It was at this point that the whole quality of the experience underwent a change. So far, he had been aware that he was studying a kind of recording, a memory trace that had been fixed in time. Now, suddenly, he had the curious sensation of being in contact with a living mind. This was obviously absurd, since the man was dead. Yet the experience was unmistakable. The difference between studying a memory-recording and probing a living mind was as plain and distinct as the difference between touching the cold flesh of a corpse and the warm flesh of a living person. His mind recoiled in fear and alarm. In that moment he became aware that both he and Skorbo’s killer were standing in a narrow stone chamber, in complete darkness. There was an impression of cold. A few feet in front of them, a man was seated in a stone chair that was not unlike the throne on which King Kazak had received visitors in Dira. In spite of the darkness, the man in the chair was completely visible, as if to some sense other than sight. He was dressed in a long, black garment like a monk’s robe, and his face was concealed inside its cowl. Yet in spite of being able to see in the dark, Niall was unable to see the face inside the hood; only the whites of the eyes were dimly visible, and they seemed to stare with an unblinking intensity that was unnerving.
Dark shoes with curled tips peeped out from under the robe. The only other part of the man that was visible were the hands that rested on the arms of the chair. Niall observed that these seemed to be scaly, like the skin of a lizard or a snake, although the flesh was the color of normal human flesh. The fingers were connected together with a web of almost transparent flesh.
In the moment Niall suddenly found himself in his presence, this man was apparently questioning Skorbo’s killer, who was standing before him with bowed head, in an attitude of respect. But as Niall stared with astonishment at the man in the stone chair, Skorbo’s killer seemed to sense Niall’s presence; a moment later, the seated man also became aware of him. Niall had the impression that the eyes had narrowed, and as they turned on him, it cost him an effort not to take a step backwards; there was an almost physical force in the stare. His bodiless state seemed to amplify his sensitivity, so that he was abnormally conscious of the personality behind the eyes. Oddly enough, there was no sense of evil or malice; only of ruthless fanaticism that was akin to blindness. He sensed that this was a being who would regard anyone who opposed or disagreed with him as an enemy who deserved to be exterminated.
The man raised his right hand from the arm of the chair and pointed at Niall with a finger that seemed to have a claw instead of a nail; it might have been a gesture of admonishment. As he did so, Niall experienced an agonizing sensation in his chest. It felt as though some small crablike creature had leapt on to his chest and clung there, gripping with sharp little claws that seemed to extend in a circle, like those of certain bugs or lice. The pain made him gasp; yet as his fingers tried to tear it away, he could see there was nothing there.
A moment later, he was back on the couch in the white tower, and the sun was streaming in through the window. His feeling of relief gave way to horror as he realized that the invisible entity was still tearing at his chest, as if intent on eating its way into his heart. The internalizer had been switched off, the room looked solid and normal. Yet he was still aware of the gaze of the narrow brown eyes, and of the intense pain in his chest. As his hands clawed at the neck of his tunic, they snapped the fine gold chain that held the pendant round his neck; it flew across the room and landed on the floor. At that moment, the pain stopped, and he ceased to be aware of the brown eyes.
“What happened?”
Niall shook his head; once again, he felt drained and exhausted. But this time it was not the tiredness that follows a shock, but an aching sense of fatigue, as if he had just been subjected to some enormous strain that had brought him to the verge of physical breakdown.
He pointed at the pendant, which was lying against the wall. “That thing nearly killed me.”
The old man picked it up. “That is impossible. It is merely a piece of metal.”
Niall felt too exhausted to argue. He said: “It’s some kind of transmitter. ”
The old man shook his head. “My analysis indicates that it is an alloy of copper and zinc, with a trace of gold. It is quite solid, and therefore contains no transmitter.”
“I don’t give a damn what your analysis says.” Niall was aware that his tiredness was causing his voice to choke with frustration. He forced himself to be calm, and allowed his head to sink back on the pillow. The peace machine immediately began to vibrate — he realized this was an automatic response to his tension — and he experienced an instant sense of relief. “Please switch that thing off.” The vibrations ceased. “I don’t want to go to sleep. I want to find out what happened.”
“Yes, of course. I understand.” The mechanically soothing voice caused a wave of irritation, and he had to remind himself that it would be pointless to lose his temper with a machine. “Please describe what happened.”
Niall drew a deep breath. “I found myself standing in a dark room with Skorbo’s killer. There was an old man sitting on a kind of throne — a man in a long black robe. And when he realized I was there, he attacked me with his mind.”
“At which point, I realized you were having a nightmare and switched off the machine.”
“It was not a nightmare!” Niall found it hard to keep his voice down. “I’m certain he was real.”
“Very well, he was real.” The flat, reasonable voice was infuriating. “And what of Skorbo’s assassin?”
“He was real, too. He was the first one to notice me.”
“Then he was not dead after all?”
“Yes, he’s dead.” His own voice sounded dull and flat.
“How is that possible? You said he was alive.”
“I said he was real. Perhaps he was some kind of a ghost.”
“The Steegmaster does not make allowance for the existence of ghosts, except in the psychological sense. Torwald Steeg believed that ghosts are a primitive superstition.”
Niall spoke with his eyes closed. “I don’t care what Steeg believed. I’m telling you what happened.” The peace machine switched on again; as the waves of relaxation flowed through him, Niall was tempted to allow it to soothe away his tiredness and frustration. But something in him revolted at this surrender to mere physical comfort. He said: “Turn that thing off. We’ve got to get to the bottom of this.”
“Of course.” The vibrations ceased. “But please consider what I am saying. Your description bears all the hallmarks of a nightmare. You insist that it was real. But you forget that the psychoscope has the power to make dreams appear to be realities.”
It sounded highly plausible. Niall realized suddenly that the old man could be right after all. “But why should a nightmare make me feel so exhausted?”
“This is why I warned you against using the psychoscope when you are overtired. Tiredness creates negative emotions, and the psychoscope amplifies them.”
“But would it make me feel as if something had drained all the life out of me?”
“Not normally. But that is something that can easily be tested.”
“How?”
“By measuring your life-field.” He passed out of Niall’s line of sight, behind the peace machine, and emerged a moment later holding two retractable wires — coiled so they were like long springs — which terminated in bell-shaped cups. He held out one of these to Niall. “Please place this against your inner thigh.” Niall raised his tunic and pressed the cup against his flesh, where it immediately attached itself. “Please moisten your lower lip.” He pressed the second cup against Niall’s lip; Niall felt his flesh sucked inward as it gripped.
“What does it do?”
“Measures the electrical field associated with your vitality.” He disappeared behind the machine; there was a humming sound, which lasted only a few seconds.
Niall said: “Well?”
“That is strange.” He detached the two cups. “Your lambda reading is down to 8.5.”
“And what should it be?”
“A normal reading is between 10.5 and 11.”
“So it could have been real?” He experienced a sinking of the heart; it had been pleasant to believe that the man with the webbed fingers had merely been a dream.