Текст книги "Beneath The Planet Of The Apes "
Автор книги: Michael Avallone
Жанры:
Альтернативная история
,сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 9 страниц)
8.
SPECTERS
There was a stone fountain in the center of the incredible graveyard-city. Brent did not notice it until, magically, it began to spout water. A steady, spurting stream which suddenly and gracefully began to spiral before his eyes. The tiny rippling sounds it made drew him and the girl like a magnet. In the harsh glare of the white stone city with its atmosphere of total antiseptic reality, they both began to drink. Nova lapped at the fluid greedily, like a thirsty dog. Brent drank more slowly, finally straightening when he was sated. Nova continued to drink. Brent watched her.
And then . . .
Abruptly, methodically, with no conscious thought of the movement, he reached down, placed both hands around Nova’s neck and forced her head beneath the surface of the pool surrounding the stone fountain.
Nova jerked spasmodically, her entire length stiffening. Brent tightened the grip of his hands, digging into the soft flesh of the girl’s neck. He pressed down, mercilessly.
The water rippled, coalesced, shimmered, shattered and rippled into a million extensions of unreality.
Brent increased his hold. Nova spluttered, fighting. Trying to fight back. Drowning . . .
Through a dim haze, Brent saw his own reflection in the agitated waters. Two reflections, really.
The one reflected in the waters of the fountain was an insane parody of his own face. A mask, depicting some intense struggle of mental combat between some outer and inner force over which he had no conscious control. He continued to hold the girl’s head below the surface of the fountain pool.
His other face mocked back at him.
Full of pity, horror and astonishment.
The reflected other face was distorted into the visage of some strange monster. A demented, rabid animal with bared teeth and glaring eyes.
Brent’s mentality rocked into chaos.
The outer force was saying: Put my hands around her throat. Hold her head down in the water till she dies.
The inner force was fighting back with: Take my hands off her throat. Get out of my head!
Brent groaned, mingling a gasp and a grunt, as both forces locked for possession of his soul.
With his hands still clasped about the girl’s neck, Brent’s voice tore savagely from his throat.
“Take . . . put my hands off . . . round her throat . . . hold her . . . throat . . . get out of my head . . . down in the water . . . till she . . .” his voice rose in a roar of sound, “DIES!” And then, “No . . . ! NO!”
He wrenched his hands from her throat with a Herculean effort, reeling away from her. For a terrible moment he swayed on his feet, dumbly staring. He felt an appalled sense of horror. Nova came up from the pool, splashing, choking, gagging. She sagged against the stone circular side of the fountain, goggling at him with mingled terror and amazement. Brent fought himself not to approach her. The war in his mind was still raging. Kill her. Don’t kill her. He shook his head like a confused dog, fighting the outer pressures that wanted to push him toward her, destruction-bound. But Nova remained motionless, mutely staring at him.
Brent’s lips barely moved.
“Nova, keep away from her throat . . . her bare throat in the water until you get out . . .” His hand came up in a wild wave. As if pushing something away from himself. He stopped up his ears with both hands. “Get out!” he raged at the silence all around them. “GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”
He backed away from the girl frantically.
She stared up at him, her mouth hanging open.
He pushed out with both hands again.
The fountain—and Nova—receded . . .
Suddenly, his shoulders had touched something.
Huge double doors, abruptly behind him, loomed large and mysterious. Oddly unlocked. Brent’s athletic figure swung the doors open. He forced himself back, over a dim threshold, glad of anything that would keep him from harming the girl. Nova grew smaller in his erratic vision. He stopped, only for a second, to call back to her. For she was taking a hesitant step toward him, slender arms outspread.
“Wait for me—” Brent whispered, still fighting the forces engulfing him. “Nova—!” His brain was on fire. Her figure wavered in his sight. Shouting hysterically, Brent crossed the dark threshold and slammed the double doors behind him to close out the horror in his head. To block off Nova from his violence.
She disappeared from view.
Brent hung exhausted against the curved metal door grips on the inside and fought to catch his breath. For a long moment he wrestled with his inner and outer wills. Then he quietened. The strange fit had momentarily passed. He sucked air into his lungs and shuddered. Then he pulled himself erect once more. Turning, he surveyed the interior of this building he had fled into as a sanctuary from insanity.
The unrealities again ruled.
Even here.
He was in a cathedral.
In direct contrast to the bright white glare without, here was only blessed gloom. Brent’s eyes roved quickly.
He saw a row of wooden pews flanking a great arched nave. There was a threshold up front, past the choir stalls, beyond the pews. He saw a prie-dieu directly below a high altar of some kind. Brent blinked in the occult semidarkness.
There was a man standing on the sacred threshold up front.
A white-robed, white-hooded apparition, kneeling in homage or religious fealty of some kind. A figure as still as any statue. The figure had not moved when the great doors had slammed shut. Brent, for all his dazed condition, recognized in that tiny unimportant fact a universal truth and oddity: why shouldn’t a cathedral door always be open to devotees?
Brent watched the hooded figure, not daring to breathe. Or even speak. The hush of the place was emotionally demoralizing.
The hood lifted upward, the robed arms spread out like bat wings and a sonorous voice suddenly intoned: “I reveal my Inmost Self unto my God!” The voice rang with the clarity and persuasion of unshakable faith and belief. Brent found his eyes ranging upward, following the direction of the stentorian declaration.
Slowly, from the space of darkness above the high altar, an eerie light appeared. Growing, expanding, as if on a rheostat; the gloom transformed from dim illumination to a full, blazing intensity. The outflung arms of the hooded figure held in a posture of crucifixion. And utter adoration.
Brent saw what the new light held.
Not a statue of Christ.
Not even some strange unknown pagan god.
The hooded figure’s exhortations were for something else.
The ultimate blasphemy.
Something mounted and enthroned and positioned with all the care and reverence of any highly esteemed religious curio.
A Twentieth-Century Atom Bomb.
Perfectly preserved and slung, like some great inverted cross, between two supporting brackets of hammered gold, it hung from the arched nave in all its illuminated wonder. On one of its impressive steel fins there were stenciled the two Greek letters: ALPHA and OMEGA.
The Beginning and the End.
Brent stared in mounting horror from the depths of the double doors. “In a church—?” His racked whisper was alien to his own ears. It was as if someone else had spoken.
A tiny scratch of sound came on the door behind him. Back to the barrier, Brent suddenly drew taut. The scratching continued. He closed his eyes. “Nova?” The scratching burbled into a flurry of sounds. Brent slid both hands into the door grips, blocking the portals with his body, his muscles congealing into lead. He didn’t budge. “Keep away, Nova,” he whispered urgently to the door. “Keep away from me—and from here . . .”
But the tapping had become almost a crescendo, punctuated with fist-pounding and low moans of appeal. Brent tightened his resolve; perspiration broke out on his forehead. He couldn’t let the girl in here, no matter what happened . . .
The hooded figure on the dais had turned.
An ornate panel at his side, with three jeweled buttons of emerald, topaz and ruby set into the top of the prie-dieu, was pressed. Brent saw the gesture, realizing that the figure had heard Nova’s attempts to get in.
The figure rose to its full height and made another gesture. Brent started. He knew somehow, with some weird sense of comprehension, that what he was seeing was the Sign of the Bomb.
An inverted Sign of the Cross. With the figure making a vertical downward gesture to depict the body of the Bomb and then two lateral gestures to indicate the fins at its base. The supreme sacrilege! A sign from Hell.
The whole cathedral suddenly flooded with new light.
Even as Nova continued to pound away, the hooded figure came down from the dais and stalked toward Brent huddled at the doors of the strange place of worship. And when the pounding stopped, with Brent blinking in the sudden fresh glare of illumination, the hooded figure advanced like a specter. Brent wondered at the silence beyond the door. He started to open it, then checked himself and turned to confront the advancing figure. Nova was forgotten.
The hood framed a face of startling purity.
The man drew closer and halted, staring at Brent.
Brent stared back.
He assumed that the man was the verger of this strange cathedral. But beyond that, the appearance of the face before him was astounding.
The man was tall, of an indecipherable age, but his face was one of great beauty. Unwrinkled skin, as smooth as marble, deep-set luminous eyes in shadowed sockets, with the barest accentuation of lip line, which somehow makes a man or a woman look sexy. The man’s mouth seemed to speak. To say something. But Brent heard nothing, orally.
“What did you say?” Brent asked fiercely, frightened again.
The verger had said nothing.
He merely stood there, regarding Brent.
“What do you mean, there’s no point?” Brent answered the unspoken words he heard in his own brain. “Will they hurt her?”
Again the verger’s lips did not move.
“Maybe not physically,” Brent agreed. “But you can hurt here.” He tapped his own head. “I know.”
The verger spoke his unheard words.
“Yes, it’s gone now,” Brent answered. “But outside—” Suddenly he twitched. A great spasm took hold of him. His eyes leaped. “Your lips don’t move. Your lips don’t move . . . but I can hear . . . no, not hear—I mean I know what you are thinking.”
The fixed grin left the verger’s face.
Brent nodded. “I saw nothing. You were in darkness.”
The verger spoke again, silently.
Brent looked quickly over his shoulder. His mind raced to remain calm, to keep pace with this new-found unreality.
Two men had appeared at the double doors behind him. Unarmed, but strangely alien and enigmatically marble-faced; two more denizens of this strange and terrible city. They touched Brent’s elbows briefly with the fingertips of velvet-textured hands.
“All right, all right,” he muttered, not resisting.
Unable to understand, incapable of assessing anything, he allowed himself to be led out of the cathedral. The verger remained where he was. Shadowy, inscrutable. But now there was a worried gleam in the deep-set luminous eyes.
There was no sign of Nova beyond the big doors.
But around the stone fountain, capering in the awful white glare of the city’s atmosphere, were a dozen or more children of many races and ages. Their squeals of pleasure sounded grotesque in the daylight. Brent restrained a shudder. The children had ringed the fountain, romping in a dancing circle, their voices gaily blending in a terrible refrain:
Ring-a-ring o’neutrons
A pocketful of positrons
A fission! A fission!
We all fall down!
On the last word, they spilled backward, forming a star shape, and lay deathly still. Like some dreadful parody of an old Busby Berkeley musical dance routine from one of the old Warner Brothers movies of the thirties. Brent shuddered again, remembering—it was only a game, wasn’t it? But . . .
The silent guards egged him on, courteously almost, gently prodding his elbows again. Brent kept on moving. The playing children were soon lost somewhere behind him. The ghastly white complex of the metropolis engaged all of his attention. The tomblike buildings jutting sheer from the barren earth. The all-encompassing glare of white and cold daylight. Dimly he could hear the echoing words of the playing children as they picked up yet another chorus of the deadly song. It sounded like something they had learned by rote. A Child’s Garden of Verses set to the meaning and reality of a terrible code of destruction and doom. Armageddon set to Mother Goose!
It was terrifying.
And he had no idea where Nova was. Or what they might have done to her. Whoever They were.
They!
In his torn-apart and beleaguered intellect, he was no longer able to make any judgments or solve any mental problems. His entire universe of consciousness and stable thinking was awry; he had lost all sense of rhythm, balance and common sense.
He was only hurtingly aware of one great truth.
He had fled from the mockery of the Great Apes into something perhaps twice as alien, a dozen times more hazardous. A hopeless morass of terror, horror and who knew what else?
Meaning—he had jumped from the frying pan directly into the fire.
As perhaps—Taylor had?
It was too early to tell. Too early to tell anything.
He didn’t know.
He might never know.
Blindly, obediently, he suffered himself to be led by the marble-faced guards to another part of this Crazy House forest.
All he did wish, and hope for, with every fiber of whatever of his being still belonged to him by right of his own individuality, was that the girl was all right.
Safe.
Unharmed.
Untouched by the madness that seemed to surround him on all sides. The sheer glare of lunacy that had become a part of all his waking reflexes and responses. And reactions.
Not even H.G. Wells at his wildest, not even Jules Verne, had dared conceive of a civilization dedicated to the Bomb.
This, indeed, was a journey into the Absurd.
And the terribly frightening—
For he knew that he was somewhere on Fifth Avenue and the vaulted building he had just left was St. Patrick’s Cathedral!
9.
MENDEZ
Another white corridor.
Another trip into isolation and weird world-within-worlds.
Brent, flanked by his grim guards, found himself being ushered down a long bare corridor, a narrow passageway which was lined all along the route with uniform busts, honoring some form of dynastic succession. It wasn’t until the last bleak, awesome stone head and shoulders that Brent got any inkling of what he was seeing. This last impressively mounted face had a plaque at its base which proclaimed in etched lettering: MENDEZ XXVI. Mendez the Twenty-Sixth! Brent wagged his head, to clear it of cobwebs.
At last the guards led him through another door.
Into another room.
And another nightmare. In broad daylight.
It was a room shaped like an amphitheater, with curved white walls, the hallway forming a well below. This was where Brent and the two guards stood, waiting for some kind of audience. At the head of the room, Brent could see the living replica of that last bust in the narrow passageway. The same smooth marble face, the luminous eyes, the glasslike rigidity. All of it enveloped in brilliant purple robes, lying like a shroud about the imposing figure of Mendez the Twenty-Sixth, as he sat like a judge presiding in some Supreme Court conclave of this incredible city. Brent stared up at the paradox of five robed inquisitor-rulers, sitting in carved chairs, regarding him with an impassivity of gaze that was bloodcurdling in its lack of human emotion. Brent held his ground, staring back. His eyes, which had been the most important part of his physical tools these last terrible hours, were now fully strung to the maximal pitch of their efficiency. Seeing was believing—but here, in this awful new world, it was also disbelieving. The senses, all five of them, could assimilate only so much.
His eyes swept over Mendez and his court.
He saw a magnificent Negro, robed all in white, his onyx face startling in contrast with his garments. He saw a mountainous fat man, serene and cool, garbed in red robes. To Mendez’s left, there was a woman—a strikingly beautiful woman, whose ivory face rose like an orchid from a gown of sheer blue. To Mendez’s right, a green-robed elder-statesman type—very much like the mysterious verger—squatted prominently. But unlike his companions, this one was almost charming and cheerful in demeanor. Brent was reminded of a Puck, grown to ancient years.
All five of these phantasmagorical figures struck Brent like some odd concatenation of Rembrandt’s famous Syndics of the Cloth Guild. With the terrible difference of an imposed horror. And the fantasy of the Unknown.
He waited, wondering, trying to control the fear moving like a snake in his stomach.
He didn’t realize that the five seated figures, looking down, could see him directly. Or that if they looked straight ahead, they could see, projected on the opposite wall, the visual impress of their own thought projections. Brent had no way of knowing into what technological wonderworld he had stumbled, though his encounter with the verger had given him some advance notice of the miracles to be found in this strange city.
Each “wall image” was projected in color to identify the sender. Thus, white for the Negro, blue for the beautiful girl, red for the fat man, green for the puckish statesman type. And purple for Mendez himself. This Brent was yet to learn, for he could not see the wall behind him.
Nor could he yet fully understand the traumatic hypnosis that the people of this civilization could inflict upon him. As they had done with him at the water fountain in that episode with Nova. Brent’s own stubbornness would bring on such an attack.
The practitioner merely had to close his eyes, project to the wall in his own color scheme, and Brent would remain in pain and agony until the particular inquisitor opened his eyes.
This was the mad world into which Brent had all unknowingly stumbled. The phenomenon of A.D. 3955!
Brent felt himself the target of Mendez, the Negro, the woman, the fat man and the elder statesman.
He knew they were talking to him; he felt it even though he could hear no words, see no lips move, and knew nothing about the wall behind him with its color-scheme code of interrogation.
Mendez said nothing.
The fat man jerked his head ever so slightly.
The far wall lit up in red colors.
“Brent,” Brent answered.
The fat man jerked his head again.
“John Christopher,” Brent said politely. “And who are you?”
Another jerk.
“I see—” Brent found himself understanding, in spite of the impossibility of it all. And the improbability. “You—are the only reality in the universe. Everything else is illusion. Well, that’s nice to know.”
The red colors flared on the opposite wall. The others said nothing.
“I got here by accident,” Brent explained to the fat man. “How did you get here?”
There was no answer from the fat man.
As the interview progressed, a pattern began to become very clear. The fat man probed for facts, the woman for emotional feelings, the elder statesman for beliefs and opinions. The Negro would ask no questions at all. He was there merely to induce pain; the catalyst for the workings of man’s conscience. Brent only sensed all this. He could not have said where the knowledge came from.
Mendez sat through it all, implacable as a Buddha.
The elder statesman now jerked his head, his genial smile almost benevolent. But only almost.
It was like being caught in a cross-fire of four machine guns. Only you could not hear the whine and twang of bullets. Only the ferocity of the assault hit you like some withering invisible hail of terror.
Openmouthed, Brent once more answered.
“You’re way off. Why should I want to spy on you? Personally, I’m not even sure you exist.” It was true. Was it all a bad dream? Would he awaken on the reconnaissance spacecraft to find Skipper poking him to get up?
The puckish inquisitor jerked his head.
“Certainly I know who I am,” Brent rasped impatiently. “I’m an astronaut. I’m here because I’m lost.”
No surprise showed on the five faces up above him. Only a sudden interest. Mendez’s eyes glistened like a cat’s.
The fat man again jerked his head.
“From this planet,” Brent answered him. “But from another time. Two thousand years ago.”
There was still no surprise evident. Only that deepening of interest in the marble faces above him.
“I know, it sounds insane. But if so, it’s my insanity, not yours. So I can abolish you—all of you—anytime I choose.”
They all smiled at that. Benevolently. Matching the elder statesman’s habitual facade.
Brent bit his lip.
He could not see the opposite wall.
The inquisitors had projected, in their various color schemes, a montage of all that had happened.
An image of Taylor, looking like some prehistoric Tarzan, with a bedraggled Nova-Eve in tow, was shown approaching buried New York. The last shot left him striking the wall of ice and vanishing into its wilderness, with Nova screaming behind him.
“No, I don’t know how to get back,” Brent almost mumbled, still oblivious of the story on the wall. “We came through a defect—a kind of slipping in Time itself.”
He caught himself, feeling a wave of self-pity swamping him. “My skipper died. I’m alone.”
Instantly, the images of Taylor and the girl on the wall vanished. They were supplanted by five images of Nova all by herself, wandering in the desert wilderness. And then—
She was projected in all of the inquisitorial colors:
The fat man saw her pulling herself through the octagonal vent. A burst of flaming red.
The beautiful woman saw her asleep in Brent’s arms on the bench in the public square. A shimmering blue ocean of color.
Mendez saw her hammering on the outside of the cathedral’s double door. A purple flash of violence.
The elder statesman envisioned her being seized and removed by the guards on duty in the strange city. A twisting garland of green.
Only the Negro’s wall remained colorless. Bare, blank and white.
The beautiful woman in blue jerked her lovely face.
Brent was instantly on the defensive.
“Who?” he hesitated.
The woman jerked again.
“Nova?” Brent lied. “What’s that? A star? A galaxy?” His heart pounded with sudden alarm for the girl.
At that, the Negro shut his eyes.
Brent cried out. A poker-hot inferno ignited his skull. His brain revolved in stunning flashes of agony. He went down to his knees, tears coming to his eyes. The Negro opened his eyes. Slowly.
Gradually, painfully, Brent straightened. The agony had left as suddenly as it had come.
“I know her—yes . . .”
Silence greeted that.
Brent lost his temper, shouting, “She’s harmless! Let her alone!”
The Negro closed his eyes again.
Rivets of white-hot pain hit Brent from every direction. He went down again, writhing as his entire body was stitched and needled with agonizing pinpricks. He clutched his stomach as if he had been poisoned. His vitals were on fire. His face twisted, his tongue lolled. “All right—” the breath forced itself from his lungs. “I’ll—tell you!”
Smiling, the Negro opened his beautiful eyes.
The woman jerked her head again.
“I didn’t find her,” Brent gasped. “She found me.”
Again, a jerk.
“Two days ago.”
Another jerk.
“Don’t be crude,” Brent groaned. “I’m fond of her. And grateful . . .”
The beautiful woman arched her head once more.
“Because she helped me!”
Another tilt of that lovely face.
“To break out of Ape City.”
All five of the faces looming over him leaned forward. Now all of the heads twitched in unison. Brent’s hands shot to his ears. They were engulfing him from all sides, attacking on every front of his personality and intelligence.
“Stop!” he begged. “I can’t understand—can’t separate—you’re all screaming at me—at the same time! Please . . .”
He groveled, still blocking his ears in order to hear nothing more. Suddenly, incredibly, the face of Mendez softened. His rubbery lips parted and a deep, mellifluous voice sounded in the chamber of new horrors. Brent stared up at him in amazement.
“He’s right,” Mendez said. “He has only limited intelligence. We should speak aloud. And one at a time. Albina.” He looked at the strikingly beautiful woman in blue.
The woman stared down at Brent, her impeccable face almost kind and sympathetic. But it was the illusion of her beauty and her rich, deep tones.
“Are we to apprehend,” she said, soothingly, “that you—were in the City of the Apes . . . ?”
Brent, tremendously gratified though nothing had changed, nodded eagerly. The chamber didn’t seem so terrifying any more.
“Yes. Two days ago.”
The fat man intervened. “What did you see?”
Brent dodged that, side-stepping the question.
“You’re talking . . .”
The elder statesman nodded cheerfully. “Certainly, we can all talk. A rather primitive accomplishment. We use it when we have to. I, Caspay, consider it a vulgar thing.”
“When we pray,” the fat man interjected again.
“When we sing to God,” the Negro said fervently.
Then all of them, all five on the dais, made the hateful Sign of the Bomb. Brent winced, in memory of that sleek monster atop the high altar of the cathedral. St. Patrick’s—my God!
“Your God—what a joke! You worship something we made two thousand years ago. An atom bomb!”
The fat man heaved a long and ponderous sigh. The folds of his fat stomach wriggled beneath his red robes.
“Ah. You’ve seen the Bomb, Mr. Brent.”
“Above the altar in your cathedral. An obscenity . . .”
All the inquisitors rose as one in response to his heated indignation. Their faces were ominous. Even Caspay was no longer smiling. Regal Mendez rose like a lean colossus, his eyes flashing.
“Mr. Brent, you have beheld God’s instrument on Earth!” he intoned majestically. He motioned his fellow inquisitors to be seated. He alone remained standing.
He looked down at Brent.
“For it is written that, in the First Year of the Bomb—the blessing of the Holy Fallout descended from above . .
“What kind of nonsense is that?” Brent interrupted harshly. Mendez ignored him.
“. . . and my people built a new city in the blackened bowels of the old . . .”
“Nonsense!” Brent roared, trembling, angry.
“Blessed be the Bomb Everlasting—” Mendez droned on.
“Utter nonsense . . .”
“. . . to whom alone we may reveal our inmost truth, and whom we shall serve all our days in peace.”
“Until you fire it at the apes,” Brent concluded sarcastically.
There was fresh silence at that. Mendez then stirred. His deep eyes held strange lights in them.
“You don’t understand.” With a rustle of his purple robes, he sat down again. “The Bomb is a Holy Weapon of Peace.”
Brent began to laugh.
He couldn’t help it.
Amusement shook him. A terrible humor that put aside all concern for his own safety. The Negro shut his eyes. Quickly. Sadly almost.
More pain, more mental injections of torture, made Brent a writhing, twisting, burlesque of a human being on the floor of the chamber. Animal sounds tore from his throat. He sounded half bestial.
The Negro waited a full minute and then reopened his eyes.
“We’re a patient people, Mr. Brent,” he said softly, his voice nevertheless filling the chamber. “We can repeat this little lesson as often as we want. Because we are determined to know what the apes want. War, or peace.”
Brent waited for the waves of agony and nausea to recede. He recovered more slowly this time. He propped himself up on his hands and knees, fighting off hysteria. Caspay’s puckish voice came down to him, reprovingly.
“Try to understand—the only weapons we have are purely illusion.”
Albina’s soothing contralto filtered down too.
“You imagined he was hurting you.”
Brent smiled at her crookedly, shaking his head.
“Because I imagined I was hurting you,” the Negro explained without malice. “Are you in pain now?”
“No,” Brent admitted.
“No imaginary bones broken? Or blood flowing?” The Negro’s voice took on echoes of sadism; he was enjoying his thoughts. “Or eyeballs bursting? Or guts spilling?”
“No,” Brent said, louder than before.
“Then I have hurt but not harmed you,” the Negro affirmed.
Albina smiled triumphantly.
“Traumatic Hypnosis is a weapon of peace.”
Caspay’s eyes twinkled mysteriously.
“Like the Visual Deterrent.”
Before Brent had time to ask what that was, there was a mammoth whooosh of sound and within a yard of where he stood, a pillar of flame shot up. Brent reeled back. A vertical geyser jet of steam behind him licked at his rear so that he had to stumble forward again. Only to be cut off by the wall of fire. Between two horrors.
“Or the Sonic Deterrent,” Caspay chuckled delightedly.
Abruptly there was a rat-tat-tat, a gobbling medley of rapid-fire noises to the right of where Brent stood imprisoned. As if an invisible machine gun had cut loose. Then to his left, an ear-skewering electronic scream of sound rose in such deafening volume that soon the entire chamber and the outside world seemed to reverberate with the caterwauling. The sounds rose to a deafening tumult, then just when Brent was sure his eardrums would explode, vanished with terrifying, miraculous abruptness. His body swayed with the assault from all sides.
“Weapons,” Caspay continued blandly, “of peace, Mr. Brent.”
“Like all our weapons,” the beautiful Albina agreed from her sea of blue robes.
The Negro nodded firmly. “Mere illusion.”
Brent lost his temper and what was left of his discretion. He had been a toy for too long; a mere mortal buffeted and battered about by what was seemingly an impossible manifest destiny.
“Damn your hypocrisy!” he bellowed.
The Negro turned to look at Caspay. Then he looked at his white wall. There, projected, was an image of Brent set afire, clothes and flesh blazing, screaming soundlessly in a void of death. Caspay returned his gaze down to Brent. His expression was gentle.
“We very much need your help, Mr. Brent.”
“Why?” It was a helpless groan from Brent.
“We are the Keepers of the Divine Bomb. That is our only reason for survival. And yet—as you see—we are defenseless.”
Brent sneered. Bitterly.
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Defenseless,” Caspay continued, “against the monstrous, slobbering, materialistic apes.”
“I’ll help nobody!” Brent rallied, with deep but slow confusion. “I hope you annihilate one another.”
