Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,38

from the dim recesses of his memory came the phantom image of a ring he once saw his father wear—a black onyx ring, set with a peculiar signet.

“True, nonetheless,” Dr Thackeray said. “I knew him well. His untimely death was a great setback to us.”

“ So ‘untimely death’ can even strike your council of petty gods! ”

“There are occasional power struggles within our... ” Dr Lipton began. He was silenced by a glare from Dr Thackeray.

“Naturally we protect ourselves from our own, ah, methods,” Dr Thackeray proceeded. “As a member of our order, you will have access to medical techniques beyond the dream of those outside. Only rarely does something untoward occur.”

“Why did you pick me?”

“That should be obvious. It was essential to stop your present line of research, certainly. But that could have been a simple matter. No, we’ve had our attention on you for a great while. As I say, your father was high in our order. Your family connections are invaluable. Your own contributions to medicine would have singled you out, even had your background been quite plebeian. You’re a brilliant man, Dr Metzger. It would be difficult to postulate a candidate better qualified for membership in our order.”

“I suppose I’m immensely flattered.”

“You should be,” the surgeon growled.

“And you shall be,” Dr Thackeray assured him. “You will naturally want a certain length of time to consider. This is quite understandably a devastating blow to your past conceptions and ideals. We are pleased to offer you time to consider, to re-evaluate your position in light of this new awareness. You’re an intelligent man, Dr Metzger. I feel certain your decision will be the rational one—once you’ve had time to reconsider your former prejudices and misconceptions.”

“Suppose I decide to tell the world of your unspeakable conspiracy?”

“Who would ever believe you?”

“It’s not that unusual for an overwrought researcher to suffer a nervous collapse,” Dr Lipton told him. “In such cases, immediate institutional treatment is available. We become very sympathetic, and work very hard to help our stricken fellow—but I’m afraid our cure ratio is somewhat grim.”

Geoff remembered, and fear tightened a chill coil around his heart. “I have to think,” he muttered, his thoughts searching frantically for some release to this nightmare. “God, I have to think! ”

“Of course.” Dr Thackeray’s smile was one of paternal sympathy. “We’ll wait for your decision.”

Not very many minutes after Geoff Metzger had dazedly fled Dr Thackeray’s office, a section of the book-lined wall pivoted open. The two noted physicians looked expectantly to the heavy-set man who waited within the hidden niche.

“Well, Dr Royce?”

The eminent psychiatrist grimly studied the monitoring devices focused on the room’s vacant chair.

“No,” he pronounced.

•V•

By habit Geoff stumbled back to his lab. A wounded beast returns to his lair, he thought morbidly.

None of his lab workers had appeared. No doubt they had been instructed to take a day off. His phone worked—at least there was a dial tone. But then they couldn’t disconnect every phone in the Center. Besides, who could he tell? Gwen? She might believe him. More likely she’d call a psychiatrist at the first discreet moment. And even without believing him, her knowledge would endanger her life as well.

It was monstrous. Surrounded by a sterile labyrinth of tile and cinderblock and stainless steel, shelves of gleaming lab equipment, banks of humming research apparatus—watchful in the dead white glare of the fluorescents... God, he’d never realized how sinister a research lab could be. Suddenly he felt like some ancient sorcerer, surrounded by the abhorrent paraphernalia of his evil delvings—a sorcerer who had suddenly succeeded with his conjurations, who now held the bleak knowledge of what demonic powers had claimed his soul.

To become a partner in this inhuman conspiracy was unthinkable. Perhaps its arrogant, ruthless rationality would appeal to certain of his colleagues. But never to him. He could never endure the knowledge of so monstrous a betrayal. He would not become traitor to mankind.

The alternative? Death, almost certainly. Countless others had died for suspecting, for so much as entertaining ideas which might lead to exposing this secret order. He knew. They would show him no mercy. What chance did one man have against a hidden society that had held remorseless power for centuries?

There was a slim chance. His only chance. He might pretend to acquiesce. He could agree to join them in their dread order. Of course, they would suspect; he would be carefully watched. But in time they would accept him. For such enormous stakes he could