He still spent considerable time at it, he told Brek, for its scope had been expanded to include rigorous testing of his academic progress. The computers were programmed to keep close track of this and to guide each Scholar’s course. Study discs, generated in sequence to meet individual needs and aptitudes, were the foundation of instruction, just as they were for all Technicians. These were generated at a computer console and taken to one’s room. Upon return the disc was reused for something else, since the supply of them was limited. But direct questioning of the computers—either on matters unclear on the discs or on any other subject of interest—was permitted whenever there was a console free.
The best way of learning about the Six Worlds’ civilization, however, was through dreams. The Founders had recorded a great many memories as a means of passing their heritage on to posterity, and all novice Scholars, scientists and non-scientists alike, experienced controlled dreaming frequently.
“Don’t you have books?” Brek asked, puzzled.
“No.” Noren laughed. “I was horrified when I discovered that; I’d always longed to own books, and I thought Scholars must have lots of them. But they would have been too heavy to import, of course, and even if there were enough paper, the printing press here couldn’t supply many. We don’t need them, not when we can request literature discs as well as factual ones.”
“Stefred has books in his office.”
“Those were written here—on this planet, I mean, by people with literary talent. They’re copies of what’s sold in the Outer City and by village traders. Stefred keeps them in sight to show new candidates that he’s human, but any of us can borrow them, and some are as good as literature from the Six Worlds. Not all the gifted people become heretics, after all. Besides, plenty of Scholars pursue the arts on the side, and work that doesn’t involve our secrets is sent to the markets under assumed names. You may well have seen some without guessing it came from the Inner City.”
“Scholars must create the music for public ceremonies, too,” Brek reflected. “How is that done, Noren? I’ve always known it wasn’t supernatural, as villagers think; still it’s completely different from flute music.”
“Most of it was recorded on the Six Worlds,” Noren explained, “and stored on discs. The sounds originally came from instruments made of metal or wood, instruments we can’t have here. But Scholars do compose synthesized music with the computers—and we can listen to music at the consoles.”
They talked on for a while, Noren describing the rest of the important training techniques: hypnosis for memorizing technical data that would otherwise require years to absorb; discussions, both formal and informal, with one’s tutors; active assistance in the laboratories. Brek listened with avid interest, yet he seemed preoccupied. “Noren,” he asked finally, returning to a topic that evidently still troubled him, “about the water plant breakdown… I didn’t know things like that could happen. Is our survival on this world so precarious in spite of all the safeguards?”
“The more you learn, the more you’ll realize how precarious it is,” Noren said, hoping he would not have to elaborate. The conversation was coming all too close to matters he still did not want to ponder.
“I don’t see how Scholars cope without—without anything to hold to,” confessed Brek. “People on the outside are afraid at times, but they’ve got faith in the Mother Star; they think there’s some mysterious power controlling things. It doesn’t seem quite right to give that up.”
Noren stared at him. “It’s funny you should say that. You’re a heretic—”
“Not in the same way you are. I—I never doubted the Mother Star, Noren. I challenged only the Scholars’ authority. And now, since I’ve learned what the Star really is… I’m torn. I feel empty! Something’s lost that I can’t ever get back again, though I respect the Prophecy for what it is and what it means for the future. I lay awake last night thinking that that might be the hardest part of being a Scholar.” Shamefaced, he mumbled, “I guess you think I’m crazy; certainly all the others would.”
Slowly Noren replied, “Perhaps not. To most Scholars the Mother Star means more than the Six Worlds’ sun. It’s become a sort of symbol.”
Brek looked up, surprised. “A symbol of what?”
“That’s the strange thing… I can’t tell you. I don’t understand it at all. The private rituals leave me cold.”
“What private rituals?”
“Orison, mainly. It’s like the Benison held each morning outside the Gates, only there’s much more to it than reading from the Book of the Prophecy—references to the Six Worlds’ traditions, for instance, and a liturgy that seems to convey something I can’t grasp. I’ve tried to analyze it, but I don’t get anywhere.”
“Can’t Stefred explain?”
“You know Stefred; he likes people to find their own answers, especially about anything serious. And he takes Orison seriously. He goes himself.”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“No, and most of the time I don’t.”
Soberly Brek asked, “Will you go with me, Noren?”
Fighting an odd reluctance, Noren nodded. If Brek felt that he’d lost something, something akin to what ordinary people got from believing the Mother Star was magic, Stefred must know, he realized; the psychiatric examination a candidate underwent was very thorough. Perhaps that was one reason the subject of Orison had been raised that morning. Perhaps Stefred had been hinting that since he’d been given the responsibility of initiating Brek into the Inner City, he should be prepared to enlighten him about its religious observances.
Was it possible, he wondered suddenly, that in this Brek didn’t need enlightenment? Inside, was he afraid that Brek would make sense of the symbols and consider him blind? For the first time it occurred to Noren that they might be intended to learn from each other.
*
*
*
The computer room was built into the foundation of the Hall of Scholars; Stefred’s study was on an upper level of that tower, which, having been designed as a starship rather than a building, was a baffling maze of compartments, jury-rigged lifts, and passageways leading off at odd angles. Its interior partitioning had been altered by the Founders, of course, since in space the outer walls had been “down” in terms of the artificial gravity.
Noren knew all the shortcuts. Hurrying to keep his appointment, he passed through the narrow corridor off which the Dream Machine was located, and to his surprise, overtook Stefred. “We’ve no need to go back to the office,” Stefred told him, “I’d have asked you to come here in the first place, Noren, but I didn’t want you anticipating a dream.”
“A dream—now?” Under ordinary circumstances, for controlled dreaming one reported at bedtime and slept through the night. Moreover, Stefred’s presence indicated that he had just dismissed another dreamer, and it was rare for him to operate the Dream Machine personally. Routine sessions didn’t require the attendance of a skilled psychiatrist.
As he entered the cubicle, Noren smiled, remembering how terrifying it had seemed the first time, when he’d been allowed to give his imagination free reign as to the sinister purpose of the equipment. He would never be afraid in that way again, not of anything!
He settled himself in the reclining chair and leaned back against the padded headrest, awaiting the hypnotic preparation that would send him into receptive sleep. During his dream sessions before recantation, drugs had been used, but these were scarce and precious; a Scholar—who trusted the therapist as an unenlightened heretic could not—had no need of them. Hypnosis was employed for various purposes in training, and one learned early to be a good subject.
But this time Stefred did not proceed in the usual way. “I have reasons for not describing this dream to you in advance,” he said evenly, “and also for plunging you directly into it without any type of sedation. It will be rather frightening, in some respects a nightmare, but I think you’ll find the experience interesting.”
Normally one was unconscious when the Dream Machine’s electrodes were applied to one’s head. Despite himself, Noren tensed during the process, wondering what new challenge lay in store for him. It was apparent that what was ahead could not be merely educative. Only once before had he been awake at the time the machine was switched on, and that had been a deliberate test of his susceptibility to panic. No doubt he was again to undergo an evaluation of some sort. Yet the surrounding array of wires, control knobs and dials was no longer dismaying to him, nor was he likely to be thrown by the abrupt shift of location and identity that would occur when the sensory inputs to his mind were replaced by electronic ones. The point at issue must be his ability to adapt to the conditions of the dream world itself: to adapt quickly, unassisted by the relaxing effects of a preliminary sleep phase. Then why not get it over with? he thought irritably. Stefred could have started the machine long ago, and the delay was nerve-wearing… .
It was meant to be, Noren realized. Reason told him that he had nothing to be apprehensive about, yet an attempt was being made to arouse apprehension through subtle forms of stress. That wouldn’t be done without a constructive aim. He willed himself to remain calm, to enter into the game with confidence; and in the next instant he heard the switch close. There was an explosion of colors before his eyes, followed unexpectedly by total blackness.
Everything around him was black—he was adrift in blackness, falling endlessly into a pit that had neither sides nor bottom. In desperation Noren groped for something to catch hold of. Failing to find it, he reached out with his mind, attempting to draw on the knowledge of the person from whose memories the dream had been recorded. To his dismay, he could grasp no such knowledge. He did not share the man’s thoughts as he had the First Scholar’s, and, to a lesser extent, the thoughts of the recorders of dream visits to the Six Worlds. His personal identity, however, remained stronger than usual, strong enough to reason that the limitations imposed on him must be the result of drastic editing. The recording was composed less of ideas and emotions than of pure physical sensation; his mental reaction to it would be almost entirely his own.
Resolutely he mastered his initial fright. It was impossible that he could be falling; it had gone on too long. There was no such thing as a pit with no bottom. Besides, there wasn’t any sense of motion. Yet his body felt very peculiar, as if it had no weight, and his most basic subconscious instincts interpreted that as a fall. Perhaps he was failing to detect motion merely because he had nothing to relate to, not even the rush of air… .
No air? But that was impossible He was breathing, after all… or was he? The second onslaught of terror was worse than the first; he wondered whether this was death. Could one dream of death—not of dying, but of death itself? Obviously a dead person could not record any thoughts. But this was unlike former dreams, for he had no real alternate identity; maybe it had not been recorded and then edited, but had instead been simulated from the beginning. It was technically possible to do that. Once, some weeks after his recantation, when his growing comprehension of science had led him to conclude that he had no objective grounds for belief in the authenticity of the original dreams, Stefred had let him sample one induced by a faked recording. The difference had been indisputable, and a major part of that difference had been the lack of genuine emotions separate from his own—just what was most noticeable now.
There had been another distinction, however. In the faked dream, the sights and sensations too had seemed unreal. He had been confined to a narrow segment of normal perception, sure that what was apparently taking place could not be happening, could never have happened—yet unable to escape. This was not like that. Unnatural though it was, it
had
happened, somewhere, to someone! It was true… so true that it occurred to him that he might actually have died. Perhaps he was no longer dreaming at all.
The truth isn’t to be feared
, Noren told himself, clinging to the one principle that to him was beyond question or compromise. Slowly the wave of panic passed. There was no doubt that he was breathing; he inhaled and exhaled naturally enough, although no wind touched any part of his body. And his inability to see was probably caused by blindness. He had supposed that the blind knew a softer dark, more like the closing of one’s eyes at night than the jet-black expanse before him, but that evidently had not been the case with whoever had made this recording.
Noren resigned himself, surrendering to the realities of the dream. Suddenly he became aware that he had begun to move—though his fall continued, he was also moving by his own effort. There was purpose in the movement; though he still had no external reference points, his muscles worked and he was going somewhere… A dazzling flash of light hit him. He was not blind; the darkness really existed! In its midst was radiance so bright he could scarcely bear to look upon it. He turned aside and for the first time observed his own body, encased in a thick white garment that covered even his hands. Incredibly, he found himself close to one of the City’s massive towers… but the tower lay on its side. It had no ground beneath it, or any sky overhead.
Something had gone wrong, Noren decided. This dream must be natural, not controlled; only in natural dreams could the disorientation be so extreme. Controlled dreams had logic. One met the unknown, the incomprehensible, but never the incongruities that arose spontaneously while one slept. He had been neither drugged nor hypnotized; he could will himself awake if the dream was indeed natural… yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to. The weightless feeling, now that he had gotten used to it, was really quite pleasant.