Henry Kuttner - The Well of the Worlds

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HENRY KUTTNER

Novels

Available In Ace Books:

VALLEY OF THE FLAME (F-297) EARTH'S LAST CITADEL (F-306) THE DARK WORLD (F-327)

THE WELL OF THE WORLDS

HENRY KUTTNER

ACE BOOKS, INC.

1120 Avenue of the Americas

New York, N.Y. 10036

THE WELL OF THE WORLDS

An Ace Book, by arrangement with The Estate of Henry Kuttner

Cover by Alex Schomburg.

W-J UTSIDE the hotel window Clifford Sawyer could see the lights of Fortuna burning in the Pole's

noonday darkness along all the plank paths of the little mining camp, glowing blue in the hospital

windows, shining yellow in bunk houses and offices. He couldn't see the mine, of course, from

here, but he could feel it. That deep, steady, almost sub-sensory whump—whump—whump had never

stopped, day or night, for seventeen years now, since the mine was first opened in 1953. A great

many people wanted uranium ore. The government needed its share, too, and the pumps never stopped,

down under the frozen cap of the world.

Reflected in the glass, he saw the girl behind him stir impatiently. He turned his gaze back

toward her, thinking that he had never seen eyes quite the shape and color of Klai Ford's. There

was a touch of exoticism about her which he had been trying in vain to place, remembering what he

had read yesterday in the files of the Royal Atomic Energy Commission, back in Toronto, about the

curious background of this girl who had inherited half a uranium mine a few months ago.

Printed in U.S.A.

She had smooth, caramel-colored hair. Her brow was bland and her eyes round, confiding and a

singularly deep blue. Sawyer liked the way her front teeth stuck out ever so slightly, in an

appealing sort of way that made him think of the ill-fated Lise Bolkonskaya in War and Peace,

whose pretty little upper lip was too short for her teeth. The planes of Jflai Ford's cheeks and

the way the round eyes were set fascinated him. He had never seen just those structural lines

before in any face on earth, and his experience had been wide.

Sawyer smiled at her. He had very white teeth in a very brown face, and his hair and eyes were a

few shades lighter than his skin. About him was that relaxed air of alertness a man acquires who

has reached a satisfactory compromise with life, and knows there will always be more compromises

to make, as long as life lasts.

Til do my best," he told her, trying to place the curious little accent that had sounded in the

girl's voice. "I don't even carry a gun, though. Our outfit usually works more with adding"

machines than with revolvers. Maybe you'd better tell me a little more. The Commissioner wouldn't

have sent me up here if he hadn't figured I could solve your problem, in my own plodding way—which

may be the best way to tackle—you said ghosts?"

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"Yes, ghosts," the girl said firmly, and her odd little accent was as maddening as a tune you

can't quite remember. "They're ruining our output. The miners won't even work some of the levels

any more. Our refineries down south report the percentage of uranium in the pitchblends is

dropping like that."

She snapped her fingers and looked at him anxiously. "The mine is haunted. I'm not crazy, Mr.

Sawyer, but I'm perfectly sure my partner would like you to think I am. That man's trying to close

the mine. I think—" She clasped her hands tight and looked appealingly at Sawyer. "I know it

sounds mad," she said, "but somebody's trying to kill me."

"Can you prove it?" Sawyer asked mildly.

"I can."

"Good. As for closing the mine, I don't think the Commissioner would allow it, so you needn't

worry about—"

"He won't have any choice, if the uranium ore keeps

melting away," the girl interrupted. "After all, the government only manages die mines by courtesy

these days. And Alper—" She paused, drew a long breath and met Sawyer's quiet gaze squarely.

"I'm afraid of him," she said. "He's a strange old man-half crazy, I think. He's up to something

very odd. He's found something down in the mine. I should say he's found someone—" She broke off,

laughing helplessly. "It doesn't make sense. But film doesn't lie, does it? What I've got on film,

photographed in the mine, would be evidence, wouldn't it? That's why I sent for you, Mr. Sawyer. I

want to put a stop to this before Alper and I go stark raving crazy together. There's a woman down

in Level Eight—or the shadow of a woman. Oh, I know how it sounds! But I can show you."

"The ghost?" Sawyer inquired. He was watching her alertly, keeping his mind open or trying to.

This wasn't the time to believe or disbelieve anything.

"No. They look like—" She hesitated, and then, oddly, said, "Wheat. They look like wheat."

"Wheat," Sawyer echoed thoughtfully. "I see." He paused. Then: "About this woman, though—you mean

he meets one of the Fortuna women down in the mine?"

"Oh no. I know all the Fortuna women. Seasides, this isn't a real woman. You'll see what I mean in

a minute. Alper's forbidden me to set foot in Level Eight, and the miners won't work there either;

but he goes down and talks to this— this shadow of a woman, and when he comes back he—he frightens

me. I'm afraid to go out alone any more. I take two men with me whenever I check the cameras in

Level Eight. It seems idiotic to be so afraid of an old man like Alper, when he even has to walk

with a cane, but—"

"No," Sawyer said carefully. "You're quite right about William Alper. He could be dangerous. We

have a pretty complete file on him. In the old days he'd never have been allowed near this mine,

you know. Owner or not. Luckily there are enough uranium sources now to let the owners have their

whims, up to a point. But Alper's still on our list of potentially dangerous people. Partly

because he's a very wealthy man, partly because he's an expert technician, and

partly, you know, because of that peculiar obsession of his about—rejuvenescence."

"I know." The girl nodded. "He's a strange man. I don't think he's ever failed at anything in his

whole life. He's got an absolute conviction that he's the only man on earth who's always perfectly

right about everything. He's determined the mine must close, and it drives him wild when I say no.

Power's another obsession with him, Mr. Sawyer. He's imposed his will on so many people he must

feel as basic as the law of gravity by now."

"He's getting old," Sawyer said. "He's getting panicky. Most people learn to compromise with age,

but I doubt if Alper ever will."

"He isn't really as old as all that," Klai Ford said. "It's just that he's driven himself so hard

all his life, as hard as he tries to drive others. Now he's beginning to pay for it and it makes

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him furious. I think he'd do anything in the world to get his youth back. He—he seems to think

there may be a chance of it, Mr. Sawyer. That woman—that shadow—he meets in the mine seems to be

playing on his obsession. She could talk him into doing anything at all. And she seems to want to

get rid of me."

Sawyer regarded her with a steady gaze. "This woman in the mine," he said, "leads me right into a

personal question I've got to ask you, Miss Ford. A strange woman appearing from nowhere, right

down there in the mine. Is that what you say is happening?"

All Klai Ford said was, "Oh, dear!" in a voice of misery. "I've been trying to place your accent,"

Sawyer went on with calm relentlessnsss. "Would you mind telling me, Miss Ford, what country you

come from?"

She jumped up abruptly, leaving the little nest of furs which was her thrown-back coat and hood.

She paced up and down the room twice, then whirled.

"You know perfectly welll" she said accusingly. "Don't make it harder!"

Sawyer smiled and shook his head.

"I know, but I never really believed it," he said. "Naturally the Commission ordered a full

investigation when you— ah—turned up here, but—"

"I don't know who I am!" the girl said angrily. "I don't know where I came from. Can I help it if

I have a funny accent? I don't do it on purpose. How would you like to wake up with amnesia some

morning and find yourself down in a uranium mine you'd never even heard of before, with no idea

how you got there or who you were?" She hugged herself with both arms and shivered. "I hate it,"

she said. "But what can I do about it?"

"If you hadn't picked out a uranium mine to appear in—" Sawyer began.

"I didn't! It picked me!"

"—we wouldn't feel so baffled," Sawyer went on imper-turbably. "I wish we hadn't tried so hard to

find some explanation about you. Then at least we could say, 'Maybe there's some answer.' But we

still know nothing whatever. I was wondering if any sort of answer has ever occurred to you."

She shook her head. "All I remember is waking up on the wet floor in the mine. I knew my name.

Just one name—Klai. Old Sam Ford found me and took care of me, and finally adopted me when nobody

could figure out where I came from." Her voice softened. "Sam was so good, Mr. Sawyer. And so

lonely. It was he who made the strike up here, you know, back in '53. Alper financed it, but he

almost never came to Fortuna, until after Sam died."

"Surely, Miss Ford," Sawyer suggested, "you've connected your own appearance in the mine with the

appearance of this strange new woman? From the same place as yourself, do you think? Another

woman, like you, who—"

"Oh, not a bit like me!" the girl said instantly. "She's one of the Isier, and they are gods!"

Then, as Sawyer stared at her, she clapped both hands over her mouth, gasped, and demanded, "Why

did I say that? How did I know? Just for a second, I—I seemed to remember. That word I used—Isier.

Does it mean anything? Is it English?"

"I never heard it. Try to remember."

"I can't." Klai shook her head wildly. "It's gone. I learned English after I came here, you know.

I learned it in my sleep, mostly, from those hypnosis-tapes they have. But

surely the word couldn't have—no, I know it isn't English. It's part of my dreams. I—oh, this is

nonsense! Let's get down to facts. I've got proof of a few things, anyhow."

She pushed up the sleeve of her blouse, uncovered a flat case taped to forearm, and grimaced as

she tore the adhesive patch free. In her palm she held out a miniature case of ultra-small tape

film.

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"You have no idea what a lot of trouble I had getting this," she said. "I've got cameras hidden in

Level Eight with all sorts of special shielding against radioactivity. Even that doesn't help when

the—the ghosts come. They seem to be pure radiation. Anyhow the film goes black every time.

But—well, just wait!"

She went efficiently across the room to unlock a cabinet and swing out a small film-projector.

"Will you turn that picture over?" she said, nodding toward the opposite wall. "It's got a beaded

screen on its back. I had everything ready, you see. This film's never been out of my hands since

I took it from the camera. I did everything myself. Now I think you'll have real evidence to take

back. Alper doesn't know a thing about this, thank goodness. I don't even want him to know I've

talked to yo:u, until I can prove enough to protect myself."

She clicked the switch. A square of pale light sprang across the room and flickered on the small

screen. Dark, shadowy walls took shape upon the square, and a low throbbing came from the sound-

projector, blending with the steady thumping of the great pumps themselves, under Fortuna.

As the pictured walls of the mineshaft flickered on the screen, Klai said suddenly, with a note of

hysteria in her voice, "Mr. Sawyer, you haven't asked me a word about the ghosts."

"That's right," Sawyer said. "I haven't."

"Because you don't believe that part? It's true! They come out of the rock. I think that's why

they're seen so seldom." She hurried on, frantic now. "Don't you see? How many shafts are there,

compared to the roads—of pitchblende underneath? It's just accident when they blunder into a

shaft, but the men do see them, like—like pale flames—"

Something like a pale flame nickered gently across the

screen.

The_girl laughed unsteadily.

"Not a ghost," she said. "A flashlight. Watch. Now ft begins."

The flash-beam moved over rock, over jagged surfaces wet and shining and marked by the teeth of

drills. Above the throbbing of the pumps a new sound came, the crunch of a cane among rubble and

the noise of a man's heavy feet. Into the camera's range came a stooped, bulky figure, dimly seen.

Sawyer breathed in with a sharp sound of recognition. The tiny square that flickered on the wall

suddenly ceased to be a miniature reflection, and seemed reality itself. He heard Alper's

familiar, thick voice calling urgently.

"Nethe!" he said. "Nethel" and the walls gave back the echoes until the whole tunnel was calling

with him.

"Watch!" the girl whispered. "There to the left-see?"

It looked like a reflection upon the rock itself, except that the flash-beam did not touch it and

there was nothing here to cast reflections. It looked like a tall woman, incredibly tall,

incredibly slender, bending toward the half-seen Alper with an inhuman grace and flexibility. Now

water dripped and tinkled, or—no, this was the laughter of a woman, pure silver, cold, inhuman as

her motion.

A voice spoke, not Alper's. It was a voice like strong music. English was the language it used,

but an English accented strangely—in the same way as Klai's, Sawyer realized suddenly. He slanted

a glance at her, but she was watching the screen intently, her lips parted and her pretty teeth

showing.

The voice was indistinct throughout the brief exchange of talk in the film. Echoes blurred it,

laughter blurred it, and the woman seemed a shadow indeed, for she appeared to flicker now and

then and her voice flickered with her.

Alper spoke. He sounded out of breath, and a desperate urgency was in his heavy voice.

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"Nethe," he said. "Are you there?"

Laughter, like music, clear and rippling,

"Nethe, you're late! You're three days late. I'm running low. How long do you think I can last,

without energy?"

The sweet, strong voice with music running through it said

carelessly, "Who cares how long you last, old man? Have you killed the girl for me?"

"I can't kill the girl," Alper's voice said angrily. The flash-beam danced across the rocks as he

moved. "You don't understand. If I do it, I'll get into trouble, and who'll get the ore for you

then? I might even lose the mine if she died. I've got a better way. I'm working on it. Any day

now—"

"Who cares if a Khom dies?" the musical voice asked. "She's only a Khom. Worthless. Like you, old

man. Why do I waste my time on you?"

"I tell .you, I have a way! Give me a week. Give me energy to last and I'll have control of the

mine. I'll close it, I promise I will! I'll find some way to close it down tight and hand it over

to you. Only give me energy, Nethe! I tell you, I'm almost—"

"No," the voice of the shadow said. "No more. I'm tired of you, old Khom. I'll finish off the girl

myself."

Alper lurched forward, obscuring the camera with his broad, hunched back. His cane scraped on the

floor, his feet stumbled. Fierce despair was in his voice.

"I must have more energy!" he cried. The walls took up his words and the pitchblende itself seemed

to be crying, "Energy! Energy!" out of the rock as if the mine were boasting of the potent power

locked up there for the taking. "I must have more! Nethe!"

"No more," the shadow said carelessly. "Until you kill the girl."

"If you understood!" Alper said in a savage voice. "If you ever came up to the surface, you'd see

what I mean. Who are you, NetheP What are you?"

The cool, sweet, resonant laughter echoed among the rocks.

'iAsk who I will be, three days from now," the shadow said. "Goddess! Goddess of— Oh, go back to

your hovel, old man, and do what you please. But you get no more energy until you clear out the

mine for me and kill the girl."

"No," Alper shouted. "Nethe, I've got to get more! I can't do anything without it! Nethe!"

The tall shadow bent toward him, inhumanly graceful, featureless in the gloom, laughing with a

sound like water falling over rocks.

"Goodbye, old man," it said. "You'll get no more bam •»."

Alper stumbled forward toward the corner where the shadow flickered and faded. His desperate cry

echoed down the endlessly repeating tunnel. His flash swept to and ho over the empty corner where

a moment before the shadow of a woman had stood.

Then the film ran out. The picture died and a square of blank white shimmered on the wall.

Sawyer shook himself a little. For those brief few moments he had been standing in the tunnel,

hearing the rocks drip and the pumps pound. The illusion had been so compelling that he was almost

startled to realize that the hotel room still closed him in and that the girl called Klai was

watching him with anxious blue eyes.

"Well?" she said impatiently. "What do you make of it?"

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Sawyer gave her one of his alert, quick looks. Then he walked across to the window and gazed out

upon the noonday bustle of Fortuna in the dark. He got out a cigarette, lit it, blew smoke at the

glass.

"I'll tell you what I make of it. Not what you expect. I don't think some mysterious creature from

beyond the veil has persuaded Alper to sell his soul. The film's very interesting, yes. The

Commissioner will be fascinated by it. Faked or not, and you could have been deceived, Miss Ford,

it's still very illuminating."

"I couldn't have been deceived," the girl said hotly. "I tell you, the film was never out of my

hands. But—never mind that. Who is this Nethe? What do you think?"

"I think somebody's going to great pains to get control of the mine," Sawyer said. "That's

obvious. There are countries that could use more uranium ore than they've got. This seems like a

very ingenious little scheme to take advantage of an old man's obsession. It's high time we put a

stop to it. Do you understand what Alper kept saying about energy?"

The girl shook her head.

"I don't understand anything. But I seem to remember— it's like a shutter opening and closing so

fast all I get is a glimpse before the memory blacks out. But Nethe—" She shivered. "Nethe

frightens me."

"This is the only thing you've filmed to date that shows

any clear pictures?" Sawyer asked. "I'd like to -get back to Toronto with whatever you have. I do

believe you're in danger. So is the mine. I want to start wheels turning to protect you. There

seem to be all sorts of interesting possibilities."

"I've still got some film running off, down below," the girl told him. "Shall I get it?"

"I'd like to see what you have, but—isn't Level Eight a pretty dangerous place?"

"I never go alone," she said, turning to reach for her furs. Sawyer helped her into them

dubiously.

"I'd better come along," he said. "I'd like to take a look at-"

The door jarred under the impact of a violent blow. Simultaneously a thick voice from the outside

called, "Open the door!"

SAWYER MOVED with silent smoothness toward the projector. With a few deft motions he freed the

little spool of film, slipped it into its case, and dropped the case itself in his pocket.

"It's Alper!" Klai said, darting panicky blue glances about the room. "He mustn't find me here! He

mustn't know!"

Sawyer said, "Calm down," and took out his key-ring. "I have a passkey here. I never like to get

locked into rooms with only one exit. That door over there gives into the next bedroom. I'll let

you out. Wait for me. I don't want you to go down into the mine alone. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes," she said, huddling her fur hood about her face. "Do hurry!"

Another tremendous thump upon the outer door made the windows rattle behind them.

"Sawyer!" the deep, thick voice from outside called imperiously, "Are you there?"

"Coming," Sawyer answered in a patient voice. In a whisper he added, "Out with you, now. And

remember what I said."

He locked the door behind her scared departure, smiling

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at the desperate scuttle with which she crossed the next room toward the exit. Then he went back

leisurely and opened the door upon which a third great thump was still resounding.

"Come in, Alper," he said, mildly, politely, but his face tight with alert expectancy.

The man on the threshold filled the doorway from side to side. For a moment he stood there,

leaning on his cane, peering up under his eyebrows. He was a troll, Sawyer thought. A thick, squat

figure of an old giant who had bowed beneath his years until he could no longer move without his

cane. The massive face sagged in deep pleats and folds. Two cold, small grey eyes looked up with

singular dispassion at Sawyer under thick lids and thicker brows. A voice like a muffled organ

said, "Do you remember me, Mr. Sawyer?"

He did not wait for an answer. He stumped forward and Sawyer fell back involuntarily. The man was

so massive he seemed to push and compress the very air before him when he moved. The small eyes

nickered once at the wall where the reversed picture hung.

"Get me a chair, Mr. Sawyer," Alper said, leaning on his cane. "It isn't easy for me to move

around very freely. I'm an old man, Mr. Sawyer. Thank you." Heavily he lowered himself, leaned the

cane against his knee. "I see you've been enjoying a very interesting film," he said, and watched

Sawyer without emotion.

Sawyer said only, "Oh?"

"I watched too," Alper told him heavily. "Does that surprise you? This hotel was built in the old

days when uranium was top-secret material. Sam Ford and I eavesdropped on many an important

conference in this very room. Nothing, perhaps, quite as important as what's happening now." He

blew out his breath and fixed Sawyer with a compelling gaze.

"I am here, Mr. Sawyer, to make you an offer."

Sawyer laughed gently.

"I was afraid you'd take that attitude," Alper said. "Let me go into the case more fully. I'm

prepared to offer you—"

He spoke in detail for perhaps sixty seconds. At the end of it, Sawyer laughed again, very

politely, shook his head and

then waited, looking alert. Alper sighed his ponderous sigh.

"Young men are such fools," he said. "You can afford idealism now, maybe. When you get to my age,

things look different." He seemed for some moments to consider a private matter. Finally he shook

his heavy head. "Don't like to do it," he murmured. "Still—" He reached into the pocket of his

rumpled coat and held something out on a large, unsteady palm. "Take it," he said. "Study it. What

do you make of it?"

Sawyer rather gingerly accepted between thumb and forefinger a small, metallic, faceted disc about

the size of an aspirin tablet. It was curved slightly on the underside. He looked up inquiringly.

"A little something of my own," Alper said complacently. "A transceiver, actually. It transmits

sound and it receives sound. But a very specialized sort of sound. I don't know how familiar you

may be with communication machines. One of the vital factors in any such device is the intensity

of the internal noise of the receiving system. For instance, there is a constant sound and motion

inside the human skull—the human body is such a communication machine. The heartbeat reverberates

in it. The frictional whispering of blood moves through the arteries of the brain. The sound of

breathing is loud in the passages of your head. Normally you are oblivious to these sounds. But

they could be amplified."

Alper leaned back and smiled. There was, Sawyer thought, distaste and dislike in the, smile.

Perhaps an old man's jealous dislike of a young one.

"This device is such an amplifier," he said.

The thing vibrated slightly in Sawyer's hand, was still, vibrated again. Sawyer glanced at Alper's

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hand, which had gone back into his pocket.

"You're making it vibrate?" he asked. The old man nodded.

"And why," Sawyer asked politely, "are you showing this to me?"

"Frankly—" Alper said, and suddenly snorted with laughter. "Frankly, I may as well confess the

truth. I made it for the head of Klai Ford. I am somewhat distressed to realize that you saw the

humiliating part I played in that film. You saw me begging for something I most urgently need. You

saw it—refused. Very well. You also heard my statement that I

had a method to bring Klai to heel. That wasn't idle boasting, Mr. Sawyer. This transceiver is the

method."

Sawyer looked at him, puzzled and wary.

"I can trust you," Alper said sardonically. "More than you know. The one thing I won't risk is

endangering my bargain with my—with the person I spoke to in the mine."

"Has she really got you convinced," Sawyer asked him, "that she's tapped the fountain of youth?"

"You fool!" Alper said with sudden violence. "What do you know about youth? Do you think 1 could

be fooled by mumbo-jumbo? Where do you think the energy comes from that you young men squander?

From the sun, through photosynthesis, turning into a form your body can accept as fuel! Some

radiations you can get directly from the sun. And electric energy can be conducted from one person

to another. You'll believe me—later.

"This is something a young man couldn't comprehend— Mephistopheles didn't bargain for Faust's

soul. I know. It was Faust who had to convince the devil his soul was worth buying, in a buyer's

market. And I had to convince Nethe I could be useful to her. I know what she demands in return

for the energy I need. Klai's life depends on me, whether I can remove her as an obstacle so Nethe

won't need to eliminate her. And I don't want Klai killed. The investigation afterward might

be—awkward.

"So I made this transceiver. I worked it out myself, in private. I meant it for Klai, but I see

now that could be even more of a nuisance than the girl. I came here today prepared for trouble."

He laughed. "Here we go!" he said.

Alper was a ponderous man. He was also an old and a feeble man. What he did just now was therefore

clearly impossible. He stood up straight. He pushed the cane violently away, so that it clattered

to the floor besied his suddenly and strongly upright figure. The troll was still ponderous, but

he was no longer stooped and feeble. A sort of impossible power flickered through him like a

visible current. It was not youth, or muscular strength. It was something less natural, less

explicable than suddenly restored physical power.

Sawyer heard the cane clatter without realizing what had

happened. He was a young and active man, but he was no match for this unnaturally violent old one.

Alper's leap across the space that parted them was exactly the leap on an electric current between

high-voltage terminals, not a physical body's motion propelled by muscular action. Muscular action

seemed to have nothing to do with it. Alper's heavy bulk moved on some other propulsive force than

muscle and bone.

The cane clattered. In the same instant the tremendous weight of that heavy old body hurtled

against Sawyer's chest, drove him six feet backward and flattened him hard against the wall. A

ponderous forearm jammed against his throat all but throttled him. The room swam blackly before

him. Dimly he was aware that at the very crown of his skull some curious sudden pressure took

place.

And then it was all over.

The pressure released him before he could gather himself to fight Alper off. When the first

clatter of the cane had warned him, Sawyer's brain had sent a message to his body and his muscles

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flexed to respond. Alper's incredibly quick action took place in the split second needed for an

active young man's reflexes to answer a summons to action. Sawyer thrust violently against the old

man's bulk in the same instant that all power failed Alper.

It had been rapid. It was soon ended. But it had been enough.

Alper collapsed before Sawyer's thrust, helpless as a sack of flour. He fell heavily to the

carpet, the floor shaking to the impact of his weight. He caught himself on one arm, wheezed

noisily, and looked up under his thick, folded lids at Sawyer with a sly triumph on his empurpled

face.

"Hand me my cane." he said.

Sawyer was massaging his throat with one hand and cautiously touching the crown of his head with

the other. He paid no attention. Once the menace of Alper's weight was removed, he had a more

immediate problem to solve. That strange, light, tingling area at the top of his skull. . . .

"Hand me my cane," Alper said again. "Sawyer! You may as well learn now to jump when I speak.

You'll get used to it. Now!"

When he said now, thunder suddenly cracked Sawyer's skull wide open.

The shaft of it seemed to strike downward straight through his skull and into the middle of his

brain. Through a haze of forked lightnings he saw Alper's grimly smiling face watching him. He

clapped both hands to his head to keep the separating halves of his skull from falling entirely

apart. While the thunder still crashed in his head he could do nothing at all but stand rigid,

enduring it, holding his temples with both hands.

But it died at last. And then Sawyer whirled on the man at his feet, murderous anger flooding

through his mind in the wake of the receding thunder.

"Careful!" Alper said in his thick voice. "Careful! Do you want it again? Now hand me my cane."

Sawyer drew a long, uneven breath.

"No," he said.

Alper sighed. "You're a useful man," he said. "I could kill you very easily. I could shake your

brain to such a jelly you'd obey me, but if I did that, you'd be no use. To me or anyone. Be

reasonable, Sawyer. I've got you. Why not cooperate. Would you rather dieF'

"I'd rather kill you," Sawyer said, still pressing his head with both hands, and between them

looking down with a grim defiance that matched the old troll's grim resolution. "I will, when I

can."

"Ah, but you can't," Alper told him. "Shall I prove it again? Shall I prove you can't touch me

fast enough to stop the— the lightning? You're behaving very stupidly, Sawyer. I want to talk to

you, but I can't do it from the floor and I can't get up alone. I want my cane. I'll count three,

Sawyer. If you haven't handed me my cane by then, you know what to expect. You'll have to learn

the lesson, my boy."

Sawyer set his teeth. "No," he said, and braced himself for the instant thunder. He was not

rational at this moment. His mind had been shaken clear down to bedrock by the inexplicable

torment of the thunder, but the stubborn determination of the animal ruled him now—not to yield,

though it killed him. He only knew that if he surrendered now he would be Alper's man forever, and

no thunder, no pain,

no cracking of the fibers of the mind could force him to that extremity.

"No," he said to Alper, and set himself for whatever might

come.

"One," Alper said relentlessly.

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"No."

"Two—" Alper said.

Sawyer grinned a fierce, mindless grimace, and without warning, even to himself, found himself

launching at Alper's thick throat.

The thunder cracked his head wide open and lightning wiped the room out of existence. The last

thing he saw was the floor pitching upward toward him.

When he could see again, Alper was half a dozen feet away, levering himself painfully towards his

cane, breathing hard and watching Sawyer with bright, still eyes under the heavy lids.

"All right," Alper said. "You're quite a boy, Sawyer. I'll get the cane myself. Sit up. You're all

right. I haven't damaged you permanently—yet. Get up and take a chair, my boy. You and I have some

talking to do. And first of all, to be on the safe side, there's a matter of evidence that I

intend to destroy." He glanced around the room. "That metal waste-basket should do nicely to burn

a film. So—give me that film, Sawyer."

Sawyer said painfully, "Come and get it, you—"

Alper smiled.

A few final wisps of smoke rose from the waste-basket and faded. Sawyer, breathing a little hard,

leaned back in his chair and stared at the old man. Curiously, now that the thunder had passed he

felt no ill effects. He seemed perfectly normal. But his brain cringed at the thought of what

Alper had just done to him—could do to him again, apparently at will. What was Alper saying now?

"You had better understand first exactly what has happened to you. Afterward you'll realize that

you are going to do precisely as I say from now on, or you will die. I'm willing to go a long way

with you, because you're a good man. You're better than I expected. I admire you. I respect you.

But I'll kill vou if I have to. Is that clear?"

"No," Sawyer said, lifting a tentative hand toward his head. "Do you really expect to get away

with this?"

"I do," Alper said. "Go ahead, try to remove that transceiver. You can't without killing yourself.

There are tantalum probes making contact with your brain itself, through the bregma—the opening at

the vault that closes as a man ages. Luckily, you're still young enough to have a vestige of the

fontanel still open. Luckily for me."

Sawyer lowered his investigatory hand. He still felt that if he could kill Alper he could stop the

thunder, or §at least die trying. But information might show him a better way, and Alper seemed

quite willing to talk.

"Maybe I couldn't remove this thing," Sawyer said, "but I could get it removed."

"Possibly," Alper said. "There's a contact compression that will eventually form a semi-permanent

ceramioto-bone bonding, of course. But at present the tantalum probes as a nerve-contact serve the

purpose. It's an amazing little device, isn't it?"

"Fascinating," Sawyer said grimly. "Who did you steal it from?"

Alper chuckled.

"I'm not a bad technician myself," he said. "Though I admit the original design wasn't my idea. I

did make some improvements. I saw possibilities the inventor didn't. A miniature electrostrictive

device like this—a transducer, let us say, which converts sound pressure to electric signals and

back again—oh, I could see the possibilities very easily. It was simply a matter of applying the

properties of light to the principles of sound. Sound, like light, can reflect, and can be

amplified . . . Yes, my young friend—down through the bregma, into the cavities of your skull,

reaches that transceiver to pick up sounds your senses are too dull to catch, and amplify them and

reflect them back directly into the temporal lobe, the auditory area. And other brain-centers are

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