Keith Laumer

The human mind is a pattern, nothing more. The first dim flicker of awareness in the evolving forebrain of Australopithecus carried that pattern in embryo; and down through all the ages, as the human neural engine increased in power and complexity, gained control of its environment in geometrically expanding increments, the pattern never varied.

Man clings to his self-orientation as the psychological center of the Universe. He can face any challenge within that framework, suffer any loss, endure any hardship—so long as the structure remains intact.

Without it he’s a mind adrift in a trackless infinity—lacking any scale against which to measure his aspirations, his losses, his victories.

Even when the light of his intellect shows him that the structure is itself a product of his brain; that infinity knows no scale, and eternity no duration—still he clings to his self-non-self concept, as a philosopher clings to a life he knows must end, to ideals he knows are ephemeral, to causes he knows will be forgotten.

Too late, I realized how I had trapped myself. I had let sleep in as a guest, and death had slipped through the door.

Sure—that’s the concept. It wouldn’t be the first concept that had to be modified in the face of experience.

One nice thing about working with a piece of machinery: you don’t waste time trying to justify your actions.

“Quelius—you’re nuts—did you know that?”

“Of course. That’s quite all right. Better embarked on an exciting insanity than moldering away in dull normality. One thing you can’t deny: we psychotics lead interesting lives.”

“It’s an old trick,” the security chief said. “Reverse cunning, we call it in the security game; indistinguishable from utter stupidity.”

“Just what is your position here?”

“I’m an adviser to his Majesty.” Nicodaeus smiled blandly. “He thinks I’m a master of magic, of course, but among these feather-heads a little common sense is sufficient to earn one a reputation as a wise man.”

Magic, after all? He felt the untrimmed hair at the nape of his neck rising. But then, maybe it was just electronics—magic rationalized.

Strange—I go along for months at a time—even years—without so much as a mild concussion—and then bam—slam—bash! They start using my head for a practice dummy. That’s how I can tell that I’m having an adventure.

“Him and his pet dragon—”

“More folklore, I take it?”

“Well, I never actually seen this dragon.”

“Hmmm. Funny how nobody I’ve met has seen it, but they all believe in it.”

Judge a chap on what he does, and not what he is, eh? None of us can help our natural tendencies—and perhaps overcoming one’s instincts is in the end a nobler achievement than not having the impulse in the first place.

Out of the synthesis of opposites, a cancerous growth called Beauty came into being; obscene antisurvival concepts named Loyalty, Courage, Justice were born into the universe.

Wherever the elemental Purities encountered this monstrous hybrid, a battle of extermination was joined. Good could compromise with Evil, but neither could meet with the half-breed, Art.