"Oh, come now, George."
Dr. Webber's eyebrows went up and the grin disappeared from his face.
"Harry Scott believes it, Frank. We mustn't forget that, or miss its
significance. Before Harry started this investigation of his, he
wouldn't have paid any attention to such nonsense. But he believes it
now."
"But Harry Scott is insane. You said it yourself."
"Ah, yes," said Dr. Webber. "Insane. Just like the others who started to
get somewhere along those lines of investigation. Try to analyze the
growing incidence of insanity in the population and you yourself go
insane. You've got to be crazy to be a psychiatrist. It's an old joke,
but it isn't very funny any more. And it's too much for coincidence.
"And then consider the nature of the insanity--a full-blown
paranoia--oh, it's amazing. A cunning organization of men who are
_not_-men, a regular fairy story, all straight from Harry Scott's agile
young mind. But now it's _we_ who are persecuting him, _and he still
believes his fairy tale_."
"So?"
Dr. Webber's eyes flashed angrily. "It's too neat, Frank. It's clever,
and it's powerful, whatever we've run up against. But I think we've got
an ace in the hole. We have Harry Scott."
"And you really think he'll lead us somewhere?"
Dr. Webber laughed. "That door I spoke of that Harry peeked through, I
think he'll go back to it again. I think he's started to open that door
already. And this time I'm going to follow him through."
4
It seemed incredible, yet Harry Scott knew he had not been mistaken. It
had been Dr. Webber's face he had seen, a face no one could forget, an
unmistakable face. And that meant that it had been Dr. Webber who had
been persecuting him.
But why? He had been going to report to Webber when he had run into that
golden field in the rooming-house hallway. And suddenly things had
changed.
Harry felt a chill reaching to his fingers and toes. Yes, something had
changed, all right. The attack on him had suddenly become butcherous,
cruel, sneaking into his mind somehow to use his most dreaded nightmares
against him. There was no telling what new horrors might be waiting for
him. But he knew that he would lose his mind unless he could find an
escape.
He was on his feet, his heart pounding. He had to get out of here,
wherever he was. He had to get back to town, back to the city, back to
where people were. If he could find a place to hide, a place where he
could rest, he could try to think his way out of this ridiculous maze,
or at least try to understand it.
He wrenched at the door to the passageway, started through, and smashed
face-up against a solid brick wall.
He cried out and jumped back from the wall. Blood trickled from his
nose. The door was _walled up_, the mortar dry and hard.
Frantically, he glanced around the room. There were no other doors, only
the row of tiny windows around the ceiling of the room, pale, ghostly
squares of light.
He pulled the chair over to the windows, peered out through the
cobwebbed openings to the corridor beyond.
It was not the same hallway as before, but an old, dirty building
corridor, incredibly aged, with bricks sagging away from the walls. At
the end he could see stairs, and even the faintest hint of sunlight
coming from above.
Wildly, he tore at the masonry of the window, chipping away at the soggy
mortar with his fingers until he could squeeze through the opening. He
fell to the floor of the corridor outside.
It was much colder and the silence was no longer so intense. He seemed
to feel, rather than hear, the surging power, the rumble of many
machines, the little, almost palpable vibrations from far above him.
He started in a dead run down the musty corridor to the stairs and began
to climb them, almost stumbling over himself in his eagerness.
After several flights, the brick walls gave way to cleaner plastic, and
suddenly a brightly lighted corridor stretched before him.
Panting from the climb, Harry ran down the corridor to the end, wrenched
open a door, and looked out anxiously.
He was almost stunned by the bright light. At first he couldn't orient
himself as he stared down at the metal ramp, the moving strips of
glowing metal carrying the throngs of people, sliding along the
thoroughfare before him, unaware of him watching, unaware of any change
from the usual. The towering buildings before him rose to unbelievable
heights, bathed in ever-changing rainbow colors, and he felt his pulse
thumping in his temples as he gaped.
He was in the New City, of that there was no doubt. This was the part of
the great metropolis which had been built again since the devastating
war that had nearly wiped the city from the Earth a decade before. These
were the moving streets, the beautiful residential apartments, following
the modern neo-functional patterns and participational design which had
completely altered the pattern of city living. The Old City still
remained, of course--the slums, the tenements, the skid-rows of the
metropolis--but this was the teeming heart of the city, a new home for
men to live in.
And this was the stronghold where the not-men could be found, too. The
thought cut through Harry's mind, sending a tremor up his spine. He had
found them here; he had uncovered his first clues here, and discovered
them; and even now his mind was filled with the horrible, paralyzing
fear he had felt that first night when he had made the discovery. Yet he
knew now that he dared not go back where he had come from.
At least he could understand why the not-men might have feared and
persecuted him, but he could not understand the horrible assault that
Dr. Webber had unleashed. And somehow he found Dr. Webber's attack
infinitely more frightening.
He seemed to be safe here, though, at least for the moment.
Quickly he moved down onto the nearest moving sidewalk heading toward
the living section of the New City. He knew where he could go there,
where he could lock himself in, a place where he could think, possibly
find a way to fight off Dr. Webber's attack of nightmares.
He settled back on a bench on the moving sidewalk, watching the city
slide past him for several minutes before he noticed the curious
shadow-form which seemed to whisk out of his field of vision every time
he looked.
They were following him again! He looked around wildly as the sidewalk
moved swiftly through the cool evening air. Far above, he could see the
shimmering, iridescent screen that still stood to protect the New City
from the devastating virus attacks which might again strike down from
the skies without warning. Far ahead he could see the magnificent
"bridge" formed by the sidewalk crossing over to the apartment area,
where the thousands who worked in the New City were returning to their
homes.
Someone was still following him.
Presently he heard the sound, so close to his ear he jumped, yet so
small he could hardly identify it as a human voice. "What was it you
found, Harry? What did you discover? Better tell, better tell."
He saw the rift in the moving sidewalk coming, far ahead, a great,
gaping rent in the metal fabric of the swiftly moving escalator, as if a
huge blade were slicing it down the middle. Harry's hand went to his
mouth, choking back a scream as the hole moved with incredible rapidity
down the center of the strip, swallowing up whole rows of the seats,
moving straight toward his own.
He glanced in fright over the side just as the sidewalk moved out onto
the "bridge," and he gasped as he saw the towering canyons of buildings
fall far below, saw the seats tumble end over end, heard the sounds of
screaming blend into the roar of air by his ears.
Then the rift screamed by him with a demoniac whine and he sank back
onto his bench, gasping as the two cloven halves of the strip clanged
back together again.
He stared at the people around him on the strip and they stared back at
him, mildly, unperturbed, and returned to their evening papers as the
strip passed through the first local station on the other side of the
"bridge."
Harry Scott sprang to his feet, moving swiftly across the slower strips
for the exit channels. He noted the station stop vaguely, but his only
thought now was speed, desperate speed, fear-driven speed to put into
action the plan that had suddenly burst in his mind.
He knew that he had reached his limit. He had come to a point beyond
which he couldn't fight alone.
Somehow, Webber had burrowed into his brain, laid his mind open to
attacks of nightmare and madness that he could never hope to fight.
Facing this alone, he would lose his mind. His only hope was to go for
help to the ones he feared only slightly less, the ones who had minds
capable of fighting back for him.
He crossed under the moveable sidewalks and boarded the one going back
into the heart of the city. Somewhere there, he hoped, he would find the
help he needed. Somewhere back in that city were men he had discovered
who were men and something more.
* * * * *
Frank Manelli carefully took the blood pressure of the sleeping figure
on the bed; then turned to the other man. "He'll be dead soon," he
snapped. "Another few minutes now is all it'll take. Just a few more."
"Absurd. There's nothing in these stimuli that can kill him." George
Webber sat tense, his eyes fixed on the pale fluctuating screen near the
head of the bed.
"His own mind can kill him! He's on the run now; you've broken him loose
from his nice safe paranoia. His mind is retreating, running back to
some other delusions. It's escaping to the safety his fantasy people can
afford him, these not-men he thinks about."
"Yes, yes," agreed Dr. Webber, his eyes eager. "Oh, he's on the run
now."
"But what will he do when he finds there aren't any 'not-men' to save
him? What will he do then?"
Webber looked up, frowning and grim. "Then we'll know what he found
behind the dark door that he opened, that's what."
"No, you're wrong! He'll die. He'll find nothing and the shock will
kill him. My God, Webber, you can't tamper with a man's mind like this
and hope to save his life! You're obsessed; you've always been obsessed
by this impossible search for something in our society, some
undiscovered factor to account for the mental illness, the divergent
minds, but you can't kill a man to trace it down!"
"It's too neat," said Webber. "He comes back to tell us the truth, and
we call him insane. We say he's paranoid, throw him in restraint, place
him in an asylum; and we never _know_ what he found. The truth is too
incredible; when we hear it, it must be insanity we're hearing."
The big doctor laughed, jabbing his thumb at the screen. "This isn't
insanity we're seeing. Oh, no, this is the answer we're following. I
won't stop now. I've waited too long for this show."
"Well, I say stop it while he's still alive."
Dr. Webber's eyes were deadly. "Get out, Frank," he said softly. "I'm
not stopping now."
His eyes returned to the screen, to the bobbing figure that the
psycho-integrator traced on the fluorescent background. Twenty years of
search had led him here, and now he knew the end was at hand.
5
It was a wild, nightmarish journey. At every step, Harry's senses
betrayed him: his wrist watch turned into a brilliant blue-green snake
that snapped at his wrist; the air was full of snarling creatures that
threatened him at every step. But he fought them off, knowing that they
would harm him far less than panic would. He had no idea where to hunt,
nor whom to try to reach, but he knew they were there in the New City,
and somehow he knew they would help him, if only he could find them.
He got off the moving strip as soon as the lights of the center of the
city were clear below, and stepped into the self-operated lift that
sped down to ground level. From the elevator, he moved on to one of the
long, honeycombed concourses, filled with passing shoppers who stared at
the colorful, enticing three-dimensional displays.
At one of the intersections ahead, he spotted a visiphone station, and
dropped onto the little seat before the screen. There had been a number,
if only he could recall it. But as he started to dial, the silvery
screen shattered into a thousand sparkling glass chips, showering the
floor with crystal and sparks.
Harry cursed, grabbed the hand instrument, and jangled frantically for
the operator. Before she could answer, the instrument grew warm in his
hand, then hot and soft, like wax. Slowly, it melted and ran down his
arm.
He bolted out into the stream of people, trying desperately to draw some
comfort from the crowd around him.
He felt utterly alone; he _had_ to contact the not-men who were in the
city, warn them, before they spotted him, of the attack he carried with
him. If he were leading his pursuer, he could expect no mercy from the
ones whose help he sought. He knew the lengths to which they would go to
remain undetected in the society around them. Yet he had to find them.
In the distance, he saw a figure waiting, back against one of the show
windows. Harry stopped short, ducked into a doorway, and peered out
fearfully. Their eyes locked for an instant; then the figure moved on.
Harry felt a jolt of horror surge through him. Dr. Webber hunting him in
person!
He ducked out of the doorway, turned and ran madly in the opposite
direction, searching for an up escalator he could catch. Behind him he
heard shots, heard the angry whine of bullets past his ear.
He breathed in great, gasping sobs as he found an almost empty
escalator, and bounded up it four steps at a time. Below, he could see
Webber coming too, his broad shoulders forcing their way relentlessly
through the mill of people.
Panting, Harry reached the top, checked his location against a wall map,
and started down the long ramp which led toward the building he had
tried to call.
Another shot broke out behind him. The wall alongside powdered away,
leaving a gaping hole. On impulse, he leaped into the hole, running
through to the rear of the building as the weakened wall swayed and
crumbled into a heap of rubble just as Webber reached the place Harry
had entered.
Harry breathed a sigh of relief and raced up the stairs of the building
to reach a ramp on another level. He turned his eyes toward the tall
building at the end of the concourse. There he could hide and relax and
try, somehow, to make a contact.
Someone fell into step beside him and took his arm gently but firmly.
Harry jerked away, turning terrified eyes to the one who had joined him.
"Quiet," said the man, steering him over toward the edge of the
concourse. "Not a sound. You'll be all right."
Harry felt a tremor pass through his mind, the barest touching of mental
fingertips, a recognition that sent a surge of eager blood through his
heart.
He stopped short, facing the man. "I'm being followed," he gasped. "You
can't take me anywhere you don't want Webber to follow, or you'll be in
terrible danger."
The stranger shrugged and smiled briefly. "You're not here. You're in a
psycho-integrator. It can hurt you, if you let it. But it can't hurt
me." He stepped up his pace slightly, and in a moment they turned
abruptly into a darkened cul-de-sac.
Suddenly, they were moving _through_ the wall of the building into the
brilliantly lit lobby of the tall building. Harry gasped, but the
stranger led him without a sound toward the elevator, stepped aboard
with him, and sped upward, the silence broken only by the
whish-whish-whish of the passing floors. Finally they stepped out into a
quiet corridor and down through a small office door.
A man sat behind the desk in the office, his face quiet, his eyes very
wide and dark. He hardly glanced at Harry, but turned his eyes to the
other man.
"Set?" he asked.
"Couldn't miss now."
The man nodded and looked at last at Harry. "You're upset," he murmured.
"What's bothering you?"
"Webber," said Harry hoarsely. "He's following me here. He'll spot you.
I tried to warn you before I came, but I couldn't."
The man at the desk smiled. "Webber again, eh? Our old friend Webber.
That's all right. Webber's at the end of his tether. There's nothing he
can do to stop us. He's trying to attack with force, and he fails to
realize that time and thought are on our side. The time when force would
have succeeded against us is long past. But now there are many of us,
almost as many as not."
Harry stared shrewdly at the man behind the desk. "Then why are you so
afraid of Webber?" he asked.
"Afraid?"
"You know you are. Long ago you threatened me, if I reported to him. You
watched me, played with me. Why are you afraid of him?"
The man sighed. "Webber is premature. We are stalling for time, that's
all. We wait. We have grown from so very few, back in the 1940s and 50s,
but the time for quiet usurpation of power has not quite arrived. But
men like Webber force our hand, discover us, try to expose us."
Harry Scott's face was white, his hands shaking. "And what do you do to
them?"
"We--deal with them."
"And those like me?"
The man smiled lopsidedly. "Those like Paulus and Wineberg and the
rest--they're happy, really, like little children. But one like you is
so much more useful." He pointed almost apologetically to the small
screen on his desk.
Harry looked at it, realization dawning. He watched the huge,
broad-shouldered figure moving down the hallway toward the door.
"Webber was dangerous to you?"
"Unbelievably dangerous. So dangerous we would use any means to trap
him."
Suddenly the door burst open and there stood Webber, a triumphant
Webber, face flushed, eyes wide, as he stared at the man behind the
desk.
The man smiled back and said, "Come on in, George. We've been waiting
for you."