CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ALL PERSONS KNOWN TO BE N TEE EMPLOY OF FOURMYLE OF CERES OR ASSOCIATED WITH HIM IN ANY CAPACITY TO BE HELD FOR QUESTIONING.
–Y-Y: CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE.
ALL EMPLOYEES OP THIS COMPANY TO MAINTAIN STRICT WATCH FOR ONE FOURMYLE OF CERES, AND REPORT AT ONCE TO LOCAL MR. PRESTO.
–PRESTEIGN.
ALL COURIERS WILL ABANDON PRESENT ASSIGNMENTS AND REPORT FOR REASSIGNMENT TO FOYLE CASH.
–DAGENHAM.
A BANK HOLIDAY WILL BE DECLARED IMMEDIATELY IN TEE NAME OF THE WAR CRISIS TO CUT FOURMYLE OFF FROM ALL FUNDS.
–Y-Y: CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE.
ANYONE MAKING INQUIRIES RE: S.S. «VORGA» TO BE TAKEN TO CASTLE PRESTEIGN FOR EXAMINATION.
–PRESTEIGN.
ALL PORTS AND FIELDS IN INNER PLANETS TO BE ALERTED FOR ARRIVAL OF FOURMYLE. QUARANTINE AND CUSTOMS TO CHACK ALL LANDINGS.
–Y-Y; CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE.
OLD ST. PATRICK'S TO BE SEARCHED AND WATCHED.
–DAGENHAM.
THE FILES OF BO'NESS amp; UIG TO BE CHECKED FOR NAMES OF OFFICERS AND MEN OF VORGA TO ANTICIPATE. IF POSSIBLE. FOYLE'S NEXT MOVE.
–PRESTEIGN.
WAR CRIMES COMMISSION TO MAKE UP LIST OP PUBLIC ENEMIES GIVING FOYLE NUMBER ONE SPOT,
–Y-Y: CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE.
~r 1,000,000 REWARD OFFERED FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO APPREHENSION OF FOURMYLE OF CERES. ALIAS GULLIVER FOYLE. ALIAS GULLEY FOYLE, NOW AT LARGE IN THE INNER PLANETS. PRIORITY 1
After two centuries of colonization, the air struggle on Mars was still so critical that the V-L Law, the Vegetative-Lynch Law, was still in effect. It was a killing offense to endanger or destroy any plant vital to the transformation of Mars' carbon dioxide atmosphere into an oxygen atmosphere. Even blades of grass were sacred. There was no need to erect KEEP OFF THE GRASS neons. The man who wandered off a path onto a lawn would be instantly shot. The woman who picked a flower would be killed without mercy. Two centuries of sudden death had inspired a reverence for green growing things that almost amounted to a religion.
Foyle remembered this as he raced up the center of the causeway leading to Mars St. Michele. He had jaunted direct from the Syrtis airport to the St. Michele stage at the foot of the causeway which stretched for a quarter of a mile through green fields to Mars St. Michele. The rest of the distance had to be traversed on foot.
Like the original Mont St. Michele on the French coast, Mars St. Michele was a majestic Gothic cathedral of spires and buttresses looming on a hill and yearning toward the sky. Ocean tides surrounded Mont St. Michele on earth. Green tides of grass surrounded Mars St. Michele. Both were fortresses. Mont St. Michele had been a fortress of faith before organized religion was abolished. Mars St. Michele was a fortress of telepathy. Within it lived Mars's sole full telepath, Sigurd Magsman.
«Now these are the defenses protecting Sigurd Magsman,» Foyle chanted, halfway between hysteria and litany. «Firstly, the Solar System; secondly, martial law; thirdly, Dagenham-Presteign amp; Co.; fourthly, the fortress itself; fifthly, the uniformed guards, attendants, servants, and admirers of the bearded sage we all know so well, Sigurd Magsman, selling his awesome powers for awesome prices. . . .»
Foyle laughed immoderately: «But there's a Sixthly that I know: Sigurd Magsman's Achilles' Heel . . . For I've paid ~r 1,000,000 to Sigurd III or was he IV?»
He passed through the outer labyrinth of Mars St. Michele with his forged credentials and was tempted to bluff or proceed directly by commando action to an audience with the Great Man himself, but time was pressing and his enemies were closing in and he could not afford to satisfy his curiosity. Instead, he accelerated, blurred, and found a humble cottage set in a walled garden within the Mars St. Michele home farm. It had drab windows and a thatched roof and might have been mistaken for a stable. Foyle slipped inside.
The cottage was a nursery. Three pleasant nannies sat motionless in rocking chairs, knitting poised in their frozen hands. The blur that was Foyle came up behind them and quietly stung them with ampules. Then he decelerated. He looked at the ancient, ancient child; the wizened, shriveled boy who was seated on the floor playing with electronic trains.
«Hello, Sigurd,» Foyle said.
The child began to cry.
«Crybaby! What are you afraid of? I'm not going to hurt you.»
«You're a bad man with a bad face.»
«I'm your friend, Sigurd.»
«No, you're not. You want me to do b-bad things.»
«I'm your friend. Look, I know all about those big hairy men who pretend to be you, but I won't tell. Read me and see.»
«You're going to hurt him and y-you want me to tell him.»
«Who?»
«The captain-man. The Ski…Skot…” The child fumbled with the word, wailing louder. «Go away; You're bad. Badness in your head and burning mens and…”
«Come here, Sigurd.»
«No. NANNIE! NAN-N-I-E!»
«Shut up, you little bastard!»
Foyle grabbed the seventy-year-old child and shook it. «This is going to be a brand new experience for you, Sigurd. The first time you've ever been walloped into anything. Understand?»
The ancient child read him and howled.
«Shut up! We're going on a trip to the Skoptsy Colony. If you behave yourself and do what you're told, I'll bring you back safe and give you a lolly or whatever the hell they bribe you with. If you don't behave, I'll beat the living daylights out of you.»
«No, you won't. . . . You won't. I'm Sigurd Magsman. I'm Sigurd the telepath. You wouldn't dare.»
«Sonny, I'm Gully Foyle, Solar Enemy Number One. I'm just a step away from the finish of a year-long hunt . . . I'm risking my neck because I need you to settle accounts with a son of a bitch who…Sonny, I'm Gully Foyle. There isn't anything I wouldn't dare.»
The telepath began broadcasting terror with such an uproar the alarms sounded all over Mars St. Michele. Foyle took a firm grip on the ancient child, accelerated and carried him out of the fortress. Then he jaunted.
URGENT. SIGURD MAGSMAN KIDNAPPED BY MAN
TENTATIVELY IDENTIFIED AS GULLIVER FOYLE, ALIAS
FOURMYLE OF CERES, SOLAR ENEMY NUMBER ONE.
DESTINATION TENTATIVELY FIXED. ALERT COMMANDO
BRIGADE. INFORM CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE. URGENT!
The ancient Skoptsy sect of White Russia, believing that sex was the root of all evil, practiced an atrocious self-castration to extirpate the root. The modern Skoptsys, believing that sensation was the root of all evil, practiced an even more barbaric custom. Having entered the Skoptsy Colony and paid a fortune for the privilege, the initiates submitted joyously to an operation that severed the sensory nervous system, and lived out their days without sight, sound, speech, smell, taste, or touch.
When they first entered the monastery, the initiates were shown elegant ivory cells in which it was intimated they would spend the remainder of their lives in rapt contemplation, lovingly tended. In actuality, the senseless creatures were packed in catacombs where they sat on rough stone slabs and were fed and exercised once a day. For twenty-three out of twenty-four hours they sat alone in the dark, untended, unguarded, unloved.
«The living dead,» Foyle muttered. He decelerated, put Sigurd Magsman down, and switched on the retinal light in his eyes, trying to pierce the wombgloom. It was midnight above ground. It was permanent midnight down in the catacombs. Sigurd Magsman was broadcasting terror and anguish with such a telepathic bray that Foyle was forced to shake the child again.