Then it was time to sleep. The wine had been drunk, the verses spoken, and the darkness crept over them. For a time, at least*

A dream. A A dream of an empty tomb and rotting bodies. Except for one single body which stood and walked for the doorway. But there were demons that sprang from nowhere, grasping the body and flinging it down among the corpses, and commanded it to stay dead. Always and everywhere there were slavering, keening demons* dream of an empty tomb and rotting bodies. Except for one single body which stood and walked for the doorway. But there were demons that sprang from nowhere, grasping the body and flinging it down among the corpses, and commanded it to stay dead. Always and everywhere there were slavering, keening demons*

Then Hurkos lost the thread of the alien thoughts and the trio woke as one. They were all perspiring. The dim glow of the lamps seemed suddenly too dim for the circ.u.mstances.

'Not mine again?' Sam asked.

'Relayed from whatever implanted your hypnotic commands. Very far away.'

But the odor of spoiled flesh had carried over into reality.

'Well,' Gnossos said, grumbling and standing, 'I can't sleep now.'

They agreed.

'So let's go sightseeing again. Maybe the next command will be coming along soon now anyway.'

'Where to?' Hurkos asked. 'Is it far? My feet still hurt.'

'Not far,' Gnossos a.s.sured them. But they knew a short step to this giant was two steps to them and a little stroll might turn into an arch-breaking trek. 'There are a number of these places we could go. This one's just around the corner. It's called the Inferno Inferno.'

VIII.

The Inferno Inferno was a bar. But more than a bar, a total experience. Everything in the place was geared to some sensory stimulation. Ebony and silver clouds drifted through the rooms and half-rooms, sifted in and out of alcoves and cubbyholes, some just for effect, some carrying scantily dressed performers. Floor panels popped open unexpectedly like the tops of jack-in-the-boxes, spewing out clowns in imagi-color costumes that were purple, yellow, red, green, or white, according to one's mood. The shimmering fabrics manifested themselves in many ways, shifting color to match your feelings, even as they cheered you up. The floor revolved at a different speed than the walls and in a different direction than the ceiling. Strobe lights flashed. Smello-symphonies flushed through the room, twisting the patrons' senses to moments of synasthesia where music became an olfactory sensation of indescribable delectability. The erotic cygian perfumes seeped through the air in blue mists, enflaming nostrils and tying the ma.s.s of total experience into a congealed whole that throbbed with each wave of the odoriferous substance. was a bar. But more than a bar, a total experience. Everything in the place was geared to some sensory stimulation. Ebony and silver clouds drifted through the rooms and half-rooms, sifted in and out of alcoves and cubbyholes, some just for effect, some carrying scantily dressed performers. Floor panels popped open unexpectedly like the tops of jack-in-the-boxes, spewing out clowns in imagi-color costumes that were purple, yellow, red, green, or white, according to one's mood. The shimmering fabrics manifested themselves in many ways, shifting color to match your feelings, even as they cheered you up. The floor revolved at a different speed than the walls and in a different direction than the ceiling. Strobe lights flashed. Smello-symphonies flushed through the room, twisting the patrons' senses to moments of synasthesia where music became an olfactory sensation of indescribable delectability. The erotic cygian perfumes seeped through the air in blue mists, enflaming nostrils and tying the ma.s.s of total experience into a congealed whole that throbbed with each wave of the odoriferous substance.

They took a table in the corner, one almost hidden by shadows. The robotender in the center of the table delivered their drinks once Gnossos had compiled an order, punched it out on the silver keys, and deposited the proper amount of coins. They sat sipping the cool liquids and watching the two dozen or so characters in the bar.

'What's so special about this place?' Sam asked, almost choking on a heavy breath of the perfume. 'It isn't unlike the Grande Hotel Lounge or a dozen other places we've been, for that matter.'

'Look at the people,' Gnossos said enigmatically.

Sam did. He could see no way in which they differed from empire norm in dress or habit. He said so.

'Look more closely,' the poet urged. 'Look at their faces.'

Sam swung his gaze from the ruddy face to the more distant visages. And it was was in their faces. The longer he watched, the clearer it became to the eye. But what, exactly, was it? He searched his mind, looking for a comparison, a simile that would make the vision into words. He was just about to give up when the proper words struck him. The look in these faces was much like the look in the faces of the scooterbeasts when they were penned in zoos. In a natural state, the scooterbeast moved as quickly as lightning across a storm sky. They were spinning, careening blurs to the eye. Penned, they pressed their faces to the gla.s.s walls and looked mournfully toward freedom, wishing to move again, to travel, to be lightning, to do what was denied them. 'I see it,' he said to Gnossos. in their faces. The longer he watched, the clearer it became to the eye. But what, exactly, was it? He searched his mind, looking for a comparison, a simile that would make the vision into words. He was just about to give up when the proper words struck him. The look in these faces was much like the look in the faces of the scooterbeasts when they were penned in zoos. In a natural state, the scooterbeast moved as quickly as lightning across a storm sky. They were spinning, careening blurs to the eye. Penned, they pressed their faces to the gla.s.s walls and looked mournfully toward freedom, wishing to move again, to travel, to be lightning, to do what was denied them. 'I see it,' he said to Gnossos.

'They're Unnaturals.'

'The ones-'

'Who would like to kill,' Gnossos completed. 'They are defects born with many of the old faults: with the desire to kill, an overwhelming greed, and bent toward self-gratification. There is nothing the government can do but take them and make them Sensitives. If they hurt anyone, they also feel the pain. Only ten times worse. Any pain they inflict is returned tenfold to their own nervous system. If they aid someone, they feel the other person's pleasure. If they kill someone, they feel the death throes and terminal spasms ten times more intensely than the victim. None of them could tolerate that. They do not, therefore, kill or hurt.'

'And they look so normal,' Sam said.

'Outside. Outside, Sam. But on the inside-'

'He knows about the Unnaturals,' Hurkos said, 'but he did not know about the Mues. That's rather curious.'

'We'll consider it over another drink,' Gnossos said. He placed the order, deposited the coins, waited for the liquor. None came. He pounded the robotender once, then bellowed for the human tapkeeper who was polishing gla.s.ses behind the bar. He was growing red-faced as he had been when his ship had collided with Sam's. A false anger put on merely for the pleasure of appearing furious. The tapkeeper opened the gate in the bar and crossed the room with strides as sure and quick, almost, as Gnossos'. In his eyes glittered the tenseness, the trapped expression of the scooterbeast with his nose to gla.s.s.

'This thing is broken!' Gnossos roared. 'I want my money back!'

'Here,' the human bartender said, flipping three coins to the poet. 'Now all of you had better leave-please.'

'Why?' Sam asked. This was the second time he had encountered genuine rudeness-once with the Christian, now with the Unnatural. It puzzled him.

'This is not a Natural bar.'

'You're a natural if I ever saw one,' Hurkos mumbled.

The bartender ignored the wit.

'We are allowed service anywhere,' Gnossos boomed. 'Naturals and Unnaturals are not segregated!'

Shuffling his feet, a bit cowed, or taking a new line of tact, perhaps, the tapkeeper said, 'It's just for your own safety that I ask.' There was a mixure of fear and general uneasiness in his eyes now.

'Was that a threat?' Gnossos said, astonished. 'Am I with the uncivilized?'

'Not a threat. It's for your own safety, as I said. It's because of him-that one.'

They followed the tapkeeper's thumb as it jerked toward the man standing at the far corner of the bar. The stranger was clutching a gla.s.s of yellow liquid, taking large gulps of it without effort, swishing it about in his mouth as if it were mouthwash, chugging it down without a tear. He was huge, nearly as big as Gnossos, red-haired and red-eyed. His hammy hands clenched into fists, unclenched to grab his drink. Though physically a bit smaller than the poet, he had muscle where Gnossos had run somewhat to fat. The corded ma.s.ses of tissue that were his arms seemed able to snap anything or anyone to pieces.

'Who's he?' Gnossos asked.

'Black Jack Buronto.'

'You've got to be kidding,' Hurkos said, slumping even further into his chair. 'You must be.'

'Henry Buronto's his name, but he wins all the time at the gaming tables, so they call him Black Jack. And he carries one too-a blackjack, that is.'

A great many Unnaturals carried crude weapons, wishing they could use them, but never daring to because of the pain echoes that would engulf their sensitized brains. Clearly, Gnossos was fascinated by Buronto. Here was someone a bit different. A poet is, of course, a man of insight if he is a poet of any worth. But he is not a jaded guru if he is fascinated by things unique. Indeed, it is just such a fascination that he needs to hone his mind on. Buronto was unique. Here was someone smiled on by Fortune at the gambing tables. Here was someone, perhaps, stronger than himself. And here was someone, for some reason, to be feared.

'He's dangerous,' the tapkeeper said.

'Dangerous because he carries a blackjack and wins at cards?'

'No. Dangerous because he would use the blackjack. He could kill all three of you-split-split-splat-just like that.' The tapkeeper wrung his hands like dishcloths. He cast a glance at all three of them, searching for some sign of weakness, then looked back to Buronto.

Almost as if he had seen a signal, Buronto started across the room, directly toward them.

'Please leave,' the tapkeeper said.

'I think maybe we had better,' Sam suggested.

'Why?' Gnossos asked. 'The blackjack bit? He won't hurt us. Remember, every pain we feel, he feels ten times over.'

'But-' the tapkeeper began.

'You're talking about me,' Buronto said, stepping up to their table. And his voice was like the voice of a canary-high and sweet and melodic. The trio stared at one another for a moment, astounded. The tiny voice again seeped from the ma.s.sive throat. 'Were you talking about me?'

Sam t.i.ttered, then let go and burst out laughing. Gnossos followed with his thunder-laugh. Hurkos fought it, seeming to be comfortable in his recently self-imposed melancholy and reluctant to leave it.

Buronto spoke again: 'Stop laughing at me!'

The word 'laughing' was so high-pitched that his voice cracked in the middle of it. And Hurkos too burst out laughing, spraying the table with saliva he had been fighting to hold back with the laugh.

'Stop it! Stop it!' Buronto shouted.

But the tension within the three of them had been at a peak. They had been restless, nervous, on edge since the encounter with the jelly-ma.s.s. The constant state of expectancy had honed their nerves to sharp, thin wires that were ready to vibrate wildly if only slightly plucked. And big Black Jack Buronto's voice-or the strange anachronism that pa.s.sed for a voice-had been the tuning fork that had set them all roaring as the tension drained. They laughed wildly. They laughed without control, tears streaming down their faces. They laughed all out of proportion to the joke.

'Oh, no, no, no,' the tapkeeper moaned. He chanted it over and over as if it were a litany.

'Shut up!' Buronto roared squeakily. His mouth was foaming. Little flecks of mad white* He brought a colossal fist down on the simu-wood table, knocked all the gla.s.ses off. But this too only served to send the trio into paroxysms of laughter. Hurkos was leaning on Gnossos, and Sam had his head thrown back, howling.

Black Jack muttered something incomprehensible, all meaning flooded away by burning rage. Clasping one fist in the other, he smashed the wedge of his flesh onto the tabletop, shattered the thing into two halves that stood separately for a moment until the weight of the broken top pulled the laminated leg apart and the table collapsed into the laps of the three Naturals. They ceased their laughter.

Buronto now had a face like a jungle animal. Great swatches of ugly blue discolored the uniform red of his countenance. His teeth were bared and foam-flecked. He snarled and spat and screeched unintelligible things between his teeth. He was mad as all h.e.l.l and all h.e.l.l could not have prevailed against him had he turned on it. He latched onto Hurkos' chair, ripped it out from under the Mue and sent him crashing to the floor.

'What the h.e.l.l?' Gnossos said to the tapkeeper. 'He's an Unnatural, but he's also a Sensitive!'

'He's a Sensitive, yes,' the tapkeeper shouted as. Black Jack smashed Hurkos' chair into the wall again and again, more violent with each vicious swing. 'He's a Sensitive and feels the victim's pain. But he was more of an Unnatural than the doctors knew. He was also a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t!'

The color drained from the poet's face as snowy realization swept in to take its place. 'Then he likes being a Sensitive because-'

The bartender finished: 'He likes to feel pain!'

Buronto had finished with the chair. There was nothing left of it that could be pounded against the wall. Splinters and sc.r.a.ps of plastic lay over the floor and surrounding tables. The wall was worse for the encounter too. Black Jack Buronto, obviously, would not care if he killed a hundred men. A thousand. He turned to them, plodding through the mounting wreckage. He tossed aside anything that stood in his way, knocking over tables, smashing chairs and lamps and robotenders. He lashed out at Hurkos, struck a blow that sent the small Mue tumbling across another table and crashing to the floor in a cloud of broken gla.s.s.

Gnossos stepped up to take a swing at the maddened Buronto, but he was a Natural. It was impossible for him to strike out at a fellow man, no matter how deserving of punishment that fellow man might be. Had Buronto been an animal, the case would have been simpler. But he was not. And a thousand years of sanity made Gnossos check his blow even before he started it. And Buronto delivered a punch that set the poet down hard. As Gnossos and Hurkos struggled to gain their feet, Black Jack heaved a table out of the way and came for Sam.

Patrons were moving out of the doors, hiding behind stable objects, not anxious to get involved but not about to lose out on a good show like this. They waved bottles, hooted, howled, and cheered for Buronto.

And at that moment, the second hypnotic order came to Sam*

A chaos of noise obliterated the lesser noise in the bar. Sam's eyes glossed. He wobbled for a moment as neither he nor the mysterious hypnotic master was fully in control of his temporal self. Then, determinedly, he set out for the door. Buronto, seeing the move and misjudging it for retreat, snarled and leaped over the fallen furniture, reaching the door first. 'Not yet. I hurt you first!'

He reached with great, corded hands for Sam*

And suddenly doubled up as Sam struck him a blow in the stomach that would have crumbled a wall-because a wall would not have given as Buronto's stomach did. And Buronto's stomach certainly gave-gave up to Sam's wrist. Whoever was controlling Sam's body did not seem to have anything against violence. The giant offed, offed, stumbled, but still managed to clutch Sam's shoulder. Sam brought a foot up, twisted away, and slammed the foot into Buronto's gut, sent him to his knees. Then he was past the Unnatural and through the door. stumbled, but still managed to clutch Sam's shoulder. Sam brought a foot up, twisted away, and slammed the foot into Buronto's gut, sent him to his knees. Then he was past the Unnatural and through the door.

'After him!' Gnossos shouted. 'He's gotten another order!' The two of them ran past the gasping Buronto and outside. But in the dimness of the night, the streets were empty. Sam was a long time gone.

IX.

The water, chemicals, and lubricants flowed about him in invisible pipes. No, not invisible. Materially nonexistent. There were tubes of force that clothed the liquids. No c.u.mbersome, unreliable, destructible metal fixtures, only pure, raw force adapted to do a better job. Gurgling, the fluids flowed from one part of the giant mechanism to another, covering the block-by-a-block machine quickly and efficiently. This was the machine that kept the Shield up, however, and he was frightened because it all seemed so flimsy. He knew that forces, bent and shaped, were better than actual material parts that could wear out or fail from structural flaws. Still, all those liquids flowing through nothingness, and all of them vital to the maintenence of the Shield*

Click!

Breadloaf whirled around- Click!

And around again!

Clicker-click-tick, hmmmmmmm.

The noises bothered him; he interpreted every sound as the beginning of the breakdown. Okay, he had seen it. Now he could leave. He walked to the door, hesitated and looked around. There were other clicks clicks and a m.u.f.fled and a m.u.f.fled clank. clank. He would go insane just listening to it operate, he told himself. Before the horror of a possible breakdown could flood his mind with sewage of ridiculous fears, he stepped into the hall and closed the door behind. Grudgingly, and yet with a profound sense of relief, he went back to his office. He would go insane just listening to it operate, he told himself. Before the horror of a possible breakdown could flood his mind with sewage of ridiculous fears, he stepped into the hall and closed the door behind. Grudgingly, and yet with a profound sense of relief, he went back to his office.

The orders were coming to Sam in a swift series now. Between the accomplishment of one thing and the next order, there were only seconds in which he had control of himself and knew precisely who he was. He could never remember what it was he had done on the last order, and was engulfed by the next before he really had a chance to investigate his surroundings.

Now he was standing in a great chamber full of machines. That made him-or rather his hypnotic master through through him-feel uneasy. Machines, machines, machines. Humming, gurgling, sputtering. He had broken in. The street door had not been locked, for hardly anyone locked anything these days. No need to, without crimes being committed. But this floor him-feel uneasy. Machines, machines, machines. Humming, gurgling, sputtering. He had broken in. The street door had not been locked, for hardly anyone locked anything these days. No need to, without crimes being committed. But this floor had had been sealed. His last order had been to break in here where things flowed through pipes he could not see and machinery throbbed with an overwhelming purpose. But what had he done before that? And what would he do next? been sealed. His last order had been to break in here where things flowed through pipes he could not see and machinery throbbed with an overwhelming purpose. But what had he done before that? And what would he do next?

Then the chaos and the noises came, and he was moving*

When he came out, a package he had been holding under his arm was gone. He had not had time to examine it. He did not know what he had done with it. Or what it had been.

Then the chaos and the noises came, and he was moving*

Breadloaf rubbed his fists in his eyes, pulled open a desk drawer and fumbled in it for anti-snooze tablets. He found a bottle, popped two pills in his mouth, swallowed without benefit of water. Recapping the bottle, he withdrew a second container of tiny nerve pills. He was in the process of swallowing one of these when the door flew open, crashing into its slot with a sharp, ear-shattering crash. There was a man standing there, eyes like vacant, unseeing marbles, his hands flung outward like the hands of a stage magician. The tips of his fingers glowed and vibrated with some hideous power that was immediately a thing to be called evil.

And from the fingernails came darts.

Needles of sleep.

They bit into Breadloaf, spreading their red warmth, pulling him down into a Shieldless darkness that forced but denied him to scream*

When Sam was in control of his body again, the first thing that struck his attention was the man slumped in the chair-seemingly unconscious-behind the desk. His every muscle was taut beneath the surface relaxation, as if the death penalty had been the only alternative to unconsciousness. Secondly, there was the screen. It was to the right of him, and for a moment it had been in a low-key color series of magenta and black. Abruptly, it spewed forth oranges and whites and creams that splashed across the room and grabbed his eyes.

He walked to the screen, stared at it. An indescribable chill swept up and down his spine. It was as if the colors were alive and wanted out.

'What do you want? Who are you?'

The voice startled him, and he leaped, his heart pounding. But it had not been the colors; it had been the man, Sam walked to the ma.s.sive desk. 'My name is Sam. I was-'