I mean you no harm at all.

"And I wish not to harm you, Simeon. Get out."

Yesterday, as you well remember, I fashioned a sword from the very air itself. Do not forget that. Do not underestimate me, though I am in your regions.

"I beg of you to leave. You're in danger here."

From what?

"I cannot say. It is in the knowing that the danger lies."

That is not good enough.

"It is all I can say."

I swung the sword, and he dissipated into an eerie blue vapor that clung to the walls until the wind whistled in to blow it away. It curled along the stone, slithered back to the pit, and was gone.

Two hours into the session, as I was sprawled on the dirt shelf above the pit, grasping at thoughts and diverting them toward the waterspout, a "G" drifted out, and with another level of my mind, I plucked at it and traced it. G to Gra.s.s* which is dark Green and bendinG over the hills* toppinG and hills to see GGGGG* G* G * G.o.dG.o.dG.o.dG.o.dG.o.dG.o.d like a whirlwind moaninG and babblinG over the Glens, cominG, cominG, twistinG relentlessly onward toward me* G* G*

I reached out to take a strong hold on the thought progression, partially because it might lead to something of interest and partially because it was such an odd, intense, and seemingly fractured train of images. Suddenly, the earthen shelf under me gave way, plunging me down toward the flaming pit which sent climbing streams of magma after me.

Wind lifted me toward the river before I could plunge into that cauldron of teeming madnesses.

I flew as if I were a kite.

The river swept me toward the ocean.

The water there was choppy and hot-and at places steam rose in spirals like smoke snakes.

At places, ice floated, dying.

I fought for the surface, desperately trying to stay on top of the turbulent currents, giving up thought direction and fighting only for the integrity of my own mind. Then I was suddenly up and splashing through the pillar of foamy water that roared into the black, heavy sky; like a bullet out of a rifle, whining, spinning, was I. Splashing, sputtering, I showered out of the mind of Child.

The room was dark. The hex signs glowed on the walls, partially illuminating the serious faces of the generals and the technicians. They were all grimacing, like gargoyle masks.

"He threw me out," I said in the quiet which stretched to the breaking point.

Everyone stared at me with what was obviously a bad case of doubt. I wished I had been more conciliatory in the days past, so that this incident would not appear so suspicious.

"He just threw me out of his mind," I said. It was the first time it had ever happened to me. I explained that.

They listened. Somewhere, I was certain, Child was laughing*

VIII.

Rumors of war.

The Chinese had slaughtered the skeleton staffs manning the last two Western Alliance emba.s.sies in Asia. One was in what had once been called Korea, the other on the home islands of j.a.pan. The j.a.panese denied any responsibility for the ma.s.sacre on their own soil. The story was that citizens of j.a.pan and Chinese ancestry had forced their way past the police detailed to protect the Western delegates, had run wild in an orgy of destruction. The j.a.panese press pointed out that the West, perhaps, should have been expecting this for years, their own silly trade practices-from which China had always been excluded-drawing the wrath of a poverty-stricken people who felt cast aside from the main commerce of the world. Other reports, from eyewitnesses in j.a.pan, said that the j.a.panese police did not resist the mob at all and actually seemed to be directing its bloodthirsty attack on the foreign consulate offices.

The Tri-D screen showed headless bodies for the benefit of those with shallow imaginations. In the streets of Tokyo, ma.s.ses marched, holding those heads speared on the ends of sharpened aluminum poles. Dead eyes of our countrymen looked back at us from the other side of the screen*

The Pentagon, the same morning, announced the discovery of the Bensor Beam, which was capable of shorting out all synapses in the nervous system of the human body, leaving the brain imprisoned in a mindless hulk. Named after its creator, a Dr. Harold Bensor, the beam was already being referred to (by Pentagon officials and their cronies in the War Bureau of Moscow) as "the turning point in the cold war." I knew the idea had come from Child; I recognized it the way one recognizes a bad dream that someone has made into a movie. But the censors had learned from the mistakes they had made with me in the past; the public would never hear of Child.

I wondered, for the briefest of moments, what sort of inhuman fiend this Bensor must be to want his name attached to such an inglorious device. Then I lost my facade of superiority when I considered that the weapon might just as likely have been called the Simeon Kelly Beam, for I had been the middleman who had brought it into existence. I was more responsible than anyone, even Child, for whatever might be done with this d.a.m.n thing.

Pictures on the screen showed two Chinese prisoners on whom the weapon had been used. Spastic, they flopped about on the gray floor of their cell, eyes sightless, ears unhearing, bodies pulled by strings that none of us could really understand.

I turned it off.

I pushed my unfinished breakfast away from me, and got my coat from the closet. I was to meet Melinda at her apartment for another session with the tapes, and I did not want to miss that. Besides, seeing her might somehow purge the strain of guilt running through me.

AM the interviews were at her apartment, for she had a ton of equipment there and preferred not to have to move it. That evening, we were going to the theater-and that was no business meeting at all. In fact, even the interviews had become more than business.

I was trying to heed the mechanical psychiatrist's advice, trying to reach out and accept human warmth. And, in small ways, in kisses and touches and a few words, she was returning that effort of mine. To me, so thirsty for companionship after a long drought, it seemed even more heady and fine than it really was.

The sky was gray again and whispered snow. It was a regular oldtime winter, a Christmas-card sort of winter, sparkling and white and bitterly cold. Somewhere, far above, floated Dragonfly.

"Did the FBI mistreat you at any other time?" she asked.

The black microphone dangled above us like a bloated spider. Behind the couch where we sat, reels hissed in the recorder, like voices commenting on the anecdotes I told.

"It wasn't the FBI so often as the doctors who treated me not as a human being, but as something to be p.r.i.c.ked, punched, and jabbed. I remember once when-"

"Keep remembering," she said. She reached behind the couch and stopped the recorder, laid the microphone down. "That's enough for one day. If it gets moving too fast, you lose the color. You try to tell too much, and the details are blurred. It happens with everyone."

"I guess so," I said.

She was wearing a peasant blouse with a scalloped neckline, an alluring garment which I found myself staring at. And that, in itself, was a shock. It did not seem disgusting, as it once would have. In fact, the fullness, the perfect roundness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s seemed deeply exciting.

Perhaps my mechanical psychiatrist had been correct. Perhaps this was a purpose, a legitimate need.

She saw the direction of my gaze. Perhaps that was what produced the following. Perhaps she had been awaiting a sign, and this was the one she saw and chose to travel by. She moved across to the couch, beside me, leaned upwards, and made a bow of her mouth, her tongue flicking along those lips, anxious and inquiring.

What is your mood, the tongue seemed to say. How do you feel? Is this the time? Why don't you do something?

I obeyed the wishes of the tongue. I found it with my lips and with my own tongue, drew her closer with both arms and felt her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against my chest And was not disgusted.

In time, I had touched the flesh of her legs, felt the warmth of her thighs through her skirt. Then I scooped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s free of the peasant blouse and tested them with teeth and lips. An hour pa.s.sed in a minute and had the joy of a century encapsulated in it When I left, a hundred yearsa minute later, she stood clean and brown before me, a dark, supple woman divested of all but the glow of her body's youth. We kissed and said nothing more-for there was nothing more to be said. Not really. Even if I could have forced words out of my dry throat Outside, I stood in the drive a long while, oblivious of snow and wind, of stares from pa.s.sing pedestrians, of the need to get to the AC complex and confront Child again.

For the first time in my life, I had been with a woman.

And she had been a G.o.ddess, a good place to start. I didn't feel tainted or used or sinful. I felt better, in fact, than I had ever felt in my life. In time, I managed to think enough to get to the car, climb inside, and close the door. I sat for maybe five minutes before I started it.

My body seemed to burn where she had touched me.

Flames played along my lips. All the way to AC*

I was in love: no question. I had not even attempted to esp her thoughts ever since we had met, and that was unusual. I was affording her the same privilege that Harry received, but before she had done half as much for me as he had, before I really knew whether she would accept me or demolish me. I imagine I had been afraid, at first that she would love me-and later that she would not.

How foolish I had been at the party, weeks ago, when she had been pointed out to me and when, later, she seemed to take interest in me, looking my way, smiling, doing all the things a woman can do. I had bolted. I had left the party even before anyone asked for parlor tricks, and I had hidden in my house, pretending I had not been interested in her. Foolish. I was so much older then-but I am younger than that now.

A band of peace criers had gathered before a precinct house, for some unfathomable reason. They had stoned the windows. A phalanx of coppers was charging down the steps as I went by.

At a red light two blocks on, a stream of young militants burst from an alleyway to the right, half a block down a side street. They were chanting something, though I could not make out what it was. Behind them, a howler roared into view, its cupola roof narcodart gun cutting down the young people as they cursed the government, the enemy government, and anyone else who came to mind.

Before the light turned, I saw the howler roll over a young girl, snapping her back like kindling. That was not standard procedure, by any means. And before I could chalk it up to an accident, the driver of the armored vehicle rammed a boy no older than seventeen, crushed him against the steel pole of an arc lamp, and moved on.

I went through the light to avoid the uproar.

I had to detour around the elevated highway ramp I had intended to use, for there were several hundred people on it, setting up roadblocks in a display of civil disobedience. I noticed that for the first time there were adults with the peace criers. In fact, it seemed that there were more adults than young people.

I took the next ramp, went up, and struck for AC at my top speed. In the time since I had heard the morning news, what could have happened to open the adult ranks like this? My heart beat too fast, and I felt a gnawing urgency to do something, anything. But what?

The only thing I could do was esp Child, find new weapons, make our side stronger so that, if there was a war, we would win and at least a semblance of normality would return in which Melinda and I could carve our own niche and be alone.

I suppose such an att.i.tude was not n.o.ble. But war itself leaves no room for n.o.bility. Only the clever survive. And not always do they survive intact By the time I reached the government building, I had made my decisions. I loved Melinda. I feared Child. He could throw me out-and perhaps he could swallow me up. There was something behind his repeated warnings to leave his thoughts alone. Something to do with the G a.s.sociation I had chanced upon the day beforesomething to do with G.o.d. I could not sacrifice myself in that strong, mutated subconscious. Yet I could not permit the war and its destruction to touch my life, to end the first warm relationship I had ever had with a woman. Life was only now worthy of living. I could not permit the Chinese to s.n.a.t.c.h it away from me. So I would go in his mind this last time, rip loose everything that I found and send it up. Then I would get out, collect my cash, and beat a hasty retreat. I would tell them first thing when I got there: after this, the job is ended, go in peace.

As with most plans, nothing went that way.

They were waiting for me when I got there. Morsf.a.gen was the center of a flurry of dispatches. Messengers boys came and departed, carrying sheafs of paper. He signed and checked and rejected, and somehow managed to keep track of what was going on with Child at the same time.

Harry fidgeted nervously with his hands, tearing at his fingers as if they were detachable. There were bags under his eyes; the old tic had reappeared in his left cheek; his hair was uncombed.

I esped out to see what was troubling him, breaking the rule which I had established of my own accord. I violated him.

On the surface of his mind, it floated in horrid detail.

The thought symbol his psyche had given it was a bloated body floating in a pool of blood. Beneath the image, I read it: WAR. The rumors were not just rumors any longer. Brushfire stuff had gotten hotter, though the details seemed vague in his mind. A black, rotting corpse, floating in clotted pools of blood*

Extremely shaken, I sat down at the table and looked across at Morsf.a.gen. There were tiny beads of perspiration on his chin and forehead. His big hands were full of communiques, and they seemed to shiver just the slightest bit.

d.a.m.n them! d.a.m.n them all!

"The details?" I asked.

"Alliance troops attacked the Chinese division which had crossed the Amur River, drove them back into Chinese territory. Forty-seven Chinese killed. Four j.a.panese. Seven Alliance troops: two American, one British, and the rest Russian. An hour later, Zavitaya ceased to exist. No radio in or but. The nuke missile site there does not respond to calls. Belogorsk reports a tremor and a play of odd lights in the sky. Seismographs say it was a pocket-bomb, a very low-yield nuke. The troops at the border no longer report back. The Asians have moved into Russian territory with a vengeance. No confirmation yet. But you can bet on it."

"I'll help," I said.

"You're d.a.m.n right you will." His face was not pretty.

"Is he ready?"

Morsf.a.gen looked at Child. "Tranced," he said. "We were waiting for you before administering the Cinnamide.

What have you come up with overnight? What do you think about yesterday?"

I shrugged. "Nothing more than what I've already said.

He threw me out because I was reading some thought stream he did not want me to see. It was easy for him, because I never expected it. I was still underrating his potential. I won't do that again."

"Certain?"

"As certain as I can be."

"How is that?"

"Very."

"Let's begin, then."

"Some things have to be done first," I said. "Wake him from the trance. Tell him I have not been here yet. Tell him I've disappeared and that, until I'm found, you'll have to go on without me. Tell him you'll be interrogating him while he's drugged and that he better come across if he knows what's good for him. Ham it up a little. But make it sound convincing. After he is tranced and drugged again, I'll go in secretly. Maybe he won't even know that I'm there."

A black, bloated body (Melinda) floating*

d.a.m.n them to h.e.l.l!

Morsf.a.gen attended to removing the mutant from the room and going through the procedure I had suggested.

"Are you sure of yourself, Sim?" Harry asked. He sounded as if he wanted me to quit. But we both knew that was impossible. Only Child could develop the ultimate weapon, a weapon that would make war obsolete. I had to go in there until he formulated it-possibly urge him into it if he was unwilling. But there was no backing downnot with the world and Melinda hanging on everything that transpired in this room.

They brought Child back in ten minutes. He was tranced and be was drugged.

The world was heavy on my shoulders and Death was walking with me* *and* * like a cat with cotton feet, I went quietly, quietly, quietly*

Like a ghost in an old house, I went without form.

Like the breezes of spring, I walked softly.

There was no echo of my steps, and the labyrinth was wanner than usual. The walls were actually unpleasantly hot to the touch, a strange change from the clinging cold that had infested the place. I rounded a bend and saw the Minotaur sitting on his haunches, unaware of my presence.

He was reading a leather-bound Bible, completely absorbed in whatever the verses had to tell him.

Slowly, so as to disturb nothing, I pa.s.sed. He never looked up.

Pasiphae, here is your unholy child.

Minos, your labyrinth is ugly. It needs a paint job and some common comforts.

Theseus, keep your weapons girdled to your hip, for there will be no killing of a sad and unpretentious Minotaur.

The pit was a tangerine color, pulsating with mind-heat which coursed upwards, washed the rim, flowed down the stone corridors, evicting the leeching cold. The center of the pit was a fierce white dot.

I reached out and grabbed the nearest thought. It was a weapon. But it was nothing that could cure the world's ills, no ultimate dragon as I sought.