The Face of Heaven: The Realms of Tartarus, Book One Read online

  The Euchronian Movement wished to create a stable society. It needed such a high level of organization in order that the Plan could be completed that total repression and conformity seemed imperative. However, the ultimate aim of the Movement was to create a society where repression would be minimal. The Movement therefore faced a dilemma. In searching for a way to sidestep the whole problem, it came up with the i-minus effect.

  The i-minus agent did not do away with instincts altogether, it merely prevented them from having any influence on behavior patterns.

  Instincts are programmed into the genetic heritage of the individual. But the behavior patterns signified by the instincts still have to be learned. There has to be a process by which the purely physical language of the genes has to be translated into the conceptual language of the mind. An individual learns to behave instinctively in exactly the same way that he learns to behave socially—by repetition and rehearsal. The conscious mind provides one arena for such rehearsal, but only for consciously observed behavior—that is to say, social behavior. The conscious mind does not have direct access to the instincts.

  There is, however, a second arena in which behavior may be rehearsed and learned, and that is the arena of dreams.

  Animal dreams consist entirely of rehearsals of instinctive patterns of behavior. When an animal dreams its brain operates exactly as if the animal were awake and active, except that all motor stimuli to the body are short-circuited by a body known as the pons. If the pons is prevented from carrying out its function by surgery, animals can be observed “acting out” their dreams. Sleeping cats go through the motions of hunting, stalking, eating and the full range of sexual behavior. Everything which an animal does not learn from real experience it learns from “unreal” experience in its dreams.

  In animals there is rarely any conflict between the behavior patterns learned from external experience and those learned from internal experience. Animals live the life which is laid down for them in their genetic heritage. They never try to be anything different. The only time that they are forced into conflict is when they are forced to be something other than they were “intended” to be by man. Only domestic animals and animals in zoos tend to become neurotic, and they tend to become neurotic because what they are taught by their manmade environment conflicts with what they are taught by their instincts.

  In man himself, however, the situation is very much more complicated. Man does try, continually, to be something other than instinct would make him. This is the consequence of mental evolution to the point where the conscious mind obtains means of control and influence over the subconscious. Once a species evolves intelligence and self-consciousness, then its development races far ahead of the slow process of instinctive evolution. The trouble is that instincts can only be reshaped by natural selection—a tortuously slow process—while society can be remolded continuously by will power in the service of the active conscious mind. In the human being, the arena of dreams becomes an arena indeed—a battleground where learning and belief and imagination conflict terribly with the rehearsal of instinctive behavior patterns. In a human being, a dream is at best enigmatic and at worst maddening. All human beings are domestic animals or animals in a zoo—creatures in conflict—and the only answer provided by the power of the mind is repression, which is not a cure but merely an alleviation of the symptoms.

  The i-minus agent devised by the Euchronian Movement during the years of the Plan changed all that. The i-minus agent was a selective genetic inhibitor which prevented all forms of genetic translation into the arena of dreams. The only input into the dreams of Euchronia’s citizens was the input of real experience.

  The theory was that this would lead to perfect social adjustment. The theory was only half-right. The citizens of Euchronia dreamed on, and their dreams were not devoid of conflict. But that conflict was muted very considerably indeed, and it was conflict of a rather different kind—a purely intellectual conflict of ideas and opinions.

  The i-minus agent was administered in secret to the struggling millions who made themselves subject to the Euchronian Movement—in the food and in the water. In large measure, the i-minus project was responsible for the completeness of the dedication lent to the Plan by the people committed to it. One could not argue that the Plan would have been impossible without the i-minus agent, but it would certainly have taken much longer to complete.

  When the Millennium was declared, the custodians of the secret decided that the project should be maintained in the interests of promoting adjustment to the new social régime. They formed a close council and laid down the rule that the council should perpetuate itself by coopting new members to replace those who died. The power of the close council in this matter was to be administrative—other men who were party to the secret (scientists, for the most part, and some civil servants in charge of food production and mobilization) agreed to abide by the majority decision of that council.

  It was generally agreed that in order to remain effective the i-minus effect had to be secret. Otherwise, any individual who cared to do so might exempt himself.

  The simple fact was, however, that the Euchronian Millennium did not see any very rapid adjustment to the new social environment. Blocking the instinctive input into dreams was simply not enough to guarantee Utopia—not, at any rate, in a matter of decades. The intellectual conflict continued unchecked, and the society of the Euchronian Millennium continued to reflect that conflict.

  On the other hand, had the i-minus project been abandoned, Euchronian society might have been considerably worse off. One does not eliminate conflict by introducing new conflicts. The moral question of whether or not i-minus was justified was, of course, a different one. Opinions varied greatly.

  In the meantime, Euchronia’s citizens had relatively peaceful sleep, and nobody suffered from nightmares. Until Carl Magner....

  Chapter 40

  Julea was sitting in the garden, supposedly reading, but not really paying much attention to the book. The sun was high and hot, and she had eaten a heavy meal. She might have drifted off into sleep had it not been for the fact that she was saturated with sleep. She slept long hours these days—as long as she could.

  A man’s shadow fell across her couch.

  “Oh,” she said, peering upwards, squinting against the light of the sun. “It’s you.”

  Thorold Warnet sat down on the grass, and reached out a hand to toy with a rose which grew behind the couch.

  “Has he come back?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “Did you come through the house or climb over the wall?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t want to disturb your father.”

  “He knows far more about all this than I do,” she said.

  “He doesn’t know what I want to know.”

  “What makes you think I do?” she demanded. “All this is nothing to do with me. I don’t have bad dreams, and I don’t write books. I’m tired of the arguments. I don’t really have an opinion, one way or the other, and I know that whatever anyone says the Underworld isn’t going to be opened, so why don’t you go argue with someone else?”

  “I didn’t come to argue,” said Warnet. “I came to find out what Ryan knew that he told you, and that you told Joth. That’s all.”

  “If you’re sure that’s what happened how is it that you don’t know what it is that was passed so mysteriously along the chain of communication?”

  “Because you haven’t told me yet.”

  “I won’t,” she said. “Why should I? You’re a Eupsychian.”

  “I’m not a criminal,” he said. “Just a heretic. A Eupsychian is as entitled to be interested in the Underworld as anyone else. Both your brothers have gone down there. I know why Ryan went. He was properly equipped and others went with him. He knew what he was doing, to some extent. But Joth made no preparations, and he didn’t tell anyone he was going—except you. He had no equipment, and no real reason. That seems odd to me, if not to anyone else. It sug
gests to me that perhaps Joth didn’t intend to disappear. Perhaps he only wanted to look at the Underworld. Perhaps he only wanted to know how to get down. Perhaps something unexpected happened. Your father doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything. I think you do.”

  “Why should I tell you, if I haven’t even told my father?” she asked.

  “Why shouldn’t you tell me?” he countered. “And your father? Why keep it a secret?”

  “Because Ryan told me not to tell anyone,” she said quietly.

  “But you did,” Warnet said, also quietly. “You told Joth.”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “Don’t you want to know what happened to Joth?” he asked.

  “Nothing’s happened to Joth. I’m waiting for him to come back. That’s all.”

  “He might not,” said Warnet.

  She wouldn’t answer that comment. She pretended to look at her book.

  “We can help you,” persisted the Eupsychian. “We can find out what did happen, if you give us the chance. We can find the truth. Or is that what you’re afraid of? Perhaps you’d rather not face the truth? Perhaps you’d rather pretend?”

  “Perhaps,” she said, coldly.

  “Is your father’s book a true account of life in the Underworld?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “But you don’t know that. Nobody knows that except Ryan and his companions. And perhaps Joth. Possibly Joth.”

  “There’s no point,” she said, her voice breaking slightly into a tremulous whisper.

  “Just tell me,” he pleaded. “Just tell me what it is that led Joth to do whatever he did.”

  She hovered on the brink of tears. Rather than give way to them, she gave way to the questions.

  “Ryan told me there was a man,” she said. “A man who had been into the Underworld. Not just once. Lots of times. That’s how Ryan knew how to get down into the Underworld. He said this man knew several routes, and used them. He thought it would be safe. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. I didn’t want to tell anybody.” Ryan told me there was a man,” she said. “A man who had been into the Underworld. Not just once. Lots of times. That’s how Ryan knew how to get down into the Underworld. He said this man knew several routes, and used them. He thought it would be safe. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. I didn’t want to tell anybody.”

  “But you told Joth.”

  “Yes. And Joth’s gone too. I shouldn’t have let him go. Not after Ryan didn’t come back. He went to find the man—went to find out about him. And he hasn’t come back either.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Warnet, softly.

  “Jervis Burstone,” she said.

  Chapter 41

  Carl Magner watched the young man disappear at the bottom of the garden. He was too far away to make out any details, and a little too distraught to care overmuch. Later, however, he went out to speak to his daughter about the visitor.

  She explained what Warnet had wanted, but she lied, saying that she knew nothing and had told him nothing. There was nothing which could make her send her father after her two brothers. She hoped that Warnet would find out about Burstone and make sure that no one else ever went down into the world below.

  “I was dreaming again,” Magner told her. “The dream is always there. It’s only a matter of time before it’s there while I wake as well as while I sleep. The people...I see them all the more clearly every time...I only wish that someone could really understand.”

  “Yes,” she said, inaudibly. “I wish that someone could.”

  Chapter 42

  Joth woke screaming from his nightmare.

  Huldi rolled over and put her hand over his mouth, pressing hard to squeeze him into silence. When she was sure that he was finished she let her fingers go limp, and lifted them slowly.

  Joth lay perfectly still, his spine rigid. He let out his tongue to lick the sweat from his upper lip. It tasted of Huldi’s hand.

  “It’s going,” he whispered, his tone undulating on the soft whistle of his fast-drawn breath. “It’s going. Farther and farther.”

  “What?” she asked. “What was it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, fearfully. “I don’t know. Already. It’s going away. I can’t remember. I didn’t see. I don’t know.”

  “It’s only a dream,” she said, putting her fingers back to his face. She touched his lips briefly, then let them linger on his cheek. His face was hot and dry. The only sweat was the sweat that came from her hand. He licked his own fingers and drew them across his forehead. There was water in a bowl not far away, but he could not reach it while his back was still rigid. Somehow, for some strange reason, he dared not move.

  “It wasn’t the same,” he said. “It wasn’t the same dream. Not at all. There was nothing...nothing at all...it was...insane. Crazy. I’m going mad.”

  “It was only a dream,” whispered Huldi. “Only a dream.”

  “Not the same,” he muttered.

  Camlak drew aside the curtain and stood in the doorway, ring at them. The room behind him was lamplit, but the room which Joth and Huldi shared was pitch dark. Nevertheless, by some complex line of reflection, they could see a glint in Camlak’s eyes.

  Huldi flinched, fearing that they had disturbed him. But he spoke to them in a low voice, with no hint of anger.

  “They came back a few minutes ago,” he said. “The harrowhound has killed Porcel. It is time for me to go.”

  Chapter 43

  Camlak sniffed the air. He made a small sound in his throat, something between a cough and a purr. It was wordless and meaningless, an animal sound. For the time being, he was not wholly a man, because he had retreated into the cave of his mind, so that the Gray Soul could simulate something of the beast in him. Something of the harrowhound. A hunter needs to identify with his quarry. It is what makes him a hunter. Camlak made the animal sound for its own sake. It was not communicative.

  The others were some way behind him. Chemec was there, and Magant and Cicon. The warriors of the village come to sit in lofty judgment over their kindred. A judgment from apart, without decision or participation. Only Porcel was not with them. Porcel was already dead.

  If Camlak died too...well then, the bickering would begin all over again. They would cast dice for the pleasure of taking Yami’s head. They would cast dice for Huldi, too, and Joth...they would let blood in full confidence because both Porcel and Camlak had spilled all theirs in the test. They would let blood in fear and in hope that they could continue to do so—in the war against Ermold’s raiders.

  Camlak carried a long knife and a short spear. The knife was beaten metal—soft, tainted Underworld metal which decayed and splintered, not the hard steel of the world above. The spear was tipped with bone—the bone of a harrowhound—and its shaft had been dressed in the blood of a harrowhound. A hunter must identify his weapons with his quarry.

  In this fight there would be no help from Heaven at all. Camlak had nothing which was not his own. This was a man’s challenge and there was more at stake than life and death.

  There was a group of warriors peeling away from the main party, away to the left. Another would begin working its way to the right in a matter of moments. They carried drums and horns—their purpose was not to kill but to herd. They were to make sure that the harrowhound would not run. It was not the way of the harrowhound to avoid a challenge, but the beast had already fought once, and had eaten its fill of the victory. Camlak knew that he had an advantage over the beast which Porcel had not. But that was the luck of the draw. Nothing is decided by fitness alone. There is always the random factor. But the fact that he faced a slower, perhaps less ferocious, harrowhound did not make Camlak’s test an easy one. It was still, perhaps, the ultimate test of all.

  Camlak had to offer himself to the hunting-beast, to make it clear that they were fighting under rules. The harrowhound would understand. It would know that the fight was one-to-one and that if it won it would be allowed to r
un free. Until the hunters came again.

  Not one of the warriors following Camlak had ever faced such an enemy alone, for all that they were men of courage and strength. In the normal course of events it would not occur to four or five hunters to track a harrowhound to the kill. Ten men might, but any less would content themselves with defending life and property. Even in a grand hunt, when twenty or thirty men might set out to corner and kill a hound, it was accepted that one man or two might die. Many such parties considered themselves fortunate to return home two men short, with only one huge head to show for it.

  There could be no possible doubt that Porcel, given the choice, would far rather have faced a man than a harrowhound, even if he considered the advantage to be against him. But Camlak was not so sure. He was not, by nature, a fighting man. He had not the taste for man-killing. Hunting was entirely different, even hunting a man-beast. He would not have felt at ease facing Porcel in a ring. But in confrontation with a harrowhound, he was at ease. He had true confidence in the idea that this was the way of life. The killing of men—even Men Without Souls, to some extent—he thought of as Yami’s way, which was an altogether different thing.

  In a slender gully, where a stream ran slowly, and thin, dry spikestalks pushed their way up from cracks in bare rock, the harrowhound decided to make its stand. It knew what was happening because of the drums. It knew that it was called upon to kill or be killed. It knew enough to select its own ground. It was an intelligent beast, though its world was devoid of how and why and measured time. It was a thinking beast, a calculating beast. It knew the odds, and it knew the odds were in its favor. It waited in the gully, preparing itself for the contest, adjusting its state of mind. Its brown eyes gleamed with tear-reflected starlight. Its tongue lolled from its great mouth, stirring slightly and sliding back and forth across the crowns of its savage teeth.