The Pritcher Mass Read online

  "Tillicum?" said Chaz, as jolted by the name as the identity of the spe­cies to which Eileen's pet belonged.

  He had never expected to hear of, much less see, a wolverine in the sterile areas outside of a zoo. "You call him Tillicum?"

  "Yes. Why?" Eileen was staring at him penetratingly again.

  "No reason," said Chaz. "It's just that the name means 'friend' in the North Pacific Coast Indian dialects; and I'd always heard wolverines weren't all that friendly."

  "You know Indian languages?" Eileen asked.

  "No," said Chaz. "It's just that my head's cluttered like an old-fash­ioned attic, with all sorts of informa­tion about this and that. Like that song you were singing to the tune of Scarborough Fair, back in my apart­ment—" he broke off. "It doesn't matter. You mean it was Tillicum you said we needed?"

  "Yes," said Eileen. She took a half-size limpet light and some other small items from one of the drawers built into the wall beside her, then turned. "Come on."

  She led the way out of the apart­ment. This time it was Chaz who fol­lowed, Tillicum at his heels.

  "Where are we going?" Chaz asked as they started off down the corridor, only to stop and turn in, short of the elevator tubes, through the door leading to the emergency stairs.

  "To the basement," said Eileen. She did not offer to say anything more; and he followed her down the green-painted concrete steps of the stairwell that echoed to the sound of their footfalls, but not to those of Tillicum, padding noiselessly beside them.

  The walk down seemed longer than Chaz had expected. He found himself trying to think when he had last traveled up or down in a build­ing by any way other than elevator—and found he could not remember doing so since he had been a boy. Fi­nally, however, they came to a point where the stairs ended. A heavy fire door with a bar latch faced them. Ei­leen leaned on it, and they went through.

  They came out into a small room with the same bare, green-painted cement walls, floor and ceiling. An­other door stood in the wall to their right, with a ventilator grille to its left about six feet off the floor. Warn air poured noiselessly from the grille; and Chaz found he welcomed it. The starkness of the concrete surroundings made the room seem chilly, whether it was really so or not.

  Ignoring the door, which was labeled with a sign No Admittance Authorized Personnel Only just above the small, silver square of the lock, Eileen stepped to the ventilator shaft and took from her pocket a rectangular brown box small enough to be hidden in her fist. She pressed this to each corner of the ventilator grill. The grille fell off, revealing the small, square black entrance to the ventilating duct.

  "Why not open the door, instead, if you've got a full-band vibration key?" Chaz asked, curiously.

  "Because the cycle and pitch on that door lock is changed every week by remote control from Central Computer," she answered without turning her head. "The ventilator fastenings are standard. Central doesn't worry about it because it's too small for anyone hut a child to get into; and just inside there's a set of weighted bars too heavy for a child to lift."

  "Then we're out of luck on two counts," said Chaz. "No child, and a child would be too weak, any­how."

  "Tillicum can do it," she said calmly.

  She looked at the wolverine. Tilli­cum leaped the full six feet to the duct entrance with surprising ease and vanished inside it. Eileen turned from the opening back to Chaz.

  "It'll take a few minutes," she said.

  "Tillicum can get inside that way," Chaz said. "But how about us?"

  "He'll open the door for us. It's not locked from the inside," Eileen said.

  "You mean," Chaz said, "he can handle ordinary doorknobs, or what­ever they've got there on the other side?"

  "Yes," she said.

  Chaz fell into a doubtful silence. But a moment later the door swung open in front of them; and Tillicum looked up at them, red-lined mouth half open as if in laughter.

  "Come on," said Eileen.

  They went in through the door, and down a corridor perhaps ten me­ters in length to where another door stood ajar, held that way by a large cardboard carton that had been pushed between it and the jamb. Chaz looked thoughtfully from the carton to Tillicum.

  Through the second door they came to a wide, brightly lit tunnel, down the center of which ran a broad conveyer belt moving at not much more than a walking speed. Where they stood was a broad place in the tunnel, nearly filled with some sort of automatic machinery, half of which was accepting refuse from the condominium above, packaging it in cartons and sending it out on the conveyer belt, while the other half accepted cartons from those on the belt, broke them open and dis­patched the merchandise, food, or other contents within them upstairs to the apartments to which they were addressed. Chaz looked at the ma­chinery curiously. Everybody knew about this delivery system, but he, like most, had never seen it in action.

  "Good," he said to Eileen. "I ride the conveyer down to Central Pro­cessing, sneak upstairs to the Trans­portation Center and I ought to be able to manage to get on a night freight train for Chicago without trouble. Once in Chicago, I can hide out until I can qualify for the Mass."

  "You're that sure you can qual­ify'?" she said.

  He looked at her, a little surprised. "I thought you believed in my working on the Mass," he answered. "As a matter of fact," he felt in his pocket for the catalyst and found it still safely there, "I am that sure."

  "All right," she said, "but you'll never make it to Chicago on your own. For one thing, there're in­spectors patrolling this whole con­veyer system all the time." She turned to the wolverine. "Tillicum!"

  Tillicum leaped up on top of the machine which was filling empty car­tons with refuse from the apartments above. Reaching down with one paw and surprising strength, he flipped a large, empty carton from the ma­chine to the floor, then jumped back down to join Eileen and Chaz.

  Eileen had already produced a small self-powered knife; it hummed cheerfully as its vibrating blade slit the carton open vertically. She cut the top and bottom surfaces as well as the one vertical face of the carton; and then, with Tillicum humping forward to help, spread the container open like an antique wardrobe trunk.

  "Yes," she said, peering into its empty interior. "Plenty of space ... Tillicum!"

  The wolverine, reacting as if he could read her mind, pushed the car­ton together again and shoved it across the floor to the conveyer belt itself. Then, taking it between both forelegs almost like a human, he jerked it upward until it tumbled onto the belt and began to be carried away.

  Tillicum leaped after it, and stuck his claws in the carton, setting it upright once more.

  "Come on. Hurry!" said Eileen. jumping up on the belt. Chaz stared for a split second, then followed her. She was already walking down the belt toward Tillicum and the carton. When he caught up with them, she had opened the carton along her cut, and was already crawling inside.

  "Come on!" she said.

  Chaz frowned, but followed her. A second later, Tillicum slid in beside them and. hooking his claws in the carton, pulled the carton closed. It was a tight fit with all three of them, but the box-shape finally closed ex­cept for a crack and they were in al­most total darkness. There was a faint sucking sound and a second later illumination filled the carton's interior from the limpet light Eileen had just attached to the side above her head.

  In its white glare Chaz found him­self and Eileen sitting facing each other with their knees almost touch­ing. Tillicum was somehow curled up around their legs and under those knees.

  "But why do you want to come with me?" Chaz said.

  "I told you you couldn't get out on your own," she answered. "I'm tak­ing you someplace safe where you can wait until I can arrange to get you away."

  "You're taking a chance, too," he reminded her. "Remember I've been outside? These are pretty close quarters to avoid being infected from me."

  . "I'm perfectly safe!" she said im­patiently. "Never mind that—" She broke off. "What
are you going `hm-m-m' about?"

  Chaz had not realized he had made any audible sound. "Nothing," he said. "Just, your name—never mind. What was it you were going to say?"

  "I was saying, never mind that. We're as close to being safe from in­spectors in this carton as we can be. Now's the chance to stop and think about covering your tracks. Do you have anybody who might come look­ing for you when you don't show up?"

  "The office will probably call, if I don't show up there tomorrow morn­ing," he said. "I've qualified for work in the Records Research Section at the Illinois State Center."

  "I know," Eileen said. "You told me, that night in the amusement rooms. It's a pretty good job nowadays, with ten people waiting for ev­ery opening there is, just to keep from sitting on their hands doing nothing."

  "It's the kind of work where that cluttered memory attic in my head comes in useful," he said. "But I don't think they'll miss me too much, even if they call a couple of times and get no answer. As you say, there's too many other people wait­ing to take my place."

  "Good," said Eileen, "How about relatives? No relatives?"

  "I didn't tell you that?" he asked, a little dryly:

  "Oh, that's right. Your cousins, and your aunt." she said. "You did mention them. But I think you said you didn't get along with them."

  "I don't," he said. "They took me in to raise after my father died, and my mother had been dead three years. My uncle was all right—as long as he lived—but my aunt and their kids were poisonous."

  "So, they wouldn't wonder about you if you disappeared suddenly?"

  "No." said Chaz. He reached into his pocket and took a firm grip on the stony surface of the catalyst. "And now that I've set your mind at ease about that, how about you doing the same for me? Don't you think it's safe now to tell me where you're taking me, and who it is you're delivering me to?"

  IV

  She did not answer for a long mo­ment, but sat staring at him in the brilliant light from the limpet. In spite of the current of air that the belt's motion pushed through the narrow gap left where the cut side and top of the carton were not completely joined together, these close quarters were becoming stuffy. Chaz thought he caught a faint, skunky odor from the wolverine at their feet.

  "What are you talking about?" she said at last. "Deliver you? To whom?"

  "It's just a guess," he answered, still holding on to the rock. In one corner of his thoughts was the plan that if the wolverine turned on him, he would try to shove the stone down its throat—this would at least give him some kind of fighting chance. "But I don't think it's too bad a one. I mentioned this cluttered attic mind of mine. Match that up to a talent for chain-perception and too many things about this situation seem to hook together."

  "For example?" Her face was set and her voice was brittle. When he did not answer immediately, she went on. "Who am I supposed to be delivering you to?"

  "I don't know." he said. "The Citadel?"

  The air hissed suddenly between her teeth on a sharp intake of breath.

  "You're saying I'm connected with the criminal underworld?" she snapped. "What gives you the right—who do you think I am, anyway?"

  "A Satanist?" he said, question­ingly.

  She made another faint breathing noise; but this time it was the sound of the breath going out of her as if knocked out by a sudden, unex­pected blow. She stared at him with eyes that were abruptly round with disbelief.

  "Can you read minds?" she said faintly.

  He shook his head.

  "No," he said, "I don't pretend to any paranormal talents—except for chain-perception. You ought to know there's no such thing as true telepaths, anyway."

  "There's other ways to know things," she said, still a little obscurely. "What makes you say I'm a Satanist?"

  "A lot of little things," he said. "Your name, for one."

  "My name?"

  "Mortvain," he said. "If you were a French-speaking knight in the middle ages, with that as a motto under the heraldic achievement on your shield, I'd be pretty sure you were defying death."

  "Death?" She shook her head. "Me? I defy death?"

  "Don't you?" he answered. "At least twice you've told me that you're not afraid of my infecting you with rot, in spite of the fact you know I've been exposed; and we're jammed in here so close now that you could hardly help getting spores from my breath if I've already been infected."

  "I just meant ... I don't believe you could have been infected," she

  said. "A short time outside like that."

  "How do you know how long I was outside?"

  "Well, it couldn't have been long. Anyway, what's that got to do with my name?"

  "I think you already know," he said. "Mortvain. Mortvain, from the Old French mon, meaning 'death' and en vein—meaning 'without success', or perhaps 'in a blasphemous manner'. Freely translated, your name could mean 'I defy death' or 'I blaspheme against death'."

  "That's nonsense," the girl said.

  "You're saying, then, that you don't hold with Satanist beliefs?" he said, watching her closely.

  "I'm not—there's no reason why should," she said. "Naturally, I'm not against someone else's pattern of ethos-involvement, any more than anyone else is. But that doesn't mean I've got anything to do with Satan­ists. Only—I'm not on trial. I don't have to assure you of anything."

  "Of course not," Chaz said. "But it's a fact there are people among the Satanists who consider themselves witches. And these witches recite spells, pray rather than meditate, have animals they consider familiars and believe that they can defy death itself as long as they are in love with a particular concept of evil. Also, as a matter of fact, they actually are supposed to be involved with orga­nized crime."

  "No," she said, her eyes half-closed as if he was questioning her under duress.

  "No what?" he asked. "No, you're not involved with organized crime? Or no, you're not a witch?"

  Her eyes opened at that. She even smiled faintly.

  "Have you stopped beating your wife?" she murmured. "What kind of a choice are you giving me?"

  Her smile made him smile back in spite of himself. But he stuck to the point.

  "All right," he said. "I put the question badly. Bluntly—are you someone who thinks she's a witch?"

  "And if I was?" she said. "What t difference would it make? I'm helping you anyway."

  "Or delivering me to someone."

  "No!" she said, suddenly and violently. "I'd never turn you over, to anyone. I'm no criminal—and no Satanist!" The violence leaked out of her unexpectedly: and she looked at him again squarely. "But, all right. You're not wrong about one thing. I am a witch. Only it's pretty plain you don't know anything about what that means."

  "I thought I'd just shown you I know quite a bit," Chaz said.

  "And they say prejudice is dead!" Her voice was bitter. "Haven't you ever learned that witches always were people with paranormal talents, who had no place else to go in the past, but into devil-worshiping communities? You'd be pretty upset if I called you a Satanist, just because you believe you've got a talent for Heisenbergian chain-perception."

  Chaz had to admit to himself that this was true.

  "You turned up pretty conveniently right after the wreck and before the woman came, though," he said.

  "I've got paranormal talents too, of course!" she flared. "Why do you think I concern myself with you? Because we're both different. We're both on the outside, shut away from ordinary people, looking in. That's why it mattered to me what happened to you!"

  "I don't consider myself on the outside looking in," he said, ob­scurely angry.

  "Oh, no?" her voice was scornful. She went on as if reciting from a dossier. "Charles Roumi Sant. Al­ways in trouble in primary and sec­ondary schools. Anti-Neopuritanist. Candidate for degrees in nearly a dozen fields before he managed to graduate in System Patterns."

  "You know a lot about me," he said, grimly.

  "I took the trouble to find out, af­ter t
hat evening down in the party rooms," she said. "The trouble with you, Charles Roumi Sant, is that you think your own talents are real; but mine have to be some kind of fake, or part of some con game."

  "No—" Chaz began and then his conscience tripped him up before he got any farther. Once more he had to admit that she was right.

  "This is the twenty-first century," he said instead. "Everybody knows there's no such thing as the super­natural, or supernatural powers."

  "Paranormal, I said. Not super­natural!" she retorted. "Just like you, and yours. There's that prejudice I was talking about. Because someone like me uses the old word 'witch' you think she's a charlatan. Well, I'm not. I was the one who saved you from that train wreck, whether you know it or not!"

  Her words seemed to trigger off something like a soundless explosion in his head.

  "No, you didn't!" he said. "I saved myself. I did any saving that was done!"

  The wolverine snarled lightly un­der his knees; but the warning was not needed. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he had felt the backwash of his own sudden fury and been jarred by it. But not jarred to the point of taking hack what he had just said.

  "All right," he went on in a more level voice. "I'm not going to fly off the handle. But don't fool yourself. I got myself out of that train wreck sit­uation by using chain-perception: and I know how I did it, every step of the way. I used—" he broke off, on the point of talking about the catalyst. "Never mind. You were go­ing to tell me what witches were really like. How did someone like you end up as one?"

  "I didn't end up!" she said. "I was born one. Just as you were born the way you are. My mother and grand­mother were witches, and thought of themselves as witches. Only, by the time I came along, psychology knew enough about the phenomenon so that I could separate the super­stitions about us from the reality. Of course, I knew all about the superstitions. I heard enough about them from the older people. In fact, when I was a little girl, I believed them, too: until I learned better in school and university."

  "All right," Chaz said again. Emo­tion had been strong in her voice; and that had gotten through to him more deeply than the actual words she had been saying. "Most of the old ideas about witches are super­stition. What's real, then?"