“No, Mrs. Jacks, I don’t think normal medical help will aid your husband,” Strange said into the telephone mouthpiece. There was a pause and Alicia Jacks sighed.
“I don’t know what to do, Doctor. He’s . . . different; caught up in this new crusade. We’re going into something very big, you know. The Crusade for Change? You’ve heard of it?”
“It’s been on all the media, yes.”
“Going by television satellite all over the world practically,” she said proudly. But the pride quickly gave way to the fear she had expressed to Strange. “He’s sleeping, but . . . it’s not the same. He . . . he just sleeps. We don’t . . . I mean, he goes to bed early now, and sleeps very solidly, except . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, umm, it’s not that he talks in his sleep, you know? But he . . . he makes sounds. Threshes about. As if it were a nightmare, except I . . . I can’t wake him up!”
“You’ve tried?”
“Yes, but . . . he just doesn’t respond; at least not until he’s ready. Then he’s up and going and full of plans and things to do.” She hesitated a bit. “Doctor Strange, it’s . . . it’s very odd, you know? He’ll say, ‘I’ll sleep on it,’ kidding like and then he really does. Mel Knowles—that’s our coordinator—wants to know about this or that and . . . and he’ll have to wait until the next day. Then Billie Joe, he’ll have a real precise answer.” Her voice brightened. “But things are coming along real nice, you know? Got ourselves a marvelous network connection in Brazil. Brazil—imagine that. They speak Portuguese there, you know, but I guess enough speak English. And there’s a possibility of Sri Lanka and bits of East Africa, too, by satellite relay. We’re just, well, spreading all over. This crusade is going to be just, well, just terrific!”
“I’m glad you’re happy, Alicia.”
A pause, then Alicia Jacks said, “I just hope this is going to be all right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve . . . I’ve heard him rehearsing his speeches. He used to do them for me, you know? But now he rehearses behind closed doors. But I’ve heard things and . . .”
“Go on.”
“It’s a different message. I know he says he’s seen the word of the Lord, that this is a Crusade for Change and he will be offering that change. He’s a good man, Doctor Strange, y’know?”
“Why is this new message different?”
“I . . . Lord knows, I . . . it’s just . . . I can’t put my finger on it, Doctor. But every day he . . . well, he looks a little bit worn out. This is going to be a great strain on him. He’s not a kid anymore, you know? But he thinks he is or acts as if he is. Drive, drive, drive, he says, but I don’t know. It’s wearing him out.”
“Do what you can for him, Alicia. See that he gets vitamins and eats well—and sleeps well.”
Strange looked at Clea, who looked back from behind hooded eyes. Alicia Jacks apologized for bothering Strange and quickly rang off.
“Jacks is just one man,” Clea said.
“And Joe Peerson is another—also that mysterious marksman,” Strange added.
“A pattern will emerge, Stephen. You’ll see it and act on it.”
“If I see it in time,” he said.
Strange lay awake in their big bed. Clea was asleep next to him, a satin sheet barely covering a curving hip. The constant murmur of the city outside was barely heard in this shrouded chamber. A stub of a candle still burned, putting highlights on the polished carved wood.
Stephen Strange’s thoughts were troubled in the way they are when a name or a fact one knows, but cannot quite remember, hangs there, just out of recognition, tantalizing and annoying. There was some sort of pattern in all this, he thought. There had to be.
That is something for another time, he thought sleepily. I’ll think about it . . . tomorrow . . .
Sleep came quietly.
Drifting . . .
Fragments; color; whispers; part of a wall; a line from a spell about transmutation; the shrouded faces of vanquished enemies; a gray plain; walls, walls, more walls . . .
Strange was walking along slowly next to a wall, looking around in bemused bewilderment. Where was he? What was this? Why was he here?
The walls were gray metal and very high. Above them he could see the stark angles and planes of a mechanized city. Dark ports opened, cold blue lights snapped on, metallic creatures flew into them, the ports closed. A thin black line etched itself into a rectangle, the rectangle swung open, and a silver-domed human stepped out. He looked at Strange curiously, shrugged and walked on. The rectangle closed. Strange watched the man with the silver head turn and walk through a gray metal wall. A black sphere floated into view between the tall gray buildings, then sank out of sight.
Strange stopped with his back against the cold gray metal wall. Why was he here? He couldn’t seem to remember exactly why he had come there. Or who he was, except in a vague, uninterested way. A port opened near him, creating itself out of nothing, and a slender young woman stepped out. Her head was hairless and the top portion of her skull was smooth silver. She glanced at Strange, seemed indifferent, and walked on. She wore snug-fitting gray clothing and Strange could see the play of her muscles and the sway of her long gray tail.
Tail?
Another black sphere floated into view between the buildings, grew closer and settled down between Strange and the next wall. It was as big as a small house, gleaming black, and heavy. A crimson line appeared, circumscribing a perfect circle, which swung out. A pinkish light illuminated the person who stepped out from the sphere. It was . . .
It was . . .
Strange knew he knew the person, but he couldn’t quite see what he or she looked like. If he could actually see the person, he knew he would know who it was. It wouldn’t be difficult. All he needed was a good look . . .
It was . . .
The person crossed the space to the nearest wall and melted into it and disappeared. The plug in the black sphere closed and the ball shape lifted and soared away between the dull metal towers.
Strange walked on . . .
. . . down a hospital corridor. A green-clad surgeon hurried past, followed by attendants moving a gurney upon which a figure lay under a red blanket.
Blood.
Gaping mouth, staring eyes . . . gray skin . . . the color of death . . .
“Strange . . .”
The face moved, the eyes stared, already filmed with the gaze of death. “Strange . . .”
He bent over, the gray bony hand clutched at his shirt front. “Strange ..
“Yes, what is it? What can I do for you? I’m a surgeon.”
“Strange . . .”
“Yes!”
“Strange . . .”
“Yes?” he said wearily. It would go on forever, a cycle of frustration and fear.
He pulled loose from the grasp and strode into an operating room. A nurse put a scalpel in his hand. He put the sharp edge of the tool against the smooth, flawless flesh of a body . . .
. . . blood . . .
. . . Clea . . .
. . . he wielded death in his hand, life and death, but he chose death. Others had died under his hand. He had tried desperately to save them, when he had been a surgeon.
She was dying, this woman he loved. He could not stop it. With all his powers he could not stop the hand of death.
He drew back the scalpel. The blood flowed backward, the flesh closed . . . He could do it . . . The room changed, then changed again. It was chaotic and confused. A long gray corridor . . . mirrors that reflected things that were not there.
He awoke suddenly. There was a siren off in the distance, its shrill note rising and falling, a deep-throated horn blaring. He wiped sweat from his face and looked at Clea. She had turned on her back, the satin sheet stretched tight across her lower hips. She looked beautiful. There was no incision across the soft smooth flesh of her stomach.
He had difficulty going back to sleep.
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