Rampton, at least, had the decency to raise a token objection. "Does this really need to be done?"
It was Raus who provided the rationalization. "The sacrifices have to be made. If they're not, Balg becomes violent. I doubt we could continue to contain it."
Rampton still seemed a little shocked by the proceedings.
"How many people do you have to feed to this thing?"
Raus's voice had an edge of cold, clinical pride, as though Balg was his hobby.
"Lately it's been taking about four a month to keep it quiet, approximately one a week."
"And nobody has wondered what you're doing here. There've been no rumors, no questions."
Raus sounded as if it was no problem. "When you control as much of the media as I do, rumors are easy to manipulate away. Besides, I'm very good to my people here. They understand and they keep their mouths shut. Also Balg doesn't leave any remains. There are no bodies to dispose of, and people vanish all the time."
Smith peered down into the shaft. "I think we'll have to talk about all this after the matter of Lancer has been resolved."
Raus seemed anxious to change the subject. "On the matter of Lancer, has this man from another dimension been picked up, this double for Zwald?"
At this, Gibson's ears pricked up. Were they talking about him? He listened tensely.
French answered Raus's question. "We don't have him but we're monitoring him. We can pick him up when we need him."
Gibson's eyes narrowed. If they were talking about him, French didn't know half as much as he claimed. They weren't monitoring him so closely that they knew he was just a few feet from them.
Raus didn't seem entirely happy with French's answer. "I'd rather we had him in a secure place. He's now crucial to the operation."
"Don't worry, we'll pick him up in the morning."
Raus continued to lean on the streamheat. "I don't want any mistakes."
Rampton also seemed to have misgivings. "I certainly haven't made a dimension transition to attend a nonevent."
Gibson was transfixed. Unless there were copies of Sebastian Rampton spread all over the multidimensional universe, it had to be the Rampton from New York, the one that he had met, and they had to be talking about him.
French was doing his best to be reassuring. "There's no problem, Gibson is too stupid to be a problem,"
While Gibson had to fight to control himself, Smith was at her most efficient and reassuring as she backed up French. "There won't be any problem. We can handle Gibson."
Gibson's jaws clenched in silent fury. Handle me, can you, you bastards? We'll see about that.
Raus signaled to the two black-tie goons, indicating that he thought it was time to feed the bimbo to the entity. As the two men moved the girl toward the edge of the shaft, her legs suddenly sagged, as though she'd lost control of them. She burst out in another fit of giggles. Gibson found that there was something particularly hideous about the sound, about her total unawareness of what was about to happen to her. Then, somehow, awareness cut through whatever they'd given her or whatever she'd taken. She let out one long awful scream before they pushed her over the edge and then a second, even longer one as she fell that reverberated with echoes. There were sobs and sucking noises from the bottom of the shaft and finally a single obscenely satisfied belch. Gibson closed his eyes and bit down on the knuckle of his index finger. When he looked again, Raus and his party, now only six in number, were going back up the steps. A few seconds later, the door closed and there was the sound of it being locked from the outside.
Gibson let out a sigh from the heart. "Jesus Christ."
Nephredana stepped out of the alcove. "Them's the breaks."
"I don't know how you can take something like that so calmly."
"It wasn't my first human sacrifice."
"I guess not."
"I'm very, very old, Joe. Don't be attributing any phony innocence to me. I've truly seen it all."
"This isn't easy."
He had probably never said a truer word. He walked over to the edge of the well and looked down. He didn't have a clue what to think. In the bottom of the well there seemed to be a new smug quality to the green glow. Nephredana came and stood beside him. She also looked down into the shaft. "One day we're going to destroy that thing."
"I sure as hell hope so. Did you hear what those bastards were talking about?"
"They were talking about you."
"They seem to have plans for me. The word they used was 'crucial.' You think they can get me?"
Nephredana shrugged. "It depends on how crucial it is to you to stay away from them. You seem to be doing okay so far."
"I've only been away from them for a few hours,"
"For the fugitive, it's one hour at a time."
Gibson knelt down and touched one of the steel rings in the stonework. "How many people do you think have died here?"
"Probably hundreds. Maybe thousands over the years. Balg has been here for a very long time."
Gibson shook his head. "Balg? What's next? Necrom?"
Fury flashed across Nephredana's face, and she grabbed him angrily by the lapels of his tuxedo jacket and pulled his face close to hers. She was very strong.
"Don't even say that name. Not here, not ever. You don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about."
Her fingers were in his hair. He could feel her long nails against his scalp. She hissed into his face. "Never say that name. You humans are so ignorant that you're dangerous."
Then she kissed him. The kiss was electric. His whole body trembled, and it was some moments before he could break away. "Surely not here?"
Gibson couldn't tell whether the force in her whisper was anger or passion. "Yes, right here. There are a lot of ways to fight the power."
She was holding his face between her hands, her nails were digging into the skin of his cheeks, and her hands were icy. He was revolted by the idea of making love in this place, but he knew that he could never find the strength to resist. A slow, languid smile spread over Nephredana's face.
"I'm going to hurt you, Joe Gibson… and you're going to love me for it."
The White Room
THE CHARADE OF appearing to recover when there was, in reality, nothing from which to recover was proving harder than he had first imagined, and the sessions with Dr. Kooning were becoming a strain. Too much real anger was churning inside him, anger that boiled up despite the drugs and despite all his efforts to convince Kooning that he was emerging from what she considered to be fantasy and returning to the real. He constantly ran into the basic stumbling block of his deception. He had no existence and no history in this world, and if he let go of the "fantasy," all that remained was a blank slate. To Kooning, this was even more fascinating than a patient who was in the grip of a delusion. In psychiatry, the deluded were ten a penny; the real blank slate was rare and exotic. Gibson was now fully convinced that there was no way he was ever going to obtain any legitimate release from the clinic and that the only way out for him was going to be a breakout. The conviction was particularly strong on the days when Kooning took it into her head to probe him on the fine print of his paranoia.