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except to tell me what a little monster I was. . .
He walked over to Mary and turned her over.
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A cry from the darkness made him jump. He whirled, his gun ready, but saw no one. Skelder? he
called.
For answer he got another terrible cry, more like an animal's than a man's.
The street ran straight for a hundred yards ahead of him, then turned at a right angle. On the
corner was a tall building, each of whose six stories overhung the one beneath, making it look like a
telescope whose small end was stuck in the ground. Out of its shadows dashed Ralloux, his face twisted
in agony. Seeing Carmody, he slowed to a walk.
Stand to one side, John! he cried. You don' t have to be in it, even if I do. Get out of it! I will
take your place! I want to be in it! There's room for only one, and that space is reserved for me!
What the hell are you talking about? growled Carmody. Warily, he kept his automatic pointed at
the monk. No telling what maneuver this chaotic talk was supposed to cover up.
Hell! I am talking about Hell. Don't you see that flame, feel it? It burns me when I am in it, and it
burns others when I am not in it. Stand to one side, John, and let me relieve you of its pain. It will hold
still long enough to consume me entirely, then, as I begin to adjust myself to it, it runs off and I must chase
it down, because it settles around some other tortured soul and will not leave him unless I offer to dive
into it again. And I do, no matter what the pain.
You really are crazy, said Carmody. You --
And then he was screaming, had flung away his gun, was beating at his clothes, was rolling on the
ground.
Just as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. He sat up, shaking, sobbing uncontrollably.
God, I thought I was on fire!
Ralloux had stepped forward onto the space occupied by Car-mody and was standing there with
his fists clenched and his eyes roaming desperately as if looking for some escape from his invisible prison.
But seeing Carmody walking toward him, he fixed his gaze upon him and said, Carmody, nobody
deserves this, no matter how wicked! Not even you.
That's nice, replied Carmody, but there was little of the old mocking tone in his voice. He knew
nowwhat the monk was suffering from. It was thehow that bothered him.How could Ralloux project a
subjective hallucination into another person, and make that person feel it as intensely as he did? The only
thing he could think of was that the sun's curious action developed enor-mously in certain persons their
ESP powers, or, if he discounted that, that it could transmit the neural activities of one person to another
without direct contact. No mystery in that, certainly; it was within the known limitations of the universe.
Radio transmitted sound, in a manner of speaking, just as TV did pictures; what you heard wasn't the
original person, but the effect was the same, or just as good. However this was done, it was effective. He
remembered now how he had felt in himself the bullets smashing into Mary, and had experienced the
terror of death -- whether it was his terror or Mary's didn't matter, and. . . would everybody he met
during the seven nights transmit to him their feelings, and he be helpless to resist them?
No, not helpless; he could kill the authors of the emotions, the generators and broadcasters of
this power.
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Carmody, shouted Ralloux, seemingly trying by the loudness of his voice to deafen the pain of the
fire, Carmody, you must understand that I do not have to stand in this flame. No, the flame does not
follow me, I follow it and will not allow it to escape. Iwant to be in Hell.
But you must not understand by that that I have lost my faith, have rejected my religion, and
therefore have been flung headlong into the place where the flames are. No, I believe even more firmly in
the teachings of the Church than before! I cannot disbelieve! But. . . I voluntarily have consigned myself
to the flame, for I cannot believe that it is right to doom ninety-nine percent of God-created souls to hell.
Or, if it is right, then I will be among the wrong.
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