Beyond the Tomorrow Mountains Page 23

  Hearing that, Noren was stricken with disappointment. For a few minutes he had held with wonder a thing from another solar system . . . a thing made by a human race unlike his own. He wanted to see it once more, to share in the unraveling of its mysteries. But he could not expect that he’d be allowed to leave the City again. His confinement this time would be final and complete; he had forfeited the trust of those who were guarding the secrets.

  It was nearly dark when they reached the City. Looking down from the air as they approached its cluster of lights, he remembered the first time he’d seen it so, driving a trader’s sledge up the final hill and halting at the crest to gaze with unbearable longing at the stronghold of all hidden truth. How naive he’d been. Even while he lived in the City he’d not thought it a prison; he’d assumed that everything he sought was there. . . .

  Talyra squeezed his hand and smiled. Wan, emaciated, clothed in the tattered remnants of a tunic cut away for bandages, she was nonetheless radiant. To Talyra it had all worked out as it was meant to work. And perhaps, Noren thought sadly, she had again glimpsed the truth more clearly than he had; she’d seen through some window that to him would be forever obscure. They would surely have died if he had not carried through the masquerade for her sake. Still, he could not do that indefinitely. He’d once feared that he might accept priesthood rather than give her up, but when it came to the point of choice, he knew he would never be as great a hypocrite as that. Those who became High Priests were not hypocrites either, yet much as he might wish to believe as they did, he could not alter what he felt.

  So, having had her love, he must once again sacrifice it. Since their marriage could never be authorized, he must free her from the betrothal. It would be best if there proved to be no child, for she would be hurt less that way; still he could not regret their brief hours of happiness. Little more lay in store for him, for though he knew that insofar as he was permitted, he would devote his remaining years to the work that had come to seem worthwhile despite its hopelessness, he was aware that neither love nor work would be enough to satisfy him. He would always be searching for something that was not to be found.

  He turned to Brek, who did not meet his glance. Like himself, Brek had refused the hypnotic sleep offered by the rescue team. They had assuaged their thirst and hunger and had submitted to preliminary treatment of their injuries, but they had not wished to evade what awaited them on entrance to the City. Or rather, they hadn’t been willing to admit that they wished it. They were answerable both for the loss of an irreplaceable aircar and for their unfulfilled intent to betray secrets; neither could be easily dismissed. Perhaps they would be considered relapsed heretics and denied all contact with non-Scholars, Noren realized. Perhaps he would not even see Talyra after he had confessed. To his shame, he was thankful that her presence made immediate confession impossible.

  The lights loomed brighter, then vanished as the aircar dropped into the open top of the entrance dome and settled gently. A crowd of faces appeared at the door: solicitous faces, faces that showed not reproof, but relief and welcome. One, Noren saw, was Stefred’s, and he looked away, lacking words, while he was carried down from the landing platform and through the maze of corridors leading to the Inner City’s courtyard. People didn’t yet know the whole story. Curious though they must be, they did not press for details; but they stayed with him until he was laid on a couch in a small private cubicle of the infirmary.

  “You must have rest,” the doctor said. “If you will not consent to hypnotic sedation, I’ll have to use drugs—”

  The pride that had kept Noren adamant made him yield. Drugs were scarce; it was not fitting for any to be consumed by a Scholar. He accepted the hypnosis, slipping resignedly, almost gratefully, into oblivion.

  When he awoke, he found himself physically recovered, though still quite weak, and realized that days had passed while his body was nourished intravenously. As remembrance hit him, he was overwhelmed by remorse and despair. He no longer knew what was true and what was not; but he was certain that, not knowing, he could have done nothing but harm by destroying the villagers’ belief in the Prophecy. To be sure, deceiving people was wrong and they should be given the chance to claim their entire birthright if their descendants were already doomed . . . but what if humankind was not doomed? If a chance of a scientific breakthrough did exist—a chance as remote and unlikely as his discovery of the alien sphere—his proclamation could have ruined it.

  Reason, mathematics, told him that there was no such chance. He still could not feel any hope. But as Talyra had said, if one stopped living because one expected to die, one threw away one’s own life. Had he thrown away the significance of his? he wondered. Could he, untrusted, share fully in the research? He knew that he would not be punished for what he had done. Even if he was isolated as a precautionary measure, Stefred and the others would be all too compassionate. Something else Talyra had once said echoed in his mind: The Scholars don’t punish; that’s not their way—you simply have to live with the consequences of what you are.

  The doctor entered and examined Noren briefly, pronouncing him fit to have visitors. “Stefred has asked to see you,” he said. “Will you receive him, Noren?”

  “It’s not my place to refuse.”

  The man regarded him, disturbed. “You are a Scholar,” he said, “and Stefred’s equal; he would not presume to command except in matters concerning his official duties. Like your other friends, he merely wants to know whether he is welcome.”

  “I—I’d rather not see anyone.” Noren asserted. It was true; he could not bear the thought of talking, not even to Talyra—and least of all to Stefred, whose trust he had betrayed. Besides, he reminded himself, Stefred had deceived him. He’d promised him access to knowledge that would help. . . .

  But later, when he was released from the infirmary, it was to Stefred’s office that he went; for he owed Brek that, at least. He knew Brek would not denounce him, and would not be able to speak freely until he, Noren, had denounced himself.

  * * *

  Mustering all his poise, he stood erect before Stefred’s desk and declared forthrightly what his intentions had been at the time of the crash. Stefred remained impassive, but Noren knew him too well not to recognize that mask; he wondered whether the Chief Inquisitor was concealing contempt, pity, or a mixture of both. Very likely he would never be allowed to find out.

  “Brek admitted something similar,” Stefred told him, “though he implied that he hadn’t discussed his plan with you.”

  Noren, who had also tried to imply that the plan had been a private one, dropped the formality of guarding his words. “Brek isn’t to blame,” he said. “It was all my idea, and though he listened to me at first, he regretted it later. He would never have gone through with a public revelation. He—he doesn’t deserve to be barred from going back to the outpost, much less to be confined to the Hall of Scholars.”

  “Do you?”

  Wretchedly Noren murmured, “I’m unworthy of trust.”

  “It’s unlike you to feel that way.”

  “I haven’t felt like myself for a long time, Stefred.”

  “Since the space flight?”

  “I guess that’s obvious. But there’s more to it than you can imagine, and I—well, I’d better give you all the details.”

  Stefred nodded. “There are ways I could make it easier,” he said. “Hypnosis, for instance, or a shot of the drug I used during your initial inquisition.”

  Noren looked up, tempted. That would certainly be less painful. “Whether I give you such aid is up to you,” Stefred added quietly.

  “I—I’ve got to tell it straight, then.”

  “Do you understand why?”

  “Because it’s not just what I did or how I felt; I have to make sense of it. Consciously.”

  “Yes. But it will take more than confession to accomplish that, Noren.”

  “I have to try.”

  Pushing buttons on his desk to ensure th
at they’d be uninterrupted, Stefred said soberly, “We’ll try together. I’m more closely involved than you realize; still, I can’t offer any simple solution.”

  “I don’t expect you to.” Sitting down in the chair near the window where so often in the past he had faced difficult things, Noren started at the beginning, at the moment of searing tenor that had paralyzed him in space. He went on to describe it all: all the fears, the doubts, the unanswerable questions that had led to his final disillusionment; all the rage that had followed; all the decisions he had reached. Stefred spared him nothing. Whenever Noren faltered, he was led on with astute, searching inquiries that left no room for equivocation. At first it was agonizing, but as the discussion proceeded, he found himself rising to the challenge and even welcoming it. He was heartened by Stefred’s very ruthlessness. To his surprise, though he was confessing to weakness, to cowardice, to failure, the Chief Inquisitor showed him no mercy; rather, he acted as if these self-accusations were untrue.

  By the time he had explained the strange reversal of feelings he’d experienced in the mountains, Noren had regained much of his normal composure. How was it possible? he wondered as he spoke. How could he be talking naturally, confidently, as if life could indeed make sense, when he’d seen what a senseless place the universe was? “You can’t know what I really felt,” he concluded ruefully. “I’ve told all I can put into words, but—”

  “But there were things for which no words exist. I do know about them, Noren.” Stefred met his eyes unflinchingly. “I knew beforehand; that was the information I withheld. The responsibility is as much mine as it is yours.”

  Incredulously Noren burst out, “You knew what would happen to me in space?”

  “I feared it. Noren, on the Six Worlds no competent psychiatrist would have let you become an astronaut; you are too introspective, too imaginative, too prone to think deeply instead of concentrating on the task at hand. But most people who become heretics are like that. The risk applied to nearly all the eligible Scholars.” He sighed, continuing, “Brek and one or two of the others were less vulnerable; I assigned pairs accordingly. And I did what I could to prepare you. I gave you so much else to worry about that I hoped you’d be distracted—by your love for Talyra, by the physical danger, and finally, in case that wasn’t enough, by anger at my admission that I was not telling you everything. I dared not warn you of your real peril because that would only have turned your mind into the wrong channel.”

  Indignation rose in Noren, but he curbed it, sensing that Stefred too must have suffered during the past weeks, that the decision he’d made had been difficult and costly. “You warned me that there were hazards I wasn’t aware of,” he said, “and I chose freely. I wouldn’t have chosen to evade them even if I had known.”

  “No. That was your strength, Noren. That was why I believed that if the worst happened, in the end you’d come through.”

  “But I didn’t,” Noren said miserably. “I failed you, and if it hadn’t been for the crash, I’d have done even worse damage.”

  There was a short silence; Stefred, on the verge of a reply, seemed to think better of it. Steeling himself to the inevitable, Noren asked, “What’s to become of me now? I can’t ever make amends—”

  “For the loss of the aircar? No, all you can do is work toward a time when the building of more aircars will become possible.”

  A gesture, reflected Noren—yet a more positive one than his attempted martyrdom, which would not have accomplished its purpose either. Stefred had undoubtedly realized that no act of his could endanger the system; otherwise he’d have taken steps to confine him sooner. “Will I be isolated from the Technicians?” he inquired, wondering whether the chance of their believing a renegade would be thought great enough to matter.

  “Certainly not, not unless you choose now to formally retract your recantation. And I don’t think that can solve your problem.”

  “Can anything?”

  “It depends on how much courage you have.”

  Bending his head, Noren mumbled, “Not as much as you gave me credit for; we’ve proved that, anyway.”

  “Really?” Levelly, as if control of his own feelings required effort, Stefred said, “The day you disappeared, Grenald spoke to me with more self-reproach than I have ever heard from anyone. He hadn’t known you had cause to take his accusation seriously; he thought it so preposterous that you’d recognize it for what it was: a calculated challenge to your pride.”

  Astonished, Noren looked up as Stefred continued, “This may surprise you, but I think you’ve displayed a good deal of courage all the way along. I think you have enough to go on with what’s been started. It will mean confronting some things that frighten you, but you’ve never wanted to escape that.”

  “Yes, I have,” protested Noren shamefacedly. “I volunteered for another space flight, but when they turned me down I was—relieved. And besides, the space work is finished. We can hardly send the shuttle out again just on my account.”

  “Of course not. That isn’t what I’m talking about.”

  Noren’s skin prickled as he ventured, “There is one way, isn’t there? A—a dream—” He found himself shaking, though he kept the tremor from his voice. “You could make it like that last one, without letting me share the recorder’s thoughts.”

  “I could,” Stefred agreed, “but I’m not sure it would be wise.”

  “You were lying, then. You don’t think I’d be equal to it.”

  “I think you would be. As a matter of fact, you’d probably find it an anticlimax; you’d feel worse than ever about having once let space bother you. Controlled dreaming is a very useful technique, Noren, but it’s not a substitute for life, and in real life one can’t go back. One must come to terms with the past without reliving it.”

  “You mean I’ve got to learn to trust myself . . . without proof.”

  “Yourself—and other things.” Stefred smiled. “Since you’re perceptive enough to see that, you don’t need my help. Sometimes psychiatrists do use dreams as therapy, but in your case no therapy is called for. You’re not mentally ill and you never have been. You simply have a mind daring enough to explore questions many people never face up to.”

  “Have you ever heard of anyone else being panicked by them?” Noren inquired grimly.

  “If I say no,” Stefred observed slowly, “you’ll have the satisfaction of considering yourself a martyr to a unique concern for ultimate truth; and if I say yes, you may find comfort in the thought that you are not alone. Which way do you want it?”

  “I want the facts, just as I always have,” Noren asserted, caught off balance. “Are you asking whether I’d rather have you lie?”

  “I’m suggesting that you think the situation through a little more objectively, Noren. Do you really suppose you’re the only one of us to whom such questions have occurred?”

  With startled chagrin, Noren read the facts from Stefred’s face. “I can’t be,” he admitted in a low voice. “You knew; you must have been tormented by them yourself! Oh, Stefred, how could I have been so weak as to be thrown by it, and then to—to feel that the martyrdom of a public relapse would absolve me?”

  “Think deeper,” said Stefred relentlessly. “You couldn’t control your feelings; to reproach yourself for them now is self-abasement. That’s no solution either, and it doesn’t become you, Noren.”

  After a long pause, Noren declared, “You’re telling me that panic isn’t uncommon. I was justifiably afraid, and trying to cover it up was false pride.”

  Nodding, Stefred agreed, “The questions you framed are unanswerable, and to be terrified by that is a sign not of weakness but of strength. A weak person wouldn’t have opened his mind to such terror. It hit you young, and hard, under circumstances in which you had nothing to hold to—that’s the only difference between your experience and the one most Scholars eventually undergo.”

  “But then why—”

  “Why didn’t I enlighten you earlier?
I couldn’t have, Noren. It wouldn’t have done any good; in this particular adventure one has to proceed at one’s own risk, at one’s own pace.”

  A trace of uncontrollable fear brushed Noren’s mind again as he grasped what he was being asked to confront. “Questions that have no answers . . . Stefred, I don’t see how I can ever face that! Before this happened—well, it was hard not knowing all I wanted to know, but I expected to learn it all in time; at least I thought the answers existed somewhere—”

  “They do,” Stefred said gently. “The fact that neither you nor any other human being can obtain all the answers doesn’t mean they don’t exist, any more than the fact that we can’t see all the stars in the universe means those stars aren’t there.”

  “And someday I’ll just get used to being condemned to ignorance?” Noren demanded bitterly.

  “Yes, one way or another. The easy way is to stop searching.”

  “I can’t,” retorted Noren with growing anger. “I—well, I still care about truth; I always have, and I’m not going to change.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Stefred dryly. “For a while the reports I was getting from the outpost had me worried.”

  Noren flushed, knowing he should have spotted the trap before falling into it. “We know more than the people of the mother world once did,” he mused, “yet if they’d just quit— Did they wonder about the sorts of things I do, too?” Even as he spoke, he realized that it was a foolish question. Of course they had. They must have, if they’d been intelligent enough to discover as much knowledge as they’d accumulated.

  “The wisest had thoughts worth preserving about those things,” Stefred told him, “thoughts you can study if you query the computers properly.” Regretfully he admitted, “If I’d known that you visited the computers the day of the conference, I would not have let you go away unsatisfied. I was negligent there, Noren.”