"No, I won't," Jonathan muttered. He really didn't want to listen to that sort of muck. They were not going to use disorientation techniques to confuse him. It was going to be a lot harder than that. His mind turned once again to Patricia. "When will I see her again?"
"At your wedding."
"Surely that's been canceled."
"No, it's going ahead just exactly as you planned."
No matter what else might happen, at least he was certain to see her again. "Here's your room, Jonathan.Your uncle will be in shortly." Before he could resist or say another word they had thrust him through a door and closed it behind him.
"No!" He grappled with the knob, hammered the unyield-ing metal. He kicked the door so viciously it sent a shock all the way up his leg and caused him to fall backward onto the floor, which he hit with a bone-rattling crash. For a moment, he lay still. Then he went to the window, but found he couldn't even raise the sash to get his hands on the bars beyond it.
When he looked around for something to use to break the glass, he was frozen with astonishment.
He knew this room.
He knew it perfectly, utterly, completely.
It was his his room, his own boyhood room. The Hallicrafters was there on the desk, with the model Gemini capsule sitting on it. His bookcase held all his wonderful old friends, room, his own boyhood room. The Hallicrafters was there on the desk, with the model Gemini capsule sitting on it. His bookcase held all his wonderful old friends, Tom Sawyer, The Once and Future Tom Sawyer, The Once and Future King, King, the Complete Shake-speare, the Mary Renault novels, the Complete Shake-speare, the Mary Renault novels, Life's Picture History of the Earth. Life's Picture History of the Earth.
The bedspread was the one Mother had made, with his name embroidered in red on a background of the Orion constellation. His telescope stood at the foot of the bed under a dust cover, just where he had left it when- When?
A long time ago. He knelt down, gingerly removed the cover. There it was, his beloved Celestron, the treasure of his youth.
It had been a long time since he had thought of astronomy, of those wonderful autumn nights up in the Connecticut woods with Jerry Cochran, climbing a hillside and searching out Wolf 457 or Saturn or the Crab Nebula. Jerry. His boyhood idol. Tall, cool, a brilliant scientific mind. Jerry's seven years' seniority made him almost godlike to the younger boy. If Jonathan had modeled himself on anybody, it had been Jerry Cochran.
We walked the star path, he and I.
He grew very still as the awesome power of memory began pouring his true past up from his depths. He remem-bered his old friend with almost sacred vividness, his brown eyes, his great broad smile and the sword-sharpness of his mind.
"Jerry." He touched the Celestron, his fingers caressing its controls. What wonders we found with this thing, you and I. "Earth is just a green bubble in the void, Jonathan. Less than a speck of dust. Out here, lost, falling toward the unknown." You were wise for your years, Jerry, so very wise.
The room was a museum of his own past. There at the bottom of the bookshelf were The Winter Noisy The Winter Noisy Book Book and and The Fire Engine Book The Fire Engine Book and all the other books of babyhood, and all the other books of babyhood, Mother Goose Mother Goose and and The The Encyclopedia of Things Encyclopedia of Things and and Hiawa-tha Hiawa-tha and and Olly Olly Oxen Free. Olly Olly Oxen Free.
And in the big drawer under the bed-pull it out-yes, there were his models, the wonderful, intricate airplanes constructed of balsa and paper, flown by rubber bands at high summer evening when the breeze was still. His Rascal 18 racer, his P-51 that never flew well because it was too heavily doped, even in the remains of Jerry's Cessna 182 that had met fatefully with the rose trellis in-in-Uncle's front yard?
Who was Uncle, and where was that bungalow full of furniture a little boy mustn't touch?
Never mind that now. He went to the Hallicrafters, turned it on. The heterodyne wail of shortwave met his ears as he twisted the knob back and forth. Yes, here was the BBC and there was Cuba and there Radio Moscow, and down along there were the Africans and the Arabs, and in the middle the rest of the Europeans, Netherlands with its concerts and Germany with its language lessons, and France and Italy and Spain.
Oh, yes, on a thousand deepest nights Jerry and I were at this radio, turning the dial ever so slowly from wonder to wonder.
Let's hear what Khrushchev's got to say about the election.
The Royal Shakespeare is doing Measure for Measure Measure for Measure on the BBC tonight. on the BBC tonight.
We don't want to miss the Cuban-English- Language News. Language News.
We were two adventurers of the mind. And what a won-derful time we had . . . when I was normal.
When I was myself.
But there were other times.
"Let me out of here! I can't stand it in here!"
"I see you're beginning to come back to us."
"Who-"
He was a dried-up, incredibly ancient man. Only his bright green eyes had any life. His face was a badland of creases, age-rotted skin stretched across sharp old bones. He wore a beautifully tailored black suit and a silver-gray silk shirt. His head was framed by a white vapor of hair. On his fingers there were complex rings. Jonathan saw skulls and intricate cabbalistic symbols in the gold, and ruby eyes and open jaws. Only his thumbs were without jewelry.
"My dear nephew." He opened his arms. Behind him in the hallway stood a young man easily six foot five, his arms folded, watching from the shadows.
Jonathan did not move toward the little gargoyle with the open arms. He had no uncle.
Patricia's words came back to him: We may be mutated in a thousand different ways, but we can live We may be mutated in a thousand different ways, but we can live ordinary lives if we try. ordinary lives if we try.
Much wisdom in that.
"You act like a cornered rat, Jonathan. I must confess I'm disappointed. I expected more of the Prince."
Crazy. But backed up by a powerful guard. And the windows behind Jonathan were barred.
"Frightened of me. How embarrassing. Am I too ugly for you?" He raised his hands, which arthritis had turned to oak gnarls. There was in this man a density of menace. "You find me ugly, you of all people. You may have a handsome appearance, but inside you are far uglier than I!"
"Get away from me."
"You are the monstrum." monstrum."
"You need a psychiatrist, you're a paranoid schizo-phrenic. I can help you. I want to help you."
The sparks of eyes twinkled. "On the contrary, Jonathan, it is I I who can help who can help you. you. You must prepare, you know. The Ritual Marriage is tonight." You must prepare, you know. The Ritual Marriage is tonight."
Jonathan backed away from the eerie old man.
"Let me touch you, nephew." The hands, trembling, came out toward him. Jonathan cast around, grabbed the radio, raised it over his head.
"Stop! Don't come any nearer!"
The old man stepped aside and his guard began moving into the room.
Jonathan hurled the Hallicrafters with all his might-and the guard caught it, rocking back on his heels and drawing a gasp of breath. He stood with the enormous radio in his hands, looking at Jonathan. Slowly, he smiled.
"Jerry!"
He put the radio down and locked Jonathan in a strong embrace. "Be careful," the old man said.
"Remember, It beat a man to death just a few hours ago."
What a lie. The man had hardly even been knocked unconscious. "I am a human being, so don't call me 'It!' And I barely touched that man, as you well know."
"You crushed his chest and broke his back in three places. You all but tore his head off and popped his skull."
"And you are not not human, you are the human, you are the monstrum." monstrum."
"Shut up! Stop calling me that idiotic name!" He thought of the brain scans he had done of himself and Patricia, the incredible results. Monstrum. Monstrum. So that was what he was called. And she too. She had the same brain-wave pattern. So that was what he was called. And she too. She had the same brain-wave pattern. Monstrum. Monstrum.
He turned his gaze to Jerry, just as he had when he had needed help as a boy. Friend and teacher, Jerry had also been his bodyguard. A confused welter of memories flooded him as he looked at his friend.
The old man soon shattered the moment. "Come on, Jerry. Leave him to his memories for now." He indicated an envelope on the desk. "There's a letter that will explain a great deal. I suggest you read it."
They began to leave the room. "Wait!" Jonathan cried, but before he could stop them the door was closed and locked.
Jonathan was furious. This time he lunged at the window, smashing the glass with his hands, uncaring of gashes, and grappled with the bars. He yanked them and yanked them and kicked them and tried to spread them. And was defeated by them.
He picked up the Hallicrafters, which Jerry had placed neatly back on the table, and threw it against the door. It shattered into glittering electronic bits but the door did not move.
What in hell was going to happen next? He realized that this playing on his emotions, dehumanizing him by calling him "It," suggesting that he was brutal beyond his own self-understanding, was all part of an attempt to break him. And a much more skillful attempt than he had expected. But he told himself that he understood what was being done to him, and his understanding would preserve him.
We love each other, and we want as normal and human a life as we can have. Patricia had said that. He repeated it to himself like a prayer. Patricia had said that. He repeated it to himself like a prayer.
He longed for her strength. If he could just spend one more minute in her arms he would have the energy to cope with another year of the old man's weird emotional games.
"What have you done with her?" His voice was absorbed by the walls. Frantically, aware of how wild animals must feel when first captured, he tested them. Behind the familiar wallpaper of soaring rockets and moons and Saturns and floating spacemen was plaster. And from the solid thunk thunk when he tapped it, the plaster was spread on concrete. The room was more tightly made than any prison. when he tapped it, the plaster was spread on concrete. The room was more tightly made than any prison.
It was his old room, all right. The apartment he remem-bered was just a hypnotic suggestion. This was where he had grown up, this prison.
As the realization sunk in, a change began to come over him. The curtains that hid his past were being made to part by the glut of familiar associations.
Nineteen Rayne Street was the Titus School, where he had been a privileged student. The Prince, they had called him. With a cold shudder he remembered his own tragedy: he was a seasonal king, doomed to die in the very act of procreation.
The most excruciating sorrow filled him. If that was true then all their dreams of happiness, of escaping to the world of regular people, were hopeless. He had learned at his mother's knee-there will come a day, a glorious day. . . .
He looked at the letter the old man had referred to. Should he read it, or did it contain some further confusing trick? He picked it up.
On the envelope were three words: "For my son."
It was from Mother!
He opened it. The words leaped at him like fiery beasts, tearing away the last vestiges of the hypnosis which had held him in its thrall.
When the letter said "remember yourself," he did just that.
He remembered his pride in being the monstrum, monstrum, and his love of the demons. and his love of the demons.
"I will speak to you in the voice of the dry leaves," Belial had said. As Jonathan read of his vision it returned to him: Belial, so hideous that he was beautiful, his unblinking eyes filled with so much intelligence that it was shattering to look into them. Belial was freezing wind on a winter's night, moonlight playing on empty snow, clear space pierced by stars.
Belial was a skull, brown and cracked, bursting with worms.
"Mother! What have you done to me? Mother! Mother!"
He rushed through the rest of the letter, squinting at it as if the words might jump off the page and pierce his eyes. At the end he threw it to the floor, turned away from it. Remem-brance blazed in his mind: He and Patricia belonged to the Night Church, had been born into it and raised by it.
He remembered loving it. Yes, but he had been mad then. He could not believe in something so obviously evil ... so dangerously crazy.
Technology had lifted the Night Church to immense power. With their bacteria they could certainly destroy the world.
And they are mad, as I was until I began walking the path of ordinary human beings.
No matter how bad he is there is something sacred in every man on earth, something deeply right right that grants him and all his fellows their lives, and seems to suggest that they procreate, and fill the earth with their kind. that grants him and all his fellows their lives, and seems to suggest that they procreate, and fill the earth with their kind.
In the old days Jonathan had thought of human beings as having less of a claim to life than even the lowest animals, because of all the species mankind was the most defec-tive.
He did not think that now. In hiding Jonathan among ordinary people Mother had awakened in him his own ordinariness, had made him realize that he was only, finally, and utterly human human-and that was a very fine thing to be.
Even as these thoughts raced through his mind he felt the monstrum monstrum within him stirring in its fitful sleep, the oozing, black coils of its evil shifting wakefully in his soul. within him stirring in its fitful sleep, the oozing, black coils of its evil shifting wakefully in his soul.
It could not wake up on its own, but they they could wake it up, Mother and Jerry and Uncle Franklin. They could and they would. could wake it up, Mother and Jerry and Uncle Franklin. They could and they would.
He had to get out of here! If he was so brilliant surely he could find some way to escape.
He recalled the flickering strangeness of his own brain-wave patterns as they raced across the oscilloscope.
Like all the beasts, you will do what your nature demands of you.
He had seen his strangeness in the equipment he had himself designed.
He and Jerry had worked side by side in their labs. "You tend to the future," Uncle had said. "You are creating a teaching machine for your son." He put his arm on Jerry's shoulder. "He will take care of the past."
The coldest, most hideous feeling came over Jonathan as memories of exactly what was done in Jerry's lab came back to him. Disease vectors. Delivery systems. Contagion inten-sities.
A Titus School graduate had joined the U.S. Army in 1975, and delivered over the next five years vast amounts of classified data on biological weapons.
Anthrax 4 median, which killed in twelve hours.
Parrot fever mutant 202, death in four hours.
Bubonic positive 1, death in thirty minutes.
He suddenly had the most poignant impression of his life in Queens-the simple joy of having a hamburger at Far-rell's. Down the counter some schoolkids would be giggling over Cokes. A couple of bus drivers would be huddled in a booth. Somebody might play "Lay Lady Lay" on the juke-box.
"Jerry, you can't kill them! You haven't got any right!"
Jonathan had a new mission, and not much life left in which to fulfill it.
"We're wrong! We are not not the law!" the law!"
"You will reacquire the moral precision that has always supported you," Mother had written in her letter.