Logan's Search (15 page)

To his right, Francis was also coming out of the drug lift, as were others in the circle.

The robot guide faced them. “You have all experienced death and pain and personal anguish, but this was as expected. The elixir was meant to do this, to cleanse your minds of crippling emotions—to place you in a receptive state of calm inner peace.”

Logan looked at the others. They were numbed, their eyes devoid of expression. The robot voice droned on and the figures in the circle listened, transfixed.

“Let me assure you that all pain and anguish is past now. Only brightness and joy await you. Stand up! Rise! It is time for me to guide you to the Place of Miracles.”

The aliens had promised Logan immunity—and now he felt the numbing effects of the elixir draining from his mind. He was becoming fully alert again, aware of exactly what was happening to him and around him.

Not so with Francis and the others; their eyes were glazed; they moved sluggishly, silently after the guide. The drug had them in its grip. They would believe what they were told to believe, see what they were told to see.

Logan felt elated. Excitement roared through him. At last, after overcoming impossible odds; he was about to learn the secret of Godbirth.

North, by sailiet, down the river to lower Egypt as the blue-green snake of water swells into the Nile Delta. Then, on foot, to the hot, broken plain of Giza in the Valley of Kings.

Standing with the others in the colossal shadow of the Sphinx, Logan was startled to realize that the Great Pyramid of Cheops was gone. In his world, he had visited it as a boy, and was familiar with the site. Now the ground was bare—simply an area of dusting yellow sand. Perhaps, on this Earth, the Pyramid had never been built.

Other groups had arrived, other Chosen Ones—DS men from various parts of the world, each group of a dozen led by an identical guide robot. The group members were silent and from their numbed, listless attitude, it was obvious that they had all ingested the drug.

One of the robots, taking command, raised an arm for attention. “Let the tribute be revealed!”

The sand at the base of the Sphinx began sifting back from a wide slotdoor set into the desert; it slid open to reveal a rising platform of world treasures; here were dozens of massive, open-topped crates containing jeweled crowns, master paintings, rare coins, sculptures and artifacts from many countries. The late-afternoon sun caught their edges, icing them with gold, a spangled brightness that caused Logan to shade his eyes.

He marveled at these treasures. The Gods do all right for themselves, whoever they are! He glanced at Francis, who was standing near him, hands folded into his robe, eyes fixed on the robot leader. Waiting to jump when they pull the strings, Logan knew. No will of his own.

Logan shifted his attention back to the guide robot, placing his hands inside the sunrobe and dulling his expression. Remember to mimic the rest of them, he told himself. What they do you do!

The robot looked at the sky, spreading both arms in a wide gesture. “The Gods! They arrive in fire to bear you to Nirvana! Kneel. Prepare for their coming.”

With the others, Logan dropped to his knees in the warm sand.

“The sacred cloud descends!” announced the robot solemnly as the sky began to darken.

An immense cloud was spreading over the area, casting its shadow over all of them.

It’s artificial, Logan realized. This is no “sacred cloud”—it’s smoke, being piped down from a source above to set the scene.

Logan tented his hands in an attitude of prayer, following the example of the robots. A good act so far, he thought. The “Gods” should be here anytime now.

A roaring filled the sky, and Logan could see dozens of fiery forms descending through the smoke. 

“Let the Gods be welcomed!” cried the robot.

The Chosen Ones bowed low as a host of helmeted figures burst through the cloud, alive with fire and light. The roaring increased, and the sand whipped up in swirling yellow ribbons.

Bent forward with the others in supplication, Logan had it figured: the “Gods” were wearing antigrav flying belts, and were costumed in light-jeweled uniforms set to dazzle the eye—particularly the
drugged
eye.

To Francis and the other mind-numbed DS men, these fiery figures would indeed appear godlike and miraculous.

One of the helmeted figures landed beside Logan and looped a flybelt around his waist.

“Nirvana awaits you!” announced the God-figure, and Logan felt himself lifted into the sky by the jetbelt, the God riding at his side, holding his arm, guiding their upward journey.

Each of the Chosen Ones was thus borne up by a helmeted figure while other “Gods” were attaching antigrav belts to the crated treasures on the platform.

Far above, a tremendous white cloud filled the sky, unmoving, frozen there in space, a visually impenetrable mass toward which they flew.

It doesn’t move because it’s not a cloud, thought Logan. Another trick effect—some type of artificial substance placed there to mask whatever’s behind it.

The white mass flowed around them like heavy fog, so thick that Logan was unable to see the figure directly beside him; he felt weightless, bodiless, caught up in a white dream.

And then they broke through, into, calm blue sky, and Logan beheld the cloud’s secret.

Nirvana.

A gigantic city, riding above the Earth in glittering majesty, of a size to stun the senses, its great domes golden with sun, its vast array of buildings rising in multilevel profusion, tiers and terraces and clustered towers, with swift sky vehicles threading them like silver-stitching needles.

They entered the sky city through a slidehatch in the lower section that housed Nirvana’s immense solar engines. As a climbway took them to the city’s interior, Logan was careful to maintain his pose of drugged serenity. Around him, the other DS men moved, trancelike, to the orders of the helmeted God who now directed them.

At top level, they stepped onto a transbelt that took them to one of the domed buildings within the city’s central core. Along their route, the streets were empty, which Logan found strange for a city of this size. Where were the people? Who lived here in these high towers? And who controlled it all? What was the source of “Godpower” behind this man-made Nirvana?

Inside the building, they were seated on a long wallcouch, the only item of furniture within the glass-walled, rectangular room.

Their guide removed his helmet, revealing himself as an ex-Sandman named Halpern. “I’m a God now,” Halpern told them. “Soon you will also be Gods—once the ritual has been completed.”

The man spoke in a leaden voice, with his words oddly spaced, and Logan realized that Halpern, like the others, was under a form of mind control. The blind leading the blind!

Logan glanced directly at Francis, who was seated farther along the couch, attempting to make eye contact—but the gaunt Sandman was blank-faced; there was no flicker of recognition in his fixed stare.

The chamber was darkening; descending alum curtains were cutting the light, closing out the glassed sides of the room.

“Now,” said Halpern, “the time has come for you to meet our Master, who shall share Godpower with you, who shall initiate your birth as Immortals…the God of Gods…Sturdivent!”

In a shimmer of blue fire, a giant skull materialized at the center of the room. The bones took on flesh— and a face of awesome power shaped itself be fore them, a wide, ridged face with thrusting cheekbones, a down-slashed nose, and haunting eyes that blazed hypnotically from the floating head.

Tri-dim effect, Logan knew. This dramatic materialization was as phony as the cloud beneath the city, another clever display of theatrics designed to impart a supernatural aspect to the proceedings.

He puts on a good show, Logan admitted; a first-class act. And Logan knew, that if the aliens had not provided shielding, he’d be as mesmerized by all this as the other DS men around him.

The floating head began to speak in a deep, vibrating voice, electronically augmented to achieve maximum power. Each word vibrated directly into the minds of the assembled Chosen Ones.

“From this moment forward, you are, each of you, elevated beyond man, to the status of Immortals. I, Sturdivent, deem it so. I, Sturdivent, declare that you are now of the brotherhood of Gods. You are herewith reborn in my name!”

As he spoke these words, the blazing eyes, combined with his compelling voice, created a total hypnotic effect. Logan could see that every DS man in the room was under Sturdivent’s control.

Their minds belonged to him.

The words flowed on: “Henceforth, you will serve me as my personal Gods here in Nirvana and on Earth as I bid you.” A pause. The eyes raking, cutting into them. “Say that you will serve me—that you will obey!”

“We will obey,” intoned Francis and the others.. Logan, too, repeated the words, but with an inner contempt for such blatant manipulation.

“You will serve only Sturdivent!”

“We will serve only Sturdivent.”

“I am your Master in all things. I am your world. In me, you live forever. Through the power of Sturdivent!”

“Sturdivent…Sturdivent…Sturdivent.” A rising chant, as they repeated his name over and over in mindless litany.

Slowly, the Godhead dissolved, fire-flickered into darkness. At last, Logan knew the ironic truth about Godbirth. 

Godbirth was slavery.

That night each man was assigned a lifeunit within the core section of the city, in one of the central towers. The units were functional, but basically sterile—gray and lifeless. Their main feature was a full-wall screen, facing the flowbed, which, Logan quickly realized, served a dual purpose: to keep them under observation during sleep, and to maintain primary mental control. With its swirling shapes and shifting color patterns, the screen acted as yet another form of hypnosis.

He was exhausted. The flowbed took him, shaping itself to his body, soothing him toward sleep. As he closed his eyes, troubling questions formed: What is Sturdivent’s ultimate plan in furthering the Godbirth process? He obviously controls the computers of the world, and has built this drug-based religion for his own purposes. But what, exactly, are these purposes, and how can he be stopped? What can I do, alone, against an entire city of mind-slaves?

Logan was finally here, at this second Earth’s main powerhead, but he had no plan, no way to achieve his impossible mission.

The eyes of Sturdivent filled the screen; his voice was rich and lulling: “Sleep now…sleep…sleep…” 

Logan allowed the voice to calm him, to ease him toward oblivion. 

He slept.

Morning sun was warm against Logan’s face when a guide robot awakened him. “You have been summoned,” the robot said.

‘Where…am I to go?” Logan asked, remembering to keep his voice at a dulled monotone. 

“The Master has sent for you,” said the robot.

After a needleshower and fresh clothing (softfit boots and bodysuit), Logan followed the guide to a small sky vehicle waiting on the tower’s upper level.

“This machine will take you to the Master. Please step inside.”

Logan entered, seating himself—and the skycraft took flight, soaring soundlessly above the wide, deserted avenues of the city.

I’m probably being watched, even here, alone in this thing, thought Logan. What does Sturdivent want with me? Maybe he knows I’ve been faking. This could be an arrest! What about Francis and the others? Have they been summoned?

The craft angled down, settling like a dropped leaf to the roof of a split-terraced building of impressive size at the city’s core.

Logan exited to a belt that took him through an entrance door into a long hallway, smelling of cool metal, where another guide robot met him.

“Follow me,” directed the robot.

He was led down a series of intersecting corridors that gave way eventually to a vast court. Logan marveled. Here, facing him in all its magnificence, was the missing Pyramid of Cheops having been taken up, stone by immense stone, from the desert floor in the Valley of Kings, to be assembled here for the pleasure of the Master. Here, too, Logan recognized Michelangelo’s masterwork of David—one of countless world treasures collected from every part of the globe, the wealth of Earth, paid as tribute to the Gods, but actually taken into the personal possession of Sturdivent.

At least Logan was not alone here. Other DS men were filing into the courtyard, a dozen in all. Francis was among them, still under the drug, his face stony and remote. He looked at Logan with dead eyes; there was no rapport between the two ex-Sandmen.

A robot stepped toward them, indicating that they should follow.

Back to the corridors. Down a long slipway into the heart of the building. Along another hall. Very dim lighting. Silent. Sepulchral. A drifting odor of incense. An atmosphere befitting the God of Gods.

Then—a tall door filigreed in silver. It fell back with the faintest hiss of sound, and the robot nodded them forward. “He awaits you.”

Were they to meet him now, the real Sturdivent—or would this be another of his clever manifestations?

They stepped inside.

The room sparkled with crown jewels, reflected in the gleam of oiled canvas along the walls, paintings by the giants of each era. Greek sculptures flanked a huge desk of veined marble. At this desk, this throne, sat the Godhead, the Master; the supreme ruler of Nirvana.

Sturdivent.

Not a God, a man. He stood to greet them, tall, massive of shoulder, deep-chested, his corded legs booted in silver, his tunic black velvet stitched in crimson, his fingers ringed in diamonds, a circlet of jade at his cat-muscled waist.

“Welcome to my city,” he said, looking at each of them with eyes that possessed and dominated. Logan felt the heat of these eyes move across his body. Never had he faced a more compelling presence. A man, yes, but a God in bearing and stature.

Sturdivent directed them to be seated, in a half-circle facing him, in carved oak chairs of classic design. The Master resumed his place at the desk, his eyes never leaving their faces. “In each grouping at Godbirth,” he said, “I select a dozen unique individuals. This selection is carefully made.”