Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten

Weissenbaum's Eye - Stetten - Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

In the dark of the infrared, Bellringer sensed the heart expand and contract, sixty times over the long minute. It was a healthy male standing outside the campus wall, cloaked and hooded against all ordinary eyes. Another man stood just inside the gate. The bars were cold between us.

"Who are you?" I asked quietly. His whisper was just above the noises of the night.

"I am Don Andrews."

I opened the gate at once, and escorted him into the courtyard. We did not speak further. The thumpers crouched near the wall, and shook the ground as we passed. We followed the main path, where untold thousands of students had once walked. Soon we were standing before Mara's office.

Mara greeted Don Andrews with enthusiasm.

"We heard you were free," she said. "I knew you would come."

He pulled back his hood, and let a long black ponytail fall free. His beard suppressed a mouth that would not speak offhand, but cold eyes judged us quickly and with scrutiny. Then he moved to the window and peered out into the pitch blackness.

"Did you know this place is watched?" he asked. "From that steeple across the wall."

Mara and I were both surprised, but there was no doubting him. In fact, we didn't even ask how he knew. He pulled back an old chair and sat down.

"Otherwise you have done quite well in your isolation. Too well. If they wanted you, they'd have you."

I resented his manner. The hopelessness of our situation was not to be spoken of in such an offhand way, but rather to be suspected privately. As things stood, our defenses were indeed a sham before the will and might of the medium, but I tried not to worry Mara unnecessarily.

However, by Mara's reaction, I saw that she had already reached the same conclusion long ago. She smiled and said, "And you, Don Andrews, if you are free, it must also be with the permission of the medium."

"Perhaps we are both part of some great plan," Don Andrews conceded, with a sarcastic air of gallantry that annoyed me even more. He had spoken exclusively to Mara, as if I weren't there.

"Which great plan is that?" I asked.

Don Andrews didn't answer me, but continued, "I need your help, Mara."

"We don't have much to offer," she replied. "Since the last election, most of our support has been addicted, and all our Helmsmen are sure to lose the next election. The medium is totally infected against us. They will destroy what is left of Synapse."

"I know that," said Don Andrews. "The elections won't matter soon anyway, with The View From the Hilltop. But you still have the wingscoop."

There was no way even Don Andrews should have known that. It was our last resort, hidden somewhere no one knew. I stood up and was about to call his bluff when he calmly turned to me and said, "The `plantation,' you call it, don't you? The farm you built for the whales in the North Atlantic, where you hide your wingscoop."

I spoke from my corner desk. "The wingscoop is our only means of escape."

"And where will you go?" he pressed, taking me on.

"We haven't decided. We will go where the medium can't find us. Thirdworld, or the Eskimos."

"They will eat you alive," he said. "And besides, who will fly this wingscoop for you?"

There was a tense pause until Mara spoke quietly between us.

"Where would you go, then?" she asked.

As if having captured us, the cloaked enigma answered softly, and with a certain reverence, "There is a ferry in orbit. I will use the wingscoop to reach it, and then return to the far side of the Moon, to Backdoor. You both can join me, if you wish."

I saw Mara absorb this with the staunch conservatism of a woman who had never considered leaving Earth. "There's nothing in Backdoor," I protested. "The town is destroyed."

"How do you know? Can you see through the Moon?" he asked. "The relay beacons have been disabled. No one knows what is left in Backdoor without going there."

But I pressed him now. "Even assuming that the town is somehow still inhabitable, and that you have a ferry in orbit, you would be crazy to try. The medium will stop you. And who would be your pilot?"

But Don Andrews was neither a dabbler nor a fool. When Weissenbaum had needed a skillful hand to guide him through the world of men, it was Don Andrews he had chosen. He reached into the hoarded wealth of the Earth's richest families, and with a few soft spoken incantations, amassed such wealth that Backdoor became more than just an old man's dream. Don Andrews built the town of Backdoor. With the dexterity of a safe cracker he extracted it from the corrupt confines of the Earth, before the very eyes of the addicted parents whose young children were becoming colonists. Small wonder Don Andrews had such a strong desire to return there, to the town he had created, even now when it was doubtful anything remained.

"There are things afoot," Don Andrews said, "which are not so much against me as you might imagine. The medium is letting me have the ferry and a pilot. I think it may actually want me to return to Backdoor."

"To jump through your loophole?" Mara protested. "That is suicide."

"No. I would not be going to Backdoor to make the jump," he reassured her. "The Pinta hit a barrier of turbulence in the flow of space that sent it bouncing out beyond the shadow of the Moon. There have been no jumps since. Until I understand that turbulence, no one will jump."

"We know," I said. "There have been no northern lights." For years we had been able to detect when Backdoor's colonists went through the loophole, by the fantastic Aurora Borealis that always followed.

"Besides, my goal is not to escape," Don Andrews continued. "We must fight back. We must start the medium afresh, in Backdoor, where Earth cannot infect us."

I did not like Don Andrews, so I was relieved when he pushed Mara too far. He started to talk about needing several couches in Backdoor, and an artist from the medium to show us how to use them.

"They have the experience," he explained. "It would save us so much time."

Mara was speechless for a moment. "You must never let an addict into Backdoor. Never! If you saw my Peter, you would not want to mix that with your perfect medium."

Don Andrews didn't answer, not because Mara was torn by this last demand, but because he would not argue. Nor was he one to offer comfort or compromise.

But above all Mara wanted to help Don Andrews. Finally, she spoke again. "These are my terms. You can have the wingscoop. And Synapse will supply you with the couches. But these couches will have to remain disconnected, so no two people can ever be together in one simulation. Interaction was our biggest mistake. In Backdoor, interaction must be forbidden. And something else. Your artist will be one who has full control over the couch. Not an addict. I will pick your artist."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," replied Don Andrews. His evident respect for Mara's judgment soothed us like a salve.

And so, with myself as the only witness, the founders of Synapse and Backdoor joined what scanty resources remained to fight the medium. The room was growing bright with dawn. I yawned and pointed to the hour and the need for sleep. The two agreed on this point as well, and I showed our guest to his room.

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