The World of Null-A

XXII

Patricia Hardie sat on the bed rubbing the circulation back into her arms. She didn't speak, simply sat there massaging, and looking at him, a fault smile curling her lips. The smile puzzled Gosseyn. He glanced at her sharply and saw that the smile was cynical, knowing.

“So you didn't succeed!” she said.

Gosseyn stared at her. She went on, “You were hoping you'd be killed when you came to the palace today, weren't you?”

Gosseyn parted his lips to say, “Don't be silly!” But he didn't say it. He was visualizing his tight-stomached approach to the palace, his successful accomplishment of his purpose, and then his disappointment. Surely, surely men could fool themselves. The girl's voice came again, stinging now. “That's the only reason you came to get the Distorter. You know you've got to die and let Gosseyn III appear. And so you were hoping the attempt would land you in deadly danger.”

He could see it clearly now. No sane man could commit suicide or let others kill him without resisting. And so his subconscious had tried to find a way out. “Do I believe,” he wondered, “in Gosseyn III? I do.” He felt stunned. Because he had told himself again and again that it was impossible. “Can I kill myself? Not yet! But there is a way. There is a way.”

Gosseyn turned from the girl without a word, and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” she called after him.

“Back to my hotel. You can reach me there any time.” He paused at the door. He had nearly forgotten that she had a problem, too.

“Better get some plasterers up here to put that wall back in place. As for what else you should do, I'm assuming you know your position better than I, so I'll leave that up to you. Good-by, and good luck.”

He went out of the door and down onto the boulevard. Downtown, he stopped in a drugstore and asked for a bottle of hypnotic drug.

“Starting to train early for next year's games, eh?” said the druggist.

“Something like that,” Gosseyn replied shortly.

He went next to a voice-recording firm. “I'd like to rent one of your machines for a week for repeat recordings.”

“Do you want the attachment to make your own recordings?”

“Yes.”

“That will be four dollars and fifty cents, please.”

At the hotel where he had his things, Gosseyn secured the key to his locker and took out the rest of his money; then he returned to the desk. “On the first day of the games,” he said, “I was kicked out of this hotel because of a mix-up over my identity. Will you rent me a room now for a week?”

The clerk did not hesitate. The hotel must have been practically empty, after the great exodus from the city of people who had failed to win at the games. In two minutes a bellhop was leading Gosseyn up to a spacious room.

Gosseyn locked the door, made the recording he had planned, and put it on the player to repeat endlessly. Then he swallowed the hypnotic drug and lay down on the bed. “In twenty-four hours,” he thought, “the effect will wear off, and then–” He put the glittering little automatic he had taken from Patricia Hardie on the table beside the bed.

It was not sleep that came then. It was a torpor, a heavy tiredness through which impressions filtered, particularly noise. One noise, one steady, whining sound-the sound of his voice on the recording he had made.

“I'm nobody. I'm not worth anything. Everybody hates me. What's the good of being alive? I'll never make anything of myself. No girl will ever marry me. I'm ruined . . . no hope . . . no money . . . kill myself . . .

“Everybody hates me . . . hates me . . . hates me . . .”

There were millions of unintegrated people who thought and thought things like that, without ever reaching the point of suicide. It was a matter of sustained intensity and of the awful unbalance that came to men who had tumbled from a height of integration into the depths of despair.

“What's the good of being alive? What's the good . . . no hope . . . kill myself!”

During the first hour, he had many intruding thoughts of his own. “This is silly! My brain is too stable for it ever to be affected by. . . . No hope . . . Everybody hates me . . . I'm not worthy . . . ”

It was toward the end of the second hour that a thunderous roar began far away. It kept on and on, frequently rising to such a crescendo that the whining voice beside the bed was drowned out. At last the violent persistence of it wrung a dull, surprised recognition from Gosseyn. “Guns! Artillery fire! Have they started to attack Earth?”

He was conscious of horror. Without having any memory of deciding to get up, he was up. How tired he was! I'm not worthy . . . ruined . . . no hope . . . kill myself . . .”

Wearily, he crawled across the floor to the window. He peered out at another building But the thunder of the guns was louder here, and more furious sounding. And it was coming from the direction of the Machine! For a moment of terrible fear the daze lifted from his mind. The Machine was being attacked!

“I'm nobody . . . Kill myself . . . Everybody hates me . . . What's the good of being alive?”

The Machine, with the Distorter in its possession and under control, must have started broadcasting warnings about the attack on Venus! And the gang was trying to destroy it.

Broadcasting! The hotel-room radio! Crawl toward it. How tired he was! “Kill myself . . . No hope!” He reached the radio finally, switched it on.

“Blasted . . . murderous . . . incredible . . criminal . . . .”

Even through his torpor, the words startled Gosseyn. And then he frowned in understanding: The propaganda war also was on. Everywhere he turned the dial, voices were roaring their threats and accusations. The Machine! The dastardly Machine! Mechanical monstrosity, treacherous, inhuman! The Venusian plotters who had foisted its poisonous alien will upon men. Strait jacket . . . assassin . . . massacre . . .

And all the time, as a background to the lying voices, came the thunder of the guns, the muffled, unceasing thunder of the guns. Gosseyn began to doze. Better get to bed. Tired. So tired.

“GOSSEYN!”

All the other voices blotted out. Radio talking directly to him.

“GOSSEYN, THIS IS THE MACHINE. DON'T KILL YOURSELF.”

“Kill myself! I'm nobody. Everybody hates me. What's the good of being alive?”

“GOSSEYN, DON'T KILL YOURSELF. YOUR THIRD BODY HAS BEEN DESTROYED BY THE GANG. GOSSEYN, I CAN'T LAST MUCH LONGER. DURING THE FIRST HALF HOUR, NORMAL SHELLS WERE FIRED AT ME. BUT AT INTERVALS NOW ATOMIC TORPEDOES HAVE STRUCK AT MY DEFENSES.

“I HAVE A NINETY-FOOT STEEL OUTER BARRIER. GOSSEYN, IT'S BEEN PENETRATED FIVE TIMES BY TORPEDOES THAT CAME FROM THE DIRECTION OF VENUS.

“GOSSEYN, DON'T KILL YOURSELF. YOUR THIRD BODY HAS BEEN DESTROYED. YOU MUST LEARN TO USE YOUR EXTRA BRAIN. I CAN GIVE YOU NO ADVICE ABOUT THAT BECAUSE. . .”

Crash!

There was a pause, then: “Ladies and gentlemen, the Games Machine has just been destroyed by a direct hit. Its malicious, treacherous attack on the palace has been–”

Click!

He had been intending to turn it off for some minutes. Nuisance. Telling him something about–Something–What?

Back on the bed, he lay puzzling about that. Something about-about– How tired he was! “Kill myself. Everybody hates me. I'm ruined. What's the good of being alive? Kill myself.”