nor its shape—which was not very well focused—but because it was shimmering slightly, like a shifting haze.
I realized immediately that what it was trying to be was a face. I’m not speaking metaphorically when I say that it was trying, because I was in no doubt that there was some kind of intention involved. The face seemed to be about two meters away from me, directly above my head as I lay on my back looking upwards, but I quickly concluded that this was an illusion. It wasn’t a thing hovering in mid-air; it was some kind of virtual image, projected there in appearance only.
Only for the briefest of moments did I toy with the supposition that the Nine were at work. Their image-control had increased so wonderfully in recent days that they were most unlikely to present such a weak appearance, and in any case, their phantasmal appearances always remained confined by the walls. This one was obviously different. I quickly came to the conclusion that its source was in my own brain.
In short, I was seeing things.
I did what everyone does when first confronted with such an awareness: I tried to stop seeing it. I blinked, and shook my head, but neither of those feeble gestures accomplished anything, save that they made the image shimmer and waver a little more. Having exhausted that line of approach to the problem, I tried the next obvious course, which was to try to see it more clearly, squinting in the attempt to bring it into better focus.
Concentrating hard, I realized that it was a female face, but that something was wrong with the upper part of it. The hair wasn’t right. For a moment, its appearance reminded me of the startling halo of blonde hair that was Susarma Lear’s crowning glory, but then I realized that the strands were much too thick—that they looked more like the tendrils of a sea-anemone than actual hairs. Then I looked at the eyes, which were like dark pits, and I felt a distinct thrill of fear.
The darkness of the eyes was surprising. In my painful and enigmatic moment of contact with whatever it was that lurked in the depths of Asgard’s software space, the Other had become manifest as a group of four eyes, which burned as if with some consuming fire. Ever since the contact I had occasionally had a curious sensation of being watched, as if I were still somehow open to the scrutiny of those eyes. So why, I wondered, should this new apparition—which surely must be reckoned a legacy of my contact—have only empty holes for eyes. These eyes were the very antithesis of the others, which I had called ‘eyes of fire’. These were eyes of vacuum, eyes of awesome emptiness, eyes that promised those whom they beheld a fate so dire and bleak as to be ultimately fearful.
There was no doubt in my mind that this was a threatening ghost, and that its projection betrayed the presence in my brain—in my inmost self—of something hostile, menacing, and dangerous. Something was lurking inside of me that seemed to wish me harm, and here it was, struggling to get outside of me in order to look back at me, not merely to see what I looked like but, by means the act of observation, to transform that which was observed.
The conviction grew in me that this dreadful messenger had come to me with a summons—not the plea for help that I had heard in the moment of my first contact with the gods and devils of Asgard, but a more urgent command. Medusa could not possibly come as a supplicant; she was altogether too stern of countenance for that.
I had no other name to give it but Medusa, and I felt that its gorgon stare was beginning the engagement of a battle of wills whose intended resolution might easily be my petrifaction.
I sweated with the effort of fighting those eyes, gritting my teeth together to express the determination which I had to defeat this influence. I did not want to be possessed; I was not about to tolerate the presence of squatters in my inmost soul.
“Damn you,” I whispered, although I didn’t really think that I could hurt it with mere sound. “Leave me alone!”
The sound didn’t hurt it, of course, and I realized that it was becoming clearer, achieving better focus. I could see the eyes forming on the snakes which grew from the scalp instead of hair, and I could see the flickering of forked tongues issuing from seams that hadn’t been there a moment before. I could see the line of the cheek-bone quite clearly, and knew that its bone-structure, at least, was modeled on Susarma Lear’s—but it didn’t have her hair and it didn’t have her eyes.
In fact, it didn’t have any eyes. Yet.
I felt a shock of panic as I wondered what would happen if those empty eyes should become full, and suddenly the awfulness of their emptiness was nothing to the awfulness of their potential fullness, for if it was indeed Medusa, the addition of those eyes might achieve the threatened end, and harden my own soft features into gray, unyielding stone.
“Get out of here!” I whispered. “Begone!”
But the mere command was ineffective.
Now the snakes were beginning to writhe, and to hiss angrily at one another as if they resented their perverse anchorage and didn’t love their neighbors. Several of the mouths were gaping now, to expose the needle-sharp fangs, and the snakes’ eyes were glowing like red coals. The womanly lips were parting too, very slowly, to expose the teeth within—teeth that were not at all womanly, but pointed, like the teeth of a shark. The jet black tongue that lapped over the shark’s teeth, as if savoring the memory of some previous meal, was forked like the snakes’ tongues, but much thicker, and there was something curiously obscene about its writhing.
And the eyes…the eye-sockets weren’t as dark now, and there was something in those gloomy apertures which looked like the sparkle of distant stars.
I couldn’t doubt that something terrible was about to happen.
The face moved then, coming nearer to my own. It was no longer hovering close to the ceiling but descending, with that tongue still spreading poisonous saliva upon the jagged teeth, and those snakes seething with frustrated wrath, and the stars in the eyes were beginning to shine.…
“Light!” I shouted, breaking the deadlock with a rush of panic. “Light the room, for Christ’s sake!”
It is said that the story of the universe began with a cry of “Fiat lux!” although the story in question has nothing to say on the question of whether there were artificial intelligences already incorporated into the walls that bounded existence, pre-programmed to answer such a call. I had the advantage of knowing that the autonomic sub-systems of the Isthomi were always at my disposal, and I knew that my call would be instantly answered.
It was the right move.
As bright light flooded the room in response to a bioelectric jolt, the gorgon’s face—which was composed of a much frailer radiance—was swamped and obliterated.
The monster never reached me. Its eyes were never wholly formed. And I was made of anything but stone—there was no mistaking the frailty of my flesh, which crawled as only frail flesh can, when it has had a close encounter with something dreadful.
“Merde!” I said, with feeling, as I sat up and wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. I groped for my wristwatch, although the time it showed me would be completely meaningless. There was no cycle of day or night here, and for the moment I couldn’t quite remember whether the digital display was set to refer to a human twenty-four-hour cycle, a Tetron metric cycle, or the forty-period cycle devised by the Scarid armies that had brought chaos to the corridors of Asgard. By the time I had worked out how long I had been asleep, the datum no longer seemed relevant. I did not want to go back to sleep.
I got up and dressed myself, then instructed the kitchen-unit to make me a cup of coffee.
In
