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Chapter 7

There was no point in advertising his return to Bensor, he decided. A call on his parents in his afflicted condition would give them no pleasure and do him no good. And while the Sect Dualers had no special reason to expect him to show up on his home planet at this time, they could probably be alert to that possibility . . . if they were still out to finish him and his Neg.

Thus, Keaflyn did not notify the city directory of Bensor-on-Bensor of his arrival. Instead, he put the Kelkontar down at a small ship-park on the outskirts—one patronized mostly by in-system traffic—where he could live aboard during his stay rather than take an apartment. That would keep records of his presence to a minimum. The Neg, only mildly troublesome during the flight from Lumon's Star, turned on the pain within minutes after his arrival. His grin became a grimace that he was self-conscious about displaying in public—normal people just didn't wear such expressions. But he had to move about the city; his business here was of a kind that almost had to be handled in person.

Attempts to concentrate on keeping a blank face were only partially successful. He could do it only for as long as he did concentrate. And a blank face wouldn't solve the problem, anyway—there were so damned many distress-sensitives about. Not full telepaths, of course; Keaflyn wasn't sure a full telepath existed. But many people, such as Tinker and Alo Felston, could catch the peculiar radiations of a sorely troubled mind. Such radiations could not be picked out clearly from any distance in a well-populated city, the way Felston had located him in the isolation of the Sonora Desert. Still, any sensitive he got close to might become troublesomely helpful and inquisitive.

The only thing to do was finish his business as quickly as possible and get back into space.

He debarked from his ship and hailed a robocar.

"Where to, sir?" the car asked as he climbed in.

"Donflannis Instras Corporation, by way of Central Boulevard," he instructed, settling back.

"Yes, sir. A verification message, sir?"

Keaflyn considered the idea. If he arrived at Donflannis Instras without advance notice, he might encounter delaying red tape that would bring him into close contact with several people before he reached John Donflannis. There would be some chance of that at best, since he had made no advance appointment.

"Yes," he said. "Message John Donflannis the Jumblejunk Kid will arrive in (blank) minutes." He giggled over the nickname John Donflannis had stuck on him—a result of the numerous one-of-a-kind devices the corporation had fabricated on Keaflyn's order.

"Nine minutes, sir," responded the robocar, filling in the blank.

"Thank you."

Keaflyn tried to keep himself exteriorized and his distress down by watching the scenery along Central Boulevard. The one-hundred-meter-wide thoroughfare had an urban look almost antiquarian in atmosphere. Massive durastone buildings soared into the clean, sunny air on both sides, interspersed with frequent cross-streets. There was a fair flow of robocar traffic, and Keaflyn could see a number of strolling pedestrians on the walkways.

Unlike most cities, Bensor-on-Bensor was not mobile. It had grown up around the Resistant Globe, at the spot where the Globe had been discovered by the first explorers from Earth. For many years, that gleaming, immovable stability had been the city's prime reason for being, as visitors flocked in to study or merely marvel at the giant mirror-bright object. But the city had long since outgrown its tourist-trap status to become the planetary capital and industrial center.

Being permanently placed was an inconvenience in some respects. The weather was atrocious at times, and no effort was made to control it, since humanity had long ago decided that planetary ecologies were far too easily wrecked by environmental regulation. And unlike such cities as Splendiss-on-Terra, the Bensor capital could not escape winters or drought by following the more pleasant seasons.

Moreover, since the city did not move, neither did the buildings shift about relative to each other; thus the city's heavy, large buildings, many of them no longer ideally suited for their purposes or for their locations with respect to surrounding structures and activities. Many persons remarked that Bensor-on-Bensor was downright backtracky, but Keaflyn considered that an exaggeration. True, an occasional building, too outmoded to meet a present need, stood dark and deserted amid the bustle of midtown activity. And now and then, such a structure would be demolished on the site, to make way for something more useful. But there was no real decay and certainly nothing resembling a slum.

At the most, Keaflyn mused with a chuckle, the city was no more than four centuries backtracky, and you had to go back twice that far for the really grim filth and fester.

Central Boulevard ran tangent to Globe Circus, and he got a quick glimpse of the stability in passing. The sight brought a question to his mind: When he reached the stage of his studies where he needed to run tests on the Globe, how was he going to manage it in his afflicted condition? Concerned sensitives would be sure to pester him. And what about the Sect Dualers? He could hardly set up his instruments on Globe Circus without attracting entirely too much attention.

Well, that was a problem to think about, but he had more immediate concerns. Still, he didn't want to leave the city without paying the Resistant Globe his respects with more than a passing glance. Perhaps he could come back by and stop for a while at a time of day when few people were around.

John Donflannis stepped into the reception court of Donflannis Instras just as the robocar drove in. He was grinning as Keaflyn got out.

"Well, well!" he barked, moving lankily forward to pump Keaflyn's arm. "What kind of no-profit gadget are you going to bug me with this time, Jumblejunk?" Then he took a closer look at his visitor and the grin evaporated. "What's wrong with you, Mark?" he asked with concern.

"Nothing to fret about, John," Keaflyn managed to say without laughing. "A problem I can't blow, but a couple of friends of mine are working on it."

"Come on into my office," said Donflannis.

Keaflyn followed him in, was seated, and accepted a drink. "John, do you have any Sect Dualers working for you?" he asked.

"Sect Dualers?" Donflannis echoed blankly. "Who? Oh, yes! I remember who they are now. The contralife bunch. No, none of them in the shop that I know of. Why do you ask?"

Keaflyn told him briefly about the impinging Neg and the drastic actions to counter it taken by the Sect Dualer Arnod Smath on Earth. After Donflannis finished exploding with rage, Keaflyn added:

"I'm sure the Neg is really riding me, John, but not the way the Dualists seem to think. All it can do is make me feel lousy, and its aim seems to be to keep me from my work by doing just that. Needless to say, I don't want to run into any more characters like Arnod Smath. I'm trying to keep my presence on Bensor quiet and want to get away as soon as possible. Also"—Keaflyn paused and pulled a sheaf of drawings out of his jacket—"here are the designs for a special Lumon probe I'd like you to build for me. I want it this lifetime, because I understand this may be my last as a capable human. I have to hurry."

"Okay," said Donflannis, glancing rapidly through the drawings. "You said someone was working on this mental problem you have . . . "

"Yes. You remember my talking about Tinker? She's an ego-field therapist and is going to research this pleasure-impress thing. A man named Alo Felston, who's sensitive to lower animals, is working with her. Tinker may be ordering some psionic equipment from you; I gave her your name."

"Sounds like another no-profit job," Donflannis grumbled. "Thanks a lot." He was still examining the drawings.

"I'd say from these plans that you think there's a spacewarp inside Lumon's Star. Right?"

Keaflyn laughed. "More like one times ten to the umpteenth power warps, atom-sized. Quantums of warp. Warpicles. Here, you'd better read my prelim on Lumon's Star so you'll know what the new probe will be dealing with." He brought a tape spool out of his pocket and handed it across the desk.

"Oh, a report all ready for publication," remarked Donflannis, after running the first few frames through his desk viewer.

"Yeah," said Keaflyn, suddenly struck by an idea. "Say, John, the rest of my business on Bensor is to nurse that report through the mill at Science Reporting Service. If I had someone who understood its contents to act as my agent, I could scram right away."

Donflannis gave him a wry look. "Meaning me?"

Keaflyn grinned and nodded.

In a mock-syrupy voice Donflannis said, "What's an old friend for, Mark, except to be imposed upon? Sure, I'll see this into print for you. But let's make sure I know what it's all about first."

"Okay, and many thanks, John."

After a marathon work session that lasted well into the evening, Keaflyn and Donflannis parted, both of them well satisfied that Donflannis had a clear understanding of the probe his company was to make and of the report he was to handle. Keaflyn declined an invitation to the Donflannis home, feeling that his affliction could make him a rather jarring visitor in a household that included two small children.

He stepped out into the semigloom of the company's reception court and discovered it was drizzling rain. At that moment a cruising robocar rolled into the turnaround, and he hailed it, pleased with this minor stroke of luck.

"Where to, sir?" the car asked as he ducked inside. The late hour and the drizzle, it occurred to him, could make this an ideal opportunity to observe the Resistant Globe without a lot of people around. "Globe Circus," he instructed.

"Yes, sir."

The car pulled out into the street. Keaflyn leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to relax. The day with Donflannis had been one of fruitful accomplishment, but his constant effort to conceal the worst of his physical distress while also keeping his hysteria buttoned up had made it a day of strain.

He grimaced. The last few hours had been a minor trauma, he mused unhappily. Something had to be done about his ache . . . but what? Previous bouts with it had been brief, but now it had been on full-power all day. If only the Arlan Siblings and the Calcutta's delightful pool were handy, to make the Neg beat a retreat . . . but the Calcutta was probably a week away, in the vicinity of Vega. What else would be pleasurable and was available? Not a thing that seemed impressive at the moment. What about some old-fashioned medication? It had been centuries since he had taken a painkiller, but it was worth a try. The ship probably had information on how to synthesize aspirin. He decided to ask when he returned to the Kelkontar.

Meanwhile, closed eyes were keeping him too interiorized, making him more aware of the pain. He opened them and looked out at the rain. "Aren't we there yet?" he asked irritably.

"We'll arrive shortly, sir," the car responded.

"Why aren't we on Central Boulevard?"

"We are following the computed route, sir." Keaflyn stared at the nearby buildings, trying to determine his location. When he did, he decided the routing computer was definitely out of order. He was nowhere near Globe Circus. Or maybe the car had misunderstood him.

"I want to go to Globe Circus," he said. "Did you get that right?"

"Yes, sir."

Keaflyn grunted in disgust. There was no point in arguing with an out-of-whack computer. "Stop here," he ordered. "I'll get off here."

"We'll arrive shortly, sir."

"Never mind that! Stop!"

"Well arrive shortly, sir."

"Oh, damn!" Keaflyn yanked at the door handle, planning to leave the car on the move. The handle would not budge.

Only then did it dawn on him that he was being kidnapped. This robocar had obviously been rigged and had been waiting especially for him when he left the Donflannis building. The Sect Dualers!, he realized with a feeling of panic. But who had tipped them off he was there?

Coldly, he pushed down the fear that was making him giggle explosively. If the Sect Dualers were determined enough to grab him, they would have needed no tipoff. They would have had the Donflannis shop—a place Keaflyn was known to visit frequently when on Bensor—under constant surveillance.

Was there no way out of this damned robocar?

He was searching wildly for some possibility when the car pulled into a building and stopped. A door clanged shut behind it and lights came on. When the car door opened, Keaflyn found himself gazing at two men armed with pistols.

"Get out, please, Mr. Keaflyn," one of them said.

He felt too tired to move. "Why should I bother?" he chuckled. "You guys have some goofy ideas, but you're no more capable of murder than I am. Go ahead and shoot, if you can."

Several seconds passed in silence. Then one of the men shoved his pistol under his belt and motioned his companion to do the same. Then they leaped forward quickly, grabbed Keaflyn by the arms and lifted him bodily from the car.

"This way, Mr. Keaflyn," one said as they hustled him along. He got his feet under him and let them guide him into the depths of the building, realizing that the feeling of overwhelming tiredness had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

Keaflyn now perceived, for the first time and with precision, exactly what the Neg was trying to do to him! He laughed loudly and boisterously.

The men led him into a dimly lit room where two more men were seated. One was Arnod Smath.

"Well, we meet again, doctor," laughed Keaflyn. Smath regarded him gravely.

"Regrettably, Mark," he replied, after a moment. "I should have dealt more adequately with the problem the first time. You realize we don't enjoy this?"

"I imagine not," Keaflyn chortled. "I've been told the guilt of the destroyer is as traumatic as the damage to the destroyed. But I'm not inclined to offer my sympathy." The other seated man spoke up. "We understand you've been aboard the Calcutta since Dr. Smath saw you."

Keaflyn grinned at him in silence.

"Why did the Arlans turn you loose?" the man asked.

"Because they know a damn sight more than you guys and are far less sure they know everything," Keaflyn snapped.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning they didn't know what the Negs' intentions were. Neither did I, until just now."

"Oh? And what are the Negs' intentions?"

"To get me killed. You idiots have been playing the Negs game all along!"

"Interesting, if true. And if untrue, a clever theory for you to advance under the circumstances. What's your evidence?"

"I went to Splendiss-on-Terra, where the local medic just happened to be a Sect Dualer. The Neg picked that moment to hit me with an ache, when my condition would come to the attention of a man who would interpret my symptoms as a reason to derange or kill me.

"After that, the Neg remained more mildly in evidence while I was still on Earth, perhaps hoping for my confinement, in a hospital for instance, as a second-best goal. Once on my ship and away from other people, I wasn't bothered by the Neg until shortly before I boarded the Calcutta and entered the presence of other prospective confiners or killers.

"I left the Calcutta without a pain in my body and stayed that way until I reached the stability where I meant to conduct some tests. Now, I admit there was nobody around at the time to do me in, so the Negs' efforts there must have been for another purpose. I would think it was trying to discourage me from doing my work. Maybe because Negs are opposed to increased knowledge per se, just as we are opposed to increased ignorance, but more likely because the Negs are skittish about my work in particular. Why else would they want me killed?

"After that, no more pain until I arrived on Bensor," Keaflyn concluded. "It's been giving me a fit ever since, to let the local contingent of Sect Dualers know it's still on the job. And here you are, with the good Dr. Smath hinting that he'll struggle manfully against his humane squeamishness this time in order to do a bang-up job on me and my Neg."

He stopped, then added, "Oh, I almost forgot. When your colleagues pointed their guns at me and ordered me out of the robocar, I was all at once too tired to move. The Neg couldn't have been sure the guns were just a bluff." He chuckled wildly. "I wasn't very damned sure of it myself! Anyway, your pals had to jerk me out of the car."

The seated man glanced at the two men behind Keaflyn for a moment, then nodded.

"So the Neg can make you tired, huh?" he observed.

"Sure. It seems capable of hitting me with any psychosomatic sensation or unpleasant emotion. But it can't overwhelm me with them. I manage."

"No other indication of its presence?"

"No."

Smath looked questioningly at the other seated man and was given a quick nod. Keaflyn concluded that the exchange had informed the doctor Keaflyn was speaking truthfully, which meant Smath's colleague was a sensitive.

"The Arlan Siblings looked you over and let you go," the man said reflectively, "though you attribute to them data on the Negs that is superior to ours. Why did they free you?"

Keaflyn shrugged. "I'll tell you anything you want to know about myself. If you want to know something about the Arlans, I suggest you ask them. They seem to value their privacy, and I'm not going to violate it."

"We know the Negs would consider them key individuals," the man stated.

"Okay, you know that," replied Keaflyn.

The questioner and Smath huddled for a whispered conversation. Keaflyn waited.

After a couple of minutes they broke it up. The questioner told one of the men behind Keaflyn, "Go ungimmick the robocar." Then to Keaflyn he said, "We're letting you go, Mark. Your interpretation of the Neg's aims concerning you is convincing—at least to the degree that we don't care to risk aiding the enemy's cause in our efforts to hinder it. Also, we are inclined to respect the judgment of the Arlans."

"Glad to hear it," chuckled Keaflyn.

Smath cleared his throat uncomfortably. "There's no way to tell you, Mark, how deeply I regret . . . uh, the damage you sustained at my hands. I was only carrying out . . . well, I felt fully justified . . . "

"Both of us will just have to live with my affliction, won't we?" Keaflyn giggled. Smath winced and turned away.

"We wish you well, Mark," said the questioner. Keaflyn couldn't honestly say the feeling was mutual, so he merely nodded and turned to the door. The Neg was no longer paining him, he noticed thankfully. Now that he and the Sect Dualers had reached a truce, it evidently had backed away once more from the pleasureimpress. Perhaps, he ruminated, he owed Smath a modicum of gratitude after all . . . but he had no intention of paying it.

The man detailed to ungimmick the robocar was closing the hood as Keaflyn approached. "Will it obey my orders now?" he asked.

The man nodded.

Keaflyn got in the car. "Globe Circus," he commanded.

"Yes, sir."

The car rolled out into the rain, now a hard downpour. Keaflyn watched the car's progress critically until he was sure it was moving in the right direction.

He relaxed, with a strong feeling of relief. Not only had his Neg-induced physical discomforts vanished; gone also was the threat of physical or mental harm from the Sect Dualers. He had not realized until now, until the threat was lifted, just how deeply it had bothered him. Even the pleasure-impress, though basically as firmly fixed to him as ever, seemed less effective with the other problems eased. That was a normal phenomenon: cure a mind of one thing, and in the sudden ebullience of its release the mind may—temporarily—cure its remaining problems.

In any case, his expression felt like a relaxed smile rather than a taut grin.

"Globe Circus, sir," announced the robocar. Keaflyn looked out at the stability through the constant rainsplatter on the car window.

"Move around to the windward side."

"Yes, sir, if you will indicate which side is windward," replied the robocar. "I am not equipped with sufficient sensors—"

"Of course not," replied Keaflyn, realizing he had given a command beyond a robocar's capabilities. "Turn left and move around the Circus until I say stop."

The car circled the stability until Keaflyn halted it with the rain blowing against its left side and the Resistant Globe on its right.

"Lower the rear window on the right," he instructed. The glass dropped and Keaflyn leaned outward, his eyes fixed in contemplation of one of his favorite sights in the universe: the soaring bulge of the Resistant Globe's dark perfect-mirror surface.

It was not especially huge—forty and a fraction meters in diameter—and its reflectivity gave a fleeting impression of insubstantiality. But no one viewed the Globe for more than a split-second without sensing that here was the essence of solidity, of endurance. It had this quality to a degree that was present in no other known stability. Whereas Lumon's Star was an unfailing light, the Resistant Globe was the unyielding object.

The Rock of Ages, mused Keaflyn, pulling that phrase in from his backtrack. Interesting, he thought, how man back in the Earthbound days had invented religious concepts with characteristics similar to those of stabilities discovered since. Thus a god would be a dependable rock and an ever-shining light . . . but what about the characteristics of Locus? Um-m-m. He couldn't recall a god who made a point of motionlessness . . .

He shrugged these thoughts aside. To modern man, the Resistant Globe was a marvel, but a non-mystical marvel. It was a challenge to his science and his mental powers—a very stubborn challenge.

Scientific investigation of it had yielded practically nothing. Even neutrino beams, the most penetrating energies known, entered the Globe to a maximum penetration of 1.44 centimeters before bouncing out. Keaflyn's only hope of doing better than that in his study was a rather vague one; he hoped, in the course of analyzing other stabilities, to hit upon a means of probing this one.

Mental investigation of the Globe was only a halfserious game, but one widely played. Earthbound visitors to an old Irish castle had once made a practice of kissing the Blarney Stone; galactic citizens visiting Bensor-onBensor made a practice of "nulling" the Resistant Globe. This ritual was, in a way, a philosophical experiment . . . though maybe a silly one, Keaflyn mused. Theoretically, matter and energy were subservient to thought—that is, all the physical universe and its appurtenances existed because mind considered they did. Thus, if mind said some particular part of the universe had ceased to exist, then that part should vanish.

Mind, however, was myriads of minds—ego-fields strong and ego-fields weak. In order for mind to change, countless individual minds would have to do so. Certainly there would have to be a consensus, or at least a majority opinion, to make an existing reality cease existing—providing, of course, that the theory of the seniority of thought was correct.

Nevertheless, the individual ego-field could nullify an existence from its own viewpoint by a simple act of will. The saner, more fully self-determined the ego-field, the more confident its act of nulling. The ego-field could null a wall and move through the space where the wall had been, finding nothing there. Of course, if the ego-field tried to walk its body through the wall, the body would be stopped very abruptly and might contract a bloody nose in the process. Again, if the ego-field depended on information from its body's eyes, it would have data to the effect that the wall had remained solid all the time. But the ego-field could nullify any object, any energy, for itself as an ego-field. This was a contributing consideration to the theory that a general agreement of mind could cause actual nullity. And that was why visitors to the Resistant Globe, after looking at it as long as they wished, ended their visit by nulling it. Over enough years, every human-grade ego-field in the galaxy or even in the universe might pass that place and tell the Globe:

"Vanish!"

And perhaps it would.

Probably the game was not entirely explainable as a philosophical experiment, Keaflyn ruminated as he continued gazing at the Globe, brightly illuminated through the night by glow-panels concealed in the shrubs around its base. For trillions of years the individual human had known himself as a soon-to-perish entity in a never-ending, ever-surviving universe. That knowing was opposite to fact, as humanity now had learned. But this was recent learning, perhaps recent enough for humans still to harbor a remnant of resentment against the apparently durable universe. And what better object to vent this resentment on than a stability, the Resistant Globe? Keaflyn stirred. He was ready to return to his ship and get some sleep—sleep that should come easily in his relaxed condition. It was time for the parting ceremony. Even though he had nulled the Globe before, he always repeated the action at the end of each visit.

Vanish! he willed it. It did so. Although his eyes could still see it, his ego-field sense corresponding to sight said nothing was there but empty air. And this sense could examine the far side of Globe Circus through the vacancy, could observe the buildings there and—Something aware but alien was suddenly using that same sense! The Neg was stirring!

Keaflyn twitched with alarm. Was this the Neg's bid to seize control from him, to direct his mind and actions? He tensed for the struggle, but no contest began. The Neg was not fighting him, not disagreeing with him. It was merely going along with his own thought-processes, verifying and supporting with its own act of will the nullity of the Resistant Globe . . .

Nullity?

Keaflyn's startled attention turned to what his eyes were seeing.

In the center of the Circus, where the sparkling Globe had stood, now hung darkness—darkness that wavered, threatening to become transparent with the complete annihilation of the stability that had once existed there!

A calm corner of Keaflyn's frantic mind was contributing: Of course contralife entities have their own share of the total mind. And perhaps they can channel a consensus through one individual Neg, which added to the nulling actions of several billion humans who have nulled the Resistant Globe is sufficient to . . .

Emergency alarms in the city were clanging loudly, he realized. Of course, all sorts of detectors and alarms had long been rigged around the Globe to give notice of any change in its condition. These were sounding now, arousing the city.

And suddenly something previously unknown to Keaflyn's experience but immediately recognizable impinged on his mind: transmitted human thought, powerful enough even for his minute telepathic ability—because this was a thought from thousands in chorus, a thought of distress, a thought seeking him:

(What?) The Resistant Globe! Being nulled! Oh, no! It can't be!

Universal collapse!

(Who? Where?) Close by! There he is! Mark Keaflyn! Mark Keaflyn! STOP IT, MARK KEAFLYN!

My God, and we made a game out of this! Contralifehe's harboring contralife!

Stop him, somebody! Who's close?

SOMEBODY KILL KEAFLYN, FOR GOD'S SAKE! Keaflyn quivered under the mental impact of frightened hate boiling around him. I meant no harm! he tried to reply, but he had no impression that his thought was received. I'll try to fix it back, he promised, and stared hard at the place where the Resistant Globe had been. Be there! he willed.

The darkness seemed to thicken in response, but no more than that.

We'll stop him! We're on our way!

Keaflyn could sense that they were indeed on their way, converging on Globe Circus with whatever weapons they could lay hands on.

It won't do any good to kill me now! he tried to tell them. The harm's done, and not by my intention. But he was too out of agreement with the consensus for his communication to register.

"Get out of here, car!" he yelled hoarsely. "West on Central Boulevard!"

"Yes, sir," the car responded, and began to move.

"Highest legal speed!" he snapped.

"Yes, sir."

The car was on the Boulevard and speeding westward in seconds. A few minutes would take him to the shippark in the outskirts where he had left the Kelkontar . . . if he was not stopped.

And if the Sect Dualers really had unrigged their overrides on this car's robot . . . After that possibility occurred to Keaflyn, he watched each approaching intersection with anxiety, wondering if the robocar would swerve right or left, carrying him away from his one hope for avoidance of death and degradation.

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