In what a shadow, or deep pit of darkness,
Doth womanish and fearful mankind live!
_The Duchess of Malfi_, John Webster.
With bent shoulders, sunken head, paralyzed arm still dangling at his
side, Thorn crouched uncomfortably in his lightless cell, as if the
whole actual weight of the Black Star--up to the cold, cloud-piercing
pinnacle where "they" held council--were upon him. His mind was tired
to the breaking point, oppressed by the twisted, tyrannous world into
which he had blundered, by the aching body not his own, by the brain
which refused to think his thoughts in the way he wanted to think them.
And yet, in a sense, the human mind is tireless--an instrument built
for weary decades of uninterrupted thinking and dreaming. And so Thorn
continued to work on, revolving miseries, regrets, and fears, striving
to unlock the stubborn memory chambers of the unfamiliar brain,
turning from that to equally hopeless efforts to make plans. Mostly
it struggled nightmarishly with the problem of escape back to his own
world, and with the paradoxical riddles which that problem involved.
He must, Thorn told himself, still be making partial use of his brain
back in World I--to give it a name--just as Thorn II--to give him a
name--must be making use of these locked memory chambers. All thought
had to be based on a physical brain; it couldn't go on in emptiness.
Also, since Universes I and II--to give them names--were independent,
self-contained space-time set-ups, they couldn't have an ordinary
spatial relationship--they couldn't be far from or near to each other.
The only linkage between them seemed to be the mental ones between
quasi-duplicate brains, and such linkages would not involve distance in
any common sense of the term. His transition into World II had seemed
to take place instantaneously; hence, pragmatically speaking, the two
universes could be considered as super-imposed on each other. Whether
he was in one or the other was just a matter of viewpoint.
So near and yet so far. So diabolically similar to attempts to
wake from a nightmare--and the blackness of his cell increased the
similarity. All he had to do was summon up enough mental energy, find
sufficient impetus, to force a re-exchange of viewpoints between
himself and Thorn II. And yet as he struggled and strained through
seeming eternities in the dark, as he strove to sink, to plunge, down
the dark channels of the subconscious and found them closed, as he felt
out the iron resistances of that other Thorn, he began to think the
effort impossible--even began to wonder if World I were not just the
wishful dream of a scarred, hunted, memoryless man in a world where
invisible tyrants plotted un-understandable invasions, commanded the
building of inexplicable machines, and bent millions to their wholly
cryptic will.
At least, whatever the sufficient impetus was, he could not find it.
A vertical slit of light appeared, widened to a square, revealed a long
corridor. And in it, flanked by two black-uniformed guards, the other
Clawly.
So similar was the dapper figure to the Clawly he knew--rigged out in a
strange costume and acting in a play--that it was all he could do not
to spring up with a friendly greeting.
And then, to think that this Clawly's mind was linked to the other's,
that somewhere, just across its subconscious, his friend's thoughts
moved--Dizzying. He stared at the trim, ironic face with a terrible
fascination.
Clawly II spoke. "Consider yourself flattered. I'm going to deliver you
personally to the Servants of the People. They'll want to be the ones
to decide, in your case, between immediate self-sacrifice, assisted
confession, or what not." He chuckled without personal malice. "The
Servants have devised quite amusing euphemisms for Death and Torture,
haven't they? The odd thing is, they seem to take them seriously--the
euphemisms, I mean."
The uniformed guards, in whose stolid faces were written years of
unquestioning obedience to incomprehensible orders, did not laugh. If
anything, they looked shocked.
* * * * *
Thorn staggered up and stepped slowly forward, feeling that by that
action he was accepting a destiny not of his own making but as
inescapable as all destinies are, that he was making his entrance, on
an unknown stage, into an unknown play. They started down the corridor,
the guards bringing up the rear.
"You make rather a poorer assassin than I'd have imagined, if you'll
pardon the criticism," Clawly II remarked after a moment. "That
screaming my name to get me off guard--a very ill-advised dodge. And
then dropping your weapon in the streambed. No--you can't exactly call
it competent. I'm afraid you didn't live up to your reputation of being
the most dangerous of the Recalcitrants. But then, of course, you were
fagged."
Thorn sensed something more in the remarks than courteous
knife-twisting. Undeniably, Clawly II was vaguely aware of something
off-key, and was probing for it. Thorn tightened his guard, for he had
decided on at least one thing in the dark--that he would not reveal
that he was a displaced mind, except to escape some immediate doom.
It might be all right if they would consider him insane. But he was
reasonably certain they would not.
Clawly II looked up at him curiously. "Rather silent, aren't you?
Last time we met, as I recall, you denounced me--or was it the things
I stood for?--in the most bitter language, though with admirable
restraint. Can it be that you're beginning to reconsider the wisdom of
recalcitrance? Rather late for that, I'm afraid."
He waited a while. Then, "It's you that hates me, you know. I hate
no one." He caught Thorn's involuntary grimace, the twitch of the
shoulder from which hung the paralyzed right arm. "Oh, I sometimes hurt
people, but that's mainly adjustment to circumstances--quite another
thing. My ideal, which I've pretty well achieved, is to become so
perfectly adjusted to circumstances that I float freely on the stream
of life, unannoyed by any tugs of hate, love, fear, caution, guilt,
responsibility, and so forth--all the while enjoying the spectacle and
occasionally poking in a finger."
Thorn winced--Clawly II's remarks were so similar to those which Clawly
I sometimes made when he was in a banteringly bitter mood. Certainly
the man must have some sort of suspicions and be trying to draw him
out--he'd never talk so revealingly otherwise. Beyond that, there was
the suggestion that Clawly II was bothered by certain unaccustomed
feelings of sympathy and was trying to get to the bottom of them.
Perhaps the independence of quasi-duplicate minds wasn't as complete as
it had at first appeared. Perhaps Clawly I's emotions were obscurely
filtering through to Clawly II. It was all very confusing, unnervingly
so, and Thorn was relieved when their entry into a large room postponed
the moment when he would have to decide on a line of answers.
* * * * *
It was an arresting room, chiefly because it was divided into two
areas in which two separate ways of life held sway, as clearly as
if there had been a broad white line extending across the middle,
with the notice, "Thou shalt not pass." On this side was quite a
crowd of people, most of them sitting around on benches, a few in
black uniforms, the rest in servile gray. They were all obviously
waiting--for orders, permissions, judgments, interviews. They
displayed, to an exaggerated degree, that mixture of uneasiness and
boredom characteristic of people who must wait. Four words sprang to
Thorn's mind, summing them up. _They did not know._
On the other side were fewer people--a bare half dozen, seated at
various desks. Their superiority was not obviously displayed. Their
clothing was, if anything, drabber and more severe, and the furnishings
they used were in no way luxurious. But something in their manner,
something in the way they glanced speculatively up from their work, put
gulfs between them and those who uneasily waited. This time only two
words were needed. _They knew._
Clawly II's arrival seemed to cause an increase in the uneasiness. At
least, Thorn caught several frightened glances, and sensed a general
relaxing of tension when it became obvious that Clawly II's mission
did not concern anyone here. He also noted that the two guards seemed
relieved when Clawly dismissed them.
One other glance he thought he caught was of a perplexingly different
sort. It was directed at him rather than Clawly II. It came from an
elderly, gray-clad man, whose face awoke no sense of recognition
either in this world or his own. It conveyed, if he was not mistaken,
sympathy, anxiety, and--strangest of all--_loyalty_. Still,
if Thorn II had been some sort of rebel leader, the incident was
understandable. Thorn quailed, wondering if he had put himself into
the position of betraying a worthy movement in this world as well as
his own.
Clawly II seemed to be a person of reputation on the other side of the
room as well, for his clipped, "To the Servants' Hall, with a person
for the Servants," passed them through without a question.
They entered another corridor, and their surroundings began to change
very rapidly. A few paces brought them to a subtronic tube. Thorn was
glad that he was startled into moving jerkily when the upward-surging
current gripped them, for a glance at Clawly II warned him that
it would not be well to show much familiarity with this form of
transportation.
And now, for the first time since his plunge into World II, Thorn's
mind began to work with clarity. It may have been the soothing
familiarity of the current.
Obviously, in World II subtronic power was the closely-guarded
possession of a ruling elite. There had been no evidence at all of
its employment on the other side of the dividing line. Moreover, that
would explain why the workers and soldiers on the other side were
kept ignorant of the true nature and theory of at least some of the
instruments they constructed or used. It would also explain the need
for the vast amount of work--there were two ways of life, based on
entirely different power-systems, to be maintained.
Then as to the relationship between Worlds I and II. For closely
related they must be--it was unthinkable that two eternally independent
universes could have produced two near-identical Opal Crosses, Gray
Twins, Clawlys, Thorn, and an uncounted host of other similars; if one
granted that possibility, one would have to grant anything. No--Worlds
I and II must be the results of a split in the time-stream, however
caused, and a fairly recent split at that, for the two worlds contained
duplicate individuals and it was again unthinkable that, if the split
had occurred as much as a hundred years ago, the same individuals would
have been born in the two worlds--the same gametes, under different
circumstances, still uniting to form the same zygotes.
The split must--of course!--have occurred when the nightmare-increase
began in World I. About thirty years ago.
But--Thorn's credulity almost rebelled--would it have been possible
for two worlds to become so different in a short time? Freedom in
one, tyranny in the other. Decent people in one, emotional monsters
and cringing, embittered underlings in the other. It was horrible to
think that human nature, especially the nature of people you loved and
respected, could be so much the toy of circumstance.
And yet--the modern world was keyed for change. Wars could, had, come
overnight. Sweeping technological changes had been accomplished in
a few months. And granting such an immense initial difference as the
decision to keep subtronic power a government secret in World II, to
make it public property in World I--
Moreover, there was a way of testing. Without pausing to consider,
Thorn said, "Remember when we were children? We used to play together.
Once we swore an oath of undying friendship."
* * * * *
Clawly II twisted toward him in the current, which was now taking them
up past winking corridor entries.
"You _are_ breaking," he remarked in surprise. "I never expected a
play for sympathy. Yes, of course I remember."
"And then about two years later," Thorn plunged on, "when our glider
dropped in the lake and I was knocked out, you towed me ashore."
Clawly II laughed, but the puzzled look around his eyes deepened. "Did
you really believe I saved you? It hardly fits with your behavior
toward me afterwards. No, as I think you know, I swam ashore. That was
the day on which I first realized that I was I, and that everything and
everybody else was circumstances."
Thorn shivered, as much in horror of this changeling beside him as in
satisfaction at having checked the date of the time-split. Then he felt
revulsion rising in him, more from the body he occupied than from his
own thoughts.
"There isn't room in the world for even two people with that
attitude," he heard himself challenge bitterly.
"Yes, but there is room for one," Clawly II replied laughingly. Then he
frowned and continued hesitatingly, as if against his better judgment.
"Look, why don't you try the same thing? Your only chance with the
Servants is to make yourself useful to them. Remember, they too are
just something to be adjusted to."
For a moment it seemed to Thorn as if Clawly I were striving to look
through the eyes of Clawly II. As he tried to gain control of the
baffling jumble of emotions this sensation produced, Clawly II took him
by the arm and steered them into the slower periphery of the current,
then into a dead-current area before the mouth of a short pedestrian
corridor.
"No talk from here on," he warned Thorn. "But remember my advice."
There were calculatingly-eyed guards inside the corridor mouth, but
again a mere "With a person for the Servants" passed them in.
A low, gray door, without numeral or insignia, blocked the end of the
corridor. Some yards short of it was a narrow side-door. Clawly II
touched something and the side-door opened. Thorn followed him through
it. After a few paces down a dim, curving passageway, they came to
a large room, but Clawly II stopped them just short of it. Again he
touched something. A door slid silently out of the wall behind them,
changing the end of the passageway into a dark niche in the room
ahead. Signing to Thorn that they were to wait and watch, Clawly II
leaned back with a slow speculative smile.