[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Lucky dropped to his knees, a vast and fearful dismay parching his throat. "You've killed
him?
"No, he lives. He is not even badly hurt. But, you see, you are alone now. You have none to
help you now. They could not withstand us, and neither can you.
White-faced, Lucky said, "No. You will not make me do anything.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
"One last chance. Make your choice. Do you choose to help us, so that life may end
peacefully and quietly for you? Or will you refuse to help us, so that it must end in pain and sorrow, to be
followed, perhaps, by life's end for all your people in the cities below the ocean? Which is it to be?
Come, your answer!
The words echoed and re-echoed within Lucky's mind as he prepared to stand, alone and
unfriended, against the buffets of a mental power he did not know how to fight save by an unbending
stubbornness of will.
Chapter 14 MINDS BATTLE
How does one set up A barrier against mental attack? Lucky had the desire to resist, but there were no
muscles he could flex, no guard he could throw up, no way he could return violence. He must merely
remain as he was, resisting all those impulses that flooded his mind which he could not surely tell to be his
own.
And how could he tell which were his own? What did he himself wish to do? What did he
himself wish most to do?
Nothing entered his mind. It was blank. Surely there had to be something. He had not come
up here without a plan.
Up here?
Then he had come up. Originally, he had been down.
Far down in the recesses of his mind, he thought, That's it.
He was in a ship. It had come up from the sea bottom. It was on the surface of the water now.
Good. What next?
Why at the surface? Dimly he could remember it was safer underneath.
He bent his head with great difficulty, closed his eyes and opened them again. His thoughts
were very thick. 118 He had to get word somewhere . . . somewhere . . . about something.
He had to get word.
Get word.
And he broke through! It was as though somewhere miles inside of himself he had put a
straining shoulder to a door and it had burst open. There was a clear flash of purpose, and he
remembered something he had forgotten. Ship's radio and the space station, of course.
He said, huskily, "You haven't got me. Do you hear that? I remember, and I'll keep on
remembering.
There was no answer.
He shouted aloud, incoherently. His mind was faintly occupied with the analogy of a man
fighting an overdose of a sleeping drug. Keep the muscles active, he thought. Keep walking. Keep
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
walking.
In his case, he had to keep his mind active, he had to keep the mental fibers working. Do
something. Do something. Stop, and they'll get you.
He continued shouting, and sound became words, "I'll do-it. I'll do it." Do what? He could
feel it slipping from him again.
Feverishly, he repeated to himself, "Radio to station ... . radio to station . . ." but the sounds
were becoming meaningless.
He was moving now. His body turned clumsily as though his joints were wood and nailed in
place, but it was turning. He faced the radio. He saw it clearly for a moment, then it wavered and became
foggy. He bent his mind to the task, and it was clear again. He could see the transmitter, see the
range-setting toggle and the frequency condensers. He could recall and understand its workings.
He took a dragging step toward it and a sensation as of red-hot spikes boring into his temples
overwhelmed him.
He staggered and fell to his knees, then, in agony, rose again.
1 Through pain-hazed eyes, he could still make out the radio. First one of his legs moved,
then another.
The radio seemed a hundred yards away, hazy, surrounded by a bloody mist. The pounding in
Lucky's head increased with each step.
He fought to ignore the pain, to see only the radio, to think only of the radio. He forced his
legs to move against a rubbery resistance that was entangling them and dragging him down.
Finally, he put out his arm, and when his fingers were still six inches away from the ultrawave,
Lucky knew that his endurance was at an end. Try as he might, he could drive his exhausted body no
closer. It was all over. It was ended.
The Hilda was a scene of paralysis. Evans lay unconscious on his cot; Bigman was crumpled
on the floor; and though Lucky remained stubbornly upright, his trembling fingertips were the only sign of
life in him.
The cold voice in Lucky's mind sounded once again in its even, inexorable monotone: "You
are helpless, but you will not lose consciousness as did your companions. You will suffer this pain until
you decide to submerge your ship, tell us what we wish to know, and end your life. We can wait [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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Lucky dropped to his knees, a vast and fearful dismay parching his throat. "You've killed
him?
"No, he lives. He is not even badly hurt. But, you see, you are alone now. You have none to
help you now. They could not withstand us, and neither can you.
White-faced, Lucky said, "No. You will not make me do anything.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
"One last chance. Make your choice. Do you choose to help us, so that life may end
peacefully and quietly for you? Or will you refuse to help us, so that it must end in pain and sorrow, to be
followed, perhaps, by life's end for all your people in the cities below the ocean? Which is it to be?
Come, your answer!
The words echoed and re-echoed within Lucky's mind as he prepared to stand, alone and
unfriended, against the buffets of a mental power he did not know how to fight save by an unbending
stubbornness of will.
Chapter 14 MINDS BATTLE
How does one set up A barrier against mental attack? Lucky had the desire to resist, but there were no
muscles he could flex, no guard he could throw up, no way he could return violence. He must merely
remain as he was, resisting all those impulses that flooded his mind which he could not surely tell to be his
own.
And how could he tell which were his own? What did he himself wish to do? What did he
himself wish most to do?
Nothing entered his mind. It was blank. Surely there had to be something. He had not come
up here without a plan.
Up here?
Then he had come up. Originally, he had been down.
Far down in the recesses of his mind, he thought, That's it.
He was in a ship. It had come up from the sea bottom. It was on the surface of the water now.
Good. What next?
Why at the surface? Dimly he could remember it was safer underneath.
He bent his head with great difficulty, closed his eyes and opened them again. His thoughts
were very thick. 118 He had to get word somewhere . . . somewhere . . . about something.
He had to get word.
Get word.
And he broke through! It was as though somewhere miles inside of himself he had put a
straining shoulder to a door and it had burst open. There was a clear flash of purpose, and he
remembered something he had forgotten. Ship's radio and the space station, of course.
He said, huskily, "You haven't got me. Do you hear that? I remember, and I'll keep on
remembering.
There was no answer.
He shouted aloud, incoherently. His mind was faintly occupied with the analogy of a man
fighting an overdose of a sleeping drug. Keep the muscles active, he thought. Keep walking. Keep
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
walking.
In his case, he had to keep his mind active, he had to keep the mental fibers working. Do
something. Do something. Stop, and they'll get you.
He continued shouting, and sound became words, "I'll do-it. I'll do it." Do what? He could
feel it slipping from him again.
Feverishly, he repeated to himself, "Radio to station ... . radio to station . . ." but the sounds
were becoming meaningless.
He was moving now. His body turned clumsily as though his joints were wood and nailed in
place, but it was turning. He faced the radio. He saw it clearly for a moment, then it wavered and became
foggy. He bent his mind to the task, and it was clear again. He could see the transmitter, see the
range-setting toggle and the frequency condensers. He could recall and understand its workings.
He took a dragging step toward it and a sensation as of red-hot spikes boring into his temples
overwhelmed him.
He staggered and fell to his knees, then, in agony, rose again.
1 Through pain-hazed eyes, he could still make out the radio. First one of his legs moved,
then another.
The radio seemed a hundred yards away, hazy, surrounded by a bloody mist. The pounding in
Lucky's head increased with each step.
He fought to ignore the pain, to see only the radio, to think only of the radio. He forced his
legs to move against a rubbery resistance that was entangling them and dragging him down.
Finally, he put out his arm, and when his fingers were still six inches away from the ultrawave,
Lucky knew that his endurance was at an end. Try as he might, he could drive his exhausted body no
closer. It was all over. It was ended.
The Hilda was a scene of paralysis. Evans lay unconscious on his cot; Bigman was crumpled
on the floor; and though Lucky remained stubbornly upright, his trembling fingertips were the only sign of
life in him.
The cold voice in Lucky's mind sounded once again in its even, inexorable monotone: "You
are helpless, but you will not lose consciousness as did your companions. You will suffer this pain until
you decide to submerge your ship, tell us what we wish to know, and end your life. We can wait [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]