The Ganymede Takeover

And yet, he thought, if I thrash at random, the odds are good that I might accidentally come in contact with the machine, hit it and possibly break it. It’s a reasonably delicate construct, as I recall from my brief glimpse of it.

For a considerable time Paul Rivers sent out sig­nals to his body, commanding that it gyrate, then to kick, then flail its arms. Nothing, as far as he could determine, happened; he could not even sense ground under his feet—gravity, that fundamental ubiquity, seemed to have become suspended.

He noticed, then, a slight feeling of dizziness.

It might be an indication of exertion, he thought with a flash of hope—and redoubled his efforts. Still nothing happened.

The longer that device stays on, he realized, the more damage it will do; the effect must be radiating concentrically and God knows where it will weaken and hence terminate. I’ve got to think of something.

A stray thought drifted into his mind. According to Balkani’s theories, Joan Hiashi, because she had been detached from the shared reality by Oblivion Therapy, must be immune to the impulse of the machine. That means, he realized, that Joan could turn it off.

He instructed his voice to shout and his lips to form words. “Joan! Turn off the machine!” Again and again he sent out the orders to his body, having no idea whether or not he was actually inducing a palpa­ble sound. He kept it up for what subjectively seemed at least an hour but still the blackness continued.

Again he paused to think. The key, if one existed, lay in Balkani’s theories somewhere. But where? I wish, he said to himself, I had studied Oblivion Therapy and Centerpoint Theory more intensively, instead of merely skimming them as I did.

Centerpoint Theory.

That might be it.

According to Balkani’s Centerpoint hypothesis, a shortcut existed through which contact would be possible between any particle of matter and any other particle, no matter how distant. It was through this Centerpoint that the aural vibrations passed in long range telepathy. Hence, on the basis of this theory, Balkani had managed to train quite a number of people—such as Percy X—to penetrate minds at a considerable distance. But actually the theory im­plied that anyone, under the proper conditions, might be capable of creating telepathic contact. After all, everyone held a relationship to the Centerpoint.

That means, Paul realized, that I might function as a telepath, at least theoretically. Assuming Balkani was correct.

Again his thoughts turned to Joan Hiashi. He could not be, of course, certain that she had remained unaffected by the machine, but, if she was unaf­fected, that meant that, at this moment, she might be the sole person in the system worth contacting. To contact anyone else would simply be to share his blindness, to merge it with theirs.

How had Balkani claimed that individuality was established? By selective awareness. I am Paul Riv­ers, he realized, because I am unaware of the sensa­tions being experienced by someone else, say by Joan Hiashi. Ordinarily my own direct sensations would drown out anything I might pick up from her. But now, when I have no sensations, even faint im­pressions that she may be undergoing will be infinite­ly stronger than my own.

He began by imagining himself to be a woman.

I am small, delicate, vulnerable, he told himself. I perceive reality in the yin mode, rather than the yang. I am sensitive, flowing, graceful.

It was not hard, he discovered, to hallucinate all these sensations with perfect conviction, since no real sensory impressions existed to counter them.

And now, he decided, that I am a woman, I must individualize, become a specific woman. And I know which major character trait it is that delineates Joan. It is detachment. She is the most detached woman on the planet. So I, to become her, must also be de­tached. but I must not become so detached that I, like her, am indifferent to the fate of mankind.

How easily my personality splits, he discovered. He had always thought that only a schizophrenic could achieve it, but actually it appeared to be the most simple act in the world—at least in this world that surrounded him now.

On the other hand, he thought with grim amuse­ment, perhaps I am a schizophrenic and just never knew it.

Then, abruptly, he felt something. A very faint, yet somehow vital sensation; he could tell instantly that its source did not lie in his own imagination. Cold. And pressure. He was seated on something. Some­thing hard. The sensations came too intense to be forced mental constructs; he was a woman. And, opening his eyes, he knew that the woman was Joan.

There, in the dirt before him, wandered ants, com­pletely disorganized, some on their backs kicking their feet helplessly in the air, some scrambling blindly, aimlessly about. The sky had darkened con­siderably, which meant that some time, probably hours, had already passed. Joan sat listening to the ebb and fall of a great throng of animal screams and moans and wails that echoed and reechoed from the surrounding woods, and Paul, through her ears, heard their travail, too. He felt her pleasure at the sound, her enjoyment of it as music, her indifference to the suffering that it represented. In his revulsion to this obliqueness he almost drew back from contact with her, almost broke the delicate link between their two minds.

It is not my job, he realized, to judge her. And with this understanding he found himself once again fully aware of all that she sensed. And thought. That, to him, constituted the strangest part; her thoughts could have been those of a creature which had evolved on another world entirely: they seemed so alien. Yet there was something familiar about them.

There’s been a part of me like that, he reflected. A part of me that only wants to watch, never to act.

All right, Joan, he thought. Watch this. He sent a mental command to the girl’s right hand, telling it to rise. It fluttered a little but remained where it was.

Let it happen, Joan, he thought strongly, with all 'his will in fact.

She let it happen; slowly her hand rose to hang before her face, while she gazed at it in wonder and delight, thinking that it had moved all by itself. No resistance existed in her; whatever he willed her body to do, that it did, while she simply enjoyed the sensation of being possessed by a spirit which was not herself.

He told her body to get up. It got up. He told her body to walk toward the cave; it walked toward the cave.

How strange it feels, Paul thought, to experience reality through another person’s body and percept- system. I need to make constant allowances for her smaller size and lighter weight, as well as for the special feminine swing that comes from her differ­ently jointed pelvis. He now entered the cave—and stopped, trying to penetrate the deep blackness ahead. As his pupils dilated he saw something that shocked him more than anything else he had seen during these last days. He saw himself.

The body of Paul Rivers lay next to the body of Percy X. But the body of Paul Rivers breathed. The body of Percy X did not.

Can that be me? Paul asked himself. Both bodies were covered with still-wet blood, and Paul, after the first shock, was able to piece together what had hap­pened. When the machine had gone on, Paul had been hanging onto Percy X; when Paul began thrash­ing, trying to break the machine, he had instead beaten and kicked Percy viciously—had in fact brought about his death. Without either of the two men being aware of what was happening.

His own body had not escaped unharmed; Paul, making use of Joan’s body, bent over to take a close look. Every finger had been broken and the arms were a mass of cuts and abrasions where Paul had smashed them futilely against the rough-stone floor of the cave.

Carefully making his way forward he reached out and switched off the machine.

And exploded in pain!

The instant the machine sank into silence he found himself once again in his own damaged body, his mind bombarded by pain-signals from a thousand sources at once.

Mercifully, he fainted after only a few moments.

“They’re dead,” the medical creech said with a sigh. “Every single member of the limbless elite is dead.” He gazed out the porthole at the other ships of the line that drifted aimlessly in space nearby. In the distance hung the planet Earth, still green; still, seemingly, a plum ripe for the picking, if anyone