“John Christopher,” Brent said politely. “And who are you?”

Another jerk.

“I see—” Brent found himself understanding, in spite of the impossibility of it all. And the improbability. “You—are the only reality in the universe. Everything else is illusion. Well, that’s nice to know.”

The red colors flared on the opposite wall. The others said nothing.

“I got here by accident,” Brent explained to the fat man. “How did you get here?”

There was no answer from the fat man.

As the interview progressed, a pattern began to become very clear. The fat man probed for facts, the woman for emotional feelings, the elder statesman for beliefs and opinions. The Negro would ask no questions at all. He was there merely to induce pain; the catalyst for the workings of man’s conscience. Brent only sensed all this. He could not have said where the knowledge came from.

Mendez sat through it all, implacable as a Buddha.

The elder statesman now jerked his head, his genial smile almost benevolent. But only almost.

It was like being caught in a cross-fire of four machine guns. Only you could not hear the whine and twang of bullets. Only the ferocity of the assault hit you like some withering invisible hail of terror.

Openmouthed, Brent once more answered.

“You’re way off. Why should I want to spy on you? Personally, I’m not even sure you exist.” It was true. Was it all a bad dream? Would he awaken on the reconnaissance spacecraft to find Skipper poking him to get up?

The puckish inquisitor jerked his head.

“Certainly I know who I am,” Brent rasped impatiently. “I’m an astronaut. I’m here because I’m lost.”

No surprise showed on the five faces up above him. Only a sudden interest. Mendez’s eyes glistened like a cat’s.

The fat man again jerked his head.

“From this planet,” Brent answered him. “But from another time. Two thousand years ago.”

There was still no surprise evident. Only that deepening of interest in the marble faces above him.

“I know, it sounds insane. But if so, it’s my insanity, not yours. So I can abolish you—all of you—anytime I choose.”

They all smiled at that. Benevolently. Matching the elder statesman’s habitual facade.

Brent bit his lip.

He could not see the opposite wall.

The inquisitors had projected, in their various color schemes, a montage of all that had happened.

An image of Taylor, looking like some prehistoric Tarzan, with a bedraggled Nova-Eve in tow, was shown approaching buried New York. The last shot left him striking the wall of ice and vanishing into its wilderness, with Nova screaming behind him.

“No, I don’t know how to get back,” Brent almost mumbled, still oblivious of the story on the wall. “We came through a defect—a kind of slipping in Time itself.”

He caught himself, feeling a wave of self-pity swamping him. “My skipper died. I’m alone.”

Instantly, the images of Taylor and the girl on the wall vanished. They were supplanted by five images of Nova all by herself, wandering in the desert wilderness. And then—

She was projected in all of the inquisitorial colors:

The fat man saw her pulling herself through the octagonal vent. A burst of flaming red.

The beautiful woman saw her asleep in Brent’s arms on the bench in the public square. A shimmering blue ocean of color.

Mendez saw her hammering on the outside of the cathedral’s double door. A purple flash of violence.

The elder statesman envisioned her being seized and removed by the guards on duty in the strange city. A twisting garland of green.

Only the Negro’s wall remained colorless. Bare, blank and white.

The beautiful woman in blue jerked her lovely face.

Brent was instantly on the defensive.

“Who?” he hesitated.

The woman jerked again.

“Nova?” Brent lied. “What’s that? A star? A galaxy?” His heart pounded with sudden alarm for the girl.

At that, the Negro shut his eyes.

Brent cried out. A poker-hot inferno ignited his skull. His brain revolved in stunning flashes of agony. He went down to his knees, tears coming to his eyes. The Negro opened his eyes. Slowly.

Gradually, painfully, Brent straightened. The agony had left as suddenly as it had come.

“I know her—yes . . .”

Silence greeted that.

Brent lost his temper, shouting, “She’s harmless! Let her alone!”

The Negro closed his eyes again.

Rivets of white-hot pain hit Brent from every direction. He went down again, writhing as his entire body was stitched and needled with agonizing pinpricks. He clutched his stomach as if he had been poisoned. His vitals were on fire. His face twisted, his tongue lolled. “All right—” the breath forced itself from his lungs. “I’ll—tell you!”

Smiling, the Negro opened his beautiful eyes.

The woman jerked her head again.

“I didn’t find her,” Brent gasped. “She found me.”

Again, a jerk.

“Two days ago.”

Another jerk.

“Don’t be crude,” Brent groaned. “I’m fond of her. And grateful . . .”

The beautiful woman arched her head once more.

“Because she helped me!”

Another tilt of that lovely face.

“To break out of Ape City.”

All five of the faces looming over him leaned forward. Now all of the heads twitched in unison. Brent’s hands shot to his ears. They were engulfing him from all sides, attacking on every front of his personality and intelligence.

“Stop!” he begged. “I can’t understand—can’t separate—you’re all screaming at me—at the same time! Please . . .”

He groveled, still blocking his ears in order to hear nothing more. Suddenly, incredibly, the face of Mendez softened. His rubbery lips parted and a deep, mellifluous voice sounded in the chamber of new horrors. Brent stared up at him in amazement.

“He’s right,” Mendez said. “He has only limited intelligence. We should speak aloud. And one at a time. Albina.” He looked at the strikingly beautiful woman in blue.

The woman stared down at Brent, her impeccable face almost kind and sympathetic. But it was the illusion of her beauty and her rich, deep tones.

“Are we to apprehend,” she said, soothingly, “that you—were in the City of the Apes . . . ?”

Brent, tremendously gratified though nothing had changed, nodded eagerly. The chamber didn’t seem so terrifying any more.

“Yes. Two days ago.”

The fat man intervened. “What did you see?”

Brent dodged that, side-stepping the question.

“You’re talking . . .”

The elder statesman nodded cheerfully. “Certainly, we can all talk. A rather primitive accomplishment. We use it when we have to. I, Caspay, consider it a vulgar thing.”

“When we pray,” the fat man interjected again.

“When we sing to God,” the Negro said fervently.

Then all of them, all five on the dais, made the hateful Sign of the Bomb. Brent winced, in memory of that sleek monster atop the high altar of the cathedral. St. Patrick’s—my God!

“Your God—what a joke! You worship something we made two thousand years ago. An atom bomb!”

The fat man heaved a long and ponderous sigh. The folds of his fat stomach wriggled beneath his red robes.

“Ah. You’ve seen the Bomb, Mr. Brent.”

“Above the altar in your cathedral. An obscenity . . .”

All the inquisitors rose as one in response to his heated indignation. Their faces were ominous. Even Caspay was no longer smiling. Regal Mendez rose like a lean colossus, his eyes flashing.

“Mr. Brent, you have beheld God’s instrument on Earth!” he intoned majestically. He motioned his fellow inquisitors to be seated. He alone remained standing.

He looked down at Brent.

“For it is written that, in the First Year of the Bomb—the blessing of the Holy Fallout descended from above . .

“What kind of nonsense is that?” Brent interrupted harshly. Mendez ignored him.