The God In the Machine
by
Jeffery Scott Sims
Just when everything seemed to be going
right, everything went completely wrong.
The experiment had been designed with care, the parameters judiciously
fixed, the predicted results apparently in hand. We had impeccably calculated our equations,
and there were few of us who doubted that the desired outcome would be
attained. Of course morose old Gerald
Steen, my learned but disputatious colleague, doubted and questioned and
griped, but I'd never known him happy about anything, in his work or his
personal life, the latter being a total mess.
The rest of us at Applied Physics Processing, however (those of us who
counted), confidently expected victory over the unknown, and were nonplused and
chagrined when fresh mystery arose.
At heart it was a simple test of theory, which I, Kevin Phelps, had
arranged and managed to completion at the behest of APP. Theoretical physics had carried man's
knowledge, in a few short decades, beyond (or below) the atom, into the realm
of the subatomic particle. Physicists
had delved into the nucleus of the atom, broken it into its constituent parts,
then dived deeper to break up those parts, the building blocks of reality. Dalton long ago thought the atom indivisible,
but his heirs presented us with the proton, neutron, and electron, and those
who came after peered closer and observed the quarks and superstrings and other
fragments of existence which come together to create all that we see and feel
in this material universe. What, if
anything, lay beyond that infinitely microscopic level? There was a grand question for a team of
dedicated and reputation-hungry scientists.
We were sure that we had not yet touched bottom, that another
infinitesimal layer of the space-time fabric remained to be observed and
described. In our huge ultra-modern,
state of the art laboratory we had all the necessary apparatus at our command,
all the required cash, and we had an idea which made sense according to
ironclad theory and equation. We
couldn't lose.
This is what should have happened.
The hypothesis of Feinberg and Kimoso deduced
the existence of a basal non-particulate state, a substratum of
ultra-dimensional energy in which the higher known particles swam like fish in
the sea, drawing their substance, their structure, their reality, from that
cosmic stream. We applied physicists at
APP proposed to bombard a sample of pure plutonium with high intensity lasers,
excite its atoms, smash their cohesion, knock them apart into individual
strings, and then continue on to what no one had accomplished before, the
rending of the strings themselves. If
our working theory were correct, the latent, all
encompassing power of the unobservable substratum should operate to
reconstruct the strings according to a precisely defined formula. This chemical process we could measure, and
if events developed within a certain range of probability, we would be fairly
on our way to achieving our goal. We
would have established the secret power hidden far beneath the atom and,
incidentally, just might have conceived a method for tapping it, a factor of
enormous import to practical scientists in the hire of a commercial
corporation. The possibilities were
dizzying.
Only it didn't happen the way we expected. As I said, everything went wrong. We cranked up the accelerator to full blast,
burning to thin vapor that incredibly dense lump of plutonium, and we kept at
it until there wasn't a single intact atom within the vacuum chamber; we
isolated the fragments and boiled them with the lasers until there was nothing
tangible surviving in there, neither matter nor organized energy; then, when
all readings hit zero-- when the meters told us that we had generated an utter
emptiness-- we switched off the beams and waited breathlessly for a sign. We predicted one of two things: no reaction whatsoever, or a feeble but
indicative increase in energy release, a by-product of the process by which the
strings were recreated and recombined.
The latter result would constitute victory.
We got neither prediction, not the good, not the bad. We got something startling and frustrating
and costly: an immense power surge that
shattered the vacuum chamber, wrecked the extremely costly accelerator, and
blew all our theories and equations to bits.
Every needle in the banks of connected meters suddenly shot off the
dials, and before we knew it we had a big problem on our hands, for the surge
poured unbidden into our massive controlling computer, searing its circuits and
rendering it expensively inoperative.
The laboratory filled with smoke, electrical arcing, puffs of flame, and
chaos. Then all of our machines shut
down with a crashing silence, and we were left, gasping, to pick up the pieces
and figure out what had caused the catastrophe.
"And now for your next trick," Steen sneered at me. "I hope you've been saving your lunch
money." Of course I was in no way
responsible for the disaster, as I was quick to point out-- I had worked out
the operating parameters to perfection, as always-- but it was my show, and his
snide suggestion rankled. Everything did
at that moment. Fortunately the others
present were more inclined to offer useful aid than gloating comment. I directed the immediate recovery procedures,
saw to it that the dangerous equipment failures were addressed, hovered over
the minor technicians as they damped the smoldering flames and suppressed the
crackling electrical systems by turning off the remaining power. It was a sad mess, but we got it under control
without further financial loss.
Then I had to report to J.D. Cunningham, the big boss. He wasn't a physicist-- more an inventor, and
a good one, too-- but he knew the basics, and expected to be kept informed,
especially in circumstances like these.
His office was located at the top of the administration building at the
far end of the APP complex. "Find
out what happened," he said upon hearing the preliminary details. "Fix it, introduce new safeguards, try
it again and make it work." That's
what I wanted to hear, what I expected and needed from that no nonsense
fellow. I intended to get down to
business without delay.
Upon my return to the laboratory I found fresh trouble awaiting, and
this was where matters began to get really weird. Despite my impression from the initial damage
survey, it turned out that the central computer, that marvelous technological
behemoth which occupied one whole wall of the main laboratory, hadn't fully
shut down after all. It seemed to be in
good running order, in fact, which should have been wonderful news, except for
two things: one, I had examined it
myself, and had made sure of my observations on its burnt out condition; two,
the power was off by my command, so the beast should have been quiet even if in
fine fettle. Output from consoles and
meters, however, clearly proved that major internal activity was ongoing. It couldn't be-- it wasn't possible-- but
there it was, and no mistake. With the
help of Martin Bremmer, my intern assistant, I peeked
and pried into every panel and cranny, but couldn't shake the conclusion that
the machine was running on its own, from sourceless
power.
Mystery on top of mystery!
"If we can bottle this," quipped Martin, "then we'll all
be billionaires." To which I responded,
"Not if we first blow up the lab every time." It gave me a headache even to think about
it. Our job was to explain as well as to
achieve, and I, among others, wasn't having much luck. The first result had been unexpected, the
second inconceivable.
And it got worse, much worse, before the night was over. I called for our handyman Mirrhatta
to recalibrate a sensor. He had been
there earlier, in the thick of things, but now I couldn't find him, and when I
asked around I learned that he'd suddenly thrown down his tools, taken off and
run out of the lab. That was childish
behavior, and quite uncharacteristic; he was a somber fellow, but supremely
dedicated. I sent someone to look for
him in his workshop. The someone
returned shortly to inform me that Mirrhatta was
dead, apparently by his own hand.
At the head of a small party I looked into his shop and found him there,
as described. What a grim sight he was
lying there, sprawled face up over his desk.
The indications were clear enough:
he had drunk concentrated cleaning fluid, a highly corrosive solution
used to strip and sterilize electrical wiring, straight from the can still
clutched in a clenched hand. It was
powerful stuff-- I splashed a drop of it on my arm once, and it was already
hurting before I applied the soap and water-- so I could imagine the agony he
suffered before he died. At least he
went quickly, or must have, and yet I was disturbed anew, for reasons beyond
the obvious. Even at the time it struck
me that the look on his dead, contorted face was wholly improper. It should have revealed only the aftermath of
searing pain, and that was there, but there was something else around the mouth
and in those staring eyes, a look of peace, of contentment; of joy. He died that way, and yet Mirrhatta
was happy when he went!
There came one more shock before that cavalcade of tragedies
concluded. A few hours later, after the
local authorities of the law had come and gone, and we had finally derived some
order from the mess and could think of hitting the sack at last, another horror
struck. Shortly before dawn, as we
subsequently pieced together the facts, our nuclear chemist Jamison-- a decent
enough guy, though usually quiet and withdrawn-- suddenly grew garrulous, even
belligerent, stomped out of the lab laughing loudly to himself, then ascended
to the third floor, the office level, where a number of witnesses reported him
singing at the top of his voice. There
he broke into an emergency exit, made his way onto the flat roof and, without
further ado, pitched himself down to the hard pavement below. He died by the time anyone got to him. He was a bloody mess, naturally, but I
thought, when I viewed the body, that he seemed pretty chipper about it. The sight of his smiling face gave me a
queasy feeling.
It would be a while longer before I took to my bed, despite being
already dog tired.
Cunningham had to be briefed once more, to bring him up to date on our
festivities. I did that, and he mused
for a bit, ordering everyone home for the day, promising immediate action, a
complete investigation. By then I
couldn't have cared less, although certainly nothing had been resolved by that
time. The computer continued to
misbehave unexplainably, and our people were killing themselves over it. I went home and slept, an enervating sleep
which didn't refresh, although it might have had I been left alone until I got
my fill. The boss called me around four
that afternoon, to inform me that he was contacting outside help. "We have a puzzle on our hands," he
pointed out, "of a sort we aren't equipped to handle. There's too much about this business that's
mysterious, that doesn't make sense. I need
a man who can put together pieces when they don't seem to fit. I've heard of this Vorchek
character-- a Professor Vorchek, one of your
colleagues-- who might be able to aid us.
I hear he's a whiz at unusual scientific matters, the sort of man who
can step in and tie knots when everybody else is at loose ends. I sent a dispatch to him, telling him about
the experiment and the computer glitch, referring him to you, making mention of
a hefty fee. Look out for
him." Fine, if that was what
Cunningham wanted. I thought it too soon
to panic myself, but I had to admit that I didn't have any idea in hell as to
what was happening just then.
Come the next morning a select team, consisting of myself, Martin,
Steen, and a couple of high-powered technicians went to work on the computer
again, attempting to download all stored data before, as I feared, we lost it
altogether. No dice; the machine wasn't
giving up any of its secrets, although it continued to chirp and whine merrily,
as if something gargantuan was going on inside.
Steen was particularly keen on tapping into storage. His was the only cheerful countenance around
that day, and he truly applied himself to the work, as if he thought himself
facing a worthy challenge at last. I
hadn't wanted him around then, when I had so much on my mind-- frankly, I
simply didn't like the guy-- but he insisted, and he did know his stuff, so
what could I say?
"I tell you, Phelps," he said, as we crowded at a terminal,
striving without success to input, "this is big, really big. We've got to break into that machine. It's all there, inside, waiting for us, and
all we have to do is unleash it. Maybe
you screwed up, but this is a bonanza, and I want it. I want it all." "I don't know what you're yapping
about," I shot back. "we have
a technical problem of an unforeseen nature, the life's blood of science. We will establish what went wrong which lead
to this unfortunate state of affairs, then return to first beginnings and start
again. Next time, suitably prepared and
forearmed, we will succeed. It's as
simple as that." He raised up,
leaned back against the wall and said, with a note of wonder in his voice,
"You really think so, don't you?"
"Of course. There's nothing
else." Steen grinned wolfishly, as
if enjoying a private joke at my expense.
"Well, well, we'll see. I
have grander hopes."
We didn't see anything that day. I received a message, one prepared and sent
by a "T. Delaney", from the offices of Professor Anton Vorchek. The
stationery heading told me nothing about him, though there was an odd symbol
next to his name which resembled Indian art,
a complicated image of a grotesque face or ceremonial mask. The body of the letter read as follows:
Dear Doctor Phelps,
The
professor is a very busy man, with a lot on his plate, but he might be willing
to
solve your
problem for you, as requested by your superior.
The money is acceptable.
Professor Vorchek says you are to describe in full detail the nature
of the problem, if
you are capable of doing so. He
expects an immediate reply.
That
was all, but it considerably irked me, both the amateurishness of the tone and
its domineering manner. Who in hell was
this Vorchek anyway?
I took a break from my fruitless labors to look him up in the Guide
to the International Physicists Association, without success. A perusal of listings for degreed
professionals of any kind turned up nothing either. A catalogue of working professors gave me
what I wanted, without pleasing me one whit.
So he was Vorchek, Anton, visiting professor
at a minor private college in Phoenix, Arizona.
No statement of credentials, which mystified me, but a list of published
papers, which mystified me more. I
supposed that there was a place for such academic masterpieces as "Yotapai Legends of the Third Advent", "Psychic
Responses Among a Test Group to Pictorial Presentations of the Demon Astrodemus", or "Mystical Realities Deduced From
the Seventh Book of Artocris", among others, but
I couldn't see it myself, and I sure didn't see what any of this had to do with
me. One item did briefly fascinate,
"Second Level Energy Disturbances In the Vicinity of Cathedral Rock",
but it sounded like rot. Taking his
publications as a whole I gathered he was some kind of esoteric social
scientist, which marked him as a pretty useless specimen at the present
moment. It was okay by me if I never
heard from him again, but Cunningham insisted that I cooperate, so I sent in
response the full scientific particulars of our recent travails, describing fully
and accurately the procedures of the experiment, as well as the specific
inglorious results obtained. I explained
about the computer as best I could-- I felt silly recounting that part, for I
knew it didn't make much sense-- but I left out the dreadful personal responses
to the failure among our staff. Whatever
Vorchek was intended to provide, those sad deaths
weren't relevant.
I came in the next morning to find Steen already working at the
computer, still trying to tap its contents and discover the secret of its
automatic operation. I quickly learned,
to my surprise (for he hadn't let on his intentions), that he had been up all
night hacking at it. He claimed to be on
to something, although he couldn't back up the claim with satisfactory
evidence. "This is marvelous,"
he cried, full of life and vigor, though he looked shabby and worn. "It's as if the machine has fabricated
for itself a new language, a binary-style code with its own inherent
logic. I think I can crack it-- I know I
can-- given enough time." "You mean," I asked, "that the
computer language has become garbled, but can be reconstructed?" "Have it your way," he sighed. "I'll figure it out. I will read this."
That morning there occurred the third death involving APP
personnel. This one was especially
freakish. An administrative clerk who
I'd never met or heard of, a long-term female employee called Maggie who, so I
was told over the grapevine, had recently experienced a divorce and who
suffered from other personal difficulties such as debilitating obesity, did the
deed. She killed herself in the
strangest way, an incredible act of self-brutalization. She absented herself from her station and,
when no one was around, slipped into a break room. There, after downing most of a pot of coffee
and raiding the larder of doughnuts, she thrust her right hand into the garbage
disposal in the sink, and with her left hand snapped the switch. Then, in an amazing display of sheer
willpower, she held her hand inside the rotating choppers, without a scream or
any outcry at all, until her hand was reduced to a raw stump, and she bled to
death. It was all over by the time the
next peckish employee walked in.
The legal authorities duly swept in again, this time sternly
recommending that we shut down operations and evacuate the complex while they
endeavored to get a grip on the alarming situation. Cunningham went along with that as far as
unessential employees were concerned, maybe having thought of it himself, for
as he told me, "We need a cooling off period. Our people are getting too worked up, taking
everything too hard." So they were,
I guessed, although I couldn't imagine why.
I'd heard, somewhere along the way, that tragedies come in groups, or in
threes, and what was happening fit the bill, though the latest case, not
involving our core team, seemed more bad luck of timing than anything
else. I doubted that this Maggie gave a
damn about experimental difficulties; perhaps, being on the edge for other
reasons, the earlier deaths pushed her over?
There was lots of talk like that.
I received a second Vorchek missive, prepared
again by the irritating T. Delaney:
Dear Doctor Phelps,
The
professor is intrigued by, but hardly impressed with, your account. He tells me
that it
wasn't necessary to describe your dopey experiment at such length, having heard
all about
that from Mr. Cunningham. He is
delighted by your computer trouble, though.
the
professor, whose time is valuable, expects more information from you concerning
corollary
consequences. Please send, soonest,
everything you know about bizarre
behavior
arising among APP employees or others in the area since the mishap. He
desires a
full catalogue of crimes, murders, suicides, and psychotic mania. Only then
can he take action to clear up the mess you've made.
The nerve of that person! Who was T. Delaney to write to me like
that? Yet I was somewhat shaken by this
fresh request. The professor asked about
suicides, although I'd avoided mentioning them, and I didn't think Cunningham
had either. Perhaps this Vorchek had heard something in the news, but the way the
request (or demand) was phrased suggested otherwise. He was fishing for data, yet had somehow
managed to put his finger, as illogical as it seemed, precisely on our sore
point. It might be coincidence, but it
created the illusion that he knew something.
With a heavy heart, thinking ill of Vorchek,
T. Delaney, and the wide world, I transmitted everything I'd learned about the
three deaths.
The response to my last narrative arrived fast, before an hour
passed. This time it was just the short
and messianic sentence, "The professor says, 'I AM COMING'". Bully for him; I now imagined that he
intended to deluge us with psychological tests, to find out if any more of us
were contemplating self-homicide. Come
to think of it, that didn't sound such a bad idea. There was, it transpired, plenty of
destructive nuttiness among our folks.
This Vorchek might do some good, although I
couldn't help but brood more-- it was my job, after all-- about our wayward
computer. There was nothing a man like
him could do about that.
It wasn't just a stimulating puzzle.
Until we got the machine back on line, functioning as we dictated, then
we at the lab were out of commission, unless we bit the bullet and purchased a
brand new instrument. Computers of that
caliber weren't a dime a dozen; the Pentagon would bust its budget ordering a
dozen, and just one was a gigantic expense for us. We had every incentive to struggle round the
clock to fix it, and if we hadn't seen it that way, Cunningham would have
chided us, possibly by waving termination papers in our faces.
I didn't, however, know what to do.
It kept coming back to that, and no matter how I or anybody else
strained our brains we didn't advance.
Martin was a jewel, as ever, always quick 11with the clever suggestion
which might pass muster-- often had in the past-- but which got us nowhere
now. Steen was Steen, a heavy, awkward,
grouchy fellow, competent but uninspired, doing nothing for me despite his
current enthusiasm. I needed him for
fundamental calculations, at which (I granted) he excelled, but it was
virtually impossible to tear him away from the consoles. His whole life seemed glued to the terminals,
from which he watched and noted the workings of that contrary electronic brain.
Vorchek arrived. My
first intimation of visitation occurred when I went in early to work, to find
an astoundingly beautiful girl, a dazzling, blue-eyed blonde in her twenties,
ambling casually about the littered accelerator room, handling delicate gadgets
and fingering buttons. She was
provocatively attired in a short, low-cut crimson dress with a broad-brimmed
hat to match, fishnet hose and tall, high-heeled black boots. Such a vision was entirely out of place
there, as was unauthorized entry, but she was a sight for sore eyes, and I
paused before I determined on rounding upon her. Scarcely had I begun a brusque comment before
she laconically introduced herself.
"I'm Theresa Delaney," she stated, "Professor Vorchek's private secretary." So this was my epistolary nemesis. "The professor is talking to the big man
right now," she added, "but he'll show up momentarily. He sent me on ahead. Where is this Phelps character,
anyway?" "I am Phelps-- Kevin
Phelps-- Kevin to my friends."
"All right, Mr. Phelps--"
"Doctor Phelps."
"Whatever. I'm to take notes
on the facilities. Why don't you show me
all the important stuff."
I was more inclined to wring her neck, but her company appealed to me
for irrelevant reasons, so I went along with her ill-mannered request. I pointed out items of interest, describing
them at length, while she scribbled suspiciously short fragments in a little
notebook. Occasionally she asked
questions, none of which indicated the slightest knowledge of physics or
physics laboratories. Her voice was
lovely, but she didn't seem to care what she did with it.
Then there appeared her employer, or patron, or whatever he was. "Professor Anton Vorchek,"
he boomed, extending a jabbing hand as he strode briskly forward. "Is this Phelps?" he asked the
girl. "Indeed; very good. Pleased to meet you, Doctor Phelps. Shall we begin?" He was quite tall and lean, a striking,
middle-aged fellow, well if not fashionably dressed in a long, open dark coat,
tailored trousers and expensive shoes.
His dark hair, partly concealed by a large floppy hat pushed back on his
head, was tinged with iron-gray at the temples.
His eyes were bright and piercing, his nose strong, his mouth firm and,
at the moment, set in an amused, all wise grin.
His speech, I discovered, was flawless and perfectly modulated, but bore
a trace of an indefinable accent.
"One thing I must expect of you," he said crisply, "is
complete data. Really, Doctor, there is
no getting around it: you withheld
pertinent information. Not realizing the
kind or rate of progression we have here, I delayed coming by almost
forty-eight hours. In matters such as
these, time can be precious. Let us
agree not to make the same mistake again."
"Oh yes, let's," I grumbled.
"Doctor Vorchek-- I see; you prefer
Professor, do you?-- Professor Vorchek, it will be
easier to comply if you tell me exactly what you want, easier still if I know
exactly why you're here. Due to an oversight,
I suppose, your relevant credentials are still unknown to me. You aren't a physicist, are you? Forgive me, sir, but I still don't understand
why your presence is required at my lab, in these trying times."
"I am an expert on mysteries," he proclaimed, after a studied
delay while he lighted his pipe, "having devoted my long career to matters
weird and unusual. Your situation is
right up my alley, being composed, as should be apparent by now, of layers of
mystery upon mystery. The truth must be
ascertained, facts revealed, darkness banished.
I bear probing light into these circumstances; I shall study and
explicate, and in the course of time-- if the evidence be ample-- resolve. Now, to work."
Somehow he had managed to tell me nothing, for I still knew little
concrete about him. To work we went,
however, and for the next several hours he toured the scene, puffing jovially
on his pipe, with me as his guide, and with Theresa in tow, she scribbling
notes and interjecting unhelpful comments as we conversed. I described the sequence of events in the
fullest detail, while in return he plied me with curious questions. "Are you familiar with Koppermeyer's writings on inter-dimensional
boundaries? Was attention paid to
Helvetius' theories on the efficacy of second-level defense mechanisms? To the best of your knowledge, are any of
your staff members of mystic cults, or devotees of odd religions?" These questions and dozens of others,
senseless or meaningless to me, he continually hurled, along with many others
which impressed me by their intelligent directness. It bugged me to admit (to myself) that he
really did have a good grasp of the project and the principles underlying it. There were people working for me who didn't
know half as much about my work.
During a lunch break I sought Cunningham and pressed him for further
information concerning Vorchek. I wanted to know how my boss had come by the
fellow. He told me. "Do you recall hearing of that business,
a couple of years ago, at the Planetary Research Foundation? They had put together some of the instruments
on one of the NASA probes to Jupiter, and were in charge of acquiring and
analyzing the data. Something went
wrong-- a problem arose-- something pretty nasty, if the reports that leaked
out were true. It was all very
hush-hush, and officially it never happened, but if the rumors were correct
those folks got themselves into a pickle over telemetric data, if you can
believe it. There were casualties, of a
sort-- never specified-- and all the big brains were in a tizzy. Well, Vorchek was
brought in, or stepped in, and he straightened out the mess that had everybody
else bamboozled. He's an eclectic
thinker, a kind of supreme generalist, self-trained I understand, who knows how
to solve puzzles that span multiple disciplines. Maybe he is an oddball, but I thought he
might serve us well in this case, since what we have on our hands is a hell of
a lot more than just a problem in applied physics. I want the pieces put together, I want this
wretchedness put behind us. Talk to him,
Phelps, work with him; satisfy him, and then the both of you satisfy me. Get the job done."
"I will," said I, "but I'm convinced we're dealing with a
kook." After lunch I rejoined Vorchek and Theresa, and then, back at the lab, the
professor had his first encounter with Gerald Steen. My colleague was hunched over a console, his
normal behavior these days, recording endless strings of seemingly random
numbers pouring out of the central computer, inputting his own variants,
obsessively recording his results.
"Pleased to meet you," said the professor, his hard,
inquisitive eyes belying his warm smile.
"I see that output continues.
Would you call it data or noise?"
Steen glanced up, his mouth pursed sourly, his countenance radiating
what I thought I must have mistaken for frank hostility. "So you're Vorchek,"
he growled, "here to tell us what's what, are you?" "If I may be of service." "No doubt," Steen sneered. "I've been working on this without a
break, concentrating on what counts, the heart of the machine, while others
entertain guests." He looked at me
and grinned coldly, then swiveled his chair out of the way and stared
maliciously at our visitor. "See
for yourself, Vorchek. It's all there, waiting to be read. Why don't you give it a whirl?"
"You honor me, sir," replied the professor. He bent over the monitor, perused the ever
changing figures. What he saw appeared
to captivate him, for he mumbled equations to himself and calculated with his
fingers. "Miss Delaney," he
called, "take this down: cohesive
sine, enhanced logarithms incorporating linguistic patterns, and volatile, implosive
energies feeding the system. Got
that?" "I don't get it,"
Theresa responded, "but I wrote it down." "Fair enough. Dr. Steen, do you see it as I see it?"
Steen was visibly dumbfounded. He
began to reply in an angry, cracking voice, but managed to control
himself. "Well, that's a start,
Professor. I suppose I ought to be
pleased to meet a mind that can comprehend any of it. There's more in there-- you can be sure of
that-- and given time, I'll break the code and get inside the machine."
"That may not be altogether wise.
One must consider what may be waiting for you within." Vorchek brooded for
a moment, then said, " I trust, Dr. Steen, that you will keep me abreast
of your findings. I beg you to consult
me before you take action." Steen
leered, the professor shrugged and turned away.
"Come, Phelps; let us finish the survey, at which time we shall
take stock."
Much about this moment perturbed me.
That Steen, of all people, could be making progress that I couldn't
follow galled terribly, but I had assumed he was whistling in the dark,
generating bluster rather than results. Vorchek, however, had also seen something, and he had
caught it right away, without any great effort on his part. Maybe he was a big faker as well, or perhaps
there was something to all this that was beyond me, something for which my
training had left me unprepared. If that
was the case, though, then how had Steen-- who was not my equal in smarts, much
less my superior-- begun to figure it out, as he kept hinting? What inner capacity gave him a leg up?
That evening, at Vorchek's polite insistence,
he, Theresa, and myself dined together.
We ate at Tony's Seafood in town, sitting in a quiet, secluded back
booth, on the table of which the professor had heaped the girl's notes and a
bunch of requested documents which I had provided. During the fine meal I had little to say; Vorchek was subdued, occasionally flipping through papers;
Theresa was engagingly chatty, though her attempts at conversation seldom
impinged upon weighty matters, and yet it was her casually blunt comment which
instigated serious discussion.
"It's a screwy situation, all right," she said. "Everything's gone wrong, but nobody
knows why, and what's happened since doesn't connect with what started it, and
everybody's dying. That's the silly
part. I mean, too bad about these
technical problems, but it's not worth killing yourself for. Am I right, Professor?"
"On the latter point you are correct," said Vorchek heavily; "I am not, however, so certain about
the rest. Indeed, on the basis of the
fragmentary reports I received before arrival, I had already formulated a weak
theory, one which has received modest confirmation from those curious
deaths. If so, then Steen's work may
also fall into place. I begin to see the
shadow of the answer. I must come to
grips with the substance, which will be supremely difficult, for there are
unspeakable dangers involved."
"It's about time you included me, Professor," I said loudly,
enough to startle a patron at the bar opposite.
"I'm supposed to be a bright guy, but I don't know what you're
driving at, and your very presence tells me I'm at sea. You're some sort of sociologist, or
anthropologist, or antiquarian, or whatever, but you're brought in to repair
damage at a multi-billion dollar physics lab, and what's more, I hear you've
done this sort of thing before. Talk is
you've garnered customer satisfaction in the past, handling dirty affairs like
this one. Doing what? What do you know, what have you deduced? What is the problem, and what is the
answer? Give me a break, and let me in
on the big secret."
"Certainty and deduction are mixed at this stage," said he,
"although I may expound basic ideas.
Do not chide yourself, Doctor, for failing to grasp the essence of the
problem. You are an expert on nature,
while the source of the difficulty lies, I believe, in the realm of supernature. I am
acknowledged by some an authority on the supernatural, that sphere which lies
above or beyond the domain of standard science.
There are whole swaths of reality which can not
be approached by conventional means; I, therefore, employ my own."
"So you're a New Age wacko made good," I snapped. "You gaze into crystals, count your
beads, face east and sing a little song, and somehow that solves my problems. That's wonderful. To have gotten this far, you must have a
great P.R. man working for you."
"You're as wrong as only a bonehead can be," Theresa cried,
that lovely girl half rising from her seat and leaning towards me. "The professor is rock solid, as true
blue as they come, and I would match him against any team of common scientists
any day. If you'd just shut up you'd
learn a thing or two." With that
she leaned back, lit a cigarette and puffed furiously, pretending to ignore me.
"There is my public relations," Vorchek
said with a boyish smile. "My dear
Miss Delaney, you are very good to me.
If you did not exist, it would be necessary-- for the sake of my ego--
to invent you. Seriously, Dr. Phelps, I
have no more use for the childish formulations of popular beliefs than you
do. The bizarre claims peddled on
uncritical television programs or in weekly newspapers plucked from grocery
store stands mean nothing to me, being generated solely from the hopes,
desires, and fears of an ignorant public.
My studies focus on genuine arcana, the esoteric mysteries that must
arise at the rim of the known. At any
given moment in the sweep of intellectual history, there are frontiers of
knowledge. It is the glory of our age
that we have pushed those frontiers to encompass a near totality of the natural
world. We know it, or we can conceive
it, or we can at least ask intelligent questions about it. There is, on the other hand, that vast
beyond, the supernatural, about which we know little more than our credulous
forebears who squatted in caves or who begged alms from the tops of temple
pyramids. The realm of supernature exists; it is real, as real as anything you see
and touch. My work has occasionally
brought me into confrontation with it.
That overarching mystical universe, largely unexplored to this day, can
be approached at the margins by a man armed with prerequisite knowledge, and
that universe can, at times, under special conditions, approach our own as
well.
"That, indeed, is the situation we face. Allow me to describe chronologically, and to
explain generally, based upon my previous experience, the recent sequence of
events. You and your bright, superbly
educated group set out to break down the final logical barrier which separates
the macroscopic world from the microscopic.
Physicists before you had delved down to what might be deemed a
sub-atomic wall; you wished to knock down that wall, and make use, hopefully
for profit (certainly for wisdom) of the latent energies beyond. It is a sound plan, within limits; think,
however, of that analogy of the wall. A
wall may form nothing but an obstacle, a challenge to be overcome-- such was
your thinking-- yet it may also constitute a reasonable, proper barrier which
protects us from harm or delineates units of property, be they homesteads or
kingdoms. In the world of men, in the
give and take of regular life, we rightly pause before a wall, for we suspect
that it has been erected with the intent to keep us out, or otherwise mark a
boundary of importance. That wall may be
a dyke which, if broken, allows the flood to cascade upon us to our
destruction; it may comprise a warning of enemies beyond, from whom we had best
keep our distance. Walls may serve many
purposes, so long as they remain intact.
"To the extent that it could, your experiment succeeded. You cracked the final barrier of materiality,
and in so doing broke a tiny hole in the ultimate substratum. Unfortunately, you had given no thought-- how
could you?-- to what might lie beyond.
You had, in fact, opened a minuscule doorway from the natural to the
supernatural, an egress and regress into another dimension. Yes, Dr. Phelps, you did it, without knowing
what you did. You created a peephole
into a boundless, unseen world, with no thought or care for the possibility
that someone or something might peep back at you.
"There was more still, I regret to say, to your unpleasant
surprise. At that moment an incredibly
powerful stream of mysterious energy shot through the hole that you had
fashioned. There are several ways to
explain that: you stimulated an energy
source beyond the dimensional layer, or unleashed a pent up tide of energy
flow, or (as you may have hoped) initiated an unexpectedly powerful nuclear
reaction within the substratum. The latter
we may dismiss forthwith-- by your own account you had passed the barrier,
which I accept as given-- and the other two possibilities do not jibe with my
previous observations of such phenomena.
Granting your data, there is only one explanation I will allow, that a
force of awesome magnitude burst through the doorway so soon as you opened it.
"I do not refer to blind energy of the E=mc2 variety. Entry into our domain was gained by a violent
but controlled, directed field, an act of purpose, of will. In evaluating what comes next it is wise for
you to clear your mind of preconceptions and prior associations; when I speak
of purpose and will, please do not fall into the error of thinking I speak
metaphorically. The intruder was an
organism, an entity, a living thing as such are understood in its domain. To grasp the enormity of the being you have
awakened, we must note that the smallest crack in the wall fostered immediate
access. We may posit that you suffered
the grotesquely bad luck to puncture the barrier at the entity's precise
location in its universe, in which case we are dealing with a potentially minor
and manageable being. Such an outcome,
while the happiest possible for us, is also the least likely, defying all
conceivable odds. There is a more dire,
as well as more certain, possibility, which is that the thing was able to enter
our plane at once, without delay, because where ever you broke into its realm,
there it would be, waiting. Ponder long
what we are describing: a being the size
of a universe, one which makes up the entirety of its universe. Science has no term for such an entity, but
philosophy and theology do, and that word is 'deity'.
"Now we wrestle with the cruelties of logic. I postulate the influence of a god, which I
should not in a physical context, yet I must, for the facts demand it. 'God' is such a slippery term, one which
excites sterile debate, now, ten thousand years ago, perhaps ten thousand from
now. Is there one god, or are there two, or a dozen, or a hundred? Do we deduce his nature from nature, or from
inherent ideas? We could discuss all
night, we could argue the rest of our lives, without approaching proof or
accuracy. It is well for us that we need
not. Whether it be the one and only god,
or merely an aspect of same, or a separate, competing deity among a crowd of
similar types, it is still true that 'godness', if
you will, has invaded our world. That
being so, we enjoy the rare opportunity to judge the nature of this god by its
direct actions and the consequences of those actions. Here we come to an analysis of the events
following the collapse of the experiment.
"It's first act was to seize control of your main computer. You must see that such control has been
established, and you can hazard guesses as to why as well as I. The computer is the most powerful,
energy-filled corporeal object within reach, one crammed with information, one
connected, in some degree, to every form and field known to man. Our formless visitor took upon itself a body,
a material shell within a material world.
Numerous legends mention demonic possession and strange cosmic
enlightenments; we experience a modernized version of the same. The god has taken complete charge of the
machine. You do not know how the instrument
continues to power itself, but I do. The
god sustains itself in its new body, is its own source of energy. You can not make
sense of the data streaming from the machine.
Of course you can not, for the pre-existing
contents have been wiped clean-- it breaks my heart to tell you this-- wiped
utterly clean, and replaced by a fresh universe of data. The computer now embodies the god, the sole
denizen of a cosmos alien to ours, and its output, until such time as we learn
the rules of communication, must come across to us as gibberish.
"The meaning of later developments still requires examination, but
the indications are ugly. Since the god
erupted into our universe, people have begun to die, in every case by their own
hand. The signs are disturbing. I fear that sweetness and light are not to be
counted on from this deity. We deal with
a fearsome god, one which craves and demands sacrifices. There is something inherent in its nature
which lures the victims to their destruction.
Conversely-- though this need not negate the first point-- there is
something inherent in the nature of the victims which renders them amenable to
self-sacrifice. You have told me that
the deceased were people oppressed by the trials of life; let us assume, then,
that the god is a sort which feeds upon the miseries of mortals, or one which
acts to induce deeper despair among those already afflicted in some
manner."
"That's a huge assumption," I exclaimed. "Granting everything you've said-- which
of course I don't-- you're going way out on a limb. The history of theology is chock full of
broad arguments from effects to causes, most of them without merit, and it
sounds to me like you're heading down the same endless road. You could prove anything that way."
"I could posit anything," Vorchek corrected; "what I can prove depends on the
evidence, admittedly incomplete. I am
not prone, whatever you may believe, to spinning wild theories or leaping at
shadows. I am versed in these questions,
and I have at my beck valuable source materials. Miss Delaney," he said, turning to the
girl, "among the files you packed you did bring that fragment from Bleek, as I instructed?"
"It's with the other papers in our quarters," she replied,
referring to the adjoining guest rooms they occupied at the facilities, a
conjugation which made me wonder about them.
"I took the liberty of reading it, and vile stuff it is, too. It's horrifying to think that it might have
anything to do with this business."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said pointedly.
"Nor should you," said Vorchek. "The matter falls beyond your purview,
Dr. Phelps. Jacob Bleek
was a mystical philosopher of old, who in his day collected and mastered a
great deal of information drawn from the esoteric wisdom of the ages. Only portions of his work survive. He specialized in the blacker types of
knowledge, and devoted an entire chapter of his writings to a particularly
vicious deity who interests me considerably at this time. The indications are favorable-- if you will
excuse the word-- but I wish to say no more at present. First I must gain confirmation."
That was that, for the time being.
The professor would say no more, and my brain was swimming in such a fog
that I couldn't intelligently pursue the matter. We left the restaurant (I noticed that Vorchek charged the meal to an APP account) and retired to
our beds.
I came to work oddly late the next morning. I had slept poorly, and after awakening sat
hunched for a lengthy span over my coffee and toast, mulling over the
incredible story Vorchek had told at dinner. It was strange; I didn't accept it
intellectually-- how could I?-- but his reconstruction of facts mesmerized
me. He really had, after his own lights,
tied everything together into a coherent whole, and he alluded to confirmation,
the life's blood of science, without which his claims were futile and
wasteful. Did he really expect to get
it, and if so, how? He seemed awfully
confident for a charlatan, but then, I supposed they often were. I would wait and see what he produced.
So I arrived late, and was one of the last to hear the news: Laura Ellsworth had killed herself. I had known her slightly-- she worked in an
ancillary unit, operating out of a separate laboratory in the complex, mixing
novel chemical solutions for testing-- but I hadn't known her well enough, it
seemed, for I'd never guessed that she would off herself that way. She had always been a subdued and frowny sort, and I heard after the fact that real life had
thrown her a few too many curves, yet nothing I was now told explained why she
suddenly, at this particular time, decided that life was too much for her, and
that she should sneak into her lab before opening time, activate a high intensity
laser used for stimulating and busting molecules, wriggle on her back onto the
small dais in the laser chamber where samples were serviced, and methodically
burn off her own face, relentlessly and ruthlessly holding herself in place,
despite the terrible pain, until such time as life departed from her mutilated
body. Unexpected, monstrous, impossible;
it couldn't be, but it happened, and another of our personnel bit the
dust. Her colleagues found what was left
half an hour later.
This
extraordinary discovery jarred me emotionally, of course, and while I was
imbibing the news I thought of Vorchek and his
extraordinary theory. I could imagine
him chortling and rubbing his hands with glee, while his sexy pet Theresa egged
him on, cooing words of enthusiasm for his genius. Every death, he would claim, supported that
much more his dire vision of our situation.
These tragic losses were unbearable, they were senseless, and I wasn't
going to be the one to explain them, but was he capable or qualified to do
so? At this moment of weary depression I
experienced a remarkable feeling of revulsion against that man, who appeared to
be feeding upon our misery. He wasn't
right-- he couldn't be-- and what had become of the proper scientific principle
of considering commonplace solutions first?
People killed themselves all the time.
There was no set pattern or interval; there were periods of drought and
periods of storm, and the grim figures averaged out, if at all, only
statistically. In a large group of our
size, how many suicides were predicted in the span of a year or ten years? The recent crop seemed, I couldn't deny, an
overly generous surplus, but who among us had calculated the odds? There were subsidiary factors worth
counting: I thought of the initial
troubles with the experiment and its aftermath which might, I supposed, have
increased ill thoughts in shaky minds, and there was the copycat effect and the
like, emotional and social instabilities which fed upon one another and were wont
to cause wretched progressions to flourish.
I thought of the shop worn concept of "the madness of
crowds". I wasn't a psychologist,
but that seemed as reasonable a framework as any in which to place our sad
tidings. I thought of something else,
too.
It occurred to me on the instant that the
professor was wrong, decisively, stupidly wrong. I went in search for him, finding him in the
computer room with Theresa. He looked
dapper as always, showy rather than professional; where the rolled up sleeves,
the rumpled trousers, the scruffy shoes of my co-workers? She, dressed to the nines, like something out
of a fashion magazine; why didn't she wear pants and dirty tee-shirts, like
every other woman I knew? They were
keeping company with none other than Gerald Steen, with whom they were
conducting an animated conversation. I
interrupted brusquely. "Vorchek, I must talk to you." He nodded, chipper as ever, and followed me
from the room, with Theresa in tow, clutching a sheaf of papers and dangling
pad and pencil, Steen left behind grinning weirdly at me. I led the pair to my office, closed the door
behind us, motioned to them to take seats.
I settled into my big, comfortable recliner, gripping it by the plush
arms. Vorchek
said evenly, "What may I do for you, Dr. Phelps?"
"You can listen," I began, waving an accusatory finger at his
face. "You're all wet, Vorchek; I've figured out that much. This time you rode your hobbyhorse too
far. There is no supernatural mystery
here, nothing that requires extreme explanations. We're not under attack from a god, but from
bad luck. How do I know? I know because of the pattern of the deaths;
the pattern that isn't there! You made a
big, howling blooper, Vorchek, that blows your theory
to smithereens. You speculate that weak,
dark-minded folk are being targeted from outside, and build rickety castles on
that foundation, but you've gone out of your way to overlook the obvious
exception, the man who doesn't fit the picture, even though you spend half your
time talking to him instead of me.
"I mean Gerald Steen. If
you'd paid any attention to genuine facts, you'd have noticed that he's the
most pathetic, broken, and miserable fellow in the bunch. He's got everything your theory demands,
every trait that should've destroyed him quickly. He ought to have been the first to die, but
he's very evidently alive. He's in good
health, getting along just fine. I've
never seen him more lively! If you're
right, he's already dead; if he's alive, then your an
ass, here to make fools of us all and grab as much cash as you can. It's a great racket, Vorchek,
one that's taken you far, but now it's blown up in your face, and I'm throwing
the dynamite. I'm going to speak with
Cunningham, and we're going to run you out of here."
I settled back into the haven of my chair, wiped my brow. "Have you solved," asked Vorchek presently, his vaguely foreign voice knifing the
stillness, "the mystery of the computer?" "No mystery," I snapped, "only
mechanical unreliability."
"The curious readings?"
"Fried circuits," said I, "spewing noise. We'll fix it." "And the news from the city?" he
quietly queried. I sat up straight and
asked, "What news?"
"My dear," he said to Theresa, "please update Dr. Phelps
on the preliminary results of your investigation." "Gladly, sir," she cried, ruffling
her handful of papers, which were indeed, as I now saw, copies of local
newspapers. "At Professor Vorchek's request I examined the public reports of criminal
cases in the vicinity for the period since the failure of your experiment. It turns out there's plenty going on. So far this week there have been seventeen
suicides in the city, whereas there were only two recorded for the previous
month. The authorities are frantic about
it. All of the victims were likely
types, but the numbers are at an all-time high, and in all but one case the
manners of death were quite unusual.
There are no overdoses or shootings in the temples among this lot. See, I've marked the summaries, and I've got
three burnings, two multiple stabbings, drinking of acid from a car battery, a
partial decapitation, and much, much more.
Look them over for yourself."
She tossed the papers onto my desk.
"Those are suicides?" I screamed.
"Every one," said Vorchek. "The plague spreads from this
geographical point. Now, Doctor, is the
time for calm heads to prevail. It is
impossible to sweep this cohesive phenomenon under the rug. It exists.
Everything links.
Uncharacteristic morbidity radiates from your laboratory and, so we must
conclude, specifically from your computer.
We must severe all ties to the outside world
until this ghastly business be resolved.
To what outlets is your computer connected?"
"There aren't any," I said.
"It did draw power from the city supply, but that's shut off, as
you know. It's operating on its
own." I felt sick when I said those
words. In my fervor I hadn't asked
myself how I was going to explain that.
"Of course," said Vorchek
impatiently, "but there are still physical connections, and telephone
hookups, outlets to other machines at this complex and to other research
facilities."
"Yes, there are. That's the
way of the world these days. Everything
connects to everything else."
"Break those connections," he commanded, "break them by
brute force if necessary. Get yourself a
pair of garden shears and cut every wire leading out of this building. Isolate the machine, totally. It appears that the influence has not yet
reached out aggressively. Let us head it
off, blockade it here, and fight our enemy on just one front.
"Now, as to the morose Dr. Steen, I must inform you that I have
been closely observing him. He is the
sort of man you think he is, as I learned quickly enough. I have not ignored him, nor-- despite
appearances-- failed to incorporate him into my equation. On the contrary, he is an integral part of
the sum. I ask you, Dr. Phelps, to grant
my thesis for the moment. We derive the
conclusion that potentially suicidal individuals are being driven over the
brink by a malevolent force-- yes?-- and yet Steen, our prime candidate,
exhibits no tendencies in that direction.
Given the premise, what would you deduce?"
"That in his case, another factor is in play."
"It is necessarily so. You
know him; you have observed him; can you deduce that factor?"
I took my time in replying, but I already knew the answer, had known all
along. "He enjoys it," I said,
"he's getting what he wants from the experience. He's carried self-loathing to such a level
that it's all he lives for. He can't get
enough of it. Steen doesn't want to die;
he wants to wallow in misery."
"Simplistic," said Vorchek,
"but accurate, as far as it goes.
You describe him to a fair degree.
There is more to him, however.
The man is positively dangerous.
His every waking moment is spent attempting to contact the god in the
machine; we must know his precise reasons, whether they be wholly personal, or
somehow directed against the wide world.
If the latter, then we must shut him down and send him away."
"Shouldn't we do that anyway?" asked Theresa. "If he's a menace, let's send him
packing."
"I have the authority," I pointed out.
"Not yet," advised the professor. "Steen progresses-- he verges on
results-- and if it be safely allowable, I want those results."
Little more was said at this meeting.
Nothing was settled, no plan of action was agreed upon, but I made no
more threats, nor did I consider doing so.
I would wait and see what developed.
Vorchek left, bowing courteously and shaking
my hand before he went. Theresa
followed, turning to me at the door, staring into my face with her bland blue
eyes and saying primly, "You're the ass," before scurrying away.
Later that day I requested, and received, a loan of the ancient document
written by the philosopher Jacob Bleek. These were photocopies of what I could see
was a translation or transcription, fourteen closely typed pages presenting an
account which began in mid-sentence and broke off abruptly at the end. The text, curiously, consisted of verse, a
very long and rambling poem intended to explicate arcane concepts. Vorchek warned me
about that, assuring me that in olden times such presentation was common among
learned men. The bulk of the material
related what I would call a legend or myth, although the author clearly
considered his account to be no less than epistemologically coherent
truth. It was a hideous tale, one that
kept me awake long that night pondering its implications, one I couldn't make
myself forget; one that I never shall.
Jacob Bleek, this old scholar with the
euphonically apt name, had conceived after much study a harrowing view of the
world and of man's place within it. The
natural universe was a realm influenced and overshadowed by a greater realm
where mighty forces ruled, a higher dimension within which alien and
unfathomable intelligences operated according to their own wills, and in
accordance with their own designs. These
were the gods-- or the aspects of godhood, as the case 11might be-- absolute
masters of space and time and fate. So
vast and magnificent were they (Bleek routinely
capitalized: "They", the
"Gods", the "Lords of All Things") that the cosmos and its
various substances and inhabitants, including man, could be viewed as no more
than playthings at their command, when those majestic entities deigned to
notice the infinitesimal bubble that we think of as all reality. For the sake of logical organization and
understanding Bleek accepted the conventional wisdom
of elder days, that there were many deities jostling for power or eminence, and
in this fragment devoted his poetic treatise to a particularly reprehensible
god, one whose properties were such that (as the author noted in a fey allusion)
he must needs be portrayed in popular religion as a devil.
This Blug-- an ugly, distasteful designation
derived, so it was claimed, from mysterious records predating conventional
history-- represented or fostered everything vile and crude and corrupt in the
universe. I couldn't glean from my
twisted source whether Blug merely made use of and
fed upon that which was nasty and squalid, or whether he served also as the
ultimate originator of same, but he clearly dominated that aspect of existence,
to the detriment of all concerned. This
King of Filth, so ran the assiduously collected stories, ruled from a dark
throne at the center of a dreadful region outside of the world, a rancid,
stinking mire never to be found on any map, but co-existing, in that strange
higher realm of being, at all points with the world of matter, energy, and
man. The seat of Blug's
primordial, everlasting kingdom was styled the Black Swamp, and it contained
within its blasphemous, indefinable boundaries everything putrid, toxic, and
loathsome. There Blug
governed, and from there he whispered insidiously to all who were oppressed by
the burdens of life, all who hopelessly despaired, all whose hate or contempt
or fury turned inward upon themselves in black mindless madness, calling to
them and drawing them into himself, seeking to make them his own, stoking their
self-destructive tendencies and thereby sating
himself with their inner darkness, as well as gathering unto himself an
eternal, endless legion of sycophantic acolytes and craven, fawning
worshippers, those who would dedicate their ruined dead souls to his glory for
so long as eternity should endure.
Blug demanded debasement from the world, and he got
it. Where his power impinged, there was
squalor and decay and meaningless death.
In that sense he was nothing but a symbol for everything wrong under the
sun, a dull, dirty, tarnished emblem of entropy, and his name had been invoked
in that regard, so I read, by thinkers of ancient times. There was more, however; according to Bleek, sinister Blug had gathered
round himself on earth a degenerate cult of men who knew him for what he was,
who knew what he wanted and were willing to pay the fearful price he exacted in
return for adoring him. These were men
who, in some sense, made up the lowest elements of humanity, men whose healthy
virtues were well nigh extinct, though they might
otherwise be rich or educated, even respected for their works. People whose minds dwelt in black swamps of
their own devising were the meat and gravy of Blug,
their masochistic (my word) inclinations dragging them down into pits of joyous
mental agony, from which they could look up to the face of Blug
and find shocking solace in what they saw.
The Blug cult, ever present, had emerged from the
shadows at certain points of history, mentioned, so I learned, in the writings
of Artocris, Plato, and Augustine. Everywhere shunned and condemned, for its
grisly practices as well as its ideas, it nevertheless persisted, for there
were always the weak and miserable ready to grant obeisance to their chosen
lord. Bleek
wrote of notable events, culled from awestruck sources, which described
specific irruptions of Blug into our universe, events
on a small scale, but with the most deleterious of social and personal
effects. Blug's
power could reach forth from his nightmare kingdom, when foolish men had opened
doorways for him, and under such circumstances his intrusion could lead to
cumulative dismay and tragedy.
Tread not
with thy soiled soul into the murk
For amidst
the slime final perils lurk
Give not Blug His due lest ye be held fast
In quick'ning mud where horrors brood and last.
So said Jacob Bleek-- or so ran Vorchek's transcription-- that, and much else besides, all of
it gloomy and ominous and, I couldn't help but think, oddly pertinent to
current events. I despised what I read,
despised myself for reading it, was like to kick myself for believing it, but
in some fashion, down deep, I already did.
Blug, or something like him, had broken into
the modern world-- as a result of my own honest actions-- and was laying waste
to the sadder minds among our people at APP and, I must accept, others as
well. I came down very early in the
morning, before dawn broke, to the administrative office, and there I gave
orders (after clearing them with the incredulous but, oddly amenable
Cunningham) to the maintenance staff to
rip up every electrical conduit and telephone line leading into the accelerator
building. Be sure that they asked plenty
of painful questions, but they agreed to get onto it right away. Then I strode over to the ruin of my
laboratory.
For once I caught up with Steen, who had been beating me to the punch
every morning since the unpleasantness began.
He looked a wreck, and glumly informed me that he had finally knocked
off for a snatch of sleep, explaining that he could afford to since he was
"so close to the ultimate breakthrough". He made a sneering comment about my new
hours, then stopped short upon our approach to the structure, gesturing before
him. Professor Vorchek
and Theresa were already on the scene, performing some act by dim lamplight in
the gloom.
I guess I might have expected them to be drawing a pentagram or similar
occult device, but it wasn't that, or it didn't look it. What they were doing was painting a circle
around the entire building, a broad white line that curved around from the
back, to which they were just now putting the finishing touches, filling in the
final gap. They were using long-handled
mops, dipping them into a big double-handled pot. Up close the stuff didn't look like paint,
being unusually viscous and slightly luminous in the fading dark. Vorchek had shed
his hat and coat, but his natty tie still flapped in the breeze. Theresa had come down in fashion, but she
still looked good, better than any girl I knew.
I wished I had a private secretary like that.
"What trickery is this?" whined Steen. I asked the same, in a friendlier
manner. Vorchek
and Theresa paused and rested on their mops, forming an image like a new
version of American Gothic.
"Instituting safeguards," explained the professor. "No, this is not paint, but rather a
composition of my own, one intended to repel extrusions of wicked influence. This fluid has been known to work effectively
in less formidable cases, and I thought it worth a try here. Go on in, you two. We will join you in a minute."
"Useless rubbish," Steen muttered unhappily. He made straight for the computer room, while
I detoured briefly to my office in order to update some files. When I finished and came after him, I found
that our visitors had joined him, all three looking extraordinarily busy. Steen and the professor were deep in
discussion at a console, while Theresa hovered about, taking notes and
ostentatiously observing. "Three,
one, four, one, six," she called out, "and a funny
squiggle." "That is 'delta',"
said Vorchek.
"Delta," repeated the girl, "and four, one, and a
seven..." On she went in a sort of
singsong recitation. I said sharply,
"Somebody tell me what's happening."
Vorchek smiled and said, "Dr. Steen has cracked the
code. It is a modified binary, groupings
of ones and zeros, with other signifiers mixed in. The latter caused the most grief, but now
that we know the language being employed, it is not too difficult to
master."
"The language?" I cried.
"Do you mean the computer language?
It isn't anything like that."
"I refer," he replied, "to the underlying language which
the machine is presenting to us in computer form. It appears to belong to a derivative of the
antique Rhexellite tongue, a dialect not spoken on
this earth for tens of thousands of years.
I had previously noted certain patterns in the data which provided
clues. A consultation of my library,
which I keep on disc, confirmed my suspicions."
"Professor Vorchek has been most
helpful," said Steen, his ungracious tone undercutting his words. "I'd worked out the code two days ago,
but it didn't scan in English or any language I knew. He provided the final key. Now I'm actually reading the thoughts of the
computer mind."
"An awful lot has been going on behind my back," I
grumbled. "So, what have you
learned?"
"It is an entertaining discourse," said Vorchek. "Here is a snatch which I have
translated." He held out to me a
sheet on which a paragraph had been scrawled.
I took it and read. I started,
gasped, could barely keep on to the end.
It was the foulest, most degrading conglomeration of sordid, raving
insanity I'd ever come across. I felt
defiled to my soul by those mere characters on paper. I handed it back to him. "That's inside my computer?"
"It isn't your computer anymore," sneered Steen. "It's His."
"I wish you'd let me read it," said Theresa.
Vorchek grinned, but said soberly, "It is not edifying
material for a sweet young girl. What do
you think, Dr. Phelps?"
"I read Bleek," I replied. "I suppose this nails it down."
"It does; this, and a symbol which appears repetitively. Yes, you can see it here." He tapped the monitor screen. "That character, the one resembling a
lambda, translates from the Rhexellite as a single
hoarse, guttural sound, an unconventional word.
Your perusal of Bleek should tell you what it
is."
"It's true," I whispered, "this is really
happening." Then, loudly,
"You've had enough of that filth, Steen.
Get away from there."
"Not nearly enough!" he screamed. Suddenly his basic nastiness evaporated,
replaced by a tone of desperate supplication, a look of agonized woe. "It won't be enough until I've gotten in
there and embraced Him. I'm almost ready
to begin. I only need ten more
minutes. Vorchek,
you promised me."
"The promise stands," said the professor. "Your promise doesn't bind me," I
cut in hotly; "I say no deal, whatever you have in mind." Vorchek shrugged,
saying, "Dr. Steen, continue until all is set for our little
experiment. Miss Delaney, maintain your
records. Dr. Phelps, let us step
outside." I followed him into the
hall. Just then one of the maintenance
guys showed up, delivering the message that all outside connections had been
severed. "We had to rip up the
asphalt," he fumed. I dismissed
him. The professor enthused,
"Everything comes together nicely."
This was getting to be too much for me; too much, too fast. I rounded on my companion. "Vorchek, are
you nuts? We've got to suppress that
maniac before he does something awful!"
"Steen constitutes no threat to us," he announced. "I have satisfied myself on that
point. I had a long talk with him, man
to man, a candid discussion, in which I learned exactly what he seeks. It is for Dr. Steen, as I surmised, a
personal odyssey of self-fulfillment on his part, rather than aggressive
megalomania. We may humor him with his
experiment-- which may prove unusually rewarding in its own right-- while we
commence our own, which should end the matter.
The building is sealed, and an unbroken circle of countervailing force surrounds
us. That should contain the sinister
energies until we have attacked and defeated the source. In a few minutes we may begin." "Begin what?" I queried, and Vorchek replied, "To drive the great god Blug out of your computer, which it has
possessed." Then he told me
precisely how we would accomplish that.
I nodded dumbly. I was adrift at
sea, but maybe he knew what he was talking about.
We returned to the desolate computer room, where everyone got busy. Steen carried on with his mysterious
endeavors, flashing fresh pages of strange text one after another on his
screen, at times chuckling weirdly to himself.
In a far corner, behind a low wall of consoles where we had some
privacy, Vorchek, Theresa, and I labored to deploy a
battery of complicated mechanisms which the professor had produced from his
magician's hat. These were odd, spidery
gizmos on tripods, linked by electrical cords, which he hooked into our
internal power via a boxy transformer, of homemade appearance, which he also
provided. "We fight force with
force," he explained to me, "thrusting back the influence with an
antagonistic, repulsive charge. All
going well, we will hurl Blug back to whence he came,
and stop up the mouse hole you made. It
should be as simple as that."
"A piece of cake," Theresa opined.
I
urged Vorchek to activate his devices immediately
but, inexplicably, he advised delay.
"There is one more act of the drama to be played," he said
mysteriously. "Miss Delaney, bring
the satchel, if you please." She
hefted that item and they walked over to Steen.
I tagged along shortly, to hear my colleague complaining, "It's a
nuisance. I don't have time to waste on
that." "A deal is a
deal," said Vorchek authoritatively. "Put it on."
"It" consisted of an awkward headset and cumbersome goggles,
confusingly wired with many tiny cables into a portable device, another rough
and ready unit by the look of it, which the professor placed on the table top
at Steen's elbow. I had to hand it to Vorchek; despite my first impressions, he had a penchant
for machinery, and exotic stuff at that.
He seemed to be a man of many parts.
Steen ungraciously donned the headset and goggles, connecting the pads
of the former to his temples and scalp, strapping the latter to his eyes, then
buckled down once more to his work.
"Any second now," he breathed, but he cared nothing for us,
had forgotten our presence in that moment.
He spoke to the demons within his mind, and perhaps to one without.
As I was obviously impatient to speak, Vorchek
drew us away from Steen. I asked,
"What's he doing now?" The
professor said, "Making contact, I expect.
He has the means, and the knowledge; it can be done, if the party on the
other end is willing. I think he
is." "So what do we
do?" "We wait, just a little
longer. My specialized recording device,
now attached to his brain and eyes, is storing all data, exactly as he sees and
experiences them. That is pertinent
information, sir, which we must retrieve for future analysis. Miss Delaney?" "I'm with you, Professor." "Miss Delaney, I want you on the
switch. When I call out, throw it, and
do not hesitate for a second. Dr.
Phelps, you and I will observe from this intermediate position."
Theresa assumed her station, holding in her hands a control device wired
to the professor's instruments. Vorchek and I remained where we were, watching Steen's
hunched back. I wondered why we held
back from the scene of the action. It
occurred to me that it might not be safe to hang closely to Steen, and I
wondered why that might be. The thought
bugged me, but in the quiet tension of the moment I couldn't bring myself to
ask.
Something happened. The computer
began to generate sounds, unusual noises of mounting intensity, as if great
activity were taking place within. Steen
gasped, pushed away from his console.
With his movement I caught a glimpse of the monitor. I was about thirty feet away, and couldn't
see well, but I could tell that the output had changed. No longer did the strange text flash on the
screen. Instead, there was something
else: murky suggestions of form, visual
images appearing out of the heart of the machine. Observation of detail was impossible at this
remove, and yet I didn't care for the little I saw. Sight of the screen was cut off by Steen's
head as he leaned forward, soaking up every bit of the inexplicable imagery
that assaulted his senses.
Then Steen threw himself up out of his seat, shrieking a strange word as
he did so. It wasn't English, wasn't any
language I knew-- or that I would have expected him to know-- but he spoke it
wildly, ecstatically, over and again, rapidly.
There came a shrill cry from the man, a horrifying wail, and he
collapsed back into the chair, sprawling limply, his arms and legs splayed in
an ugly arrangement. The hard jostling
dislodged the pads from his skull. I
noted, instantaneously, that his screen had gone black.
"Miss Delaney," Vorchek cried,
"hit it now!" She flipped the
switch on the control box, Vorchek's odd devices
activated, and all hell broke loose. A
roaring emanated from the computer, a wholly unmachine-like
sound, more like the bellowing of a big, angry animal. The room seemed to darken slightly, and the
floor shook. No, the building shook; a
forgotten coffee cup tumbled from its perch, and a framed document toppled from
the wall. The roar abated, transformed
into a low, monotonous growling, less animalistic in nature, more like the
sound of steel balls rolling continuously on a hard surface. Computer panels began to bulge and pop open,
emitting sparks and black puffs of smoke at the joins. The growling became a thin, irritating,
whistling whine, rising to a piercing crescendo, and then several panels of the
computer blew out entirely, and-- despite everything, I still couldn't believe
what I saw-- the whole massive machine sagged and began to crumple like tin
foil. The destruction progressed at a
dazzling rate; within mere seconds that modern wonder of solid circuitry and
space age appliance was reduced to scattered bits and jagged fragments of
trash, a pile of junk viewed through belching gouts of steam and flickering,
dwindling flames. The whining ceased.
"It is finished!" shouted Vorchek. "Miss Delaney, break the
current." He said to me, "Sorry
about the machine, Dr. Phelps. It was
only a shell at this stage, of course. Blug had eaten out the interior to make room for the
intrusion of his substance." He
forthwith raced to the pathetic shambles of my computer, to where Theresa
immediately followed and engaged him in lively, congratulatory
conversation. I made for Steen. I pulled his head up by the hair and gazed
into his face. I didn't have to be an
expert to know he was dead. Oh God, he
was the deadest man I'd ever seen. There
wasn't a mark on him, and yet I couldn't conceive of a more lifeless
corpse. The body was cold, beyond the
absence of living warmth, a clammy chilliness, as if the life had been sucked
from it. The eyes stared dully, the
mouth contorted into a sickening, frozen smile.
Steen had died happy, and that horrified me more than anything that had
happened.
I joined Vorchek and the girl. "He's dead," I said flatly. Theresa said, "That's too
bad." Vorchek
muttered, "Predictable, really, just one more aspect of the
tragedy." "You knew?" I
asked. "It was written," he
replied. "Steen has gone to meet
his god, the only thing he really wanted.
His eternal soul has found the only sort of belonging it would
accept." He strode briskly to the
dead man, gathered up the various components of his recorder. Theresa swooped in efficiently with the
satchel to haul away the stuff. I stood
immovable, calling out, "Why did he die, Vorchek?"
"I am no medical man," he said curtly.
"I mean why did it have to be?
You set it up this way. Your
sweetie here could have snapped that switch ten minutes ago, and we'd have
obtained the same results, only Steen would still be alive. That's the truth, isn't it?"
"Possibly. His cooperation
may have distracted Blug while we operated, which may
have been a benefit to us. I do not
know."
"It all came out in the wash," Theresa observed. "The problem's solved. Tough luck about that guy, but he was asking
for it. Don't sweat it now; you're home
free."
"Shut up, you," I snarled.
"Silence, please, from the cheering section. Vorchek, tell me
why."
"Because I need that information!" Vorchek
thundered. "Only Steen could
provide it, unless one of us volunteered to take his place. You do not understand the peculiar qualities
of my recorder which he wore. It
develops mental images and readings from the subject, what he experiences
within the caverns of his mind. It
functioned until the moment of Steen's death.
Do you realize what that means?
Can you imagine the data contained within that instrument? It is all there, as he lived it in those
incredible moments. I can manage and
massage that data, break them down, build them up, put them on a graph or
transfer them to videotape. Much can be
learned. Fear not, Dr. Phelps; I will
see to it that you receive a copy of the results."
"I don't want it," I said disgustedly. "I just want you two out of here."
Within half an hour they were gone.
Applied Physics Processing took a big hit, naturally, but it's a wealthy
company, and all equipment was replaced in time, with much hand-wringing and
references to the bottom line. Somewhat
to my surprise I kept my job.
Cunningham, amazingly, ever acted as if he partly understood the weird
nature of what occurred that unspeakable week-- he had always taken Vorchek seriously, and that fellow got with him and
straightened out everything, for which I confess gratitude-- and my boss saw to
it that no blemish was left to fester on my reputation. The day came when I was back in business
running experiments, as if nothing had ever happened. One particular experiment I studiously
avoided, and no colleague ever suggested it to me again.
This morning a package arrived from Professor Anton Vorchek,
without accompanying message, containing a video disc. I knew what it was and thought to throw it
away or destroy it, but I couldn't do that; I'm a scientist, after all. This evening I inserted it into my player and
watched it on my big screen wall panel television. It might be a fake-- at one time I wouldn't
have put a self-aggrandizing hoax past Vorchek-- but
I don't think it is. I'd like to know
the secret of the professor's recording machine; it must be a marvelous
instrument. Hours have passed-- the time
nears midnight-- yet I'm still shaking over what I saw, my comfortable, front
seat view of the final moments of Dr. Gerald Steen, the man who craved for
himself nothing but total and eternal abasement to the power of his chosen
lord.
The picture began with a brief, clear-cut image of that well remembered
monitor screen. Within moments the text
vanished from the monitor, to be replaced by a vague, unfocused vision of
formless shapes crowding into sight.
Then everything went black for an instant-- I wondered if that was all--
only to have the picture return, but affording a completely different
view. The monitor was gone, along with
any trace of a laboratory setting. I and
Steen were impossibly, unimaginably elsewhere.
Through his eyes and mind I gazed upon a dark, murky landscape of dense
growth, a sea of alien shrubs and stunted trees with spiky branches and
malformed leaves, rising from a plain of filthy-looking gray-black mud. There was little color to the image, as if I
viewed everything through dark tinting, and the picture was smudged, a minute
trace of blurring which obscured fine detail.
Nevertheless, I saw enough to astound and grip me. The view of the muddy terrain seemed to thrust
at me, and I knew that Steen was advancing, running into and through the scene. Damp, thorny fronds slapped at his face-- my
face-- as he pushed into the grim wilderness.
Thin, tentacular branches reached out as if
grasping at the passerby. I think those
plants possessed inherent motion, for there was no obvious evidence of wind. The progression into that mysterious land--
shall I call it the Black Swamp?-- continued.
Occasionally I glimpsed living objects nearby in the ooze, awful
creeping things I didn't recognize, while more often I spied what appeared dead
things, incomplete and rotten. I
shuddered to note that many of the living organisms looked less complete than
the dead. One larger mud-caked specimen,
which rolled hastily away into the slime beneath a thick, morbidly swaying
bush, bore a disturbing similarity to a flayed human being.
The advance went on through that abysmal landscape for a considerable
period, far longer than I could have calculated from the time frame of Steen's
death. A kind of temporal expansion was
taking place; much information had been packed into that short period while he
retained a minimal connection to our world.
Then the nearest bushes receded from view on both sides, exposing a
broad clearing within which bubbled and steamed a shallow lagoon. A low island lay in the misty distance, with
something large and black looming upon it.
The image pushed forward again, haltingly, as if the source of the
vision slogged through the oily gray water.
Moving forms tossed and floundered in the muck, and they were terrible
to see. Some were passably human; others
might once have been human, but had undergone loathsome changes; others could
never have been human at all. When these
naked beings weren't rolling and splashing in the scummy liquid, as if in agony
or distress, they were staring with gaping mouths and fawning toward the
central island.
The island attained, the image paused, as if for a gulp of breath, or
from fear or some other, less sane emotion.
Something dark and tremendous loomed through the roiling vapors,
something that heaved and quivered repulsively.
Before it, on the soggy level ground, there sprawled, staggered, and
danced a nightmarish horde of naked monstrosities that made the denizens of the
lagoon look wholesome. I couldn't accept
that such men or beasts lived, but they did, and in a lively manner. Those that had faces bore expressions of
pious, ineffable joy. The scene zoomed
suddenly, as Steen ran at the massive black bulk, and the source of all that
unspeakable delight came clearly into view.
Atop a crude, unadorned throne of apparently native rock, gray and
unchiseled, squatted a ponderous, amorphous entity, shifting and squirming on
its great seat, dripping grease onto the stained rock, an entity which I know
must be or represent the foul and squalid Lord of Decay. There sat Blug, and
there he governed his miserable empire, calling to those who could know no hope
save in him. Smaller beings crowded
around the base of the throne, where the substance of the horror slopped down. These beings were, in the main, quite human,
men and women-- many women-- appearing less corroded than the outlying
specimens, and some still wore shreds of clothing. They pressed up against that reeking (my
imagination readily supplies that detail) mass, their hands sinking into the black
gel. What were they doing? The image approached my shocked eyes.
From the lower fringes of Blug's heaving mass
there bulged and grew frightful appendages, wet, glistening protuberances
spouting intermittent streams of an abominably viscous, white, sticky
fluid. I thought of unholy teats-- God
help me I did, may a sane and decent god help me-- and I recoiled from the
television screen in revulsion and desperate disbelief when I beheld the
sickening confirmation. These poor,
doomed, damned people-- once the born kin of mine, once alive to the same
possibilities and dreams-- bowed down and took those swelling protrusions into
their mouths, greedily sucking at the thick juice than dribbled down their
chins. I screamed, screamed again and
averted my eyes when the image of one elongating teat swelled before me. In another moment the incredible video image
gave out forever, but not before I realized that Steen, in his ultimate act of
degradation, was bowing down to drink of the soul-destroying nectar exuded by
his chosen god.