<h2><SPAN name="HE_WHO_DREAMS" id="HE_WHO_DREAMS"></SPAN>13. HE WHO DREAMS....</h2>
<p>The mist was not a quiet thing; it billowed and curled until
it appeared to half-conceal darker shadows, any one of
which could be an enemy. Shann remained hunkered on the
sand, every sense abnormally alert, watching the fog. He was
still sure he could hear sounds which marked the progress
of another. What other? One of the Warlockians tracking
him to spy? Or was there some prisoner like himself lost out
there in the murk? Could it be Thorvald?</p>
<p>Now the sound had ceased. He was not even sure from
what direction it had first come. Perhaps that other was listening
now, as intent upon locating him. Shann ran his
tongue over dry lips. The impulse to call out, to try and contact
any fellow traveler here, was strong. Only hard-learned
caution kept him silent. He got to his hands and knees, uncertain
as to his previous direction.</p>
<p>Shann crept. Someone expecting a man walking erect
might be suitably distracted by the arrival of a half-seen figure
on all fours. He halted again to listen.</p>
<p>He had been right! The sound of a very muffled footfall
or footfalls, carried to his ears. He was sure that the sound
was louder, that the unknown was approaching. Shann
stood, his hand close to his stunner. He was almost tempted
to spray that beam blindly before him, hoping to hit the unseen
by chance.</p>
<p>A shadow—something more swift than a shadow, more
than one of the tricks the curling fog played on eyes—was
moving with purpose and straight for him. Still, prudence
restrained Shann from calling out.</p>
<p>The figure grew clearer. A Terran! It could be Thorvald!
But remembering how they had last parted, Shann did not
hurry to meet him.</p>
<p>That shadow-shape stretched out a long arm in a sweep
as if to pull aside some of the vapor concealing them from each<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></SPAN></span>
other. Then Shann shivered as if that fog had suddenly turned
into the drive of frigid snow. For the mist did roll back so
that the two of them stood in an irregular clearing in its
midst.</p>
<p>And he did not front Thorvald.</p>
<p>Shann was caught up in the ice grip of an old fear, frozen
by it, but somehow clinging to a hope that he did not see
the unbelievable.</p>
<p>Those hands drawing the lash of a whip back into striking
readiness ... a brutal nose broken askew, a blaster burn
puckering across cheek to misshapen ear ... that, evil, gloating
grin of anticipation. Flick, flick, the slight dance of the
lash in a master's hand as those thick fingers tightened about
the stock of the whip. In a moment it would whirl up to lay
a ribbon of fire about Shann's defenceless shoulders. Then
Logally would laugh and laugh, his sadistic mirth echoed by
those other men who played jackals to his rogue lion.</p>
<p>Other men.... Shann shook his head dazedly. But he did
not stand again in the Dump-size bar of the Big Strike. And
he was no longer a terrorized youngster, fit meat for Logally's
amusement. Only the whip rose, the lash curled out,
catching Shann just as it had that time years ago, delivering
a red slash of pure agony. But Logally was dead, Shann's
mind screamed, fighting frantically against the evidence of
his eyes, of that pain in his chest and shoulder. The Dump
bully had been spaced by off-world miners, now also dead,
whose claims he had tried to jump out in the Ajax system.</p>
<p>Logally drew back the lash, preparing to strike again. Shann
faced a man five years dead who walked and fought. Or,
Shann bit hard upon his lower lip, holding desperately to
sane reasoning—did he indeed face anything? Logally was
the ancient devil of his boyhood produced anew by the
witchery of Warlock. Or had Shann himself been led to recreate
both the man and the circumstances of their first meeting
with fear as a weapon to pull the creator down? Dream
true or false. Logally <i>was</i> dead; therefore, this dream was
false, it had to be.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>The Terran began to walk toward that grinning ogre rising
out of his old nightmares. His hand was no longer on the
butt of his stunner, but swung loosely at his side. He saw
the coming lash, the wicked promise in those small narrowed
eyes. This was Logally at the acme of his strength, when he
was most to be feared, as he had continued to exist over the
years in the depths of a boy-child's memory. But Logally was
<i>not</i> alive; only in a dream could he be.</p>
<p>For the second time the lash bit at Shann, curling about his
body, to dissolve. There was no alteration in Logally's grin,
His muscular arm drew back as he aimed a third blow. Shann
continued to walk forward, bringing up one hand, not to
strike at that sweating, bristly jaw, but as if to push the other
out of his path. And in his mind he held one thought: this
was not Logally; it could not be. Ten years had passed since
they had met. And for five of those years Logally had been
dead. Here was Warlockian witchery, to be met by sane
Terran reasoning.</p>
<p>Shann was alone. The mist, which had formed walls, enclosed
him again. But still there was a smarting brand across
his shoulder. Shann drew aside the rags of his uniform
blouse to discover a welt, raw and red. And seeing that, his
unbelief was shaken.</p>
<p>When he had believed in Logally and in Logally's weapon,
the other had had reality enough to strike that blow, make
the lash cut deep. But when the Terran had faced the phantom
with the truth, then neither Logally nor his lash existed,
Shann shivered, trying not to think what might lie before
him. Visions out of nightmares which could put on substance!
He had dreamed of Logally in the past, many times.
And he had had other dreams, just as frightening. Must <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'be'">he</ins>
front those nightmares, all of them—? Why? To amuse his
captors, or to prove <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'then'">their</ins> contention that he was a fool to
challenge the powers of such mistresses of illusion?</p>
<p>How did they know just what dreams to use in order to
break him? Or did he himself furnish the actors and the
action, projecting old terrors in this mist as a <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'trid-ee'">tri-dee</ins> tape<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></SPAN></span>
projected a story in three dimensions for the amusement of
the viewer?</p>
<p>Dream true—was this progress through the mist also a
dream? Dreams within dreams.... Shann put his hand to
his head, uncertain, badly shaken. But that stubborn core of
determination within him was still holding. Next time he
would be prepared at once to face down any resurrected
memory.</p>
<p>Walking slowly, pausing to listen for the slightest sound
which might herald the coming of a new illusion, Shann tried
to guess which of his nightmares might come to face him. But
he was to learn that there was more than one kind of dream.
Steeled against old fears, he was met by another emotion
altogether.</p>
<p>There was a fluttering in the air, a little crooning cry
which pulled at his heart. Without any conscious thought,
Shann held out his hands, whistling on two notes a call which
his lips appeared to remember more quickly than his mind.
The shape which winged through the fog came straight to
his waiting hold, tore at long-walled-away hurt with its once
familiar beauty. It flew with a list; one of the delicately
tinted wings was injured, had never <ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'heeled'">healed</ins> straight. But
the seraph nestled into the hollow of Shann's two palms
and looked up at him with all the old liquid trust.</p>
<p>"Trav! Trav!" He cradled the tiny creature carefully, regarded
with joy its feathered body, the curled plumes on its
proudly held head, felt the silken patting of those infinitesimal
claws against his protecting fingers.</p>
<p>Shann sat down in the sand, hardly daring to breathe.
Trav—again! The wonder of this never-to-be-hoped-for return
filled him with a surge of happiness almost too great to
bear, which hurt in its way with as great a pain as Logally's
lash; it was a pain rooted in love, not fear and hate.</p>
<p>Logally's lash....</p>
<p>Shann trembled. Trav raised one of those small claws toward
the Terran's face, crooning a soft caressing cry for recognition,<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></SPAN></span>
for protection, trying to be a part of Shann's life
once more.</p>
<p>Trav! How could he bear to will Trav into nothingness, to
bear to summon up another harsh memory which would
sweep Trav away? Trav was the only thing Shann had
ever known which he could love wholeheartedly, that had
answered his love with a return gift of affection so much
greater than the light body he now held.</p>
<p>"Trav!" he whispered softly. Then he made his great effort
<ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'again'">against</ins> this second and far more subtle attack. With the same
agony which he had known years earlier, he resolutely summoned
a bitter memory, sat nursing once more a broken
thing which died in pain he could not ease, aware himself
of every moment of that pain. And what was worse, this
time there clung that nagging little doubt. What if he had
not forced the memory? Perhaps he could have taken Trav
with him unhurt, alive, at least for a while.</p>
<p>Shann covered his face with his now empty hands. To
see a nightmare flicker out after facing squarely up to its
terror, that was no great task. To give up a dream which was
part of a lost heaven, that cut cruelly deep. The Terran
dragged himself to his feet, drained and weary, stumbling
on.</p>
<p>Was there no end to this aimless circling through a world
of green smoke? He shambled ahead, moving his feet leadenly.
How long had he been here? There was no division in
time, just the unchanging light which was a part of the fog
through which he plodded.</p>
<p>Then he heard more than any shuffle of foot across sand,
any crooning of a long dead seraph, the rising and falling of
a voice: a human voice—not quite singing or reciting, but
something between the two. Shann paused, searching his
memory, a memory which seemed bruised, for the proper
answer to match that sound.</p>
<p>But, though he recalled scene after scene out of the years,
that voice did not trigger any return from his past. He
turned toward its source, dully determined to get over quickly<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></SPAN></span>
the meeting which lay behind that signal. Only, though he
walked on and on, Shann did not appear any closer to the
man behind the voice, nor was he able to make out separate
words composing that chant, a chant broken now and then
by pauses, so that the Terran grew aware of the distress of
his fellow prisoner. For the impression that he sought another
captive came out of nowhere and grew as he cast
wider and wider in his quest.</p>
<p>Then he might have turned some invisible corner in the
<ins class="corr" title="Original reads 'midst'">mist</ins>, for the chant broke out anew in stronger volume, and
now he was able to distinguish words he knew.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"... where blow the winds between the worlds,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And hang the suns in dark of space.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">For Power is given a man to use.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Let him do so well before the last accounting—"<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>The voice was hoarse, cracked, the words spaced with uneven
catches of breath, as if they had been repeated many,
many times to provide an anchor against madness, form a
tie to reality. And hearing that note, Shann slowed his pace.
This was out of no memory of his; he was sure of that.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"... blow the winds between the worlds,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And hang the suns in ... dark—of—of—"<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>That harsh croak of voice was running down, as a clock
runs down for lack of winding. Shann sped on, reacting to a
plea which did not lay in the words themselves.</p>
<p>Once more the mist curled back, provided him with an
open space. A man sat on the sand, his fists buried wrist deep
in the smooth grains on either side of his body, his eyes set,
red-rimmed, glazed, his body rocking back and forth in time
to his labored chant.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">"... the dark of space—"<br/></span></div>
</div>
<p>"Thorvald!" Shann skidded in the sand, went down on his<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></SPAN></span>
knees. The manner of their last parting was forgotten as he
took in the officer's condition.</p>
<p>The other did not stop his swaying, but his head turned
with a stiff jerk, the gray eyes making a visible effort to focus
on Shann. Then some of the strain smoothed out of the gaunt
features and Thorvald laughed softly.</p>
<p>"Garth!"</p>
<p>Shann stiffened but had no chance to protest that mistaken
identification as the other continued: "So you made class
one status, boy! I always knew you could if you'd work for
it. A couple of black marks on your record, sure. But those
can be rubbed out, boy, when you're willing to try. Thorvalds
always have been Survey. Our father would have been
proud."</p>
<p>Thorvald's voice flattened, his smile faded, there was a
growing spark of some emotion in those gray eyes. Unexpectedly,
he hurled himself forward, his hands clawing for
Shann's throat. He bore the younger man down under him to
the sand where Lantee found himself fighting desperately for
his life against a man who could only be mad.</p>
<p>Shann used a trick learned on the Dumps, and his opponent
doubled up with a gasp of agony to let the younger
man break free. He planted a knee on the small of Thorvald's
back, digging the officer into the sand, pinning down
his arms in spite of the other's struggles. Regaining his own
breath in gulps, Shann tried to appeal to some spark of
reason in the other.</p>
<p>"Thorvald! This is Lantee—Lantee——" His name echoed in
the mist-walled void like an unhuman wail.</p>
<p>"Lantee——? No, Throg! Lantee—Throg—killed my brother!"</p>
<p>Sand puffed out with the breath, which expelled that indictment.
But Thorvald no longer fought, and Shann believed
him close to collapse.</p>
<p>Shann relaxed his hold, rolling the other man over. Thorvald
obeyed his pull limply, lying face upward, sand in his
hair and eyebrows, crusting his slack lips. The younger man
brushed the dirt away gently as the other opened his eyes to<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></SPAN></span>
regard Shann with his old impersonal stare.</p>
<p>"You're alive," Thorvald stated bleakly. "Garth's dead. You
ought to be dead too."</p>
<p>Shann drew back, rubbed sand from his hands, his concern
dampened by the other's patent hostility. Only that angry
accusation vanished in a blink of those gray eyes. Then
there was a warmer recognition in Thorvald's expression.</p>
<p>"Lantee!" The younger man might just have come into
sight. "What are you doing here?"</p>
<p>Shann tightened his belt. "Just about what you are." He
was still aloof, giving no acknowledgment of difference in
rank now. "Running around in this fog hunting the way out."</p>
<p>Thorvald sat up, surveying the billowing walls of the hole
which contained them. Then he reached out a hand to draw
fingers down Shann's forearm.</p>
<p>"You <i>are</i> real," he observed simply, and his voice was
warm, welcoming.</p>
<p>"Don't bet on it," Shann snapped. "The unreal can be
mighty real—here." His hand went up to the smarting brand
on his shoulder.</p>
<p>Thorvald nodded. "Masters of illusion," he murmured.</p>
<p>"Mistresses," Shann corrected. "This place is run by a gang
of pretty smart witches."</p>
<p>"Witches? You've seen them? Where? And what—who
are they?" Thorvald pounced with a return of his old-time
sharpness.</p>
<p>"They're females right enough, and they can make the impossible
happen. I'd say that classifies them as witches. One of
them tried to take me over back on the island. I set a trap
and caught her; then somehow she transported me——" Swiftly
he outlined the chain of events leading from his sudden
awakening in the river tunnel to his present penetration of
this fog-world.</p>
<p>Thorvald listened eagerly. When the story was finished, he
rubbed his hands across his drawn face, smearing away the
last of the sand. "At least you have some idea of who they are
and a suggestion of how you got here. I don't remember that<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></SPAN></span>
much about my own arrival. As far as I can remember I
went to sleep on the Island and woke up here!"</p>
<p>Shann studied him and knew that Thorvald was telling
the truth. He could remember nothing of his departure in
the outrigger, the way he had fought Shann in the lagoon.
The Survey officer must have been under the control of
the Warlockians then. Quickly he gave the older man his
version of the other's actions in the outer world and Thorvald
was clearly astounded, though he did not question the facts
Shann presented.</p>
<p>"They just <i>took</i> me!" Thorvald said in a husky half whisper.
"But why? And why are we here? Is this a prison?"</p>
<p>Shann shook his head. "I think all this"—a wave of his
hand encompassed the green wall, what lay beyond it, and
in it—"is a test of some kind. This dream business.... A little
while ago I got to thinking that I wasn't here at all, that
I might be dreaming it all. Then I met you."</p>
<p>Thorvald understood. "Yes, but this <i>could</i> be a dream
meeting. How can we tell?" He hesitated, almost diffidently,
before he asked: "Have you met anyone else here?"</p>
<p>"Yes." Shann had no desire to go into that.</p>
<p>"People out of your past life?"</p>
<p>"Yes." Again he did not elaborate.</p>
<p>"So did I." Thorvald's expression was bleak; his encounters
in the fog must have proved no more pleasant than Shann's.
"That suggests that we do trigger the hallucinations ourselves.
But maybe we can really lick it now."</p>
<p>"How?"</p>
<p>"Well, if these phantoms are born of our memories there
are about only two or three we could see together—maybe
a Throg on the rampage, or that hound we left back in the
mountains. And if we do sight anything like that, we'll know
what it is. On the other hand, if we stick together and one of
us sees something that the other can't ... well, that fact
alone will explode the ghost."</p>
<p>There was sense in what he said. Shann aided the officer
to his feet.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"I must be a better subject for their experiments than you,"
the older man remarked ruefully. "They took me over completely
at the first."</p>
<p>"You were carrying that disk," Shann pointed out. "Maybe
that acted as a focusing lens for whatever power they use to
make us play trained animals."</p>
<p>"Could be!" Thorvald brought out the cloth-wrapped bone
coin. "I still have it." But he made no move to pull off the bit
of rag about it. "Now"—he gazed at the wall of green—"which
way?"</p>
<p>Shann shrugged. Long ago he had lost any idea of keeping
a straight course through the murk. He might have turned
around any number of times since he first walked blindly into
this place. Then he pointed to the packet Thorvald held.</p>
<p>"Why not flip that?" he asked. "Heads, we go that way—"
he indicated the direction in which they were facing—"tails,
we do a rightabout-face."</p>
<p>There was an answering grin on Thorvald's lips. "As good
a guide as any we're likely to find here. We'll do it." He
pulled away the twist of cloth and with a swift snap, reminiscent
of that used by the Warlockian witch to empty the
bowl of sticks, he tossed the disk into the air.</p>
<p>It spun, whirled, but—to their open-jawed amazement—it
did not fall to the sand. Instead it spun until it looked like
a small globe instead of a disk. And it lost its dead white for
a glow of green. When that glow became dazzling for Terran
eyes the miniature sun swung out, not in orbit but in straight
line of flight, heading to their right.</p>
<p>With a muffled cry, Thorvald started in pursuit, Shann
running beside him. They were in a tunnel of the fog now,
and the pace set by the spinning coin was swift. The Terrans
continued to follow it at the best pace they could summon,
having no idea of where they were headed, but each with
the hope that they finally did have a guide to lead them
through this place of confusion and into a sane world where
they could face on more equal terms those who had sent them
there.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></SPAN></span></p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />