“So has ours,” Seth Morley said.
“Okay,” Frazer said fussily. “We’ve learned a little from the tench but not much. All of us will be killed.” He smiled a mirthless, bitter smile. “Our enemy is ‘influential circles.’ We must stay in close proximity to one another, otherwise they’ll knock us off one by one.” He pondered. “And we’re in danger, from every direction; nothing we can do will change that. And Russell is a hazard to us, due to his ambition.” He turned toward Seth Morley and said, “Have you noticed how he’s already taken over as leader of the six of us? As if it’s natural to him.”
“It is natural to me,” Russell said.
“So the tench is right,” Frazer said.
After a pause, Russell nodded. “I suppose so, yes. But someone has to lead.”
“When we get back,” Seth Morley said, “will you resign and accept Glen Belsnor as the group’s leader?”
“If he’s competent.”
Frazer said. “We elected Glen Beisnor. He’s our leader whether you like it or not.”
“But,” Russell said, “I didn’t get a chance to vote.” He smiled. “So I don’t consider myself bound by it.”
“I’d like to ask the tench a couple of questions,” Maggie Walsh said. She took the pen and paper and wrote painstakingly. “I’m asking. ‘Why are we alive?’ ” She placed the paper before the tench and waited.
The answer, when they had obtained it, read:
_To be in the fullness of possession and at the height of power_.
“Cryptic,” Wade Frazer said. “‘The fullness of possession and the height of power.’ Interesting. Is that what life’s all about?”
Again Maggie wrote. “I’m now asking, ‘Is there a God?’ She placed the slip before the tench and all of them, even Ignatz Thugg, waited tensely.
The answer came.
_You would not believe me_.
“What’s that mean?” Ignatz Thugg said hotly. “It doesn’t mean nothing; that’s what it means. Doesn’t mean.”
“But it’s the truth,” Russell pointed out. “If it said no, you wouldn’t believe it. Would you?” He turned questioningly toward Maggie.
“Correct,” she said.
“And if it said there was?”
“I already believe it.”
Russell, satisfied, said, “So the tench is right. It makes no difference to any of us what it says in answer to a question like that.”
“But if it said yes,” Maggie said. “then I could be sure.”
“You are sure,” Seth Morley said.
“Sweet Jesus,” Thugg said. “The raft is on fire.” Leaping up they saw flames billowing and leaping; they heard now the crackle of the wood as it heated up, burned, became glowing ash. The six of them sprinted toward the river . . . but, Seth Morley realized, we’re too late.
Standing on the bank they watched helplessly; the burning raft had begun to drift out into the center of the water. It reached the current and, still engulfed by fire, it drifted downstream, became smaller, became, at last, a spark of yellow fire. And then they could no longer see it.
After a time Ned Russell said, “We shouldn’t feel badly. That’s the Norse way of celebrating death. The dead Viking was laid on his shield, on his boat, and the boat was set on fire and sent drifting out to sea.”
Meditating, Seth Morley thought, _Vikings_. A river, and, beyond it, a mystifying building. The river would be the Rhein and the Building would be Waihalla. That would explain why the raft, with Betty Jo Berm’s body on it, caught fire and drifted away. Eerie, he thought, and shivered.
“What’s the matter?” Russell asked, seeing his face.
“For a moment,” he said, “I thought I understood.” But it couldn’t be; there had to be another explanation.
The tench, answering questions, would be–he could not remember her name, and then it came to him. Erda. The goddess of the earth who knew the future. Who answered questions brought to her by Wotan.
And Wotan, he thought, walks among the mortals in disguise. Recognizable only by the fact that he had but one eye. The Wanderer, he is called.
“How’s your vision?” he asked Russell. “Twenty-twenty in both eyes?”
Startled, Russell said, “No–actually not, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”
“One of his eyes is false,” Wade Frazer said. “I’ve been noticing. The right one is artificial; it sees nothing, but the muscles operate it, moving it as if it were real.”
“Is that true?” Seth Morley asked.
“Yes.” Russell nodded. “But it’s none of your business.” And Wotan, Seth Morley recalled, destroyed the gods, brought on _die Gotterdammerung_, by his ambition. What was his ambition? To build the castle of the gods: Walhalla. Well, Walhalla had been built, all right; it bore the legend _Winery_. But it was not a winery.
And, at the end, he thought, it will sink into the Rhein and disappear. And the Rheingold will return to the Rhein Maidens.
But that has not happened yet, he reflected.
Specktowsky had not mentioned _this_ in his Book!
Trembling, Glen Belsnor laid the pistol down on the chest of drawers to his right. Before him on the floor, still clutching the great golden sword, lay Tony Dunkelwelt. A tiny flow of blood from his mouth trickled down his cheek and dripdripped onto the handmade rug which covered the plastic floor.
Having heard the shot, Dr. Babble came running up. Puffing and wheezing he halted at Bert Kosler’s body on the porch, turned the withered old body over, examined the sword wound. . . then, seeing Glen Belsnor, he entered the room. Together the two of them stood gazing down.
“I shot him,” Glen Beisnor said. His ears still rang from the noise of the shot; it had been an ancient lead slug pistol, part of his collection of odds and ends that he carried everywhere he went. He pointed out onto the porch. “You saw what he did to old Bert.”
“And he was going to stab you, too?” Babble asked.
“Yes,” Glen Belsnor got out his handkerchief and blew his nose; his hand shook and he felt satanically miserable. “What a hell of a thing,” he said, and heard his voice wobble with grief. “To kill a kid. But Christ–he would have gotten me, then you, and then Mrs. Rockingham.” The thought of anyone killing the distinguished old lady. . . that, more than anything else, had prompted him to act. _He_ could have run away; so could Babble. But not Mrs. Rockingham.
Babble said, “Obviously, it was Susie Smart’s death that made him psychotic, that brought on his break with reality. He undoubtedly blamed himself for it.” He stooped, picked up the sword. “I wonder where he got this. I’ve never seen it before.”
“He always was on the verge of a breakdown,” Glen Belsnor said. “With those goddam ‘trances’ he went into. He probably heard the voice of God telling him to kill Bert.”
“Did he say anything? Before you killed him?”
“‘I killed the Form Destroyer.’ That’s what he said. And then he pointed at Bert’s body and said, ‘See?’ Or something like that.” He shrugged weakly. “Well, Bert was very old. Very much decayed. The handiwork of the Form Destroyer was all over him, God knows. Tony seemed to recognize me. But he was completely insane anyhow. It was all crap he was saying, and then he went for the sword.”
They were both silent for a time.
“Four dead now,” Babble said. “Maybe more.”
“Why do you say ‘maybe more’?”
Babble said, “I’m thinking of those who left the settlement this morning. Maggie, the new man Russell, Seth and Mary Morley–”
“They’re probably all right.” But he did not believe his own words. “No,” he say savagely, “they’re probably all dead. Maybe all seven of them.”
“Try to calm down,” Babble said; he seemed a little afraid. “Is that gun of yours still loaded?”
“Yes.” Glen Belsnor picked it up, emptied it, handed the shells to Babble. “You can keep them. No matter what happens I’m not going to shoot anyone else. Not even to save one of the rest of us or all of the rest of us.” He made his way to a chair, seated himself, clumsily got out a cigarette and lit up.
“If there’s a court of inquiry,” Babble said, “I’ll be glad to testify that Tony Dunkelwelt was psychiatrically insane. But I can’t testify to his killing old Bert, or attacking you. I mean to say, I have only your verbal report for that.” He added quickly, “But of course I believe you.”
“There won’t be any inquiry.” He knew it was an absolute verity; there was no doubt in him on that score. “Except,” he said, “a posthumous one. Which won’t matter to us.”
“Are you keeping a log of some sort?” Babble asked.
“No.”
“You should.”
“Okay,” he snarled, “I will. But just leave me alone, goddam it!” He glared at Babble, panting with anger. “Lay off!”
“Sorry,” Babble said in a small voice, and shrank perceptibly away.