Marion Zimmer Bradley Super Pack. Marion Zimmer Bradley
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...” the noise of mixed applause, and then the majestic chords of the symphony, thundering through the rooms of the cabin.
“Ta-da-da-dumm——Ta-da-da-DUMM!”
My brother stared at me as racing woodwinds caught up with the brasses. There was nothing wrong with the radio. “Mike. What did you do to it?” “I wish I knew,” I told him. Reaching, I touched the volume button again.
Beethoven died in a muttering static like a thousand drums.
I swore and Andy sucked in his breath between his teeth, edging warily backward. He touched the dials again; once more the smoothness of the “Fate” symphony rolled out and swallowed us. I shivered.
“You’d better let it alone!” Andy said shakily. The kid turned in early, but I stayed in the main room, smoking restlessly and wishing I could get a drink without driving eighty miles over bad mountain roads. Neither of us had thought to turn off the radio; it was moaning out some interminable throbbing jazz. I turned over my notes, restlessly, not really seeing them. Once Andy’s voice came sleepily from the alcove.
“Going to read all night, Mike?” “If I feel like it,” I said tersely and began walking up and down again.
“Michael! For the luvvagod stop it and let me get some sleep!” Andy exploded, and I sank down in the chair again. “Sorry, Andy.”
Where had the intangible part of me been, those eighteen hours when I first lay crushed under a fallen beam, then under morphine in the hospital? Where had those scars come from? More important, what had made a radio lab blow up in the first place? Electricity sets fires; it shocks men into insensibility or death. It doesn’t explode. Radio waves are in themselves harmless. Most important of all, what maniac freak of lightning was I carrying in my body that made me immune to electrical current? I hadn’t told Andy about the time I’d deliberately grounded the electric dynamo in the cellar and taken the whole voltage in my body. I was still alive. It would have been a hell of a way to commit suicide—but I hadn’t.
I swore, slamming down the window. I was going to bed. Andy was right. Either I was crazy or there was something wrong; in any case, sitting here wouldn’t help. If it didn’t let up, I’d take the first train home and see a good electrician—or a psychiatrist. But right now, I was going to hit the sack.
My hand went out automatically and switched the light off.
“Damn!” I thought incredulously. I’d shorted the dynamo again. The radio stopped as if the whole orchestra had dropped dead; every light in the cabin winked swiftly out, but my hand on the switch crackled with a phosphorescent glow as the entire house current poured into my body. I tingled with weird shock; I heard my own teeth chattering.
And something snapped wide open in my brain. I heard, suddenly, an excited voice, shouting.
“Rhys! Rhys! That is the man!”
Rainbow City
“You are mad,” said the man with the tired voice.
I was drifting. I was swaying, bodiless, over a huge abyss of caverned space; chasmed, immense, limitless. Vaguely, through a sleeping distance, I heard two voices. This one was old and very tired.
“You are mad. They will know. Narayan will know. ” “Narayan is a fool,” said the second voice.
“Narayan is the Dreamer,” the tired voice said. “He is the Dreamer, and where the Dreamer walks he will know. But have it your way. I am very old and it does not matter. I give you this power, freely—to spare you. But Gamine—”
“Gamine—” the second voice stopped. After a long time “You are old, and a fool, Rhys,” it said. “What is Gamine to me?”
Bodiless, blind, I drifted and swayed and swung in the sound of the voices. The humming, like a million high-tension wires, sang around me and I felt myself cradled in the pull of a great magnet that held me suspended surely on nothingness and drew me down into the field of some force beneath. Far below me the voices faded. I swung free—fell—plunged downward in sickening motion, head over heels, into the abyss....
My feet struck hard flooring. I wrenched back to consciousness with a jolt. Winds blew coldly in my face; the cabin walls had been flung back to the high-lying stars. I was standing at a barred window at the very pinnacle of a tall tower, in the lap of a weird blueness that arched flickeringly in the night. I caught a glimpse of a startled face, a lean tired old face beneath a peaked hood, in the moment before my knees gave way and I fell, striking my head against the bars of the window.
I was lying on a narrow, high bed in a room filled with doors and bars. I could see the edge of a carved mirror set in a frame, and the top of a chest of some kind. On a bench at the edge of my field of vision there were two figures sitting. One was the old grey man, hunched wearily beneath his robe, wearing robes like a Tibetan Lama’s, somber black, and a peaked hood of grey. The other was a slimmer younger figure, swathed in silken silvery veiling, with a thin opacity where the face should have been, and a sort of opalescent shine of flesh through the silvery-sapphire silks. The figure was that of a boy or a slim immature girl; it sat erect, motionless, and for a long time I studied it, curious, between half-opened lids. But when I blinked, it rose and passed through one of the multitudinous doors; at once a soft sibilance of draperies announced return. I sat up, getting my feet to the floor, or almost there; the bed was higher than a hospital bed. The blue-robe held a handled mug, like a baby’s drinking-cup, at me. I took it in my hand hesitated—
“Neither drug nor poison,” said the blue-robe mockingly, and the voice was as noncomittal as the veiled body; a sexless voice, soft alto, a woman’s or a boy’s. “Drink and be glad it is none of Karamy’s brewing.”
I tasted the liquid in the mug; it had an indeterminate greenish look and a faint pungent taste I could not identify, although it reminded me variously of anis and garlic. It seemed to remove the last traces of shock. I handed the cup back empty and looked sharply at the old man in the Lama costume.
“You’re—Rhys?” I said. “Where in hell have I gotten to?” At least, that’s what I meant to say. Imagine my surprise when I found myself asking—in a language I’d never heard, but understood perfectly—“To which of the domains of Zandru have I been consigned now?” At the same moment I became conscious of what I was wearing. It seemed to be an old-fashioned nightshirt, chopped off at the loins, deep crimson in color. “Red flannels yet!” I thought with a gulp of dismay. I checked my impulse to get out of bed. Who could act sane in a red nightshirt?
“You might have the decency to explain where I am,” I said. “If you know.” The tiredness seemed part of Rhys’ voice. “Adric,” he said wearily. “Try to remember.” He shrugged his lean shoulders. “You are in your own Tower. And you have been under restraint again. I am sorry.” His voice sounded futile. I felt prickling shivers run down my backbone. In spite of the weird surroundings, the phrase “under restraint” had struck home. I was a lunatic in an asylum.
The blue-robed one cut in in that smooth, sexless, faint-sarcastic voice. “While Karamy holds the amnesia-ray, Rhys, you will be explaining it to him a dozen times a cycle. He will never be of use to us again. This time Karamy won. Adric; try to remember. You are at home, in Narabedla.”
I shook my head. Nightshirt or no nightshirt, I’d face this on my feet. I walked to Rhys; put my clenched hands on his shoulders. “Explain this! Who am I supposed to be? You called me Adric. I’m no more Adric than you are!”
“Adric, you are not amusing!” The blue-robe’s voice was edged with anger. “Use what intelligence you have left! You have had enough sharig antidote to cure a tharl. Now. Who are you?”
The words were meaningless. I stared, trapped. I clung to hold on to identity. “Adric—” I said, bewildered. That was my name. Was it? Wasn’t it? No. I was Mike Kenscott. Hang on to that. Two and two are four. The circumference equals the radius squared times pi. Four rulls is the chemming of twilp—stop