Viscous Circle

  They crested a hill and traveled down to a stream that was setting about forming its valley, as though this world was as young as its culture; a great deal of developing remained to be done. The bed of the stream was filled with rounded boulders around which the clear water coursed and bubbled merrily. The joy of youth! There would be no problem about crossing; there was more rock than water. But another sizable contingent of Hurrians balked, including the drum-and-horn band.

  "Fear strikes again," Ronald murmured.

  "Astute observation," Speed agreed. "Cerberus's power grows as we approach him, and his bellow is louder."

  Also, Ronald thought, the troops were getting tired. Marching any distance in iron was no fun, even for brawny warriors. He himself was uncomfortably sweaty inside his metal casing.

  They navigated the stream and proceeded with the reduced forces. "If he has three heads," Ronald inquired with a casualness he did not feel, "how is it possible to cut off one without getting bitten by another?"

  "Oh, your armor is proof against that."

  His armor! The very thing he had been privately cursing! How could he chafe at his housing of iron without appreciating the purpose it served? Of course that would help; no canine could bite at a limb without doing more damage to its own teeth than to Ronald.

  He was secure. Why, then, was he, a civilized man, experiencing a growing unease?

  Ronald was not much given to worry about nonessentials. If something bothered him, it was something real. He had only to identify it. So he concentrated, and soon it came.

  There was a rationale for all this nonsense. Chief Speed had a good thing going in this mythical magic monster; the tribe rallied to its chief in the continuing crisis of fear. He had no real reason to eliminate Cerberus—but he had to seem to want to, for the benefit of the tribe. So periodically he had to try—and fail. Now he had called in outside help—and it would be to Speed's advantage to have the outsider, too, try and fail. That would prove anew how awful the monster was.

  Ronald was civilized, not vulnerable to superstitious fear. It would take a real monster to scare him off. So if Cerberus were more formidable physically than represented, and Ronald retreated from the beast, describing it as it was, that would be evidence that he, too, had been struck by the fear. Or if he fought it and lost: better yet. Who cared about an Imp? Speed's hold over his tribe would be painlessly reinforced.

  But Ronald was here to eliminate that monster. He was trapped in the commitment. He would have to proceed, and hope that his sword and armor really did give him a fair chance. He was no hero, but he generally finished what he started. He did have pride, and to a certain extent that substituted for courage.

  Now the landscape thickened into a forest. The trees had red-brown bark and rather pretty hexagonal leaves that were on top green, yellow below. But as the forest became dense, inhibiting the light, Ronald felt a constriction about his awareness. Probably it was the diminution of vision; that tended to bring out the nervousness in people. Yes, surely that was it.

  They went on and the Hurrians continued to fade away, as each man reached his personal point of balk. Indeed, the intensifying fear was almost palpable.

  "Impossible," Ronald muttered. "A spell can't make people afraid!"

  "Especially not a civilized person," Speed agreed. But the chief himself looked wan. He was breathing more rapidly than could be accounted for by the exertion, his eyes darted all about, and his cheeks seemed to sag under some private gravity. He was evidently feeling the magic. There were only six remaining in the party now, and all looked greenish.

  Ronald realized what was doing it. All those people, so visibly afraid, making an inadvertent production of it: contributing to the mood, reinforcing each other in fear. No wonder tension was affecting him, too!

  Now that he understood that, Ronald no longer needed to be affected by it. He walked on with renewed confidence.

  There was a strange, ugly, many-throated howl.

  Four remaining warriors retreated stiffly, trying to preserve their dignity despite their evident cowardice. "We are drawing nigh," Speed said unnecessarily. "This time I heard it." Under the partial cover of the chief's helmet, sweat beaded his face, and now Ronald caught the actual odor of fear.

  So this was the first time the chief had heard the monster! But if the point of hearing was the point of retreat, how was it that Ronald himself had heard it? "This is as far as you go?"

  "I am chief because I can approach the beast closer than any tribesman," Speed admitted. "Sometimes I can come within sight of him. But I can go very little farther. You, a civilized man, are not in a position to understand."

  No? Ronald was holding his face calm and his body firmly erect by extraordinary exertion of willpower. That howl had petrified him. There really was a three-headed dog up ahead!

  "I can take it from here, Chief," Ronald said, surprised at how well modulated his voice was. He had more nerve under pressure than he had known! "No problem about locating Cerberus now; if you can hear him, he must be very close."

  The man accepted the implication along with the flattery: the civilized visitor had not heard the howl of the monster. "Yes." Speed looked relieved. "Right ahead, no more than a hundred paces, beside the cleft of Hell he guards. You can't miss him."

  "I'm sure I can't."

  "Three chops, that's all. One for each head."

  "Elementary." Ronald wished the man would yield to his fear and go.

  "One cut for each head," Speed repeated, as though convincing himself. "The necks are narrow. No trouble at all, for you."

  "No trouble at all," Ronald agreed. "I'll rejoin you shortly." He faced forward and walked resolutely. It had become obvious that Speed's pride would not permit him to retreat; he was holding at his limit.

  When Ronald was out of sight of the chief, with trees and a boulder between them, he paused, sick with fear. He had acted to prevent Speed from seeing. The armor helped, since it concealed most of his body and caused him to walk somewhat awkwardly anyway. Pride had provided the backbone. He had not wanted it known that he, a supposedly civilized man, was also affected by the magic of the monster.

  But it would be known anyway, if he did not slay Cerberus: the nightmares would still be curdling the mothers' milk. Ronald could vindicate himself only by performing.

  The beast made his triple howl again. Ronald froze. It did indeed feel as if the blood were congealing in his ossifying veins. How could he slay the monster, when the very sound of it terrified him? Ronald fought to get himself in equilibrium. Dammit, he was civilized; magic could not affect him! That was why he was here.

  Yet Spherical Regression had already deprived him of modern weapons, and put him in this crude iron suit, and brought him alone to this pass. Regression was a subtle but potent force. Was it possible that magic could, after all, affect him? Because he had strayed into its region of power, far from the realm of authority of science in the center of the Sphere?

  No. Magic was not powerless against him because he was civilized; it was powerless because it was fraudulent. Magic had never had validity; it had always been an explanation for misunderstood natural forces. Chief Speed had said as much. The Humans had accepted magic as valid because they were primitives; the Imperial Authority had assumed this was entirely psychological.

  Now he was on the spot. The honor of civilization depended on Ronald's performance—and he had no advantage over the primitives. Because the magic was indeed affecting him.

  Yet he did retain his rational mind. He did know more than the primitives did. He knew that the fear that paralyzed him had no rational basis. He was afraid, almost literally, of nothing. Knowing that, perhaps he could devise an approach that would nullify the fear, just as Perseus had devised the mirror-shield with which to view the gorgon, avoiding petrification.

  There he was, thinking in terms of magic again!

  No—the scientific method was applicable anywhere. The border between science and magic lay wit
hin his human mind, not in any geographical frame. Perseus had used his intellect to figure out a way to divert the onus of the gorgon; Ronald should do the same here.

  He was afraid—but what was he really afraid of? A mythical monster, or something else? He had already concluded that Chief Speed would benefit if Ronald failed to slay Cerberus—yet the rationale offered was that Ronald, as a civilized man, should be able to accomplish the slaying. Why, then, had Speed cooperated so well? That did not quite make sense. A sensible man would not leave his personal welfare to chance—the chance that a stranger just might succeed in his mission.

  It burst upon him then: maybe there was no monster at all! The chief might have invented Cerberus, taking advantage of the eerie howl of some innocuous wilderness denizen to build a myth of terror that governed all the tribe. No one but the chief had seen the monster, after all!

  But surely there had been some brave skeptics in the tribe. Why hadn't they betrayed the secret, after searching out Cerberus and finding him false?

  Because any who approached the secret region had died. Not of fright, not by the triple heads of the monster, but by ambush. Speed had simply assassinated them, contributing to the power of the myth. And if Ronald marched blithely there—

  Probably the assassin was already there, having circled around while Ronald gathered his courage. To forge onward now would be to invite a shaft through the eye or a fall into a concealed trap. The Imp would disappear, and it would be known that the monster had prevailed even over a civilized man. Thus Speed would have even more power, and it would be long before it became necessary to make further proof of the reality of the monster. The nightmares would worsen, and more babies would bawl.

  But it was best to make sure his theory was right. Ronald left his boulder and circled quietly around toward the spot where the chief was supposedly waiting for him. Naturally Speed would be gone.

  The chief stood where he had been, unmoved. His entire aspect was of fear. Why should he maintain that attitude when he thought no one was watching?

  Ronald moved away. Now his conjectures about Speed seemed ludicrous. In addition, he still felt the fear. Why should that be, if he had figured out a valid nonsupernatural origin of his concern?

  Cerberus howled again—and again dread overwhelmed Ronald. He fell to the ground and cowered amid the crackling-dry leaves of the forest floor. No, he had to believe it now: there was indeed a spell of fear.

  He sat up as the howl faded and his terror eased. He was afraid, but he had not given up. First he had to understand this phenomenon. The creature could project fear; there was now no doubt of that. But that did not necessarily mean the power of Cerberus was magic. What scientific explanation could there be?

  Ronald's mind began clicking over as it came to grips with this specific problem. What about sonic waves? Sound, extended above and below the range of human auditory perception. Very low notes could instill fear; that had been demonstrated. Perhaps they could also curdle milk, or at least make nursing mothers tense.

  But this monster's sounds were audible. Possibly it possessed another mechanism, a second set of throats; but this seemed unlikely. Why should it bother with audible sound at all?

  What about telepathy? Some Galactic species had it; the phenomenon was hardly unknown. Could that account for the known effects?

  Nightmares—certainly! Bad thoughts or moods injected into the vulnerable relaxed minds of sleeping people. Bad-tasting milk? More likely this was merely the perceptions of the babies being affected. Mental attitude could change the perception of taste. To appreciate the effect, one had only to imagine that the pleasant pudding he was eating had been made of crushed grasshoppers.

  Oops—some of that glop he had feasted on last night. The mead, for example. Primitives used natural sources of protein. Grasshopper juice? They would probably smack their lips and think it a great joke on the Imp. Ronald began to feel ill.

  He forced the concept away. His question had been answered. Yes, telepathy was feasible. He should have thought of it before. The simple, literal projection of fear. Some minds were more receptive than others, and civilized education would be an excellent counterforce. Chief Speed, for all his protestations, was a knowledgeable, intelligent man; he was affected less than others of his tribe. Ronald was affected less yet—but not by much. So the story Speed had told him was true; only the interpretation made it sensible. Was there really much difference between telepathy and magic?

  One element was missing: motive. What did Cerberus stand to gain by projecting fear into a general populace? Fear could serve as a marvelous defense, but fear projected to creatures who were not attacking would be counterproductive. As now: Ronald was here to slay the monster, because of the superfluous fear it spread—so that fear had become a threat to the monster, rather than a benefit. The shame of being vulnerable to this emotion had abated, now that he had an honorable explanation for it, but the emotion itself remained.

  Actually, he realized, the fear abated somewhat as he wrestled with this concept. If his attempt to comprehend Cerberus accomplished that much, success might complete the job. So he should keep thinking!

  Nature did nothing gratuitously. It had to take some form of energy to project that fear—a lot of energy to cover the broad area of human habitation. Where did Cerberus get that energy? Any prey he hunted would flee him desperately; so as a hunting device it just didn't make sense.

  Could the monster reverse the emotion, summoning prey for ready consumption? Chief Speed had made no reference to that; it was reasonable to assume that the projection was all negative. If people or their animals had been lured away to doom, Speed would certainly have told him.

  So the mysteries remained: why did Cerberus do it, and how did he feed? If Ronald could figure out the answers, he might know how to prevail.

  He pondered, but could not make sense of it. Things had been simpler when seen as magic. Magic did not need practical explanations. It did not need to make sense. It followed its own nonsensical rule.

  Magic. Explore that again. The mythological Cerberus was the guardian of Hades. It was his purpose to permit only the doomed souls to cross the infernal river into the dread realms. And to prevent them from escaping. Fear would certainly be useful there: the doomed souls had no choice about their route; all others would stay well clear.

  Was this dismal dog guarding the gate to a local hell? Did Satan send fresh meat to feed the monster?

  No, that could not be literal. But it could be figurative. The monster could be guarding something—something native, predating the arrival of the human colonists. Something aliens were not supposed to know about. So the three-headed dog constantly warned them away. If they could not kill Cerberus, they might have to vacate the colony—and that could be the purpose of this projection of fear.

  Now Ronald was very curious about the nature of whatever it was the monster guarded. Incalculable wealth? Some planetary paradise? Or maybe even the richest treasure of all, an operative Ancient Site? Or something too alien for the human mind to comprehend?

  His fear had diminished almost to nothing. Ronald strode forward, and the landscape passed rapidly aside. Soon he came to a clearing, where the ground turned dark and scorched. A volcanic region, perhaps? Such phenomena could assume diverse forms on alien planets. Faint wisps of steam issued from a narrow crevice.

  There, beside the crevice, stood Cerberus. He was indeed vaguely canine, huge and fat, with three small, vicious heads. His skin hung in loose, leathery folds and was blotchy and thinly furred. The monster was hardly pretty, but he did not look vicious enough to represent a serious physical danger. The three heads were grotesque rather than formidable.

  The monster spied him. First one head turned to stare balefully at him; the other two followed, as though advised by some internal channel. Each was "normal," possessing two nostrils, two eyes, and a cruel mouth. Each eye was ringed by unhealthy red, as though it had not slept recently. The baleful cynosure of the s
ix was enervating.

  You differ.

  Ronald jumped. There was no question as to the source of the message; it had come from Cerberus. There was a curious triple quality to it, as if three mental colors or shades of meaning, emotion, and intensity had been superimposed for the projection, fashioning a rounded, whole, message. None of the grim mouths had moved; a thin drool of saliva descended from each. It had been telepathy.

  Your mind complex.

  Why should he be surprised? Ronald had already deduced that the monster must be telepathic. Perhaps three heads were better than one, each brain projecting a manageable portion of the thought, an aspect of it. Maybe ordinary thought could not be sent this way, but the components could, so the three signals were being received and recombined within Ronald's own brain like the sound and light components of a vidcast. Evidently the thing could also receive, the barrier of language being nullified by this mode of transmission. Language was, after all, merely the clothing put on thoughts.

  "I'm civilized," Ronald said, letting speech focus the thought. The human mind was so constituted that it could hardly formulate a cohesive thought without the aid of vocalization or subvocalization. Thus the clothing became the mind. Maybe this was because man had two brains, the left and right hemispheres, their natures discrete, which could not combine within themselves; they had to superimpose outside, the way the three brains of Cerberus did, and language was the mechanism of superimposition. Man was a creature of language; that had lifted him out of the jungle and plain.

  You come kill me. There was neither fear nor challenge here, merely clarification.

  "Yes. Because you frighten my people."

  This is how I live, the monster thought. There was a certain beauty in its triple mental articulation, as there was when three musical instruments played harmony.

  "I know. It's a great nuisance to us. Why do you do it?"

  How I live, Cerberus repeated with a shifting, almost viscous manipulation of emphasis and elements.