“What we’ll have to do,” Miss Yojez said, “is to organize ourselves here, and then, when we reach Plowman’s Planet, we’ll probably be staying at one of the major hotels, and once there we can contact some or all of the others he’s recruited and then possibly we can form a union effective.”
A heavyset red-faced man said, “But isn’t Glimmung a—“ He gestured. “A supernatural creature? A deity?”
“There are no deities,” the timid little fellow on the left side of the compartment said. “I used to put strong faith in them at an earlier age of my life, but after keen and very recurrent frustration and disappointment and disillusionment I gave up.”
The red-faced man said, “In terms of what he can do. What does it matter what you call it?” Vigorously, he declared, “In relation to us, Glimmung has the power and nature of a deity. For example, he can manifest himself simultaneously on ten or fifteen planets all over the galaxy, and yet still remain on Plowman’s Planet. Yes, he manifested himself to me in a scary fashion, as that gentleman up front just pointed out. But I’m convinced it’s the real thing. Glim mung made us come here; he coerced us—I know he did. In my case the police became peculiarly interested in my affairs about the same time that Glimmung first approached me. The way it worked out was that I more or less wound up having a choice between picking up on Glimmung’s proposition or going to jail as a political prisoner.”
In the name of god, Joe thought. Perhaps Glimmung played a hand in getting the QCA to drop in on me. And then the harness bulls who hung over me when I was giving away quarters, the cops who busted me—they may have been steered there by Glimmung!
Several people were talking at once, now. Listening intently, Joe made out the general drift of their discourses; they, too, were telling about rescues from police vehicles and stations by Glimmung. This changes everything, Joe said to himself.
“He got me to do an illegal act,” a matronly woman was saying. “He got me to write a check to one of the government’s beneficial organizations in a fit of passion. The check bounced and of course the police pulled me right in. When I got on this ship I jumped bail. I’m amazed they let me go, the QCA, I mean; I thought they’d stop me at the spaceport.”
That is strange, Joe reflected. The QCA could have stopped all of us; Glimmung didn’t take us to Plowman’s Planet by some vast display of his power: he had us take a regular flight—was himself, in fact, at the spaceport, apparently to see that we didn’t back out. Does that mean, Joe asked himself, that there is no genuine antagonism between Glimmung and the QCA?
He tried to remember the current law dealing with knowledge and skills of unusual value. It was a felony, he recalled, for a person to leave Earth if that person had skills which couldn’t be made available to the government or “people” in his absence. My statement as to my skills and knowledge was routinely okayed, he remembered; they just glanced at it and stamped it and went on to the next one . . . and the next one was probably someone else, with a special and highly useful skill, on his way to Plowman’s Planet. And they okayed him, too, it would seem.
He felt a deep and abiding insecurity, thinking this. A common basis between Glimmung and the police—if that were the case he was, for all intents and purposes, as much in the hands of the authorities as he would have been if he had remained at the police station. Perhaps even more so; on Plowman’s Planet he would not be covered by the modicum of statutes protecting the accused. As someone had said already, once they reached Plowman’s Planet they would be entirely in Glimmung’s possession, for whatever he wanted done. They would be, in essence, extensions of Glimmung; it was another corporate existence toward which he was heading, and he had in no sense escaped from anyone or anything. And this would be true for all the others; hundreds or perhaps even thousands of them, flowing to Plowman’s Planet from all over the galaxy. Jesus, he thought in despair. But then he thought of something, something that Glimmung, in humanoid form, had said in the restaurant of the spaceport. “There are no small lives.” And the little fisherman of the night, as Glimmung had called the lowly spider.
“Listen,” Joe said aloud into his microphone, and he had all the buttons down; everyone in the compartment was hearing him, whether they wanted to or not. “Glimmung told me something,” he said, “at the spaceport. He told me about life waiting for something to come along and sustain it, and that thing, that event, never coming for many lives. He said that this Undertaking, this Raising of Heldscalla, was that thing, that event, for me.” In his mind he felt his conviction grow until it became absolute and powerful, and he felt it change him; it woke him up until, by now, he could say, as Glimmung put it, I am. “ ‘Everything that has been latent,’ Glimmung said, ‘that has potential—all of it will be actualized.’ I felt—“ Joe hesitated, trying to find the exact word he wanted. “He knew,” he said finally, as the other passengers listened in silence. “About my life. He knew it from the inside, as if he were inside it with me, looking out.”
“He’s telepathic,” the timid little fellow piped up. There was a general stir of agreement.
“It was more than that,” Joe said. “Hell, the police have equipment that manufactures telepathy and they use it all the time. They used it on me yesterday.”
Miss Yojez said, “I experienced that also.” To the others she said, “Mr. Fernwright is correct. Glimmung looked into the basis of my life; it was as if he saw all the way back through my life, saw it all pass along and lead here, to this point. And he saw that at this point it isn’t worth living. Except for this.”
“But he conspired with the police—“ the gray-haired man said, but Miss Yojez interrupted him.
“We don’t know that he did. I think we’re experiencing panic. I think Glimmung planned this Undertaking to save us. I think he saw us all, the futilities of our various lives, and where they were leading, and he loved us, because we were alive. And he did what he could to help us. The Raising of Heldscalla is only a pretext; all of us—and there may be thousands—are the real purpose of this.” She paused a moment and then said, “Three days ago I tried to kill myself. I attached the tube of my vacuum cleaner to the tailpipe of my surface car, and then I put the other end of the tube inside the car and I got in and started the motor.”
“And then you changed your mind?” a slender girl with wispy, cornsilk hair asked.
“No,” Miss Yojez said. “The turbine misfired and knocked the tube loose. I sat for an hour in the cold for nothing.” Joe said, “Would you have tried again?”
“I planned to do it today,” she said levelly. “And this time in a fashion that wouldn’t fail.”
The red-faced red-haired man said, “Hear what I have to say, for what it’s worth.” He sighed, a ragged, hoarse noise of resignation and unease. “I was going to do it, too.”
“Not me,” the gray-haired man said; he looked exceedingly angry; Joe felt the strength of the man’s wrath. “I signed on because there was a great deal of money involved. Do you know what I am?” He glanced around at all of them.
“I’m a psychokineticist, the best psychokineticist on Earth.” Grimly he reached out his arm and a briefcase at the rear of the compartment flew directly toward him. Fiercely, he grabbed it, squeezing it.
Squeezing it, Joe thought, the way Glimmung squeezed me.
“Glimmung is here,” Joe said. “Among us.” To the grayhaired man he said, “You are Glimmung and yet you’re violently arguing against our trusting him. You.”
The gray-haired man smiled. “No, friend. I’m not Glimmung. I’m Harper Baldwin, psychokineticist consultant for the government. As of yesterday, anyhow.”
“But Glimmung is here somewhere,” a plump woman with tangled doll-hair said; she was knitting and had said nothing up until now. “He’s right, that man there.”
“Mr. Fernwright,” the stewardess offered helpfully. “May I introduce you to one another? This attractive girl beside Mr. Fernwright is Miss Mali Yojez. And this gentleman . . She droned on, but Joe did not listen; names weren’t important, except, perhaps, the name of the girl seated beside him. He had, during the last forty minutes, become more and more favorably inclined toward her spare, sparse, even bleak beauty. Nothing at all like Kate, he thought to himself. The opposite. This is a truly feminine woman; Kate’s a frustrated man. And that’s the kind which castrates right and left.