A chasm opened before her feet. She began to fall; below her the frozen landscape of the hell-world grew closer. Again she cried out, “Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna!” But still she fell; she had almost reached the hell-world, and nothing meant to lift her up.
Something with immense wings soared up, like a great, metallic dragonfly with spines jutting from its head. It passed her, and a warm wind billowed after it. “Salve me, fons pietatis,” she called to it; she recognized it and felt no surprise at seeing it. The Intercessor, fluttering up from the hellworld, back to the fire of the smaller, inner rings.
Lights, in various colors, bloomed on all sides of her; she saw a red, smoky light burning close and, confused, turned toward it. But something made her pause. The wrong color, she thought to herself. I should be looking for a clear, white light, the proper womb in which to be reborn. She drifted upward, carried by the warm wind of the Intercessor. . . the smoky red light fell behind and in its place, to her right, she saw a powerful, unflickering, yellow light. As best she could she propelled herself toward that.
The pain in her chest seemed to have lessened; in fact her entire body felt vague. Thank you, she thought, for easing the discomfort; I appreciate that. I have seen it, she said to herself; I have seen the Intercessor and through it I have a chance of surviving. Lead me, she thought. Take me to the proper color of light. To the right new birth.
The clear, white light appeared. She yearned toward it, and something helped propel her. Are you angry at me? she thought, meaning the enormous presence that throbbed. She could still hear the throbbing, but it was no longer meant for her; it would throb on throughout eternity because it was beyond time, outside of time, never having been in time. And–there was no space present, either; everything appeared two-dimensional and squeezed together, like robust but crude figures drawn by a child or by some primitive man. Bright colorful figures, but absolutely flat. . . and touching.
“Mors stupebit et natura,” she said aloud. “Cum resurget creatura, judicanti responsura.” Again the throbbing lessened. It has forgiven me, she said to herself. It is letting the Intercessor carry me to the right light.
Toward the clear, white light she floated, still uttering from time to time pious Latin phrases. The pain in her chest had gone now entirely and she felt no weight; her body had ceased to consume both time and space.
Wheee, she thought. This is marvelous.
Throb, throb, went the Central Presence, but no longer for her; it throbbed for others, now.
The Day of the Final Audit had come for her–had come and now had passed. She had been judged and the judgment was favorable. She experienced utter, absolute joy. And continued, like a moth among novas, to flutter upward toward the proper light.
“I didn’t mean to kill her,” Ignatz Thugg said huskily. He stood gazing down at the body of Maggie Walsh. “I didn’t know what she was going to do. I mean, she kept walking and walking; I thought she was after the gun.” He jerked an accusing shoulder toward Glen Belsnor. “And he said it was empty.”
Russell said, “She was going for the gun; you’re right.”
“Then I didn’t do wrong,” Thugg said.
No one spoke for a time.
“I’m not giving up the gun,” Thugg said presently.
“That’s right, Thugg,” Babble said. “You keep hold of it. So we can see how many other innocent people you want to kill.”
“I didn’t want to kill her.” Thugg pointed the gun at Dr. Babble. “I’ve never killed nobody before. Who wants the gun?” He looked around, wildly, at all of them. “I did exactly what Belsnor did, no more and no less. We’re the same, him and me. So I’m sure as hell not going to give him the gun.” Panting, his breath rasping in his windpipe, Thugg gripped the gun and stared huge-eyed around at all of them.
Belsnor walked over to Seth Morley. “We’ve got to get it away from him.”
“I know,” Seth Morley said. But he could think of no way to get it. If Thugg had killed simply because someone–and a woman at that–had approached him reading from The Book, then he would shoot any and all of them at the slightest pretext.
Thugg now was blatantly and floridly psychotic. It was obvious. He had wanted to kill Maggie Walsh, and Seth Morley realized something now that he hadn’t understood before. _Belsnor had killed but he had not wanted to. Thugg had killed for the pleasure of it_.
It made a difference. They were safe from Belsnor–unless they became homicidal themselves. In that case, Belsnor would of course shoot. But if they did nothing provocative–.
“Don’t,” his wife Mary said in his ear.
“We have to get the gun back,” Seth Morley said. “And it’s my fault he has it; I let him get it away from me.” He held out his hand, held it in Ignatz Thugg’s direction. “Give it to me,” he said, and felt his body squinch up in fear; his body prepared itself for death.
12
“He’ll kill you,” Russell said. He, too, walked toward Ignatz Thugg. Everyone else watched. “We need to have that gun,” Russell said to Thugg. To Seth Morley he said, “Probably he can get only one of us. I know that gun; it can’t be fired rapidly. He’ll be able to get off one shot and that’ll be it.” He moved to the other side of Thugg, approaching at a wide angle. “All right, Thugg,” he said, and held out his hand.
Thugg turned uncertainly toward him. Seth Morley moved rapidly forward, reaching.
“Goddam you, Morley,” Thugg said; the barrel of the gun swiveled back, but momentum carried Seth Morley forward. He collided with the skinny but muscular body of Ignatz Thugg–the man smelled of hair grease, urine and sweat.
“Get him now,” Belsnor yelled; he, too, ran at Thugg, reaching to grapple with him.
Cursing, Thugg tore away from Seth Morley. His face blank with psychopathic neutrality, his eyes glittering with cold, his mouth tormented into a squirming line, he fired.
Mary Morley shrieked.
Reaching with his left arm, Seth Morley touched his right shoulder and felt blood oozing through the fabric of his shirt. The noise of the shot had paralyzed him; he sank to his knees, convulsed by the pain, realizing in a dim way that Thugg had shot him in the shoulder. I’m bleeding, he thought. Christ, he thought, I didn’t get the gun from him. With effort he managed to open his eyes. He saw Thugg running; Thugg hurried away, pausing a time or two to fire. But he hit no one; they had all scattered, even Belsnor. “Help me,” Seth Morley grated, and Belsnor and Russell and Dr. Babble sneaked their way to him, their attention fixed on Thugg.
At the far end of the compound, by the entrance to the briefing room, Thugg halted; gasping for breath he aimed the gun at Seth Morley and fired one more shot. It passed Morley; it did not strike. Then with a shudder, Thugg turned away again and jogged off, leaving them.
“Frazer!” Babble exclaimed. “Help us get Morley into the infirmary! Come on; he’s bleeding from a severed artery, I think.”
Wade Frazer hurried over. He, Belsnor and Ned Russell lifted Seth up and began the task of carrying him to the doctor’s infirmary.
“You’re not going to croak,” Belsnor gasped as they laid him onto the long metal-topped table. “He got Maggie but he didn’t get you.” Standing back from the table, Beisnor got out a handkerchief and, shaking as he did so, blew his nose. “That pistol should have stayed with me. Can you see that now?”
“Shut up and get out of here,” Babble said, as he snapped on the sterilizer and rapidly placed surgical instruments in it. He then tied a tourniquet around Seth Morley’s injured shoulder. The flow of blood continued; it had now formed a pool on the table beside Seth Morley. “I’ll have to open him up, get the artery ends, and fuse them together,” he said. He tossed the tourniquet away, then turned on the artificial blood-supply machinery. Using a small surgical tool to drill a hole in Seth Morley’s side, he adroitly fastened the feedertube of the artificial blood-supply. “I can’t stop him from bleeding,” he said. “It’ll take ten minutes to dig in, get the artery ends and fuse them. But he won’t bleed to death.” Opening the sterilizer, he got out a tray of steaming tools. Expertly, hastily, he began to cut away Seth Morley’s clothing. A moment later and he had begun exploring the injured shoulder.
“We’re going to have to keep a continual watch for Thugg,” Russell said. “Damn it. I wish there were other weapons available. That one gun, and he’s got it.”