Crabbe opened his mouth, then closed it.
"And there were so many other signposts. D'Courtney's suicide drive, produced by intense guilt sensations of abandonment. He had abandoned his son. It was tearing him apart. Then, Barbara D'Courtney's deep half-twin image of herself and Ben Reich; somehow she knew they were half-brother and sister. And Reich's inability to kill Barbara at Chooka Frood's. He knew it too, deep down in the unconscious. He wanted to destroy the hateful father who had rejected him, but he could not bring himself to harm his sister."
"But when did you unearth all this?"
"After the case was closed, sir. When Reich attacked me for setting those booby-traps."
"He claimed you did. He — But if you didn't, Powell, who did?"
"Reich himself, sir."
"Reich!"
"Yes, sir. He murdered his father. He discharged his hatred. But his super-ego... his conscience, could not permit him to go unpunished for such a horrible crime. Since the police apparently were unable to punish him, his conscience took over. That was the meaning of Reich's nightmare image... The Man With No Face."
"The Man With No Face?"
"Yes, Commissioner. It was the symbol of Reich's real relationship to D'Courtney. The figure had no face because Reich could not accept the truth... that he had recognized D'Courtney as his father. The figure appeared in his dreams when he made the decision to kill his father. It never left him. It was first the threat of punishment for what he contemplated. Then it became the punishment itself for the murder."
"The booby-traps?"
"Exactly. His conscience had to punish him. But Reich had never admitted to himself that he murdered because he hated D'Courtney as the father who had rejected and abandoned him. Therefore, the punishment had to take place on the unconscious level. Reich set those traps for himself without ever realizing it... in his sleep, somnambulistically... during the day, in short fugues... brief departures from conscious reality. The tricks of the mind-mechanism are fantastic."
"But if Reich himself knew none of this... how did you get at it, Powell?"
"Well, sir. That was the problem. We couldn't get it by peeping him. He was hostile and you have to have complete cooperation from a subject to get that kind of material. It takes months anyway. Also, if Reich recovered from the series of shocks he'd had, he would be able to readjust, reorient, and become immune to us. That was dangerous, too, because he was in a position of power to rock the solar system. He was one of those rare World-Shakers whose compulsions might have torn down our society and irrevocably committed us to his own psychotic pattern."
Crabbe nodded.
"He very nearly succeeded. These men appear every so often... links between the past and the future. If they are permitted to mature... If the link is permitted to weld... The world finds itself chained to a dreadful tomorrow."
"Then what did you do?"
"We used the Mass Cathexis Measure, sir. It's difficult to explain, but I'll do my best. Every human being has a psyche composed of latent and capitalized energy. Latent energy is our reserve... the untapped natural resources of our mind. Capitalized energy is that latent energy which we call up and put to work. Most of us use only a small portion of our latent energy."
"I understand."
"When the Esper Guild uses the Mass Cathexis Measure, every Esper opens his psyche, so to speak, and contributes his latent energy to a pool. One Esper alone taps this pool and becomes the canal for the latent energy. He captilizes it and puts it to work. He can accomplish tremendous things... if he can control it. It's a difficult and dangerous operation. About on a par with jetting to the moon with a stick of dynamite stuck — er — riding on dynamite sticks..."
Suddenly Crabbe grinned. "I wish I were a peeper," he said. "I'd like to get the real image in your mind."
"You've got it already, sir." Powell grinned back. A rapport had been established between them for the first time.
"It was necessary," Powell continued, "to confront Reich with The Man With No Face. We had to make him see the truth before we could get the truth. Using the pool of latent energy, I built a common neurotic concept for Reich... the illusion that he alone in the world was real."
"Why, I've — Is that common?"
"Oh yes, sir. It's one of the run-of-the-mill escape patterns. When life gets tough, you tend to take refuge in the idea that it's all make-believe... a giant hoax. Reich had the seeds of that weakness in him already. I simply forced them and let Reich defeat himself. Life was getting tough for him. I persuaded him to believe that the universe was a hoax... a puzzle-box. Then I tore it down, layer by layer. I made him believe that the test was ended. The puzzle was being dismantled. And I left Reich alone with The Man With No Face. He looked into the face and saw himself and his father... and we had everything."
Powell picked up his parcel and arose. Crabbe jumped up and escorted him to the door with a friendly hand on his shoulder.
"You've done a phenomenal job, Powell. Really phenomenal. I can't tell you... It must be a wonderful thing to be an Esper."
"Wonderful and terrible, sir."
"You must all be very happy."
"Happy?" Powell paused at the door and looked at Crabbe. "Would you be happy to live your life in a hospital, Commissioner?"
"A hospital?"
"That's where we live... All of us. In the psychiatric ward. Without escape... without refuge. Be grateful you're not a peeper, sir. Be grateful that you only see the outward man. Be grateful that you never see the passions, the hatreds, the jealousies, the malice, the sicknesses... Be grateful you rarely see the frightening truth in people. The world will be a wonderful place when everyone's a peeper and everyone's adjusted... But until then, be greatful you're blind."
He left headquarters, hired a Jumper and was jetted North toward Kingston Hospital. He satin the cabin with the parcel on his knees, gazing down at the magnificent Hudson Valley, whistling a crooked tune. Once he grinned and muttered: "Wow! That was some line I handed Crabbe. But I had to cement our relations. Now he'll feel sorry for peepers... and friendly."
Kingston Hospital came into view... acre upon rolling acre of magnificent landscaping. Solariums, pools, lawns, athletic fields, dormitories, clinics... all in exquisite neo-classic design. As the Jumper descended, Powell could make out the figures of patients and attendants... all bronzed, active, laughing, playmg. He thought of the vigilant measures the Board of Governors was forced to take to prevent Kingston Hospital from becoming another Spaceland. Too many fashionable malingerers were already attempting to obtain admission.
Powell checked in at the Visitors Office, found Barbara D'Courtney's location and started across the grounds. He was weak, but he wanted to leap hedges, vault gates, run races. He had awakened after seven days' exhaustion with a question — one question to ask Barbara. He felt exhilarated.
They saw one another at the same moment. Across a broad stretch of lawn flanked by field-stone terraces and brilliant gardens. She flew toward him, waving, and he ran toward her. Then as they approached, both were stricken with shyness. They stopped a few feet apart, not daring to look at each other.
"Hello."
"Hello, Barbara."
"I... Let's get into the shade, shall we?"
They turned toward the terrace wall. Powell glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She was alive again... alive as he had never seen her before. And her urchin expression — the expression that he had imagined was a phase of her Déjà Èprouvé development was still there. She looked inexpressively mischievous, high-spirited, fascinating. But she was adult. He did not know her.
"I'm being discharged this evening," Barbara said.
"I know."
"I'm terribly grateful to you for all you've—"
"Please don't say that."
"For all you've done," Barbara continued firmly. They sat down on a stone bench. She looked at him with grave eyes. "I want to tell you how grateful I am."
"Please, Barbara. Y
ou're terrifying me."
"Am I?"
"I knew you so intimately as... well, as a child. Now..."
"Now I'm grown up again."
"Yes."
"You must get to know me better." She smiled graciously. "Shall we say... Tea tomorrow at five?"
"At five..."
"Informal. Don't dress."
"Listen," Powell said desperately. "I helped dress you more than once. And comb your hair. And brush your teeth."
She waved her hand airily.
"Your table manners were a caution. You liked fish but you hated lamb. You hit me in the eye with a chop."
"That was ages ago, Mr. Powell."
"That was two weeks ago, Miss D'Courtney."
She arose with magnificent poise. "Really Mr. Powell. I feel it would be best to end the interview. If you feel impelled to cast chronographical aspersions..." She stopped and looked at him. The urchin appeared again in her face. "Chronographical?" she inquired.
He dropped the parcel and caught her in his arms.
"Mr. Powell, Mr. Powell, Mr. Powell..." she murmured. "Hello, Mr. Powell... "
"My God, Barbara... Baba, dear. For a moment I thought you meant it."
"I was paying you back for being grown up."
"You always were a revengeful kid."
"You always were a mean daddy." She leaned back and looked at him. "What are you really like? What are we both like? Will we have time to find out?"
"Time?"
"Before... Peep me. I can't say it."
"No, dear. You'll have to say it."
"Mary Noyes told me. Everything."
"Oh. She did?"
Barbara nodded. "But I don't care. I don't care. She was right. I'll settle for anything. Even if you can't marry me..."
He laughed. The exhilaration bubbled out of him. "You won't have to settle for anything," he said. "Sit down. I want to ask you one question."
She sat down. On his lap.
"I have to go back to that night," he said.
"In Beaumont House?"
He nodded.
"lt's not easy to talk about."
"It won't take a minute. Now... You were lying in bed, asleep. Suddenly you woke up and rushed into the Orchid room. You remember the rest."
"I remember."
"One question. What was the cry that woke you?"
"You know."
"I know, but I want you to say it. Say it out loud."
"Do you think it's... it's going to send me into hysteria again?"
"No. Just say it."
After a long pause, she said in a low voice: "Help, Barbara."
He nodded again. "Who shouted that?"
"Why, it was—" Suddenly she stopped.
"It wasn't Ben Reich. He wouldn't be yelling for help. He didn't need help. Who did?"
"My... My father."
"But he couldn't speak, Barbara. His throat was gone... Cancer. He couldn't utter a word."
"I heard him."
"You peeped him."
She stared; then she shook her head. "No, I—"
"You peeped him," Powell repeated gently. "You're a latent Esper. Your father cried out on the telepathic level. If I hadn't been such an ass and so intent on Reich, I'd have realized it long before. You were unconsciously peeping Mary and me all the while you were in my house."
She couldn't grasp it.
"Do you love me?" Powell shot at her.
"I love you, of course," she muttered, "but I think you're inventing excuses to—"
"Who asked you?"
"Asked me what?"
"If you loved me."
"Why you just—" She stopped, then tried again.
"You said... Y-You..."
"I didn't say it. Do you understand now? We won't have to settle for anything short of us."
Seconds later, it seemed, but it was actually half an hour, they were separated by a violent crash that sounded from the top of the terrace above their heads. They looked up in astonishment.
A naked thing appeared on the stone wall, gibbering, screaming, twitching. It toppled over the edge and crashed down through the flower beds until it landed on the lawn, crying and jerking as though a steady stream of voltage was pouring through its nervous system. It was Ben Reich, almost unrecognizable, part way through Demolition.
Powell swung Barbara to him with her back to Reich. He took her chin in his hand and said: "Are you still my girl?"
She nodded.
"I don't want you to see this. It isn't dangerous, but it isn't good for you. Will you run back to your pavilion and wait for me? Like a good girl? All right... Scamper now! Jet!"
She grabbed his hand, kissed it quickly, and ran across the lawn without once looking back. Powell watched her go, then turned and inspected Reich.
When a man is demolished at Kingston Hospital, his entire psyche is destroyed. The series of osmotic injections begins with the topmost strata of cortical synapses and slowly works down, switching off every circuit, extinguishing every memory, destroying every particle of the pattern that has been built up since birth. And as the pattern is erased, each particle discharges its portion of energy, turning the entire body into a shuddering maelstrom of dissociation.
But this is not the pain; this is not the dread of Demolition. The horror lies in the fact that the consciousness is never lost; that as the psyche is wiped out, the mind is aware of its slow, backward death until at last it too disappears and awaits the rebirth. The mind bids an eternity of farewells; it mourns at an endless funeral. And in those blinking, twitching eyes of Ben Reich, Powell saw the awareness... the pain... the tragic despair.
"Now how the hell did he fall down there? Do we have to keep him tied?" Dr. Jeems poked his head over the terrace. "Oh. Hi, Powell. That's a friend of yours. Remember him?"
"Vividly."
Jeems spoke over his shoulder: "You go down to the lawn and pick him up. I'll keep an eye on him." He turned to Powell. "He's a lusty lad. We've got great hopes for him."
Reich squalled and twitched.
"How's the treatment coming?"
"Wonderful. He's got the stamina to take anything. We're stepping him up. Ought to be ready for rebirth in a year."
"I'm waiting for it. We need men like Reich. It would have been a shame to lose him."
"Lose him? How's that possible? You think a little fall like that could—"
"No. I mean something else. Three or four hundred years ago, cops used to catch people like Reich just to kill them. Capital punishment, they called it."
"You're kidding."
"Scout's honor."
"But it doesn't make sense. If a man's got the talent and guts to buck society, he's obviously above average. You want to hold on to him. You straighten him out and turn him into a plus value. Why throw him away? Do that enough and all you've got left are the sheep."
"I don't know. Maybe in those days they wanted sheep."
The attendants came trotting across the lawn and picked Reich up. He fought and screamed. They handled him with the deft and gentle Kingston judo while they checked him carefully for breaks and sprains. Then, reassured, they started to lead him away.
"Just a minute," Powell called. He turned to the stone bench, picked up the mysterious parcel and unwrapped it. It was one of Sucre et Cie's most magnificent candy boxes. He carried it to the demolished man and held it out. "It's a present for you, Ben. Take it."
The creature lowered at Powell and then at the box. At last the clumsy hands came out and took the gift.
"Why damn it, I'm just his nursemaid," Powell muttered. "We're all of us nursemaids to this crazy world. Is it worth it?"
Out of the chaos in Reich came an explosive fragment: "Powell- peeper- Powell- friend- Powell- friend..."
It was so sudden, so unexpected, so passionately grateful that Powell was overcome with warmth and tears. He tried to smile, then turned away and wandered across the lawn toward the pavilion and Barbara.
"Listen," he cried in e
xaltation. "Listen, normals! You must learn what it is. You must learn how it is. You must tear the barriers down. You must tear the veils away. We see the truth you cannot see... That there is nothing in man but love and faith, courage and kindness, generosity and sacrifice. All else is only the barrier of your blindness. One day we'll all be mind to mind and heart to heart..."
* * *
In the endless universe there has been nothing new, nothing different. What has appeared exceptional to the minute mind of man has been inevitable to the infinite Eye of God. This strange second in a life, that unusual event, those remarkable coincidences of environment, opportunity, and encounter... all of them have been reproduced over and over on the planet of a sun whose galaxy revolves once in two hundred million years and has revolved nine times already. There has been joy. There will be joy again.
END OF THE DEMOLISHED MAN
Alfred Bester, The Demolished Man
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