Part 3

The voice paused, but Ostby remained silent and it went on, "The records of the people of our world, who crashed in yours, I assume you studied very carefully. That would be necessary to make your planned deception more effective. Their names were Shemolang and Roelang. Am I correct?"

Ostby nodded. The Brain went on. "Shemolang was no ordinary man. He was first in line for the Imperator office, after Magogar."

The voice shifted its focus by some subtle change of the vision in the eye, and Ostby knew that it no longer addressed him. "Will you look in the files and find a picture there of Shemolang, Magogar?"

The Imperator brought his attention to alertness with an obvious effort of will. He had been listening as intently as Ostby. Now he rose and walked to the indicated files.

After a minute he drew a picture from one of the files and studied it. The Imperator gasped and murmured, "I had almost forgotten how he looked."

"Show the picture to Mr. Ostby, will you please?" the Brain said.

Ostby took the picture and the first glance sent a shock through his system that started as a weight in the pit of his stomach and flooded his body like fever. The picture that looked back at him was very nearly a replica of himself!

"Your father," the Brain interrupted his thoughts. "You not only have had a vast deception practiced upon you, but you have been fighting your own people!"

V

That night Ostby slept very little. In his thoughts two emotions fought for dominance. On the one side were the people of Earth--he still thought of it as his Earth. He had lived with them; they were his friends; their problems and joys had always been his--until now. The menace to them had been his to share, and to help eliminate. He had accepted this assignment knowing that, at best, he would never be able to return; at worst, that he would be killed. And he had taken it willingly.

Now he knew that he had been duped. He had been an alien among the people he loved. And they had sent him to fight his own kind!

His final decision came hard, but by morning he had made his choice.

He rose early but had to wait until well into the afternoon before the Imperator put in an appearance.

Magogar greeted Ostby with a smile, but there was no friendliness in it. He was a man who made no friends. The people about him were divided into two classes: those who served or obeyed him, and those who opposed him. The latter did not survive long.

"Step out onto the sun balcony with me," the Imperator said, with the easy assurance of a man accustomed to obedience. He strolled to the railing of the balcony and leaned against it, looking out over the water of the city's harbor. The balcony extended out over the water, which came directly up to a small walk bordering the palace.

"I have given your case very deep thought," the Imperator said, "and I will be perfectly frank with you. Whether I accept you or dispose of you will be directly determined by what I decide within the immediate future. There is no point in my asking your views because your range of choices is very small, and entirely incidental to my decision. You can willingly accept whatever I decide for you--if I let you live--or you can oppose me. The latter, of course, would be tantamount to asking for death. Do you have anything to say before we continue?"

"Not knowing what you have to offer leaves me with no possibility of making a choice," Ostby said carefully.

It was immediately evident, however, that he had made a wrong choice of words. The Imperator's arrogant brows rose and he frowned. "I never _offer_ anything," he said, spacing each word with a hard emphasis, "except the choice of accepting my decisions."

When Ostby made no reply, Magogar seated himself and remained in deep introspection.

"Let me tell you a story," he said finally. "At first it may sound like idle boasting, but I can readily demonstrate to you that I am the living proof of its authenticity."

The Imperator paused while he tilted back his chair and stared at the ceiling. "In the early years of man's existence," he said, "he possessed two physical survival characteristics. First, he could run. As he was one of the weakest of the animals he found that most expeditious. And because the instinct to run grew to occupy a prominent place in his emotional makeup, it enabled him to survive.

"The other survival factor was to fight. The fighters died an earlier death than did those that ran, and they had fewer progeny. But those fighters that lived ruled the tribes.

"During each generation these separate instincts developed and became more virile. The numbers of the fleers propagated and soon the mass of the human race consisted of their descendants. The fighters, however, ruled the tribes, as was logical. They were the doers, and became the leaders.

"I, Mr. Ostby, am a direct descendant of this long line of fighters--perhaps its culmination. I have never known fear, and I never flee! I have inherited the strength of those ancestors, and I rule now because I am the strongest man in the world, both mentally and physically. The world belongs to the strong, and I am the strongest. Let that weigh heavily in every thought you have concerning me."

Ostby found himself wondering in amazement at the colossal pride that could give birth to such thought processes.

"Now," the Imperator went on, "let me give you one last warning before you leave. You may be in line for my position, and you must prove to me that you are strong enough to take my place, if that ever becomes necessary. On the other hand if your strength evidences itself by the slightest opposition to me, I will kill you. Thus you have a fine line to walk, with your life hanging in the balance.

"This concludes our interview until later this afternoon," the Imperator said. "I would suggest, in the meantime, that you consult the Brain. He can supply you with an understanding of our background which you may find useful."

* * * * *

Ostby was glad the Imperator had suggested his speaking with the Brain. He had made his decision now, but there was much the Brain could tell him that he needed to know.

He walked down one flight and into the room housing the Brain. When he arrived he found it awake and obviously watching him. Once again he experienced a vast discomfort in meeting that giant eye, with its mottled apperception. He wondered uneasily if it had the power to read his mind.

Ostby's unease was not lessened by the Brain's first words. "You have finished your interview with the Imperator," it said. "Evidently you were wise enough not to antagonize him or you would not be here now. Is there anything special you would like to ask me?"

There was much he wanted to learn from the Brain and Ostby had no hesitation in replying.

"What are you?" he asked without preliminaries. "How old are you, and just what is the extent of your powers?"

For a moment Ostby was afraid that he had, in some way, made a wrong approach, and that the Brain would refuse to answer him, for it was silent. But finally it said, quietly, "Perhaps one question at a time would be better for both of us. I can answer directly then, and you will be able to assimilate the answers more easily. Some of them will have many ramifications and require supplementary explanations.

"I am over five hundred years old. I was originally a man, the same as yourself, and one of the few real scientists our race has produced. I limited my activity to no one field, but delved into anything that interested me. One of my interests was longevity. When I decided that immortality was limited by the weaknesses of the bodily vehicle to which I was tied, I designed this instrument in which my brain resides, and trained others to make the essential transfer. Does that answer your questions?"

"All except the extent of your intellectual ability. The rumor is that you know everything."

"That, of course, is ridiculous. Knowledge is like a fan-shaped wave; beginning with the first fact learned, and spreading wider and wider the more one learns. I started with an exceptional intellect, and for five hundred years have acquired as much knowledge as that intellect, and a vast curiosity, could give me."

"I see," Ostby said as he framed the next question in his mind. "What is your relationship with the Imperator?" he asked. "Are you an ally or a servant?"

"That is a bit difficult to answer," the Brain said, "because it depends on the viewpoint of the observer. As far as Magogar is concerned, I suppose I am both, though surely more of a servant than an equal. As I regard it, he is merely another man, though one who supplies me with most of the material for speculation which I desire."

"Are you loyal to him?"

"As you mean it, no. Loyalty implies an emotional basis. I'm afraid that I have none of the standard emotions. I will answer any question put to me by anyone. I care nothing about the purpose of the question or to what use the answer is put."

"Could I ask a question, in confidence, and be certain that you would not reveal that I did so to the Imperator?" Ostby asked. This could be placing his neck in the noose, he knew, and he waited anxiously for the answer.

"No," the Brain replied. "I would volunteer nothing to him, but I would tell him anything he asked."

Ostby decided that he needed time to think over this facet of the Brain before he ventured further. First, he would attempt to learn other facts which he might need later. Perhaps he could even obtain the answer he wanted in a roundabout way. "What is the population of your world?" he asked.

"Approximately seven million. Over a million live here, in Yarr, our one mechanized city."

"Why is it that you have so little technology, as compared with the Earth?"

"I suppose that its basis is our low birth rate," the Brain answered. "There is ample living space here, as well as natural resources, to supply our people's needs. Thus there is little necessity for them to shape and remake their environment. It is always easiest to accept nature as it is, if that can be done with a minimum of self-adjusting."

"Then why is this city of Yarr different?"

"Yarr is the creation of one man, a man hungry for power, for the authority, and the strength to dominate everything about him; to hold the lives of men and women in the hollow of his hand. That man, you will recognize, is Magogar. In his creed strength is right; in fact, it is everything. It is the philosophy that controls him, and through him, the city. Under his rule the unfit are killed, or at best, allowed to perish on the ragged confines of our artificial civilization."

"What is your opinion of that philosophy?"

"Magogar is wrong, beyond a doubt," the Brain answered unhesitatingly. "Any species survives and develops through cooperation, and self-restraint of its individual members. Ruthless self-assertion is a stumbling block to human progress. Magogar is right when he says that the world belongs to the strong. It must, by the very constitution of man. But a ruler who is merely strong will inevitably be overthrown. Eventually the world will be governed by the strong, but by the strong who are noble as well."

"Magogar's philosophy seems to me to be the outgrowth of an overweening pride," Ostby said.

"Perhaps. Up to a point self-admiration is not to be deplored. But in excess it is an evil thing."

* * * * *

Now, Ostby decided, was the time to ask his vital question. "Don't you think that you and your people would be better off if the 'door' between the worlds were closed?" He held his breath while he waited for the answer.

"You are making a mistake if you associate me, in your mind, with my world's people," the Brain said. "Not having a body to inspire emotion, wants and desires, I am tied to them by nothing. Whether they are better or worse off concerns me not at all. Whether they are happy, or even all die, concerns me equally as little. But you are right. The 'door' is a bad thing for them. This city is a parasite. All its technology, its customs, its sins, its vices, are copied from your Earth. Without the 'door' this city, this artificial oddity, would vanish. Its inhabitants would disperse and resume their pastoral life, where, I assure you, they would be much happier.

"And the solution to this is, as you say, the closing of the 'door.' Because every machine we have, that we did not steal, is manufactured by captives from Earth."

He was in too deep to back out now, Ostby decided. He plunged recklessly into the next question. "Can you tell me something about the operation of the 'door'?"

"This is not the first time the 'door' has appeared between our worlds," the Brain said, "though I know very little about its original appearance. Practically all I know about that is the result of abstract speculation. It appeared at least once before, thousands of years ago. My own theory is that at that time there was a mass migration from our world to yours, and that the present Earth people are descendants of our own ancestors."

The Brain paused for a long minute before continuing. "I have studied many of the writings of the Earth, and am quite certain that I know more about its history than its average citizen. Do you recall the evidence found concerning the Cro-Magnon man of Earth's prehistoric ages? It seems that the so-called Neanderthal man was the animal that most nearly approached the present homo sapiens, until suddenly--as such things are reckoned--he was supplanted by another, much more advanced species of man, the Cro-Magnon. My research leads me to believe that those Cro-Magnon men migrated from our world to yours!"

A dozen questions sprang to Ostby's mind concerning this fascinating theory, but he put them aside impatiently. He was a man with a bulldog tenacity of purpose, and he had no intention of wasting time on questions prompted by idle curiosity.

"That's a very interesting theory," he said, "and I would like to discuss it more fully some other time. But for now, are you telling me that the 'door' is a natural phenomenon?"

"Not the present 'door,'" the Brain replied. "It was created, approximately twenty years ago, by the concentration and intellectual power of one mind--my own!"

"But how did you do it?"

"I don't know how much knowledge you have of physics," the Brain said slowly. "The explanation is a bit technical for the untrained man to understand. However, I'll explain it as simply as I can.

"Matter, as you probably know, is made up of tiny electrified bodies called electrons. When measurements were made it was found that the whole mass of the electron is due to its electrical charge. The inevitable conclusion is that the material universe is not the substantial, objective thing it was formerly thought to be. Matter is a completely spectral thing with no actual substance. The idea of substance must be replaced by that of behavior.

"Thus, opening the 'door' became a problem of controlling that behavior in such a way as to create a refraction of the matter separating worlds. That is not as simple as it may sound because a mind, to be able to do it, must possess a thorough understanding of the forces it deals with. It must have a tremendous capacity for concentration, and its logic must be entirely uninfluenced by emotion. I believe it is safe to say that no other mind, before mine, has ever combined these qualities in sufficient degree to accomplish the deed."

Strangely Ostby was not too surprised by this revelation. The makers of the capsule residing in the flesh of his left forearm had concluded, as a result of their studies, that the "door" might be the product of mind power. Their greatest mistake had been that it would take the combined power of at least eight brilliant minds to achieve the necessary matter refraction.

Here, then, lay the end of his search, Ostby knew. He regretted that its conclusion must entail the death of the Brain.

Somewhat as a form of apology he said, "It probably won't surprise you too much to know that I have decided to continue my fight on the side of the people of Earth. I am not going to let the accident of ancestry blind me to the justice of their cause. Also, regardless of my personal feelings, I must do whatever is necessary to attain my end. Do you see what I am trying to say?"

"I do," the Brain answered. "Your next question is, will I consent to close the 'door' voluntarily. My answer will be no, and then you will say that you must kill me. Am I right?"

Ostby nodded. "Tell me," he said, "are you not afraid to die?"

"The instinct of self-preservation is as strong in me as it ever was."

"Then I can only offer you my deepest regrets for what I must do." Ostby rose and gripped the back of his chair--he should be able to smash the brain-box with that, he decided--and found himself unable to lift it!

"And I must offer my regrets at the necessity of defending myself," the Brain said ironically. "I will allow no one to harm me. I am going to release you from my mental grip now, and I want you to leave this room. Never come in my presence again with the intent to harm me or I will be forced to kill you." The voice was entirely emotionless throughout.

Ostby's strength returned in a warm wave that washed his body free of the stasis that bound him, and vigor flowed back into his muscles. But he knew he was helpless before the unnormal powers of the mind before him, and he turned and left the room.

VI

By the time Ostby reached the outer balcony a black frustration clogged his veins. To be so close and still be unable to act. He was willing to give his life to close the "door," but every way he turned he found himself battering against walls of futility. The anger within him now, so close to despair, was more than he could control. His reason feared that anger and he fought against it, but it went with him like a tangible thing and he knew that he could no longer restrain it.

The sight of the Imperator lounging in an easy chair on the balcony, his face, arrogant and powerful, set in its habitual expression of disdainful hauteur, did nothing to ease Ostby's emotional storm.

"I've been reading the police reports concerning you and giving them some thought," the Imperator's voice laid its heavy weight on him. "My conclusions are not very flattering. I find you lack many admirable qualities. I'm about convinced that your dominant characteristics are cunning and guile rather than strength. If there is one thing I hate it's a dissembling man."

"You could be wrong," Ostby said, so softly that only a man as confident and self-assured as the Imperator would have missed the pent-up force behind the softness.

The Imperator waved his hand negligently. "I'll admit that you displayed ingenuity in hiding from the police," he said, "and you have a certain amount of animal-like adaptation to danger. But when you fought it was only with the desperation of a cornered rat! Your most noteworthy trait is subterfuge. I despise a gutless man!"

"Does it take guts to boast of your strength while hiding behind a palace guard?" Ostby asked.

For the time it took an incredulous expression to cross his face Magogar sat still, not believing what he had heard. No one spoke to him like that! He straightened and turned to face Ostby full on. "Will you repeat that?" he asked, the words half strangling in his throat.

"You heard me correctly," Ostby said, seating himself deliberately and insolently in a chair that faced the Imperator across a heavy wooden table. He had thrown the gauntlet. Now to strike hard at the twisted core of pride that bent the Imperator to fit its ruthlessness. "You boasted that you were the strongest man in the world, physically and mentally. You're wrong on both considerations. Mentally you are weak, with a sick and rotten pride that warps your mind. I believe you're even a bit insane."

The Imperator rose to his feet. Muscles bunched in hard straight lines along the ridges of his jaw, and the flanges of his nose were white with suppressed rage.

Ostby went inexorably on. "Physically you've passed your prime. Soft living has coated your muscles with fat, and fat girds your middle. You...."

"You've said enough," the Imperator interrupted. He reached toward a bell resting on the table between them.

"Wait!" Ostby stopped him with the word. "What is the strong man going to do? Ring for his men to help him? Are you a coward as well as a braggart?" Ostby could see his words strike like blows.

The Imperator, his eyes wide open, wicked and quiet, sat down purposefully. Oddly he seemed to have recovered his self-control. "Pull your chair up to the table," he said. "We will see where the strength lies."

This was the moment! Now, Ostby reflected, if only he hadn't overestimated himself. With the thought came a tinge of doubt. Perhaps he would find that he was governed by the same false pride of which he had accused Magogar.

He followed the Imperator's example and laid his left arm flat on the table. Their left hands made contact. They rested their right elbows, their arms forming an elevated triangle, with the table's surface as the third side.

They gripped right hands, each large and powerful. Ostby hoped that he had the sheer animal strength to cope with the Imperator's extra hundred pounds of weight.

The Imperator threw his full strength into a forward press, and they were locked in fierce, inarticulate conflict. Ostby felt the muscles in his forearm, his biceps, and into his shoulder protest against the violent strain. It took all his strength to meet the power that beat against him, wave upon wave, and he realized immediately that the best he could hope to do was hold his own. He set his muscles, with all his might behind them, and watched almost disinterestedly as the cords of his forearms swelled and pushed out the skin until they stood like taut wires. A dull ache came into the shoulder socket, and he felt perspiration gather in a cold drop in the pit of his arm and roll clammily down his ribs. He knew now that, whatever he might have said, the Imperator was not soft.

For a long minute, while the realities about them seemed to pause, they held their position, both straining every muscle. The Imperator's face turned slowly red. The red flowed down his cheeks and into the corded tendons of his neck. Ostby could feel a pulse pounding in his own temple.

Suddenly, though he felt no relaxation in the Imperator's arm, Ostby knew he had won. Something in the grip of the hands told him that from here in he was in command. The first concrete sign of it, however, showed in the Imperator's face. Ostby saw the first doubt creep into the cruel down-slanting corners of his mouth, and deep within the features of his face there was a sign of remote breakage. With the loss of certainty came a kind of shame into the man's face, and before Ostby's eyes he changed. Changed as the things he had lived for, all his life, were destroyed.

There was an excitement in Ostby now, and the excitement pleased him. He bent the Imperator's arm slowly back, until it was a few inches above the table top. He shot the adrenalin of his excitement into his arm and rapped the knuckles of the Imperator's hand sharply against the table.

For a moment they sat in a silence that carried more inflection than any noise. The Imperator's head was dropped as he went through his lonely thoughts. When he rose all reason had left him, and his face was twisted into a snarl of bottomless hate. Ostby knew he was facing a madman. A brutish roar rose from the Imperator's massive chest and rolled along the walls of the room. He reached for Ostby, and the table between them collapsed before his advance.