39.

At precisely one o’clock in the afternoon on the day after Götterdämmerung, Siegmund Loge came to us. His eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had been crying recently, but his voice was steady, if soft, when he spoke.

“I’ve spent almost my entire lifetime compiling that—since I was seventeen. It was completed, the last pictures matched to the last bars of the music, only recently—in the morning of the day you were found. This is the first time I’ve experienced it as a whole, and so it’s an experience we’ve shared together.” He took a deep breath, and his voice trembled slightly when he continued. “Please tell me what you think.”

“I couldn’t find any fucking popcorn in the kitchen, Loge,” Garth said evenly. “What good are movies without popcorn?”

Loge’s face was stony as he stared intently at Garth. The muscles in his jaw began to twitch, and emotions—clear as the images in the vast montage he had assembled—passed across his eyes: bewilderment, shock, hurt, grief—rage. “How dare you make such a remark?!” he shouted at Garth, pounding the shield with his fist. “You have no right to do what you’re doing! I’ve been watching you for the past four days, and I’ve seen your reactions! I know how my work affected you! I’ve seen you both sobbing, and I’ve seen you sitting in silence, lost in grief! I’ve watched the two of you tossing in your sleep! The three of us have felt the same! Don’t you dare deny your pain to me! It’s our common bond!”

Garth reached inside his overalls as if to scratch, pulled out a tuft of fur and casually tossed it into the air. The glossy black hair drifted to the floor.

“That’s my brother’s way of telling you we’ll share nothing with you that we don’t have to,” I said, scratching at the residual scales on the back of my forearm. “You’ve taken everything else from us from shit to toenail clippings, but you can’t have our emotions. In addition to everything else, it turns out you’re a nasty old voyeur. Why did you show that to us, anyway? Do we look like art critics?”

Loge swallowed hard, then stepped back from the shield. He seemed stunned, as if he had made some simple miscalculation and couldn’t find his mistake. “It’s my explanation,” he said hoarsely.

“Your explanation?!” I snapped. “Do you really think you can justify or explain the murder of our nephew and his friend by giving Garth and me an emotional root canal job?! Do you think art can justify all the death and suffering you’ve caused?! You’re part of the problem! Man, right now you are the problem! You’re killing the world!”

Loge screwed his eyes shut, tilted his head back and clenched his fists. When he spoke, his voice was like a long moan. “I had hoped that you and your brother would understand, Dr. Frederickson, but you still don’t. It’s not a question of emotion or justification, not a matter of good or evil. It is mathematics. Our world, the world humans dominate and rule, is dying. But I’m not killing it; I’m trying to save it.”

Then, suddenly, I understood—and wished I hadn’t. “My God,” I said in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own. “It’s the Triage Parabola.”

Loge emitted a sigh, lowered his head, opened his eyes, unclenched his fists. “Yes, Dr. Frederickson. I do think you now understand.”

“Mongo,” Garth said, gripping my arm, “what the hell are you two talking—?”

I quickly put my fingers to his lips, then pointed to Loge, who had begun to pace back and forth in front of the shield, nervously running his long fingers through his long silver hair.

“As you know,” Loge said in the tone of voice some professors use when lecturing students, “the Triage Parabola has proved useful in helping to predict which of several endangered species will most benefit from human intervention, thus enabling us to focus our attention and resources where they will do the most good. To apply the formulas of the Triage Parabola to human beings is almost impossibly complex, because the number of variables in human behavior—economic, political, social, psychological—approaches infinity. However, almost a decade ago I was able to apply the formulas, using a Cray computer and a mathematics system of my own invention. I kept my findings secret; I saw nothing to be gained in revealing them, since there was absolutely nothing that could be done to alter what seemed to be inevitable—or so I thought, until I was approached at the Institute for the Study of Human Potential by certain representatives of the Pentagon.”

“Mongo,” Garth murmured, “tell me what this banana is talking about.”

“He’s saying humanity is an endangered species, that we’re on the verge of extinction.”

“From what? Nuclear war?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said, recalling that in the entire visual montage accompanying the Ring, only two sequences, each lasting less than twenty seconds, had been devoted to the melting flesh of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. “I think what Loge is saying is even worse than that.”

The scientist, who had heard me, nodded in affirmation, then resumed his pacing. “Correct, Dr. Frederickson. Thermonuclear war may destroy human life—indeed, all life—over the planet, but not necessarily so. In fact, the solutions to the equations indicate that the outside parameters for our existence may be as much as three or four hundred years. But no more. The means by which we destroy ourselves cannot be predicted mathematically—and are, in any case, irrelevant. It is of no value to look around for the catastrophe that will come; in an evolutionary sense, we are the catastrophe, a unique species of self-aware, intelligent creatures that are, as an entire species, quite insane. We are, as the Triage Parabola makes quite clear, simply an evolutionary dead end. Nature, as is well-known from even the most casual observation, is unforgiving and implacable in erasing her mistakes. On an evolutionary scale, we rose with lightning speed; we shall disappear with lightning speed. In four hundred years, or maybe only four hundred months or weeks or days or hours or seconds, there will not be a single human being left on the face of the earth. In four thousand years—a snap of the fingers in evolutionary time—there will probably not even be a trace left of our existence.”

“What’s going to replace us?” I asked.

“If nothing is done to alter our course?” Loge shrugged. “Who knows? The Triage Parabola is an extremely powerful mathematical tool, but it’s not a crystal ball. Data to predict the end of our existence is available; that necessary to predict what sort of sentient creature, if any, will replace us is not. The only thing that’s certain is that we will be gone.”

“No, it’s not certain,” I said, knowing I sounded slightly foolish and petulant, and not caring; I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “There is also love in the world.”

“It is certain, Dr. Frederickson. You have not learned the lessons of your odyssey, as I had hoped you would. First, love is ephemeral; it vanishes at the torturer’s first pass. Yes, there is love, and it is responsible for much that we have accomplished that is beautiful, good, and true. But love cannot triumph over evil because, for most people, only their evil transcends tribal boundaries, not their love. The young men and women in the commune you visited loved—each other. They were looking forward, with ecstasy, to the death of virtually everyone else. Stryder London loved—his country, which is to say his tribe, and was perfectly willing to countenance a weapon of terrible evil as long as it would subjugate the wills of all tribes to which he did not belong. Tribes, Dr. Frederickson. Tribes. National tribes; religious tribes; ethnic tribes; family tribes; sexual tribes; cultural tribes. By swinging down from the trees, by emerging from the caves, we only ensured our own eventual destruction. We are an evolutionary dead end precisely because we were able to replace sticks and stones with nerve gas and thermonuclear weapons without ever evolving, intellectually and morally, beyond the ridiculous, childish superstitions and primitive, tribal mind-sets that necessitated the use of the comparatively harmless sticks and stones in the first place. Once we poisoned the wells of neighboring tribes; now we poison oceans. The Triage Parabola provided me with a mathematical demonstration of our species’ demise; I have given the world a practical demonstration. Of all people on earth, the Frederickson brothers have experienced the greatest overall view of that demonstration. By accident, my work touched your bodies; by design, I touched your souls. Yet you react to me as if I were some kind of mad scientist.”

Garth and I looked at each other. “Perish the thought,” I said quickly. “You’re planning to send us all back in evolutionary time to see if we can’t get it right the second time, aren’t you? That’s what the Valhalla Project is about, right?”

Loge slowly nodded. “Yes. Once I have tested the formulation in an initial trial run in my communes, any necessary corrections will be made, and then a second batch of ‘Father’s Treasure’ will be delivered. This formulation will be highly infectious. Then the commune members will all be sent out into the world to await what the members of the commune you visited think of as the ‘Good Time.’ That time will come quickly. We will be rendered comparatively harmless to each other, at least on a global scale, and can only hope that we will evolve in a more appropriate manner if given this second chance. It is the ultimate, most humane, use of the Triage Parabola, gentlemen, and it is humankind’s only hope for long-term survival.”

“Uh, Loge …” I swallowed, found my mouth was just a bit dry. “Dr. Loge, before you go ahead and do anything we all may regret in the morning, why don’t you recheck your figures?”

Loge shook his head sadly, looked at me with profound sadness in his eyes. “I have rechecked them, Dr. Frederickson; I’ve rechecked them hundreds of times. I know you’re not a scientist or a mathematician, so it may be difficult for you to understand. Without the intervention represented by the Valhalla Project, our extinction is a certainty.”

“You mentioned that no one else had tried to apply the Triage Parabola to humans because it was almost impossible. Maybe it is impossible. Now, you’re a fairly bright man, but you’re not a god, despite what a lot of folks think. Even you could be wrong.”

“No, I’m not a god,” Loge said simply. “There are no gods, of course. I’m just a man, one representative of a species that, quite possibly, may be the only one in the entire universe which has such a high degree of self-awareness and intelligence. No other species anywhere may have the potential to travel to the stars to find out. Unless someone intervenes to save us from ourselves, it is doubtful we will even have time to accomplish the relatively simple task of traveling to another planet and colonizing it. I am not a god; I can be wrong, and often have been in the past. This is not such a time. I am not wrong. The figures are correct. Someone had to take the responsibility for altering our course, and I have done it; the Valhalla Project is the only solution I could think of. I feel I’ve come to know the two of you quite well, through the reports that came to me of the havoc you’ve been wreaking. Once, I thought perhaps the two of you could appreciate my burden and understand my terrible loneliness. Now I believe I was mistaken. The Triage Parabola is correct about the imminent extinction of humankind; I was wrong about you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Garth said with a snort of disgust. “You don’t think you’re insane?!”

Loge said nothing. He continued to stare at us with his sad eyes.

“Damn it, Loge,” I said, “don’t do it. Even if you’re right, there must be some answer besides the Valhalla Project.”

“No,” Loge replied softly. “There is no other answer.”

“You didn’t need us anymore,” Garth said. “You still haven’t explained why we were thawed out and brought here. If you consider us so dangerous, why didn’t you just let us die?”

Loge sighed, shrugged his shoulders. “But I have explained. I’ve explained everything, only to you. I wanted to meet you. I needed to explain to someone, and I needed someone to understand. I’d have entertained the hope that the two of you would help me.”

“Help you do what?” I asked. “Manufacture and distribute ‘Father’s Treasure’?”

“No. I have hundreds of people to do that. The first of the manufacturing technicians will begin arriving tomorrow.”

“Then what?”

“I wanted you to help me bear witness,” Loge said softly. “I believe the two of you are now immune to the formulation; you are the only two people on the planet who will not change. I can take steps to protect myself against infection, and I will. I’d hoped that until our natural deaths, the three of us could travel over the face of the earth, safeguarding treasures when we can, but primarily bearing witness, as the last humans, to the goodness and beauty that was in our genes. Our existence, and our passage among the beasts, would serve as a kind of prayer for human salvation in the future.”

“It sounds like a good idea to me,” I said as Garth and I exchanged quick glances. “My brother and I are honored by your invitation, and we accept.”

Loge didn’t speak for some time, and I didn’t like the look of the shadows that moved in his eyes. “You mock me, Dr. Frederickson,” he said at last. “You do believe I am nothing more than a mad scientist, perhaps a paranoid schizophrenic, like my son—or simply morally corrupt, like my grandson. Do you believe I haven’t seen into your hearts? You are both transparent. You believe that you can trick me into releasing you, so that you can stop the Valhalla Project—perhaps by killing me. Incredibly—despite all you have seen, and all I have told you—you still have hope. That is your insanity.”

Loge abruptly moved to one side of the shield, disappeared from sight. There was a soft click, and then an even more ominous sound in the apartment.

hissssssssss

“I’ve taken great care in preparing this gas,” Loge said kindly as he stepped back into view. “It is a gentle death; indeed, I think you will find it delightful. The two of you have suffered enough, and now I hope to give you considerable pleasure as you die. It’s the least I can do.”

hissssssssss

The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere inside the apartment, and there was the strong smell of lilacs.

My mother’s dream.

“Loge, shut off the gas,” I said, making a desperate effort to keep my voice even. “We have to talk to you. You still need us, because there’s still one drawback to your plan, which you don’t seem to understand. The rest of the body changes, but the brain cells don’t. Somehow, the brain protects itself—like in the infant diving reflex, when the brain in a drowning person conserves its own oxygen. Your stuff won’t work, because the membrane of the brain filters it out. Memory, self-awareness, instinct, prejudice, love, hate—all remain. You may have a planet filled with monkey people, but their human consciousness will remain the same. You’ll accomplish nothing—nothing, Loge, except to inflict unimaginable suffering on the species you profess to love so much. You still need us if you hope to solve that problem. Shut off the gas.”

Loge smiled gently, brushed a lock of silver hair away from his face. “I’m aware of what you just told me, Dr. Frederickson. I discovered this phenomenon when Garth was examined for the last time at the Institute. The adjustment in the formulation has already been made. All of the things you mentioned will be erased. Humankind will be able to start anew on its evolutionary path with a clean slate.”

Oh-oh.

hissssssssss

My mother’s dream!

“Loge, you have no right to decide alone what’s best for four billion people!”

“Of course not,” Siegmund Loge replied evenly. “I hope you don’t think I would be so presumptuous as to take on such an awesome responsibility alone, without guidance.”

“But you said nobody else knows what you’re doing.”

“God knows.”

Loge’s eyes teared, shimmered with gentleness and love.

“What?”

“I must confess that I haven’t been totally forthcoming with the two of you,” the old man said in a voice that was suddenly vibrant with ecstasy. “I said there were no gods, but there is God—the God of the universe, the God of us all. He first spoke to me when I was twelve years old, told me to begin collecting the pictures and film clips you saw. He has been speaking to me on a regular basis ever since, guiding me in my work. It was God who gave me the mathematical system I needed to apply the Triage Parabola to humankind, God who urged me to take responsibility for developing the Valhalla Project. I am doing God’s will. You see, gentlemen, I am the Messiah. Good-bye, now.”

Stunned, Garth and I watched Siegmund Loge turn and walk away down the long corridor to the door, which he closed quietly behind him.

Then Garth and I really got serious about trying to break through the shield.

hissssssssss

MY MOTHER’S DREAM!!

More broken furniture; muscles and bones near to breaking as we hurled ourselves against the Plexiglas, bounced off.

hissssssssss

MY MOTHER’S DREAM!!

… the end of the world, all hope gone …

MY MOTHER’S DREAM!!

hissssssssss

It seemed an appropriate time to panic, so we did—at least to the extent that Loge’s happy death gas allowed us, which wasn’t much. Actually, we were kind of laughing, singing and prancing around the living room when Mike Leviticus, submachine gun crooked in his one whole arm, yanked open the door at the end of the corridor and sprinted toward us. It was the funniest thing we’d ever seen, and Garth and I stood with our noses pressed against the Plexiglas and howled with laughter. We wouldn’t move, even when Leviticus frantically motioned with his stump for us to get down, so he finally fired just over our heads. The shield didn’t so much shatter as disintegrate, showering powder, slivers, and shards over us.

“Fly away home, Mike, m’boy,” I cackled. “Poison gas. Get out of here.”

Garth, even though he was in the middle of the Toreador Song from Carmen, nevertheless had the presence of mind to stumble over the rubble of the shield, find the switch and shut off the gas. Leviticus, his face red from the strain of holding his breath, used his machine gun—none too gently, beating the butt and barrel on our backs—to herd the giggling Fredericksons down the corridor and out the door, which he slammed shut behind him. He managed to whack us along another corridor, steered us to the left, and plopped us down on the floor directly beneath a huge ventilator shaft. After twenty minutes, our howls of laughter had dribbled off to an occasional, high-pitched giggle; another twenty minutes, and we managed to hold it down to spasmodic grins.

“Mongo?”

“I think I’m all right, Garth. You?”

“Me, too.”

“Mike,” I said, grinning foolishly up at the Warrior, “how can we thank you?”

Leviticus, his lantern jaw set firmly, shook his head. “I’m the one who has to thank you, Frederickson. If it weren’t for you, my soul would have been doomed to eternal damnation.”

“Huh?”

Leviticus held out his naked stump. “This is a sign, a warning—God at once punishing me for, and trying to rescue me from, my own stupidity. It’s taken me all this time to realize it; thank God I realized it in time. I helped install the gas system, so I knew what Satan—when I understood a few hours ago that Loge was Satan—had planned for you.”

“Good thinking,” Garth said drily, then hiccuped with laughter.

“I know what the two of you have been through,” Leviticus said, first staring at me intently, then at Garth.

“Yeah,” Garth said with a dreamy smile, “it’s been kind of a bummer.”

“I saw what the two of you looked like when you were brought to the Institute … and I watched you both heal before my eyes. Only God could have done that; only God could have helped you survive all your trials, and only God’s wonderful Grace could have healed you. Satan made you into beasts, but God made you human again. It was a miracle. That’s when I began thinking.”

“Ah,” Garth said as we both began giggling again. “And not a moment too soon, dear boy.”

“I realized then that I must be God’s Warrior, not Satan’s, at peril to my soul. It was up to me to rescue you from Satan. I picked up this machine gun, stole the plane, and came here as fast as I could.” The Warrior paused, bowed his head low to us. “Please, please forgive me for my part in your suffering, and for taking so long to understand your true mission, to stop Satan.”

“Right,” I said as Garth and I got to our feet, dragged Leviticus to his. “Before we split, we have to figure out a way to blow up this place. Do you know anything about vulcan technology and heat transfer?”

“No, but I think I’d recognize the main power control source, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Right. All of the huge pipes you see running across the ceilings carry magma to someplace where it’s converted into steam to run turbines. Look for a wall filled with pressure gauges. We’ll separate to save time, and maintain communications through the intercom system. If you stumble across Satan in your travels, bring him along. If he puts up a fuss, shoot the fucker in the knees and carry him. We need him alive to give us all the details of the Valhalla Project and tell us everyone who’s involved.”

Leviticus held out his machine gun. “You want this?”

Garth and I shook our heads. “With Loge,” I said, “all we’ll need is a butterfly net.”