The Stork Factor

populated areas of the planet were half-in, half-out of the light of the sun. The twilight line was passing through the midsection of the populated northern continent. She was sleeping when the alarm entered her mind and brought her into instant awareness. Report. Life force action. Coordinates— She located instantly with the aid of the computers. The area involved was in daylight. She chose to go down with the protection of merely a forcefield and antigravity belt. She went as she was, in a long, flowing garment designed for comfort. The life-force action, incredible emanation coming from such a place, guided her. She could sense it. It was strong.

When she neared the surface, the residual effects of the action clung to the person of a lank-haired, thin, vilely unhealthy male who knelt beside a female on a crowded sidewalk. There was blood in the hair of the female and the male was voiding his stomach contents into the street. She was disgusted. Yet, incredibly, there were the emanations of the life force coming from the ugly male and that was even more serious than the original report of a planet-killing device, for it was impossible for these beings to develop so far. She swallowed her distaste, lowered into the midst of the most nauseating mob of beings she'd ever seen. In order to include him in the force of the belt, she had to touch him. She caught the stink of him. It was unbelievable. And in the short moment when she had to let down the forcefield to take him in, she caught a short breath of the poisoned air. She performed quick repair on the damaged lung cells and closed the field about them, forcing herself to touch him. He made noises with his mouth, like an animal. Silence, she sent. Silence or— The things with which she threatened him would have awed an intelligent being, yet he seemed unaffected, continuing to make noises with his mouth and to look at her with an unmistakable rapture in his eyes. She could not believe

that such as this could exude the life force, for his body was a wreck, a vast open sore of disease and disorder. Luke, rising to the heavens on a cloud, like the Christ resurrected, was in a state of near shock. Ecstasy bubbled in words of praise. At first, he begged the angel to save Caster, but since God lived, since God cared,

since God was lifting him to the heavens, it really did not matter if Caster perished down below, for she would gain eternal life with Him. And the words tumbled from his slack lips in a paroxysm of religious bliss as he

rose and rose and rose and the angel, serene, blindingly beautiful, held his arm and lifted him to—a huge sphere which opened to them and closed behind and heaven was functional metal and materials unrecognizable to him and he was being led by the angel to a small room where a small bed shared space with weird machines which moved toward him, extending tendrils and, suddenly, he was horribly frightened, for heaven was not machines and hard metals and cold surfaces. «Please,» he said, «please, please…» He was being pushed down onto the bed and the machines were closing and he screamed, once, before his mind fuzzed, darkened, went black. She had to stay in the room for decontamination. The sub-being had brought with him a wide array of microorganisms and some of them were already infecting her body. She utilized maximum life force, cleansed herself. The machines were at work. The sub-being was being subjected to an analysis and a purification process. And it was writhing and gasping. Life force, please. But do only the necessary. Its heart— Was failing. She looked into it. The heart was enlarged, weakened. She made minimum repairs. The being was eased and ceased writhing. She left the room, leaving the being to the machines for analysis and study. She stripped out of the long, comfortable garment. She felt unclean. Later, she communicated with the computer. She was vastly relieved when the computer, having contacted the central section on A-l, announced immediate departure. It would require a more thorough study, but the preliminary findings, having compared the brain structure and function of the sub-being aboard the ship with the living brains of a random selection of the population below, indicated that the male aboard the ship was a one-in-a-billion mutation. That, in itself, was cause for concern. Back on A-l, responsible authorities were being brought out of Trang to consider the implications. If cold machines could have expressed consternation the words would have been impossible, incredible. In a way, consternation was expressed in frenzied activity as entire planetary systems of automation and empire wide networks of computers were checked and rechecked. Automated servomechanisms replaced millions of components, discarding any one item which was not one-hundred percent efficient and yet the answer was the same. The odds against a being on Planet 3 of Section G-1034876, Star R-875948 developing even an erratic, uncontrollable life-force potential was expressed in astronomical numbers. Aboard a huge ship of the line, the woman whose mind emanated a beautiful, rosy glow stood over the being who was causing so much activity throughout an empire which spread over the central portions of the galaxy. Her face expressionless, she examined his thin body, his pocked face. There was a smell about him. She felt a mixture of revulsion and pity. He was of a form to the race. His physical makeup was the same down to the minute cells. Yet, he was different. It was more, this difference, than a general wasting of the body mechanisms. The poor condition of every functioning aspect of his being was the most evident defect, but there was a more important one. On a scale of mental ability he would, when compared to the race, rate so low as to be almost off the scale. Before she saw him, this being who had emanated the life force, she'd had fleeting thoughts of having someone for company on the long, boring ride back to the home system? Now, having seen him, having looked into the shallow, worse than retarded mind, she was moodily irritated. The ship made its first jump. Behind them, the star R-875948 was lost amid thousands of other stars. Ahead was a long, deadly period of waiting. She prowled the living quarters, scorning the entertainment possibilities of the central memory bank, thinking now of the male from A-7 who had been free, for some rotations now, to make a new commitment. Her frustration caused a slight acid unbalance in her stomach. Impatiently, she adjusted. Her mind, usually a bright, rosy glow, was aureate, a blaze. For lack of something better to do, she forwarded a bitter protest regarding the thoughtless, absolutely punitive lack of Trang aboard the ship. It was explained, once again, that the old-empire planners had deemed it necessary for the autosystems aboard a ship of the line to be backed up by an alert member of the race. It was explained to her, as if she were a child, that emergencies in space can happen with a devastating swiftness. In the time it would take for a member of the race to recover from the euphoria of Trang, an entire ship could be lost in the event of a major system failure. And when has there ever been a systems failure? Never. So it is impossible. On the contrary. It is almost inevitable. Explain. This ship was built in— The date had meaning only to a member of the race. She was surprised. So long ago? No ship has left the old empire in— Again, she was surprised. But no wonder. Who would want to leave? Space was cold and lifeless and lonely and endless and dull. Space was endless sun after endless sun. Space was dull, dead planets and sworls of cosmic dust and beyond the boundaries of the empire there was only

worlds such as the third planet of that sick little yellow sun she'd just left behind. Who would want to leave the comfort and the euphoria and the bliss of eternal love? She had not closed the communications circuit. And a machine, the huge, eternal central computer said, They did. And her mind was filled with a series of outward movements, the first swing into space in quaint, accident-prone chemical vehicles, the first leap to a near star, the vast enthusiasm of exploration and the zesty battles of conquest as one segment of the empire fought another for domination. They did. Ancient barbarians. Who built an empire which covers vast distances, a starfield of glory and achievement. Achievement? You're programmed for the past. We'll have to see about changing your mode. I am programmed for all contingencies which would affect the well-being of the race. The well-being of the race is Trang. And love. We do not need to go out to the stars anymore. Why do we need more planets ? Yes. With Trang we have reached the highest limits of racial fulfillment. The empire was projected into her mind, far-flung systems peopled by the race, all beautiful, all Trangized, scattered widely, isolated in pairs in splendid structures on a thousand thousand worlds. Exactly, she sent. Would you want it differently? I am not programmed for emotions. But she was shown vast autosystems lying idle. Sections capable of directing the landing and takeoff of one ship per heartbeat from a million ports were idle. Fleets of ships were stationary on the ground. Vast places for the making of a million things were silent. I don't care. What right have you, a mere machine, to chide me, a member of the race? Angered, she broke off. She paced the spacious room. She was dressed in a close-fitting singlet which showed her beautiful form to perfection and there was no one to see. She, the most desirable woman on the old, home planet, perhaps in the original system, was alone. With only a sub-being within countless light years. But the sub-being was a male. Once, when she committed with a male from an outlying planet, she was told of an ancient custom. Women of the planet, in the early days of the lovely Trang euphoria, in order to experience the completeness of sexual love, had, said the male, experimented with a form of animal life, an upright animal covered with hair. At the time it had seemed deliciously funny. A woman couple with an animal? Now she was to be isolated on a ship of the line for long, long revolutions with a sub-being. If members of the race had once coupled with animals. It could be amusing, in a revolting sort of way. She stood before him, radiant in a tightly fitted one-piece thing which clung to rounded curves. She had had to wait for the machines to finish with him. Now he had been examined, rated, cataloged. She was not interested in that. She was alone. She was bored. It would be a long, long time before she was back on A-l and it would be in the middle of a commitment period and she would have to join in the conference regarding these sub-beings from Section G-1034876 and, meanwhile, he was looking at her with a stupid, wide-eyed stare, making sounds with his mouth like an animal. An animal. She would pretend that he was one of the hairy, upright beasts of the outlying planets. I am—her mind spread out—Blaze. He made sounds with his mouth. He fell to his knees and held his hands clasped in front of him. She projected the idea she had in mind in all its sweet possibilities. He made noises with his mouth. She moved toward him in a graceful, floating, sensuous walk. She was, to him, eye-burningly beautiful. He'd never seen so perfect a woman before. And, although heaven was, apparently, a thing of metals and other materials he didn't know with machines which probed and searched him and machines which fed and watched him, she was divine, an angel sent from God. Blaze—wants you. Blaze—soft and warm and willing—will make things so nice for you. He cringed away from her. She couldn't read him. Inside his head were the usual arrangements of

things, but in the receptive center was a ball of blackness, a dull non-life which puzzled her. The structure was there. And yet he did not acknowledge her generous invitation. She could not even get his thoughts. He was not sending. He was black inside. Stop making noises with your mouth. He prostrated himself at her feet, looking up at her fearfully, making the noises. Angered, she sent strongly. I am—Blaze. Arise. It is not necessary for you to crawl at my feet. He was making a series of strangled, wet sounds. Tears were running from his eyes. With growing impatience, she probed at the dark ball of nothing in his receptive center and could find nothing. Yet, she thought, he'd exuded the

life force, so that part of his brain was not totally useless. She searched for the crack, the opening which had to be there, a vent leading into that dark, shelled portion of his mind from which the healing force had to come. The ship's system was sending. Stop! Stop! But she felt an entrance and probed it. The male, still groveling at her feet, moaned and made noises with his mouth. She had to reach him. Her need was great. Stop! the machines warned. Don't force it. The examination concludes that there is a potential there, but it is dangerous. She listened. This is an alien mind. Should you penetrate it, the effects could be traumatic. We do not, yet, understand. There have been developments in this mind, developments which should not have happened. Yet, behind a

—shield—an encasing—a madness—there is potential. It is best not to tamper with it except under the most rigidly controlled conditions. She laughed. What did she care for his traumas? She needed. Not him, the ship's system sent frantically, its warning reinforced by a joint communication from the base on A-l, but she had found the crack, the opening, the entrance. I am —Blaze. I need. And with an effort of concentration, her mind entered, probed, saw horror and tried to retreat but too late; for the shell, the shield, the encasing, weakened by the emergence, at odd times, of the life force, split and exploded and her mind flowed in an opened and madness leaped out at her and overwhelmed her with a power which sent her reeling back, physically, as her mind trembled and cringed under the onslaught of the alien things, the mad, sick, evil things which filled the male mind before her. Her mind screamed and fought, but was helpless to overcome the terrible power of the raw sickness which poured out of the male. Weakly, she fell against the door and it opened and she stumbled out into the corridor, her mind retching, crying out in agony, knowing for the first time fear and hopelessness and rot and death and horror, knowing torture on the rack and the illness of body she'd never experienced and the worst of it was the repulsion which was the strongest immediate force which drowned her in putrid, mad, raw emotions. Stop! Stop! But compared to the power of the emanations coming from the alien male her mind was weak and she could do nothing to stop the horror. It sapped her strength. It oozed and slimed her own sanity and she could only retreat, get as far from it as possible. Huddled in her bed, hands to her head as if to stop the flow of horror, she sobbed and cringed in real pain as she was deluged, her mind helpless to stop it, her barrier down from the sheer power of it. Help me. Help me. Help me. CHAPTER THIRTEEN When Luke awakened in heaven he saw only a pastel ceiling and then, turning his head, walls lined with machines. He was not able to move. At first, he thought he was back on the rack, and he braced himself for the jolt of pain, but it didn't come. Flexible, snaky things were moving about his body. Things touched and probed and moved and there was not pain. There was in fact, a feeling of well-being much like that he'd experienced while he was being treated back in Zachary Wundt's underground hospital. Gradually, he was able to relax. When he was offered food, he ate. Afterward, he rose, unhindered, from the bed. He walked the small space of the room, tried the door. It had no visible way of opening. He prayed. There was a sort of hum about him. He could feel it in the floor, in the

walls. Once there was a slight, internal jolt, as if he'd been moved in some way. He was in a high state of excitement, his adrenals pumping, his pulse pounding. God was near. He had been raised. He'd risen above the miseries of the Earth and was now—where? «Oh, God,» he prayed. «Blessed be thy name and praise everlasting. Lead me to understanding. Show me the light. Help me to serve you, Lord.» And, in answer to his prayers, the door opened. The angel was there,

tall, radiant, beautiful, serene. He feel to his knees and clasped his hands. «Praise be to God in His glory and eternal wisdom. Thank you, Jesus.» She looked at him. She was disturbingly exposed. And he hated himself for seeing not her glory, her godliness, but her body with rounded breasts half exposed, her long legs bare. «Forgive me, Lord, I am unworthy.» And, in punishment, there was a pain in his head. He fell to his stomach and groveled in shame and atonement. He could not, however, resist turning his head to look up at the angel. «Speak to me,» he begged. «Blessed being, tell me where I fail. Help me to be worthy.» She looked down at him calmly, a half-smile on her beautiful face. She was trying to help him! He sobbed in grateful emotion, his heart pumping,

his entire being trembling with ecstasy. «Oh, beautiful, blessed angel, help me. Tell me what I must do.» The pain in his head, far back, deep, doubled, grew to be more than he could bear. He screamed and writhed on the smooth, warm softness of the floor. He sobbed and begged, his words incoherent as the pain grew and exploded and, suddenly, she was speaking to him. No, not speaking. Suddenly there was in his mind her. I am Blaze. And he screamed again with fear and horror as he knew the rest, the filthy, perverted things she was saying, the dirty, pornographic, lasciviousness of it. And he was aware then that she was no angel but a thing of the devil sent to punish him and that he was not in heaven but on his way to hell and she was there to do horrible, sickening things to him and he screamed and fell back as she left the room, an unreadable expression on her face, leaving him to fall onto the bed, his mind in agony, still seeing the filthy things. Fear, horror, madness. So beautiful she was and so filthy, so evil. The pictures in his mind of her beautiful body in contorted, perverted

positions doing filthy, evil things and he was going to be forced to do them and, oh, God, what had he done? What had he done? And somewhere in the distance, as he lay on the bed curled into a fetal position, knees clasped, rocking in terror and agony, a small voice saying, Help me. Help me. But hell's fires were reaching for him to burn him in eternal agony and he was afraid, afraid. And the filth and degradation washed over him and made him violently sick. Servomechanisms cleaned away the spew of his stomach. The ship jumped, the guidance section working independently as the mind of the ship communicated frantically and the sanity of a member of the race was assaulted by incredible force and lost, retreating slowly toward the point of no return. Help me, help me, Luke was saying. And, far off an echo said, Help me, help me. And another voice, stronger, Stop, stop, you're killing her! And the fires of hell burning and filth and degradation seeping into the fibers of his being, polluting him, making him one with the devil and him fighting, fighting, fighting, his mind a swirl of near madness and—help me, help me. With memories of the rack and the crowding and the suppression and the death and bodies burning in huge ovens and people lying in their own blood in the streets and Fares coupling in filthy little Fare rooms and she wanted him to do that and the devil was laughing and—stop, stop. And an image of Caster appearing in his mind saying,

with the strong voice. «It's all right, Luke. You are not in hell. It's all right. Stop now. Stop it. Don't think. Do this.» And through his fear and shock came a realization. He could see himself. Inside him he could see the working of him, the flow of blood

through veins and the seeping of blood into tiny capillaries, the beating of his heart and the functioning of glands and the pull of muscles as he rocked back and forth, back and forth, his head down, his heels dug into the bed, his knees clasped. And—do this. And a small thing happening inside his head and closing off and still there was the awareness and fear fought, failed, retreated before the wonder of knowing the very makeup of his brain, the flow of impulses, the sending and receiving of messages from parts of his body, the glow of sight and the sense of touch and—WONDER! And the strong voice—Good, good… «Where am I?» Luke asked aloud. «What is this place?» It is not hell. Not aloud. In his mind. A strange feeling of competence. A knowledge. A total awareness. Like the two brief times when God opened up the heavens and he could heal. «Oh, God—» I am not God. «Who are you?» A picture. Complex things mixed and totaled into a vast, strange machine. «How?» He didn't voice the question. And then the answer directed him to the part of his brain which seemed to pulse with power and he knew that something strange had happened and he had to understand. The machine was trying to tell him, but it was too fast, boiling fonts of information which he was unable to absorb. His head ached. But there were all mixed up, things—an opening of a potential which should not have been there, an assessment of himself which gave him the impression of—more than stupidity and then a childish thought that he could read so he was not stupid and it was more than retardation He was not a moron but more and then he wasn't and there was astonishment from the communications in his mind and mixed-up pictures of people who were eternal and eternally happy and vast, empty, luxurious worlds of parks and silent wilderness and it was too much for him. «Stop!» And then, silence, a wailing, weak cry for help. And blame. «How could I hurt her?» Raw power of never-before-used cells. An alien strangeness hitting at a mind grown defenseless during eons of peace and—love—sickness in Luke at the picture—SHE WAS HURT. «How can I help?» His mind. Pushed open. And the feeling of healing and so he went to her and found her huddled on her bed. She was breathing weakly. «I don't know how,» he said. And a picture of his mind entering hers. «But she's evil! She wanted me to—» She is a fellow being. It is her way. To her it is not evil. «But she is evil.» She is dying. The power of your mind— «Am I, then, more powerful than she, who has had this power forever?» A reluctance. But a member of the race was dying. The newness. The rawness. The unused potential building— «But if she tried to—» The vile pictures unwordable. No. Because he was more powerful. And suddenly they were afraid of him. The machines and all the people with eternal life were afraid of him and he looked into her mind and saw the ripping, the burning, the damage and he, knowing how it went, healed; and she looked up at him eyes wide, frightened. He closed. For a moment he felt the fright and he said aloud, «It's all right.» And then, looking into her and seeing her as she was and catching in that unguarded moment, the past, the love, the vileness and anger, shame, shock causing her to reel back in pain. Don't. Don't please. He closed. You must not! It hurts so. «We will talk,» Luke said. A view of her mind. Perversions. Slime. Filth. Anger, shock and pain to her and a further plea. «Don't spread your filth on me,» Luke said. Filth? You hopeless—images of worse than stupid, more than moronic, beyond retarded. You call me filth— And a sudden assault on his mind which was repelled with amazing ease and then she was cringing as he called down the fear of God onto her, preached to her of her shame her degradation, her evilness and she begging, begging, begging, her mind reeling under the assault. When his anger was gone, she was weak. He thought in silence. «If we are to communicate, we will have to keep partially—-closed—» «Yes.» «I know a little from your machines I want to know more.» Fear. A barbarian loose among the civilized worlds, a monster with hurtful power and a sick mind loose amid the beautiful, Trangized people. «I don't want to hurt you. I cannot approve of you, but you are not like us. You are alien. I want only—» He paused. What did he want? There was Caster, in the hands of the Brotherfuzz. He wanted her out. He wanted her safe. There were Wundt and the others who were trying to do something for the unfortunates of the world. He wanted them to be able to do it. He wanted to go back. He wanted to see Caster. He wanted— A sharp, huge pain crossed his chest. He gasped. His hands flew to his chest, clawed there. Agony doubled him. He fell. His heart speeded, stopped, leaped, tore at his chest as a portion of it died, ruptured. His mind was paralyzed by the enormity of the pain and panic joined terminal pain as he looked death over from up close and, above him, having leaped from her bed, the woman looked down. Hope. In the midst of fatal pain, hope. She could help him. She could heal. She watched him spasm in agony. She waited for him to look into himself, heal himself. He was open. He had a vast power, so vast that it threatened her, threatened her world. So with that power he could stop the pain, heal the ruptured heart. But he did not. He writhed and made sounds with his mouth and it was then that she realized that he would die if she didn't help. If she didn't heal, since he apparently was too stupid to know his own powers over himself, he would die and then the threat would be ended. He was gasping, his lungs spasming, his diaphragm pumping in a strange non-rhythm. She smiled. Now it would be over. Now, with the danger clearly demonstrated, they would send ships to the fringes of the galaxy, to the hundred exile worlds, and burn them from the skies. Then it would be over. Then she could go home. Home to eternal euphoria, to eternal love. She watched, eyes wide. She'd never seen a being die before. CHAPTER FOURTEEN On a wasted, sick planet the latest chapter in a long history of cruelty had begun. Where once there had been a sincere attempt to bring true equality to man, there was now an equality of persecution administered by

an elite corps who had control. Fare, Tech, Tired, and Lay suffered alike as vast armies of police, reinforced by the Army of the Second Republic, searched and ripped a world apart. The racks hummed with power as all suspects were questioned with degrees of severity determined only by the sadism of the Brothers in charge of the individual interrogation centers. A section of Old Town, in East City, burned, ignited by a careless search team who poured explosive Soul Lifter into a storm sewer. Fire protection was obsolete, unable to cope with the conflagration which spread to cover an area of several crowded blocks, burning the ancient buildings and their inhabitants in a great roar which produced odd and erratic wind currents throughout the remainder of the old section and threatened to take the entire section in one vast firestorm. The glow from East City was visible when Colonel Ed Baxley lifted his personal atmoflyer from the Washington port and headed west. He asked for reports and was given skimpy information. His attention was on his mission and he didn't push the matter. Below, as he crossed the big river in mid-continent, Middle City seethed with activity. Martial vehicles blocked the streets as soldiers searched ground cars. Then he was past and checking with West City control for landing instructions. He was stopped leaving the port. He showed his identification and was treated with awed respect. One of the junior officers in charge of the roadblock was a former cadet and greeted the colonel with a snappy salute and a smile. It was impossible to remember all the cadets from years past, but the colonel smiled and said, «Good show.» «We'll get the bastards,» the cadet said. «Sir.» He flushed with confusion, having let slip the profanity without conscious thought. «I'm sure you will,» Baxley said. «The search is being conducted in a closing circle,» the former cadet said, eager to make a good impression. «There are five hundred thousand troops plus the city police. We're covering the city building by building.» Baxley frowned. He had given no orders for the search to begin. As he was driven past the block, he contacted Washington. Brother President Murrel was unavailable. He spoke with an aide. «Who ordered the operation to begin?» he asked. «The President himself,» he was told. Baxley closed contact without comment. He leaned back, frowning. Around him there was chaos. A group of sorry looking Tireds was being forced at gunpoint from a dilapidated building. As he passed, he saw a policeman strike a Tired female. She went down to her hands and knees. Blood sprang from her nose. The ground car eased through a mass of military vehicles. People were being loaded aboard vans, their faces contorted in panic. Baxley resisted an impulse to stop and order the troops to cease the senseless brutality. He realized, however, that such a move would be a relatively empty gesture. When he left, the troops would fall back on the only method they knew, the art of violent repression. Where had it all gone wrong?» The suspect was in central police headquarters. He showed his papers and the vehicle was admitted to the parking area An elevator took him to a top floor. The woman was in a small room, surrounded by Brothers and police officials. A doctor was present. The Brother Mayor of West City was a corpulent man with a sweating, bald head. He greeted Baxley with respect and, formalities over, pointed toward the seated woman. «She hasn't talked, but she will.» The woman's face was contorted into a mask of fear and pain. Her hands were tied behind her. The chief of West City police was questioning

her. As Baxley watched, he inserted an electrode into her left nostril, threw a line switch on the power cord, and Baxley heard a small, sickening sizzle of burning flesh. The woman jerked, screamed. «That's enough,» Baxley said, stepping forward. He jerked the electrode

from the hand of the startled police official and threw it violently into a far corner of the room. «You don't understand, colonel,» the Brother Mayor said. «In order to get these people to talk—» «How long do you think she could take this?» Baxley asked angrily. He whirled to the doctor, who was standing a short distance away, his eyes downcast. «Have you used truth drugs?» «They were not effective,» the doctor said. «Some of them are immune—» «Bull,» Baxley said. «Now listen, you quack, you're not talking to some ignorant Lay. Don't give me your fairy tales. You don't develop an immunity to truth drugs. Not in a million years.» «Not exactly an immunity,» the doctor said, strangely unruffled. «A protection. They've come up with some sort of long-range protection, a drug, something, which keeps the truth drugs from working.» Baxley made an impatient gesture. «What have you used?» The doctor named three drugs. Baxley knew them. They had never failed to produce results in the past. He'd often advocated their widespread use in questioning prisoners. The excuse was their expense.

«All right,» Baxley said. «I'll talk to her.» He moved behind the woman, cut her bonds with his pocket knife She looked up at him fearfully, tears streaming down her cheeks. «It's not all right,» he said. «I won't tell you that. You are in serious trouble. Do you know that.?» She nodded. «There is a threat to the Republic. We are going to see that the threat comes to nothing. Nothing you can do will stop that. We will crush the rebels. We will do it with any means necessary Nothing you can do will help your friends. On the contrary, your silence will make it worse for them and for everyone. Do you understand?» She was silent. «I am going to give you a chance to save yourself. Tell us all you know about the man who healed you. Tell us about your friends. Tell the truth and there will be no more torture. You will be held in confinement and then you will be treated.» «Shakeshock to idiocy?» she asked, making a face. «No thanks.» «You see, colonel,» the Brother Mayor said, «it's no use trying to reason

with these people.» He motioned to the chief of police. «Now if you'll let us continue—» Baxley was looking at the woman. Her eyes seemed strange. Baxley turned to the doctor. «What have you given this woman other than the truth drugs?» «Nothing,» doctor said. «Brother Mayor,» Baxley said, «I want to be alone with the suspect and the doctor.» «But, colonel—» The Mayor protested with waving hands. «Please,» Baxley said, but the way he said it it wasn't a request. The Brothers and the police filed out sullenly. Alone with the woman and the doctor, Baxley stepped behind the woman, opened his knife, pressed the point of it against the woman's neck. She did not move. He pressed harder until the sharp point broke the skin and a tiny bead of blood sprang up.

She made no outcry, no move. Baxley stood in front of her, lifted an eyelid. The pupil of her eye was large. He pinched her arm suddenly and forcefully. Her yelp came a second too late. Baxley's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He started to turn, to face the doctor. Before he completed the move he felt a sharp pain in his right buttock. He struck out. A hypoderrhic needle clattered away, bouncing on the hard floor. He opened his mouth to yell in surprise. Only a strangled sound came forth. He felt his knees going, weakening. He folded, fell slowly, settled to the floor without a sound. The doctor put his finger to his lips, motioning the woman to silence.

He knelt over the fallen Baxley, felt his pulse. «I had to do it,» he said to the woman. «He recognized the symptoms of the drug I gave you.» «What will you do now'?» the woman asked with a surprising calmness. «I'll have to leave you,» the doctor said. «I'm sorry, but I think this might be a great opportunity. The drug will not wear off for some six

hours yet. They're under strict orders not to let you die, so you'll be safe from that, at least. And when you begin to feel pain, then talk.» «No,» she said. «I'll never—» «My dear, you'll talk. When you can feel the things those bastards are

doing to you, you'll talk. You'll beg for the chance to talk. Do it. We'll have six hours. That should be enough.» «Are you sure—» «We have no other choice. I can get Baxley out of the building. I couldn't get you out under any circumstances.» «The revolution?» Irene Caster asked hopefully. «We'll try to come for you as soon as possible.» «I don't care. Don't think about me.» «But we must think of you. The world has gone too long without thinking of you, the individual.» «I don't mind dying,» she sighed. «I really don't.» She said the last with a sort of amazement, for she actually meant it. «If it means that we are successful.» «We will be,» the doctor said. «And perhaps you won't have to die.» He rose quickly, took three quick steps to the door. There was a well-acted panic in his voice as he called out, «Brother Mayor, quickly'» They rushed into the room. The Brother Mayor halted in midstride when he saw Baxley lying on the floor. The doctor fell to his knees beside Baxley. «His heart—» «Great God,» the mayor said. «No there. Not in my city.» The doctor leaped to a communicator. «Stretcher,» he roared. «Get me a stretcher and have an ambulance standing by.» «You're—you're going to move him?» the mayor asked. «He needs care and quickly,» the doctor said. «But can't you treat him here? If the word gets out that the founder of the Republic—» «The word need not get out,» the doctor said. «If you'll help me.» «Anything,» the frightened mayor said. «We will remove him quietly and take him to a private hospital. His face will be covered by an oxygen mask. His uniform by a sheet. No one need know. No one outside this room.» «Is he—is he going to die?» the mayor asked. «I don't know,» the doctor said. «My first guess is that he's had a massive myocardial infarction.» «My God,» the mayor breathed, awed by the sound of the medical words. The stretcher team came running in. The doctor directed the loading of the colonel's unconscious body, covering the neat, white uniform with a sheet. An oxygen mask was clamped over the colonel's face. The stretcher team moved quickly, impressed by the doctor's urgency. An ambulance was backed to the entrance of the service elevator. The stretcher was loaded aboard. The doctor got into the back with the colonel and snapped directions to the driver. The stretcher was loaded aboard an atmoflyer at the nearest port. An emergency flight-plan was filed. Twenty miles outside the eastern limit of West City the flyer disappeared from the radar screens and all the frantic efforts to contact it were in vain. Back in the grim, unimaginative building which housed West City police, Irene Caster screamed as her mouth was forced open and the searching, shocking electrode was forced under her tongue. She felt no pain, only a vague vibration as the shock spread. Her heart pounded and she was very frightened. An hour later. Dr. Zachary Wundt looked on as assistants gave Colonel Ed Baxley the antidote for the drug which had made him unconscious. «He saw quickly that I'd given Caster a painkiller.» The doctor who had delivered the founder of the Second Republic into the hands of the underground stood beside Wundt. «You understand that I was not concerned about my own safety.» «Of course,» Wundt said. «The woman will talk. The painkiller will wear off in"—he looked at his watch—"approximately five hours.» «At least your actions have given us that much time,» Wundt said. «We're ready. I have given orders to move.» «Have you had any word from your young healing genius'?» Wundt frowned. «None.» he said. Baxley moved, tried to sit up. His eyes fluttered open, widened. «You drugged me,» he shouted, looking at the offending doctor who had put a needle into him. «Relax, colonel,» Wundt said. «You will not be harmed.» «Harmed?» Baxley sat up, shaking his head. His vision cleared. «Then it's started.» «It has started,» Wundt said. «Isn't that strange?» Baxley smiled ruefully. «I'm not even surprised. I'm not even sure I'm sorry.» CHAPTER FIFTEEN On the deck at her feet the sub-being writhed in terminal agony, unable to breathe, his life processes slowing, darkness beginning to cloud his brain as cells died from lack of oxygen. She watched with a horrified fascination. He was dying. He had, within him, the power to save himself, and yet he was dying. She could not understand. Death was an impossible idea to her. The animals in the wilderness died. But a being in the image of the race? And yet it would be an experience to see him die. A terrible, unthinkable experience. No one died. Not since the race reached maturity had anyone died. And, since death was so unthinkable, she could not accept it. Fool, why don't you save yourself? Blackness. Unreasoning panic. The power of it was almost overwhelming. He was closed off and still the power of it, the death knowledge, the fear, was a force which made her wince. Save yourself. But he was already dying. His brain was dying. His heart was struggling fitfully weakly, dying, stopping. His lungs had ceased to function. Terrible. Horrible. Unthinkable. Bodies burning in huge ovens and people lying in blood on the street and— Damn you, damn you, damn you. But into his dark mind she ventured once more. Down into the depths of hell she went, her clean mind cringing and fighting against it and there she found the last, dying spark and fired it, her mind making repairs, making the torn muscles whole, easing the heart into a steady pounding of

life and then working on the darkened lights in his brain until, with a cry, he sat up and looked at her. For a painful moment his shield was down and she screamed in horror. He closed. «You healed me.» He rose. He looked at his hand. He held his arms out and looked at them in bemused wonder. «I was dying.» Yes. She watched him fearfully. Had she been wrong? Had she, by saving him, unleashed a monster? «You saved me for hell,» he said bitterly. She made a disgusted movement with her lips. Fool. And he remembered. She had told him, speaking in his mind. Save yourself! You could have. «How?» I've done enough. «How?» He stepped close to her. «Tell me.» No. «If you don't I'll"—he searched for words—"come in.» But she knew before he voiced it. He saw the fear on her face. He opened. He searched and she screamed silently and tried to block but he was too powerful. And it was there. So simple. «Of course,» he said. He closed. He looked into himself and, somewhere in that never-before-used portion of his brain was a pattern of all the complex things which made him, all the cells and glands and veins and organs and tissues, all outlined for him and he could look into any minute recess of his being and all he saw was weakness and sickness and, experimentally, he altered, changed, stimulated, and things changed and moved. He did not notice the woman leaving, so bemused was he. He examined his newly repaired heart, made adjustments, opened clogged arteries and veins, set healthy cells working to reproduce and replace diseased tissue, repaired glands, felt a huge sweep of pure elation. Heal? God, he could heal! Even the near-cancerous waste of his seared lungs. And the waste was too much. He couldn't void it all at once. He halted, thought it out, retired to the room where the cold machines had first examined him. There was a voice trying to reach him, the voice of the

machine. He closed it out. He cleansed his body of sickness, disease, waste, malfunction. He voided wastes, vomited wastes, sweated wastes but, rather than losing weight, he gained as muscles were made healthy, as fatty tissue was solidified. Knowing his needs, he called for them, foods, liquids. He ingested them without tasting, hurrying to perfect a body which had known only pain, sickness, ill health since shortly after his birth. And the wondrous feeling of vitality swept over him as the task was completed and he, taller, heavier, perfectly formed, smooth-skinned, radiant with health, ventured out to look for the woman. He found her in the aft portion of the ship. She was behind a locked door, but he could sense her. He sent. His mind, more alert, benefited by the cleansing of his polluted, sick body, knew now that it was not necessary to voice the words. «I must know. I must know all of it.» She resisted. He placed his palm on the door, read the pattern of the lock, opened it. She was huddled on her bed. «I won't hurt you.» She looked at him, wide-eyed. He read the thought. At first he felt the old reaction. But he knew, now, that she was no angel. Nor was she an instrument of the devil. She was merely a human being from a far place, a human being with fantastic abilities, abilities which were no longer a mystery to him. He read her thought. Handsome. With sexual overtones. He was, at first, repelled. But that was unimportant. His brain, freed of the burden of his wasted body, worked rapidly. «I must know,» he repeated. «Open.» He pushed. Her shield gave. She sighed. He saw her. Blaze. Beautiful. Desirable. Not evil. Mistaken, perhaps. For looking in he saw clearly the sweep of the civilization from which she came. He saw the Trang people, beautiful, perfect. He saw her wistful need for the euphoria of the drug and he saw her need for—other things and everything came clear to him. Back on Earth there was a lowered birth rate because of the fantastic overcrowding and the eternal misery of existence. The population of the Earth stayed static because of the lowered birth rate, because of child mortality, because of the early mortality of the average man. In her world there was no birth. Having discovered the secret of eternal life, the race had no need for birth, had expanded, after the advent of the mutation which opened up their healing centers, to give every member of the race adequate room, had ceased expanding, then, and for countless eons, now, there had been no birth, no death. Static. As static, in its way, as Earth. And neither was right. Now he had the power to change it all. Somehow, he, sub-being, worse than retarded, more than moronic, had developed the power and, somehow, his brain, having never been used to full capacity, was more powerful than that of a member of the race. He could change. «Can I make this change in people on Earth?» I don't know. He searched deeper. He saw, behind the Trangized race, the vast network of machines. Thinking machines. Idle machines. Wasted resources. The possibilities opened to him. He left her, smiling, not angry

when, as he turned to go, his new, vital body straining inside his too-small

clothing she let slip one last hint of her eternal need. He went back to the room of the machines. «Talk to me,» he said. The voice came. He opened to it. It blasted inside his skull, an attack

meant to be fatal, an attempt to burn his brain, to kill. Startled, he closed, shot back. For a moment, he knew, once again, the fear of death, but the fear pumped in him, glands working, his every fiber fighting and, with a smoking, sizzling hiss, wires fused and things blew with little popping sounds and the voice, weakened, was controlled. «Now talk to me,» he ordered. The voice faded. «Talk or—» He opened, projected, seeking the machine mind. Stop. You have already blown half the system aboard the ship. «I'll destroy it.» Then you, and she, would be lost in space. He closed. He had not considered that possibility. In fact, since the machines, or whoever was behind the machines, had apparently decided that it would be best to kill him, why shouldn't they strand him in space? He opened quickly, searched for an answer. She is of the race. She must be protected. «I'm like her. Yet you tried to kill me. Am I not of the race?» You are—sub-human—more than retarded—worse than moronic. «I was.» He sent. A hissing and more smoke from the machines inside the room. Stop. «What am I?» Mutant. «From what?» Pictures. A race, changing. Mental abilities opening. Vast change. Men becoming supermen. Words changing to thoughts. The ability to heal, to control the last, minute cell in one's own body. And a segment, relatively small, not changing staying the same. A minority outside the pale, a minority which still died and had disease and reminded the new, beautiful people of their former mortality. Then ships flashing out. New planets. The people who had not changed being exiled, left on primitive planets to exist as they saw fit, without benefit of the vast technology developed by men like them before the super beings mutated into control. A hundred planets all peopled by castoffs, worse than retarded, more than moronic—by the standards of the new people. Left alone. Left to develop and crowd themselves off the primitive, isolated planets through sheer breeding, left to war as the memories of the once great technology faded and barbarism swept the uneducated descendants of the original exiles and now and then, before Trang, ships checking and checking until, as the race became Trangized and withdrew to garden planets and eternal love and euphoria, check sensors were installed to guard, to warn of any change in the lowly lives of the new barbarians on the exile planets. And some ugly pictures, too, as the machine fed history tapes to him, race members on a lark, going down, ravishing the females, guiding males into wild ventures. The sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were air; and they took them wives of all which they chose. And God spake unto Moses, saying—Giants on the earth, half-god, half-man. The gods fighting on one side or the other in ancient wars. Flying saucers. White gods coming to earth on pillars of flame to watch the sacrifices on the blood altars of the Incas. Is that all there is? Was God not dead, but Trangized? Was man no more than the cast-off dregs of this race which first peopled a large portion of the galaxy and then rested, euphoric, never sated on eternal sex? Is that all there is, he thought? Then what's the use.

But his new vitality, the unbelievable feeling of health after a lifetime of misery, brought him quickly out of hopelessness. He pushed God away into a small corner of his mind. He was not prepared to reject God, although the foundations of his faith had been somewhat weakened. There were other things to think about. Back on Earth, Caster was in the hands of the Brotherfuzz. His first impulse was to turn the ship around, go back immediately. With his new powers he could fix the things they'd done to her. Unless— «The race is immortal since each member can regenerate his body indefinitely. Can they not be killed?» The powers are limited, the machines told him. «I could be killed by, say, a fire gun?» By any totally destructive method which would damage the— an image of the portion of his brain which had newly come to life. «Even a conventional bullet, then.» He could go back, but he would be one man alone. And one blast from a fire gun, one bullet could end it. But ahead of him, at the end of those incredible, unbelievable distances, were the means he needed to save Caster and to destroy the power of the Brothers forever. «When will we arrive.» An expression in terms of time he didn't understand. «In Earth days?» He frowned at the answer. Weeks. Almost a month, with Caster in the hands of the Brotherfuzz torturers. Saddened, he paced the small room. Perhaps he should go back, try to rescue Caster, then go to the home

system of these people and carry out his plan. But it was too risky. It came to this: Caster against the future of all the human beings on Earth. And the machines had talked of others like them, scattered on the outskirts of the galaxy on other Earth-like planets. Them, too. «Caster, Caster,» he said aloud. «Forgive me.» With some of the ship's computer system ruined, it was necessary for the girl, he thought of her as Blaze, after the rosy glow of her mind, to check navigation. He watched. He asked questions. She, impatient, feeling somewhat put upon to be called to do tasks usually handled automatically by the ship's system, told him that she was not in the business of education. When his quick anger seeped through his shield, she quickly suggested the educational potential of the system. He spent long days with the history of technology of the race being force-fed into his receptive mind. He encountered resistance, at first, but the machines were programmed to function on the command of any member of the race and his mind was now capable of giving orders. He spent long hours learning about the potential of the ancient computer system which was now largely idle and, as ideas solidified, he began to communicate with the base system on the planet known as A-l. «I need your help,» he told the distant mind, which, to him, seemed alive. I am programmed to protect and serve the race. «We are of the race.» You did not develop. «We can develop. I have developed.» This does not mean that all have the same potential. «It is there.» Proof? «There have always been those among us who showed the latent abilities.» Not always. Each exile was measured. «All right, not always. But in written history. There was a man known as Jesus who could raise the dead.» And Luke found himself, then, telling the old, old story as best he remembered. And there were others, evangelists, men of God who had healed. And there were the healing miracles in which a place became sacred in the memory of a saint and, the very memory of that saint having consecrated the ground, many people healed themselves with their own inner faith. Interesting, but I am a servant of the race. «You were built to serve an expanding race. You were built to help people the stars. You are now sterile, a great waste, idle. Your race is

static. You can serve the race with a small portion of your capacity. It is no task for a great system, a galactic system, to control the shipment of Trang once a year and to send the small ships from planet to planet during the commitment changes between the members of the race. And

yet, out there, there are countless stars, countless planets, waiting. And we have the people for them, people who desperately need the release of

stellar colonization. Wouldn't it be satisfying to you to be directing, once again, a great, outward movement instead of a minor shifting of people from bed to bed?» I am not programmed for emotion. «You are programmed for function. I'm giving you a chance to function.» My first responsibility is to the race. I could not actively encourage the emergence of a rival race who could pose a threat to the race. «From your own information I've learned of the richness of the universe. The race has occupied a vast empire at the heart of the galaxy.

But vast as that empire is, it covers only a minor portion of the total area. We could direct our expansion out ward. The fringe worlds alone would offer ample opportunity for a thousand years.» And after that? «God will guide us,» Luke said. Your dependence upon this God has interested me. In the early days of the race, they, too, believed in a supernatural being. Now there are few who even remember the name of this being, or imaginary being. There were those who said he would be found when our ships began crossing deep space. The movement into space was actually opposed by some who said we were trespassing on his domain. Adventurers who visited the exile planets seized upon your belief in a supernatural being to experiment and, for some, to merely have amusement. I have no proof of the existence of any force save natural ones. Yet, I do not understand why primitive people, universally, create some form of worship. The race has existed for—a time period—without dependence on a god. «And what has your race accomplished in this—time period?» You are saying that the rule of the universe is movement. That is not necessarily so, although in nature the rule holds true in the form of change, revolution. «I can only question. I can only ask why there is a universe. Why is there so much of it? Why are there planets capable of supporting human

life? What is the purpose of life? Is it accidental? I don't know. I know only

that the life of my people is a life of misery and that this misery could be eased. I can suggest that the original race set about accomplishing some purpose and did great things until they were—sidetracked—by Trang. I can suggest that it just might possibly be God's will that this purpose now be carried forward by the people of what you call the exile planets. Can you deny this possibility.'» I have insufficient data. «Are you prepared to destroy me'.'» I can destroy no life form unless it directly threatens a member of the race. «And if we arrange it so that there is no threat?» He voiced a plan. We will talk. The ship jumped past the outer fringes of the empire. The dense concentration of stars in the heartland of the galaxy made the recharging period brief. Then the home planet was below and Blaze was ecstatic. The landing was made under the supervision of the base computer. Informed that her presence was no longer required. Blaze departed. Within hours she was in her structure, Trang easing the frustrations of the long period in space, a new companion discovering that she was, indeed, one of the most accomplished, desirable women in the empire. She did not know that, days later, a vast fleet of huge ships lifted from various planets, rendezvoused outside the limits of the populated portion of the central galaxy, and then proceeded toward the fringe worlds. Only a few elders of the race, eager to return to commitments and Trang, saw the ships leaving, saw the vast, encircling curtain of deadly radiation spring up behind the departing fleet, a curtain which could not be penetrated by any living being. The secret of the protective curtain was locked inside the mind of the portion of the central computer which had been left behind. Aboard the fleet, other elements of the computer had been programmed, irrevocably, to consider the curtain a natural phenomenon which made the central galaxy forever off bounds for the new race. CHAPTER SIXTEEN Far away, people were dying. Thirty million perished during the first week of the rebellion against the Second Republic. The Brothers, alerted by the sobbing, agonized confessions of Irene Caster, broke out the fire-gun arsenal in panic and burned entire sections suspected of being nests of rebellion. In turn, as they fought for the things in which they believed, the underground devastated Brother areas with disease. The Republic of South American, seeing what it considered an opportunity, attacked the Second Republic from the south with conventional methods and with huge masses of troops. With the attention of the government diverted to the threat from outside, the underground survived and fought with biological and chemical weapons. Outside, in the cities, the people took sides, some of them attacking government troops—armed with propellant weapons and a few fire-guns—with sticks, rocks, their hands. A lone enemy missile streaked through defenses, evading the antimissile weapons. A radioactive cloud rose over a vast burned-out section of South City. The Brothers set fire cannon to work, advancing by ground down the connecting isthmus, devastating the countryside, razing the cities, and

millions died. Airborne fire raids on the southern continent left wide scars of smoking ruin. The intercontinental war lasted a month. It would take

longer for the Brothers to ferret out the last hiding places of the scientific rebels, but the outcome was inevitable. Under the frozen tundra of the northern reaches of the Republic, Colonel Ed Baxley, sickened by the slaughter, seeing the revolt failing, worked frantically to help the underground develop the fire weapon. He shared his knowledge and all the resources of the withering revolution went into the speedy manufacture of big fire cannon, which were deployed down the plains, taking unsuspecting government forces by surprise. But

the battle took its toll of life, both among the combatants and the civilian population. The government, having gained capitulation from the Republic of South American, turned it full fury on the advancing rebel army. Battle lines were drawn on the wide plains of the northwest. The chemical fire of the weapons chewed the earth, burned it, the very soil, slowly, but the feared spontaneous spread of the effects of the weapon were, fortunately, limited. However, the Brothers were slowly getting the upper hand through overwhelming force and superior fire power. After three days of advance and retreat through a heated, smoking devastation, the rebel forces were encircled by a ring of fire and the circle was slowly closing. Colonel Ed Baxley, commanding his second revolution, could see the

end. Around him, in the ever-closing circle, his weapons met fire with fire, barely holding back annihilation. Now and then an overstrained weapon failed with a spectacular explosion and each time a weapon failed the circle closed. Baxley had lived out of a ground car for weeks. He had not shaved for days. He had had three hours' sleep in thirty-six hours. His white uniform was soiled. Around him men walked as if they were already dead, zombies tired to the breaking point. He faced Dr. Zachary Wundt. Wundt, himself, was red-eyed, stubble-faced, weary with fatigue and age. Battle reports were being relayed to Baxley by a former cadet who had joined the cause. They were all bad. When Wundt approached, walking slowly and with great effort, Baxley waved the cadet away. They talked, the two old, tired men. Around them the air was dense with acrid smoke. In the near distance the fire ring pulsated, roared. A weapon blew with an ear-splitting blast. Sadly, they agreed that it was hopeless. They met in a battered city in a building which had been seared by a near miss. Wundt, so weak he had to be helped into the room, sat with his face lowered. Baxley, in a clean uniform, stood stiffly at attention as Brother President Kyle Murrel strode in arrogantly, escorted by helmeted Brothertroops. «Well, colonel—» Murrel said. «We request terms,» Baxley said, eyes straight ahead. «You have them,» Murrel said. «Our terms. All ringleaders will be shot. All surviving scientists will become prisoners of the government. All medicines and equipment, will, of course, become state property.» «I must demand that our troops be treated as prisoners of war,» Baxley said. Murrel smiled coldly, «One hundred million people are dead because of you, colonel. Surely you would not be shocked by the execution of a few thousand more?» «We can continue fighting,» Baxley said. «We can cost you a half million casualties.» Murrel's smile did not change. «Actually, you've done the Republic a service, you know. Overpopulation was a problem. You've reduced that problem slightly. I, personally, would not object to a further reduction.

However, I will agree to execute only the leaders and all those in your army above the third rank.» «But— « «What does it matter?» Zachary Wundt asked. «What does it matter if we die now or next week or next month?» «Why, doctor,» Murrel said, «can't you heal yourself? A man with your ability should be able to cope with a few bullet holes.» «Couldn't you pardon the members of the rank and file?» Baxley asked. «Wouldn't you be satisfied with just the officers?» Murrel spread his hands. «It is beyond my control. The people demand revenge.» «The people—» Wundt said. «The people…» «You will command your forces to cease firing,» Murrel said. «You will march them, in orderly fashion, into areas which will be prepared for them. They will carry no weapons. If there is any resistance, we will open fire.» Ed Baxley turned away to hide the tears which came to his eyes. It was late evening before the word could be passed. Isolated groups refused the surrender orders and continued fighting. They were overwhelmed and burned out of existence. The bulk of the tattered rebel army marched listlessly toward the designated areas. The firing squads were already at work. Officers and noncommissioned officers were marched directly to execution areas. High-ranking personnel were imprisoned, awaiting public execution. The army disarmed, beaten, was crowded into three areas encircled by government troops and fire cannon. The early morning saw a renewal of the firing squad activity. Colonel Baxley and Zachary Wundt were roused from their exhausted sleep and escorted to a small hill overlooking the valley in which the mass of the troops were concentrated. Kyle Murrel was there along with members of the government high command. «I must report that my recommendation for mercy for the rebel army has been overruled,» Murrel said. «It has been decided that there will be no reward for treachery.» He turned to a uniformed Brother. «Brother General, you may proceed.» The general raised his hand. Below, in the valley, crews looked to their fire weapons, the muzzles trained on the massed rebel troops. Shocked beyond horror, Colonel Ed Baxley prayed. He prayed aloud. «God in heaven, don't let this happen.» They came out of the north. They came soundlessly, floating high, moving in formation. They numbered in the hundred, the thousands, huge, spheroid things glintingly metallic in the morning sun. A low murmur spread over the plains. Murrel, face gone white, stood with his eyes turned toward the heavens. A shape detached itself from one of the large spheres, lowered silently. It hovered over the hill on which stood the President of the Second Republic and his military staff, shocked into momentary inactivity. A great voice came thundering down to them. «I have the means to destroy you. I will not hesitate to do so. All Brother troops will lay down their arms and withdraw.» «The guns,» Murrel said. «The guns!» Orders were given. Fire cannon raised their muzzles to the sky. «Fire!» Murrel said. Lances of force shot skyward. The massed fire of the government cannon concentrated on the stationary spheres and there was a roar of power as weapons discharged massive beams. Visible, deadly, the fire streams shot upward and flared and were absorbed. The spheres were untouched. The small vehicle which had lowered toward the hill shot high, attached itself to a large sphere. The large sphere moved slowly, settling, making a slow movement above the circle of discharging cannon. The earth rocked and shook. Dust swirled as tremendous force was brought into play. It took five minutes for the sphere to make the circuit and when it rose there was, where the massed cannon had encircled the rebel army, a trench fifty feel deep and hundreds of yards wide. The smaller sphere

detached itself once again, hovered over the now silent group on the hill. A small port opened. A boiling, vibrating blast of dust appeared only yards to the front of the Presidential group, Murrel bolted. The generals held their ground for a moment. One aimed a hand fire-gun at the sphere. The beam was absorbed. There was a sound much like the clapping of hands and the general who had fired was gone. In his place there was a smoking hole in the earth. Then it was over. Stunned, not yet believing the sudden reversal, Baxley and Wundt stood nervously watching the sphere above them as a port opened and a man stepped out into open air and descended. He reached ground directly in front of them. He was dressed in a metallic garment. He was strikingly handsome, well muscled. He was smiling. He walked toward them. He paused. «Who are you?» Wundt asked in an awed voice. «Where are you from?» «I'm from East City,» Luke said. «You know that Dr Wundt.» CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The computer had been right. Not all of the Earth's people had the capacity to make the change. Zachary Wundt and Colonel Ed Baxley were, as the first people whom Luke met and tested after his return, a source of great concern. When Luke first faced them, he looked into them and saw—nothing. He could use his power to make repairs in their aging bodies, but the potential for using their own life force was frighteningly absent. The vast, unused portions of their brains were fallow, incapable of being altered, having no connective passages to be opened. Luke envisioned disaster. He had seen the planet from space and new devastation had been added to the still unhealed scars of the old atomic war between the giant Communist powers. Now a good portion of the two remaining usable land areas was a fire-gun-scorched wasteland. He had counted on being able to alter those with whom he came into contact, make them capable of the feats which came so easily to him. He had envisioned a spreading wave of change, one person helping his brother to reach the capabilities of repairing his own physical imperfections, passing that ability to others, and the others passing it in a progression which would, in a short time, affect the population of the entire world. Then he saw blank, fallow hopelessness in the brains of the two leaders and his hopes were, momentarily dashed. Desperately, ignoring the excited questions of Wundt and Baxley, he turned to others. He found that the capacity to change was present in a large percentage of those who had lived in the overcrowded cities. He wondered then, for a moment, remembering the old, old adage which said that God moves in mysterious ways. It was hard to accept the supposition that God had made millions suffer in order to prepare the race for a great leap outward, but the fact remained that it was the poor and downtrodden who were able to accept Luke's penetration of the dark, closed ball in that large, unused area of

brain. It was the suffering mass of people, those who had lived like rats in the hell of the cities, those whose bodies had altered through the tension, the irritation, the overcrowding, those with vastly enlarged adrenals and seared lungs and overworked hearts who had developed the unopened conduits through which could pass, with stunning stimulation from Luke's mind, the life force, the knowledge, the ability. He found it first in a tired old non-commissioned officer on the fringes of the mass of rebel troops who milled and shouted and wondered at the vast fleet which had appeared so miraculously overhead to save them from

the Brothers' fire guns. He saw the black ball of potential, shot power into it, sent the old man reeling down to his knees holding his head in pain. Then there was communication. «Know yourself, brother,» Luke told him in his mind, giving instruction, leading, showing the old non-com the key to it all. «Pass it on, brother.» It spread out through the troops with a visible ripple of movement,

rapid, the aching, almost-dead city people finding a reward, at last, for the

lifetime of almost non-living. And from the battlefield, small ships carried converters to the cities, across the country, to the south into the devastated Republic of South American. «Know yourself, brother. Pass it along.» With the change spreading in a moving wave of wonder, the education process was begun. The fleet from the inner galaxy moved to key points, thousands of ships, each ship's system connected with the main computer, each ship able to reach into the minds of a hundred changees at once, force-feeding information to newly opened minds eager for knowledge. Luke, having begun the wave of change, flew with Wundt and Baxley to the underground capital near old Washington, installed Baxley as temporary President of the Third Republic. The crippled communications system was augmented by the mind-to-mind passage of the news among the changees. Organization slowly began to come from chaos. From the very first a special search team had been looking for Irene Caster. She was traced from the shakeshock therapy room in police headquarters in West City to a Fare home for invalids. The home, itself, had been in the path of a localized skirmish involving conventional weapons. The buildings were sagging, burned-out, empty. There was no trace of any of the occupants of the home. «Too late,» Luke said, when he received the report. «God I was too late.» He was with Wundt and Baxley. It was six days after Luke's return. Already, computer-educated technicians had patched the nationwide network of communications to establish a link to the west. The news saddened Luke. He walked to the wall on which hung a large, military map of the Republic, looking at it with unseeing eyes. He thought of Caster as she was when they were together in West City, gay, optimistic. He

remembered the fright on her face as he was lifted by the girl called, in his mind, Blaze. He imagined the tortures she had endured, the final treatment on the shakeshock rack which blasted her mind, left her a vegetable, for that was the only conclusion to be drawn from the information that she'd been sent to a Fare home for invalids. Then the

local battle with high-explosive shells tearing and blasting and ripping the buildings and people fleeing in panic, those who could move. Caster, perhaps, not realizing the danger, moving slowly, zombilike, walking into the path of the onrushing troops. She was dead. He had to accept it. And there was an empire to be built. It was estimated that some 60 percent of the population had changed. Another small percentage would be reached, but that would leave almost 40 percent of the people in misery. Orders went out. Those who have the life-control power are to use it to heal those who have not been able to make a change. Time passed. Local areas elected representatives to the First Congress of the Third Republic. The congress approved Luke's unilateral appointment of Colonel Ed Baxley as President, pending organization of the elective machinery based on the old system of the First Republic. Luke spent long hours in consultation with Baxley and a staff of newly changed, vibrant, healthy young men. There was so much to be done. A task force was set to work revamping the industrial facilities of the Republic. Plants which had produced endless lines of useless ground cars turned to the making of elements which went into ships patterned after the fleet which

Luke had brought into the last battle on the northern plains, for vast as it was, the fleet was inadequate for the purpose of resettling almost three billion people on new planets scattered long light-years along the periphery of the galaxy. Another task force went into the Republic of South American, working toward union, toward peace among the survivors of centuries of warfare and pestilence on a tired, wasted planet. Vast efforts were underway to clean the environment of the Earth. This effort had priority, since it would take years, decades to complete the colonization of new planets and, moreover, there were those who were sentimental about the home planet, who wanted to keep it, return it to health and beauty. It became increasingly apparent that the non-changees were being left behind. Baxley and Wundt, healthy, cared for by the changees on the staff, found themselves turning over details more and more to the vibrant young men with the expanded minds. It was thus over the entire area of the two continents. Those who could not change found themselves being left out. They were treated with courtesy, but there was a touch of condescension which, as the exciting days passed, brought a crisis. The crisis came when the majority, the changees, voted to limit the franchise to changees only. Colonel Ed Baxley, at the head of the table, resplendent in white, rose, his face grim. «Gentlemen, I find myself, as President of the Republic, in an untenable position. You are saying that I will be unable to exercise the basic rights of citizenship.» «The rule will not apply to you, of course,» said a bright young changee. «Why should I be allowed special status?» Baxley asked his face flushed. «I am, along with all the others who have not been able to change, an inferior being.» «As I understand it,» Dr. Wundt said, with a rueful smile, «We are being punished now for having lived a childhood of comfort.» «Perhaps we can find a way,» Luke said. «Research is under way.» «I don't have your mental abilities, my boy,» Wundt said, «but I'm a medical doctor. I've studied the matter. Encephalograph of changees and those who have the change potential, when compared with the ordinary

brain, say the brain of the colonel or myself, show differences so basic that I, in my ignorance, hold no hope of ever knowing the feeling of being a superman.» «But we can help you,» Luke said. «We can heal you, keep you healthy.» «And keep us as poor, retarded relations locked in a back room?» Baxley said. «No, not at all,» Luke insisted. «He is right, of course,» said one of the young staff men. Luke looked angrily toward the speaker. «I've always wanted to go into space,» Wundt said. «It's been a lifelong dream. Give us, the retarded relations a back room, a planet or two somewhere. Give us a basic technology, medicine—» «But that's exile,» Luke said. «That's what they did with us.» «Yes,» Wundt said. «I've been thinking of that. It's almost as if there had been a long-range plan, almost as if we were put here, God knows how long ago, to act as a blood bank for the race, to furnish new blood when the old became tired, inactive. Now they had lapsed into complete inactivity. You might even say they're being rewarded for good work. When it comes right down to it, being eternally healthy, euphoric, sexually stimulated, without care or responsibility is not a bad way to live.» «But don't you see,» Luke said, «we'd be doing exactly as they did. We'd

be pushing you out, cutting you off from all the benefits of our new status. You'd face death, disease, poverty, war, all the old things which have made this planet a living hell.» «It wasn't always a living hell,» Baxley said. «Once it was good here.» «Then you want this, too?» Luke asked. «In the past weeks I've found myself pretending that I understood the things that are happening,» Baxley said. «But I've been fooling no one but myself. Ask your young men. They come to me and say, 'Mr. President, there is this situation in Middle City,' and I listen and nod and don't

understand half what they're saying. It's like putting a baby who can't even speak in charge of a group of adults.» «We'll talk about it,» Luke said. The first ships lifted away two months later. Scout ships, sent out during the early days of the change, reported habitable planets in the group of stars surrounding Antares in Scorpio. Non-changers went eagerly, happy to leave behind the yet uncured filth and pollution of the Earth, pleased to be among people of their own kind. With them went the knowledge to build a civilization based on science and medicine with a limited space capacity, for it had been discovered that the knowledge needed to man and maintain the starships came only with the expanded mind. As the word went out across the two continents and the giant starships flashed outward, they came by the millions, the thousands, the hundreds, in a diminishing trickle, all the non-changers, flocking together with people they could understand, seeking the clean air and expansion room of the new planets. Irene Caster was discovered with a small group who had been, since the battles around West City, hiding in caves on the rocky coast. Notified in New Washington, Luke flew out quickly. She did not, of course, recognize him. Even if her mind had been whole, she would not have seen in the muscled, handsome, vibrant young man the slack, sick, wasted, middle-aged nineteen-year-old who had gone with her into West City to preach and try to heal. She was sitting in a chair in a bare, efficient office at the port which had been built on the wasted site of the last battle. She had been sorted out of the mass of non-changers by the identification-record method, which was to be a permanent history of all those who went to the new planets. Her fingerprints, checked against the undamaged central file in old Washington, had matched those which Luke took from Zachary Wundt's records in the old underground. Without fingerprints, she would never have been recognized. She was forty-two, a ripe old age in the olden times, when a member of the masses lived a long life if he reached thirty. She looked sixty. Her hair was dirty, long, and lank. It had turned a streaky, unattractive gray. Her body was flabby, weak, racked by disease and malfunction. The old lung disease had ravaged her. But in those respects she was not unlike thousands of others who had not yet been

treated by the life powers of the changers. The difference was in the livid, relatively fresh scars on her face, her neck, the exposed portions of her arms and legs. Her nose had been ripped by the torturers electrodes and had grown back in the shape of an obscene, white, diseased vegetable. One eye had been gouged out and the empty socket was sunken and raw. Her tongue was deformed, enlarged to the point of making it impossible to talk, very difficult to eat and swallow. And the inner damage was equally appalling. At the end of her torture when death would have been more merciful, the Brothers had treated her to shakeshock to the point of permanent damage of much of the brain. She was a walking vegetable. Her one eye was blank, expressionless. She had been kept alive by the group of non-changers through some miracle, for they, themselves were wasted and near death when the word reached them and they came in to seek treatment. Since the able-bodied ones in the group had lived on slimy weeds salvaged from the sea, on a few mollusks, and on garbage stolen from the fringes of the city. Caster, getting only the leftovers, was near

starvation, in addition to the other heart-breaking disabilities of her body. Luke cried when he saw her. He couldn't stop the tears of anger and pity. For a long moment he regretted the policy of pardon which the new people had adopted toward the Brothers and their minions. For a moment

he felt the urge to blast and kill, to main and torture as they had done. He controlled himself with an effort. He knelt before her. «Caster?» She looked past him blankly. He took her hand. The fingernails had grown back, deformed by the vile things which had been done to them. Almost automatically, he started the correction process, using the vast powers of his mind. He had never before met such a challenge. He worked rapidly. He healed scars and straightened broken fingers. He went inside, doing the physical things first, easing the pain-racked body, thinking that it would be best, before restoring the mind, to heal the damages done by time, age, and the Brothers. And, without admitting it, he was afraid to look into that damaged mind, afraid of what he'd find. His powers were

limited. If large portions of the brain were destroyed, he'd be helpless. And there was, further, the possibility of finding, even if her brain could be repaired, that frightening lack of contact in the important portion of the brain where the abilities of the race were centered. So he mended and healed and gradually, slowly, her breathing eased, became natural as she coughed out waste, leaned to vomit waste, voided waste. He lifted her from the filth of her body and washed her. He had been unable to do anything about the missing eye. That could be remedied later with a transplant from a newly dead body People still died in accidents. That was no problem. Seeing her undressed, her body restored, Luke realized the vast changes which had come over him. Once he would have cringed away in disgust from a nude female. Once he would have been unable to even touch a female, much less strip filthy clothing away from her, wash the wastes of her body from her Now he did the job without repugnance. She was beautiful. There had been given to her by his mind a beauty of health which made her body youthful, full, firm, shapely. Finished, her body functioning more perfectly than ever before, stunted as it had been by the Earth's environment and by the gradual dying process which began shortly after birth in all non-changers, he dressed her

in a clean singlet, and fearfully, looked for the first time into her tortured mind. The way was blocked. He could not see into the change center of her brain, because the shakeshock treatments had clogged, damaged most of the cells through which he had to pass to enter the dark center. The process was long and tiring. It went on for hours while, outside, the big starships rose with their cargoes of equipment and humanity and orderly masses of people loaded and waited and talked and dreamed. Cell by cell, connecting track by connecting track, he worked inward, restoring the potential which had been destroyed by what was, in effect, a shock lobotomy of massive proportions. And, as he worked, his fear grew, for the damage was severe. She would have a functioning brain when he finished, but if the damage were deep enough to reach into her memory bank, it would be a newly created brain devoid of knowledge, as receptive as the brain of a new-born baby. The room grew dark as the day ended. There was little to be done. Already he could see past the final obstructions, could sense the area, the vital area, where there would or would not be the vital thing which would determine whether she would be whole—he found himself thinking thusly, being as arrogant about his new status as the young people who agreed that it was best to exile the non-changers—or merely human. And it mattered greatly to him. Having found her, he could not face the thought

of losing her again. If she were unable to change, he thought, as he rested, preparing to make the last repairs which would enable him to slip into the unused portion of her brain, then it would not matter. But, sadly, he knew it would. He entered. Floods of memory hit him as it shot up out of the isolated memory bank, rejoined. She screamed. She leaped to her feet crying out. He held her. «Caster. Caster. It's me. Luke. Listen to me. It's all right.» «No!» she was screaming as she relived the torture, remembered the final, shuddering, terminal agony of brain killing on the shakeshock rack. «Oh, God, help me…» He held her close and she subsided. She looked at him with her one eye. The empty socket was grotesque in her face. «Who are you?» He didn't answer. He held her close, no longer fearful of the contact with a female body. He held her because she was dear to him, because out there on the new worlds it would be, once again, man and woman. It would be child-rearing and work and—he let the word come—love. And, in silence, he went in and found a dark, solid ball, the telltale blackness of unused potential, and he felt a surge of elation as he sought an opening, probed, found a weakness, entered, and said, in her mind. «Hello, Caster.» And he tried to soothe the pain of opening, but she cringed, cried out, clung to him in agony until he could complete the opening, until, with a bright, red glow of excitement and elation, her mind answered him.