THE second night of fear had settled on Megatheopolis, imparting a shuddering menace to the curfew-darkness and the curfew-silence. That day special prayers had been addressed to the Great God, both in the Cathedral and the chapels, for protection against the forces of evil. Tales of strange phantasms, which last night had defied even priests, were whispered everywhere. More commoners had clamored to confess their sins than the priests could take care of. Before being dispersed, an hysterical mob had torn to pieces two old crones, known to be witches. Each man looked with suspicion on his neighbor, wondering if he might not be in league with Sathanas. An hour before curfew, the streets were almost deserted.
Along those mazy streets, staying close to the squat rooftops, the Black Man floated, relishing the atmosphere of terror and suspense, just as an actor enjoys knowing that the play in which he has a part is going well. Over the Cathedral, the halo of the Great God glowed with a double brilliance, and the whole Sanctuary was ablaze with lights. A few streets away the search beam of a patrol of deacons moved about restlessly. But in between all was darkness. As a swimmer in darkness, the Black Man moved, poling himself along by varying the direction and intensity of the pencils of force emanating from his forearms. The repulsor field generated by the garment he wore, skintight over his whole body, was sufficient to counteract gravity at this slight elevation. The field also had the property-save at points over sense organs-of absorbing all radiant energy that impinged upon it. This radiant energy in turn helped power the field. Technically he was off duty. An hour ago he had finally been relieved at the telesolidograph by another operator-there was a shortage of operators now that they had two projectors working-and had satisfied himself that as much of the general plan as he knew was progressing satisfactorily. But after that, like an actor who is off stage for a time, he had been unable to resist the temptation to sneak out in front and see how the play was going.
He had an excuse of sorts. Word had come from Mother Jujy that Armon Jarles intended this night to attempt to recontact the New Witchcraft. Meanwhile, Mother Jujy was retiring into her tunnels “until the mob gets a little less frisky.”
Of course, he could have sent someone to pick up Armon Jarles at Mother Jujy’s. But with a man as peculiarly stubborn as Armon Jarles, it was well to let him take the initiative. And it was dramatically more pleasing that Armon Jarles should go to the appointed rendezvous on the edge of the Great Square, the spot where he had been cast out by the Witchcraft. Meanwhile, he trailed him, to make sure he didn’t get into trouble, hovering noiselessly above while Armon Jarles, clad as a lowly commoner, stole furtively through the narrowest streets and alleys, seeking the deepest shadows, stepping carefully to avoid the mouths of drains, stopping at intervals to spy warily for patrols, frequently glancing over his shoulder, but quite unaware of his guardian demon overhead.
They were nearing the Great Square. The Black Man was tempted to put an end to this rather purposeless pilgrimage, but was held back by his love of dramatic denouements. The fun would be over soon enough.
Bobbing violet rings warned of the approach of two priests bound on some nocturnal mission. Jarles hesitated, then shrank back into a narrow passageway between two buildings. The Black Man sank gently to the edge of the roof above, alert for emergencies. But the two priests hurried unconcernedly on. As they neared the passageway, the Black Man felt a start of pleasure. He had recognized the smaller, dumpier priest as the little fellow whom he had so thoroughly scared, in front of the haunted house, with the Black Veil, and later, inside the place, with a nastily animated couch. His feeling toward Brother Chulian was one almost of affection. It would be too bad to miss this opportunity. Naurya said the little priest had been inordinately frightened by Puss, her familiar. It would only take a moment to switch off his repulsor field, set Dickon riding on the end of his force pencil-Dickon would like that-and dangle him in front of Chulian’s face.
Almost before he had decided to, it was done. A tiny anthropoid shape was slanting down through the darkness toward the bobbing halos. The Black Man’s mind was all mischief. Then-ominous windy rushing in the darkness overhead and the emptiness of dismay at the pit of his stomach before he had time to reason why.
Wrench of his neck, as he slewed around to look behind and above, from where he rested on the edge of the roof. Then-one frozen instant.
One frozen instant to damn himself as an adolescent prankster who would walk into any trap so long as it was baited with an opportunity for a practical joke, to think, with poignant intensity, of what a swift blotting out was in store for the Witchcraft, if it were all manned by as reckless and negligent fools as himself.
One frozen instant to comprehend the thing swooping toward him. Its rigid, manlike form-but twice as long as a man. Legs stiffly extended, like a diver’s. Arms threateningly outstretched, fingers spread like talons. Huge sculpturesque face, framed by great golden curls, handsome with the superhuman, unearthly beauty of some heroic painting, visible in a faint glow from the stern, staring eyes, which could flash forth death if they willed. An angel. Then-one whirling instant.
One whirling instant to repower his repulsor field, launching himself simultaneously down into the street-the angel was too close to permit a try over the roofs. One whirling instant to swerve frantically from side to side of the street, like a low-lurking hawk pounced upon in turn by an eagle; to see the two priests ahead stop, but not time enough to see them turn around; to see slim Dickon, hurled from the force pencil, drop lightly near the mouth of a drain; to dart suddenly and swiftly upward toward the rooftops-but not suddenly or swiftly enough; to sense the angel banking upward with him and just above him; to feel its impact-stunning even though almost parallel to his own upward course; to feel, through his repulsor field, the cruel clutch of its mechanical arms, that were its grapples. One whirling instant to think a command, with all the intensity he could summon, “The drain, Dickon, the drain!
Make for the Sanctuary! Keep in contact-unconscious minds!” to sense in a dark corner of his mind the beginning of a ghostly answer, to see loom suddenly ahead a roof edge which the angel did not wholly avoid.
Then-one crashing, lasting, final instant of unconsciousness and darkness.