"Torture, like the violin, is merely an instrument. Only in the hands of a master does it become an art form."
—Conrad Bland
Sable had spent an almost sleepless night in a small room in a turret of the church. Though not as luxurious as the hotel where he had been temporarily incarcerated, it provided for all of his needs—except freedom. The door was made of steel, the combination lock could be punched only from the outside, and two burly men stood guard, one on each side of the door. Such minimal sleep as he had been able to achieve had been broken by the screams and moans of the dying and the overpowering stench of the dead.
About an hour after sunlight began flooding into his room through a barred window, his door was unlocked and he was escorted down a winding staircase past scores of tortured bodies, some living, some recently dead, and out a side door.
He was then led down a flagstone path, and found his eyes tearing from the bright sunlight. A number of birds flew overhead, attracted by the smell of the rotting bodies, and he found himself idly wondering if any of them ever made it inside the church.
After walking for perhaps two hundred feet, they reached a small, heavily guarded rectory, and Sable was roughly ushered inside. Bland was waiting for him, seated in a large library which he had filled with books and tapes from all parts of the Republic. An octaphonic sound system played the bittersweet strains of some symphony that sounded vaguely familiar but which Sable couldn't identify.
"Good morning, Mr. Sable," said Bland pleasantly. "I trust you slept well?"
"As well as could be expected," replied Sable, looking around the room. Along with the books and tapes there were numerous paintings and statuettes, though none of them was even mildly Satanic in nature. There seemed to be no mementos of any kind representing Bland's bloody career.
"Have a seat," said Bland, gesturing toward a wing-backed chair opposite him. "I apologize for the inelegance of my domicile, but one must accept certain inconveniences from time to time."
"But one needn't like them," said Sable coldly.
"Come, come, Mr. Sable. You're not being very friendly or amusing, and we mustn't forget that your sole purpose for being here is to amuse me."
"Or humor you."
"You think I'm crazy?" Bland laughed. "Well, why not? It helps to have the enemy underestimate me. But let me tell you this, Mr. Sable: When I was twelve years old I was taken to a psychiatrist after my mother found me vivisecting our family pets. I am perhaps the only man of your acquaintance who has a certificate stating categorically that I am not insane." He laughed uproariously at that.
"Your psychiatrist had an interesting notion of innocent childish pranks," said Sable, watching Bland for a reaction and surprised when he got nothing more violent than a smile.
"Well, I'm sure if he were alive he would appreciate that. I killed him when I was thirteen." Sable decided it would be safer not to comment again, but Bland, vastly enjoying the sight of the detective struggling with his urge to detect, prodded him on. "Aren't you curious to know why I killed him?"
"Only if you wish to tell me."
"I knew that a great destiny, a magnificent destiny, lay before me. I didn't know what it was, but even at that early age I knew that I didn't want anyone around who would be able to identify me or supply any information about me to my enemies. To that same end, I killed both of my parents, but except for that and a few other isolated instances, I had a rather normal adolescence. But enough about me, Mr. Sable. Tell me about yourself."
"For instance?" asked Sable, his eyes scanning the various windows and doorways.
"For instance, why in the world would anyone—and especially a moral man like yourself—wish to protect my life? And I strongly suggest that you stop looking for a means of escape. You would find your life much less pleasant, and of far shorter duration, if you actually made it out of this house before I released you."
Sable sighed and waited for the tension to flow out of his muscles. Bland might be a madman, but he wasn't a stupid madman, and he hadn't lived this long by being careless. He took him at his word that escape was out of the question.
"I'm a police officer, sworn to uphold the law. When I discovered that the Republic was out to assassinate a man to whom my government had given asylum, I felt it was my duty to prevent it."
"And would you do the same thing now that you've been to Tifereth?" asked Bland pleasantly.
Sable stared at him, took a deep breath, and answered the question. "I would no longer lift a finger to protect you."
"Oh?" said Bland, amused. "Do you know how many innocent men and women your assassin has murdered since he's been on Walpurgis?"
"Six."
"You've been out of touch, Mr. Sable. The count is up to at least fourteen, and possibly as many as twenty."
"You haven't caught him yet?"
"We will soon."
"Where is he?"
"Somewhere between Kether and Tifereth. Probably in Yesod."
"He's gotten that far?" said Sable, surprised.
"He's a highly skilled killer. But of course he hasn't gotten close enough to be a real irritant yet. When that time comes—and it's coming soon—he will be stopped. But tell me, Mr. Sable, why you no longer wish to hinder a paid professional assassin, a killer who has been strewing the countryside with innocent victims."
"Are you expressing moral outrage at someone killing off innocent people?"
"He is poaching on my territory!" cried Bland, his eyes blazing fiercely. Suddenly his face contorted into the semblance of a smile again. "Forgive me. I happen to feel deeply about my prerogatives, and occasionally I express myself too strongly."
An intercom buzzed on the wall, and Bland walked over to it.
"Yes?"
"Sir," said a voice that sounded like Bromberg's, "there's no question about it: he's escaped from Yesod."
"I rather thought he might," said Bland calmly. "How long will it take him to reach Netsah?"
"Three hours, maybe four."
"Wait five hours and then destroy it."
"The whole city?"
Bland didn't even deign to answer, but merely switched off the intercom.
"So much for your assassin," he said. "May I offer you a drink, Mr. Sable?"
Sable shook his head.
"As you wish," said Bland with a shrug. He returned to his chair. "You look distressed, Mr. Sable. Is it the destruction of Netsah?"
"You're killing thousands of innocent people," said Sable, trying to control his fury.
"They're only people," said Bland. "Sooner or later they would die anyway. Some people, such as yourself, amuse and entertain me. Some, such as your much-heralded assassin, challenge me. But I must truthfully admit that I care for none of you." He gestured to his books and tapes. "The best of Man, all that is worthwhile, is there. The rest is just meat."
"Like your parents?" said Sable coldly.
"Mr. Sable, you strike me to the quick. In point of fact, I am quite ashamed of killing my parents."
"Then why did you do it?"
"Let me rephrase that," amended Bland. "I do not regret their deaths, but rather the nature of their deaths. I behaved like some slinking night-stalking carnivore—or," he added with a smile, "like some Republic assassin. They were the two people whose suffering I would have most enjoyed, and I dispatched them quickly, secretly, leaving no traces. They never knew what happened to them, and consequently I never fully savored the thrill of their death agonies. I have become much more skilled in recent years, but alas, one can murder one's parents only once."
Sable tried to disguise his disgust and horror, and felt it would be unsafe to make any comment.
"You look distressed, Mr. Sable. There is no need to be. It is my nature to do certain things; it is my strength that I do them well. I destroy things because the only alternative is not to destroy them, and I find that unpalatable. Tell me truthfully: Have you never had the desire to kill your parents, or your wife, or your children?"
"Of course I have," replied Sable. "But it's just an animal impulse. It can be overcome."
"Ah, but what if a man chooses not to overcome it? What if, instead, he learns to direct it? What might that man not do, given intellect and drive and opportunity?"
"One of the things he might not do is convince me that he's right."
"Wonderful!" cried Bland, clapping his hands together in delight. "I knew you would prove amusing. How shall I reward you? Ah, I have it! You may ask me anything you wish, with no fear of repercussion, for the next five minutes. Surely you have stockpiled a number of questions?"
"Let's start with a simple one," said Sable, not at all sure the wrong questions would be free of repercussions. "What is your goal—to conquer Walpurgis?"
Bland laughed and shook his head.
"What, then—the whole Republic?"
"My dear Mr. Sable, how you misjudge me in your ignorance! I have no wish to conquer anything. I have neither the desire nor the capacity to rule over an empire."
"Then why all this slaughter?"
"You must not confuse wars of conquest with wars of destruction."
He walked to a window and opened it, and Sable could hear the muffled shrieks and screams of Bland's victims coming from the church.
"Do you hear that?" said Bland, his eyes aglow. "That is the symphony I love the best, Mr. Sable."
And, along with the sound, came a hot breeze bringing the stench, the smell of rotting, decaying flesh, of blood, of vermin, of death. Sable was sickened by it, and simultaneously amazed that he had grown moderately accustomed to it during the night. He began to understand how some of Bland's guards could lose their objectivity and come to love their work; it was only when you stepped out of the charnel house and then reentered it that you began to realize the full extent of what was happening.
"Why did you come to Walpurgis in the first place?" asked Sable, covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief until Bland reluctantly closed the window and returned to his chair with a regretful sigh.
"This is a world that worships Satan," said Bland at last. "I was born to come here, and this planet was born to have me. We were made for each other. It has been a perfect marriage, and it will remain so—until I kill the bride, that is." Sable, still fighting the urge to vomit, said nothing, and after a moment Bland continued. "To be painfully honest, Satanism and devil worship is, if anything, even sillier than theism, but if the planet's belief in it can be used to my advantage, I have no strenuous objections to it. Never forget: It was your clergy, your moral leaders, who first offered me sanctuary. And now they think to ingratiate themselves with me by proclaiming me their Dark Messiah." He laughed. "What need has Satan for servants?"
"You have them," Sable pointed out. "Bromberg and the rest."
"And before I am done, I shall kill them. I would expect no less of Satan, nor should your clergy." He glanced at his timepiece. "Ah, but I see I shall have to terminate our little discussion, Mr. Sable. There are certain functions about to begin next door that I simply cannot avoid. Perhaps you would like to watch?"
"I'd prefer not to."
"So be it," said Bland, rising. "After I leave, you will be escorted back to your quarters. You may order anything you wish from our rather limited menu, and of course my library is at your disposal. In the meantime, I'd suggest that you prepare a list of those members of your civil government who are opposed to me and might be persuaded to pay a little visit to you during your stay here in Tifereth."
Sable was about to object, but Bland silenced him with a raised finger. "Have you ever heard of Cambria III, Mr. Sable?"
"No."
"I had the opportunity to spend almost a year there, after I was forced to flee from New Rhodesia. It was not a totally wasted period of time, since I had certain theories I wanted to put to the test. I killed three thousand men on Cambria—three thousand seventeen, to be accurate. Each of them firmly stated that there were certain things he would never do, secrets he would never reveal, vows he would never break. Each of them, without exception, did those things, revealed those secrets, broke those vows. They were strong men, Mr. Sable; far stronger than you—nor were they weakened by religion or a sense of duty. You might consider that, Mr. Sable, before we have our next little chat."