All five of these phantasmagorical figures struck Brent like some odd concatenation of Rembrandt’s famous Syndics of the Cloth Guild. With the terrible difference of an imposed horror. And the fantasy of the Unknown.
He waited, wondering, trying to control the fear moving like a snake in his stomach.
He didn’t realize that the five seated figures, looking down, could see him directly. Or that if they looked straight ahead, they could see, projected on the opposite wall, the visual impress of their own thought projections. Brent had no way of knowing into what technological wonderworld he had stumbled, though his encounter with the verger had given him some advance notice of the miracles to be found in this strange city.
Each “wall image” was projected in color to identify the sender. Thus, white for the Negro, blue for the beautiful girl, red for the fat man, green for the puckish statesman type. And purple for Mendez himself. This Brent was yet to learn, for he could not see the wall behind him.
Nor could he yet fully understand the traumatic hypnosis that the people of this civilization could inflict upon him. As they had done with him at the water fountain in that episode with Nova. Brent’s own stubbornness would bring on such an attack.
The practitioner merely had to close his eyes, project to the wall in his own color scheme, and Brent would remain in pain and agony until the particular inquisitor opened his eyes.
This was the mad world into which Brent had all unknowingly stumbled. The phenomenon of A.D. 3955!
Brent felt himself the target of Mendez, the Negro, the woman, the fat man and the elder statesman.
He knew they were talking to him; he felt it even though he could hear no words, see no lips move, and knew nothing about the wall behind him with its color-scheme code of interrogation.
Mendez said nothing.
The fat man jerked his head ever so slightly.
The far wall lit up in red colors.
“Brent,” Brent answered.
The fat man jerked his head again.
“John Christopher,” Brent said politely. “And who are you?”
Another jerk.
“I see—” Brent found himself understanding, in spite of the impossibility of it all. And the improbability. “You—are the only reality in the universe. Everything else is illusion. Well, that’s nice to know.”
The red colors flared on the opposite wall. The others said nothing.
“I got here by accident,” Brent explained to the fat man. “How did you get here?”
There was no answer from the fat man.
As the interview progressed, a pattern began to become very clear. The fat man probed for facts, the woman for emotional feelings, the elder statesman for beliefs and opinions. The Negro would ask no questions at all. He was there merely to induce pain; the catalyst for the workings of man’s conscience. Brent only sensed all this. He could not have said where the knowledge came from.
Mendez sat through it all, implacable as a Buddha.
The elder statesman now jerked his head, his genial smile almost benevolent. But only almost.
It was like being caught in a cross-fire of four machine guns. Only you could not hear the whine and twang of bullets. Only the ferocity of the assault hit you like some withering invisible hail of terror.
Openmouthed, Brent once more answered.
“You’re way off. Why should I want to spy on you? Personally, I’m not even sure you exist.” It was true. Was it all a bad dream? Would he awaken on the reconnaissance spacecraft to find Skipper poking him to get up?
The puckish inquisitor jerked his head.
“Certainly I know who I am,” Brent rasped impatiently. “I’m an astronaut. I’m here because I’m lost.”
No surprise showed on the five faces up above him. Only a sudden interest. Mendez’s eyes glistened like a cat’s.
The fat man again jerked his head.
“From this planet,” Brent answered him. “But from another time. Two thousand years ago.”
There was still no surprise evident. Only that deepening of interest in the marble faces above him.
“I know, it sounds insane. But if so, it’s my insanity, not yours. So I can abolish you—all of you—anytime I choose.”
They all smiled at that. Benevolently. Matching the elder statesman’s habitual facade.
Brent bit his lip.
He could not see the opposite wall.
The inquisitors had projected, in their various color schemes, a montage of all that had happened.
An image of Taylor, looking like some prehistoric Tarzan, with a bedraggled Nova-Eve in tow, was shown approaching buried New York. The last shot left him striking the wall of ice and vanishing into its wilderness, with Nova screaming behind him.
“No, I don’t know how to get back,” Brent almost mumbled, still oblivious of the story on the wall. “We came through a defect—a kind of slipping in Time itself.”
He caught himself, feeling a wave of self-pity swamping him. “My skipper died. I’m alone.”
Instantly, the images of Taylor and the girl on the wall vanished. They were supplanted by five images of Nova all by herself, wandering in the desert wilderness. And then—
She was projected in all of the inquisitorial colors:
The fat man saw her pulling herself through the octagonal vent. A burst of flaming red.
The beautiful woman saw her asleep in Brent’s arms on the bench in the public square. A shimmering blue ocean of color.
Mendez saw her hammering on the outside of the cathedral’s double door. A purple flash of violence.
The elder statesman envisioned her being seized and removed by the guards on duty in the strange city. A twisting garland of green.
Only the Negro’s wall remained colorless. Bare, blank and white.
The beautiful woman in blue jerked her lovely face.
Brent was instantly on the defensive.
“Who?” he hesitated.
The woman jerked again.
“Nova?” Brent lied. “What’s that? A star? A galaxy?” His heart pounded with sudden alarm for the girl.
At that, the Negro shut his eyes.
Brent cried out. A poker-hot inferno ignited his skull. His brain revolved in stunning flashes of agony. He went down to his knees, tears coming to his eyes. The Negro opened his eyes. Slowly.
Gradually, painfully, Brent straightened. The agony had left as suddenly as it had come.
“I know her—yes . . .”
Silence greeted that.
Brent lost his temper, shouting, “She’s harmless! Let her alone!”
The Negro closed his eyes again.
Rivets of white-hot pain hit Brent from every direction. He went down again, writhing as his entire body was stitched and needled with agonizing pinpricks. He clutched his stomach as if he had been poisoned. His vitals were on fire. His face twisted, his tongue lolled. “All right—” the breath forced itself from his lungs. “I’ll—tell you!”
Smiling, the Negro opened his beautiful eyes.
The woman jerked her head again.
“I didn’t find her,” Brent gasped. “She found me.”
Again, a jerk.
“Two days ago.”
Another jerk.
“Don’t be crude,” Brent groaned. “I’m fond of her. And grateful . . .”
The beautiful woman arched her head once more.