“We weapons makers,” the clerk was saying mildly, “have evolved guns that can, in their particular ranges, destroy any machine or object made of what is called matter. Thus whoever possesses one of our weapons is the equal and more of any soldier of the empress. I say more because each gun is the center of a field of force which acts as a perfect screen against immaterial destructive forces. That screen offers no resistance to clubs or spears or bullets, or other material substances, but it would require a small atomic cannon to penetrate the superb barrier it creates around its owner.
“You will readily comprehend,” the man went on, “that such a potent weapon could not be allowed to fall, unmodified, into irresponsible hands. Accordingly, no gun purchased from us may be used for aggression or murder. In the case of the hunting rifle, only such specified game birds and animals as we may from time to time list in our display windows may be shot. Finally, no weapon can be resold without our approval. Is that clear?”
Fara nodded dumbly. For the moment, speech was impossible to him. The incredible, fantastically stupid words were still going round and around in his head. He wondered if he ought to laugh out loud, or curse the man for daring to insult his intelligence so tremendously.
So the gun mustn’t be used for murder or robbery. So only certain birds and animals could be shot. And as for reselling it, suppose— suppose he bought this thing, took a trip of a thousand miles, and offered it to some wealthy stranger for two credits—who would ever know? Or suppose he held up the stranger. Or shot him. How would the weapon shop ever find out? The thing was so ridiculous that— He grew aware that the gun was being held out to him stock first. He took it eagerly, and had to fight the impulse to turn the muzzle directly on the old man. Mustn’t rush this, he thought tautly. He said: “How does it work?”
“You simply aim it, and pull the trigger. Perhaps you would like to try it on a target we have.”
Fara swung the gun up. “Yes,” he said triumphantly, “and you’re it. Now, just get over there to the front door, and then outside.”
He raised his voice: “And if anybody’s thinking of coming through the back door, I’ve got that covered, too.”
He motioned jerkily at the clerk. “Quick now, move! I’ll shoot! I swear I will.”
The man was cool, unflustered. “I have no doubt you would. When we decided to attune the door so that you could enter despite your hostility, we assumed the capacity for homicide. However, this is our party. You had better adjust yourself accordingly, and look behind you—”
There was silence. Finger on trigger, Fara stood moveless. Dim thoughts came of all the half-things he had heard in his days about the weapon shops: that they had secret supporters in every district, that they had a private and ruthless hidden government, and that once you got into their clutches, the only way out was death and— But what finally came clear was a mind picture of himself, Fara Clark, family man, faithful subject of the empress, standing here in this dimly lighted store, deliberately fighting an organization so vast and menacing that— He must have been mad.
Only—here he was. He forced courage into his sagging muscles. He said:
“You can’t fool me with pretending there’s someone behind me. Now, get to that door. And fast!”
The firm eyes of the old man were looking past him. The man said quietly: “Well, Rad, have you all the data?”
“Enough for a primary,” said a young man’s baritone voice behind Fara. “Type A-7 conservative. Good average intelligence, but a Monaric development peculiar to small towns. One-sided outlook fostered by the Imperial schools present in exaggerated form. Extremely honest. Reason would be useless. Emotional approach would require extended treatment. I see no reason why we should bother. Let him live his life as it suits him.”
“If you think,” Fara said shakily, “that that trick voice is going to make me turn, you’re crazy. That’s the left wall of the building. I know there’s no one there.”
“I’m all in favor, Rad,” said the old man, “of letting him live his life. But he was the prime mover of the crowd outside. I think he should be discouraged.”
“We’ll advertise his presence,” said Rad. “He’ll spend the rest of his life denying the charge.”
Fara’s confidence in the gun had faded so far that, as he listened in puzzled uneasiness to the incomprehensible conversation, he forgot it completely. He parted his lips, but before he could speak, the old man cut in, persistently:
“I think a little emotion might have a long-run effect. Show him the palace.”
Palace! The startling word tore Fara out of his brief paralysis. “See here,” he began, “I can see now that you lied to me. This gun isn’t loaded at all.. It’s—”
His voice failed him. Every muscle in his body went rigid. He stared like a madman. There was no gun in his hands. “Why, you—” he began wildly. And stopped again. His mind heaved with imbalance. With a terrible effort he fought off the spinning sensation, thought finally, tremblingly: Somebody must have sneaked the gun from him. That meant—there was someone behind him. The voice was no mechanical thing. Somehow, they had— He started to turn—and couldn’t. What in the name of— He struggled, pushing with his muscles. And couldn’t move, couldn’t budge, couldn’t even— The room was growing curiously dark. He had difficulty seeing the old man and— He would have shrieked then if he could. Because the weapon shop was gone. He was— He was standing in the sky above an immense city. In the sky, and nothing beneath him, nothing around him but air, and blue summer heaven, and the city a mile, two miles below.
Nothing, nothing— He would have shrieked, but his breath reemed solidly embedded in his lungs. Sanity came back as the remote awar~uess impinged upon his terrified mind that he was actually ctand~ng on a hard floor, and that the city must be a picture somehow focused directly into his eyes. For the first time, with a start, Fara recognized the metropolis below. It was the city of dreams, Imperial City, capital of the glorious Empress Isher— From his great height, he could see the gardens, the gorgeous grounds of the silver palace, the official Imperial residence itself— The last tendrils of his fear were fading now before a gathering fascination and wonder; they vanished utterly as he recognized with a ghastly thrill of uncertain expectancy that the palace was drawing nearer at great speed.
“Show him the palace,” they had said. Did that mean, could it mean— That spray of tense thoughts splattered into nonexistence, as the glittering roof flashed straight at his face. He gulped, as the solid metal of it passed through him, and then other walls and ceilings.
His first sense of imminent and mind-shaking desecration came as the picture paused in a great room where a score of men sat around a table at the head of which sat—a young woman.
The inexorable, sacrilegious, limitlessly powered cameras that were taking the picture swung across the table, and caught the woman full ‘ace.
It was a handsome face, but there was passion and fury twisting it now, and a very blaze of fire in her eyes, as she leaned forward, and said in a voice at once familiar—how often Fara had heard its calm, measured tones on the telestats—and distorted. Utterly distorted by anger and an insolent certainty of command. That caricature of a beloved voice slashed across the silence as clearly as if he, Fara, was there in that room:
“I want that skunk killed, do you understand? I don’t care how you do it, but I want to hear by tomorrow night that he’s dead.” The picture snapped off and instantly—it was as swift as that— Fara was back in the weapon shop. He stood for a moment, swaying, fighting to accustom his eyes to the dimness; and then— His first emotion was contempt at the simpleness of the trickery— a motion picture. What kind of a fool did they think he was, to swallow something as transparently unreal as that? He’d— Abruptly, the appalling lechery of the scheme, the indescribable wickedness of what was being attempted here brought red rage. “Why, you scum!” he flared. “So you’ve got somebody to act the part of the empress, trying to pretend that— Why, you—” “That will do,” said the voice of Rad; and Fara shook as a big young man walked into his line of vision. The alarmed thought came that people who would besmirch so vilely the character of her imperial majesty would not hesitate to do physical damage to Fara Clark. The young man went on in a steely tone: