XI

Suspicion: How Intriguing to witness an instrument’s incipient suspicion! Especially when he could only stew in his misgivings.

In the past there had been, oh, so many in similar predicament. Instruments who had no idea they were being maneuvered—until it was too late. Attila. Genghis Khan. Alexander. Napoleon. Wilhelm II. Hitler, Stalin, Tojo. Mao. (Odd that there were so many during recent times. Proof that Creation’s overcomplexity was progressively diverting the Primary’s attention from his favored ones.)

But, of time’s legions of destructive instruments, the best of all was the present one, who was only now beginning to suspect. So subtly had he been inspired and directed! Oh, what a pliable, ultimate tool! All those other agents had blazed but limited trails of devastation, misery, death. This one’s instilled ambition, however, would carry him through to perpetration of infinite annihilation enveloping all of creation!

He had been stupid, though, to imagine he would profit by unwittingly playing out the role that had been cast for him. But hadn’t they all?

* * *

Oblivious of the snowflakes that swirled about him, Powers trudged through the deep drift that had collected—in midsummer!—in the alleyway between foundation headquarters and the rear of his clinic.

His lips trembled as he mumbled over and over again the words Duncan had just said at the meeting:

“… Suppose there is a Destructive Force … Do you think It too might strike up an association with a human host …?”

Numbed by the impact of Duncan’s incredible supposition, he fumbled for the gate’s latch and passed on into the lesser darkness of the courtyard. Here a single light bulb shone above the clinic’s rear entrance. Its feeble rays delineated a montage of snow-dabbed highlights among inky shadows.

Above, tall buildings on either side of the clinic stood out like hulking silhouettes, dimly backlighted by those sections of the city where electrical service had been restored.

“… Suppose there is a Destructive Force …”

Several stories up, a large section of windowpane slid off the sill onto which it had come to rest during the afternoon hailstorm. Nicking a lower ledge, it caromed out over the courtyard. Only remotely concerned, Powers glanced up to see the sharp-edged glass hurtling directly at him, fitfully reflecting the light of the entranceway bulb.

A gust of wind swept down between the buildings, however, dislodging fallen snow in great swirls and deflecting the plunging glass. It sliced into a snowbank several feet away.

“… Suppose there is a Destructive Force … association with a human host … Suppose there is a Destructive Force … association … human host …”

He went on into the clinic. The silence and desolation that pursued him down the corridors were familiar; for his institution had long since abandoned its conventional function in order to exist as an arm of the foundation.

Still unable to direct his thoughts, he passed the cell where “Yggi” and “Allecram” were being held—together now, so that Bradford could be at the opposite end of the building. He nodded at Murdock, who stood guard beside the CTTs’ door. Murdock, he remembered, was the VA official who had helped deceive Bradford on Hedgmore’s disability.

He barely returned the man’s greeting as he rounded the corner and continued on to Bradford’s cell, where Dr. Swanson stood by outside.

“… Suppose there is a Destructive Force …”

Finally he answered Swanson’s repeated salutation. Assured that Bradford was “doing fine,” he entered the room. Ann sat there beside the bed, head bowed. Bradford was unconscious. A transparent tube snaked under the covers, carrying liquid nourishment to a vein in his left arm. His face was pale, even more noticeably so as a result of having just been shaved and talcked by Swanson.

Suddenly aware of Powers’ presence, Ann bolted erect. “We can’t do this to him!” she objected. “How long will this keep up?”

“… Do you think It too might strike up an association with a human host …?”

“Dr. Powers! You aren’t even listening!”

He took her hand. “I’m sure this is only temporary.”

“But we can’t keep him just scarcely alive—like this!”

“Bear with us, child,” he said distantly, returning to the door.

She made other pleas. But he didn’t hear them.

“… Suppose there is a Destructive Force …”

He went to his office and locked the door. Pouring brandy from a decanter, he gulped it down, poured more and set the snifter on the desk before him.

“… Suppose there is a Destructive Force … Do you think It too might strike up an association …?”

Had Duncan, in wild conjecture, struck the truth? Could there actually be a Destructive Force too? Sentient like the Creative Force, but existing in a polar-opposite relationship?

Why not? Extremes had their counterextremes. Good-Evil. No, to hell with moral connotation. Simply: Creation—Destruction.

Didn’t One depend upon the Other? Destruction could destroy only what was in existence. And, even though Creation could create from nothing through the raw neutron, It also seized upon debris left in the wake of Destruction and recreated order from disorder.

Destruction causing an unstable sun to burst asunder, spread its flaming hydrogen into the black of space. Creation, in Its secondary capacity of Recreator, picking up the pieces, calling upon gravitational forces to herd the volant atoms into gaseous masses from which second-generation stars would coalesce.

Destruction rending the neutron as it emerged from nothingness into the constant creation field. Creation reasserting Itself by assembling the pieces into an atom of hydrogen and a beta particle. Creation preserving order or restoring it. Destruction constantly disrupting order and imposing chaos. Creation—birth; Destruction—calamity and death. Creation—peace; Destruction—war and famine and pestilence.

“… Suppose there is a Destructive Force …?”

Was it simply the classic struggle between good and evil, recast in terms of opposing Universal Forces? Occasionally striking a balance? With the conflict once in a while tipping heavily in favor of one or the other, as was happening now?

Powers drained his snifter and fetched the brandy decanter from the cabinet, setting it on the desk. With no conscious self-direction, he filled and drained his glass three times, trying not to think at all. But the thesis would not be dismissed:

“… Do you think It too might strike up an association …?”

Bradford was, in a sense, possessed—by a Force of whose existence he had no knowledge.

Could he, Powers, also be possessed—in similar but not identical manner? For the Force in Bradford was content only to hide from the runaway complexities of Its Creation. But if a Destructive Force existed, It had no need of sequestration. For It was obviously forging ahead in the fray. If It had “struck up an association” with him, It was sure to be an active association. A relationship with purpose. And he would have been selected only for his utility.

He, Powers—an instrument? A puppet on strings?

Trembling, he poured more brandy and recalled that day almost five years ago when, out of respect for his decade-long friendship with Duncan, he had accepted into his clinic a hopped-up kid who had been discovered strung out in the park. Why had he agreed to perform certain psychological experiments on the youth, despite his lack of other than perfunctory interest in continuous creation research? There was certainly little interest, and no obligation either to Duncan or to the hairy, grime-coated boy. Yet he had gone along—just as had Hedgmore, even though the latter showed only slightly more scientific curiosity than he. Hedgmore, however, had envisioned broad P & D promotional benefits from cooperating with Project Genesis.

Was it more than coincidental that when Bradford was located by the sensors, only a psychiatrist would be able to delve beyond his unconscious and discover what was hiding there? Had it been determined, by a Force other than himself, that he should play the role he had been playing these past five years?

And when he had decided it would be possible to engineer transfer of the Creative Force from association with Bradford to alliance with himself—had that been his independent judgment?

Wasn’t it a fact that each attempt to effect transfer had resulted in partial destruction of nature’s order? His driving ambition to control the Creative Force—was it his alone? He drank directly from the decanter. Tongue rolling over his lips, he shook his head sluggishly.

“Destructive Force?” he called out, as though addressing Someone who only might just be there. Then he laughed. Stupid thesis. But, then, it did fit so many facts. Even he had noticed his metamorphosis over these past five years. Once he had been kindly, unassuming, not motivated by monetary gain, devoting much of his time to charitable efforts. Now he was different. But what man would reject an opportunity to control the basic power of the universe?

Perhaps he would have—formerly. But now he couldn’t be sure. For the inspiration could be his, or it might have been insidiously forced upon him. Yet, he knew now only that he wanted the power, regardless of whether it was his idea to achieve it for himself, or whether it was an ambition planted in him by the Destructive Force as a means of gaining Its own identical end of controlling the Creative Force.

Suppose, Powers wondered, there was a way of controlling Both of Them! Or, suppose he were a finely conditioned instrument of the Destructive Force, well on the way to accomplishing whatever end was expected of him. Suppose he balked. What if he became intractable, frustrated his Manipulator? Would he then be in position to bargain and gain concessions to his satisfaction?

“Destroyer?” he said more firmly, and swilled another snifter of brandy. “Damn it! I know You’re there!”

Did he feel something stirring within him? Of course not. It wouldn’t be done that easily. Yet—

“Destroyer!” He pounded the desk.

No answer. He laughed. At himself? Or at the ingenuity of the all-or-nothing plan he had just then conceived?

“All right,” he addressed himself soberly. “I’ve been used and I’m ready to be used more. I’m a good agent. But I suddenly find out that all my ambition is but a vicarious reflection of Your own.”

He was putting the words together sensibly, although they were slurred. “Now I realize I’m to be cast aside after I accomplish Your purpose. Well, I won’t have it! Unless there’s a better arrangement than that, I’m ready to destroy Your tool.”

It wasn’t a ploy. It was exactly the way he felt. (He didn’t know, or even question whether the brandy had anything to do with his decision.) If he couldn’t achieve at least some of the power he had come so close to possessing, then life wasn’t worth the effort.

Powers slid open the drawer and withdrew his revolver, raising it to his temple. He wouldn’t be used. Not unless he knew there was something in it for him. He drew back the hammer.

Put down your weapon. You are right: I don’t intend to see all the effort I’ve invested in you go to waste.

Like a throbbing drumbeat resounding hollowly from somewhere deep within him, like the peal of thunder bouncing off soaring mountain ranges, the words burst into his conscious. No, they weren’t words. Mere ideas, concepts in their pre-articulate form, flooding his perception, deadening his senses. Yet they conveyed precise meaning.

Hallucination? Just like the ones he had perpetrated on Bradford? Perhaps one of the psychopathological maladies he had spent most of his life treating? Or, simply alcoholic intoxication?

He reached for the decanter, but it burst soundlessly within his grip, as suddenly as though it had been shot out from under his hand. Brandy and shards of cut-glass bottle spilled onto the desk. No hallucination, the thought boomed like the crashing of surf upon rock. Then, somewhat more softly: You insisted that I manifest Myself. So here I am—responsive, as cooperative as I expect you to be.

“It’s true then?” Powers whispered.

Yes, there is a Destructive Force. And you have been an unwitting, though now willing, accomplice all these years.

Powers slipped the revolver into his coat pocket and drained the snifter. “Can we do it? Can we confuse the Creative Force, take over completely?”

With your help, I will succeed this time.

“No, it can’t be possible!” the psychiatrist objected, retching.

The Destroyer destroys. Destruction always triumphs. Life bows to death. Order is reduced to disorder. Entropy is the final leveler. It is only a human illusion that good triumphs over evil.

“Then there are theological overtones!”

Nonsense. You creatures are merely ‘definers,’ ‘catalogists.’ It amuses Me that you apply the labels ‘good’ and ‘evil’ as your basic certificates of subjective evaluation. I just used those concepts in tolerance of your metaphorical inclination.

Seeking respite from the abstract discourse, Powers asked, “Can we make the Creative Force transfer from Bradford to me?”

That’s how I plan it. Then we shall both be in the same host. He will be brought in direct contact with the Force from which he has actually been hiding. But he’s not aware It’s I he fears. All the while He’s imagined He’s been using Bradford to shield Himself from the intended—intended, indeed!—overcomplexity of His universe.

“But It, I mean He did overcomplicate—”

Lets say He imagines He did. My influence on His actions, all along, has been as subtle as it has been effective.

Powers wondered: Why earth? Why humanity? Out of the entire universe, why should the conflict between the Forces center upon—

Because earth and its system and humanity are the fundamental considerations. All else is just decoration, background. The arrangement, however, is to My liking. Cosmic destruction is spectacular. Microcosmic chaos is interesting. But nothing can substitute for the delectable, sharp twang of emotional reaction to misery and catastrophe.

Powers realized that the Destroyer hadn’t answered his spoken words that time; had replied instead to the ideas and concepts that preceded them. And, if that were the case, there would be no opportunity for deception, even if he should want to deceive the Force.

Correct. But we shall cooperate. And we shall achieve our ends: mine in full; yours, in lesser but still adequate measure.

“You’re willing to cooperate?”

Won’t be the first time I’ve entered such a liaison.

What, Powers wondered, would be expected of him?

If it suits you, simply forget this discussion ever occurred. I don’t need your cooperation since, as you now realize, I’ve managed you up until now. Just relax and continue reacting to your inner urges.

“But what is the plan?”

Only what you imagine you’ve already planned on your own.

“And—what’s in it for me?”

You will be the most powerful person who has ever existed. Because, with the Creative Force under my—our control, we can make Him produce anything you desire, refashion the world to your liking.

* * *

A week later Powers, before the repaired window in his office, conceded the Destroyer must indeed be prevailing in the classic struggle. It was not so much the desolate scene in the street outside that convinced him. Rather, world conditions, as described over halting communications systems, proved the Destructive Force’s ascendancy. He waited for confirmation of his surmisal from within. But nothing stirred; no subvocal bombast was hurled up into his conscious.

Outside, there was a trickle of traffic. Occasional pedestrians proceeded gingerly to business houses which almost invariably were found closed. But fewer fire engines and ambulances were required by those who had finally realized that new criteria of risk were in effect. Cautiously, troops patrolled the sidewalks.

Yet it was an almost abandoned city. All who had elsewhere to go had fled. Those who had no rural retreats remained in the relative safety of their homes and accepted whatever emergency rations were available.

Since the hail and snowstorm, intolerable heat had laid siege to the city. Many were convinced that the nova in Centaurus was responsible. And this persuasion was fortified by satellite instruments that detected components of hard radiation emanating from Proxima Centauri.

It was only natural, Powers supposed, that the nova should be blamed for everything that was happening to the world. Such as the endless succession of tidal waves that flung themselves with devastating force upon almost all coastlines. The gradual rise in ocean levels and temperatures. Hulks of dead leviathans that drifted up from the depth and, together with icebergs, made navigation almost impossible. Volcanoes. Earthquakes. Submergence of entire islands, including Oahu and Kauai in the Hawaiian chain.

A world approaching shambles in the wake of displacement in probability discipline. But a world that he, Powers, would remake into a paradise with the help of the Destroyer—his paradise.

He turned to the television, now receiving directly from the synchronous Satcom, and listened to a commentator urge that the war in Turkey be halted “in view of everything else.”

“Anyway,” the man reminded, glaring from the screen, “isn’t it true the Loyalist-U.S. back has been broken? That insurrectionists, driven by fanaticism and adapting to the new elements of risk, have swept most of the country? That, negotiations notwithstanding, America faces its own Dunkirk on the shores of the Gulf of Adalia?”

Powers switched off the receiver. Despite all, the war in Turkey continued. Was it because the Lord of Destruction insisted upon the gratification that the fighting brought him? Powers listened within himself. But there was no comment. He glanced at his watch: seven o’clock. Ann would be just going on evening duty outside of Bradford’s cell. Would she finally be desperate enough to take the bait? And was it his bait—or the Destroyer’s?

When he reached the room he motioned the girl to follow him inside. She went and stood by the bed while he locked the door. Holding on to the iron railing, she rocked back and forth, her face tense.

Bradford lay in the same position as he had a week earlier, sheet drawn up under his chin. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes seemed to have become more sunken.

Powers remained a silent observer, letting the evidence of emaciation have its full psychological effect on the girl.

She turned in desperation. “This can’t go on! I asked Dr. Duncan to give him just a few hours’ consciousness every day. But he didn’t even answer me, except to say something about his decisions being irrevocable. Maybe if you—”

He shook his head. “If I deviated at all from the foundation’s plan, it would be along lines I believe would be effective. But I wouldn’t even discuss my ideas with Duncan. His objections would be too numerous now, even though I’m certain I’m right.”

“I know,” she said. “You told me what you’d do if you were in charge. Not the x, y, z, t arrangement but another, more stable host.”

“And you’ve kept it in confidence, as you agreed?”

She nodded. “I haven’t told anyone, especially since you say you can’t try anything without my help.”

He resumed his silence, letting the bait dangle before her.

She nibbled. “You’d have Brad awake within hours?”

“Within minutes. Awake and with nothing at all to worry about, insofar as the Creative Force within him is concerned.”

“And you believe you could really transfer It to you, without doing any more damage?”

“I’m certain, child.” He gripped her shoulder. “It would solve many problems. You see, I have a mind untroubled by a history of narcotics, freakouts, planned hallucinations, suspicions, delusions. I could give It the firm anchor It needs.”

“And Brad would be free?”

“Free and normal. You two would be at liberty to go anywhere you choose. I’d simply present the foundation with an accomplished fact and they would realize the wisdom of what I had done. Soon, in an orderly manner, I could begin feeding in subtle autosuggestions to restore normalcy to the world. And, before you knew it, everything would straighten out.”

This deception of the girl, he wondered—was it his original conception? Entirely his?

The inner voice throbbed: Not any more than was your (a tinge of amusement here) impulsive idea of transferring the Creative Force to x, y, z, t hosts. You know you don’t have the scientific background for that type of false conjecture.

Powers remembered his attempt to manipulate Ann that afternoon over a month ago at Bradford’s seaside lodge. Had the Destroyer been directing him during his entire conversation with the girl then?

Of course. We were just playing a long shot. It did seem possible, at the time, that the Other Force may have developed—ah, strong moralistic persuasions. Stoking the fires of lust was simply meant to test out that proposition.

But, Powers thought, confused, I made mistakes at the time. Ann became suspicious. He paused uncertainly. Were they my mistakes, or yours?

You don’t expect me to be perfect, do you—not in matters of construction? We were constructing an attitude in the girl. Destruction is my purpose—and on vast, cataclysmic scales. Right now I’m hurling two of the Constructor’s glittering galaxies at each other. Ordinarily, He would have blunted my enjoyment by seeing that not a single star in one of the galaxies passed near any star in the other—so vast did He make interstellar space. But not in this case. He has loosened His grip on probability discipline. Consequently, I’m arranging it now that millions of blazing suns will impact with millions of other blazing suns. You’ll excuse me?

Ann was apparently still absorbing the new hope that had been extended to her and Bradford. Finally she asked almost incredulously, “And Brad would never be troubled again?”

“Not even by his ‘unprovoked freakouts.’ For those are just instances of accidental contact between him and the Force.”

Tactfully, he produced a hypodermic syringe. “Time for another injection.”

“Wait!” She caught his wrist as her eyes became embers of suspicion. “This won’t mean more deception, will it?”

“Oh no. As a matter of fact, we’re going to be quite frank with him.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Why, practically nothing, dear. He would respond to urgings from you more readily than from me. You would only have to follow my lead, appeal to his unconscious whenever I give you a cue.”

Her tenseness drained away. “I’ll do it, Dr. Powers—now!”

He forwent the opportunity to affect hesitancy. She was too well primed. Surely her appeals would get through to Brad’s unconscious and beyond, where his own had consistently failed Then, at the proper moment, he would dismiss her and effect transfer.

Eagerly, he administered the counterinjection that would recall Bradford partly, but only partly, back to consciousness.