Part 21 (1/2)

”You're feeling the emotion of the creatures on the stage,” Kelexel said. ”If it's too strong, reduce it by turning this control to your left.” He moved a dial on the chair arm. The excitement ebbed.

”Is it real?” she asked.

The mob was a wash of colors in antique styles -- blues, flutters of red, dirty rags on arms and feet, rare glitters of b.u.t.tons or emblems, tricorne hats on some of the men, red c.o.c.kades. There was an odd familiarity about the scene that inflicted Ruth with an abrupt feeling of fear. Her body came alive to tom-tom pulse-beats from some fire-flickering past. She sensed driving rhythms of drums within herself.

”Is it real?” she demanded, raising her voice this time.

The mob was running now, feet thudding. Brown feet winked under the long dresses of the women.

”Real?” Kelexel asked. ”What an odd question. It's . . . perhaps real in a sense. It happened to natives such as yourself. Real -- how strange. That idea has never concerned me.”

The mob ran through a park now. Kelexel bent over Ruth's shoulder, sharing the aura of the sensimesh web. There came a wet smell of gra.s.s, evergreens with their resin pungency, the sweaty stink of the natives in their exertions. Stage center focused down onto the running legs. They rushed past with a scissoring urgency, across brown paths, gra.s.s, disturbing yellow petals in a flower border. Wet wind, busy feet, crushed petals -- there was fascination in the movement.

Viewpoint drew back, back, back. A cobbled street, high stone walls came into stage center. The mob raced toward the gray stained walk. Steel flashed in their midst now.

”They appear to be storming a citadel,” Kelexel said.

”The Bastille,” Ruth whispered. ”It's the Bastille.”

The recognition held her hypnotized. Here was the actual storming of the Bastille. No matter the present date, here in front of her senses it was July 14, 1789, with an organized movement of soldiery sweeping in from the right of the mob. There was the clatter of hooves on stone, gun carriages rumbling, hoa.r.s.e shouts, curses. The pantovive's translator rendered them faithfully into English because she had asked for it in English.

Ruth gripped the arms of her chair.

Abruptly, Kelexel reached forward, depressed a gray key at her left. The scene faded.

”I remember that one well,” he said. ”One of Fraffin's more successful productions.” He touched Ruth's hair. ”You understand how it works now? Focusing here.” His hand came forward, demonstrating. ”Intensity here. It's quite simple to operate and should provide you many hours of enjoyment.”

Enjoyment? Ruth thought.

Slowly, she turned, looked up at Kelexel. There was a lost sense of horror in her eyes. The storming of the Bastille: a Fraffin production!

Fraffin's name was known to her. Kelexel had explained the workings of the storys.h.i.+p.

Until this moment, she hadn't begun to plumb the implications behind that label.

Storys.h.i.+p.

”Duties call me elsewhere at the moment,” Kelexel said. ”I'll leave you to the enjoyment of your pantovive.”

”I . . . thought you were going to . . . stay,” she said. Suddenly, she didn't want to be alone with this machine. She recognized it as an attractive horror, a thing of creative reality that might open a h.o.a.rd of locked things which she couldn't face. She felt that the reality of the pantovive might turn into flames and scorch her. It was wild, potent, dangerous and she could never control it nor chain her own desires to use it.

Ruth took Kelexel's hand, forced a smile onto her face. ”Please stay.”

Kelexel hesitated. The invitation in his pet's face was obvious and attractive, but Ynvic, fitting Ruth to the pantovive, had sent a new train of ideas coursing through his mind. He felt the stirrings of responsibility, his duty to the Investigation. Ynvic, the oddly stolid and laconic s.h.i.+psurgeon, yes -- she might just be the weak spot in Fraffin's organization. Kelexel felt the need to test this new avenue.

”I'm sorry,” he said, ”but I must leave. I'll return as soon as possible.”

She saw she couldn't move him and she dropped back, faced the raw temptation which was this machine. There came the sounds of Kelexel leaving and she was alone with the pantovive.

Presently, she said: ”Current story in progress, latest production.” She depressed the proper keys.