Inside Out

Illustration by John Stevens

“I’m slightly disturbed by these dreams you’ve been having,” the doctor said, in the solicitous manner he adopted for all his consultations.

“You shouldn’t be,” Margaret told him. “They frightened me, at first, but they don’t any longer.”

Doctor Huxley frowned at that. Perhaps he thought that it was impolite of her to stop being frightened of the dreams even though he hadn’t yet contrived to explain them. He seemed to have put away his textbook Freud for the time being. Perhaps it would have been kinder had she managed to summon up some forgotten memory of unexpectedly coming across her parents engaged in the sweaty commerce of love, so that he could seize upon it as the commonplace root of her trouble. She had read enough of the great psychotherapist’s works to make the fiction convincing, but she didn’t want to descend to dishonesty.

“I’m not at all sure that the drug is having the desired effect,” the doctor told her. “I’m not sure the Ministry knows what they’re doing. I think the experiment ought to be stopped, before it does someone harm.”

“It’s not doing me harm,” Margaret assured him. “I thought it might be, at first, but I don’t think so now. I think the dreams are helping me, just as you hoped they would. You shouldn’t give up the experiment yet.”

“How do you think the dreams are helping you?” he wanted to know. Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell him. A patient couldn’t tell her doctor that what he took for dreams were actually real; she had, after all, been judged at least half-mad, else she wouldn’t be here. There were some things that simply couldn’t be said, lest they be taken as final proof that her madness was absolute. And yet, she thought, she had the right of it. The dreams were not such stuff as dreams were ordinarily made of, and if she had to rebuild her idea of the world in order to accommodate them, that was what she must do, albeit in secret. Why should she not seek a new reality, after all, given that the one she had inherited had failed her so badly, and wounded her so deeply?

“They’re helping me to get out of myself” was all she dared say aloud. “They’re helping me to see that the frightened creature I’d become, all knotted up and self-enclosed, isn’t really me… not the whole me, at any rate. It really was a trauma response—something that the war did to me. The dreams are telling me—showing me—that there are other ways to be.”

“I wish I could agree with you,” the doctor said, although Margaret couldn’t for the life of her see why he couldn’t. “Unfortunately, it seems to me that the dreams are symptoms of trauma response, transfiguring your problems without diminishing them at all. I’m worried that they might actually be making the grip of the trauma more secure. If only we could decode them we might be able to get at the root of the problem, but while we can’t…”

“They were distressing at first,” Margaret was quick to put in, “and I suppose they’re still disturbing—but I don’t feel that the disturbance is destructive. Sometimes, surely, it’s good to be disturbed, if things have become too tightly bound, too fixed.”

“Sometimes,” he conceded—although she knew that it was only a doctor’s concession, by way of humoring the patient. “In your case, though, I’m not so sure. Distress can be a warning, you know, and it’s possible that the easing of your distress is actually a sign that your condition is getting worse.”

“I don’t think so, doctor,” she told him, as patiently as she could. “I think you’ve got things inside out. I’m feeling better because I’m getting better, beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.” She turned her head briefly as she heard a sound that might be the drone of a distant aircraft engine, but it was only a housefly that had somehow eased its way into the room and was now intent on finding a way out into the afternoon sunlight.

“I’m glad that you feel that way,” Doctor Huxley replied, bringing the full weight of his professional insincerity to bear. “It’s good that you’re feeling better, but however inside out it seems, there’s a world of difference between feeling better for a little while and getting better for good. If we’ve learned anything during the last seventeen years, it’s that winning a battle isn’t the same as winning a war.”

If we’ve learned anything during the last seventeen years, Margaret thought, it’s that no possible end, no possible victory, no possible settlement, can ever justify the fighting of a war like this one. She didn’t say so out loud, not because it mightn’t sound sufficiently sane but because it mightn’t sound sufficiently patriotic. Doctor Huxley was, after all, an employee of the Ministry of War. She resorted, instead, to a direct approach.

“Please don’t discontinue the treatment, doctor,” she said. “I really do think that I’m making progress.”

“I wish I could see it,” he answered, mournfully. Now he, too, was following the fly’s wayward trajectory with his speculative eye.

Perhaps you could, Margaret thought, if only you weren’t so dutifully blind.

She is walking through a wood in late spring. The trees are discarding their roseate blossom; their vivid crowns are full of birdsong. The grass is moist with the legacy of recent rain. Her feet leave prints in the soft soil whenever she crosses bare ground.

The prints are those of cloven hooves, although she walks erect as befits a sentient being. Even centaurs hold their true selves erect, although they go on four legs instead of on two.

She pauses in the bushes on the edge of a sunlit glade, peeping through a narrow gap so that she may see without being seen.

What she sees is betrayal.

On a bed of moss in the shadow of a gnarled oak a male faun is lying beside a shy nymph. The nymph averts her face from the tentative caress of his hairy hand, although the glint in her green eyes reveals to the watcher that the touch is not unwelcome. One of the faun’s shaggy legs reaches out so that the hoof may tease and tickle the back of the nymph’s calf; she quivers slightly, but not in anguish, and makes no attempt to rise to her feet.

Why, the watcher wonders, is it always thus? Why do fauns prefer such creatures to their own kind? It makes no sense; it is a jarring note in the great litany of Harmony.

As her jealous heart beats faster, the watcher feels a sudden unease. She looks to the side, where she has seen some movement from the corner of her eye. There, emerging from a thicket not unlike the one in which she herself is hiding, is a creature born of nightmares. It walks erect like any sentient being but its face is utterly brutal, worse than the face of the hoariest of the sileni. Its hide is dark and its joints glint metallically. Its heavy clothing is coarse. Upon its back it carries a curious cylinder from which extends a flexible hose connected to the tub it bears in its horrid hands.

For a single fleeting second, the watcher thinks: It is justice, after all. Do they not deserve it?

She has no time to repent the flash of wrath before the monster changes course, abruptly turning its attention to her. She sees the mouth of the tube pointed directly at her, and she sees the great gout of flame that vomits out of it, hurtling to engulf her.

She never feels the heat, let alone the pain, of her own conflagration—but she knows how terrible it must be to melt and to burn, to be utterly consumed by fire and fury.

She knows… and she carries that knowledge with her through dimensions unknown to those she has saved, unsuspected by those who will now escape to continue their betrayal, their defiance of all that is or ought to be sacred.

“Where, exactly, did this come from, Dr. Reed?” Fowler wanted to know.

“Parallel 4972B3,” Joanna told him. “My alter ego there is fully controlled and active. We’re using her to direct experiments in psychic boosting using a variety of drugs. There’s a sanitarium in Winchelsea in southern England, set up to treat what they call trauma response. They discarded the term shellshock when they decided that it really was a medical problem and not disguised cowardice. The doctor in charge—a man named Huxley—thinks he’s exploring the therapeutic potential of various psychotropic drugs under the direction of the War Ministry. This is the only patient of his who’s so far shown any indication of an ability to make contact with her alternative selves.”

Joanna could tell that Fowler wasn’t in the least impressed. He’d been part of the project since its inception, long before Joanna’s time. For all she knew, he might be the oldest of the Old Guard. His idea of a field agent was one who swashed and buckled her way through a hundred action-filled parallel lives, changing local history left, right, and center in the hallowed name of progress, not one who conducted experiments in psychometry using the parallels as samples and controls.

“So this is an account of a dream reported by one of Huxley’s patients?” he said, in his annoyingly punctilious fashion, looking down his nose at the text.

“A drug-assisted dream, yes. Induced by a laboratory derivative of psilocin—that’s a fungal alkaloid, similar to psilocybin but lacking a phosphate group.”

Fowler was not the kind of man to worry about such trivial details as the presence or absence of a phosphate group. “And why do you think it’s of any interest to us?”

Joanna fought to remain perfectly calm, telling herself that it really wasn’t Fowler’s fault. He simply had an imaginative allergy to data that didn’t fit the patterns that the mapmakers were spinning out of the scanning data. It was a medical problem, like any other quirk of brain chemistry.

“What she’s describing,” Joanna said, carefully keeping her voice neutral, “is a soldier with a flame-thrower. A soldier from one of the Imperialist parallels on axis C.”

“That’s absurd!” Fowler retorted. “This is the stuff of fantasy! The dreamer can’t possibly be contacting an alternative self. She’s imagining herself as some kind of female satyr! We’ve no evidence of the existence of such beings in any of the parallels we’ve scanned, even as far out as the D axis.”

“That depends what counts as evidence,” Joanna countered, with painstaking mildness. “We know that most, if not all, of the parallels we’ve scanned have legends relating to such creatures. The consistency and everpresence of such legends surely suggests that they might actually exist somewhere in the continuum, and that intelligence of their existence is leaking through the mindweb.”

Fowler had no sympathy with the school of thought that held that all fantasy was simply altereality glimpsed through the dark glass of multiple self-awareness. He was a pragmatist, who worried far more about the Imperialist threat to the A and B axes than the possibility that their adventures might extend into terrae incognitae.

“That’s nonsense!” he informed her, loftily. “If the consistency and everpresence of such legends has any bearing at all on the possible existence of mythical creatures it assures us that they belong entirely to the distant past. One of the few things we know for sure about the multiverse is the consistency of the moment. Insofar as other parallels are accessible to us, they’re only accessible to us at precisely complementary points in time. The other selves with which psychics can make contact always exist at an exactly similar point in time.”

“Once you grant the possibility that they did exist,” Joanna countered, stubbornly, “then it’s surely possible that there are a few parallels—albeit distant from the ones we can most easily explore—where such creatures still exist in the everpresent today.”

“We’ve found no evidence of such parallels,” Fowler stated, flatly.

“This is evidence,” Joanna told him, losing the battle to control her impatience. “You’re just refusing to acknowledge it as such. If you won’t allow any such evidence to be considered, it’s hardly surprising that it can’t subsequently be found, is it? Given that your primary interest is in the parallels most like our own it’s entirely understandable that you should focus your attention and your pattern-analyses on axes A and B, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t far stranger parallels that are far more difficult for our psychics to contact—so much more difficult that they might require the assistance of psychotropic drugs. Surely there’s ample room in a truly infinite multiverse for all kinds of alternative mankinds…” She was careful enough not to add “undreamt of in your philosophy”—not out loud, anyway.

“You can’t have it both ways,” Fowler informed her, with the predatory air of one who has found a crucial logical flaw in his opponent’s argument. “If you’re using the alleged presence of an Imperialist soldier to validate this hallucination, you’re presuming that this parallel lies close enough to their home bases to permit the large-scale conscription of male alter egos. It simply doesn’t fit, Dr. Reed. It doesn’t fit at all.”

“I know it doesn’t fit with present theory,” Joanna retorted, still trying her utmost to keep her voice level. “The point is, does it not fit because it’s just a dream whose connections to our other explorations arise out of mere coincidence, or does it not fit because our tentative theories are too narrow to encompass the true hyperdimensional geometry and the whole range of phenomena that the multiverse accommodates? If there’s the slightest possibility that the latter is the case, we ought to investigate further and more scrupulously, don’t you think?”

Joanna could see in the old man’s face that his answer was a flat no, but even Fowler felt that he ought to prevaricate a little, for safety’s sake. No one worked half a lifetime in a madhouse like this without learning to cover his ass. “Tell me about the dreamer’s parallel,” he said, warily. “What’s the state of play there?”

“Huxley’s sanitarium is well-supplied with patients because the Great War’s still going on.”

“Still! That’s very unusual.”

“But hardly unprecedented.” Joanna knew that Fowler had been party to the grand fiasco of 4821B1, where a botched attempt by a handful of agents to bring an unnaturally extended Great War to its “natural” end had instead resulted in the outbreak of the most devastating Plague War ever recorded. The memory of it must still rankle, but his features were frozen, permitting no acknowledgment of the point she had scored.

“The patient’s a twenty-six-year-old woman who was working as a nursing auxiliary in Flanders for some years before being sent home,” Joanna went on. “If she hadn’t been invalided out, of course, she’d have been killed or captured when Ludendorff finally drove the allies out of continental Europe. Since then he’s been sending wave after wave of zeppelin bombers against London, trying to finish the job. Strays must go back and forth over Winchelsea all the time, offering the patients uncomfortable reminders of the conflict, but it’s a relatively quiet spot.”

“But this woman was close to the front for some considerable time,” Fowler said. “She must have seen men with flame-throwers and she must have seen their victims. She must also have seen men with protective clothing and gas masks. I presume they’re still using phosgene and chlorine as weapons?”

“Worse than that,” Joanna conceded. “They introduced Lewisite before France fell; now the zeppelins have brought gas warfare to the streets of London, as well as a new generation of incendiary weapons. I think they call them inflammatols. Not the sort of stuff I’d want to lug around under a hydrogen-filled gasbag the size of a football pitch, but that’s modern warfare axis-B style.”

Fowler obviously didn’t approve of the slight note of flippancy in this last remark. “She’s not describing an Imperialist conscript,” he said, his voice redolent with unwarranted certainty. “She’s merely describing a German soldier—one of those who might well be about to invade and spoil England’s green and pleasant land. I don’t know why she sees herself as a satyress, but I’m as sure as I can be that it’s not because she has another self in some fugitive corner of the multiverse who is a satyress. Come back to me if and when you’ve got something to show me, Dr. Reed. In my view, your team ought to abandon the experiments with psilocin and psilocybin. So far as I can see, there’s no evidence at all to suggest that they can boost the latent powers of uncultivated psychics.”

The last gratuitous insult nearly cracked Joanna’s self-control again, but she managed to restrict the damage to a filthy look. She kept her lips resolutely sealed as she collected her files and stalked out of the room. Not until she was well clear of the great man’s office did she begin to let the pent-up emotion go, and even then the obscenities she poured down upon his stubborn head were silent ones.

She is walking along a dusty road, longing for the sight of an inn sign swaying in the warm breeze. The tall hedges to either side of the road conceal fields where the wheat grows tall. Those fields are on the point of turning from a uniform vivid green to the mottled maturity that invites the harvest.

The basket in her arms seems to grow heavier with every step.

As she rounds a shallow bend in the road she stumbles in the rut left by a cartwheel. She staggers into the hedge, which welcomes her into its ungentle embrace. From this position she can see around the bend, and what she sees is betrayal.

A young man is there, sitting languidly on a stile with his head tilted back, so that a lamia might stroke his neck with her clawed fingers. He is looking up into her face; the expression in his eyes suggests that she has required no stupefying magic to subdue him.

The watcher remains quite still, accepting the roughness of the twigs that dig into her flesh. She cannot tear her eyes away. Her gaze takes in the seductive expression in the face of the silver-haired temptress with the lustrous skin and the tiny fangs, and its counterpart in the lustful eyes of the young man.

Why, the watcher wonders, is it always thus? Why do men prefer such creatures to their own kind? It makes no sense; it is a jarring note in the great litany of Harmony.

Then she sees something beyond the oblivious pair—something that is approaching at terrible speed.

It is some kind of cart that moves thunderously upon huge patterned wheels, without any horse to haul it. It is manned by monsters with vile, inhuman masks instead of faces, and there is something about their bodies that seems to be more or less than flesh. One of them is pointing a metal wand at the young man and the snake-girl.

For a single fleeting second, the watcher thinks: It is justice, after all. Do they not deserve it?

Even as the couple turn to look at the approaching vehicle, however, the monster redirects the device to aim it at the watcher’s fluttering heart—and the magical cart sweeps past the stile, heading straight for her.

She hears the roar of the wand, but never sees the missiles hurled from its tip, but she knows how terrible it must be to be torn apart, to be ripped and shattered and blasted into shreds.

She knows… and she carries that knowledge with her through dimensions unknown to those she has saved, unsuspected by those who will now escape to continue their betrayal, their defiance of all that is or ought to be sacred.

Andrew Huxley stood on the lawn outside the west wing of the sanitarium, watching the huge silver cigar sliding toward the southern horizon. It was belatedly pursued by a brace of Avro fighters. The zeppelin’s escort of Fokkers and Spads had been reduced by half—the aerial battle that raged every day above the Weald must have been unusually fierce—but Andrew knew that the Avros had little chance of weaving a way through them to come within range of their prime target. If only the machine guns mounted on their wings had greater power! If only the anti-aircraft guns that ringed the capital could be fired with greater accuracy!

He turned around as Joanna Reed came up behind him, making sure that he could meet her eyes before she spoke. There was something very disconcerting about the woman; she gave the impression of concealing hidden depths, although she was supposedly a very minor cog in the mighty machine of the War Ministry. He suspected that she was some kind of agent for Military Intelligence.

“All monoplanes,” he said, lightly enough. “We never see biplanes anymore, do we? When my father fought with the Army Air Force most Fokkers had three wings, but everything is becoming simpler now, more streamlined. War’s good for progress, they say. Ten years more and we’ll have such a cornucopia of technical skills that we’ll be able to murder our enemies as easily as our combine harvesters mow down fields of wheat.”

“No doubt we will,” the woman said, with awesome matter-of-factness, “but that’s not what I’m here to talk about.”

Had the bureaucrats in Whitehall really become so completely inured to the destruction that was being rained down upon them. Andrew wondered. Had they now accepted the war as a mere condition of existence? Or was theirs simply a different kind of trauma response?

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Your request to discontinue Margaret Lane’s treatment landed on my desk. I’m here to deny it. Such a move would be severely deleterious to the experiment.”

“It’s not the experiment that concerns me, Miss Reed,” Andrew told her, making every effort to keep his voice calm and reasonable. “You have to remember that I’m a doctor, and that my first duty is to my patients. I agreed to take part in your testing program because you persuaded me that the drugs you supply might have a therapeutic effect. In some cases, I admit, they do seem to have helped a little—but not in Margaret’s. These drug-induced dreams are disturbing her; far from becoming calmer, she’s becoming more agitated and more uncooperative. I can’t seem to get through to her anymore—she’s become furtive and deceptive, and I’m worried that she might be descending into psychosis. I can’t in all conscience administer any further doses to her.”

“If we’re to make a proper judgment regarding the utility of psychotropic medicine,” the woman told him, without a flicker of embarrassment, “the experiment must be conducted along proper scientific lines. It must run its entire course.”

“Not if it endangers the well-being of my patients,” Andrew insisted. “For God’s sake, woman, don’t you think they’ve gone through enough already? These men and women have been to Hell, and they haven’t yet come all the way back. I’m not interested in the integrity and rigor of your research program; my only concern is to alleviate the suffering of the men and women in my care.”

She obviously wasn’t impressed by his increasing vehemence. “If we’re ever to understand the phenomena of trauma response, Dr. Huxley, we must examine it very carefully and very scrupulously. Until we can understand it, we can’t hope to cure it. In any case, there doesn’t seem to us to be any cause for alarm; there’s no firm evidence that Miss Lane’s condition is deteriorating.”

She always speaks of “we” and “us,” Andrew thought. It’s always impersonal. But who, exactly, is “us”? Whose spokesman is she? To whom is she responsible?

“How can you say that there’s no firm evidence?” he complained. “You’ve read the accounts of those dreams she’s having—indeed, you seem to have read them with great avidity. How can you ignore the signs of disturbance they display?”

“They’re only dreams,” the woman said, although there was a curious glint in her eye that somehow suggested that she didn’t mean what she said.

“Dreams are meaningful,” Andrew countered. “They offer us an invaluable window into the depths of the unconscious, if only we can take the trouble to unravel their symbolism. When a person continually dreams of meeting a horrible death it tells me that my patient is far from well, Miss Reed, and getting worse. I’d be a fool—we’d be fools—to ignore these ominous signs.”

“What else do Miss Lane’s dreams tell you, Dr. Huxley?” she asked, in a manner that suggested that she wasn’t going to believe his answer.

“They tell me that the fear of death that has already blighted Margaret’s capacity for rational thought and action is on the point of obliterating her sanity altogether,” he told her, with what he hoped was dis-armingly brutal frankness. ‘The war for continental Europe may seem to have been a mere matter of moving colored pins around on a map to you, Miss Reed, but to her it was something real. It was something going on all around her, year after year, eating away at her inner being until there was nothing left except some little beleaguered island of self—and the injections of psilocin I’ve been giving her at your request have been the equivalent of Ludendorff’s accursed zeppelins, clawing away at that little island’s defenses. If I don’t stop—if we don’t stop—she’ll be lost forever.”

“Forever’s a long time, Dr. Huxley,” Joanna Reed informed him, with a gravity whose blatant insincerity was insulting. “As a matter of interest, though, I wonder what you make of the settings of Miss Lane’s dreams, and the manner in which she populates those settings.”

“The settings are always pastoral,” Andrew replied, wondering whether the best chance of getting what he wanted might be to play along with her, at least for a while. “They always contain elements borrowed from mythology—sometimes quite abstruse elements, although Margaret never had any kind of Classical education. They always include a male figure whose dalliance with a female of some subtly different species distresses her. They obviously refer to some unfortunate incident in her past, but she’s resisted all my attempts to identify it. It must have been something that happened in Flanders—at a guess, I’d say that she became romantically involved with some young soldier, then suffered a violent reaction when she saw him with someone else—a whore, maybe. I don’t want to put ideas into her head by asking leading questions, but I’ve tried to find out whether something of that kind happened by subtler means and I’ve got nowhere. What I do know, for certain, is that it’s doing her no good to relive that moment over and over again, constantly linking it up to images of her own violent death.”

“We need more data,” the woman insisted, placidly. “We have to keep on collecting it. There may be much more at stake here than you realize.”

“No,” Andrew said, trying as hard as he could to sound equally definite and equally stubborn, “you’re wrong about that. I know that it’s not just a matter of one mentally ill girl. I know that there’s been a war on for seventeen years, and that its recent phases have produced cases of traumatic response by the trainload. I know what’s at stake. It’s people like you—people who have become so inured to the idea of mass slaughter that the war’s become a mere matter of statistics and strategies—who don’t realize that what’s really at stake and always has been at stake and always will be at stake are people’s lives and people’s minds. I can’t stop you thinking of all those young boys you send out with guns and tanks and bombs and airplanes as mere cannon-fodder to be sacrificed wholesale in your great cause, but I can make a stand for my patients and I will. I won’t feed that poor girl any more of your mind-bending rubbish, and I won’t let you do it either.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Joanna Reed, “but you really don’t have any choice. We need the data, and we intend to have it. It really is important.”

Overhead, a lone Avro was returning from its expedition over the blue-grey waters of the channel. The drone of its engine sounded unreasonably waspish as it overflew the sanitarium.

“Sometimes,” Andrew said, softly, “I think my patients are the only sane people left in the world. They’re the only ones who see things as they really are, in all their unspeakable and unbearable horror. We’re the mad ones, because we’re the ones who screen that horror out and concentrate our minds on keeping the war going, on killing more and more people more and more quickly. Perhaps you and I are the sick people, Miss Reed. Perhaps Margaret Lane is the one who can see clearly, in her traumatized imagination.”

He had thought that Joanna Reed didn’t have the capacity to surprise him, but she surprised him then. She was already turning to walk away, and her reply seemed not to be addressed to him at all, but she did reply.

What she said was: “That’s exactly why we have to carry on.”

Recently returned to human form, she kneels by the stream and scoops up water with which to wash her face. There is always a period of disorientation while her thinking mind regains its forsaken empire; sometimes, just for a few minutes, she retains some memory of what it is like to go on all fours and to live without sentience. It is those precious minutes that inform her of the secret and sacred truth that it is better by far to live as a wolf than as a human being. Wolves are conscious, but not of themselves; they possess—and are possessed by—emotions, but they have no thoughts to spoil the ecstasy of their existence.

She looks up when she hears laughter coming from behind a dense clump of bulrushes that grows where the stream widens into a pool. She moves toward the rushes, crawling on all fours as though she were still a wolf. She peeps discreetly through the curtain of vegetation.

What she sees is betrayal. A male wolf is there, sporting with a female—but the female is a wolf through and through, and the male is not. The male is of the vargr-folk. He does not know what he is doing, of course—but that is no excuse.

Why, the watcher wonders, is it always thus? Why do werewolves prefer such creatures to their own kind? It makes no sense; it is a jarring note in the great litany of Harmony.

She wants to rise to her feet, but she is afraid that if she does so, the wolves will see her as prey, and might attack.

A noise behind her causes her to look around.

The thing that is coming toward her is a travesty of a man, but there is hardly any flesh about it and its face is utterly evil—not hungry, like the face of a wolf, but something much worse.

For a single fleeting second, the watcher thinks: It is justice, after all. Do they not deserve it? But she sees that the creature’s inhuman eyes are fixed on her.

From its hand of polished steel the monster launches a spinning cylinder, which turns over and over in the air, catching the sunlight, before it falls into the water beside her and begins hissing madly. The gas released from within turns the placid stream to turbulent foam.

She never feels the silent enemy gripping her throat and her lungs, but she knows how frightful it must be to have the quiet chemistry of one’s being violently disrupted, to have poisons surging through one’s blood, devouring one’s very soul.

She knows… and she carries that knowledge with her through dimensions unknown to those she has saved, unsuspected by those who will now escape to continue their betrayal, their defiance of all that is or ought to be sacred.

“Get dressed, Margaret. We have to leave now.”

Dr. Huxley’s voice was unnaturally calm; Margaret could tell that he was trying to give the impression of being in complete control, but she knew that he was fooling himself.

“You don’t understand, doctor,” she told him, making every effort to match his appearance of calm. “I know what’s happening now.”

He thrust a bundle of clothes toward her: it included a grey skirt and a starched white blouse; blue socks and a brown pair of shoes. She already had her underwear on, beneath her nightdress; it was a habit she’d acquired in Flanders and never let go. It was always wise to be ready, in case something untoward happened that required a rapid response.

Dr. Huxley obviously thought that something untoward had happened, but it hadn’t. This was a safe place—as safe as any could be, given the nature of the world, and the nature of the worlds beyond the world.

“I’ve figured it out,” she told him, as she began to put the clothes on, taking her time so that she’d have time to spell things out. “At first I thought the others were in me, but they’re not. At first I thought I’d been splintered into a hundred or a thousand selves by some kind of bomb exploding in my mind, but I had it all inside out. I really do have a thousand or a million other selves, but the ones close at hand are all screaming, all in agony. Even the ones that are farthest away are under threat. I’m being hunted, you see, doctor… hunted across a million or a billion worlds. It was supposed to be over long ago, doctor—three thousand years ago, or maybe more. All the chimeras’ children were hunted down, everywhere they existed… but some of them weren’t so easy to detect, and there are more worlds than anyone ever imagined… worlds beyond the worlds beyond the world. They think they’re everywhere, but they can’t really be everywhere, because everywhere’s too large. No matter what they see, there’s always an infinity that lies beyond, glimpsed but essentially unseen. No matter how long the Imperial adventure goes on, it will always be continuing; no part of the work can ever be complete, because there’s always somewhere where it’s only just beginning.”

“Come on, Margaret,” said Dr. Huxley, softly, as she finally had to finish tying her shoelaces. “I’m going to need your help now. We have to get away from here tonight. I’ve found a place for you to hide—a place where they’ll look after you, and give you a proper chance to recover. There’ll be no more drugs, and the dreams will gradually die away. It’ll help a lot if you try to forget them, and try to stop searching them for some kind of cosmic truth that simply isn’t there.”

While he was speaking Dr. Huxley led her out of the room and down the corridor. She tried to hold back but he wouldn’t let her. While they were going down the stairs and through the hall she continued trying to explain, although she knew in her heart of hearts that he wasn’t capable of listening to what she said, and couldn’t even begin to take any of it seriously.

“It’s not the drugs, doctor,” she told him. “They just helped to trip the switch. I don’t need them anymore; they’ve done their work. Once the contact is made, it becomes much easier to maintain. If only my nearer selves were living peaceful lives I could borrow some of their stability, their peace of mind—but they’re not, and they’re mostly in such terrible distress that I have to start… well, not at the other end because there is no end, but at a level of contact that’s much slighter… so slight that it wouldn’t be achievable if it weren’t for the horrid necessity of avoiding everything closer at hand. I wish you’d listen to me, doctor, because it really is important. If I could only make you understand…”

They were outside now. The night was cloudy and the windows of the sanitarium were blacked out; only the hall light, shining through the open door, lit the way to the doctor’s battered Morris.

“Get into the car, Margaret,” Dr. Huxley said, still speaking with the carefully contrived voice of masculine authority. “Just get into the car, and try to stay calm.”

Try to stay calm! If only he knew what the price of calmness was! If only he could see that the awesomely simple world he inhabited was simple only because he was blind to its myriad alternatives, and that the sanity he valued so highly was nothing but determined ignorance of the actual nature of the universe… of the multiverse. If only he could catch a glimpse, if only for a instant, of the vast spectrum of Dr. Huxleys that extended across the vast spectrum of the worlds that contained him: the thriving and the dying; the wise and the foolish; the joyous and the despairing; the pain-racked and the…

The car engine wouldn’t start. Dr. Huxley reached under the seat for the crank-handle that had to be inserted into the hole beneath the radiator grille, so that he could turn it over by hand, forcing life into it by the power of muscle and will. That was what he tried to do with his patients. He thought of them as recalcitrant engines that needed to be started by the power of muscle and will.

“You don’t understand, Dr. Huxley,” she told him. “I can see now. I was blind, but you helped me to see. I know now what the world is really like, and what I really am. None of us is alone, Dr. Huxley—we only think we are because we can’t make contact with our other selves. Maybe that’s a good thing, in a way, because there’s so much pain out there and so much confusion. Everybody is dying somewhere, everybody is screaming in pain somewhere, everybody is something they don’t want to be, everybody is something they don’t even believe in, everybody is everywhere and everything and it simply isn’t bearable unless you can somehow get past the ones who are hurting… even then, it isn’t easy, especially when they’re the nearest ones, but it can be done…”

The engine wouldn’t start. Dr. Huxley kept turning the handle, but it only went clunk, like something dead and leaden.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Huxley,” said a new voice, “but I really can’t allow you to do this.”

Dr. Huxley dropped the crank-handle and whipped around. His composure had vanished on the instant and he was all panic now. Margaret recognized the woman who’d spoken; she was called Joanna, and she was a regular visitor at the sanitarium. Recently, she’d taken quite an interest in Margaret and her dreams. It was almost as if she understood what was happening to her.

Unfortunately, almost wasn’t good enough.

Margaret didn’t recognize the two men Joanna had with her. They reminded her of policemen or army officers because of the way they carried themselves, but they weren’t in uniform. That was surprising—almost all men of their age were in uniform nowadays. There was a war on.

In fact, there were more wars on than they could possibly imagine, and bigger ones too.

Margaret heard the purr of an engine then, but it wasn’t the engine of Dr. Huxley’s car; it was the engine of an airplane high in the sky. She couldn’t see it, because the night was too dark, but she strained her ears, trying to figure out which way it was going.

It was coming nearer, from the northwest, and it wasn’t alone. She could hear other engines: several high-pitched ones, and one that sounded a deeper, calmer note.

“She’s my patient,” Dr. Huxley said to Joanna. “My only duty is to her.”

“You know that’s not true, Dr. Huxley,” Joanna replied. “Your first duty is to your country, which is at war. Violation of that duty is called treason.”

Margaret took leave to wonder what all the other Joannas were like, even though she knew that it was a meaningless question. There were so many Joannas that they were like anything and everything. Somewhere, there must be Joannas who knew that they were not the only Joannas. Somewhere, there might be a Joanna who knew exactly what this Joanna was doing, and maybe even why. That Joanna would doubtless consider herself to be the wisest of all the Joannas, and her world the ultimate world of all: the baseline of the entire multiverse… but she’d be wrong, because she couldn’t possibly be right. The multiverse was simply too big, too nearly infinite, to be based on any single way of thinking, any simple way of being. In the multiverse, everything that could be true had. to be true; only fools and madmen could ever hope to impose some tyranny of similarity upon its infinite variety.

“You have all the answers, don’t you?” Dr. Huxley said. “The war justifies everything you want to do, however cruel or crazy. The menace of Lu-dendorff licenses any mad whim that happens to cross your bureaucratic little mind. You don’t realize that you’ve already lost. Even if you win in the end, you’ve lost—because you’ve surrendered to the principle of the end justifying the means.”

“Get out of the car, Miss Lane,” Joanna said.

Margaret didn’t see why Joanna had to be so formal; she’d always called her Margaret before.

The cacophony that possessed the sky had become much louder now; the noise of the airplane engines was overlain by the mad chattering of machine-guns. As Margaret stepped out of the car she looked up into the dark sky, where not a single star shone through the clouds. She knew that the invisible stars were there, though: thousands upon thousands of them. She knew, too, that beyond the thousands that could be counted were millions more… and beyond them, billions. There was no end to the universe of stars save for that imposed upon it by the limits of human vision.

I don’t understand why my nearer selves are all screaming, Margaret thought, as she stared up at the smothering curtain of the dark, looking for the tiny pinpricks and threads of light that would be the Avros and the Sopwiths and the Spads and the Fokkers firing and firing and firing at one another with the aid of their brand new nightsights. Surely it can’t be like that for everyone who learns to see. Surely some of them must find that their nearest and dearest selves are happy and healthy and full of life.

The sky caught fire.

For a moment, Margaret thought that it really was the sky that was burning: that the entire vault of Heaven, with all its stars, seen and unseen, had begun to burn. Then she realized that the zeppelin that had been trying to slip back across the channel had been caught by its pursuers, and that its gargantuan gasbag had been breached by tracer-fire. The hydrogen in the envelope had ignited, and turned into a beautiful burning cloud.

Hydrogen, she knew, was lighter than air. The cloud would rise as it burned, heading toward infinity.

The envelope of the zeppelin, alas, was much heavier than air. It fell, along with the car and the engines, dragging terrible billows of fire down to the waiting earth.

Why, she wondered, is it always thus? It makes no sense. There’s no justice in it at all. But the multiverse is the multiverse; there’s no great litany of Harmony, nor could there ever be, no matter how we might desire it in our foolishness. There’s only chance and change, ebb and flow, birth and rebirth, extinction and creation, darkness and the light. There’s only everything.

Margaret didn’t panic when she realized where the debris would fall, and what the consequences of its fall would be. Dr. Huxley and Joanna were panicking, trying to run away even though they didn’t know which way to go, but Margaret stayed where she was, shrugging off the clawing hand that Dr. Huxley reached out to her, half-heartedly, as he turned to run. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what was about to happen to him, but that only added to his terror. The woman, on the other hand, had a slightly different glint in her eye, as if she could begin—but only just—to grasp the triviality as well as the enormity of it all.

Margaret, by contrast, knew exactly what it would be like to burn and to scream. She even knew what it would be like for that scream to echo across the dimensions, unsuspected by those who might escape to continue their petty betrayals and their stubborn defiance of all that was or ought to be sacred.

She knew, too, that in the furthest reaches of the multiverse, there were selves even stranger than the selves that were the stuff of legend. She knew that there were selves stranger than she could ever imagine, who were never in pain and never in danger, some of whom would never, ever die. They were not her like her at all, and yet they were her, and their great and infinite community could not be threatened by her own obliteration or the obliteration of a hundred thousand like her. This was not the immortality promised to her by the Church, but it was a kind of immortality worth knowing and worth savoring.

As the burning debris cascaded down upon them all, casually smashing the two running figures to the ground, Margaret thought that it did not matter, after all, whether there was any justice in the world or not. As her flesh melted on her bones, she took more comfort from that thought than she had ever known before, or had ever been likely to know.