Russell spoke up. “And sometimes, even during our physical lifetime, we get momentary glimpses of it.”
“Only if the Intercessor lifts the veil for us,” Maggie Walsh said.
“True,” Russell admitted.
“Where are you from?” Seth Morley asked Russell.
“From Alpha Centauri 8.”
“That’s a long way from here,” Wade Frazer said.
“I know.” Russell nodded. “That’s why I arrived here so late. I’d been traveling for almost three months.”
“Then you were one of the first to obtain a transfer,” Seth Morley said. “Long before me.”
“Long before any of us,” Wade Frazer said. He contemplated Russell, who stood head and shoulders above him. “I wonder why an economist would be wanted here. There’s no economy on this planet.”
Maggie Walsh said, “There seems to be no use to which any of us can put our skills. Our skills, our training–they don’t seem to matter. I don’t think we were selected because of them.”
“Obviously,” Thugg grated.
“Is that so obvious to you?” Betty Jo said to him. “Then what do you think the basis of selection was?”
“Like Belsnor says. We’re all misfits.”
“He doesn’t say we’re misfits,” Seth Morley said. “He says we’re failures.”
“It’s the same thing,” Thugg said. “We’re the debris of the galaxy. Beisnor is right, for once.”
“Don’t include me when you say that,” Betty Jø said. “I’m not willing to admit I’m part of the ‘debris of the universe’ quite yet. Maybe tomorrow.”
“As we die,” Maggie Walsh said, half to herself, “we sink into oblivion. An oblivion in which we already exist. . . one out of which only the Deity can save us.”
“So we have the Deity trying to save us,” Seth Morley said, “and General Treaton trying to–” He broke off; he had said too much. But no one noticed.
“That’s the basic condition of life anyhow,” Russell put in, in his neutral, mild voice. “The dialectic of the universe. One force pulling us down to death: the Form Destroyer in all his manifestations. Then the Deity in His three Manifestations. Theoretically always at our elbow. Right, Miss Walsh?”
“Not theoretically.” She shook her head.
“Actually.” Betty Jo Berm said quietly, “There’s the Building.”
So now he saw it. Seth Morley shaded his eyes against the bright midday sun, peered. Gray and large, it reared up at the limit of his vision. A cube, almost. With odd spires . . . probably from heat-sources. From the machinery and activity within. A pall of smoke hung over it and he thought, It’s a factory.
“Let’s go,” Thugg said, starting in that direction.
They trudged that way, strung out in an uneven file.
“It’s not getting any closer,” Wade Frazer said presently, with jejune derision.
“Walk faster, then,” Thugg said with a grin.
“It won’t help.” Maggie Walsh halted, gasping. Circles of dark sweat were visible around her armpits. “Always it’s like this. You walk and walk and it recedes and recedes.”
“And you never get really close,” Wade Frazer said. He, too, had stopped walking; he was busy lighting up a battered rosewood pipe. . . using with it, Seth Morley noted, one of the worst and strongest pipe-mixtures in existence. The smell of it, as the pipe flared into irregular burning, befouled the natural air.
“Then what do we do?” Russell said.
“Maybe you can think of something,” Thugg said. “Maybe if we close our eyes and walk around in a little circle we’ll find ourselves standing next to it.”
“As we stand here,” Seth Morley said, shading his eyes and peering, “it gets closer.” He was positive. He could pick out all the spires, now, and the pall of smoke above it seemed to have lifted. Maybe it’s not a factory after all, he thought. _If it will come just a little nearer maybe I can tell_. He peered on and on; the others, presently, did the same.
Russell said reflectively, “It’s a phantasm. A projection of some kind. From a transmitter located probably within a square mile of us. A very efficient, modern vidtransmitter. . . but you can still see a slight waver.”
“What do you suggest, then?” Seth Morley asked him. “If you’re right then there’s no reason to try to get close to it, since it isn’t there.”
“It’s somewhere,” Russell corrected. “But not in that spot. What we’re seeing is a fake. But there is a real Building and it probably is not far off.”
“How can you know that?” Seth Morley said.
Russell said, “I’m familiar with Interplan West’s method of decoy-composition. This illusory transmission is in existence to fool those who know there is a Building. Who expect to find it. And when they see this they think they have. This is not for someone who does not know there is a Building somewhere out here.” He added, “This worked very well in the war between Interplan West and the warrior-cults of Rigel 10. Rigelian missiles zeroed in on illusory industrial complexes over and over again. You see, this kind of projection shows up on radar screens and computerized sweep-scanner probes. It has a kind of semi-material basis; strictly speaking it’s not a mirage.”
“Well, you would know,” Betty Jo Berm said. “You’re an economist; you’d be familiar with what happened to industrial complexes during a war.” But she did not sound convinced.
“Is that why it retreats?” Seth Morley asked him. “As we approach?”
“That is how I made out its composition,” Russell said.
Maggie Walsh said to him, “Tell us what to do.”
“Let’s see.” Russell sighed, pondered. The others waited. “The real Building could be almost anywhere. There’s no way to trace it back from the phantasm; if there were, the method would not have worked. I think–” He pointed. “I have a feeling that the plateau over there is illusory. A superimposition over something, resulting in a negative hallucination for anyone who sights in that direction.” He explained, “A negative hallucination–when you do not see something that’s actually there.”
“Okay,” Thugg said. “Let’s head for the plateau.”
“That means crossing the river,” Mary Morley said.
To Maggie Walsh, Frazer said, “Does Specktowsky say anything about walking on water? It would be useful, right now. That river looks damn deep to me, and we already decided we couldn’t take the chance of trying to cross it.”
“The river may not be there either,” Seth Morley said.
“It’s there,” Russell said. He walked toward it, stopped at its edge, bent down and lifted out a temporary handful of water.
“Seriously,” Betty Jo Berm said, “does Specktowsky say anything about walking on water?”
“It can be done,” Maggie Walsh said, “but only if the person or persons are in the presence of the Deity. The Deity would have to lead him–or them–across; otherwise they’d sink and drown.”
Ignatz Thugg said, “Maybe Mr. Russell is the Deity.” To Russell he said, “Are you a Manifestation of the Deity? Come here to help us? Are you, specifically, the Walker-on-Earth?”
“Afraid not,” Russell said in his reasonable, neutral voice.
“Lead us across the water,” Seth Morley said to him.
“I can’t,” Russell said. “I’m a man just like you.”
“Try,” Seth Morley said.
“It’s strange,” Russell said, “that you would think I’m the Walker-on-Earth. It’s happened before. Probably because of the nomadic existence I lead. I’m always showing up as a stranger, and if I do anything right–which is rare–then someone gets the bright idea that I’m the third Manifestation of the Deity.”
“Maybe you are,” Seth Morley said, scrutinizing him keenly; he tried to recall how the Walker had looked when he had revealed himself back at Tekel Upharsin. There was little resemblance. And yet–the odd intuition, to an extent, remained with him. It had come to him with no warning: one moment he had accepted Russell as an ordinary man and then all at once he had felt himself to be in the presence of the Deity. And it lingered; it did not completely go away.
“I’d know if I was,” Russell pointed out.
“Maybe you do know,” Maggie Walsh said. “Maybe Mr. Morley is right.” She, too, scrutinized Russell, who looked now a little embarrassed. “If you are,” she said, “we will know eventually.”
“Have you ever seen the Walker?” Russell asked her.
“No.”
“I am not he,” Russell said.
“Let’s just wade into the goddam water and see if we can make the other side,” Thugg said impatiently. “If it’s too deep then the hell with it; we’ll turn back. Here I go.” He strode toward the river and into it; his legs disappeared in the opaque blue-gray water. He continued on and, by degrees, the others followed after him.
They reached the far side with no trouble. All across, the river remained shallow. Feeling chagrined the six of them– and Russell–stood together, slapping water from their clothing. It had come up to their waists and no farther.
“Ignatz Thugg,” Frazer said. “Manifestation of the Deity. Equipped to ford rivers and battle typhoons. I never guessed.”