The archaeologist was silent for a long moment, contemplating questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answered, knowing that if he wanted to help his wife he had no choice but to hear them.
“That—that was one of my main questions. I know it has something to do with human unhappiness.”
“Truly it does.” Oelefse shifted in the chair. “Tell me, my friend: Have you ever felt ill without knowing the source? Irritable, angry for no discernible reason, upset with a moment in life that was really of minor consequence? Have you ever yelled at others only to wonder why afterwards? Hurt another person for no good cause? Suffered from headaches that no pill would alleviate, such as migraines that seemed to materialize without cause? Acted in an irrational fashion that left you feeling later as if you had been acting in a dream?”
“Who hasn’t?” was all Cody could think of to say.
“Who indeed? Most of the time, such behavior can be traced to natural causes. But sometimes it cannot. The most severe examples arise from roots beyond the ability of medical science to detect. Though not beyond that of modern physics. How is your knowledge of subatomic particles?”
The change of subject took Cody aback. “Pretty limited. There’s not much call for it in archaeology, except for those of us who specialize in dating.”
“I will not go into details. Those Who Abide are detectable by devices that measure such things, but we who search them out and confront them cannot carry particle accelerators around with us.” Unexpectedly, he grinned. “They will not fit even in a German car.
“Different kinds of Interlopers induce different reactions. What they feed upon, what they derive from their incognizant human hosts, is misery. Unhappiness, despair, grief; these are all powerful emotions that generate particular sets of electrical impulses in the brain. As near as we have been able to determine, this is what the Interlopers feed upon. The greater the distress, the more extreme the anguish, the more food there is for Those Who Abide.” His voice fell slightly.
“Is it any wonder that they would revel, and multiply, and thrive, during a war, or a period of widespread misery in human history such as the Dark Ages, or the time of the Black Plague?”
“But that’s when their human hosts would perish in the greatest numbers.” Cody considered the ramifications. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“The only time an Interloper can move from one human to another is when the original host dies. At times of great crisis, people are always being buried. For the Interlopers, transfer then becomes a matter of picking and choosing among many potential new hosts, not of finding one.
“At the same time, while they are feeding, they can sometimes control more than their host’s emotions. Surely you have by now encountered evidence of this adaptation?”
Cody remembered: the auto accidents he had observed, people happy one moment and fighting the next, parents berating bewildered children: all evidence of the malicious intervention of hungry Interlopers.
“So they don’t just feed on negative emotions; they actually stimulate them.”
Oelefse nodded somberly. “Just as certain ant species stimulate aphids to secrete a sugary nectar for the ants to feed upon. To Those Who Abide we are cattle. Desolation and misery are their crops, which they cultivate wherever and whenever they can. A headache is a snack, a marital row a meal, emotional disintegration a dessert. The great causes of mass human suffering such as epidemics, natural catastrophes, and especially war, are banquets: troughs of despair in which they wallow ecstatically.”
“And there’s nothing we can do about it.” Overwhelmed by the dismal revelations of his guest, Cody would have slumped dejectedly, if not for the realization that it might serve to excite and attract any Interlopers in the immediate vicinity. No wonder the restorative properties of humor were always being lauded by physicians. A joyful individual would present a dearth of nourishment to an Interloper.
“On the contrary, my young friend. We can fight,” Oelefse told him. “We of the Society have being doing so for millennia. If there was no resistance, civilization as we know it would be even worse off today than it is. What progress we as a species have made is a consequence not of fatalistic acquiescence, but of a will to resist.” He wagged an admonishing finger at the despondent younger man.
“Laughter, my friend, is a powerful weapon. It is to the Interlopers what insecticide is to bugs. While it cannot cure an infestation, it can help to ward one off or to mitigate its consequences. Remember that always.”
“That’s it? All we can fight these things with are jokes?”
“There are other means. If there were not, there would be little hope. The members of the Society have calculated that were it not for the Interlopers, civilization would be at least a thousand years more advanced than it is now. We would long ago have seen an end to the kind of tribal warfare that roils the Balkans and the Caucasus, Africa and the Middle East. We would be done with fossil fuels and their attendant pollution, and would long ago have settled the other worlds of our solar system, if not those of other stars. Always, the Interlopers are there, holding us back, eagerly abetting our worst instincts. Every time it seems that we are ready to spring forward, there is an inexplicable, seemingly unavoidable war, or a new crisis over something as stupid as money, or territory, or religion, that holds us back. Or a new plague rears its microbial head, its spread facilitated by zealous Interlopers.” His gaze narrowed, and there was nothing of the senile about it.
“The new drug-resistant tuberculosis, chloroquine- and fansidar-resistant forms of malaria, mutated kinds of venereal disease: All have Those Who Abide to thank for their rapid spread, if not their origins. And then there is AIDS. All this in addition to the ubiquitous scourge of cancer. To Those Who Abide, a suffering human is a fertile field. The person who coined the English phrase ‘misery loves company’ had no idea what kind of company he was describing.
“At the moment we live in one of the more comparatively peaceful, sane periods of recent centuries. It has been a protracted, enduring struggle, but human science is slowly coming to grips with the effects Interlopers can induce, even while remaining ignorant of the true cause. As a result, Those Who Abide are restless. They are building toward another great catastrophe in hopes of throwing us back, of casting us once again down into the Pit. The development of worldwide communications is potentially a boon to their destructive efforts, allowing them to reach much greater numbers of people simultaneously. The Society is fighting this where and when it can.
“Because a new international crisis approaches, there was some debate over whether my services should be spared to help you with your purely personal concerns.”
“I see,” Cody replied quietly. “Why did you—the Society—decide to help?”
“Because you are valuable, Coschocton Westcott. To the cause. Not only are you Sighted, but your field is one in which expertise is always needed and not often found.”
The archaeologist eyed his visitor evenly. “And if I was a plumber, or an insurance salesman, or a broker, you would not be here today, because I would have nothing to offer the Society?”
The older man’s lengthy pause was eloquent. “Our resources are limited, my earnest young friend. They must be deployed daily in the service of all mankind. We cannot win every individual battle, but we must win the war. Otherwise, we are doomed to dwell forever in the depths of our own despair. Sadly, in great conflicts it is the civilians who invariably suffer the most. I am a soldier. You, like it or not, because of your abilities and skills, now also become a soldier.”
Cody did not feel especially martial. “Sounds to me like what you need in this clash is not archaeologists, but an army of comedy writers.”
His guest smiled, the one gold tooth gleaming brightly. “What makes you think they are not counted among the ranks of the Society? Their aggregate is small but significant, and their influence out of proportion to their number. Every day they wage war on behalf of those who would be dominated by the Interlopers. Often they win, sometimes they lose. If you wish to gauge their ability, you should watch more television comedy. As you do so, consider how many terrible programs are broadcast, and how many good ones inexplicably fall by the wayside. Consider how programming decisions are made by executives with no experience in professional comedy, little sense of humor, and the inability to understand any witticism more complex than the writing on the walls of a public restroom. Unable to stand the therapeutic effects of human laughter, Those Who Abide are particularly keen to infect and dominate network programming executives and their ilk. This holds true in the rest of the world as much as it does in America, though because of the influence and pervasiveness of your television programs, Those Who Abide are particularly active in your industry.”
Remembering some of the hideous excuses for sitcoms he and Kelli had suffered through during the past year, Cody could well believe what his guest was telling him.
“You said there were other things besides laughter that could be used to fight these predators. Can any of them be used to help my wife?” Cody inhaled deeply, his mind already made up. “If you can do anything for her, anything at all, then I’m yours. I’ll resign my position at the university, do research for you, let you guide my entire future. I’ll do anything, anything you want. I’ll even move to Heidelberg.”
Oelefse raised a hand to calm him. “That will not be necessary, my friend—though you would like Heidelberg. The Society is already strong there. Where we need assistance is elsewhere. As to helping your unfortunate mate, no course of action can be prescribed until the severity of her condition has been ascertained and her prospects for treatment have been appraised.” Setting the empty teacup aside, he rose from his chair. For a moment, he towered over the seated archaeologist, and not only physically.
“Believe me, my friend, I understand what you are feeling. It is a terrible thing to watch a loved one’s life slip away, to see them drown in anguish not of their own making. Depression can kill as surely as any heart attack. It is the cancer of the mind. I know, because I have seen it happen all too many times.” His voice shook ever so slightly as he seemed suddenly to be looking not at Cody, but past him, to a distant place and time.
“The first time, it was my wife. Then it was my children. A little girl, beautiful she was, with golden hair and dancing eyes. My boy lived longer, but he died just the same. Driven to throw himself over a precipice in the Alps. I never understood, never knew why I had been singled out for so much unhappiness. The Society found me. They saved me from the Interlopers who had bled my family emotionally dry and then discarded them the way a spider discards the empty husk of an insect it has finished feeding upon. They cured me, and tutored me, and allowed me to learn.” He straightened.
“Now, and for many years, I have been a soldier in the Society. When and where it is both possible and feasible, I perform the same service for others that the Society performed for me. They gave me back my life, a reason to go on living. My goal is the same as theirs: disrupting the machinations of Those Who Abide, helping the unwitting who suffer from their afflictions, and striving for their eventual and complete extermination.” A thin smile creased his mouth. “The Interlopers can sense these things, my friend. They do not like it, and they do not like me. They hate anyone who can perceive them.” Once more, his eyes met Cody’s. “They hate you.”
The archaeologist did not flinch. “The feeling’s mutual.”
“Good!” Reaching forward, the older man put a firm hand on Cody’s shoulder. “But manifest your antipathy as laughter, and laugh at them. Hatred they can deal with. Laughter—laughter drives them into a frenzy. They have no way to fight it. Laugh long and hard enough, even to yourself, and you can drive off any Interloper. That is one way we fight them.” He stepped back.
“Now come, my young friend, and we will see what can be done for your wife.”
Snatching up his car keys and wallet, Cody followed the elderly German out into the hall. “Tell me, Oelefse: You say that you’re a soldier now. A soldier in the Society. What were you before—before . . .”
The older man didn’t hesitate. “Before my family was taken from me? Before my former life was destroyed? I was a physicist, young Cody. I worked much of the year in Switzerland, at the CERN supercollider facility in Bern. There are a number of physicists in the Society. We are always arguing with the biologists among us. One of the great questions that consumes us is whether the Interlopers are composed of waves or particles, or a combination thereof.”
“What’s the prevailing opinion?” They were approaching the front door.
“That it does not matter,” Oelefse told him, “so long as they can be made to die.”
For the first time in many weeks, Cody allowed himself a small surge of hope. “Then they can be killed. By laughing at them?”
“Laughter is a means of defense, not attack. It can drive them away, but sustaining honest, effective laughter long enough to kill even a small Interloper is nearly impossible.”
“I guess the safest people in the world would be professional comedians.” Before opening the door, Cody armed the in-house alarm system. His visitor watched with interest.
“On the contrary, there are many such who suffer from the attentions of Those Who Abide. Professional comedians are among the most unhappy, morose, melancholy inhabitants of the planet. Where do you think professional humor comes from, anyway? From a lifetime of fighting off the effects of Interlopers. Funny is painful, my young friend.”
“Then there are other ways to kill them. You indicated as much.”
Oelefse patted his jacket. Was that a bulge where an inside pocket might be? “No, it is not a gun.” He grinned at the archaeologist. “The Interlopers are patterns of otherworldliness. Generating and projecting the right electromagnetic field can play havoc with such patterns. It depends on the Interloper. The atrix is not a panacea, but long years of development have gone into its manufacture.” He wagged a finger at Cody. “Solid-state physics, advanced chip masking technology, even the development of smaller and smaller batteries have made such devices possible. Those Who Abide fear them, and their improvement. Is it any wonder they strive to thrust the world into another crisis, whether through disease or politics? For example, you cannot imagine how many important people are presently afflicted in India and Pakistan.”
“How can you prevent adverse events from taking place halfway around the world?”
“The Society has operatives everywhere. Sometimes we are successful, such as in Peru and Ecuador. Sometimes we are too late, as in the Congo. We fight on because we must. Mankind has come too far, reached too lofty a height, to collapse under the weight of another great plague or war. Science abets our work, but knowledge is our armor.”
Cody hesitated with one hand on the door handle. “If you have a device that can kill Those Who Abide, why not mass-manufacture it, hand thousands of them out to a Society-inspired army, and kill every last Interloper?”
“It is not so easy, my friend. The atrix and its companion devices are not easy to use. Teaching others how to calibrate one takes time. And they are not always effective.” His expression darkened. “There is some concern that the Interlopers may have the power of rapid mutation that is found in insects and smaller creatures: the ability to evolve defenses against new forms of attack, as has happened over the years with malaria and other diseases. Employ the atrix too much and too often, for example, and the risk is run of rendering Those Who Abide immune to its effects. We must move carefully.
“For now, our principal concerns are further research, preserving civilization—and helping your wife.” A broad smile creased his face. “They say that the last shall be first. Excuse me.”
Stepping in front of Cody, the old man took the handle and opened the door very slightly. As he stood peering out, Cody wondered at his caution.
“If you’re looking for Interlopers, I check the neighborhood every morning. Except for the ones that are resident in the stones of that artificial waterfall you saw on your way in, this area is clean.”
“Is it?” Oelefse did not look up from his examination.
“You bet,” Cody assured him. “They can’t move around on their own. They need—” A sudden thought made him hesitate. “Is that what you’re looking for?”
“My young friend, I have already told you how they have influenced the course of human history to its detriment by afflicting important players throughout time. What makes you think anything has changed? Ah!”
Cody was instantly on guard. “What—what is it?”
Oelefse stepped aside. “See for yourself. The far street, around the corner. A white sedan of domestic manufacture. There are two men sitting in the front, both wearing dark suits.”
The archaeologist located the car and noted its occupants. “Infected?” His guest nodded. “How can you be certain?”
“What fools wear dark suits in the desert in late summer?”
Cody eyed the older man significantly. “How do I know that they’re not the representatives of this Society you speak of, and you’re not an infected, manipulated decoy sent to lure me out of the house?”
Oelefse spread his arms wide. “You are Sighted, my young friend. Do you detect in my person any evidence of infestation?” Though it was not necessary and really made no difference, he executed a slow, theatrical pirouette. He was still smiling.
“Okay, so they’re the bad guys and you’re not. That still doesn’t explain why you’re dressed as impractically as they are.”
Oelefse made a show of adjusting his bow tie. “I take great pride in my appearance, Cody Westcott. It is a good sign that someone is not afflicted. Those who suffer from the debilitating, gnawing presence of Interlopers rarely take any care with their bearing or attire.”
“So the well-dressed are unpolluted?”
“Usually. Remember that, where Interloper presence is concerned, nothing is for certain. But the two in that car, they have about them a certain aspect that is detectable even at a distance. Experience enables one to recognize such signs. They are minions of the Interlopers, their actions and activities directed by Those Who Abide within them. Such constant control is difficult for the Interlopers to sustain without damaging the host.”
“Uthu,” Cody muttered. More loudly he added, “I’ve already encountered one who’s been damaged. He came to warn me to stop my research. That was before”—he swallowed hard—“before Kelli was infected.”
Oelefse’s expression was somber. “They have no sense of mercy, you know. They will feed upon young children as readily as on an adult. They devour misery the way you would a good dinner. Can you remember anything distinctive about the person who came to see you?”
“He isn’t either one of the two men in that car, if that’s what you mean. What do we do now?”
“Do? We take my car, Cody, and we go to help your wife. But first, we make a little detour.” He winked mischievously. “It takes time for the Interlopers to impose their will even on hosts they control so thoroughly. Reaction time is slowed. On the other hand, there is nothing wrong with my reflexes.” Stepping through the open door, he headed down the winding path that led to the driveway and the silver Mercedes parked there. “Have you ever been to Germany, my young friend?”
“No.” Cody tried hard not to look in the direction of the white sedan parked around the far corner.
“Ah! Then you have never been on the Autobahn.” Walking around the front of the car, Oelefse used a small remote to unlock the doors. “I honestly do not know how you Americans manage to get anywhere in your cars, with these frivolous speed limits of yours.”
“Frivolous speed limits?” Cody slid into the seat on the passenger side, unaware that in the thirty minutes to follow he would learn more about reaction times than he really wanted to know.
“Which way is the hospital where your wife is being looked after?” Looking determined, Oelefse slowed to a halt at the stop sign where the last neighborhood street met the first main thoroughfare.
“Turn left here and head due north.”
“Ah. Then we will go this way.” Turning sharply in the opposite direction, the elderly German pulled out directly into traffic flowing past at no less than fifty miles per hour.
“Jesus!” Cody flinched as a big van swerved to miss them and an irate woman in a small Cadillac mouthed angry words from within its tinted window, air-conditioned interior.
“Remember, my friend,” Cody’s seasoned driver reminded him, “that while the Interlopers cannot be killed by normal means, their human hosts can.”
As they sped without slowing through a double lane change, Cody forced himself to consider his wife’s condition as unemotionally as possible. “Then the ones inhabiting Kelli won’t let her die, because that would mean they would be trapping themselves in a lifeless, useless body—unless they can make sufficient contact with another motile form.”
“That is probably true for a little while, at least. They will conspire to sustain her on the edge of life so that they can continue to feed off her enduring suffering. Only when they have had enough will they allow her to expire in a final orgy of feeding.” Seeing the stricken look on his companion’s face, he added, “I am sorry to speak so bluntly, my friend, but while there is ample room for compassion in the Society, there is neither time nor space for convenient euphemism. But do not worry: We will do our best to save your Frau.”
“ ‘Our best’?” Cody turned sideways in the seat, fighting to ignore the seeming indifference with which Oelefse was weaving crazily through traffic.
“Where the Interlopers are concerned, nothing is absolute, nothing is for certain.” The older man’s tone was unyielding and unrepentant. “As I told you, I myself have lost loved ones to Those Who Abide. I will attend to your wife as if she was my own. More than that I cannot do.”
“I—I’m sorry.” Overwhelming emotion welled up in the distressed archaeologist as he sat back in his seat. “I know—you’ll do everything you can. It’s just that these past weeks have been harder on me than anything I ever imagined. You know, you joke with someone every day, argue with them, share food and fun and work and sleep with them, and you don’t think about it. You just accept it. Until suddenly they’re not there anymore.”
“That has been my life for many years now, my friend.” With the skill of a Grand Prix driver Oelefse eased the big car around a pair of convoying big rigs. “All you can do is channel those emotions into useful avenues of endeavor. Frustrating Interlopers, for example.” His gaze flicked up to the rearview mirror. “Are they still following us?”
“Following . . . ?” Whirling in his seat, Cody stared out the back window. For an instant, the traffic was devoid of menace. Then a white sedan hove into view, swinging out from behind the same pair of trucks the Mercedes had just passed.
“I wasn’t thinking, I was—yeah, they’re still behind us.” He squinted. “I’m almost positive it’s them, but if so, they’re hanging back a ways.”
Oelefse’s expression was set knowingly. “They are doing their best to remain inconspicuous.”
“Why are they bothering? If they’ve been keeping track of my movements since before your arrival, they already know where Kelli is.”
“Ja, richtig, but they don’t know that you are taking me to the hospital. We are in my car, so maybe they are thinking that I am taking you somewhere else. To the airport, for example.”
Cody frowned uncertainly. “Why would you be taking me to the airport?”
Instead of responding to the query, Oelefse suddenly wrenched hard on the wheel and yelled, “Hang on, young Cody!”
Cody knew he must have paled as the oldster cut across two lanes of horn-blaring, finger-thrusting traffic to launch the Mercedes at the last possible instant onto the ramp for the Pima freeway. When he’d recovered his equilibrium sufficiently, he turned in the seat to peer out the back window.
“I don’t see them anymore.”
“Gut! We will make certain.”
Oelefse was as good as his word. Not only did he lose their pursuers, he almost lost the archaeologist as well as he put the big sedan through a series of evasive maneuvers that were more aeronautical than automotive. When they finally abandoned the freeway for a return to surface streets, Cody was perspiring as if he’d just finished a three-mile run.
Glancing to his left, he saw that the elderly driver was not even breathing hard. Also, the younger man noted, not once had Oelefse taken either hand off the steering wheel.
“I haven’t been this frightened in a car since the time Kelli and I had to drive from Chachapoyas back to base camp in the dark.”
Oelefse’s expression did not change, nor did he take his eyes off the road ahead. “You should try coming up on a long line of intercontinental trucks traveling at fifty kilometers an hour when you are doing two twenty, only to have one pull out in front of you at the last minute as you are trying to pass. On a bridge. With no shoulder. The Autobahn is wonderful for driving, but wide shoulders for parking and passing and emergencies is an American invention.” He glanced briefly to his left. “At such moments a man’s heart may stop before his vehicle does. Are they gone?”
Cody scanned the roadway behind them until he was sure, or as sure as he could be. “I don’t see that car anymore.”
“I thought not. It takes time for Interlopers to communicate with and to influence their hosts. Reaction time, remember? Now then—which way to this hospital? Just to be safe, let us use a roundabout route.”
“If you’ll promise to keep it close to the speed limit,” Cody insisted.
“Provided we do not encounter a certain white sedan, I am happy to take my time and enjoy the scenery. Your American West, you know, is so very popular in Germany.”
Cody was not sure Karl Heinrich Oelefsenten von Eichstatt ever “took his time,” but he was far too drained to challenge the older man.