As soon became obvious, I was of use to the Centaur-Angel, so it condescended to inform me of certain things . . .

Presently I was beginning to understand that the existence of our world gave rise to reflections in what I suppose you might call the multiverse. To echoes, to backup files, dare I say?

A cosmos recorded information within its own fabric, perhaps in those rolled-up tiny other dimensions which physicists theorize about. A kind of cascade occurred, from reality into lesser, miniature ghost-realities which a.s.sumed a contingent existence-versions of the great original, variations on a lesser scale. Those domains were like dreams compared with our own material reality.

Matter is made of bound-up energy, but ours is more bound- the ice upon the sea, the icing on the cake, the crust upon the pie. Hence, perhaps, the triumph of science and technology in our world, and even of great religions, firm bundles of beliefs.

Wizardry pervaded those bubble-worlds, the power of will and symbols, and in each realm energy gravitated or pooled into a ruling power, a presiding angel or demon. Most of these beings were ambitious and a.s.sertive and engaged in a power play of offense and defense.

Their goal-which they could maneuver toward and interact with to a minor degree-was the primary reality of our own world. How the domain-demons yearned to escape their restrictions and achieve immensity."You shall become my channel," the Centaur-Angel said to me graciously, as if bestowing a boon. "My link. A vent for my triumphal eruption."

Its eruption into our world! It was not the regular human world that unrolled from Jerusalem but this realm and a hundred others, too-rolled up in themselves, awaiting. I had caused a bridge to form between our reality and this other reality. Small wonder that rival Angels had torn my predecessor Isabella apart in their eagerness to acquire her.

"Far better myself, than certain others!" declared the Angel. "You are fortunate, Philip-Wilson. The service of your kind will not be severe, scarcely even slavery." It stamped its feet in a solemn little dance.

I imagined an outburst of light and power from the Black Wall, bearing forth the Centaur-Angel to bestride Jerusalem like one of the hors.e.m.e.n of the Apocalypse, steed and rider comprised in one being,, feeding upon the energies of our universe. This madness must not happen. The doorway must be closed, affinity erased.

"Your reward will be great," said the Angel.

Demons must have promised likewise in the past-to Doctor Faustus and whoever else. These partial breakthroughs faltered and failed. Never before had a person mounted a technological intrusion. How might human beings be constrained to serve this Angel? Us, with our nuclear and other weapons?

"Reigning over your world, I shall gain control of the other realms, too."

Would Armageddon be unleashed?

I slid backward, sore-b.u.mmed, off the saddle. The gun lay disregarded. Ultimately perhaps the Angel was stupid, or tunnel-visioned. Quickly, I picked up the pistol, thumbed the safety off, and fired, fired, fired.

As I emerged into the ruined Hurva Synagogue, I was still shouting. "It's me, Philip!"-as Avner and Avraham aimed, and someone uttered a shriek: Pascoli, had I hit him? No, he was still standing, startled. Illumination from the doorway dimmed as I swung around to see that desert vista puckering in on itself and the oily gloss of the Black Wall draining rapidly as if into a sinkhole, the old stones reappearing. None of my comrades could have seen the Angel within his palace. I think that my first gunshot had ruptured the membrane dividing me from my place of origin. Whether I had injured the Angel in his chain mail at the same time I had no idea, but the ent.i.ty certainly wasn't pursuing me. In case the two As fancied I might be a terrorist, I threw the gun down. The moon was high, casting its own white light.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, what were you shooting at?" demanded Jock.

"At the Centaur-Angel."

Adam retrieved the gun and then-"Hush!"-he was listening to the night in case Pascoli's cry brought army and police swarming. Thank goodness for the gun's silencer. By now the Black Wall had vanished utterly.

As soon as we had left the synagogue, we decamped separately through moonlit lanes, keeping to the shadows. Half an hour later we were all reunited in Avner's flat, and I talked atlast, lubricated by orange juice while he and Pascoli both recorded me.

After I finished, Rabbi Ben said, "We should not be trying to open the Wall but to keep it closed."

"And to keep all knowledge of it closed," added Pascoli.

"Bear in mind," said Adam, "we are relying on the testimony of one person, a person of creative imagination."

I had lost my camera and recorder-much use that I had made of either.

"Philip's experience might be subjective. Another person might have a different experience."

"I believe him!" Jock sounded angry. "You aren't seriously suggesting we mount another expedition?"

"Seems to me," said Ben, "we have enough evidence."

"All deriving from Philip."

"What's certain," Avner said, "is that we must never cede control of an inch of Jerusalem."

This was a very Israeli perspective upon such a cosmic matter.

As for writing a Blake-like epic about Jerusalem and Angels and Armageddon . . . what other great poem could I possibly contemplate, even if only for my own satisfaction, never to see publication? Any such ambition was now thwarted not only by the awesome truth but by fear that the creative concentration involved might form an affinity. What I produced could prove to be a fatal text.

The political situation was becoming hairy. Trained as martyrs, Palestinian kids were throwing stones at Defense Force soldiers and being shot. An Arab informer was executed by his own people. A rabbi was tortured and murdered and his synagogue burned down.

Police stations in the Arab-administered areas were rocketed in reprisal.

Hamish Mackintosh drove me from the hotel to Lod Airport for an early morning flight.

"Time to get you out, old son. Bad security situation. A word to the wise: you will bear security in mind, won't you?"

I knew what security he meant. The domain-demons must stay behind the Wall and not be known about.

I felt like a Sourdeval being expelled from the Holy Land- except that the KBW would keep in touch with me fortnightly *

then monthly by way of encrypted e-mails to which I was expected to reply. Avner had prepared me for this. I even imagined Israeli intelligence agents checking on me periodically without knowing exactly why, except that my activities or lack of them were of importance.

What a great downhill slalom-or shalom-ride, this car journey was, ever downhill in great curves from the dizzy heights which I had ascended weeks earlier, as if we were unrolling toward the ends of the Earth, in my case toward one end of it, England. Where I thought I would be far removed.

How wrong I was.

Charles L. Harness.

I was born in a little town in West Texas noted for aridity and sandstorms. I moved to Washington, D.C. as a young man, married, attended George Washington University, got my B.S. in chemistry and a little later my LI.B., pa.s.sed the D.C. and Maryland bars, settled down to earning a living as a chemical patent attorney and raising a family.

Meanwhile I wrote my first SF short story ("Time Trap," Astounding August 1948) and I've been writing SF with predictable irregularity ever since: 11 novels and 40 shorter pieces. Donald Wollheim did me a big favor in providing a good t.i.tle for my first novel. As submitted to Startling Stories I called it "Toynbee 22." Sam Merwin objected to that, he said n.o.body would understand it, and he published the story as "Flight into Yesterday." Several years later Donald brought it out as a paperback as The Paradox Men. Even more incomprehensible, but it turned out to be irresistible, and I've stayed with it for all subsequent editions.

Today my wife is dead, my children are married and gone away, and live alone in suburban Maryland, surrounded by dozens of family photos and monitored by a neurotic cat. And still writing.

-CH.

STATION GANYMEDE.

Charles L. Harness.

Melchior.

THE man seated at the little desk looked up and smiled genially. "Ah, Mr. Katlin. Do come in, Lieutenant." The speaker was tall and heavy, neither ugly nor handsome.

Something in between. Not fat, just well-padded. Dark hair, gray patches at the temples. A monocle, which he seemed to wear as a badge rather than an optical aid. He wore a gray silk vest with a gold chain that terminated in an expensive artificial heirloom watch.

He pointed to the only other chair in the tiny enclosure, and the officer took it uneasily.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

The host's smile deepened. "I just wanted to let you know that I am your friend, Lieutenant.

Indeed, at this point, perhaps the only real friend you have on Ganymede Station."

"I ... what do you . . . ?"

Dr. Melchior's features shifted into compa.s.sionate mode. "It's those pesky quartermaster records, Gunther. You know, back on Terra? To certain heartless people those records seem to suggest that you sold Navy property to private parties to the tune of some $18,000. The file is presently in JAG's HQ at Luna Base. There it will be carefully reviewed, and a decision will be made as to whether you go back to Terra in irons." He studied the accused quizzically, then laughed softly. "My friend, you are looking at ten years' hard labor."

He waited.

Lieutenant Katlin took a deep breath. "I'm listening."

"Fine, fine. I need a small favor.""And . . . ?"

"Your record at JAG disappears."

"You can do that? Who are you?"

Melchior shrugged. "I serve a very rich and powerful syndicate. Just be a.s.sured that we can deliver. Wipe the slate clean, as it were."

The lieutenant was thoughtful. "Why should I believe you?"

Melchior took a packet from an inner pocket and pushed it across the desk. "Consider it yours. Go ahead, open it."

Gingerly, Katlin opened the flap and removed a couple of papers. After a quick glance he replaced them. "Copies. The originals . . . ?"

"My dear fellow, what we can copy, we can also destroy."

"Okay, you kill the record-in return for what?"

Melchior took a small metal cube from a drawer and laid it on the desk.

The officer took a sharp breath. His eyes widened. He sniffed, as though trying to identify the thing by smell.

Melchior gave a low laugh. "Relax, Gunther. Yes, it's a K-3. Quite safe ... at the moment.

The timer has not been set. In fact, there is no timer."

The lieutenant's chair squeaked as he shrank back. "But . . ."

"It's really quite simple. The weather computer for Jupiter- Deborah-has signaled 'Go.'

Today Commander Rhodes will begin a series of exploratory manned seismic sweeps on the planet. He will lower a search pod, Ariel, from the orbiting carrier ship, Prospero. When he does this, we think he may get signals indicating valuable minerals in the planet's core. We don't want that to happen, because Congressional interest might then shift from Venus to Jupiter, and our Venusian investments would be at risk. We want the search to fail. We want Ariel to fail. Nothing personal against Commander Rhodes or his crew. We have the greatest respect for them. It's all strictly business." He sighed. "How I do run on. But you get the picture."

Lieutenant Katlin seemed hypnotized by the little cube. "I . * * still don't . . ." He had to force the words.

"Ah, my reluctant ally, let me spell it out. The mother ship lowers the little pod on a cable, down into the Jovian atmosphere, down, down, half a mile or so. The cable is attached to a socket lock on top of Ariel. They've made unmanned trial runs, with n.o.body in the pod. They know it works." The speaker leaned forward a little. "Gunther, you have ready access to Ariel.

All you have to do is attach the K-3 to the socket lock. The cube has a special design. There is no timer. A sudden surge in cable tension blows the detonator. And that's your cover. It will look like a local storm surge. Natural causes."

"But Debbie said 'Go.' The weather will be clear!"

"So she was wrong. Happens all the time. Forecasting weather on Jupiter, even with a mainframe like Deborah, is like rolling dice. Anything can happen. In the second hour of the test, Ariel is scheduled to move from one cloud band to another. There are big winds between the cloud belts and this is a very dangerous maneuver. If perchance the cable should snap, no one would really be surprised. You would not be suspected."

"You're saying, maybe it'll break anyway? Before the K-3 blows?"

"There is indeed that chance. Yes, my dear fellow, the K-3 may turn out to be completelyredundant. Think about that. Maybe a sudden, unpredictable interbelt storm, and not the K? 3, will in fact break the cable. You see? You'll never know for sure." He eased back in his chair, adjusted his monocle, and waited.

Lieutenant Katlin sat there, thinking many thoughts simultaneously and all jumbled together.

Maybe he could cut a deal, pay the money back. Nah . . . he'd have to serve some time.

Suicide? Problems with that. Not enough gravity here on this forlorn Jovian satellite to die by hanging. No tall buildings to jump from. Of course he could always just step outside, let his lungs explode. Dead before his frozen body hit Ganymede's implacable surface. He shivered.

Not that way either. Oh, h.e.l.l.

If only this demon would stop smiling.

Melchior pulled out his watch and glanced at it languidly. "Just now you have free access to both carrier and pod. Commander Rhodes and his son are touring Professor Bell's laboratory. n.o.body will bother you."

Katlin sighed. "There'll be two men in Ariel."

"Three, counting Commander Rhodes." The corruptor smiled sympathetically. "Don't feel too sorry for them, Gunther. They signed on for hazardous duty. Their families will be well compensated."

The officer smothered an animal cry, grabbed the cube, and hurried from the room.

Father and Son Commander Marshall Rhodes thought bleakly of past generations of Rhodeses. Count Percy had fought with Richard in the Crusades. Captain William, with the fifth Henry at Agincourt.

Admiral Sir Guy, with Drake against the Armada in 1588. Lieutenant Billy Rhodes had served under John Paul Jones on the Bon Homme Richard. Rhodeses had been on both sides, of course, during the American Civil War. And one or more of them had done his part in all wars since, great and small. And not a scientist in the lot. Until now. He had to face it. His son David had just received his BS in physics and now wanted a graduate degree. A PhD in something called astrophysics. Incomprehensible. Where had he gone wrong?

David Rhodes was athletic, with well coordinated muscles. Everything else about him was pretty much average. He had a light scar on his right cheek-a scuffle with a female red hawk at age twelve. He had been trying to count the eggs. (Three.) Straw-colored hair, blue eyes, a ready smile.

And so David had got his BS in physics and there were no more deferments for his military obligation. Interplanetary Defense notified him to report to posting: a retriever, second cla.s.s.

Polite word for garbage scow. He would spend four safe peaceful years in Earth orbit collecting detritus shed by pa.s.sing vessels and handing out littering tickets. Weekend pa.s.ses every ninety days. He wouldn't be able to start his PhD for four years. After one month on the retriever he reluctantly he called his father. "Well," said his father, "there's this other thing. I'm returning to Ganymede next week. You want to come with me? Jupiter. See the real navy at work, in deep s.p.a.ce. One year on Jupiter plus the year in pa.s.sage counts as a full service equivalent."

So he had taken it.