Flesh in the Furnace by Dean Koontz TO BE A GOD Pertos was a god, of sorts. Aided only by an idiot who nurtured a dark secret, Pertos created living puppets from the Furnace. Puppets complete with intellect and emotions, lusts and fears. But it was not easy to be a god. The puppets had to go back into the Furnace when their task was done. If one created, one also had to destroy. In fact, sometimes it was dangerous to be a god. What if one's creations did not wish to be destroyed? THE FLESH IN THE FURNACE RLI: VLM 7 (VLR 6-9) IL 9-up THE FLESH IN THE FURNACE A Bantam Book / published tune 1972 All rights reserved. Copyright Q 1972 by Dean Koontz. This book may not be reproduced in whole or to part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For Information address: Bantam Books, Inc. Published simultaneously to the United States and Canada Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc., a National General company. Its trade-mark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books' and the portrayal of a antam, is registered to the United States Patent Office and in other countries. Marco Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc. 666 Fifth Avenue New York, N.Y. 10019. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Here is a passion play in five acts of Chinese theater, a cold story for warm people Harry and Diane Record. September The idiot and the puppeteer rode in the cab of the truck, staring ahead at the darkness and the steadily unrolling gray of the ancient road they followed. The idiot's name was Sebastian, an unfortunate one for him. In one sense, such a name implied a weightiness of personality and a richness of detail. The idiot, however, was devoid of idiosyncrasy. On the other hand, a Sebastian might be expected to exhibit a cheerfulness, a certain Alan. But the idiot was most often somber with the press of insoluble irrelevancies, his black eyes staring from beneath the shelf of bone that was his forehead, his too-full lips somewhat loose and his pale hands limp upon his massive thighs. The puppeteer, though, was equal to his appellation. His mother had called him Pertos, after the star legend of Pertos of Arima who had charmed a world with smiles and warm eyes. His father had contributed the surname of Godelhausser before abandoning mother and child, but few used that, the first name being so accurate. Even now, Pertos smiled as he watched the concrete rush under the blades of the air cushion system, illuminated for a brief moment by the yellow lances of the headlamps. It was not that Pertos Godelhausser was a man of humorous disposition. Indeed, he found little to be gay about these days, as old age approached and fortune fled. It was just that, in repose, his face took on the pattern of a smile. "Tell be 'bout it," Sebastian said, scrunched so far down in the seat that only his head remained above the dash. "About what?" Godelhausser asked. The idiot had been overly pensive the last few hours, which meant he was wrestling with some problem or other. "The city," Sebastian said. It was not the thing that bothered the brute. Pertos could see that. But he did not mind talking to Sebastian, even when it was a one-sided conversation. "I've told you a hundred times, I think. "Again?" The puppeteer sighed and leaned back against the cool black plastic of the seat, stretching his neck and shoulders. Once more, he considered the blessing it would be if the idiot could drive. Having given Sebastian the wheel once before, he hastily rejected any notion of repeating that disastrous experiment. "Very well," he said. In truth, he was anxious to hear himself talk, anything to break the dreary hum of the rotars whirling beneath them, to shatter the monotonous pessimism of his private thoughts. "Slowly," Sebastian warned. "Surely. So The city is called Springsun, but wasn't always. Ages ago, before the Emigration from Earth, it was called Boston. It was dirtier then. Shabbier." "I like Springsun more," Sebastian said, shaking his head in agreement with himself. "I would think so," Pertos said. "I find it too sweet, myself." "What?" "Never mind. You're not interested in my opinions. Only in the story." "Tell me." "Four hundred years ago, just before Emigration, when Earth was the only world and the stars were cold and distant, Boston was a piece of Hell. You know about Hell. Ugly clouds of smoke, noxious fumes, filthy drinking water. Homes were insulated against the tremendous noise of an overpopulated world. Nature collapsed and so did society. Everywhere, small groups with their own interests did subtle-and later not so subtle-battle with one another" "Who was the hero?" Sebastian asked. "No hero. Champions exist only in fairy tales, and the story of Springsun is true." Pertos did not pretend that the idiot understood all these fine points, though he continued. "Instead of one saviour there was an agglomerate hero, many men working together. They opened the way to the stars, and. tens of millions followed them. The wonders of the universe were irresistible, as was the untainted air of untouched worlds. In time, only a few remained. But those few were stubborn, and they scrubbed the atmosphere and purified the water until everything was as it is today, all within a century and a half." "Where are the people?" Sebastian asked. "Never returned. The air was clean, the water pure, and the cities had been rebuilt into splendor and mystery. But no one wanted Earth. To shrug off the old image, the cities were renamed and advertising campaigns were launched. But only a few thousand have ever trickled homeward." "You did," Sebastian said. Pertos sighed. "Yes, and I was foolish. Rumor said every man on Earth was rich, and that alien forms of entertainment were welcomed. So I brought my puppets to make my thousands. And I have made thousands. But I didn't know about the departure fee which makes it impossible for all but the richest immigrants ever to return to the stars. They're determined to keep every man here, even if he'd rather go to the stars to die." "I'll die here," Sebastian said. For the first time, he looked at Pertos. The green glow from the control console washed across his pallid face, made his eyes seem strangely alive. "Yes," Pertos agreed. "But you were born here, and that makes a difference." "Where were you born?" Sebastian asked, his voice a slow, measured base as he struggled with each word. "In the city of Blackfawn on the planet Uri-two which circles a sun called Ozalius." He looked at the idiot and frowned at the incomprehension he saw there. "I was born near a far star. And I've been trapped on this godforsaken ball of mud for five years now, trying to scrape up a bit of money to pay departure fees and be gone. And I haven't anything to show for it." "You have me," Sebastian said. Pertos smiled. It was a genuine smile this time, not an accident of his features. "True enough." They rode on in silence, watching the darkness blur past them. In time, the idiot dug his left hand into the pocket of his slacks and took out a plastic card. On one side was his picture, his name and a few bits and pieces about his life. He read these with fascination, for he always found something new to ponder over. On the reverse face of the card, there was a simply worded message for him which told him he came from Soldiersville, Kentucky, his hometown, should he ever wish to return there. It also explained how he could contact government representatives for sickness insurance or for pension movies. He read all this twice, which took a long while, then replaced the card in his pocket. "Were you really born in the stars?" he asked Pertos. "Yes," Godelhausser answered. He no longer felt like carrying on a conversation. Even his permanent smile had a bitter look to it. "Imagine," Sebastian said. "Imagine what?" "The stars. Who would ever thinkfrom stars?" They rode. "Who would ever?" Sebastion asked later. "Stars?" There were a great many trees in Springsun, especially along the avenues before and behind the cultural center. In the darkness of that early autumn morning the trees rustled overhead like conspiratorial old women and shed a few leaves on the heads of the puppeteer and the idiot. The lowering sky rumbled with distant thunder, and the clouds seemed to skim along the peaks of the tallest structures. The air was chilly,and it forced Pertos to stand sheltered by the ogee door of the cargo hold of his truck, t his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his overcoat, shivering, daring from one foot to the other to generate a little heat. Sebastian labored to unload the contents of the van and transport everything inside to the theater's guest quarters. He had carried all their personal belongings inside and was now finislitag with the Furnace, which he handled with great care even though he knew the pieces were unbreakable. As he waited for the idiot to return to take the last piece, Pertos heard footsteps. the stone of the plaza floor that connected all the buildings in the cultural complex. He stepped aroud the end of the truck and watched them: three men their midthirties, all lean and handsome, if somewhat harshly dressed is a severity that was not normal far Earth whom all manner of alien designs were imported and worn.