Dayworld

She cut into her steak and chewed on a small piece. "I ... it's not just that you're an organic and we can work through you. It's much more personal ... involved ... for you."

After swallowing the meat, she sipped at her gin. The moderation told Caird that she was deeply shaken. Any other time, she would have half-emptied her tall glass before the food was served. Obviously, she was afraid of dulling her wits.

Chang Castor was an immer and a brilliant scientist, head of the physics department at the Retsall Advanced Institute. He had always been eccentric, but, when he had begun showing signs of mental sickness, the immer organization had acted at once. It had framed him so that he seemed to be much more mentally unstable than he really was at the time. He had been committed to an institution that, though owned by the government, was secretly controlled by immers. There, Castor had quickly slid into deep psychotic quicksand in which it seemed that he would stick until he died. Fourteenth-century medical science, for all its advances, was unable to pull him out.

Caird remembered a lunch with Horn at another place when she had told him that Castor believed that he was God.

"He's an atheist," Caird had said.

"Was. Well, in a sense, he still is. He says that the universe was formed through sheer chance. But its structure is such that it finally and inevitably, after many eons, gave birth to God. Himself, Castor. Who has now ordained matters so that there is no such thing as chance. Everything that happens from the moment his Godhood was crystallized-which also happened by chance, the last time that chance existed in the universe- everything that happened from that moment is fixed by him. Capital Him, by the way. He insists on being addressed as Your Divinity or 0 Great Jehovah.

"Anyway, he says that there was no God until he came along. So he divides cosmic time into two eras-B.G., that is, Before God. And A.G., After God. He will tell you the precise second when the new chronology began even if you don't ask him."

That conversation had taken place three obyears ago.

Anthony Horn said, softly, "God hates you."

Caird said, "What?"

"Don't look so confused and guilty. By God I mean Castor, of course. Castor hates you, and he's out to get you. That's why I had to call you in on this."

"Why? I mean ... why does he hate me? Because I was the one who arrested him?"

"You got it."

The whole operation had been immer-directed and immercontrolled. Horn, a lieutenant-general then, had given him private orders to take Castor into custody. Caird had gone to the neighborhood of the Retsall Institute. By chance, or so it seemed, he had been handy when the frame had been put into action. Two other immers had smashed up the laboratory but blamed it on Castor. By then the victim was raving and had attacked the two because of his fury at the put-up job. Caird had taken him to the nearest hospital as organic routine required him to. But, shortly thereafter, the courts having been advised by Dr. Naomi Atlas, also an immer, Castor was transferred to the Tamasuki Experimental Psychicist Hospital on West Forty-ninth Street. Since then, no one had seen him except for Atlas and three first-class nurses. Only Atlas was allowed to talk to him.

"It could have been someone else," Horn said. "Anyone who arrested him. It was your bad luck to be the one."

She sipped at her gin, put the glass down, and said quietly, "In a way, he's a Manichaean. He's split the universe into good and evil, just as he split time. Evil is the tendency of the cosmos to revert to chance in its operations. But chance has to be directed."

"How in hell could chance be directed?"

Horn shrugged. "Don't ask me. Who am I to question God? You don't expect conventional logic from a crazy, do you? Castor has no trouble reconciling his schizophrenic contradictions. In that, he's far from being alone. What matters is what he thinks. In his divine wisdom and perception, he knows that you are the Secret and Malignant Director of Chance. He refers to you as Satan, The Great Beast, Beelzebub, Angra Mainyu, and a dozen other names. He's said that he will find you, vanquish you, and hurl you howling and with utter ruin and complete combustion into the deepest pit."

"Why wasn't I told about this before?"

"Don't look so indignant. People will notice. Because there was no need for it. You know we try to keep all communication at a minimum. I was the only one to hear about Castor from Atlas, and that was at parties or social functions and not much was said about it then."

Tony was silent for a moment. Then she leaned forward again and spoke even more softly.

"The orders are to stone him and hide the body if it's possible. If not, kill him."

Caird gave a slight start, and he sighed.

"I knew it would come to this someday."

"I hate it," Tony said. "But it's for the common good."

"Of the immers, you mean."

"Everybody's. Castor is hopelessly insane, and he's dangerous to anyone who gets in his way."

"I've never killed anybody," Caird said.

"You can do it. I can do it."

He shook his head. "Our psych tests showed that we could, but they're not one hundred percent accurate. I won't know until I either must do it or can't do it."

"You will. You'll catch him, and you'll do what must be done. Listen, Jeff..

She put one hand on his and stared into his eyes. He stiffened.

"I ... "

She cleared her throat.

"I got the decision on ... Arid ... from the council today. I'm sorry, really sorry, Jeff. But …"

"She's been rejected!"

She nodded. "They say she's too unstable. The psych projection is that she'd be burdened with too much social conscience. She'd break eventually and confess all to the authorities. Or, if she didn't, she'd have a mental breakdown."

"They don't really know, they don't really know," he murmured.

"They know enough. They can't take the chance."

"There's no use appealing right now," he said harshly. "Not in a case like this. Tell me. Was the decision final or will they reconsider in five years? After all, Arid's only twenty. She could mature."

"You can try again then. The psych projection, however..

"That's enough," he said. "Are you finished?"

"Please, Jeff. It's not that bad. Arid will be just as happy if she isn't an immer."

"I won't, but I suppose that doesn't matter. They reject Ozma and now Arid."

"You knew that might happen when you became one. Everything was laid out for you."

"Is that all? You're done?"

"Kill the messenger who brings bad news. Come on, Jeff!"

He patted her hand. "You're right, I'm wrong. It's just that

I feel so bad for her."

"And for you."

"Yes. May I leave now?"

"Yes. Oh, Jeff. Don't cry!"

He pulled a tissue from his shoulderbag and wiped the tears.

"I think you want to be alone for a while, Jeff."

She rose, and he got up from his chair. She preceded him, since her rank was higher. When she stopped so the data clerk could put the bill into her ID star, he went on, saying softly, "I'll see you, Tony."

"Don't forget to report," she called after him.

He asked through his wrist radio for an organic-car ride back to the station. Told he would have to wait twenty minutes for one, he flagged down a cab. So it would cost him a few credits. After he got in, though, he wished that he had waited. He was losing the battle to hold back more tears; he could have let loose in the unchauffeured vehicle.

By the time he arrived at the station, he was dry-eyed. He went to his office and reported to Wallenquist, who was curious about his meeting with Horn but did not dare ask too many questions.

Gril had disappeared as completely as if he had slipped down into the ancient abandoned subway-sewer system. Which he might have done. Ten patrollers and a sergeant were searching for him now in the deepest known area beneath Yeshiva University. So far, they had found only a bashed-in human skull, which did not look fresh, some huge rats, and two almost unreadable lines in twenty-first-century spelling on a wall.