“Think now about the visions you’ve had, Conrad,” he urged. “Have you seen the barrenland as it might once have been? Have you seen it peopled, built on, prosperous?”
Conrad gave a sluggish nod. All his old resolutions never to share his secret with anyone except Idris had faded away. He was sure Yanderman wasn’t going to mock him, and it meant so much to him to be taken seriously that he let the words stream out of their own accord.
As he talked, the shiny ball of crystal from which he now could not tear away his fascinated gaze seemed to expand and fill his entire field of vision. Dazzling, it blinded him. And then, out of the blindness, something new and yet familiar emerged. The forms were the forms of his old visions, but the detail, the colour, the words were a thousand times clearer than he had ever known them before.
He came to himself with a start. It was growing dark, and the little smokeless fire had gone out. Yanderman was sitting facing him with an enigmatic smile, the crystal ball hidden now inside his shirt.
“Awake, Conrad?”
“I–I haven’t been asleep. Have I?” Intensely puzzled, Conrad rubbed his eyes automatically.
“Not exactly, no. You’ve been in a trance, which isn’t quite the same thing.” Yanderman stretched his legs as though he felt cramp after sitting a long time in the same position; the action informed Conrad that his limbs too were appallingly stiff.
“Then-oh, explain!” he demanded.
“I’ll do my best. As nearly as we were able to work it out, Duke Paul, myself and the other Esberg thinkers who tackled the problem, these visions aren’t simply dreams, but memories which have become available to us in a way we can’t account for. Possibly the time to which they refer was a time when there were simply so many people that their minds resonated together and created a-” He checked. “You don’t understand that analogy, I see. Have you ever handled a musical instrument?”
“Yes, a clay flute.”
“I meant a stringed instrument. You can see the phenomenon clearly there. Well, never mind. Let’s just say that we’re satisfied that these memories are based on realities of the distant past. In every generation since whatever catastrophe undid the greatness of those days, a few people have been born who were capable of describing their visions; from these descriptions word of mouth transmission has evolved a number of folk tales and fables. The recurrence of those with direct perception has kept the tradition from being hopelessly garbled. Granny Jassy was the best subject we’d ever found in Esberg, but I must say that what you’ve been telling me these past few hours puts everything Granny Jassy ever said completely in the shade.” He gave a sober headshake.
“Me?” Conrad was startled. “Do you mean I’m one of these-how did you put it? — ‘few people in each generation’?”
Yanderman shivered for no perceptible cause. He said, “I’d go further. You’re not one of a few, but unique.”
It seemed that this ought to be a source of pride. Conrad tried to regard it as such, but his brain was still misty with the after-effects of his recent trance.
“Did nobody in Lagwich care about your gift?” Yanderman pressed him. “Didn’t a single person take it seriously?”
“Until a day or two ago I’d have answered that at least one person did,” Conrad muttered. “A girl called-oh, never mind. She turned out like all the others in the end.”
He looked miserably down at the ground near Yanderman’s feet, and for the first time became aware that there was a pile of yellow paper there, covered with close scribbled writing. He gave the older man an inquiring glance.
“Call it the first fruit of my research into your mind,” Yanderman explained. “I made notes of as many of the things you described as I could manage. You can visualise the barrenland before it was made barren, as you know; in two or three more sessions it should be possible to extract from what you tell me the kind of information which will enable us to cross it and survive. Most importantly, you remember the course of streams and rivers. You can visualise distances, too, with impressive accuracy. What I want to prepare”-he took up a pencil and a fresh sheet of paper-“is a map of the nearer part of the barrenland on which we can work out a path involving not more than a few hours’ travel away from water at any point. We can carry food and fuel between us, enough for the whole journey, if we can avoid having to load up with more than a canteen of water apiece.”
He sketched a rough circle on the paper, occupying almost the entire square of the sheet. In the centre of it he put a cross.
“But even more important,” he said under his breath, “is to know what was sited there in the middle.”
“Why?”
“Rost’s ‘devil’, of course.” Yanderman stared down at the paper for a long moment, then grunted and put it aside. He rose to his feet, stretching limb by limb.
“I still don’t see how it’s possible for these visions of mine to be memories of the past,” Conrad ventured. “Or rather I don’t see why they necessarily have a connection with anything real.”
“Don’t you?” Yanderman sounded surprised. “Boy, where in Lagwich would you have got concepts like the ones you describe? I suppose mere imagination could carry the mind from a Lagwich-sized village to a city of a million people. But there’s a gap between anything in your direct experience and the notion of self-controlling machines, of flying through the air, walking to other worlds. As a matter of fact,” he added with a rueful smile, “that last one is so fantastic I’m inclined to wonder whether it’s not an exception.”
“Yes-what other worlds?” Conrad agreed eagerly. “Where? Where’s there room for them? And if the world we know is big enough for you to march fourteen days here from Esberg, surely it ought to be big enough for anybody’s taste! Why would they have wanted to go elsewhere?”
“For the same reason Duke Paul wanted to lead his army into the barrenland,” Yanderman said. “I confess I thought he was-oh, not exactly crazy, but at least excessively confident. And in one sense he was, for his army deserted on his death, and might well have mutinied even if he’d survived. But in another and more important sense he was absolutely right. Here you’ve had Lagwich existing for centuries on the edge of the barrenland-long enough to get to know the limitations of its dangers if anyone had wished-and you’ve had yourself, born with a gift that provides access to information once thought to be lost beyond recall. Put the two together, as I’m doing, and at once the idea of crossing the barrenland becomes a practical proposition. And it’s ridiculous to hold back from a practical proposition simply because nobody’s ever done it before.”
There was a gap in that chain of reasoning, Conrad felt. But at the moment he couldn’t locate it. He was suddenly drowsy, as though his stock of nervous energy had run dry, and within another few minutes he was stretched on the ground under a pillaged blanket, limp as a child’s toy.
XVI
Yanderman’s air of calm confidence lent Conrad a veneer of boldness. But it remained only a veneer until after the irreversible step had been taken and they were deep in the barrenland-so deep that when they looked back they saw nothing of the green and fertile country around Lagwich, only the dusty rolling slopes and snag-toothed rocks which they had traversed.
And then it sprang upon Conrad’s mind like a lightning flash. This was the barrenland-solid ground, very quiet, dead-seeming, but not utterly alien. It had once been like the land he knew, and might perhaps be so again.
Sensing a change in his companion’s attitude, Yanderman gave him a crooked smile.
“Not so bad once you’re in it, hey?” he suggested.