable blue shirt and gay but not loud
figured silk tie. He glanced quizzically at Justin, drew a silver
cigarette case from a jacket pocket, offered one to Justin, took one
himself, lit both with a silver lighter.
He sat down on the chair in the corner, said, "I'm Ortine--I run
Belvoir. I suppose you're wondering what this is all about, Mr. Justin."
"That," said Justin, "is understatement, Mr. Ortine. _I_ suppose I must
have lost my mind."
"On the contrary," said Ortine with the trace of a smile, "you have
been brought here because you are absolutely sane."
"That's a relief--or is it?" Justin countered. There was, he thought,
something epicene, almost effeminate, in his host's gestures, in his
voice. Furthermore, there was something familiar in his handsome,
rather delicate cast of feature--a familiarity that played elusive hide
and seek with Justin's memory.
"I shall try to make my explanation brief as possible," said Ortine.
"However, Mr. Justin, you _are_ sane--and you are _not_ dreaming. You
have been brought to Belvoir in thoroughly material fashion."
"Just what and where is this Belvoir of yours?" Justin asked bluntly.
"This is not going to be easy to explain to you, Mr. Justin. To most of
the others I merely call it heaven or fairyland--and that suffices. But
you and your era are a little too informed for such credulity.
"Belvoir, of course, it not its real name--and actually it isn't a
place at all--at least not in your terrestrial meaning of the word. I
suppose you'd call it a ship."
"A _ship_!" Justin exploded. Then, to humor his host, "I suppose you
mean some sort of space-ship."
"After a fashion it's a space-ship--but _my_ vessel doesn't actually
inhabit your concept of space." Ortine still looked troubled. "Some of
your science fiction authors have come closest to it with something
they call sub-space."
"I'm afraid I can't follow you there," said Justin.
"Try to think of the vast areas of so-called empty void between the
galaxies," Ortine went on patiently. "Try to consider that these areas
are no more empty than the areas between the stars visible to you in
your telescopes. My universe might be called the other side of the
universe--if you can think of the universe as a coin."
"I understand--a little," Justin told him. "Now tell me--why are you
here? And why do you want _me_?"
Ortine flicked ashes on the floor, which immediately absorbed them. He
said, "I have been sent here to prevent your planet from destroying
itself and probably forcing your sun into nova.
"For while your sun is not a great star it lies in an area
correspondent to one of the most congested and thickly settled areas
of my universe. It is not supposed to go into the nova stage for some
billions of your years. Should it happen in the near future--as it will
if my mission is unsuccessful--something like catastrophe will result
on the opposite side of the coin."
"How can you be sure it will happen?" Justin asked quietly.
"Because, thanks to certain differences of structure between our
universe and yours, we can follow the whole stream of your time,"
Ortine replied matter-of-factly. "Your past, of course, is not
dead--you have already seen proof of that here on Belvoir--nor is your
future yet unborn. In short, the past still exists, the future does
exist."
"In that case," said Justin, "Why don't you give up and go home?"
"Because"--Ortine's sincerity was self evident--"neither your past
nor your future is immutable. Needless to say, we do not believe in
altering history on any world unless it must be done to avert needless
disaster. It is my mission to alter both Earth's past and its future by
effecting the course of the key events of your history."
"It sounds like rather a large order," said Justin.
"It is," Ortine replied simply. "While our time-span is far different
from yours--I suppose I have existed for several thousand of your
years--it is the first such assignment in my memory or that of my
mentors."
"Then you cannot follow your own past and future," said Justin.
"Unfortunately not." Ortine looked unhappy. "No species has ever been
able to do that reliably. We are all trapped within the span of our own
time. But yours is so infinitesimal to us that we are able to read it
easily--just as your scientists can read and to some extent predict the
lives of fruit-flies."
"Not a very happy simile," Justin put in.
"My apologies," said Ortine. "In the matter of size between us
there are no such discrepancies. It is wholly a matter of temporal
maladjustment. And it is my theory that the shortness of your life-span
is responsible for the self-inflicted doom that threatens not only your
world and your sun but a number of ours."
"You might have something there," said Justin. "But what in hell do you
want us to do about it? Live forever?"
"It is precisely because you cannot," Ortine told him, "that I have
been sent to rescue you from your predicament--with the help of each of
you summoned here, of course."
"And just how do _I_ figure in this mission of yours, Mr. Ortine?"
Justin inquired.
"You have been brought here because a fanatic named Dubois appealed
to you for financial backing during what seems to you to be yesterday
afternoon," Ortine informed him.
"So ..." said Justin thoughtfully. "He's that important?"
"He will be," replied the other, "if you give him the money he is
seeking--and I have received information that you intend definitely to
come to some sort of arrangement with him."
* * * * *
Justin said, "I must say, everyone seems to know more about my
intentions than I do myself. But let's say I do arrange to let him have
some money--just how is that going to drive the sun into nova?"
"Henri Dubois," Ortine stated, "is perhaps the most dangerous type
of madman that exists. His madness takes the form of a fanatical
oversimplification of the virtues through which mankind can hope to
attain happiness."
"I have already considered that angle," said Justin.
"I feel certain you have," said Ortine. "However, it is not Dubois'
oversimplification that represents peril to your world and mine--it is
his persuasive ability to bring others to act as he would have them
act, without thought of the consequences."
"Then you think," Justin said curiously, "that if mankind follows the
Golden Rule it will destroy the world--how?"
"Because," Ortine replied patiently, "neither Dubois nor any other
man will be able to get _enough_ people to do as he wishes. Yet if he
obtains backing from you he will be able to spread his doctrine to
enough people so that the natural enemies of the Golden Rule will be
forced to take action against them.
"Consider then the results of a Missionist success, Mr. Justin. It
would mean that your world would be torn asunder by a hot war--a war
in which biological techniques and fission weapons must inevitably,
within a five-year period, send a blasted planet spinning into the sun.
Result--nova and catastrophe in my own universe."
"You seem to have it all figured out," said Justin.
"That is what will happen if you give Henri Dubois the backing he
asks," Ortine continued. "Now consider what will happen if you do
not. Take my word for it, other banks will be slow to give him credit
once the Ninth of Boston has turned him down. He will be forced to
use the contributions sent in by his followers to maintain himself.
Consequently, before he has become too dangerous to the Marxist
leaders, they will be able to whittle down his prestige through a
carefully planned series of smears and exposés."
"And this will be good for the world?" Justin asked.
"It will prevent its destruction," Ortine told him. "It will give sane
men, men of reason rather than emotion, men like yourself, Mr. Justin,
opportunity to get the reins of power more firmly into their hands."
"Has it occurred to you, Mr. Ortine," said Justin, "that without an
occasional 'madman' like Dubois humanity might still be picking its
teeth with pieces of flint in a cave?"
"My dear Justin," came the urbane reply, "your question is perfectly
logical--however, to one who has viewed the entire panorama of human
history, the answer is all too simple. The history of humanity has
always been a bloody and stupid one. Men are always struggling because
of some shibboleth, killing others who disagree with their pathetic
beliefs."
"Not a pretty picture," mused Justin. Then, rallying, "But it is only
part of the story. Men have done great things as well."
"True," replied Ortine easily, "and they would have been free for
greater accomplishments if they hadn't been oppressed down the ages by
a series of influential madmen. Some of them, of course, were foiled
by the sane men around them. Consider Napoleon, Charles the Twelfth,
Julius Caesar, Aaron Burt, Bolivar, Joan of Arc, Adolph Hitler.
"Each was mad, each came close to altering the world to his own
pattern of lunacy at tremendous cost--yet each, at some critical point
in his career, was checked by a man of sanity."
"All of them were insane?" Justin asked, surprised.
"Certainly--by what you would term modern psychiatric standards," said
Ortine. "Napoleon, Caesar, Bolivar, Joan of Arc and Hitler were all
epileptics with paranoiac complications, Burr and Charles straight
megalomaniacs.
"Save for the sanity of Talleyrand Napoleon must have united Europe
under his imperial sway. Peter the Great wrecked Charles the Twelfth
when he apparently had the western world at his feet. A sane Cassius
brought about Caesar's death, Jefferson smashed Burr, businessmen
of Peru foiled Bolivar, an English bishop saw through Joan, Winston
Churchill foiled Hitler. In each instance it was a close thing."
"I'll go along with that," said Justin. "But if the madmen have been
foiled, why try to foil them again?"
"I," said Ortine, "am concerned with the madmen who were _not_
foiled--or not foiled in time. Such maniacs include, among alas too
many others, Alexander, Mohammed, Peter the Hermit, Pizarro, Martin
Luther, your friend Dubois as well...."
"Alexander was killed by peritonitis in his thirties," said Justin
doubtfully.
"He did not die in time," replied Ortine firmly. "Not before the
terror of his name was so implanted in the Near and Middle East that
for centuries it caused Asiatics to be over-whelmed by a shadow of fear
they could not hope to overcome with reason."
"You've certainly been taking a dive into our history," said Justin
uneasily. "I don't suppose you'd tell me how _that_ is done."
Ortine said, "Gladly--but I fear my explanation would do you little
good. The process involves an alteration of atomic structure that can
be achieved only in the sub-space that is my native universe."
Then, abruptly, "I hope, however, that the explanation I have given
you, along with the fact that I consider your current problem
sufficiently important to bring you to Belvoir, has revealed to you how
vital it is that you refuse Henri Dubois any important funds."
"It has raised another factor worth consideration," said Justin
equivocally. "I have noticed that you bring people to Belvoir only in
their sleep. Would you object to telling me why?"
"Hardly." There was a rueful twist to Ortine's half-smile. "I am
not, in any real way, possessed of what you would term supernatural
equipment. What may look like magic to you is nothing more than a
demonstration of the realities of my own universe."
"But...?" said Justin.
"_But_"--Ortine grimaced--"I have no actual control over the minds
or bodies of human beings. Not on their own world at any rate.
Incidentally I have no control over your mind here on Belvoir, though
actually, while here, you are in my type of space rather than your own.
"However I _can_ attain control over you when you are in the process
of drifting into sleep--and then only when the distraction of some
impending judgment has lowered your normal psychological defenses.
In your instance, as in all others, I was forced to enter your mind
through a dream--but surely you remember...."
"It scared hell out of me."
* * * * *
Ortine looked regretful. "Unfortunately, there is a slight narcosis
necessary to effect a transfer from your atmosphere to that of
Belvoir," he said. "It usually takes the form of unconsciousness,
as far as the subject is concerned, most easily connected with the
dream involved. A number of more primitive folk seem to have imagined
themselves drowned or consumed by wild beasts or fire, poor devils."
"And you say all of this--of this odd assortment you have brought
here--is made up of sane men and women?" Justin asked.
"My dear Justin"--Ortine looked pained--"you must be more tolerant.
Mind you, these people have been culled from all of human history. You
must have seen quite a variety at mealtime."
"Quite," replied Justin. "Incidentally, your feeding arrangement is
ingenious to put it mildly. How do you know I shan't take advantage of
it to get drunk and foul up the assignment."
Ortine laughed openly. "My dear Justin," he repeated, "you are a sane
man."
"Mr. Ortine," said Justin, "from what one or two of the others have
said since I got here I am the last one they are waiting for."
"That," said Ortine, rising from the chair, "is entirely true."
Justin gulped as the implication sank home. If he were the last it
meant, as his host had already implied, that the sands of Earth, or at
least of human existence on Earth, had about run out. It implied that
his was the ultimate decision upon which the final fate of the planet
hung.
"Naturally," said Ortine pleasantly, "I shall give you time to become
used to following the course you must take. You are perfectly free to
roam Belvoir for the next few hours...."
V
With Ortine gone Justin paced his cubicle, trying to digest what he
had been told and wishing he had asked his host to provide him with a
supply of smokes.
His dream was getting seriously out of hand. Or was it a dream? It
occurred to him that if not a dream it must be madness. And then, for
the first time, he began to wonder if the journey by train through
space, if Belvoir and its inhabitants, especially Ortine and the
assignment he had outlined, might not be real after all.
Even before the gates of fantasy closed behind him, Justin had
recognized that his decision to back Henri Dubois could well be the
key to the entire future of Missionism. As such it was entirely
possible that upon that decision might depend the immediate future of
humanity--if humanity still had a future.
Perhaps some of these others had played similar roles in their
otherwise inconspicuous lifetimes. He made up his mind to find
out, walked toward the door of his cubicle, almost bumped into the
trouserless Dr. Phillips, who chose that moment to enter.
"I was about to go looking for you," Justin told him. "Come in."
Phillips entered. He said, "I take it you have been visited by our
host--like the rest of us."
"You mean he visited you at the same time he was talking to me?" Justin
asked, surprised.
"He is a gentleman of remarkable abilities," Dr. Phillips told Justin,
sitting down as he spoke on the chair. "Of course it is some form of
mass-mesmerism."
"Possibly," Justin replied cautiously.
"It can scarcely be anything else," Dr. Phillips informed him. "Until
my enforced visit to Belvoir I have been inclined to regard all such
marginal devices as fraudulent. Now...."
"It could have been something in the food," Justin suggested. "But
that's a technicality, doctor. What interests me is the nature of your
assignment--if you don't mind telling me about it."
Dr. Phillips laughed--a shrill bark of embarrassment. He said, "Not
at all, Justin, not at all. I'm a university don, you know." He
sighed. "Fusty sort of work but it maintains me. At the moment I've
been serving as temporary dean of admissions. When I retired for my
nap"--he looked with more puzzlement than abashment at his trouserless
shanks--"I was on the eve of tackling a batch of applications for the
new semester. Beastly repetitious sort of work." He sighed again.
"And Ortine has asked you to grade some student's paper in a certain
way for the good of the world?" Justin asked eagerly.
Dr. Phillips blinked behind his spectacles. "My word!" he exclaimed.
"How'd you know that?"
"I didn't," Justin told him drily. "I merely surmised it from the
nature of my own assignment. Could you give the details?"
"Certainly, Justin, certainly." Dr. Phillips paused to check his
memory. Then, "It was a black chap--a Hindustani, a most repulsive
little fop. His record and paper were excellent of course--but there's
more than marks to a university, what?"
"Oh quite," said Justin. "Would you care to tell me his name?"
"Not quite proper, is it?" Dr. Phillips looked distressed. "But I
suppose there's small point in discretion. Chap's name was an odd one."
He looked distressed, added a trifle uncertainly, "Believe it was
Mohammed or something like that. Last name was like that river in India
where the Hindus all take their annual bath."
Justin said, "Mohammed Ganges? It would be Mohandas K. Ghandi, wouldn't
it?"
Dr. Phillips regarded him with admiration, said, "Bless my soul--that
was _it_! Though how on earth you ever knew it...."
"He made quite a mark for himself in the world during the first half of
my century," Justin told him. Then, "One more question, doctor--what
does Ortine want you to do about him--flunk him?"
"My dear fellow, how can I flunk a chap who isn't even a student?" Dr.
Phillips' tone was mildly reproachful. "No, all he wants me to do is
refuse him admission to the university. I was already of half a mind to
do so anyway. Can't think why Ortine should go to all this trouble."
"Probably he just likes to be sure," said Justin. Within him a glow
of fresh exultation was forming. Each of them had been brought here
because, at some time or other, he had made a decision favorable to one
of the so-called madmen.
But Phillips was asking him about his own mission. Justin told him as
briefly as politeness allowed, was pleased when Dr. Phillips seemed to
consider it unimportant compared to his own task. His visitor rose,
evidently prepared to leave, and Justin said, "Doctor, where can I find
our mutual friend Miss Wilkins? I'd like to know what her problem is?"
"A very sad case indeed, poor young woman," replied Dr. Phillips,
shaking his head mournfully. "Perhaps the company of a young man like
yourself will cheer her. Three doors down to your left. You can hardly
miss it."
Justin found Deborah lying on the movable cot in her cubicle. Her head
was resting on her hands, her blue eyes staring frankly at the ceiling.
Her bare feet were crossed and, starch or no, her absurd nightgown had
hiked up sufficiently to reveal a pair of lower legs both shapely and
attractive.
He stood in the doorway, staring at her, and wondering at the nature of
an assignment that could reduce her native gaiety to what was evidently
a mood of deep misery. Some small sound made her aware of his presence.
She turned her head to look at him, gasped, sat up quickly and pulled
her gown down over her ankles with an automatic gesture.
"Nice legs," he told her with a smile. "It's a shame to hide them."
For a moment he thought she was going to be angry. Then humor danced
in her eyes and the dimple reappeared in her cheek. But she said quite
gravely, "I've often thought so myself. But mother would birch me for
the very thought." Then, regarding him with interest, "Now I know ye
lied when ye told me your age."
"Since when has age been any stop to a man's admiring a pretty leg--or
a pretty girl?" Justin countered.
She giggled at that, then without warning became intensely serious once
more. Somberly she said, "To my misfortune age in a man is no such
barrier. Would that it were!"
"I gather your assignment has to do with an older man then," said
Justin, unexpectedly seized with a pang of jealousy.