The mayor’s “All right!” was scarcely more than a sigh of sound. But it was all Fara needed.
He called out his intention to the crowd; and then, as he pushed his way out of the mob, he saw his son standing with some other young men staring at the window display.
Fara called: “Cayle, come and help me with the machine.”
Cayle did not even turn; and Fara hurried on, seething. That wretched boy! One of these days he, Fara, would have to take firm action there. Or he’d have a no-good on his hands.
The energy was soundless—and smooth. There was no sputter, no fireworks. It glowed with a soft, pure white light, almost caressing the metal panels of the door—but not even beginning to sear them.
Minute after minute, the dogged Fara refused to believe the incredible failure, and played the boundlessly potent energy on that resist- ing wall. When he finally shut off his machine, he was perspiring freely.
“I don’t understand it,” he gasped. “Why—no metal is supposed to stand up against a steady flood of atomic force. Even the hard metal plates used inside the blast chamber of a motor take the explosions in what is called infinite series, so that each one has unlimited rest. That’s the theory, but actually steady running crystallizes the whole plate after a few months.”
“It’s as Jor told you,” said the mayor. “These weapon shops are— big. They spread right through the empire, and they don’t recognize the empress.”
Fara shifted his feet on the hard grass, disturbed. He didn’t like this kind of talk. It sounded—sacrilegious. And besides it was nonsense. It must be. Before he could speak, a man said somewhere behind him:
“I’ve heard it said that that door will open only to those who cannot harm the people inside.”
The words shocked Fara out of his daze. With a start, and for the first time, he saw that his failure had had a bad psychological effect. He said sharply:
“That’s ridiculous! If there were doors like that, we’d all have them. We—”
The thought that stopped his words was the sudden realization that he had not seen anybody try to open the door; and with all this reluctance around him it was quite possible that— He stepped forward, grasped at the doorknob, and pulled. The door opened with an unnatural weightlessness that gave him the fleeting impression that the knob had come loose into his hand. With a gasp, Fara jerked the door wide open.
“Jor!” he yelled. “Get in!”
The constable made a distorted movement—distorted by what must have been a will to caution, followed by the instant realization that he could not hold back before so many. He leaped awkwardly toward the open door—and it closed in his face.
Fara stared stupidly at his hand, which was still clenched. And then, slowly, a hideous thrill coursed along his nerves. The knob had —withdrawn. It had twisted, become viscous, and slipped amorphously from his straining fingers. Even the memory of that brief sensation gave him a feeling of unnormal things.
He grew aware that the crowd was watching with a silent intent- ness. Fara reached again for the knob, not quite so eagerly this time; and it was only a sudden realization of his reluctance that made him angry when the handle neither turned nor yielded in any way.
Determination returned in full force, and with it came a thought. He motioned to the constable. “Co back, Jor, while I pull.”
The man retreated, but it did no good. And tugging did not help. The door would not open. Somewhere in the crowd, a man said darkly:
“It decided to let you in, then it changed its mind.”
“What foolishness are you talking!” Fara spoke violently. “It changed its mind. Are you Crazy? A door has no sense.”
But a surge of fear put a half-quaver into his voice. It was the sudden alarm that made him bold beyond all his normal caution. With a jerk of his body, Fara faced the shop.
The building loomed there under the night sky, in itself bright as day, huge in width and length, and alien, menacing, no longer easily conquerable. The dim queasy wonder came as to what the soldiers of the empress would do if they were invited to act. And suddenly— a bare, flashing glimpse of a grim possibility—the feeling grew that even they would be able to do nothing.
Abruptly, Fara was conscious of horror that such an idea could enter his mind. He shut his brain tight, said wildly:
“The door opened for me once. It will open again.”
It did. Quite simply it did. Gently, without resistance, with that same sensation of weightlessness, the strange, sensitive door followed the tug of his fingers. Beyond the threshold was dimness, a wide, darkened alcove. He heard the voice of Mel Dale behind him, the mayor saying:
“Fara, don’t be a fool. What will you do inside?”
Fara was vaguely amazed to realize that he had stepped across the threshold. He turned, startled, and stared at the blur of faces. “Why—” he began blankly; then he brightened; he said, “Why, I’ll buy a gun, of course.”
The brilliance of his reply, the cunning implicit in it, dazzled Fara for half a minute longer. The mood yielded slowly, as he found himself in the dimly lighted interior of the weapon shop.
It was preternaturally quiet inside. Not a sound penetrated from the night from which he had come; and the startled thought came that the people of the shop might actually be unaware that there was a crowd outside.
Fara walked forward gingerly on a rugged floor that muffled his footsteps utterly. After a moment, his eyes accustomed themselves to the soft lighting, which came like a reflection from the walls and ceilings. In a vague way, he had expected ultranormalness; and the ordinariness of the atomic lighting acted like a tonic to his tensed nerves.
He shook himself angrily. Why should there be anything really superior? He was getting as bad as those credulous idiots out in the street. He glanced around with gathering confidence. The place looked quite common. It was a shop, almost scantily furnished. There were showcases on the walls and on the floor, glitteringly lovely things, but nothing unusual, and not many of them—a few dozens. There was in addition a double, ornate door leading to a back room— Fara tried to keep one eye on that door, as he examined several showcases, each with three or four weapons either mounted or arranged in boxes or holsters.
Abruptly, the weapons began to excite him. He forgot to watch the door, as the wild thought struck that he ought to grab one of those guns from a case, and then the moment someone came, force him outside where Jor would perform the arrest and— Behind him, a man said quietly: “You wish to buy a gun?” Fara turned with a jump. Brief rage flooded him at the way his plan had been wrecked by the arrival of. the clerk.
The anger died as he saw that the intruder was a fine-looking, silver-haired man, older than himself. That was immeasurably disconcerting. Fara had an immense and almost automatic respect for age, and for a long second he could only stand there gaping. He said at last, lamely:
“Yes, yes, a gun.”
“For what purpose?” said the man in his quiet voice.
Fara could only look at him blankly. It was too fast. He wanted to get mad. He wanted to tell these people what he thought of them. But the age of this representative locked his tongue, tangled his emotions. He managed speech only by an effort of will:
“For hunting.” The plausible word stiffened his mind. “Yes, definitely for hunting. There is a lake to the north of here,” he went on more fulsomely, glibly, “and—”
He stopped, scowling, startled at the extent of his dishonesty. He was not prepared to go so deeply into prevarication. He said curtly:
“For hunting.”
Fara was himself again. Abruptly, he hated the man for having put him so completely at a disadvantage. With smoldering eyes he watched the old fellow click open a showcase, and take out a greenshining rifle.
As the man faced him, weapon in hand, Fara was thinking grimly, “Pretty clever, having an old man as a front.” It was the same kind of cunning that had made them choose the property of Miser Harris. Icily furious, taut with his purpose, Fara reached for the gun; but the man held it out of his reach, saying:
“Before I can even let you test this, I am compelled by the by-laws of the weapon shops to inform you under what circumstances you may purchase a gun.”
So they had private regulations. What a system of psychology tricks to impress gullible fools! Well, let the old scoundrel talk. As soon as he, Fara, got hold of the rifle, he’d put an end to hypocrisy.