The Final Encyclopedia

  As he did, his steps quickened. He reached the end of the street and turned left, looking for a postal kiosk. A couple of blocks farther down this new street, he found one. A small amount charged against one of the Harmony-local vouchers he had been supplied with as a member of the Command caused a slot in the kiosk to disgorge a large envelope, already stamped with local postage. Hastily, he took his identity envelope from his inside jacket pocket, stuffed it into the envelope, and sealed it. He addressed the envelope to Amid, Outbond to the Department of History, University of Ceta. On the bottom in capital letters he printed HOLD FOR ARRIVAL. A screen on the kiosk, questioned, gave him the address of the local Maran Consulate in Ahruma. He memorized it even as he had the kiosk print it on his package. Then he slipped the sealed and addressed package into the mailing tray of the kiosk, which inhaled it with a soft, breathy sound. Empty-handed and momentarily lightheaded with triumph, he turned away from the kiosk.

  Now it was only a matter of taking the best of what chances were left to get free of the terminal. There was one means that might allow him to bluff or bully his way past the Militiamen guarding the entrances to the Commercial Center. He might be able to do it if he was dressed as a Militiaman himself—preferably in the uniform of a superior officer. The problem would be to find an officer among those hunting him here whose clothes he could wear with any conviction that they belonged to him. An alternative—the thought struck him suddenly—would be to get the papers of one of the men in civilian clothes that had been stationed around the square and try to make his way out on the strength of those, in his present garb.

  He was still only a block from the square. Something like enthusiasm beginning to rise in him for the first time that day, he turned away from the kiosk.

  "There he is—that's him!"

  It was the voice of Adion Corfua. Looking, he saw the pale, large figure, with two men in civilian clothes and five Militiamen, coming toward him from the direction in which he had just been about to go. He wheeled to escape, and saw another line of Militia just entering the intersection at the end of the block behind him.

  "Get him!" Corfua was shouting.

  There was the pounding of feet on the pavement behind him, and the Militiamen ahead also broke into a run toward him. He looked right and left, but there was nothing on either side of him but the unbreakable glass of shop windows. Choosing, he charged the line of uniforms he was facing.

  Almost, he broke through them and got away. They were not expecting attack, and they faltered slightly at the sight of him coming down on them. Nor were they trained as he had been trained. They converged on him and he spun into them as they came close, leaving four of them on the ground and a fifth, still on his feet, but staggering. But they had delayed him just long enough for the Militiamen behind him to catch up; and these swarmed over him, helped by those who could recover from the first group he had hit. Without warning, his momentary burst of strength exhausted itself. There were simply too many of them. He went down, conscious for a little while of blows raining on him—blows hardly, it seemed after a bit, more than light taps; until, after a little while, he did not feel them at all.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  He came to consciousness to find himself lying on his back on some flat, hard, cold surface that tremored slightly; and a second later he recognized the low, steady sound of truck blowers heard from inside a vehicle. His legs and arms ached, and he tried to move them, but they were held—ankles, knees and wrists pressed tightly together. For a moment he threw all his strength against whatever pinioned them, but they remained immovable. He slid back into unconsciousness.

  When he woke a second time, he was still lying on his back; but the surface under him was softer and motionless, and there was no sound of blowers. A bright light glaring down into his eyes was in the process of being turned down slightly.

  "That's better," said a memorable, resonant voice he recognized. "Now take those stays off him and help him sit up."

  With unbelievable gentleness, fingers removed whatever had been holding his wrists, knees and ankles. Hands assisted him to a seated position and put something behind his back to prop him upright. There was a pricking sensation in his left arm that startled him, but not to the extent of betraying him into any sign that he was once more aware. Less than a minute later, however, warmth, energy, and a blissful freedom from pain and discomfort began to flood all through him.

  With that, he recognized the ridiculousness of continuing to pretend unconsciousness. He opened his eyes on a small, bare-walled room, furnished like a prison cell, with two Militiamen on their feet and the width of the room away from the narrow bed-surface on which he lay. And Bleys Ahrens, standing tall, loomed close beside and over him.

  "Well, Hal," said Bleys softly, "now we finally get a chance to talk. If you'd only identified yourself back in Citadel, we could have gotten together then."

  Hal did not answer. He was face to face with the Other, now. The feeling of cold determination that had come on him when he had faced the fact that he was not staying at the Final Encyclopedia, nearly four years before, rose in him again. He lay still, studying Bleys as Malachi had taught him to do with an opponent, waiting for information on which to act.

  Bleys sat down on a float beside the bed, which Hal felt to be some cot-like surface, covered with a single mattress of no great thickness. There had been no float beside it when Bleys had started to sit, nor had the Other Man given an order or made any signal Hal had seen. But by the time Bleys had needed it there, the padded float had been in position for him.

  "I should tell you how I feel about the deaths of your tutors," the tall man said. "I know—at the moment you don't trust me enough to believe me. But you should hear, anyway, that there was never, at any time, any intention to harm anyone at your home. If there'd been any way I could have stopped what happened there, I would have."

  He paused, but Hal said nothing. Bleys smiled slightly, sadly.

  "I'm part-Exotic, you know," he said. "I not only don't hold with killing, I don't like any violence; and I don't believe ordinarily there's any excuse for it. Would you believe me if I told you that of the three there on the terrace that day, there was only one who could have surprised me enough to make me lose command of the situation long enough for them to be killed?"

  Again he paused and again Hal stayed silent.

  "That one man," said Bleys, "made the only possible move that could have done so. It was your tutor Walter, and his physically attacking me, that was the single action I absolutely couldn't anticipate; and it was also the only thing that could get in the way of my stopping my bodyguards in time."

  "Bodyguards?" said Hal. His voice was so weak and husky he hardly recognized it as his own.

  "I'm sorry," said Bleys. "I can believe you think of them in different terms. But no matter what you think, their primary duty there, that day, was only to protect me."

  "From three old men," said Hal.

  "Even from three old men," replied Bleys. "And they weren't so negligible, those old men. They took out three of four of my bodyguards before they were stopped."

  "Killed," Hal said.

  Bleys inclined his head a little.

  "Killed," he said. "Murdered, if you want me to use that word. All I'm asking you to accept is that I'd have prevented what happened, and could have, if Walter hadn't done the one thing that could break my control over my men for the second or two needed to let it all happen."

  Hal looked away from him, at the ceiling. There was a moment of silence.

  "From the time you set foot on our property," said Hal, wearily, "the responsibility was yours."

  The drug they had given him was holding pain and discomfort at bay, but still he was conscious of an incredible exhaustion; and even turned down, the lights overhead were hurting his eyes. He closed them again; and heard the voice of Bleys above him projected in a different direction.

  "Lower that illumination some more. That's right. Now, leave it
there. As long as Hal Mayne is in this room, those lights aren't to be turned up or down, unless he asks they be."

  Hal opened his eyes again. The cell was now pleasantly dim; but in the dimness, Bleys seemed—even seated—to loom even taller. By a trick of his fever and the drug in Hal, the Other Man appeared to tower upward above him toward infinity.

  "You're right, of course," Bleys said, now. "But still, I'd like you to try and understand my point of view."

  "Is that all you want?" Hal asked.

  The face of Bleys looked down at him from its unimaginable height.

  "Of course not," said Bleys, gently. "I want to save you—not only for your own sake but as something to put against the unnecessary deaths of your tutors, for which I still feel responsible."

  "And what does saving me mean?" Hal lay watching him.

  "It means," said Bleys, "giving you a chance to live the life you've been designed by birth—and from birth—to live."

  "As an Other?"

  "As Hal Mayne, free to use his full capabilities."

  "As an Other," Hal said.

  "You're a snob, my young friend," replied Bleys. "A snob, and misinformed. The misinformation may not be your fault; but the snobbery is. You're too bright to pretend to a belief in double-dyed villains. If that was all we were—myself and those like me—would most of the inhabited worlds let us take control of things the way they have?"

  "If you were capable enough to do it," Hal said.

  "No." Bleys shook his head. "Even if we were supermen and superwomen—even if we were the mutants some people like to think we are—so few of us could never control so many unless the many wanted us to control them. And you must have been better educated than to think of us as either superbeings or mutants. We're only what we are—what you yourself are—genetically fortunate combinations of human abilities who have had the advantages of some special training."

  "I'm not like you—" For a moment, lulled by Bleys' warm, deep tones, Hal had forgotten the hatred in him. It came back redoubled, and a sort of nausea moved in him at the idea of any likeness between Bleys and himself.

  "Of course you are," said Bleys.

  Hal looked past him to the two Militiamen standing behind him. With eyes now adjusted to the light, at last, one of them was now recognizable as a commissioned officer. Focusing more closely on the face above the collar tabs, he recognized Barbage.

  "That's right, Hal," said Bleys, having glanced over his shoulder. "You know the Captain, don't you? This is Amyth Barbage, who'll be responsible for you as long as you're in this place. Amyth—remember, I've a particular interest in Hal. You and your men are going to have to forget he was ever connected with one of the Commands. You're to do nothing to him—for any reason, or under any circumstances. Do you understand me, Amyth?"

  "I understand, Great Teacher," said Barbage. His eyes stared unblinkingly at Hal as he spoke.

  "Good," said Bleys. "Now, all surveillance of this cell is to be discontinued until I call you to come let me out of here. Leave us, both of you, and wait down the corridor so Hal and I can talk privately—if you please."

  Beside Barbage, the enlisted Militiaman started, taking half a step forward and opening his mouth. But without turning his gaze from Hal, Barbage closed a hand on the other black-sleeved arm. Hal saw the officer's thin fingers sink deeply into the cloth. The man checked and stood still, saying nothing.

  "Don't worry," said Bleys. "I'll be perfectly safe. Now, go."

  The two of them went. The door of the cell, closing behind them, relocked itself with a soft click.

  "You see," said Bleys, turning back to Hal, "they don't really understand this; and it isn't fair to expect them to. From their standpoint, if another human gets in your way, the sensible thing is to remove him—or her. The concept of you and I as relatively unimportant in ourselves, but as gathering points for great forces, and in a situation where it's those forces that matter…that's a thing essentially beyond their comprehension. But certainly you and I ought to understand such things; not only such things but each other."

  "No," said Hal. There were a great many more things he wanted to say; but suddenly the effort was too great and he ended by simply repeating himself. "No."

  "Yes," said Bleys, looking down. "Yes. I'm afraid I have to insist, on that point. Sooner or later, you're going to have to face the real shape of things in any case and, for your own sake, it'd better be now, rather than later."

  Hal lay still, looking once more only at the ceiling over his head, rather than into the face of Bleys. The tall man's voice sounded like some gently sonorous bassoon in his ears.

  "All practical actions are matters of necessity in the light of hard reality," said Bleys. "What we—those who're called the Other People—do, is dictated by what we are and the situation in which we find ourselves; and that situation is to be one among literally millions of ordinary humans, with the power to make our lives in that position ones in either a heaven or a hell. Either—but nothing else. Because the choice isn't one any of us can avoid. If we fail to choose heaven, we inevitably find ourselves in hell."

  "I don't believe you," said Hal. "There's no reason it has to be that way."

  "Oh yes, my child," said Bleys softly. "There is a reason. Apart from our individual talents, our training, and our mutual support, we're still only as human as the millions around us. Friendless and without funds, we can starve, just like anyone else. Our bones can be broken and we can fall sick as easily as ordinary mortals. Killed, we die as obligingly. If taken care of, we may live a few years longer than the average, but not much. We have the same normal, human emotional hungers—for love, for the companionship of someone who can think and talk our own language. But, if we should choose to ignore our differentness and mold ourselves to fit the little patterns of those around us, we can spend our whole lives miserably; and probably—almost certainly—we may never even be lucky enough to meet one other being like ourselves. None of us chose this, to be what each of us is—but what we are, we are; and like everyone else we have an innate human right to make the best of our situation."

  "At the expense of those millions of people you talk about," said Hal.

  "And what sort of expense is that?" Bleys' voice grew even deeper. "The expense of one Other borne by a million ordinary humans is a light load on each ordinary human. But turn that about. What of the cost to the Other; who, trying only to fit in with the human mass around him, accepts a life of isolation, loneliness, and the endurance daily of prejudice and misunderstanding? While, at the same time, his unique strengths and talents allow those same individuals who draw away from him to reap the benefits of his labors. Is there justice in that? Look down the long pages of past history at the intellectual giants, men and women alike, who've moved civilization forward while struggling to survive in the midst of lesser people who innately feared and distrusted them. Giants, crouching daily to keep their differences from showing and arousing the irrational fears of the small ones around them. From the beginning of time to be human, but different, has been dangerous; and it's been a choice between the many who could carry one lightly on their combined shoulders and the one who must carry the many all alone, with his or her much greater strength, but staggering under the proportionately greater effort; and which of those two choices is fairer?"

  Hal's head, under the effects of the fever and the drug together, spun strangely. The mental image of a giant crouching made a grotesque image in his mind.

  "Why crouch?" he said.

  "Why crouch?" The face of Bleys smiled, far above him. "Ask yourself that. How old are you now?"

  "Twenty," said Hal.

  "Twenty—and you still ask that question? As you've gotten older, haven't you begun to feel an isolation, a separation from all those around you? Haven't you found yourself forced, more and more often lately, to take charge of matters—to make decisions not merely for yourself, but for those with you who aren't capable of making them for themselves? Quietly, but inev
itably, taking charge, doing what only you realize has to be done, for the good of all?"

  He paused.

  "I think you know what I'm talking about," he said after that moment of silence. "At first, you only try to tell them what should be done; because you can't believe—you don't want to believe—that they can be so helpless. But, little by little, you come to face the fact that while they may do things right under your continual coaching, they'll never understand enough to do what's necessary on their own, each time the need arises; and so, finally, worn out, you simply take over. Without their even realizing it, you set things in the path they should go; and all these little people follow it, thinking it's the natural course of events."

  He stopped again. Lying still, watching him, a portion of his own mind remote, Hal did not reply.

  "Yes," said Bleys, "you know what I'm talking about. You've already known it, and started to feel the width and depth of this gulf that separates you from the rest of the race. Believe me when I tell you that what you now feel will steadily grow deeper and stronger as time goes on. The experience your more capable mind acquires, at a rate much faster than they can imagine, will continue to widen and widen the gap that separates you from them. In the end, there'll be little more kinship between you and them, than between you and any lesser creature—a dog or a cat—of which you've become fond. And you'll regret that lack of real kinship bitterly but there'll be nothing you can do about it, no way to give them what they'll never be able to hold—any more than you could give an appreciation of great art to monkeys. So, finally, to save yourself the pain that they don't even know you feel, you cut the last emotional tie you have with them, and choose instead the silence, the emptiness and the peace of being what you are—unique and alone, forever."

  He stopped speaking.

  "No," said Hal, after a moment. He felt detached, like someone under heavy sedation. "That's not a way I can go."