It’ll come to teamwork eventually: we’ll have to take two or three low-grade projectives and maybe use hypnosis to subdue their individual egos, and put a curative telepathist in command, and— But that’s a catapathic grouping, almost!
No, that wasn’t the answer. Not yet. Not uqtil until the process of assimilating telepathists into a world run by ordinary people was complete. And by then, maybe, there wouldn’t be the pressure on telepathists which drove them into fugue, anyway.
Maybe there would only be cases like Choong’s. …
He came into the room where they awaited him, and looked around, nodding. He hadn’t carried out a preliminary sweep of those present—he was preoccupied with his own worries—so it came as a surprise to see that Miss Moreno was here. He glanced at Singh, asking a wordless question.
She answered him directly, before Singh could speak.
I’d like to watch you, Dr. Howson. I’m so impressed by what I’ve learned from Dr. Singh.
“Well, well!” Howson spoke aloud by reflex. “What a change there was!” He looked steadily at her, and saw her wince, but she kept her mind open. It was a good, sinewy impression he received: stable, resilient, in some ways comparable to Choong’s but with a strong feminine component.
“I see,” he said finally. “It’s to impress on me that not all telepathists have gone the way Choong chose to go. Rather elementary: I mean, here we are, after all. … But watch all you like. Just don’t, whatever happens, try to take a hand.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but moved to the bed. An attentive male nurse made as though to help him. It wasn’t necessary; this was perhaps the thirtieth time he had taken his place for such a task. He looked around as the various machines were disposed on his body.
There had been very few changes since he first saw this room, he reflected. Experience had suggested improvements in the layout; there had been developments in medical technology, and superior recording devices and superior prosthetics had replaced the ones from Use Ilse Kronstadt’s day. That apart, the scene was essentially identical to the setting for his introduction to his career.
He looked at Singh, who gave him a big smile half- swamped by beard and mustache. He looked at Deirdre van Osterbeck, who was too busy checking the encephalographs to notice. In both their minds he sensed a conflict between hope and anxiety.
The therapy watchdog—a tubby young man with slanted eyes and a fixed mechanical smile, named Pak Chang Mee—settled in his chair next to Howson. He had worked with Howson twice before, and a quick mental scan revealed that he was extremely confident of success.
And there was Choong.
“Ready,” Deirdre said curtly. The technicians echoed her, nodding to Singh. At the back of the room near the door Howson sensed Miss Moreno composing herself in a soft chair; he did not see her move, for he had already closed his eyes.
“Record now,” he said. Images welled up, the instant he began to relax toward contact. “I’m getting the main pattern—the city, the mountains. … I reported winter previously. That’s fading. The scene is being set for some big event. 1 I shall try and go in along fringe path K, the trade and travel path. Caravans come to the city and I have detected at least one schizoid secondary of very high order using that as a background.”
He had probed Choong cautiously a score of times while he was building up his store of information. Now the imaginary world seemed familiar, almost welcoming. Knowledge of the hospital faded, and there was only …
XVIIIxviii
… the rocking motion, like a small boat on a choppy sea, and a smell like no other smell that ever was.
Camels. He opened his eyes. The illusion was absolute, but he had not expected it otherwise. He was dealing, after all, with a brilliant opponent.
By degree facts sorted themselves out. He was … he was Hao Sen the mercenary, the caravan guard, and he rode negligently on his magnificent she-camel, Starlight, alongside the motley gang of traders and travelers through the gates of Tiger City. The air was sharp and stimulating; the winter was almost over, and this was the first of the spring caravans to brave the bandits and cross the mountains from the north.
Bandits … The concept brought a sense of weariness and satisfaction, and he remembered. There had been fighting; the bandits had laid an ambush. Signs were all around him: that man was limping, and that one had a bloody bandage on his head. He himself—he tensed his square-set muscular body—had not a few bruises where his armor of brass plates on leather had turned a sword cut. But they had won through, and this summer, said the common gossip, the Emperor would raise an army and smoke the bandits out of the hills for good and all.
He yawned cavernously behind his spade-shaped black beard. His hand fell to the familiar hilt of his short broad sword, and he urged his camel on toward the city gate.
The walls were huge and solid; the black puppet-forms of soldiers tramped back and forth along them. Above the gate itself was a balcony on which were ranged shields bearing the stylized black-and-yellow emblem of a tiger’s head. This was magical protection, wisely chosen; the city was impressive, and deserved that the name of the second most powerful beast in the world be bestowed on it. (Where had he learned that? Who had told him that the ancient Chinese so regarded the tiger? He frowned for a moment, and then had to set the question aside for consideration.)
Now the populace were coming down to the street inside the gate, cheering and waving, and some tumblers near the head of the procession turned wild handsprings to return the greeting. Hao Sen gave a booming laugh at their antics, and eyed the moon-faced girls as he passed, like any soldier who had spent a long time without women.
There were city guards in squads to direct the caravan and clear its path; there were sharp-nosed merchants closing their houses to get down to the market and snap up bargains. There were touts for local taverns, there were—oh, a myriad different people assembling.
Into the great market place they poured to the accompaniment of shouts, firecrackers, brazen gongs. Hao Sen rode steadily at walking pace, absorbing all possible information about his environment.
He was shaken by its detail. This was—fantastic!
“You there!” A booming bass voice penetrated his reverie, and an officer of the city guard, splendid in magical black and yellow, came striding toward him. “Dismount at once! It’s not permitted to ride any beast through the market.”
Hao Sen grunted and complied. That was irritating, but he dared not object: it was far too early to start drawing attention to himself. Starlight showed her opinion with the derisory curl of the upper lip which passes for expression among camels, and he failed to repress a grin.
“What’s to be done with my camel, then?” he demanded.
The officer pointed a short distance back down the way he had come.
“You’ll find Häverns taverns there, with stables to your liking. I’d hurry if I were you, or all the places will be taken.”
A short time later, on foot, his sword clinking at his side in its leather-and-brass scabbard, he returned to the marketplace. It was a scene of tremendous activity now; the loads from the pack animals of the caravan had been spread out around three sides of the square, for purchasers to inspect, and booths had sprung up everywhere in the center: barbers importuned passers-by to have their hair trimmed and their noses and ears cleaned out, conjurers, tumblers and jugglers were practicing their skills, musicians had taken station and launched into wailing song to the accompaniment of twanging moon-guitars. Among the crowd Hao Sen wandered at random, a frown etched deep into his forehead.
The fourth side of the square, the one from which the traders had been kept away, was nonetheless busy. On to it fronted a vast building with twenty pagoda-curved roofs and a flight of probably a hundred steps leading to its main doors. In red and gold ideograms on the fagade façade there was spelled out its title: the temple of heavenly favors.
On the steps, a gang of workmen were busily completing a dais for a t
hrone. Hao Sen contemplated them. From the gaudy silk hangings they were draping over their work, a visit from the Emperor was anticipated.
The assumption was confirmed when he noticed that there was a stout man making a circuit of the market, accompanied by armed guards, and pointing out items of specially choice nature for the merchants to hold back from their stock. Some of these items were being collected by grunting youths in grimy white clothing and toted across the square to the foot of the steps before the temple.
The Emperor. Hao Sen contemplated the chance that the obvious focus of his attention was the real ruler. He decided against the possibility; at least one of the reflective personalities involved in this superb imaginary city had had king-and-slave fantasies, and the Emperor was more likely to be a subsidiary than a main personality.
On the other hand, of course—
Hao Sen checked his train of thought with a start. He had just caught sight of a dragon-trainer between two colorful booths across the square.
He shouldered his way toward the spectacle, ignoring the objections of those he pushed aside, and halted at the front of the ring of watchers surrounding the trainer and his beast. They were keeping a respectful distance.
Not that this was much of a dragon. It looked half-starved, and was barely three-quarters grown; moreover, its scales were patched with a mildew-like fungus disease. Its vicious three-inch teeth, nonetheless, were white and sharp as it bared them in effectual snarls. The trainer—a thick-set, swarthy man, probably a gypsy from the south—was making it move its legs in a kind of clumsy dance, goading it with a pointed ankh which he heated at intervals in a brazier.
Hao Sen shivered as he watched, not at the baleful threat in the beast’s eyes, which promised it would not stand for much more such treatment, but at the significance of the disease afflicting it.
While he was still reflecting on the implications, there was a blast of trumpets from behind him, and he turned. A procession of gorgeously uniformed soldiers was striding into the square, followed by men bearing a palanquin of rich silk and rare woods. Officers bawled for the proper respect to the Emperor, and like a forest felled at a single blow, everyone in the square dropped into the imperial kowtow.
When permission was given to rise, the Emperor was in place on his throne, surrounded by his train: mandarins of the peacock feather, personal servants with symbolic fans, and high officers of his army. Hao Sen scanned them with interest. His attention was drawn almost at once to a tall man in magnificent silken robes standing at the Emperor’s right, a little apart from the rest and apparently having no personal attendants with him.
Somehow that … smelled right. Hao Sen ignored the business which followed, the presentation of the caravan master and the display of choice goods to the Emperor, and studied the tall man. There was no overt resemblance, but that was hardly evidence. Consider, after all, his own body now. …
He broke off that thought with an almost physical jolt, and wondered whether it was still too soon to draw attention to himself. On the one hand, the completeness of the detail was a sign for caution; on the other, it implied that the secondaries were exceptionally well developed. He had arrived, in his own chosen disguise, arid and so far no hint had been given that his presence was suspect. …
He made up his mind, and worked forward through the crowd to the front row of those who had forgotten the attractions of the conjurers and mountebanks for the privilege of seeing the Celestial Emperor at close quarters. By now the Emperor had completed his inspection of the caravan master’s wares, and was leaning back on his throne casually eying the scene. It was a matter of moments before he caught sight of Hao Sen and said something to the caravan master.
“Why, we owe him a great debt!” the caravan master exclaimed. “He it was who chiefly inspired our guard to repel the bandits.”
“Let him come forward,” the Emperor said negligently.
An officer signaled to Hao Sen, who obediently marched to the foot of the steps and dropped on his knees in the kowtow. Directly he had completed the obeisance, he rose and stood with his hand on his sword and his shoulders thrown back.
The emperor looked him over. “A good fighting man,” he said with approval. “Ask him if he plans to join my army.”
“Celestial Master, your humble servant hears that the army will go forth this summer against the bandits. If he is granted the privilege of joining the enterprise, he will serve with all his heart!”
“Good,” said the Emperor briefly. His eyes lingered a moment on Hao Sen’s brawny frame. “Take his name, one of you,” he added. “And convey me back to the palace.”
Mechanically Hao Sen complied with the request of the officer who came to take his name and details of his experience. This was a routine precaution; if he was reduced to stripping away the reflectives one by one, he now had the background for turning a king-and-slave fantasy into something altogether less palatable. But he was satisfied the Emperor himself was only a reflective.
Then was the real ruler that tall man, standing apart? Or someone else, not engaged in this subsidiary part of the drama?
Once more, he postponed a decision.
The imperial procession had left the square when the shout went up.
“The dragon! The dragon!”
He spun around, seeing a wave of catastrophic panic break across the market like a bore in a river mouth. Buyers, sellers and entertainers alike streamed outward from the square, overturning booths, scattering merchandise and trampling old people and children in the rush. Hao Sen stood his ground, waiting for a clear view.
When he got it, he was chilled. The dragon was no longer sullenly submissive. It was an incarnation of menace. On three of its sharp-taloned legs it stood over the corpse of its former master, slashing at his face and turning it to bloody ruin.
It tired of its play, and paused, its yellow eyes scanning the great square. Hao Sen had half expected it to feed, for it would certainly have been kept hungry to weaken it. Yet its head did not dip to gnaw the corpse, and his heart gave a lurch as he realized that the square, apart from himself, was now completely empty.
He might have run. He had delayed too long. The slightest move would attract its attention, and somehow he was sure it could catch him, no matter how fast he fled. The reason why he had been made to leave his camel out of the square struck him like a blow. He had used his favorite trick once too often, and here was an opponent who employed it himself.
The dragon began to move, sidling toward him, its eyes unblinking and burning bright as the coals of the brazier it had overturned. Hao Sen glanced frantically around for a weapon. He saw the broken shaft of a tent close by, and jumped for it. The instant he did so, the dragon charged.
He hurled the tent pole javelin-fashion and dropped on his face. More by luck than accuracy of aim, the sharp wood hit fair on one of the mildew-weakened patches of scales. It made a barely noticeable gash, but the dragon howled with pain. It spun around and returned to the attack.
The first time he threw himself aside, dragging out his sword. The second time, he failed to dodge completely; the beast cunningly curled its tail in midair so that it caught his shoulder and the blow sent him sprawling. That tail was like a club, and the dragon must weigh as much as a man.
It landed now among a tangle of cords on a rope seller’s stall, and was hindered long enough for Hao Sen to devise a tactic to meet its next pounce. This time, instead of leaping sideways, he flung himself backward, in the same movement bringing up his sword point foremost so that it sank into the dragon’s underbelly.
The hilt was wrenched away with such force that it nearly sprained his wrist, and the impact made his head ring as it hit the paving. Shrieking with agony, the dragon scrabbled with its clawed hind feet, and a triple line of pain told him where the slashes penetrated his leggings.
He brought up one booted foot with all his force and kicked at the base of the beast’s tail. That hurt it sufficiently for it to forget him moment
arily, while it doubled its neck back under its body and tried to pull the sword out with its teeth. Dark blood leaked down the hilt, but slowly.
Hao Sen rolled clear instantly. He considered attempting to gouge out the dragon’s eyes, but they were shielded by bony orbital ridges; he was more likely to lose his fingers. Desperately he sought a weapon to replace the lost sword, and saw none. The dragon abandoned its futile tugging at the sword, snarled, leaped again.
It came at him crookedly because the blade in its belly weakened one of its hind legs; nonetheless, its heavy tail curved toward his head in what threatened to be a stunning blow as it passed him. Gasping, Hao Sen seized the tail in both hands—and began to spin on his heels.
For one fantastic second he thought it was trying to climb down its own tail to get at him. Then the weight on his arm gave place to an outward tug. Four times— five—the market whirled dizzily; the dragon’s blood spattered an ever wider circle on the ground. He added one last ounce of violence to its course, swinging it upward, and let go.
Across the rope seller’s stall it flew, over the spilled coins to the booth of a money changer, and fell, its head twisted at a strange angle against the lowermost of the temple steps.
Hao Sen dropped his aching arms to his sides, panting. He looked at the dragon’s carcass, and beyond it, up the steps, until he met the gaze of the tall man who had stood there watching, leaning on a staff.
And then he knew.
XIXxix