The Dark Design

The Burton in the chair said, "But... I will have many recollections of the preressurection place. You forget that I often thought of that between the time I awoke on the banks and X's visit. Also, I told many people about it."

Thanabur said, "Ah, but do they really believe you? And if they do, what can they do about it? No, we do not want to remove your entire memory of your life here. It would cause you great distress; it would remove you from your friends. And"-here Thanabur paused-"it might slow down your progress."

"Progress?"

"There is time for you to find out what that means. The insane person who claims to be aiding you was using you for his own purposes. He did not tell you that you were throwing away your opportunity for eternal life by carrying out his designs. He or she, whoever the traitor is, is evil. Evil, evil!"

"Now, now,'' Loga said. "We all feel strongly about this but we must not forget. The... unknown is sick."

The jewel-eyed man said, "To be sick is, in a sense, to be evil."

The Burton in the chair threw back his head and laughed loudly and long.

"So you bastards don't know everything?"

He stood up, the gray fog supporting him as if it were solid, and he shouted, "You don't want me to get to the headwaters of The River! Why? Why?"

Loga said, "Au revoir. Forgive us for this violence."

A woman pointed a short, slim blue cylinder at the Burton on the stage, and he crumpled. Two men, wearing only white kilts, emerged from the fog. They picked up the senseless body and carried it into the mists.

Burton tried again to get at the people on the stage. Failing, he shook his fist at them, and he cried, "You'll never get me, you monsters!"

The dark figure in the wings applauded, but his hands made no noise.

Burton had expected to be placed in the area where he had been picked up by the Ethicals. Instead, he awoke in Theleme, the little state which he had founded.

Even more unexpected was that he had not been deprived of his memory. He remembered everything, even the inquisition with the twelve Ethicals.

Somehow, X had managed to fool the others.

Later, he got to wondering if they had lied to him and had not intended to tamper with his memory. That made no sense, but then he did not know what their intentions were.

At one time, Burton had been able to play two games of chess at the same time while blindfolded. That, however, only required skill, a knowledge of the rules, and familiarity with the board and the pieces. He did not know the rules of this game, nor did he know the powers of all the chessmen. The dark design had no pattern.

3

Groaning, Burton half-awoke.

For a moment, he didn't know where he was. Darkness surround­ed him, darkness as thick as that which he felt filled him.

Familiar sounds reassured him. The ship was rubbing up against the dock, and water lapped against the hull. Alice was breathing softly by him. He touched her soft, warm back. Light footsteps came from above, Peter Frigate on night watch. Perhaps he was getting ready to wake up his captain. Burton had no idea what time it was.

There were other well-known sounds. Through the wooden parti­tion the snores of Kazz and his woman, Besst, gurgled. And then, from the compartment behind theirs, the voice of Monat issued. He spoke in his native language, but Burton could not distinguish the words.

Doubtless, Monat was dreaming of far-off Athaklu. Of that planet with its "wild, weird clime" which circled the giant orange star, Arcturus.

He lay for a while, rigid as a corpse, thinking, Here I am, a one-hundred-and-one-year-old man in the body of a twenty-five-year-old.

The Ethicals had softened the hardened arteries of the candidates. But they had not been able to do anything about atherosclerosis of the soul. That repair was apparently left up to the candidate.

The dreams were going backward in time. The inquisition by the Ethicals had come last. But now he was dreaming that he was experiencing again the dream he'd had just before he awoke to the Last Trump. However, he was watching himself in the dream; he was both participant and spectator.

God was standing over him as he lay on the grass, as weak as a newly born baby. This time, He lacked the long, black, forked beard, and He was not dressed like an English gentleman of the fifty-third year of Queen Victoria's reign. His only garment was a blue towel wrapped around his waist. His body was not tall, as in the original dream, but was short and broad and heavily muscled. The hairs on His chest were thick and curly and red.

The first time, Burton had looked into God's face and seen his own. God had had the same black straight hair, the same Arabic face with the deep, dark eyes like spearpoints thrusting from a cave, the high cheekbones, the heavy lips, and the thrust-out, deeply cleft chin. However, His face no longer bore the scars of the Somali spear that had sliced through Burton's cheek, knocking out teeth, its edge jammed into his palate, its point sticking out the other cheek.

The face looked familiar, but he couldn't name its owner. It certainly was not that of Richard Francis Burton.

God still had the iron cane. Now He was poking Burton in the ribs.

"You're late. Long past due for the payment of your debt, you know."

"What debt?" the man on the grass said.

The Burton who was watching suddenly realized that fog was swirling around him, casting veils between the two before him. And a grey wall, expanding and contracting as if it were the chest of a breathing animal, was behind them.

"You owe for the flesh," God said. He poked the ribs of the man on the grass. Somehow, the standing Burton felt the pain.

"You owe for the flesh and the spirit, which are one and the same thing."

The man on the grass struggled to get onto his feet. He said, gasping, "Nobody can strike me and get away without a fight."

Somebody snickered, and the standing Burton became aware of a dim, tall figure in the fog beyond.

God said, "Pay up, sir. Otherwise, I'll be forced to foreclose."

"Damned money lender!" the man on the grass said. "I ran into your kind in Damascus."

"This is the road to Damascus. Or it should be."

The dark figure snickered again. The fog enclosed all. Burton awoke, sweating, hearing the last of his whimperings.

Alice turned and said sleepily, "Are you having a nightmare, Dick?"

"I'm all right. Go back to sleep."

"You've been having many nightmares lately."

"No more than on Earth."

"Would you like to talk?"

"When I dream, I am talking."

"But to yourself."

"Who knows me better?" He laughed softly.

"And who can deceive you better," she said a little tartly.

He did not reply. After a few seconds, she was breathing with the gentle rhythm of the untroubled. But she would not forget what had been said. He hoped that morning would not bring another quarrel.

He liked arguing; it enabled him to explode. Lately, however, their fights had left him unsatisfied, ready at once for another.

It was so difficult to blaze away at her without being overheard on this small vessel. Alice had changed much during their years togeth­er, but she still retained a ladylike abhorrence of, as she put it, washing their dirty linen in public. Knowing this, he pressed her too hard, shouted, roared, getting pleasure out of seeing her shrink. Afterward, he felt ashamed because he had taken advantage of her, because he had caused her shame.

All of which made him even more angry.

Frigate's footsteps sounded on the deck. Burton thought of re­lieving Frigate early. He would not be able to get back to sleep; he'd suffered from insomnia most of his adult life on Earth and much here, too. Frigate would be grateful to get to bed. He had trouble staying awake when on watch.