Strangely Ostby was glad to hear the voice.
"I'm not moving," he said.
A gun pressed against his back and he knew the time had come to act.
Pivoting on the balls of his feet he knocked aside the hand that held
the gun with his left arm. As he completed the pivot he aimed his right
fist at the stranger's face.
His assailant rolled with the blow and it caught him with glancing
force on the chin. But it was hard enough to drive him off his feet.
Ostby followed swiftly, but his opponent turned like a cat and kicked
both feet into his stomach. The kick knocked the breath from Ostby's
lungs. Black circles ringed his vision and the only thing that worked
then was instinct. He grabbed at the ankles as the man's feet came up
again. Letting the momentum of the kick furnish most of the power, he
pulled on the ankles in a circular jerk that lifted the man clear off
the floor.
Ostby swung him around in a wide circle, scraping his head and
shoulders on the wall of the hallway, before releasing his grip. The
gunman crashed unconscious against the far wall.
Ostby took two steps forward, and a blinding light bathed his body! He
turned, raising one leg to retreat, and found himself fighting with an
awful exertion to set it down again!
The air had become viscous, and he took one step that felt as though he
were walking in freshly mixed cement. The cement hardened rapidly and
held him rigid. Next his vision blurred, and he stood with all power of
motion gone. His respiratory function was his only movement.
* * * * *
He was no longer rational enough to judge when the agony in his muscles
changed their tenor to the sensation of a thousand needles being
stabbed into his flesh. Somehow he knew that this meant the paralysis
was leaving.
The first muscles to free themselves were those in the lids of his
eyes. He opened them and found himself staring into the iciest, most
emotionless eyes he had ever seen. Strangely enough they were brown
eyes yet they gave the definite impression of being colorless.
The eyes were in a face carved with lines of craglike pride.
Strength and ruthlessness breathed in every feature. Ostby needed no
introduction to know that the face belonged to the Imperator!
A voice said, "He can see and hear now. But his power of speech and
movement won't return for a few minutes." The voice came from Ostby's
right. He was unable to turn to see who spoke.
The Imperator smiled. "My Name is Magogar," he said to Ostby in a voice
an octave lower then normal. "I've been waiting a long time to meet
you."
Ostby returned the look, wordlessly--all he was capable of doing.
"We'll begin our discussion," Magogar said, "with my telling you that I
know you are the one they call the Berserker, what your mission is, and
much else about you that you may not suspect. On the other hand, there
are many things you do not know about me, and, strange as it may seem,
there are some things concerning yourself that you do not know.
"When you were first brought into our world," Magogar continued, "you
made the mistake of confiding in several of your fellow captives,
thinking that they would aid you. Needless to say, one of them talked.
That last I probably don't have to tell you; you must have guessed,
because you made your escape soon after. You didn't even try your
preconcocted story."
"You knew about that too?" Ostby asked, and was surprised that he was
able to speak again.
"Yes. You were right in believing that your confidants would be
sympathetic to your schemes, but you forgot one thing. Men can be made
to talk."
Ostby had recovered some of his self-possession by this time. "If you
know, tell me what that plan was," he said.
"Certainly," Magogar replied. He rose to his feet and walked with long
strides about the room. Ostby was surprised at the breath and girth of
the man. At first glance he appeared squat. But that appearance was
a deception caused by his great bulk. He was as tall as Ostby, but
heavier of bone, and must have weighed a hundred pounds more. He walked
heavily, each step landing forcefully on the heel of the foot.
"One of our ships," the Imperator said, "read your distress signal of
colored rocks and picked you up. Your story was to be that you were
a survivor of a ship of ours which crashed twenty years earlier. I
believe you had established quite an authentic story. Your mother and
father had been hurt, and died several years after the crash, you said.
But not before they had taught you, their six-year-old son, to care for
himself, to pass as one of the people of the world in which you found
yourself, and last, how to establish contact with us. It was a good
story, and its background was authentic. Tell me, why did you decide
not to use it?"
Ostby shrugged. "Mainly because I made the mistake of confiding my
plans to several of your prisoners. And you forced one of them to talk."
Unexpectedly Magogar no longer seemed to be paying attention to Ostby.
He had turned his head and was looking to his left. It was then Ostby
remembered that he had made no effort to discover to whom the other
voice he had heard belonged. The thought of it now made him realize
how much his faculties had been dulled by their session under the
paralysis. Ordinarily, by this time he would have had every detail
of the room catalogued in his mind. He hastened now to correct the
omission.
The sight that met his eyes as he turned his head was one that would
stay with him for all the years of his life!
A square, paneled box, supported by four sturdy legs, rested against
the wall, across the room from them. In the center of the box was a
large eye!
The eye had no pupil; its entire surface was one of mottled streaks
of gray, pink, and black. The colors slowly flowed and changed,
following a seemingly erratic pattern. It was the weirdest sight
Ostby ever expected to see. And behind and through it all glowed
intelligence--human, reasoning intelligence!
Vaguely, through his momentary funk, Ostby heard the Imperator's voice,
"Allow me to introduce you to the Brain."
Then those vague rumors he had heard had been true, Ostby reflected, or
at least some facets of them. He had heard talk--which he had regarded
as superstitions--that the Imperator possessed the living brain of
a man long dead, a brain of infinite wisdom, and possessing all the
knowledge there was to be had. Ostby was forced to believe in its
existence now, for here he was faced with the living proof.
Once again Magogar's words interrupted his reverie. But the words were
not directed at him. "He's here now. What did you want to ask before I
have him killed?"
"You may change your mind about that after you hear what I have to
say," a voice from the box answered. "You call yourself Ostby," it
said. "Do you remember your father or your mother?"
Ostby stared at the apparition, not answering. The reality of the
present situation, and yet its impossibility, was overwhelming.
The voice in the box continued. "I believe that I am safe in assuming
that you do not remember them. I would like now to give you a
hypothetical problem. If we were to assume that everything upon which
you built your life were false: that the men you trusted lied to you:
that you are not even who and what you believe you are ... what would
you do?"
The voice paused, but Ostby remained silent and it went on, "The
records of the people of our world, who crashed in yours, I assume you
studied very carefully. That would be necessary to make your planned
deception more effective. Their names were Shemolang and Roelang. Am I
correct?"
Ostby nodded. The Brain went on. "Shemolang was no ordinary man. He was
first in line for the Imperator office, after Magogar."
The voice shifted its focus by some subtle change of the vision in the
eye, and Ostby knew that it no longer addressed him. "Will you look in
the files and find a picture there of Shemolang, Magogar?"
The Imperator brought his attention to alertness with an obvious effort
of will. He had been listening as intently as Ostby. Now he rose and
walked to the indicated files.
After a minute he drew a picture from one of the files and studied
it. The Imperator gasped and murmured, "I had almost forgotten how he
looked."
"Show the picture to Mr. Ostby, will you please?" the Brain said.
Ostby took the picture and the first glance sent a shock through his
system that started as a weight in the pit of his stomach and flooded
his body like fever. The picture that looked back at him was very
nearly a replica of himself!
"Your father," the Brain interrupted his thoughts. "You not only have
had a vast deception practiced upon you, but you have been fighting
your own people!"
V
That night Ostby slept very little. In his thoughts two emotions
fought for dominance. On the one side were the people of Earth--he
still thought of it as his Earth. He had lived with them; they were
his friends; their problems and joys had always been his--until now.
The menace to them had been his to share, and to help eliminate. He
had accepted this assignment knowing that, at best, he would never be
able to return; at worst, that he would be killed. And he had taken it
willingly.
Now he knew that he had been duped. He had been an alien among the
people he loved. And they had sent him to fight his own kind!
His final decision came hard, but by morning he had made his choice.
He rose early but had to wait until well into the afternoon before the
Imperator put in an appearance.
Magogar greeted Ostby with a smile, but there was no friendliness in
it. He was a man who made no friends. The people about him were divided
into two classes: those who served or obeyed him, and those who opposed
him. The latter did not survive long.
"Step out onto the sun balcony with me," the Imperator said, with the
easy assurance of a man accustomed to obedience. He strolled to the
railing of the balcony and leaned against it, looking out over the
water of the city's harbor. The balcony extended out over the water,
which came directly up to a small walk bordering the palace.
"I have given your case very deep thought," the Imperator said, "and I
will be perfectly frank with you. Whether I accept you or dispose of
you will be directly determined by what I decide within the immediate
future. There is no point in my asking your views because your range of
choices is very small, and entirely incidental to my decision. You can
willingly accept whatever I decide for you--if I let you live--or you
can oppose me. The latter, of course, would be tantamount to asking for
death. Do you have anything to say before we continue?"
"Not knowing what you have to offer leaves me with no possibility of
making a choice," Ostby said carefully.
It was immediately evident, however, that he had made a wrong choice
of words. The Imperator's arrogant brows rose and he frowned. "I never
_offer_ anything," he said, spacing each word with a hard emphasis,
"except the choice of accepting my decisions."
When Ostby made no reply, Magogar seated himself and remained in deep
introspection.
"Let me tell you a story," he said finally. "At first it may sound
like idle boasting, but I can readily demonstrate to you that I am the
living proof of its authenticity."
The Imperator paused while he tilted back his chair and stared at
the ceiling. "In the early years of man's existence," he said, "he
possessed two physical survival characteristics. First, he could
run. As he was one of the weakest of the animals he found that most
expeditious. And because the instinct to run grew to occupy a prominent
place in his emotional makeup, it enabled him to survive.
"The other survival factor was to fight. The fighters died an earlier
death than did those that ran, and they had fewer progeny. But those
fighters that lived ruled the tribes.
"During each generation these separate instincts developed and became
more virile. The numbers of the fleers propagated and soon the mass of
the human race consisted of their descendants. The fighters, however,
ruled the tribes, as was logical. They were the doers, and became the
leaders.
"I, Mr. Ostby, am a direct descendant of this long line of
fighters--perhaps its culmination. I have never known fear, and I never
flee! I have inherited the strength of those ancestors, and I rule
now because I am the strongest man in the world, both mentally and
physically. The world belongs to the strong, and I am the strongest.
Let that weigh heavily in every thought you have concerning me."
Ostby found himself wondering in amazement at the colossal pride that
could give birth to such thought processes.
"Now," the Imperator went on, "let me give you one last warning before
you leave. You may be in line for my position, and you must prove to
me that you are strong enough to take my place, if that ever becomes
necessary. On the other hand if your strength evidences itself by the
slightest opposition to me, I will kill you. Thus you have a fine line
to walk, with your life hanging in the balance.
"This concludes our interview until later this afternoon," the
Imperator said. "I would suggest, in the meantime, that you consult the
Brain. He can supply you with an understanding of our background which
you may find useful."
* * * * *
Ostby was glad the Imperator had suggested his speaking with the Brain.
He had made his decision now, but there was much the Brain could tell
him that he needed to know.
He walked down one flight and into the room housing the Brain. When
he arrived he found it awake and obviously watching him. Once again
he experienced a vast discomfort in meeting that giant eye, with its
mottled apperception. He wondered uneasily if it had the power to read
his mind.
Ostby's unease was not lessened by the Brain's first words. "You have
finished your interview with the Imperator," it said. "Evidently you
were wise enough not to antagonize him or you would not be here now. Is
there anything special you would like to ask me?"
There was much he wanted to learn from the Brain and Ostby had no
hesitation in replying.
"What are you?" he asked without preliminaries. "How old are you, and
just what is the extent of your powers?"
For a moment Ostby was afraid that he had, in some way, made a wrong
approach, and that the Brain would refuse to answer him, for it was
silent. But finally it said, quietly, "Perhaps one question at a time
would be better for both of us. I can answer directly then, and you
will be able to assimilate the answers more easily. Some of them will
have many ramifications and require supplementary explanations.
"I am over five hundred years old. I was originally a man, the same as
yourself, and one of the few real scientists our race has produced.
I limited my activity to no one field, but delved into anything that
interested me. One of my interests was longevity. When I decided that
immortality was limited by the weaknesses of the bodily vehicle to
which I was tied, I designed this instrument in which my brain resides,
and trained others to make the essential transfer. Does that answer
your questions?"
"All except the extent of your intellectual ability. The rumor is that
you know everything."
"That, of course, is ridiculous. Knowledge is like a fan-shaped wave;
beginning with the first fact learned, and spreading wider and wider
the more one learns. I started with an exceptional intellect, and for
five hundred years have acquired as much knowledge as that intellect,
and a vast curiosity, could give me."
"I see," Ostby said as he framed the next question in his mind. "What
is your relationship with the Imperator?" he asked. "Are you an ally or
a servant?"
"That is a bit difficult to answer," the Brain said, "because it
depends on the viewpoint of the observer. As far as Magogar is
concerned, I suppose I am both, though surely more of a servant than
an equal. As I regard it, he is merely another man, though one who
supplies me with most of the material for speculation which I desire."
"Are you loyal to him?"
"As you mean it, no. Loyalty implies an emotional basis. I'm afraid
that I have none of the standard emotions. I will answer any question
put to me by anyone. I care nothing about the purpose of the question
or to what use the answer is put."
"Could I ask a question, in confidence, and be certain that you would
not reveal that I did so to the Imperator?" Ostby asked. This could be
placing his neck in the noose, he knew, and he waited anxiously for the
answer.
"No," the Brain replied. "I would volunteer nothing to him, but I would
tell him anything he asked."
Ostby decided that he needed time to think over this facet of the Brain
before he ventured further. First, he would attempt to learn other
facts which he might need later. Perhaps he could even obtain the
answer he wanted in a roundabout way. "What is the population of your
world?" he asked.
"Approximately seven million. Over a million live here, in Yarr, our
one mechanized city."
"Why is it that you have so little technology, as compared with the
Earth?"
"I suppose that its basis is our low birth rate," the Brain answered.
"There is ample living space here, as well as natural resources, to
supply our people's needs. Thus there is little necessity for them to
shape and remake their environment. It is always easiest to accept
nature as it is, if that can be done with a minimum of self-adjusting."
"Then why is this city of Yarr different?"
"Yarr is the creation of one man, a man hungry for power, for the
authority, and the strength to dominate everything about him; to hold
the lives of men and women in the hollow of his hand. That man, you
will recognize, is Magogar. In his creed strength is right; in fact, it
is everything. It is the philosophy that controls him, and through him,
the city. Under his rule the unfit are killed, or at best, allowed to
perish on the ragged confines of our artificial civilization."
"What is your opinion of that philosophy?"
"Magogar is wrong, beyond a doubt," the Brain answered unhesitatingly.
"Any species survives and develops through cooperation, and
self-restraint of its individual members. Ruthless self-assertion is a
stumbling block to human progress. Magogar is right when he says that
the world belongs to the strong. It must, by the very constitution of
man. But a ruler who is merely strong will inevitably be overthrown.
Eventually the world will be governed by the strong, but by the strong
who are noble as well."
"Magogar's philosophy seems to me to be the outgrowth of an overweening
pride," Ostby said.
"Perhaps. Up to a point self-admiration is not to be deplored. But in
excess it is an evil thing."
* * * * *
Now, Ostby decided, was the time to ask his vital question. "Don't
you think that you and your people would be better off if the 'door'
between the worlds were closed?" He held his breath while he waited for
the answer.
"You are making a mistake if you associate me, in your mind, with my
world's people," the Brain said. "Not having a body to inspire emotion,
wants and desires, I am tied to them by nothing. Whether they are
better or worse off concerns me not at all. Whether they are happy,
or even all die, concerns me equally as little. But you are right.
The 'door' is a bad thing for them. This city is a parasite. All its
technology, its customs, its sins, its vices, are copied from your
Earth. Without the 'door' this city, this artificial oddity, would
vanish. Its inhabitants would disperse and resume their pastoral life,
where, I assure you, they would be much happier.
"And the solution to this is, as you say, the closing of the 'door.'
Because every machine we have, that we did not steal, is manufactured
by captives from Earth."
He was in too deep to back out now, Ostby decided. He plunged
recklessly into the next question. "Can you tell me something about the
operation of the 'door'?"
"This is not the first time the 'door' has appeared between our
worlds," the Brain said, "though I know very little about its original
appearance. Practically all I know about that is the result of abstract
speculation. It appeared at least once before, thousands of years ago.
My own theory is that at that time there was a mass migration from our
world to yours, and that the present Earth people are descendants of
our own ancestors."
The Brain paused for a long minute before continuing. "I have studied
many of the writings of the Earth, and am quite certain that I know
more about its history than its average citizen. Do you recall the
evidence found concerning the Cro-Magnon man of Earth's prehistoric
ages? It seems that the so-called Neanderthal man was the animal that
most nearly approached the present homo sapiens, until suddenly--as
such things are reckoned--he was supplanted by another, much more
advanced species of man, the Cro-Magnon. My research leads me to
believe that those Cro-Magnon men migrated from our world to yours!"
A dozen questions sprang to Ostby's mind concerning this fascinating
theory, but he put them aside impatiently. He was a man with a bulldog
tenacity of purpose, and he had no intention of wasting time on
questions prompted by idle curiosity.
"That's a very interesting theory," he said, "and I would like to
discuss it more fully some other time. But for now, are you telling me
that the 'door' is a natural phenomenon?"
"Not the present 'door,'" the Brain replied. "It was created,
approximately twenty years ago, by the concentration and intellectual
power of one mind--my own!"
"But how did you do it?"
"I don't know how much knowledge you have of physics," the Brain said
slowly. "The explanation is a bit technical for the untrained man to
understand. However, I'll explain it as simply as I can.
"Matter, as you probably know, is made up of tiny electrified bodies
called electrons. When measurements were made it was found that
the whole mass of the electron is due to its electrical charge.
The inevitable conclusion is that the material universe is not the
substantial, objective thing it was formerly thought to be. Matter
is a completely spectral thing with no actual substance. The idea of
substance must be replaced by that of behavior.
"Thus, opening the 'door' became a problem of controlling that behavior
in such a way as to create a refraction of the matter separating
worlds. That is not as simple as it may sound because a mind, to be
able to do it, must possess a thorough understanding of the forces it
deals with. It must have a tremendous capacity for concentration, and
its logic must be entirely uninfluenced by emotion. I believe it is
safe to say that no other mind, before mine, has ever combined these
qualities in sufficient degree to accomplish the deed."
Strangely Ostby was not too surprised by this revelation. The makers of
the capsule residing in the flesh of his left forearm had concluded, as
a result of their studies, that the "door" might be the product of mind
power. Their greatest mistake had been that it would take the combined
power of at least eight brilliant minds to achieve the necessary matter
refraction.
Here, then, lay the end of his search, Ostby knew. He regretted that
its conclusion must entail the death of the Brain.
Somewhat as a form of apology he said, "It probably won't surprise you
too much to know that I have decided to continue my fight on the side
of the people of Earth. I am not going to let the accident of ancestry
blind me to the justice of their cause. Also, regardless of my personal
feelings, I must do whatever is necessary to attain my end. Do you see
what I am trying to say?"
"I do," the Brain answered. "Your next question is, will I consent to
close the 'door' voluntarily. My answer will be no, and then you will
say that you must kill me. Am I right?"