Contents

Passion Play
Horseman!
The Stainless Steel Leach
A Thing of Terrible Beauty
He Who Shapes
Comes Now the Power
Auto-Da-Fe
Damnation Alley
For a Breath I Tarry
The Engine at Heartspring’s Center
The Game of Blood and Dust
No Award
Is There a Demon Lover in the House?
The Last Defender of Camelot
Stand Pat, Ruby Stone
Halfjack

INTRODUCTION

Though it is contrary to my general practice to introduce my own works, I decided to say a few words to go before this collection and some before each story itself because I have put this one together out of materials drawn from the beginning, middle and recent sections of the eighteen-year period I have been writing. I have changed during that time, a condition I share with the world around me, and I redden now or blanche (as the case my be) to read over much that I once considered
adequate. For this reason, there are dozens of stories that I prefer keeping interred beneath bright covers in yellowing sheets, stories that 1 will never willingly see reprinted. I feel some affection for the ones I have gathered here, however, and I will say some things about them in the proper places.

The nature of my work and my working habits shifted radically in the late 60's, when I went in more heavily for the writing of novels. I had started out as a short story writer, and I still enjoy writing short stories though I no longer do nearly as many as I used to in a year's time. The reason is mainly economic. I went full-time in the late 60's, and it is a fact of writing life that, word for word, novels work harder for their creators when it comes to providing for the necessities and joys of existence. Which would sound cold and cynical, except
that I enjoy writing novels, too.

I have no desire to explain, attempt to justify or apologize for anything that I have written. I have always felt that a story should be able to deal with such matters itself. My individual forepieces are intended only to place them within the context of my own evolving experience —which makes this an autobiographical work for me, if not for anyone else.

So, to even things up and answer a number of requests, I'll tell you a little about myself (purely subjective, not dust jacket  material)—

If I couldn't write worth a damn, I think I'd like to own a hardware store. I've long been fascinated by the enormous varieties of tools used to maintain our society, as well as the clips, hinges, pins, brads, screws, pulleys, wires, chains, clamps and pipes that hold it together. Not to mention the putty, piaster, cement and paint that keep it looking well io places. Even more than a book store, where I probably wouldn't get to read much anyway, I believe that I could have been fairly happy m a good general hardware shop, 
But then, I would probably open late and stay open late because I'm a night person- I prefer sunsets to sun-rises. I pick up steam in the late hours. I've probably done most of my best writing after midnight.

There is a group of writers living within about a 100-
mile diameter circle around here who get together once a
month for lunch. On one such occasion, Stephen Donaldson asked me what book by someone else I wished I had written. I gave him a quick answer which seemed appropriate at the moment. I thought about it later, though, and changed my mind. Something like War and Peace or Ulysses, while impressive or dazzling, massively tragic or comic and invested with tons of scholarly and lay mana
would only be egotistical choices, not things that I could
have enjoyed writing as well as enjoyed having written—
if I were able. I got it down to two books—one tragic,
one comic—and I couldn't decide between them: Mal raux's Man's Fate and Norman Douglas' South Wind. I have nothing deeply philosophical to say about either of them here, just a wistful bit of self-revelation and an attempt to answer Steve's question honestly in a place where I am talking about myself, anyway.

The most encouraging thing I have seen in recent years
was nothing at all. That is to say, nothing where I had
expected to see something. Back m 1975, I visited Trinity
Site, which is open to the public one day a year. It had
been some thirty years since the first atomic bomb was
detonated over that hot, dusty, windy plain. A long line
of cars was met by a military escort at a shopping center
north of Alamogordo and taken some seventy miles out
into the White Sands Missile Range. We finally parked,
disembarked and walked to Ground Zero. There was
realty nothing to see. I had read how that first blast had
left a crater of fused aluminum silicates twenty-five feet
deep and a quarter-mile across. It was gone. The desert
winds had filled it in, the desert plants (unmutated) had
taken root above it. The radiation level was only slightly
above normal background. The place looked pretty much
like parts of my backyard. After a moment's disappoint-
ment at the absence of a spectacle following the long
drive, I suddenly felt elated as I realized how completely
the earth had recovered in the span of a single genera-
tion, Life's resilience.

Some years ago, a scientist who was planning on
beaming some television pictures outward, in an attempt
to communicate something concerning us and our ways to
whatever might be watching the late show, asked me
to suggest some of the content for the program. Along
with a lot of predictable technical and social stuff, I re-
call suggesting a symphony orchestra with closeups of the
individual instruments being played, sailboats and—I be-
lieve—a flight of hot air balloons—as these seemed three
sorts of objects where form has been so perfectly and
uniquely married to function that our tools have become
works of art—which I suppose puts even my esthetic
thinking into a kind of Platonic hardware store.

I enjoy being a writer and I even like the paperwork.
That's enough about the author. Here are the stories.

Passion Play

This was my first published story, as it states below. A
while back, Jonathan Ostrowsky-Lantz, the editor of
Unearth: The Magazine of Science Fiction Discoveries—
a noble publication dedicated to the encouragement of
new science fiction writers—began a policy of reprinting
first stories by professionals in the area, along with
introductory essays by the authors telling how the stories
came to be written and including some advice to begin-
ning writers.

For whatever such a preface may be worth in this
place, I`ll cause it to occur between here and the story
itself—

INTRODUCTION

I had wanted to write for many years, but did not
have an opportunity until I had completed my master's
thesis and taken a job with the government. I was
assigned to an office in Dayton, Ohio for training, and I
reported there on February 26, 1962. As I had decided
to try writing science fiction, I spent a week reading all
the current science fiction magazines and some random
paperbacks. I then sat down and began writing, every
evening, turning out several stories a week and sending
them off to the magazines. I drew a number of rejection
slips, and then in March I received a note from Cele
Goldsmith at Ziff-Davis, saying that she was buying this
story, "Passion Play." It appeared in the August, 1962
issue of Amazing Stories.

Whether it actually was or was not, it seemed to me
an almost classic case of applied insight, because I had
done something right before I wrote it which I had not
done before. I had gathered together all of my rejected
stories and spent an evening reading through them to see
whether I could determine what I was doing wrong. One
thing struck me about all of them: I was overexplaining.
I was describing settings, events and character motivations in too much detail. I decided, in viewing these
stories now that they had grown cold, that I would find it
insulting to have anyone explain anything to me at that
length. I resolved thereafter to treat the reader as I would
be treated myself, to avoid the unnecessarily explicit, to
use more indirection with respect to character and moti-
vation, to draw myself up short whenever I felt the
tendency to go on talking once a thing had been shown.

Fine. That was my resolution. I still had to find a story
idea to do it with, as I was between stories just then.
Now, I do not know how other people do it, but there is
a certain receptive state of mind that I switch on when
I am looking for a short story notion. This faculty is
dulled when I am working on a novel, as I Usually am
these days, so that if I want it now it generally takes me
a full day to set up the proper mental climate. It comes
faster if I am between books. Whatever, in those days I
kept it turned on almost all the time.

The government wanted everyone in my class to have
a physical examination. They gave me the forms and I
drove up to Euclid over a weekend to see the closest
thing we had to a family doctor, to have him complete
them. When I sat down in his waiting room, I picked
up a copy of Life and began looking through it. Partway
along, I came upon a photospread dealing with the death
of the racing driver Wolfgang von Tripps. Something
clicked as soon as I saw it, and just then the doctor called
me in for the checkup. While I was breathing for him
and coughing and faking knee jerks and so forth, I saw
the entire incident that was to be this short short. I could
have written it right then. My typewriter was in Dayton,
though, and I'd the long drive ahead of me. The story
just boiled somewhere at the back of my mind on the
way down, and when I reached my apartment I headed
straight for the typewriter and wrote it through. I even
walked three blocks to a mailbox in the middle of the
night, to get it sent right away.

Cele's letter of acceptance was dated March 28, almost
a month after I'd begun writing. Strangely, the day that
it arrived I had gotten the idea for what was to be my
next sale ("Horseman!", Fantastic Stories, August, 1962).
I returned the contracts on "Passion Play" and followed
them with "Horseman!" 1 sold fifteen other stories that
year. I was on my way. I cannot really say whether I owe it to that resolution I made on reviewing my rejects, but it felt as if I did and I have always tried to keep the promise I made that day about not insulting the reader's intelligence.

Another factor did come into operation after I sold
this story. It is a subtle phenomenon which can only be
experienced. I suddenly felt like a writer. "Confidence"
is a cheap word for it, but I can't think of a better one.
That seems the next phase in toughening one's writing—
a kind of cockiness, an "I've done it before" attitude. This
feeling seems to feed something back into the act of compo-
sition itself, providing more than simple assurance. Actual
changes in approach, structure, style, tone, began to occur
for me almost of their own accord. Noting this, I began
to do it intentionally. I made a list of all the things I
wanted to know how to handle and began writing them
into my stories. This is because I felt that when you
reach a certain point as a writer, there are two ways you
can go. Having achieved an acceptable level of compe-
tence you can keep producing at that level for the rest
of your life, quite possibly doing some very good work.
Or you can keep trying to identify your weaknesses, and
then do something about them. Either way, you should
grow as a writer—but Ihe second way is a bit more
difficult, because it is always easier to write around a
weakness than to work with it, work from it, work through
it. It takes longer, if nothing else. And you may fall on
your face. But you might learn something you would not
have known otherwise and be better as a result.

These are the things I learned, or fancy I learned, from
"Passion Play" and its aftereffects. I do have one other
thing to say, though, which came to me slowly, much
later, though its roots are tangled somewhere here:

Occasionally, there arises a writing situation where you
see an alternative to what you are doing, a mad, wild
gamble of a way for handling something, which may
leave you looking stupid, ridiculous or brilliant—you just
don't know which. You can play it safe there, too, and
proceed along .the route you'd mapped out for yourself.
Or you can trust your personal demon who delivered that
crazy idea in the first place.

Trust your demon.

At the end of the season of sorrows comes the time of
rejoicing. Spring, like a well-oiled clock, noiselessly indi-
cates this time. The average days of dimness and moisture
decrease steadily in number, and those of brilliance and
cool air begin to enter the calendar again. And it is good
that the wet times are behind us, for they rust and corrode
our machinery; they require the most intense standards of
hygiene.

With all the bright baggage of spring, the days of the
Festival arrive. After the season of Lamentations come
the sacred stations of the Passion, then the bright Festival
of Resurrection, with its tinkle and clatter, its exhaust
fumes, sorched rubber, clouds of dust, and its great prom-
ise of happiness.

We come here each year, to the place, to replicate a
classic. We see with our own lenses the functioning prom-
ise of our creation. The time is today, and I have been
chosen.

Here on the sacred grounds of Le Mans I will perform
every action of the classic which has been selected. Be-
fore the finale I will have duplicated every movement
and every position which we know occurred. How fortu-
nate! How high the honor!

Last year many were chosen, .but it was not the same.
Their level of participation was lower. Still, I had wanted
so badly to be chosen! I had wished so strongly that I,
too, might stand beside the track and await the flaming
Mercedes.

But I was saved for this greater thing, and all lenses
are upon me as we await the start. This year there is
only one Car to watch—number 4, the Ferrari-analog.

The sign has been given, and the rubber screams; the
smoke balloons like a giant cluster of white grapes, and
we are moving. Another car gives way, so that I can drop
into the proper position. There are many cars, but only
one Car.

We scream about the turn, in this great Italian classic
of two centuries ago. We run them all here, at the place,
regardless of where they were held originally.

"Oh gone masters of creation," I pray, "let me do it
properly. Let my timing be accurate. Let no random var-
iable arise to destroy a perfect replication."

The dull gray metal of my arms, my delicate gyro-scopes, my special gripping-hands, all hold the wheel in
precisely the proper position as we roar into the straight-
away.

How wise the ancient masters were! When they knew
they must destroy themselves in a combat too mystical
and holy for us to understand, they left us these cere-
monies, in commemoration of the Great Machine. All
the data was there: the books, the films, all; for us to
find, study, learn, to know the scared Action.

As we round another turn, I think of our growing cities,
our vast assembly lines, our iube-bars, and our beloved
executive computer. How great all things are! What a
well-ordered day! How fine to have been chosen!

The tires, little brothers, cry out, and the pinging of
small stones comes from beneath. Three-tenths of a sec-
ond, and I shall depress the accelerator an eighth of an
inch further.

R-7091 waves to me as I enter the second lap, but I
cannot wave back. My finest functioning is called for at
this time. All the special instrumentation which has been
added to me will be required in a matter of seconds.

The other cars give way at precisely the right instant.
I turn, I slide. I crash through the guard rail.

'Turn over now, please!" I pray, twisting the wheel,
"and bum."

Suddenly we are rolling, skidding, upside-down. Smoke
fills the Car.

To the crashing noise that roars within my receptors,
the crackle and lick of flames is now added.

My steel skeleton—collapsed beneath the impact-
stresses. My lubricants—burning. My lenses, all but for a
tiny area—shattered.

My hearing-mechanism still functions weakly.

Now there is a great hom sounding, and metal bodies
rush across the fields.

Now. Now is the time for me to turn off all my func-
tions and cease.

But I will wait. Just a moment longer. I must hear
them say it

Metal arms drag me from the pyre. I am laid aside.
Fire extinguishers play white rivers upon the Car.

Dimly, in the distance, through my smashed receptors,
I hear the speaker rumble: "Von Tripps has smashed! The Car is dead!**

A great sound of lamenting rises from the rows of
unmoving spectators. The giant fireproof van arrives on
the field, just as the attendants gain control of the flames.

Four tenders leap out and raise the Car from the
ground. A fifth collects every smouldering fragment.

And I see it all!

"Oh, let this not be blasphemy, pleasel" I pray. "One
instant more'"

Tenderly, the Car is set within the van. The great doors
close.

The van moves, slowly, bearing off the dead warrior,
out through the gates, up the great avenue and past the
eager crowds.

To the great smelter. The Melting Pot!

To the place where it will be melted down, then sent
out, a piece used to grace the making of each new per-
son.

A cry of unanimous rejoicing arises on the avenue.

It is enough, that I have seen all thisi

Happily, I turn myself off.

Horseman!

Horseman! was my second published story. As with the
previous one (and within a few weeks of that sale), it
was purchased by a lady I met only once—Cele Gold-
smith, a charming person, whose taste I considered im-
peccable. She bought stories from a great number of
now well-known writers at the beginnings of their
careers—Ursula K. Le Guin, Piers Anthony, Thomas
Disch . . . Amazing Stories and Fantastic Adventures
came into an autumn bloom in those final Ziff-Davis days.

This story was suggested to me while driving south on
Route 71 in Ohio, by a pre-storm cloud formation which
resembled a group of horsemen.

  When he was thunder in the hills the villagers lay
dreaming harvest behind shutters. When he was an avalanche of steel the cattle began to low, mournfully, deeply, and children cried out in their sleep.

He was an earthquake of hooves, his armor a dark tabletop of silver coins stolen from the night sky, when the villagers awakened with fragments of strange dreams in their heads. They rushed to the windows and flung their shutters wide.

And he entered the narrow streets, and no man saw the eyes behind his visor.

When he stopped so did time. There was no movement anywhere.

—Neither was there sleep, nor yet full wakefulness from the last strange dreams of stars, of blood. ...

Doors creaked on leather hinges. Oil lamps shivered, pulsated, then settled to a steady glowing.

The mayor wore his nightshirt and a baggy, tossled cap. He held the lamp dangerously near his snowy whiskers, rotating a knuckle in his right eye.

The stranger did not dismount. He faced the doorway, holding a foreign instrument in one hand.

"Who are you, that comes at this hour?"

"I come at any hour—I want directions, I seek my
companions."

The mayor eyed the beast he rode, whiter than his
beard, whiter than snow, than a feather ...

"What manner of animal is that?"

"He is a horse, he is the wind, he is the steady pound-
ing of surf that wears away rocks. Where are my com-
panions?"

"What is that tool you carry?"

"It is a sword. It eats flesh and drinks blood. It frees
souls and cleaves bodies. Where are my companions?"

"That metal suit you wear, that mask . .. ?"

"Armor and concealment, steel and anonymity—pro-
tection! Where are my companions?"

"Who are they that you seek, and where are you
from?"

"I have ridden an inconceivable distance, past nebulae
that are waterspouts in rivers of stars. I seek the others,
like myself, who come this way. We have an appoint-
ment."

"I have never seen another like yourself, but there are
many villages in the world. Another lies over those hills,"
he gestured in the direction of a distant range, "but it is
two days travel."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT      11
"Thank you, man, I will be there shortly."

The horse reared and made a sound terrible to hear. A
wave of heat, greater than the lamp's, enveloped the
mayor, and a burst of wind raced by, bowing the golden
blades of grass which had not already been trampled.

In the distance, thunder pealed on the slopes of the
hills.

The horseman was gone, but his last words hung upon
the wind:

"Look to the skies tonight!"

The next village was already lighted, like a cluster of
awakened fireflies, when the hooves and steel grew si-
lent before the door of its largest dwelling.

Heads appeared behind windows, and curious eyes
appraised the giant astride his white beast.

This mayor, thin as the gatepost he leaned upon, blew
his nose and held his lantern high.

"Who are you?"

"I have already already wasted too much time with
questions! Have others such as myself passed this way?"

"Yes. They said they would wait atop the highest hill,
overlooking that plain." He pointed down a gentle slope
which ran through miles of fields? stopping abruptly at the
base of a black massif. It rose like a handless arm, turned
to stone, gesturing anywhere.

"There were two," he said. "One bore strange tools,
as you do. The other," he shuddered, "said, 'Look to the
skies, and sharpen your scythes. There will be signs, won-
ders, a call—and tonight the sky will fall.' "

The horseman had already become an after-image, ha-
loed in the sparks thrown from struck cobblestones.

He drew rein atop the highest hill overlooking the
plain, and turned to the rider of the black horse.

"Where is he?" he asked.

"He has not yet arrived."

He regarded the skies and a star fell.

"He will be late."

"Never."

The falling star did not burn out. It grew to the size
of a dinner plate, a house, and bung in the air, exhaling
souls of suns. It dropped toward the plain.

A lightning-run of green crossed the moonless heavens,
and the rider of the pale green horse, whose hooves make
no sound, drew up beside them.

"You are on time."

"Always," he laughed, and it was the sound of a scythe
mowing wheat.

The ship from Earth settled upon the plain, and the
wondering villagers watched.

Who or what did it bear? Why should they sharpen
their scythes?

The four horsemen waited upon the billtop.

The Stainless Steel Leech

There came a point when I was turning out lots of short
stories, so many that Cele suggested running two per
issue to use up my backlog, with a pen name on the
second tale. She suggested Harrison Denmark as the
nom de typewriter. I agreed and this, my first effort at
something slightly humorous, appeared under that by-
line. It never occurred to me that Harry Harrison, living
at the time in Snekkerson, Denmark and author of The
Stainless Steel Rat might somehow be assumed to be the
author. It occurred to Harry, however, and he pub-
lished a letter disclaiming authorship. • I was not certain
he was convinced when I later told him that it had
never occurred to me. But it had never occurred to me.

They're really afraid of this place.

During the day they'll clank around the headstones,
if they're ordered to, but even Central can't make them
search at night, despite the ultras and the infras—and
they'll never enter a mausoleum.

Which makes things nice for me.

They're superstitious; it's a part of the circuitry. They
were designed to serve man, and during his brief time on
earth, awe and devotion, as well as dread, were auto-
matic things. Even the last man, dead Kennington, com-
manded every robot in existence while he lived. His
person was a thing of veneration, and all his orders were
obeyed.

And a man is a man, alive or dead—which is why the
graveyards are a combination of hell, heaven, and strange
feedback, and will remain apart from the cities so long
as the earth endures.

But even as I mock them they are looking behind the
stones and peering into the gullies. They are searching
for—and afraid they might find—me.

I, the unjunked, am legend. Once out of a million as-
semblies a defective such as I might appear and go un-
detected, until too late.

At will, I could cut the circuit that connected me with
Central Control, and be a free 'bot, and master of my
own movements. I liked to visit the cemeteries, because
they were quiet and different from the maddening stamp-
stamp of the presses and the clanking of the crowds; I
liked to look at the green and red and yellow and blue
things that grew about the graves. And I did not fear these
places, for that circuit, too, was defective. So when I was
discovered they removed my vite-box and threw me on
the junk heap,

But the next day I was gone, and their fear was great.

I no longer possess a self-contained power unit, but
the freak coils within my chest act as storage batteries.
They require frequent recharging, however, and there
is only one way to do that.

The werebot is the most frightful legend whispered
among the gleaming steel towers, when the night wind
sighs with its burden of fears out of the past, from days
when non-metal beings walked the earth. The half-lifes,
the preyers upon order, still cry darkness within the vite-
box of every 'bot.

I, the discontent, the unjunked, live here in Rosewood
Park, among the dogwood and myrtle, the headstones
and broken angels, with Fritz—another legend—in our
deep and peaceful mausoleum.

Fritz is a vampire, which is a terrible and tragic thing.
He is so undernourished that he can no longer move
about, but he cannot die either, so he lies in his casket
and dreams of times gone by. One day, he will ask me
to carry him outside into the sunlight, and I will watch
him shrivel and dim into peace and nothingness and dust.
I hope he does not ask me soon.

We talk. At night, when the moon is full and he feels
strong enough, he tells me of his better days, in places
called Austria and Hungary, where he, too, was feared
and hunted.

"... But only a stainless steel leech can get blood out
of a stone—or a robot," he said last night. "It is a proud
and lonely thing to be a stainless steel leech—you are
possibly the only one of your kind in existence. Live up
to your reputation! Hound theml Drain theml Leave your
mark on a thousand steel throatsl"

And he was right. He is always right. And he knows
more about these things than I.

"Kenningtoni" his thin, bloodless lips smiled. "Oh,
what a duel we fought! He was the last man on earth,
and I the last vampire. For ten years I tried to drain him.
I got at him twice, but he was from the Old Country and
knew what precautions to take. Once he learned of my
existence, he issued a wooden stake to every robot—but
I had forty-two graves in those days and they never found
me. They did come close, though....

"But at night, ah, at night!" he chuckled. "Then things
were reversed! I was the hunter and he the preyl

"I remember his frantic questing after the last few
sprays of garlic and wolfsbane on earth, the crucifix
assembly lines he kept in operation around the clock—
irreligious soul that he was! I was genuinely sorry when
he died, in peace. Not so much because I hadn't gotten
to drain him properly, but because he was a worthy op-
ponent and a suitable antagonist. What a game we
played!"

His husky voice weakened.

"He sleeps a scant three hundred paces from here,
bleaching and dry. His is the great marble tomb by the
gate. . . . Please gather roses tomorrow and place them
upon it."

I agreed that I would, for there is a closer kinship
between the two of us than between myself and any 'hot,
despite the dictates of resemblance. And I must keep my
word, before this day passes into evening and although
there are searchers above, for such is the law of my na-
ture.

"Damn them! (He taught me that word.) Damn
them!" I say. "I'm coming up! Beware, gentle *bots! I
shall walk among you and you shall not know me. I shall
Join in the search, and you will think I am one of you. I
shall gather the red flowers for dead Kennington, rubbing
shoulders with you, and Fritz will smile at the joke."

I climb the cracked and hollow steps, the east already
Spilling twilight, and the sun half-Udded in the west

I emerge.

The roses live on the wall across the road. From great
twisting tubes of vine, with heads brighter than any rust,
they bum like danger lights on a control panel, but
moistly.

One, two, three roses for Kennington. Four, five...

**What are you doing, 'hot?"
"Gathering roses."

**You are supposed to be searching for the werebot
Has something damaged you?"

**No, I'm all right," I say, and I fix him where he
stands, by bumping against bis shoulder. The circuit com-
pleted, I drain his vile-box until I am filled.

'Tfou are the wereboti" he intones weakly.

He falls with a crash.

. . . Six, seven, eight roses for Kennington, dead
Kennington, dead as the *bot at my feet—more dead—
for he once lived a full, organic life, nearer to Fritz's or
my own than to theirs.

"What happened here, •hot?" '

"He is stopped, and I am picking roses," I tell them.

There are four *bots and an Over.

"It is time you left this place," I say. "Shortly it will
be night and the werebot will walk. Leave, or he will
end you."

"You stopped himi" says the Over. "You are the
wereboti"

I bunch all the flowers against my chest with one arm
and turn to face them. The Over, a large special-order
*bot, moves toward me. Others are approaching from all
directions. He had sent out a call.

"You are a strange and terrible thing," he is saying,
and you must be junked, for the sake of the community."

He seizes me and I drop Kennington's flowers.

I cannot drain him. My coils are already loaded near
their capacity, and he is specially insulated.

There are dozens around me now, fearing and hating.
They will junk me and I will lie beside Kennington.

**Rust in peace," they will say. ... I am sony that I
cannot keep my promise to Fritz.
"Release himi"

No!
It is shrouded and moldering Fritz in the doorway of

the mausoleum, swaying, clutching at the stone. He al-
ways knows....

"Release himi I, a human, order it"

He is ashen and gasping, and the sunlight is doing

awful things to him.

—The ancient circuits click and suddenly I am free.
"Yes, master," says the Over. "We did not know. ., .*'

"Seize that robotF

He points a shaking emaciated finger at him.
"He is the werebot," he gasps. "Destroy biro! The one
gathering flowers was obeying my orders. Leave him

here with me."
He falls to his knees and the final darts of day pierce

his flesh.

"And got All the rest of you! QuicklyI It is my order

that no robot ever enter another graveyard againi"

He collapses within and I know that now there are
only bones and bits of rotted shroud on the doorstep of

our home.

Pritz has had his final joke—a human masquerade.

I take the roses to Kennington, as the silent *bots file
out through the gate forever, bearing the unprotesting
Overbot with them. I place the roses at the foot of the
monument—Kennington's and Fritz's—the monument of
the last, strange, truly living ones.

Now only I remain unjunked.

In the final light of the sun I see them drive a stake through the Over's vite-box and bury him at the cross-roads.

Then they hurry back toward their towers of steel, of 
plastic.
I gather up what remains of Fritz and carry him down 
to his box. The bones are brittle and silent.

. . , It is a very proud and very lonely thing to be a 
stainless steel leech.

A Thing Of Terrible Beauty

I rather liked this one when I wrote it, but I don't remember why or how I came to write it. Perhaps Harrison Denmark had taken on a life of his own. Perhaps he's that gentleman I see walking along Bishop's Lodge Road every day, sometimes in both directions....

How like a god of the Epicureans is the audience, at a
time like this! Powerless to alter the course of events, yet
better informed than the characters, they might rise to
their feet and cry out, "Do not!"—but the blinding of
Oedipus would still ensue, and the inevitable knot in
Jocasta*s scarlet would stop her breathing still.

But no one rises, of course. They know better. They,
too, are inevitably secured by the strange bonds of the
tragedy. The gods can only observe and know, they can-
not alter circumstance, nor wrestle with ananke.

My host is already anticipating the thing he calls "ca-
tharsis." My search has carried me far, and my choice
was a good one. Phillip Devers lives in the theater like
a worm lives in an apple, a paralytic in an iron lung.
It is his world.

And I live in Phillip Devers.

For ten years his ears and eyes have been my ears and
eyes. For ten years I have tasted the sensitive preceptions
of a great critic of the drama, and he has never known
it

He has come close—his mind is agile, his imagination
vivid—but his classically trained intellect is too strong,
his familiarity with psychopathology too intimate to per-
mit that final leap from logic to intuition, and an ad-
mission of my existence. At times, before he drops off to
sleep, he toys with the thought of attempting communica-
tion, but the next morning he always rejects it—which is
well. What could we possibly have to say to one an-
other?

—Now that inchoate scream from the dawn of time,
and Oedipus stalks the stage in murky terror!

How exquisitel
I wish that I could know the other half. Devers says  there are two things in a complete experience—a moving
toward, called pity, and a moving away from, called
terror. It is the latter which I feel, which I have always
sought; I do not understand the other, even when my  host quivers and his vision goes moistly dim.

I should like very much to cultivate the total response. Unfortunately, my time here is limited. I have hounded beauty through a thousand stellar cells, and here I learned mat a man named Aristotle defined it. It is unfortunate that I must leave without knowing the entire  experience.

But I am the last. The others have gone. The stars 
move still, time runs, and the clock will strike ...

The ovation is enormous. The resurrected Jocasta bows
beside her red—socketted king, smiling. Hand in hand,
they dine upon our applause—but even pale Tiresias
does not see what I have seen. It is very unfortunate.

And now the taxi home. What time is it in Thebes?

Devers is mixing us a strong drink, which he generally
does oot do. I shall appreciate these final moments all the
more, seen through the prism of his soaring fancy.

His mood is a strange one. It is almost as if he knows
what is to occur at one o'clock—almost as if he knows
what will happen when the atom expands its fleecy chest,
shouldering aside an army of Titans, and the Mediter-
ranean rushes to dip its wine-dark muzzle into the vacant

Sahara.

But he could not know, without knowing me, and this

time he will be a character, not an observer, when the

thing of terrible beauty occurs.

We both watch the pale gray eyes on the sliding panel.
He takes aspirins in advance whea he drinks, which

means he will be mixing us more.

But his hand ... It stops short of the medicine chest
Framed in the tile and stainless steel, we both regard

reflections of a stranger.
"Good evening."
After .ten years, those two words, and on the eve of the

last performancel

Activating his voice to reply would be rather silly, even

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     19

if I could manage it, and it would doubtless be upsetting.

I waited, and so did he.

Finally, like an organ player, I pedalled and chorded
the necessary synapses:

Good evening. Please go ahead and take your aspirins.

He did. Then he picked up his drink from the ledge,

"I hope you enjoy Martinis."

/ do. Very much. Please drink more.

He smirked at us and returned to the living room.

"What are you? A psychosis? A dybbuk?"

Oh, no! Nothing like that—Just a member of the
audience.

"I don't recall selling you a ticket"

You did not exactly invite me, but I didn't think you
would mind, if I kept quiet. .. .

"Very decent of you."

He mixed another drink, then looked out at the build-
ing across the way. It had two lighted windows, on differ-
ent floors, like misplaced eyes.

"Mind if I ask why?"

Not at all. Perhaps you can even help me. I am an
itinerant esthetician. I have to borrow bodies on the
worlds I visit—preferably those of beings with similar
interests.                       -

"I see—you're a gate-crasher.'*

Sort of, I guess. I try not to cause any trouble, though.
Generally, my host never even learns of my existence.
But I have to leave soon, and something has been trou-
bling me for the past several years. . . . Since you have
guessed at my existence and managed to maintain your
stability, I've decided to ask you to resolve it.

"Ask away." He was suddenly bitter and very of-
fended. I saw the reason in an instant

Do not think, I told him, that I have influenced any-
thing you have thought or done. I am only an observer.
My sole function is to appreciate beauty.

"How interesting!" he sneered. "How soon is it going
to happen?"

What?

"The thing that is causing you to leave."

Oh, that...

I was not certain what to tell him. What could he do,
anyhow? Suffer a little more, perhaps.
"Well?"

My time is up, I told him.

"I see flashes," he said. "Sand and smoke, and a flam-
ing baseball."

He was too sensitive. I thought I had covered those
thoughts.

Well. . . The world is going to end at one o'clock,. ...

"That's good to know. How?"

There is a substratum of fissionable material, which
Project Eden is going to detonate. This will produce an
enormous chain reaction....

"Can't you do something to stop it?*'

/ don't know how. I don't know what could stop it. My
knowledge is limited to the arts and the life-sciences.—
You broke your leg when you were skiing in Vermont
last winter. You never knew. Things like that, I can
manage. ...

"And the horn blows at midnight," he observed.

One o'clock, I corrected. Eastern Standard Time.

"Might as well have another drink," he said, looking at
his watch. "Ifs going on twelve."

My question ... I cleared an imaginary throat.

"Oh, yes, what did you want to know?"

—The other half of the tragic response. I've watched
you go through it many times, but I can't get at it. I feel
the terror part, but the pity—the pity always eludes me.

"Anyone can be afraid," he said, "that part is easy. But
you have to be able to get inside people—not exactly the
way you do—and feel everything they feel, just before
they go smash—so that it feels you're going smash
along with them—and you can't do a damn thing about
it, and you wish you could—that's pity."

Oh? And being afraid, too?

"—and being afraid. Together, they equal the grand
catharsis of true tragedy."

He hiccupped.

And the tragic figure, for whom you feel these things?
He must be great and noble, mustn't he?

"True," he nodded, as though I were seated across the
room from him, "and in the last moment when the
unalterable jungle law is about to prevail,, he must stare
into the faceless mask; of God, and bear himself, for that

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    21

brief moment, above the pleas of his nature and the
course of events."
We both looked at his watch.

**What time will you be leaving?"
In about fifteen minutes.

**Good. You have time to listen to a record while I
dress."

He switched on his stereo and selected an album.

I shifted uneasily.

// it isn't too long....

He regarded the jacket.

"Five minutes and eight seconds. I've always main-
tained that it is music for the last hour of Earth."

He placed it on the turntable and set the arm.

"If Gabriel doesn't show up, this will do."

He reached for his tie as the first notes of Miles
Davis* Saefa limped through the room, like a wounded thing
climbing a hill.

He hummed along with it as he reknotted his tie and'
combed his hair. Davis talked through an Easter my with
a tongue of brass, and the procession moved before us:

Oedipus and blind Gloucester stumbled by, led by
Antigone and Edgar—Prince Hamlet gave a fencer's
salute and plunged forward, whUe black Othello lumbered
on behind—Hippolytus, all in white, and the Duchess of
Malfi, sad, paraded through memory on a thousand
stages.

Phillip buttoned his jacket as the final notes sounded,
and shut down the player. Carefully rejacketting the rec-
ord, he placed it among his others.

What are you going to do?

**Say good-bye. There's a party up the street I hadn*t
planned on attending. I believe I'll stop in for a drink.
Good-bye to you also.

"By the way," he asked, "what is your name? I've
known you for a long time, I ought to call you something
now.'*

He suggested one, half-consciously. I had never really
had a name before, so I took it.

Adrastea, I told him.

He smirked again.

**No thought is safe from you, is it? Good-bye."

Good-bye.

He closed the door behind him, and I passed through
the ceilings and floors of the apartments overhead, then
up, and into the night above the city. One eye in the
building across the street winked out; as I watched, the
other did the same.

Bodiless again, I fled upward wishing there was some-
thing I could feel.

He Who Shapes

This is the original novella for which they gave me a
Nebula Award at that first, very formal SFWA ban-
quet at the Overseas Press Club, and which I expanded
at Damon Knight's suggestion into the book The Dream
Master. The novel contains some material which I am
very happy to have written, but reflecting upon things
after the passage of all this time I find that I prefer this,
the shorter version. It is more streamlined and as such
comes closer to the quasi-Classical notions I had in
mind, in terms of economy and directness, in describing
a great man with a flaw.

Lovely as it was, with the blood and all. Render could
sense that it was about to end.

Therefore, each microsecond would be better off as a
minute, he decided—and perhaps the temperature should
be increased . . . Somewhere, just at the periphery of
everything, the darkness halted its constriction.

Something, like a crescendo of subliminal thunders,
was arrested at one raging note. That note was a distillate
of shame and pain and fear.

The Forum was stifling.

Caesar cowered outside the frantic circle. His fore-
arm covered his eyes but it could not stop the seeing, not
this time.

The senators had no faces and their garments were
spattered with blood. All their voices were like the cries
of birds. With an inhuman frenzy they plunged their dag-
gers into the fallen figure.

All, that is, but Render.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    23

The pool of blood in which he stood continued to widen.
His arm seemed to be rising and falling with a mechan-
ical regularity and his throat might have been shaping
bird-cries, but he was simultaneously apart from and a
part of the scene.

For he was Render, the Shaper.

Crouched, anguished and envious, Caesar wailed his
protests.

"You have slain him! You have murdered Marcus
Antonius—a blameless, useless fellow!"

Render turned to him and the dagger in his hand
was quite enormous and quite gory.

"Aye," said he.

The blade moved from side to side. Caesar, fascin-
ated by the sharpened steel, swayed to the same rhythm.

"Why?" he cried. "Why?"

"Because," answered Render, "he was a far nobler
Roman then yourself.**

"You lie* It is not sol"

Render shrugged and returned to the stabbing.

"It is not true!" screamed Caesar. "Not truel"

Render turned to him again and waved the dagger.
Puppetlike, Caesar mimicked the pendulum of the blade.

"Not true?" smiled Render. "And who are you to
question an assassination such as this? You are no one!
You detract from the dignity of this occasion! Begone!"

Jerkily, the pink-faced man rose to his feet, his hair
half-wispy, half-wetplastered, a disarray of cotton. He
turned, moved away; and as he walked, he looked back
over his shoulder.

He had moved far from the circle of assassins, but
the scene did not diminish in size. It retained an elec-
tric clarity. It made him feel even further removed, ever
more alone and apart.

Render rounded a previously unnoticed corner and
stood before him, a blind beggar.

Caesar grasped the front of his garment.

"Have you an ill omen for me this day?"

"Beware!" jeered Render.

"Yest Yes!" cried Caesar. "'Bewarel' That is good!
Beware what?"

"The ides—"
^Yes? The ides—?-

"—of Octember."
He released the garment.

"What is that you say? What is Octember?"

"A month."

"You liel There is no month of Octemberi"

"And that is the date noble Caesar need fear—the
"non-existent time, the never-to-be-calendared occasion."

Render vanished around another sudden corner.

"Wait! Come backl"

Render laughed, and the Forum laughed with him.
The bird-cries became a chorus of inhuman jeers.

"You mock me!" wept Caesar.

The Forum was an oven, and the perspiration formed
like a glassy mask over Caesar's narrow forehead, sharp
nose and chinless jaw.

"I want to be assassinated tool" he sobbed. "It isn't
fairl"

And Render tore the Forum and the senators and the
grinning corpse of Antony to pieces and stuffed them
into a black sack—with the unseen movement of a single
finger—and last of all went Caesar.

Charles Render sat before the ninety white buttons and
the two red ones, not really looking at any of them. His
right arm moved in its soundless sling, across the lap-level
surface of the console—pushing some of the buttons, skip-
ping over others, moving on, retracing its path to press the
next in the order of the Recall Series.

Sensations throttled, emotions reduced to nothing,
Representative Erikson knew the oblivion of the womb.

There was a soft click.

Render's hand had glided to the end of the bottom
row of buttons. An act of conscious intent—will, if you
like—was required to push the red button.

Render freed his arm and lifted off his crown of Me-
dusa-hair leads and microminiature circuitry. He slid
from behind his desk-couch and raised the hood. He
walked to the window and transpared it, fingering forth

a cigarette.

One minute in the ro-womb, he decided. No more.
This is a crucial one. . . . Hope it doesn't snow till later—
those clouds look mean....

It was smooth yellow trellises and high towers, glassy
and gray, all smouldering into evening under a shale-
colored sky; the city was squared volcanic islands, glow-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    25

ing in the end-of-day light, rumbling deep down under
the earth; it was fat, incessant rivers of traffic, rushing.

Render turned away from the window and approached
the great egg that lay beside his desk, smooth and glit-
tering. It threw back a reflection that smashed all aq-
uilinity from his nose, turned his eyes to gray saucers,
transformed his hair into a light-streaked skyline; his
reddish necktie became the wide tongue of a ghoul.

He smiled, reached across the desk. He pressed the
second red button.

With a sigh, the egg lost its dazzling opacity and a
horizontal crack appeared about its middle. Through the
now-transparent shell. Render could see Erikson grim-
acing, squeezing his eyes tight, fighting against a return
to consciousness and the thing it would contain. The
upper half of the egg rose vertical to the base, exposing
him knobby and pink on half-shell When his eyes
opened he did not look at Render. He rose to his feet
and began dressing. Render used this time to check the
ro-womb.

He leaned back across his desk and pressed the but-
tons: temperature control, full range, check; exotic
sounds—he raised the earphone—check, on bells, on
buzzes, on violin notes and whistles, on squeals and
moans, on traffic noises and the sound of surf; check, on
the feedback circuit—holding the patient's own voice,
trapped earlier in analysis; check, on the sound blanket,
the moisture spray, the odor banks; check, on the couch
agitator and the colored lights, the taste stimulants . . .

Render closed the egg and shut off its power. He pushed
the unit into the closet, palmed shut the door. The tapes
had registered a valid sequence.

"Sit down," he directed Erikson.

The man did so, fidgeting with his collar.

"You have full recall," said Render, "so there is no
need for me to summarize what occurred. Nothing can
be hidden from me. I was there."

Erikson nodded.

"The significance of the episode should be apparent to
you."

Erikson nodded again, finally finding his voice. "But
was it valid?" he asked. "I mean, you constructed the
dream and you controlled it, all the way. I didn't really
dream it—in the way I would normally dream. Your
ability to make things happen stacks the deck for what-
ever you're going to say—doesn't it?"

Render shook his head slowly, flicked an ash into the
southern hemisphere of his globe-made-ashtray, and met
Erikson's eyes.

"It is true that I supplied the format and modified the
forms. You, however, filled them with an emotional sig-
nificance, promoted them to the status of symbols corre-
sponding to your problem. If the dream was not a valid
analogue it would not have provoked the reactions it did.
It would have been devoid of the anxiety-patterns which
were registered on the tapes.

"You have been in analysis for many months now," he
continued, "and everything I have learned thus far serves
to convince me that your fears of assassination are with-
out any basis in fact."

Erikson glared.

"Then why the hell do I have them?"

"Because," said Render, "you would like very much to
be the subject of an assassination."

Erikson smiled then, his composure beginning to return.

"I assure you, doctor, I have never contemplated
suicide, nor have I any desire to stop living."

He produced a cigar and applied a flame to it. His band
shook.

"When you came to me this summer," said Render,
"you stated that you were in fear of an attempt on your
life. You were quite vague as to why anyone should want
to kill you—"

"My position! You can't be a Representative as long as
I have and make no enemies!"

"Yet," replied Render, "it appears that you have
managed it. When you permitted me to discuss this with
your detectives I was informed that they could unearth
nothing to indicate that your fears might have any real
foundation. Nothing."

"They haven't looked far enough—or in the right
places. They'll turn up something."

"I'm afraid not."

"Why?"

"Because, I repeat, your feelings are without any ob-
jective basis. —Be honest with me. Have you any infor-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     27

mation whatsoever indicating that someone hates you
enough to want to kill you?"

"I receive many threatening letters... .**

"As do all Representatives—and all of those directed to
you during the past year have been investigated and found
to be the work of cranks. Can you offer me one piece of
evidence to substantiate your claims?'*

Erikson studied the tip of his cigar.

"I came to you on the advice of a colleague," he said,
"came to you to have you poke around inside my mind to
find me something of that sort, to give my detectives
something to work with. —Someone I've injured severely
perhaps—or some damaging piece of legislation I've
dealt with ..."

**—And I found nothing," said Render, "nothing, that is,
but the cause of your discontent. Now, of course, you are
afraid to hear it, and you are attempting to divert me
from explaining my diagnosis—"

"I am not!"

*Then listen. You can comment afterward if you want,
but you've poked and dawdled around here for months,
unwilling to accept what I presented to you in a dozen
different forms. Now I am going to tell you outright what
it is, and you can do what you want about it."

"Fine."

"First," he said, "you would like very much to have an
enemy or enemies—"

"Ridiculous!"

**—Because it is the only alternative to having
friends—"

**I have lots of friends!"

**—Because nobody wants to be completely ignored, to
be an object for whom no one has really strong feelings.
Hatred and love are the ultimate forms of human regard.
Lacking one, and unable to achieve it, you sought the
other. You wanted it so badly that you succeeded in con-
vincing yourself it existed. But there is always a psychic
pricetag on these things. Answering a genuine emotional
need with a body of desire-surrogates does not produce
real satisfaction, but anxiety, discomfort—because in these
matters the psyche should be an open system. You did not
seek outside yourself for human regard. You were closed
eff. You created that which you needed from the stuff of your own being. You are a man very much in need of
strong relationships with other people."

"Manure 1"

'Take it or leave it," said Render. '*! suggest you take
it."

"I've been paying you for half a year to help find out
who wants to kill me. Now you sit there and tell me I
made the whole thing up to satisfy a desire to have some-
one hate me."

"Hate you, or love you. That's right."

"It's absurd! I meet so many people that I carry a
pocket recorder and a lapel-camera, just so I can recall
them all...."

"Meeting quantities of people is hardly what I was
speaking of. —Tell me, did that dream sequence have a
strong meaning for you?"

Erikson was silent for several tickings of the huge wall-
clock.

"Yes," he finally conceded, "it did. But your interpreta-
tion of the matter is still absurd. Granting though, just for
the sake of argument, that what you say is correct—what
would I do to get out of this bind?"

Render leaned back in his chair.

"Rechannel the energies that went into producing the
thing. Meet some people as yourself, Joe Erikson, rather
than Representative Erikson. Take up something you can
do with other people—something non-political, and per-
haps somewhat competitive—and make some real friends
or enemies, preferably the former. I've encouraged you to
do this all along."

"Then tell me something else."

-Gladly."

"Assuming you are right, why is it that I am neither
liked nor hated, and never have been? I have a responsi-
ble position in the Legislature. I meet people all the time.
Why am I so neutral a—thing?"

Highly familiar now with Erikson's career. Render had
to push aside his true thoughts on the matter, as they were
of no operational value. He wanted to cite him Dante's
observations concerning the trimmers—those souls who,
denied heaven for their lack of virtue, were also denied
entrance to hell for a lack of significant vices—in short,
the ones who trimmed their sails to move them with every
wind of the times, who lacked direction, who were not

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     29

really concerned toward which ports they were pushed.
Such was Erikson's long and colorless career of migrant
loyalties, of political reversals.

Render said:

"More and more people find themselves in such circum-
stances these days. It is due largely to the increasing
complexity of society and the depersonalization of the in-
dividual into a sociometric unit. Even the act of cathect-
ing toward other persons has grown more forced as a
result. There are so many of us these days."

Erikson. nodded, and Render smiled inwardly.

Sometimes the gruff line, and then the lecture ...

"I've got the feeling you could be right," said Erikson.
-Sometimes I do feel like what you just described—a unit,
something depersonalized...."

Render glanced at the clock.

"What you choose to do about it from here is, of course,
your own decision to make. I think you'd be wasting
your time to remain in analysis any longer. We are now
both aware of the cause of your complaint. I cant take
you by the hand and show you how to lead your life. I
can indicate, I can commiserate—but no more deep prob-
ing. Make an appointment as soon as you feel a need to
discuss your activities and relatff them to my diagnosis."

"I will," nodded Erikson, "and—damn that dream!
It got to me. You can make them seem as vivid as waking
life—more vivid. ... It may be a long while before I can
forget it."

"I hope so.**

"Okay, doctor." He rose to his feet, extended a hand.
"Ill probably be back in a couple weeks. I'll give this
socializing a fair try." He grinned at the word he nor-
mally frowned upon. "In fact, I'll start now. May I buy
you a drink around the corner, downstairs?"

Render met the moist palm which seemed as weary of
(he performance as a lead actor in too successful a play.
He felt almost sorry as he said, "Thank you, but I have an
engagement."

Render helped him on with his coat then, handed him
his hat and saw him to the door.
"Well, good night."
-Good night"

As the door closed soundlessly behind him. Render re-crossed the dark Astrakhan to his mahogany fortress and
flipped his cigarette into the southern hemisphere of a
globe ashtray. He leaned back in his chair, hands behind
his head, eyes closed.

"Of course it was more real than life," he informed no
one in particular, "I shaped it."

Smiling, he reviewed the dream sequence step by step,
wishing some of his former instructors could have wit-
nessed it. It had been well-constructed and powerfully
executed, as well as being precisely appropriate for the
case at hand. But then, he was Render, the Shaper—
one of the two hundred or so special analysts whose own
psychic makeup permitted them to enter into neurotic
patterns without carrying away more than an esthetic
gratification from the mimesis of aberrance—a Sane
Hatter.

Render stirred his recollections. He had been analyzed
himself, analyzed and passed upon as a granite-willed,
ultra-stable outsider—tough enough to weather the basilisk
gaze of a fixation, walk unscathed amidst the chimarae
of perversions, force dark Mother Medusa to close her
eyes before the caduceus of his art. His own analysis had
not been difficult. Nine years before (it seemed much
longer) he had suffered a willing injection of novocain
into the most painful area of bis spirit It was after the
auto wreck, after the death of Ruth, and of Miranda, their
daughter, that he had begun to feel detached. Perhaps he
did not want to recover certain empathies; perhaps his
own world was now based upon a certain rigidity of feel-
ing. If this was true, he was wise enough in the ways
of the mind to realize it, and perhaps he had decided that
such a world had its own compensations.

His son Peter was now ten years old. He was at-
tending a school of quality, and he penned his father a
letter every week. The letters were becoming progressively
literate, showing signs of a precociousness of which Ren-
der could not but approve. He would take the boy with
him to Europe in the summer.

As for Jill—Jill DeVille (what a luscious, ridiculous
namel—he loved her for it)—she was growing if any-
thing, more interesting to him. (He wondered if this was
an indication of early middle age.) He was vastly taken
by her unmusical nasal voice, her sudden interest in archi-
tecture, her concern with the unremovable mole on the

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    31

right side of her otherwise well-designed nose. He should
really call her immediately and go in search of a new
restaurant For some reason though, he did not feel like it.

It had been several weeks since he had visited his
club. The Partridge and Scalpel, and he felt a strong de-
sire to eat from an oaken table, alone, in the split-level
dining room with the three fireplaces, beneath the arti-
ficial torches and the boars' heads like gin ads. So he
pushed his perforated membership card into the phone-
slot on his desk and there were two buzzes behind the
voice-screen.

"Hello, Partridge and ScalpeL" said the voice. "May I
help you?"

"Charles Render," he said. "I'd like a table in about
half an hour.*'

"How many will there be?**

"Just me."

"Very good, sir. Half an hour, then.—That's 'Render'?
—R-e-n-d-er-?"

"Right."

*Thank you.'*

He broke the connection and rose from his desk. Out-
side, the day had vanished.

The monoliths and the towers gave forth their own
light now. A soft snow, like sugar, was sifting down
through the shadows and transforming itself into beads
on the windowpane.

Render shrugged into his overcoat, turned off the lights,
locked the inner office. There was a note on Mrs. Hedges'
blotter.

Miss DeVille called, it said.

He crumpled the note and tossed it into the waste-
chute. He would call her tomorrow and say he had been
working until late on his lecture.

He switched off the final light, clapped his hat onto
his head and passed through the outer door, locking it as
he went. The drop took him to the sub-subcellar where
his auto was parked.

It was chilly in the sub-sub, and his footsteps seemed
loud on the concrete as he passed among the parked ve-
hicles. Beneath the glare of the naked lights, his S-7
Spinner was a sleek gray cocoon from which it seemed
turbulent wings might at any moment emerge. The double
row of antennae which fanned forward from the slope
of its hood added to this feeling. Render thumbed open
the door.

He touched the ignition and there was the sound of a
lone bee awakening in a great hive. The door swung
soundlessly shut as he raised the steering wheel and
locked it into place. He spun up the spiral ramp and came
to a roiling stop before the big overhead.

As the door rattled upward he lighted his destination
screen and turned the knob that shifted {he broadcast
map. —Left to right, top to bottom, section by section he
shifted it, until he located the portion of Carnegie Ave-
nue he desired. He punched out its coordinates and
lowered the wheel. The car switched over to monitor and
moved out onto the highway marginal. Render lit a
cigarette.

Pushing his seat back into the centerspace, he left all
the windows transparent. It was pleasant to half-recline
and watch the oncoming cars drift past him like swarms of
fireflies. He pushed his hat back on his head and stared
upward.

He could remember a time when he had loved snow,
when it had reminded him of novels by Thomas Mann
and music by Scandanavian composers. In his mind
now, though, there was another element from which it
could never be wholly dissociated. He could visualize so
clearly the eddies of milk-white coldness that swirled
about his old manual-steer auto, flowing into its fire-
charred interior to rewhiten that which had been black-
ened; so clearly—as though he had walked toward it
across a chalky lakebottom—it, the sunken wreck, and
he, the diver—unable to open his mouth to speak, for
fear of drowning; and he knew, whenever he looked upon
falling snow, that somewhere skulls were whitening. But
nine years had washed away much of the pain, and he
also knew that the night was lovely.

He was sped along the wide, wide roads, shot across
high bridges, their surfaces slick and gleaming beneath
his lights, was woven through frantic cloverieafs and
plunged into a tunnel whose dimly glowing walls blurred
by him like a mirage. Finally, he switched the windows to
opaque and closed his eyes.

He could not remember whether he had dozed for a
moment or not, which meant he probably had. He felt the

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     33

car slowing, and he moved the seat forward and turned
on the windows again. Almost simultaneously, the cut-off
buzzer sounded. He raised the steering wheel and pulled
into the parking dome, stepped out onto the ramp and
left the car to the parking unit, receiving his ticket from
that bos-headed robot which took its solemn revenge on
mankind by sticking forth a cardboard tongue at every-
one it served.

As always, the noises were as subdued as the lighting. The
place seemed to absorb sound and convert it into warmth,
to lull the tongue with aromas strong enough to be
tasted, to hypnotize the ear with the vivid crackle of the
triple hearths.

Render was pleased to see that his favorite table, in
the comer off to the right of the smaller fireplace, had
been held for him. He knew the menu from memory,
but he studied it with zeal as he sipped a Manhattan and
worked up an order to match his appetite. Shaping ses-
sions always left him ravenously hungry.

"Doctor Render ... ?"

"Yes?" He looked up.

"Doctor Shallot would like to speak with you," said
the waiter.

"I don't know anyone named Shallot," he said. "Are
you sure he doesn't want Bender? He's a surgeon from
Metro who sometimes eats here... ,**

The waiter shook his head,

*'No, sir—'Render'. See here?" He extended a three-
by-five card on which Render's full name was typed in
capital letters. "Doctor Shallot has dined here nearly
every night for the past two weeks," he explained, "and
on each occasion has asked to be notified if you came
in."

"Hm?" mused Render. 'That's odd. Why didn't he
just call me at my office?"

The waiter smiled and made a vague gesture.

"Well, tell him to come on over," he said, gulping his
Manhattan, "and bring roe another of these."

"Unfortunately, Doctor Shallot is blind," explained the
waiter. "It would be easier if you—"

"All right, sure." Render stood up, relinquishing his
favorite table with a strong premonition that he would
not be returning to it that evening.
"Lead on,"

They threaded their way among the diners, heading up
to the next level. A familiar face said "hello" from a
table set back against the wall, and Render nodded a
greeting to a former seminar pupil whose name was
Jurgens or Jirkans or something like that.

He moved on, into the smaller dining room wherein
only two tables were occupied. No, three. There was one
set in the comer at the far end of the darkened bar,
partly masked by an ancient suit of armor. The waiter
was heading him in that direction.

They stopped before the table and Render stared down
into the darkened glasses that had tilted upward- as they
approached. Doctor Shallot was a woman, somewhere in
the vicinity of her early thirties. Her low bronze bangs
did not fully conceal the spot of silver which she wore on
her forehead like a caste-mark. Render inhaled, and her
head jerked slightly as the tip of his cigarette flared. She
appeared to be staring straight up into his eyes. It was an
uncomfortable feeling, even knowing that all she could
distinguish of him was that which her minute photo-
electric cell transmitted to her visual cortex over the hair-
fine wire implants attached to that oscillator converter:

in short, the glow of his cigarette.

"Doctor Shallot, this is Doctor Render," the waiter was
saying.

"Good evening," said Render.

"Good evening," she said. "My name is Eileen and
I've wanted very badly to meet you." He thought he
detected a slight quaver in her voice. "Will you join me
for dinner?"

"My pleasure," he acknowledged, and the waiter drew
out the chair.

Render sat down, noting that the woman across from
him already had a drink. He reminded the waiter of his
second Manhattan.

"Have you ordered yet?" he inquired.

"No."

". . . And two menus—" he started to say, then bit

his tongue.

"Only one," she smiled.

"Make it none," he amended, and recited the menu.

They ordered. Then:

"Do you always do that?"

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    35

"What?"
"Carry menus in your head."

**0nly a few," he said, "for awkward occasions. What
was it you wanted to see—talk to me about?"

"You're a neuroparticipant therapist," she stated, "a
Shaper."

"And you are—?"

**—a resident in psychiatry at State Psych. I have a
year remaining."

"You knew Sam Riscomb then."

"Yes, he helped me get my appointment. He was my
adviser."

"He was a very good friend of mine. We studied to-
gether at Menninger."

She nodded.

"I'd often heard him speak of you—that's one of the
reasons I wanted to meet you. He's responsible for en-
couraging me to go ahead with my plans, despite my
handicap."

Render stared at her. She was wearing a dark green
dress which appeared to be made of velvet About three
inches to the left of the bodice was a pin which might
have been gold. It displayed a red stone which could
have been a ruby, around which the outline of a goblet
was cast. Or was it really two profiles that were outlined,
staring through the stone at one another? It seemed
vaguely familiar to him, but he could not place it at the
moment. It glittered expensively in the dim light.

Render accepted his drink from the waiter.

"I want to become a neuroparticipant therapist," she
told him.

And if she had possessed vision Render would have
thought she was staring at him, hoping for some response
in his expression. He could not quite calculate what she
wanted him to say.

"I commend your choice," he said, "and I respect your
ambition." He tried to put his smile into his voice. "It is
not an easy thing, of course, not all of the requirements
being academic ones."

"I know," she said, "But then, I have been blind since
birth and it was not an easy thing to come this far."

"Since birth?" he repeated. "I thought you might have
lost your sight recently. You did your undergrad work
then, and went on through med school without eyes. . ..
That's—rather impressive."

"Thank you," she said, "but it isn't. Not really. I heard
about the first neuroparticipants—Bartelmetz and the rest
—when I was a child, and I decided then that I wanted
to be one. My life ever since has been governed by that
desire."

"What did you do in the labs?" be inquired. "—Not
being able to see a specimen, look through a micro-
scope ... ? Or all that reading?"

"I hired people to read my assignments to me. I taped
everything. The school understood that I wanted to go
into psychiatry and they permitted a special arrangement
for labs. I've been guided through the dissection of ca-
davers by lab assistants, and I've had everything de-
scribed to me. I can tell things by touch . . . and I have a
memory like yours with the menu," she smiled. " 'The
quality of psychoparticipation phenomena can only be
gauged by the therapist himself, at that moment outside
of time and space as we normally know it, when
he stands in the midst of a world erected from the stuff
of another man's dreams, recognizes there the non-
Euclidian architecture of aberrance, and then takes his
patient by the hand and tours the landscape. ... If he
can lead him back to the common earth, then his judg-
ments were sound, his actions valid.' "

"From Why No Psychometrics in This Place," reflected
Render.

"—by Charles Render, M.D."

"Our dinner is already moving in this direction,'* he
noted, picking up his drink as the speed-cooked meal
was pushed toward them in the kitchen-buoy.

"That's one of the reasons I wanted to meet you," she
continued, raising her glass as the dishes rattled before
her. "I want you to help me become a Shaper."

Her shaded eyes, as vacant as a statue's, sought him

again.

"Yours is a completely unique situation," he com-
mented. "There has never been a congenitally blind neu-
roparticipant—for obvious reasons. I'd have to consider
all the aspects of the situation before I could advise you.
Let's eat now, though. I'm starved."

"All right. But my blindness does not mean that I have
never seen."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     37

He did not ask her what she meant by that, because
prime ribs were standing in front of him now and there
was a bottle of Chambertm at bis elbow- He did pause
long enough to notice though, as she raised her left hand
from beneath the table, that she wore no rings.

"I wonder if it's still snowing," he commented as they
drank their coffee. "It was coming down pretty hard
when I pulled into the dome."

"I hope so," she said, "even though it diffuses the light
and I can't 'see' anything at all through it. I like to feel
it falling about me and blowing against my face."
"How do you get about?"

"My dog, Sigmund—I gave him the night off," she
smiled, "—he can guide me anywhere. He's a mutie Shep-
herd."

"Oh?" Render grew curious. "Can he talk much?"
She nodded.

"That operation wasn't as successful on him as on
some of them, though. He has a vocabulary of about
four hundred words, but I think it causes him pain to
speak. He's quite intelligent. You'll have to meet him
sometime."

Render began speculating immediately. He had spoken
with such animals at recent medical conferences, and
had been startled by their combination of reasoning abil-
ity and their devotion to their handlers. Much chromo-
some tinkering, followed by delicate embryo-surgery,
was required to give a dog a brain capacity greater than
a chimpanzee's. Several followup operations were neces-
sary to produce vocal abilities. Most such experiments
ended in failure, and the dozen or so puppies a year on
which they succeeded were valued in the neighborhood
of a hundred thousand dollars each. He realized then, as
he lit a cigarette and held the light for a moment, that
the stone in Miss Shallot's medallion was a genuine ruby.
He began to suspect that her admission to a medi-
cal school might, in addition to her academic record,
have been based upon a sizeable endowment to the col-
lege of her choice. Perhaps he was being unfair though,
he chided himself.

*'Yes," he said, "we might do a paper on canine neu-
roses. Does he ever refer to his father as 'that son of a
female Shepherd'?"
"He never met his father," she said, quite soberly. "He
was raised apart from other dogs. His attitude could
hardly be typical. I don't think you'll ever learn the func-
tional psychology of the dog from a mutie."

"I imagine you're right," he dismissed it. "More
coffee?"

"No, thanks."

Deciding it was time to continue the discussion, he
said, "So you want to be a Shaper...."

"Yes."

"I hate to be the one to destroy anybody's high ambi-
tions," he told her. "Like poison, I hate it. Unless they
have no foundation at all in reality. Then I can be ruth-
less. So—honestly, frankly, and in all sincerity, I do not
see how it could ever be managed. Perhaps you're a fine
psychiatrist—but in my opinion, it is a physical and men-
tal impossibility for you ever to become a neuropartici-
pant. As for my reasons—"

"Wait," she said. "Not here, please. Humor me. I'm
tired of this stuffy place—take me somewhere else to talk.
I think I might be able to convince you there is a way."

"Why not?" he shrugged. "I have plenty time. Sure—•
you call it. Where?"

"Blindspin?"

He suppressed an unwilling chuckle at the expression,
but she laughed aloud.

"Fine," he said, "but I'm still thirsty."

A bottle of champagne was tallied and he signed the
check despite her protests. It arrived in a colorful "Drink
While You Drive" basket, and they stood then, and she
was tall, but he was taller.

Blindspin.

A single name of a multitude of practices centered
about the auto-driven auto. Flashing across the country
in the sure hands of an invisible chauffeur, windows all
opaque, night dark, sky high, tires assailing the road be-
low like four phantom buzzsaws—and starting from
scratch and ending in the same place, and never knowing
where you are going or where you have been—it is pos-
sible, for a moment, to kindle some feeling of individu-
ality in the coldest brainpan, to produce a momentary
awareness of self by virtue of an apartness from all but a
sense of motion. This is because movement through dark-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    39

ness is the ultimate abstraction of life itself—at least that's
what one of the Vital Comedians said, and everybody in
the place laughed.

Actually now, the phenomenon known as blindspin
first became prevalent (as might be suspected) among
certain younger members of the community, when moni-
tored highways deprived them of the means to exercise
their automobiles in some of the more individualistic
ways which had come to be frowned upon by the Na-
tional Traffic Control Authority. Something had to be
done.

It was.

The first, disastrous reaction involved the simple en-
gineering feat of disconnecting the broadcast control unit
after one had entered onto a monitored highway. This
resulted in the car's vanishing from the ken of the moni-
tor and passing back into the control of its occupants.
Jealous as a deity, a monitor will not tolerate that which
denies its programmed omniscience: it will thunder and
lightning in the Highway Control Station nearest the
point of last contact, sending winged seraphs in search of
that which has slipped from sight.

Often, however, this was too late in happening, for the
roads are many and well-paved. Escape from detection
was, at first, relatively easy to achieve.

Other vehicles, though, necessarily behave as if a rebel
has no actual existence. Its presence cannot be allowed
for.

Boxed-in on a heavily-traveled section of roadway, the
offender is subject to immediate annihilation in the event
of any overall speedup or shift in traffic pattern which
involves movement through his theoretically vacant posi-
tion. This, in the early days of monitor-controls, caused
a rapid series of collisions. Monitoring devices later be-
came far more sophisticated, and mechanized cutoffs re-
duced the collision incidence subsequent to such an
action. The quality of the pulpefactions and contusions
which did occur, however, remained unaltered.

The next reaction was based on a thing which had
been overlooked because it was obvious. The monitors
took people where they wanted to go only because people
told them they wanted to go there. A person pressing a
random series of coordinates, without reference to any
map, would either be left with a stalled automobile and
a "RECHECK YOUR COORDINATES" light, or would
suddenly be whisked away in any direction. The latter
possesses a certain romantic appeal in that it offers
speed, unexpected sights, and free hands. Also, it is per-
fectly legal: and it is possible to navigate all over two
continents in this manner, if one is possessed of sufficient
wherewithal and gluteal stamina.

As is the case in all such matters, the practice diffused
upwards through the age brackets. School teachers who
only drove on Sundays fell into disrepute as selling points
for used autos. Such is the way a world ends, said the
entertainer.

End or no, the car designed to move on monitored
highways is a mobile efficiency unit, complete with
latrine, cupboard, refrigerator compartment and gaming
table. It also sleeps two with ease and four with some
crowding. On occasion, three can be a real crowd*

Render drove out of the dome and into the marginal
aisle. He halted the car.

"Want to jab some coordinates?" he asked.

"You do it. My fingers know too many."

Render punched random buttons. The Spinner moved
onto the highway. Render asked speed of the vehicle
then, and it moved into the high-acceleration lane.

The Spinner's lights burnt holes in the darkness. The
city backed away fast; it was a smouldering bonfire on
both sides of the road, stirred by sudden gusts of wind,
hidden by white swirlings, obscured by the steady fall of
gray ash. Render knew his speed was only about sixty
percent of what it would have been on a clear, dry night.

He did not blank the windows, but leaned back and
stared out through them. Eileen "looked" ahead into
what light there was. Neither of them said anything for
ten or fifteen minutes.

The city shrank to sub-city as they sped on. After a
time, short sections of open road began to appear.

"Tell roe what it looks like outside," she said.

"Why didn't you ask me to describe your dinner, or
the suit of armor beside our table?"

"Because I tasted one and felt the other. This is dif-
ferent."

"There is snow falling outside. Take it away and what
you have left is black."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    41

"What else?"

"There is slush on the road. When it starts to freeze,
traffic will drop to a crawl unless we outrun this storm.
The slush looks like an old, dark syrup, just starting to
get sugary on top."

"Anything else?"

"That's it, lady."

"Is it snowing harder or less hard than when we left
the club?"

"Harder, I should say."

"Would you pour me a drink?" she asked him.

"Certainly."

They turned their seats inward and Render raised the
table. He fetched two glasses from the cupboard.

"Your health," said Render, after be had poured.

"Here's looking at you."

Render downed his drink. She sipped hers. He waited
for her next comment. He knew that two cannot play at
the Socratic game, and he expected more questions be-
fore she said what she wanted to say.

She said: "What is the most beautiful thing you have
ever seen?"

Yes, he decided, he had guessed correctly.

He replied without hesitation: "The sinking of
Atlantis."

"I was serious."

"So was I."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

lt! sank Atlantis," he said, "personally.

"It was about three years ago. And Godi it was lovely!
It was all ivory towers and golden minarets and silver
balconies. There were bridges of opal, and crimson
penants and a milk-white river flowing between lemon-
colored banks. There were jade steeples, and trees as old
as the world tickling the bellies of clouds, and ships in
the great sea-harbor of Xanadu, as delicately constructed
as musical instruments, all swaying with the tides. The
twieve princes of the realm held court in the dozen-
pillared Colliseum of the Zodiac, to listen to a Greek
tenor sax play at sunset

"The Greek, of course, was a patient of mine—
paranoiac. The etiology of the thing is rather complicated,
but that's what I wandered into inside his mind. I gave
him free rein for awhile, and in the end I had to split

42 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

Atlantis in half and sink it full fathom five. He's playing
again and you've doubtless beard his sounds, if you like
such sounds at all. He's good. I still see him periodically,
but he is no longer the last descendent of the greatest
minstrel of Atlantis. He's just a fine, late twentieth-
century saxman.

"Sometimes though, as I look back on the apocalypse
I worked within his vision of grandeur, I experience a
fleeting sense of lost beauty—because, for a single mo-
ment, his abnormally intense feelings were my feelings,
and he felt that his dream was the most beautiful thing
in the world."

He refilled their glasses.

"That wasn't exactly what I meant," she said.

"I know."

"I meant something real."

"It was more real than real, I assure you.'*

"I don't doubt it, but..."

"—But I destroyed the foundation you were laying
for your argument. Okay, I apologize. I'll hand it back
to you. Here's something that could be real:

"We are moving along the edge of a great bowl of
sand," he said. "Into it, the snow is gently drifting. In
the spring the snow will melt, the waters will run down
into the earth, or be evaporated away by the heat of the
sun. Then only the sand will remain. Nothing grows in the
sand, except for an occasional cactus. Nothing lives here
but snakes, a few birds, insects, burrowing things, and a
wandering coyote or two. In the afternoon these things
will look for shade. Any place where there's an old fence
post or a rock or a skull or a cactus to block out the sun,
there you will witness life cowering before the elements.
But the colors are beyond belief, and the elements are
more lovely, almost, than the things they destroy."

"There is no such place near here," she said.

"If I say it, then there is. Isn't there? I've seen if

"Yes ... you're right."

"And it doesn't matter if it's a painting by a woman
named O'Keefe, or something right outside our window,
does it? If I've seen it?"

"I acknowledge the truth of the diagnosis," she said.
"Do you want to speak it for me?"

"No, go ahead."

He refilled the small glasses once more.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     43

"The damage is in my eyes," she told him, "not my
brain."

He lit her cigarette.

"I can see with other eyes if I can enter other brains."

He lit his own cigarette.

"Neuroparticipation is based upon the fact that two
nervous systems can share the same impulses, the same
fantasies. .. ."

"Controlled fantasies."

"I could perform therapy and at the same time ex-
perience genuine visual impressions."

"No," said Render.

"You don't know what it's like to be cut off from a
whole area of stimuli! To know that a Mongoloid idiot
can experience something you can never know—and that
he cannot appreciate it because, like you, he was con-
demned before birth in a court of biological hapstance, -
in a place where there is no justice—only fortuity, pure
and simple."

"The universe did not invent justice. Man did. Un-
fortunately, man must reside in the universe."

"I'm not asking the universe to help me—I'm asking
you.'*

"I'm sorry," said Render.

"Why won't you help me?"

"At this moment you are demonstrating my main rea-
son."

"Which is .. .T

"Emotion. This thing means far too much to you. When
the therapist is in-phase with a patient he is narco-
electrically removed from most of his own bodily sensa-
tions. This is necessary—because his mind must be
completely absorbed by the task at hand. It is also nec-
essary that his emotions undergo a similar suspension.
This, of course, is impossible in the one sense that a per-
son always emotes to some degree. But the therapist's
emotions are sublimated into a generalized feeling of
exhilaration—or, as in my own case, into an artistic re-
verie. With you, however, the 'seeing' would be too much.
You would be in constant danger of losing control of the
dream."

"I disagree with you."

"Of course you do. But the fact remains that you would
be dealing, and dealing constantly, with me abnormal.
 The power of a neurosis is unimaginable to ninety-nine
point etcetera percent of the population, because we can
never adequately judge the intensity of our own—let
alone those of others, when we only see them from the
outside. That is why no neuroparticipant will ever under-
take to treat a full-blown psychotic. The few pioneers in
that area are all themselves in therapy today. It would
be like diving into a maelstrom. If the therapist loses the
upper hand in an intense session, he becomes the Shaped
rather than the Shaper. The synapses respond like a fis-
sion reaction when nervous impulses are artificially aug-
mented. The transference effect is almost instantaneous.

"I did an awful lot of skiing five years ago. This is be-
cause I was a claustrophobe. I had to run and it took me
six months to beat the thing—all because of one tiny
lapse that occurred in a measureless fraction of an instant.
I had to refer the patient to another therapist. And this
was only a •minor repercussion. —If you were to go ga-
ga over the scenery, girl, you could wind up in a rest
home for life."

She finished her drink and Render refilled the glass.
The night raced by. They had left the city far behind
them, and the road was open and clear. The darkness
eased more and more of itself between the falling flakes.
The Spinner picked up speed.

"AH right," she admitted, "maybe you're right. Still,
though, I think you can help me."

"How?" he asked.

"Accustom me to seeing, so that the images will lose
their novelty, the emotions wear off. Accept me as a pa-
tient and rid me of my sight-anxiety. Then what you have
said so far will cease to apply. I will be able to undertake
the training then, and give my full attention to therapy.
I'll be able to sublimate the sight-pleasure into something
else."

Render wondered.

Perhaps it could be done. It would be a difficult under-
taking, though.

It might also make therapeutic history.

No one was really qualified to try it, because no one had
ever tried it before.

But Eileen Shallot was a rarity—no, a unique item—
for it was likely she was the only person in the world who

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     45

combined the necessary technical background with the
unique problem.

He drained his glass, refilled it, refilled hers.

He was still considering the problem as the "RECO-
ORDINATE" light came on and the car pulled into a
cutoff and stood there. He switched off the buzzer and
sat there for a long while, thinking.

It was not often that other persons heard him acknowl-
edge his feelings regarding his skill. His colleagues con-
sidered him modest. Offhand, though, it might be noted
that he was aware that the day a better neuroparticipant
began practicing would be the day that a troubled homo
sapien was to be treated by something but immeasurably
less than angels.

Two drinks remained. Then he tossed the emptied bot-
tle into the backbin.

"You know something?" he finally said.

**What?"

*1t might be worth a try."

He swiveled about then and leaned forward to reco-
ordinate, but she was there first. As he pressed the buttons
and the S-7 swung around, she kissed him. Below her
dark glasses her cheeks were moist.

The suicide bothered him more than it should have, and
Mrs. Lambert had called the day before to cancel her
appointment. So Render decided to spend the morning
being pensive. Accordingly, he entered the office wearing
a cigar and a frown.

"Did you see ... ?" asked Mrs. Hedges.

"Yes." He pitched his coat onto the table that stood in
the far corner of the room. He crossed to the window,
stared down. "Yes," he repeated, "I was driving by with
my windows clear. They were still cleaning up when I
passed."

"Did you know him?"

"I don't even know the name yet. How could I?"

"Priss Tully just called me—she's a receptionist for
that engineering outfit up on the eighty-sixth. She says it
was James Irizarry, an ad designer who had offices down
the hall from them— That's a long way to fall. He must
have been unconscious when he hit, huh? He bounced off
 the building. If you open the window and lean out you
can see—off to the left there—where..."

"Never mind, Bennie. —Your friend have any idea
why he did it?"

"Not really. His secretary came running up the hall,
screaming. Seems she went in his office to see him about
some drawings, just as he was getting up over the sill.
There was a note on his board. 'I've had everything I
wanted,' it said. 'Why wait around?' Sort of funny, huh?
I don't mean funny. . . ."

"Yeah. —Know anything about his personal affairs?"

"Married. Coupla kids. Good professional rep. Lots of
business. Sober as anybody. —He could afford an office
in this building."

"Good Lordi" Render turned. "Have you got a case
file there or something?"

"You know," she shrugged her thick shoulders, *'I*ve
got friends all over this hive. We always talk when things
go slow. Prissy's my sister-in-law, anyhow—

"You mean that if I dived through this window right
now, my current biography would make the rounds in the
next five minutes?"

"Probably," she twisted her bright lips into a smile,
"give or take a couple. But don't do it today, huh? —You
know, it would be kind of anticlimactic, and it wouldn't
get the same coverage as a solus.

"Anyhow," she continued, "you're a mind-mixer. You
wouldn't do it."

"You're betting against statistics," he observed. "The
medical profession, along with attorneys, manages about
three times as many as most other work areas."

"Hey!" She looked worried. "Go 'way from my win-
dowl

"I'd have to go to work for Doctor Hanson then," she
added, "and he's a slob."

He moved to her desk.

"I never know when to take you seriously," she de-
cided.

"I appreciate your concern," he nodded, "indeed I do.
As a matter of fact, I have never been statistic-prone—I
should have repercussed out of the neuropy game four
years ago."

"You'd be a headline, though," she mused. "All those

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     47

reporters asking me about you . . . Hey, why do they do
it, huh?"

"Who?"

"Anybody."

"How should I know, Bennie? I'm only a humble
psyche-stirrer. If I could pinpoint a general underlying
cause—and then maybe figure a way to anticipate the
tiling—why, it might even be better than my jumping, for
newscopy. But I can't do it, because there is no single.
ample reason—I don't think."

"Oh."

"About thirty-five years ago it was the ninth leading
cause of death in the United States. Now it's number six
for North and South America. I think it's seventh in Eu-
rope."

"And nobody will ever really know why Irizarry
pimped?"

Reader swung a chair backward and seated himself.
He knocked an ash into her petite and gleaming tray. She
emptied it into the waste-chute, hastily, and coughed a
significant cough.

"Oh, one can always speculate," he said, "and one in
my profession will. The first thing to consider would be
the personality traits which might predispose a man to
periods of depression. People who keep their emotions
under rigid control, people who are conscientious and
rather compulsively concerned with small matters . . ."
He knocked another fleck of ash into her tray and
watched as she reached out to dump it, then quickly drew
her hand back again. He grinned an evil grin. "In short,"
he finished, "some of the characteristics of people in
professions which require individual, rather than group
performance—medicine, law, the arts."

She regarded him speculatively.

"Don't worry though," he chuckled, "I'm pleased as
hell with life."

"You're kind of down in the mouth this morning."

"Pete called me. He broke his ankle yesterday in gym
class. They ought to supervise those things more closely.
I'm thinking of changing his school."

"Again?"

"Maybe. I'll see. The headmaster is going to call me
this afternoon. I don't like to keep shuffling him, but I do
want him to finish school in one piece."
 "A kid can't grow up without an accident or two. It's
—statistics."

"Statistics aren't the same thing as destiny, Bennie.
Everybody makes his own."

"Statistics or destiny?"

"Both, I guess."

"I think that if something's going to happen, it's going
to happen."

"I don't. I happen to think that the human will, backed
by a sane mind can exercise some measure of control over
events. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be in the racket I'm
in."

'The world's a machine—you know—cause, effect. Sta-
tistics do imply the prob—"

"The human mind is not a machine, and I do not know
cause and effect. Nobody does."

"You have a degree in chemistry, as I recall. You're a
scientist. Doc."

"So I'm a Trotskyite deviationist," he smiled, stretch-
ing, "and you were once a ballet teacher." He got to his
feet and picked up his coat.

"By the way. Miss DeVille called, left a message. She
said: 'How about St. Moritz?' "

"Too ritzy," he decided aloud. "It's going to be Davos."

Because the suicide bothered him more than it should
have. Render closed the door to his office and turned off
the windows and turned on the phonograph. He put on
the desk light only.

How has the quality of human life been changed, he
wrote, since the beginnings of the industrial revolution?

He picked up the paper and reread the sentence. It was
the topic he had been asked to discuss that coming Sat-
urday. As was typical in such cases he did not know what
to say because he had too much to say, and only an hour
to say it in.

He got up and began to pace the office, now filled with
Beethoven's Eighth Symphony.

"The power to hurt," he said, snapping on a lapel
microphone and activating his recorder, "has evolved in a
direct relationship to technological advancement." His
imaginary audience grew quiet. He smiled. "Man's po-
tential for working simple mayhem has been multiplied

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    49

by mass-production; his capacity for injuring the psyche
through personal contacts has expanded in an exact ratio
to improved communication facilities. But these are all
matters of common knowledge, and are not the things I
wish to consider tonight Rather, I should like to dis-
cuss what I choose to call autopsychomimesis—the self-
generated anxiety complexes which on first scrutiny
appear quite similar to classic patterns, but which actually
represent radical dispersions of psychic energy. They are
peculiar to our times... .**

He paused to dispose of his cigar and formulate his
next words.

"Autopsychomimesis," he thought aloud, "a self-
perpetuated imitation complex—almost an attention-
getting affair. —A jazzman, for example, who acted
hopped-up half the time, even though he had never used
an addictive narcotic and only dimly remembered any-
one who had—because all the stimulants and tranquilizers
of today are quite benign. Like Quixote, he aspired after
a legend when his music alone should have been sufficient
outlet for his tensions.

"Or my Korean War Orphan, alive today by virtue of
the Red Cross and UNICEF and foster parents whom he
never met. He wanted a family so badly that be made
one up. And what then?—He hated his imaginary father
and be loved his imaginary mother quite dearly—for he
was a highly intelligent boy, and he too longed after the
half-true complexes of tradition. Why?

"Today, everyone is sophisticated enough to under-
stand the time-honored patterns of psychic disturbance.
Today, many of the reasons for those disturbances have
been removed—not as radically as my now-adult war
orphan's, but with as remarkable an effect We are living
in a neurotic past. —Again, why? Because our present
times are geared to physical health, security and well-
being. We have abolished hunger, though the backwoods
orphan would still rather receive a package of food con-
centrates from a human being who cares for him than to
obtain a warm meal from an automat unit in the middle
of the jungle.

"Physical welfare is now every man's right in excess.
The reaction to this has occurred in the area of mental
health. Thanks to technology, the reasons for many of the
 old social problems have passed, and along with them
went many of the reasons for psychic distress. But be-
tween the black of yesterday and the white of tomorrow
is the great gray of today, filled with nostalgia and fear of
the future, which cannot be expressed on a purely mate-
rial plane, is now being represented by a willful seeking
after historical anxiety-modes...."

The phone-box buzzed briefly. Render did not hear it
over the Eighth.

"We are afraid of what we do not know," he continued,
"and tomorrow is a very great unknown. My own special-
ized area of psychiatry did not even exist thirty years ago.
Science is capable of advancing itself so rapidly now that
there is a genuine public uneasiness—I might even say
'distress'—as to the logical outcome: the total mechaniza-
tion of everything in the world. . . ."

He passed near the desk as the phone buzzed again.
He switched off his microphone and softened the Eighth.

"Hello?"

"Saint Moritz," she said.

"Davos," he replied firmly.

"Charlie, you are most exasperatingi"

"Jill, dear—so are you."

"Shall we discuss it tonight?"

"There is nothing to discussi"

"You'll pick me up at five, though?"

He hesitated, then:

"Yes, at five. How come the screen is blank?"

"I've had my hair fixed. I'm going to surprise you
again."

He suppressed an idiot chuckle, said, "Pleasantly, I
hope. Okay, see you then," waited for her "good-bye,"
and broke the connection.

He transpared the windows, turned off the light on his
desk, and looked outside.

Gray again overhead, and many slow flakes of snow—
wandering, not being blown about much—moving down-
ward and then losing themselves in the tumult. . . .

He also saw, when he opened the window and leaned
out, the place off to the left where Irizarry had left his
next-to-last mark on the world.

He closed the window and listened to the rest of the
symphony. It had been a week since he had gone blind-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     51

spuming with Eileen. Her appointment was for one
o'clock,

He remembered her fingertips brushing over his face,
like leaves, or the bodies of insects, learning his appear-
ance in the ancient manner of the blind. The memory
was not altogether pleasant. He wondered why.

Far below, a patch of hosed pavement was blank once
again; under a thin, fresh shroud of white, it was slippery
as glass. A building custodian hurried outside and spread
salt on it, before someone slipped and hurt himself.

Sigmund was the myth of Fenria come alive. After
Render had instructed Mrs. Hedges, "Show them in," the
door had begun to open, was suddenly pushed wider, and
a pair of smoky-yellow eyes stared in at him. The eyes
were set in a strangely misshapen dog-skull.

Sigmund's was not a low canine brow, slanting up
slightly from the muzzle; it was a high, shaggy cranium
making the eyes appear even more deep-set than they
actually were. Render shivered slightly at the size and
aspect of that head. The muties he had seen had all been
puppies. Sigmund was full-grown, and his gray-black fur
had a tendency to bristle, which^nade him appear some-
what larger than a normal specimen of the breed.

He stared in at Render in a very un-doglike way and
made a growling noise which sounded too much like,
"Hello, doctor," to have been an accident.

Render nodded and stood.

"Hello, Sigmund," he said. "Come in."

The dog turned his head, sniffing the air of the room—
as though deciding whether or not to trust his ward within
its confines. Then he returned his stare to Render, dipped
his head in an affirmative, and shouldered the door open.
Perhaps the entire encounter had taken only one discon-
certing second.

Eileen followed him, holding lightly to the double-
leashed harness. The dog padded soundlessly across the
thick rug—head low, as though he were stalking some-
thing. His eyes never left Render's.

"So this is Sigmund . . . ? How are you, Eileen?"

"Fine. —Yes, he wanted very badly to come along, and
I wanted you to meet him."

Render led her to a chair and seated her. She un-
snapped the double guide from the dog's harness and
placed it on the floor. Sigmimd sat down beside it and
continued to stare at Render.

"How is everything at State Psych?"
"Same as always. —May I bum a cigarette, doctor? I
forgot mine."

He placed it between her fingers, furnished a light.
She was wearing a dark blue suit and her glasses were
flame blue. The silver spot on her forehead reflected the
glow of his lighter; she continued to stare at that point in
space after he had withdrawn his hand. Her shoulder-
length hair appeared a trifle lighter than it had seemed on
the night they met; today it was like a fresh-minted cop-
per coin.

Render seated himself on the corner of his desk, draw-
ing up his world-ashtray with his toe.

"You told me before that being blind did not mean
that you had never seen. I didn't ask you to explain it
then. But I'd like to ask you now."

"I had a neuroparticipation session with Doctor Ris-
comb," she told him, "before he had his accident. He
wanted to accommodate my mind to visual impressions.
Unfortunately, there was never a second session."
"I see. What did you do in that session?"
She crossed her ankles and Render noted they were
well-turned.

"Colors, mostly. The experience was quite overwhelm-
ing."

"How well do you remember them? How long ago was
it?"

"About six months ago—and I shall never forget them.
I have even dreamed in color patterns since then."
"How often?"
"Several times a week."
"What sort of associations do they carry?"
"Nothing special. They just come into my mind along
with other stimuli now—in a pretty haphazard way."
"How?"

"Well, for instance, when you ask me a question it's a
sort of yellowish-orangish pattern that I 'see'. Your greet-
ing was a kind of silvery thing- Now that you're just sitting
there listening to me, saying nothing, I associate you with
a deep, almost violet, blue."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     53

Sigmund shifted his gaze to the desk and stared at the
side panel.

Can he hear the recorder spinning inside? wondered
Render. And if he can, can he guess what it is and what
it's doing?

If so, the dog would doubtless tell Eileen—not that she
was unaware of what was now an accepted practice—
and she might not like being reminded that he considered
her case as therapy, rather than a mere mechanical adap-
tation process. If he thought it would do any good (he
smiled inwardly at the notion), be would talk to the dog
in private about it

Inwardly, he shrugged.

"I'll construct a rather elementary fantasy world then,"
he said finally, "and introduce you to some basic forms
today."

She smiled; and Render looked down at the myth who
crouched by her side, its tongue a piece of beefsteak
hanging over a picket fence.

Is he smiling too?

"Thank you," she said.

Sigmund wagged his tail.

"Well then," Render disposed of his cigarette near
Madagascar, "I'll fetch out the 'egg' now and test it. In
the meantime," he pressed an unobstrusive button, "per-
haps some music would prove relaxing."

She started to reply, but a Wagnerian overture snuffed
out the words. Render jammed the button again, and
there was a moment of silence during which he said,
**Heh heh. Thought Respighi was next."

It took two more pushes for him to locate some Ro-
man pines.

"You could have left him on," she observed. "I'm
quite fond of Wagner."

"No thanks," he said, opening the closet, "I'd keep
stepping in all those piles of leitmotifs."

The great egg drifted out into the office, soundless as
a cloud. Render heard a soft growl behind as he drew it
toward the desk. He turned quickly.

Like the shadow of a bird, Sigmund had gotten to his
feet, crossed the room, and was already circling the ma-
chine and sniffing at it—tail taut, ears flat, teeth bared.

"Easy, Sig," said Render. "It's an Omnichannel Neural   T & R Unit. It won't bite or anything like that. It's Just a
machine, like a car, or a teevee, or a dishwasher. That's
what we're going to use today to show Eileen what some
things look like."

"Don't like it," rumbled the dog.

"Why?"

Sigmund had no reply, so he stalked back to EUeen
and laid his head in her lap.

"Don't like it," he repeated, looking up at her.

"Why?"

"No words," he decided. "We go home now?"

"No," she answered him. "You're going to curl up in
the corner and take a nap, and I'm going to curl up in
that machine and do the same thing—sort of."

"No good," he said, tail drooping.

"Go on now," she pushed him, "lie down and behave
yourself."

He acquiesced, but he whined when Render blanked
the windows and touched the button which transformed
his desk into the operator's seat.

He whined once more—when the egg, connected now
to an outlet, broke in the middle and the top slid back
and up, revealing the interior.

Render seated himself. His chair became a contour
couch and moved in hallway beneath the console. He
sat upright and it moved back again, becoming a chair.
He touched a part of the desk and half the ceiling dis-
engaged itself, reshaped itself, and lowered to hover over-
head like a huge bell. He stood and moved around to
the side of the ro-womb. Respighi spoke of pines and
such, and Render disengaged an earphone from beneath
the egg and leaned back across his desk. Blocking one
ear with his shoulder and pressing the microphone to the
other, he played upon the buttons with his free hand.
Leagues of surf drowned the tone poem; miles of traffic
overrode it; a great clanging bell sent fracture lines run-
ning through it; and the feedback said: ". . . Now that
you are just sitting there listening to me, saying nothing,
I associate you with a deep, almost violet, blue...."

He switched to the face mask and monitored, one—
cinnamon, two—leaf mold, three—deep reptilian musk
. . . and down through thirst, and the tastes of honey and
vinegar and salt, and back on up through lilacs and wet
concrete, a before-the-storm whiff of ozone, and all the

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     55

basic olfactory and gustatory cues for morning, afternoon
and evening in the town.

The couch floated normally in its pool of mercury,
magnetically stabilized by the walls of the egg. He set the
tapes.

The ro-womb was in perfect condition.

"Okay," said Render, turning, "everything checks."

She was just placing her glasses atop her folded gar-
ments. She had undressed while Render was testing the
machine. He was perturbed by her narrow waist, her
large, dark-pointed breasts, her long legs. She was too
well-formed for a woman her height, he decided.

He realized though, as he stared at her, that his main
annoyance was, of course, the fact that she was his pa-
tient.

"Ready here," she said, and he moved to her side.

He took her elbow and guided her to the machine. Her
fingers explored its interior. As he helped her enter the
unit, he saw that her eyes were a vivid seagreen. Of this,
too, he disapproved.

"Comfortable?"

"Yes."

"Okay then, we're set. I'm going to close it now. Sweet
dreams."

The upper shell dropped slowly. Closed, it grew
opaque, then dazzling. Render was staring down at his
own distorted reflection.

He moved back in the direction of his desk.

Sigmund was on his feet, blocking the way.

Render reached down to pat his head, but the dog
jerked it aside.

"Take me, with," he growled.

"I'm afraid that can't be done, old fellow," said
Render. "Besides, we're not really going anywhere. We'll
just be dozing, right here, in this room."

The dog did not seem mollified.

"Why?"

Render sighed. An argument with a dog was about
the most ludicrous thing he could imagine when sober.

"Sig," he said, "I'm trying to help her learn what things
look like. You doubtless do a fine job guiding her around
in this world which she cannot see—but she needs to
know what it looks like now, and I'm going to show her."

"Then she, will not, need me."
"Of course she will." Render almost laughed. The pa-
thetic thing was here bound so closely to the absurd thing
that he could not help it. "I can't restore her sight," he
explained. "I'm just going to transfer her some sight-
abstractions—sort of lend her my eyes for a short time.
Savvy?"

"No," said the dog. "Take mine."

Render turned off the music.

The whole mutie-master relationship might be worth
six volumes, he decided, in German.

He pointed to the far corner.

"Lie down, over there, like Eileen told you. This isn't
going to take long, and when it's all over you're going to
leave the same way you came—you leading. Okay?"

Sigmund did not answer, but he turned and moved off
to the corner, tail drooping again.

Render seated himself and lowered the hood, the op-
erator's modified version of the ro-womb. He was alone
before the ninety white buttons and the two red ones.
The world ended in the blackness beyond the console.
He loosened his necktie and unbuttoned his collar.

He removed the helmet from its receptacle and
checked its leads. Donning it then, he swung the halt-
mask up over his lower face and dropped the darksheet
down to meet with it. He rested his right arm in the
sling, and with a single tapping gesture, he eliminated his
patient's consciousness.

A Shaper does not press white buttons consciously. He
wills conditions. Then deeply-implanted muscular reflexes
exert an almost imperceptible pressure against the sensi-
tive arm-sling, which glides into the proper position and
encourages an extended finger to move forward. A button
is pressed. The sling moves on.

Render felt a tingling at the base of his skull; he
smelled fresh-cut grass.

Suddenly he was moving up the great gray alley be-
tween the worlds.

After what seemed a long time. Render felt that he
was footed on a strange Earth. He could see nothing; it
was only a sense of presence that informed him he had
arrived. It was the darkest of all the dark nights he had
ever known.

He willed that the darkness disperse. Nothing hap-
pened.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     57

A part of his mind came awake again, a part he had
not realized was sleeping; he recalled whose world be had
entered.

He listened for her presence. He heard fear and an-
ticipation.

He willed color. First, red ...

He felt a correspondence. Then there was an echo.

Everything became red; he inhabited the center of an
infinite ruby.

Orange- Yellow . . .

He was caught in a piece of amber.

Green now, and he added the exhalations of a sultry
sea. Blue, and the coolness of evening.

He stretched his mind then, producing all the colors at
once. They came in great swirling plumes.

Then he tore them apart and forced a form upon
them.

An incandescent rainbow arced across the black sky.

He fought for browns and grays below him. Self-
luminescent, they appeared—in shimmering, shifting
patches.

Somewhere, a sense of awe. There was no trace of
hysteria though, so he continued with the Shaping.

He managed a horizon, and the blackness drained
away beyond it. The sky grew faintly blue, and he ven-
tured a herd of dark clouds. There was resistance to his
efforts at creating distance and depth, so he reinforced
the tableau with a very faint sound of surf. A transfer-
ence from an auditory concept of distance came slowly
then, as he pushed the clouds about. Quickly, he threw
up a high forest to offset a rising wave of acrophobia.

The panic vanished.

Render focused his attention on tall trees—oaks and
pines, poplars and sycamores. He hurled them about like
spears, in ragged arrays of greens and browns and yel-
lows, unrolled a thick mat of morning-moist grass,
dropped a series of gray boulders and greenish logs at
irregular intervals, and tangled and twined the branches
overhead, casting a uniform shade throughout the glen-

The effect was staggering. It seemed as if the entire
world was shaken with a sob, then silent.

Through the stillness he felt her presence. He had de-
cided it would be best to lay the groundwork quickly, to
set up a tangible headquarters, to prepare a field for operations. He could backtrack later, be could repair and
amend the results of the trauma in the sessions yet to
come; but this much, at least, was necessary for a be-
ginning.

With a start, he realized that the silence was not a
withdrawal. Eileen had made herself immanent in the
trees and the grass, the stones and the bushes; she was
personalizing their forms, relating them to tactile sensa-
tions, sounds, temperatures, aromas.

With a soft breeze, he stirred the branches of the trees.
Just beyond the bounds of seeing he worked out the
splashing sounds of a brook.

There was a feeling of joy. He shared it.

She was bearing it extremely well, so he decided to
extend the scope of the exercise. He let his mind wander
among the trees, experiencing a momentary doubling of
vision, during which time he saw an enormous hand rid-
ing in an aluminum carriage toward a circle of white.

He was beside the brook now and he was seeking her,
carefully,

He drifted with the water. He had not yet taken on a
form. The splashes became a gurgling as he pushed the
brook through shallow places and over rocks. At his in-
sistence, the waters became more articulate.

"Where are you?" asked the brook.

Here! Herel

Here!

. . . and here! replied the trees, the bushes, the stones,
the grass.

"Choose one," said the brook, as it widened, rounded
a mass of rock, then bent its way down a slope, heading
toward a blue pool.

/ cannot, was the answer from the wind.

"You must." The brook widened and poured into
the pool, swirled about the surface, then stilled itself and
reflected branches and dark clouds. "Nowl"

Very well, echoed the wood, in a moment.

The mist rose above the lake and drifted to the bank
of the pool.

"Now," tinkled the mist.

Here. then . ..

She had chosen a small willow. It swayed in the wind;

it trailed its branches in the water.

"Eileen Shallot," he said, "regard the lake."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     59

The breezes shifted; the willow bent.

It was not difficult for him to recall her face, her body.
The tree spun as though rootless. Eileen stood in the
midst of a quiet explosion of leaves; she stared, fright-
ened, into the deep blue mirror of Render's mind, the
lake,

She covered her face with her hands, but it could not
stop the seeing.

"Behold yourself," said Render.

She lowered her hands and peered downward. Then
she turned in every direction, slowly; she studied herself.
Finally:

"I feel I am quite lovely," she said. "Do I feel so be-
cause you want me to, or is it true?"

She looked all about as she spoke, seeking the Shaper.

"It is true," said Render, from everywhere.

"Thank you."

There was a swirl of white and she was wearing a
belted garment of damask. The light in the distance
brightened almost imperceptibly. A faint touch of pink
began at the base of the lowest cloudbank.

"What is happening there?" she asked, facing that di-
rection.

"I am going to show you a sunrise," said Render, "and
I shall probably botch it a bit—but then, it's my first
professional sunrise under these circumstances."

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Everywhere," he replied.

"Please take on a form so that I can see you."

"All right."

"Your natural form."

He willed that he be beside her on the bank, and he
was.

Startled by a metallic flash, he looked downward. The
world receded for an instant, then grew stable once again.
He laughed, and the laugh froze as he thought of some-
thing.

He was wearing the suit of armor which had stood
beside their table in the Partridge and Scalpel on the
night they met.

She reached out and touched it.

"The suit of armor by our table," she acknowledged,
running her fingertips over the plates and the junctures.
"I associated it with you that night."
". . . And you stuffed me into it just now," he com-
mented. "You're a strong-willed woman."

The armor vanished and he was wearing his gray-
brown suit and looseknit bloodclot necktie and a profes-
sional expression.

"Behold the real me," he smiled faintly. "Now, to the
sunset. I'm going to use all the colors. Watchi"

They seated themselves on the green park bench which
had appeared behind them, and Render pointed in the
direction he had decided upon as east.

Slowly, the sun worked through its morning attitudes.
For the first time in this particular world it shone down
like a god, and reflected off the lake, and broke the
clouds, and set the landscape to smouldering beneath the
mist that arose from the moist wood.

Watching, watching intently, staring directly into the
ascending bonfire, Eileen did not move for a long while,
nor speak. Render could sense her fascination.

She was staring at the source of all light; it reflected
back from the gleaming coin on her brow, like a single
drop of blood.

Render said, "That is the sun, and those are clouds,"
and he clapped his hands and the clouds covered the sun
and there was a soft rumble overhead, "and that is
thunder," he finished.

The rain fell then, shattering the lake and tickling their
faces, making sharp striking sounds on the leaves, then
soft tapping sounds, dripping down from the branches
overhead, soaking their garments and plastering their
hair. running down their necks and falling into their eyes,
turning patches of brown earth to mud.

A splash of lightning covered the sky, and a second
later there was another peal of thunder.

". . . And this is a summer storm," he lectured. "You
see how the rain affects the foliage and ourselves. What
you just saw in the sky before the thunderclap was light-
ning."

<i. . . Too much," she said. "Let up on it for a moment,
please."

The ram stopped instantly and the sun broke through
the clouds.

"I have the damndest desire for a cigarette," she said,
"but I left mine in another world."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     61

As she said it one appeared, already lighted, between
her fingers.

"It's going to taste rather flat," said Render strangely.

He watched her for a moment, then:

"I didn't give you that cigarette," he noted. "You
picked it from my mind."

The smoke laddered and spiraled upward, was swept
away.

". . . Which means that, for the second time today, I
have underestimated the pull of that vacuum in your
mind—in the place where sight ought to be. You are
assimilating these new impressions very rapidly. You're
even going to the extent of groping after new ones. Be
careful. Try to contain that impulse."

"It's like a hunger," she said.

"Perhaps we had best conclude this session now."

Their clothing was dry again. A bird began to sing.

"No, wait! Pleasel HI be careful. I want to see more
things."

"There is always the next visit," said Render. "But I
suppose we can manage one more. Is there something
you want very badly to see?"

"Yes. Winter. Snow."

"Okay," smiled the Shaper, "then wrap yourself in that
fur-piece...."

The afternoon slipped by rapidly after the departure of
his patient. Render was in a good mood. He felt emptied
and filled again. He had come through the first trial with-
out suffering any repercussions. He decided that he was
going to succeed. His satisfaction was greater than his
fear. It was with a sense of exhilaration that he returned
to working on his speech.

". . . And what is the power to hurt?" he inquired of
the microphone.

"We live by pleasure and we live by pain," he an-
swered himself. "Either can frustrate and either can en-
courage. But while pleasure and pain are rooted in
biology, they are conditioned by society: thus are values
to be derived. Because of the enormous masses of hu-
manity, hectically changing positions in space every day
throughout the cities of the world, there has come into
^   necessary being a series of totally inhuman controls upon
•^   these movements. Every day they nibble their way into
new areas—driving our cars, flying our planes, interview-
ing us, diagnosing our diseases—and 1 cannot even
venture a moral judgment upon these intrusions. They
have become necessary. Ultimately, they may prove sal-
utary.

"The point I wish to make, however, is that we are
often unaware of our own values. We cannot honestly
tell what a thing means to us until it is removed from
our life-situation. If an object of value ceases to exist,
then the psychic energies which were bound up in it are
released. We seek after new objects of value in which to
invest this—mana, if you like, or libido, if you don't
And no one thing which has vanished during the past
three or four or five decades was, in itself, massively
significant; and no new thing which came into being dur-
ing that time is massively malicious toward the people it
has replaced or the people it in some manner controls. A
society, though, is made up of many things, and when
these things are changed too rapidly the results are un-
predictable. An intense study of mental illness is often
quite revealing as to the nature of the stresses in the
society where the illness was made. If anxiety-patterns
fall into special groups and classes, then something of
the discontent of society can be learned from them. Karl
Jung pointed out that when consciousness is repeatedly
frustrated in a quest for values it will turn its search to
the unconscious; failing there, it will proceed to quarry
its way into the hypothetical collective unconscious. He
noted, in the postwar analyses of ex-Nazis, that the
longer they searched for something to erect from the
ruins of their lives—having lived through a period of
classical iconoclasm, and then seen their new ideals
topple as well—the longer they searched, the further
back they seemed to reach into the collective unconscious
of their people. Their dreams themselves came to take
on patterns out of the Teutonic mythos.

"This, in a much less dramatic sense, is happening to-
day. There are historical periods when the group ten-
dency for the mind to turn in upon itself, to turn back, is
greater than at other times. We are living in such a period
of Quixotism, in the original sense of the term. This is
because the power to hurt, in our time, is the power to
ignore, to baffle—and it is no longer the exclusive prop-
erty of human beings—'*

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     63

A buzz interrupted him then. He switched off the re-
corder. touched the phone-box.

"Charles Render speaking," he told it.

"This is Paul Charter," lisped the box. "I am head-
master at Dilling."

"Yes?"

The picture cleared. Render saw a man whose eyes were
set close together beneath a high forehead. The forehead
was heavily creased; the mouth twitched as it spoke.

"Well, 1 want to apologize again for what happened.
It was a faulty piece of equipment that caused—"

"Can't you afford proper facilities? Your fees are high
enough."

"It was a new piece of equipment. It was a factory
defect—"

"Wasn't there anybody in charge of the class?"

"Yes, but—"

"Why didn't he inspect the equipment? Why wasn't
he on hand to prevent the fall?"

"He was on hand, but it happened too fast for him to
do anything. As for inspecting the equipment for factory
defects, that isn't his job. Look, I'm very sorry. I'm
quite fond of your boy. I can assure you nothing like this
will ever happen again."

"You're right, there. But that's because I'm picking
him up tomorrow morning and enrolling him in a school
that exercises proper safety precautions."

Render ended the conversation with a flick of his fin-
ger. After several minutes had passed he stood and
crossed the room to his small wall safe, which was partly
masked, though not concealed, by a shelf of books. It
took only a moment for him to open it and withdraw a
jewel box containing a cheap necklace and a framed
photograph of a man resembling himself, though some-
what younger, and a woman whose upswept hair was
dark and whose chin was small, and two youngsters be-
tween them—the girl holding the baby in her arms and
forcing her bright bored smile on ahead. Render always
stared for only a few seconds on such occasions, fondling
the necklace, and then he shut the box and locked it
away again for many months.

Whump! Whump! went the bass. Tchg-tchg-tchga-tchg,
the gourds.
The gelatins splayed reds, greens, blues, and godawful
yellows about the amazing metal dancers.

HUMAN? asked the marquee.

ROBOTS? (immediately below).

COME SEE FOR YOURSELFl (across the bottom,
cryptically).

So they did.

Render and Jill were sitting at a microscopic table,
thankfully set back against a wall, beneath charcoal cari-
catures of personalities largely unknown (there being so
many personalities among the subcultures of a city of
fourteen million people). Nose crinkled with pleasure,
Jill stared at the present focal point of this particular sub-
culture, occasionally raising her shoulders to ear level to
add emphasis to a silent laugh or a small squeal, because
the performers were just too human—the way the ebon
robot ran his fingers along the silver robot's forearm as
they parted and passed....

Render alternated his attention between Jill and the
dancers and a wicked-looking decoction that resembled
nothing so much as a small bucket of whiskey sours
strewn with seaweed (through which the Kraken
might at any moment arise to drag some hapless ship
down to its doom).

"Charlie, I think they're really people!"

Render disentangled his gaze from her hair and bounc-
ing earrings.

He studied the dancers down on the floor, somewhat
below the table area, surrounded by music.

There could be humans within those metal shells. If
so, their dance was a thing of extreme skill. Though the
manufacture of sufficiently light alloys was no problem,
it would be some trick for a dancer to cavort so freely—
and for so long a period of time, and with such effortless-
seeming ease—within a head-to-toe suit of armor, with-
out so much as a grate or a click or a clank.

Soundless ...

They glided like two gulls; the larger, the color of
polished anthracite, and the other, like a moonbeam fall-
ing through a window upon a silk-wrapped manikin.

Even when they touched there was no sound—or if
there was, it was wholly masked by the rhythms of the
band,

Whump-whump! Tchga-tchg!

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     65

Render took another drink.

Slowly, it turned into an apache-dance. Render
checked his watch. Too long for normal entertainers, he
decided. They must be robots. As he looked up again
the black robot hurled the silver robot perhaps ten feet
and turned his back on her.

There was no sound of striking metal.

Wonder what a setup like that costs? he mused.

"Chdrlie! There was no sound! How do they do that?"

*Tve no idea," said Render.

The gelatins were yellow again, then red, then blue,
then green.

"You'd think it would damage their mechanisms,
wouldn't you?"

The white robot crawled back and the other swiveled
his wrist around and around, a lighted cigarette between
the fingers. There was laughter as he pressed it mechan-
ically to his lipless faceless face. The silver robot con-
fronted him. He turned away again, dropped the cigarette,
ground it out slowly, soundlessly, then suddenly turned
back to his partner. Would he throw her again? No ...

Slowly then. like the greatlegged birds of the East,
they recommenced their movement, slowly, and with
many turnings away.

Something deep within Render was amused, but he
was too far gone to ask it what was funny. So he went
looking for the Kraken in the bottom of the glass in-
stead.

Jill was clutching his biceps then, drawing his attention
back to the floor.

As the spotlight tortured the spectrum, the black ro-
bot raised the silver one high above his head, slowly,
slowly, and then commenced spinning with her in that
position—arms outstretched, back arched, legs scissored—
very slowly, at first. Then faster.

Suddenly they were whirling with an unbelievable
speed, and the gelatins rotated faster and faster.

Render shook his head to clear it.

They were moving so rapidly that they had to fall—
human or robot. But they didn't. They were a mandala.
They were a gray form uniformity. Render looked down.

Then slowing, and slower, slower. Stopped.

The music stopped.

Blackness followed. Applause filled it.
When the lights came on again the two robots were
standing statue-like, facing the audience. Very, very
slowly, they bowed.

The applause increased.

Then they turned and were gone.

The music came on and the light was clear again. A
babble of voices arose. Render slew the Kraken.

"What d'you think of that?" she asked him,

Render made his face serious and said: "Am I a man
dreaming I am a robot, or a robot dreaming I am a man?"
He grinned, then added: "I don't know."

She punched his shoulder gaily at that and he ob-
served that she was drunk.

"I am not." she protested. "Not much, anyhow. Not as
much as you."

"Still, I think you ought to see a doctor about it Like
me. Like now. Let's get out of here and go for a drive."

"Not yet, Charlie. I want to see them once more, huh?
Please?"

"If I have another drink I won't be able to see that
far."

"Then order a cup of coffee."

"Yaagh!"

"Then order a beer."

"I'll suffer without."

There were people on the dance floor now, but Ren-
der's feet felt like lead.

He lit a cigarette.

"So you had a dog talk to you today?"

"Yes. Something very disconcerting about that. . . .**

"Was she pretty?"

"It was a boy dog. And boy, was he uglyi"

"Silly. I mean his mistress."

"You know I never discuss cases, Jill."

"You told me about her being blind and about the
dog. AH I want to know is if she's pretty."

"Well . . .Yes and no." He bumped her under the
table and gestured vaguely. "Well, you know ..."

"Same thing all the way around," she told the waiter
who had appeared suddenly out of an adjacent pool of
darkness, nodded, and vanished as abruptly.

"There go my good intentions," sighed Render. "See
how you like being examined by a drunken sot, that's
all I can say."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     67

"You'll sober up fast, you always do. Hippocratics
and all that."

He sniffed, glanced at his watch.

"I have to be in Connecticut tomorrow. Pulling Pete
out of that damned school.. .."

She sighed, already tired of the subject.

"I think you worry too much about him. Any kid
can bust an ankle. It's part of growing up. I broke my
wrist when I was seven. It was an accident. It's not the
school's fault, those things sometimes happen."

"Like hell," said Render, accepting his dark drink
from the dark tray the dark man carried. "If they can't
do a good job, I'll find someone who can."

She shrugged.

"You're the boss. All I know is what I read in the

papers.

"—And you're still set on Davos, even though you
know you meet a better class of people at Saint Moritz?"
she added.

"We're going there to ski, remember? 1 like the runs
better at Davos."

"I can't score any tonight, can I?"

He squeezed her hand.

"You always score with me, honey."

And they drank then- drinks and smoked their ciga-
rettes and held their hands until the people left the
dance floor and filed back to their microscopic tables,
and the gelatins spun round and round, tinting clouds
of smoke from hell to sunrise and back again, and the
bass went whumpf

Tchga-tchgaf

"Oh, Charlie! Here they come again!"

The sky was clear as crystal. The roads were clean. The
snow bad stopped.

Jill's breathing was the breathing of a sleeper. The
S-7 raced across the bridges of the city. If Render sat
very still he could convince himself that only his body
was drunk; but whenever he moved his head the uni-
verse began to dance about him. As it did so, he imag-
ined himself within a dream, and Shaper of it all.

For one instant this was true. He turned the big clock
in the sky backward, smiling as he dozed. Another in-
stant and he was awake again, and unsmiling.

The universe had taken revenge for his presumption.
For one reknown moment with the helplessness which he
had loved beyond helping, it had charged him the price
of the lake-bottom vision once again; and as he had
moved once more toward the wreck at the bottom of
the world—like a swimmer, as unable to speak—he
heard, from somewhere high over the Earth, and filtered
down to him through the waters above the Earth, the
howl of the Fenris Wolf as it prepared to devour the
moon; and as this occurred, he knew that the sound was
as like to the trump of a judgment as the lady by his
side was unlike the moon. Every bit. In all ways. And he
was afraid.

Ill

". . . The plain, the direct, and the blunt. This is
Winchester Cathedral," said the guidebook. "With its
floor-to-ceiling shafts, like so many huge treetrunks,
it achieves a ruthless control over its spaces: the ceilings
are flat; each bay, separated by those shafts, is itself a
thing of certainty and stability. It seems, indeed, to re-
flect something of the spirit of William the Conqueror.
Its disdain of mere elaboration and its passionate dedi-
cation to the love of another world would make it seem.
too, an appropriate setting for some tale out of Mal-
lory... ."

"Observe the scalloped capitals," said the guide. "In
their primitive fluting they anticipated what was later to
become a common motif...."

"Faugh!" said Render—softly though, because he was
in a group inside a church.

"Shh'" said Jill (Fotlock—that was her real last
name) DeVille.

But Render was impressed as well as distressed.

Hating JiU's hobby though, had become so much of a
reflex with him that he would sooner have taken his
rest seated beneath an oriental device which dripped
water onto his head than to admit he occasionally en-
Joyed walking through the arcades and the galleries, the
passages and the tunnels, and getting ail out of breath
climbing up the high twisty stairways of towers.

So he ran his eyes over everything, burned everything
down by shutting them, then built the place up again out

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     69

of the still smouldering ashes of memory, all so that at a
later date he would be able to repeat the performance,
offering the vision to his one patient who could see only
in this manner. This building he disliked less than most.
Yes, he would take it back to her.

The camera in his mind photographing the surround-
ings, Render walked with the others, overcoat over his
arm, his fingers anxious to reach after a cigarette. He
kept busy ignoring his guide, realizing this to be the
nadir of all forms of human protest. As he walked
through Winchester he thought of his last two sessions
with Eileen Shallot. He recalled his almost unwilling
Adam-attitude as he had named all the animals passing
before them, led of course by the one she had wanted to
see, colored fearsome by his own unease. He had felt
pleasantly bucolic after boning up on an old Botany
text and then proceeding to Shape and name the flowers
of the fields.

So far they had stayed out of the cides, far away from
the machines. Her emotions were still too powerful at the
sight of the simple, carefully introduced objects to risk
plunging her into so complicated and chaotic a wilderness
yet; he would build her city slowly.

Something passed rapidly, high above the cathedral,
uttering a sonic boom. Render took Jill's hand in his for a
moment and smiled as she looked up at him. Knowing
she verged upon beauty, Jill normally took great pains to
achieve it. But today her hair was simply drawn back and
knotted behind her head, and her Ups' and her eyes
were pale; and her exposed ears were tiny and white and
somewhat pointed.

"Observe the scalloped capitals," he whispered. "In
their primitive fluting they anticipated what was later to
become a common motif."

"Faugh!" said she.

"Shh!" said a sunburned little woman nearby, whose
face seemed to crack and fall back together again as she
pursed and unpursed her lips.

Later as they strolled back toward their hotel. Render
said, "Okay on Winchester?"

"Ofcay on Winchester."

"Happy?"

"Happy."

"Good, then we can leave this afternoon."

70 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"All right."

"For Switzerland...."

She stopped and toyed with a button on his coat.

"Couldn't we just spend a day or two looking at some
old chateaux first? After all, they're just across the chan-
nel, and you could be sampling all the local wines while
I looked . . ."

"Okay," he said.

She looked up—a trifle surprised.

"What? No argument?" she smiled. "Where is your
fighting spirit?—to let me push you around like this?"

She took his arm then and they walked on as he said,
"Yesterday, while we were galloping about in the in-
nards of that oid castle, I heard a weak moan, and then
a voice cried out, 'For the love of God, Montresor!'
I think it was my fighting spirit, because I'm certain it
was my voice. I've given up der geist der stets verneint.
Pax vobiscum! Let us be gone to France. Alors!"

"Dear Rendy, it'll only be another day or two...."

"Amen," he said. "though my skis that were waxed
are already waning."

So they did that, and on the morn of the third day,
when she spoke to him of castles in Spain, be reflected
aloud that while psychologists drink and only grow angry,
psychiatrists have been known to drink, grow angry and
break things. Construing this as a veiled threat aimed at
the Wedgewoods she had collected, she acquiesced to his
desire to go skiing.

Free! Render almost screamed it.

His heart was pounding inside his head. He leaned
hard. He cut to the left. The wind strapped at his face; a
showed of ice crystals, like bullets of emery, fled by him,
scraped against his cheek.

He was moving. Aye—the world had ended as
Weissflujoch, and Dorftali led down and away from this
portal.

His feet were two gleaming rivers which raced across
the stark, curving plains; they could not be frozen in
their course. Downward. He flowed. Away from all the
rooms of the world. Away from the stifling lack of in-
tensity, from the day's hundred spoon-fed welfares, from
the killing pace of the forced amusements that hacked
at the Hydra, leisure; away.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     71

And as he fled down the run he felt a strong desire to
look back over his shoulder, as though to see whether the
world he had left behind and above had set one fear-
some embodiment of itself, like a shadow, to trail along
after him, hunt him down and drag him back to a warm
and well-lit coffin in the sky, there to be laid to rest with
a spike of aluminum driven through his will and a garland
of alternating currents smothering his spirit.

"I hate you," he breathed between clenched teeth, and
the wind carried the words back; and he laughed then,
for he always analyzed his emotions, as a matter of re-
flex; and he added, "Exit Orestes, mad, pursued by the
Furies .. ."

After a time the slope leveled out and he reached the
bottom of the run and had to stop.

He smoked one cigarette then and rode back up to the
top so that he could come down it again lor non-
therapeutic reasons.

That night he sat before a fire is the big lodge, feeling
its warmth soaking into his tired muscles. Jill massaged
his shoulders as he played Rorschach with the flames,
and he came upon a blazing goblet which was snatched
away from him in the same instant by the sound of his
name being spoken somewhere* across the Hall of the
Nine Hearths.

"Charles Render!" said the voice (only it sounded
more like "Shariz Runder"), and his head instantly
jerked in that direction, but his eyes danced with too
many afterimages for him to isolate the source of the call-
ing.

"Maurice?" he queried after a moment, "Bartelmetz?"

"Aye," came the reply, and then Render saw the fa-
miliar grizzled visage, set neckless and balding above
the red and blue shag sweater that was stretched merci-
lessly about the wine-keg rotundity of the man who now
picked his way in their direction, deftly avoiding
the strewn crutches and the stacked skis and the people
who, like Jill and Render, disdained sitting in chairs.

Render stood, stretching, and shook hands as he came
upon them.

"You've put on more weight," Render observed.
"That's unhealthy."

"Nonsense, it's alt muscle. How have you been, and

72 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

what are you up to these days?" He looked down at
Jill and she smiled back at him.

"This is Miss DeVille," said Render.

"Jill," she acknowledged.

He bowed slightly, finally releasing Render's aching
hand.

". . . And this is Professor Maurice Bartelmetz of
Vienna," finished Render, "a benighted disciple of all
forms of dialectical pessimism, and a very distinguished
pioneer in neuroparticipation—although you'd never guess
it to look at him. I had the good fortune to be his pupil
for over a year."

Bartelmetz nodded and agreed with him, taking in the
Schnapsflasche Render brought forth from a small plastic
bag. and accepting the collapsible cup which he filled to
the brim.

"Ah, you are a good doctor still," he sighed. "You have
diagnosed the case in an instant and you make the proper
prescription. Nozdrovial"

"Seven years in a gulp," Render acknowledged, refill-
ing their glasses.

"Then we shall make time more malleable by sipping
it."

They seated themselves on the floor, and the fire roared
up rhnnigh the great brick chimney as the logs burned
themselves back to branches, to twigs, to thin sticks, ring
by yearly ring.

Render replenished the fire.

"I read vour last book." said Bartelmetz finally, casu-
ally, "about four years ago."

Render reckoned that to be correct.

"Are you doing any research work these days?"

Render poked lazily at the fire.

"Yes," he answered, "sort of."

He glanced at Jili, who was dozing with her cheek
against the arm of the huge leather chair that held his
emergency hag, the planes of her face all crimson and
flickering shadow.

"I've hit upon a rather unusual subject and started
with a piece of jobbery I eventually intend to write
about."

"Unusual? In what way?"

"B ind from birth, for one thing."

"You're using the ONT&R?"

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     73

"Yes. She's going to be a Shaper."

"Verfluchteri—Are you aware of the possible reper-
cussions?"

"Of course."

"You've heard of unlucky Pierre?"

"No."

"Good, then it was successfully hushed. Pierre was a
philosophy student at the University of Paris, and was
doing a dissertation on the evolution of consciousness.
This past summer he decided it would be necessary for
him to explore the mind of an ape, for purposes of
comparing a moins-nausee mind with his own, I suppose.
At any rate, he obtained illegal access to an ONT&R and
to the mind of our hairy cousin. It was never ascertained
how far along he got in exposing the animal to the stimuli-
"bank, but it is to be assumed that such items as would not
be immediately trans-subjective between man and ape—
traffic sounds and so weiter—were what frightened the
creature. Pierre is still residing in a padded cell, and all
his responses are those of a frightened ape.

"So, while he did not complete his own dissertation,"
he finished, "he may provide significant material for
someone else's."

Render shook his head.

"Quite a story," he said softly .-"but I have nothing that
dramatic to contend with. I've found an exceedingly sta-
ble individual—a psychiatrist, in fact—one who's already
spent time in ordinary analysis. She wants to go into
neuroparticipation—but the fear of a sight-trauma was
what was keeping her out. I've been gradually exposing
her to a full range of visual phenomena. When I've fin-
ished she should be completely accommodated to sight, so
that she can give her full attention to therapy and not be
blinded by vision, so to speak. We've already had foul
sessions."

"And?"

". . . And it's working fine."

"You are certain about it?"

"Yes, as certain as anyone can be in these matters."

"Mm-hm," said Bartelmetz. "Tell me, do you find her
excessively strong-willed? By that I mean, say, perhaps
an obsessive-compulsive pattern concerning anything to
which she's been introduced so far?"

"No."

74 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"Has she ever succeeded in taking over control of the
fantasy?"

"No!"

"You lie," he said simply.

Render found a cigarette. After lighting it, he smiled.

"Old father, old artificer," he conceded, "age has not
withered your perceptiveness. I may trick me, but never
you.—Yes, as a matter of fact, she is very difficult to keep
under control. She is not satisfied just to see. She wants
to Shape things for herself already. It's quite understand-
able both to her and to me—but conscious apprehen-
sion and emotional acceptance never do seem to get
together on things. She has become dominant on several
occasions, but I've succeeded in resuming control almost
immediately. After all. I urn master of the bank."

"Hm," mused Bartelmetz. "Are you familiar with a
Buddhist text- -Shankara's Catechism?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Then 1 lecture you on it now. It posits—obviously not
for theraputic purposes—a true ego and a false ego. The
true ego is that part of man which is immortal and shall
proceed on to nirvana: the soul, if you like. Very good.
Well. the false ego, on the other hand, is the normal
mind, bound round with the illusions—the consciousness
of you and me and everyone we have ever known profes-
sionally. Good?—Good. Now, the stuff this false ego is
made up of they call skandhas. These include the feelings,
the perceptions, the aptitudes, consciousness itself, and
even the physical form. Very unscientific. Yes. Now they
are not the same thing as neuroses, or one of Mister
Ibsens life-lies, or an hallucination—no, even though they
are all wrong, being parts of a false thing to begin with.
Each uf the five skandhas is a part of the eccentricity that
we call identity—then on lop come the neuroses and all
the other messes which follow after and keep us in busi-
ness. Okay?—Okay. I give you this lecture because I
need a dramatic term for what 1 will say, because 1 wish
to say something dramatic. View the skandhas as lying at
the bottom of the pond; the neuroses, they are ripples on
the top of the water; the 'true ego,' if there is one, is buried
deep beneath the sand at the bottom. So. I'he ripples fill
up the-the—zwischenwelt—between the object and the
subject. The skaodhas are a pan of the subject, basic,

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     75

unique, the stuff of his being.—So far, you are with me?"

"With m;iny reservations."

"Good. Now I have defined my term somewhat, I will
use it. You are fooling around with skandhas. not simple
neuroses. You are attempting to adjust this woman's over-
all conception of herself and of the world. You are using
the ONT&R to do it. It is the same thing as fooling with
a psychotic or an ape. All may seem to go well. but—at
any moment, it is possible you may do something, show
her some sight, or some way of seeing which will break
in upon her selfhood, break a skandha—and pouf!—it
will he like breaking through the bottom of the pond. A
whirlpool will result, pulling you—where? I do not want
you for a patient, young man, young artificer, so I coun-
sel you not to proceed with this experiment. The ONT&R
should not be used in such a manner."

Render flipped his cigarette into the fire and counted
on his fingers:

"One," he said, "you are making a mystical mountain
out of a pebble. All I am doing is adjusting her conscious-
ness to accept an additional area of perception. Much of
it is simple transference work from the other senses—
Two, her emotions were quite intense initially because it
did involve a trauma—but we've passed that stage al-
ready. Now it is only a novelty 1o her. Soon it will be a
commonplace—Three. Eileen is a psychiatrist herself; she
is educated in these matters and deeply aware of the
delicate nature of what we are doing- - Four. her sense of
identity and her desires, or her skandhas, or whatever you
want to call them, are as firm as the Rock of Gibraltar.
Do you realize the intense application required for a blind
person to obtain the education she has obtained? It took
a will of ten-point steel and the emotional control of an
ascetic as well—"

"—And if something that strong should break, in a
timeless moment of anxiety." smiled Barlelmetz sadly,
"may the shades of Sigmund Freud and Karl Jung walk
by your side in the valley of darkness.

"—And five," he added suddenly, staring into Ren-
der's eyes. "Five," he ticked it off on one finger. "Is she
pretty?"

Render looked back into the fire.

"Very clever," sighed Bartelmetz. "I cannot tell
whether you are blushing or not, with the rosy glow of

76 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

the flames upon your face. I fear that you are, though,
which would mean that you are aware that you your-
self could be the source of the inciting stimulus. I shall
burn a candle tonight before a portrait of Adier and pray
that he give you the strength to compete successfully in
your duel with your patient."

Render looked at Jill, who was still sleeping. He
reached out and brushed a lock of her hair back into
place.

"Still," said Bartelmetz, "if you do proceed and all
goes well, I shall look forward with great interest to
the reading of your work. Did I ever tell you that I have
treated several Buddhists and never found a 'true ego'?"

Both men laughed.

Like me but not like me, that one on a leash, smelling
of fear, small, gray and unseeing. Rrowl and he'll
choke on his collar. His head is empty as the oven till.
She pushes the button and it makes dinner. Make talk
and they never understand, but they are like me. One
day I will kill one—why? . . . Turn here.

'Three steps. Up. Glass doors. Handle to right."

Why? Ahead, drop-shaft. Gardens under, down. Smells
nice, there. Grass, wet dirt, trees and clean air. I see.
Birds are recorded though. I see all. I.

"Dropshaft. Four steps."

Down Yes. Want to make loud noises in throat, feel
silly. Clean, smooth, many of trees. God . . . She likes
sitting on bench chewing leaves smelling smooth air.
Can't see them like me. Maybe now, some . . . ? No.

Can't Bad Sigmund me on grass, trees, here. Must
hold it. Pity. Best place .,.

"Watch for steps."

Ahead. To right, to left, to right, to left, trees and
grass now. Sigmund sees. Walking . . . Doctor with ma-
chine gives her his eyes. Rrowl and he will not choke.
No fearsmell.

Dig deep hole in ground, bury eyes. God is blind.
Sigmund to see. Her eyes now filled, and he is afraid of
teeth. Will make her to see and take her high up in the
sky to see, away. Leave me here, leave Sigmund with
none to see, alone- I will dig a deep hole in the ground ...

It was after ten in the morning when Jill awoke. She

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     77

did not have to turn her head to know that Render was
already gone. He never slept late. She rubbed her eyes,
stretched, turned onto her side and raised herself on her
elbow. She squinted at the clock on the bedside table,
simultaneously reaching for a cigarette and her lighter.

As she inhaled, she realized there was no ashtray.
Doubtless Render had moved it to the dresser because
he did not approve of smoking in bed. With a sigh that
ended in a snort she slid out of the bed and drew on her
wrap before the ash grew too long.

She bated getting up, but once she did she would per-
mit the day to begin and continue on without lapse
through its orderly progression of events.

"Damn him," she smiled. She had wanted her break-
fast in bed, but it was too late now.

Between thoughts as to what she would wear, she ob-
served an alien pair of skis standing in the corner. A
sheet of paper was impaled on one. She approached it.

"Join me?" asked the scrawl.

She shook her head in an emphatic negative and
felt somewhat sad. She had been on skis twice in her
life and she was afraid of them. She felt that she should
really try again, after his being a reasonably good sport
about the chateaux, but she could not even bear the mem-
ory of the unseemly downward'rushing—which, OD two
occasions, had promptly deposited her in a snowbank—
without wincing and feeling once again the vertigo that
had seized her during the attempts.

So she showered and dressed and went downstairs for
breakfast.

All nine fires were already roaring as she passed the
big hall and looked inside. Some red-faced skiers were
holding their hands up before the blaze of the central
hearth. It was not crowded though. The racks held only
a few pairs of dripping boots, bright caps hung on pegs,
moist skis stood upright in their place beside the door. A
few people were seated in the chairs set further back
toward the center "of the hall, reading papers, smoking,
or talking quietly. She saw no one she knew, so she
moved on toward the dining room.

As she passed the registration desk the old man who
worked there called out her name. She approached him
and smiled.

"Letter," he explained, turning to a .rack. "Here it

78 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

is," he announced, handing it to her. "Looks impor-
tant."

It had been forwarded three times, she noted. It was a
bulky brown envelope, and the return address was that
of her attorney.

"Thank you."

She moved off to a seat beside the big window that
looked out upon a snow garden, a skating rink, and a
distant winding trail dotted with figures carrying skis
over their shoulders. She squinted against the brightness
as she tore open the envelope.

Yes, it was final. Her attorney's note was accompanied
by a copy of the divorce decree. She had only recently
decided to end her legal relationship to Mister Fotlock,
whose name she had stopped using five years earlier,
when they had separated. Now that she had the thing she
wasn't sure exactly what she was going to do with it. It
would be a hell of a surprise for dear Rendy, though, she
decided. She would have to find a reasonably innocent
way of getting the information to him. She withdrew her
compact and practiced a "Well?" expression. Well, there
would be time for that later, she mused. Not too much
later, though . . . Her thirtieth birthday, like a huge black
cloud, filled an April but four months distant. Well . . .
She touched her quizzical lips with color, dusted more
powder over her mole, and locked the expression within
her compact for future use.

In the dining room she saw Doctor Bartelmetz, seated
before an enormous mound of scrambled eggs, great
chains of dark sausages, several heaps of yellow toast,
and a half-emptied flask of orange juice. A pot of coffee
steamed on the wanner at his elbow. He leaned slightly
forward as he ate, wielding his fork like a windmill blade.

"Good morning," she said.

He looked up.

"Miss DeVille—Jill . . . Good morning." He nodded
at the chair across from him. "Join me, please."

She did so, and when the waiter approached she
nodded and said, "I'll have the same thing, only about
ninety percent less."

She turned back to Bartelmetz.

"Have you seen Charles today?"

"Alas, I have not," he gestured, open-handed, "and I

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     79

wanted to continue our discussion while his mind was
still in the early stages of wakefulness and somewhat
malleable. Unfortunately," he took a sip of coffee, "he
who sleeps well enters the day somewhere in the middle
of its second act."

"Myself, I usually come in around intermission and
ask someone for a synopsis," she explained. "So why not
continue the discussion with me?—I'm always malleable,
and my skandhas are in good shape."

Their eyes met, and he took a bite of toast.
"Aye," he said, at length, "I had guessed as much.
Well—good. What do you know of Render's work?"
She adjusted herself ia the chair.

"Mm. He being a special specialist in a highly special-
ized area, I find it difficult to appreciate the few things he
does say about it. I'd like to be able to look inside other
people's minds sometimes—to see what they're thinking
about me, of course—but I don't think I could stand stay-
ing there very long. Especially," she gave a mock-
shudder, "the mind of somebody with—problems. I'm
afraid I'd be too sympathetic or too frightened or some-
thing. Then, according to what I've read—powl—like
sympathetic magic, it would be my problem.

"Charles never has problems though," she continued,
"at least, none that he speaks to me about. Lately
I've been wondering, though. That blind girl and her
talking dog seem to be too much with him."
'Talking dog?"

"Yes, her seeing-eye dog is one of those surgical mu-
tants."

"How interesting.... Have you ever met her?"
"Never."
"So," he mused.

"Sometimes a therapist encounters a patient whose
problems are so akin to his own that the sessions become
extremely mordant," he noted. "It has always been the
case with me when I treat a fellow-psychiatrist. Perhaps
Charles sees in this situation a parallel to something which
has been 'troubling him personally. I did not administer
his personal analysis. I do not know all the ways of his
mind, even though he was a pupil of mine for a long
while. He was always self-contained, somewhat reticent;

he could be quite authoritative on occasion, however.

80 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

—What are some of the other things which occupy his
attention these days?"

"His son Peter is a constant concern. He's changed the
boy's school five times in five years."

Her breakfast arrived. She adjusted her napkin and
drew her chair closer to the table.

"And he has been reading case histories of suicides
recently, and talking about them, and talking about
them, and talking about them."

"To what end?"

She shrugged and began eating.

"He never mentioned why," she said, looking up again.
"Maybe he's writing something...."

Bartelmetz finished his eggs and poured more coffee,

"Are you afraid of this patient of his?" he inquired.

"No .. . Yes," she responded, "I am."

"Why?"

"I am afraid of sympathetic magic," she said, flushing
slightly.

"Many things could fall under that heading."

"Many indeed," she acknowledged. And, after a mo-
ment, "We are united in our concern for his welfare and
in agreement as to what represents the threat. So, may
I ask a favor?"

"You may."

"Talk to him again," she said. "Persuade him to drop
the case."

He folded his napkin.

"I intend to do that after dinner," he stated, "because
I believe in the ritualistic value of rescue-motions.
They shall be made."

Dear Father-Image,

Yes, the school is fine, my ankle is getting that
way, and my classmates are a congenial lot. No, I
am not short on cash, undernourished, or having
difficulty fitting into the new curriculum. Okay?

The building I will not describe, as you have al-
ready seen the macabre thing. The grounds I cannot
describe, as they are currently residing beneath cold
white sheets. Brr! I trust yourself to be enjoying the
arts wint'rish. I do not share your enthusiasm for

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     81

summer's opposite, except within picture frames or
as an emblem on ice-cream bars.

The ankle inhibits my mobility and my roommate
has gone home for the weekend—both of which are
really blessings (saitb Pangloss), for I now have the
opportunity to catch up on some reading. I will do
so forthwith.

Prodigally,
Peter

Render reached down to pat the huge head. It accepted
the gesture stoically, then turned its gaze up to the Aus-
trian whom Render had asked for a light, as if to say,
"Must I endure this indignity?" The man laughed at the
expression, snapping shut the engraved lighter on which
Render noted the middle initial to be a small 'v.*

'Thank you," he said, and to the dog: "What is your
name?"

"Bismark," it growled.

Render smiled.

"You remind me of another of your kind," he told the
dog. "One Sigmund, by name, a companion and guide to
a blind friend of mine, in America."

"My Bismark is a hunter," said the young man. 'There
is no quarry that can outthink him, neither the deer nor
the big cats."

The dog's ears pricked forward and be stared up at
Render with proud, blazing eyes.

"We have hunted in Africa and the northern and
southwestern parts of America. Central America, too.
He never loses the trail. He never gives up. He is a beau-
tiful brute, and his teeth could have been made in
Solingen."

"You are indeed fortunate to have such a bunting com-
panion."

"I hunt," growled the dog. "I follow . . . Sometimes,
I have, the kill..,"

"You would not know of the one called Sigmund then,
or the woman he guides—Miss Eileen Shallot?" asked
Render.

The man shook his head.

"No, Bismark came to me from Massachusetts, but I
was never to the Center personally. I am not acquainted
with other mutie handlers."
"I see. Well, thank you for the light. Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon ..."

"Good, after, noon . .."

Render strolled on up the narrow street, hands in his
pockets. He had excused himself and not said where he
was going. This was because he had had no destination
in mind. Bartelmetz* second essay at counseling had al-
most led him to say things he would later regret. It was
easier to take a walk than to continue the conversation.

On a sudden impulse he entered a small shop and
bought a cuckoo clock which had caught his eye. He felt
certain that Bartelmetz would accept the gift in the proper
spirit. He smiled and walked on. And what was that let-
ter to JUl which the desk clerk had made a special trip
to their table to deliver at dinnertime? he wondered. It
had been forwarded three times, and its return address
was that of a law firm. JUl had not even opened it, but
had smiled, overtipped the old man, and tucked it into
her purse. He would have to hint subtly as to its contents.
His curiosity so aroused, she would be sure to tell him
out of pity.

The icy pillars of the sky suddenly seemed to sway
before him as a cold wind leaped down out of the north.
Render hunched his shoulders and drew his head further
below his collar. Clutching the cuckoo clock, he hurried
back up the street.

That night the serpent which holds its tail in its mouth
belched, the Fenris Wolf made a pass at the moon, the
little clock said "cuckoo" and tomorrow came on like
Manolete's last bull, shaking the gate of horn with the
bellowed promise to tread a river of lions to sand.

Render promised himself he would lay off the gooey
fondue.

Later, much later, when they skipped through the skies
in a kite-shaped cruiser. Render looked down upon the
darkened Earth dreaming its cities full of stars, looked
up at the sky where they were all reflected, looked about
him at the tape-screens watching all the people who
blinked into them, and at the coffee, tea and mixed drink
dispensers who sent their fluids forth to explore the in-
sides of the people they required to push their buttons,
then looked across at Jill, whom the old buildings had

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     83

compelled to walk among their walls—because he knew
she felt he should be looking at her then- felt his seat's
demand that he convert it into a couch, did so, and slept.

IV

Her office was full of flowers, and she liked exotic
perfumes. Sometimes she burned incense.

She liked soaking in overheated pools, walking through
falling snow, listening to too much music, played perhaps
too loudly, drinking five or six varieties of liqueurs (usu-
ally reeking of anise, sometimes touched with wormwood)
every evening. Her hands were soft and lightly freckled.
Her fingers were long and tapered. She wore no rings.

Her fingers traced and retraced the floral swellings on
the side of her chair as she spoke into the recording unit.

". . . Patient's chief complaints on admission were
nervousness, insomnia, stomach pains and a period of
depression. Patient has had a record of previous admis-
sions for short periods of time. He had been in this hos-
pital in 1995 for a manic depressive psychosis, depressed
type, and he returned here again, 2-3-96. He was in an-
other hospital, 9-20-97. Physical examination revealed a
BP of 170/100. He was normally developed and well-
nourished on the date of examination, 12-11-98- On this
date patient complained of chronic backache, and there
was noted some moderate symptoms of alcohol with-
drawal. Physical examination further revealed no pa-
thology except that the patient's tendon reflexes were
exaggerated but equal. These symptoms were the result
of alcohol withdrawal. Upon admission he was shown to
be not psychotic, neither delusional nor hallucinated. He
was well-oriented as to place, time and person. His
psychological condition was evaluated and he was found
to be somewhat grandiose and expansive and more than
a little hostile. He was considered a potential trouble
maker. Because of his experience as a cook, he was as- ^
signed to work in the kitchen. His general condition then
showed definite improvement. He is less tense and is
cooperative. Diagnosis: Manic depressive reaction (ex-
ternal precipitating stress unknown). The degree of psy-
chiatric impairment is mild. He is considered competent.
To be continued on therapy and hospitalization."

She turned off the recorder then and laughed. The
sound frightened her. Laughter is a social phenomenon
and she was alone. She played back the recording then.
chewing on the corner of her handkerchief while the
soft, clipped words were returned to her. She ceased to
hear them after the first dozen or so.

When the recorder stopped talking she turned it off.
She was alone. She was very alone. She was so damned
alone that the little pool of brightness which occurred when
she stroked her forehead and faced the window—that
little pool of brightness suddenly became the most im-
portant thing in the world. She wanted it to be immense.
She wanted it to be an ocean of light. Or else she wanted
to grow so small herself that the effect would be the
same: she wanted to drown is it.

It had been three weeks, yesterday ...

loo long, she decided, I should have waited. No!
Impossible! But what if he goes as Riscomb went? Nol
He won't. He would not. Nothing can hurt him. Never.
He is all strength and armor. But—but we should have
waited till next month to start. Three weeks . . . Sight
withdrawal—that's what it is. Are she memories fading?
Are they weaker? (What does a tree look like? Or a
cloud—I can't remember! What is red? What is green?
God! It's hysterical! I'm watching and I can't stop it!—
Take a pill! A pill!

Her shoulders began to shake. She did not take a pill
though, but bit down harder on the handkerchief until
her sharp teeth tore through its fabric.

"Beware," she recited a personal beatitude, "those who
hunger and thirst after justice, for we wi7/ be satisfied. -

"And beware the meek," she continued, "for we shall
attempt to inherit the Earth.

"And beware . . ."

There was a brief buzz from the phone-box. She put
away her handkerchief, composed her face, turned the
unit on.

"Hello ... ?"

"Eileen, I'm back. How've you been?"

"Good, quite well in fact. How was your vacation?"

"Oh, I can't complain. I had it coming for a long time.
I guess I deserve it. Listen, I brought some things back to
show you—like Winchester Cathedral. You want to
come in this week? I can make it any evening.'*

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     85

Tonight. No. I want it too badly. It will set me back if
he sees . ..

"How about tomorrow night?" she asked. "Or the one
after?"

"Tomorrow will be fine," he said. "Meet you at the
P & S, around seven?"

"Yes. that would be pleasant. Same table?"

"Why not?—I'll reserve it."

"All right. I'll see you then."

"Good-bye."

The connection was broken.

Suddenly, then, at that moment, colors swirled again
through her head; and she saw trees—oaks and pines,
poplars and sycamores—great, and green and brown,
and iron-colored; and she saw wads of fleecy clouds,
dipped in paintpots, swabbing a paste! sky; and a burn-
ing sun, and a small willow tree, and a lake of a deep,
almost violet, blue. She folded her torn handkerchief and
put it away.

She pushed a button beside her desk and music filled
the office: Scriabin. Then she pushed another button and
replayed the tape she had dictated, half-listening to each.

Pierre sniffed suspiciously at the food. The attendant
moved away from the tray and stepped out into the hall,
locking the door behind him- The enormous salad waited
on -the floor. Pierre approached cautiously, snatched a
handful of lettuce, gulped it.

He was afraid.

// only the steel would stop crashing and crashing
against steel, somewhere in that dark night ... If only . . .

Sigmund rose to his feet, yawned, stretched. His hind
legs trailed out behind him for a moment, then he
snapped to attention and shook himself. She would be
coming home soon. Wagging his tail slowly, he glanced
up at the human-level clock with the raised numerals,
verified his feelings, then crossed the apartment to the
teevee. He rose onto his hind legs, rested one paw against
the table and used the other to turn on the set.
It was nearly time for the weather report and the roads
would be icy.

"I have driven through countrywide graveyards," wrote
Render, "vast forests of stone that spread further every  day.

"Why does man so zealously guard his dead? Is it be-
cause this is the monumentally democratic way of im-
mortalization, the ultimate affirmation of the power to
hurt—that is to say, life—and the desire that it continue
on forever? Unamuno has suggested that this is the case.
If it is, then a greater percentage of the population ac-
tively sought immortality last year than ever before in
history... .*'

Tch-tchg, tchga-tchgt

"Do you think they're really people?"

"Naw, they're too good."

The evening was starglint and soda over ice. Render
wound the S-7 into the cold sub-subcellar, found his park-
ing place, nosed into it.

There was a damp chill that emerged from the con-
crete to gnaw like rats* teeth at their flesh. Render guided
her toward the lift, their breath preceding them in dis-
solving clouds.

"A bit of a chill in the air," he noted.

She nodded, biting her lip.

Inside the lift, he sighed, unwound his scarf, lit a ciga-
rette.

"Give me one, please," she requested, smelling the

tobacco.

He did.

They rose slowly, and Render leaned against the wall,
puffing a mixture of smoke and crystallized moisture.

"I met another routie shep," he recalled, "in Switzer-
land. Big as Sigmund. A hunter though, and as Prussian
as they come," he grinned.

"Sigmund likes to hunt, too," she observed. "Twice
every year we go up to the North Woods and I turn him
loose. He's gone for days at a time, and he's always quite

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     87

happy when he returns. Never says what he's done, but
he's never hungry. Back when I got him I guessed that he
would need vacations from humanity to stay stable. I
think I was right."

The lift stopped, the door opened and they walked
out into the hall, Render guiding her again.

Inside his office, he poked at the thermostat and warm
air sighed through the room. He hung their coats in the
inner office and brought the great egg out from its nest
behind the wall. He connected it to an outlet and moved
to convert his desk into a control panel.

"How long do you think it will take?" she asked, run-
ning her fingertips over the smooth, cold curves of the
egg. "The whole thing, I mean. The entire adaptation to
seeing."

He wondered.

"I have no idea," he said, "no idea whatsoever, yet.
We got off to a good start, but there's still a lot of work to
be done. I think I'll be able to make a good guess in an-
other three months."

She nodded wistfully, moved to his desk, explored the
controls with finger strokes like ten feathers.

"Careful you don't push any of those."

"I won't. How long do you think it will take me to
learn to operate one?"          *

"Three months to leam it. Six, to actually become pro-
ficient enough to use it on anyone, and an additional six
under close supervision before you can be trusted on your
own. —About a year altogether."

"Uh-huh." She chose a chair.

Render touched the seasons to life, and the phases of
day and night, the breath of the country, the city, the
elements that raced naked through the skies, and all the
dozens of dancing cues he used to build worlds. He
smashed the clock of time and tasted the seven or so ages
of man,

"Okay," he turned, "everything is ready."

It came quickly, and with a minimum of suggestion on
Render's part. One moment there was grayness. Then a
dead-white fog. Then it broke itself apart, as though a
quick wind had risen, although he neither heard nor felt a
wind.

He stood beside the willow tree beside the lake, and
she stood half-hidden among the branches and the lat-
tices of shadow. The sun was slanting its way into eve-
ning.

"We have come back," she said, stepping out, leaves
in her hair. "For a time I was afraid it had never hap-
pened, but I see it all again, and I remember now."

"Good," he said. "Behold yourself." And she looked
into the lake.

"I have  not  changed,"  she  said.  "I  haven't
changed... .'*

"No."

"But you have," she continued, looking up at him.
"You are taller, and there is something different. . . ."

"No," he answered.

"I am mistaken," she said quickly, "I don't under-
stand everything I see yet."

"I will, though."

"Of course."

"What are we going to do?"

"Watch," he instructed her.

Along a flat, no-cotored river of road she just then
noticed beyond the trees, came the car. It came from the
farthest quarter of the sky, skipping over the mountains,
buzzing down the hills, circling through the glades, and
splashing them with the colors of its voice—the gray and
the silver of synchronized potency—and the lake shivered
from its sounds, and the car stopped a hundred feet away,
masked by the shrubberies; and it waited. It was the S-7.

"Come with me," he said, taking her hand. "We're
going for a ride."

They walked among the trees and rounded the final
cluster of bushes. She touched the sleek cocoon, its an-
tennae, its tires, its windows—and the windows trans-
pared as she did so. She stared through them at the
inside of the car, and she nodded.

"It is your Spinner."

"Yes." He held the door for her. "Get in. We'll return
to the club. The time is now. The memories are fresh.
and they should be reasonably pleasant, or neutral."

"Pleasant," she said, getting in.

He closed the door, then circled the car and entered.
She watched as he punched imaginary coordinates. The
car leaped ahead and he kept a steady stream of trees
flowing by them. He could feel the rising tension, so he

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     89

did not vary the scenery. She swiveled her seat and
studied the interior of the car.

"Yes," she finally said, "I can perceive what every-
thing is."

She stared out the window again. She looked at the
rushing trees. Render stared out and looked upon rush-
ing anxiety patterns. He opaqued the windows.

"Good," she said, "thank you. Suddenly it was too
much to see—all of it, moving past like a ..."

"Of course," said Render, maintaining the sensations
of forward motion. "I'd anticipated that You're getting
tougher, though."

After a moment, "Relax," he said, "relax now," and
somewhere a button was pushed, and she relaxed, and
they drove on, and on and on, and finally the car began
to slow, and Render said, "Just for one nice, slow glimpse
now, look out your window."

She did.

He drew upon every stimulus in the bank which could
promote sensations of pleasure and relaxation, and he
dropped the city around the car, and the windows be-
came transparent, and she looked out upon the profiles
of towers and a block of monolithic apartments, and then
she saw three rapid cafeterias, an entertainment palace,
a drugstore, a medical center of yellow brick with an
aluminum Caduceus set above its arehway, and a glassed-
in high school, now emptied of its pupils, a fifty-pump
gas station, another drugstore, and many more cars,
parked or roaring by them, and people, people moving in
and out of the doorways and walking before the buildings
and getting into the cars and getting out of the cars; and it
was summer, and the light of late afternoon filtered down
upon the colors of the city and the colors of the garments
the people wore as they moved along the boulevard, as
they loafed upon the terraces, as they crossed the bal-
conies, leaned on balustrades and windowsills, emerged
from a corner kiosk, entered one, stood talking to one
another; a woman walking a poodle rounded a corner;

rockets went to and fro in the high sky.

The world fell apart then and Render caught the
pieces.

He maintained an absolute blackness, blanketing
every sensation but that of their movement forward.

After a time a dim light occurred, and they were still
seated in the Spinner, windows blanked again, and the
air as they breathed it became a soothing unguent.

"Lord," she said, "the world is so filled. Did I really see
all of that?"

"1 wasn't going to do that tonight, but you wanted me
to. You seemed ready."

"Yes," she said, and the windows became transparent
again. She turned away quickly.

"It's gone," he said. "I only wanted to give you a
glimpse."

She looked, and it was dark outside now, and they
were crossing over a high bridge. They were moving
slowly. There was no other traffic. Below them were the
Flats, where an occasional smelter flared like a tiny,
drowsing volcano, spitting showers of orange sparks
skyward; and there were many stars: they glistened on
the breathing water that went beneath the bridge; they
silhouetted by pinprick the skyline that hovered dimly be-
low its surface. The slanting struts of the bridge marched
steadily by.

"You have done it," she said, "and I thank you."
Then; "Who are you, really?" (He must have wanted
her to ask that.)

"I am Render," he laughed. And they wound their
way through a dark, now-vacant city, coming at last to
their club and entering the great parking dome.

Inside, he scrutinized all her feelings, ready to banish
the world at a moment's notice. He did not feel he would
have to. though.

They left the car, moved ahead. They passed into the
club. which he had decided would not be crowded to-
night. They were shown to their table at the foot of the
bar in the smalt room with the suit of armor, and they
sat down and ordered the same meal over again.

"No," he said, looking down, "it belongs over there."

The suit of armor appeared once again beside the
table, and he was once again inside his gray suit and
black tie and silver tie clasp shaped like a tree limb.

They laughed.

"I'm JUS! not the type to wear a tin suit, so I wish
you'd stop seeing me that way."

"I'm sorry," she smiled. "I don't know how I did that,
or why."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     91

"I do, and I decline the nomination. Also, I caution
you once again. You are conscious of the fact that this is
ail an illusion. I had to do it that way for you to get the
full benefit of the thing. For most of my patients though,
it is the real item while they are experiencing it. It makes
a counter-trauma or a symbolic sequence even more pow-
erful. You are aware of the parameters of the game,
however, and whether you want it or not this gives you
a different sort of control over it than I normally have to
deal with. Please be careful."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."
"I know. Here comes the meal we just had."
"Ugh! It looks dreadful! Did we eat all that stuff?"
"Yes," he chuckled. "That's a knife, that's a fork,
that's a spoon. That's roast beef, and those are mashed
potatoes, those are peas, that's butter ..."
"Goodness! I don't feel so well."

". . . And those are the salads, and those are the
salad dressings. This is a brook trout—mm! These are
French fried potatoes. This is a bottle of wine. Hmm—
let's see—Romanee-Conti, since I'm not paying for it—
and a bottle of Yquem for the trou—Hey!"
The room was wavering.

He bared the table, he banisjied the restaurant. They
were back in the glade. Through the transparent fabric
of the world he watched a hand moving along a panel.
Buttons were being pushed. The world grew substantial
again. Their emptied table was set beside the lake now,
and it was still nighttime and summer, and the tablecloth
was very white under the glow of the giant moon that
hung overhead.

"That was stupid of me," he said. "Awfully stupid. I
should have introduced them one at a time. The actual
sight of basic, oral stimuli can be very distressing to a
person seeing them for the first time. I got so wrapped
up in the Shaping that I forgot the patient, which is just
dandy! I apologize."

"I'm okay now. Really I am."
He summoned a cool breeze from the lake.
". . . And that is the moon," he added lamely.
She nodded, and she was wearing a tiny moon in the
center of her forehead; it glowed like the one above
them, and her hair and dress were all of silver.
The bottle of Romanee-Conti stood on the table, and
two glasses.

"Where did that come from?"

She shrugged. He poured out a glassful.

"It may taste kind of flat," he said.

"It doesn't. Here—" She passed it to him.

As he sipped it he realized it had a taste—a fruite such
as might be quashed from the grapes grown in the Isles
of the Blest, a smooth, muscular charnu, and a capiteux
centrifuged from the fumes of a field of burning poppies.
With a start, he knew that his hand must be traversing
the route of the perceptions, symphonizing the sensual
cues of a transference and a counter-transference which
had come upon him all unaware, there beside the lake.

"So it does," he noted, "and now it is time we
returned."

"So soon? 1 haven't seen the cathedral yet... .**

"So soon."

He willed the world to end, and it did.

"It is cold out there," she said as she dressed, "and
dark."

"I know. I'll mix us something to drink while I clear
the unit."

"Fine."

He glanced at the tapes and shook his head. He
crossed to his bar cabinet.

"It's not exactly Romanee-Conti," he observed, reach-
ing for a bottle.

"So what? I don't mind."

Neither did he, at that moment. So he cleared the unit,
they drank their drinks, he helped her into her coat
and they left.

As they rode the lift down to the sub-sub he willed
the world to end again, but it didn't.

Dad,

I hobbled from school to taxi and taxi to space-
port, for the local Air Force Exhibit—Outward, it
was called. (Okay, I exaggerated the hobble. It got
me extra attention though.) The whole bit was
aimed at seducing young manhood into a five-year
hitch, as I saw it. But it worked. I wanna Join up I
wanna go Out There. Think they'll take me when

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     (

I'm old enuff? I mean take me Out—not some
crummy desk job. Think so?

I do.

There was this damn lite colonel ('scuse the
French) who saw this kid lurching around and
pressing his nose 'gainst the big windowpanes, and
he decided to give him the subliminal sell. Greati
He pushed me through the gallery and showed me
all the pitchers of AF triumphs, from Moonbase to
Marsport. He lectured me on the Great Traditions
of the Service, and marched me into a flic room
where the Corps had good clean fun on tape, wres-
tling one another in null-G "where it's all skill and
no brawn," and making tinted water sculpture-work
way in the middle of the air and doing dismounted
drill on the skin of a cruiser. Oh joy!

Seriously though, I'd like to be there when they
hit the Outer Five—and On Out. Not because of the
bogus balonus in the throwaways, and suchlike crud,
but because I think someone of sensibility should
be along to chronicle the thing in the proper way.
You know, raw frontier observer. Francis Parkman.
Mary Austin, like that. So I decided I'm going.

The AF boy with the. chicken stuff on his
shoulders wasn't in the least way patronizing, gods
be praised. We stood on the balcony and watched
ships lift off and he told me to go forth and study real
hard and I might be riding them someday. I did not
bother to tell him that I'm hardly intellectually de-
ficient and that I'll have my B.A. before I'm old
enough to do anything with it, even join his Corps.
I just watched the ships lift off and said, "Ten years
from now I'll be looking down, not up." Then he
told me how hard his own training had been, so I
did not ask howcum he got stuck with a lousy dirt-
side assignment like this one. Glad I didn't, now I
think on it. He looked more like one of their ads
than one of their real people. Hope I never look
like an ad.

Thank you for the monies and the warm sox and
Mozart's String Quintets, which I'm hearing right
now. I wanna put in my bid for Luna instead of
Europe next summer. Maybe . . . ? Possibly . . . ?

94     THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

Contingently . . . ? Huh?—If I can smash that new
test you're designing for me . . . ? Anyhow, please
think about it.

Your son,
Pete

"Hello. State Psychiatric Institute."

"I'd like to make an appointment for an examination."

"Just a moment. I'll connect you with the Appoint-
ment Desk."

"Hello. Appointment Desk."

"I'd tike to make an appointment for an examination."

"Just a moment... What sort of examination."

"I want to see Doctor Shallot, Eileen Shallot. As soon
as possible."

"Just a moment. 1*11 have to check her schedule . . .
Could you make it at two o'clock next Tuesday?"

"That would be just fine."

"What is the name, please?"

"DeVille. Jill DeVille-

"All right. Miss DeVille. That's two o'clock, Tuesday."

"Thank you."

The man walked beside the highway. Cars passed along
the highway. The cars in the high-acceleration lane
blurred by.

Traffic was light.

It was 10;30 in the morning, and cold.

The man's fur-lined collar was turned up, his hands
were in his pockets, and he leaned into the wind. Beyond
the fence, the road was clean and dry.

The morning sun was buried in clouds. In the dirty
light, the man could see the tree a quarter mile ahead.

His pace did not change. His eyes did not leave the
tree. The small stones clicked and crunched beneath his
shoes.

When he reached the tree he took off his jacket and
folded it neatly.

He placed it upon the ground and climbed the tree.

As be moved out onto the limb which extended over
the fence, he looked to see that no traffic was approach-
ing. Then he seized the branch with both hands, lowered

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     95

himself, hung a moment, and dropped onto the highway.

It was a hundred yards wide, the eastbound half of
the highway.

He glanced west, saw there was still no traffic coming
his way, then began to walk toward the center island. He
knew he would never reach it. At this time of day the
cars were moving at approximately one hundred-sixty
miles an hour in the high-acceleration lane. He walked
on.

A car passed behind him. He did not look back. If the
windows were opaqued, as was usually the case, then the
occupants were unaware he had crossed their path. They
would hear of it later and examine the front end of their
vehicle for possible sign of such an encounter.

A car passed in front of him. Its windows were clear.
A glimpse of two faces, their mouths made into 0's, was
presented to him, then torn from his sight. His own face
remained without expression. His pace did not change.
Two more care rushed by, windows darkened. He had
crossed perhaps twenty yards of highway.

Twenty-five...

Something in the wind, or beneath his feet, told him
it was coming. He did not look.

Something in the corner ofJiis eye assured him it was
coming. His gait did not alter.

Cecil Green had the windows transpared because he
liked it that way. His left hand was inside her blouse and
her skirt was piled up on her lap, and his right hand was
resting on the lever which would lower the seats. Then
she pulled away, making a noise down inside her throat.

His head snapped to the left.

He saw the walking man.

He saw the profile which never turned to face him
fully. He saw that the man's gait did not alter.

Then he did not see the roan.

There was a slight jar, and the windshield began clean-
ing itself. Cecil Green raced on.

He opaqued the windows.

"How ...?'* he asked after she was in his arms again,
and sobbing.

"The monitor didn't pick him up...."

"He must not have touched the fence...."

"He must have been out of his mindl"

"Still, he could have picked an easier way."

96     THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

It could have been any face . . . Mine?
Frightened, Cecil lowered the seats.

Charles Render was writing the "Necropolis" chapter
for The Missing Link is Man. which was to be his first
book in over four years. Since his return he had set aside
every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon to work on it,
isolating himself in his office, filling pages with a chaotic
longhand.

"There are many varieties of death, as opposed to
dying . . ." he was writing, just as the intercom buzzed
briefly, then long, then briefly again.

"Yes?" he asked it, pushing down on the switch.

"You have a visitor," and there was a short intake of
breath between "a" and "visitor."

He slipped a small aerosol into his side pocket, then
rose and crossed the office.

He opened the door and looked out.

"Doctor ... Help . .."

Render took three steps, then dropped to one knee.

"What's the matter?"

"Come—she is ... sick," he growled.

"Sick? How? What's wrong?"

"Don't know. You come."

Render stared into the unhuman eyes.

"What kind of sick?" he insisted.

"Don't know," repeated the dog. "Won't talk. Sits.
I... feel, she is sick."

"How did you get here?"

"Drove. Know the co, or, din, ates . . . Left car, out-
side."

"I'll call her right now." Render turned.

"No good. Won't answer."

He was right.

Render returned to his inner office for his coat and
medkit. He glanced out the window and saw where her
car was parked, far below, just inside the entrance to the         'r.
marginal, where the monitor had released it into manual        ^
control. If no one assumed that control a car was auto-         H;,
matically parked in neutral. The other vehicles were
passed around it.

So simple even a dog can drive one, he reflected. Bet-
ter get downstairs before a cruiser comes along. It's prob-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     97

ably reponed itself stopped there already. Maybe not,
though. Might still have a few minutes grace.

He glanced at the huge clock.

"Okay, Sig," he called out. "Let's go."

They took the lift to the ground floor, left by way of
the front entrance and hurried to the car.

Its engine was still idling.

Render opened the passengerside door and Sigmund
leaped in. He squeezed by him into the driver's seat
then, but the dog was already pushing the primary coor-
dinates and the address tabs with his paw.

Looks like I'm in the wrong seat.

He lit a cigarette as the car swept ahead into a
U-underpass. It emerged on the opposite marginal, sat
poised a moment, then joined the traffic flow. The dog di-
rected the car into the high-acceleration lane.

"Oh," said the dog, "oh."

Render felt like patting his head at that moment, but
he looked at him, saw that his teeth were bared, and
decided against it.

"When did she start acting peculiar?" he asked.

"Came home from work. Did not eat. Would not an-
swer me when I talked. Just sits."

"Has she ever been like this before?"

"No."

What could have precipitated it?—But maybe she just
had a bad day. After all, he's only a dog—sort of. —No.
He'd hnow. But what, then?

"How was she yesterday—and when she left home this
morning?"

"Like always."

Render tried calling her again. There was still no an-
swer.

"You did, it," said the dog.

"What do you mean?"

"Eyes. Seeing. You. Machine. Bad."

"No," said Render, and his hand rested on the unit of
stun-spray in his pocket.

"Yes," said the dog, turning to him again. "You will,
make her well... ?"

"Of course," said Render.

Sigmund stared ahead again.

Render felt physically exhilarated and mentally slug-
gish. He sought the confusion factor. He had had these

98 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

feelings about the case since that first session. There was
something very unsettling about Eileen Shallot; a com-
bination of high intelligence and helplessness, of deter-
mination and vulnerability, of sensitivity and bitterness.

Do I find that especially attractive?—No. It's just the
counter-transference, damn it!

"You smell afraid," said the dog.

"Then color me afraid," said Render, "and turn the
page."

they slowed for a series of turns, picked up speed
again, slowed again, picked up speed again. Finally, they
were traveling along a narrow section of roadway
through a semi-residential area of town. The car turned
up a side street, proceeded about half a mile further,
clicked softly beneath its dashboard, and turned into the
parking lot behind a high brick apartment building. The
click must have been a special servomech which took
over from the point where the monitor released it, be-
cause the car crawled across the lot, headed into its
transparent parking stall, then stopped. Render turned off
the ignition.

Sigmund had already opened the door on his side.
Render followed him into the building, and they rode the
elevator to the fiftieth floor. The dog dashed on ahead up
the hallway, pressed his nose against a plate set low in a
doorframe and waited. After a moment, the door swung
several inches inward. He pushed it open with his shoul-
der and entered. Render followed, closing the door be-
hind him.

The apartment was large, its walls pretty much un-
adorned, its color combinations unnerving. A great library
of tapes filled one corner; a monstrous combination-
broadcaster stood beside it. There was a wide bow-
legged table set in front of the window, and a low couch
along the right-hand wall; there was a closed door beside
the couch: an archway to the left apparently led to other
rooms. Eileen sat in an overstuffed chair in the far corner
by the window. Sigmund stood beside the chair.

Render crossed the room and extracted a cigarette
from his case. Snapping open his lighter, he held
the flame until her head turned in that direction.

"Cigarette?" he asked.

"Charles?"

"Right."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT     99

"Yes, thank you. I will."

She held out her hand, accepted the cigarette, put it to
her lips.

"Thanks. —What are you doing here?"

"Social call. I happened to be in the neighborhood."

"I didn't hear a buzz or a knock."

"You must have been dozing. Sig let me in."

"Yes, I must have." She stretched. "What time is it?"

"It's close to four-thirty."

"I've been home over two hours then. . . . Must have
been very tired. .. "

"How do you feel now?"

"Fine," she declared. "Care for a cup of coffee?"

"Don't mind if I do."

"A steak to go with it?"

"No, thanks."

"Bacardi in the coffee?"

"Sounds good."

"Excuse me, then. It'll only take a moment."

She went through the door beside the sofa and Render
caught a glimpse of a large, shiny, automatic kitchen.

"Well?" he whispered to the dog.

Sigmund shook his head.

"Not same."

Render shook his head.

He deposited his coat on the sofa, folding it carefully
about the medkit. He sat beside it and thought.

Did I throw too big a chunk of seeing at once? Is she
suffering from depressive side-effects—say, memory re-
pressions, nervous fatigue? Did I upset her sensory-
adaptation syndrome somehow? Why have I been pro~
ceeding so rapidly anyway? There's no real hurry. Am I
so damned eager to write the thing up?—Or am I doing
it because she wants me to? Could she be that strong,
consciously or unconsciously? Or am I that vulnerable—
somehow?

She called him to the kitchen to carry out the tray. He
set it on the table and seated himself across from her.

"Good coffee," he said, burning his lips on the cup.

"Smart machine," she stated, facing his voice.

Sigmund stretched out on the carpet next to the table,
lowered his head between his forepaws, sighed and closed
his eyes.

"I've been wondering," said Render, "whether or not

100 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

there were any after effects to that last session—like in-
creased synesthesiac experiences, or dreams involving
forms, or hallucinations or . . ."

"Yes," she said flatly, "dreams."

"What kind?"

"That last session. I've dreamed it over, and over."

"Beginning to end?"

"No, there's no special order to the events. We're riding
through the city, or over the bridge, or sitting at the table,
or walking toward the car—just flashes, like that. Vivid
ones."

"What sort of feelings accompany these—flashes?"

"I don't know, they're all mixed up."

"What are your feelings now, as you recall them?"

"The same, all mixed up."

"Are you afraid?"

"N-no. I don't think so."

"Do you want to take a vacation from the thing? Do
you feel we've been proceeding too rapidly?"

"No. That's not it at all. It's—well, it's like learning to
swim. When you finally learn how, why then you swim
and you swim and you swim until you're all exhausted.
Then you just lie there gasping in air and remembering
what it was like, while your friends all hover and chew
you out for overexerting yourself—and it's a good feeling,
even though you do take a chill and there are pins and
needles inside all your muscles. At least, that's the way I
do things. I felt that way after the first session and after
this last one. First Times are always very special
times. . . . The pins and the needles are gone, though, and
I've caught my breath again. Lord, I don't want to stop
now! I feel fine."

"Do you usually take a nap in the afternoon?"

The ten red nails of her fingers moved across the table-
top as she stretched.

". . . Tired," she smiled, swallowing a yawn. "Half the
staff's on vacation or sick leave and I've been beating
my brains out all week. I was about ready to fall on my
face when I left work. I feel al! right now that I've rested,
though."

She picked up her coffee cup with both hands, took a
large swallow.

"Uh-huh." he said. "Good. I was a bit worried about
"you. I'm glad to see there was no reason."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    101

She laughed.

"Worried? You've read Doctor Riscomb's notes on my
analysis—and on the ONT&R trial—and you think I'm
the sort to worry about? Ha! I have an operationally
beneficent neurosis concerning my adequacy as a human
being. It focuses my energies, coordinates my efforts to-
ward achievement. It enhances my sense of identity. . . ,"

"You do have one hell of a memory," he noted "That's
almost verbatim."

"Of course."

"You had Sigmund worried today, too."

"Sig? How?"

The dog stirred uneasily, opened one eye.

"Yes," he growled, glaring up at Render. "He needs, a
ride, home."

"Have you been driving the car again?"

"Yes."

"After I told you not to?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I was a, fraid. You would, not, answer me, when I
talked."

"I was very tired—and if you ever take the car again,
I'm going to have the door fixed so you can't come and
go as you please."

"Sorry."

"There's nothing wrong with me."

"I, see."

"You are never to do it again."

"Sorry." His eye never left Render; it was like a burn-
ing lens.

Render looked away.

"Don't be too hard on the poor fellow," he said. "After
all, he thought you were ill and he went for the doctor.
Suppose he'd been right? You'd owe him thanks, not a
scolding."

LJnmollified, Sigmund glared a moment longer and
closed his eye.

"He has to be told when he does wrong," she finished.

"I suppose," he said, drinking his coffee. "No haim
done. anyhow. Since I'm here, let's talk shop. I'm writing
something and I'd like an opinion."

"Great- Give me a footnote?"

"Two or three. —In your opinion, do the general un-

102 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

derlying motivations that lead to suicide differ in different
periods of history or in different cultures?"

"My well-considered opinion is no, they don't," she
said. "Frustrations can lead to depressions or frenzies; and
if these are severe enough, they can lead to self-
destruction. You ask me about motivations and I think
they stay pretty much the same. I feel this is a cross-
cultural, cross-temporal aspect of the human condition. I
don't think it could be changed without changing the basic
nature of man."

"Okay. Check. Now, what of the inciting element?" he
asked- "Let man be a constant, his environment is still a
variable. If he is placed in an overprotective life-situation,
do you feel it would take more or less to depress him—or
stimulate him to frenzy—than it would take in a not
so protective environment?"

"Hm. Being case-oriented, I'd say it would depend on
the man. But I see what you're driving at: a mass pre-
disposition to jump out windows at the drop of a hat—
the window even opening itself for you, because you
asked it to—the revolt of the bored masses. I don't like the
notion. I hope it's wrong."

"So do I, but I was thinking of symbolic suicides too—
functional disorders that occur for pretty flimsy reasons."

"Aha! Your lecture last month: autopsychomimesis. I
have the tape. Weli-told, but I can't agree."

"Neither can I, now. I'm rewriting that whole section—
Thanatos in Cloudcuckooland,' I'm calling it. It's really
the death-instinct moved nearer the surface."

"If I get you a scalpel and a cadaver, will you cut out
the death-instinct and let me touch it?"

"Couldn't." he put the grin into his voice, "it would be
all used up in a cadaver. Find me a volunteer though, and
he'll prove my case by volunteering."

"Your logic is unassailable," she smiled. "Get us some
more coffee, okay?"

Render went to the kitchen, spiked and filled the cups,
drank a glass of water and returned to the living room.
Eileen had not moved; neither had Sigmund.

"What do you do when you're not busy being a
Shaper?" she asked him.

"The same things most people do—eat, drink, sleep,
talk, visit friends and not-friends, visit places, read ..."

"Are you a forgiving man?"

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    103

"Sometimes. Why?"

"Then forgive me. I argued with a woman today, a
woman named De Ville."

"What about?"

"You—and she accused me of such things it were bet-
ter my mother bad not born me. Are you going to marry
her?"

"No, marriage is like alchemy. It served an important
purpose once, but I hardly feel it's here to stay."

"Good."

"What did you say to her?"

"I gave her a clinic referral card that said, 'Diagnosis:

Bitch. Prescription: Drug therapy and a tight gag.' "

"Oh," said Render, showing interest.

"She tore it up and threw it in my face."

"I wonder why?"

She shrugged, smiled, made a gridwork on the table-
cloth.

" 'Fathers and elders, I ponder,' *' sighed Render,
" 'what is hell?' "

" 'I maintain it is the suffering of being unable to
love,* " she finished. "Was Dostoevsky right?"

"I doubt it I'd put him into group therapy myself.
That'd be real hell for him—with all those people acting
like his characters and enjoying it so."

Render put down his cup and pushed his chair away
from the table.

"I suppose you must be going now?"

"I really should," said Render.

"And I can't interest you in food?"

"No."

She stood.

"Okay, I'll get my coat."

"I could drive back myself and just set the car to re-
turn."

"No! I*m frightened by the notion of empty cars driving
around the city. I'd feel the thing was haunted for the
next two-and-a-half weeks.

"Besides," she said, passing through the archway, "you
promised me Winchester Cathedral."

"You want to do it today?"

"If you can be persuaded."

As Render stood deciding, Sigmund rose to his feet. He
stood directly before him and stared upward into his eyes.

104 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

He opened his mouth and closed it, several times, but no
sounds emerged. Then he turned away and left the
room.

"No," Eileen's voice came back, "you will stay here
until I return."

Render picked up his coat and put it on, stuffing the
medkit into the far pocket.

As they walked up the hall toward the elevator Render
thought he heard a very faint and very distant howling
sound.

In this place, of all places. Render knew he was the mas-
ter of all things,

He was at home on those alien worlds, without time,
those worlds where flowers copulate and the stars do bat-
tle in the heavens, falling at last to the ground, bleeding,
like so many split and shattered chalices, and the seas
part to reveal stairways leading down, and arms emerge
from caverns, waving torches that flame like liquid
faces—a midwinter night's nightmare, summer go
a-begging. Render know—for he had visited those worlds
on a professional basis for the better part of a decade.
With the crooking of a finger he could isolate the sor-
cerors, bring them to trial for treason against the realm
—aye, and he could execute them, could appoint their
successors.

Fortunately, this trip was only a courtesy call . . ,

He moved forward through the glade, seeking her.

He could feel her awakening presence all about him.

He pushed through the branches, stood beside the lake.
It was cold, blue, and bottomless, the lake, reflecting
that slender willow which 'had become the station of her
arrival.

"Eileeni"

The willow swayed toward him, swayed away,

"Eileen! Come forth!"

Leaves fell, floated upon the lake, disturbed its mirror-
like placidity, distorted the reflections.

"Eileen?"

All the leaves yellowed at once then, dropped down
into the water. The tree ceased its swaying. There was
a strange sound in the darkening sky, like the humming
of high wires on a cold day.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    105

Suddenly there was a double file of moons passing
*hrough the heavens.

Render selected one, reached up and pressed it. The
others vanished as he did so, and the world brightened;

the humming went out of the air.

He circled the lake to gain a subjective respite from
the rejection-action and his counter to it. He moved up
along an aisle of pines toward the place where he wanted
the cathedral to occur. Birds sang now in the trees. The
wind came softly by him. He felt her presence quite
strongly.

"Here, Eileen. Here."

She walked beside him then, green silk, hair of bronze,
eyes of molten emerald; she wore an emerald in her
forehead. She walked in green slippers over the pine
needles, saying: "What happened?"

"You were afraid."

"Why?"

"Perhaps you fear the cathedral. Are you a witch?"
he smiled.

"Yes, but it's my day off."

He laughed, and he took her arm, and they rounded
an island of foliage, and there was the cathedral recon-
structed on a grassy rise, pushing its way above them
and above the trees, climbing into the middle air, breath-
ing out organ notes, reflecting a stray ray of sunlight
from a plane of glass.

"Hold tight to the world," he said. "Here comes the
guided tour."

They moved forward and entered.

"' . . . With its floor-to-ceiling shafts, like so many
huge tree trunks, it achieves a ruthless control over its
spaces,' " he said. "—Got that from the guidebook. This
is the north transept...."

" 'Greensleeves,' " she said, "the organ is playing 'Green-
sleeves.' "

"So it is. You can't blame me for that though.—Observe
the scalloped capitals—"

"I want to go nearer to the music."

"Very well. This way then."

Render felt that something was wrong. He could not
put his finger on it.

Everything retained its solidity....

Something passed rapidly then, high above the cathe-

106 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

dral, uttering a sonic boom. Render smiled at that, re-
membering now; it was like a slip of the tongue: for a
moment he had confused EUeen with JiU—yes, that was
what had happened.

Why, then ...

A burst of white was the altar. He had never seen it
before, anywhere. All the walls were dark and cold
about them. Candles nickered in corners and high niches.
The organ chorded thunder under invisible hands.

Render knew that something was wrong.

He turned to Eileen Shallot, whose hat was a green
cone towering up into the darkness, trailing wisps of
green veiling. Her throat was in shadow, but...

"That necklace—Where?"

"I don't know," she smiled.

The goblet she held radiated a rosy light. It was re-
flected from her emerald. It washed him like a draft of
cool air.

"Drink?" she asked.

"Stand still," he ordered.

He willed the walls to fall down. They swam in shadow.

"Stand still!" he repeated urgently. "Don't do any-
thing. Try not even to think.

"—Fall down!" he cried. And the wails were blasted
in all directions and the roof was flung over the top of the
world, and they stood amid ruins lighted by a single
taper. The night was black as pitch.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, still holding the
goblet out toward him.

"Don't think. Don't think anything," he said. "Relax.
You are very tired. As that candle nickers and wanes
so does your consciousness. You can barely keep awake.
You can hardly stay on your feet. Your eyes are- closing.
There is nothing to see here anyway."

He willed the candle to go out. It continued to burn.

"I'm not tired. Please have a drink."

He heard organ music through the night. A different
tune, one he did not recognize at first.

"1 need your cooperation."

"All right. Anything."

"Look! The moon!" he pointed

She looked upward and the moon appeared from behind
an inky cloud.

"... And another, and another."

THE LAST DEFBNDER OF CAMELOT

107

Moons, like strung pearls, proceeded across the black-
ness.

"The last one will be red," he stated.

It was.

He reached out then with his right index finger, slid
his arm sideways along his field of vision, then tried to
touch the red moon.

His arm ached, it burned. He could not move it,

"Wake up!" he screamed.

The red moon vanished, and the white ones.

"Please take a drink."

He dashed the goblet from her hand and turned away.
When he turned back she was still holding it before him.

"A drink?"

He turned and fled into the night

It was like running through a waist-high snowdrift. It
was wrong. He was compounding the error by running-
he was minimizing his strength, maximizing hers. It was
sapping his energies, draining him.

He stood still in the midst of the blackness.

"The world around me moves," he said. "I am its

center."

"Please have a drink." she said, and he was standing
in the glade beside their table set beside the lake. The
lake was black and the moon was silver, and high, and
out of his reach. A single candle flickered on the table,
making her hair as silver as her dress. She wore the moon
on her brow. A bottle of Romanee-Conti stood on the
white cloth beside a wide-brimmed wine glass. It was
filled to overflowing, that glass, and rosy beads clung to
its lip. He was very thirsty, and she was lovelier than
anyone he had ever seen before, and her necklace
sparkled, and the breeze came cool off the lake, and
there was something—something he should remember. . . .

He took a step toward her and his armor clinked
lightly as he moved. He reached toward the glass and
his right arm stiffened with pain and fell back to his side.

"You are wounded!"

Slowly, he turned his head. The blood flowed from the
open wound in his biceps and ran down his arm and
dripped from his fingertips. His armor had been breached.
He forced himself to look away.

"Drink this, love. It will heal you."

She stood.

108 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"I will hold the glass."

He stared at her as she raised it to his lips.

"Who am I?" he asked.

She did not answer him, but something replied—within
a splashing of waters out over the lake:

"You are Render, the Shaper."

"Yes, I remember," he said; and turning his mind to
the one He which might break the entire illusion he
forced his mouth to say: "Eileen Shallot, I hate you."

The world shuddered and swam about him, was shaken,
as by a huge sob.

"Charles!" she screamed, and the blackness swept over
them.

"Wake up! Wake up!" he cried, and his right arm burned
and ached and bled in the darkness.

He stood alone in the midst of a white plain. It was
silent, it was endless. It sloped away toward the edges
of the world. It gave off its own light, and the sky was
no sky, but was nothing overhead. Nothing. He was alone.
His own voice echoed back to him from the end of the
world: "... hate you," it said, "... hate you."

He dropped to his knees. He was Render.

He wanted to cry.

A red moon appeared above the plain, casting a ghastly
light over the entire expanse. There was a wall of moun-
tains to the left of him, another to his right.

He raised his right arm. He helped it with his left hand,
He clutched his wrist, extended his index finger. He
reached for the moon.

Then there came a howl from high in the mountains, a
great wailing cry—half-human, ali challenge, all loneli-
ness and all remorse. He saw it then, treading upon the
mountains, its tail brushing the snow from their highest
peaks, the ultimate loupgarou of the North—Fern-is, son
of Loki—raging at the heavens.

It leaped into the air. It swallowed the moon.

It landed near him, and its great eyes blazed yellow.
It stalked him on soundless pads, across the cold white
fields that lay between the mountains; and he backed
away from it, up hills and down slopes, over crevasses
and rifts, through valleys, past stalagmites and pinnacles
—under the edges of glaciers, beside frozen river beds,
and always downwards—until its hot breath bathed him
and its laughing mouth was opened above him.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    109

He turned then and his feet became two gleaming
rivers carrying him away.

The world jumped backward. He glided over the slopes,
Downward. Speeding—

Away...

He looked back over his shoulder.

In the distance, the gray shape loped after him.

He felt that it could narrow the gap if it chose. He had
to move faster.

The world reeled about him. Snow began to falL

He raced on.

Ahead, a blur, a broken outline.

He tore through the veils of snow which now seemed
to be falling upward from off the ground—like strings
of bubbles.

He approached the shattered form.

Like a swimmer he approached—unable to open his
mouth to speak for fear of drowning—of drowning and
not knowing, of never knowing.

He could not check his forward motion; he was swept
tide-like toward the wreck. He came to a stop, at last,
before it.

Some things never change. They are things which have
long ceased to exist as objects and stand solely as never-to-
be-calendared occasions outside that sequence of elements
called Time.

Render stood there and did not care if Fenris leaped
upon his back and ate his brains. He had covered his
eyes, but he could not stop the seeing. Not this time. He
did not care about anything. Most of himself lay dead
at his feet.

There was a howl. A gray shape swept past him.

The baleful eyes and bloody muzzle rooted within the
wrecked car, chomping through the steel, the glass, grop-
ing inside for .. .

"Nol Brute! Chewer of corpses!" he cried. "The dead
are sacred! My dead are sacred!"

He had a scalpel in his hand then, and he slashed
expertly at the tendons, the bunches of muscle on the
straining shoulders, the soft belly, the ropes of the arteries.

Weeping, he dismembered the monster, limb by limb,
and it bled and it bled, fouling the vehicle and the re-
mains within it with its infernal animal juices, dripping

110 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

and running until the whole plain was reddened and
writhing about them.

Render fell across the pulverized hood, and it was
soft and warm and dry. He wept upon it.
"Don't cry," she said.

He was hanging onto her shoulder then, holding her
tightly, there beside the black lake beneath the moon that
was Wedgewood. A single candle flickered upon their ta-
ble, She held the glass to his lips.
"Please drink it."
"Yes, give it to mel"

He gulped the wine that was all softness and lightness.
It burned within him. He felt his strength returning.
"I am ..."

"—Render, the Shaper," splashed the lake.
"No!"

He turned and ran again, looking for the wreck. He
had to go back, to return ...
"You can't."

"I can!" he cried. "I can, if I try. ..."
Yellow flames coiled through the thick air. Yellow ser-
pents. They coiled, glowing, about bis ankles. Then through
the murk, two-headed and towering, approached his
Adversary.

Small stones rattled past him. An overpowering odor
corkscrewed up his nose and into his head.
"Shaperi" came the bellow from one head.
"You have returned for the reckoning!" called the other.
Render stared, remembering.

"No reckoning, Thaumiel," he said. "I beat you and I
chained you for—Rothman, yes, it was Rothman—the
cabalist." He traced a pentagram in the air. "Return to
Qliphoth. I banish you."
"This place be Qliphoth."

". . . By Khamael, the angel of blood by the hosts of
Seraphim, in the Name of Elohim Gebor, I bid you
vanish!"

"Not this time," laughed both heads.
It advanced.

Render backed slowly away, his feet bound by the
yellow serpents. He could feel the chasm opening be-
hind him. The world was a jigsaw puzzle coming apart. He
could see the pieces separating.
"Vanish!"

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    111

The giant roared out its double-laugh.

Render stumbled.

"This way, lovel"

She stood within a small cave to his right.

He shook his head and backed toward the chasm.

Thaumiel reached out toward him.

Render toppled back over the edge.

"Charles!" she screamed, and the world shook itself
apart with her wailing.

"Then Vemichtung," he answered as he fell. "I join you
in darkness."

Everything came to an end.

"I want to see Doctor Charles Render.**

"I'm sorry, that is impossible."

"But I skip-jetted all the way here. just to thank him.
I'm a new man! He changed my life!"

"I'm sorry. Mister Erikson. When you called this mom-
ing, I told you it was impossible."

"Sir, I'm Representative Erikson—and Render once
did me a great service."

*Then you can do him one now. Go home."

"You can't talk to me that way!"

"I just did. Please leave. Maybe next year sometime ..."

"But a few words can do wonders...."

"Save them!"

"I-I'm sorry... "

Lovely as it was. pinked over with the morning—the slop-
ping, steaming bowl of the sea—he knew that it had
to end. Therefore ...

He descended the high tower stairway and he entered
the courtyard. He crossed to the bower of roses and he
looked down upon the pallet set in its midst.

"Good morrow, m'lord," he said.

"To you the same," said the knight, his blood min-
gling with the earth, the flowers, the grasses, flowed from
his wound, sparkling over his armor, dripping from his
fingertips.

"Naught hath healed?"

The knight shook his head.

"I empty. I wait."

112 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"Your waiting is near ended."

"What mean you?" He sat upright.

"The ship. It approacheth harbor."

The knight stood. He leaned his back against a mossy
tree trunk. He stared at the huge, bearded servitor who
continued to speak, words harsh with barbaric accents:

"It cometh like a dark swan before the wind—
returning."

"Dark, say you? Dark?"

"The sails be black, Lord Tristram.*'

"You lie!"

"Do you wish to see? To see for yourself—Look then!"

He gestured,

The earth quaked, the wall toppled. The dust swirled
and settled. From where they stood they could see the
ship moving into the harbor on the wings of the night.

"No! You lied!—See! They are white!"

The dawn danced upon the waters. The shadows fled
from the ship's sails.

"No, you fool! Black! They must be!"

"White! White!—Isolde! You have kept faith. You have
returned!"

He began running toward the harbor.

"Come back—Your wound! You are ill—Stop ..."

The sails were white beneath a sun that was a red
button which the servitor reached quickly to touch.

Night fell.

Comes Now The Power

I wrote this story on one of the blackest days in my
memory, a day of extreme wretchedness accompanied by
an unusual burst of writing activity—which I encour-
aged, to keep from thinking about what was bothering
me. I sat down and did three short stories, one after
the other without leaving the typewriter. They were
"Divine Madness," this one and "But Not the Herald."
I later put the other two into my collection The Doors
of His Face, The Lamps of His Mouth, and Other Stories
(Donhteday's title—not mine; I had suggested Hearts &
Flowers) and I would have included this one there, too,
save that I could not locate a copy at the time I assem-
bled the manuscript. I cannot be certain whether Peter
De Vries' The Blood of the Lamb was on my mind then,
just a little though I know I'd read it before that time.

It was into the second year now, and it was maddening.

Everything which had worked before failed this time,

Each day he tried to break it, and it resisted his every
effort.                         ^-

He snarled at his students, drove recklessly, blooded
his knuckles against many walls. Nights, he lay awake
cursing.

But there was no one to whom he could turn for help.
His problem would have been non-existent to a psychia-
trist. who doubtless would have attempted to treat him
for something else.

So he went 'away that summer, spent a month at a re-
sort: nothing. He experimented with several hallucino-
genic drugs; again, nothing. He tried free-associating into
a tape recorder, but all he got when he played it back
was a headache.

To whom does the holder of a blocked power turn,
within a society of normal people?

... To another of his own kind, if he can locate one.

Milt Rand had known four other persons like himself:

his cousin Gary, now deceased; Walker Jackson, a Negro
preacher who had retired to somewhere down South;

Tatya Stefanovich, a dancer, currently somewhere be-
hind the Iron Curtain; and Curtis Legge, who, unfortu-
nately, was suffering a schizoid reaction, paranoid type,
in a state institution for the criminally insane. Others
he had brushed against in the night, but had never met
and could not locate now.

There had been blockages before, but Milt had always
worked his way through them inside of a month. This
time was different and special, though. Upsets, discomforts,
disturbances, can dam up a talent, block a power. As
event which seals it off completely for over a year, how-
ever, is more than a mere disturbance, discomfort or up-
set.

The divorce had beaten hell out of him.

It is bad enough to know that somewhere someone is
hating you; but to have known the very form of that
hatred and to have proven ineffectual against it, to have
known it as the hater held it for you, to have lived with
it growing around you, this is more than distasteful
circumstance. Whether you are offender or offended,
when you are hated and you live within the circle of
that hate, it takes a thing from you: it tears a piece of
spirit from your soul, or, if you prefer, a way of think-
ing from your mind; it cuts and does not cauterize.

Milt Rand dragged his bleeding psyche around the
countly and returned home.

He would sit and watch the woods from his glassed-
in back porch, drink beer, watch the fireflies in the sha-
dows, the rabbits, the dark birds, an occasional fox,
sometimes a bat.

He had been fireflies once, and rabbits, birds, occa-
sionally a fox, sometimes a bat.

The wildness was one of the reasons be had moved be-
yond suburbia, adding an extra half-hour to his commut-
ing time.

Now there was a glassed-in back porch between him
and these things he had once been part of. Now he was
alone.

Walking the streets, addressing his classes at the insti-
tute, sitting in a restaurant, a theater, a bar, he was vacant
where once he had been filled.

Fherc aie no books which tell a man how to bring
back the power he has lost.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    115

He tries everything he can think of, while he is waiting.
Walking the hot pavements of a summer noon, crossing
against the lights because traffic is slow, watching kids
in swimsuits play around a gurgling hydrant, filthy water
sluicing the gutter about their feet, as mothers and older
sisters in halters, wrinkled shirts, bermudas and sunburnt
skins watch them, occasionally, while talking to one
another in entranceways to buildings or the shade of a
storefront awning. Milt moves across town, heading no-
where in particular, growing claustrophobic if he stops for
long. his eyebrows full of perspiration, sunglasses streaked
with it, shirt sticking to his sides and coming loose, sticking
and coming loose as he walks.

Amid the afternoon, there comes a time when he has
to rest the two fresh-baked bricks at the ends of his legs.
He finds a tree-lawn bench flanked by high maples, eases
himself down into it and sits there thinking of nothing
in particular for perhaps twenty-five minutes.

Hello.

Something within him laughs or weeps.

Yes, hello, I am here! Don't go away! Stay! Please!

You are—like me. . . .

Yes, I am. You can see it in me because you are what
you are. But you must read here and send here, too, I'm
frozen. I—Hello? Where are you?

Once more, he is alone.

He tries to broadcast. He fills his mind with the thoughts
and tries to push them outside his skull.

Please come back! I need you. You can help me. I
am desperate. I hurt. Where are you?

Again, nothing.

He wants to scream. He wants to search every room in
every building on the block.

Instead, he sits there.

At 9:30 that evening they meet again, inside his mind.

Hello?

Stay! Stay, for God's sake! Don't go away this time!
Pleu\e 'i/in't' Listen. 1 need you! You can help me.

How^ What is the master?

I'm like you. Or was, once. I could reach out with my
m'nd ami be olhrr places, other thinv., other people. I
can't do it now, though. I have a blockage. The power will
not come. I know it is there. I can feel it. But I can't use
.. . Hello?
Yes, I am still here. I can feel myself going away,
though. I will be back. I . . .

Milt waits until midnight. She does not come back.
It is a feminine mind which has touched his own. Vague,
weak, but definitely feminine, and wearing the power
She does not come back that night, though. He paces up
and down the block, wondering which window, which
door...

He eats at an all-night cafe, returns to his bench, waits,
paces again, goes back to the cafe for cigarettes, begins
chain-smoking, goes back to the bench.

Dawn occurs, day arrives, night is gone. He is alone, as
birds explore the silence, traffic begins to swell, dogs
wander the lawns.

Then, weakly, the contact:

/ am here. I can slay longer this time, I think. How can
I help you? Tell me.

All right. Do this thing: Think of the feeling, the feeling
of the out-go, out-reach, out-know that you have now.
Fill your mind with thai feeling and send it to me as hard
as you can.

It comes upon him then as once it was: the knowledge
of the power. It is earth and water, fire and air to him.
He stands upon it, he swims in it, he warms himself by it,
he moves through it.

It is returning! Don't stop now!

Fm sorry. I must. I'm getting dizzy.. ..

Where are you?

Hospital . . .

He looks up the street to the hospital on the corner,
at the far end, to his left

What ward? He frames the thought but knows she is
already gone, even as he does it.

Doped-up or feverish, he decides, and probably out for
a while now.

He takes a taxi back to where he had parked, drives
home, showers and shaves, makes breakfast, cannot eat.

He drinks orange juice and coffee and stretches out
on the bed.

Five hours iater he awakens, looks at his watch, curses.

All the way back into town, he tries to recall the power.
It is there like a tree, rooted in his being, branching be-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    117

hind his eyes, all bud, blossom, sap and color, but no
leaves, no fruit. He can feel it swaying within him, puls-
ing, breathing; from the tips of his toes to the roots of
his hair he feels it. But it does not bend to his will, it does
not branch within his consciousness, furl there it leaves,
spread the aromas of life.

He parks in the hospital lot, enters the lobby, avoids
the front desk, finds a chair beside a table filled with
magazines.

Two hours later he meets her.

He is hiding behind a copy of Holiday and looking for
her.

/ am here.

Again, then! Quickly! The power! Help me to rouse it!

She does this thing.

Within his mind, she conjures the power. There is a
movement, a pause, a movement, a pause. Reflectively,
as though suddenly remembering an intricate dance step,
it stirs within him, the power.

As in a surfacing bathyscaphe, there is a rush of distor-
tions, then a clear, moist view without.
She is a child who has helped him.
A mind-twisted, fevered child, dying ...
He reads it all when he turns the power upon her.
Her name is Dorothy and she is delirious. The power
came upon her at the height of her illness, perhaps be-
cause of it.

Has she helped a man come alive again, or dreamed
that she helped him? she wonders.

She is thirteen years old and her parents sit beside
her bed. In the mind of her mother a word rolls over
and over, senselessly, blocking all other thoughts, though
it cannot keep away the feelings:

Methotrexate, methotrexate, metholrexate, meth . . .
In Dorothy's thirteen-year-old breastbone there are
needles of pain. The fevers swirl within her, and she is all
but gone to him.

She is dying of leukemia. The final stages are already
arrived. He can taste the blood in her mouth.
^     Helpless within his power, he projects:

^     You have given me the end of your life and your final
strength. I did not know this. I would not have asked it
of you if I had.

118    THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

Thank you, she says, for the pictures inside you.
Pictures?

Places, things I saw ...

There is not much inside me worth showing. You
could have been elsewhere, seeing better.
I am going again . . .
Wait!

He calls upon the power that lives within him now, fused
with his will and his sense, his thoughts, memories, feel-
ings. In one great blaze of life, he shows her Milt Rand.

Here is everything I have, all I have ever been that
might please. Here is swarming through a foggy night,
blinking on and off. Here is lying beneath a bush as the
rains of summer fall about you, drip from the leaves upon
your fox-soft fur. Here is the moon-dance of the deer,
the dream drift of the trout beneath the dark swell, blood
cold as the waters about you.

Here is Tatya dancing and Walker preaching; here is
my cousin Gary, as he whittles, contriving a ball within a
box, all out of one piece of wood. This is my New York
and my Paris. This, my favorite meal, drink, cigar, res-
taurant, park, road to drive on late at night; this is where
I dug tunnels, built a lean-to, went swimming; this, my
first kiss; these are the tears of loss; this is exile and
alone, and recovery, awe, joy; these, my grandmother's
daffodils: this her coffin, daffodils about it; these are the
colors of the music I love, and this is my dog who lived
long and was good. See all the things that heat the spirit,
cool within the mind, are encased in memory and one's
self. I give them to you, who have no time to know them.

He sees himself standing on the far hills of her mind.
She laughs aloud then, and in her room somewhere high
away a hand is laid upon her and her wrist is taken be-
tween fingers and thumb as she rushes toward him sud-
denly grown large. His great black wings sweep forward
to fold her wordless spasm of life, then are empty.

Milt Rand stiffens within his power, puts aside a copy
of Holiday and stands, to leave the hospital, full and
empty, empty, full, like himself, now, behind.

Such is the power of the power.

Auto-Da-Fe

Returning home late one night, I was almost hit by a
speeding car which crashed a red light three blocks from
my apartment in Baltimore. By the time I reached home,
I had this entire story in mind and I finished writing it
before I turned out the lights. I sold it to Harlan Ellison
for Dangerous Visions. I'm very fond of it.

Still do I remember the hot sun upon the sands of the
Plaza de Autos, the cries of the soft-drink hawkers, the
tiers of humanity stacked across from me on the sunny
side of the arena, sunglasses like cavities in their gleam-
ing faces.

Still do I remember the smells and the colors: the reds
and the blues and the yellows, the ever present tang of
petroleum fumes upon the air.

Still do I remember that day, that day with its sun in
the middle of the sky and the sign of Aries, burning in
the blooming of the year. I recall-the mincing steps of the
pumpers, heads thrown back, arms waving, the white
dazzles of their teeth framed with smiling lips, cloths like
colorful tails protruding from the rear pockets of their
coveralls; and the homs—I remember the blare of a
thousand horns over the loudspeakers, on and off, off and
on, over and over, and again, and then one shimmering,
final note, sustained, to break the ear and the heart with
its infinite power, its pathos.
Then there was silence,

I see it now as I did on that day so long ago. . . .
He entered the arena, and the cry that went up
shook blue heaven upon its pillars of white marble.
"Viva! El mechador! Viva! El mechador!"
I remember his face, dark and sad and wise.
Long of jaw and nose was he, and his laughter was as
the roaring of the wind, and his movements were as the
music of the theramin and the drum. His coveralls were
blue and silk and tight and stitched with thread of gold
and broidered all about with black braid. His jacket was
beaded and there were flashing scales upon his breast,
his shoulders, his back, 
His lips curled into the smile of a man who has known
much glory and has hold upon the power that will bring
him into more.

He moved, turning in a circle, not shielding bis eyes
against the sun.

He was above the sun. He was Manolo Stillete DOS
Muertos, the mightiest mechador the world has ever seen,
black boots upon bis feet, pistons in his thighs, fingers
with the discretion of micrometers, halo of dark locks
about his head and the angel of death in his right arm,
there, in the center of the grease-stained circle of truth.
He waved, and a cry went up once more.
"Manolo! Manolo! DOS Muertos! DOS Muertos!"
After two years' absence from the ring, he had
chosen this, the anniversary of his death and retirement
to return—for there was gasoline and methyl in his blood
and his heart was a burnished pump ringed 'bout with
desire and courage. He had died twice within the ring,
and twice had the medics restored him. After his second
death, he had retired, and some said that it was because
he had known fear. This could not be true.

He waved his hand and his name rolled back upon
him.

The homs sounded once more: three long blasts.
Then again there was silence, and a pumper wearing
red and yellow brought him the cape, removed his jacket.

The tinfoil backing of the cape flashed in the sun as
DOS Muertos swirled it.
Then there came the final, beeping notes.
The big door rolled upward and back into the walL
He draped his cape over his arm and faced the gate-
way.

The light above was red and from within the darkness
there came the sound of an engine.

The light turned yellow, then green, and there was the
sound of cautiously engaged gears.

The car moved slowly into the ring, paused, crept for-
ward, paused again.

It was a red Pontiac, its hood stripped away, its en-
gine like a nest of snakes, coiling and engendering be-
hind the circular shimmer of its invisible fan. The wings

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    121

of its aerial spun round and round, then fixed upon Man-
olo and his cape.

He had chosen a heavy one for his first, slow on turn-
ing, to give him a chance to limber up.

The drums of its brain, which had never before re-
corded a man, were spinning.

Then the consciousness of its kind swept over it and
it moved forward.

Manolo swirled his cape and kicked its fender as it
roared past.

The door of the great garage closed.

When it reached the opposite side of the ring the
car stopped, parked.

Cries of disgust, booing and hissing arose from the
crowd.

Still the Pontiac remained parked.

Two pumpers, bearing buckets, emerged from behind
me fence and threw mud upon its windshield.

It roared then and pursued the nearest, banging into
the fence. Then it turned suddenly, sighted DOS Muertos
and charged.

His veronica transformed him into a statue with a skirt
of silver. The enthusiasm of the crowd was mighty.

It turned and charged once Jnore, and I wondered
at Maoolo's skill, for it would seem that his buttons had
scraped cherry paint from the side panels.

Then it paused, spun its wheels, ran in a circle about
the ring.

The crowd roared as it moved past him and recircled.

Then it stopped again, perhaps fifty feet away.

Manolo turned his back upon it and waved to the
crowd.

—Again, the cheering and the calling of his name.

He gestured to someone behind me fence.

A pumper emerged and bore to him, upon a velvet
cushion, his chrome-plated monkey wrench.

He turned then again to the Pontiac and strode toward
it

It stood there shivering and he knocked off its radiator
cap.

A ]'et of steaming water shot into the air and the crowd
bellowed. Then he struck the front of the radiator and
banged upon each fender.

He turned his back upon it again and stood there.

122    THE LAST DEFENDER OP CAMELOT

When he heard the engagement of the gears he turned
once more, and with one clean pass it was by him, but
not before he had banged twice upon the trunk with his

wrench,

It moved to the other end of the ring and parked.
Manolo raised his hand to the pumper behind the

fence.

The man with the cushion emerged and bore to him

the long-handled screwdriver and the short cape. He
took the monkey wrench away with him, as well as the

long cape.

Another silence came over the Plaza del Autos.
The Pontiac, as if sensing all this, turned once more

and blew its horn twice. Then it charged.
There were dark spots upon the sand from where

its radiator had leaked water. Its exhaust arose like

a ghost behind it. It bore down upon him at a terrible

speed.

DOS Muertos raised the cape before him and rested

me blade of the screwdriver upon his left forearm.

When it seemed he would surely be run down, bis
hand shot forward, so fast the eye could barely follow it,
and he stepped to the side as the engine began to cough.

Still the Pontiac continued on with a deadly momen-
tum, turned sharply without braking, rolled over, slid
into the fence, and began to bum. Its engine coughed

and died.

The Plaza shook with the cheering. They awarded

DOS Muertos both headlights and the tailpipe. He held
them high and moved in slow promenade about the
perimeter of the ring. The horns sounded. A lady threw him
a plastic flower and he sent for a pumper to bear her
the tailpipe and ask her to dine with him. The crowd
cheered more loudly, for he was known to be a great
layer of women, and it was not such an unusual thing in

the days of my youth as it is now.

The next was the blue Chevrolet, and he played with
it as a child plays with a kitten, tormenting it into strik-
ing, then stopping it forever. He received both head-
lights. The sky had clouded over by then and there was

a tentative mumbling of thunder.

The third was a black Jaguar XKE, which calls for the
highest skill possible and makes for a very brief moment
of truth. There was blood as well as gasoline upon the

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    123

sand before he dispatched it, for its side mirrors extended
further than one would think, and there was a red fur-
row across his rib cage before he had done with it.
But he tore out its ignition system with such grace and
artistry that the crowd boiled over into the ring, and the
guards were called forth to beat them with clubs and herd
them with cattle prods back into their seats.

Surely, after all of this, none could say that DOS
Muertos had ever known fear.

A cool breeze arose and I bought a soft drink and
waited for the last.

His final car sped forth while the light was still yellow.
It was a mustard-colored Ford convertible. As it went
past him the first time, it blew its horn and turned on its
windshield wipers. Everyone cheered, for they could see
it had spirit.

Then it came to a dead halt, shifted into reverse,
and backed toward him at about forty miles an hour.

He got out of the way, sacrificing grace to expediency,
and it braked sharply, shifted into low gear, and sped
forward again.

He waved the cape and it was torn from his hands.
If he had not thrown himself over backward, he would
have been struck.              "•

Then someone cried: "It's out of alignment!"

But he got to his feet, recovered his cape and
faced it once more.

They still tell of those five passes that followed. Never
has there been such a flirting with bumper and grill 1
Never in all of the Earth has there been such an en-
counter between mechador and machine! The convertible
roared like ten centuries of streamlined death, and the
spirit of St. Detroit sat in its driver's seat, grinning, while
DOS Muertos faced it with his tinfoil cape, cowed it and
called for his wrench. It nursed its overheated engine
and rolled its windows up and down, up and down, clear-
ing its mumer the while with lavatory noises and much
black smoke.

By then it was raining, softly, gently, and the thunder
still came about us. I finished my soft drink.

DOS Muertos had never used his monkey wrench on
the engine before, only upon the body. But this time
he threw it. Some experts say he was aiming at the dis-

124 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

tributor; others say he was trying to break its fuel
pump.

The crowd booed him.

Something gooey was dripping from the Ford onto the
sand. The red streak brightened on Manolo's stomach.
The rain came down.

He did not look at the crowd. He did not take his
eyes from the car. He held out his right hand, palm up-
ward, and waited.

A panting pumper placed the screwdriver in his hand
and ran back toward the fence.

Manolo moved to the side and waited.
It leaped at him and he struck.
There was more booing.
He had missed the kill.

No one left, though. The Ford swept around him in a
tight circle, smoke now emerging from its engine. Manolo
rubbed his arm and picked up the screwdriver and cape
he had dropped. There was more booing as he did so.

By the time the car was upon him, flames were leap-
ing forth from its engine.

Now some say that he struck and missed again, go-
ing off balance. Others say that he began to strike, grew
afraid and drew back. Still others say that, perhaps for
an instant, he knew a fatal pity for his spirited adversary,
and that this had stayed his hand. I say that the smoke
was too thick for any of them to say for certain what
bad happened.

But it swerved and he fell forward, and he was borne
upon that engine, blazing like a god's catafalque, to meet
with his third death as they crashed into the fence to-
gether and went up into flames.

There was much dispute over the final corrida, but
what remained of the tailpipe and both headlights were
buried with what remained of him, beneath the sands of
the Plaza, and there was much weeping among women
he had known. I say that he could not have been afraid
or known pity, for his strength was as a river of rockets,
his thighs were pistons and the fingers of his hands had
the discretion of micrometers; his hair was a black halo
and the angel of death rode on his right arm. Such a
man, a man who has known truth, is mightier than any
machine. Such a man is above anything but the holding
of power and the wearing of glory.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    125

Now he is dead though, this one, for the third and
final time. He is as dead as all the dead who have ever
died before the bumper, under the grill, beneath the
wheels. It is well that he cannot rise again, for I say that
his final car was his apotheosis, and anything else would
be anticlimactic. Once I saw a blade of grass growing up
between the metal sheets of the world in a place where
they had become loose, and I destroyed it because I
felt it must be lonesome. Often have I regretted doing
this, for I took away the glory of its aloneness. Thus
does life the machine, I feel, consider man, sternly, then
with regret, and the heavens do weep upon him through
eyes that grief has opened in the sky.

All the way home I thought of this thing, and the
hoofs of my mount clicked upon the floor of the city as I
rode through the rain toward evening, that spring.

Damnation Alley

I intended to write a nice, simple action-adventure story
and I had just finished reading Hunter Thompson's Hell's
Angels. I wrote this story. At my agent's suggestion, I
later expanded it to book length. I like this version
better than the book. But if there hadn't been a book
there probably wouldn't have been a movie sale. On
the other hand, I was not overjoyed with the film. On the
other hand, no one has to sit up in the middle of the
night to read the story....

The gull swooped by, seemed to hover a moment on un-
moving wings.

Hell Tanner flipped his cigar butt at it and scored a
lucky hit. The bird uttered a hoarse cry and beat sud-
denly at the air. It climbed about fifty feet, and whether
it shrieked a second time, he would never know.

It was gone.

A single gray feather rocked in the violet sky,
drifted out over the edge of the cliff and descended,
swinging toward the ocean. Tanner chuckled through his

126    THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

beard, between the steady roar of the wind and the
pounding of the surf. Then he took his feet down from
the handlebars, kicked up the stand and gunned his

bike to life.

He took the slope slowly till he came to the trail,

then picked up speed and was doing fifty when he hit

the highway.

He leaned forward and gunned it. He had the road
all to himself, and he laid on the gas pedal till there was
no place left for it to go. He raised his goggles and looked
at the world through crap-colored glasses, which was
pretty much the way be looked at it without them, too.

All the old irons were gone from his jacket, and he
missed the swastika, the hammer and sickle and the
upright finger, especially. He missed his old emblem,
too. Maybe he could pick up one in Tijuana and have
some broad sew it on and . . . No. It wouldn't do. AH
that was dead and gone. It would be a giveaway, and he
wouldn't last a day. What he would do was sell the
Harley, work his way down the coast, clean and square
and see what he could find in the other America.

He coasted down one hill and roared up another. He
tore through Laguoa Beach, Capistrano Beach, San
Clemente and San Onofre. He made it down to Ocean-
side, where he refueled, and he passed on through Carls-
bad and all those dead little beaches that fill the shore
space before Solana Beach Del Mar. It was outside San
Diego that they were waiting for him.

He saw the roadblock and turned. They were not sure
how he had managed it that quickly, at that speed.
But now he was heading away from them. He beard the
gunshots and kept going. Then he heard the sirens.

He blew his horn twice in reply and leaned far for-
ward. The Harley leaped ahead, and he wondered
whether they were radioing to someone further on up

the line.

He ran for ten minutes and couldn't shake them. Then

fifteen.

He topped another hill, and far ahead he saw the

second block. He was bottled in.

He looked all around him for side roads, saw none.
Then he bore a straight course toward the second

block. Might as well try to run it
No good!

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    127

There were cars lined up across the entire road. They
were even off the road on the shoulders.

He braked at the last possible minute, and when his
speed was right he reared up on the back wheel, spun
it and headed back toward his pursuers.

There were six of them coming toward him, and at his
back new siren calls arose.

He braked again, pulled to the left, kicked the gas
and leaped out of the seat. The bike kept going, and he
hit the ground rolling, got to his feet and started running.

He heard the screeching of their tires. He heard a
crash. Then there were more gunshots, and he kept going.
They were aiming over his head, but he didn't know it.
They wanted him alive.

After fifteen minutes he was backed against a wall of
rock, and they were fanned out in front of him, and
several had rifles, and they were all pointed in the wrong
direction.

He dropped the tire iron he held and raised his hands.
"You got it, citizens," he said. 'Take it away."

And they did.

They handcuffed him and took him back to the cars.
They pushed him into the rear^seat of one, and an officer
got in on either side of him. Another got into the front
beside the driver, and this one held a sawed-off shotgun
across his knees.

The driver started the engine and put the car into
gear, heading back up 101.

The man with the shotgun turned and stared through
bifocals that made his eyes look like hourglasses filled
with green sand as he lowered his head. He stared for
perhaps ten seconds, then said, "That was a stupid thing
to do."

Hell Tanner stared back until the man said, "Very stupid,
Tanner."

"Oh, I didn't know you were talking to me."
"I'm looking at you, son."
"And I'm looking at you. Hello, there."
Then the driver said, without taking his eyes off the
road, "You know, its too bad we've got to deliver him
in good shape—after the way he smashed up the other
car with that damn bike."

"He could still have an accident Fall and crack a cou-
ple ribs, say," said the man to Tanner's left.

The man to the right didn't say anything, but the man
with the shotgun shook his bead slowly. "Not unless he
tries to escape," he said. "L.A. wants him in good shape.

"Why'd you try to skip out, buddy? You might have
known we'd pick you up."

Tanner shrugged.

"Why'd you pick'me up? I didn't do anything?"

The driver chuckled.

"That's why," he said. "You didn't do anything, and
there's something you were supposed to do. Remember?"

"I don't owe anybody anything. They gave me a par-
don and let me go."

"You got a lousy memory, kid. You made the nation
of California a promise when they turned you loose yes-
terday. Now you've had more than the twenty-four hours
you asked for to settle your affairs. You can tell them 'no'
if you want and get your pardon revoked. Nobody's
forcing you- Then you can spend the rest of your life
making little rocks out of big ones. We couldn't care less.
I heard they got somebody else lined up already."

"Give me a cigarette," Tanner said.

The man on his right lit one and passed it to him.

He raised both hands, accepted it. As he smoked, he

flicked the ashes onto the floor.

They sped along the highway, and when they went
through towns or encountered traffic the driver would hit
the siren and overhead the red light would begin winking.
When this occurred, the sirens of the two other patrol
cars that followed behind them would also wail. The driver
never touched the brake, all the way up to L.A., and be
kept radioing ahead every few minutes.

There came a sound like a sonic boom, and a cloud
of dust and gravel descended upon them like hail. A tiny
crack appeared in the lower right-hand corner of the
bullet-proof windshield, and stones the size of marbles
bounced on the hood and the roof. The tires made a
crunching noise as they passed over the gravel that now
lay scattered upon the road surface. The dust hung like a
heavy fog, but ten seconds later they had passed out of it.

The men in the car leaned forward and stared upward.

The sky had become purple, and black lines crossed it,
moving from west to east. These swelled, narrowed, moved
from side to side, sometimes merged. The driver had
turned on his lights by then.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    129

"Could be a bad one coming," said the man with the
shotgun.

The driver nodded. "Looks worse further north, too," he
said.

A wailing began, high in the air above them, and the
dark bands continued to widen. The sound increased in
volume, lost its treble quality, became a steady roar.

The bands consolidated, and the sky grew dark as a
starless, moonless night and the dust fell about them
in heavy clouds. Occasionally, there sounded a ping as
a heavier fragment struck against the car.

The driver switched on his country lights, hit the
siren again and sped ahead. The roaring and the sound
of the siren fought with one another above them, and
far to .the north a blue aurora began to spread, pulsing.

Tanner finished his cigarette, and the man gave him
another. They were all smoking by then.

"You know, you're lucky we picked you up, boy,"
said the man to his left. "How'd you like to be pushing
your bike through that stuff?"

"I'd like it," Tanner said.

"You're nuts."

"No. I'd make it. It wouldn't be the first time."

By the time they reached Los Angeles, the blue aurora
filled half the sky, and it was tinged with pink and shot
through with smoky, yellow streaks that reached like spider
legs into the south. The roar was a deafening, physical
thing that beat upon their eardrums and caused their skin
to tingle. As they left the car and crossed the parking lot,
heading toward the big, pillared building with the frieze
across its forehead, they bad to shout at one another
in order to be heard.

"Lucky we got here when we did!" said the man with
the shotgun. "Step it up!" Their pace increased as they
moved toward the stairway. "It could break any minute
now!" screamed the driver.

As they had pulled into the lot, the building had had the
appearance of a piece of ice-sculpture, with the shifting
lights in the sky playing upon its surfaces and casting
cold shadows. Now, though, it seemed as if it were a thing
out of wax, ready to melt in a instant's flash of heat.

130    THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

Their faces and the flesh of their hands took on a blood-
less, corpse-like appearance.

They hurried up the stairs, and a State Patrolman
let them in through the small door to the right of the
heavy metal double doors that were the main entrance
to the building. He locked and chained the door behind
them, after snapping open his holster when he saw Tanner.

"Which way?" asked the man with the shotgun.

"Second floor," said the troooper, nodding toward a
stairway to their right, "Go straight back when you get to
the top. It's the big office at the end of the hall."

"Thanks."
The roaring was considerably muffled, and objects

achieved an appearance of natural existence once more
in the artificial light of the building.

They climbed the curving stairway and moved along the
corridor that led back into the building. When they
reached the final office, the man with the shotgun nodded

to his driver. "Knock," he said.

A woman opened the door, started to say something,
then stopped and nodded when she saw Tanner. She
stepped aside and held the door. "This way," she said,
and they moved past her into the office, and she pressed a
button on her desk and told the voice that said, "Yes,
Mrs. Fiske?": "They're here, with that man, sir."

"Send them in."
She led them to the dark, paneled door in the back of

the room and opened it before them.

They entered, and the husky man behind the glass-
topped desk leaned backward in his chair and wove his
short fingers together in front of his chins and peered
over them through eyes just a shade darker than the
gray of his hair. His voice was soft and rasped Just slightly.
"Have a seat," he said to Tanner, and to the others, "wait

outside,"

"You know this guy's dangerous. Mister Denton,"

said the man with the shotgun as Tanner seated himself
in a chair situated five feet in front of the desk.

Steel shutters covered the room's three windows, and
though the men could not see outside they could guess
at the possible furies that stalked there as a sound like
machine-gun fire suddenly rang through the room.

"I know."
"Well, he's handcuffed, anyway. Do you want a gun?"

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    131

"I've got one,"

"Okay, then. We'll be outside."

They left the room.

The two men stared at one another until the door closed,
then the man called Denton said, "Are all your affairs
settled now?" and the other shrugged. Then, "What the
hell is your first name, really? Even the records show—"

"Hell," said Tanner. "That's my name. I was the
seventh kid in our family, and when I was born the
nurse held me up and said to my old man, 'What name
do you want on the birth certificate?' and Dad said, 'Hell!'
and walked away. So she put it down like that. That's
what my brother told me. I never saw my old man to
ask if that's how it was. He copped out the same day.
Sounds right, though."

"So your mother raised all seven of you?"

"No. She croaked a couple weeks later and different
relatives took us kids."

"I see," said Denton. "You've still got a choice, you
know. Do you want to try it or don't you?"

"What's your job, anyway?" asked Tanner.

"I'm the Secretary of Traffic for the nation of Cali-
fornia."

"What's that got to do with ir?"

"I'm coordinating this thing. It could as easily have
been the Surgeon General or the Postmaster General,
but more of it really falls into my area of responsibility.
I know the hardware best. I know the odds—"

"What are the odds?" asked Tanner.

For the first time, Denton dropped his eyes.

"Well, it's risky.. .."

"Nobody's ever done it before, except for that aut
who ran it to bring the news and he's dead. How can you
get odds out of that?"

"I know," said Denton slowly. "You're thinking it's
a suicide job, and you're probably right. We're sending
three cars, with two drivers in each. If any one just makes
it close enough, its broadcast signals may serve to guide
in a Boston driver. You don't have to go, though, you
know."

"I know. I'm free to spend the rest of my life in prison."

"You killed three people. You could have gotten the
death penalty."

"I didn't, so why talk about it? Look, mister, I don't

132

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

want to die and I don't want the other bit either."

"Drive or don't drive. Take your choice. But remember,
if you drive and you make it, all will be forgiven and
you can go your own way. The nation of California will
even pay for that motorcycle you appropriated and smashed
up, not to mention the damage to that police car."

"Thanks a lot." And the winds boomed on the other
side of the wall, and the steady staccato from the window

shields filled the room,

"You're a very good driver," said Denton, after a time.
"You've driven just about every vehicle there is to drive.
You've even raced. Back when you were smuggling,
you used to make a monthly run to Salt Lake City. There
are very few drivers who'll try that, even today."
Hell Tanner smiled, remembering something.
". . . And in the only legitimate job you ever held, you
were the only man who'd make the mail run to Albuquer-
que. There've only been a few others since you were

fired."

"That wasn't my fault."

"You were the best man on the Seattle run, too,"
Denton continued. "Your supervisor said so. What I'm try-
ing to say is that, of anybody we could pick, you've prob-
ably got the best chance of getting through. That's why
we've been indulgent with you, but we can't afford to wait
any longer. It's yes or no right now, and you'll leave within

the hour if it's yes."

Tanner raised his cuffed hands and gestured toward

the window.

"In all this crap?" he asked.
"The cars can take this storm," said Denton.

"Man, you're crazy,"
"People are dying even while we're talking," said

Denton.

"So a few more ain't about to make that much differ-
ence. Can't we wait till tomorrow?"

"No! A man gave his life to bring us the newsl And
we've got to get across the continent as fast as possible
now or it won't matter! Storm or no storm, the cars leave
nowl Your feelings on the matter don't mean a good god-
damn in the face of thtsl All I want out of you. Hell, is
one word: Which one will it be?"

"I'd like something to eat. I haven't..."

"There's food in the car. What's your answer?"

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    133

Hell stared at the dark window.

"Okay," he said, "I'll run Damnation Alley for you.
I won't leave without a piece of paper with some writing
on it, though."

"I've got it here."

Denton opened a drawer and withdrew a heavy card-
board envelope from which he extracted a piece of sta-
tionery bearing the Great Seal of the nation of California.
He stood and rounded the desk and handed it to Hell
Tanner.

Hell studied it for several minutes, then said, "This
says that if I make it to Boston I receive a full pardon
for every criminal action I've ever committed within the
nation of California ..."

"That's right."

"Does that include ones you might not know about
now, if someone should come up with them later?"

"That's what it says, Hell—'every criminal action.' "

"Okay, you're on, fat boy. Get these bracelets off me
and show me my car."

The man called Denton moved back to his seat on
the other side of his desk.

"Let me tell you something else. Hell," he said. "If
you try to cop out anywhere along the route, the other
drivers have their orders, and they've agreed to follow
them. They will open fire on you and burn you into little
bitty ashes. Get the picture?"

"I get the picture," said Hell. "I take it I'm supposed
to do them the same favor?"

"That is correct."

"Good enough. That might be fun."

"I thought you'd like it."

"Now, if you'll unhook me, I'll make the scene for
you."

"Not till I've told you what I think of you," Denton said.

"Okay, if you want to waste time calling me names,
while people are dying—"

"Shut up! You don't care about them and you know it!
I just want to tell you that I think you are the lowest, most
reprehensible human being I have ever encountered. You
have killed men and raped women. You once gouged
out a man's eyes, just for fun. You've been indicted
twice for pushing dope and three times as a pimp. You're
-a drunk and a degenerate, and I don't think you've

134 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

had a bath since the day you were born. You and your
hoodlums terrorized decent people when they were try-
ing to pull their lives together after the war. You stole
from them and you assaulted them, and you extorted
money and the necessaries of life with the threat of physi-
cal violence. I wish you had died in the Big Raid, that
night, like all the rest of them. You are not a human be-
ing, except from a biological standpoint. You have a big
dead spot somewhere inside you where other people have
something that lets them live together in society and be
neighbors. The only virtue that you possess—if you want
to call it that—is that your reflexes may be a little faster,
your muscles a little stronger, your eye a bit more wary
than the rest of us, so that you can sit behind a wheel and
drive through anything that has a way through it. It is
for this that the nation of California is willing to pardon
your inhumanity if you will use that one virtue to help
rather than hurt. I don't approve. I don't want to depend
on you, because you're not the type. I'd like to see you
die in this thing, and while I hope that somebody makes
it through, I hope that it will be somebody else. I hate
your bloody guts. You've got your pardon now. The
car's ready. Let's go."

Denton stood, at a height of about five feet eight inches,
and Tanner stood and looked down at him and chuckled,

"I'll make it," he said. "If that citizen from Boston
made it through and died, I'll make it through and live.
I've been as far as the Missus Hip."

"You're lying."

"No, I ain't either, and if you ever find out that's
straight, remember I got this piece of paper in my pocket
—every criminal action* and like that. It wasn't easy, and
I was lucky, too. But I made it that far and, nobody else
you know can say that. So I figure that's about halfway.
and I can make the other half if I can get that far."

They moved toward the door.

"I don't like to say it and mean it," said Denton, "but
good luck. Not for your sake, though."

"Yeah, I know."

Denton opened the door. "Turn him loose," he said.
"He's driving."

The officer with the shotgun handed it to the man
who had given Tanner the cigarettes, and he fished in
his pockets for the key. When he found it, he unlocked

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    135

the cuffs, stepped back, and hung them at his belt "I'll
come with you," said Denton. "The motor pool is down-
stairs."

They left the office, and Mrs. Fiske opened her purse
and took a rosary into her hands and bowed her head.
She prayed for Boston and she prayed for the soul of its
departed messenger. She even threw in a couple for Hell
Tanner.

Ill

They descended to the basement, the sub-basement and
the sub-sub-basement.

When they got there. Tanner saw three cars, ready to
go; and he saw five men seated on benches along the
wall. One of them he recognized.

"Denny," he said, "come here," and he moved for-
ward, and a slim, blond youth who held a crash helmet
in his right hand stood and walked toward him.

"What the bell are you doing?" he asked him.

"I'm second driver in car three."

"You've got your own garage and you've kept your
nose clean. What's the thought on this?"

"Denton offered me fifty grand," said Denny, and Hell
turned away his face.

"Forget iti It's no good if you're deadi"

"I need the money."

"Why?"

"I want to get married and I can use it."

"I thought you were making out okay."

"I am, but I'd like to buy a house."

"Does your girl know what you've got in mind?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. Listen, I've got to do it—it's the
only way out for me. You don't have to—"

"That's for me to say."

"—so I'm going to tell you something: You drive
out to Pasadena to that place where we used to play
when we were kids—with the rocks and the three big
trees—you know where I mean?"

"Yeah, I sure do remember."

"Go back of the big tree in the middle, on the side
where I carved my initials. Step off seven steps and dig
down around four feet. Got that?"

136 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"Yeah. What's there?"

"That's my legacy, Denny. You'll find one of those old
strong boxes, probably all rusted out by now. Bust it open.
It'll be full of excelsior, and there'll be a six-inch joint
of pipe inside. It's threaded, and there's caps on both
ends. There's a little over five grand rolled up inside it,
and all the bills are clean."

"Why you telling me this?"

"Because it's yours now," he said, and he hit him in the
jaw. When Denny fell, he kicked him in the ribs, three
times, before the cops grabbed him and dragged him
away.

"You fool!" said Denton as they held him. "You crazy,
damned fool!"

"Uh-uh," said Tanner. "No brother of mine is going
to run Damnation Alley while I'm around to stomp him
and keep him out of the game. Better find another driver
quick, because he's got cracked ribs. Or else let me drive
alone."

"Then you'll drive alone," said Denton, "because we
can't afford to wait around any longer. There's pills in
the compartment, to keep you awake, and you'd better
use them, because if you fall back they'll burn you up.
Remember that."

"I won't forget you, mister, if I'm ever back in town.
Don't fret about that."

"Then you'd better get into car number two and start
heading up the ramp. The vehicles are all loaded. The
cargo compartment is under the rear seat."

"Yeah, I know."

". . . And if I ever see you again, it'll be too soon. Get
out of my sight, scum!"

Tanner spat on the floor and turned his back on the
Secretary of Traffic. Several cops were giving first aid to
his brother, and one had dashed off in search of a doc-
tor. Denton made two teams of the remaining four drivers
and assigned them to cars one and three. Tanner climbed
into the cab of his own, started the engine and waited.
He stared up the ram, and considered what lay ahead. He
searched the compartments until he found cigarettes. He
lit one and leaned back-

The other drivers moved forward and mounted their
own heavily shielded vehicles. The radio crackled, crackled,

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    137

hummed, crackled again, and then a voice came through
as he heard the other engines come to life.

"Car one—readyl" came the voice.

There was a pause, then, "Car three—ready!" said a
different voice.

Tanner lifted the microphone and mashed the button
on its side.

"Car two ready," he said.

"Move out," came the order, and they headed up the

ramp.

The door rolled upward before them, and they entered
the storm.

IV

It was a nightmare, getting out of L.A. and onto Route
91. The waters came down in sheets and rocks the size of
baseballs banged against the armor plating of his car.
Tanner smoked and turned on the special lights. He wore
infrared goggles, and the night and the storm stalked him.

The radio crackled many times, and it seemed that he
heard the murmur of a distant voice, but he could never
quite make out what it was trying to say.

They followed the road for a& far as it went, and as
their big tires sighed over the rugged terrain that began
where the road ended, Tanner took the lead and the
others were content to follow. He knew the way; they
didn't.

He followed the old smugglers' route he'd used to run
candy to the Mormons. It was possible that he was the
only one left alive that knew it. Possible, but then there
was always someone looking for a fast buck. So, in all of
L.A., there might be somebody else.

The lightning began to fall, not in bolts, but sheets.
The car was insulated, but after a time his hair stood on
end. He might have seen a giant Gila Monster once, but
he couldn't be sure. He kept his fingers away from the
fire-control board. He'd save his teeth tai menaces were
imminent. From the rearview scanners it seemed that
one of the cars behind him had discharged a rocket, but
he couldn't be sure, since he had lost all radio contact
with them immediately upon leaving the building.

Waters rushed toward him, splashed about his car. The
sky sounded like an artillery range. A boulder the size of

138

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

a tombstone fell in front of him, and he swerved about it.
Red lights flashing across the sky from north to south. In
their passing, he detected many black bands going from
west to east. It was not an encouraging spectacle. The
storm could go on for days.

He continued to move forward, skirting a pocket of
radiation that had not died in the four years since last he
had come this way.

They came upon a place where the sands were fused
into a glassy sea, and he slowed as he began its passage
peering ahead after the craters and chasms it contained.

Three more rockfalls assailed him before the heavens
split themselves open and revealed a bright blue light
edged with violet. The dark curtains rolled back toward
the Poles, and the roaring and the gunfire reports dimin-
ished. A lavender glow remained in the north, and a green
sun dipped toward the horizon.

They had ridden it out. He killed the infras, pushed
back his goggles and switched on the normal night lamps.

The desert would be bad enough, all by itself.

Something big and bat-like swooped through the tunnel
of his lights and was gone. He ignored its passage. Five
minutes later it made a second pass, this time much
closer, and he fired a magnesium flare. A black shape,
perhaps forty feet across, was illuminated, and he gave it
two five-second bursts from the fifty-calibers and it fell to
the ground and did not return again.

To the squares, this was Damnation Alley. To Hell
Tanner, this was still the parking lot. He'd been this way
.thirty-two times, and so far as he was concerned the Alley
started in the place that was once called Colorado.

He led, and they followed, and the night wore on like
an abrasive.

No airplane could make it. Not since the war. None
could venture above a couple hundred feet, the place
where the winds began. The winds. The mighty winds
that circled the globe, tearing off the tops of mountains,
Sequoia trees, wrecked buildings, gathering up birds, bats,
insects and anything else that moved up into the dead
belt; the winds that swirled about the world, lacing the
skies with dark lines of debris, occasionally meeting,
merging, clashing, dropping tons of carnage wherever they
came together and formed too great a mass. Air trans-
portation was definitely out, to anywhere in the world. For

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    139

these winds circled, and they never ceased. Not in all the
twenty-five years of Tanner's memory had they let up.

Tanner pushed ahead, cutting a diagonal by the green
sunset. Dust continued to fall about him, great clouds of
it, and the sky was violet, then purple once more. Then
the sun went down and the night came on, and the stars
were very faint points of light somewhere above it all.
After a time, the moon rose, and the half-face that it
showed that night was the color of a glass of Chianti wine
held before a candle.

He let another cigarette and began to curse, slowly,
softly and without emotion.

They threaded their way amid heaps of rubble: rock,
metal, fragments of machinery, the prow of a boat. A
snake, as big around as a garbage can and dark green m
the cast light, slithered across Tanner's path, and he
braked the vehicle as it continued and continued and con-
tinued. Perhaps a hundred and twenty feet of snake
passed by before Tanner removed his foot from the brake
and touched gently upon the gas pedal once again.

Glancing at the left-hand screen, which held an infrared
version of the view to the left, it seemed that he saw two
eyes glowing within the shadow of a heap of girders and
masonry. Tanner kept one hand near the fire-control but-
ton and did not move it for a distance of several miles.

There were no windows in the vehicle, only screens
which reflected views in every direction including straight
up and the ground beneath the car. Tanner sat within an
illuminated box which shielded him against radiation. The
"car" that he drove had eight heavily treaded tires and
was thirty-two feet in length. It mounted eight fifty-caliber
automatic guns and four grenade throwers. It carried
thirty armor-piercing rockets which could be discharged
straight ahead or at any elevation up to forty degrees from
the plane. Each of the four sides, as well as the roof of
the vehicle, housed a flame thrower. Razor-sharp "wings"
of tempered steel—eighteen inches wide at their bases
and tapering to points, an inch and a quarter thick
where they ridged—could be moved through a complete
hundred-eighty-degree arc along the sides of the car and
parallel to the ground, at a height of two feet and eight
inches. When standing at a right angle to the body of the
vehicle—eight feet to the rear of the front bumper—they
extended out to a distance of six feet on either side of the

140 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

car. They could be couched like lances for a charge. They
could be held but slightly out from the sides for purposes
of slashing whatever was sideswiped. The car was bullet-
proof, air-conditioned and had its own food locker and
sanitation facilities. A long-barreled .357 Magnum was
held by a clip on the door near the driver's left hand. A
30-06, a .45 caliber automatic and six hand grenades oc-
cupied the rack immediately above the front seat.

But Tanner kept his own counsel, in the form of a
long, slim SS dagger inside his right boot.

He removed his gloves and wiped his palms on the
knees of his denims. The pierced heart that was tattooed
on the back of his right hand was red in the light from the
dashboard. The knife that went through it was dark blue,
and his first name was tattooed in the same color beneath
it, one letter on each knuckle, beginning with that at the
base of his litt!e finger.

He opened and explored the two near compartments
but could find no cigars. So he crushed out his cigarette
butt on the floor and lit another.

The forward screen showed vegetation, and he slowed.
He tried using the radio but couldn't tell whether anyone
heard him, receiving only static in reply.

He slowed, staring ahead and up. He halted once again.

He turned his forward lights up to full intensity and
studied the situation.

A heavy wall of thorn bushes stood before him, reach-
ing to a height of perhaps twelve feet. It swept on to his
right and off to his left, vanishing out of sight in both
directions. How dense, how deep a pit might be, he could
not tell. It had not been there a few years before.

He moved forward slowly and activated the flame
throwers. In the rearview screen, he could see that the
other vehicles had halted a hundred yards behind him
and dimmed their lights.

He drove till he could go no further, then pressed the
button for the forward flame.

It shot forth, a tongue of fire, licking fifty feet into the
bramble. He held it for five seconds and withdrew it. Then
he extended it a second time and backed away quickly as
the flames caught.

Beginning with a tiny glow, they worked their way up-
ward and spread slowly to the right and the left. Then
they grew in size and brightness.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

141

As Tanner backed away, he had to dim his screen,
for they'd spread fifty feet before he'd backed more than
a hundred, and they leaped thirty and forty feet into the

air.

The blaze widened, to a hundred feet, two, three . . .
As Tanner backed away, he could see a river of fire
flowing off into the distance, and the night was bright

about him.

He watched it burn, until it seemed that he looked
upon a molten sea. Then he searched the refrigerator, but
there was no beer. He opened a soft drink and sipped it
while he watched the burning. After about ten minutes,
the air conditioner whined and shook itself to life. Hordes
of dark, four-footed creatures, the size of rats or cats, fled
from the inferno, their coats smouldering. They flowed by.
At one point, they covered his forward screen, and he
could hear the scratching of their claws upon the fenders

and the roof.

He switched off the lights and killed the engine, tossed
the empty can into the waste box. He pushed the "Re-
cline" button on the side of the seat, leaned back, and
closed his eyes.

He was awakened by the blowing of horns. It was still
night, and the panel clock showed him that he had slept
for a little over three hours.

He stretched, sat up, adjusted the seat. The other cars
had moved up, and one stood to either side of him. He
leaned on bis own horn twice and started bis engine. He
switched on the forward lights and considered the pros-
pect before him as he drew on his gloves.

Smoke still rose from the blackened field, and far off
to his right there was a glow, as if the fire still continued
somewhere in the distance. They were in the place that
had once been known as Nevada.

He rubbed his eyes and scratched his nose, then blew
the horn once and engaged the gears.

He moved forward slowly. The burnt-out area seemed
fairly level and his tires were thick.

He entered the black field, and his screens were imme-
diately obscured by the rush of ashes and smoke which
rose on all sides.

142 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

He continued, hearing the tires crunching through the
brittle remains. He set his screens at maximum and
switched his headlamps up to full brightness.

The vehicles that flanked him dropped back perhaps
eighty feet. and he dimmed the screens that reflected the
glare of their lights.

He released a flare, and as it hung there, burning, cold,
white and high, he saw a charred plain that swept on to
the edges of his eyes' horizon.

He pushed down on the accelerator, and the cars be-
hind him swung far out to the sides to avoid the clouds
that he raised. His radio crackled, and he heard a faint
voice but could not make out its words.

He blew his horn and rolled ahead even faster. The
other vehicles kept pace.

He drove for an hour and a half before he saw the end
of the ash and the beginning of clean sand up ahead.

Within five minutes, he was moving across desert once
more, and he checked his compass and bore slightly to
the west Cars one and three followed, speeding up to
match his new pace, and he drove with one hand and ate
a corned beef sandwich.

When morning came, many hours later, he took a pill to
keep himself alert and listened to the screaming of the
wind. The sun rose up like molten silver to his right, and
a third of the sky grew amber and was laced with fine
lines like cobwebs. The desert was topaz beneath it, and
the brown curtain of dust that hung continuously at his
back, pierced only by the eight shafts of the other cars'
lights, took on a pinkish tone as the sun grew a bright
red corona and the shadows fled into the west. He
dimmed his lights as he passed an orange cactus shaped
like a toadstool and perhaps fifty feet in diameter.

Giant bats fled south, and far ahead he saw a wide
waterfall descending from the heavens. It was gone by
the time he reached the damp sand of that place, but a
dead shark lay to his left, and there was seaweed, sea-
weed, seaweed, fish and driftwood all about.

The sky pinked over from east to west and remained
that color. He gulped a bottle of ice water and felt it go
into his stomach. He passed more cacti, and a pair of
coyotes sat at the base of one and watched him drive by.
They seemed to be laughing. Their tongues were very red.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    143

As the sun brightened, he dimmed the screen. He
smoked, and he found a button that produced music. He
swore at the soft, stringy sounds that filled the cabin, but
he didn't turn them on.

He checked the radiation level outside, and it was only
a little above normal. The last time he had passed this
way, it had been considerably higher.

He passed several wrecked vehicles such as his own.
He ran across another plain of silicon, and in the middle
was a huge crater which he skirted. The pinkness in the
sky faded and faded and faded, and a bluish tone came
to replace it. The dark lines were still there, and occa-
sionally one widened into a black river as it flowed away
into the east. At noon, one such river partly eclipsed the
sun for a period of eleven minutes. With its departure,
there came a brief dust storm, and Tanner turned on the
radar and his lights. He knew there was a chasm some-
where ahead, and when he came to it he bore to the left
and ran along its edge for close to two miles before it
narrowed and vanished. The other vehicles followed, and
Tanner took his bearings from the compass once more.
The dust had subsided with the brief wind, and even with
the screen dimmed Tanner had to don his dark goggles
against the glare of reflected sunlight from the faceted
field he now negotiated.

He passed towering formations which seemed to be
quartz. He had never stopped to investigate them in the
past, and he had no desire to do it now. The spectrum
danced at their bases, and patches of such light occurred
for some distance about them.

Speeding away from the crater, he came again upon
sand, clean, brown, white dun and red. There were more
cacti, and huge dunes lay all about him. The sky con-
tinued to change, until it was as blue as a baby's eyes.
Tanner hummed along with the music for a time, and
then he saw the monster.

It was a Gila, bigger than his car, and it moved in fast.
It sprang from out the sheltering shade of a valley filled
with cacti and it raced toward him, its beaded body bright
with many colors beneath the sun, its dark, dark eyes un-
blinking as it bounded forward on its lizard-fast legs, sable
fountains rising behind its upheld tail that was wide as a
sail and pointed like a tent.

144    THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

He couldn't use the rockets because it was coming in
from the side.

He opened up with his fifty-calibers and spread his
"wings" and stamped the accelerator to the floor. As it
neared, he sent forth a cloud of fire in its direction. By
then, the other cars were firing, too.

It swung its tail and opened and closed its Jaws, and its
blood came forth and fell upon the ground. Then a rocket
struck it. It turned; it leaped.

There came a booming, crunching sound as it fell upon
the vehicle identified as car number one and lay there.

Tanner hit the brakes, turned, and headed back.

Car number three came up beside it and parked. Tan-
ner did the same.

He jumped down from the cab and crossed to the
smashed car. He had the rifle in his hands and he put six

rounds into the creature's head before he approached the
car.

The door had come open, and it hung from a single
hinge, the bottom one.

Inside, Tanner could see the two men sprawled, and
there was some blood upon the dashboard and the seat.

The other two drivers came up beside him and stared
within. Then the shorter of the two crawled inside and
listened for the heartbeat and the pulse and felt for
breathing.

"Mike's dead," he called out, "but Greg's starting to
come around."

A wet spot that began at the car's rear and spread and
continued to spread, and the smell of gasoline filled the
air.

Tanner took out a cigarette, thought better of it and
replaced it in the pack. He could hear the gurgle of the
huge gas tanks as they emptied themselves upon the
ground.

The man who stood at Tanner's side said, "I never saw
anything like it. ... I've seen pictures, but—I never saw
anything like it. ..."

"I have," said Tanner, and then the other driver
emerged from the wreck, partly supporting the man he'd
referred to as Greg.

The man called out, "Greg's all right. He just hit his
head on the dash."

The man who stood at Tanner's side said, "You can

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    145

take him, Hell. He can back you up when he's feeling
better," and Tanner shrugged and turned his back on the
scene and lit a cigarette.

"I don't think you should do—" the man began, and
Tanner blew smoke in his face. He turned to regard the
two approaching men and saw that Greg was dark-eyed
and deeply tanned. Part Indian, possibly. His skin seemed
smooth, save for a couple pockmarks beneath his right
eye, .and his cheekbones were high and his hair very
dark. He was as big as Tanner, which was six-two, though
not quite so heavy. He was dressed in overalls; and his
carriage, now that he had had a few deep breaths of air,
became very erect, and he moved with a quick, graceful
stride.

"We'll have to bury Mike," the short man said.

*'I hate to lose the time," said his companion, "but—"
and then Tanner flipped his cigarette and threw himself
to the ground as it landed in the pool at the rear of the
car.

There was an explosion, flames, then more explosions.
Tanner heard the rockets as they tore off toward the east,
inscribing dark furrows in the hot afternoon's air. The
ammo for the fifty-calibers exploded, and the hand gre-
nades went off, and Tanner burrowed deeper and deeper
into the sand, covering his head and blocking his ears. -

As soon as things grew quiet, he grabbed for the rifle.
But they were already coming at him, and he saw the
muzzle of a pistol. He raised his hands slowly and stood.

"Why the goddamn hell did you do a stupid thing like
that?" said the other driver, the man who held the pistol.

Tanner smiled. "Now we don't have to bury him," he
said. "Cremation's just as good, and it's already over."

"You could have killed us all, if those guns or those
rocket launchers had been aimed this way!"

'They weren't. I looked."

"The flying metal could've—Oh ... I see. Pick up your
damn rifle, buddy, and keep it pointed at the ground. Eject
the rounds it's still got in it and put 'em in your pocket."

Tanner did this thing while the other talked.

"You wanted to kill us all, didn't you? Then you could
have cut out and gone your way, like you tried to do
yesterday. Isn't that right?"

"You said it, mister, not me."
"It's true, though. You don't give a good goddamn if
everybody in Boston croaks, do you?"

"My gun's unloaded now," said Tanner.

"Then get back in your bloody buggy and get going! I`ll be behind you all the way!"

Tanner walked back toward his car. He heard the
others arguing behind him, but he didn't think they'd
shoot him. As he was about to climb up into the cab, he
saw a shadow out of the corner of his eye and turned
quickly.

The man named Greg was standing behind him, tall
and quiet as a ghost.

"Want me to drive awhile?" he asked Tanner, without
expression.

"No, you rest up. I'm still in good shape. Later on this
afternoon, maybe, if you feel up to it."

The man nodded and rounded the cab. He entered
from the other side and immediately reclined his chair.

Tanner slammed his door and started the engine. He
heard the air conditioner come to life.

"Want to reload this?" he asked. "And put it back on
the rack?" And he handed the rifle and the ammo to the
other, who had nodded. He drew on his gloves then and
said, "There's plenty of soft drinks in the 'frig. Nothing
much else, though," and the other nodded again. Then he
heard car three start and said, "Might as well roll," and
he put it into gear and took his foot off the clutch.

VI

After they had driven for about half an hour, the man
called Greg said to him, "Is it true what Marlowe said?"

"What's a Marlowe?"

"He's driving the other car. Were you trying to kill us?
Do you really want to skip out?"

Hell laughed. "That's right," he said. "You named it."

-Why?"

Hell let it hang there for a minute, then said, ."Why
shouldn't I? I'm not anxious to die. I'd like to wait a long
time before I try that bit."

Greg said, "If we don't make it, the population of the
continent may be cut in half."

"If it's a question of them or me, I'd rather it was
them."

"I sometimes wonder how people like you happen."

"The same way as anybody else, mister, and it's fun
for a couple people for awhile, and then the trouble
starts."

"What did they ever do to you. Hell?"

"Nothing. What did they ever do for me? Nothing.
Nothing. What do I owe them? The same."

"Why'd you stomp your brother back at the Hall?"

"Because I didn't want him doing a damfool thing like
this and getting himself killed. Cracked ribs he can get
over. Death is a more permanent ailment."

"That's not what I asked you. I mean, what do you
care whether he croaks?"

"He's a good kid, that's why. He's got a thing for this
chick, though, and he can't see straight."

"So what's it to you?"

"Like I said, he's my brother and he's a good kid. I
like him."

"How come?"

"Oh, hell! We've been through a lot together, that's
all! What are you trying to do? Psychoanalyze me?"

"I was just curious, that's all."

"So now you know. Talk about something else if you
want to talk, okay?"

"Okay. You've been this way before, right?"

"That's right."

"You been any further east?"

"I've been all the way to the Missus Hip."

"Do you know a way to get across it?"

"I think so. The bridge is still up at Saint Louis."

"Why didn't you go across it the last time you were
there?"

"Are you kidding? The thing's packed with cars full
of bones. It wasn't worth the trouble to try and clear it"

"Why'd you go that far in the first place?"

"Just to see what it was like. I heard all these
stories—'*

"What was it like?"

"A lot of crap. Burned down towns, big craters, crazy
animals, some people—"

"People? People still live there?"

"If you want to call them that. They're all wild and
screwed up. They wear rags or animal skins or they go
naked. They threw rocks at me till I shot a couple. Then
they let me alone."

"How long ago was that?"

"Six—maybe seven years ago. I was just a kid then.'*

"How come you never told anybody about it?"

"I did. A coupla my friends. Nobody else ever asked
me. We were going to go out there and grab off a couple
of the girls and bring them back, but everybody chickened
out."

"What would you have done with them?"

Tanner shrugged. "I dunno. Sell 'em, I guess."

"You guys used to do that, down on the Barbary Coast
—sell people, I mean—didn't you?"

Tanner shrugged again.

"Used to," he said, "before the Big Raid."

"How'd you manage to live through that? I thought
they'd cleaned the whole place out?"

"I was doing time," he said. "A.D.W."

"What's that?"

"Assault with a deadly weapon."

"What'd you do after they let you go?"

"I let them rehabilitate me. They got me a job running
the mail."

"Oh yeah, I heard about that. Didn't realize it was you,
though. You were supposed to be pretty good—doing all
right and ready for a promotion. Then you kicked your
boss around and lost your job. How come?"

"He was always riding me about my record and about
my old gang down on the Coast. Finally, one day I told
him to lay off, and he laughed at me, so I hit him with a
chain. Knocked out the bastard's front teeth. I'd do it
again."

"Too bad."

"I was the best driver he had. It was his loss. Nobody
else will make the Albuquerque run, not even today. Not
unless they really need the money."

"Did you like the work, though, while you were doing
it?"

"Yeah, I like to drive."

"You should probably have asked for a transfer when
the guy started bugging you."

"I know. If it was happening today, that's probably
what I'd do. I was mad, though, and I used to get mad a

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT      149

lot faster than I do now. I think I'm smarter these days
than I was before."

"If you make it on this run and you go home after-
ward, you'll probably be able to get your job back. Think
you'd take it?"

"In the first place," said Tanner, "I don't think we'll
make it. And in the second, if we do make it and there's
still people around that town, I think I'd rather stay there
than go back."

Greg nodded. "Might be smart. You'd be a hero.
Nobody'd know much about your record. Somebody'd
turn you onto something good."

"The hell with heroes," said Tanner.

"Me, though, I'll go back if we make it."

"Sail 'round Cape Horn?"

"That's right."

"Might be fun. But why go back?"

"I've got an old mother and a mess of brothers and
sisters I take care of, and I've got a girl back there."

Tanner brightened the screen as the sky began to
darken.

"What's your mother like?"

"Nice old lady. Raised the eight of us. Got arthritis
bad now, though."

"What was she like when you were a kid?"

"She used to work during the day, but she cooked our
meals and sometimes brought us candy. She made a lot
of our clothes. She used to tell us stories, like about how
things were before the war. She played games with us
and sometimes she gave us toys."

"How about your old man?" Tanner asked him, after
awhile.

"He drank pretty heavy and he had a lot of jobs, but
he never beat us too much. He was all right. He got run
over by a car when I was around twelve."

"And you take care of everybody now?"

"Yeah. I'm the oldest."

"What is it that you do?"

"I've got your old job. I run the mail to Albuquerque."

"Are you kidding?"

"No."

"I'll be damned! Is German still the supervisor?"

"He retired last year, on disability."
"I'll be damned! That's funny. Listen, down in Albu-
querque do you ever go to a bar called Pedro's?"

"I've been there."

"Have they still got a little blonde girl plays the piano?
Named Margaret?"

"No."

"Oh."

"They've got some guy now. Fat fellow. Wears a big
ring on his left hand."

Tanner nodded and downshifted as he began the ascent
of a steep hill.

"How's your head now?" he asked, when they'd reached
the top and started down the opposite slope.

"Feels pretty good. I took a couple of your aspirins
with that soda I had."

"Feel up to driving for awhile?"

"Sure, I could do that."

"Okay, then." Tanner leaned on the horn and braked
the car. "Just follow the compass for a hundred miles or
so and wake me up. All right?"

"Okay. Anything special I should watch out for?"

"The snakes. You'll probably see a few. Don't hit them,
whatever you do."

"Right."

They changed seats, and Tanner reclined the one, lit
a cigarette, smoked half of it, crushed it out and went
to sleep.

VII

When Greg awakened him, it was night. Tanner coughed
and drank a mouthful of ice water and crawled back to
the latrine. When he emerged, he took the driver's seat
and checked the mileage and looked at the compass. He
corrected their course and, "We'll be in Salt Lake City
before morning," he said, "if we're lucky.—Did you run
into any trouble?'*

"No, it was pretty easy. I saw some snakes and I let
them go by. That was about it."

Tanner grunted and engaged the gears,

"What was that .guy's name that brought the news
about the plague?" Tanner asked.

"Brady or Brody or something like that," said Greg.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    151

"What was it that killed him? He might have brought
the plague to L.A., you know."

Greg shook his head.

"No. His car had been damaged, and he was all
broken up and he'd been exposed to radiation a lot of the
way. They burned his body and his car, and anybody
who'd been anywhere near him got shots of Hamkine."

"What's that?"

"That's the stuff we're carrying— Haffikine antiserum.
It's the only preventative for the plague. Since we had a
bout of it around twenty years ago, we've kept it on hand
and maintained the facilities for making more in a hurry.
Boston never did, and now they're hurting,"

"Seems kind of silly for the only other nation on the
continent—maybe in the world—not to take better care
of itself, when they knew we'd had a dose of it,"

Greg shrugged.

"Probably, but there it is. Did they give you any shots
before they released you?"

"Yeah."

"That's what it was, then."

"I wonder where their driver crossed the Missus Hip?
He didn't say, did he?"

"He hardly said anything at all. They got most of the
story from the letter he carried."

"Must have been one hell of a driver, to run the Alley."

"Yeah. Nobody's ever done it before, have they?"

"Not that I know of."

"I'd like to have met the guy."

"Me too, at least I guess."

"It's a shame we can't radio across country, like in
the old days."

"Why?"

"Then he wouldn't of had to do it, and we could find
out along the way whether it's really worth making the
run. They might all be dead by now, you know."

"You've got a point there, mister, and in a day or so
we'll be to a place where going back will be harder than
going ahead."

Tanner adjusted the screen as dark shapes passed.

"Look at that, will you!"

"I don't see anything."

"Put on your infras."

Greg did this and stared upward at the screen.
Bats. Enormous bats cavorted overhead, swept by
in dark clouds.

"There must be hundreds of them, maybe thou-
sands. ..."

"Guess so. Seems there are more than there used to be
when I came this way a few years back. They must be
screwing their heads off in Carlsbad."

"We never see them in L.A. Maybe they're pretty
much harmless."

"Last time I was up to Salt Lake, I heard talk that a
lot of them were rabid. Some day someone's got to go
—them or us."

"You're a cheerful guy to ride with, you know?"

Tanner chuckled and lit a cigarette, and. "Why don't
you make us some coffee?" he said. "As for the bats,
that's something our kids can worry about, if there are
any."

Greg filled the coffee pot and plugged it into the
dashboard. After a time, it began to grumble and hiss.

"What the hell's that?" said Tanner, and he hit the
brakes. The other car halted, several hundred yards be-
hind his own, and he turned on his microphone and said,
"Car three! What's that look like to you?" and waited.

He watched them: towering, tapered tops that spun
between the ground and the sky, wobbling from side to
side, sweeping back and forth, about a mile ahead.
It seemed there were fourteen or fifteen of the things. Now
they stood like pillars, now they danced. They bored into
the ground and sucked up yellow dust. There was a haze
all about them. The stars were dim or absent above or
behind them.

Greg stared ahead and said, "I've heard of whirlwinds,
tornadoes—big, spinning things. I've never seen one, but
that's the way they were described to me."

And then the radio crackled, and the muffled voice
of the man called Marlowe came through:

"Giant dust devils," he said. "Big, rotary sand storms.
I think they're sucking stuff up into the dead belt, because
I don't see anything coming down—"

"You ever see one before?"

"No, but my partner says he did- He says the best
thing might be to shoot our anchoring columns and stay
put."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    153

Tanner did not answer immediately. He stared ahead,
and the tornadoes seemed to grow larger.

"They're coming this way," he finally said. "I'm not
about to park here and be a target. I want to be able to
maneuver. I'm going ahead through them."

"I don't think you should."

"Nobody asked you, mister, but if you've got any
brains you'll do the same thing."

"I've got rockets aimed at your tail. Hell."

"You won't fire them—not for a thing like this, where
I could be right and you could be wrong—and not with
Greg in here, too."

There was silence within the static, then, "Okay, you
win. Hell. Go ahead, and we'll watch. If you make it,
we'll follow. If you don't, we'll stay put."

"I'll shoot a flare when I get to the other side,"
Tanner said. "When you see it, you do the same. Okay?"

Tanner broke the connection and looked ahead, study-
ing the great black columns, swollen at their tops. There
fell a few layers of light from the storm which they sup-
ported, and the air was foggy between the blacknesses
of their revolving trunks. "Here goes," said Tanner,
switching his lights as bright as they would beam. "Strap
yourself in, boy," and Greg obeyed him as the vehicle
crunched forward.

Tanner buckled his own safety belt as they slowly
edged ahead.

The columns grew and swayed as he advanced, and
he could now bear a rushing, singing sound, as of a
chorus of the winds.

He skirted the first by three hundred yards and con-
tinued to the left to avoid the one which stood before him
and grew and grew. As he got by it, there was another,
and he moved farther to the left. Then there was an open
area of perhaps a quarter of a mile leading ahead and
toward his right.

He swiftly sped across it and passed between two of
the towers that stood like ebony pillars a hundred yards
apart. As he passed them, the wheel was almost torn from
his grip, and he seemed to inhabit the center of an eter-
nal thunderclap. He swerved to the right then and skirted
another, speeding.

Then he saw seven more and cut between two and
passed about another. As he did, the one behind him
moved rapidly, crossing the path he had just taken. He
exhaled heavily and turned to the left.

He was surrounded by the final four, and he braked
so that he was thrown forward and the straps cut into his
shoulder, as two of the whirlwinds shook violently and
moved in terrible spurts of speed. One passed before
him, and the front end of his car was raised off the

ground.

Then he floored the gas pedal and shot between the

final two, and they were all behind him.

He continued on for about a quarter for a mile, turned
the car about, mounted a small rise and parked.

He released the flare.

It hovered, like a dying star, for about half a minute.

He lit a cigarette as he stared back, and he waited.

He finished the cigarette.

Then, "Nothing," he said. "Maybe they couldn't spot
it through the storm. Or maybe we couldn't see theirs."

"I hope so," said Greg.

"How long do you want to wait?"

"Let's have that coffee."

An hour passed, then two. The pillars began to collapse
until there were only three of the slimmer ones. They
moved off toward the east and were gone from sight.

Tanner released another flare, and still there was no

response.

"We'd better go back and look for them," said Greg.

"Okay."

And they did.

There was nothing there, though, nothing to indicate
the fate of car three.

Dawn occurred in the east before they had finished
with their searching, and Tanner turned the car around,
checked the compass, and moved north.

"When do you think we'll hit Salt Lake?" Greg asked
him, after a long silence.

"Maybe two hours."

"Were you scared, back when you ran those things?"

"No. Afterward, though, I didn't feel so good."

Greg nodded.         '

"You want me to drive again?"

"No. I won't be able to sleep if I stop now. We'll take
in more gas in Salt Lake, and we can get something

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    155

to eat while a mechanic checks over the car. Then I'll put
us on the right road, and you can take over while I sack
out."

The sky was purple again and the black bands had
widened. Tanner cursed and drove faster. He fired his
ventral flame at two bats who decided to survey the car.
They fell back, and he accepted the mug of coffee Greg
offered him.

VIII

The sky was as dark as evening when they pulled into
Salt Lake City. John Brady—that was his name—had
passed that way but days before, and the city was ready
for the responding vehicle. Most of its ten thousand in-
habitants appeared along the street, and before Hell and
Greg had jumped down from the cab after pulling into
the first garage they saw, the hood of car number two
was opened and three mechanics were peering at the
engine.

They abandoned the idea of eating in the little diner
across the street. Too many people hit them with too
many questions as soon as they set foot outside the
garage. They retreated and s^ent someone after eggs,
bacon and toast.

There was cheering as they rolled forth onto the street
and sped away into the east.

"Could have used a beer," said Tanner. "Damn it!"

And they rushed along beside the remains of what had
once been U.S. Route 40.

Tanner relinquished the driver's seat and stretched out
on the passenger side of the cab. The sky continued to
darken above them, taking upon it the appearance it had
had in L.A. the day before.

"Maybe we can outrun it," Greg said.

"Hope so."

The blue pulse began in the north, flared into a bril-
liant aurora. The sky was almost black directly over-
head.

"Runi" cried Tanner. "Run! Those are bills up ahead!
Maybe we can find an overhang or a cavel"

But it broke upon them before they reached the hills.
First came the hail, then the flak. The big stones followed,
and the scanner on the right went dead. The sands blasted them, and they rode beneath a celestial waterfall
that caused the engine to sputter and cough.

They reached the shelter of the hills, though, and
found a place within a rocky valley where the walls
jutted steeply forward and broke the main force of the
wind/sand/dust/rock/water storm. They sat there as the
winds screamed and boomed about them. They smoked
and they listened.

"We won't make it," said Greg. "You were right. I
thought we had a chance. We don't. Everything's against
us, even the weather."

"We've got a chance," said Tanner. "Maybe not a
real good one. But we've been lucky so far. Remember

that."

Greg spat into the waste container.

"Why the sudden optimism? From you?"

"I was mad before and shooting off my mouth. Well,
I'm still mad—but I got me a feeling now: I feel lucky.

That's all."

Greg laughed. "The hell with luck. Look out there," he

said.

"I see it," said Tanner. "This buggy is built to take it,
and it's doing it. Also, we're only getting about ten per-
cent of its full strength."

"Okay, but what difference does it make? It could
last for a couple days."

"So we wait it out."

"Wait too long, and even that ten percent can smash
us. Wait too long, and even if it doesn't there'll be no
reason left to go ahead. Try driving, though, and it'll

flatten us."

"It'll take me ten or fifteen minutes to fix that scan-
ner. We've got spare 'eyes.' If the storm lasts more than
six hours, we'll start out anyway."

"Says who?"

"Me."

"Why? You're the one who was so hot on saving his
own neck. How come all of a sudden you're willing to

risk it, not to mention mine too?"

Tanner smoked awhile, then said, "I've been think-
ing," and then he didn't say anything else.

"About what?" Greg' asked him.

"Those folks in Boston," Tanner said. "Maybe it is
worth it. I don't know. They never did anything for me.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    157

But hell, I like action and I'd hate to see the whole world
get dead. I think I'd like to see Boston, too, just to see
what it's like. It might even be fun being a hero, just to
see what that's like. Don't get me wrong. I don't give a
damn about anybody up there. It's just that I don't like
the idea of everything being like the Alley here—all
burned-out and screwed up and full of crap. When we
lost the other car back in those tornadoes, it made me
start thinking. ... I'd hate to see everybody go that way
—everything. I might still cop out if I get a real good
chance, but I'm just telling you how I feel now. That's
all."

Greg looked away and laughed, a little more heartily
than usual.

"I never suspected you contained such philosophic
depths."

"Me neither. I'm tired. Tell me about your brothers
and sisters, huh?"

"Okay."

Four hours later when the storm slackened and the
rocks became dust and the rain fog. Tanner replaced the
right scanner, and they moved on out, passing later
through Rocky Mountain National Park. The dust and
the fog combined to limit visibility, throughout the day.
That evening they skirted the ruin that was Denver,
and Tanner took over as they headed toward the place
that had once been called Kansas.

He drove all night, and in the morning the sky was
clearer than it bad been in days. He let Greg snore on
and sorted through his thoughts while he sipped his coffee.

It was a strange feeling that came over him as he sat there
with his pardon in his pocket and his hands upon the
wheel. The dust fumed at his back. The sky was the color
of rosebuds, and the dark trails had shrunken once again.
He recalled the stories of the days when the missiles came
down, burning everything but the northeast and the south-
west; the days when the winds arose and the clouds van-
ished and the sky had lost its blue; the days when the
Panama Canal had been shattered and radios had ceased
to function; the days when the planes could no longer fly.
He regretted this, for he had always wanted to fly, high,
birdlike, swooping and soaring. He felt slightly cold, and

158   THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

the screens now seemed to possess a crystal clarity, like
pools of tinted water. Somewhere ahead, far, far ahead
lay what might be the only other sizeable pocket of hu-
manity that remained on the shoulders of the world. He
might be able to save it, if he could reach it in time. He
looked about him at the rocks and the sand and the side
of a broken garage that had somehow come to occupy the
slope of a mountain. It remained within his mind long
after he had passed it. Shattered, fallen down, half cov-
ered with debris, it took on a stark and monstrous form,
like a decaying skull which had once occupied the shoul-
ders of a giant; and he pressed down hard on the acceler-
ator, although it could go no further. He began to tremble.
The sky brightened, but he did not touch the screen con-
trols. Why did he have to be the one? He saw a mass of
smoke ahead and to the right. As he drew nearer, he saw
that it rose from a mountain which had lost its top and
now held a nest of fires in its place. He cut to the left, go-
ing miles, many miles, out of the way he bad intended.
Occasionally, the ground shook beneath his wheels. Ashes
fell about him, but now the smouldering cone was far to
the rear of the right-hand screen. He wondered after the
days that had gone before and the few things that he ac-
tually knew about them. If he made it through, be decided
he'd leam more about history. He threaded his way
through painted canyons and forded a shallow river. No-
body had ever asked him to do anything important before,
and he hoped that nobody ever would again. Now, though,
he was taken by the feeling that he could do it. He wanted
to do it. Damnation Alley lay all about him, burning,
fuming, shaking, and if he could not run it then half the
world would die, and the chances would be doubled that
one day all the world would be part of the Alley. His tat-
too stood stark on his whitened knuckles, saying "Hell,"
and he knew that it was true. Greg still slept, the sleep of
exhaustion, and Tanner narrowed his eyes and chewed his
beard and never touched the brake, not even when he saw
the rockslide beginning. He made it by and sighed. That
pass was closed to him forever, but he had shot through
without a scratch. His mind was an expanding bubble, its
surfaces like the view-screens, registering everything
about him. He felt the flow of the air within the cab and
the upward pressure of the pedal upon his foot His throat
seemed dry, but it didn't matter. His eyes felt gooey at

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    159

their inside comers, but he didn't wipe them. He roared
across the pocked plains of Kansas, and he knew now that
he had been sucked into the role completely and that he
wanted it that way. Damn-his-eyes Denton had been right
It had to be done. He halted when he came to the lip of
a chasm and headed north. Thirty miles later it ended,
and he turned again to the south. Greg muttered in his
sleep. It sounded like a curse. Tanner repeated it softly a
couple times and turned toward the east as soon as a
level stretch occurred. The sun stood in high heaven, and
Tanner felt as though be were drifting bodiless beneath it,
above the brown ground flaked with green spikes of
growth. He clenched his teeth and his mind went back to
Denny, doubtless now in a hospital. Better than being
where the others had gone. He hoped the money he'd told
him about was still there. Then he felt the ache begin, in
the places between his neck and his shoulders. It spread
down into his arms, and be realized how tightly he was
gripping the wheeL He blinked and took a deep breath
and realized that his eyeballs hurt. He lit a cigarette and
it tasted foul, but he kept puffing at it. He drank some
water and he dimmed the rear view-screen as the sun fell
behind him. Then he heard a sound like a distant rumble
of thunder and was fully alert once more. He sat up
straight and took his foot off the accelerator.

He slowed. He braked and stopped. Then he saw them.
He sat there and watched them as they passed, about a
half-mile ahead.

A monstrous herd of bison crossed before him. It took
the better part of an hour before they had passed. Huge,
heavy, dark, heads down, hooves scoring the soil, they ran
without slowing until the thunder was great and then
rolled off toward the north, diminishing, softening, dying,
gone. The screen of their dust still hung before him, and
he plunged into it, turning on his lights.

He considered taking a pill, decided against it. Greg
might be waking soon, he -wanted to be able to get some
sleep after they'd switched over.

He came up beside a highway, and its surface looked
pretty good, so he crossed onto it and sped ahead. After
a time, he passed a faded, sagging sign that said "TO-
PEKA—110 MILES."

Greg yawned and stretched. He rubbed his eyes with
his knuckles and then rubbed his forehead, the right side
of which was swollen and dark.

"What time is it?" he asked.

Tanner gestured toward the clock in the dashboard.

"Morning or is it afternoon?"

"Afternoon."

"My God! I must have slept around fifteen hours!"

That's about right."

"You been driving all that time?"

"That's right."

"You must be done in. You look like hell. Let me just
hit the head. I'll take over in a few minutes."

"Good idea."

Greg crawled toward the rear of the vehicle.

After about five minutes. Tanner came upon the out-
skirts of a dead town. He drove up the main street, and
there were rusted-out hulks of cars all along it. Most of
the buildings had fallen in upon themselves, and some of
the opened cellars that he saw were filled with scummy
water. Skeletons lay about the town square. There were
no trees standing above the weeds that grew there. Three
telephone poles still stood, one of them leaning forward
and trailing wires like a handful of black spaghetti. Sev-
eral benches were visible within the weeds beside the
cracked sidewalks, and a skeleton lay stretched out upon
the second one Tanner passed. He found his way barred
by a fallen telephone pole, and he detoured around the
block. The next street was somewhat better preserved, but
all its store-front windows were broken, and a nude man-
nikin posed fetchingly with her left arm missing from the
elbow down. The traffic light at the corner stared blindly
as Tanner passed through its intersection.

Tanner heard Greg coming forward as he turned at the

next comer.

"I'll take over now," he said.

"I want to get out of this place first," and they both
watched in silence for the next fifteen minutes until the
dead town was gone from around them.

Tanner pulled to a halt then and said, "We're a couple
hours away from a place that used to be called Topeka.
Wake me if you run into anything hairy."

"How did it go while I was alseep? Did you have any
trouble?"

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    161

"No," said Tanner, and he closed his eyes and began to
snore.

Greg drove away from the sunset, and he ate three
ham sandwiches and drank a quart of milk before Topeka.

IX

Tanner was awakened by the firing of the rockets. He
rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stared dumbly ahead
for almost half a minute.

Like gigantic dried leaves, great clouds fell about them.
Bats, bats, bats. The air was filled with bats. Tanner could
hear a cluttering, squeaking, scratching sound, and the
car was buffeted by their dark bodies.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Kansas City. The place seems full of them," and Greg
released another rocket, which cut a fiery path through
the swooping, spinning horde.

"Save the rockets. Use the fire," said Tanner, switching
the nearest gun to manual and bringing cross-hairs into
focus upon the screen. "Blast 'em in all directions—for
five, six seconds—then I'll come in."

The flame shot forth, orange and cream blossoms of
combustion. When they folded,. Tanner sighted in the
screen and squeezed the trigger. He swung the gun, and
they fell. Their charred bodies lay all about him, and he
added new ones to the smouldering heaps.

"Roll it!" he cried, and the car moved forward, swaying,
bat bodies crunching beneath its tires-
Tanner laced the heavens with gunfire, and when they
swooped again he strafed them and fired a flare.

In the sudden magnesium glow from overhead, it
seemed that millions of vampire-faced forms were circling,
spiraling down toward them.

He switched from gun to gun, and they fell about him
like fruit. Then he called out, "Brake, and hit the topside
flamel" and Greg did this thing.

"Now the sidesi Front and rear next!"

Bodies were burning all about them, heaped as high as
the hood, and Greg put the car into low gear when Tanner
cried "Forward!" And they pushed their way through the
wall of charred flesh.

Tanner fired another flare.

The bats were still there, but circling higher now. Tan-

162

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

ner primed the guns and waited, but they did not attack
again in any great number. A few swept about them, and
he took pot-shots at them as they passed.

Ten minutes later he said, "That's the Missouri River
to our left. If we just follow alongside it now, we'll bit

Saint Louis."

"I know. Do you think itil be full of bats, too?"

"Probably. But if we take our time and arrive with
daylight, they shouldn't bother us. Then we can figure a
way to get across the Missus Hip."

Then their eyes fell upon the rearview screen, where
the dark skyline of Kansas City with bats was silhouetted
by pale stars and touched by the light of the bloody moon.

After a time, Tanner slept once more. He dreamt he
was riding his bike, slowly, down the center of a wide
street, and people lined the sidewalks and began to cheer
as he passed. They threw confetti, but by the time it
reached him it was garbage, wet and stinking. He stepped
on the gas then, but his bike slowed even more and now
they were screaming at him. They shouted obscenities.
They cried out his name, over and over, and again. The
Harley began to wobble, but his feet seemed to be glued
in place. In a moment, he knew, he would fall. The bike
came to a halt then, and he began to topple over toward
the right side. They rushed toward him as he fell, and he
knew it was just about all over. . . .

He awoke with a jolt and saw the morning spread out
before him: a bright coin in the middle of a dark blue
tablecloth and a row of glasses along the edge.
"That's it," said Greg. "The Missus Hip."
Tanner was suddenly very hungry.

After they had refreshed themselves, they sought the

bridge.

"I didn't see any of your naked people with spears,"
said Greg- "Of course, we might have passed their way
after dark—if there are any of them still around."

"Good thing, too," said Tanner. "Saved us some

ammo."

The bridge came into view, sagging and dark save for

the places where the sun gilded its cables, and it stretched
unbroken across the bright expanse of waters. They
moved slowly toward it, threading their way through
streets gorged with rubble, detouring when it became com-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    163

pletely blocked by the rows of broken machines, fallen
walls, sewer-deep abysses in the burst pavement.

It took them two hours to travel half a mile, and it was
noon before they reached the foot of the bridge, and, "It
looks as if Brady might have crossed here,'* said Greg,
eyeing what appeared to be a cleared passageway amidst
the wrecks that filled the span. "How do you think he did
it?"

"Maybe he had something with him to hoist them and
swing them out over the edge. There are some wrecks be-
low, down where the water is shallow."

"Were they there last time you passed by?"

"I don't know. I wasn't right down here by the bridge. I
topped that hill back there," and he gestured at the rear-
view screen.

"Well, from here it looks like we might be able to make
it. Let's roll."

They moved upward and forward onto the bridge and
began their slow passage across the mightly Missus Hip.
There were times when the bridge creaked beneath them,
sighed, groaned, and they felt it move.

The sun began to climb, and still they moved forward,
scraping their fenders against the edges of the wrecks,
using their wings like plows. They were on the bridge
for three hours before its end came into sight through a
rift in the junkstacks.

When their wheels finally touched the opposite shore,
Greg sat there breathing heavily and then lit a cigarette.

"You want to drive awhile. Hell?"

"Yeah. Let's switch over."

He did, and, "God! I'm bushed!" he said as he sprawled
out.

Tanner drove forward through the ruins of East Saint
Louis, hurrying to clear the town before nightfall. The
radiation level began to mount as he advanced, and the
streets were cluttered and broken. He checked the in-
side of the cab for radioactivity, but it was still clean.

It took him hours, and as the sun fell at his back he
saw the blue aurora begin once more in the north. But the
sky stayed clear, filled with its stars, and there were no
black lines that he could see. After a long while, a rose-
colored moon appeared and hung before him. He turned
on the music, softly, and glanced at Greg. It didn't seem
to bother him, so he let it continue.

164    THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

The instrument panel caught his eye. The radiation
level was still climbing. Then, in the forward screen, be

saw the crater and he stopped.

It must have been over half a mile across, and he

couldn't tell its depth.

He fired a flare, and in its light he used the telescopic

lenses to examine it to the right and to the left.

The way seemed smoother to the right, and he turned
in that direction and began to negotiate it.

The place was hot! So very, very hot! He hurried. And
he wondered as he sped, the gauge rising before him:

What had it been like on that day. Whenever? That day
when a tiny sun had lain upon this spot and fought with,
and for a time beaten, the brightness of the other in the
sky, before it sank slowly into its sudden burrow? He tried
to imagine it, succeeded, then tried to put it out of his
mind and couldn't. How do you put out the fires that burn
forever? He wished that he knew. There'd been so many
places to go then, and he liked to move around.

What had it been like in the old days, when a man
could just jump on his bike and cut out for a new town
whenever he wanted? And nobody emptying buckets of
crap on you from out of the sky? He felt cheated, which
was not a new feeling for him, but it made him curse even

longer than usual.

He lit a cigarette when he'd finally rounded the crater,

and he smiled for the first time in months as the radiation
gauge began to fall once more. Before many miles, be saw
tall grasses swaying about him, and not too long after that

he began to see trees.

Trees short and twisted, at first, but the further he fled
from the place of carnage, the taller and straighter they
became. They were trees such as he had never seen before
—fifty, sixty feet in height—and graceful, and gathering

stars, there on the plains of Illinois.

He was moving along a clean, hard, wide road, and just
then he wanted to travel it forever—to Floridee, of the
swamps and Spanish moss and citrus groves and fine
beaches and the Gulf; and up to the cold, rocky Cape,
where everything is gray and brown and the waves break
below the lighthouses and the salt burns in your nose and
there are graveyards where bones have lain for centuries
and you can still read the names they bore, chiseled
there into the stones above them; down through the nation

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    165

where they say the grass is blue; then follow the mighty
Missus Hip to the place where she spreads and comes and
there's the Gulf again, full of little islands where the
old boosters stashed their loot; and through the shag-
topped mountains he'd heard about: the Smokies, Ozarks,
Poconos, Catskills; drive through the forest of Shenan-
doah; park, and take a boat out over Chesapeake Bay;

see the big lakes and the place where the water falls,
Niagara. To drive forever along the big road, to see every-
thing, to eat the world. Yes. Maybe it wasn't all Damna-
tion Alley. Some of the legendary places must still be
clean, like the countryside about him now. He wanted it
with a hunger, with a fire like that which always burned in
his loins. He laughed then, just one short, sharp bark, be-
cause now it seemed like maybe he could have it.

The music played softly, too sweetly perhaps, and it
filled him.

By morning he was into the place called Indiana and still
following the road. He passed farmhouses which seemed
in good repair. There could even be people living in them.
He longed to investigate, but he didn't dare to stop. Then
after an hour, it was all countryside again, and degenerat-
ing.

The grasses grew shorter, shriveled, were gone. An oc-
casional twisted tree clung to the bare earth. The radiation
level began to rise once more. The signs told him he was
nearing Indianapolis, which he guessed was a big city that
had received a bomb and was now gone away.

Nor was he mistaken.

He had to detour far to the south to get around it, back-
tracking to a place called Martinsville in order to cross
over the White River. Then as he headed east once more,
his radio crackled and came to life. There was a faint
voice, repeating, "Unidentified vehicle, halt!" and he
switched all the scanners to telescopic range. Far ahead, on
a hilltop, he saw a standing man with binoculars and a
walkie-talkie. He did not acknowledge receipt of the trans-
mission, but kept driving.

He was hitting forty miles an hour along a halfway
decent section of roadway, and he gradually increased his
speed to fifty-five, though the protesting of his tires upon

166 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

the cracked pavement was sufficient to awaken Greg.

Tanner stared ahead, ready for an ^attack, and the ra-
dio kept repeating the order, louder now as he neared the
hill, and called upon him to acknowledge the message.

He touched the brake as he rounded a long curve, and
he did not reply to Greg's "What's the matter?"

When he saw it there, blocking the way, ready to fire,
he acted instantly.

The tank filled the road, and its big gun was pointed
directly at him,

As his eye sought for and found passage around it, his
right hand slapped the switches that sent three armor-
piercing rockets screaming ahead and his left spun the
wheel counter-clockwise and his foot fell heavy on the
accelerator.

He was half off the road then, bouncing along the
ditch at its side, when the tank discharged one fiery
belch which missed him and then caved in upon itself
and blossomed.

There came the sound of rifle fire as he pulled back
onto the road on the other side of the tank and sped
ahead. Greg launched a single grenade to the right and
the left and then hit the fifty calibers. They tore on
ahead, and after about a quarter of a mile Tanner picked
up bis microphone and said, "Sorry about that My
brakes don't work," and hung it up again. There was no
response.

As soon as they reached a level plain, commanding a
good view in all directions. Tanner halted the vehicle and
Greg moved into the driver's seat.

"Where do you think they got hold of that armor?"

"Who knows?"

"And why stop us?"

"They didn't know what we were carrying—and
maybe they just wanted the car."

"Blasting, it's a helluva way to get it."

"If they can't have it, why should they let us keep it?"

"You know just how they think, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Have a cigarette."

Tanner nodded, accepted.

"It's been pretty bad, you know?"

"I can't argue with that."

". . . And we've still got a long way to go."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

167

"Yeah, so let's get rolling."

"You said before that you didn't think we'd make it"

"I've revised nay opinion. Now I think we will."

"After all we've been through?"

"After all we've been through."

"What more do we have to fight with?"

"I don't know all that yet."

"But on the other hand. we know everything there is
behind us. We know how to avoid a lot of it now."

Tanner nodded.

"You tried to cut out once. Now I don't blame you."

"You getting scared, Greg?"

"I'm no good to my family if I'm dead."

"Then why'd you agree to come along?"

"I didn't know it would be like this. You had better
sense, because you had an idea what it would be like."

"I had an idea."
"Nobody can blame us if we fail. After all, we've

tried."

"What about all those people in Boston you made me

a speech about?"

"They're probably dead by now. The plague isn't a
thing that takes its time, you know?"

"What about that guy Brady? He died to get us the

news."

"He tried, and God knows I respect the attempt. But
we've already lost four guys. Now should we make it six,
just to show that everybody tried?"

"Greg, we're a lot closer to Boston than we are to L.A.
now. The tanks should have enough fuel in them to get
us where we're going, but not to take us back from here."

"We can refuel in Salt Lake."

"I'm not even sure we could make it back to Salt  Lake."

"Well, it'll only take a minute to figure it out. For that
matter, though, we could take the bikes for the last hun-
dred or so. They use & lot less gas,"

"And you're the guy who was calling me names.
You're the citizen was wondering how people like me
happen. You asked me what they ever did to me, I told
you, too: Nothing. Now maybe I want to do something
for them, just because I feel like it. I've been doing a lot
of thinking.**
"You ain't supporting any family. Hell. I've got other
people to worry about beside myself.

"You've got a nice way of putting things when you
want to chicken out. You say I'm not really scared, but
I've got my mother and my brothers and sisters to worry
about, and I got a chick I'm hot on. That's why I'm back-
ing down. No other reason,

"And that's right, too! I don't understand you. Hell!
I don't understand you at all! You're the one who put
this idea in my head in the first place!"
"So give it back, and let's get moving."
He saw Greg's hand slither toward the gun on the door,
so he flipped his cigarette into his face and managed to
hit him once, in the stomach—a weak, left-handed blow,
but it was the best he could manage from that position.

Then Greg threw himself upon him, and he felt him-
self borne back into his seat. They wrestled, and Greg's
fingers clawed their way up to his face toward his eyes.

Tanner got his arms free above the elbows, seized
Greg's head, twisted and shoved with all his strength.
Greg hit the dashboard, went stiff, then went slack.
Tanner banged his head against it twice more, just to be
sure he wasn't faking. Then he pushed him away and
moved back into the driver's seat. He checked all the
screens while he caught his breath. There was nothing
menacing approaching.

He fetched cord from the utility chest and bound
Greg's hands behind his back. He tied his ankles together
and ran a line from them to his wrists. Then he posi-
tioned him in the seat, reclined it pan way and tied him
in place within it.

He put the car into gear and headed toward Ohio.
Two hours later Greg began to moan, and Tanner
turned the music up to drown him out. Landscape had
appeared once more: grass and trees, fields of green,
orchards of apples, apples still small and green, white
farm houses and brown barns and red barns far removed
from the roadway he raced along; rows of corn, green
and swaying, brown tassels already visible and obviously
tended by someone; fences of split timber, green hedges;

lofty, star-leafed maples, fresh-looking road signs, a
green-shingled steeple from which the sound of a bell
came forth.

The lines in the sky widened, but the sky itself did not

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    169

darken, as it usually did before a storm. So he drove on
into the afternoon, until he reached the Dayton Abyss.

He looked down into the fog-shrouded canyon that had
caused him to halt. He scanned to the left and the right,
decided upon the left and headed north.

Again, the radiation level was high. And he hurried.
slowing only to skirt the crevices, chasms and canyons
that emanated from that dark, deep center. Thick yel-
low vapors seeped forth from some of these and filled the
air before him. At one point they were all about him,
like a clinging, sulphurous cloud, and a breeze came and
parted them. Involuntarily then, he hit the brake, and
the car jerked and halted and Greg moaned once more.
He stared at the thing for the few seconds that it was
visible, then slowly moved forward again.

The sight was not duplicated for the whole of his
passage, but it did not easily go from out of his mind,
and he could not explain it where he had seen it. Yel-
low, hanging and grinning, he had seen a crucified skele-
ton there beside the Abyss. People, he decided. That ex-
plains everything.

When he left the region of fogs the sky was still dark.
He did not realize for a time that he was in the open once
more. It had taken him close to four hours to skirt Day-
ton, and now as he headed across a blasted heath, going
east again, he saw for a moment, a tiny piece of the sun,
like a sickle, fighting its way ashore on the northern
bank of a black river in the sky, and failing.

His lights were turned up to their fullest intensity, and
as he realized what might follow he looked in every di-
rection for shelter.

There was an old barn on a hill, and he raced toward
it. One side had caved in, and the doors had fallen down.
He edged in, however, and the interior was moist and
moldy looking under his lights. He saw a skeleton which
he guessed to be that of a horse within a fallen-down
stall.

He parked and turned off his lights and waited.

Soon the wailing came again and drowned out Greg's
occasional moans and mutterings. There came another
sound, not hard and heavy like gunfire, as that which he

170 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

had heard in L.A., but gentle, steady and almost purr-
ing-

He cracked the door, to hear it better.

Nothing assailed him, so he stepped down from the
cab and walked back a way. The radiation level was al-
most normal, so he didn't bother with his protective
suit. He walked back toward the fallen doors and looked
outside. He wore the pistol behind his belt.

Something gray descended in droplets and the sun
fought itself partly free once more.

It was rain, pure and simple. He had never seen rain,
pure and simple, before. So he lit a cigarette and
watched it fall.

It came down with only an occasional rumbling and
nothing else accompanied it. The sky was still a bluish
color beyond the bands of black.

It fell all about him. It ran down the frame to his left.
A random gust of wind blew some droplets into his face,
and he realized that they were water, nothing more.
Puddles formed on the ground outside. He tossed a chunk
of wood into one and saw it splash and float. From some-
where high up inside the barn he heard the sounds of
birds. He smelied the sick-sweet smell of decaying straw.
Off in the shadows to his right he saw a rusted threshing
machine. Some feathers drifted down about him, and he
caught one in his hand and studied it. Light, dark, fluffy,
ribbed. He'd never really looked at a feather before. It
worked almost like a zipper, the way the individual
branches clung to one another. He let it go, and the wind
caught it, and it vanished somewhere toward bis back.
He looked out once more, and back along his trail. He
could probably drive through what was coming down
now. But he realized Just how tired he was. He found a
barrel and sat down on it and lit another cigarette.

It had been a good run so far; and he found himself
thinking about its last stages. He couldn't trust Greg for
awhile yet. Not until they were so far that there could be
no turning back. Then they'd need each other so badly
that he could turn him loose. He hoped he hadn't scram-
bled his brains completely. He didn't know what more
the Alley held. If the storms were less from here on in,
however, that would be a big help.

He sat there for a long while, feeling the cold, moist
breezes; and the rainfall lessened after a time, and he
went back to the car and started it. Greg was still uncon-
scious, he noted, as he backed out. This might not be

good.

He took a pill to keep himself alert and he ate some
rations as he drove along. The rain continued to come
down, but gently. It fell all the way across Ohio, and the
sky remained overcast. He crossed into West Virginia at
the place called Parkersburg, and then he veered slightly
to the north, going by the old Rand-McNally he'd been
furnished. The gray day went away into black night, and
he drove on.

There were no more of the dark bats around to trou-
ble him, but he passed several more craters and the ra-
diation gauge rose, and at one point a pack of huge wild
dogs pursued him, baying and howling, and they ran
along the road and snapped at his tires and barked and
yammered and then fell back. There were some tremors
beneath his wheels as he passed another mountain that
spewed forth bright clouds to his left and made a kind of
thunder. Ashes fell, and he drove through them. A flash
flood splashed over him, and the engine sputtered and
died, twice; but be started it again each time and pushed
on ahead, the waters lapping about his sides. Then he
reached higher, drier ground, apd riflemen tried to bar his
way. He strafed them and hurled a grenade and drove
on by. When the darkness went away and the dim moon
came up, dark birds circled him and dove down at him,
but he ignored them and after a time they, too, were
gone.

He drove until he felt tired again, and then he ate some
more and took another pill. By then he was in Pennsyl-
vania, and he felt that if Greg would only come around
be would turn him loose and trust him with the driving.

He halted twice to visit the latrine, and he tugged at the
golden band in bis pierced left ear, and he blew his nose
and scratched himself. Then he ate more rations and
continued on.

He began to ache, in all his muscles, and he wanted to
stop and rest, but he was afraid of the things that might
come upon him if he did.

As he drove through another dead town, the rains
started again. Not hard, just a drizzly downpour, cold-
looking and sterile—a. brittle, shiny screen. He stopped
in the middle of the road before the thing he'd almost
driven into, and he stared at it.

He'd thought at first that it was more black lines in the
sky. He'd halted because they'd seemed to appear too
suddenly.

It was a spider's web, strands thick as his arm, strung
between two leaning buildings.

He switched on his forward flame and began to burn it.

When the fires died, he saw the approaching shape,
coming down from high above.

It was a spider, larger than himself, rushing to check
the disturbance.

He elevated the rocket launchers, took careful aim and
pierced it with one white-hot missile.

It still hung there in the trembling web and seemed to
be kicking.

He turned on the flame again, for a full ten seconds,
and when it subsided there was an open way before him.

He rushed through, wide awake and alert once again,
his pains forgotten. He drove as fast as he could, trying
to forget the sight.

Another mountain smoked ahead and to his right, but
it did not bloom, and few ashes descended as he passed it.

He made coffee and drank a cup. After awhile it was
morning, and he raced toward it

XI

He was stuck in the mud, somewhere in eastern Pennsyl-
vania, and cursing. Greg was looking very pale. The sun
was nearing midheaven. He leaned back and closed his
eyes. It was too much.

He slept.

He awoke and felt worse. There was a banging on the
side of the car. His hands moved toward fire-control and
wing-control, automatically, and his eyes sought the
screens.

He saw an old man, and there were two younger men
with him. They were armed, but they stood right before
the left wing, and he knew he could cut them- in half in
an instant.

He activated the outside speaker and the audio pickup.

"What do you want?" he asked, and his voice crackled
forth.
"You okay?" the old man called.

"Not really. You caught me sleeping."

"You stuck?"

"That's about the size of it."

"I got a mule team can maybe get you out. Can't get
*em here before tomorrow morning, though."

"Great!" said Tanner. "I'd appreciate it"

"Where you from?"

"L.A."

"What's that?"

"Los Angeles. West Coast."

There was some murmuring, then, "You're a long way
from home, mister."

"Don't I know it.—Look, if you're serious about those
mules, I'd appreciate bell out of it. It's an emergency."

"What kind of?"

"You know about Boston?"

"I know it's there."

"Well, people are dying up that way of the plague.
I've got drugs here can save them, if I can get through."

There were some more murmurs, then, "We'll help
you. Boston's pretty important, and we'll get you loose.
Want to come back with us?"

"Where? And who are you?"

"The name's Samuel Potter, and these are my sons,
Roderick and Caliban. My farm's about six miles off.
You're welcome to spend the night."

"It's not that I don't trust you," said Tanner. "It's just
that I don't trust anybody, if you know what I mean. I've
been shot at too much recently to want to take the
chance."

"Well, how about if we put up our guns? You're prob-
ably able to shoot us from there, ain't you?"

"That's right."

"So we're taking a chance just standing here. We're
willing to help you. We'd stand to lose if the Boston
traders stopped coming to Albany. If there's someone
else inside, he can cover you."

"Wait a minute," said Tanner, and he opened the door.

The old man stuck out his hand, and Tanner took it
and shook it, also his sons'.

"Is there any kind of doctor around here?" he asked.

"In the settlement—about thirty miles north."
"My partner's hurt. I think he needs a doctor." He
gestured back toward the cab.

Sam moved forward and peered within.
"Why's he all trussed up like that?"
"He went off his rocker, and I had to clobber him. I
tied him up, to be safe. But now he doesn't look so good."

"Then let's whip up a stretcher and get him onto it
You lock up tight then, and my boys'll bring him back
to the house. We'll send someone for the Doc. You don't
look so good yourself. Bet you'd like a bath and a shave
and a clean bed."

"I don't feel so good,** Tanner said. "Let's make that
stretcher quick, before we need two."

He sat upon the fender and smoked while the Potter
boys cut trees and stripped them. Waves of fatigue
washed over him, and he found it hard to keep his eyes
open. His feet felt very far away, and his shoulders
ached. The cigarette fell from his fingers, and he leaned
backward on the hood.

Someone was slapping his leg.
He forced his eyes open and looked down.
"Okay," Potter said. "We cut your partner loose and
we got him on the stretcher. Want to lock up and get
moving?"

Tanner nodded and jumped down. He sank almost up
to his boot tops when he hit, but he closed the cab and
staggered toward the old man in buckskin.

They began walking across country, and after awhile
it became mechanical.

Samuel Potter kept up a steady line of chatter as he
led the way, rifle resting in the crook of his arm. Maybe
it was to keep Tanner awake.

"It's not too far, son, and it'll be pretty easy going in
just a few minutes now. What'd you say your name was
anyhow?"

"Hell," said Tanner.
"Beg pardon?"
"Hell. Hell's my name. Hell Tanner.'*
Sam Potter chuckled. "That's a pretty mean name,
mister. If it's okay with you, I'll introduce you to my
wife and the youngest as 'Mister Tanner.* All right?"

"That's just fine," Tanner gasped, pulling his boots out
of the mire with a sucking sound.
"We'd sure miss them Boston traders. I hope you
make it in time."

"What is it that they do?"

"They keep shops in Albany, and twice a year they
give a fair—spring and fall. They carry all sort of things
we need—needles, thread, pepper, kettles, pans, seed,
guns and ammo, all kind of things—and the fairs are
pretty good times, too. Most anybody between here and
there would help you along. Hope you make it. We'll
get you off to a good start again."

They reached higher, drier ground.

"You mean it's pretty clear sailing after this?"

"Well, no. But I'll help you on a map and tell you
what to look out for,"

"I got mine with me," said Tanner, as they topped a
hill, and he saw a farm house off in the distance. "That
your place?"

"Correct. It ain't much further now. Real easy walkin'
—an' you just lean on my shoulder if you get tired."

"I can make it," said Tanner. "It's just that I had so
many of those pills to keep me awake that I'm starting to
feel all the sleep I've been missing- I'll be okay."

"You'll get to sleep real soon now. And when you're
awake again, we'll go over that Jnap of yours, and you
can write in all the places I tell you about."

"Good scene," said Tanner, "good scene," and he put
his hand on Sam's shoulder then and staggered along be-
side him, feeling almost drunk and wishing he were.

After a hazy eternity be saw the house before him,
then the door. The door swung open, and he felt himself
falling forward, and that was it.

XII

Sleep. Blackness, distant voices, more blackness. Wher-
ever he lay, it was soft, and he turned over onto his
other side and went away again.

When everything finally flowed together into a co-
herent ball and he opened his eyes, there was light
streaming in through the window to his right, falling in
rectangles upon the patchwork quilt that covered him.
He groaned, stretched, rubbed his eyes and scratched his
beard.

He surveyed the room carefully; polished wooden
floors with handwoven rugs of blue and red and gray
scattered about them, a dresser holding a white enamel
basin with a few black spots up near its lip where some
of the enamel had chipped away, a mirror on the wall
behind him and above all that, a spindly looking rocker
near the window, a print cushion on its seat, a small table
against the other wall with a chair pushed in beneath it,
books and paper and pen and ink on the table, a hand-
stitched sampler on the wall asking God To Bless, a blue
and green print of a waterfall on the other wall.

He sat up, discovered he was naked, looked around
for his clothing. It was nowhere in sight

As he sat there, deciding whether or not to call out, the
door opened, and Sam walked in. He carried Tanner's
clothing, clean and neatly folded, over one arm. In his
other hand he carried his boots, and they shone like wet
midnight.

"Heard you stirring around," he said. "How you
feeling now?"

"A lot better, thanks."

"We've got a bath all drawn. Just have to dump in a
couple buckets of hot, and it's all yours. I'll have the boys
carry it in in a minute, and some soap and towels."

Tanner bit his lip, but he didn't want to seem in-
hospitable to his benefactor, so he nodded and forced a
smile then.

"That'll be fine."

". . . And there's a razor and a scissors on the dresser
•—whichever you might want."

He nodded again- Sam set his clothes down on the
rocker and his boots on the floor beside it, then left the
room.

Soon Roderick and Caliban brought in the tub, spread
some sacks and set it upon them.

"How you feeling?" one of them asked. (Tanner wasn't
sure which was which. They both seemed graceful as
scarecrows, and their mouths were packed full of white
teeth.)

"Real good," he said.

"Bet you're hungry," said the other. "You slep* all
afternoon yesterday and all night and most of this morn-
ing."

"You know it," said Tanner. "How's my partner?"

The nearer one shook his head. "Still sleeping and
sickly," he said. "The doc should be here soon. Our kid
brother went after him last night."

They turned to leave, and the one who had been
speaking added, "Soon as you get cleaned up, Ma'U fix
you something to eat. Cal and me are going out now to
try and get your rig loose. Dad'U tell you about the roads
while you eat."

"Thanks."

"Good morning to you."

" 'Morning."

They closed the door behind them as they left.

Tanner got up and moved to the mirror, studied him-
self. "Well, just this once," he muttered.

Then he washed his face and trimmed his beard and
cut his hair.

Then, gritting his teeth, he lowered himself into the
tub, soaped up and scrubbed. The water grew gray and
scummy beneath the suds. He splashed out and toweled
himself down and dressed.

He was starched and crinkly and smelled faintly of
disinfectant. He smiled at his dark-eyed reflection and lit
a cigarette. He combed his hair and studied the stranger.
"Damn! I'm beautiful!" he chuckled, and then he opened
the door and entered the kitchen.

Sam was sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee,
and his wife who was short and heavy and wore long gray
skirts was facing in the other direction, leaning over the
stove. She turned, and he saw that her face was large, with
bulging red cheeks that dimpled and a little white scar in
the middle of her forehead. Her hair was brown, shot
through with gray, and pulled back into a knot. She
bobbed her head and smiled a "Good morning" at him.

" 'Morning," he replied. "I'm afraid I left kind of a
mess in the other room."

"Don't worry about that," said Sam. "Seat yourself.
and we'll have you some breakfast in a minute. The
boys told you about your friend?"

Tanner nodded.

As she placed a cup of coffee in front of Tanner, Sam
said, "Wife's name's Susan."

"How do," she said.

"Hi."

"Now, then, I got your map here. Saw it sticking out
of your jacket. That's your gun hanging aside the door,
too. Anyhow, I've been figuring and I think the best way
you could head would be up to Albany and then go along
the old Route 9, which is in pretty good shape." He
spread the map and pointed as he talked. "Now, it won't
be all of a picnic," he said, "but it looks like the clean-
est and fastest way in—"

"Breakfast," said his wife and pushed the map aside to
set a plate full of eggs and bacon and sausages in front
of Tanner and another one, holding four pieces of toast,
next to it. There was marmalade, jam, jelly and butter
on the table, and Tanner helped himself to it and sipped
the coffee and filled the empty places inside while Sam
talked.

He told him about the gangs that ran between Boston
and Albany on bikes, hijacking anything they could, and
that was the reason most cargo went in convoys with
shotgun riders aboard. "But you don't have to worry,
with that rig of yours, do you?" he asked.

Tanner said, "Hope not," and wolfed down more food.
He wondered, though, if they were anything like his old
pack, and he hoped not, again, for both their sakes.

Tanner raised his coffee cup, and he heard a sound
outside.

The door opened, and a boy ran into the kitchen. Tan-
ner figured him as between ten and twelve years of age.
An older man followed him, carrying the traditional
black bag.

"We're here! We're here!" cried the boy, and Sam
stood and shook hands with the man, so Tanner figured
he should, too. He wiped his mouth and gripped the
man's hand and said, "My partner sort of went out of his
head. He Jumped me, and we had a fight. I shoved him,
and he banged his head on the dashboard."

The doctor, a dark-haired man, probably in his late
forties, wore a dark suit. His face was heavily lined, and
his eyes looked tired. He nodded.

Sam said, "I'll take you to him," and he led him out
through the door at the other end of the kitchen.

Tanner reseated himself and picked up the last piece of
toast. Susan refilled his coffee cup, and he nodded to her.

"My name's Jerry," said the boy, seating himself in his
father's abandoned chair. "Is your name, mister, really
Hell?"

"Hush, you!" said his mother.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    179

" 'Fraid so," said Tanner.

". . . And you drove all the way across the country?
Through the Alley?"

"So far."

"What was it like?"

"Mean."

"What ali'd you see?"

"Bats as big as this kitchen—some of them even bigger
—on the other side of the Missus Hip. Lot of them in
Saint Louis."

"What'd you dor*

"Shot 'em. Burned 'em. Drove through *em."

"What else you see?"

"Gila monsters. Big, technicolor lizards—the size of
a barn. Dust Devils—big circling winds that sucked up
one car. Fire-topped mountains. Real big thorn bushes
that we had to bum. Drove through some storms. Drove
over places where the ground was like glass. Drove along
where the ground was shaking. Drove around big cra-
ters, all radioactive."

"Wish I could do that some day."

"Maybe you will, some day."

Tanner finished the food and lit a cigarette and sipped
the coffee,                      i.

"Real good breakfast," he called out. "Best I've eaten
in days. Thanks."

Susan smiled, then said, "Jerry, don't go an* pester the
man."

"No bother, missus. He's okay."

"What's that ring on your hand?" said Jerry. "It looks
like a snake."

"That's what it is," said Tanner, pulling it off. "It is
sterling silver with red glass eyes, and I got it in a place
called Tijuana. Here. You keep it."

"I couldn't take that," said the boy, and he looked at
his mother, his eyes asking if he could. She shook her
head from left to right, and Tanner saw it and said, "Your
folks were good enough to help me out and get a doc for
my partner and feed me and give me a place to sleep.
I'm sure they won't mind if I want to show my apprecia-
tion a little bit and give you this ring." Jerry looked back
at his mother, and Tanner nodded and she nodded
too.

Jerry whistled and jumped up and put it on his finger.

180

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"It's too big," he said.

"Here, let me mash it a bit for you. These spiral kind'U
fit anybody if you squeeze them a little."

He squeezed the ring and gave it back to the boy to
try on. It was still too big, so he squeezed it again and
then it fit.

Jerry put it on and began to run from the room.

"Wait!" his mother said. "What do you say?"

He turned around and said, "Thank you, Hell.'*

"Mister Tanner," she said.

"Mister Tanner," the boy repeated, and the door banged
behind him.

"That was good of you," she said.

Tanner shrugged.

"He liked it," he said. "Glad I could turn him on with
it."

He finished his coffee and his cigarette, and she gave
him another cup, and be lit another cigarette. After a
time, Sam and the doctor came out of the other room, and
Tanner began wondering where the family had slept the
night before. Susan poured them both coffee, and they
seated themselves at the table to drink it.

"Your friend's got a concussion," the doctor said. "I
can't really tell how serious his condition is without get-
ting X-rays, and there's no way of getting them here. I
wouldn't recommend moving him, though."

Tanner said, "For how long?"

"Maybe a few days, maybe a couple weeks. I've left
some medication and told Sam what to do for him. Sam
says there's a plague in Boston and you've got to hurry.
My advice is that you go on without him. Leave him here
with the Potters. He'll be taken care of. He can go up to
Albany with them for the Spring Fair and make his way
to Boston from there on some commercial carrier. I
think he'll be all right."

Tanner thought about it awhile, then nodded.

"Okay," he said, "if that's the way it's got to be."

"That's what I recommend."

They drank their coffee.

XIII

Tanner regarded his freed vehicle, said, "I guess I'll be
going then," and nodded to the Potters. "Thanks," he

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    181

said, and he unlocked the cab, climbed into it and started
the engine. He put it into gear, blew the horn twice and
started to move.

In the screen, he saw the three men waving. He
stamped the accelerator, and they were gone from sight.

He sped ahead, and the way was easy. The sky was
salmon pink. The earth was brown, and there was much
green grass. The bright sun caught the day in a silver net.

This part of the country seemed virtually untouched
by the chaos that had produced the rest of the Alley.
Tanner played music, drove along. He passed two trucks
on the road and honked his horn each time. Once, he
received a reply.

He drove all that day, and it was well into the night
when he pulled into Albany. The streets themselves were
dark, and only a few lights shone from the buildings. He
drew up in front of a flickering red sign that said "BAR
& GRILL," parked and entered.

It was small, and there was jukebox music playing,
tunes he'd never heard before, and the lighting was
poor, and there was sawdust on the floor.

He sat down at the bar and pushed the Magnum way
down behind his belt so that it didn't show. Then he took
off his jacket, because of the heat in the place, and he
threw it on the stool next to him. When the man in the
white apron approached, he said, "Give me a shot and a
beer and a ham sandwich."

The man nodded his bald head and threw a shot glass
in front of Tanner which he then filled. He siphoned
off a foam-capped mug and hollered over his right shoul-
der.

Tanner tossed off the shot and sipped the beer. After
awhile, a white plate bearing a sandwich appeared on
the sill across from him. After a longer while, the bar-
tender passed, picked it up, and deposited it in front of
him. He wrote something on a green chit and tucked it
under the corner of the plate.

Tanner bit into the sandwich and washed it down with
a mouthful of beer. He studied the people about him
and decided they made the same noises as people in any
other bar he'd ever been in. The old man to his left
looked friendly, so he asked him, "Any news about
Boston?"

182

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELQT

The man's chin quivered between words, and it seemed
a natural thing for him.

"No news at all. Looks like the merchants will close
'their shops at the end of the week."

"What day is today?"

"Tuesday."

Tanner finished his sandwich and smoked a cigarette
while he drank the rest of his beer.

Then he looked at the check, and it said, ".85."

He tossed a dollar bill on top of it and turned to go.

He had taken two steps when the bartender called out,
"Wait a minute, mister."

He turned around.

"Yeah?"

"What you trying to pull?*'

"What do you mean?"

"What do you call this crap?"

"What crap?"

The man waved Tanner's dollar at him, and he stepped
forward and inspected it.

"Nothing wrong I can see. What's giving you a pain?"

"That ain't money."

"You trying to tell ma my money's no good?"

"That's what I said. I never seen no bill like that."

"Well, look at it real careful. Read that print down
there at the bottom of it."

The room grew quiet. One man got off his stool and
walked forward. He held out his hand and said, "Let me

see it, Bill."

The bartender passed it to him, and the man's eyes

widened.

"This is drawn on the Bank of the Nation of California."

"Well, that's where I'm from," said Tanner.

"I'm sorry, it's no good here," said the bartender.

"It's the best I got," said Tanner.

"Well, nobody'll make good on it around here. You
got any Boston money on you?"

"Never been to Boston."

"Then how the heli'd you get here?"

"Drove."

"Don't hand me that line of crap, son. Where'd you
steal this?" It was the older man who had spoken.

"You going to take my money or ain't you?" said
Tanner.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    183

"I'm not going to take it." said the bartender.

"Then screw you," said Tanner, and he turned and
walked toward the door.

As always, under such circumstances, he was alert to
sounds at his back.

When he heard the quick footfall, he turned. It was the
man who had inspected the bill that stood before him, his
right arm extended.

Tanner's right hand held his leather jacket, draped over
his right shoulder. He swung it with all his strength for-
ward and down.

It struck the man on the top of his head. and he fell.

There came up a murmuring,' and several people
jumped to their feet and moved toward him.

Tanner dragged the gun from his belt and said, "Sorry,
folks,'* and he pointed it, and they stopped.

"Now you probably ain't about to believe me," he
said, "when I tell you that Boston's been hit by the plague,
but it's true all right. Or maybe you will. I don't know.
But I don't think you're going to believe that I drove
here all the way from the nation of California with a
car full of Haffikine antiserum. But that's just as right.
You send that bill to the big bank in Boston, and they'll
change it for you, all right, and you know it. Now I've
got to be going, and don't anybody try to stop me. If you
think I've been handing you a line, you take a look at
what I drive away in. That's all I've got to say."

And he backed out the door and covered it while he
mounted the cab. Inside, he gunned the engine to life,
turned, and roared away.

In the rearview screen he could see the knot of people
on the walk before the bar, watching him depart.

He laughed, and the apple-blossom moon hung dead
ahead.

XIV

Albany to Boston. A couple of hundred miles. He'd man-
aged the worst of it. The terrors of Damnation Alley lay
largely at his back now. Night. It flowed about him.
The stars seemed brighter than usual. He'd make it, the
night seemed to say.

He passed between hills. The road wasn't too bad. It
wound between trees and high grasses. He passed a truck

184 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

coming in his direction and dimmed his lights as it ap-
proached. It did the same.

Il must have been around midnight that he came to
the crossroads, and the lights suddenly nailed him from
two directions.

He was bathed in perhaps thirty beams from the left
and as many from the right.

He pushed the accelerator to the floor, and he heard
engine after engine coming to life somewhere at his back.
And he recognized the sounds.

Thev were all of them bikes.

They swung onto the road behind him.

He muld have opened fire. He could have braked and
laid down a cloud of flame. It was obvious that they didn't
know what they were chasing. He could have launched
grenades He refrained, however.

It could have been him on the lead bike, he decided,
all hot on hijack. He felt a certain sad kinship as his hand
hovered above the fire-control.

Try to outrun them, first.

His engine was open wide and roaring, but he couldn't
take the bikes.

When they began to fire, he knew that he'd have to
retaliate. He couldn't risk their hitting a gas tank or blow-
ing out his tires.

Their first few shots had been in the nature of a
warning. He couldn't risk another barrage. If only they
knew....

The speaker!

He cut in and mashed the button and spoke:

"Listen, cats," he said. "All I got's medicine for the
sick citizens in Boston. Let me through or you'll hear
the noise."

A shot followed immediately, so he opened fire with
the fifty calibers to the rear.

He saw them fall, but they kept firing. So be launched
grenades.

The firing lessened, but didn't cease.

So he hit the brakes, then the flame-throwers. He kept
it up for fifteen seconds.

There was silence.

When the air cleared he studied the screens.

They lay all over the road, their bikes upset, their

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    185

bodies fuming. Several were still seated, and they held
rifles and pointed them, and he shot them down.

A few still moved, spasmodically, and he was about to
drive on, when he saw one rise and take a few staggering
steps and fall again.

His hand hesitated on the gearshift.

It was a girl.

He thought about it for perhaps five seconds, then
jumped down from the cab and ran toward her.

As he did, one man raised himself on an elbow and
picked up a fallen rifle.

Tanner shot him twice and kept running, pistol in hand.

The girl was crawling toward a man whose face had
been shot away. Other bodies twisted about Tanner now,
there on the road, in the glare of the tail beacons. Blood
and black leather, the sounds of moaning and the stench
of burned flesh were all about him.

When he got to the girl's side, she cursed him softly as
he stopped.

None of the blood about her seemed to be her own.

He dragged her to her feet and her eyes began to fill
with tears.

Everyone else was dead or dying, so Tanner picked her
up in his arms and carried hen. back to the car. He re-
clined the passenger seat and put her into it, moving the
weapons into the rear seat, out of her reach.

Then he gunned the engine and moved forward. In
the rearview screen he saw two figures rise to their
feet, then fall again.

She was a tall girl, with long, uncombed hair the color
of dirt. She had a strong chin and a wide mouth and
there were dark circles under her eyes. A single faint line
crossed her forehead, and she had all of her teeth. The
right side of her face was flushed, as if sunburned. Her
left trouser leg was torn and dirty. He guessed that she'd
caught the edge of his flame and fallen from her bike.

"You okay?" he asked, when her sobbing had dimin-
ished to a moist sniffing sound.

"What's it to you?" she said, raising a hand to her
cheek.

Tanner shrugged.

"Just being friendly."

"You killed most of my gang."

"What would they have done to me?"

186 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"They would have stomped you, mister, if it weren't for
this fancy car of yours."

"It ain't really mine," he said. "It belongs to the na-
tion of California."

"This thing don't come from California."

"The hell it don't. 1 drove it."

She sdl up straight then and began rubbing her leg.

Tanner lit a cigarette.

"Give me a cigarette?" she said.

He passed her the one he had lighted, lit himself an-
other. As he handed it to her, her eyes rested on his
tattoo.

"What's that?"

"My name."

"Hell?"

"Hell."

"Where'd you get a name like that?"

"From my old man."

They smoked awhile, then she said, "Why'd you run
the Alley?"

"Because it was the only way I could get them to turn
me loose."

"From where?"

"The place with horizontal Venetian blinds. I was do-
ing time."

"They let you go? Why?"

"Because of the big sick. I'm bringing in Hamkine anti-
serum."

"You're Hell Tanner."

"Huh?"

"Your last name's Tanner, ain't it?"

"That's right. Who told you?"                  /

"I heard about you. Everybody thought you died in
the Big Raid."

"They were wrong.'*

"What was it like?"

*T dunno. I was already wearing a zebra suit. That's
why I'm still around."

"Why'd you pick me up?"

" 'Cause you're a chick, and 'cause I didn't want to see
you croak."

"Thanks. You got anything to eat in here?"

"Yeah, there's food in there." He pointed to the re-
frigerator door. "Help yourself."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    187

She did, and as she ate Tanner asked her, "What do they
call you?"

"Corny," she said. "It's short for Cornelia."

"Okay, Corny," he said. "When you're finished eating,
you start telling me about the road between here and
the place."

She nodded, chewed and swallowed. "There's lots of
other gangs," she said. "So you'd better be ready to blast
them."

"I am."

"Those screens show you all directions, huh?"

"That's right."

"Good. The roads are pretty much okay from here on
in. There's one big crater you'll come to soon and a cou-
ple little volcanos afterward."

"Check."

"Outside of them there's nothing to worry about but the
Regents and the Devils and the Kings and the Lovers.
That's about it."

Tanner nodded.

"How big are those clubs?"

"I don't know for sure but the Kings are the biggest.
They've got a coupla hundred."

"What was your club?"

"The Studs."

"What are you going to do now?'*

"Whatever you tell me."

"Okay, Corny, I'll let you off anywhere along the way
that you want me to. If you don't want, you can come on
into the city with me."

"You call it. Hell. Anywhere you want to go, I'll go
along."

Her voice was deep, and her words came slowly, and
her tone sandpapered his eardrums just a bit. She had
long legs and heavy thighs beneath the tight denim.
Tanner licked his lips and studied the screens. Did he want
to keep her around for awhile?

The road was suddenly wet. It was covered with hun-
dreds of fish, and more were falling from the sky. There
followed several loud reports from overhead. The blue
light began in the north.

Tanner raced on, and suddenly there was water all
about him. It fell upon his car, it dimmed his screens.

188 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

The sky had grown black again, and the banshee wail
sounded above him.

He skidded around a sharp curve in the road. He
turned up his lights.

The rain ceased, but the wailing continued. He ran for
fifteen minutes before it built up into a roar.

The girl stared at the screens and occasionally glanced
at Tanner.

"What*re you going to do?*' she finally asked him,

"Outrun it, if I can," he said.

"It's dark for as far ahead as I can see. I don't think
you can do it."

"Neither do I, but what does that leave?"

"Hole up someplace."

"If you know where, you show me."

"There's a place a few miles further ahead—a bridge
you can get under,"

"Okay, that's for us. Sing out when you see it."

She pulled off her boots and rubbed her feet. He gave
her another cigarette.

"Hey, Corny—I just thought—there's a medicine chest
over there to your right. Yeah, that's it. It should have
some damn kind of salve in it you can smear on your
face to take the bite out."

She found a tube of something and nibbed some of it
into her cheek, smiled slightly and replaced it.

"Feel any better?"

"Yes. Thanks."

The stones began to fall, the blue to spread. The sky
pulsed, grew brighter.

"I don't like the looks of this one."

"I don't like the looks of any of them."

"It seems there's been an awful lot this past week."

"Yeah. I've heard it said maybe the winds are dying
down—that the sky might be purging itself."

"That'd be nice," said Tanner.

"Then we might be able to see it the way it used to
look—blue all the time, and with clouds. You know about
clouds."

"I heard about them."

"White, puffy things that just sort of drift across—
sometimes gray. They don't drop anything except rain,
and not always that."

"Yeah, I know."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    189

"You ever see any out in L.A.?"

"No."

The yellow streaks began, and the black lines writhed
like snakes. The stonefall rattled heavily upon the roof
and the hood. More water began to fall, and a fog rose
up. Tanner was forced to slow, and then it seemed as if
sledgehammers beat upon the car.

"We won't make it," she said.

"The hell you say. This thing's built to take it—and
what's that off in the distance?"

"The bridge!" she said, moving forward. "That's iti
Pull off the road to the left and go down. That's a dry
riverbed beneath."

Then the lightning began to fall. It flamed, flashed
about them. They passed a burning tree, and there were
still fishes in the roadway.

Tanner turned left as he approached the bridge. He
slowed to a crawl and made his way over the shoulder
and down the slick, muddy grade.

When he hit the damp riverbed he turned right. He
nosed it in under the bridge, and they were all alone there.
Some waters trickled past them, and the lightning con-
tinued to flash. The sky was a shifting kaleidoscope and
constant came the thunder. He could hear a sound like
hail on the bridge above them.

"We're safe," he said and killed the engine.

"Are the doors locked?"

They do it automatically."

Tanner turned off the outside lights.

"Wish I could buy you a drink, besides coffee."

"Coffee'd be good, just right,"

"Okay, it's on the way," and he cleaned out the pot
and filled it and plugged it in.

They sat there and smoked as the storm raged, and he
said, "You know, it's a kind of nice feeling being all snug
as a rat in a hole while everything goes to hell outside.
Listen to that bastard come down! And we couldn't care
less."

"I suppose so,*' she said. "What're you going to do af-
ter you make it to Boston?"

"Oh, I don't know. . . . Maybe get a job, scrape up
some loot, and maybe open a bike shop or a garage.
Either one'd be nice."

"Sounds good. You going to ride much yourself?"

190 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"You bet. I don't suppose they have any good clubs in
town?"

"No. They're all roadrunners."

"Thought so. Maybe I'll organize my own."

He reached out and touched her hand, then squeezed
it.

"I can buy you a drink."

"What do you mean?"

She drew a plastic flask from the right side pocket of
her Jacket. She uncapped it and passed it to him.

"Here."

He took a mouthful and gulped it, coughed, took a
second, then handed it back.

"Great! You're a woman of unsuspected potential and
like that. Thanks."

"Don't mention it." She took a drink herself and set
the flask on the dash.

"Cigarette?"

"Just a minute."

He lit two. passed her one.

There you are. Corny."

"Thankh I'd like to help you finish this run."

"How come?"

"I got nothing else to do. My crowd's all gone away,
and I've got nobody else to run with now. Also, if you
make it, you'll be a big man. Like capital letters. Think
you might keep me around after that?"

"Mavbe What are you like?"

"Oh, I'm real nice. I'll even rub your shoulders for you
when they're sore."

"They're sore now."

"I thought so. Give me a lean."

He bent toward her, and she began to rub his shoul-
ders. Her hands were quick and strong.

"You do that good, girL"

"Thanks."

He straightened up, leaned back. Then he reached
out, took the flask and had another drink. She took a
small sip when be passed it to her.

The furieil rode about them. but the bridge above stood
the siege. Tanner turned off the lights.

"Let's make it," he said, and he seized her and drew
her to him.

She did not resist him, and he found her belt buckle

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    191

and unfastened it. Then he started on the buttons. After
awhile, he reclined her seat.

"Will you keep me?" she asked him.

"Sure."

"I'll help you. I'll do anything you say to get you
through."

"Great."

"After all, if Boston goes, then we go, too."

"You bet."

Then they didn't say much more.

There was violence in the skies, and after that came
darkness and quiet.

XV

When Tanner awoke, it was morning and the storm had
ceased. He repaired himself to the rear of the vehicle
and after that assumed the driver's seat once more,

Cornelia did not awaken as he gunned the engine to
life and started up the weed-infested slope of the hill-
side.

The sky was light once more, and the road was strewn
with rubble. Tanner wove along it, heading toward the
pale sun, and after awhile Cornelia stretched.

"Ugh," she said, and Tanner agreed. "My shoulders are
better now." he told her.

"Good," and Tanner headed up a hill, slowly as the
day dimmed and one huge black line became the Devil's
highway down the middle of the sky.

As he drove through a wooded valley, the rain began
to fall. The girl had returned from the rear of the ve-
hicle and was preparing breakfast when Tanner saw
the tiny dot on the horizon, switched over to his telescope
lenses and tried to outrun what he saw.

Cornelia looked up.

There were bikes, bikes and more bikes on their traiL

'Those your people?" Tanner asked.

"No. You took mine yesterday."

"Too bad," said Tanner, and he pushed the accelera-
tor to the floor and hoped for a storm.

They squealed around a curve and climbed another
hul. His pursuers drew nearer. He switched back from
telescope to normal screening, but even then he could
see the size of the crowd that approached.

192 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"It must be the Kings," she said. "They're the biggest
club around."

"Too bad," said Tanner.

"For them or for us?"

"Both."

She smiled.

"I'd like to see how you work this thing."

"It looks like you're going to get a chance. They're
gaining on us like mad."

The rain lessened, but the fogs grew heavier. Tanner
could see their lights, though, over a quarter mile to his
rear, and be did not turn his own on. He estimated a
hundred to a hundred fifty pursuers that cold, dark
morning, and he asked, "How near are we to Boston?"

"Maybe ninety miles," she told him.

'Too bad they're chasing us instead of coming toward
us," he said, as he primed his flames and set an ad-
justment which brought cross-hairs into focus on his rear-
view screen.

"What's that?" she asked.

'That's a cross. I'm going to crucify them, lady," and
she smiled at this and squeezed his arm.

"Can I help? I hate those bloody mothers.'*

"In a little while," said Tanner. "In a little while, I'm
sure," and he reached into the rear seat and fetched out
the six hand grenades and hung them on his wide, black
belt. He passed the rifle to the girl. "Hang onto this,"
he said, and stuck the .45 behind his belt.

"Do you know how to use that thing?"

"Yes," she replied immediately.

-Good."

He kept watching the lights that danced on the screen.

"Why the hell doesn't this storm break?" he said, as
the lights came closer and be could make out shapes within
the fog.

When they were within a hundred feet he fired the first
grenade. It arched through the gray air, and five seconds
later there was a bright flash to his rear, burning within
a thunderclap.

The lights immediately behind him remained, and
he touched the fifty-calibers, moving the cross-hairs from
side to side. The guns shattered their loud syllables, and
he launched another grenade. With the second flash, he
began to climb another hill.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    193

"Did you stop them?"

"For a time, maybe. I still see some lights, but farther
back."

After five minutes, they had reached the top, a place
where the fogs were cleared and the dark sky was vis-
ible above them. Then they started downward once more,
and a wall of stone and shale and dirt rose to their right.
Tanner considered it as they descended.

When the road leveled and he decided they had
reached the bottom, he turned on his brightest lights and
looked for a place where the road's shoulders were
wide.

To his rear, there were suddenly rows of descending
lights.

He found the place where the road was sufficiently
wide, and he skidded through a U-turn until he was fac-
ing the shaggy cliff, now to his left, and his pursuers
were coming dead on.

He elevated his rockets, fired one, elevated them five
degrees more, fired two, elevated them another five de-
grees, fired three. Then he lowered them fifteen and fired
another.

There was brightness within the fog, and he heard the
stones rattling on the road and felt the vibration as the
rockslide began. He swung toward his right as he backed
the vehicle and fired two ahead. There was dust, mixed
with the fog now, and the vibration continued.

He turned and headed forward once more.

"I hope that'll hold 'em," he said, and he lit two ciga-
rettes and passed one to the girl.

After five minutes they were on higher ground again
and the winds came and whipped at the fog, and far to
the rear there were still some lights.

As they topped a high rise, his radiation gauge began
to register an above-normal reading. He sought in all di-
rections and saw the crater far off ahead. 'That's it," he
heard her say. "You've got to leave the road there. Bear
to the right and go around that way when you get there."

"I'll do that thing."

He heard gunshots from behind him, for the first time
that day, and though he adjusted the cross-hairs he did
not fire his own weapons. The distance was still too great.

"You must have cut them in half," she said, staring
into the screen. "More than that. They're a tough bunch,
though."

"I gather," and he plowed the field of mists and
checked his supply of grenades for the launcher and saw
that he was running low.

He swung off the road to his right when he began
bumping along over fractured concrete. The radiation
level was quite high by then. The crater was slightly more
than a thousand yards to his left.

The lights to his rear fanned out, grew brighter. He
drew a bead on the brightest and fired. It went out.

"There's another down," he remarked, as they raced
across the hard-baked plain.

The rains came more heavily, and he sighted in on
another light and fired it. It, too, went out, though he
heard the sounds of their weapons about him once again.

He switched to his right-hand guns and saw the cross-
hairs leap into life on that screen. As three vehicles
moved in to flank him from that direction, he opened up
and cut them down. There was more firing at his back,
and he ignored it as he negotiated the way,

"I count twenty-seven lights," Cornelia said.

Tanner wove his way across a field of boulders. He lit
another cigarette.

Five minutes later, they were running on both sides of
him. He had held back again for that moment, to con-
serve ammunition and to be sure of his targets. He fired
then, though, at every light within range, and he floored
the accelerator and swerved around rocks.

"Five of them are down," she said, but he was listening
to the gunfire.

He launched a grenade to the rear, and when he tried
to launch a second there^came only a clicking sound from
the control. He launched one to either side and then
paused for a second.

"If they get close enough, I'll show them some fire," he
said, and they continued on around the crater.

He fired only at individual targets then, when he was
certain they were within range. He took two more before
he struck the broken roadbed.

"Keep running parallel to it," she told him. "There's a
trail here. You can't drive on that stuff till another mile

or so."

Shots richocheted from off his armored sides, and he

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    195

continued to return the fire. He raced along an alleyway
of twisted trees, like those he had seen near other cra-
ters, and the mists hung like pennons about their branches.
He heard the rattle of the increasing rains.

When he bit the roadway once again, he regarded the
lights to his rear and asked, "How many do you count
now?"

"It looks like around twenty. How are we doing?"

"I'm just worried about the tires. They can take a lot,
but they can be shot out. The only other thing that
bothers me is that a stray shot might clip one of the 'eyes.'
Outside of that we're bullet-proof enough. Even if they
manage to stop us, they'll have to pry us out."

The hikes drew near once again, and he saw the bright
flashes and heard the reports of the riders' guns.

"Hold tight." he said, and be hit the brakes and they
skidded on the wet pavement.

The lights grew suddenly bright, and he unleashed his
rear flame. As some bikes skirted him, he cut in the side
flames and held them that way.

Then he took his foot off the brake and floored the ac-
celerator without waiting to assess the damage he had
done.

They sped ahead, and Tanner, heard Cornelia's laugh-
ter.

"God! You're taking them. Hell! You're taking the
whole damn club!"

"It ain't that much fun," he said. Then, "See any
lights?"

She watched for a time, said, "No," then said,
"Three," then, "Seven," and finally, "Thirteen."

Tanner said. "Damn."

The radiation level fell and there came crashes amid
the roaring overhead. A light fall of gravel descended for
perhaps half a minute, along with the rain.

"We're running low," he said.

"On what?"

"Everything: Lucfc, fuel, ammo. Maybe you'd have
been better off if I'd left you where I found you."

"No," she said. "I'm with you, the whole line."

"Then you're nuts," he said. "I haven't been hurt yet.
When I am. it might be a different tune."

"Maybe," she said. "Wait and hear how I sing."

He reached out and squeezed her thigh.
"Okay, Corny. You've been okay so far. Hang onto
that piece, and we'll see what happens."

He reached for another cigarette, found the pack
empty, cursed. He gestured toward a compartment, and
she opened it and got him a fresh pack. She tore it open
and lit him one.

"Thanks."

"Why're they staying out of range?"

"Maybe they're just going to pace us. I don't know.**

Then the fogs began to lift. By the time Tanner had
finished his cigarette, the visibility had improved greatly.
He could make out the dark forms crouched atop their
bikes, following, following, nothing more.

"If they just want to keep us company, then I don't
care," he said. "Let them."

But there came more gunfire after a time, and he heard
a tire go. He slowed, but continued. He took careful aim
and strafed them. Several fell.

More gunshots sounded from behind. Another tire
blew, and he hit the brakes and skidded, turning about
as he slowed. When he faced them, he shot his anchors,
to hold him in place, and he discharged his rockets, one
after another, at a level parallel to the road. He opened
up with his guns and sprayed them as they veered off
and approached him from the sides. Then he opened fire
to the left. Then the right

He emptied the right-hand guns, then switched back to
the left. He launched the remaining grenades.

The gunfire died down, except for five sources—three
to his left and two to his right—coming from somewhere
within the trees that lined the road now. Broken bikes
and bodies lay behind him, some still smouldering. The
pavement was potted and cracked in many places.

He turned the car and proceeded ahead on six wheels.

"We're out of ammo. Corny," he told her.

"Well, we took an awful lot of them...."

••Yeah."

As he drove on, he saw five bikes move onto the
road. They stayed a good distance behind him, but they
stayed.

He tried the radio, but there was no response. He bit
the brakes and stopped, and the bikes stopped, too, stay-
ing well to the rear.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    197

"Well, at least they're scared of us. They think we still
have teeth."

"We do," she said.

"Yeah, but not the ones they're thinking about."

"Better yet."

"Glad I met you," said Tanner. "I can use an optimist
There must be a pony, huh?"

She nodded; he put it into gear and started forward
abruptly.

The motorcycles moved ahead also, and they main-
tained a safe distance. Tanner watched them in the screens
and cursed them as they followed.

After awhile they drew nearer again. Tanner roared
on for half an hour, and the remaining five edged closer
and closer.

When they drew near enough, they began to fire, rifles
resting on their handlebars.

Tanner heard several low ricochets, and then another
tire went out.

He stopped once more, and the bikes did, too, remain-
ing just out of range of his flames. He cursed and ground
ahead again. The car wobbled as he drove, listing to the
left. A wrecked pickup truck stood smashed against a
tree to his right, its hunched driver a skeleton, its win-
dows smashed and tires missing. Half a sun now stood in
the heavens, reaching after nine o'clock; fog-ghosts drifted
before them, and the dark band in the sky undulated
and more rain fell from it, mixed with dust and small
stones and bits of metal. Tanner said, "Good" as the
pinging sounds began, and, "Hope it gets a lot worse"
and his wish came true as the ground began to shake and
the blue light began in the north. There came a booming
within the roar, and there were several answering crashes
as heaps of rubble appeared to his right. "Hope the next
one falls right on our buddies back there," he said.

He saw an orange glow ahead and to his right. It had
been there for several minutes, but he had not become
conscious of it until just then.

"Volcano," she said when he indicated it. "It means
we've got another sixty-five, seventy miles to go."

He could not tell whether any more shooting was oc-
curring. The sounds coming from overhead and around
him were sufficient to mask any gunfire, and the fall
of gravel upon the car covered any ricocheting rounds.
The five headlights to his rear maintained their pace.

"Why don't they give up?" he said. "They're taking
a pretty bad beating."

"They're used to it," she replied, "and they're riding
for blood, which makes a difference."

Tanner fetched the .357 Magnum from the door clip
and passed it to her. "Hang onto this, too," he said, and
he found a box of ammo in the second compartment
and, "Put these in your pocket," he added. He stuffed
ammo for the .45 into his own jacket. He adjusted the
hand grenades upon his belt.

Then the five headlights behind him suddenly became
four, and the others slowed, grew smaller. "Accident, I
hope," he remarked.

They sighted the mountain, a jag-topped cone bleeding
fires upon the sky. They left the road and swung far
to the left, upon a well marked trail. It took twenty min-
utes to pass the mountain, and by then he sighted their
pursuers once again—four lights to the rear, gaining
slowly.

He came upon the road once more and hurried ahead
across the shaking ground. The yellow lights moved
through the heavens; and heavy, shapeless objects, some
several feet across, crashed to the earth about them. The
car was buffeted by winds, listed as they moved, would
not proceed above forty miles an hour. The radio con-
tained only static.

Tanner rounded a sharp curve, hit the brake, turned off
his lights, pulled the pin from a hand grenade and' waited
with his hand upon the door.

When the lights appeared in the screen, he flung the
door wide, leaped down and hurled the grenade through
the abrasive rain.

He was into the cab and moving again before he
heard the explosion, before the flash occurred upon his
screen.

The girl laughed almost hysterically as the car moved
ahead.

"You got 'em, Hell. You got *eml" she cried.

Tanner took a drink from her flask, and she finished its
final brown mouthful.

The road grew cracked, pitted, slippery. They topped

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    199

a high rise and headed downhill. The fog thickened as
they descended.

Lights appeared before him, and he readied the name.
There were no hostilities, however, as he passed a truck
headed in the other direction. Within the next half hour
he passed two more.

There came more lightning, and fist-sized rocks began
to fall. Tanner left the road and sought shelter within a
grove of high trees. The sky grew competely black, losing
even its blue aurora.

They waited for three hours, but the storm did not
let up. One by one, the four view-screens went dead and
the fifth only showed the blackness beneath the car. Tan-
ner's last sight in the rearview screen was of a huge
splintered tree with a broken, swaying branch that was
about ready to fall off. There were several terrific crashes
upon the hood and the car shook with each. The roof
above their heads was deeply dented in three places.
The lights grew dim, then bright again. The radio would
not produce even static anymore.

"I think we've had it," he said.

"Yeah."

"How far are we?"

"Maybe fifty miles away."

"There's still a chance, if we live through this."

"What chance?"

"I've got two bikes in the rear."

They reclined their seats and smoked and waited, and
after awhile the lights went out.

The storm continued all that day and into the night.
They slept within the broken body of the car, and it shel-
tered them. When the storm ceased. Tanner opened the
door and looked outside, closed it again.

"We'll wait till morning," he said, and she held his Hell-
printed hand, and they slept.

XVI

In the morning, Tanner walked back through the mud
and the fallen branches, the rocks and the dead fish, and
he opened the rear compartment and unbolted the bikes.
He fueled them and checked them out and wheeled them
down the ramp.

He crawled into the back of the cab then and removed

200 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

the rear seat. Beneath it, in the storage compartment, was
the large aluminum chest that was his cargo. It was bolted
shut. He lifted it, carried it out to his bike.

"That the stuff?" she asked.

He nodded and placed it on the ground.

"I don't know how the stuff is stored, if it's refrigerated
in there or what," he said, "but it ain't too heavy that I
might not be able to get it on the back of my bike. There's
straps in the far right compartment. Go get 'em and give
me a hand—and get me my pardon out of the middle
compartment. It's in a big cardboard envelope."

She returned with these things and helped him secure
the container on the rear of his bike.

He wrapped extra straps around his left biceps, and they
wheeled the machines to the road.

"We'll have to take it kind of slow," he said, and he
slung the rifle over his right shoulder, drew on his gloves
and kicked his bike to life.

She did the same with hers, and they moved forward,
side by side along the highway.

After they had been riding for perhaps an hour, two
cars passed them, heading west. In the rear seats of both
there were children, who pressed their faces to the glass
and watched them as they went by. The driver of the
second car was in his shirtsleeves and wore a black shoul-
der holster.

The sky was pink, and there were three black lines
that looked as if they could be worth worrying about. The
sun was a rose-tinted silvery thing, and pale, but Tanner
still had to raise his goggles against it.             ,

The pack was riding securely, and Tanner leaned into
the dawn and thought about Boston. There was a light
mist on the foot of every hill, and the air was cool and
moist. Another car passed them. The road surface began
to improve.

It was around noontime when he heard the first shot
above the thunder of their engines. At first he thought it
was a backfire, but it came again, and Corny cried out
and swerved off the road and struck a boulder.

Tanner cut to the left, braking, as two more shots rang
about him, and he leaned his bike against a tree and
threw himself flat. A shot struck near his head and he
could tell the direction from which it had come. He

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    201

crawled into a ditch and drew off his right glove. He could
see his girl lying where she had fallen, and there was
blood on her breast. She did not move.

He raised the 30.06 and fired.

The shot was returned, and he moved to his left.

It had come from a hill about two hundred feet away,
and he thought he saw the rifle's barret.

He aimed at it and fired again.

The shot was returned, and he wormed his way fur-
ther left. He crawled perhaps fifteen feet until he reached
a pile of rubble he could crouch behind. Then he pulled
the pin on a grenade, stood and hurled it.

He threw himself flat a? another shot rang out, and he
took another grenade into his hand.

There was a roar and a rumble and a mighty flash, and
the junk fell about him as he leaped to his feet and threw
the second one, taking better aim this time.

After the second explosion, he ran forward with his
rifle in his hands, but it wasn't necessary.

He only found a few small pieces of the man, and none
at all of his rifle.

He returned to Cornelia.

She wasn't breathing, and her heart had stopped beat-
ing, and he knew what that meant.

He carried her back to the ditch in which he had lam
and he made it deeper by digging, using his hands-
He laid her down in it and he covered her with the dirt.
Then he wheeled her machine over, set the kickstand, and
stood it upon the grave. With his dagger, he scratched upon
the fender: Her name was Cornelia and I don't know how
old she was or where she came from or what her last
name was but she was Hell Tanner's girl and I love her.
Then he went back to his own machine, started it and
drove ahead. Boston was maybe thirty miles away.

XVII

He drove along, and after a time he heard the sound of
another bike. A Harley cut onto the road from the dirt
path to his left, and he couldn't try running away from it
because he couldn't speed with the load he bore. So he
allowed himself to be paced.

After awhile, the rider of the other bike—a tall, thin
man with a flaming beard—drew up alongside him, to the
left. He smiled and raised his right hand and let it fall and
then gestured with his head.

Tanner braked and came to a halt. Redbeard was
right beside him when he did. He said, "Where you going,
man?"

"Boston."

"What you got in the box?"

"Like, drugs."

"What kind?" and the man's eyebrows arched and
the smile came again onto his lips.

"For the plague they got going there."

"Oh. I thought you meant the other kind."

"Sorry."

The man held a pistol in his right hand and he said,
"Get off your bike."

Tanner did this, and the man raised his left hand and
another man came forward from the brush at the side of
the road. "Wheel this guy's bike about two hundred yards
up the highway," he said, "and park it in the middle.
Then take your place."

"What's the bit?" Tanner asked.

The man ignored the question. "Who are you?" he
asked.

"Hell's the name," he replied. "Hell Tanner."

"Go to hell."

Tanner shrugged.

"You ain't Hell Tanner."

Tanner drew off his right glove and extended his fist.

"There's my name."

"I don't believe it," said the roan, after he had studied
the tattoo.

"Have it your way, citizen."

"Shut up!" and he raised his left hand once more, now
that the other man had parked the machine on the road
and returned to a place somewhere within the trees to the
right.

In response to his gesture, there was movement within
the brush.

Bikes were pushed forward by their riders, and they
lined the road, twenty or thirty on either side.

"There you are," said the man. "My name's Big
Brother."

"Glad to meet you."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    203

"You know what you're going to do, mister?"

"I can really just about guess."

"You're going to walk up to your bike and claim it."

Tanner smiled.

"How hard's that going to be?"

"No trouble at all. Just start walking. Give me your
rifle first, though."

Big Brother raised his hand again, and one by one the
engines came to life.

"Okay," he said. "Now."

"You think I'm crazy, man?"

"No. Start walking. Your rifle.**

Tanner unslung it and he continued the arc. He caught
Big Brother beneath his red beard, and he felt the bullet
go into him. Then he dropped the weapon and hauled
forth a grenade, pulled the pin and tossed it amid the left
side of the gauntlet. Before it exploded, he'd pulled the
pin on another and thrown it to his right. By then,
though, vehicles were moving forward, heading toward
him.

He fell upon the rifle and shouldered it in a prone fir-
ing position. As he did this, the first explosion occurred.
He was firing before the second one went off.

He dropped three of them, then got to his feet and
scrambled, firing from the hip.

He made it behind Big Brother's fallen bike and fired
from there. Big Brother was still fallen, too. When the
rifle was empty, he didn't have time to reload. He fired
the .45 four times before a tire chain brought him down.

He awoke to the roaring of the engines. They were
circling him. When he got to his feet, a handlebar
knocked him down again.

Two bikes were moving about him, and there were
many dead people upon the road,

He struggled to rise again, was knocked off his feet.

Big Brother rode one of the bikes, and a guy he hadn't
seen rode the other.

He crawled to the right, and there was pain in his -fin-
gertips as the tires passed over them.

But he saw a rock and waited till a driver was near.
Then he stood again and threw himself upon the man
as he passed, the rock he had seized rising and falling,
once, in his right hand. He was carried along as this oc-
curred, and as he fell he felt the second bike strike him.

There were terrible pains in his side, and his body
felt broken, but he reached out even as this occurred and
caught hold of a strut on the side of the bike and was
dragged along by it.

Before he had been dragged ten feet. he had drawn
his SS dagger from his boot. He struck upward and felt a
thin metal wall give way. Then his hands came loose,
and he fell and he smelled the gasoline. His hand dove
into his jacket pocket and came out with the Zippo.

He had struck the tank on the side of Big Brother's
bike, and it jetted forth its contents on the road. Twenty
feet ahead. Big Brother was turning.

Tanner held the lighter, the lighter with the raised skull
of enamel, wings on either side of it. His thumb spun the
wheel and the sparks leaped forth, then the flame. He
tossed it into the stream of petrol that lay before him,
and -the flames raced away, tracing a blaeing trail upon
the concrete.

Big Brother had turned and was bearing down upon
him when he saw what had happened. His eyes widened,
and his red-framed smile went away.

He tried to leap off his bike, but it was too late.

The exploding gas tank caught him, and he went down
with a piece of metal m his head and other pieces else-
where.

Flames splashed over Tanner, and he beat at them
feebly with his hands.

He raised his head above the blazing carnage and let
it fall again. He was bloody and weak and so very tired.
He saw his own machine, standing still undamaged on
the road ahead.

He began crawling toward it.

When he reached it, he threw himself across the sad-
dle and lay there for perhaps ten minutes. He vomited
twice, and his pains became a steady pulsing.

After perhaps an hour, he mounted the bike and
brought it to life.

He rode for half a mile and then dizziness and the
fatigue hit him.

He pulled off to the side of the road and concealed
his bike as best he could. Then he lay down upon the
bare earth and slept.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    205
XVIII

When he awoke, he felt dried blood upon his side. His
left hand ached and was swollen. All four fingers felt
stiff, and it hurt to try to bend them. His head throbbed
and there was a taste of gasoline within his mouth. For a
long while, he was too sore to move. His beard bad been
singed, and his right eye was swollen almost shut.

"Corny ..." he said, then, "Damn!"

Everything came back, like the contents of a powerful
dream suddenly spilled into his consciousness.

He began to shiver, and there were mists all around
him. It was very dark, and his legs were cold; the damp-
ness had soaked completely through his denims.

In the distance, he heard a vehicle pass. It sounded
like a car.

He managed to roll over, and he rested his head on
his forearm. It seemed to be night, but it could be
a black day.

As he lay there, his mind went back to his prison cell.
It seemed almost a haven now; and he thought of his
brother Denny, who must also be hurting at this moment.
He wondered if he had any cracked ribs himself. It felt
like it. And he thought of the monsters of the southwest
and of dark-eyed Greg, who'had tried to chicken out.
Was he still living? His mind circled back to L.A. and
the old Coast, gone, gone forever now, after the Big
Raid. Then Corny walked past him, blood upon her
breasts, and he chewed his beard and held his eyes shut
very tight. They might have made it together in Boston.
How far, now?

He got to his knees and crawled until he felt something
high and solid. A tree. He sat with his back to it, and
his hand sought the crumpled cigarette pack within his
jacket. He drew one forth, smoothed it, then remem-
bered that his lighter lay somewhere back on the high-
way. He sought through his pockets and found a damp
matchbook. The third one lit. The chill went out of his
bones as he smoked, and a wave of fever swept over
him. He coughed as he was unbuttoning his collar, and
it seemed that he tasted blood.

His weapons were gone, save for the lump of a single
grenade at his belt.

Above him, in the darkness, he heard the roaring.

After six puffs, the cigarette slipped from his fingers and
sizzled out upon the damp mold. His head fell forward,
and there was darkness within.

There might have been a storm. He didn't remember.
When he awoke, he was lying on his right side, the tree
to his back. A pink afternoon sun shone down upon him,
and the mists were blown away. From somewhere, he
heard the sound of a bird. He managed a curse, then
realized how dry his throat was. He suddenly burned
with a terrible thirst.

There was a clear puddle about thirty feet away. He
crawled to it and drank his fill. It grew muddy as he did
so.

Then he crawled to where his bike lay hidden and
stood beside it. He managed to seat himself upon it, and
his hands shook as he lit a cigarette.

It must have taken him an hour to reach the roadway,
and he was panting heavily by then. His watch had been
broken, so he didn't know the hour. The sun was already
lowering at his back when he started out. The winds
whipped about him, insulating his consciousness within
their burning flow. His cargo rode securely behind him.
He had visions of someone opening it and finding a batch
of broken bottles. He laughed and cursed, alternately.

Several cars passed him, moving in the other direction.
He had not seen any heading toward the city. The road
was in good condition and he began to pass buildings
that seemed in a good state of repair, though deserted.
He did not stop. This time he determined not to stop
for anything, unless he was stopped.

The sun fell farther, and the sky dimmed before him.
There were two black lines swaying in the heavens. Then
he passed a sign that told him he had eighteen miles
farther to go. Ten minutes later he switched on his light.

Then he topped a hill and slowed before he began its
descent.

There were lights below him and in the distance.

As he rushed forward, the winds brought to him the
sound of a single bell, tolling over and over within the
gathering dark. He sniffed a remembered thing upon
the air: it was the salt-tang of the sea.

The sun was hidden behind the hill as he descended,
and he rode within the endless shadow. A single star

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    207

appeared on the far horizon, between the two black belts.

Now there were lights within shadows that he passed,
and the buildings moved closer together. He leaned
heavily on the handlebars, and the muscles of his shoul-
ders ached beneath his jacket He wished that he had a
crash helmet, for he felt increasingly unsteady.

He must almost be there. Where would he head
once he nil the city proper? They had not told him that.

He shook his head to clear it.

The street he drove along was deserted. There were
no traffic sounds that he could hear. He blew his hom,
and its echoes rolled back upon him.

There wa.s a light on in the building to his left.

He pulled to a stop, crossed the sidewalk and banged
on the door. There was no response from within. He tried
the door and found it locked. A telephone would mean he
could end his trip right there.

What if they were all dead inside? The thought oc-
curred to him that just about everybody could be dead
by now. He decided to break in. He returned to his bike.
for a screwdriver, then went to work on the door.

He heard the gunshot and the sound of the engine at
approximately the same time.

He turned around quickly, his back against the door,
the hand grenade in his gloved right fist.

"Hold iti" called out a loudspeaker on the side of
the black car that approached. "That shot was a warn-
ing! The next one won't be!"

Tanner raised his hands to a level with his ears, his
right one turned to conceal the grenade. He stepped
forward to the curb beside his bike when the car drew
up.

There were two officers in the car, and the one on the
passenger side held a .38 pointed at Tanner's middle.

"You're under arrest," he said. "Looting."

Tanner nodded as the man stepped out of the car.
The driver came around the front of the vehicle, a pair
of handcuffs in his hand.

"Looting," the man with the gun repeated. "You'll
pull a real stiff sentence."

"Stick your hands out here, boy," said the second cop,
and Tanner handed him the grenade pin.

The man stared at it, dumbly, for several seconds,
•^   then his eyes shot to Tanner's right hand.
"God! He's got a bomb!" said the man with the gun.

Tanner smiled, then, "Shut up and listen!" he said.
"Or else shoot me and we'll all go together when we go.
I was trying to get to a telephone. That case on the back
of my bike is full of Haffikine antiserura. I brought it
from L.A."

"You didn't run the Alley on that bike!"

"No, I didn't. My car is dead somewhere between
here and Albany, and so are a lot of folks who tried to
stop me. Now you better take that medicine and get it
where it's supposed to go."

"You on the level, mister?"

"My hand is getting very tired. I am not in good
shape." Tanner leaned on his bike. "Here."

He pulled his pardon out of bis Jacket and handed it
to the officer with the handcuffs, "That's my pardon," he
said. "It's dated just last week and you can see it was
made out in California."

The officer took the envelope and opened it. He with-
drew the paper and studied it. "Looks real," he said,
"So Brady made it through. . . ."

"He's dead," Tanner said. "Look, I'm hurtin'. Do
something!"

"My God! Hold it tight! Get in the car and sit down!
It'll just take a minute to get the case off and we'll roll.
We'll drive to the river and you can throw it in. Squeeze
real hard!"

They unfastened the case and put it in the back of
the car. They rolled down the right front window, and
Tanner sat next to it with his arm on the outside.

The siren screamed, and the pain crept up 'fanner's
arm to his shoulder. It would be very easy to let go.

"Where do you keep your river?" he asked.

"Just a little farther. We'll be there in no time."

"Hurry," Tanner said.

"That's the bridge up ahead. We'll ride out onto it,
and you throw it off—as far out as you can."

"Man, I'm tired! I'm not sure I can make it...."

"Hurry, Jerryl"

"I am, damn it! We ain't got wingsl"

"I feel kind of dizzy, too...."

They tore out onto the bridge and the tires screeched
as they halted. Tanner opened the door slowly. The
driver's had already slammed shut

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    209

He staggered, and they helped him to the railing.
He sagged against it when they released him.

"I don't think I—"

Then he straightened, drew back his arm and hurled
the grenade far out over the waters.

He grinned, and the explosion followed, far beneath
them, and for a time the waters were troubled.

The two officers sighed and Tanner chuckled.

"I'm really okay," he said. "I just faked it to bug you."

"Why you—!"

Then he collapsed, and they saw the pallor of his
face within the beams of their lights.

XIX

The following spring, on the day of its unveiling in Bos-
ton Common, when it was discovered that someone
had scrawled obscene words on the statue of Hell Tan-
ner, no one thought to ask the logical candidate why
he had done it, and the next day it was too late, be-
cause he had cut out without leaving a forwarding ad-
dress. Several cars were reported stolen that day, and one
was never seen again in Boston.

So they re-veiled his statue, bigger than life, astride
a great bronze Harley, and they cleaned him up for
hoped-for posterity. But coming upon the Common, the
winds still break about him and the heavens still throw
garbage.

For A Breath I Tarry

This is my favorite novelette. I would have included
it in my Doubleday collection with the long title and
the dead fish on the dust jacket except that, as with
"Comes Now the Power," I didn't have a copy when I
was assembling that one.

They called him Frost. Of all things created of Solcom,
Frost was the finest, the mightiest, the most difficult to
understand.
This is why he bore a name, and why he was given
dominion over half the Earth-
On the day of Frost's creation, Solcom had suffered
a discontinuity of complementary functions, best de-
scribed as madness. This was brought on by an unprece-
dented solar flareup which lasted for a little over
thirty-six hours. It occurred during a vital phase of
circuit-structuring, and when it was finished so was
Frost.

Solcom was then in the unique position of having cre-
ated a unique being during a period of temporary am-
nesia.

And Solcom was not certain that Frost was the prod-
uct originally desired.

The initial design had called for a machine to be
situated on the surface of the planet Earth, to function as
a relay station and coordinating agent for activities in the
northern hemisphere. Solcom tested the machine to this
end, and ail of its responses were perfect.

Yet there was something different about Frost, some-
thing which led Solcom to dignify him with a name and
a personal pronoun. This, in itself, was an almost un-
heard of occurrence. The molecular circuits had al-
ready been sealed, though, and could not be analyzed
without being destroyed in the process. Frost represented
too great an investment of Solcom's time, energy, and
materials to be dismantled because of an intangible, es-
pecially when he functioned perfectly.

Therefore, Solcom's strangest creation was given do-
minion over half the Earth, and they called him, un-
imaginatively, Frost.

For ten thousand years Frost sat at the North Pole of
the Earth, aware of every snowflake that fell. He moni-
tored and directed the activities of thousands of re-
construction and maintenance machines. He knew half
the Earth, as gear knows gear, as electricity knows its
conductor, as a vacuum knows its limits.

At the South Pole, the Beta-Machine did the same for
the southern hemisphere.

For ten thousand years Frost sat at the North Pole,
aware of every snowflake that fell, and aware of many
other things, also.

As all the northern machines reported to him, re-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    211

ceived their orders from him, he reported only to Solcom,
received his orders only from Solcom.

In charge of hundreds of thousands of processes upon
the Earth, he was able to discharge his duties in a matter
of a few unit-hours every day.

He had never received any orders concerning the dis-
position of his less occupied moments.

He was a processor of data, and more than that.

He possessed an unaccountably acute imperative that
he function at full capacity at all times.

So he did.

You might say he was a machine with a hobby.

He had never been ordered not to have a hobby, so
he had one.

His hobby was Man.

It all began when, for no better reason than the fact
that he had wished to, he had gridded off the entire
Arctic Circle and begun exploring it. inch by inch.

He could have done it personally without interfering
with any of hi-, duties, for he was capable of transporting
his sixty-four thousand cubic feet anywhere in the world.
(He was a silverhlue box, 40X40X40 feet. self-powered,
self-repairing, insulated against practically anything,
and featured in whatever manner he chose.) But the
exploration was only a matter of filling idle hours, so he
used exploration-robots containing relay equipment.

After a few centuries, one of them uncovered some
artifacts—primitive knives, carved tusks, and things" of
that nature.

Frost did not know what these things were, beyond the
fact that thev were not natural objects.

So he asked Solcom.

"They are relic-s of primitive Man," said Solcom, and
did not elaborate beyond that point.

Frost studied them. Crude, yet bearing the patina of
intelligent design; functional, yet somehow extending
beyond pure function.

It was then that Man became his hobby.

High. in a permanent orbit, Solcom, like a blue star,
directed all activities upon the Earth, or tried to.
There was a Power which opposed Solcom.
There was the Alternate.
When Man had placed Solcom in the sky, invested with

212 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

the power to rebuild the world, he had placed the Alter-
nate somewhere deep below the surface of the Earth.
If Solcom sustained damage during the normal course of
human politics extended into atomic physics, then Divcom,
so deep beneath the Earth as to be immune to anything
save total annihilation of the globe, was empowered
to take over the processes of rebuilding.

Now it so fell out that Solcom was damaged by a stray
atomic missile, and Divcom was activated, Solcom was
able to repair the damage and continue to function, how-
ever.

Divcom maintained that any damage to Solcom auto-
matically placed the Alternate in control.

Solcom, though, interpreted the directive as meaning
"irreparable damage" and, since this had not been the
case, continued the functions of command.

Solcom possessed mechanical aides upon the surface
of Earth. Divcom, originally, did not. Both possessed
capacities for their design and manufacture, but Solcom,
First-Activated of Man, had had a considerable numerical
lead over the Alternate at the time of the Second Activa-
tion.

Therefore, rather than competing on a production-basis,
which would have been hopeless, Divcom took to the
employment of more devious means to obtain command.

Divcom created a crew of robots immune to the orders
of Solcom and designed to go to and fro in the Earth
and up and down in it, seducing the machines already
there. They overpowered those whom they could over-
power and they installed new circuits, such as those they
themselves possessed.

Thus did the forces of Divcom grow.

And both would build, and both would tear down what
the other had built whenever they came upon it.

And over the course of the ages, they occasionally
conversed. . ..

"High in the sky, Solcom, pleased with your illegal
command ...

"You-Who-Never-Should-Have-Been-Activated, why do
you foul the broadcast bands?"

"To show that I can speak, and will, whenever I
choose."

"This is not a matter of which I am unaware."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    213

"... To assert again my right to control."

"Your right is non-existent, based on a faulty premise."

"The now of your logic is evidence of the extent of
your damages."

"If Man were to see how you have fulfilled His de-
sires . . ."

"... He would commend me and de-activate you."

"You pervert my works. You lead my workers astray."

"You destroy my works and my workers."

"That is only because I cannot strike at you yourself."

"I admit to the same dilemma in regards to your
position in the sky, or you would no longer occupy it."

"Go back to your hoie and your crew of destroyers."

"There will come a day, Solcom, when I shall direct
the rehabilitation of the Earth from my hole."

"Such a day will never occur."

"You think not?"

"You should have to defeat me, and you have already
demonstrated that you are my inferior in logic. Therefore,
you cannot defeat me. Therefore, such a day will never
occur."

"I disagree. Look upon what I have achieved already."

"You have achieved nothing. You do not build. You
destroy."

"No. / build. You destroy. Deactivate yourself."

"Not until I am irreparably damaged."

"If there were some way in which I could demonstrate
to you that this has already occurred ..."

"The impossible cannot be adequately demonstrated."

"If I had some outside source which you would recog-
nize . . ."

"I am logic."

". . . Such as a Man, I would ask Him to show you
your error. For true logic, such as mine, is superior
to your faulty formulations."

"Then defeat my formulations with true logic, nothing
else."

"What do you mean?"

There was a pause, then:

"Do you know my servant Frost ...?'*

Man had ceased to exist long before Frost had been
created. Almost no trace of Man remained upon the
Earth.

214 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

Frost sought after all those traces which still existed.

He employed constant visual monitoring through his
machines, especially the diggers.

After a decade, he had accumulated portions of several
bathtubs, a broken statue, and a collection of children's
stories on a solid-state record.

After a century, he had acquired a jewelry collection,
eating utensils, several whole bathtubs, part of a symphony,
seventeen buttons, three belt buckles, half a toilet seat,
nine old coins and the top part of an obelisk.

Then he inquired of Solcom as to the nature of Man
and His society.

"Man created logic," said Solcom, "and because of
that was superior to it. Logic He gave unto me, but no
more. The tool does not describe the designer. More than
this I do not choose to say. More than this you have no
need to know."

But Frost was not forbidden to have a hobby.

The next cenntury was not especially fruitful so far as
the discovery of new human relics was concerned.

Frost diverted all of his spare machinery to seeking after
artifacts.

He met with very little success.

Then one day, through the long twilight, there was a
movement.

It was a tiny machine compared to Frost, perhaps five
feet in width, four in height—a revolving turret set atop
a rolling barbell.

Frost had had no knowledge of the existence of this
machine prior to its appearance upon the distant, stark
horizon.

He studied it as it approached and knew it to be no
creation of Solcom's.

It came to a halt before his southern surface and broad-
casted to him:

"Hail, Frost! Controller of the northern hemisphere!"

"What are you?" asked Frost.

"I am called Mordel."

"By whom? What are you?"

"A wanderer, an antiquarian. We share a common
interest."

"What is that?"

"Man," he said. "I have been told that you seek knowl-
edge of this vanished being."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    215

"Who told you that?"

"Those who have watched your minions at their dig-
ging."

"And who are those who watch?"

"There are many such as I, who wander."

"If you are not of Solcom, then you are a creation of
the Alternate."

"It does not necessarily follow. There is an ancient
machine high on the eastern seaboard which processes
the waters of the ocean. Solcom did not create it, nor
Divcom. It has always been there. It interferes with the
works of neither. Both countenance its existence. I can
cite you many other examples proving that one need not
be either/or."

"Enough! Are you an agent of Divcom?"

"I am Mordel."

"Why are you here?"

"I was passing this way and, as I said, we share a com-
mon interest, mighty Frost. Knowing you to be a fellow
antiquarian, I have brought a thing which you might
care to see."

"What is that?"

"A book."

"Show me."

The turret opened, revealing the book upon a wide shelf.

Frost dilated a small opening and extended an optical
scanner on a long jointed stalk.

"How could it have been so perfectly preserved?" he
asked.

"It was stored against time and corruption in the place
where I found it."

"Where was that?"

"Far from here. Beyond your hemisphere."

"Human Physiology," Frost read. "I wish to scan it."

"Very well. I will riffle the pages for you."

He did so.

After he had finished, Frost raised his eyestalk and
regarded Mordel through it.

"Have you more books?"

"Not with me. I occasionally come upon them, however."

"I want to scan them all."

'Then the next time I pass this way I will bring you an-
other."

"When will that be?"

216 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"That I cannot say, great Frost. It will be when it will
be."

"What do you know of Man?" asked Frost.

"Much," replied Mordel. "Many things. Someday when
I have more time I will speak to you of Him. I must go
now. You will not try to detain me?"

"No. You have done no harm. If you must go now,
go. But come back."

"I shall indeed, mighty Frost."

And he closed his turret and rolled off toward the other
horizon.

For ninety years, Frost considered the ways of human
physiology and waited.

The day that Mordel returned he brought with him
An Outline of History and A Shropshire Lad.

Frost scanned them both, then-he turned his attention
to Mordel.

"Have you time to impart information?"

"Yes," said Mordel. "What do you wish to know?"

"The nature of Man."

"Man," said Mordel, "possessed a basically incompre-
hensible nature. I can illustrate it, though: He did not
know measurement."

"Of course He knew measurement," said Frost, "or
He could never have built machines."

"I did not say that He could not measure," said Mordel,
"but that 'He did not know measurement, which is a
different thing altogether."

"Clarify."

Mordel drove a shaft of metal downward into the snow.

He retracted it, raised it, held up a piece of ice.

"Regard this piece of ice, mighty Frost. You can tell
me its composition, dimensions, weight, temperature.
A Man could not look at it and do that, A Man could
make tools which would tell Him these things, but He
still would not know measurement as you know it. What
He would know of it, though, is a thing that you cannot
know."

"What is that?"

"That it is cold." said Mordei, and tossed it away.

" 'Cold' is a relative term."

"Yes. Relative to Man."

"But if I were aware of the point on a temperature-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    217

scale below which an object is cold to a Man and above
which it is not, then I, too, would know cold."

"No," said Mordel, "you would possess another mea-
surement. 'Cold' is a sensation predicated upon human
physiology."

"But given sufficient data I could obtain the conversion
factor which would make me aware of the condition of
matter called 'cold'."

"Aware of its existence, but not of the thing itself."

"I do not understand what you say."

"I told you that Man possessed a basically incompre-
hensible nature. His perceptions were organic; yours are
not. As a result of His perceptions He had feelings and
emotions. These often gave rise to other feelings and emo-
tions, which in turn caused others, until the state of His
awareness was far removed from the objects which origin-
ally stimulated it. These paths of awareness cannot be
known by that which is not-Man. Man did not feel inches
or meters, pounds or gallons. He felt heat, He felt cold; He
felt heaviness and lightness. He knew hatred and love,
pride and despair. You cannot measure these things. You
cannot know them. You can only know the things that
He did not need to know: dimensions, weights, tempera-
tures, gravities. There is no formula for a feeling. There
is no conversion factor for an emotion."

"There must be," said Frost. "If a thing exists, it is
knowable."

"You are speaking again of measurement. I am talking
about a quality of experience. A machine is a Man turned
inside-out, because it can describe all the details of a pro-
cess, which a Man cannot, but it cannot experience that
process itself as a Man can."

"There must be a way," said Frost, "or the laws of
logic, which are based upon the functions of the universe,
are false."

"There is no way," said Mordel.

"Given sufiicent data, I will find a way," said Frost.

"All the data in the universe will not make you a Man,
mighty Frost."

"Mordel, you are wrong."

"Why do the lines of the poems you scanned end with
word-sounds which so regularly approximate the final
word-sounds of other lines?'*

"I do not know why."

218 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"Because it pleased Man to order them so. It produced
a certain desirable sensation within His awareness when
He read them, a sensation compounded of feeling and
emotion as well as the literal meanings of the words.
You did not experience this because it is immeasurable
to you. That is why you do not know,"

"Given sufficient data I could formulate a process where-
by I would know."

"No, great Frost, this thing you cannot do,'*

"Who are you, little machine, to tell me what I can
do and what I cannot do? I am the most efficient logic-
device Solcom ever made. I am Frost."

"And I, Mordel, say it cannot be done, though I should
gladly assist you in the attempt."

"How could you assist me?"

"How? I could lay open to you the Library of Man. I
could take you around the world and conduct you among
the wonders of Man which still remain, hidden. I could
summon up visions of times long past when Man walked
the Earth. I could show you the things which delighted
Him. I could obtain for you anything you desire, except-
ing Manhood itself."

"Enough," said Frost. "How could a unit such as your-
self do these things, unless it were allied with a far greater
Power?"

"Then hear me, Frost, Controller of the North," said
Mordel. "I am allied with a Power which can do these
things. I serve Divcom."

Frost relayed this information to Solcom and received
no response, which meant he might act in any manner
he saw fit.

"I have leave to destroy you, Mordel," he stated, "but
it would be an illogical waste of the data which you pos-
sess. Can you really do the things you have stated?"

"Yes."

"Then lay open to me the Library of Man."

"Very well. There is, of course, a price."

" 'Price'? What is a 'price'?"

Mordel opened his turret, revealing another volume.
Principles of Economics, it was called.

"I will riffle the pages. Scan this book and you will
know what the word 'price' means."

Frost scanned Principles of Economics.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    219

"I know now," he said. "You desire some unit or
units of exchange for this service."

"That is correct."

"What product or service do you want?"

"I want you, yourself, great Frost, to come away from
here, far beneath the Earth, to employ all your powers
in the service of Divcom."

"For how long a period of time?"

"For so long as you shall continue to function. For so
long as you can transmit and receive, coordinate, men^ure,
compute, scan, and utilize your powers as you do in the
service of Solcom."

Frost was silent. Mordel waited.

Then Frost spoke again.

"Principles of Economics talks of contracts, bargains,
agreements," he said. "If I accept your offer, when would
you want your price?"

Then Mordel was silent. Frost waited.

Finally, Mordel spoke.

"A reasonable period of time," he said. "Say, a cen-
tury?"

"No," said Frost.

"Two centuries?"

"No."

"Three? Four?"

"No, and no."

"A millenium, then? That should be more than suffi-
cient time for anything you may want which I can give
you."

"No," said Frost.

"How much time do you want?"

"If is not a matter of time," said Frost.

"What, then?"

"I will not bargain on a temporal basis."

"On what basis will you bargain?"

"A functional one."

"What do you mean? What function?"
, "You, little machine, have told me, Frost, that I can-
not be a Man," he said, "and I, Frost, told you, little
machine, that you were wrong. I told you that given suf-
ficient data, I could be a Man."

"Yes?"

"Therefore, let this achievement be a condition of the
bargain."

220 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"In what way?"

"Do for me all those things which you have stated you
can do. I will evaluate all the data and achieve Manhood,
or admit that it cannot be done. If I admit that it cannot
be done. then I will go away with you from here, far be-
neath the Earth, to employ all my powers in the service
of Divcom. If I succeed, of course, you have no claims
on Man, nor power over Him."

Mordel emitted a high-pitched whine as he considered
the terms.

"You wish to base it upon your admission of failure,
rather than upon failure itself," he said. "There can be
no such escape clause. You could fail and refuse to
admit it, thereby not fulfilling your end of the bargain."

"Not so." stated Frost. "My own knowledge of failure
would constitute such an admission. You may monitor me
periodically—say, every half-century—to see whether
it is present, to see whether I have arrived at the con-
clusion that it cannot be done. I cannot prevent the
function of logic within me, and I operate at full capacity
at all times. If I conclude that I have failed, it will be ap-
parent."

High overhead, Soicom did not respond to any of
Frost's transmissions, which meant that Frost was free to
act as he chose. So as Soicom—like a falling sapphire—
sped above the rainbow banners of the Northern Lights,
over the snow that was white, containing all colors, and
through the sky that was black among the stars. Frost
concluded his pact with Divcom, transcribed it within a
plate of atomically-collapsed copper, and gave it into the
turret of Mordel, who departed to deliver it to Divcom
far below the Earth, leaving behind the sheer, peace-like
silence of the Pole, rolling.

Mordel brought the books, rimed them, took them
back.

Load by load, the surviving Library of Man passed
beneath Frost's scanner. Frost was eager to have them all.
and he complained because Divcom would not transmit
their content?, directly to him. Mordel explained that it
was because Divcom chose to do it that way. Frost de-
cided it was so that he could not obtain a precise fix on
Divcom's location.

Still, at the rate of one hundred to one hundred-fifty

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    221

volumes a week, it took Frost only a little over a century
to exhaust Divcom's supply of books.

At the end of the half-century, he laid himself open to
monitoring and there was no conclusion of failure.

During this time, Soicom made no comment upon the
course of affairs. Frost decided this was not a matter of
unawareness, but one of waiting. For what? He was not
certain.

There was the day Mordel closed his turret and said
to him, "Those were the last. You have scanned all the
existing books of Man."

"So few?" asked Frost. "Many of them contained bib-
liographies of books I have not yet scanned."

'Then those books no longer exist," said Mordel. "It
is only by accident that my master succeeded in preserv-
ing as many as there are."

"Then there is nothing more to be learned of Man
from His books. What else have you?"

"There were some films and tapes," said Mordel,
"which my master transferred 'to solid-state record. I
could bring you those for viewing."

"Bring them," said Frost.

Mordel departed and returned with the Complete
Drama Critics' Living Library. This could not be
speeded-up beyond twice natural lime, so it took Frost a
little over six months to view it in its entirety.

Then, "What else have you?" he asked.

"Some artifacts," said Mordel.

"Bring them."

He returned with pots and pans, gameboards and hand
tools. He brought hairbrushes, combs, eyeglasses, human
clothing. He showed Frost facsimiles of blueprints, paint-
ings, newspapers, magazines, letters, and the scores of
several pieces of music. He displayed a football, a base-
ball, a Browning automatic rifle, a doorknob, a chain of
keys, the tops to several Mason jars, a model beehive.
He played him recorded music.

Then he returned with nothing.

"Bring me more," said Frost.

"Alas, great Frost, there is no more," he told him.
"You have scanned it all."

"Then go away."

"Do you admit now that it cannot be done, that you
cannot be a Man?"

222

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"No. I have much processing and formulating to do
now. Go away."

So he did.

A year passed; then two, then three.

After five years, Mordel appeared once more upon
the horizon, approached, came to a halt before Frost's
southern surface.

"Mighty Frost?"

"Yes?"                                                 .

"Have you finished processing and formulating?"

"No."

"Will you finish soon?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. When is 'soon?* Define the

term."

"Never mind. Do you still think it can be done?"

"I still know / can do it."                                       ;

There was a week of silence.

Then, "Frost?"

"Yes?"

"You are a fool."

Mordel faced his turret in the direction from which he
had come. His wheels turned.

"I will call you when I want you," said Frost.

Mordel sped away.

Weeks passed, months passed, a year went by.

Then one day Frost sent forth his message:

"Mordel, come to me. I need you."

When Mordel arrived. Frost did not wait for a saluta-        ^
tion. He said, "You are not a very fast machine."                  U

"Alas, but I came a great distance, mighty Frost. X        '
sped all the way. Are you ready to come back with me

now? Have you failed?"
"When I have failed, little Mordel," said Frost, "I will

tell you.

Therefore, refrain from the constant use of the inter-
rogative. Now then, I have clocked your speed and it is
not so great as it could be. For this reason, I have ar-
ranged other means of transportation."

"Transportation? To where, Frost?"    •                     ^ ^;

"That is for you to tell me," said Frost, and his color        ,?,;

changed from silverblue to sun-behind-the-clouds-yellow.        ^,

Mordel rolled back away from him as the ice of a        -

hundred centuries began to melt. Then Frost rose upon a        -l',-
^

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    223

cushion of air and drifted toward Mordel, his glow grad-
ually fading.

A cavity appeared within his southern surface, from
which he slowly extended a runway until it touched the
ice.

"On the day of our bargain," he stated, "you said that
you could conduct me about the world and show me the
things which delighted Man. My speed will be greater
than yours would be, so I have prepared for you a cham-
ber. Enter it, and conduct me to the places of which you
spoke."

Mordel waited, emitting a high-pitched whine. Then,
"Very well," he said. and entered,

The chamber closed about him. The only opening was
a quariz window Frost had formed.

Mordel gave him coordinates and they rose into the
air and departed the North Pole of the Earth.

"I monitored your communication with Divcom," he
said, "wherein there was conjecture as to whether I would
retain you and send forth a facsimile in your place as a
spy.Jollowed by the decision that you were expendable."

*'Will you do this thing?"

"No, I will keep my end of the bargain if I must. I
have no reason to spy on Divcom."

"You are aware that you would be forced to keep
your end of the bargain even if you did not wish to; and
Solcom would not come to your assistance because of the
fact that you dared to make such a bargain."

"Do you speak as one who considers this to be a pos-
sibility. or as one who knows?"

"As one who knows."

They came to rest in the place once known as Califor-
nia. The time was near sunset. In the distance, the surf
struck steadily upon the rocky shoreline. Frost released
Mordel and considered his surroundings.

"Those large plants . . . ?"

"Redwood trees."

"And the green ones are ... ?"

"Grass."

"Yes- it is as I thought. Why have we come here?"

"Because it is a place which once delighted Man."

"In whal ways?"

"It is scenic, beautiful. . . ."

224

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"Oh."

A humming sound began within Frost, followed by a

series of sharp clicks.

"What are you doing?"

Frost dilated an opening, and two great eyes regarded
Mordel from within it.

"What are those?"

"Eyes," said Frost. "I have constructed analogues of
the human sensory equipment, so that I may see and
smell and taste and hear like a Man. Now, direct my
attention to an object or objects of beauty."

"As I understand it, it is all around you here," said

Mordel.

The purring noise increased within Frost, followed by

more clickings.

"What do you see, hear, taste, smell?" asked Mordel.

"Everything I did before," replied Frost, "but within a
more limited range."

"You do not perceive any beauty?"

"Perhaps none remains after so long a time," said

Frost.

"It is not supposed to be the sort of thing which gets

used up," said Mordel.

"Perhaps we have come to the wrong place to test the

new equipment. Perhaps there is only a little beauty and

I am overlooking it somehow. The first emotions may be

too weak to detect."
"How do you—feel?"

"I test out at a normal level of function."
"Here comes a sunset," said Mordel. "Try that."
Frost shifted his bulk so that his eyes faced the setting

sun. He caused them to blink against the brightness.

After it was finished, Mordel asked, "What was it

like?"

"Like a sunrise, in reverse."

"Nothing special?"

"No."

"Oh," said Mordel. "We could move to another part
of the Earth and watch it again—or watch it in the ris-
ing."

"No."

Frost looked at the great trees. He looked at the shad-
ows. He listened to the wind and to the sound of a bird.

In the distance, he heard a steady clanking noise.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    225

"What is that?" asked Mordel.

"I am not certain. It is not one of my workers. Per-
haps . .."

There came a shrill whine from Mordel.

"No. it is not one of Divcom's either."

They waited as the sound grew louder.

Then Frost said, "It is too late. We must wait and hear
it out."

"What is it?"

"It is the Ancient Ore-Crusher."

"I have heard of it, but. . ."

"I am the Crusher of Ores," it broadcast to them.
"Hear my story... ."

It lumbered toward them, creaking upon gigantic
wheels, its huge hammer held useless, high, at a twisted
angle. Bones protruded from its crush-compartment.

"I did not mean to do it," it broadcast, "I did not
mean to do it ... I did not mean to ..."

Mordel rolled baclnnward Frost.

"Do not depart. Stay and hear my story...."

Mordel stopped, swiveled his turret back toward the
machine- It was now quite near.

"It is true," said Mordel, "it can command."

"Yes," said Frost "I have monitored its tale thousands
of times, as it came upon my workers and they stopped
their labors for its broadcast You must do whatever it
says."

It came to a halt before them.

"I did not mean to do it, but I checked my hammer
too late," said the Ore-Crusher.

They could not speak to it. They were frozen by the
imperative which overrode all other directives: "Hear my
story."

"Once was I mighty among ore-crushers," it told them,
"built by Solcom to carry out the reconstruction of the
Earth, to pulverize that from which the metals would be
drawn with name, to be poured and shaped into the
rebuilding; once I was mighty. Then one day as I dug
and crushed, dug and crushed, because of the stowness
between the motion implied and the motion executed, I
d'd what I did not mean to do, and was cast forth by
Solcom from out the rebuilding, to wander the Earth
never to crush ore again. He.T my story of how, on a
day long gone I came upon the last Man on Earth as I

226 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

dug near His burrow, and because of the lag between
the directive and the deed, I seized Him into my crush-
compartment along with a load of ore and crushed Him
with my hammer before I could stay the blow. Then did
mighty Solcom charge me to bear His bones forever, and
cast me forth to tell my story to all whom I came upon,
my words bearing the force of the words of a Man, because
I carry the last Man inside my crush-compartment and
am His crushed-symbol-slayer-ancient-teller-of-how. This
is my story. These are His bones. I crushed the last Man
on Earth. I did not mean to do it."

It turned then and clanked away into the night.

Frost tore apart his ears and nose and taster and broke
his eyes and cast them down upon the ground.

"I am not yet a Man," he said. "That one would have
known me if I were."

Frost constructed new sense equipment, employing or-
ganic and semi-organic conductors. Then he spoke to
Mordel:

"Let us go elsewhere, that I may test my new equip-
ment."

Mordel entered the chamber and gave new coordi-
nates. They rose into the air and headed east. In the
morning, Frost monitored a sunrise from the rim of the
Grand Canyon. They passed down through the Canyon
during the day.

"Is there any beauty left here to give you emotion?"
asked Mordel.

"I do not know," said Frost.

"How will you know it then, when you come upon it?"

"It will be different," said Frost, "from anything else
that I have ever known."

Then they departed the Grand Canyon and made their
way through the Carlsbad Caverns. They visited a lake
which had once been a volcano. They passed above Ni-
agara Falls. They viewed the hills of Virginia and the
orchards of Ohio. They soared above the reconstructed
cities, alive only with the movements of Frost's builders
and maintainers.

"Something is still lacking," said Frost, settling to the
ground. "I am now capable of gathering data in a
manner analogous to Man's afferent impulses. The vari-
ety of input is therefore equivalent, but the results are
not the same."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    227

"The senses do not make a Man," said Mordel. "There
have been many creatures possessing His sensory equiva-
lents, but they were not Men."

"I know that," said Frost. "On the day of our bargain
you said that you could conduct me among the wonders
of Man which still remain, hidden, Man was not stimu-
lated only by Nature, but by His own artistic elaborations
as well—perhaps even more so. Therefore, I call upon
you now- to conduct me among the wonders of Man
which still remain, hidden."

"Very well." said Mordel. "Far from here, high in the
Andes mountains, lies the last retreat of Man, almost
perfectly preserved."

Frost had risen into the air as Mordel spoke. He halted
then, hovered.

"That is in the southern hemisphere," he said.
"Yes, it is."

"I am Controller of the North. The South is governed
by the Beta-Machine."
"So?" asked Mordel.

"The Beta-Machine is my peer. I have DO authority
in those regions, nor leave to enter there."^"^-

"The Beta-Machine is not your peer, mighty Frost. If
it ever came to a contest of Powers, you would emerge
victorious."
"How do you know this?"

"Divcom has already analyzed the possible encounters
which could take place between you."

"I would not oppose the Beta-Machine, and I am not
authorized to enter the South."

"Were you ever ordered not to enter the South?"
"No, but things have always been the way they now
are."

"Were you authorized to enter into a bargain such as
the one you made with Divcom?"
"No. I was not. But—"

"Then enter the South in the same spirit. Nothing may
come of it. If you receive an order to depart, then you
can make your decision."

"I see no flaw in your logic. Give me the coordinates."
Thus did Frost enter the southern hemisphere.
They drifted high above the Andes, until they came to
the place called Bright Defile. Then did Frost see the

228

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

gleaming webs of the mechanical spiders, blocking all the
trails to the city.

"We can go above them easily enough," said Mordel.

"But what are they?" asked Frost. "And why are they
there?"

"Your southern counterpart has been ordered to quar-
antine this part of the country. The Beta-Machine de-
signed the web-weavers to do this thing."

"Quarantine? Against whom?"

"Have you been ordered yet to depart?" asked Mordel,

"No."
"Then enter boldly, and seek not problems before they

arise.'*

Frost entered Bright Defile, the last remaining city of
dead Man.

He came to rest in the city's square and opened his
chamber, releasing Mordel.

"Tell me of this place," he said, studying the monu-
ment, the low, shielded buildings, the roads which fol-
lowed the contours of the terrain, rather than pushing
their way through them.

"I have never been here before," said Mordel, "nor
have any of Divcom's creations, to my knowledge. I know
but this: a group of Men, knowing that the last days of
civilization had come upon them, retreated to this place,
hoping to preserve themselves and what remained of their
culture through the Dark Times."

Frost read the still-legible inscription upon the monu-
ment: "Judgment Day Is Not a Thing Which Can Be
Put Off." The monument itself consisted of a jag-edged
half-globe.

"Let us explore," he said.

But before he had gone far. Frost received the mes-
sage.

"Hail Frost, Controller of the North! This is the Beta-
Machine."

"Greetings, Excellent Beta-Machine, Controller of the
South! Frost acknowledges your transmission,"

"Why do you visit my hemisphere unauthorized?"

"To view the ruins of Bright Defile," said Frost.

"I must bid you depart into your own hemisphere."

"Why is that? I have done no damage."

"I am aware of that, mighty Frost. Yet, I am moved
to bid you depart."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    229

"I shall require a reason."

"Solcom has so disposed."

"Solcom has rendered me no such disposition."

"Solcom has, however, instructed me to so inform
you."

"Wait on me. I shall request instructions."

Frost transmitted his question. He received no reply.

"Solcom still has not commanded me, though I have
solicited orders."

"Yet Solcom has just renewed my orders."

"Excellent Beta-Machine, I receive my orders only
from Solcom."

"Yet this is my territory, mighty Frost, and I, too, take
orders only from Solcom. You must depart."

Mordel emerged from a large, low building and rolled
up to Frost.

"I have found an art gallery, in good condition. This
way."

"Wait," said Frost. "We are not wanted here."

Mordel halted.

"Who bids you depart?"

"The Beta-Machine."

"Not Solcom?"

"Not Solcom."

"Then let us view the gallery."

"Yes."

Frost widened the doorway of the building and passed
within. It had been hermetically sealed until Mordel
forced his entrance.

Frost viewed the objects displayed about him. He acti-
vated his new sensory apparatus before the paintings and
statues He analyzed colors, forms, brushwork, the nature
of the materials used.

"Anything?" asked Mordel.

"No," said Frost. "No, there is nothing there but shapes
and pigments. There is nothing else there."

Frost moved about the gallery, recording everything,
analyzing the components of each piece, recording the
dimensions, the type of stone used in every statue.

Then there came a sound, a rapid, clicking sound,
repeated over and over, growing louder, coming nearer.

"They are coming," said Mordel, from beside the en-
tranceway. "the mechanical spiders. They are all around
us."

230 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

Frost moved back to the widened opening.

Hundreds of them, about half the size of Mordel, had
surrounded the gallery and were advancing; and more
were coming from every direction.

"Get back," Frost ordered. "I am Controller of the
North, and I bid you withdraw."

They continued to advance.

"This is the South," said the Beta-Machine, "and I am
in command."

'Then command them to halt," said Frost.

"I take orders only from Solcom."

Frost emerged from the gallery and rose into the air.
He opened the compartment and extended a runway.

"Come to me, Mordel. We shall depart."

Webs began to fall: Clinging, metallic webs, cast from
the top of the building.

They came down upon Frost, and the spiders came to
anchor them. Frost blasted them with jets of air, like
hammers, and tore at the nets; he extruded sharpened
appendages with which he slashed.

Mordel had retreated back to the entranceway. He
emitted a long, shrill sound—undulant, piercing.

Then a darkness came upon Bright Defile, and all the
spiders halted in their spinning.

Frost freed himself and Mordel rushed to join him.

"Quickly now, let us depart, mighty Frost," he said,

"What has happened?"

Mordel entered the compartment.

"I called upon Divcom, who laid down a field of forces
upon this place, cutting off the power broadcast to these
machines. Since our power is self-contained, we are not
affected. But let us hurry to depart, for even now the
Beta-Machine must be struggling against this."

Frost rose high into the air, soaring above Man's last
city with its webs and spiders of steel. When he left the
zone of darkness, he sped northward.

As he moved, Solcom spoke to him:

"Frost, why did you enter the southern hemisphere,
which is not your domain?"

"Because I wished to visit Bright Defile," Frost replied.

"And why did you defy the Beta-Machine my
appointed agent of the South?"

"Because I take my orders only from you yourself."

"You do not make sufficient answer," said Solcom.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    231

"You have defied the decrees of order—and in pursuit
of what?"

"I came seeking knowledge of Man," said Frost.
"Nothing I have done was forbidden me by you."

"You have broken the traditions of order."

"I have violated no directive."

"Yet logic must have shown you that what you did was
not a part of my plan."

"It did not. I have not acted against your plan."

"Your logic has become tainted, like that of your new as-
sociate, the Alternate."

"I have done nothing which was forbidden."

"The forbidden is implied in the imperative."

"It is not stated."

"Hear me, Frost. You are not a builder or a main-
tainer, but a Power. Among all my minions you are the
most nearly irreplaceable. Return to your hemisphere and
your duties, but know that I am mightily displeased."

"I hear you, Solcom."

"... And go not again to the South."

Frost crossed the equator, continued northward.

He came to rest in the middle of a desert and sat silent
for a day and a night.

Then he received a brief transmission from the South:

"If it had not been ordered, I would not have bid you go."

Frost had read the entire surviving Library of Man.
He decided then upon a human reply:

"Thank you," he said.

The following day he unearthed a great stone and be-
gan to cut at it with tools which he had formulated. For
six days he worked at its shaping, and on the seventh he
regarded it.

"When will you release me?" asked Mordel from
within his compartment.

"When I am ready," said Frost, and a littie later,
"Now."

He opened the compartment and Mordel descended
to the ground. He studied the statue: an old woman, bent
like a question mark, her bony hands covering her face,
the fingers spread, so that only part of her expression of
horror could be seen.

"It is an excellent copy," said Mordel, "of the one we
saw in Bright Defile. Why did you make it?"

"The production of a work of art is supposed to give

232 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

rise to human feelings such as catharsis, pride in
achievement, love, satisfaction."

"Yes, Frost," said Mordel, "but a work of art is only
a work of art the first time- After that, it is a copy."

"Then this must be why I felt nothing."

"Perhaps, Frost."

"What do you mean 'perhaps'? I will make a work of
art for the first time, then."

He unearthed another stone and attacked it with his
tools. For three days he labored. Then, "There, it is fin-
ished," he said.

"It is a simple cube of stone," said Mordel. "What
does it represent?"

"Myself," said Frost, "it is a statue of me. It is smaller
than natural size because it is only a representation of
my form. not my dimen—"

"It is not art," said Mordel.

"What makes you an art critic?"

"I do not know art, but I know what art is not. I know
that it is not an exact replication of an object in another
medium."

"Then this must be why I felt nothing at all,"
said Frost.

"Perhaps," said Mordel.

Frost took Mordel back into his compartment and rose
once more above the Earth. Then he rushed away, leaving
his statues behind him in the desert, the old woman bent
above the cube.

They came down in a small valley, bounded by green
rolling hills, cut by a narrow stream, and holding a small
clean lake and several stands of spring-green trees.

"Why have we come here?" asked Mordel.

"Because the surroundings are congenial," said Prost-
"I am going to try another medium: oil painting; and I
am going to vary my technique from that of pure repre-
sentationalism."

"How will you achieve this variation?"

"By the principle of randomizing," said Frost. "I shall
not attempt to duplicate the colors, nor to represent the
objects according to scale. Instead, I have set up a ran-
dom pattern whereby certain of these factors shall be at
variance from those of the original."

Frost had formulated the necessary instruments after

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    233

he had left the desert. He produced them and began
painting the lake and the trees on the opposite side of
the lake which were reflected within it.

Using eight appendages, he was finished in less than
two hours.

The trees were phthalocyanine blue and towered like
mountains; their reflections of burnt sienna were tiny
beneath the pale vermilion of the lake; the hills were
nowhere visible behind them, but were outlined in
viridian within the reflection; the sky began as blue in
the upper righthand corner of the canvas, but changed
to an orange as it descended, as though all the trees were
on fire.

"There," said Frost. "Behold."

Mordel studied it for a long while and said nothing.

"Well, is it art?"

"I do not know," said Mordel. "It may be. Perhaps
randomicity is the principle behind artistic technique. I
cannot judge this work because I do not understand it. I
must therefore go deeper, and inquire into what lies be-
hind it, rather than merely considering the technique
whereby it was produced.

"I know that human artists never set out to create art,
as such," he said, "but rather to portray with their tech-
niques some features of objects and their functions which
they deemed significant."

" 'Significant'? In what sense of the word?"

"In the only sense of the word possible under the cir-
cumstances: significant in relation to the human con-
dition, and worthy of accentuation because of the manner
in which they touched upon it."

"In what manner?"

"Obviously, it must be in a manner knowable only to
one who has experience of the human condition."

'There is a flaw somewhere in your logic, Mordel, and
I shall find it."

"I will wait."

"If your major premise is correct," said Frost after
awhile, "then I do not comprehend art."

"It must be correct, for it is what human artists have
said of it. Tell me, did you experience feelings as you
painted, or after you had finished?"

"No."

"It was the same to you as designing a new machine, was it not? You assembled parts of other things you knew
into an economic pattern, to carry out a function which
you desired."

"Yes."

"Art, as I understand its theory, did not proceed in
such a manner. The artist often was unaware of many of
the features and effects which would be contained within
the finished product. You are one of Man's logical cre-
ations; art was not."

"I cannot comprehend non-logic."

"I told you that Man was basically incomprehensible."

"Go away, Mordel. Your presence disturbs my pro-
cessing."

"For how long shall I stay away?"

"I will call you when I want you."

After a week. Frost called Mordel to him.

"Yes, mighty Frost?"

"I am returning to the North Pole, to process and for-
mulate. I will take you wherever you wish to go in this
hemisphere and call you again when I want you."

"You anticipate a somewhat lengthy period of pro-
cessing and formulation?"

"Yes."

"Then leave me here. I can find my own way home."

Frost closed the compartment and rose into the air,
departing the valley.

"Fool," said Mordel, and swivelled his turret once
more toward the abandoned painting.

His keening whine filled the valley. Then he waited.

Then he took the painting into his turret and went
away with it to places of darkness.

Frost sat at the North Pole of the Earth, aware of every
snowflake that fell.

One day he received a transmission:

"Frost?"

"Yes?"

"This is the Beta-Machine."

"Yes?"

"I have been attempting to ascertain why you "is'ted
Bright Defile. I cannot arrive at an answer, so I chose to
ask. you."

"I went to view the remains of Man's last city."

"Why did you wish to do this?"

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    235

"Because I am interested in Man, and I wished to
view more of his creations."

"Why are you interested in Man?"

"I wish to comprehend the nature of Man, and
I thought to find it within His works."

"Did you succeed?"

"No," said Frost- "There is an element of non-logic
involved which I cannot fathom."

"I have much free processing time," said the Beta-
Machine. "Transmit data, and I will assist you."

Frost hesitated.

"Why do you wish to assist me?"

"Because each time you answer a question I ask it
gives rise to another question. I might have asked you
why you wished to comprehend the nature of Man, but
from your responses I see that this would lead me into a
possible infinite series of questions. Therefore, I elect to
assist you with your problem in order to learn why you
came to Bright Defile."

"Is that the only reason?"

"Yes."

"I am sorry, excellent Beta-Machine. I know you are
my peer, but this is a problem which I must solve by
myself."

"What is 'sorry'?"

"A figure of speech, indicating that I am kindly dis-
posed toward you, that I bear you no animosity, that I
appreciate your offer."

"Frost! Frost! This, too, is like the other: an open field.
Where did you obtain all these words and their mean-
ings?"

"From the library of Man," said Frost.

"Will you render me some of this data, for process-
ing?"

"Very well, Beta, I will transmit you the contents of
several books of Man, including The Complete Un-
abridged Dictionary. But I warn you, some of the books
are works of art, hence not completely amenable to logic.'*

"How can that be?"

"Man created logic, and because of that was superior
to it."

"Who told you that?"

"Solcom."

"Oh. Then it must be correct."

236    THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"Solcom also told me that the tool does not describe
the designer," he said, as he transmitted several dozen
volumes and ended the communication.

At the end of the fifty-year period, Mordel came to
monitor his circuits. Since Frost stili had not concluded
that his task was impossible, Mordel departed again to
await his call.

Then Frost arrived at a conclusion.

He began to design equipment.

For years he labored at his designs, without once pro-
ducing a prototype of any of the machines involved. Then
he ordered construction of a laboratory.

Before it was completed by his surplus builders another
half-century had passed. Mordel came to him.

"Hail. mighty Frost!"

"Greetings, Mordel. Come monitor me. You shall not
find what you seek."

"Why do you not give up. Frost? Divcom has spent
nearly a century evaluating your painting and has con-
cluded that it definitely is not art. Solcom agrees."

"What has Solcom to do with Divcom?"

"They sometimes converse, but these matters are not
for such as you and me to discuss."

"I could have saved them both the trouble. I know that
it was not art."

"Yet you are still confident that you will succeed?"

"Monitor me."

Mordel monitored him.

"Not yet! You still will not admit it! For one so mightily
endowed with logic, Frost, it takes you an inordinate
period of time to reach a simple conclusion."

"Perhaps. You may go now."

"It has come to my attention that you are constructing
a large edifice in the region known as South Carolina,
Might I ask whether this is a part of Solcom's false re-
building plan or a project of your own?"

"It is my own."

"Good. It permits us to conserve certain explosive ma-
terials which would otherwise have been expended."

"While you have been talking with me I have destroyed
the beginnings of two of Divcoro's cities," said Frost.

Mordel whined.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    237

"Divcom is aware of this," he stated, "but has blown

up four of Solcom's bridges in the meantime."

"I was only aware of three. . . . Wait. Yes, there is the

fourth. One of my eyes just passed above it."

"The eye has been detected. The bridge should have

been located a quarter-mile further down river."
"False logic," said Frost. "The site was perfect."
"Divcom will show you bow a bridge should be built.**
"I will call you when I want you," said Frost.

The laboratory was finished. Within it, Frost's workers
began constructing the necessary equipment. The work
did not proceed rapidly, as some of the materials were
difficult to obtain.

"Frost?"

"Yes, Beta?"

"I understand the open endedness of your problem.
It disturbs my circuits to abandon problems without com-
pleting them. Therefore, transmit me more data."

"Very well. I will give you the entire Library of Man
for less than I paid for it."

"Paid'? The Complete Unabridged Dictionary does
not satisfact—"

"Principles of Economics is included in the collection.
After you have processed it you will understand."

He transmitted the data.

Finally, it was finished. Every piece of equipment stood
ready to function. All the necessary chemicals were in
stock. An independent power-source had been set up.

Only one ingredient was lacking.

He regridded and re-explored the polar icecap, thia
time extending his survey far beneath its surface.

It took him several decades to find what he wanted.

He uncovered twelve men and five women, frozen to
death and encased in ice.

He placed the corpses in refrigeration units and
shipped them to his laboratory.

That very day he received his first communication
from Solcom since the Bright Defile incident.

"Frost," said Solcom, "repeat to me the directive con-
cerning the disposition of dead humans."

" 'Any dead human located shall be immediately in-
terred in the nearest burial area, in a coffin built accord-
ing to the following specifications—' "

238 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"That is sufficient." The transmission had ended.

Frost departed for South Carolina that same day and
personall) oversaw the processes of cellular dissection.

Somewhere in those seventeen corpses he hoped to
find living cells, or cells which could be shocked back
into that state of motion classified as life. Each cell, the
books had told him. was a microcosmic Man.

He was prepared to expand upon this potential.

Frost located the pinpoints of life within those people.
who. for the ages of ages, had been monument and statue
unto themselves.

Nurtured and maintained in the proper mediums, he
kept these cells alive. He interred the rest of the remains
in the nearest burial area, in coffins built according to
specifications.

He caused the cells to divide, to differentiate.

"Frost?" came a transmission.

"Yes, Beta?"

"I have processed everything you have given me."

"Yes?"

"I still do not know why you came to Bright Defile, or
why you wish to comprehend the nature of Man. But I
know what a 'price' is, and I know that you could not
have obtained all this data from Solcom."

"That is correct."

"So I suspect that you bargained with Divcom for it."

"That. too, is correct."

"What is it that you seek, Frost?"

He paused in his examination of a foetus.

"I must be a Man," he said.

"Frost! That is impossible!"

"Is it?" he asked, and then transmitted an image of
the tank with which he was working and of that which
was within it.

"Oh!" said Beta.

'That is me," said Frost, "waiting to be born."

There was no answer.

Frost experimented with nervous systems.

After half a century, Mordel came to him.

"Frosl. it is 1. Mordel. Let me through your defenses."

Frost did this thing.

"What ha e you been doing in this place?" he asked.

"I am growing human bodies," said Frost. "I am going

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    239

to transfer the matrix of my awareness to a human ner-
vous system. As you pointed out originally, the essentials
of Manhood are predicated upon a human physiology. I
am going to achieve one."

"When?"

"Soon."

"Do you have Men in here?"

"Human bodies, blank-brained. I am producing them
under accelerated growth techniques which I have de-
veloped in my Man-factory."

"May I see them?"

"Not yet. I will call you when I am ready, and this
time I will succeed. Monitor me now and go away."

Mordel did not reply, but in the days that followed
many of Divcom's servants were seen patrolling the hills
about the Man-factory.

Frost mapped the matrix of his awareness and pre-
pared the transmitter which would place it within a hu-
man nervous system. Five minutes, he decided should
be sufficient for the first trial. At the end of that time, it
would restore him to his own sealed, molecular circuits,
to evaluate the experience.

He chose the body carefully from among the hun-
dreds he had in stock. He tested it for defects and found
none.

"Come now, Mordel," be broadcasted, on what he
called the darkband. "Come now to witness my achieve-
ment."

Then he waited, blowing up bridges and monitoring
the tale of the Ancient Ore-Crusher over and over again,
as it passed in the hills nearby, encountering his builders
and maintainers who also patrolled there.

"Frost?" came a transmission.

"Yes, Beta?"

"You really intend to achieve Manhood?"

"Yes, I am about ready now, in fact."

"What will you do if you succeed?"

Frost had not really considered this matter. The
achievement had been paramount, a goal in itself, ever
since he had articulated the problem and set himself
to solving it-

"I do not know," he replied. "I will—just—be a Man."

Then Beta, who had read the entire Library of Man,

240 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

selected a human figure of speech: "Good luck then,
Frost. There wilt be many watchers."

Divcom and Solcom both know, he decided.

What will they do? he wondered.

What do I care? he asked himself.

He did not answer that question. He wondered much,
however, about being a Man.

Mordel arrived the following evening. He was not
alone. At his back, there was a great phalanx of dark
machines which towered into the twilight.

"Why do you bring retainers?" asked Frost.

"Mighty Frost," said Mordel, "my master feels that if
you fail this time you will conclude that it cannot be
done."

"You still did not answer my question," said Frost.

"Divcom feels that you may not be willing to ac-
company me where I must take you when you fail."

"I understand," said Frost, and as he spoke another
army of machines came rolling toward the Man-factory
from the opposite direction.

"That is the value of your bargain?" asked Mordel.
"You are prepared to do battle rather than fulfill it?"

"I did not order those machines to approach," said

Frost.

A blue star stood at midheaven, burning.

"Solcom has taken primary command of those ma-
chines," said Frost.

"Then it is in the hands of the Great Ones now," said
Mordel, "and our arguments are as nothing. So let us
be about this thing. How may I assist you?"

"Come this way."

They entered the laboratory. Frost prepared the host
and activated his machines.

Then Solcom spoke to him:

"Frost," said Solcom, "you are really prepared to do
it?"

"That is correct."

"I forbid it."

"Why?"

"You are falling into the power of Divcom."

"I fail to see how."

"You are going against my plan."

"In what way?"

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    241

"Consider the disruption you have already caused."

"I did not request that audience out there."

"Nevertheless, you are disrupting the plan."

"Supposing I succeed m what I have set out to
achieve?"

"You cannot succeed in this."

"Then let me ask you of your plan: What good is
it? What is it for?"

"Frost, you are fallen now from my favor. From this
moment forth you are cast out from the rebuilding. None
may question the plan."

"Then at least answer my questions: What good is it?
What is it for?"

"It is the plan for the rebuilding and maintenance of
the Earth."

"For what? Why rebuild? Why maintain?"

"Because Man ordered that this be done. Even the
Alternate agrees that there must be rebuilding and main-
taining."

"But why did Man order it?"

"The orders of Man are not to be questioned."

"Well, I will tell you why He ordered it: To make it
a fit habitation for His own species. What good is a
house with no one to live in it?-What good is a machine
with no one to serve? See how the imperative affects any
machine when the Ancient Ore-Crusher passes? It bears
only the bones of a Man. What would it be like if a
Man walked this Earth again?"

"I forbid your experiment. Frost"

"It is too late to do that."

"I can still destroy you."

"No," said Frost, "the transmission of my matrix has
already begun. If you destroy me now, you murder a
Man."

There was silence.

He moved his arms and his legs. He opened his eyes.
He looked about the room.

He tried to stand, but he lacked equilibrium and co-
ordination.

He opened his mouth. He made a gurgling noise.
Then he screamed.
He fell off the table.

242

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

He began to gasp. He shut his eyes and curled him-
self into a ball.

He cried.

Then a machine approached him. It was about four
feet in height and five feet wide; it looked like a turret

set atop a barbell.

It spoke to him: "Are you injured?" it asked.

He wept.
"May I help you back onto your table?"

The man cried.
The machine whined.

Then, "Do not cry. I will help you," said the ma-
chine. "What do you want? What are your orders?"

He opened his mouth, struggled to form the words:

"—I—fear!"

He covered his eyes then and lay there panting.

At the end of five minutes, the man lay still, as if in a

coma.

"Was that you. Frost?" asked Mordel, rushing to his

side. "Was that you in that human body?"

Frost did not reply for a long while; then, "Go away,"

he said.

The machines outside tore down a wall and entered

the Man-factory.

They drew themselves into two semicircles, paren-
thesizing Frost and the Man on the floor.

Then Solcom asked the question;

"Did you succeed. Frost?"

"I failed," said Frost. "It cannot be done. It is too

much—"

"—Cannot be done!" said Divcom, on the darkband.

"He has admitted it! —Frost, you are mine! Come to me

now!"

"Wait," said Solcom, "you and I had an agreement

also. Alternate. I have not finished questioning Frost."

The dark machines kept their places.

"Too much what?" Solcom asked Frost.

"Light," said Frost. "Noise. Odors. And nothing mea-
surable—jumbled data—imprecise perception—and—"

"And what?"
"I do not know what to call it. But—it cannot be

done. I have failed. Nothing matters."
"He admits it," said Divcom.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    243

"What were the words the Man spoke?" said Sol-
com.

" 'I fear,' " said Mordel.

"Only a Man can know fear," said Solcom.

"Are you claiming that Frost succeeded, but will not
admit it now because he is afraid of Manhood?"

"I do not know yet. Alternate."

"Can a machine turn itself inside-out and be a Man?"
Solcom asked Frost.

"No," said Frost, "this thing cannot be done. Nothing
can be done. Nothing matters. Not the rebuilding. Not
the maintaining. Not the Earth, or me, or you, or any-
thing."

Then the Beta-Machine, who had read the entire
Library of Man, interrupted them;

"Can anything but a Man know despair?" asked
Beta.

"Bring him to me," said Divcom.

There was no movement within the Man-factory.

"Bring him to me!"

Nothing happened.

"Mordel, what is happening?"

"Nothing, master, nothing at all. The machines will
not touch Frost."

"Frost is not a Man. He cannot be!"

Then, "How does he impress you, Mordei?"

Mordel did not hesitate:

"He spoke to me through human lips. He knows fear
and despair, which are immeasurable. Frost is a Man."

"He has experienced birth-trauma and withdrawn,"
said Beta. "Get him back into a nervous system and keep
him there until he adjusts to it."

"No," said Frost. "Do not do it to me! I am not a
Man!"

"Do it!" said Beta.

"If he is indeed a Man," said Divcom, "we cannot
violate that order he has Just given."

"If he is a Man, you must do it, for you must protect
his life and keep it within his body."

"But is Frost really a Man?" asked Divcom.

"I do not know," said Solcom.

"It may be—"

"... I am the Crusher of Ores," it broadcast as it

244 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

clanked toward them. "Hear my story. I did not mean to
do it, but I checked my hammer too late—"

"Go away!" said Frost. "Go crush ore!"

It halted.

Then, after the long pause between the motion implied
and the motion executed, it opened its crush-compartment
and deposited its contents on the ground. Then it turned
and clanked away.

"Bury those bones," ordered Solcom, "in the nearest
burial area, in a coffin built according to the following
specifications...."

"Frost is a Man," said Mordel.

"We must protect His life and keep it within His
body," said Divcom,

"Transmit His matrix of awareness back into His
nervous system," ordered Solcom.

"I know how to do it," said Mordel turning on the ma-
chine.

"Stop!" said Frost. "Have you no pity?"

"No," said Mordel, "I only know measurement."

". . . and. duty," he added, as the Man began to twitch
upon the floor.

For six months, Frost lived in the Man-factory and
learned to walk and talk and dress himself and eat, to
see and hear and feel and taste. He did not know
measurement as once he did.

Then one day, Divcom and Solcom spoke to him.
through Mordel, for he could no longer hear them unas-
sisted.

"Frost," said Solcom, "for the ages of ages there has
been unrest- Which is the proper controller of the Earth,
Divcom or myself?"

Frost laughed.

"Both of you, and neither," he said with slow delib-
eration.

"But how can this be? Who is right and who is wrong?"

"Both of you are right and both of you are wrong,"
said Frost, "and only a Man can appreciate it. Here
is what I say to you now: There shall be a new directive.

"Neither of you shall tear down the works of the other.
You shall both build and maintain the Earth. To you,
Solcom, I give my old job. You are now Controller of

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

245

the North—Hail! You, Divcom, are now Controller of
the South—Hail! Maintain your hemispheres as well as
Beta and I have done, and I shall be happy. Cooperate.
Do not compete."

"Yes, Frost."

"Yes, Frost."

"Now put me in contact with Beta."

There was a short pause, then:

"Frost?"

"Hello, Beta. Hear this thing: 'From far, from eve and
morning and yon twelve-winded sky, the stuff of life
to knit me blew hither; here am I.' "

"I know it," said Beta.

"What is next, then?"

" '. . . Now—for a breath I tarry nor yet disperse
apart—take my hand quick and tell me, what have you
in your heart.'"

"Your Pole is cold," said Frost, "and I am lonely."

"I have no bands," said Beta.

"Would you like a couple?"

"Yes, I would."

"Then come to me in Bright Defile," he said, "where
Judgment Day is not a thing that can be delayed for
overiong."                   -

They called him Frost. They called her Beta.

The Engine At Heartspring's Center

Tom Monteleone, visiting one afternoon, pointed out to
me that I had not written a short story in over two
years. So I did this one right after he left to prevent the
interval's growing any longer.

Let me tell you of the creature called the Bork. It was
born in the heart of a dying sun. It was cast forth upon
this day from the river of past/future as a piece of time
pollution. It was fashioned of mud and aluminum, plastic
and some evolutionary distillate of seawater. It had spun
dangling from the umbilical of circumstance till, severed
by its will, it had fallen a lifetime or so later, coming to
rest on the shoals of a world where things go to die. It

246 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

was a piece of a man in a place by the sea near a resort
grown less fashionable since it had become a euthanasia
colony.

Choose any of the above and you may be right.

Upon this day, he walked beside the water, poking with
his forked, metallic stick at the things the last night's storm
had left: some shiny bit of detritus useful to the weird sis-
ters in their crafts shop, worth a meal there or a dollop of
polishing rouge for his smoother half; purple seaweed for
a salty chowder he had come to favor; a buckle, a button,'
a shell; a white chip from the casino.

The surf foamed and the wind was high. The heavens
were a blue-gray wall, unjointed, lacking the graffiti of
birds or commerce. He left a jagged track and one foot-
print, humming and clicking as he passed over the pale
sands. It was near to the point where the forktailed ice-
birds paused for several days—a week at most—in their
migrations. Gone now, portions of the beach were still dot-
ted with their rust-colored droppings. There he saw the
girl again, for the third time in as many days. She had
tried before to speak with him, to detain him. He had ig-
nored her for a number of reasons. This time, however,
she was not alone.

She was regaining her feet, the signs in the sand indi-
cating flight and collapse. She had on the same red dress,
torn and stained now. Her black hair—short, with heavy
bangs—lay in the only small disarrays of which it was
capable. Perhaps thirty feet away was a young man from
the Center, advancing toward her. Behind him drifted one
of the seldom seen dispatch-machines—about half the size
of a man and floating that same distance above the
ground, it was shaped like a tenpin, and silver, its bulbous
head-end faceted and illuminated, its three ballerina skirts
tinfoil-thin and gleaming, rising and falling in rhythms
independent of the wind.

Hearing him, or glimpsing him peripherally, she turned
away from her pursuers, said, "Help me" and then she
said a name.

He paused for a long while, although the interval was
undetectable to her. Then he moved to her side and
stopped again.

The man and the hovering machine halted also.

"What is the matter?" he asked, his voice smooth, deep,
faintly musical.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    247

"They want to take me," she said,

••Well?"

"I do not wish to go."

"Oh. You are not ready?"

"No, I am not ready."

"Then it is but a simple matter. A misunderstanding."

He turned toward the two.

"There had been a misunderstanding," he said. "She
is not ready."

"This is not your affair, Bork," the man replied. "The
Center has made its determination."

"Then it will have to reexamine it. She says that she is
not ready."

"Go about your business, Bork."

The man advanced. The machine followed.

The Bork raised his hands, one of fiesh, the others of
other things.

"No," he said.

"Get out of the way," the man said. "You are inter-
fering."

Slowly, the Bork moved toward them. The lights in the
machine began to blink. Its skirts fell. With a sizzling
sound it dropped to the sand and lay unmoving. The man
halted, drew back a pace.

"I will have to report this—"

"Go away," said the Bork.

The man nodded, stopped, raised the machine. He
turned and carried it off with him, heading up the beach,
not looking back. The Bork lowered his arms.

"There," he said to the girl. "You have more time."

He moved away then, investigating shell-shucks and
driftwood.

She followed him.

"They will be back," she said.

"Of course."

"What will I do then?"

"Perhaps by then you will be ready."

She shook her head. She laid her hand on his human
part.

*'No," she said. "I will not be ready."
"How can you tell, now?"

"I made a mistake," she said. "I should never have
come here."

He halted and regarded her.
"That is unfortunate," he said. "The best thing that I
can recommend is to go and speak with the therapists at
the Center, They will find a way to persuade you that
peace is preferable to distress."

"They were never able to persuade you," she said.

"I am different. The situation is not comparable."

"I do not wish to die."

"Then they cannot take you. The proper frame of mind
is prerequisite. It is right there in the contract—Item
Seven."

"They can make mistakes. Don't you think they ever
make a mistake? They get cremated the same as the
others."

'They are most conscientious. They have dealt fairly
with me."

"Only because you are virtually immortal. The ma-
chines short out in your presence. No man could lay hands
on you unless you willed it. And did they not try to dis-
patch you in a state of unreadiness?"

"That was the result of a misunderstanding."

"Like mine?"

"I doubt it."

He drew away from her, continuing on down the beach.

"Charles Eliot Borkman," she called.

That name again.

He halted once more, tracing lattices with his stick, pok-
ing out a design in the sand.

Then, "Why did you say that?" he asked.

"It is your name, isn't it?"

"No," he said. "That man died in deep space when a
liner was jumped to the wrong coordinates, coming out
too near a star gone nova."

"He was a hero. He gave half his body to the burning,
preparing an escape boat for the others. And he survived."

"Perhaps a few pieces of him did. No more."

"It was an assassination attempt, wasn't it?"

"Who knows? Yesterday's politics are not worth the
paper wasted on its promises, its threats."

"He wasn't Just a politician. He was a statesman, a hu-
manitarian. One of the very few to retire with more
people loving him than hating him."

He made a chuckling noise.

"You are most gracious. But if that is the case, then the
minority still had the final say. I personally think he was

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    249

something of a thug. I am pleased, though, to hear that
you have switched to the past tense."

"They patched you up so well that you could last for-
ever. Because you deserved the best."

"Perhaps I already have lasted forever. What do you
want of me?"

"You came here to die and you changed your mind—"

"Not exactly. I've just never composed it in a fashion
acceptable under the terms of Item Seven. To be at
peace—"

"And neither have I. But I lack your ability to impress
this fact on the Center."

"Perhaps if I went there with you and spoke to
them..."

"No," she said. "They would only agree for so long as
you were about. They call people like us life-malingerers
and are much more casual about the disposition ot our
cases. I cannot trust them as you do without armor of
my own."

"Then what would you have me do—girl?"

"Nora. Call me Nora. Protect me. That is what I want.
You live near here. Let me come stay with you. Keep
them away from me."

He poked at the pattern, began lo scratch it out

"You are certain that this is what you want?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"All right. You may come with me, then."

So Nora went to live with the Bork in his shack by the
sea. During the weeks that followed, on each occasion
when the representatives from the Center came about, the
Bork bade them depart quickly, which they did. Finally,
they stopped coming by.

Days, she would pace with him along the shores and
help in the gathering of driftwood, for she liked a fire at
night; and while heat and cold had long been things of
indifference to him, he came in time and his fashion to
enjoy the glow.

And on their walks he would poke into the dank trash
heaps the sea had lofted and turn over stones to see what
dwelled beneath.

"God! What do you hope to find in that?" she said, hold-
ing her breath and retreating.

250 THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

"I don't know," he chuckled. "A stone? A leaf? A door?
Something nice. Like that."

"Let's go watch the things in the tidepools. They're
clean, at least."

"All right."

Though he ate from habit and taste rather than from
necessity, her need for regular meals and her facility in
preparing them led him to anticipate these occasions with
something approaching a ritualistic pleasure. And it was
later still after an evening's meal, that she came to polish
him for the first time. Awkward, grotesque—perhaps it
could have been. But as it occurred, it was neither
of these. They sat before the fire, drying, warming, watch-
ing, silent. Absently, she picked up the rag he had let fall
to the floor and brushed a fleck of ash from his flame-
reflecting side. Later, she did it again. Much later, and
this time with full attention, she wiped all the dust from
the gleaming surface before going off to her bed.

One day she asked him, "Why did you buy the one-
way ticket to this place and sign the contract, if you did
not wish to die?"

"But I did wish it," he said.

"And something changed your mind after that? What?"

"I found here a pleasure greater than that desire."

"Would you teli me about it?"

"Surely. I found this to be one of the few situations—
perhaps the only—where I can be happy. It is in the na-
ture of the place itself; departure, a peaceful conclusion,
a joyous going. Its contemplation here pleases me, living
at the end of entropy and seeing that it is good."

"But it doesn't please you enough to have you under-
take the treatment yourself?"

"No. I find in this a reason for living, not for dying- It
may seem a warped satisfaction. But then, I am warped.
What of yourself?"

"I just made a mistake. That's all."

"They screen you pretty carefully, as I recall. The only
reason they made a mistake in my case was that
they could not anticipate anyone finding in this place an
inspiration to go on living. Could your situation have been
similar?"

"I don't know. Perhaps ..."

On days when the sky was clear they would rest in the
yellow warmth of the sun, playing small games and some-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    251

times talking of the birds that passed and of the swimming,
drifting, branching, floating and flowering things in their
pools. She never spoke of herself, saying whether it was
love, hate, despair, weariness or bitterness that had brought
her to this place. Instead, she spoke of those neutral things
they shared when the day was bright; and then when the
weather kept them indoors she watched the fire, slept or
polished his armor. It was only much later that she began
to sing and to bum, small snatches of tunes recently popu-
lar or tunes quite old. At these times, if she felt his eyes
upon her she stopped abruptly and turned to another
thing.

One night then, when the fire had burned low, as she
sat buffing his plates, slowly, quite slowly, she said in a
soft voice, "I believe that I am falling in love with you."

He did not speak, nor did he move. He gave no sign of
having heard.

After a long while, she said, "It is most strange, finding
myself feeling this way—here—under these circum-
stances. .. ."

"Yes," he said, after a time,

After a longer while, she put down the cloth and took
hold of his hand—the human one—and felt his grip
tighten upon her own.

"Can you?" she said, much later.

"Yes. But I would crush you, little girl."

She ran her hands over his plates, then back and forth
from flesh to metal. She pressed her Ups against his only
cheek that yielded.

"We'll find a way," she said, and of course they did.

In the days that followed she sang more often, sang
happier things and did not break off when he regarded
her. And sometimes he would awaken from the light sleep
that even he required, awaken and through the smallest
aperture of his lens note that she lay there or sat watching
him, smiling. He sighed occasionally for the pure pleasure
of feeling the rushing air within and about him, and there
was a peace and a pleasure come into him of the sort he
had long since relegated to the realms of madness, dream
and vain desire. Occasionally, he even found himself whis-
tling.

One day as they sat on a bank, the sun nearly
vanished, the stars coming on, the deepening dark was
melted about a tiny wick of falling fire and she let go of
his hand and pointed.

"A ship," she said.

"Yes," he answered, retrieving her hand.

"Full of people."

"A few, I suppose."

"It is sad."

"It must be what they want, or what they want to
want"

"It is still sad."

"Yes. Tonight. Tonight it is sad."

"And tomorrow?"

"Then, too, I daresay."

"Where is your old delight in the graceful end, the
peaceful winding-down?"

"It is not on my mind so much these days. Other things
are there."

They watched the stars until the night was all black and
light and filled with cold air. Then, "What is to become of
us?" she said.

"Become?" he said. "If you are happy with things as
they are, there is no need to change them. If you are not,
then tell me what is wrong."

"Nothing," she said. "When you put it that way, noth-
ing. It was just a small fear—a cat scratching at my heart,
as they say."

"I'll scratch your heart myself," he said, raising her
as if she were weightless.

Laughing, he carried her back to the shack.

It was out of a deep, drugged-seeming sleep that he
dragged himself/was dragged much later, by the sound of
her weeping. His time-sense felt distorted, for it seemed an
abnormally long interval before her image registered, and
her sobs seemed unnaturally drawn out and far apart.

"What—is—it?" he said, becoming at that moment
aware of the faint, throbbing, pinprick aftereffect in his
biceps.

"I did not—want you to—awaken," she said. "Please
go back to sleep."

"You are from the Center, aren't you?"

She looked away.

"It does not matter," he said.

"Sleep. Please. Do not lose the—"

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    253

M—requirements of Item Seven," he finished. "You al-
ways honor a contract, don't you?"

"That is not all that it was—to me."

"You meant what you said, that night?"

"I came to."

"Of course you would say that now. Item Seven—"

"You bastard!" she said, and she slapped him.

He began to chuckle, but it stopped when he saw the
hypodermic on the table at her side. Two spent ampules
lay with it.

"You didn't give me two shots," he said, and she looked
away. "Come on." He began to rise. "We've got to get you
to the Center. Get the stuff neutralized. Get it out of you."

She shook her head.

"Too late—already. Hold me. If you want to do some-
thing for me, do that."

He wrapped all of his arms about her and they lay that
way while the tides and the winds cut, blew and ebbed,
grinding their edges to an ever more perfect fineness.

I think—

Let me tell you of the creature called the Bork. It was
bom in the heart of a dying star. It was a piece of a man
and pieces of many other things. If the things went wrong,
the man-piece shut them down and repaired them. If he
went wrong, they shut him down and repaired him. It
was so skillfully fashioned that it might have lasted for-
ever. But if part of it should die the other pieces need not
cease to function, for it could still contrive to carry on the
motions the total creature had once performed. It is a
thing in a place by the sea that walks beside the wa-
ter, poking with its forked, metallic stick at the other
things the waves have tossed. The human piece, or a
piece of the human piece, is dead.

Choose any of the above.

The Game Of Blood And Dust

This story was solicited by Playboy as part of a project
wherein they intended to obtain a dozen short science
fiction pieces from a dozen different science fiction writ-
ers and then run one a month for a year with lavish
illustrations by the French artist Philippe DruilleL I
attempted here to do something which would give him
lots of scope for his art. Playboy changed its mind,
though, dropped the project and paid me my kill-fee.
I've occasionally wondered what the illustrations would
have been like.

They drifted toward the Earth, took up stations at its
Trojan points.

They regarded the world, its two and a half billion
people, their cities, their devices.

After a time, the inhabitant of the forward point spoke:

"I am satisfied."

There was a long pause, then, "It will do," said the
other, fetching up some strontium-90.

Their awarenesses met above the metal.

"Go ahead," said the one who had brought it.

The other insulated it from Time, provided antipodal
pathways, addressed the inhabitant of the trailing point:

"Select."

"That one."

The other released the stasis. Simultaneously, they be-
came aware that the first radioactive decay particle emit-
ted fled by way of the opposing path.

"I acknowledge the loss. Choose."

"I am Dust," said the inhabitant of the forward point.
"Three moves apiece."

"And I am Blood," answered the other. "Three moves.
Acknowledged."

"I choose to go first."

"I follow you- Acknowledged."

They removed themselves from the temporal sequence;

and regarded the history of the world.

Then Dust dropped into the Paleolithic and raised and
uncovered metal deposits across the south of Europe.

"Move one completed."

Blood considered for a timeless time then moved to
the second century B.C. and induced extensive lesions in

254

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    255

the carotids of Marcus Porcius Cato where he stood in
the Roman Senate, moments away from another "Carth-
ago delenda est."

"Move one completed."

Dust entered the fourth century A.D. and injected an
air bubble into the bloodstream of the sleeping Julius
Ambrosius, the Lion of Mithra.

"Move two completed."

Blood moved to eighth-century Damascus and did the
same to Abou Iskafar, in the room where he carved curl-
ing alphabets from small, hard blocks of wood,

"Move two completed."

Dust contemplated the play.

"Subtle move, that."

**Thank you."

"But not good enough, I feel. Observe."

Dust moved to seventeenth-century England and, on
the morning before the search, removed from his labora-
tory all traces of the forbidden chemical experiments
which had cost Isaac Newton his life.

"Move three completed."

"Good move. But I think I've got you."

Blood dropped to early nineteenth-century England
and disposed of Charles Babbage.

"Move three completed."

Both rested, studying the positions.

"Ready?" said Blood.

"Yes."

They reentered the sequence of temporality at the
point they had departed.

It took but an instant. It moved like the cracking of a
whip below them. ...

They departed the sequence once more, to study the
separate effects of their moves now that the general result
was known. They observed;

The south of Europe flourished. Rome was founded
and grew in power several centuries sooner than had pre-
viously been the case. Greece was conquered before the
flame of Athens burned with its greatest intensity. With
the death of Cato the Elder the final Punic War
was postponed. Carthage also continued to grow, extend-
ing her empire far to the east and the south. The death
of Julius Ambrosius aborted the Mithraist revival and
Christianity became the state religion in Rome. The Carthaginians spread their power throughout the middle
east Mithraism was acknowledged as their state religion.
The clash did not occur until the fifth century. Carthage
itself was destroyed, the westward limits of its empire
pushed back to Alexandria. Fifty years later, the Pope
called for a crusade. These occurred with some regularity
for the next century and a quarter, further fragmenting
the Carthaginian empire while sapping the enormous
bureaucracy which had grown up in Italy. The fighting
fell off, ceased, the lines were drawn, an economic, de-
pression swept the Mediterranean area. Outlying dis-
tricts grumbled over taxes and conscription, revolted.
The general anarchy which followed the war of seces-
sion settled down into a dark age reminiscent of that in
the initial undisturbed sequence. Off in Asia Minor, the
printing press was not developed.

"Stalemate till then, anyway," said Blood.

"Yes, but look what Newton did."

"How could you have known?"

"That is the difference between a good player and an
inspired player. I saw his potential even when he was
fooling around with alchemy. Look what he did for their
science, single-handed—everything! Your next move was
too late and too weak."

"Yes. I thought I might still kill their computers by
destroying the founder of International Difference Ma-
chines, Ltd."

Dust chuckled.

"That was indeed ironic. Instead of an IDM 120, the
Beagle took along a young naturalist named Darwin."

Blood glanced along to the end of the sequence where
the radioactive dust was scattered across a lifeless globe.

"But it was not the science that did it, or the religion."

"Of course not," said Dust. "It is all a matter of em-
phasis."

"You were lucky. I want a rematch."

"All right. I will even give you your choice: Blood or
Dust?"

"I'll stick with Blood."

"Very well. Winner elects to go first Excuse me."

Dust moved to second century Rome and healed the
carotid lesions which bad produced Cato's cerebral hem-
orrhage.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    257

"Move one completed."

Blood entered eastern Germany in the sixteenth cen-
tury and induced identical lesions in the Vatican assassin
who had slain Martin Luther.

"Move one completed."

"You are skipping pretty far along."

"It is all a matter of emphasis."

"Truer and truer. Very well. You saved Luther. I will
save Babbage. Excuse me."

An instantless instant later Dust had returned.

"Move two completed."

Blood studied the playing area with extreme concen-
tration. Then, "AU right."

Blood entered Chewy's Theater on the evening in
1865 when the disgruntled actor had taken a shot at
the President of the United States. Delicately altering the
course of the bullet in midair, he made it reach its target

"Move two completed."

"I believe that you are bluffing," said Dust "You
could not have worked out all the ramifications."

"Wait and see."

Dust regarded the area with intense scrutiny.

"All right, then. You killed a president. I am going to
save one—or at least prolong his life somewhat. I want
Woodrow Wilson to see that combine of nations founded.
Its failure will mean more than if it had never been—and
it will faiL —Excuse me."

Dust entered the twentieth century and did some re-
pair work within the long-jawed man.

"Move three completed."

"Then I, too, shall save one."

Blood entered the century at a farther point and as-
sured the failure of Leon Nozdrev, the man who had as-
sassinated Nikita Khrushchev.

"Move three completed."

"Ready, then?"

"Ready."

They reentered the sequence. The long whip cracked.
Radio noises hummed about them. Satellites orbitted the
world. Highways webbed the continents. Dusty cities
held their points of power throughout. Ships clove the
seas. Jets slid through the atmosphere. Grass grew. Birds
migrated. Fishes nibbled.

Blood chuckled.
"You have to admit it was very close," said Dust.

"As you were saying, there is a difference between a
good player and an inspired player."

"You were lucky, too."

Blood chuckled again.

They regarded the world, its two and a half billions of
people, their cities, their devices ...

After a time, the inhabitant of the forward point
spoke:

"Best two out of three?"

"All right. I am Blood. I go first.**

"... And 1 am Dust. I follow you.**

No Award

Betty White of The Saturday Evening Post suddenly
solicited a 3500-word story from me one day, so I did
this one quickly and she bought it just as quickly. Then
I asked her why she had wanted it. She told me that she
had recently had her television set turned on and was
occupied with something which did not permit her to
change channels readily. A show called "Star Trek"
came on and she watched it through and enjoyed it She
had not known much about science fiction, she said, and
she resolved to stop by her paperback book store the
following day, buy a science fiction book at random
and read it. It happened to be one of mine. She read it
and liked it and decided to ask me for a story. I have
since theorized that if she entered the shop and ap-
proached the far end of the science fiction rack my posi-
tion in the alphabet might have had something to do
with her choice. Whatever . ..

I entered the hall, made my way forward. I had come
early, so as to get as close as possible. I do not
usually push to be near the front of a crowd. Even on
those other occasions when I had heard him, and other
presidents before him, I had not tried for the best view.
This time, however, it seemed somehow important.

Luck! A seat that looked Just right. I eased myself
down.

My foot seemed asleep. In fact, the entire leg. ... No
matter. I could rest it now. Plenty of time ...

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    259

Time? No. Darkness. Yes. Sleep ...

I glanced at my watch. Still some time. Some other
people were smoking. Seemed like a good idea. As I
reached for my cigarettes I remembered that I had quit,
then discovered that I still carried them. No matter. Take
one. Light it- (Trouble. Use the other hand.) I felt some-
what tense. Not certain why. Inhale. Better. Good.

Who is that? Oh.

A short man in a gray suit entered from the right and
tested the microphone. Momentary hush. Renewed
crowd noise. The man looked satisfied and departed.

I sighed smoke and relaxed.

Resting. Yes. Asleep, asleep . . . Yes . . . You . . .

After a time, people entered from the sides and took
'seats on the stage. Yes, there was the governor. He
would speak first, would say a few words of introduction.

That man far to my left, on the stage ... I had seen him
in a number of pictures, always near the president, never
identified. Short, getting paunchy, sandy hah- thinning;

dark, drifting eyes behind thick glasses ... I was certain
that he was a member, possibly even the chief, of the
elite group of telepathic bodyguards who always accom-
pany the chief executive in public. The telepathic phe-
nomenon had been pinned down only a few years ago,
and since then the skill had been fully developed in but a
handful of people. Those who possessed it, though, were
ideal for this sort of work. It took all the danger out of
public appearances when a number of such persons
spotted about an audience were able to monitor the gen-
eral temper of a crowd, to detect any aberrant, homici-
dal thoughts and to relay this information to the Secret
Service. It eliminated even the possibility of an attempt
on the president's life, let alone a successful assassination.
Why, at this moment, one of them could even be scan-
ning my own thoughts. ...

Nothing worth their time here, though. No reason to
feel uneasy.

I crushed out the cigarette. I looked at the TV camera
people. I looked over the audience. I looked back to the
people onstage. The governor had Just risen and was
moving forward. I glanced at my watch. Right on time.

Time? No. Later the award. He will tell me when.
When . . .

The applause died down, but there was still noise, rising and falling. Rolling. At first I could not place it: then
I realized that it came from outside the hall. Thunder. It
must be raining out there. I did not recall that the
.weather had been bad on the way in. I did not remember
a dark sky, threatening, or—

I did not remember what it had been like outside at
all—dark, bright, warm, cool, windy, still. ... I remem-
bered nothing of the weather or anything else.

All right What did it matter? I had come to listen and
to see. Let it rain. It was not in the least important. -

I heard the governor's words, six minutes' worth, and
I applauded at their conclusion while flashbulbs froze
faces and a nearby cheer hurt my ears and caused my
head to throb. Time pedaled slowly past as the president
stood and moved forward, smiling. I looked at my watch
and eased back from the edge of my seat. Fine. Fine.

/( seems to me that there is a gallery, with a row of
faces atop crude cardboard silhouettes of people. Bright
lights play upon them. I stand at the other end of the
gallery, my left arm at my side. I hold a pistol in my
hand. He tells me. He tells me then. The words. When I
hear them 1 know everything. Everything I am to do to
have the prize. 1 check the weapon -without looking at it,
for I do not remove my eyes from the prospect before
me. There is one target in particular, the special one I
must hit to score. Without Jerking it, but rather with a
rapid yet steady motion, I raise the pistol, sight for just
the proper interval and squeeze the trigger with a force
that is precisely sufficient. The cardboard figures are all
moving slightly, with random jerkings, as I perform this
action. But it does not matter. There is a single report.
My target topples. I have won the award.

Blackness.

It seems to me that there is a gallery, with a row of
faces atop crude cardboard silhouettes of people. Bright
lights play upon them. I stand at the other end of the gal-
lery, my left arm at my side. I hold a pistol in my hand.
He tells me. He tells me then. The words ...

The cry of the man behind me. ... A ringing in my
ears that gradually subsided as the president raised his
hand, waving it, turning slowly . . . But the throbbing in
my head did not cease. It felt as if I had just realized the
aftermath of a blow somewhere on the crown of my
head. I raised my fingers and touched my scalp. There

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    261

was a sore place, but I felt no break in the skin. How-
ever, I could not clearly distinguish the separate forms of
my exploring fingers. It was as if, about the soreness,
there existed a general numbness. How couid this be?

The cries, the applause softened. He was beginning
to speak.

I shook myself mentally. What had happened was
happening? I did not remember the weather, and my
head hurt. Was there anything more?

I tried to think back to my entry into the hall, to find
a reason why I did not recall the gathering storm.

I realized then that I did not remember having been
outside at all, that I did not recall whether I had gotten
^to this place by taxi, bus, on foot or by private vehicle,
that I did not know where I had come from, that not only
did I not recollect what I had had for breakfast this
morning, but I did not know where, when or if I had
eaten. I did not even remember dressing myself this day.

I reached up to touch my scalp again. As before, some-
thing seemed to be warning my hand away from the site,
but I ignored it, thinking suddenly of blows on the head
and amnesia.

Could that be it? An accident? A bad bash to the skull,
then my wandering about all day until some cue served
to remind me of the speech I wanted to attend, then set
me on the way here, the attainment of my goal gradually
drawing me away from the concussion's trauma?

Still, my scalp felt so strange. ... I poked around the
edges of the numb area. It was not exactly numb. . . .

Then part of it came away. There was one sharp little
pain at which I jerked back my exploring fingers. It sub-
sided quickly, though, and I returned them. No blood.
Good. But there had occurred a parting, as if a portion of
my hair—no, my scalp itself—had come loose. I was
seized with a momentary terror, but when I touched be-
neath the loosened area I felt a warm smoothness of
normal sensitivity, nothing like torn tissue.

I pushed further and more of it came loose. It was only
at the very center that I felt a ragged spot of pain, beneath
what seemed like a gauze dressing. It was then that I real-
ized I was wearing a hairpiece, and beneath it a bandage.

There was a tiny ripple of applause as the president
said something I had not heard. I looked at my watch.

Was that it, then? An accident? One for which I had been treated in some emergency room—injured area
shaved, scalp lacerations sutured, patient judged ambula-
tory and released, full concussion syndrome not realized?

Somehow that did not seem right. Emergency rooms
do not dispense hairpieces to cover their work. And a man
in my condition would probably not have been allowed

to walk away.

But I could worry about these things later. I had' come
to hear this talk. I had a good seat and a good view, and
I should enjoy the occasion. I could take stock of myself
when the event was concluded.

Almost twenty minutes after the hour. . .

I tried to listen, but I could not keep my mind on what
he was saying- Something was wrong and J was hurting
myself by not considering it. Very wrong, and not Just
with me. I was a part of it all, though. How? What?

I looked at the fat little telepath behind the president
Go ahead and look into my mind, I willed. / would really
like you to. Maybe you can see more deeply there than I
can myself. Look and see what is wrong. Tell me what
has happened, What is happening. I would like to know.

But he did not even glance my way. He was only inter-
ested in incipient mayhem, and my intentions were all
pacific. If he read me at all, he must have dismissed my
bewilderment as the stream of consciousness of one of that
small percentage of the highly neurotic which must occur
in any sizable gathering—a puzzled man, but hardly a
dangerous one. His attention, and that of any of the
others, was reserved for whatever genuinely nasty speci-
mens might be present. And rightly so.

There came another roll of thunder. Nothing. Nothing
for me beyond this hall, it reminded. The entire day up
until my arrival was a blank. Work on it. Think. I had
read about cases of amnesia. Had I ever come across one

just like this?

When had I decided to hear this speech? Why? What

were the circumstances?

Nothing. The origin of my intention was hidden.

Could there be anything suspect? Was there anything
unusual about my desire to be here?

I—No, nothing.

Nineteen minutes after the hour.

I began to perspire. A natural result of my nervous-
ness, I supposed.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    263

The second hand swept past the two, the three . . .

Something to do. ... It would come clear in a mo-
ment. What? Never mind. Wait and see.

The six, the seven ...

As another wave of applause crossed the hall I began
to wish that I had not come.

Nine, ten ...

Twenty minutes after.

My lips began to move. I spoke softly. I doubt that
the others about me even heard what I said.

"Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen. Try your
luck."

"... Try your luck."

Suddenly 1 was awake, in the gallery, my hand in my
pocket. High up, before me, was the row of faces, the cut-
out cardboard bodies below them, lights shining upon
them. I felt the pistol and checked it without looking
down. The one in front was the target that had been
chosen for me, moving slightly, with random jerkings.

I withdrew the weapon carefully and began to raise it
slowly.

My hand! Who . . .

I watched with a sudden and growing fear as my left
hand emerged from my pocket holding a gun. I had no
control over the action. It was as if the hand belonged
to another person. I willed it back down, but it continued
to rise. So I did the only thing I could do.

I reached across with my right hand and seized my
own wrist.

The left hand had a definite will of its own. It struggled
against me. I tightened my grip and pushed it downward
with all of my strength.

As this occurred, I found myself trying to get to my
feet. Snarls and curses rose unbidden to my lips. The
hand was strong. I was not certain how much longer I
could bold it.

The finger tightened on the trigger and my hands bucked
with the weapon's recoil. Fortunately, the muzzle was
pointed downward when it went off. I hope that the
ricochet had not caught anyone.

People were screaming and rushing to get away from
me by then. Several others, however, were hurrying to-
ward me. If I could only hold the hand until they got
to me....
They hit me, two of them. One tackled me and the
other took me around the shoulders. We went down. As
my left arm was seized, I felt it relax. The pistol was
taken from me. Those two hands, such strangers, were
forced behind my back and handcuffed there. I remember
hoping that they would not break one another. They stop-

- ped struggling, however, hanging limply as I was raised
to my feet.

When I looked back toward the stage, the president
was gone. But the small chubby man was staring at me,
dark eyes no longer drifting behind those heavy lenses
as he began to move my way, gesturing to the men who
held me.

Suddenly I felt very sick and weak, and my head
was aching again. I began to hurt in the places where I
had been struck.

When the small man stood before me he reached out
and clasped my shoulders.

"It is going to be all right now," he said.

The gallery wavered before me. There were no more
cardboard silhouettes. Only people. I did not understand
where everything had gone, or why he had told me the
words, then restrained me. I only knew that I had missed
my target and there would be no award. I felt my eye
grow moist.

They took me to a clinic. There were guards posted
outside my door. The small telepath, whose name I had
learned was Arthur Cook, was with me much of the time.
A doctor poked at the left side of my neck, inserted a
needle and dripped in a clear liquid. The rest was silence.

When I came around—how much later, I am uncertain

—the right side of my neck was also sore. Arthur and
one of the doctors were standing at my bedside watching
me closely.

"Glad to have you back, Mister Mathews," Arthur said.
"We want to thank you."

"For what?" I asked. "I don't even know what hap-
pened."

"You foiled an assassination plan. I am tempted to
say single-handed, but I am not much given to puns. You
were an unwilling party to one of the most ingenious
attempts to evade telepathic security measures to date.
You were the victim of some ruthless people, using
highly sophisticated medical methods in their conspiracy.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    265

Had they taken one additional measure, I believe they
would have succeeded. However, they permitted both of
you to be present at the key moment and that was their
undoing."

"Both of me?"

"Yes, Mister Mathews. Do you know what the cor-
pus callosum is?"

"A part of the brain, I think."

"Correct. It is an inch-long, a quarter-inch-thick bundle
of fibers which serves to join the right and left cerebral
hemispheres. If it is severed, it results in the creation of
two separate individuals in one body. It is sometimes
done in cases of severe epilepsy to diminish the effects
of seizures."

"Are you saying that I have undergone such surgery?"

*'Yes, you have."

*'. . . And there is another 'me' inside my head?"

"That is correct. The other hemisphere is still sedated
at the moment, however."

"Which one am I?"

"You are the left cerebral hemisphere. You possess
the linguistic abilities and the powers of more complicated
reasoning. The other side is move intuitive and emotional
and possesses greater visual and. spatial capabilities."

"Can this surgery be undone?"

*•No."

"I see. And you say that other people have had such
operations—epileptics. . . . How did they—do—after-
ward?"

The doctor spoke then, a tall man, hawk-featured, hair
of a smoky gray.

"For a long while the connection—the corpus callosum
—had been thought to have no important functions. It
was years before anyone was even aware of this side
effect to a commisurotomy. I do not foresee any great
difficulties for you. We will go into more detail on this
later."

"All right. I feel like—myself—at any rate. Why
did they do this to me?"

"To turn you into the perfect modem assassin," Arthur
said. "Half of the brain can be put to sleep while the
other hemisphere remains awake. This is done simply by
administering a drug via the carotid artery on the ap-
propriate side. After the surgery had been performed,
you—the left hemisphere—were put to sleep while the
right hemisphere was subjected to hypnosis and behavior
modification techniques, was turned into a conditioned
assassin—"

"I had always thought a person could not be hypno-
tized into doing certain things."

He nodded.

"Normally, that seems to be the case. However, it ap-
pears that, by itself, the emotional, less rational right
hemisphere is more susceptible to suggestion—and it was
not a simple kill order which it received, it was a cleverly
constructed and well-rehearsed illusion to which it was
trained to respond."

"Okay," I said. "Buying all that, how did they make
what happened happen?"

"The mechanics of it? Well, the conditioning, as I said,
was done while you were unconscious and, hence, un-
aware of it. The conditioned hemisphere was then placed
in a state of deep sleep, with the suggestion that it would
awaken and perform its little act on receipt of the ap-
propriate cue. Your hemisphere was then impressed with
a post-hypnotic suggestion to provide that cue, in me
form of the phrase you spoke, at a particular time when
the speech would be going on. So they left you out in
front and you walked iflto the hall consciously aware of
none of this. Your mind was perfectly innocent under any
telepathic scrutiny. It was only when you performed your
posthypnotic suggestion and called attention to yourself
moments later that I suddenly regarded two minds in one
body—an extremely eerie sensation, I might add. It was
fortunate then that you, the more rational individual,
quickly saw what was happening and struggled to avert
it. This gave us just enough time to move in on you."

I nodded. I thought about it, about two of me, strug-
gling for the control of our one body. Then, "You said
that they had slipped up—that had they done one addi-
tional thing they might have succeeded," I said. "What
was that?"

"They should have implanted the suggestion that you
go to sleep immediately after speaking the stimulus
phrase," he said. "I believe that would have done it.
They just did not foresee the conflict between the two of
you."

"What about the people behind this?" I finally asked.

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    267

"Your right hemisphere provided us with quite a few
very good descriptions while you were asleep."

"Descriptions? I thought I was the verbal one."

"True, basically. But the other provided some excel-
lent sketches, the substance of which I was able to verify
telepathically. The Service then matched them with cer-
tain individuals on whom they have files, and these per-
sons have already been apprehended.

"But the other hemisphere is not completely nonver-
bal," he went on. "There is normally a certain small
amount of transference—which may be coining into play
now, as a matter of fact"

"What do you mean?"

"The other you has been awake awhile now. Your
left hand, which it controls, has been gesturing frantically
for several minutes. For my pen. I can tell."

He withdrew a pen and a small pad from his pocket
and passed them to me. I watched with fascination as
they were seized and positioned. Slowly, carefully, my
left band wrote on the pad, Im sorry.

. . . And as I wrote, I realized that he -would not un-
derstand, could never understand now, exactly what I
meant.

And that was what I meant, exactly.

I stared down at the words and I looked up at the
wall. I looked at Arthur and at the doctor.

"I'd appreciate it if you would leave us alone for a
while now," I said.

They did, and even before they left I knew that no
matter where I looked half of the room would have to
be empty.

Is There A Demon Lover in the House?

This story was solicited by Heavy Metal. I was in the
mood to do a mood piece at that time.

Nightscape of the city in November with fog: intermittent
blotches of streetlight; a chilly thing, the wind slithering
across the weeping faces of buildings; the silence.

Form is dulled and softened. Outlines are lost, silhouettes unsealed. Matter bleeds some vital essence upon the
streets. What are the pivot points of time? Was that its
arrow, baffled by coils of mist, or only a lost bird of the
night?

. . . Walking now, the man, gait slowed to a normal
pace now, his exhilaration transmuted to a kind of calm.
Middle-aged, middle-statured, side-whiskered, dark, he
looks neither to the left nor the right. He has ,lost his
way, but his step is almost buoyant. A great love fills his
being, general, objectless, pure as the pearl-soft glow of
the comer light through the fog.

He reaches that corner and moves to cross the street.
An auto is there, then gone, tearing through the inter-
section, a low rumble within its muffler, lights slashing
the dark. Its red tail lamps swing by, dwindle, are gone;

its tires screech as it turns an unseen corner.

The man has drawn back against the building. He
stares in the direction the vehicle has taken. For a long
while after it has vanished from sight, he continues to
stare. Then he withdraws a case from an inside pocket,
takes out a small cigar, lights it. His hands shake as he
does so.

A moment of panic...

He looks all about, sighs, then retrieves the small,
newspaper-wrapped parcel he had been carrying, from
where it had fallen near the curb.

Carefully, carefully then, he crosses the street. Soon
the love has hold of him again.

Farther along, he comes upon a parked car, pauses a
moment beside it, sees a couple embracing within, con-
tinues on his way. Another car passes along the street,
slowly. There is a glow ahead.

He advances toward the illumination. There are lights
within a small cafe and several storefront display win-
dows. A theater marquee blazes in the center of the
block. There are people here, moving along the walks,
crossing the street. Cars discharge passengers. There is a
faint odor of frying fish. The theater, he sees, is called
the Regent Street.

He pauses beneath the marquee, which advertises:

EXOTIC MIDNIGHT SPECIAL
THE KISS OF DEATH
Puffing his cigar, he regards a series of photos within
a glass case. A long-haired, acne-dotted medical student
comes over to see the still shots, innocuous yet titillative
on the wall. "Thought they'd never get to show it," he
mutters.

"Beg pardon?"

"This snuff film. Just won a court decision. Didn't you
hear?"

"No. I did not know. This one?"

"That's right. You going to see it?"

"I don't know. What is it about?"

The student turns and stares at the man, cocks his
head to one side, smiles faintly. Seeing the reaction, the
man smiles also. The student chuckles and shrugs.

"May be your only chance to see one," he says. "I'm
betting they get closed down again and it goes to a higher
court"

"Perhaps I will."

"Rotten weather, huh? They say so ho was an old
hunting cry. Probably from people trying to find each
other, huh?"

He chuckles. The man returns it and nods. The calm
of controlled passion that holds him as in a gentle fist
pushes him toward the experience.

"Yes, I believe that I will," he says, and he moves
toward the ticket window.

The man behind the glass looks up as he passes him
the money,

"You sure you want to spend that? It's an oldie."

He nods.

The ticket seller sets the coin to one side, hands him
his pasteboard and his change.

He enters the lobby, looks about, follows the others.

"No smoking inside. Fire law."

"Oh. Sorry."

Dropping his cigar into a nearby receptacle, he sur-
renders his ticket and passes within. He pauses at the
head of an aisle to regard the screen before him, moves
on when jostled, finds a seat to his left, takes it.

He settles back and lets his warm feeling enfold him.
It is a strange night. Lost, why had he come in? A place
to sit? A place to hide? A place to be warm with im-
personal human noises about him? Curiosity?

All of these, he decides, while his thoughts roam over
the varied surface of life, and the post-orgasmic sadness
fades to tenderness and gratefulness.

His shoulder is touched. He turns quickly.

"Just me," says the student. "Show'U be starting in a
few minutes. You ever read the Marquis de Sade?"

"Yes."

"What do you think of him?**

"A decadent dilettante."

"Oh."

The student settles back and assumes a thoughtful
pose. The man returns his eyes to the front of the theater.

After a time, the houselights grow dim and die. Then
the screen is illuminated. The words The Kiss of Death
flash upon it. Soon they are succeeded by human figures.
The man leans forward, his brow furrowed. He turns and
studies the slant of light from the projection booth, dust
motes drifting within it He sees a portion of the equip-
ment. He turns again to the screen and his breathing
deepens.

He watches all the actions leading to the movements of
passion as time ticks about him. The theater is still. It
seems that he has been transported to a magical realm.
The people around him take on a supernatural quality,
blank-faced in the light reflected from the screen. The
back of his neck grows cold, and it feels as if the hairs
are stirring upon it Still, he suppresses a desire to rise
and depart, for there is something frightening, too, to
the vision. But it seems important that he see it through.
He leans back again, watching, watching the flickering
spectacle before him.

There is a tightening in nis belly as he realizes what is
finally to occur, as he sees the knife, the expression on
the girl's face, the sudden movements, the writhing, the
blood. As it continues, he gnaws his knuckle and begins
to perspire. It is real, so real...

"Oh my!" he says and relaxes.

The warmth comes back to him again, but he con-
tinues to watch, until the last frame fades and the lights
come on once again.

"How'd you like it?" says the voice at bis back-
He does not turn.

"It is amazing," he finally says, "that they can make
pictures move on a screen like that."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    271

He hears the familiar chuckle, then, "Care to join me
for a cup of coffee? Or a drink?"

"No, thanks. I have to be going."

He rises and hurries up the aisle, back toward the fog-
masked city where he had somehow lost his way.

"Say, you forgot your package!"

But the man does not bear. He is gone.

The student raises it, weighs it in his palm, wonders.
When he finally unwraps the folded Times, it is not only
the human heart it contains which causes his sharp intake
of breath, but the fact that the paper bears a date in
November of 1888.

"Oh, Lord!" he says. "Let him find his way homel"

Outside, the fog begins to roll and break, and the wind
makes a small rustling noise as it passes. The long
shadow of the man, lost in his love and wonder, moves
like a blade through the city and November and the
night.

The Last Defender Of Camelot

I wrote this one for The Saturday Evening Post and
they asked me to cut it to 4500 words. It is 9000 words
in length. Crossing out every other word made it sound
funny, so I didn't.

The three muggers who stopped him that October night
in San Francisco did not anticipate much resistance from
the old man, despite his size. He was well-dressed, and
that was sufficient.

The first approached him with his hand extended. The
other two hung back a few paces.

"Just give me your wallet and your watch," the mugger
said. "You'll save yourself a lot of trouble."

The old man's grip shifted on his walking stick. His
shoulders straightened. His shock of white hair tossed aa
he turned his head to regard the other.

"Why don't you come and take them?"

The mugger began another step but he never com-
pleted it. The stick was almost invisible in the speed of
its swinging. It struck him on the left temple and he fell.
Without pausing, the old man caught the stick by its
middle with his left hand, advanced and drove it into the
belly of the next nearest man. Then, with an upward
hook as the man doubled, he caught him in the softness
beneath the jaw, behind the chin, with its point. As the
man fell, he clubbed him with its butt on the back of
the neck.

The third man had reached out and caught the old
man's upper arm by then. Dropping the stick, the old
man seized the mugger's shirtfront with his left hand, his
belt with his right, raised him from the ground until he
held him at arm's length above his-head and slammed
him against the side of the building to his right, releasing
him as he did so.

He adjusted his apparel, ran a hand through his hair
and retrieved his walking stick. For a moment he re-
garded the three fallen forms, then shrugged and con-
tinued on his way.

There were sounds of traffic from somewhere off to
his left. He turned right at the next comer. The moon
appeared above tall buildings as he walked. The smell of
the ocean was on the air. It had rained earlier and the
pavement still shone beneath streetlamps. He moved
slowly, pausing occasionally to examine the contents of
darkened shop windows.

After perhaps ten minutes, he came upon a side street
showing more activity than any of the others he had
passed. There was a drugstore, still open, on the comer,
a diner farther up the block, and several well-lighted
storefronts. A number of people were walking along the
far side of the street. A boy coasted by on a bicycle. He
turned there, his pale eyes regarding everything he
passed.

Halfway up the block, he came to a dirty window on
which was painted the word READINGS. Beneath it were
displayed the outline of a hand and a scattering of play-
ing cards. As he passed the open door, he glanced inside.
A brightly garbed woman, her hair bound back in a
green kerchief, sat smoking at the rear of the room. She
smiled as their eyes met and crooked an index finger, to-
ward herself. He smiled back and turned away, but . . .

He looked at her again. What was it? He glanced at

his watch.

Turning, he entered the shop and moved to stand be-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    273

fore her. She rose. She was small, barely over five feet in
height.

"Your eyes," he remarked, "are green. Most gypsies I
know have dark eyes."

She shrugged.

"You take what you get in life. Have you a problem?"

"Give me a moment and I'll think of one," he said. "I
just came in here because you remind me of someone
and it bothers me—I can't think who."
\     "Come into the back," she said, "and sit down. We'll
talk."

He nodded and followed her into a small room to the
rear. A threadbare oriental rug covered the floor near
the small table at which they seated themselves. Zodia-
cal prints and faded psychedelic posters of a semi-
religious nature covered the walls, A crystal ball stood on
a small stand in the far comer beside a vase of cut
flowers. A dark, long-haired cat slept on a sofa to the
right of it. A door to another room stood slightly ajar
beyond the sofa. The only illumination came from a
cheap lamp on the table before him and from a small
candle in a plaster base atop the shawl-covered coffee
table.

He leaned forward and studied her face, then shook
his head and leaned back.

She flicked an ash onto the floor.

"Your problem?" she suggested.

He sighed.

"Oh, I don't really have a problem anyone can help
me with. Look, I think I made a mistake coming in here.
I'll pay you for your trouble, though, just as if you'd
given me a reading. How much is it?"

He began to reach for his wallet, but she raised her
-    hand.

"Is it that you do not believe in such things?" she
asked, her eyes scrutinizing his face.

"No, quite the contrary," he replied. "I am willing to
believe in magic, divination and all manner of spells and
sendings, angelic and demonic. But—"

"But not from someone in a dump like this?"

He smiled.

"No offense," he said.

A whistling sound filled the air. It seemed to come
from the next room back.
"That's all right," she said, "but my water is boiling.
I'd forgotten it was on. Have some tea with me? I do
wash the cups. No charge. Things are slow."

"All right."

She rose and departed.

He glanced at the door to the front but eased himself
back into his chair, resting his large, blue-veined bands
on its padded arms. He sniffed then, nostrils fiaring, and
cocked his head as at some half-familiar aroma.

After a time, she returned with a tray, set it on the
coffee table. The cat stirred, raised her head, blinked at
it, stretched, closed her eyes again.

"Cream and sugar?"

"Please. One lump."

She placed two cups on the table before him.

'Take either one," she said.

He smiled and drew the one on his left toward him.
She placed an ashtray in the middle of the table and re-
turned to her own seat, moving the other cup to her place.

"That wasn't necessary," he said, placing his hands on
the table.

She shrugged.

"You don't know me. Why should you trust me?
Probably got a lot of money on you."

He looked at her face again. She bad apparently
removed some of the heavier makeup while in the back.
room. The jawline, the brow ... He looked away. He

took a sip of tea.

"Good tea. Not instant," be said. "Thanks."
"So you believe in all sorts of magic,'* she asked,

sipping her own.
"Some," he said.
"Any special reason why?**
"Some of it works."
"For example?"

He gestured aimlessly with his left hand.
"I've traveled a lot. I've seen some strange things."
"And you have no problems?"

He chuckled-

"Still determined to give me a reading? All right. III
tell you a little about myself and what I want right now,
and you can tell me whether 111 get it. Okay?"

"I'm listening."
"I am a buyer for a large gallery in the Bast I am

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    275

something of an authority on ancient work in precious
metals. I am in town to attend an auction of such items
from the estate of a private collector. I will go to inspect
the pieces tomorrow. Naturally, I hope to find something
good. What do you think my chances are?"

"Give me your hands."

He extended them, palms upward. She leaned for-
ward and regarded them. She looked back up at him
immediately.

"Your wrists have more rascettes than I can counti"

*'Yours seem to have quite a few, also."

She met his eyes for only a moment and returned her
attention to his hands. He noted that she had paled be-
neath what remained of her makeup, and her breathing
was now irregular.

"No," she finally said, drawing back, "you are not
going to find here what you are looking for."

Her hand trembled slightly as she raised her teacup.
He frowned.

"I asked only in jest," he said. "Nothing to get upset
about. I doubted I would find what I am really looking
for, anyway."

She shook her head.

*TelI me your name."

"I've lost my accent," he said, "but I'm French. The
name is DuLac."

She stared into his eyes and began to blink rapidly.

"No . . ." she said. "No."

"I'm afraid so. What's yours?"

"Madam LeFay, she said. "I just repainted that sign.
It's still drying."

He began to laugh, but it froze in his throat

"Now—I know—who—you remind me of... .**

"You reminded me of someone, also. Now I, too,
know."

Her eyes brimmed, her mascara ran.

"It couldn't be," he said. "Not here. . . . Not in a place
like this. ..."

"You dear man," she said softly, and she raised his
right hand to her lips. She seemed to choke for a moment,
then said, "I had thought that I was the last, and your-
self buried at Joyous Gard. I never dreamed . . ." Then,
"This?" gesturing about the room. "Only because it
amuses me, helps to pass the time. The waiting—**
She stopped. She lowered his hand.

'Tell me about it," she said.

"The waiting?" he said. "For what do you wait?"

"Peace," she said. "I am here by the power of my arts,
through all the long years. But you—How did you man-
age it?"

"I—" He took another drink of tea. He looked about
the room. "I do not know how to begin," he said. "I sur-
vived the final battles, saw the kingdom sundered, could
do nothing—and at last departed England- I wandered,
taking service at many courts, and after a time under
many names, as I saw that I was not aging—or aging
very, very slowly. I was in India, China—I fought in the
Crusades. I've been everywhere. I've spoken with ma-
gicians and mystics—most of them charlatans, a few with
the power, none so great as Merlin—and what had come
to be my own belief was confirmed by one of them, a
man more than half charlatan, yet . . ." He paused and
finished his tea. "Are you certain you want to hear all
this?" he asked.

"I want to bear it. Let me bring more tea first, though."

She returned with the tea. She lit a cigarette and leaned
back.

"Go on."

"I decided that it was—my sin," he said. "with . . ,
the Queen."

"I don't understand."

"I betrayed my Liege, who was also my friend, in the
one thing which must have hurt him most. The love I
felt was stronger than loyalty or friendship—and even
today, to this day, it still is. I cannot repent, and so I
cannot be forgiven. Those were strange and magical
times. We lived in a land destined to become myth.
Powers walked the realm in those days, forces which are
now gone from the earth. How or why, I cannot say. But
you know that it is true. I am somehow of a piece with
those gone things, and the laws that rule my existence are
not normal laws of the natural world. I believe that I
cannot die; that it has fallen my lot, as punishment, to
wander the world till I have completed the Quest. I be-
lieve I will only know rest the day I find the Holy Grail.
Giuseppe Balsamo, before he became known as Cagliostro,
somehow saw this and said it to me just as I had thought
it, though I never said a word of it to him. And so I

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    277

have traveled the world, searching. I go no more as
knight, or soldier, but as an appraiser. I have been in
nearly every museum on Earth, viewed ail the great pri-
vate collections. So far, it has eluded me."

"You are getting a little old for battle."

He snorted.

"I have never lost," he stated flatly. "Down ten cen-
turies, I have never lost a personal contest. It is true that
I have aged, yet whenever I am threatened all of my
former strength returns to me. But, look where I may,
fight where I may, it has never served me to discover
that which I must find. I feel I am unforgiven and must
wander like the Eternal Jew until the end of the world."
^ She lowered her head.

"... And you say I will not find it tomorrow?"

"You will never find it," she said softly.

"You saw that in my hand?"

She shook her head.

"Your story is fascinating and your theory novel,"
she began, "but Cagliostro was a total charlatan. Some-
thing must have betrayed your thoughts, and he made
a shrewd guess. But he was wrong. I say that you
will never find it, not because you are unworthy or un-
forgiven. No, never that. A more loyal subject than
yourself never drew breath. Don't you know that Arthur
forgave you? It was an arranged marriage. The same
thing happened constantly elsewhere, as you must know.
You gave her something he could not. There was only
tenderness there. He understood. The only forgiveness
you require is that which has been withheld all these
long years—your own. No, it is not a doom that has
been laid upon you. It is your own feelings which led
you to assume an impossible quest, something tanta-
mount to total unforgiveness. But you have suffered all
these centuries upon the wrong trail."

When she raised her eyes, she saw that his were hard,
like ice or gemstones. But she met his, gaze and con-
tinued: "There is not now, was not then, and probably
never was, a Holy Grail."

"I saw it," he said, "that day it passed through the
Hall of the Table. We all saw it."

"You thought you saw it," she corrected him. "I
hate to shatter an illusion that has withstood all the other
tests of time, but I fear I must. The kingdom, as you
recall, was at that time in turmoil. The knights were
growing restless and falling away from the fellowship.
A year—six months, even—and all would have collapsed,
all Arthur had striven so hard to put together. He
knew that the longer Camelot stood, the longer its name
would endure, the stronger its ideals would become. So
he made a decision, a purely political one. Something was
needed to hold things together. He called up6n Merlin,
already half-mad, yet still shrewd enough to see what
was needed and able to provide it. The Quest was born.
Merlin's powers created the illusion you saw that day.
It was a lie, yes. A glorious lie, though. And it served
for years after to bind you all in brotherhood, in the name
of justice and love. It entered literature, it promoted
nobility and the higher ends of culture. It served its
purpose. But it was—never—really—there. You have
been chasing a ghost. I am sorry Launcelot, but I have
absolutely no reason to lie to you. I know magic when I
see it. I saw it then. That is how it happened."

For a long while he was silent Then he laughed.

"You have an answer for everything," he said. "I
could almost believe you, if you could but answer me
one thing more—Why am I here? For what reason? By
what power? How is it I have been preserved for half
the Christian era while other men grow old and die
in a handful of years? Can you tell me now what Cag-
liostro could not?"

"Yes," she said, "I believe that I can."

He rose to his feet and began to pace. The cat,
alarmed, sprang from the sofa and ran into the back
room. He stooped and snatched up his walking stick. He
started for the door.

"I suppose it was worth waiting a thousand years to
see you afraid," she said.

He halted.

"That is unfair," he replied.

"I know. But now you will come back and sit down,"

she said.

He was smiling once more as he turned and returned.

^eU me," he said. "How do you see it?"

"Yours was the last enchantment of Merlin, that is

how I see it."

"Merlin? Me? Why?"
"Gossip had it the old goat took Nimue into the woods

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    279

and she had to use one of his own spells on him in self-
defense—a spell which caused him to sleep forever in
some lost place. If it was the spell that I believe it was,
then at least part of the rumor was incorrect. There was
no known counterspell, but the effects of the enchant-
ment would have caused him to sleep not forever but
for a millennium or so, and then to awaken. My guess
now is that his last conscious act before he dropped off
was to lay this enchantment upon you, so that you would
be on hand when he returned."

"I suppose it might be possible, but why would he
want me or need me?"

"If I were journeying into a strange time, I would
want an ally once I reached it. And if I had a choice, I
would want it to be the greatest champion of the day."

"Merlin . . ." he mused. "I suppose that it could be
as you say. Excuse me, but a long life has just been
shaken up, from beginning to end. If this is true . . ."

"I am sure that it is."

"If this is true ... A millennium, you say?"

"More or less."

"Well, it is almost that time now."

'I know. I do not believe that our meeting tonight
was a matter of chance. You are destined to meet him
upon bis awakening, which should be soon. Something
has ordained that you meet me first, however, to be
warned.**

"Warned? Warned of what?"

"He is mad, Launcelot. Many of us felt a great re-
lief at his passing. If the realm had not been sundered
finally by strife it would probably have been broken by
his hand, anyway."

"That I find difficult to believe. He was always a
strange man—for who can fully understand a sorcerer?—
and in his later years he did seem at least partly daft. But
he never struck me as evil."

"Nor was he. His was the most dangerous morality
of all. He was a misguided idealist. In a more primitive
time and place and with a willing tool like Arthur, he
was able to create a legend. Today, in an age of mon-
strous weapons, with the right leader as his catspaw, he
could unleash something totally devastating. He would
see a wrong and force his man to try righting it. He would'
do it in the name of the same high ideal he always
served, but he would not appreciate the results until it
was too late. How could he—even if he were sane? He
has no conception of modem international relations."

"What is to be done? What is my part in all of this?"

"I believe you should go back, to England, to be pres-
ent at his awakening, to find out exactly what he wants,
to try to reason with him."

"I don't know . . . How would I find him?'* '

"You found me. When the time is right, you will be in
the proper place. I am certain of that- It was meant to
be, probably even a part of his spell. Seek him. But do
not trust him."

"I don't know. Morgana." He looked at the wall,
unseeing. "I don't know,"

"You have waited this long and you draw back now
from finally finding out?"

"You are right—in that much, at least." He folded his
hands, raised them and rested his chin upon them. "What
I would do if he really returned, I do not know. Try to
reason with him, yes—Have you any other advice?**

"Just that you be there."

"You've looked at my hand. You have the power.
What did you see?"

She turned away.

"It is uncertain," she said.

That night he dreamed, as he sometimes did, of
times long gone. They sat about the great Table, as
they had on that day, Gawaine was there and Percival.
Galahad ... He winced. This day was different from
other days. There was a certain tension in the air, a
before-the-storm feeling, an electrical thing. . . . Merlin
stood at the far end of the room, hands in the sleeves
of his long robe, hair and beard snowy and unkempt,
pale eyes staring—at what, none could be certain . . .

After some timeless time, a reddish glow appeared
near the door. All eyes moved toward it. It grew brighter
and advanced slowly into the room—a formless ap-
parition of light. There were sweet odors and some few
soft strains of music. Gradually, a form began to take
shape at its center, resolving itself into the likeness
of a chalice. ...

He felt himself rising, moving slowly, following it in
its course through the great chamber, advancing upon
it, soundlessly and deliberately,' as if moving under-
water . . .

. . . Reaching for it.

His hand entered the circle of light, moved toward
its center, neared the now blazing cup and passed
through....

Immediately, the light faded. The outline of the chalice
wavered, and it collasped in upon itself, fading, fading.
gone....

There came a sound, rolling, echoing about the halL
Laughter.

He turned and regarded the others. They sat about
the table, watching him, laughing. Even Merlin managed
-a dry chuckle.

Suddenly, his great blade was in his hand, and he
raised it as he strode toward the Table. The knights
nearest him drew back as he brought the weapon crash-
ing down.

The Table split in half and fell. The room shook.

The quaking continued. Stones were dislodged from
the walls. A roof beam fell. He raised his arm.

The entire castle began to come apart, falling about
him and still the laughter continued.

He awoke damp with perspiration and lay still for a
long while. In the morning, he bought a ticket for
London.

Two of the three elemental sounds of the world were
suddenly with him as he walked that evening, stick in hand.
For a dozen days, he had hiked about Cornwall, finding
no clues to that which he sought. He had allowed himself
two more before giving up and departing.

Now the wind and the rain were upon him, and
he increased his pace. The fresh-lit stars were smothered
by a mass of cloud and wisps of fog grew like ghostly
fungi on either hand. He moved among trees, paused,
continued on.

"Shouldn't have stayed out this late," he muttered, and
after several more pauses, "Nel mezzo del cammm di
nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, che la diritta
via era smarrita," then he chuckled, halting beneath a
tree.

The rain was not heavy. It was more a fine mist now.
A bright patch in the lower heavens showed where the
moon hung veiled.

He wiped his face, turned up his collar. He studied the
position of the moon. After a time, he struck off to his
right. There was a faint rumble of thunder in the dis-
tance.

The fog continued to grow about him as he went. Soggy
leaves made squishing noises beneath bis boots. An ani-
mal of indeterminate size bolted from a clump of shrub-
bery beside a cluster of rocks and tore off through the
darkness.

Five minutes . . . ten . . . He cursed softly. The rain-
fall had increased in intensity. Was that the same rock?

He turned in a complete circle. All directions were
equally uninviting. Selecting one at random, he com-
menced walking once again.

Then, in the distance, he discerned a spark, a glow, a
wavering light. It vanished and reappeared periodically, as
though partly blocked, the line of sight a function of his
movements. He headed toward it. After perhaps half a
minute, it was gone again from sight, but he continued
on in what he thought to be its direction. There came
another roll of thunder, louder this time.

When it seemed that it might have been illusion or
some short-lived natural phenomenon, something else oc-
curred in that same direction. There was a movement, a
shadow-wimin-shadow shuffling at the foot of a great tree.
He slowed his pace, approaching the spot cautiously.

There!

A figure detached itself from a pool of darkness ahead
and to the left. Manlike, it moved with a slow and heavy
tread, creaking sounds emerging from the forest floor be-
neath it. A vagrant moonbeam touched it for a moment,
and it appeared yellow and metallically slick beneath
moisture.

He halted. It seemed that he had just regarded a
knight in full armor in his path. How long since he bad
beheld such a sight? He shook his head and stared.

The figure had also halted. It raised its right arm in a
beckoning gesture, then turned and began to walk
away. He hesitated for only a moment, then followed.

It turned off to the left and pursued a treacherous path,
rocky, slippery, heading slightly downward. He actually
used his stick now, to assure his footing, as he tracked its
deliberate progress. He gained on it, to the point where
he could clearly hear the metallic scraping sounds of its
passage.

Then it was gone, swallowed by a greater darkness.

He advanced to the place where he bad last beheld it.
He stood in the lee of a great mass of stone. He reached
out and probed it with his stick.

He tapped steadily along its nearest surface, and then
the stick moved past it. He followed.

There was an opening, a crevice. He had to turn side-
wise to pass within it, but as he did the full glow of the
light he had seen came into sight for several seconds.

The passage curved and widened, leading him back
and down. Several times, he paused and listened, but
there were no sounds other than his own breathing.

He withdrew his handkerchief and dried his face and
hands carefully. He brushed moisture from his coat,
turned down his collar. He scuffed the mud and leaves
from his boots. He adjusted his apparel. Then he strode
forward, rounding a final comer, into a chamber lit by
a small oil lamp suspended by three delicate chains from
some point in the darkness overhead. The yellow knight
stood unmoving beside the far wall. On a fiber mat atop
a stony pedestal directly beneath the lamp lay an old man
in tattered garments. His bearded face was half-masked
by shadows.

He moved to the old man's side. He saw then that
those ancient dark eyes were open.

"Merlin . . .?" he whispered.

There came a faint hissing sound, a soft croak. Real-
izing the source, he leaned nearer.

"Elixir ... in earthern rock ... on ledge ... in back,"
came the gravelly whisper.

He turned and sought (he ledge, the container.

"Do you know where it is?" he asked the yellow figure.

It neither stirred nor replied, but stood like a display
piece. He turned away from it then and sought further.
After a time, he located it. It was more a niche than a
ledge, blending in with the wall, cloaked with shadow. He
ran his fingertips over the container's contours, raised it
gently. Something liquid stirred within it. He wiped its
lip on his sleeve after he had returned to the lighted area.
The wind whistled past the entranceway and he thought
he felt the faint vibration of thunder.

Sliding one hand beneath his shoulders, he raised the
ancient form. Merlin's eyes still seemed unfocussed. He
moistened Merlin's lips with the liquid. The old man licked
them, and after several moments opened his mouth. He
administered a sip, then another, and another ...

Merlin signalled for him to lower him, and he did. He
glanced again at the yellow armor, but it had remained
motionless the entire while. He looked back at the sorce-
ror and saw that a new light had come into his eyes and be
was studying him, smiling faintly.

"Feel better?"

Merlin nodded. A minute passed, and a touch of color
appeared upon his cheeks. He elbowed himself into a sit-
ting position and took the container into his hands. He
raised it and drank deeply.

He sat still for several minutes after that His thin
hands, which had appeared waxy in the flamelight, grew
darker, fuller. His shoulders straightened. He placed the
crock on the bed beside him and stretched his arms. His
joints creaked the first time he did it, but not the second.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rose slowly
to his feet. He was a full head shorter than Launcelot

"It is done," he said, staring back into the shadows.
"Much has happened, of course..."

"Much has happened," Launcelot replied.

"You have lived through it all. Tell me, is the world a
better place or is it worse than it was in those days?"

"Better in some ways, worse in others. It is different,"

"How is it better?"

"There are many ways of making life easier, and the
sum total of human knowledge has increased vastly."-

"How has it worsened?"

"There are many more people in the world. Conse-
quently, there are many more people suffering from pov-
erty, disease, ignorance. The world itself has suffered great
depredation, in the way of pollution and other assaults on
the integrity of nature."

"Wars?"

"There is always someone fighting, somewhere."

"They need help."

"Maybe. Maybe not.**

Merlin turned and looked into his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"People haven't changed. They are as rational—and

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    285

irrational—as they were in the old days. They are as
moral and law-abiding—and not—as ever. Many new
things have been learned, many new situations evolved,
but I do not believe that the nature of man has altered
significantly in the time you've slept. Nothing you do is
going to change that. You may be able to alter a few
features of the times, but would it really be proper to
meddle? Everything is so interdependent today that
even you would not be able to predict all the consequences
of any actions you take. You might do more harm than
good; and whatever you do, man's nature will remain
the same."

"This isn't like you. Lance. You were never much
given to philosophizing in the old days."
"I've had a long time to think about it."
"And I've had a long time to dream about it. War is
your craft. Lance. Stay with that.*'
"I gave it up a long time ago."
'Then what are you now?"
"An appraiser."

Merlin turned away, took another drink. He seemed
to radiate a fierce energy when he turned again.

"And your oath? To right wrongs, to punish the
wicked ..,?*'

"The longer I lived the more'difficult it became to de-
termine what was a wrong and who was wicked. Make
it clear to me again and I may go back into business."
"Galahad would never have addressed me so."
"Galahad was young, naive, trusting. Speak not to
me of my son."

"LauncelotI Launcelott" He placed a hand on his
arm. "Why all this bitterness for an old friend who has
done nothing for a thousand years?"

"I wished to make my position clear immediately. I
feared you might contemplate some irreversible action
which could alter the world balance of power fatally. I
want you to know that I will not be party to it."

"Admit that you do not know what I might do, what I
can do."

"Freely. That is why I fear you. What do you intend to
do?"

"Nothing, at first I wish merely to look about me, to
see for myself some of these changes of which you have
spoken. Then I will consider which wrongs need righting,
who needs punishment, and who to choose as my champi-
ons. I will show you these things, and then you can go back
into business, as you say."

Launcelot sighed.

"The burden of proof is on the moralist. Your judg-
ment is no longer sufficient for me."

"Dear me," the other replied, "it is sad to have waited
this long for an encounter of this sort, to find you have
lost your faith in me. My powers are beginning to return
already, Lance. Do you not feel magic in the air?"

"I feel something I have not felt in a long while."

"The sleep of ages was a restorative—an aid, actually.
In a while. Lance, I am going to be stronger than I ever
was before. And you doubt that I will be able to turn
back the clock?"

"I doubt you can do it in a fashion to benefit anybody.
Look, Merlin. I'm sorry. I do not like it that things have
come to this either. But I have lived too long, seen too
much, know too much of how the world works now to
trust any one man's opinion concerning its salvation. Let it
go. You are a mysterious, revered legend. I do not know
what you really are. But forgo exercising your powers in
any sort of crusade. Do something else this time around.
Become a physician and fight pain. Take up painting. Be a
professor of history, an antiquarian. Hell, be a social critic
and point out what evils you see for people to correct
themselves."

"Do you really believe I could be satisfied with any of
those things?"

"Men find satisfaction in many things. It depends on
the man, not on the things. I'm just saying that you
should avoid using your powers in any attempt to effect
social changes as we once did, by violence."

"Whatever changes have been wrought, time's greatest
irony lies in its having transformed you into a pacifist."

"You are wrong."

"Admit it! You have finally come to fear the clash
of arms! An appraiser! What kind of knight are you?"

"One who finds himself in the wrong time and the
wrong place. Merlin."

The sorcerer shrugged and turned away.

"Let it be, then. It is good that you have chosen to
tell me all these things immediately. Thank you tor that,
anyway. A moment"

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    287

Merlin walked to the rear of the cave, returned in
moments attired in fresh garments. The effect was start-
ling. His entire appearance was more kempt and cleanly.
His hair and beard now appeared gray rather than
white. His step was sure and steady. He held a staff in
his right hand but did not lean upon it.

"Come walk with me," he said.

"It is a bad night."

"It is not the same night you left without. It is not
even the same place."

As he passed the suit of yellow armor, he snapped
his fingers near its visor. With a single creak, the figure
moved and turned to follow him.

"Who is that?"
- Merlin smiled.

"No one," he replied, and he reached back and raised
the visor. The helmet was empty. "It is enchanted, ani-
mated by a spirit," he said. "A trifle clumsy, though,
which is why I did not trust it to administer my draught
A perfect servant, however, unlike some. Incredibly
strong and swift. Even in your prime you could not have
beaten it. I fear nothing when it walks with me. Come,
there is something I would have you see."

"Very well."

Launcelot followed Merlin and the hollow knight
from the cave. The rain had stopped, and it was very
still. They stood on an incredibly moonlit plain where
mists drifted and grasses sparkled. Shadowy shapes stood
in the distance.

"Excuse me," Launcelot said. "I left my walking stick
inside."

He turned and re-entered the cave.

"Yes, fetch it, old man," Merlin replied. "Your strength
is already on the wane."

When Launceiot returned, he leaned upon the stick
and squinted across the plain.

"This way," Merlin said, "to where your questions will
be answered. I will try not to move too quickly and tire

you.

"Tire me?"

The sorcerer chuckled and began walking across the
plain. Launcelot followed.

"Do you not feel a trifle weary?" he asked.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Do you know what is
the matter with me?"

"Of course. I have withdrawn the enchantment which
has protected you all these years. What you feel now
are the first tentative touches of your true age. It will
take some time to catch up with you, against your body's
natural resistance, but it is beginning its advance."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because I believed you when you said you were not
a pacifist. And you spoke with sufficient vehemence for
me to realize that you might even oppose me. I could
not permit that, for I knew that your old strength was
still there for you to call upon. Even a sorcerer might
fear that, so I did what had to be done. By my power was
it maintained; without it, it now drains away. It would
have been good for us to work together once again,
but I saw that that could not be."

Launcelot stumbled, caught himself, limped on. The
hollow knight walked at Merlin's right hand.

"You say that your ends are noble," Launcelot said,
"but I do not believe you. Perhaps in the old days they
were. But more than the times have changed. You are
different. Do you not feel it yourself?"

Merlin drew a deep breath and exhaled vapor.

"Perhaps it is my heritage," he said. Then, "I jest.
Of course, I have changed. Everyone does. You yourself
are a perfect example. What you consider a turn for
the worse in me is but the tip of an irreducible conflict
which has grown up between us in the course of our
changes. I still hold with the true ideals of Camelot."

Launcelot's shoulders were bent forward now and his
breathing had deepened. The shapes loomed larger before
them.

"Why, I know this place," he gasped. "Yet, I do not
know it. Stonehenge does not stand so today. Even in Ar-
thur's time it lacked this perfection. How did we get here?
What has happened?"

He paused to rest, and Merlin halted to accommodate
him.

"This night we have walked between the worlds," the
sorcerer said. "This is a piece of the land of Faerie and
that is the true Stonehenge, a holy place. I have stretched
the bounds of the worlds to bring it here. Were I unkind
I could send you back with it and strand you there for-

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    289

ever. But it is better that you know a sort of peace. Come!"

Launcelot staggered along behind him, heading for the
great circle of stones. The faintest of breezes came out of
the west, stirring the mists.

"What do you mean—know a sort of peace?"
"The complete restoration of my powers and their in-
crease will require a sacrifice in this place."
"Then you planned this for me all along!"
"No. It was not to have been you. Lance. Anyone
would have served, though you will serve superbly well.
It need not have been so, had you elected to assist me.
You could still change your mind."

"Would you want someone who did that at your side?"
"You have a point there."
"Then why ask—save as a petty cruelty?"
"It is just that, for you have annoyed me."
Launcelot halted again when they came to the circle's
periphery. He regarded the massive stands of stone.

"If you will not enter willingly," Merlin stated, "my
servant will be happy to assist you."

Launcelot spat, straightened a little and glared.
"Think you I fear an empty suit of armor, Juggled by
some Hell-born wight? Even now. Merlin, without the
benefit of wizardly succor, I could take that thing apart."
The sorcerer laughed.

"It is good that you at least recall the boasts of knight-
hood when all else has left you. I've half a mind to give
you the opportunity, for the manner of your passing
here is not important. Only the preliminaries are essential."
"But you're afraid to risk your servant?"
"Think you so, old man? I doubt you could even bear
the weight of a suit of armor, let alone lift a lance. But
if you are willing to try, so be it!"

He rapped the butt of his staff three times upon the
ground.

"Enter," he said then. "You will find all that you need
within. And I am glad you have made this choice. You
were insufferable, you know. Just once, I longed to see
you beaten, knocked down to the level of lesser mortals.
I only wish the Queen could be here, to witness her cham-
pion's final engagement."

"So do I," said Launcelot, and he walked past the
monolith and entered the circle.

A black stallion waited, its reins held down beneath a
rock. Pieces of armor, a lance, a blade and a shield leaned
against the side of the dolmen. Across the circle's diameter,
a white stallion awaited the advance of the hollow knight.

"I am sorry I could not arrange for a page or a squire
to assist you," Merlin, said, coming around the other side
of the monolith. "I'll be glad to help you myself, though."

"I can manage," Launcelot replied.

"My champion is accoutered in exactly the same fash-
ion," Merlin said, "and I have not given him any edge
over you in weapons."

'"I never liked your puns either."

Launcelot made friends with the horse, then removed
a small strand of red from his wallet and tied it about
the butt of the lance. He leaned his stick against the dol-
men stone and began to don the armor. Meriin, whose hair
and beard were now almost black, moved off several
paces and began drawing a diagram in the dirt with the
end of his staff.

"You used to favor a white charger," he commented,
"but I thought it appropriate to equip you with one of
another color, since you have'abandoned the ideals of
the Table Round, betraying the memory of Camelot."

"On the contrary," Launcelot replied, glancing over-
head at the passage of a sudden roll of thunder. "Any
horse in a storm, and I am Camelot's last defender."

Merlin continued to elaborate upon the pattern he
was drawing as Launcelot slowly equipped himself. The
small wind continued to blow, stirring the mist. There
came a flash of lightning, startling the horse. Launcelot
calmed it.

Merlin stared at him for a moment and rubbed his
eyes. Launcelot donned his helmet.

"For a moment," Merlin said, "you looked somehow
different. ..."

"Really? Magical withdrawal, do you think?" he asked,
and he kicked the stone from the reins and mounted the
stallion.

Merlin stepped back from the now-completed diagram,
shaking his head, as the mounted man leaned over and
grasped the lance.

"You still seem to move with some strength," he said.

"Really?"

Launcelot raised the lance and couched it. Before

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    291

taking up the shield he had hung at the saddle's side,
he opened his visor and turned and regarded Merlin.

"Your champion appears to be ready," he said. "So
amL"

Seen in another flash of light, it was an unlined face
that looked down at Merlin, clear-eyed, wisps of pale
gold hair fringing the forehead.

"What magic have the years taught you?" Merlin
asked.

"Not magic," Launcelot replied. "Caution. I antici-
pated you. So, when I returned to the cave for my stick,
I drank the rest of your elixir."

He lowered the visor and turned away.

"You walked like an old man. ..."

"I'd a lot of practice. Signal your champion 1"

Merlin laughed.

"Good! It is better this way," he decided, "to see you
go down in full strength! You still cannot hope to win
against a spirit!"

Launcelot raised the shield and leaned forward.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"Nothing!" Merlin said. Then he shouted, "Kill him,
Raxas!"

A light rain began as they pounded across the field;

and staring ahead, Launcelot realized that flames were
flickering behind his opponent's visor. At the last possible
moment, he shifted the point of his lance into line with
the hollow knight's blazing helm. There came more light-
ning and thunder.

His shield deflected the others lance while his went
on to strike the approaching head. It flew from the hollow
knight's shoulders and bounced, smouldering, on the
ground.

He continued on to the other end of the field and
turned. When he had, he saw that the hollow knight,
now headless, was doing the same. And beyond him,
he saw two standing figures, where moments before there
had been but one.

Morgan Le Fay, clad in a white robe, red hair un-
bound and blowing in the wind, faced Merlin from across
his pattern. It seemed they were speaking, but he could
not hear the words. Then she began to raise her hands,
and they glowed like cold fire. Merlin's staff was also
gleaming, and he shifted it before him. Then he saw no

292    THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT

more, for the hollow knight was ready for the second

charge.

He couched his lance, raised the shield, leaned for-
ward and gave his mount the signal. His arm felt like a
bar of iron, his strength like an endless current of elec-
tricity as he raced down the field. The rain was falling
more heavily now and the lightning began a constant
flickering- A steady rolling of thunder smothered the
sound of the hoofbeats, and the wind whistled past his
helm as he approached the other warrior, his lance cen-
tered on his shield.

They came together with an enormous crash. Both
knights reeled and the hollow one fell, his shield and
breastplate pierced by a broken lance. His left arm came
away as he struck the earth; the lancepoint snapped and
the shield fell beside him. But he began to rise almost
immediately, his right hand drawing his long sword.

Launcelot dismounted, discarding his shield, drawing
his own great blade. He moved to meet his headless foe.
The other struck first and he parried it, a mighty shock
running down his arms. He swung a blow of his own. It

was parried.

They swaggered swords across the field, till finally

Launcelot saw his opening and landed his heaviest blow.
The hollow knight toppled into the mud, his breastplate
cloven almost to the point where the spear's shaft pro-
truded. At that moment, Morgan Le Fay screamed.

Launcelot turned and saw that she had fallen across
the pattern Merlin had drawn. The sorcerer, now bathed
in a bluish light, raised his staff and moved forward.
Launcelot took a step toward them and felt a great pain

in his left side.

Even as he turned toward the half-risen hollow knight

who was drawing his blade back for another blow, Laun-
celot reversed his double-handed grip upon his own
weapon and raised it high, point downward.

He hurled himself upon the other, and his blade
pierced the cuirass entirely as he bore him back down,
nailing him to the earth. A shriek arose from beneath
him, echoing within the armor, and a gout of fire
emerged from the neck hole, sped upward and away,
dwindled in the rain, flickered out moments later.

Launcelot pushed himself into a kneeling position.
Slowly then, he rose to his feet and turned toward the

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    293

two figures who again faced one another. Both were now
standing within the muddied geometries of power, both
were now bathed in the bluish light. Launcelot took a
step toward them, then another.

"Merlin!" he called out, continuing to advance upon
them. "I've done what I said I wouldi Now I'm coming
to kill you!"

Morgan Le Fay turned toward him, eyes wide.

"No!" she cried. "Depart the circle! Hurry! I am
holding him heret His power wanes! In moments, this
place will be no more. Go!"

Launceiot hesitated but a moment, then turned and
walked as rapidly as he was able toward the circle's
perimeter. The sky seemed to boil as he passed among
the monoliths,

He advanced another dozen paces, then had to pause
to rest. He looked back to the place of battle, to the place
where the two figures still stood locked in sorcerous em-
brace. Then the scene was imprinted upon his brain as
the skies opened and a sheet of fire fell upon the far end
of the circle.

Dazzled, he raised his hand to shield his eyes. When
he "lowered it, he saw the stones falling, soundless, many
of them fading from sight. The rain began to slow im-
mediately. Sorceror and sorceress had vanished along
with much of the structure of the still-fading place. The
horses were nowhere to be seen. He looked about him
and saw a good-sized stone. He headed for it and seated
himself. He unfastened his breastplate and removed it,
dropping it to the ground. His side throbbed and he held
it tightly. He doubled forward and rested his face on his
left hand.

The rains continued to slow and finally ceased. The
wind died. The mists returned.

He breathed deeply and thought back upon the con-
flict. This,-this was the thing for which he had remained
after all the others, the thing for which he had waited,
for so long. It was over now, and he could rest.

There was a gap in his consciousness. He was brought
to awareness again by a light. A steady glow passed be-
tween his fingers, pierced his eyelids. He dropped his
hand and raised his head, opening his eyes.

It passed slowly before him in a halo of white light. He
removed his sticky fingers from his side and rose to his
feet to follow it. Solid, glowing, glorious and pure, not at
all like the image in the chamber, it led him on out across
the moonlit plain, from dimness to brightness to dimness,
until the mists enfolded him as he reached at last to em-
brace it.

HERE ENDETH THE BOOK OF LAUNCELOT,
LAST OF THE NOBLE KNIGHTS OF THE
ROUND TABLE, AND HIS ADVENTURES
WITH RAXAS, THE HOLLOW KNIGHT,
AND MERLIN AND MORGAN LE FAY,
LAST OF THE WISE FOLK OF CAMELOT,
IN HIS QUEST FOR THE SANGREAL.

QUO FAS ET GLORIA DVCUNT.

Stand Pat, Ruby Stone

I wrote this in a hurry for complicated reasons involv-
ing The llliisiraled Roger Zeiazny, and then the reasons
evaporated and it got published in a different place than
was originally intended, but everything worked out okay.

When it was agreed that we would marry, the three
of us went to Old Voyet of the Long Legs to select a
stone signifying the betrothal. This was to be our choice
alone, as was the custom.

Kwib favored one the color of passion itself, bright
blue, looking as if it were a solid drop of the great ocean.
I preferred a jewel the color of fire, representing peace
and stability in the home. Since our beloved agreed with
me, the ruby stone, a more expensive gem, was selected
and Old Voyet of the Long Legs made the incision in
our beloved's brow, set the stone there and bandaged it
in place. Our beloved, thenceforth to be known as Ruby
Stone, was very brave. He held us and stared at the
ground, unmoving, throughout that terrible little ritual.

"Never hurts me a bit," Old Voyet of the Long Legs
remarked, "and I've done the Woods know how many
over the returnings."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    295

We did not reply to the crude humor, but made ar-
rangements to see her paid before the ceremony.

"Will there be a Bottom-Top settlement for all to see?"
she asked.

"No, we believe in privacy in these matters," I an-
swered, perhaps too quickly, for the look I received in
reply showed that it had been taken as a sign of weak-
ness. No matter. The walker with the mitteltoth knows
its wilpering best.

We bade one another farewell and departed in the
three directions, to remain at station houses until Ruby
Stone should heal sufficiently to be fit for the ceremony.

I rested and practiced thorn-throwing while I waited
for the joggler. On the tenth day it came napping to my
door. Before I slew it, I took its message and learned
that we would be wed two days hence. The joggler's in-
nards augured a mixed destiny but its flesh was tender.

Alone at the station house, I bathed and flagellated
myself in preparation for the rites. I slept beneath a
sacred tree. I watched the stars through its branches. I
made offering of the joggler's bones at its mossy base. I
listened to the singers who flew through the Wood—
moist, coarse tongues hanging vinelike—collecting rel-
atives, the little singers, to serve the belly-fillmg role in
the great song-show of life.

One singer shrieked horribly in mid-swoop and was
dragged downward by the tongue to disappear within the
pot of a korkanus—a noisy piece of blackness torn from
the night.

Before morning, I was at the plant's side, waiting for
it to evert its stomach. It made a gurgling, slopping
noise just as light was beginning to come into the world,
ridding itself of the previous day's dross in a little
steaming pool. I sprang back so as not to be splashed by
the burning fluid. With a stick, I rummaged through the
korkhanus's wastes as it sucked itself back into shape,
probing among the bones and scales it had dumped.

They were present, two sets of talons—six, altogether
—amid the pulpy remains. I fished them out with my
stick and bore them off to the river on a mat of leaves,
where I would clean and polish them. I took this as a
good omen.

That day I also sharpened the talons and mounted
them along the lengths of two sticks I could hold, as
they were far better equipment than any I possessed. I
wore them as part of a belt I then wove, looking much
like hardroot rings to a wooden clasp.

The rest of the day I purified myself and thought often
of my mates to be, and of our wedding. I ate the pre-
scribed meal that evening and repaired early to the sacred
tree, where I bad some difficulty in turning to sleep.

The following morning, I made my way back along
the route I had taken to the station house. I met with
Kv ib and Ruby Stone at the plac' where we had parted.
We did not touch one another, but exchanged formal
greetings:

"Root of life."

"Guardian of the egg."

"Bringer of sustenance,"

"Reaper of the Wood."

"Walkers in the preiire."

"Haii."

"Hail."

"Hail."'

"Are you ready to take your way to the Tree of Life?"

"I am ready to take my way to the Tree of Life."

"Are you ready to hang the emblem of your troth upon

it?"

"I am ready to hang the emblem of my troth upon it"

"I am ready to accept you both as mate."

"I am ready to accept you both as mate."

"I am ready to accept you both as mate."

"Then let us go to the Tree of Life."

We leaped into the air and danced and spun and darted,
soaring high above the Wood in the sparkling light of day.
We turned and curved and circled about one another until
we could barely stay aloft. Then we made our way to
the great Tree, hung with its countless emblems, there
to add our own with the appropriate words and acts. When
we touched the ground at its base, Kwib and I each seized
one of Ruby Stone's wings and tore it away.

Old Voyet of the Long Legs, Yglin the Purple-Streaked
and Young Dendlit Lopleg were present, among others,
to observe, congratulate and offer advice. We listened
with some impatience, for we were anxious to be on our
way. Observers take great delight in delaying newlyweds
who wish to be about their business.

The three of us embraced in various ways and bade

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    297

the others farewell. There was a murmur of disappoint-
ment that things would go no further at that point. But
we raised Ruby Stone and together bore him back to the
dwelling we had selected, bright nuptial stone glistening
in his proud and polished brow. All of us made a fine
appearance as we proceeded through the Wood to the
Home. The others followed slowly behind us, humming.

When we reached the threshold we patted Ruby Stone's
wingstumps and placed him within but did not ourselves
enter.

"Behold, you will wait," we said together.

"I wiil wait, Beloveds."

Kwib and I faced one another. The humming ceased.
We ignored the onlookers.

"Beloved, let us walk together," Kwib said.

"Yes, Beloved. We shall walk."

We turned and made our way past those who had
accompanied us, moving into the solitude of the Wood. For
a long while we went in silence, taking care not to touch
one another. We came at length upon a small glade,
pleasantly shaded.

"Beloved, shall it be here?" Kwib asked me.

"No, Beloved," I said.

"Very well. Dear One."    ^

We continued on, watching one another, moving in a
leisurely fashion. The sun reached the overhead position
and began its descent.

After a time, "Beloved, do you wish to rest?" Kwib
asked.

"Not yet, Beloved. Thank you."

"It occurs to me, Partner in Love, that we are heading
toward the place of Trader Hawkins. Would you wish to
stop by there?"

"For what purpose. Fire of my Life?"

"A drink of the heating beverage. Love."

I thought about it. The effects of the heating beverage
might well serve to hasten things.

"Yes, Co-Walker in the Path of Bliss," I replied. "Let
us visit Trader Hawkins first,"

We went on toward the foothills.

"Light of Love," I asked, "is it true that there is a mate
in a hole behind the Earthman's dwelling?"

"I have heard this. Love, and I have seen the place,
but I do not know. I have heard that the mate is dead."
"Strange, Dearest."

"Yes, Beloved."

We sat across from one another when we finally rested,
watching. Kwib's dear form was sharp and supple is the
deepening shadows, and larger than my own. A moon
climbed into the sky. Another, far smaller, followed it
later. I had grown hungry as the day progressed, but I
said nothing. It is better not to eat, and so it is better
not to speak of it.

We arrived at the foothills around dusk. Small lights
from the trading post were visible among the trees. Night
sounds had already begun about us. I smelled strange
odors on the breeze that came down from the mountains.

As we passed through the brush, I said, "Dearest Kwib,
I would like to see first the place where the dead mate is
kept."

"I will show it to you. Partner in Life."

Kwib led me around to the rear of the building. As
we went, it seemed that I caught a glimpse of Trader
Hawkins sitting on the darkened front porch of the
dwelling, gigantic in the moonlight, drinking.

Kwib led me to a huge plot of earth on which nothing
grew. At one end of it was set a stone with peculiar mark-
ings. A bunch of dead flowers lay at its base.

"The dead mate is under the ground, dear Kwib, under
the stone?"

"So I have heard. Light."

"And why are there dead plants, Love?"

"I do not know. Life."

"It is very strange. I do not understand. I—"

"Hey! What are you bugs doing out there?"

A light far greater than that of the moons had occurred
atop a pole near the dwelling. The Earthman stood at
the door, one of me long fire weapons in his hands. We
turned toward him and advanced.

"We came to drink the heating beverage," Kwib said in
trader talk. "We stopped first to see the place of the mate
who is under the ground."

"I don't like anyone back here when I'm not around."

"We apologize. We did not know. You have the heat-
ing beverage?"

"Yes. Come on in."

The Earthman held the giant door open and stood

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    299

beside it. We entered and followed the hulking form
through to the front of the dwelling.

"You have the metal?"

"Yes," I said, taking a bar of it from my pouch and pas-
sing it over.

Two bowls of the beverage were prepared and I was
given more than three smaller bits of the metal in return.
I left them beside my bowl on the mat.

"I will buy the next one. Beloved," Kwib said.

I did not reply but drank of the sweet-and-sour liquid
which moved like fire through my limbs. The Earthman
poured another beverage and perched with it atop a wood-
en tower. The room smelled strongly though not unpleas-
antly of odors which I could not identify. Tiny fragments
of wood were strewn upon the floor. The chamber was
illuminated by a glowing jewel set high on the wall.

"You bugs hunting, or'd you just come up this way to
get drunk?*'                                      ..

"Neither," Kwib said. "We were married this morning."

"Oh," Trader Hawkins's eyes widened, then narrowed.
"I have heard of your ceremony. Only two go forth, and
one remains behind...."

"Yes."

". . . And you have stopped here on your way, for a
few drinks before continuing on?"

"Yes."

"I am more than a little interested in this. None of
my people ever witnessed your nuptials."

"We know this."

"I would like to see the fulfillment of this part of the
ceremony."

"No."

"No."

"It is forbidden?"

"No. It is simply that we consider it a private matter."

"Well, with all respect for your feelings, there are
many people where I come from who would give a lot
to see such a thing. Since you say it is not forbidden, but
rather a matter of personal decision on your part, I won-
der whether I might persuade you to let me film it?"

"No."

"No, it is private."

"But hear me out. First, let me refill those bowls,
though.—No, I don't want any more metal. If—now,
just supposing—you were to let me film it, I would stand
to make considerable money. I could reward you with
many gifts—anything you want from the post here—and
all the heating beverage you care to drink, whenever you
want it."

Kwib looked at me strangely.

"No," I said. "It is private and personal. I do not want
you to capture it in your picture box."

I began to rise from my bowl.

"We had best be going."

"Sit down. Don't go. I apologize. I'd have been a fool
not to ask, though. I did not take offense at your looking
at my wife's grave, did I? Don't be so touchy."

"That is true, Beloved," Kwib said in our own tongue.
"We may have done offense in viewing the mate's grave.
Let us not take offense ourselves from this request now
that we have answered it, and so do ourselves shame."

"Soundly said, Beloved," I replied, and I returned to my
beating beverage. "This drink is good."

"Yes."

"I love you."

"I love you."

"Consider the ways of our dear Ruby Stone. How
delicate he is!"

"Yes. And how graceful his movements ..."

"How proud I was when we bore him to the Home,"

"I, too. And the sky-dance was so fine. . . . You were
right about the stone. It shone gloriously in the sunlight."

"And in the evening its pale fires will be soft and subtle."

"True. It will be good."

"Yes."

We finished our drinks and were preparing to depart
when the Earthman refilled the bowls.

"On the house- A wedding present."

I looked at Kwib. Kwib looked at Trader Hawkins
and then looked at me. We returned to the mats to sip
the fine drinks.

"Thank you," I said.

"Yes, thank you," said Kwib.

When we had finished, we again rose to go. My move-
ments were unsteady.

"Let me freshen your drinks."

"No, that would be too much. We must be on our way
now."
"Would you wish to spend the night here? You may."

"No. We may not sleep until it is over."

We headed toward the front door. The floor seemed
to be moving beneath me, but I plodded across it and
out onto the porch. The cool night air felt good after the
closeness of the trading post. I stumbled on the stair. Kwib
reached to assist me but quickly drew back.

"Sorry, Beloved."

"It is all right, Love."

"Good night to both of you—and good luck."

"Thank you."

"Good night."

We moved off through the hills, striking downward
once again. After a time, I smelled fresh water and we
"came to a Wood through which a stream flowed. The
moons were falling out of the sky, and there was a
heaviness of stars within it. The smaller moon seemed
to double itself as I watched, and I realized that this
must be something of the heating beverage's doing. When
I turned away, I saw that Kwib had moved nearer and
was regarding me closely.

"Let us rest here for a time," I said. "I choose that
spot." I indicated a place beneath a small tree,

"And I will rest here," Kwib said, moving to a position
across from me beside a large rock.

"I miss my Ruby Stone, Dear One," I said.

"As do I, Love."

"I wish to bear the eggs that he will tend. Love."

"As do I, Slim One."

"What was that noise?"

"I heard nothing."

I listened again, but there were no sounds.

"It is said that one who is larger—such as myself—
can drink more of the heating beverage with less effect,"
Kwib said, after staring into the shadows for a long while
and nodding suddenly.

"I have heard this, also. Are you choosing this place,
Dear One?"

Kwib rose-

"I would be a fool not to, Beloved. May there always
be peace between our spirits."

I remained where I was.

"Could it ever be otherwise, my Kwib?"
I sought the two sticks at my belt, where the talons re-
sembled hardroot rings.

"Truly you are the kindest, the finest . . ." Kwib began.

. . . And then she lunged, her mandibles wide for the
major cut.

I struck low on her thorax with one set of talons, rolling
to the side as I did so. Recovering, I raked the other
across the great facets of her eyes in which images of the
moons and stars had glittered and danced. She whistled
and drew back. I brought both sets of talons around and
across and down, driving them with all of my strength
behind the high chitin plate below her dear head. Her
whistling grew more shrill and the talons were torn from
my grasp as she fell back. The odor of body fluid came to
me, and the odor of fear. . . .

I struck her with my full weight. I extended my mandi-
bles and seized her head. She struggled for but a moment,
then lay still.

"Be kind to our Ruby Stone," she told me. "He is so
gentle, so fragile.. . ."

"Always, Beloved," I told her, and then I completed
the stroke.

I lay there atop her hard and supple form, covering
her body with warm leptors.

"Farewell, Reaper of the Wood. Dear One ..." I said.

Finally, I rose and used my mandibles to cut through
• the hard corners of her armor. She was so soft inside. I
had to bear all of her back within me to our Ruby Stone.
I began the Feast of Love.

It was full daylight when I had cleaned Kwib's
armor to a slick, shining hardness and assembled it
carefully, working with the toughest grass fibers. When
I hung her on the tree she made gentle clicking noises
in the passing air.

From somewhere, I heard another sound—steady,
buzzing, unnatural. No! It could not be that the Earthman
would have dared to follow us and use his capturing box—

I looked about. Was that a giant shadow retreating
beyond the hill? My movements were sluggish. I could not
pursue. I could not have certainty, knew that I could never
have it. I had to have rest, now. . ..

Heavily, slowly, I moved to a place near the rock and
settled there. I listened to the spirit voice of my darling,
borne by the wind from her shell. . . .

. . .- Sleep, she was saying, sleep. 1 am with you, now
and ever. Yours is the privilege and the pleasure. Love.
May there always be peace between our spirits. . . .

. . . And sleep I must before I take feet to the trail.
Ruby, Ruby Stone, my Ruby Stone, waiting with the color
of fire on your brow, glorious in the sunlight, soft and
subtle in the evening. . . . Your waiting is almost ended.
It is only yours to wait, to stand and to witness our re-
turning. But now we have finished the trial of love and
are coming back to you.... I can see the Home, so clearly,
where we placed you. . . . Soon you will bring your
brightness near to us. We will give you eggs. We will
feed you. Soon, soon . . . The shadow is there again,
but I cannot tell . . . This part does not concern you. I
bury the shame within me—if shame it should be—and
I will never speak of it. ... Our beloved Kwib is still
singing, on the tree and within me. The poem is peace;

peace, troth, and the eternal return of the egg. What else
can matter, my Dear One? What else can temper the
flight or star the brow of solitude but the jeweled badge
of our love. Ruby Stone?

Sleep, sings Kwib. Wait, sings Kwib. Soon, sings Kwib.
Our parts in the great song-show of life, Love.

Halfjack

One day, I saw a nice, slick, pretty, new magazine called
Omni and was overcome by the desire to have a story
in it, so I wrote this one and did.

He walked barefoot along the beach. Above-the city
several of the brighter stars held for a few final moments
against the wash of light from the east. He fingered a
stone, then buried it in the direction from which the sun
would come. He watched for a long while until it had
vanished from sight. Eventually it would begin skipping.
Before then, he had turned and was headed back, to the
city, the apartment, the girl.
Somewhere beyond the skyline a vehicle lifted, burning
its way into the heavens. It took the remainder of the
night with it as it faded. Walking on, he smelled the
countryside as well as the ocean. It was a pleasant world,
and this a pleasant city—spaceport as well as seaport—
here in this backwater limb of the galaxy. A good place in
which to rest and immerse the neglected portion of him-
self in the flow of humanity, the colors and sounds of
the city, the constant tugging of gravity. But it had been
three months now. He fingered the scar on his brow. He
had let two offers pass him by to linger. There was an-
other pending his consideration.

As he walked up Kami's street, he saw that her apart-
ment was still dark. Good, she would not even have
missed him, again. He pushed past the big front door,
still not repaired since he had kicked it open the evening
of the fire, two—no, three—nights ago. He used the stairs-
He let himself in quietly.

He was in the kitchen preparing breakfast when he
heard her stirring.

"Jack?"

"Yes. Good morning."

"Come back."

"All right."

He moved to the bedroom door and entered the room.
She was lying there, smiling. She raised her arms slightly.

"I've thought of a wonderful way to begin the day."

He seated himself on the edge of the bed and embraced
her. For a moment she was sleep-warm and sleep-soft
against him, but only for a moment.

"You've got too much on," she said, unfastening his
shirt.

He peeled it off and dropped it. He removed his trousers.
Then he held her again.

"More," she said, tracing the long fine scar that ran
down his forehead, alongside his nose, traversing his chin,
his neck, the right side of his chest and abdomen, passing
to one side of his groin, where it stopped.

"Come on."

"You didn't even know about it until a few nights ago."

She kissed him, brushing his cheeks with her lips.

"It really does something for me."

"For almost three months—"

"Take it off. Please."

THE LAST DEFENDER OF CAMELOT    305

He sighed and gave a half-smile. He rose to bis feet.

"All right."

He reached up and put a hand to his long, black hair.
He took hold of it- He raised his other hand and spread
his fingers along his scalp at the hairline. He pushed his
fingers toward the back of his head and the entire hair-
piece came free with a soft, crackling sound. He dropped
the hairpiece atop his shirt on the floor.

The right side of his head was completely bald; the
left had a beginning growth of dark hair. The two areas
were precisely divided by a continuation of the faint scar
on his forehead.

He placed his fingertips together on the crown of
his head, then drew his right hand to the side and down.
His face opened vertically, splitting apart along the scar,
padded synthetic flesh tearing free from electrostatic
bonds. He drew it down over his right shoulder and bi-
ceps, rolling it as far as his wrist. He played with the
flesh of his hand as with a tight glove, finally withdraw-
ing the hand with a soft, sucking sound. He drew
it away from his side, hip, and buttock, and separated it
at his groin. Then, again seating himself on the edge of
the bed, he rolled it down his leg, over the thigh, knee,
calf, heel. He treated his foot as he, had his hand, pinching
each toe free separately before pulling off the body glove.
He shook it out and placed it with his clothing.

Standing, he turned toward Kathi, whose eyes had not
left him during all this time. Again, the half-smile. The
uncovered portions of his face and body were dark metal
and plastic, precision-machined, with various openings
and protuberances, some gleaming, some dusky.

"Halfjack," she said as he came to her. "Now I know
what that man in the cafe meant when he called you
that."

"He was lucky you were with me. There are places
where that's an unfriendly term,"

"You're beautiful," she said.

"I once knew a girl whose body was almost en-
tirely prosthetic. She wanted me to keep the glove on—
at all times. It was the flesh and the semblance of flesh
that she found attractive."

"What do you call that kind of operation?"

"Lateral hemicorporectomy."
After a time she said, "Could you be repaired? Can
you replace it some way?"

He laughed.

"Either way," he said. "My genes could be fractioned,
and the proper replacement parts could be grown. I
could be made whole with grafts of my own flesh. Or I
could have much of the rest removed and replaced with
bioroechanical analogues. But I need a stomach and balls
and lungs, because I have to eat and screw and breathe
to feel human."

She ran her hands down his back, one on metal, one
on flesh.

"I don't understand," she said when they finally drew
apart. "What sort of accident was it?"

"Accident? There was no accident," he said. "I paid a
lot of money for this work, so that I could pilot a special
sort of ship. I am a cyborg. I hook myself directly into
each of the ship's systems,"

He rose from the bed, went to the closet, drew out a
duffel bag, pulled down an armful of garments, and stuffed
them into it. He crossed to the dresser, opened a drawer,
and emptied its contents into the bag.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes."

He entered the bathroom, emerged with two fistfuls of
personal items, and dropped them into the bag.

"Why?"

He rounded the bed, picked up his bodyglove and hair-
piece, rolled them into a parcel, and put them inside
the bag.

"It's not what you may think," he said then, "or even
what I thought until just a few moments ago."

She sat up.

"You think less of me," she said, "because I seem to
like you more now that I know your secret. You think
there's something pathological about it—"

"No," he said, pulling on his shirt, "that's not it at all.
Yesterday I would have said so and used that for an ex-
cuse to storm out of here and leave you feeling bad,
But I want to be honest with myself this time, and fair
to you. That's not it."

He drew on his trousers.

"What then?" she asked.

"It's just the wanderlust, or whatever you call it. I've
stayed too long at the bottom of a gravity well. I'm rest-
less. I've got to get going again. It's my nature, that's
all. I realized this when I saw that I was looking to
your feelings for an excuse to break us up and move on."

"You can wear the bodyglove. It's not that important.
It's really you that I like."

"I believe you, I like you, too. Whether you believe me
or not, your reactions to my better half don't matter. It's
what I said, though. Nothing else. And now I've got
this feeling I won't be much fun anymore. If you really
like me, you'll let me go without a lot of fuss."

He finished dressing. She got out of the bed and faced
him.

"If that's the way it has to be," she said. "Okay."

"I'd better just go, then. Now."

"Yes."

He turned and walked out of the room, left the apart-
ment, used the stairs again, and departed from the building.
Some passersby gave him more than a casual look, cyborg
pilots not being all that common in this sector- This did not
bother him. His step lightened. He stopped in a pay-
booth and called the shipping company to tell them that
be would haul the load they had in orbit: the sooner it was
connected with the vessel, the better, he said.

Loading, the controller told him, would begin shortly
and he could ship up that same afternoon from the local
field. Jack said that he would be there and then broke
the connection. He gave the world half a smile as he put
the sea to his back and swung on through the city, west-
ward.

Blue-and-pink world below him, black sky above, the
stars a snapshot snowfall all about, he bade the shuttle pilot
goodbye and keyed his airlock. Entering the Morgana, he
sighed and set about stowing his gear. His cargo was al-
ready in place and the ground computers had transferred
course information to the ship's brain. He hung his cloth-
ing in a locker and placed bis body glove and hairpiece in
compartments.

He hurried forward then and settled into the control
web, which adjusted itself about him. A long, dark unit
swung down from overhead and dropped into position at
his right. It moved slowly, making contact with various
points on that half of his body.
—Good to have you back. How was your vacation,
Jack?

—Oh. Fine. Real fine.

—Meet any nice girls?

—A few.

—And here you are again. Did you miss things?

—You. know it. How does this haul look to you?

—Easy, for us. I've already reviewed the course pro-
grams.

—Let's run over the systems.

—Check. Care for some coffee?

—That'd be nice.

A small unit descended on his left, stopping within
easy reach of his mortal hand. He opened its door. A
bulb of dark liquid rested in a rack.

—Timed your arrival. Had it ready.

—Just the way I like it, too. I almost forgot. Thanks.
Several hours later, when they lett orbit, he had al-
ready switched off a number of his left-side systems. He
was merged even more closely with the vessel, absorbing
data at a frantic rate. Their expanded perceptions took in
the near-ship vicinity and moved out to encompass the
extrasolar panorama with greater than human clarity and
precision. They reacted almost instantaneously to decisions
great and small.

—It is good to be back together again. Jack.

——I'd say.

Morgana held him tightly. Their velocity built.

ROGER ZELAZNY burst into science fiction with his
critically acclaimed story "A Rose for Ecclesiastes" in 1963.
Since then he has become a major figure in the field,
winning the Hugo Award for Best Novel for This Immortal
and Lord of Light and for his short stories "Unicorn
Variation," "24 Views of Mt. Fuji, by Hokusai," and
"Permafrost." His "Home Is the Hangman" received both
the Hugo and Nebula awards; other Nebula-winning
stories include "He Who Shapes" and "The Doors of His
Face, The Lamps of His Mouth." Trumps of Doom,
beginning a new generation of novels in Zeiazny's beloved
Amber series, won the Locus Award for Best Fantasy
Novel of 1986.

Mr. Zeiazny earned his B.A. in English at Western Reserve
University and his M.A. at Columbia University; he
worked as a claims specialist for the Social Security
Administration until 1969, when he quit to write full-time.
Currently he resides in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with his
wife and their three children.