A gun pressed against his back and he knew the time had come to act. Pivoting on the balls of his feet he knocked aside the hand that held the gun with his left arm. As he completed the pivot he aimed his right fist at the stranger's face.
His assailant rolled with the blow and it caught him with glancing force on the chin. But it was hard enough to drive him off his feet.
Ostby followed swiftly, but his opponent turned like a cat and kicked both feet into his stomach. The kick knocked the breath from Ostby's lungs. Black circles ringed his vision and the only thing that worked then was instinct. He grabbed at the ankles as the man's feet came up again. Letting the momentum of the kick furnish most of the power, he pulled on the ankles in a circular jerk that lifted the man clear off the floor.
Ostby swung him around in a wide circle, scraping his head and shoulders on the wall of the hallway, before releasing his grip. The gunman crashed unconscious against the far wall.
Ostby took two steps forward, and a blinding light bathed his body! He turned, raising one leg to retreat, and found himself fighting with an awful exertion to set it down again!
The air had become viscous, and he took one step that felt as though he were walking in freshly mixed cement. The cement hardened rapidly and held him rigid. Next his vision blurred, and he stood with all power of motion gone. His respiratory function was his only movement.
He was no longer rational enough to judge when the agony in his muscles changed their tenor to the sensation of a thousand needles being stabbed into his flesh. Somehow he knew that this meant the paralysis was leaving.
The first muscles to free themselves were those in the lids of his eyes. He opened them and found himself staring into the iciest, most emotionless eyes he had ever seen. Strangely enough they were brown eyes yet they gave the definite impression of being colorless.
The eyes were in a face carved with lines of craglike pride. Strength and ruthlessness breathed in every feature. Ostby needed no introduction to know that the face belonged to the Imperator!
A voice said, "He can see and hear now. But his power of speech and movement won't return for a few minutes." The voice came from Ostby's right. He was unable to turn to see who spoke.
The Imperator smiled. "My Name is Magogar," he said to Ostby in a voice an octave lower then normal. "I've been waiting a long time to meet you."
Ostby returned the look, wordlessly—all he was capable of doing.
"We'll begin our discussion," Magogar said, "with my telling you that I know you are the one they call the Berserker, what your mission is, and much else about you that you may not suspect. On the other hand, there are many things you do not know about me, and, strange as it may seem, there are some things concerning yourself that you do not know.
"When you were first brought into our world," Magogar continued, "you made the mistake of confiding in several of your fellow captives, thinking that they would aid you. Needless to say, one of them talked. That last I probably don't have to tell you; you must have guessed, because you made your escape soon after. You didn't even try your preconcocted story."
"You knew about that too?" Ostby asked, and was surprised that he was able to speak again.
"Yes. You were right in believing that your confidants would be sympathetic to your schemes, but you forgot one thing. Men can be made to talk."
Ostby had recovered some of his self-possession by this time. "If you know, tell me what that plan was," he said.
"Certainly," Magogar replied. He rose to his feet and walked with long strides about the room. Ostby was surprised at the breath and girth of the man. At first glance he appeared squat. But that appearance was a deception caused by his great bulk. He was as tall as Ostby, but heavier of bone, and must have weighed a hundred pounds more. He walked heavily, each step landing forcefully on the heel of the foot.
"One of our ships," the Imperator said, "read your distress signal of colored rocks and picked you up. Your story was to be that you were a survivor of a ship of ours which crashed twenty years earlier. I believe you had established quite an authentic story. Your mother and father had been hurt, and died several years after the crash, you said. But not before they had taught you, their six-year-old son, to care for himself, to pass as one of the people of the world in which you found yourself, and last, how to establish contact with us. It was a good story, and its background was authentic. Tell me, why did you decide not to use it?"
Ostby shrugged. "Mainly because I made the mistake of confiding my plans to several of your prisoners. And you forced one of them to talk."
Unexpectedly Magogar no longer seemed to be paying attention to Ostby. He had turned his head and was looking to his left. It was then Ostby remembered that he had made no effort to discover to whom the other voice he had heard belonged. The thought of it now made him realize how much his faculties had been dulled by their session under the paralysis. Ordinarily, by this time he would have had every detail of the room catalogued in his mind. He hastened now to correct the omission.
The sight that met his eyes as he turned his head was one that would stay with him for all the years of his life!
A square, paneled box, supported by four sturdy legs, rested against the wall, across the room from them. In the center of the box was a large eye!
The eye had no pupil; its entire surface was one of mottled streaks of gray, pink, and black. The colors slowly flowed and changed, following a seemingly erratic pattern. It was the weirdest sight Ostby ever expected to see. And behind and through it all glowed intelligence—human, reasoning intelligence!
Vaguely, through his momentary funk, Ostby heard the Imperator's voice, "Allow me to introduce you to the Brain."
Then those vague rumors he had heard had been true, Ostby reflected, or at least some facets of them. He had heard talk—which he had regarded as superstitions—that the Imperator possessed the living brain of a man long dead, a brain of infinite wisdom, and possessing all the knowledge there was to be had. Ostby was forced to believe in its existence now, for here he was faced with the living proof.
Once again Magogar's words interrupted his reverie. But the words were not directed at him. "He's here now. What did you want to ask before I have him killed?"
"You may change your mind about that after you hear what I have to say," a voice from the box answered. "You call yourself Ostby," it said. "Do you remember your father or your mother?"
Ostby stared at the apparition, not answering. The reality of the present situation, and yet its impossibility, was overwhelming.
The voice in the box continued. "I believe that I am safe in assuming that you do not remember them. I would like now to give you a hypothetical problem. If we were to assume that everything upon which you built your life were false: that the men you trusted lied to you: that you are not even who and what you believe you are ... what would you do?"
The voice paused, but Ostby remained silent and it went on, "The records of the people of our world, who crashed in yours, I assume you studied very carefully. That would be necessary to make your planned deception more effective. Their names were Shemolang and Roelang. Am I correct?"
Ostby nodded. The Brain went on. "Shemolang was no ordinary man. He was first in line for the Imperator office, after Magogar."
The voice shifted its focus by some subtle change of the vision in the eye, and Ostby knew that it no longer addressed him. "Will you look in the files and find a picture there of Shemolang, Magogar?"
The Imperator brought his attention to alertness with an obvious effort of will. He had been listening as intently as Ostby. Now he rose and walked to the indicated files.
After a minute he drew a picture from one of the files and studied it. The Imperator gasped and murmured, "I had almost forgotten how he looked."
"Show the picture to Mr. Ostby, will you please?" the Brain said.
Ostby took the picture and the first glance sent a shock through his system that started as a weight in the pit of his stomach and flooded his body like fever. The picture that looked back at him was very nearly a replica of himself!
"Your father," the Brain interrupted his thoughts. "You not only have had a vast deception practiced upon you, but you have been fighting your own people!"
V
That night Ostby slept very little. In his thoughts two emotions fought for dominance. On the one side were the people of Earth—he still thought of it as his Earth. He had lived with them; they were his friends; their problems and joys had always been his—until now. The menace to them had been his to share, and to help eliminate. He had accepted this assignment knowing that, at best, he would never be able to return; at worst, that he would be killed. And he had taken it willingly.
Now he knew that he had been duped. He had been an alien among the people he loved. And they had sent him to fight his own kind!
His final decision came hard, but by morning he had made his choice.
He rose early but had to wait until well into the afternoon before the Imperator put in an appearance.
Magogar greeted Ostby with a smile, but there was no friendliness in it. He was a man who made no friends. The people about him were divided into two classes: those who served or obeyed him, and those who opposed him. The latter did not survive long.
"Step out onto the sun balcony with me," the Imperator said, with the easy assurance of a man accustomed to obedience. He strolled to the railing of the balcony and leaned against it, looking out over the water of the city's harbor. The balcony extended out over the water, which came directly up to a small walk bordering the palace.
"I have given your case very deep thought," the Imperator said, "and I will be perfectly frank with you. Whether I accept you or dispose of you will be directly determined by what I decide within the immediate future. There is no point in my asking your views because your range of choices is very small, and entirely incidental to my decision. You can willingly accept whatever I decide for you—if I let you live—or you can oppose me. The latter, of course, would be tantamount to asking for death. Do you have anything to say before we continue?"
"Not knowing what you have to offer leaves me with no possibility of making a choice," Ostby said carefully.
It was immediately evident, however, that he had made a wrong choice of words. The Imperator's arrogant brows rose and he frowned. "I neverofferanything," he said, spacing each word with a hard emphasis, "except the choice of accepting my decisions."
When Ostby made no reply, Magogar seated himself and remained in deep introspection.
"Let me tell you a story," he said finally. "At first it may sound like idle boasting, but I can readily demonstrate to you that I am the living proof of its authenticity."
The Imperator paused while he tilted back his chair and stared at the ceiling. "In the early years of man's existence," he said, "he possessed two physical survival characteristics. First, he could run. As he was one of the weakest of the animals he found that most expeditious. And because the instinct to run grew to occupy a prominent place in his emotional makeup, it enabled him to survive.
"The other survival factor was to fight. The fighters died an earlier death than did those that ran, and they had fewer progeny. But those fighters that lived ruled the tribes.
"During each generation these separate instincts developed and became more virile. The numbers of the fleers propagated and soon the mass of the human race consisted of their descendants. The fighters, however, ruled the tribes, as was logical. They were the doers, and became the leaders.
"I, Mr. Ostby, am a direct descendant of this long line of fighters—perhaps its culmination. I have never known fear, and I never flee! I have inherited the strength of those ancestors, and I rule now because I am the strongest man in the world, both mentally and physically. The world belongs to the strong, and I am the strongest. Let that weigh heavily in every thought you have concerning me."
Ostby found himself wondering in amazement at the colossal pride that could give birth to such thought processes.
"Now," the Imperator went on, "let me give you one last warning before you leave. You may be in line for my position, and you must prove to me that you are strong enough to take my place, if that ever becomes necessary. On the other hand if your strength evidences itself by the slightest opposition to me, I will kill you. Thus you have a fine line to walk, with your life hanging in the balance.
"This concludes our interview until later this afternoon," the Imperator said. "I would suggest, in the meantime, that you consult the Brain. He can supply you with an understanding of our background which you may find useful."
Ostby was glad the Imperator had suggested his speaking with the Brain. He had made his decision now, but there was much the Brain could tell him that he needed to know.
He walked down one flight and into the room housing the Brain. When he arrived he found it awake and obviously watching him. Once again he experienced a vast discomfort in meeting that giant eye, with its mottled apperception. He wondered uneasily if it had the power to read his mind.
Ostby's unease was not lessened by the Brain's first words. "You have finished your interview with the Imperator," it said. "Evidently you were wise enough not to antagonize him or you would not be here now. Is there anything special you would like to ask me?"
There was much he wanted to learn from the Brain and Ostby had no hesitation in replying.
"What are you?" he asked without preliminaries. "How old are you, and just what is the extent of your powers?"
For a moment Ostby was afraid that he had, in some way, made a wrong approach, and that the Brain would refuse to answer him, for it was silent. But finally it said, quietly, "Perhaps one question at a time would be better for both of us. I can answer directly then, and you will be able to assimilate the answers more easily. Some of them will have many ramifications and require supplementary explanations.
"I am over five hundred years old. I was originally a man, the same as yourself, and one of the few real scientists our race has produced. I limited my activity to no one field, but delved into anything that interested me. One of my interests was longevity. When I decided that immortality was limited by the weaknesses of the bodily vehicle to which I was tied, I designed this instrument in which my brain resides, and trained others to make the essential transfer. Does that answer your questions?"
"All except the extent of your intellectual ability. The rumor is that you know everything."
"That, of course, is ridiculous. Knowledge is like a fan-shaped wave; beginning with the first fact learned, and spreading wider and wider the more one learns. I started with an exceptional intellect, and for five hundred years have acquired as much knowledge as that intellect, and a vast curiosity, could give me."
"I see," Ostby said as he framed the next question in his mind. "What is your relationship with the Imperator?" he asked. "Are you an ally or a servant?"
"That is a bit difficult to answer," the Brain said, "because it depends on the viewpoint of the observer. As far as Magogar is concerned, I suppose I am both, though surely more of a servant than an equal. As I regard it, he is merely another man, though one who supplies me with most of the material for speculation which I desire."
"Are you loyal to him?"
"As you mean it, no. Loyalty implies an emotional basis. I'm afraid that I have none of the standard emotions. I will answer any question put to me by anyone. I care nothing about the purpose of the question or to what use the answer is put."
"Could I ask a question, in confidence, and be certain that you would not reveal that I did so to the Imperator?" Ostby asked. This could be placing his neck in the noose, he knew, and he waited anxiously for the answer.
"No," the Brain replied. "I would volunteer nothing to him, but I would tell him anything he asked."
Ostby decided that he needed time to think over this facet of the Brain before he ventured further. First, he would attempt to learn other facts which he might need later. Perhaps he could even obtain the answer he wanted in a roundabout way. "What is the population of your world?" he asked.
"Approximately seven million. Over a million live here, in Yarr, our one mechanized city."
"Why is it that you have so little technology, as compared with the Earth?"
"I suppose that its basis is our low birth rate," the Brain answered. "There is ample living space here, as well as natural resources, to supply our people's needs. Thus there is little necessity for them to shape and remake their environment. It is always easiest to accept nature as it is, if that can be done with a minimum of self-adjusting."
"Then why is this city of Yarr different?"
"Yarr is the creation of one man, a man hungry for power, for the authority, and the strength to dominate everything about him; to hold the lives of men and women in the hollow of his hand. That man, you will recognize, is Magogar. In his creed strength is right; in fact, it is everything. It is the philosophy that controls him, and through him, the city. Under his rule the unfit are killed, or at best, allowed to perish on the ragged confines of our artificial civilization."
"What is your opinion of that philosophy?"
"Magogar is wrong, beyond a doubt," the Brain answered unhesitatingly. "Any species survives and develops through cooperation, and self-restraint of its individual members. Ruthless self-assertion is a stumbling block to human progress. Magogar is right when he says that the world belongs to the strong. It must, by the very constitution of man. But a ruler who is merely strong will inevitably be overthrown. Eventually the world will be governed by the strong, but by the strong who are noble as well."
"Magogar's philosophy seems to me to be the outgrowth of an overweening pride," Ostby said.
"Perhaps. Up to a point self-admiration is not to be deplored. But in excess it is an evil thing."
Now, Ostby decided, was the time to ask his vital question. "Don't you think that you and your people would be better off if the 'door' between the worlds were closed?" He held his breath while he waited for the answer.
"You are making a mistake if you associate me, in your mind, with my world's people," the Brain said. "Not having a body to inspire emotion, wants and desires, I am tied to them by nothing. Whether they are better or worse off concerns me not at all. Whether they are happy, or even all die, concerns me equally as little. But you are right. The 'door' is a bad thing for them. This city is a parasite. All its technology, its customs, its sins, its vices, are copied from your Earth. Without the 'door' this city, this artificial oddity, would vanish. Its inhabitants would disperse and resume their pastoral life, where, I assure you, they would be much happier.
"And the solution to this is, as you say, the closing of the 'door.' Because every machine we have, that we did not steal, is manufactured by captives from Earth."
He was in too deep to back out now, Ostby decided. He plunged recklessly into the next question. "Can you tell me something about the operation of the 'door'?"
"This is not the first time the 'door' has appeared between our worlds," the Brain said, "though I know very little about its original appearance. Practically all I know about that is the result of abstract speculation. It appeared at least once before, thousands of years ago. My own theory is that at that time there was a mass migration from our world to yours, and that the present Earth people are descendants of our own ancestors."
The Brain paused for a long minute before continuing. "I have studied many of the writings of the Earth, and am quite certain that I know more about its history than its average citizen. Do you recall the evidence found concerning the Cro-Magnon man of Earth's prehistoric ages? It seems that the so-called Neanderthal man was the animal that most nearly approached the present homo sapiens, until suddenly—as such things are reckoned—he was supplanted by another, much more advanced species of man, the Cro-Magnon. My research leads me to believe that those Cro-Magnon men migrated from our world to yours!"
A dozen questions sprang to Ostby's mind concerning this fascinating theory, but he put them aside impatiently. He was a man with a bulldog tenacity of purpose, and he had no intention of wasting time on questions prompted by idle curiosity.
"That's a very interesting theory," he said, "and I would like to discuss it more fully some other time. But for now, are you telling me that the 'door' is a natural phenomenon?"
"Not the present 'door,'" the Brain replied. "It was created, approximately twenty years ago, by the concentration and intellectual power of one mind—my own!"
"But how did you do it?"
"I don't know how much knowledge you have of physics," the Brain said slowly. "The explanation is a bit technical for the untrained man to understand. However, I'll explain it as simply as I can.
"Matter, as you probably know, is made up of tiny electrified bodies called electrons. When measurements were made it was found that the whole mass of the electron is due to its electrical charge. The inevitable conclusion is that the material universe is not the substantial, objective thing it was formerly thought to be. Matter is a completely spectral thing with no actual substance. The idea of substance must be replaced by that of behavior.
"Thus, opening the 'door' became a problem of controlling that behavior in such a way as to create a refraction of the matter separating worlds. That is not as simple as it may sound because a mind, to be able to do it, must possess a thorough understanding of the forces it deals with. It must have a tremendous capacity for concentration, and its logic must be entirely uninfluenced by emotion. I believe it is safe to say that no other mind, before mine, has ever combined these qualities in sufficient degree to accomplish the deed."
Strangely Ostby was not too surprised by this revelation. The makers of the capsule residing in the flesh of his left forearm had concluded, as a result of their studies, that the "door" might be the product of mind power. Their greatest mistake had been that it would take the combined power of at least eight brilliant minds to achieve the necessary matter refraction.
Here, then, lay the end of his search, Ostby knew. He regretted that its conclusion must entail the death of the Brain.
Somewhat as a form of apology he said, "It probably won't surprise you too much to know that I have decided to continue my fight on the side of the people of Earth. I am not going to let the accident of ancestry blind me to the justice of their cause. Also, regardless of my personal feelings, I must do whatever is necessary to attain my end. Do you see what I am trying to say?"
"I do," the Brain answered. "Your next question is, will I consent to close the 'door' voluntarily. My answer will be no, and then you will say that you must kill me. Am I right?"
Ostby nodded. "Tell me," he said, "are you not afraid to die?"
"The instinct of self-preservation is as strong in me as it ever was."
"Then I can only offer you my deepest regrets for what I must do." Ostby rose and gripped the back of his chair—he should be able to smash the brain-box with that, he decided—and found himself unable to lift it!
"And I must offer my regrets at the necessity of defending myself," the Brain said ironically. "I will allow no one to harm me. I am going to release you from my mental grip now, and I want you to leave this room. Never come in my presence again with the intent to harm me or I will be forced to kill you." The voice was entirely emotionless throughout.
Ostby's strength returned in a warm wave that washed his body free of the stasis that bound him, and vigor flowed back into his muscles. But he knew he was helpless before the unnormal powers of the mind before him, and he turned and left the room.
VI
By the time Ostby reached the outer balcony a black frustration clogged his veins. To be so close and still be unable to act. He was willing to give his life to close the "door," but every way he turned he found himself battering against walls of futility. The anger within him now, so close to despair, was more than he could control. His reason feared that anger and he fought against it, but it went with him like a tangible thing and he knew that he could no longer restrain it.
The sight of the Imperator lounging in an easy chair on the balcony, his face, arrogant and powerful, set in its habitual expression of disdainful hauteur, did nothing to ease Ostby's emotional storm.
"I've been reading the police reports concerning you and giving them some thought," the Imperator's voice laid its heavy weight on him. "My conclusions are not very flattering. I find you lack many admirable qualities. I'm about convinced that your dominant characteristics are cunning and guile rather than strength. If there is one thing I hate it's a dissembling man."
"You could be wrong," Ostby said, so softly that only a man as confident and self-assured as the Imperator would have missed the pent-up force behind the softness.
The Imperator waved his hand negligently. "I'll admit that you displayed ingenuity in hiding from the police," he said, "and you have a certain amount of animal-like adaptation to danger. But when you fought it was only with the desperation of a cornered rat! Your most noteworthy trait is subterfuge. I despise a gutless man!"
"Does it take guts to boast of your strength while hiding behind a palace guard?" Ostby asked.
For the time it took an incredulous expression to cross his face Magogar sat still, not believing what he had heard. No one spoke to him like that! He straightened and turned to face Ostby full on. "Will you repeat that?" he asked, the words half strangling in his throat.
"You heard me correctly," Ostby said, seating himself deliberately and insolently in a chair that faced the Imperator across a heavy wooden table. He had thrown the gauntlet. Now to strike hard at the twisted core of pride that bent the Imperator to fit its ruthlessness. "You boasted that you were the strongest man in the world, physically and mentally. You're wrong on both considerations. Mentally you are weak, with a sick and rotten pride that warps your mind. I believe you're even a bit insane."
The Imperator rose to his feet. Muscles bunched in hard straight lines along the ridges of his jaw, and the flanges of his nose were white with suppressed rage.
Ostby went inexorably on. "Physically you've passed your prime. Soft living has coated your muscles with fat, and fat girds your middle. You...."
"You've said enough," the Imperator interrupted. He reached toward a bell resting on the table between them.
"Wait!" Ostby stopped him with the word. "What is the strong man going to do? Ring for his men to help him? Are you a coward as well as a braggart?" Ostby could see his words strike like blows.
The Imperator, his eyes wide open, wicked and quiet, sat down purposefully. Oddly he seemed to have recovered his self-control. "Pull your chair up to the table," he said. "We will see where the strength lies."
This was the moment! Now, Ostby reflected, if only he hadn't overestimated himself. With the thought came a tinge of doubt. Perhaps he would find that he was governed by the same false pride of which he had accused Magogar.
He followed the Imperator's example and laid his left arm flat on the table. Their left hands made contact. They rested their right elbows, their arms forming an elevated triangle, with the table's surface as the third side.
They gripped right hands, each large and powerful. Ostby hoped that he had the sheer animal strength to cope with the Imperator's extra hundred pounds of weight.
The Imperator threw his full strength into a forward press, and they were locked in fierce, inarticulate conflict. Ostby felt the muscles in his forearm, his biceps, and into his shoulder protest against the violent strain. It took all his strength to meet the power that beat against him, wave upon wave, and he realized immediately that the best he could hope to do was hold his own. He set his muscles, with all his might behind them, and watched almost disinterestedly as the cords of his forearms swelled and pushed out the skin until they stood like taut wires. A dull ache came into the shoulder socket, and he felt perspiration gather in a cold drop in the pit of his arm and roll clammily down his ribs. He knew now that, whatever he might have said, the Imperator was not soft.
For a long minute, while the realities about them seemed to pause, they held their position, both straining every muscle. The Imperator's face turned slowly red. The red flowed down his cheeks and into the corded tendons of his neck. Ostby could feel a pulse pounding in his own temple.
Suddenly, though he felt no relaxation in the Imperator's arm, Ostby knew he had won. Something in the grip of the hands told him that from here in he was in command. The first concrete sign of it, however, showed in the Imperator's face. Ostby saw the first doubt creep into the cruel down-slanting corners of his mouth, and deep within the features of his face there was a sign of remote breakage. With the loss of certainty came a kind of shame into the man's face, and before Ostby's eyes he changed. Changed as the things he had lived for, all his life, were destroyed.
There was an excitement in Ostby now, and the excitement pleased him. He bent the Imperator's arm slowly back, until it was a few inches above the table top. He shot the adrenalin of his excitement into his arm and rapped the knuckles of the Imperator's hand sharply against the table.
For a moment they sat in a silence that carried more inflection than any noise. The Imperator's head was dropped as he went through his lonely thoughts. When he rose all reason had left him, and his face was twisted into a snarl of bottomless hate. Ostby knew he was facing a madman. A brutish roar rose from the Imperator's massive chest and rolled along the walls of the room. He reached for Ostby, and the table between them collapsed before his advance.
In the hall behind him Ostby heard the sound of running feet, and he knew he had to act, fast and forcefully. He set himself flat on his feet and brought his right arm around with fierce strength. His fist landed squarely against the Imperator's jaw.
The Imperator stood motionless and his eyes rolled slowly back. He swayed—with his body still unbending—and fell across the upturned table. He lay very still.
Ostby ran quickly to the balcony ledge and dived over.
Ostby swam underwater until his burning lungs forced him to the surface. He observed with relief that he had placed a bend in the harbor shore between him and the view from the balcony. He pulled himself from the water and walked rapidly away. The first shadows of evening had begun to fall and he hoped his wet clothing would not arouse too much attention. His broken right hand throbbed with dull anguish.
A half-hour later Ostby entered the Flats and made his way toward Siggen's house. He was only a few blocks from his destination when a tightening between his shoulder blades warned him of danger. Swiftly he turned. His throat quickened as he saw two men, a half-block behind, hurrying to overtake him. He began to run. He'd be safe if he could reach Siggen's.
Then with dismay he noted two men ahead of him blocking the walk. He looked desperately to either side for a way out.
He spied a passageway between two houses and cut sharply in between them. Behind him he heard a shout and men running. In front loomed a high fence. A blind alley!
Without pausing, he leaped high and caught the top of the fence, his shattered hand protesting every movement. Swinging his body like a pendulum he pulled his feet up. "I've got to make it!" he breathed.
He didn't!
His feet missed the top of the fence and fell back. He hung for a second, helpless.
He felt the sting of steel in his neck. He hung in shocked stupor as his life poured out in a flood of blood that ran down his shoulder.
Ostby crumbled to the ground. Painfully he clasped his fingers over the gaping wound but the blood continued to ooze out between his fingers. All strength and power of movement left him.
Oddly enough his mind remained clear. There was no fear in him now, and no pain. The thing that had happened to him seemed the misfortune of some other person and he viewed it almost dispassionately. There was only regret that he would never be able to finish his job. And he had been so close.
Soon he became aware that someone stood beside him. He looked up with eyes that still registered clearly everything they saw. The cynical figure, wiping a short knife on a handful of grass, Ostby knew, was the man who had assaulted him. There was no emotion in the man. No hate and no rancor.
Abruptly another figure stood beside the assassin. With a shock Ostby recognized Rinda. For a second hope flickered as he noted the anguish on her face and the tears in her eyes. But the face hardened resolutely.
"I want you to know I had it done," the Duchess said. She drew back her foot and kicked him. Then she was gone.
So it had been she, Ostby reflected. Ironic justice. The one diversion he had allowed himself had been his undoing.
The assassin still stood at his side, Ostby noted. Was the ghoul waiting to enjoy the finish, he wondered. Then his mind, which even in this extremity refused to accept its fate, conceived the shred of a plan. He strove to speak. At the third attempt he succeeded.
"How much.... How much did ... she pay you?" he asked.
"One thousand heds."
"If you get me ... take me...." Ostby's reasoning was beginning to leave him. Vision and speech blurred. A fiery ball of pain strained at the base of his head, as though striving to break out.
The immediacy of his need helped him focus his vision once more on the face above him. He gasped, "Take me to Siggen. He will pay you two thousand if you get me there alive."
Ostby felt himself being lifted carefully off the ground.
The ball of fire in his head burst and he fell through darkness. He fell until he struck the bottom of a black pit, went through and fell some more. Consciousness left him.
For six days Death sat on the wooden prop at the foot of Ostby's bed and grinned at the thing that clung so tenaciously to life. The spark within its destitute body flickered feebly those days and the nearest Ostby came to lucidity was when he sat up in bed and cursed the grinning spectre.
Each time fat but gentle hands eased him back and murmured to him until he returned to sleep.
By the sixth day Death's grin became strained. Why would the creature not die? All the vitality had been drained from the husk, yet the thing within—the thing called Will—would not surrender its life. Each minute it forced the body to breathe once more. And the next minute it breathed again. The minutes stretched into days, and the days to a week; and the seventh day, when Ostby opened his eyes, Death was gone. He had won the hardest battle of his life.
Death's frost still lay along his nerves during the next two weeks. Ostby realized how far he had been along the road to dying by the reluctance with which his strength returned. This was the first time in his life he could remember having been weak, so weak that the last frayed ends of his vitality lay naked. And with this weakness came a kind of humbleness. He lay quietly in the placid embrace of the apathy which the humbleness brought.
"I wish I knew some way to thank you," he said to Siggen.
"Don't try," Siggen urged. "If I'd ever had a son," he added, "I would have liked him to be like you."
An hour later Siggen said, "I'll do what you ask, but only on one condition: that you wait until you are stronger before you move."
Ostby considered. "I'll give myself two more days," he said. "By that time you should have everything ready."
Reluctantly Siggen agreed.
The sun had not yet risen, but its light was creeping into the sky as Siggen and Ostby stood huddled in a cold doorway across from the palace. All around them Ostby's discerning eye caught signs of life. But the signs did not disturb him. They were Siggen's men, and they were here at his request.
Suddenly a small splash of sound came from within the palace. A few minutes later two men, dressed in the uniform of the Imperator's guard, emerged. They were followed by four more. And during the next half-hour almost a hundred came from the palace. Some of them carried their belongings in their arms, and all of them were in a hurry.
"Something unusual is happening in there," Siggen said.
"Whatever it is, it suits our plans," Ostby said. "There can't be many guards left inside. Your men should have little trouble overpowering the remainder."
"I don't like it," Siggen said. "But every fear grows worse by not being looked at. Shall we go in?"
"Soon," Ostby answered. "Take me to the water-duct first."
"It's just around the corner," Siggen replied. "Come on."
They turned the corner of the building and Siggen paced off eight steps. "It should be right here," he said. He kicked in the dust until his foot struck a loose brick. "Right," he grunted.
Siggen bent and lifted the brick from its loose-fitting hole. "I supervised the job myself to see that it was done right," he said.
Ostby could hear a faint gurgle of water coming from the hole.
He rolled back the sleeve of his left arm and probed with his fingers until he found the spot he sought. "Cut here," he said.
Siggen shook his head disapprovingly but did as he was told. Blood crept out around the knife blade as it did its work. Ostby said nothing.
When Siggen had extracted the capsule, he handed it to Ostby.
Ostby knelt on one knee and broke the capsule, holding it carefully over the hole in the street. He counted the drops that fell.
"Six," he said. "And one more." He shook the broken halves, and dropped them into the water flowing beneath the hole. "That should do it," he commented, with satisfaction. "One drop will effectively impregnate two hundred fifty thousand gallons of water."
"I wish I knew what you were trying to do," Siggen said, "but I suppose that you'll tell me in your own good time. Do I send my men in yet?"
"Yes, we'd better start. They know that they're to take over the entire first floor and to hold it against all comers?"
Siggen nodded and lifted his hand in a prearranged signal. The shadows about the buildings gave up their skulkers, and figures slipped out from every doorway and hiding place and entered the palace.
Ten minutes passed and not a sound came from within.
"It's too quiet," Siggen said. "I don't like it."
"We'll go in now," Ostby said.
Once in the palace Siggen called over one of his men. "Anything doing?" he asked.
"Nothing," the man replied. "The whole place seems deserted."
"What do we do now?" Siggen asked, turning to Ostby.
"We'll go upstairs. Magogar should be there."
"Will I bring along some of the men?"
"No," Ostby said. "I have a feeling that we won't need them."
Siggen and Ostby went slowly up the stairway. When they reached the room that housed the Brain, Ostby entered first.
"You timed it very well," a hollow voice greeted him, but it failed to catch Ostby's entire attention for he was looking down at a figure lying on the floor.
The figure was that of the Imperator, with a knife buried in his breast!
"Yes, he's dead," the hollow voice said, "and you killed him."
"I?" Ostby brought his attention up to the huge eye that gazed at him unwinking.
"You," the Brain answered. "Technically it's suicide. But when you defeated him in a test of strength, you killed him as surely as though you plunged the knife into his heart!"
"Then my work may be finished," Ostby said. He looked at the Brain with a question in his gaze.
"Yes," the Brain answered his unspoken question. "It is done. You were wise in deducing that I must use water to function, and thus would be exposed to the potion you placed in the palace water-duct. I'll never be able to open the 'door' again."
"I'm happy to hear that," Ostby said, letting his shoulders ease down. Only with the release did he realize the weight of the burden he had been carrying all these past months. "I hope it didn't harm you otherwise," he said.
"Not at all," the Brain answered. "You merely changed the pitch of a subtle brain resonance necessary for the opening of the 'door.' It is analogous to a growing boy's loss of the ability to sing tenor. His vocal cords are in no way injured when they grow too coarse to attain a certain pitch. But...."
The Brain paused. "What now?"
"How do you mean?" Ostby asked.
"You know that you will never be able to return to Earth after this. And, as you are the nominal successor to Magogar, I presume you will take over the city's government?"
"You're wrong," Ostby replied unhesitatingly. "I have no slightest desire to be Imperator."
"If you don't there will be chaos in the city."
"You told me once that the people would be happier if they returned to their pastoral way of life. So now let them."
"That's correct," the Brain replied. "But if you leave the city without a government it will collapse in a bath of blood. It would be much better if you allowed the disintegration to occur gradually under your control. Furthermore, here is a thought which may not have entered your mind. There are thousands of Earth people in the city. If given the opportunity they could be quite happy here. They would be the technicians and tradesmen. In time they, and their descendants would be assimilated into the population, perhaps giving it many of their better traits. Would you give that up and expose them to death under the anarchy you would leave?"
"No," Ostby said. "But I have a different plan. One in which you play an integral part. Would you be willing to give Siggen the cooperation he'd need if he took over as Imperator?"
For the first time Ostby saw Siggen show surprise. His eyes widened at the first realization of what Ostby had proposed, but he said nothing and his features settled back into their usual placid tranquillity. Only in his eyes did Ostby see how greatly he was pleased.
"You think, perhaps, that you surprise me," the Brain answered. "But I, too, have given Siggen thought since Magogar took his life. Siggen is the head of the element most likely to get out of hand, and he would be best able to control them. The so-called aristocracy may not like the choice but they have very little actual strength. As for the guards and police, with my, and your, sanction, I am certain that they will be happy to return to their former posts. And finally, Siggen is an able administrator. You may not like this, but he will make a better Imperator than yourself."
"Then it's settled," Ostby said. He turned to Siggen and held out his hand. "My friend, Siggen—Imperator—I leave the city in your capable hands. For the present, I bid you goodby." He turned and walked from the room.
For the first time Siggen spoke. "He is at heart very romantic," he said to the Brain. "He goes now to renew an affair of courtship with a certain Duchess, Rinda!"