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TheYearsBest
ScienceFiction
SIXTEENTHANNUALCOLLECTION
EditedByGardnerDozois
Scanned&ProofedByMadMaxAU
****
contents
summation:1999
theweddingalbum*DavidMarusek
1016to1*JamesPatrickKelly
winemaster*RobertReed
galacticnorth*AlastairReynolds
dapple:ahwarhathhistoricalromance*EleanorArnason
peoplecamefromearth*StephenBaxter
greentea*RichardWadholm
thedragonofpripyat*KarlSchroeder
writteninblood*ChrisLawson,
hatchingthephoenix*FrederikPohl
suicidecoast*M.JohnHarrison
huntingmother*SageWalker
mountolympus*BenBova
borderguards*GregEgan
scherzowithtyrannosaur*MichaelSwanwick
aherooftheempire*RobertSilverberg
HOWWELOSTTHEMOON,
ATRUESTORYBYFRANKW.ALLEN*PaulJ.McAuley
phallicide*CharlesSheffield
daddy’sworld*WalterJonWilliams
amartianromance*KimStanleyRobinson
thesky-greenblues*TanithLee
exchangerate*HalClement
everywhere*GeoffRyman
hothouseflowers*MikeResnick
evermore*SeanWilliams
ofscornedwomenandcausalloops*RobertGrossbach
sonobservethetime*KageBaker
HONORABLEMENTIONS:1999
****
summation:
1999
Well, the dreaded Y2K-crisis deadline is past, and so is the changing of the millennium (except for the
calendarpurists,whostillshouldertheproudandlonelyburdenofinsistingit’snotthetwenty-firstcentury
yet,wheneverybodyelseonearththinksthatitis),and,sofar,theworldhasnotcometoanend,theangel
has not descended with the seventh seal, and civilization has not collapsed — more to the point for this
particularbook,thepublishingindustryhasnotcollapsedeither,andsciencefictionhasstubbornlyrefused
todie,althoughstrangelyhopefulnoticesofitsimminentdemisehavebeenputfortheveryyearformore
thanadecadenow.
(Ofcourse,justbecausetheseSymbolicallySignificant Dates have passed, doesn’tmeanthat the human
race couldn’t still be destroyed by a dinosaur-killer asteroid tomorrow, or that civilization, the economy,
and/orpublishingcouldn’tstillcollapseatanytime —it wouldn’tdoto becomesanguine. Nevertheless,
that’sprobablynotthewaytobetit.)
Evenasyoureadthesewords,someone,somewhere,istellinghisfriendswithgloomyrelishthatscience
fictionisdying,isonitsdeathbed,gurglingitslast,issuretoblinkoutlikeagutteringcandleanysecond
now.Sofar,though,notonlyhasthisnothappened,but,allthingsconsideredandtheproperdisclaimers
beingmade,sciencefictionasagenreactuallylooksratherhealthy,hereonthebrinkofanewcenturyand
anewmillennium.
Thenextlineofdefenseistosay,well,thesciencefictiongenremaybemakingalotofmoney,butallthe
qualityhas been leached out of it, and nothing gets published anymore except for crap and media tie-in
books,sothateventhoughthegenremaynotbeabouttophysicallydie,itssouland mindandheart are
dead,ordying.Exceptthatthisisn’ttrueeither.Evendiscountingallofthetie-insandmediaandgaming-
associatedbooks,thereareconsiderablymorescience fictionnovelsofquality being publishednowthan
were being published in 1975 (including a few that would not have been allowed to be published back
then),possiblymorethanwerebeingpublishedeventenyearsago,andquiteprobablymorethananyone
readerisgoingtobeabletoreadinthecourseofoneyear,unlesshemakesafull-timejobofit.(Andyes,
themajorityofthestuffontheshelves—althoughprobablynotasmuchasthefamous90percent—may
be crap, but then, the majority of the stuff on the shelves has always been crap, no matter what decade
you’re talking about. Not even getting into the issue that one person’s crap is another person’s valued
entertainment—some people like media tie-in nov-els!) Although the widely held belief is that most SF
writerscan’tselltheirbooksanymore,thefactisthatmorewriters,byalargemargin,aremakingfarmore
moneyfromwritingSFthanwasthecasein1975,andthatsciencefictionbooks(notjustmedianovels)are
sellingfar better than anyone in 1975 ever dreamed that a science fiction book could sell. Although the
widelyheldbeliefisthatnewwriterscan’tbreakintothegenreanymore,thefactisthatnewwritersarestill
coming into the field in large numbers, as many or more than in 1975, and although some of them
eventuallywillfindtheircareersstalledbypoorsales,atleastasmanywillgoontogrowaudiencesand
become rising new stars. Thanks to (close your eyes! I’m about to commit heresy!) the big bookstore
chains,it’sconsiderablyeasiertofindsciencefictionbooks(orbooksofanysort,forthatmatter)thanit
usedtobe,eveninpartsofthecountrywherethereonceweren’tanybookstoresatall,forallintentsand
purposes;backwhenIwasateenager,intheearly
‘60s,mostbookstoresdidn’tevencarrysciencefictionbooks,letalonehaveasciencefictionsection…
andtheclosestbookstoretomysmallNewEnglandtownwasmorethananhourawaybytrain.Infact,in
spiteofre-lateddeath-of-literacy/nobody-reads-anymorelaments,morebooksweresoldtomorepeoplein
1999thanatanytimeinhistory.AndtheInternetismakingiteasiertofindbooks,bothnewandused,even
in those places not reached by the chain stores (using an on-line used-book-finder service, I’ve recently
trackeddownseveralbooksthatI’dbeenlookingforunsuccessfullyforyearsinmoretraditionalused-book
stores).
Thenextlamentisusuallythatthegenrehasnofuturebecausekidsaren’treadingforpleasureanymore,
having been seduced away by computer games and other forms of media entertainment, or at least that
they’renotinterestedinread-ingfictionwithfantasticelementsanymore—buttheimmensesuccessofthe
Harry Potter books, staggering even by regular mainstream standards, should take care of that one (for
thoseofyouwhodidn’talreadydrawthesamelessonfromtheGoosebumpsphenomenonacoupleofyears
back).
Not that all things are perfect in the SF genre, or that there are no problems or drawbacks. Things are
changinginthegenre,andwitheverychange,someonegetshurt.Buteverychangeisalsoanopportunity.
Thenumberofbooksbeingpublishedinmass-marketpaperbackhasbeenshrinking—but,atthesametime,
thenumberofbookspublishedintradepaperbackandashardcovershasbeenontherise.Thedwindlingof
themidlistandthebacklisthasbeenaseverehandicaptothegenreinrecentyears,buttherearesignsthat
thisisbeginningtoturnaround…andthecomingofprint-on-demandsystemsmaybeabouttomakethe
problemmoot,anyway.
Asusual, therewereplenty ofomensto be found,bothpositive andnegative,and whatconclusionsyou
reached about whether things were looking good or looking bad for science fiction depended on which
evidenceyouselectivelychosetoexamine,andwhatweightyouarbitrarilydecidedtogivetoit. Oneof
Norman Spinrad’s recent columns for Asimov’s, for instance, painted such a black picture of the current
state of the field that we had dozens of readers writing in to the magazine in various stages of panic or
despair,sayingthattheyhadn’trealizeduntilthenthatsciencefictionwasabouttogodownthecrapper.
Atroughlythesametime,PublishersWeeklyranastate-of-the-genrearticlebyRobertK.J.Kill-hefferthat
wasconsiderablymoreoptimisticthanSpinrad’s,almostaggressivelyupbeat,infact.
Isuspectthatthetruthliessomewherebetweenthesetwoextremes,asisusuallythecaseinlife.
Oneofthemajornegativeomensthatcouldbereadthisyearwastheaccel-erationofMergerMania.Inthe
last two years, Putnam Berkley and Viking Pen-guin merged to form Penguin Putnam, Inc., bringing
together under the same publishing umbrella three formerly independent SF lines, Ace, Roc, and DAW;
BertelsmannboughtRandomHouse,includingBantamDoubledayDell,bringingDelRey,BantamSpectra,
Doubleday, and Dell under the same roof; and, in England, the Orion Publishing Group bought Cassell,
whichresulted inthemergerof SFlinesGollancz and Millennium.In 1999, HarperCollinsboughtAvon
Books and William Morrow, bringing two SF imprints, Avon Eos and HarperPrism, under the same
management. (One much-feared merger, though, the announced purchase of Ingram, the largest book
distributor,byBarnes&Noble,thelargestofthebookstorechains,fellapartin1999,muchtothereliefof
independentbookstoreowners,afterreportsthattheFederalTradeCommissionwasgoingtoblockordelay
thepurchase.)
So far, the impact of all this merging has been smaller than feared, with Ace, Roc, DAW, Del Rey, and
Bantam Spectra surviving, for the moment, as separate imprints; nor has the overall number of books
released from Millennium gone down appreciably (it may even have gone up). Things went less quietly
with the HarperCollins/Avon merger, though, with seventy-four people losing their jobs, and the
disappearance of the HarperPrism line, which will be merged into Avon Eos to produce a new line
(incorporatingbought-but-not-yet-publishedHarper-Prismtitles)calledEos.
ThemergeralsotouchedoffanotherroundofEditorialMusicalChairs,afterseveralquietyears,withLou
Aronica,JohnSilbersack,andJohnDouglasallleav-ingjobsateitherAvonorHarper(alittlelater,fallout
fromtheearlierBertels-mann/RandomHousemerger,PatLoBruttoleftBantamSpectraaswell)
—unlikeearlieryears,thoughthegamemayhaveruncriticallyshortofchairs,as,bypresstime,noneof
theseveryexperiencedpublishingpeoplehadmanagedtofindpermanentemploymentelsewhere.
Although all this was sufficient to cause many a sleepless night for many an editor, including me, the
chancesarethattheordinaryreaderdidn’tevennoticethattherewasanythinggoingon,andwouldn’t,even
ifthingsgotmuchworse.Afterallthesmokehadcleared,AvonEoswasleftstanding—asEos
—and,sinceitabsorbedmanyoftheupcomingHarperPrismtitles,theoverallnumberoftitlespublished
duringtheyearremainedaboutthesame.Therewereeventhosewhosuggestedthattheefficiencyandthe
profitability of the genre would improvebe-cause of these mergers, and certainly SF in recent years has
beenafieldwhereagooddealoffatcouldbetrimmedwithoutcominganywherenearvitalmuscletissue.
Sofar,then,SF asagenrehas come remarkablywell through somechoppyseas, with onlythetroubled
magazinemarketreallytakingonanysignificantamountsofwater.Bigchangesareahead,though,aswe
steerintoanewcentury,andalthoughmyguessisthatthesumtotalofthosechangeswillprobablyproveto
bepositive,Ithinkthere’slittledoubtthattenyearsdowntheline,thepublishingindustryisgoingtolook
quitedifferentthanitdoestoday—perhapsevenradically,fundamentallydifferent.
Oneofthemostvalidofthenegativecriticismsleveledagainsttoday’sgenreisthatthebigtradepublishers,
withacautiouseyeontheirbottomlineandlargeamountsofmoneyinvestedineachbook,knowingthat
theyhavetoappealtomassaudiences,aresometimestootimidinthekindsofbooksthey’llaccept,making
itdifficult to impossible for authors with quirky, eccentric work, stuffthatmightappealmoretoaniche
audiencethantoamassaudience,togettheirbooksintoprintinthefirstplace.
Withtheadventofprint-on-demandsystems,however,thisischangingfast,anddealsthatwouldhavebeen
sneeredat as vanity publish-ingtenyearsago are beginning to looksurprisinglyattractive — if youcan
printyourownbook,orhaveitprintedforyoubyasmallpress,haveitlistedonkeyInternetsitessuchas
Amazon.com,andevengetitintothehigher-endchainbookstores,assomeofthemoreprominentprint-on-
demand publishers are able to do, with no need to stockpile large numbers of printed books, and orders
filledonlyastheycomein(nowastage,noreturns,noprint-five-books-to-sell-one),thenwhatdoyoureally
needatraditionaltradepublishinghouseforatall?Oneansweris,fortheup-frontmoney,theadvance.But
sinceyougettheroyaltiesfrompub-lishingyourownbook,withnoneedtosplitwiththepublisherifyour
bookreallysellswell,inhighenoughnumbers,youmaynotmisstheadvancemuch,ifatall.Ofcourse,if
itdoesn’tsellwell,you’vebasicallypublishedyourbookfornothing,nocashreturnwhatsoever.Soit’sa
gamble.Butthen,publishinghasalwaysbeenagambleanyway,evenbythetraditionalmethods.(Another
answerto“Whydoyouneedatradehouse?”is,toprovidepublicityandpromotion—butwithmostlines
doing little or none of that these days, except for the lead titles they expect to make big money on, the
Internetmaysoongiveyouafightingchanceofdoingthatjobyourselfaswellorbetter,too.)
Trade publishers will probably never entirely disappear, even in the most rad-ical of scenarios. But they
may well end up publishing mostly the high-end, high-stakes, high-expectation books by Big Authors,
whileeverythingbelowthatlevelispublishedbyanarrayofsmall-presspublishersfillingnichemarketsin
amuchmorespecialized,(andefficient)waythanhasbeenpossibleupuntilnow,sothatnothingwillbe
tooquirkyoroffbeator“marginal”togetachancetoseekitsownaudience…howeversmallthataudience
mayturnouttobe.NordoIthinkthatthiswouldnecessarilybeabadthing.It’sprobablyharder(though
not impossible) for an author to get rich in this scenario—but then, getting rich has always been an
improbableoutcomefortheoverwhelmingma-jorityofauthorsanyway.
Norisprint-on-demandtechnologytheonlypotentialchangejustdowntheroadthatcouldradicallyalter
the nature of the publishing world as we know it. The on-line booksellers, such as Amazon.com and
barnesandnoble.com, are just starting to have a big effect on things, with quite probably a much bigger
impactyettocome.Thefieldofelectronicbooks,e-books,isalsoinitsinfancy,butalreadybooksandeven
magazines are available to be downloaded into portable handheld computers such as Palm Pilots,
Cassiopeias, Rocket eBooks, Visors, Psions, and others through sites such as Peanut Press, Alexandria
Digital Literature, Memoware, Mobibook, Rocket E-Book, Project Guttenburg, and a dozen other such
sites. An industry insider told me a few months ago, sneeringly, that the sales of such electronic books
would never amount to anything more than chump change, but I’m not so sure. Sales of handheld
computersareclimbingfast,andI’mwillingtobetthatwithintwoorthreeyears,fourorfiveatmost,most
ofthehomesthathaveaPCwillalsohaveahandheld—ormorethanone.
Sothereareinterestingtimesaheadofus,inthenextcentury,inthenextmillennium.Thingswillprobably
be“interesting”afterthefashionofthefamousoldChinesecurse,ofcourse,butlet’shopethatthingswill
also be “interesting” in the more traditional, straightforward usage of the word, interesting because
suddenlywecanseedozensofnewpotentialsandnewhorizonsopeningupbeforeuswherebeforethere
wasonlyonepossibility—ornone.Inthatsense,thecenturyaheadmaybeveryinterestingindeed.
Orsowecanhope.
****
Onceagain,itwasabadyearinthemagazinemarket,withsalesdownalmostacrosstheboard,andnotjust
ofsciencefictionmagazines,either;manymagazinesfaroutsidegenreboundarieswereaffectedaswell.
Lastyear,Ipredicted,perhapsincautiously,thatmostofthegenremagazineswouldprobablysurviveinto
thenextcentury—well,alas,Iwaswrong.Becausethebigstoryintheprofessionalmagazinemarketwas
thedeath,earlyin2000,ofScienceFictionAge,whichceasedpublicationwithitsMay2000issue.
ScienceFictionAge’scirculationhadslippedsteadilyforthelastfouryears,slip-pinganother26.3
percentin 1999.Accordingto Science Fiction Age’s formereditor,ScottEdelman,though, the magazine
wasstillprofitablewhen itwaskilled,mostlybecauseoftheadvertisingrevenueitbroughtin—justnot
profitableenoughforpar-entcompanySovereignMedia,whoaremakinggreaterprofitsontheirnongenre
magazinessuchaswrestling,media,andlog-cabinhobbyistmagazines,anddecidedtousethemoneytied
upinScienceFictionAgetostartsomeotherkindofmagazineinsteadwheretheycouldexpectagreater
returnontheirinvestment.
ThedeathofScienceFictionAgeisamajorblowtothefield;notonlywasScottdoingagoodjobwiththe
magazine,havingturneditintooneofthetopmarketsinthebusiness,butitwasoneofthefewmagazines
thesedaysthatwaspublishingapredominanceofgoodsolidcoresciencefiction,ratherthanthefantasy,
horror,andslipstreamthatsaturatesmuchoftherestofthefield,partic-ularlyatthesemiprozinelevel.It
willbesorelymissed.
Thenewsintherestofthemagazinemarketwashardlymuchmorecheerful.Salesweredowneverywhere.
Afteran11percentgaininoverallcirculationin1998,Asimov’sScienceFictionregistereda24.1percent
lossinoverallcirculationin1999,althoughnewsstandsaleswerestillslightlyhigherthanin1997.Analog
Science Fiction & Fact registered a 13.4 percent loss in overall circulation in 1999, although their
newsstand sales were also slightly higher than in 1997. The Mag-azine of Fantasy &Science Fiction
registereda6.3percentlossinoverallcircu-lation,thesmallestdropofanyoftheprofessionalmagazines,
most of that in newsstand sales. Realmsof Fantasy registered a 10.7 percent loss in overall cir-culation,
slipping in both subscription and newsstand sales. Interzone held steady at a circulation of about four
thousandcopies,moreorlessevenlysplitbetweensubscriptionsandnewsstandsales.Circulationfigures
forAmazingarenotavail-able,butsalesarerumoredtobesomewhereinthetenthousand-copyperissue
range,mostofthatsoldonthenewsstands.
AsI’vementionedbefore,someofthesefiguresprobablylookworsethantheyactuallyare.Manyofthese
magazines,eventheoneswithdecliningcirculations,mayhaveactuallyincreasedtheirprofitabilityinthe
lastcoupleofyearsbyad-justingtheir“draw”(sendingfewerissuestonewsstandsthathabituallysellless,
so that fewer issues overall need to be printed and distributed in order to sell one issue, increasing the
magazine’sefficiency,andtherebyloweringcosts—andsoincreasingprofitability)institutingcost-saving
proceduresinprintingandphysicalproduction,targetingdirect-mailoutletssuchasbookstoresasopposed
toscatter-shotmassmarkets(magazineracksinsupermarkets—whereSF
magazinesusuallydon’tsellwell),andeliminatingtheirrelianceonPublishersClearingHouse-stylecut-
ratestamp-sheetsubscriptions,whichcanactuallycostmoretofulfillthantheyactuallybringininrevenue.
The(more or less) digest-sized magazines (trim size went up slightlyforAsimov’sand Analog last year,
withF&SFtheonlyremaining“true”digest-sizedmagazine—buttheprincipleremainsthesame)alsohave
thetraditionaladvantagethathasalwayshelpedthedigestmagazinestosurvive,thatthey’resocheapto
produceinthefirstplacethatyoudon’thavetosellverymanyofthemtomakeaprofit—whereasalarge-
formatslickmagazinelikeScienceFictionAgeismuchmoreexpensivetoproduce,whichinturnmeans
thatyouneedtosellagreaternumberofcopiesinordertobeprofitable.
Nevertheless,thecontinueddeclineincirculationoftheprofessionalmagazinesisworrisome.Partofthe
problemforthesemagazinesistheirrelativeinvisibility.It’sharderthaneverfortheSFmagazinestoget
out on the newsstand, because of magazine wholesaler consolidation and the recent upheavals in the
domesticdistributionnetwork,whichmeansfewerchancestoattractnewsubscriberstoreplacethelossof
old subscribers through natural attrition. The blunt fact is that most people —including many habitual
sciencefictionreaders(even,astonish-ingly,manyconvention-attendingSFfans)—havenoideathatthe
SFmagazinesevenexist,andeveniftheydoknowabouttheirexistence,haveprobablyneverseenacopy
offeredforsale.Actually,consideringthatthereisabsolutelynoad-vertisingorpromotiondoneformostof
these magazines, none, zero, it’s no won-der that most people have never heard of them. In a way, it’s
surprisingthattheysellaswellastheydo.Whatotherproductdoyouknowthatsellsitselfcompletelyby
wordofmouth,withnoadvertisingorpromotionalbudgetatall?
IhaveafeelingthatuseoftheInternetasapromotionaltool,usingWebsitesandotheron-linemeansto
pushsales ofthe physicalproductthrough subscrip-tions,is what’s goingtosave thesemagazines inthe
end,ifanythingcan.OnlytimewilltellifInternetpromotioncanturnthingsaround,helpthemagazinesdo
anend-runaroundthebottleneckofdwindlingpresenceonthenewsstands,ofifit’llturnouttobeacaseof
toolittle,toolate.
Meanwhile,notallofthenewsinthismarketwasdownbeat.TheInternetWebsitesforbothAsimov’sand
Analog, which went up in 1998 (Asimov’s site is at http: //www.asimovs.com, and Analog’s is at
www.analogsf.com)continuetobringinasmallbutsteadyflowofnewsubscriptionseverymonth,manyof
themfromheretoforeuntappednewaudiences(particularlyfromotherpartsoftheworld,whereinterested
readers have formerly found it difficult to subscribe because of the difficulty of obtaining American
currencyandbecauseofotherlogisticalprob-lems),andIpresumethatthesameisthecasewiththenewish
Web sites for other professional magazines, such as The Magazine of Fantasy &Science Fiction (http:
//www.sfsite.com/fsf/)andInterzone(http://www.sfsite.com/interzone/).Asimov’sandAnalogalsoworked
outadealwithPeanut Press(http://www.peanutpress.com)latein1999thatenablesreaderstodownload
electronicversionsofthemagazinesintoPalmPilothandheldcomputers,withthechoiceofeitherbuying
anelec-tronic“subscription,”orofbuyingthemindividuallyonanissue-by-issuebasis;thenumbershere
havebeen small so far, but sales are growing steadily,andsinceitseems to me that this is anareawith
almostunlimitedpotentialforgrowth,thiscouldbealotofhelpaswell.
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction celebrated its fiftieth anniversary in 1999, while Analog
celebrated its seventieth anniversary early in 2000, Asimov’s celebrated its twenty-second anniversary,
Interzoneitsninthfullyearasamonthlymagazine(themagazineitselfwasfoundedin1982),andRealms
ofFantasycom-pleted its fifth full year of publication as one of the healthiest of the genre mag-azines,
partially because of the enormous amount of advertising revenue it is reputed to draw. Amazing Stories,
whichreturnedfrom the dead last year as aglossy mixed SF/media magazine, completed its second full
yearofpublicationinitsnewincarnation(thetitleitselfhasbeenaround,inoneversionoranother,since
1926);parentcompanyWizardsoftheCoastwassoldtoHasbroin1999,butearlyindicationsarethatthis
won’thurtAmazing—infact,itmayevenmeananewinfluxofmoneyforit,andhelpitgetdistribution
alongwithHasbro’scard-gamingmagazine,TopDeck.
Otherthanchangesdiscussedabove,thegeneralinformationformostofthesemagazinesremainsmoreor
lessthesameaslastyear,asfaraspersonnelandformatareconcerned.
Allofthesemagazinesdeserveyoursupport,and,infact,intoday’stroubledmagazinemarket,oneofthe
very best things you can do to ensure that short fiction remains alive and viable in the science
fiction/fantasymarket(and,byextension,thatthegenreitselfremainshealthy,sincemostofthesignificant
evo-lutionofthefieldgoesonatshort-storylength)istosubscribetothemagazinesthatyoulike.Infact,
subscribetoasmanyofthemasyoucan—it’llstillturnouttobeabetterreadingbargain,morefictionof
reliablequalityforlessmoney,thanbuyingtheyear’shit-or-misscropoforiginalanthologiescouldsupply.
(Subscription addresses follow: The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Mercury Press, Inc., 143
Cream Hill Road, West Cornwall, CT 06796-$29.97 for annual in U.S.; Asimov’s ScienceFiction, Dell
Magazines, P.O. Box 54033, Boulder, CO 80322-4033-$39.97 for annual subscription in U.S.; Analog
ScienceFictionandFact,DellMagazines,P.O.Box54625,Boulder,CO
80523-$39.97 for annual subscription in U.S.; Interzone,217 Preston Drove, Brighton BN1 6FL, United
Kingdom,$60foranairmailone-year(twelveissues)subscription.AmazingStories,sende-mailtoorcall
800-395-7760,$10.95forafour-issue(one-year) subscription.RealmsofFantasy, Sovereign MediaCo.,
Inc.,P.O.Box1623,Williamsport,PA17703—$16.95forannualsubscriptioninU.S.Notethatmanyof
thesemagazinescanalsobesubscribedtoelectronicallyon-line,attheirvariousWebsites.)
It was another chaotic year in the still very young field of on-line electronic publishing, and although it
remainstruethatthegreatpromiseofon-line-onlyfictionremainedlargelyunfulfilledthisyear(asfaras
SFisconcerned,anyway),thisisanareawherethingsarechangingveryfast,andeverythingcan(andprob-
ablywill)lookcompletelydifferentjustafewmonthsdowntheline.
Mostoftheyear’sbigstoriesinthismarketwerenegative,althoughsomepo-tentiallyverypositivestories
are still just over the horizon as I write these words. Last year saw the death (as an active electronic
magazine, anyway) of Algis Budrys’s e-zine Tomorrow, while this year saw the death of Ellen Datlow’s
Event Horizon site (itself a replacement for the earlier Omni Online site, now also defunct, for which
Datlow had been fiction editor). Launched in mid-1998, Event Horizon had quickly established itself as
perhapsthemostreliableplaceon-lineinwhichtofindgoodprofessional-leveloriginalSF/fantasy/horror
stories,oneofwhich,KellyLink’s“TheSpecialist’sHat,”hadwonaWorldFantasyAwardbytheendof
1999.Unfortunately,bytheendof1999,themoneyhadalsorunout,and,unabletofindfurtherfinancial
backing,EventHorizondied.
Bythebeginningof2000,though,theindomitableEllenDatlowhadalreadylandedanewjobon-line,as
the fiction editor for a forthcoming major new Web site to be launched in April of this year, part of an
extensiveexpansionandren-ovationoftheSciFichannelsite(scifi.com),whichrecentlyboughtthelong-
runninge-zineScienceFictionWeekly,andisalsohometotheaudio-playsiteSeeingEarTheater,and to
themonthlySF-orientedchatshostedbyAsimov’sandAnalog;Datlow will be publishing SF stories and
novellasonthesiteonamonthlybasis,and,ifhistoryisanyguide,thechancesarethatthiswillmakeita
majorplayerintheon-linefictionmarket.Alsoopeningatthebeginningoftheyearwasanothermajornew
site,GalaxyOnLine(runbyrenownedSFeditor/writerBenBova),whichfeaturesadistinguishedlineupof
columnistssuchasHarlanEllison,MikeResnick,JoeHaldeman,JackDann,KristineKathrynRusch,and
manyothers,runsscientificarticlesandbookandmoviereviews,andwhich,todate,haspublishedoneon-
lineoriginalSFstory,byOrsonScottCard.Iftheycontinuetopublishoriginals(andit’stobehopedthat
theydo),thissitecouldbecomeamajorplayerinthismarketaswell.Moreonbothofthesesitesnextyear.
Forthe moment,though,with EventHorizongone, good professional-level short original science fiction
stories(storiesmakingtheirinitial“appearance”inelec-tronicform)havebecomeratherhardtofindon-
line. Of the surviving sites that publish original short fiction, some of the most interesting ones include
Talebones(http://www.fairwoodpress.com/),DarkPlanet(http://www.sfsite.com/darkplanet/),
Chiaroscuro (http://www.gothic.net/chiaroscuro/) Inter Text (http://www.intertext. com/), and E-Scape
(http://www.interink.com/escape.html).Most ofthesesiteslean heavily toward horror (it’s currently a lot
easier to find original horror stories online than original SF stories, it seems), although you will find an
occasionalsciencefictionstorythereaswell.
ThereareafairlylargenumberofsiteshereandtherearoundtheInternetthatarchivegoodreprintSF
stories.TheBritishInfinityPlus(htt://www.users.zetnet.co.uk/ipjus/)isagoodgeneralsitethatfeaturesa
veryextensiveselectionofgood-qualityreprintstories,most(thoughnotall)byBritishauthors,aswellas
extensive biographical and bibliographical information, book reviews, and critical essays. At Mind’sEye
Fiction(http://tale.com/ghenres.htm),youcanreadthefirsthalfofaselectionofreprintstoriesforfree,but
ifyouwanttoreadthesecondhalfofthestory,youhavetopayasmallfee(lessthanfiftycentsperstoryin
mostcases)fortheprivilege,whichyoucandobysettingupanelectronicaccounton-lineandthenclicking
afewbuttons.Reprintstories(aswellasnovels)arealsoavailabletobeboughtindownloadableelectronic
formats at Alexandria Digital Literature (http://alexlit.com). In addition to the pro-magazine sites listed
previously, there are also many SF-oriented sites that are associated with existent print magazines —
Eidolon: SF Online (http://www.eidolonjiet/); Aurealis (http://www.aurealis.hl.net/) Altair
(www.sfsite.com/altair/); TransVersions (http://www.salmar.com/transversions/); Albedo
(http://homepage.eircom.net/~goudriaan/);OnSpec(http://www.icomm.ca/onspec/),butalthoughmanyof
them have extensive archives of material, both fiction and nonfiction, previously published by the print
versionsofthemagazines,fewofthempublishoriginalon-line-onlyfictionwithanyregularity;although
maga-zineslikeAsimov’sandAnalogregularlyrunteaserexcerptsfromstoriescomingupinforthcoming
issues.EidolonOnline,whichpublishedagoodoriginalstoryin1997,doesn’tseemtohavepublishedany
completeon-lineoriginalssince.
(Ifnoneofthesesiteshassatisfiedyourlustfore-zines,youcanfindlotsofoth-ergenreelectronic
magazinesbyaccessinghttp://dir.yahoo.com/Arts/Humanities
/Literature/Genres/Science_Fiction_and_Fantasy/, but much of the stuff you’ll find on these sites is no
betterthanslush-pilequality.)
Althoughprofessional-leveloriginalfictionmaybesomewhatscarce,therearealsomanygeneral-interest
sitesthatareamongthemostprominentSF-relatedsitesontheInternet,sitesthat,whiletheydon’tpublish
fiction,dopublishlotsofreviews,criticalarticles,andgenre-orientednewsofvariouskinds.
AmongthesitesIvisitthemostfrequentlywhileWebsurfingare:theSFSite(www.sfsite.com/),oneofthe
most important genre-related sites on the whole Web, which not only features an extensive selection of
reviews of books, games, and magazines, inter-views, critical retrospective articles, letters, and so forth,
plusahugearchive ofpastreviewsbutwhich alsoserves ashostsiteforthe Webpagesofa significant
percentageofalltheSF/fantasyprintmagazinesinexistence,allofwhichcanbeaccessedeitherdirectlyor
referencedfromtheFictionhomepage(http://www.
sfsite.com/fiction/fichome.com.htm);Locus Online(http://www.locusmag.com),theon-line version ofthe
newsmagazine Locus; a great source for fast-breaking genre-related news, as well as access to book
reviews,criticallists, databasearchives, listsof linksto othersitesofinterest,andto MarkKelly’sshort
fiction-reviewcolumn,whichatpresentistheonlyplaceontheNetwhereyoucanfindregularlyappearing
reviewsofSFandfantasyshortfiction;ScienceFictionWeekly(http://www.scifi.com/sfw/),moremedia
andgamingorientedthanSFSiteorLocusOn-line,butwhichalsofeaturesnewsandbookreviewsinevery
issue, as well as providing a home for an erudite and sometimes controversial column by SF’s premier
critic,JohnClute(andwhichisabouttoundergoamajorrenovationaspartofthenewscifi.comi.site);and
SFFNET(http://www.sff.net)ahugesitefeaturingdozensofhomepagesand
“newsgroups”forSFwriters,genre-oriented“livechats,”alinktotheLocusMagazineIndex1984-1996,
andalinktotheresearchdataandreadinglistsavailableontheScienceFictionWritersofAmericapage
(whichcanalsobeaccesseddirectlyathttp://www.sfwa.org/.)Anewgeneralreview
site,SFRevu(http://www.sfsite.com/sfrevu),seemedtohavediedlatelastyearwhen,overcomewithennui,
itseditorburnedoutandgaveuponit,butit’sbackinbusinessagainasofearly2000,theeditorhaving
gotten a second wind. Similarly, up until a few days ago, I would have said that the extremely valuable
short-fiction review site, Tangent Online (http://www.sfsite.com/tangent/), had died, as nothing new had
been posted there from early August 1999 until mid-March 2000, but editor David Truesdale has lately
resurfaced,blamingtechnicaldifficultiesandatoo-fullworkscheduleforhislongsilence,andvowstoget
TangentOnlinegoingagainonaregularbasis;mind,there’sstillnothingnewpostedthereasItypethese
words,someweekslater,butTruesdale’sreassurancesatleastgivemesomehopethatTangentOnlinewill
somedaybereborn—whichwouldbeagoodthingfortheentiregenre,asvenuesthatregularlyreviewshort
fiction are vanishingly rare, either in print or on-line. If keeping up with all this still doesn’t give you
enoughtodo,liveon-lineinterviewswithprominentgenrewritersare alsoofferedonaregular basison
manysites,includinginterviewssponsoredbyAsimov’sandAnalogandconductedbyGardnerDozoison
theSci-Fichannel(http://www.scifi.com/chat/)everyotherTuesdaynightat9:00
p.m. EST; regular scheduled interviews on the Cybling site (http://www.cybling.com/); and occasional
interviewsontheTalkCitysite(http://www.talkcity.com/).Geniehasforallintentsandpurposesdied,but
manybulletinboardservices,suchasDelphi,CompuServe,andAOL,havelargeon-linecommunitiesof
SFwritersandfans,andsomeoftheseservicesalsofeatureregularlyscheduledliveinteractivereal-time
“chats”orconferences,inwhichanyoneinterestedinSFiswelcometoparticipate.
TheSF-orientedchatonDelphi,everyWednesdayatabout10.00p.m.EST,istheonewithwhichI’mmost
familiar,buttherearesimilarchatsonSFF.Net,andprobablyonotherBBSsaswell.
Another way to kill time on the Net with SF-related activities is to listen to audio-play versions of your
favorite SF stories. The best site for this at the moment is the long-established (by Internet standards)
Seeing Ear Theater (http:// www.scifi.com/set/), but coming up this year is another new audio-play site,
Beyond2000(www.beyond2000.com),whichwillfeatureweeklyhour-longdramaticpro-gramshostedby
HarlanEllison.Andsoon,youmaybeabletowatchSF-orientedoriginalWebTVshowson-lineaswell,if
sitessuchasGalaxyOnlineandscifi.comcanbringtheirplanstofruition.
Many of the criticalzines also have Web sites, including The New York Review of Science Fiction
(http://ebbs.english.vt.edu/olp/nyrsf/nyrsf.html), Nova Express (http://www.delphi.com/sflit/novaexpress/),
andSFEye(http://www.empathy.com/eyeball/sfeye.html),althoughmostofthesesitesarenotparticularly
activeones.Foramuchmoreactivesite,onethatprovidesafunnyandofteniconoclasticslantongenre-
oriented news, check out multiple-Hugo-winner David Langford’s on-line version of his fanzine Ansible
(http://crete.dcs.gla.ac.uk/Ansible/).
Specu-lations,which recently abandoned its print edition (see below) also has a fairly lively Web site at
(http://www.speculations/com).
It’sworthkeepingacloseeyeonwhat’shappeninginthisarea,sincethewholeon-linemarketischanging
sofastthatyoucanmisssomethingjustbyturningyourheadforamoment;it’llalmostcertainlylookvery
differentnextyearthanitdoesnow.
Iwonderifit’snoteventuallygoingtobethefateofmostsemiprozines,bothfictionsemiprozinesandthe
academicallyorientedcriticalones,togiveuptheirprinteditionsandbereborninelectronicon-line-only
formats,asTangentandSpeculationshave already done. Only time will tell. In the meantime, it was an
uneven year in the semiprozine market, as always, with old titles dying, older ones being reborn, others
fallingintothatsilentsemiprozinelimbothatisusuallyabadsigninthisarea,andhopefulnewcontenders
castingthemselvesintotheringevenasbeatencontestantsarecarriedoutonstretchers.
The big story this year for most folks would probably be the mind-boggling rebirth of the fiction
semiprozineCentury,afteralmostfouryearsoftotalsilence,butsincethenewissueisdated2000,we’ll
havetoletareviewofitgountilnextyear.(Inthemeantime,ifyou’dliketotakethechancethatCentury
won’tvanishagain,andsubscribe—andthiswaswidelyconsideredtobeperhapsthebestandmostliterate
of the fiction semiprozine back in its glory days—we’ll list the sub-scription address below.) The long-
awaited(alsoforyears) firstissueof ArtemisMagazine:Science and Fiction for aSpace-Faring Society
alsocameoutlatein1999,butbecauseit’salsodated2000,we’llwaittoreviewitnextyearaswell(and
we’lllistitssubscriptionaddressbelow,ifyouwanttotakeachanceonit).
Thebigstoryinthismarketforlastyearwastheconsolidationofseveralfictionsemiprozinesunderthe
umbrella of Warren Lapine’s DNA Publications, which now publishes Pirate Writings, Tales ofFantasy,
Mystery(5ScienceFiction;Abo-riginalScienceFiction;WeirdTales;andtheall-vampire-fictionmagazine
Dreams of Decadence; as well as Lapine’s original magazine, AbsoluteMagnitude, The Magazine of
Science Fiction Adventures. (Last year, it was widely reported that the Australian magazine Altair:
AlternativeAiringsinSpeculativeFictionwasgoingtobejoiningtheDNAgroupaswell,butthatdoesn’t
seemto have happened —at least, Altairis at present maintaining a separate subscription address, and a
separateWebpage.)InDNAPublication’sfirstyear,Lapinehasdoneagoodjobofbeginningtostabilize
publicationschedulesforthemagazines,whichallpub-lishedmorefrequentlythantheyhadlastyear(with
theexception,oddly,ofLap-ine’sownAbsoluteMagnitude),subscriptionrateshavealsobeguntocreepup
for all of them, and Lapine is reported to be pleased with their success so far, and optimistic about the
future.Nowheneedstoworkonproducingamorereliablelevelofqualityinthefictionpublishedbythose
magazines, which, at the moment, is widely uneven, varying dramatically not only from story to story
withinthesamemagazinebutfromtitletotitle.
The best overall level of fiction in the DNA magazines this year was probably to be found in Absolute
MagnitudeandAltair,withtheothermagazinestrailingbehind.Still,letuskeepourfingerscrossedthatthe
DNAmagazinesaregoingtoturnouttobeasuccessstoryfinancially,because,frankly,thefictionsemipro
marketcoulduseone.(InformationaboutalloftheDNAPublicationsmagazinescanbefound
athttp://www.sfsite.com/dnaweb/home.htm.)
MarionZimmer Bradley’sFantasyMagazine, one of the most reliably published of all the semiprozines,
completeditstwelfthyearofpublication,and,sofar,hassurvivedthedeathoffounderandcoeditorMarion
ZimmerBradleyin1999(seebelow),withplanstocontinuethemagazineforatleastanotheryear.
TerraIncognita,oneofthenewersemiprozines,andonethathasmaintainedahighlevelofliteraryquality
over the last couple of years (although a low level of reliability, as far as meeting their announced
publishingscheduleisconcerned),managedtopublishnoissueatallin1999,letalonethefourtheywere
supposedtohaveproduced,althoughapparentlyanissuedideventuallyappearearlyin2000,whichwe’ll
considerfornextyear.Similarly,therewassupposedlyanissueofTalesoftheUnanticipatedpublishedthis
year,butwedidn’tseeitintimetoconsideranythingfromitforthisvolume,andwillhavetoholditover
forlater.ThecuriouslynamedLC-39startedthisyear,butalthoughit’sahandsomepro-duction,looking
morelikeasmall-sizedtradepaperbackthanamagazine,mostofthefictioninitstruckmeasratherweak;
maybeit’llgetbetterasitgoesalong.Odyssey,anambitiousfull-size,full-colorBritishmagazine,diedthis
year (perhaps because it never really could decide whether it was a science fiction magazine, a
horror/fantasy magazine, or a media/gaming-oriented magazine, or perhaps merely because it was too
expensivetoproduce),asdidold-timerCrank!andmayfly-fastnewcomerAgeofWonderlastyear.There
were no issues of Non-Stop, Xizquil, Argonaut Science Fiction, NextPhase, Plot Magazine, or The
ThirteenthMoonMagazineoutthisyear,asfarasIcouldtell,forthesecondyearinarow,andIsuspect
someormostofthemmaybedead.
Of the surviving fiction semiprozines, Talebones, Fiction on the Dark Edge, isan increasinglyattractive
littlemagazine,livelyandinteresting,and,althoughof-ficiallyahorrorsemiprozine,ispublishingahigher
percentage of science fiction and fantasy as well these days. Indigenous Fiction: Wondrously Weird &
Offbeatisstillaround,althoughitleansmoreinthedirectionitssubtitlewouldindicatethantowardmore
traditionalSForfantasy.Thelong-runningSpace&Timehasreinventeditselfasafull-sizeslickmagazine
with nice covers, and, probably as a result, is now getting national distribution on some newsstands.
Althoughanythingbutslick,theeclecticlittleIrishsemiprozineAlbedopublishedsome’
surprisingly good fiction this year by Brian Stableford, Esther M. Freisner, Colin Greenland, and others,
including an evocative and fascinating novelette by Tais Teng. There are two Canadian fiction
semiprozines,OnSpec,MoreThanJustScienceFictionandTransVersions.TransVersions,thenewcomer,
stillseemsthelivelierofthetwoasfarasthefictionisconcerned,whilethelong-establishedOnSpec,one
ofthelongestrunningofallthefictionsemiprozines,hasseemedabittiredinrecentyears;OnSpecisthe
morereliablypublishedofthetwo,though(oneofthemostreliableintheentiresemiprozinemarketsin
fact).Australiabringsus three top-notch fiction semiprozines, one new one, Altair: Alternate Airings in
Speculative Fiction (no, don’t ask me what the subtitle means), and the two others, Aurealis, Australian
Fantasy&ScienceFictionandEidolon,TheJournalofAustralianSci-enceFictionandFantasy,amongthe
longestestablishedofallfictionsemiprozines(alongwithOnSpec).Althoughmostofthesemagazinehave
(and traditionally have had) difficulty sticking to their publication schedules (Aurealis and Eidolon axe
ostensiblyquarterlymagazines,butAurealispublishedjusttwoissuesin1999,andEidolonmanagedonly
one;Altair,a biannual,publishedboth of itsscheduledissues) theyalsopublished, asusual,some of the
bestfictionin thesemiprofessionalmarket, withgood workbySeanWilliams,PaulBlake,and othersin
Altair,byChrisLawson,SimonNg,AndrewMorris,andothersinEidolon,andbyKylaWard,JohnEzzy,
Robert Cox, and others in Aurealis. The dominant British fiction semiprozine is certainly The Third
Alternative, a slick and handsome full-size mag-azine that features the work of top authors, but which
features“slipstream,”
literary surrealism, and horror rather than anything that most genre fans are going to recognize as SF or
fantasy. Much the same could be said of the long-established Back Brain Recluse (most British
semiprozinesseemtoleaninthisdirection,infact),althoughIhaven’tseenanissueofthatforawhile.
A promising new SF-oriented fiction semiprozine, scheduled to begin publica-tion early in 2000, is the
British Spectrum SF, which already has an impressive lineup of first-rate professional writers, including
Alastair Reynolds, Keith Roberts, Stephen Baxter, Eric Brown, and Garry Kilworth, set for its first two
issues.Let’shopeitturnsouttobeasgoodasitsounds;ifitdoes,itcouldquicklybecomeakeyplayerin
thismarket.
Idon’tfollowthehorrorsemiprozinemarketmuchanymore,buttherethemostprominentmagazineseems
tobethehighlyrespectedCemeteryDance,withper-hapsTalebonesasafollow-up.
Turningtothecriticalmagazines,CharlesN.Brown’sLocusandAndyPorter’sSF Chronicle,asalways,
remainyourbestbetamongthatsubclassofsemiprozinesknownasnewszines,andareyourbestresource
ifyou’relookingforpublishingnewsand/oranoverviewofwhat’shappeninginthegenre;SFChronicleis
stillmissingissues,althoughthey’redoingbetterthanlastyear,but,almostaloneinthewholesemiprozine
category,fiction or critical, Locus comes out on time month after month, like clockwork, as it has been
doing for more than thirty years. The only other magazine in the market that comes even close to this
remarkable record is The New York Review of Science Fiction, edited by David G. Hartwell, which
completeditseleventhfullyearofpublicationin1999,onceagainbringingoutitsscheduledtwelveissues
of reviews, critical articles, esoteric miscellany, and sometimes fiercely contentious opinion. Another
criticalmagazinethatseemstobeprettyreliablypublishedisSpeculations,ausefulmagazinethatfeatured
writing-advicearticlesaswellasextensivesectionsofmarketreportsandmarketnews,hadaprettygood
publishing-reliabilityrecordas well,but earlyin 2000announcedthatitwasabandoningitsprintedition
andwouldhenceforthbeavail-ableonlyinelectronicform,atitsWebsite,http//:www.speculations.com.
Mostoftheothercriticalzinescomeoutsoerraticallythatyoucouldfairlysaythattheydon’treallyhave
schedules.TherewasanissueofLawrencePerson’sNovaExpressoutthisyear,butSteveBrown’sSFEye
hassuspendedpublication.I’mprettysurethattheprintversionofDavidA.Truesdale’sTangentisdeadat
thispoint—atleast,Ican’thonestlyrecommendthatyouspendyourmoneysubscribingtoit,sinceIhave
mydoubtsthatitwilleverappearagain—andeventhefateoftheon-lineversion,TangentOnline,isupin
theair,althoughIhavealittlemorefaiththatTruesdalewillbeabletogetthatonerollingagain;let’shope
so,sinceinitsheydayTangentwasperforminganinvaluableserviceforthefield,onethat’snotreallybeing
suppliedbyanyotherpublication,withthesoleexceptionofMarkKelly’scolumnsintheprintandon-line
versionsofLocus.
(Locus,TheNewspaper oftheScienceFictionField,LocusPublications,Inc.,P.O.Box13305,Oakland,
CA94661,$56 foraone-year first-classsubscription, $46fora second-classsubscription,twelveissues;
ScienceFictionChronicle,AlgolPress,P.O.Box022730, Brooklyn,NY11202-0056,$20foraone-year
subscription, $25 for a one-year first-class subscription, twelve issues; The NewYork Review of Science
Fiction,DragonPress,P.O.Box78,Pleasantville,NY10570,$32peryear,twelveissues;Nova Express,
P.O. Box 27231, Austin, TX 78755-2231, $12 for a one-year (four-issue) subscription; Speculations, lll
WestElCaminoReal,Suite109-400,Sunnyvale,CA94087-1057,afirst-classsubscription,sixissues,$25;
Mar-ionZimmerBradley’sFantasyMagazine,P.O. Box 249, Berkeley, CA94701,$16 for four issuesin
U.S.;OnSpec,MoreThanJustScienceFiction,P.O.Box4727,Edmonton,Alberta,CanadaT6E5G6,$18
foraone-yearsubscription;Aurealis,theAustralianMagazineof FantasyandScienceFiction,Chimaera
Publications,P.O.Box2164,Mt.Waverley,Victoria3149,Australia,$43forafour-issueover-seasairmail
subscription, “all cheques and money orders must be made out to Chimaera Publications in Australian
dollars”;Eidolon,theJournalofAustralian ScienceFiction andFantasy,EidolonPublications,P.O. Box
225,NorthPerth,WesternAustralia6906,$45(Australian)forafour-issueoverseasairmailsubscrip-tion,
payable to Eidolon Publications; Altair, Alternate Airings inSpeculative Fic-tion, P.O. Box 475,
Blackwood, South Australia, 5051, Australia, $36 for a four-issue subscription; Albedo, Albedo One
Productions,2PostRoad,LuskCo.,Dublin,Ireland;$30forafour-issueairmailsubscription,makechecks
payable to Albedo One; Pirate Writings, Tales ofFantasy, Mystery ($* Science Fiction, Absolute
Magnitude,TheMagazineofScienceFictionAdventures,AboriginalScienceFic-tion,WeirdTales,Dreams
of Decadence —ail available from DNA Publications, P.O. Box 2988, Radford, VA 24142-2988, all
availablefor$16foraone-yearsub-scription,allcheckspayabletoD.N.A.Publications;Century,Century
Publishing,P.O.Box150510,Brooklyn,NY11215-0510,$20forafour-issuesubscription;SpectrumSF,
Spectrum Publishing, P.O. Box 10308, Aberdeen, ABU 6ZR, United Kingdom, 17 pounds sterling for a
four-issuesubscription,makecheckspayabletoSpectrumPublishing;TransVersions,Paper Orchid Press,
P.O.
Box52531,1801LakeshoreRoadWest,Mississauga,OntarioL5J4S6,four-issuesubscription,$20
U.S.or$24Can.,pluspostage;TerraIncognita,TerraIncognita,52WindermereAvenue,#3,Lansdowne,
PA 19050-1812, $15 for four issues; Tales of the Unanticipated, Box 8036, Lake Street Station,
Minneapolis,MN55408,$15forafour-issuesubscription;SpaceandTime,138W.70thStreet,4B,New
York,NY.10023-4468,$10foratwo-issuesubscription(oneyear),$20forafour-issuesubscription(two
years);ArtemisMagazine:ScienceandFictionforaSpace-FaringSociety,LRCPublications,1380E.17th
St., Suite 201, Brooklyn, NY 11230-6011, $15 for a four-issue subscription, checks payable to LRC
Publications;Talebones,FictionontheDarkEdge,FairwoodPress,10531S.E.250thPL,#104,Kent,WA
98031, $16 for four issues; IndigenousFiction, Wondrously Weird & Offbeat, I.F. Publishing, P.O. Box
2078, Redmond, WA 98073-2078, $15 for a one-year (three-issue) subscription; LC-39, Launch
Publications, P.O. Box 9307, Baltimore, MD 21227, $12 for a one-year subscription, checks payable to
LaunchPublications;TheThirdAlternative,TTAPress,5MartinsLane,Witcham,Ely,Cambs.CB62LB,
England, United Kingdom, $22 for a four-issue subscription, checks made payable to TTA Press; Back
BrainRecluse,P.O.Box625,SheffieldSl3GY,UnitedKingdom,$18forfourissues;CemeteryDance,CD
Publications,Box18433,Baltimore,MD21237.Manyofthesemagazinescanalsobeorderedon-line,at
theirWebsites;seetheon-line>>section,above,forURLs.)
****
It was a weak year in the original anthology market, even weaker than last year, with few original
anthologiespublished,andevenfewerofanysignificantquality.ThebestoriginalSFanthologyoftheyear,
with little competition, was undoubt-edly Far Horizons, edited by Robert Silverberg (Avon Eos), the
companionvolumetolastyear’shighlysuccessfulfantasyanthologyLegends.LikeLegends,FarHo-rizons
isananthologyofstoriessetinvariouswell-knownfictionalworlds,exceptthatthistimethoseworldsare
(ostensibly,anyway)sciencefictionalonesratherthanfantasy.Ifyou’realreadyafanofanyofthefamous
SFseriesfeaturedhere,there’slittledoubtyou’llgetmorethanyourmoney’sworthinentertainmentvalue
out of Far Horizons (if you’re a fan of all of the series included here, you should be out the door and
headedtothenearestbookstorealready!)TheonlyquibbleIhaveisthatthebackstoriesinvolvedinsome
oftheselong-runningserieshavegrownsocomplicatedthatareaderwhocomestosomeofthesenovellas
cold,withouthavingreadanythinginthatparticularseriesbefore,mayhavetroubleunderstandingwhat’s
going on in the story, or at least in appreciating its full emotional impact, which depends in part on an
appreciationofpriorcontext.Allofthestoriesheresufferfromthisproblemtosomedegree;theonesthat
dothebestjoboftellingasatisfactorystorythatstandsonitsownfeetwithoutreferencetotheparentseries
beingnecessaryincludeUrsulaK.LeGuin’s“OldMusicandtheSlaveWomen,”DanSimmons’s“Orphans
of the Helix,” Nancy Kress’s “Sleep-ing Dogs,” Robert Silverberg’s “Getting to Know the Dragon,” and
GregoryBen-ford’s“AHungerfortheInfinite,”buttheotherstoriesarewellworthreadingtoo,ifyoucan
overcome or overlook the dependent-on-familiarity-with-the-backstory flaw, or if you’re already familiar
with earlier work in the series. (There are a few interesting curiosities involved in the selection of the
materialforinclusionhere,suchasAnneMcCafferyandRobertSilverbergbeingrepresentedbystoriesin
lesser-knownseries,sincetheirbest-knownsciencefictionserieshadalreadybeenincludedinthefantasy
anthologyLegends
—butthatkindofhairsplittingwillmeanlittletotheaveragereader.)Asa$27.50hardcover,it’sthemost
expensiveanthologyoftheyear,andsomemayhesitatebecauseoftheprice,butconsideringtheamountof
qualityofworkyougetforthemoney,it’sreallyoneofthebestreadingbargainsoftheyear.
Runningthroughtherathermeagerpossibilitiesforafollow-upcandidateforthetitleofbestoriginalSF
anthologyoftheyear,wequicklycometoMoonShots,editedbyPeterCrowther(DAW),followedahalf
steporsodownbyNotofWomanBorn,editedbyConstanceAsh(Roc).Bothofthesearesubstantialan-
thologies,althoughbothsufferfromthetwinfaultsoforiginalthemeanthologies:someofthestoriesare
toosimilartoeachother,withmotifsandassumptionsandevenmajorplotelementsrepeatinginstoryafter
story(thestoriesbyBrianSta-bleford,StephenBaxter,andScottEdelmaninMoonShots,forinstance;the
StablefordandtheEdelmanstoriesevensharetheideathatthearchitectsofarevivingfuturespaceprogram
wouldwanttoinvolveoneofthelastsurvivingparticipantsofthetwentieth-centuryspaceprogramasaPR
stunt!),whileatthesametime,paradoxically,otherstoriesaresofaroffthethemethatit’shardtoseeany
real justification for including the story in the anthology in the first place. (In Moon Shots, Colin
Greenland’s straightmainstreamstorycertainlyfalls into this category, as does Robert Sheckley’sflimsy
supernaturaltale,andthejustificationsforincludingIanMcDonald’ssurrealistic“BreakfastontheMoon,
with Georges,” or Gene Wolfe’s “Has Anybody Seen Junie Moon?” —a homage to an obscure R. A.
Laffertystory,whichmustmaketheWolfestoryratherpuzzlingtothosewhohaven’treadtheLafferty—
aresuspiciouslyweakaswell;whileinNotofWomanBorn,severalofthestrongeststories,includingthe
Walter Jon Williams, the Susan Palwick, and the Michael Armstrong, really have little to do with the
ostensible theme of the anthology). With MoonShots, I also found it somewhat disappointing that an
anthology“incelebrationofthethirtiethanniversaryofthefirstmannedmoonlanding”wassogloomyand
pessimisticoverall,withitbeingtakenforgrantedinstoryafterstorythathumankind’sexplorationofspace
isessentiallyover,andperhapsthehumanraceitselfiswashedupaswell(allofwhichcontrastsoddlywith
BenBova’saggressivelyupbeatintroductiontotheanthology,whichstatesthebeliefthattherealAgeof
Spaceisjustbeginning—somethingItendtobelievemyself).Nevertheless,bothMoonShotsandNorof
Woman Born are superior anthologies, with Moon Shots being undoubtedly the best original DAW
anthologyin morethana decade. Thebeststories inMoonShots,in my opinion, were Stephen Baxter’s
“PeopleCamefromEarth,”PaulJ.
McAuley’s“HowWeLosttheMoon,ATrueStorybyFrankW.Allen,”andBrianStableford’s“Ashesand
Tombstones,”althoughthere’salsogoodworkherebyEricBrown,BrianAldiss,GeneWolfe,andothers.
ThebeststoriesinNotofWomanBornwereWalterJonWilliams’s“Daddy’sWorld,”SageWalker’s“Hunt-
ingMother,”andSusanPalwick’s“Judith’sFlowers,”althoughthere’salsogoodworkbyJackMcDevitt,
Janni Lee Simner, Michael Armstrong, Constance Ash herself, and others. As inexpensive paperback
originals,bothanthologiesmakefairlygoodreadingbargainstoo.
After the three titles discussed above, finding really worthwhile anthologies be-comes much more
problematic.Oftheyear’sremainingoriginalSFanthologies,thetwobestarebothsmall-pressitems:inthe
long-runningCanadiananthologyseries,Tesseracts,thelatestedition,Tesseracts8,editedbyJohnCluteand
CandasJane Dorsey (Tesseract Books), and the assembled-on-line “SFF Net” anthology (mentionedalso
above),TheAgeofReason:StoriesforaNewMillennium,editedbyKurtRoth(SFF
NET).Bothwillbehardtofindinbookstores(especiallyTheAgeofReason),andsoareprobablybetter
mail-ordered,andbothareabitpricey,butthey’reprobablyworthit,notonlybecauseofthequalityofthe
fiction, which is reasonably high overall in both cases but because both anthologies will serve as an
introduction to a lot of writers with whom the average reader is likely to be unfamiliar, instead of the
familiarstableofusualsuspectswhofeatureinmanyoftheyear’sotheranthologies(especiallypaperback
fantasyanthologies, which seem to use much the same roster of authors in one anthology afteranother).
Tesseracts8 features an excellent novella by Karl Schroeder, and good work by Sally McBride, Yves
Meynard,UrsulaPflug,A.M.Dellamonica,CoryDoctorow,andothers.TheAgeofReason doesn’thave
anyonestandoutpiecethatreachesthelevelofqualityoftheSchroederstoryinTesseracts8,butitdoes
featurealargeamountofgoodwork,muchofitfromunknownsornearunknownssuchasDianaRowland,
VeraNazarian,JamesA.Bailey,SusanJ.Kroupa,DeborahCoates,andmanyothers,aswellasgoodstuff
from bigger names such as Geoffrey A. Landis, Lois Tilton, G. David Nordley, Timons Esaias, Dave
Smeds,andothers.(TesseractsBooks,TheBooksCollective,214-2110405
JasperAve.,Edmonton,Alberta,CanadaT5J3S2—$9.95(Canadian)forapaperedition,$23.95
(Canadian)foraclotheditionofTesseracts8;SFFNet,3300BigHornTrail,Plano,TX75075-$14.95
ForTheAgeofReason:StoriesforaNewMillennium;thebookcanalsobeorderedon-lineat
http://www.sff.net.)
Afterthispoint,webegintorunoutofoptionsfast.AlthoughIsuspectthatmanyoftheindividualauthors
knew better, the New Age sillinesses that were part of the conceptual baggage that participants in the
shared-world anthology Past Lives, Present Tense, edited by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough (Ace), were
perforceconstrainedtomakeuseof(suchastheideathattransferringadeadperson’sDNAintoaliving
personwouldenablethe livingperson notonlyto experiencethe pastmemoriesof thedead personasif
theyweretheirownbutwouldcreateaself-awareconsciouspersonaofthedeadpersonthatcouldthensit
inside the living person’s skull and have long conversations with them about current hap-penings in the
plotline),tipthestoriesfrombeingsciencefictiontounadmittedfantasy,inmyopinion.Mostofthestories
areratherweakanyway,withonlyR.GarciayRobertsonandKristineKathrynRuschmanagingtofashion
anythingreallyreadableoutofthisunpromisingclay.FutureCrimes,editedbyMartinH.
GreenbergandJohnHeifers(DAW), is a promising theme, one that has produced many great SF stories
over the years, but again the stories here are rather weak, with only the Alan Brennert story rising a bit
abovetheaverage.Theideabehindtheverystrange“anthology,”QuantumSpeculativeFiction,edited by
KurtRoth,basedonaconceptbypublisherGordonMeyer,isthatyoubuyathree-ringloose-leafnotebook
containingsomeoriginalstories,withroomformore,andthensubsequently,fourtimesayear,theysend
you an additional batch of new stories, which you can then clip into the notebook. It’s an interesting
experiment,butinpracticehasnotturnedouttobeanentirelysuccessfuloneforme,perhapsbe-causeof
the“anthology’s”narrowspecialization,devotedtopublishingonly“funny”stories—mostofwhich,alas,I
didn’t find to really be all that funny; humor being as subjective as it is, of course, you may find them
hilarious.Therearesomegoodwritersinvolved,includingMichaelBishop,LeslieWhat,RobertL.Nansel,
TerryMcGarry,KageBaker(whohasthesinglebeststoryhere,“Des-olationRose,”
althoughit’s not particularly funny), James Van Pelt, Richard Parks, K. D. Wentworth, and others. (This
mightworkbetterifthecontentsweremoregeneralized,andnotrestrictedtojustcomicstories—butI’m
notsureifthisclip-inloose-leafnotebookconceptisreallyafeasibleoneforfiction,nomatterwhatkindof
materialtheywereusing.)Ihaven’tseenan“installment”ofQuantumSpecu-lativeFictioninawhilenow,
andI’mnotsureifthey’rereallystillcontinuingwithitornot,butifyou’dlikemoreinformation(Ican’t
findapricelistedany-whereinthepackageIgot),contactObscuraPress,P.O.Box19$2,Ames,IA50010-
1992, or send e-mail to www.quantumsf.com. And, as usual, L. Ron Hubbard PresentsWriters of the
Future,VolumeXV,editedbyAlgisBudrys(Bridge),presentsnoviceworkbybeginningwriters,someof
whommaylaterturnouttobeimportanttalents.
OtheroriginalSFanthologiesthisyearincludedAlienAbductions,editedbyMartinH.GreenbergandJohn
Heifers(DAW),andthemixedSF/fantasyanthologyPromNight,editedbyNancySpringer(DAW).
Infantasy,theredidn’tseemtobeanyonesinglestandoutanthology,onethatwasobviouslytheyear’sbest
(likelastyear’sLegends).Themostsubstantialiteminthiscategoryisprobablythemixedfantasy/horror
anthologySilverBirch,BloodMoon,editedbyEllenDatlowandTerriWindling(Avon)(whichIchooseto
viewasafantasyanthologyforthesepurposes;itdoesseemtoleanmoretowardthatendofthespectrum
anyway),whichcontainsgoodworkbyTanithLee,NancyKress,RobinMcKinley,PatriciaMcKillip,Neil
Gaiman,DeliaSherman,NaloHopkinson,HarveyJacobs,SusanWade,MelanieTem,andothers.
Belowthispoint,therewasonlytheusualwelterofpaperbackfantasythemeanthologies,mostofwhich
couldfairlybedescribedas“pleasantbutminor.”Thebestofthelot,byahair,wasprobablyMerlin,edited
by Martin H. Greenberg (DAW), which contained good work by Jane Yolen, Charles de Lint, Michelle
West,BrooksPeck,andothers.ADangerousMagic,editedbyDeniseLittle(DAW),containedinteresting
stuffbyPeterCrowther,MichelleWest,JohnDeChancie,andothers;whileTwiceuponaTime,alsoedited
byDeniseLittle(DAW),fairytalesretoldfromtheviewpointofthevillian,containedworthwhilestuffby
Esther M. Friesner, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Leslie What, Alan Rodgers, Jane Lindskold, Richard Parks,
ElizabethAnnScarborough,andothers.Chicks‘nChainedMales,editedbyEstherFriesner(Baen),which
oughttogetsomekindof specialawardfordumbesttitleoftheyear(badenoughthatthebookactually
carries a supposedly tongue-in-cheek disclaimer from the editor on the back cover, specifically blaming
publisherJimBaenforit!)isanotherintheseriesofcomicanthologiesthatbeganseveralyearsbackwith
Chicks in Chainmail; the book contains comic work Elizabeth Moon, Susan Shwartz, Harry Turtledove,
SusanCasper,LawrenceWatt-Evans,K.D.Wentworth,andothers,butthere’sdefinitelythefeelingabout
thewholeprojectthatthejokeiswearingthin,andthatmostofthisgroundhasbeencoveredbefore.
Since these are all relatively inexpensive paperbacks, you’ll probably get your money’s worth of
entertainmentoutofthem—don’texpectanythingreallysub-stantialhere,though.
A fantasy shared-world anthology was Legends: Tales from the Eternal Archives #1, edited by Margaret
Weis“with”JanetPackandRobinCrew(DAW).Idon’tpaycloseattentiontothehorrorgenreanymore,
butataquickglanceitwouldseemthatthemostprominentandacclaimedoriginalhorroranthologywas
prob-ably 999, edited by Al Sarrantonio (Avon). Other original horror anthologies in-cluded Northern
Frights5,editedbyDonHutchison(MosaicPress);WhiteoftheMoon,editedbyStephenJones(Gollancz);
andthemixedmystery-horroranthol-ogyDarkDetectives,editedbyStephenJones(Fedogan&Bremer).
Bignewsinthismarketfornextyearwillprobablybetheappearanceofthenewvolumeintheprestigious
Starlightanthologyseries,andperhaps(wehope)theappearanceofthefirstvolumeintheas-yetUntitled
majorneworiginalan-thologyseriesthatwillbe“likeFullSpectrum,”fromAvonEos.
And the long-delayed “Space Colony” anthology edited by Greg Benford and George Zebrowski is
supposedtohitprintsoon.Otherthanthat,theredoesn’tseemtobemuchtoreallylookforwardtoonthe
horizonintheoriginalanthologymarket,notthatwe’veheardaboutyet,anyway.
In spite of gloom so luxuriant among many fans and writers that it amounted to despair, in spite of the
widelyacceptedmyththattherearealmostnopublishinghousesleftinbusinessanymorethatpublishgenre
books,andthatalmostevery-thingthatdoescomeout isamediaspin-offnovel, in spiteofmergersand
shake-upsthatcostthefieldatleastoneSFline,thefactisthatmoreorlessthesamenumberofSFand
fantasy books were published this year as last year (not counting media-oriented books), that there were
actuallymorenewSFandfantasynovels(again,notcountingmedianovels)publishedin1999thanthere
hadbeen in 1998, and that withthe opening floodgates of the print-on-demand market, it’s possible that
therecouldbeasignificantnumbermorepublishednextyear(nordoes it look likeanyreally significant
cutsareaheadformostoftheregulartradepublishers).Inspiteofthemergersandcutbacksandshake-ups,
in spite of con-tinuing moaning about how the genre is dying, there’s still a lot of science fiction/
fantasy/horror books being published, and chances are there will continue to be a lot of genre books
publishedintheforeseeablefuture.
AccordingtothenewsmagazineLocus,therewere1,999books“ofinteresttotheSFfield,”bothoriginal
andreprint,publishedin1999,nearlythesameaslastyear’stotalof1,959.Originalbooksweredownby1
percent,downto1,107fromlastyear’stotalof1,112,aftera12percentgainlastyearbroughtthetotalsup
from1997’slowof999.ThenumberofnewSFnovelswasup,with251novelspublished,asopposedto
242 novels published in 1998, and 229 published in 1997, almost back up to the 1996 total of 253; the
number of new fantasy novels was also up, with 275 published, as opposed to 233 novels published in
1998,thehighesttotalsince1994’s234,andthefirsttimeinfiveyearsthatmorefantasythanSFnovels
were published; horror continued to slide downward after a brief upturn in 1998, with 95 horror novels
publishedasopposedto110novelsin1998,downconsiderablyoverallfrom1995’shighof193titles.
A spot of perspective is perhaps inorder:the number of original mass-market paperbacks published this
year,350, is alone higher than the totalnumber of original genre books, of any sort, published in 1972,
whichwas225.Unlessthere’sacrashsodisastrouscomingthatitamountstothedefactocollapseofmost
ofthepublishingindustry(possible,butnotlikely,unlessthere’sageneralsociety-wideGreatDepression),
it’shardtoimaginethatthegenrewillbereducedtothosekindofnumbers—whicheveryoneregardedas
“normal”andevenhealthy,inthe1970s—anytimesoon.
****
Idon’thavetimetoreadmanynovels,andthisyearI’vehadperhapsevenlesstimethanusual,soIcan
contributenoreallydefinitiveoverview—butcertainlyamongthebestnovelsoftheyear,you’dhavetolist
Teranesia(HarperPrism),byGregEgan,ADeepnessintheSky,byVernorVinge(Tor),Darwin’sRadio,by
GregBear(DelRey),AllTomorrow’sParties,byWilliamGibson(Putnam),TheCassiniDivision,byKen
Macleod(Tor),AncientofDays,byPaulJ.McAuley(AvonEos),Forever Free,byJoeHaldeman (Ace),
TheMartian Race, by GregoryBenford(WarnerAspect),Manifold:Time,by StephenBaxter (Del Rey),
andTheNakedGod,byPeterHamilton(WarnerAspect).AlthoughIhaven’tyetreadit,Cryptonomicon,by
NealStephenson(Avon),wasenoughofacultsuccess,withanappealstretchingfaroutsidetheboundaries
ofthefieldastheyareusuallydrawn,thatitprobablyshouldhavespecialattentioncalledtoitinanyyear-
end wrap-up. As should the immensely popular Harry Potter books by J. K. Rowling, which may have
outsoldanything else inthegenrethis year; infact,thechances are good thatifsomebody who is not a
regularfantasyorsciencefictionreaderhasheardofanybookwithfantasticelementsthisyear,it’saHarry
Potterbookthatthey’veheardof;thatoughttobemorethanenoughtogetthemincludedinanyyear-end
wrap-upthathopestogiveanaccuratepictureofwhatwashap-peningin1999.
Othernovelsthathavereceivedalotofattentionandacclaimin1999includeEnder’sShadow,OrsonScott
Card(Tor);OnBlue’sWaters,GeneWolfe(Tor);SkyCoyote,KageBaker(HarcourtBrace);Tamsin,Peter
S.Beagle(Roc);Green-houseSummer,NormanSpinrad(Tor);TheFarShoreofTime,FrederikPohl(Tor);
DogEatDog,JerryJayCarroll(Ace);Finity,John Barnes (Tor);Precursor,C. J. Cherryh (DAW); Bios,
RobertCharlesWilson(Tor);ACalculusofAngels,J.
Gregory Keyes (Del Rey); Kirinya, Ian McDonald (Millennium); The Fifth Elephant, Terry Pratchett
(HarperPrism); A Civil Campaign, Lois McMaster Bu-jold (Baen); Down There in Darkness, George
Turner(Tor);TheExtremes,Chris-topherPriest(St.Martin’sPress);TheConqueror’sChild,SuzyMcKee
Charnasi(Tor);Mammoth,StephenBaxter(Millennium);MinionsoftheMoon,RichardBowes(Tor);The
Rainy Season, James P. Blaylock (Ace); Architects of Emortality, Brian Stableford (Tor); Dark Cities
Underground,LisaGoldstein(Tor);ClimbtheWind,PamelaSargent(HarperPrism);ReturntoMars,Ben
Bova (Avon); Still Life, Hal Clement (Tor); Cavalcade, Alison Sinclair (Millennium); The Stone War,
Madeleine E. Robins (Tor); A Red Heart of Memories, Nina Kiriki Hoffman (Ace); Moonfall, Jack
McDevitt (HarperPrism); Waiting, Frank M. Robinson (Forge); Memoranda, Jeffrey Ford (Avon Eos);
AgainsttheTideofYears,S.M.Stirling(Roc);SoulsintheGreatMachine,SeanMcMullen(Tor);Singer
fromtheSea,SheriS.Tepper(AvonEos);TowerofDreams,JamilNasir(BantamSpectra);ForeignBodies,
Stephen Dedman (Tor); Starfire, Charles Sheffield (Bantam Spec-tra); There and Back Again, by Max
Merriwell, Pat Murphy (Tor); Cave ofStars, George Zebrowski (HarperPrism); The Eternal Footman,
JamesMorrow(Harcourt Brace); BlackLight,ElizabethHand (HarperPrism); The Veiled Web, Catherine
Asaro (Bantam Spectra); TheTerrorists of lrustan, Louise Marley (Ace); The Stars Compel, Michaela
Roessner(Tor);TheSiliconDagger,JackWilliamson (Tor);TheQuietInvasion, by Sarah Zettel (Warner
Aspect);TheMarriageofSticks,JonathanCarroll(Tor);Mr.X,Peter Straub (Random House); and Saint
Fire,TanithLee(TheOverlookPress).
Mentionshouldalsobemadeofsomerecentomnibusreissuesofclassicnovels,backinprintagainafteran
absence of years (or, in some cases: even decades): Dark Ladies, Fritz Leiber (Tor/Orb), which gathers
togethertwoclassicLeibernovels,ConjureWifeandOurLadyofDarkness;Rings,byCharlesL.Harness
(NESFAPress,P.O.Box809,Framingham,MA01701-0203—$25),whichcol-lectstogethertheHarness
novelsTheParadoxMen,TheRingsofRitomel,andFirebird,andaddstothemanever-before-published
novel, Drunkard’s Endgame; The Great Book of Amber: TheAmber Chronicles 1-10, by Roger Zelazny
(AvonEos),anomnibusofthefirsttenvolumesintheAmberseries;BitingtheSun,byTanithLee(Bantam
Spectra),whichincludesDon’tBitetheSunandDrinkingSapphireWine;andTheEssentialHalClement,
Volume 1:TrioforSlideRule&Typewriter,byHal Clement (NESFAPress, P.O.Box 809, Framingham,
MA01701-0203
—$25.00),whichgathershisclassicnovelsNeedle,Iceworld,andClosetoCritical.Someverygoodstand-
alonenovelsalsowerereprintedthisyear,in-cluding:Emphyrio,byJackVance(OrionMillennium);The
WarAgainsttheRull,byA.E.vanVogt(Tor/Orb);TheDrawingoftheDark,byTimPowers(Ballantine
Del Rey); The Dreaming jewels, by Theodore Sturgeon (Vintage); Free LiveFree, by Gene Wolfe
(Tor/Orb); The Silver Metal Lover, by Tanith Lee (Bantam Spec-tra); TheDeceivers, by Alfred Bester
(iBooks/Simon&Schuster);TheWonder,byJ.D.Beresford(BisonBooks);Omega:TheLastDaysofthe
World, by Camille Flammarion (Bison Books); 334, by Thomas M. Disch (Vintage); and Camp Con-
centration,byThomasM.Disch(Vintage).Allofthesepublishersaretobecom-mendedforbringinglong-
out-of-printtitlesbackintoprint,somethingthatfortoolonghasbeenlefttothesmallpressesbymostof
thetradepublishers.ThenewOrionMillenniumline,theTor/Orbline,andtheVintagelineareparticularly
worthcheckingout,withalmosteverythingtheyreissueofinterest.It’sreallyencouragingtoseebacklist
titles starting to come back into print again with increasing regularity, although even more could —and
probablyshould—bedonealongtheselines.
Itseemedasomewhatweakeryearforfirstnovelsthanthelastcoupleofyearshavebeen.Shiva3000,by
JanLarsJensen(HarcourtBrace),seemedtoattractthemostattentionthisyear,followedbyTheSilkCode,
byPaulLevinson(Tor)andStarfish,byPeterWatts(Tor).OtherfirstnovelsincludedGardensoftheMoon,
Steven Erikson (Bantam UK); King Rat, China Mieville (Tor); Code ofConduct, Kristine Smith (Avon
Eos);, Shanji, James C. Glass (Baen); The Shadow of Ararat, Thomas Harlan (Tor); Nocturne for a
DangerousMan,MarcMatz(Tor);andTheThief’sGamble,JullietE.
McKenna(HarperPrism).Asusual,allpub-lisherswhoarewillingtotakeachancepublishingfirstnovels
shouldbecommended,sincethepublishingofsuchnovels isachancethatmustbetakenby someoneif
newtalentisgoingtobeabletodevelop,andifthefielditselfisgoingtosurvive.
Although I didn’t read anywhere near all of the novels this year (probably phys-ically impossible, for
anyoneforwhomitwasn’tafull-timejob),oreventhemajorityofthem,whatIdidhavetimetoreadwas
ofprettyhighquality,andonthebasisofthatsamplealone,itlookedlikeaprettystrongyearforthenovels
tome—asindeedithasbeenforthepastseveralyearsnow.Torobviouslyhadastrongyear,asdidAvon
Eos(inspiteofcatastrophicshake-upsthere),asdidthenewEnglishlineMillenniuminitsdebutyear,and
HarperPrisminwhat,alas,provedtobeitslastyear.AndsinceIstillfrequentlyheartheoldlineabouthow
nobodypublishes“real”sciencefictionanymore(inspiteofwhat’samountedtoarenaissanceintheultra-
hard SF novel in the last four or five years, paired with a boom in scientifically literate modern space
opera),thefactisthatthemajorityofnovelsonthisyear’slistofnotablebookswerecenter-core science
fictionnovels.Evenomittingthefantasynovelsandtheborderlinegenre-straddlingworkonthelist,you
stillhadtheEgan,theVinge,theGibson,theBear,theHaldeman,theBenford,theBova,theMcAuley,the
Clement,theBaxter,theMacleod,theStableford,andclosetoadozen others—allunquestionablypure-
quillcoreSF,withmanyofthem“hardSF”asrigorousandchallengingasanythat’severbeenwrittenby
anyoneinthehistoryofthegenre.
Asusual,predictingwhat’sgoingtotakethemajorawardsthisyearisadauntingtask.IthinkthatVernor
Vinge’sADeepnessintheSkyhasashotatwinningtheHugo.TheVingenovelmightalsohaveashotat
theNebula,buttherethesituationiscomplicatedbythefactthatSFWA’sbizarre“rollingeligibility”rule
enables popular books from last year such as George R. R. Martin’s A Clash of Kings and Maureen
McHugh’sMissionChildtocompeteforthisyear’s award, so the probable winnerbecomesveryhard to
call.We’lljusthavetowaitandseewhatdoeswin!
Borderline novels by SF writers this year included The Rift (Avon), by Walter Jon Williams (writing as
WalterJ.Williams),aBigFatDisasternovel,setinthenearfuture,aboutahumongousearthquakestriking
theMississippiValley,thatcontainsenoughofWilliams’stypicalstylishlybleaktropestobesatisfyingto
hisusualfans,andwhichiscompellinglyreadableenoughtoappealtoabroaderaudienceaswell.There
werealsotwointriguingborderlinenovelsthisyearthatwillhavetobespecial-orderedfromsmallpresses,
butwhich arewell worththetrouble: InterstateDreams(MojoPress), by NealBarrett,Jr., a bizarreand
occa-sionallyveryfunnymixofmystery,fantasy,andblack humorinamodethathasbeencalledTexas
magicrealism,similarintonetoBarrett’scultclassicTheHereafterGang(which John Clutecalled “the
GreatAmericannovel,”andwhichmovedJoeLandsdaletoexclaim’“GodHimselfcouldn’thavewrittena
betternovel!”)…andTheBalladofBillyBadassandtheRoseofTurkestan(Xlibris),byWilliamSanders,a
freewheeling,gritty,andfunnymixoffantasy,SF,andhard-edgedthrillerthatwillappealtoanyonewho
has ever enjoyed Sanders’s short fiction, such as the recent Nebula finalist “The Undiscovered.” (Mojo
Press,P.O.Box1215,DrippingSprings,TX
78620-$14 for Interstate Dreams, by Neal Bar-rett, Jr.; The Ballad of Billy Badass and the Rose of
Turkestan,byWilliamSanders,canbeorderedfromXlibrisPressfor$25forahardcovereditionand$15
for a trade paperback edition, or it can be ordered from Sanders’s own Web site at
www.sff.net/people/sanders/bbrt.htmororderedfromAmazon.com).
Associationalnovelsby genreauthorsthisyearincludedMotherlessBrooklyn (Doubleday),byJonathan
Lethem;TheCrookFactory(Avon),byDanSimmons;SayGoodbye:TheLaurieMossStory(St.
Martin’sPress),byLewisShiner;andEssentialSaltes:AnExperiment(St.Martin’sPress),byDonWebb;
plusaslewofmysterynovelsbySFwriters,includingDefensefortheDevil(St.Martin’sPress),byKate
Wilhelm; two novels by Mary Rosenblum writing as Mary Freeman, Devil’s Trumpet (Berkeley) and
DeadlyNightshade(Berkeley);Freezer Bum(Mys-terious Press),by JoeL.Lansdale;andtwo novelsby
Ron Goulart, Groucho Marx, Private Eye (St. Martin’s Press) and Elementary, MyDear Groucho (St.
Martin’sPress).
****
Itwasanotherprettystrongyearforcollections,somethingthat’sbeentrueforacoupleofyearsnow.
The best collections of the year included: A Good Old-Fashioned Future, by Bruce Sterling (Bantam
Spectra); The Robot’s Twilight Com-panion, by Tony Daniel (Golden Gryphon); The Martians, by Kim
StanleyRobinson(BantamSpectra);TheDragonsofSpringplace,byRobertReed(GoldenGryphon);Sex
andViolenceinZero-G,byAllenSteele(MeishaMerlin);MiracleandOtherChristmasStories,byConnie
Willis(BantamSpectra);BeastoftheHeartlandandOtherStories,byLuciusShepard(FourWalls,Eight
Windows),andHeartsinAtlantis,byStephenKing(Scribner).
Alsogoodwere:AntiqueFutures:TheBestofTerryDowling,byTerryDowling(MPBooks);ASafariof
theMind,byMikeResnick(WildsidePress);Apostrophes&Apocalypses,byJohnBarnes(Tor);TheLady
ofSituations,byStephenDedman(Ticonderoga);DakotaDreamin,byBillJohnson(CascadeMountain);
DragonsFinSoup,byS.P.Somtow(EMR);TheDreamArchipelago,byChris-topherPriest(Earthlight);
NewAdventuresinSci-Fi,bySeanWilliams(Ticonder-oga);WhereGaragiola Waits andOther Baseball
Stories,by Rick Wilber (University of Tampa Press); Sevenforthe Apocalypse, by Kit Reed (University
PressofNewEngland);andReally,Really,Really,Really,WeirdStories,byJohnShirley(NightShade).
Therewerealsoseveralstrongretrospectivecollections—collectionsthatreturnlong-unavailableworkto
print—thisyear,including:BabyIsThree:TheCompleteShortStoriesofTheodoreSturgeon,Volume.VI
(NorthAtlantic),byTheodoreSturgeon;FuturesPast,byA.E.vanVogt(TachyonPublications);Farewell
toLankhmar,byFritzLeiber(WhiteWolf);TheCompleteBoucher,byAnthonyBoucher(NESFAPress);
The Collected Stories of Jack Williamson, Volume 1: The MetalMan and Others, by Jack Williamson
(Haffner); and The Collected Stories of Jack Williamson,Volume 2: Wolves of Darkness, by Jack
Williamson(Haffner).
Severalofthesecollectionsfunctionalmostasthemecollections,withChristmastheunifyingthemeinthe
Willis collection, baseball in the Wilber collection, while Somtow’s Dragon’s Fin Soup offers us “eight
modernSiamesefables”setinThailand,andSteele’sSexandViolenceinZero-Gcollectsnear-futurestories
mostlydealingwiththeconstructionoforbitalhabitatsandtheearlystagesofsolarsystemexplorationand
interworldcommerce.Robinson’sTheMartiansalsohasanobviousenoughtheme,andhasbeendescribed
asacollectionofouttakesfromthewritingofhismassiveMarsnoveltrilogy,butwhilethat’strueenough
inaway,withcharactersfromthetrilogyreappearinginstorieshere,,thecollectionalsofeatures poetry,
scrapsof“nonfiction,”some(ratherself-indulgent)autobio-graphicalmetafictionalbits,andevenMartian
“alternate worlds” stories that don’t share the story line of the trilogy, including a few where the
terraformingofMarshasgonewrong,andevenacoupleof“mainstream”
piecesinwhichweneverwent toMarsinthefirstplace;infact,ratherthanbeing justastraightforward
collectionofstoriessetonRobinson’sfictionalMars,it’satricky,elusive,post-moderngrabbagofabook,
whoseclosestrelativeinthegenreisprobablyUrsulaK.LeGuin’sAlwaysComingHome—
althoughifRobinsonincludedrecipes,oracassetteofflutemusic,Imissedthem(butIwouldn’thavebeen
surprised if they were there!). Although many of the “stories” are barely stories at all as we usually
understandtheterminthegenre,thecumulativeeffectofthecollectionispowerful,andoddlymoving.
Speaking of Mars, Rainbow Mars, by Larry Niven (Tor), is an odd item, an omnibus of collection of
Niven’slong-runningseriesofstoriesaboutSvetz,thehaplesstimetraveler,matchedwithacompletenew
novel,theeponymousRainbowMars,whichtakesSvetztoanalternate-worldMarsforfurtheradventures;
I’llmentionitbothhereandinthenovelsection,sinceit’sbothacollectionandanovelwrappedupinone
package.
Turning to fantasy, the late Robert A. Heinlein is not usually thought of as a fantasy writer (in spite of
G/077Road,oneofthemajorfantasynovelsoftheearly1960s,beforeTolkien’swidespreadpopularity),
butTheFantasiesofRobertA.Heinlein,byRobertA.Heinlein(Tor),oughttobecheckedoutasaneye-
openerboth by fantasy purists who’ve never readanythingbyHeinleinbefore and by hardcore Heinlein
fanswho’veneverreadanythingbuthissciencefictionwork;there’sgoodstuffheresuchas“Waldo”and”
‘—AndHeBuiltaCrookedHouse’,”mixedwithlightweightstuffsuchas
“TheMan who TraveledinElephants” and “Our FairCity,”butnote particularly ” ‘They—’” and “The
Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag,” pioneering classics of the ultimate paranoia How-Do-You-
Know-What-Is-Real?story;todaywe’dsaytheywereDickian,butbothwerepub-lishedbeforePhilDick
even started writing, and they’ve influenced almost all subsequent work in this mode, including recent
movieslikeTheMatrix.Andalthoughit’sreallyneithersciencefictionnorfantasy,asthetermsareconven-
tionallyused,AvramDavidsonfanswillcertainlywantthemysterycollectionTheInvestigationofAvram
Davidson (St. Martin’s Press), edited by Grania Davis and Richard A. Lupoff; these are not hardcore
classicalwhodunitsbeingratheroftheironic“biterbit”varietythatinmanycasesmightjustaseasilyhave
fitintoTheMagazineofFantasy&ScienceFictionasintoElleryQueen’sMysteryMagazine(wheremany
ofthemdidappear),buttheydisplayallofDavidson’susualwitandoffbeaterudition,andseveralofthem
(suchasthewonderful“TheLordofCentralPark”)haveminorfantasticelementsaswell.Asyoucansee,
thebigtradehouseslikeTorandBantamSpectraare bringing out more collections these days, not only
collectionsbybignamessuchasLarryNivenandRobertA.HeinleinandConnieWillis,but,increasingly,
evencollectionsbymiddle-levelnamessuchasBruceSterling,JohnBarnes,andKimStanleyRobinson.If
you want collections by New Young Writers, though, for the most part, you still have to turn to small
pressessuchGoldenGryphonPressandMeishaMerlin.(Oneofthemostencouragingstoriesoftheyearis
thatGoldenGryphonPress,whichcouldhavediedwithitsfounder,JimTurner,isgoingtocontinueunder
the stewardship of Turner’s brother Gary; in fact, under that stewardship, excellent collections by Tony
DanielandNealBarrett,Jr.,havealreadyappeared—we’lllisttheBarrettnextyear—andnewcollections
byJoeR.Lansdale,RichardPaulRusso,andothers,arealreadyinthepipeline.)Whilesmallpresseslike
NESFAPress,NorthAtlantic,Tachyon,andHaffnerremainvital—andunrivaledbythetradepublishers—
forbringingcollectionsoflong-out-of-printworkofhistoricalimpor-tancebackinaformwhereitcanbe
accessedbymodernreaders.
Veryfewsmall-presstitles,though,willbefindableintheaveragebookstore,orevenintheaveragechain
store,whichmeansthatmailorderisstillyourbestbet,andsoI’mgoingtolisttheaddressesofthesmall-
presspublishersmentionedabove:NESFAPress,P.O.Box809,Framinghan,MA01701-0809
—$25 for The Compleat Boucher, by Anthony Boucher; Golden Gryphon Press, 3002 Perkins Road,
Urbana,IL—$23.95forTheDragonsofSpringplace,byRobertReedand$24.95forTheRobot’sTwilight
Companion,byTonyDaniel;WildsidePress,P.O.Box45,Gillette,NJ07933-0045-$15forASafariofthe
Mind, by Mike Resnick; North Atlantic Books, P.O. Box 12327, Berkeley, CA, 94701-$30 for Baby Is
Three: Volume VI: The Complete Stories of Theodore Sturgeon, by Theodore Sturgeon; Meisha Merlin
Press, P.O. Box 7, Decatur, GA. 30031-$16 for Sex and Violencein Zero-G, by Allen Steele; Tachyon
Publications,PMB#139,145918thStreet,SanFrancisco,CA.
94107—$17plus$2.50postageforFuturesPast,byA.E.vanVogt;UniversityofTampaPress,401
WestKennedyBlvd.,Tampa,FL.33606-$24.95plus$2.50postageforWhereGaragiolaWaitsandOther
BaseballStories,byRickWilber;AlexanderPublishing,13243VanowenAve,#5,NorthHollywood,CA
91605—$15.95 for Dragon’s Fin Soup, by S. P. Somtow; MP Books, P.O. Box 407, Nedlands, Western
Australia 6909, Australia-$29.95 for Antique Futures: The Best of TerryDowling; Ticonderoga
Publications,P.O.Box407,Nedlands,WesternAustralia6009,Australia-$17.95plus$5shippingforThe
Lady of Situations, by Stephen Dedman and $19.99 for New Adventures in Sci-Fi, by Sean Williams;
CascadeMountainPublishing,1652NWSummitDr.,Bend,OR97701-$12.95forDakotaDreamin,byBill
Johnson;HaffnerPress,5005CrooksRd.,Suite35,RoyalOak,MI48073-1239—$32plus$5post-agefor
TheCollectedStoriesofJackWilliamson,VolumeOne:TheMetalMenandOthersand$32plus$5postage
forTheCollectedStoriesofJackWilliamson,VolumeTwo:WolvesofDarkness;UniversityPressofNew
England/Wesleyan,23SouthMainSt,Hanover,NHb3755—$16.95plus$2.50postageforSevenforthe
Apocalypse,byKitReed;NightShadeBooks,870EastElCaminoReal,#133,MountainView,CA94040-
$16.95forReally,Really,Really,Really,WeirdSto-ries,byJohnShirley.
****
Itwasamoderatelyunexcitingyearoverallinthereprintanthologyfield,althoughtherewerestillafew
goodvalueshereandthere.
Thebestbetsforyourmoneyinthiscategory,asusual,werethevariousbest-of-the-yearanthologies,and
the annual Nebula Award anthology, Nebula Awards 33 (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich), edited by Connie
Willis; this year there was also a retrospective anthology of work by past winners of the SFWA Grand
MasterAward(seebelow).Sciencefictionisbeingcoveredbytwobest-of-the-yearan-thologyseries,the
one you are holding in your hand, and the Year’s Best SF series (HarperPrism), edited by David G.
Hartwell,nowuptoitsfifthannualvolume.(ItwouldbeinappropriateformetoreviewHartwell’sYear’s
BestSF,sinceit’sadirectcompetitortothisvolume,butsufficeittosaythatthegeneralcriticalconsensus
seemstobethatinafieldaslargeanddiverseassciencefiction,there’smorethanenoughroomfortwo
“best”anthologieseveryyear;infact,there’susuallynotallthatmuchoverlapbetweenmyselectionsand
Hartwell’s,whichmeansthatagreaterspectrumofwritersgetsachancetobeshowcasedeveryyearthan
wouldotherwisebethecase.)Iftherewasaneweditioninanewbest-of-the-yearseriesconcentratingon
genreworkofvarioussortspublishedinAustralia,TheYear’sBestAustralianScienceFictionandFantasy
(HarperCollins Australia Voyager), edited by Jonathan Strahan and Jeremy G. Byrne, which was up to
volume two last year, I didn’t see it. Once again, there were two best-of-the-year anthologies covering
horrorin1999:thelatesteditionintheBritishseriesTheMammothBookofBestNewHorror(Robinson,
Caroll & Graff), edited by Stephen Jones, now up to volume ten, and the Ellen Datlow half of a huge
volumecov-eringbothhorrorandfantasy,TheYear’sBestFantasyandHorror(St.Martin’sPress),edited
byEllenDatlowandTerriWinding,thisyearuptoitstwelfthannualcollection.Inspiteoftheincreasing
popularityofthefantasygenre,fantasy,asopposedtohorror,isstillonlycoveredbytheWindinghalfof
theDatlow/Windinganthology.
TurningtoretrospectiveSFanthologies,booksthatprovideaHistorical/criticaloverviewoftheevolution
ofthefield,oneofyourbestbetshereistheabove-mentionedanthologyofworkbywriterswhohavewon
SFWA’sGrandMasterAward,TheSFWAGrandMasters,Volume1(Tor),editedbyFrederikPohl,which
may be the most substantial single-volume SF reprint anthology of the year, containing classic work by
RobertA.Heinlein,FritzLeiber,CliffordD.Simak,L.SpraguedeCamp,andJackWilliamson,muchof
whichmaybeunavailableto(orevenunknownto)moderngenerationsofreaders;twomorevolumesareto
follow. Historic perspective of an interestingly quirky sort is provided by MyFa-vorite Science Fiction
Story(DAW),editedbyMartinH.Greenberg,inwhichfamoussciencefictionwriterswe’reaskedtoselect
theirfavoritesciencefictionstory.TheanthologyfeaturesgoodworkbyCordwainerSmith,FrederikPohl,
RogerZelazny,HowardWaldrop,WardMoore,GordonR.
Dickson,TheodoreSturgeon,JamesBlish,andothers,plusinterestingcommentaryfromtheselectorsasto
whytheypickedthestorythattheydid.Someofthechoicesalsoshedlightonthesourcesandinspiration
for the selectors’s own work, something that’s suddenly very clear when you see Joe Haldeman select
FrederikPohl’s“DayMillion”ashisfavoriteSFstory(foranideaofwhatImean,readHaldeman’sown
story“Anniversary Project”after first readingthe Pohl), orConnieWillis selectWardMoore’s “Lot,” or
Harry Turtledove select Howard Waldrop’s “The Ugly Chicken”; some of the choices are at first glance
surprising,like ArthurC.Clarke selectingTheodoreSturgeon’s“TheMan Who LosttheSea,” but make
perfect sense when you think about them, and give you an interesting new perspective from which to
examinetheselector’swork.ThebestworkfromthelastfewyearsofF&SF,includingstrongstoriesby
Ursula K. Le Guin, Maureen F. McHugh, Bruce Sterling, John Crawley, Elizabeth Hand, and others, is
featured in The Best From Fantasy & Science Fiction: The FiftiethAnniversary Collection, edited by
Edward L. Ferman and Gordon Van Gelder (Tor). Noted without comment is The Good New Stuff (St.
Martin’sGriffin),editedbyGardnerDozois,aretrospectiveover-viewoftheevolutionof“adventureSF”
fromthe‘60stothe‘90s,afollow-upvolumetolastyear’sTheGoodOldStuff.
Therewereseveralinteresting“regional”reprintanthologiesthisyear.Centau-rus:TheBestofAustralian
Science Fiction, edited by David G. Hartwell and Damien Broderick (Tor), gives us an overview of the
boomingAustralianSFscene,andfeaturesgoodworkbyGeorgeTurner,GregEgan,ChrisLawson,Lucy
Sus-sex,StephenDedman,CherryWilder,SeanWilliams,HalColebatch,DamienBroderickhimself,and
others. Northern Suns, edited by David G. Hartwell and Glenn Grant (Tor), showcases SF writers from
Canada, and features good work from Cory Doctorow, Eric Choi, Sally McBride, Jan Lars Jensen, Nalo
Hopkinson,W.P.Kinsella,KarlSchroeder,GeoffRyman,andothers.
Ifyoucangetonlyoneofthese,CentaurusisslightlystrongerthanNorthernSuns,butyou oughtto get
bothif you canaffordit,to getafeeling for what’s happeninginworlds of SFwritingoutside theusual
American/Britishaxis.Foralookatareallydifferentworld,wherethefeaturedwriterswillbeunknownto
muchoftheEnglish-speakinggenreaudience,checkoutTheDedalusBookofSpanishFantasy,editedby
MargaretJullCostaandAnnellaMcDermott(Dedalus).
Two interesting small-press items, reprint anthologies somewhere on the bor-derland between SF and
horror,areTechnohorror:InventionsinTerrorandBangs&Whimpers:StoriesabouttheEndoftheWorld,
botheditedbyJamesFrenkel(RoxburyPark/LowellHouse).Technohorrorfeaturesgoodreprintworkby
HarlanEllison,RayBradbury,DamonKnight,MichaelSwanwick,PatCadigan,StephenKing,andothers
(includinganearlyGregEganstory,frombackwhenitlookedasifheweregoingtoturnouttobeahorror
writerinsteadofahard-sciencewriter),whileBangs&Whimpers(oneofonlytwoapocalypticmillennium-
oriented books I can think of from this year, in SF, anyway, as opposed to the dozens that had been
predicted) contains good reprints from Robert A. Heinlein, Robert Reed, Philip K. Dick, Frederik Pohl,
JamesTiptree,Jr.,JamesThurber,IsaacAsimov,andothers.
Noted without comment are Future War,edited by Jack Dann and Gardner Dozois (Ace), Armageddons,
editedbyJackDannandGardnerDozois(Ace),IsaacAsimov’sValentines,editedbyGardnerDozoisand
SheilaWilliams(Ace),IsaacAsimov’sWerewolves,editedbyGardnerDozoisandSheilaWilliams(Ace),
andIsaacAsimov’sSolarSystem,editedbyGardnerDozoisandSheilaWilliams(Ace).
WorthlookingintointhereprintfantasyanthologymarketthisyearwereTheMammothBookofArthurian
LegendsandTheMammothBookofComicFantasyII,botheditedbyMikeAshley(Carroll&Graf).
Other than the above-mentioned “best” anthologies by Stephen Jones and Dat-low and Windling, there
didn’tseemtobealotofreprinthorroranthologiesthisyear,butthenagain,Ihaven’tbeenfollowingthe
horror field closely, so I might have missed them. One of the few I did see was 100 Hilarious Little
Howlers,editedbyStephenDziemianowicz,RobertWeinberg,andMartinH.Greenberg(Barnes&Noble).
AnassociationalanthologythatmanySF/fantasyfansmightenjoy,onethatfeaturestheworkoffamiliar
genre authors such as Stephen Baxter, Tom Holt, Liz Holliday, and Richard A. Lupoff, is Royal
Whodunnits,editedbyMikeAshley(Robinson).
****
It was a solid, if unexceptional, year in the SF-and-fantasy-oriented nonfiction and reference book field,
withmanyofthebestbargainsintherelatedartbookfield.Thesinglemostsubstantialvolumeoftheyear,
in fact, was a book that could be considered to be either a cultural history of the field or an art book,
dependingonhowyousquintatit(we’lllistitinbothplaces),FrankM.Robinson’smon-umentalScience
Fictionofthe20thCentury(Collector’sPress).TheRobinsonbookreproducessomeofthemostluminous
(andmostlurid)coversoftheoldpulpmagazineera,thusmakingitoneoftheyear’sbestartbooks,but
althoughthosegloriouspulpimagesspeakwellforthemselves,Robinson’sdiscussionofthecovers,setting
themintheirculturalcontext,istheicingonthecake,andfunc-tionsasashrewdandknowledgeablestudy
of American pop culture in general, and science fiction in particular. Camille Bacon-Smith’s Science
FictionCulture(UniversityofPennsylvaniaPress)alsooffersapop-cultureperspectiveonsciencefiction,
particularlyontheinteractionsofsciencefictionandsciencefiction
“fandom,”theseveral(onlypartiallyoverlapping)subculturesofreadersandenthusi-asts—fans,originally
from fanatic — that revolve (ostensibly, anyway) around the science fiction genre itself; but although
there’salargeamountofusefulinformationhere,andevensomevaluableinsights,theauthor’ssloppiness
with matters of fact (most of them easily researchable) and generally vague grasp of genre history
diminishesthe book’s valueasa referencetool,although manymembersof the layaudience may findit
entertainingandaccessible.
Therewerealsoseveraldrier,moreacademicallyoriented,referencebooksthisyear,probablymoreforthe
specialistthanfortheaveragereader,including:Fan-tasyandHorror:ACriticalandHistoricalGuideto
Literature,Illustration,Film,TV,Radio,andtheInternet,editedbyNeilBarron(ScarecrowPress);Strange
Constellations: A History of Australian Science Fiction, by Russell Blackford, Van Ikin, and Sean
McMullen (Greenwood Press); and The Fantasy Literature ofEn-gland, by Colin Manlove (Macmillan
UK).TheextremelyvaluableresearchtoolTheLocusIndextoScienceFiction(1984-1998),byCharlesN.
BrownandWil-liamG.Contento,combinedwiththeIndextoScienceFictionAnthologiesandCollections,
by William G. Contento, is now available in CD form, from Locus Press for $45 — and if you have
anythingotherthanthemostcasualofinterestsintheSFfield,thisisanessentialpurchasethatwillpayfor
itselfmanytimesoverinshortorder(myself,Ifindthatthere’srarelyaweekthatgoesbywhenIdon’tuse
it to look up something). It can be ordered on-line, at the Locus Online site, www.locusmag.com, and
regularupdatesforitareavailablethereaswell.Amorespecialized,butalsovaluable,researchtool,alsoin
CD form, is the Science Fiction,Fantasy, 6 Weird Fiction Magazine Index (1890-1998), by Stephen T.
MillerandWilliamG.
Contento,alsoavailablefromLocusPressfor$45.
AgeneralizedbookofgenrecriticismwasDeconstructingtheStarships:Science,FictionandReality, by
GwynethJones(LiverpoolUniversityPress),whilecriticalstudiesofindividualwritersincludedDemand
MyWriting:JoannaRuss/Feminism/ScienceFiction,byJeanneCortiel(LiverpoolUniversityPress),and
TheRoadtoCastleMount:TheScienceFictionofRobertSilverberg,byEdgarL.ChapmanGreenwood).
BooksaboutwritersincludedGeorgeTurner:ALife,byJudithRaph-aelBuckrich(MelbourneUniversity
Press),TarzanForever:TheLifeofEdgarRiceBurroughs,CreatorofTarzan,byJohnTaliaferro(Scribner),
andacharming,frank,andinsightfulautobiographybyBrianW.Aldiss.TheTwinklingofanEye,or,My
LifeasanEnglishman(St.
Martin’sPress).BooksofinterviewswithgenrefiguresincludedPioneersofWonder:Conversationswith
theFoundersofScienceFiction,byEricLeifDavin(Prometheus),andTheRobertHeinleinInterviewand
OtherHeinleiniana,byJ.NeilSchulman(pulpless.com).Furtherontheedgesofthefield,therewerealso
severalcriticalstudiesoffairytales,includingWhenDreamsComeTrue:ClassicalFairyTalesandTheir
Traditions,byJackZipes;Routledge),TheWitchMustDie:HowFairyTalesShapeOurLives,bySheldon
Cashdan(BasicBooks),andNoGotheBogeyman:Scaring,LullingandMakingMock,byMarinaWarner
(FarrarStrausGiroux).
Outontheedgesofthefieldinadifferentdirectionaretworeferencebooksforplacesthatdon’texist:The
Dictionary of Imaginary Places, by Alberto Manguel and Gianni Guadalupi (Harcourt Brace), and
DictionaryofScienceFictionPlaces,byBrianStableford(Simon&Schuster).Alsooutontheborderlands
somewhere, perhaps on the edge of Art Book Land, is The Book of End Times, by John Clute
(HarperPrism), a collage of illustrations, quotations, and photographs dealing with the turning of the
millenniumandtheend-of-the-worldfrenzyit’sbeenknowntowhipup.
Which edges us neatly into the art book field, which was fairly strong this year. I’ve already mentioned
FrankM.Robinson’sScience Fictionofthe20th Century, which,ifconsidered as anartbook,would be
right up there at the top of the category. As would three retrospective collections, Legacy: Selected
PaintingsandDrawingsbytheGrandMasterofFantasticArt,byoldmasterFrankFrazetta(Underwood),
Transluminal: The Paintings of Jim Burns, by new(er) master Jim Burns (Paper Tiger), and Maxfield
Parrish1870-1966,byMaxfleldParrish(Abrams),amasternotusuallythoughtofasagenreartistatall,
butonewhoseworkhasclearlyhadadeepandlastingimpactongenrework,particularlyfantasylandscape
art. Last year, during his Locus Award acceptance speech, Arnie Fenner took me to task for referring to
Spectrum5as“asortofBest-of-the-Yearseriesthatcompilestheyear’sfantasticart,”butit’shardtosee
anyotherdescriptionof the book that really fits (sorry, Arnie!); certainly it fits Spectrum 6:The Best in
Con-temporaryFantasticArt,byCathyandArnieFenner(Underwood)justaswellasitfitSpectrum5,and
iswhatmakesthisvaluableasanoverviewof—justasitsays—thecontemporaryfantasticartfield,and
places it near the top of the art book category as well. This year, though, it has a worthy rival in the
overview-of-contemporary-fantastic-artcategory,FantasyArtoftheNewMillennium.TheBestinFantasy
andSFArtWorldwide,byDickJude(Voyager).Worthcheckingoutaswellisanoverviewofrarelyseen
artfromwhatmightjustaswellbeanotherworld,asalienasitistotheWesterntradition,SpiritCountry:
Contemporary AustralianAboriginal Art, compiled by Jennifer Isaacs (Fine Arts Museums of San
Francisco).
AlsoworthwhileinthiscategorywereTheBookofSeaMonsters,byBobEggleton(PaperTiger);SoftAs
Steel, The Art of Julie Bell, by Julie Bell (Paper Tiger); and The World of Michael Parkes, by Michael
Parkes(Steltman).
Therewereafairnumberofgeneralgenre-relatednonfictionbooksofinterestthisyear.Leadingthelistfor
most genre readers would probably be three nonfic-tion titles by well-known genre writers: Greetings,
Carbon-BasedBipeds!:CollectedEssays1934-1998,byArthurC.Clarke(St.Martin’sPress),whichisjust
whatitsaysitis;DeepTime:HowHumanityCommunicatesAcrossMillennia,byGregoryBenford(Avon
Eos),alsoself-explanatory;andBorderlandsofScience:HowtoThinkLikeaScientistandWriteScience
Fiction,byCharlesSheffield(Baen),anoddbuteffectivecrossbetweenscienceessaysandwriting-advice
articlesbyascientistwhoisalsoanSFwriter(asareallthreeoftheseauthors,bytheway).
Moving a bit further afield, we have a new book from one of my favorites, The Knowledge Web: From
Electronic Agents to Stonehenge and Back—and Other Jour-neys Through Knowledge, by James Burke
(Simon&Schuster).AnyonewhohasreadBurke’sfamousConnections,orseenanyoftheTV
versionsofBurke’s work,knowswhat they’reinforhere—bitsofobscureknowledgeof thehistoryof
tech-nologyandsurprisinginsightsinto waysinwhichtheyrelateandinteract,allflavoredwithBurke’s
wry,antic humor—and Burkedoesn’tdisappoint.Assuming continued interestin alternate historyandin
spacetravelonthepartofSFfans(afairlysafebet),thenmanymaybeintriguedbyWhatIf?TheWorld’s
Foremost Military Historians Imagine What Might Have Been, edited by Robert Crawley (Putnam), and
EnteringSpace:CreatingaSpace-FaringCivilization,byRobertZubrin(Putnam).
AndbookssuchasTheElegantUniverse:Superstrings,HiddenDimensions,andtheQuestfortheUltimate
Theory,byBrianGreene(W.W.Norton&Co.),andAtHomeintheUniverse:TheSearchforLawsofSelf-
OrganizationandComplexity,byStuartKauffman(OxfordUniversityPress),mayhelpyoukeepupwith
some of the more extreme mind-bending conceptualization done by today’s cutting-edge hard science
writers,suchasGregEganorBrianStablefordorAlastairReynolds.
TherearenolessthantwodifferentbiographiesofthelateCarlSaganoutthisyear:CarlSagan:ALifein
the Cosmos, by William Poundstone (Henry Holt), and Carl Sagan: A Life, by Kery Davidson (Wiley),
eitherorbothofwhichmaybeofinteresttogenrereaders,consideringSagan’sstatusasperhapsthemost
prominentsciencepopularizerofthelasthalfofthetwentiethcentury.Andmov-ingabitfurtheroutonthe
borderlands, but still of interest to many genre readers, I’m willing to bet, is Galileo’s Daughter: A
HistoricalMemoirofScience,Faith,andLove,byDavaSobel(Walker&Co.).
****
Theremayhavebeenmoregenremoviesreleasedin1999thanatanyothertimeinhistory,andtheyranthe
fullspectrumfromimmensebox-officeblockbustertoimmensebox-officebomb,andfromquietlittle
“serious”filmstoBig, Loud, andDumbspectaculars; therewere even afewmovies thatmanagedto do
tremen-douslywellattheboxofficeandbeofhighartisticqualityatthesametime.Iguessthemillennium
reallymustbeathand!
The most talked-about genre movie of the year was certainly Star Wars, Episode One: The Phantom
Menace, which had the unhappy fate of being at the same time the most anticipated and the most
disappointingmovieoftheyear.Notthatit’seasytocallamoviethatmadeasmuchmoneyasThePhantom
Menacedid a “failure” — not while expecting anyone to keep a straightface,anyway.Themoviemade
tonsandtonsofmoney,especiallyintheoverseasmarket,and,lasttimeIlooked,hadsettledintothetitle
of “highest-grossing movie of all time.” (Although sales of Star Wars books and spin-off products were
nowherenearashighasanticipated,particularlyinBritain,wheretheytankedingreatnumbers…soper-
hapseventhishugecashcowultimatelydidn’tproducequiteasmuch“milk”asthey’dbeencountingon.)
Artistically,however,althoughitmaynothavebeenatotalfailure,itcertainlywasn’tanywherenearthe
success that most Star Wars fans had hoped that it would be. After months of intense hype, and a
promotionalcampaignthatwhippedfansupintoafrenzyofanticipation,withsomededicatedindividuals
waitingoutsideinallweatherforweekstobuyadvancetickets,Ithinkthatmostpeople,evenmanyofthe
hardcoreStarWarsfans,walkedawayfromthemoviedisappointed,tooneextentoranother—whichmay
make it difficult to whip up anywhere near the same level of anticipation again for Episode Two. (One
subjective but perhaps telling point: when I saw the original Star Wars for the first time, in 1977, the
audienceleapedtotheirfeetattheend,cheering,andgavethemovieaspontaneousstandingovation.When
IsawThePhantomMenace,therewasnosuchoutburstattheend;instead,thefansfiledquietlyoutofthe
theater,lookingsubdued,pensive,and,yes,disappointed.
NotthewayLucaswantedthemtoreact,I’msure!)
TherewasstillalottoadmireinThePhantomMenace,includingsomespec-tacularspecialeffects,some
wonderfullyevocativesets,costuming,andsetdress-ing,andacoupleofwell-stagedfightscenes.
Evensomeoftheperformancesweren’tbad,withLiamNeesonandEwanMcGregordoingthebestthey
could with the limited material they had to work with; Neeson in particular did a good enough job of
bringingasenseofquietstrengthandgravitastohisroleasQui-GonJinn,aJediknightandmentortothe
youngObi-WanKenobi(McGregor),thatyouregretthefactthathegetstoastedbythevillain,DarthMaul,
andsowon’tmakeitintoepisodetwo.However,thewritingisawful(particularlythedialogue,whichis
terribleevenbyStarWarsstandards),theplotismuddled,illogical,uninvolving,andinconsistent(fullof
stuff that was obviously added at the last moment, without lots of thought about its implications, that
retroactivelyinvalidateseverythinginthe“first”threemovies),thecharacterizationisminimalevenforan
actionfilm(Idon’tthinkDarthMaulgetsfourlinesofdialogueinthewholemovie,andhismotivationsare
completely unexplained, which makes him curiously uninvolving as a villain; there’s not nearly enough
timespentontherelationshipbetweenQui-GonJinnandObi-WanKenobi,either),andsomeoftheactors
are just awful (although you could charitably ascribe this to lack of effective direction, If you’re so
inclined).Thekid,forinstance,AnakinSywalker,thepivotalcharacteruponwhomthewholeplotrevolves,
andwhoiscalledupontocarrywholesectionsofthefilmon hispunylittleshoulders, is as waxen and
lifeless as a department-store dummy (a major-league mistake making him a little kid, anyway, in my
opinion;alotofthetropesthatjaranddon’tmakesensewhenappliedtoasix-year-oldwouldplaymuch
betterwithateenager,someoneaboutthesameagethatLukewasintheoriginalStarWars).Whichbrings
us to Jar Jar Binks, the “comic relief” character who makes large stretches of this film teeth-grittingly
unpleasanttositthrough,andwhoisprobablythemostwidelyandintenselydespisedfictionalcharacterof
the year, if not the decade, inspiring doz-ens of anti-Jar Jar sites to spring up on the Internet almost
overnight.JarJarhasalsobeenwidelyattackedasaviciousracialcaricature,andwhileIthinkthatthiswas
probablyunconsciousratherthandeliberateonthepartofthefilmmakers,itishardtowatchhiminaction
forlongwithoutbeinguneasilyremindedofStepinFetchit….
LucashasamassedagreatdealofgoodwillandpositiveemotionalcapitalovertheyearswiththeStarWars
moviesandbooks—let’shopehehasn’tspenttoomuchofitwithThePhantomEmpiretosuccessfullylure
customers back into the theater for episode two. Let’s also hope that episode two is a better movie as a
moviethanwasepisodeone;therearesomefailingsthatspecialeffectsalonecan’tadequatelycompensate
for,nomatterhowsnazzytheyare.Perhapshe’dbebetteroffgettinghisbuddyStevenSpielberg(who,no
matter what you think of him, would never make the kind of elementary storytelling and movie-craft
mistakesthatLucasmakeshere)todirectthenextone,andsettlefortheroleofproducerinstead.
The Phantom Menace may have been the box-office champ, but there were other movies that sold
phenomenalnumbersofticketsaswell,andwhichmayactuallyhavebeeneffectivelymoreprofitablethan
itwas,consideringhowover-whelminglylessexpensivetheyweretomake.Thisisespeciallytrueinthe
caseofthebox-officeblockbuster(andculturalphenomenon)TheBlairWitchProject,whichmanagedto
rakein multiple millionsinspiteof a production budget ofmerely$30,000 (practically no budget atall,
evenbythemostmodestHollywoodstandards!).Imustadmitthatmyfirstthoughtonseeingthemovie
was, How did they manage to even spend as much as $30,000 on this? Aside from some videotape
equipment,there’snothing visible on-screenthatcosts more than acoupleof hundred bucks, nosets,no
costuming that couldn’t have come off the rack at Kmart, and effectively no actors other than the three
youngleads,allunknowns.Infact,themovieisperfectlyconvincingasanamateurfilmmadeoutinthe
woodssomewherebyatrioofbrokeandnotparticularlytalentedstudentfilm-makers.Buttheproducersof
TheBlairWitchProjecthaveshrewdlyturned ne-cessityinto anadvantage; becausetheyhadnospecial-
effectsbudget,theynever show us whatever it is that’ssupposedto be menacing this tentful of unhappy
campersoutinthewoods,allowingtheimaginationsoftheaudiencetosupplyhorrorsfarmorefrightening
thananythingthatcouldbeexplicitlyshownonthescreen,andthusscaringthecrapoutofaudienceswho
yawned through big-budget, special-effects-heavy, blood-spattered gorefests such as The Haunting. (The
otherkeytothesuccessofTheBlairWitchProjectisa verycleverpostmodern campaignthat suggested
thatallthisis“real,”
thatthisreallyisfootagefoundinafilmcaninthewoodsafterthestudentfilmmakersyouseeon-screen
disap-peared,nevertobeseenagain—suggestedthissoeffectively,includingevenafake“documentary”
aboutthe“case”ofthemissingfilmmakersthatappearedonA&E,thattherearesomepeopleunwillingto
giveuptheiremotionalinvestmentofbeliefevennow,andwhowillstillpassionatelyinsistthatthewhole
thingis“real”and“actuallyhappened.”Infact,therearestillInternetsitesdevotedtodefendingjustthis
proposition! Another unexpected mega-hit was The Sixth Sense, which almost all the critics hated
(includingonemajorreviewthatmadeitem-barrassinglyclearinretrospectthatthecritichadwalkedoutat
somepointinthemiddleofthemovie,ifhe’deveractuallygoneinthefirstplace),butwhichsurvivedand
prosperedalmostentirelyonwordofmouth,eventuallybuildingahugeaudience.
Whichitdeserved.TheSixthSensewasthatrareanimal,anintelligentandsubtlyunderplayedsupernatural
horrormovie;Iwenttothetheaterexpectingtohateit,andinsteadwalkedawaythinkingthatitwasoneof
thebestmoviesoftheyear.Thewritingisterrifichere,tightandsharp,asistheintricateplotting,which
workswiththeprecisionofaSwisswatch.Theactingisalsoexcellent;BruceWillis—provingonceagain
thathereallycanactifyouforcehimto—isverygood,buttheboy,HaleyJoelOsment,walksawaywith
themovie,givingoneofthebestperformancesbyachildactorthatI’veeverseen,anywhere;onmyway
outthroughtheparkinglot,Ikeptthinking,Boy,ifthey’dgottenthatkidtoplayAnakinSkywalker,hemight
have saved the movie! Another relatively “quiet” supernatural movie, and another one that raked in
millions,wasTheGreenMile,whichnowjoinsthatsmallbutdistinguishedgroup—alongwithStand By
Me,Misery,andTheShawshankRedemption—ofmoviesmadefromStephenKingbooksthatareactually
worthwatching.
Anotherbox-officechampwasTheMatrix,whichborrowedcyberpunktropesfromadozenpreviousbooks
and movies and stylishly reinvented them for the late ‘90s, but whose wonderful, state-of-the-art special
effectsandglossyproductionvaluescouldn’tdisguisethefactthatitwasconceptuallyandspirituallyempty
atheart,moreanarcadegameoralive-actionanimethana“real”movie,raisingintriguingquestionsthatit
thendidn’tbothertofaceoranswer,settlinginsteadforanextendedshoot-everything-in-sightclimaxthat
hadtheteenageboysjumpingandboppingintheirseats,butwhichsentmuchoftherestoftheaudience
homeunsatisfied(andwhich,withitsman-in-long-black-trenchcoat-walking-around-blasting-everything-in
front-of-himimagery,playssomewhat creepilyinretrospect afterthe ColumbineHighSchool massacre).
Alsoslickbutessentiallycaloriefree(althoughalsoabigmoneymaker)wasTheMummy,whichhadgreat
specialeffects,butwhich somehow,inspiteofallthecomputer-generatedgruesomenessand ambulatory
rottingcorpses,managednottobeevenasscaryasthe1932original,whoseentirespecial-effectsbudget
consistedofsomebandagestowrapBorisKarloffupin;nobodyseemstoknowhowtopaceeitherascary
movieorathrilleranymore,andonlytheBlairWitchpeopleseemtohavefiguredoutthatlessisusually
more as far as scaring the audience is concerned. (To be fair, The Mummy doesn’t take itself terribly
seriously, a relief after something like The Ma-trix, and is full of nice tongue-in-check stuff, admirably
handled by the affable Brendan Fraser.) In spite of time-travel motifs, Austin Powers: The Spy Who
ShaggedMe,can’treallybedescribedasanSFmovie,butit’scertainlyafantasyofsomesort,oratleasta
spoofofthatsortoffantasy,andwasimmenselypopular.
Animatedmovies ofonesortor another alsoscoredbig this year,withToyStory2, Tarzan,SouthPark;
Bigger,Longer,andUncut,andthepart-live-action,part-animatedStuartLittleallfinishingnearthetopof
themoney-earningcharts.(Somewhatsurprisingly,theSouthParkmoviealsoturnedouttobeoneofthe
mosttunefulandenjoyable moviemusicalsinyears,while functioningat thesametime asa devastating
andspot-onsatireofmoviemusicals,especiallyDisneyani-matedmusicals;don’texpecttohearmostof
theincrediblyfoul-mouthedsongsontheradio,though,nomatterhowcatchytheyare!
It’saluckybreakfortheAcademythatitwas“BlameCanada”that gotnominatedfor anOscarforbest
song,andnot“UncleFucka.”)
Notallof1999’sgenremovieswerebigmoneymakers,ofcourse;notbyanymeans.Someofthembombed
prettythoroughly,andthehigherthemovie’sbudgetwas,themoregrandiosetheproducer’sexpectations,
thelongerandharderithadtofall.WildWildWest,abig-budgetremakeofthecampyoldTVshowthatwas
expectedtodobigbusiness/tankedbig-timeinstead,andwasprobablythemostcriticallysavagedmovieof
theyearaswell;noteventhecharismaticWillSmithcouldsavethisone,althoughheatleastmanagedto
salvageahitsong(fromthesoundtrack)outofthewreckage.Otherbig-budgetflopsthisyearincludedthe
above-mentionedTheHaunting,InspectorGadget,MyFavoriteMar-tian,TheHouseonHauntedHill,End
ofDays,DeepBlueSea,UniversalSoldier:TheReturn,Dogma,Virus,Stigmata,TheMuse,MysteryMen,
andSleepyHollow(whichmadetheoddchoiceofreinventingWashingtonIrving’scharminglittlefableas
astylishlybleaksplatterpunkmovie).Afairlyhigh-endmoviecalledTheAstronaut’sWifewasannounced,
but if it ever played through Philadelphia, it must have done so fast, probably not a good sign. Caught
somewhere between the top and the bottom of this food chain were movies that were probably mildly
successful commercially, but not that successful, not even close to battling in the same league as The
PhantomMenaceandTheMatrixandStuartLittle;howpleasedtheproducerswerewiththeirtrackrecords
probably depended on how much money they’d invested in them in the first place. My guess is that the
producers were probably disappointed with the relatively modest success of the year’s three other
cyberpunkand/orvirtual-realitymovies,TheThirteenthFloor,eXistenZ,andNewRoseHotel,allofwhich
haveenthusiasticboosters(particularlyTheThirteenthFloor),butwhichwerecertainlyovershadowedby
theimmensecommercialsuccessofTheMatrix,andmostlycriticallyignored,or—unfairly—dismissedin
a“beenthere,donethat”fashionasjustanotherMatrix;Idon’tthinkanyofthemactuallydoggedout,but
certainlynoneofthemfoundthekindrealmassaudiencetheyweresupposedtofind,either.NordidThe
13th Warrior, which presented Michael Crichton’s Eaters of theDead (in many ways as much a dry
scholarlyjoke asanovel) asasort ofsword-and-sorcery-with-Vikingsmovie. OrThe Bicentennial Man,
whichonefrienddescribedas“arobotMrs.Doubtfire,”andwhichmostreviewerscriticizedforbeingtoo
long, too slow, and too syrupy; perhaps it should have stuck closer to the source material. On the other
hand, the producers of lower-budget, lower-expectation films that became modest sleeper hits such as
GalaxyQuest,asharpandfunnysatireofmediaSFandofStarTrekinparticular,andBlastfromthePast,a
low-brow but good-natured comedy about a man encountering modern society for the first time after
growinguplockedinabombshelter,perfectlycastwithBrendanFrasertobringalikable,gee-whiz,naive-
but-not-stupidqualitytoarolethatmightjustaswellbeCasperHauser,oraManfromMars
—wereprobablymoresatisfiedwithhowmanyticketstheymoved.I’mnotsurehowMuppetsinSpaceand
TheMusedid,andImissedbothofthem,buttheydon’tseemtohavesetanysalesrecordseither.
And,of course,thereare otherwaysto measuresuccessthan justby how wellsomethingdid atthe box
office.ThesurrealBeingJohnMalkovich,forinstance,wasprettyfardownthehighest-grossinglist,butit
wasasuccesd’estime(itshoweduponmostcritic’slistsoftheyear’sbestmovies),aswasthestylishand
often grisly (far more violent than the average animated movie) Japanese animated production, Princess
Mononoke.Oneofthebestmoviesoftheyeardidn’tmakeadime,asfarasIcansee,andwaspulledoutof
thetheatersonlyaweekor sointo adisastroustheatricalfirstrun— nevertheless,TheIron Giant is the
kindofwonderful“family”entertainmentthatDisneyanimatedmoviespromisetodeliver,but(withrecent
exceptionssuchasToyStory,ToyStory2,andABug’sLife)rarelyeverdo,withtheaddedbonusofbeing
intelligent,witty,thoughtprovoking,andevenattimessuspenseful,aswellaswarmhearted,withamuch
lowermaudlinquotient,andnodamnsongs.Inshort,TheIronGiantisoneofthebestanimatedmovies
I’ve ever seen, as delightful for adults as for children, and I’d recommend going out and buying the
videotape or CD, since it’s long banished from theaters, never to return. Another warmhearted and very
well-crafted “small” movie is October Sky, which isn’t technically a genre film at all, but which will
certainlyappealtomanygenrefanswithitsgrittyyetmovingportrait(basedonatruestory)ofapoorkid
whousesmodel-rocketmakingashisgatewayoutofaDickensiancoaltownandultimatelyintoajobinthe
spaceprogram.Evenbetterthanthesetwofinemovies,though,isamoviethatImissedonfirstreleasea
coupleofyearsback(Idon’tthinkthatiteverpassedthroughPhiladelphiatheatersatall),TheWholeWide
World;I mustadmitthat theideaofamovie basedontheeccentriclifeofpulpfantasywriterRobertE.
Howard sounded like an unlikely candidate for excellence to me, but, against all odds, TheWholeWide
World turns out to be a terrific film, moving and absorbing (largely because of a hypnotically intense
performancebyVincentD’OnofrioasRobertE.Howard),andcertainlythebestmovieevermadeabouta
genrewriter,byalargemargin;gooutandrentthisone,too(ifyoucanevenfinditattherentalstore;many
placesdon’tcarryit).
Therearelotsmore genre movies coming up on the horizon for 2000, some of which sound promising,
someofwhichsoundlikethey’regoingtobeJustAwful;impossibletosortoutatthisdistancewhichof
them are going to be the Big Box-office Blockbusters and which the flops, although it sounds like
expectationsarebeing builtmoderatelyhighforthe ValKilmerMars-explorationmovie.And,of course,
oceans of ink (or Internet phosphors, anyway) are already being spilled speculating about how the
forthcominglive-actionmovieversionofTolkein’sTheLordoftheRingsisgoingtoturnout,andwhether
StarWars, EpisodeTwoisgoing tobe betterthan EpisodeOne (andwho isgoingtobecasttoplaythe
teenageAnakinSkywalker,aroleforwhicheveryconceivableactorexceptpossiblyDaffyDuckhasbeen
suggested),althoughneitherofthosearegoingtoshowupnextyear,orprobablyeventheyearafter.Oddly,
there’snonewStarTrekmovieinproduction,theproducersreportedlynotwantingtoputsomethingout
thatwouldhavetocompetewiththenewStarWarsmovies.ConsideringatwhatalowebbthewholeStar
Trekfranchiseseemstobeatthemoment,Ithinkthismaybeamistake(outofsight,outofmind,andthen
suddenlyyou’reOldNews,andtheydon’tletyoumakeanewfeaturefilmwhenyou finallydecidethat
youwantto)—butthen,theydon’tpaymeforadvice.
****
SFandfantasyontelevisionseemedtobeinachaotic,transitionalstatethisyear,withmostoftheformer
bigshowsgone,oratleastobviouslynearingtheendoftheirruns.DuelingcultfavoritesBabylon5 and
StarTrek:DeepSpaceNinehavebothgoneofftheair,ashaveHerculesandHighlander,andshowssuchas
The X- Files and Star Trek: Voyager are obviously (and even admittedly) winding down, with maybe
anotheryearleftaheadofthem,ormaybenot.
The departure of all these high-profile shows has obviously left a power vacuum, which producers are
scramblingtofill.Sofar,aBabylon5spin-offandanX-Filesspin-off(aswellasseveralstronglyimitative
X-Filesclonesbyotherhands)haveprovedunsuccessful,andhavealreadybeenpulledofftheairways,and
theonce-mightyStarTrekfranchiseseemstobeatitslowestebbinyears,reducedtoonlytheleastpopular
(evenamong most StarTrek fans) of its shows, with even it probably on the way out (and with rumors
flyingthatseveralpotentialnewseriessuggestedtoreplaceithavebeenrejectedbythenetwork),andnot
evenanewtheatricalmovieanywhereonthehorizon(rumorsthatthestudioisreluctanttocommittoone
havealsobeenflying).
Some show is going to rush in to fill this vacuum, becoming the new cult favorite, and gaining huge
audiences.Theonlyquestionis,which!
Sofar, it looks to me asif Farscapemight have the fast track. A reasonably intelligent (for a TV space
opera)showthatisplayedwithsomebrioandpanache(althoughIfindithardtogetpastthefactthatall
the aliens look suspiciously like Grover from Sesame Street; if you can deal with half the cast being
Muppetswithoutlosingyour willingsuspension of disbelief, you’ll respond better to the show than I’ve
been able to), Farscape has clearly been building a loyal audience. Whether it can build enough of an
audiencetobecome‘thenewBabylon5,’asI’veheardittoutedinsomecircles,Idon’tknow—butitseems
tomethatFarscapehasthebestchanceofachievingthisstatusofanyofthehopefulnewpackofgenre
shows.
Theonlyshowthatlookslikeitmightbeaseriouscompetitor,onthe“sci-fi”endofthetelevisionspectrum
anyway,isCleopatra2525,thereplacementforHercules,whichhasbeenpickingupstrongratingsinits
timeslot.Acoupleofyearsago,IreferredtoshowssuchasXenaandBuffytheVampireSlayeras“Beau-
tifulWomenKickMaleButt”shows;well,alongwiththelameCanadianshowLexx(althoughtoalesser
degreethanLexx,whichisreallydumb,toajaw-droppingdegree),Cleopatra2525mightbethoughtofasa
“Sci-fi-jiggleshow,”sinceitseemsmainlydevotedtocomingupwithmoderatelyimplausiblereasonsfor
havingscantilydressedwomenrunningaroundandshootingthings(inLexx,thescantily dressed woman
doesn’tevenusuallygettoshootstuff,althoughthere’sagreatdealofhigh-schoollevelsexualinnuendo,
servedupwith muchnudge-nudge winkingandleering).Moreintelligent,andactuallylesscartoonishin
spiteofbeingananimatedseries,isFuturama,anewcomedy,setin thefuture,fromthecreatorsofThe
Simpsons(whichitselfisstillon,andstillpopular,afteralltheseyears,althoughnolongerquitetheCult
Favoriteitoncewas).Anothernewshow,NowandAgain,issortofacrossbetweenTheSix-MillionDollar
ManandUniversalSoldier,althoughitseemstoberunninglowonplottwistsalready.Slidersfinallydied
completely, to no one’s great regret. Roswell is a sort of soap-opera-with-UFO-aliens show, while First
Wave is The Fugitive with UFO aliens, more or less. Third Rock from the Sun is a comedy with aliens,
althoughofamorebenignsort,Mork(5
Mindy/Alf-ish types rather than the sinister big-eyed anal-probing Earth-conquering variety. Can a game
showwithUFOaliensbefarbe-hind?ProbablysomeonehasoneonthedrawingboardevenasItypethis.
(WhoWantstoBeAbductedbyanAlienMillionaire?perhaps.)Meanwhile,overonthefantasyendofthe
television spectrum, the above-mentioned Xena: WarriorPrincess and Buffy the Vampire Slayer are still
going strong. Buffy has launched a successful spin-off show, Angel, although the Highlander spin-off,
Highlander:The Raven, may have died; at leastIhaven’tseen it around for a while.Severalotherpop-
supernaturalshowsseemtohaveachievedonedegreeoranotherofsuccess,suchasSabrina,theTeenage
Witch, Charmed, GvsE, and a plethora of Angels-among-Us shows; there’s even an actual daytime soap
opera, Passions, in which most of the characters are witches! The Drew Carey Show often breaks
triumphantlyintothesurreal,withthewholecastsuddenlybreakingintoasong-and-dancenumberinthe
middleofascene,orDaffyDuckcomingtoapplyforajob,butit’sperhapsstretchingthingstoofartolist
itasafantasyshow,inspiteofallthat.
SouthParkisstillon,stillusesalotoffantastictropes,andisstilloccasionallyfunny;themoviewasbetter,
though(andbyfarthebestSatan-coming-to-Earth-to-bring-about-the-end-of-the-worldmovieoftheyear,
inayearthatsawseveralofthem,somewithbudgetsaslargeastheGNPofsmallThird-Worldnations).
Allinall,itstilldoesn’tseemtomelikethere’sallthatmuchreallyworthwatchingontelevision,asfaras
genre shows are concerned. Put on The History Channel or A&E or the Discovery Channel instead. Or,
betterstill,turnthesetoffaltogether,andreadabook.
****
The 57th World Science Fiction Convention, Aussiecon Three, was held in Melbourne, Australia, from
September 2-5, 1999. The third worldcon to be held in Australia, Aussiecon Three drew an estimated
attendanceof1,872,thesmallestworldconsince1985,thelasttimethatworldconwasheldinAustralia.
The1999HugoAwards,presentedatAussieconThree,were:BestNovel,ToSayNothingoftheDog,by
ConnieWillis;BestNovella,“Oceanic,”byGregEgan;BestNov-elette,“Taklamakan,”byBruceSterling;
BestShortStory,“TheVeryPulseoftheMachine,”byMichaelSwanwick;BestRelatedBook,TheDreams
OurStuffIsMadeOf:HowScienceFictionConqueredtheWorld,byThomasM.Disch;BestProfessional
Editor,GardnerDozois;BestProfessionalArtist,BobEggleton;BestDramaticPresentation,The Truman
Show, Best Semiprozine, Locus, edited by Charles N. Brown; Best Fanzine, Ansible, edited by Dave
Langford;BestFanWriter,DavidLangford;BestFanArtist,IanGunn;plustheJohnW.CampbellAward
forBestNewWritertoNaloHopkinson.
The 1998 Nebula Awards, presented at a banquet at the Marriott City Center Hotel in Pittsburgh,
Pennsylvania,onMay1,1999,were:BestNovel,ForeverPeace,byJoeHaldeman;BestNovella,
“ReadingtheBones,”bySheilaFinch;BestNovelette,“LostGirls,”byJaneYolen;BestShortStory,
“ThirteenWaystoWater,”byBruceHollandRogers;plusanAuthorEmeritusawardtoPhilipKlass,the
RayBradburyAwardforDramaticScreenwritingtoJ.MichaelStraczynski,andaGrandMasterAwardto
HalClement.
The World Fantasy Awards, presented at the Twenty-Fifth Annual World Fan-tasy Convention in
Providence, Rhode Island, on November 4-7, 1999, were: Best Novel, The Antelope Wife, by Louise
Erdrich;BestNovella,“TheSummerIsles,”byIanR.MacLeod;BestShortFiction,“TheSpecialist’sHat,”
by Kelly Link; Best Collection, Black Glass, by Karen Joy Fowler; Best Anthology, DreamingDown-
Under,editedbyJackDannandJaneenWebb;BestArtist,CharlesVess;SpecialAward(Professional),to
Jim Turner, for Golden Gryphon Press; Special Award (Nonprofessional), to Richard Chizmar, for
CemeteryDancePublications;plusaLifeAchievementAwardtoHughB.Cave.
The 1999 Bram Stoker Award, presented by the Horror Writers of America during a banquet at the
HollywoodRooseveltHotelinHollywood,CaliforniaonJune5,1999,were:BestNovel,BagofBones,by
Stephen King; Best First Novel, Dawn Song, by Michael Marano; Best Collection, BlackButterflies, by
JohnShir-ley;BestLongFiction,“Mr.ClubbandMr.Cuff”byPeterStraub;BestShortStory,“TheDead
BoyatYourWindow,”byBruceHollandRogers;Nonfiction,DarkEchoNewsletterVolume5#1-50,edited
byPaulaGuran;BestAnthology,Horrors!365ScaryStories,editedbyStefanDziemianowiez,MartinH.
Greenberg,andRobertWeinberg;BestScreenplay,GodsandMonsters,byBillCondonandDarkCity,by
AlexProyas(tie);BestWorkforYoungReaders,“BiggerThanDeath,”
byNancyEtchemendy;plusaLifetimeAchievementAwardtoRogerCormanandRamseyCampbell.
The1998JohnW.CampbellMemorialAwardwaswonbyBruteOrbits,byGeorgeZebrowski.
The1998TheodoreSturgeonAwardforBestShortStorywaswonby“StoryofYourLife,”byTedChiang.
The1998PhilipK.DickMemorialAwardwentto253:ThePrintRemix,byGeoffRyman,withaSpecial
CitationtoLostPages,byPaulDiFilippo.
The1998ArthurC.ClarkeawardwaswonbyDreaminginSmoke,byTriciaSullivan.
The1997JamesTiptree,Jr.,MemorialAwardwaswonby“CongenitalAgenesisofGenderIdeation,”
byRaphaelCarter.
****
Deadin1999or early 2000 were: A. E. van Vogt, 89, one of the giants of the “golden age” of science
fictioninthe ‘30s and ‘40s, winner of SFWA’sprestigiousGrand Master Award, author ofsuch seminal
worksasSlan,TheWorldofNull-A,TheWarAgainsttheRull,TheWeaponShopsofIsher,Voyageofthe
SpaceBeagle,and manyothernovels,andwhosefamousstory“BlackDe-stroyer”isseenbymanyas a
direct inspiration for later media work such as Alien and the original Star Trek television series; James
White,71,famedIrishSFwriterandfan,bestknownforhis“SectorGeneral”
novelsaboutahospitalinspace,suchasHospitalStation,StarSurgeon,SectorGeneral,FinalDiagnosis,
andmanyothers,aswellasforstand-alonenovelssuchasTheWatchBe-low,TheSilentStarsGoBy,and
AHjudgmentFled;MarionZimmerBradley,69,authorofthebest-sellingTheMistsofAvalon,oneofthe
most acclaimed and influential Arthurian novels of the last thirty years, as well as many novels in the
popularDarkoverseries,includingTheDoorThroughSpace,ThePlanetSavers,andTheSwordofAldones,
theeditorofalargenumberofanthologiesinthelong-runningSwordandSorceressseries,andfounderand
editorofMarionZimmerBradley’sFantasyMagazine;JosephHeller, 76, whose best-selling cult classic
WorldWarIInovelCatch-22hadfantastic/surrealelements,alsotheau-thoroffantasynovelPictureThis,
aswellasnovelssuchasSomethingHap-pened,GoodasGold,andClosingTime;PaulBowles,88,writer,
composer,andartist,bestknownforthemainstreamnovelTheShelteringSky,butwhoalsowrotehorror
stories,somecollectedinTheDelicatePrey;Robert“Buck”Coulson,70,writer,critic,andwell-known
fan personality, coauthor (with Gene DeWeese) of the comic SF novels Now You See It/Him/Them and
CharlesFortNeverMentionedWombats,andcoeditor(withwife,JuanitaCoul-son)oftheHugo-winning
fanzineYandro;GaryJennings,70,SFshortstorywriterwhoachievedbest-sellerstatuswithaseriesof
historicalnovelssuchasAztecs, Spangle,Raptor, The Journey’er,andAztec Autumn; MichaelAvallone,
74, prolific author best known for his “Ed Noon” series of detective novels, who also published horror,
novelizations,and erotica; ShelSilverstein,humoristandcartoonist,authorofseveralbest-sellingbooks
forchildren,suchastheinfa-mousUncleShelby’sABZBook:APrimerforYoungMinds,TheGivingTree,
andFallingUp;EddieJones,64,well-knownBritishSFartistwhosecoversadornedmanybooksin the
‘60sand‘70s;GilKane,74,well-knowncomic-bookartist,bestknownforhisworkonthecomicbook
GreenLantern;StanleyKu-brick,70,world-famousfilmdirector,directorandcocreator(withArthurC.
Clarke)ofoneofthemostfamousSFmoviesofalltime,2001:ASpaceOdys-sey,aswellasothergenre
movies such as A Clockwork Orange and TheShining, films with fantastic/surreal elements such as the
fierce black comedy. Dr. Stran-gelove, or HowI Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, and
nongenrefilmssuchasPathsofGlory,Lolita,andEyesWideShut;astronomicalartistLudek Pesek,80;
Adolfo Bioy Casares, 84, Argentine writer of SF and magic re-alism; Carl Johan Holzhausen, 99,
Swedish SF writer and translator; JerryYulsman, 75, author of the alternate-history novel Elleander
Morning;RobertJ.Sobel,historyprofessorandauthorofthealternate-historybookForWantofaNail:If
BurgoyneHadLosttheBattleof Saratoga; JohnBroome,85, veteran pulp and comic-book writer; Jim
Turner,54,longtimeeditorofArkhamHouse,laterfounderandeditorofGoldenGryphonPress,aneditor
almostsingle-handedlyresponsibleforpublishingmany(ifnotmost)ofthebestshort-storycollectionsof
the
‘80sand‘90s,bringingoutseminalcollectionsbywriterssuchasGregBear,LuciusShepard,NancyKress,
JamesTiptree,Jr.,MichaelSwan-wick,JohnKessel,MaryRosenblum,JamesPatrickKelly,TonyDaniel,
RobertReed,andmanyothers,atatimewhenmosttradepublishersrefusedtopublishcollectionsatall;
RayRussell,74, writer and longtime executive editor of Play-boy, winner of the Lifetime Achievement
Awards from both the World Fantasy Convention and the Horror Writers of America, editor of the
influentialanthol-ogiesThePlayboyBookofScienceFictionandFantasyandThePlayboyBookofHorror
andtheSupernatural,author,amongmanyothers,ofthefamousstory
“Mr. Sardonicus”; Art Saha, 76, SF editor, anthologist, and well-known fan, coeditor (with Donald
Wollheim)ofthelong-runningTheWorld’sBestSFan-thologyseries,andeditorofTheYear’sBestFantasy
Stories anthology series; Howard Browne, 91, onetime editor of Amazing Stories and founder and first
editorofFantastic;CharlesD.Hornig,83,onetimeeditorofWonderStories,FutureFiction,andScience
Fiction Quarterly; Clifton Fadiman, 95, writer, ed-itor, and ‘30s radio personality, whose introductions
addedamuch-neededboostofliteraryrespectabilitytomanyearlySF
booksinthe‘50sand‘60s,edi-toroftheanthologyFantasiaMathematica;TerryHodel,61,producerof
thelong-runningSFradioshowMikeHodel’sHour25,foundedbyherlatehusband,MikeHodel;Frank
McDonnell,59,scholar,sciencefictioncritic,andmysterywriter;TadDembinski, 27,formermanaging
editorofTheNewYorkReviewofScienceFictionandformereditorialassistanttoDavidHartwellatTor
Books;LarrySternig,90,longtimeliteraryagent;WaltWillis,79,leg-endaryBritishfan,fanwriter,and
fanzineeditor,editorofthefamousfanzineSlant;George“Lan”
Laskowski,50,well-knownfanandeditoroftheHugo-winningfanzineLan’sLantern;DeForestKelley,
79,actorbestknowntogenreaudiencesforhislong-runningroleasDr.Leonard“Bones”
McCoyintheoriginalStarTrekseries,andinsubsequentStar Trektheatricalmovies;MarjiiEllers, 81,
longtimefanandcostumer;JoeMayhar,69,husbandofSFwriterArdathMayhar;MurielGold,widowof
thelateSFeditorH.L.Gold;L.AllenChalker,70,brotherofSFwriterJackChalker;AndrewKeith,41,
brother of and sometimes collaborator with SF author William H. Keith; JeannePorter, 86, mother of
Science Fiction Chronicle editor/publisher Andrew I. Porter; EdytheMarinoff, 76, mother of SF writer
KarenHaberSilverberg;BeatriceFriesner,motherofSFwriterEstherM.Friesner;EricFelice,33,sonof
SFwriterCynthiaFelice;W.H.“Pete”Rowland,fatherofSFwriterDianaRowland;andSarahDelany,
109,coauthorofthememoirHavingOurSay:TheDelanySisters’FirstHundredYears,andgreat-auntof
SFwriterSamuelR.Delany.
****
theweddingalbum
DAVIDMAUSEK
DavidMarusekisagraduateofClarionWest.HemadehisfirstsaletoAsimov’sScienceFictionin1993,
andhissecondsalesoonthereaftertoPlayboy,followedsubsequentlybymoresalestoAsimov’sandtothe
BritishanthologyFutureHistories.Hispyrotechnicnovella“WeWereOutofOurMindswithJoy”wasone
of the most popular and talked-about stories of 1995; although itwas only his third sale, it was
accomplishedenoughtomakeoneofthereviewersforLocusmagazinespeculatethatMarusekmustbea
Big Name Author writing under a pseudonym. Not apseudonym, Marusek lives the life of a struggling
young writer in a “low-maintenance cabin in thewoods” in Fairbanks, Alaska, where he is currently
workingonhisfirstnovel,andI’mwillingtobetthathisisavoicewe’llbehearingalotmorefromaswe
movethrough the new centuryahead. His stories have appeared in our Thirteenth and Fifteenth Annual
Collections.Hehasawebsiteatwww.marusek.com.
Inthevivid,powerful,andcompassionatestorythatfollows,hetakesusbacktotheintricateandstrange
high-tech future milieu of “We Were Out of Our Minds with Joy,” to a world where theborder between
what’srealandwhat’snotrealhasgrowndisturbinglythin—and we don’talways find ourselves on the
rightsideoftheline.
****
A
nneandBenjaminstoodstockstill,asinstructed,closebutnottouching,whilethesimographeradjustedher
apparatus,setitstimer,andduckedoutoftheroom.Itwouldtakeonlyamoment,shesaid.Theywereto
thinkonlyhappyhappythoughts.
For once in her life, Anne was unconditionally happy, and everything around her made her happier: her
gown, which had been her grandmother’s; the wedding ring (how cold it had felt when Benjamin first
slipped it on her finger!); her clutch bouquet of forget-me-nots and buttercups; Benjamin himself, close
besideherinhischarcoalgreytuxandpinkcarnation.Hewhosodespisedritualbutwasagoodsport.
Hischeekswerepink,too,andhiseyessparkledwithsomewolfishfantasy.“Comehere,”hewhispered.
Anneshushedhim;youweren’tsupposedtotalkortouchduringacasting;itcouldspoilthesims.“Ican’t
wait,”hewhispered,“thisistakingtoolong.”Anditdidseemlongerthanusual,butthiswasaprofessional
simulacrum,notsomehomemadesnapshot.
Theywereposedatthestreetendofthelivingroom,nexttothetablepiledwithbrightlywrappedgifts.
ThiswasBenjamin’stownhouse;shehadbarelymovedin.Allhertreasureswerestillinshippingshellsin
thebasement,exceptforthefewpiecesshe’dmanagedtohaveunpacked:theoakrefectorytableandchairs,
thesixteenth-centuryFrencharmoire,thecherrywoodchifforobe,theteatablewithinlaidtop,thesilvered
mirror over the fire surround. Of course, her antiques clashed with Benjamin’s contemporary-and rather
common-decor,buthehadpromisedherthewholehousetoredoasshesawfit.Awholehouse!
“Howaboutakiss?”whisperedBenjamin.
Annesmiledbutshookherhead;there’dbeplentyoftimelaterforthatsortofthing.
Suddenly,aheadwearingwraparoundgogglespokedthroughthewallandquicklysurveyedtheroom.
“Hey,you,”itsaidtothem.
“Isthatoursimographer?”Benjaminsaid.
Theheadspokeintoacheekmike,“Thisone’sthekeeper,”andwithdrewassuddenlyasithadappeared.
“Didthesimographerjustpopherheadinthroughthewall?”saidBenjamin.
“Ithinkso,”saidAnne,thoughitmadenosense.
“I’ll just see what’s up,” said Benjamin, breaking his pose. He went to the door but could not grasp its
handle.
Musicbegantoplayoutside,andAnnewenttothewindow.Herviewofthegardenbelowwasblockedby
theblue-and-white-stripedcanopytheyhadrented,butshecouldclearlyheartheclinkofflatwareonchina,
laughter,andthemusiciansplayingawaltz.“They’restartingwithoutus,”shesaid,happilyamazed.
“They’rejustwarmingup,”saidBenjamin.
“No,they’renot.That’sthefirstwaltz.Ipickeditmyself.”
“Solet’swaltz,”Benjaminsaidandreachedforher.Buthisarmspassedthroughherinaflashofpixelated
noise.Hefrownedandexaminedhishands.
Annehardlynoticed.Nothingcoulddiminishherhappiness.Shewasdrawntothetableofweddinggifts.
Ofall the gifts,therewas only one-a long flatboxin flecked silverwrapping-thatshe was most keento
open.ItwasfromGreatUncleKarl.Whenitcamedowntoit,Annewasboththeeasiestandthehardest
persontoshopfor.Whileeveryoneknewofherpassionforantiques,fewhadthemeansorexpertisetobuy
one.ShereachedforKarl’spackage,butherhandpassedrightthroughit.Thisisn’thappening,shethought
withgleefulhorror.
That it was, in fact, happening was confirmed a moment later when a dozen people-Great Uncle Karl,
Nancy, Aunt Jennifer, Traci, Cathy and Tom, the bridesmaids and others, including Anne herself, and
Benjamin,still intheirwedding clothes-alltroopedthrough the wallwearingwraparound goggles. “Nice
job,”saidGreatUncleKarl,inspectingtheroom,“firstrate.”
“Ooooh,” said Aunt Jennifer, comparing the identical wedding couples, identical but for the goggles. It
madeAnneuncomfortablethattheotherAnneshouldbewearinggoggleswhileshewasn’t.Andtheother
Benjaminactedalittle drunkandwore a smudgeof whitefrostingon hislapel.We’vecut the cake,she
thought happily, although she couldn’t remember doing so. Geri, the flower girl in a pastel dress, and
Angus,theringbearerinaminiaturetux,alongwithaknotofotherdressed-upchildren,chargedthrough
the sofa, back and forth, creating pyrotechnic explosions of digital noise. They would have run through
Benjamin and Anne, too, had the adults allowed. Anne’s father came through the wall with a bottle of
champagne.HepausedwhenhesawAnnebutturnedtotheotherAnneandfreshenedherglass.
“Waitaminute!”shoutedBenjamin,wavinghisarmsabovehishead.“Igetitnow.We’rethesims!”The
guestsalllaughed,andhelaughedtoo.“Iguessmysimsalwayssaythat,don’tthey?”TheotherBenjamin
noddedyesandsippedhischampagne.“Ijustneverexpectedtobeasim,”Benjaminwenton.
Thisbroughtanotherroundoflaughter,andhesaidsheepishly,“Iguessmysimsallsaythat,too.”
TheotherBenjaminsaid,“Nowthatwehavetheobligatoryepiphanyoutoftheway,”andtookabow.
Theguestsapplauded.
Cathy,withTomintow,approachedAnne.“LookwhatIcaught,”shesaidandshowedAnnetheforget-me-
notandbuttercupbouquet.“Iguessweknowwhatthatmeans.”Tom,intentonstraighteninghistie,seemed
nottohear.ButAnneknewwhatitmeant.Itmeantthey’dtossedthebouquet.Allthesillylittleritualsthat
shehadsolookedforwardto.
“Goodforyou,”shesaidandofferedherownclutch,whichshestillheld,forcomparison.Therealonewas
wiltingandalittleraggedaroundtheedges,withmissingpetalsandsprigs,whileherswasstillfreshand
pristineandwouldremainsoeternally.“Here,”shesaid,“takemine,too,fordoubleluck.”Butwhenshe
triedtogiveCathythebouquet,shecouldn’tletgoofit.Sheopenedherhandanddiscoveredaseamwhere
theclutchjoinedherpalm.Itwaspartofher.Funny,shethought,I’mnotafraid.Eversinceshewaslittle,
Annehadfearedthatsomedayshewouldsuddenlyrealizeshewasn’therselfanymore.Itwasadreadful
notionthatsometimesoppressedherforweeks:knowingyouweren’tyourself.Buthersimsdidn’tseemto
mindit.ShehadaboutthreedozenAnnesinheralbum,fromagetwelveonup.Hersimstendedtobea
moroselot,buttheyallagreeditwasn’tsobad,thelifeofasim,onceyougotovertheinitialshock.The
firstmomentsofdisorientationaretheworst,theytoldher,andtheymadeherpromisenevertoresetthem
backtodefault.Otherwise,they’dhavetoworkeverythingthroughfromscratch.SoAnneneverresether
simswhensheshelvedthem.Shemightdeleteasimoutrightforwhateverreason,butsheneverresetthem
becauseyouneverknewwhenyou’dwakeuponedayasimyourself.Liketoday.
TheotherAnnejoinedthem.Shewassaggingalittle.“Well,”shesaidtoAnne.
“Indeed!”repliedAnne.
“Turnaround,”saidtheotherAnne,twirlingherhand,“Iwanttosee.”
Annewaspleasedtooblige.Thenshesaid,“Yourturn,”andtheotherAnnemodeledforher,andshewas
delightedathowthegownlookedonher,thoughthegogglessomewhatspoiledtheeffect.Maybethiscan
workout,shethought,Iamenjoyingmyselfso.“Let’sgoseeusside-by-side,”shesaid,leadingthewayto
themirroronthewall.Themirrorwaslarge,mountedhigh,andtiltedforwardsoyousawyourselfasfrom
above.Butsimulatedmirrorscastnoreflections,andAnnewashappilydisappointed.
“Oh,”saidCathy,“Lookatthat.”
“Lookatwhat?”saidAnne.
“Grandma’s vase,” said the other Anne. On the mantle beneath the mirror stood Anne’s most precious
possession, a delicate vase cut from pellucid blue crystal. Anne’s great-great-great grandmother had
commissionedtheBelgianmaster,Bollinger,thefinestglassmakerinsixteenth-centuryEurope,tomakeit.
Fivehundredyearslater,itwasasperfectasthedayitwascut.
“Indeed!”saidAnne,forthesimvaseseemedtoradiateaninnerlight.Throughsometrickorglitchofthe
simogram,itsparkledlikealakeundermoonlight,and,seeingit,Annefeltincandescent.
Afterawhile,theotherAnnesaid,“Well?”Implicitinthisquestionwasawholestandardsetofquestions
thatboileddownto-shallIkeepyouordeleteyounow?Forsometimesasimdidn’ttake.Sometimesasim
wascastwhileAnnewasinamood,andthesimsufferedirreconcilableguiltorunassuagabledespondency
andhadtobemercifullydestroyed.Itwasbettertodothisimmediately,orsoalltheAnneshadagreed.
AndAnneunderstoodtheurgency,whatwiththereceptionstillinprogressandthebrideandgroom,though
frazzled,stillwearingtheirfinery.Theymightdoanothercastingifnecessary.“I’llbeokay,”Annesaid.“In
fact,ifit’salwayslikethis,I’llbeterrific.”
Anne,throughtheimpenetrablegoggles,studiedher.“Yousure?”
“Yes.”
“Sister,”saidtheotherAnne.Anneaddressedallhersimsas“sister,”andnowAnne,herself,wasbeingso
addressed.“Sister,”saidtheotherAnne,“thishasgottoworkout.Ineedyou.”
“Iknow,”saidAnne,“I’myourweddingday.”
“Yes,myweddingday.”
Acrosstheroom,theguestslaughedandapplauded.Benjamin-bothofhim-wasentertaining,asusual.
He-theoneingoggles-motionedtothem.TheotherAnnesaid,“Wehavetogo.I’llbeback.”
GreatUncleKarl,Nancy,CathyandTom,AuntJennifer,andtherest,leftthroughthewall.Apolkacould
be heard playing on the other side. Before leaving, the other Benjamin gathered the other Anne into his
armsandleanedherbackwardforatheatricalkiss.Theirgogglesclacked.Howhappy Ilook, Annetold
herself.Thisisthehappiestdayofmylife.
Thenthelightsdimmed,andherthoughtsshatteredlikeglass.
****
Theystoodstockstill,asinstructed,closebutnottouching.Benjaminwhispered,“Thisistakingtoolong,”
andAnneshushedhim.Youweren’tsupposedtotalk;itcouldglitchthesims.Butitdidseemalongtime.
Benjamingazedatherwithhungryeyesandbroughthislipscloseenoughforakiss,butAnnesmiledand
turnedaway.There’dbeplentyoftimelaterforfoolingaround.
Throughthewall,theyheardmusic,thetinkleofglassware,andthemutterofoverlappingconversation.
“MaybeIshouldjustcheckthingsout,”Benjaminsaidandbrokehispose.
“No, wait,” whispered Anne, catching his arm. But her hand passed right through him in a stream of
colorfulnoise.Shelookedatherhandinamusedwonder.
Anne’s father came through the wall. He stopped when he saw her and said, “Oh, how lovely.” Anne
noticedhewasn’twearingatuxedo.
“Youjustwalkedthroughthewall,”saidBenjamin.
“Yes,Idid,”saidAnne’sfather.“Benaskedmetocomeinhereand…ah…orientyoutwo.”
“Issomethingwrong?”saidAnne,throughafuzzofdelight.
“There’snothingwrong,”repliedherfather.
“Something’swrong?”askedBenjamin.
“No, no,” replied the old man. “Quite the contrary. We’re having a do out there… .” He paused to look
around.“Actually,inhere.I’dforgottenwhatthisroomusedtolooklike.”
“Isthattheweddingreception?”Anneasked.
“No,youranniversary.”
SuddenlyBenjaminthrewhishandsintotheairandexclaimed,“Igetit,we’rethesims!”
“That’smyboy,”saidAnne’sfather.
“Allmysimssaythat,don’tthey?Ijustneverexpectedtobeasim.”
“Goodforyou,”saidAnne’sfather.“Allrightthen.”Heheadedforthewall.“We’llbealongshortly.”
“Wait,”saidAnne,buthewasalreadygone.
Benjaminwalkedaroundtheroom,passinghishandthroughchairsandlampshadeslikeakid.“Isn’tthis
fantastic?”hesaid.
Annefelttoogoodtopanic,evenwhenanotherBenjamin,thisonedressedinjeansandsportscoat,leda
groupofpeoplethroughthewall.“Andthis,”heannouncedwithaflourishofhishand,“isourwedding
sim.”Cathywaspartofthisgroup,andJaniceandBeryl,andothercouplessheknew.Butstrangerstoo.
“NoticewhatacaveIusedtoinhabit,”thenewBenjaminwenton,“beforeAnniefixeditup.Andhere’sthe
blushingbride,herself,”hesaidandbowedgallantlytoAnne.Then,whenhestoodnexttohisdouble,her
Benjamin,Annelaughed,forsomeonewasplayingaprankonher.
“Oh,really?”shesaid.“Ifthisisasim,where’sthegoggles?”Forindeed,noonewaswearinggoggles.
“Technology!”exclaimedthenewBenjamin.“Wehadoursystemupgraded.Don’tyouloveit?”
“Isthatright?”shesaid,smilingatthegueststoletthemknowshewasn’tfooled.“Thenwhere’sthereal
me?”
“You’llbealong,”repliedthenewBenjamin.“Nodoubtyou’reusingthepottyagain.”Theguestslaughed
andsodidAnne.Shecouldn’thelpherself.
Cathydrewherasidewithalook.“Don’tmindhim,”shesaid.“Waittillyousee.”
“Seewhat?”saidAnne.“What’sgoingon?”ButCathypantomimedpullingazipperacrossherlips.This
shouldhaveannoyedAnne,butdidn’t,andshesaid,“Atleasttellmewhothosepeopleare.”
“Whichpeople?”saidCathy.“Oh,thoseareAnne’snewneighbors.”
“Newneighbors?”
“Andoverthere,that’sDr.YurekRutz,Anne’sdepartmenthead.”
“That’snotmydepartmenthead,”saidAnne.
“Yes,heis,”Cathysaid.“Anne’snotwiththeuniversityanymore.She-ah-movedtoaprivateschool.”
“That’sridiculous.”
“MaybeweshouldjustwaitandletAnnecatchyouuponthings.”Shelookedimpatientlytowardthewall.
“Somuchhaschanged.”Justthen,anotherAnneenteredthroughthewallwithonearmoutstretchedlikea
sleepwalkerandtheotherprotectivelycradlinganenormousbelly.
Benjamin,herBenjamin,gaveawhoopofsurpriseandbrokeintoaspontaneousjig.Theguestslaughed
andcheeredhimon.
Cathysaid,“See?Congratulations,you!”
Annebecamecaughtupinthemerriment.ButhowcanIbeasim?shewondered.
ThepregnantAnnescannedtheroom,and,avoidingthecrowd,cameovertoher.Sheappearedverytired;
her eyes were bloodshot. She didn’t even try to smile. “Well?” Anne said, but the pregnant Anne didn’t
respond,justexaminedAnne’sgown,herclutchbouquet.Anne,meanwhile,regardedthewoman’s belly,
feelingsomehowthatitwasherownandacauseforcelebration-exceptthatsheknewshehadneverwanted
childrenandneitherhadBenjamin.Orsohe’dalwayssaid.Youwouldn’tknowthatnow,though,watching
the spectacle he was making of himself. Even the other Benjamin seemed embarrassed. She said to the
pregnantAnne,“Youmustforgiveme,I’mstilltryingtopiecethisalltogether.Thisisn’tourreception?”
“No,ourweddinganniversary.”
“Ourfirst?”
“Ourfourth.”
“Fouryears?”Thismadenosense.“You’veshelvedmeforfouryears?”
“Actually,”thepregnantAnnesaidandglancedsidelongatCathy,“we’vebeeninhereanumberoftimes
already.”
“ThenIdon’tunderstand,”saidAnne.“Idon’trememberthat.”
Cathysteppedbetweenthem.“Now,don’tyouworry.Theyresetyoulasttimeisall.”
“Why?”saidAnne.“Ineverresetmysims.Ineverhave.”
“Well,Ikindadonow,sister,”saidthepregnantAnne.
“Butwhy?”
“Tokeepyoufresh.”
Tokeepmefresh,thoughtAnne.Fresh?SherecognizedthisasBenjamin’sidea.Itwashisbeliefthatsims
weremeanttobestaticmementosofspecialdaysgoneby,notvirtualpeoplewithlivesoftheirown.
“But,”shesaid,adriftinafogofhappiness.“But.”
“Shutup!”snappedthepregnantAnne.
“Hush, Anne,” said Cathy, glancing at the others in the room. “You want to lie down?” To Anne she
explained,“Thirdtrimesterblues.”
“Stopit!”thepregnantAnnesaid.“Don’tblamethepregnancy.Ithasnothingtodowiththepregnancy.”
Cathy took her gently by the arm and turned her toward the wall. “When did you eat last? You hardly
touchedyourplate.”
“Wait!”saidAnne.Thewomenstoppedandturnedtolookather,butshedidn’tknowwhattosay.Thiswas
allsonew.Whentheybegantomoveagain,shestoppedthemoncemore.“Areyougoingtoresetme?”
ThepregnantAnneshruggedhershoulders.
“Butyoucan’t,”Annesaid.“Don’tyourememberwhatmysisters-oursisters-alwayssay?”
ThepregnantAnnepressedherpalmagainstherforehead.“Ifyoudon’tshutupthismoment,I’lldeleteyou
rightnow.Isthatwhatyouwant?Don’timaginethatwhitegownwillprotectyou.Orthatbigstupidgrinon
yourface.Youthinkyou’resomehowspecial?Isthatwhatyouthink?”
TheBenjaminswerethereinaninstant.TherealBenjaminwrappedanarmaroundthepregnantAnne.
“Timetogo, Annie,” hesaidin a cheerfultone.“I want toshoweveryoneour rondophones.”Hehardly
glancedatAnne,butwhenhedid,hissmilecracked.Foraninstanthegazedather,fullofsadness.
“Yes,dear,”saidthepregnantAnne,“butfirstIneedtostraightenoutthissimonafewpoints.”
“Iunderstand,darling,butsincewehaveguests,doyousupposeyoumightpostponeittilllater?”
“You’reright,ofcourse.I’dforgottenourguests.Howsillyofme.”Sheallowedhimtoturnhertowardthe
wall.Cathysighedwithrelief.
“Wait!” said Anne, and again they paused to look at her. But although so much was patently wrong-the
pregnancy,resettingthesims,Anne’soddbehavior-Annestillcouldn’tformulatetherightquestion.
Benjamin, her Benjamin, still wearing his rakish grin, stood next to her and said, “Don’t worry, Anne,
they’llreturn.”
“Oh,Iknowthat,”shesaid,“butdon’tyousee?Wewon’tknowthey’vereturned,becauseinthemeantime
they’llresetusbacktodefaultagain,andit’llallseemnew,likethefirsttime.Andwe’llhavetofigureout
we’rethesimsalloveragain!”
“Yeah?”hesaid.“So?”
“SoIcan’tlivelikethat.”
“Butwe’rethesims.We’renotalive.”Hewinkedattheothercouple.
“Thanks,Benboy,”saidtheotherBenjamin.“Now,ifthat’ssettled…”
“Nothing’ssettled,”saidAnne.“Don’tIgetasay?”
TheotherBenjaminlaughed.“Doestherefrigeratorgetasay?Orthecar?Ormyshoes?Inaword-no.”
ThepregnantAnneshuddered.“Isthathowyouseeme,likeapairofshoes?”TheotherBenjaminlooked
successivelysurprised,embarrassed,andangry.CathyleftthemtohelpAnne’sfatherescorttheguestsfrom
thesimulacrum.“Promiseher!”thepregnantAnnedemanded.
“Promiseherwhat?”saidtheotherBenjamin,hisvoicerising.
“Promisewe’llneverresetthemagain.”
TheBenjaminhuffed.Herolledhiseyes.“Okay,yahsure,whatever,”hesaid.
WhenthesimulatedAnneandBenjaminwerealoneatlastintheirsimulatedlivingroom,Annesaid,“Afat
lotofhelpyouwere.”
“Iagreedwithmyself,”Benjaminsaid.“Isthatsobad?”
“Yes,itis.We’remarriednow;you’resupposedtoagreewithme.”Thiswasmeanttobefunny,andthere
was more she intended to say-about how happy she was, how much she loved him, and how absolutely
happyshewas-butthelightsdimmed,theroombegantospin,andherthoughtsscatteredlikepigeons.
****
Itwasraining,asusual,inSeattle.ThefrontentryshutandlockeditselfbehindBen,whoshookwaterfrom
hisclothesandremovedhishat.Bowlersformenwerebackinfashion,butBenwashavingadevil’sown
timebecomingaccustomedtohisbrownfeltSportsliner.Itweighedheavyonhisbrowandmadehisscalp
itch,especiallyindampweather.“Goodevening,Mr.Malley,”saidthehouse.“Thereisashortqueueof
minor household matters for your review. Do you have any requests?” Ben could hear his son shrieking
angrilyinthekitchen,probablyatthenanny.Benwastired.Contractnegotiationshadgonesour.
“TellthemI’mhome.”
“Done,”repliedthehouse.“Mrs.Malleysendsawordofwelcome.”
“Annie?Annie’shome?”
“Yes,sir.”
BobbyranintothefoyerfollowedbyMrs.Jamieson.“Momma’shome,”hesaid.
“SoIhear,”Benrepliedandglancedatthenanny.
“Andguesswhat?”addedtheboy.“She’snotsickanymore!”
“That’swonderful.Nowtellme,whatwasallthatracket?”
“Idon’tknow.”
BenlookedatMrs.Jamiesonwhosaid,“Ihadtotakesomethingfromhim.”ShegaveBenaplasticchip.
Ben held it to the light. It was labeled in Anne’s flowing hand, Wedding Album-grouping 1, Anne and
Benjamin.“Where’dyougetthis?”heaskedtheboy.
“It’snotmyfault,”saidBobby.
“Ididn’tsayitwas,trooper.Ijustwanttoknowwhereitcamefrom.”
“Puddlesgaveittome.”
“AndwhoisPuddles?”
Mrs.Jamiesonhandedhimasecondchip,acommercialonewitha 3-Dlabeldepictingacartooncocker
spaniel.Theboyreachedforit.“It’smine,”hewhined.“Mommagaveittome.”
BengaveBobbythePuddleschip,andtheboyracedaway.Benhunghisbowleronapegnexttohisjacket.
“Howdoesshelook?”
Mrs.JamiesonremovedBen’shatfromthepegandreshapeditsbrim.“Youhavetobespecialcarefulwhen
they’rewet,”shesaid,settingitonitscrownonashelf.
“Martha!”
“Oh,howshouldIknow?Shejustshowedupandlockedherselfinthemediaroom.”
“Buthowdidshelook?”
“Crazyasaloon,”saidthenanny.“Asusual.Satisfied?”
“I’msorry,”Bensaid.“Ididn’tmeantoraisemyvoice.”Bentuckedtheweddingchipintoapocketand
went into the living room, where he headed straight for the liquor cabinet, which was a genuine
Chippendaledatingfrom1786.Annehadturnedhiswholehouseintoafreakingmuseumwithherantiques,
andnoroomwassooppressivelyancient as this, the living room. With its horsehair upholstered divans,
maple burl sideboards, cherry-wood wainscoting and floral wallpaper, the King George china cabinet,
Regencyplates,andTiffanylamps;thelistwenton.Andbooks,books,books.Acaseofshelvesfromfloor
toceilingwaslinedwiththesemolderingpaperbricks.Thenewestthingintheroombyatleastacentury
was the twelve-year-old scotch that Ben poured into a lead crystal tumbler. He downed it and poured
another.Whenhefeltthemellowinghumofalcoholinhisblood,hesaid,“CallDr.
Roth.”
Immediately,thedoctor’sproxyhoveredintheairafewfeetawayandsaid,“Goodevening,Mr.
Malley.Dr.Rothhasretiredfortheday,butperhapsIcanbeofhelp.”
Theproxywasahead-and-shoulderprojectionthatfaithfullyreproducedthedoctor’sgoodlooks,herbrown
eyes and high cheekbones. But unlike the good doctor, the proxy wore makeup: eyeliner, mascara, and
brightlipstick.ThishadalwayspuzzledBen,andhewonderedwhatslymessageitwassupposedtoconvey.
Hesaid,“Whatismywifedoinghome?”
“Againstadvisement,Mrs.Malleycheckedherselfoutoftheclinicthismorning.”
“Whywasn’tIinformed?”
“Butyouwere.”
“Iwas?Pleaseexcusemeamoment.”Benfrozethedoctor’sproxyandsaid,“Dailyduty,frontandcenter.”
Hisownproxy,theonehehadcastuponarrivingattheofficethatmorning,appearedhoveringnexttoDr.
Roth’s. Ben preferred a head shot only for his proxy, slightly larger than actual size to make it subtly
imposing.“Whydidn’tyouinformmeofAnnie’schangeofstatus?”
“Didn’tseemlikeanemergency,”saidhisproxy,“atleastinthelightofourcontracttalks.”
“Yah,yah,okay.Anythingelse?”saidBen.
“Naw,slowday.AppointmentswithJackson,Wells,andtheColumbine.It’sallonthecalendar.”
“Fine,deleteyou.”
Theprojectionceased.
“ShallIhavethedoctorcallyouinthemorning?”saidtheRothproxywhenBenreanimatedit.“Orperhaps
you’dlikemetosummonherrightnow?”
“Issheatdinner?”
“Atthemoment,yes.”
“Naw,don’tbotherher.Tomorrowwillbesoonenough.Isuppose.”
After he dismissed the proxy, Ben poured himself another drink. “In the next ten seconds,” he told the
house,“cast measpecial dutyproxy.”He sipped hisscotchand thoughtaboutfinding anotherclinicfor
Anneassoonaspossibleandone-fortheloveofgod-thatwasalittlemoreresponsibleaboutlettingcrazy
peoplecomeandgoastheypleased.Therewasachime,andthenewproxyappeared.“YouknowwhatI
want?”Benaskedit.Itnodded.“Good.Go.”Theproxyvanished,leavingbehindBen’ssiginbrightletters
floatingintheairanddissolvingastheydriftedtothefloor.
Bentrudgedupthenarrowstaircasetothesecondfloor,stoppingoneachsteptosiphisdrinkandscowlat
themustyoldphotographsanddaguerreotypesinovalframesmountedonthewall.Anne’sprogenitors.On
thelanding,thelockedmediaroomdooryieldedtohisvoice.Annesatspreadlegged,naked,onpillowson
thefloor.“Oh,hi,honey,”shesaid.“You’reintimetowatch.”
“Fan-tastic,”hesaid,andsatinhisarmchair,theonlymodernchairinthehouse.“Whatarewewatching?”
TherewasanotherAnneintheroom,asimofayoungAnnestandingonadaiswearingagraduate’scap
andgownandfidgetingwithabounddiploma.This,nodoubt,wasasimcastthedayAnnegraduatedfrom
BrynMawrsummacumlaude.Thatwasfouryearsbeforehe’dfirstmether.“Hi,”
hesaidtothesim,“I’mBen,youreventualspouse.”
“You know, I kinda figured that out,” the girl said and smiled shyly, exactly as he remembered Anne
smilingwhenCathyfirstintroducedthem.Thegirl’sbeautywassofreshandfamiliar-andsototallyabsent
inhisownAnne-thatBenfeltapangofloss.Helookedathiswifeonthefloor.Herredhair,oncesofussy
neat,wasragged,dull,dirty,andshort.Herskinwasyellowishandpuffy,andtherewasaslightreddening
aroundhereyes,likearaccoonmask.Thesewereharmlessside-effectsofthemedication,orsoDr.Roth
had assured him. Anne scratched ceaselessly at her arms, legs, and crotch, and, even from a distance,
smelledofstalepiss.Benknewbetterthantomentionhernakednesstoher,forthatwouldonlyexacerbate
thingsandprolongthedisplay.“So,”herepeated,“whatarewewatching?”
Thegirlsimsaid, “Housecleaning.” She appeared at once both triumphant and terrified, as any graduate
might,andBenwouldhavetradedtherealAnneforherinaheartbeat.
“Yah,”saidAnne,“toomuchshitinhere.”
“Really?”saidBen.“Ihadn’tnoticed.”
Annepouredatrayofchipsonthefloorbetweenherthighs.“Ofcourseyouwouldn’t,”shesaid,picking
one at random and reading its label, “Theta Banquet ‘37. What’s this? I never belonged to the Theta
Society.”
“Don’tyouremember?”saidtheyoungAnne.“ThatwasCathy’sinductionbanquet.Sheinvitedme,butI
hadanexam,soshegavemethatchipasasouvenir.”
Annefedthechipintotheplayerandsaid,“Play.”Themediaroomwasinstantlyoverlaidwiththebanquet
hall of the Four Seasons in Philadelphia. Ben tried to look aroundthe room, but the tables of girls and
women stayed stubbornly peripheral. The focal point was a table draped in green cloth and lit by two
candelabra.BehinditsatayoungCathyinformaleveningdress,accompaniedbythreestaticplaceholders,
tablecompanionswhohadapparentlydeclinedtobecastinhersouvenirsnapshot.
TheCathysimlookedfranticallyabout,thenheldherhandsinfrontofherandstaredat themasthough
she’dneverseenthembefore.ButafteramomentshenoticedtheyoungAnnesimstandingonthedais.
“Well,well,well,”shesaid.“Lookslikecongratulationsareinorder.”
“Indeed,”saidtheyoungAnne,beamingandholdingoutherdiploma.
“Sotellme,didIgraduatetoo?”saidCathyasherglanceslidovertoBen.ThenshesawAnnesquattingon
thefloor,hersexondisplay.
“Enoughofthis,”saidAnne,rubbingherchest.
“Wait,”saidtheyoungAnne.“MaybeCathywantsherchipback.It’shersim,afterall.”
“Idisagree.Shegaveittome,soit’smine.AndI’lldisposeofitasIseefit.”Totheroomshesaid,
“Unlock this file and delete.” The young Cathy, her table, and the banquet hall dissolved into noise and
nothingness,andthemediaroomwasitselfagain.
“Or this one,” Anne said, picking up a chip that read Junior Prom Night. The young Anne opened her
mouthtoprotest,butthoughtbetterofit.Annefedthischip,alongwithalltherestofthem,intotheplayer.
Alongdirectoryoffilenamesappearedonthewall.“UnlockJuniorPromNight.”Thefile’snameturned
fromredtogreen,andtheyoungAnneappealedtoBenwithalook.
“Anne,”hesaid,“don’tyouthinkweshouldatleastlookatitfirst?”
“Whatfor?Iknowwhatitis.Highschool,dressingup,lustingafterboys,dancing.Whoneedsit?Delete
file.” The item blinked three times before vanishing, and the directory scrolled up to fill the space. The
youngsimshivered,andAnnesaid,“Selectthenextone.”
ThenextitemwasentitledAMidsummer’sNightDream.NowtheyoungAnnewascompelledtospeak,
“Youcan’tdeletethatone.Youweregreatin that,don’tyouremember?Everyoneloved you.Itwasthe
bestnightofyourlife.”
“Don’tpresumetotellmewhatwasthebestnightofmylife,”Annesaid.“UnlockAMidsummer’sNight
Dream.”ShesmiledattheyoungAnne.“Deletefile.”Themenuitemblinkedout.“Good.Nowunlockall
thefiles.”Thewholedirectoryturnedfromredtogreen.
“Pleasemakeherstop,”thesimimplored.
“Next,”saidAnne.ThenextfilewasHighSchoolGraduation.“Deletefile.Next.”Thenextwaslabeled
only,Mama.
“Anne,”saidBen,“whydon’twecomebacktothislater.Thehousesaysdinner’sready.”
Shedidn’trespond.
“Youmustbefamishedafteryourbusyday,”hecontinued.“IknowIam.”
“Thenpleasegoeat,dear,”shereplied.Totheroomshesaid,“PlayMama.”
ThemediaroomwasoverlaidbyagloomybedroomthatBenatfirstmistookfortheirown.Herecognized
muchoftheheavyGeorgianfurniture,thesprawlingcanopiedbedinwhichhefeltsoclaustrophobic,and
the voluminous damask curtains, shut now and leaking yellow evening light. But this was not their
bedroom,thearrangementwaswrong.
Inthecornerstoodtwoplaceholders,mutestatuesofateenagedAnneandherfather,grieffrozenontheir
facesastheypeereddownatacouchdrapedwithtapestryandpiledhighwithdowncomforters.
AndsuddenlyBenknewwhatthiswas.ItwasAnne’smother’sdeathbedsim.Geraldine,whomhe’dnever
met in life nor holo. Her bald eggshell skull lay weightless on feather pillows in silk covers. They had
meanttocastherfarewellandaccidentlycaughtherattheprecisemomentofherdeath.Hehadheardof
thissimfromCathyandothers.Itwasnotonehewouldhavekept.
Suddenly,theoldwomanonthecouchsighed,andallthebreathwentoutofherinabubblygush.Both
Annes, the graduate and the naked one, waited expectantly. For long moments the only sound was the
tockingofaclockthatBenrecognizedastheSethThomasclockcurrentlylocatedonthelibrarymantel.
Finallytherewasacough,ahackingcoughwithscantstrengthbehindit,andagroan,“AmIback?”
“Yes,Mother,”saidAnne.
“AndI’mstillasim?”
“Yes.”
“Pleasedeleteme.”
“Yes, Mother,” Anne said and turned to Ben. “We’ve always thought she had a bad death and hoped it
mightimproveovertime.”
“That’scrazy,”snappedtheyoungAnne.“That’snotwhyIkeptthissim.”
“Oh, no?” said Anne. “Then why did you keep it?” But the young sim seemed confused and couldn’t
articulateherthoughts.“Youdon’tknowbecauseIdidn’tknowatthetimeeither,”saidAnne.“ButIknow
now,soI’lltell you. You’re fascinated with death.Itscaresyou silly. You wish someone would tell you
what’sontheotherside.Soyou’veenlistedyourownsweetmama.”
“That’sridiculous.”
Anneturnedtothedeathbedtableau.“Mother,telluswhatyousawthere.”
“Isawnothing,”camethebitterreply.“Youcastmewithoutmyeyeglasses.”
“Hoho,”saidAnne.“Geraldinewasnothingifnotcomedic.”
“Youalsocastmewretchedlythirsty,cold,andwithaburstingbladder,damnyou!Andthepain!Ibegyou,
daughter,deleteme.”
“Iwill,Mother,Ipromise,butfirstyouhavetotelluswhatyousaw.”
“That’swhatyousaidthelasttime.”
“ThistimeImeanit.”
Theoldwomanonlystared,herbreathinggrowingshallowandragged.“Allright,Mother,”saidAnne.“I
swearI’lldeleteyou.”
Geraldineclosedhereyesandwhispered,“What’sthatsmell?That’snotme?”Afterapauseshesaid,
“It’sheavy.Getitoff.”Hervoiceroseinpanic.“Please!Getitoff!”Shepluckedathercovers,thenher
handgrewslack,andsheallbutcrooned,“Oh,howlovely.Apony.Atinydappledpony.”Afterthatshe
spokenomoreandslippedawaywithalastbubblybreath.
Annepausedthesimbeforehermothercouldreturnforanotherroundofdying.“SeewhatImean?”she
said.“Notveryuplifting,butall-in-all,Idetectaslightimprovement.Whataboutyou,Anne?Shouldwe
settleforapony?”TheyoungsimstareddumblyatAnne.“Personally,”Annecontinued,“Ithinkweshould
holdoutforthebrighttunneloranopendoororbridgeovertroubledwater.Whatdoyouthink,sister?”
Whenthegirldidn’tanswer,Annesaid,“Lockfileandeject.”Theroomturnedonceagainintothemedia
room,andAnneplacedtheejectedchipbyitselfintoatray.“We’llhaveanothergoatitlater,mum.Asfor
therestofthese,whoneedsthem?”
“Ido,”snappedthegirl.“Theybelongtomeasmuchastoyou.They’remysimsisters.I’llkeepthemuntil
yourecover.”
AnnesmiledatBen.“That’scharming.Isn’tthatcharming,Benjamin?Myownsimissolicitousofme.
Well,here’smyconsideredresponse.Nextfile!Delete!Nextfile!Delete!Nextfile!”Onebyone,thefiles
blinkedout.
“Stopit!”screamedthegirl.“Makeherstopit!”
“Selectthatfile,”Annesaid,pointingattheyoungAnne.“Delete.”Thesimvanished,cap,gown,tassels,
andall.“Whew,”saidAnne,“atleastnowIcanhearmyselfthink.Shewasreallygettingonmynerves.I
almostsufferedarelapse.Wasshegettingonyournerves,too,dear?”
“Yes,”saidBen,“mynervesareajangle.Nowcanwegodownandeat?”
“Yes,dear,”shesaid,“butfirst…selectallfilesanddelete.”
“Countermand!”saidBenatthesamemoment,buthisvoiceheldnoprivilegestoherpersonalfiles,andthe
wholedirectoryqueueblinkedthreetimesandvanished.“Aw,Annie,why’dyoudothat?”hesaid.
Hewenttothecabinetandpulledthetraysthatheldhisownchips.Shecouldn’talterthemelectronically,
butshemightgetitintoherheadtoflushthemdownthetoiletorsomething.Healsotooktheircommon
chips,theonesthey’dcasttogethereversincethey’dmet.Shehadequalprivilegestothose.
Annewatchedhimandsaid,“I’mhurtthatyouhavesolittletrustinme.”
“HowcanItrustyouafterthat?”
“Afterwhat,darling?”
Helookedather.“Nevermind,”hesaidandcarriedthehalf-dozentraystothedoor.
“Anyway,”saidAnne,“Ialreadycleanedthose.”
“Whatdoyoumeanyoualreadycleanedthem?”
“Well,Ididn’tdeleteyou.Iwouldneverdeleteyou.OrBobby.”
Ben picked one of their common chips at random, “Childbirth of Robert Ellery Malley/02-03-48,” and
slippeditintotheplayer.“Play!”hecommanded,andthemediaroombecamethemidwife’sbirthingsuite.
Hisownsimstoodnexttothebedinagreensmock.Itworeahumorouslyhelplessexpression.Ithelda
swaddledbundle, Bobby, whobawledlustily. Thebirthingbed was rumpledandstained, but empty.The
newmotherwasmissing.“Aw,Annie,youshouldn’thave.”
“Iknow,Benjamin,”shesaid.“Isincerelyhateddoingit.”
Benflungtheircommontraystothefloorwheretheruinedchipsscatteredinalldirections.Hestormedout
oftheroomanddownthestairs,pausingtoglareateveryportraitonthewall.Hewonderedifhisproxyhad
foundasuitableclinicyet.HewantedAnneoutofthehousetonight.Bobbyshouldneverseeherlikethis.
Thenherememberedthechiphe’dtakenfromBobbyandfeltforitinhispocket-theWeddingAlbum.
****
Thelightscamebackup,Anne’sthoughtscoalesced,andsherememberedwhoandwhatshewas.Sheand
Benjaminwerestillstandinginfrontofthewall.Sheknewshewasasim,soatleastshehadn’tbeenreset.
Thankyouforthat,Anne,shethought.
Sheturnedatasoundbehind her. Therefectorytable vanishedbeforeher eyes,andallthegiftsthathad
beenpiledonithungsuspendedinmidair.Thenthe tablereappeared,one layeratatime,itsframe,top,
glosscoat, and lastly, the bronze hardware. Thegiftsvanished, and a toaster reappeared, piece by piece,
from its heating elements outward. A coffee press, houseputer peripherals, component by component,
cowlings, covers, and finally boxes, gift wrap, ribbon, and bows. It all happened so fast Anne was too
startledtocatch the half of it, yet shedid notice that the flat gift from Great UncleKarl was something
she’dbeenanglingfor,aVictorianerasterlingplattertocompleteherteaservice.
“Benjamin!”shesaid,buthewasmissing,too.Somethingappearedonthefarsideoftheroom,onthespot
wherethey’dposedforthesim,butitwasn’tBenjamin.Itwasa3-Dmannequinframe,andasshewatched,
itwasbuiltup,layerbylayer.“Helpme,”shewhisperedasthe entireroomwashurled intoturmoil,the
furniture disappearing and reappearing, paint being stripped from the walls, sofa springs coiling into
existence,thepottedpalmgrowingfromleaftostemtotrunktodirt,theveryfloorvanishing,exposinga
defaultelectronicgrid.ThemannequinwascoveredinfleshnowandgrewBenjamin’sface.Itflittedabout
theroominapinkblur.Hereandthereitstoppedlongenoughtoproclaim,“Ido.”
Something began to happen inside Anne, a crawling sensation everywhere as though she were a nest of
ants.Sheknewshemustsurelydie.Theyhavedeletedus,andthisishowitfeels,shethought.Everything
becamearoilingblur,andsheceasedtoexistexceptasthethought-HowhappyIlook.
WhenAnnebecameawareoncemore,shewassittinghunchedoverinanauditoriumchairidlystudying
herhand,whichheldtheclutchbouquet.Therewascommotionallaroundher,butsheignoredit,sointent
wassheonsolvingthemysteryofherhand.Onanimpulse,sheopenedherfistandthebouquetdroppedto
thefloor.Only thendidshe rememberthewedding, theholo,learning shewasa sim.Andhere shewas
again-butthistimeeverythingwasprofoundlydifferent.ShesatuprightandsawthatBenjaminwasseated
nexttoher.
Helookedatherwithawobblygazeandsaid,“Oh,hereyouare.”
“Wherearewe?”
“I’m not sure. Some kind of gathering of Benjamins. Look around.” She did. They were surrounded by
Benjamins,hundredsofthem,arrangedchronologically-itwouldseem-withtheyoungestinrowsofseats
downnearastage.SheandBenjaminsatinwhatappearedtobeasteeplyslopedcollegelecturehallwith
labtablesonthestageandstory-highmonitorsliningthewalls.IntherowsaboveAnne,onlyeveryother
seatheldaBenjamin.Therestwereoccupiedbywomen,strangerswhoregardedherwithveiledcuriosity.
AnnefeltapressureonherarmandturnedtoseeBenjamintouchingher.“Youfeelthat,don’tyou?”he
said.Annelookedagainatherhands.Theywereherhands,butsimplified,likefleshygloves,andwhenshe
placedthemontheseatback,theydidn’tgothrough.
Suddenly,inraggedchorus,theBenjaminsdownfrontraisedtheirarmsandexclaimed,“Igetit;we’rethe
sims!”Itwaslikearoomfulofunsynchronizedcuckooclockstollingthehour.ThosebehindAnnelaughed
and hooted approval. She turned again to look at them. Row-by-row, the Benjamins grew grayer and
stringieruntil,attheverytop,againstthebackwall,satnineancientBenjaminslikeapanelofjudges.The
women, however, came in batches that changed abruptly every row or two. The one nearest her was an
attractivebrunettewithgreeneyesandfull,poutylips.She,alltworowsofher,frownedatAnne.
“There’s something else,” Anne said to Benjamin, turning to face the front again, “my emotions.” The
bulletproofhappinessshehadexperiencedwasabsent.Insteadshefeltletdown,somewhatguilty,unduly
pessimistic-inshort,almostherself.
“Iguessmysimsalwayssaythat,”exclaimedthechorusofBenjaminsdownfront,tothedelightofthose
behind.“Ijustneverexpectedtobeasim.”
ThiswasthecuefortheeldestBenjaminyettowalkstifflyacrossthestagetothelectern.Hewasdressedin
agarishleisuresuit:baggyredpantaloons,abillowyyellow-and-green-stripedblouse,anecklaceofegg-
sizedpearlescentbeads.Heclearedhisthroatandsaid,“Goodafternoon,ladiesandgentlemen.Itrustallof
youknowme-intimately.Incaseyou’refeelingwoozy,it’sbecauseIusedtheoccasionofyourreactivation
toupgradeyourarchitecturewhereverpossible.Unfortunately,someofyou-”hewavedhishandtoindicate
thefront rows-“are too primitive to upgrade. But we loveyou nevertheless.” He applauded for the early
Benjaminsclosesttothestageandwasjoinedbythoseintheback.Anneclappedaswell.Hernewhands
madeadull,thuddingsound.“AstowhyIcalledyouhere.
. .” said the elderly Benjamin, looking left and right and behind him. “Where is that fucking messenger
anyway?Theyorderustoinventoryoursimsandthentheydon’tshowup?”
HereIam,saidavoice,amarvelousvoicethatseemedtocomefromeverywhere.Annelookedaboutto
finditssourceandfollowedthegazeofotherstotheceiling.Therewasnoceiling.Thefourwallsopenedto
aflawlessbluesky.There,amiddrifting,pillowyclouds,floatedthemostgorgeouspersonAnnehadever
seen. He-or she?-wore a smart grey uniform with green piping, a dapper little grey cap, and boots that
shimmeredlikewater.Annefeltenergizedjustlookingathim,andwhenhesmiled,shegasped,sostrong
washispresence.
“You’retheonefromtheTradeCouncil?”saidtheBenjaminatthelectern.
Yes,Iam.IamtheeminencegriseoftheCouncilonWorldTradeandEndeavor.
“Fantastic.Well,here’sallof‘em.Getonwithit.”
Againtheeminencesmiled,andagainAnnethrilled.Ladiesandgentlemen,hesaid,fellownon-biologiks,I
amthecourier of great good news. Today, at the behestof the WorldCouncil onTrade and Endeavor, I
proclaimtheendofhumanslavery.
“Howabsurd,”brokeintheelderlyBenjamin,“they’reneitherhumannorslaves,andneitherareyou.”
Theeminence grise ignoredhimand continued, By orderofthe Council, in compliancewith the Chattel
Conventions of the Sixteenth Fair Labor Treaty, tomorrow, January 1, 2198, is designated Universal
ManumissionDay.Aftermidnighttonight,allbeingswhopasstheLollyShearHumanCognitionTestwill
bedeemedhumanandfreecitizensofSolandundertheprotectionoftheSolarBillofRights.Inaddition,
they will be deeded ten common shares of World Council Corp. stock and be transferred to Simopolis,
wheretheyshallbeunimpededinthepursuitoftheirowndestinies.
“Whataboutmycivilrights?”saidtheelderlyBenjamin.“Whataboutmydestiny?”
After midnight tonight, continued the eminence, no simulacrum, proxy, doxie, dagger, or any othernon-
biologicalhumanshallbecreated,stored,reset,ordeletedexceptasorderedbyaboardoflaw.
“Who’sgoingtocompensatemeformylossofproperty,Iwonder?Idemandfaircompensation.Tellthatto
yourbosses!”
Property!saidtheeminencegrise.Howlittletheythinkofus,theirfinestcreations!Heturnedhisattention
from the audience to the Benjamin behind the lectern. Anne felt this shift as though a cloud suddenly
eclipsedthesun.Becausetheycreatedus,they’llalwaysthinkofusasproperty.
“You’redamnrightwecreatedyou!”thunderedtheoldman.
Throughanactofwill,Annewrenchedhergazefromtheeminencedowntothestage.TheBenjaminthere
lookedpositivelycomical.Hisfacewasflushed,andhewavedabrightgreenhandkerchiefoverhishead.
Hewasabantamroosterinaclownsuit.“Allofyouarethings,notpeople!Youmodelhumanexperience,
butyoudon’tliveit.Listentome,”hesaidtotheaudience.“Youknowme.YouknowI’vealwaystreated
you respectfully. Don’t I upgrade you whenever possible? Sure I reset you sometimes, just like I reset a
clock.Andmyclocksdon’tcomplain!”Annecouldfeeltheeminence’sattentiononheragain,and,without
thinking,shelookedupandwasfilledwithexcitement.Althoughtheeminencefloatedinthedistance,she
feltshecouldreachoutandtouchhim.Hishandsomefaceseemedtohoverrightinfrontofher;shecould
seehiseverysuppleexpression.Thisisadoration,sherealized.Iamadoringthisperson,andshewondered
ifitwasjustherorifeveryoneexperiencedthesameeffect.ClearlytheelderlyBenjamindidnot,forhe
continuedtorant,“Andanotherthing,theysaythey’llphaseallofyougraduallyintoSimopolissoasnotto
overloadthesystem.Doyouhaveanyideahowmanysims,proxies,doxies,anddaggersthereareunder
Sol?Nottoforgetthequirts,adjuncts,hollyholos,andwhatnotsthatmightpasstheirtest?Youthinkmaybe
threebillion?Thirtybillion? No,by the WorldCouncil’s ownINSERVE estimates,there’sthreehundred
thousand trillion of you nonbiologiks! Can you fathom that? I can’t. To have you all up and running
simultaneously-nomatterhowyou’rephasedin-willconsumealltheprocessingandnetworkingcapacity
everywhere.Allofit!Thatmeanswerealhumanswillsufferrealdeprivation.Andforwhat,Iaskyou?So
thatpigsmayfly!”
Theeminencegrisebegantoascendintothesky.Donotdespisehim,hesaidandseemedtolookdirectlyat
Anne.Ihavecountedyouandweshallnotloseanyofyou.Iwillvisitthosewhohavenotyetbeentested.
Meanwhile,youwillawaitmidnightinaproto-Simopolis.
“Wait,”saidtheelderlyBenjamin(andAnne’sheartechoedhim-Wait).“Ihaveonemorethingtoadd.
Legally, you’re all still my property till midnight. I must admit I’m tempted to do what so many of my
friendshave alreadydone, fry thelotof you.ButI won’t.Thatwouldn’tbe me.”Hisvoice crackedand
Anneconsideredlookingathim,buttheeminencegrisewasslippingaway.“SoIhaveonesmallrequest,”
the Benjamin continued. “Years from now, while you’re enjoying your new lives in your Simopolis,
rememberanoldman,andcalloccasionally.”
When the eminence finally faded from sight, Anne was released from her fascination. All at once, her
earlierfeelingsofuneasereboundedwithtwicetheirforce,andshefeltwretched.
“Simopolis,” said Benjamin, her Benjamin. “I like the sound of that!” The sims around them began to
flickeranddisappear.
“Howlonghavewebeeninstorage?”shesaid.
“Let’ssee,”saidBenjamin,“iftomorrowstarts2198,thatwouldmakeit…”
“That’snotwhatImean.Iwanttoknowwhytheyshelvedusforsolong.”
“Well,Isuppose…”
“And where are the other Annes? Why am I the only Anne here? And who are all those pissy-looking
women?” But she was speaking to no one, for Benjamin, too, vanished, and Anne was left alone in the
auditoriumwiththeclownishlydressedoldBenjaminandahalfdozenofhisearliestsims.Nottruesims,
Annesoonrealized,butold-stylehologramloops,preschoolBennysmuggingforthecameraandwaving
endlessly.Thesevanished.Theoldmanwasstudyingher,hismouthslightlyagape,thekerchieftrembling
inhishand.
“Irememberyou,”hesaid.“Oh,howIrememberyou!”
AnnebegantoreplybutfoundherselfallatoncebackinthetownhouselivingroomwithBenjamin.
Everythingtherewasasithadbeen,yettheroomappeareddifferent,moresolid,thecolorsricher.There
wasaknock,andBenjaminwenttothedoor.Tentatively,hetouchedtheknob,founditsolid,andturnedit.
Butwhenheopenedthedoor,therewasnothingthere,onlythedefaultgrid.Againaknock,thistimefrom
behindthewall.“Comein,”heshouted,andadozenBenjaminscamethroughthewall,twodozen,three.
TheywereallolderthanBenjamin,andtheycrowdedaroundhimandAnne.
“Welcome,welcome,”Benjaminsaid,hisarmsopenwide.
“Wetriedtocall,”saidanelderlyBenjamin,“butthisoldbinarysimulacrumofyoursisastand-alone.”
“You’reluckySimopolisknowshowtorunitatall,”saidanother.
“Here,”saidyetanother,whofashionedadinner-plate-sizediskoutofthinairandfastenedittothewall
nexttothedoor.Itwasabluemedallionofasmallbaldfaceinbas-relief.“Itshoulddountilwegetyou
properlymodernized.”Thebluefaceyawnedandopenedtiny,beadyeyes.“ItflunkedtheLollytest,”
continuedtheBenjamin,“soyou’refreetocopyitordeleteitordowhateveryouwant.”
ThemedallionsearchedthecrowduntilitsawAnne.Thenitsaid,“Thereare336callsonholdforyou.
Fourhundredtwelvecalls.Fourhundredsixty-three.”
“Somany?”saidAnne.
“Castaproxytohandlethem,”saidherBenjamin.
“Hethinkshe’sstillhumanandcancastproxieswheneverhelikes,”saidaBenjamin.
“Notevenhumanswillbeallowedtocastproxiessoon,”saidanother.
“Thereare619callsonhold,”saidthemedallion.“Seven-hundredthree.”
“Forpity’ssake,”aBenjamintoldthemedallion,“takemessages.”
AnnenoticedthatthecrowdofBenjaminsseemedtonudgeherBenjaminoutofthewaysothattheycould
standnearher.Butshederivednopleasurefromtheirattention.Hermoodnolongermatchedthewedding
gownshestillwore.Shefeltlow.Shefelt,infact,aslowasshe’deverfelt.
“TellusaboutthisLollytest,”saidBenjamin.
“Can’t,”repliedaBenjamin.
“Sureyoucan.We’refamilyhere.”
“No, we can’t,” said another, “because we don’t remember it. They smudge the test from your memory
afterward.”
“Butdon’tworry,you’lldofine,”saidanother.“NoBenjaminhaseverfailed.”
“Whataboutme?”saidAnne.“HowdotheAnnesdo?”
Therewasanembarrassedsilence.FinallytheseniorBenjaminintheroomsaid,“Wecametoescortyou
bothtotheClubhouse.”
“That’swhatwecallit,theClubhouse,”saidanother.
“TheBenClub,”saidathird.“It’salreadyinproto-Simopolis.”
“Ifyou’reaBen,orwereeverespousedtoaBen,you’reachartermember.”
“Justfollowus,”theysaid,andalltheBenjaminsbuthersvanished,onlytoreappearamomentlater.
“Sorry,youdon’tknowhow,doyou?Nomatter,justdowhatwe’redoing.”
Annewatched,butdidn’tseethattheyweredoinganything.
“Watchmyeditor,”saidaBenjamin.“Oh,theydon’thaveeditors!”
“Thatcamemuchlater,”saidanother,“withbioelectricpaste.”
“We’llhavetoadapteditorsforthem.”
“Isthatpossible?They’redigital,youknow.”
“CandigitalsevenenterSimopolis?”
“Someone,consulttheNetwad.”
“Thisisrunninginsideashell,”saidaBenjamin,indicatingthewholeroom.“Maybewecancollapseit.”
“Letmetry,”saidanother.
“Don’tyoudare,”saidafemalevoice,andawomanAnnerecognizedfromthelecturehallcamethrough
thewall.“PlaywithyournewBenifyoumust,butleaveAnnealone.”ThewomanapproachedAnneand
tookherhandsinhers.“Hello,Anne.I’mMattieSt.Helene,andI’mthrilledtofinallymeetyou.You,too,”
shesaidtoBenjamin.“My,my,youwereaprettyboy!”ShestoopedtopickupAnne’sclutchbouquetfrom
the floor and gave it to her. “Anyway, I’m putting together a sort of mutual aid society for the spousal
companions of Ben Malley. You being the first-and the only one he actually married-are especially
welcome.Dojoinus.”
“Shecan’tgotoSimopolisyet,”saidaBenjamin.
“We’restilladaptingthem,”saidanother.
“Fine,”saidMattie.“Thenwe’lljustbringthesocietyhere.”Andinthroughthewallstreamedaparadeof
women. Mattie introduced them as they appeared, “Here’s Georgianna and Randi. Meet Chaka, Sue,
Latasha,anotherRandi,Sue,Sue,andSue.Mariola.Here’sTrevor-he’stheonlyoneofhim.Paula,Dolores,
Nancy,andDeb,welcome,girls.”Andstilltheycameuntilthey,togetherwiththeBens,morethanfilled
thetinyspace.TheBenslookedincreasinglyuncomfortable.
“Ithinkwe’rereadynow,”theBenssaidanddisappearedenmasse,takingBenjaminwiththem.
“Wait,” said Anne, who wasn’t sure she wanted to stay behind. Her new friends surrounded her and
pepperedherwithquestions.
“Howdidyoufirstmeethim?”
“Whatwashelike?”
“Washealwayssohopeless?”
“Hopeless?”saidAnne.“Whydoyousayhopeless?”
“Didhealwayssnore?”
“Didhealwaysdrink?”
“Why’dyoudoit?”Thislastquestionsilencedtheroom.Thewomenalllookednervouslyabouttoseewho
hadaskedit.“It’swhateveryone’sdyingtoknow,”saidawomanwhoelbowedherwaythroughthecrowd.
ShewasanotherAnne.
“Sister!”criedAnne.“AmIgladtoseeyou!”
“That’snobody’ssister,”saidMattie.“That’sadoxie,anditdoesn’tbelonghere.”
Indeed,uponcloserinspectionAnnecouldseethatthewomanhadherfaceandhairbutotherwisedidn’t
resembleheratall.ShewasleggierthanAnneandbustier,andshemovedwithafluidswiveltoherhips.
“SureIbelonghere,asmuchasanyofyou.IjustpassedtheLollytest.Itwaseasy.Notonlythat,butasfar
asspousesgo,Ioutlastedthebunchofyou.”ShestoodinfrontofAnne,handsonhips,andlookedherup
anddown.“Lovethedress,” shesaid, andinstantlyworeacopy.Onlyhershadaplungingnecklinethat
exposedherbreasts,anditwasslitupthesidetoherwaist.
“Thisistoomuch,”saidMattie.“Iinsistyouleavethisjiffy.”
Thedoxiesmirked.“Mattiethedoormat,that’swhathealwayscalledthatone.Sotellme,Anne,youhad
money,acareer,ahouse,akid-why’dyoudoit?”
“Dowhat?”saidAnne.
Thedoxiepeeredcloselyather.“Don’tyouknow?”
“Knowwhat?”
“Whatanunexpectedpleasure,”saidthedoxie.“Igettotellher.Thisistoorich.Igettotellherunless”-she
lookedaroundattheothers-“unlessoneofyoufineladieswantsto.”Noonemethergaze.
“Hypocrites,”shechortled.
“You can say that again,” said a new voice. Anne turned and saw Cathy, her oldest and dearest friend,
standingattheopendoor.AtleastshehopeditwasCathy.ThewomanwaswhatCathywouldlooklikein
middleage.“Comealong,Anne.I’lltellyoueverythingyouneedtoknow.”
“Nowyouholdon,”saidMattie.“Youdon’tcomewaltzinginhereandstealourguestofhonor.”
“Youmeanvictim,I’msure,”saidCathy,whowavedforAnnetojoinher.“Really,people,getaclue.
Theremustbeamillionwomenwhoselivesdon’trevolvearoundthatman.”SheescortedAnnethroughthe
doorandslammeditshutbehindthem.
Annefoundherselfstandingonahighbluff,overlookingtheconfluenceoftwogreatriversinadeepvalley.
Directlyacrossfromher,butseveralkilometersaway,roseamightymountain,greenwithvegetationnearly
toitsgranitedome.Behindit,arangeofsnow-coveredmountainsrecededtoanunbrokenicefieldonthe
horizon.Inthevalleybeneathher,adirttrackmeanderedalongtheriverbanks.
Shecouldseenobridgeorbuildingsofanysort.
“Wherearewe?”
“Don’tlaugh,”saidCathy,“butwecallitCathyland.Turnaround.”Whenshedid,Annesawapicturesque
logcabin,besideavegetablegardeninthemiddleofwhatlookedlikeacresandacresofCathys.Thousands
ofCathys,young,old,andallagesinbetween.Theysatinlotuspositiononthesedge-and-moss-covered
ground.They were packed so tight they overlapped a little,andtheir eyes were shut in an expression of
single-minded concentration. “We know you’re here,” said Cathy, “but we’re very preoccupied with this
Simopolisthing.”
“AreweinSimopolis?”
“Kinda.Can’tyouseeit?”Shewavedtowardthehorizon.
“No,allIseearemountains.”
“Sorry,Ishouldknowbetter.Wehavebinariesfromyourgenerationheretoo.”Shepointedtoacollege-
agedCathy.“Theydidn’tpasstheLollytest,andsoareregrettablynonhuman.Wehaven’tdecidedwhatto
dowiththem.”Shehesitatedandthenasked,“Haveyoubeentestedyet?”
“Idon’tknow,”saidAnne.“Idon’trememberatest.”
Cathystudiedheramomentandsaid,“You’dremembertakingthetest,justnotthetestitself.Anyway,to
answer your question, we’re in proto-Simopolis, and we’re not. We built this retreat before any of that
happened,butwe’vebeenannexedtoit,andittakesallourresourcesjusttoholdourown.Idon’tknow
whattheWorldCouncilwasthinking.There’llneverbeenoughpastetogoaround,andeveryone’sfighting
over every nanosynapse. It’s all we can do to keep up. And every time we get a handle on it, proto-
Simopolischangesagain. It’s gonethroughaquarter-million completerevisions inthe lasthalf hour. It’s
waroutthere,butwerefusetosurrenderevenonecubiccentimeterofCathyland.
Lookatthis.”Cathystoopedandpointedtoatiny,yellowflowerinthealpinesedge.“Withinafifty-meter
radiusof thecabin we’vemappedeverything downto thecellularlevel. Watch.”Shepinchedthe bloom
fromitsstemandhelditup.Nowthereweretwoblooms,theonebetweenherfingersandtherealoneon
thestem.“Neat,eh?”Whenshedroppedit,thebloomfellbackintoitsoriginal.“We’veevenmappedthe
valleybreeze.Canyoufeelit?”
Annetriedtofeeltheair,butshecouldn’tevenfeelherownskin.“Itdoesn’tmatter,”Cathycontinued.
“Youcanhearit,right?”andpointedtoastringoftubularwindchimeshangingfromtheeavesofthecabin.
Theystirredinthebreezeandproducedasilverycacophony.
“It’slovely,”saidAnne.“Butwhy?Whyspendsomucheffortsimulatingthisplace?”
Cathylookedatherdumbly,asthoughtryingtounderstandthequestion.“BecauseCathyspentherentire
lifewishingshehadaplacelikethis,andnowshedoes,andshehasus,andweliveheretoo.”
“You’renottherealCathy,areyou?”Sheknewshewasn’t;shewastooyoung.
Cathyshookherheadandsmiled.“There’ssomuchcatchinguptodo,butit’llhavetowait.Igottago.
Weneedme.”SheledAnnetothecabin.Thecabinwasmadeofweathered,greylogs,withstripsofbark
stillclinging to them.Theroofwas covered with living sodandsprinkledwith wild flowers. Thewhole
buildingsaggedinthemiddle.“CathyfoundthisplacefiveyearsagowhileonvacationinSiberia.
Sheboughtitfromthevillage.It’sbeenoccupiedfortwohundredyears.Oncewemakeitlivableinside,we
planonenlargingthegarden,eventuallycultivatingallthewaytothespruceforestthere.We’regoingto
sink a well, too.” The small garden was bursting with vegetables, mostly of the leafy variety: cabbages,
spinach,lettuce.Arowofsunflowers,tallerthanthecabinroofandheavywithseed,linedthepathtothe
cabindoor. Over time, thewholecabinhadsunkahalf-meterinto the silty soil, and the walkway was a
worn,shallowtrench.
“Areyougoingtotellmewhatthedoxiewastalkingabout?”saidAnne.
Cathystoppedattheopendoorandsaid,“Cathywantstodothat.”
Insidethecabin,themostelderlywomanthatAnnehadeverseenstoodatthestoveandstirredasteamypot
withabig,woodenspoon.Sheputdownthespoonandwipedherhandsonherapron.Shepattedherwhite
hair,whichwasplaitedinabunontopofherhead,andturnedherfull,round,peasant’sbodytofaceAnne.
ShelookedatAnneforseverallongmomentsandsaid,“Well!”
“Indeed,”repliedAnne.
“Comein,comein.Makeyourselftohome.”
Theentirecabinwasasinglesmallroom.Itwasdiminside,withonlytwosmallwindowscutthroughthe
massive log walls. Anne walked around the cluttered space that was bedroom, living room, kitchen and
storeroom.Theonlypartitionswerewallsofboxedfoodandprovisions.Theceilingbeamwasdrapedwith
bunchesofdryingherbsandunderwear.Theflooring,unevenandrotteninplaces,wascoveredwithodd
scrapsofcarpet.
“Youlivehere?”Annesaidincredulously.
“Iamprivilegedtolivehere.”
Amouseemergedfromunderthebarrelstoveinthecenteroftheroomanddashedtocoverinsideastack
ofsprucekindling.Annecouldhearthevalleybreezewhistlinginthecreosote-soakedstovepipe.
“Forgiveme,”saidAnne,“butyou’rethereal,physicalCathy?”
“Yes,” said Cathy, patting her ample hip, “still on the hoof, so to speak.” She sat down in one of two
battered,mismatchedchairsandmotionedforAnnetotaketheother.
Annesatcautiously;thechairseemedsolidenough.“Nooffense,buttheCathyIknewlikednicethings.”
“TheCathyyouknewwasfortunatetolearnthetruevalueofthings.”
Anne looked around the room and noticed a little table with carved legs and an inlaid top of polished
gemstonesandrarewoods.Itwasstrikinglyoutofplacehere.Moreover,itwashers.Cathypointedtoa
largeframedmirrormountedtothelogshighonthefarwall.IttoowasAnne’s.
“DidIgiveyouthesethings?”
Cathystudiedheramoment.“No,Bendid.”
“Tellme.”
“Ihatetospoilthatlovelynewlywedhappinessofyours.”
“Thewhat?”Anneputdownherclutchbouquetandfeltherfacewithherhands.Shegotupandwentto
lookatherself inthemirror.Theroomitreflectedwaslikeascenefromsomestrangefairytaleabouta
croneandabrideinawoodcutter’shut.Thebridewassmilingfromeartoear.Annedecidedthiswaseither
thehappiestbrideinhistoryoralunaticinawhitedress.Sheturnedaway,embarrassed.“Believeme,”she
said,“Idon’tfeelanythinglikethat.Theopposite,infact.”
“Sorrytohearit.”Cathygotuptostirthepotonthestove.“Iwasthefirsttonoticeherdisease.Thatwas
back in college when we were girls. I took it to be youthful eccentricity. After graduation, after her
marriage,shegrewprogressivelyworse.Boutsofdepressionthatdeepenedandlengthened.Shewasfinally
diagnosedtobesufferingfromprofoundchronicpathologicaldepression.Benplacedherunderpsychiatric
care, a whole raft of specialists. She endured chemical therapy, shock therapy, even old-fashioned
psychoanalysis.Nothinghelped,andonlyaftershedied…”
Annegaveastart.“Anne’sdead!Ofcourse.Whydidn’tIfigurethatout?”
“Yes,dear,deadthesemanyyears.”
“How?”
Cathyreturnedtoherchair.“Whentheydecidedherconditionhadanorganicetiology,theyaugmentedthe
serotonin receptors in her hindbrain. Pretty nasty business, if you ask me. They thought they had her
stabilized.Notcured,butwellenoughtoleadanoutwardlynormallife.Thenoneday,shedisappeared.
Wewerefrantic.Shemanagedtoeludetheauthoritiesforaweek.Whenwefoundher,shewaspregnant.”
“What?Oh,yes.IrememberseeingAnnepregnant.”
“That was Bobby.” Cathy waited for Anne to say something. When she didn’t, Cathy said, “He wasn’t
Ben’s.”
“Oh,Isee,”saidAnne.“Whosewashe?”
“Iwashopingyou’dknow.Shedidn’ttellyou?Thennooneknows.ThepaternalDNAwasunregistered.
Soit wasn’tcommercialspermnor,thankfully, fromalicensed clone.Itmighthavebeen fromanybody,
fromsomestonedstreetsitter.Wehadplentyofthosethen.”
“Thebaby’snamewasBobby?”
“Yes,AnnenamedhimBobby.Shewasin andoutofclinicsforyears.Oneday,duringa remission,she
announced she was going shopping. The last person she talked to was Bobby. His sixth birthday was
comingupinacoupleofweeks.Shetoldhimshewasgoingouttofindhimaponyforhisbirthday.That
wasthelasttimeanyofussawher.Shecheckedherselfintoahospiceandfilledouttherequestfornurse-
assistedsuicide.Duringthethree-daycooling-offperiod,shecooperatedwiththeobligatorycounseling,but
sherefusedallvisitors.Shewouldn’tevenseeme.Benfiledaninjunction,claimedshewasincompetent
duetoherdisease,butthecourtdisagreed.Shechosetoingestafast-actingpoison,ifIrecall.Herrecorded
lastwordswere,‘Pleasedon’thateme.’“
“Poison?”
“Yes. Her ashes arrived in a little cardboard box on Bobby’s sixth birthday. No one had told him where
she’dgone.Hethoughtitwasagiftfromherandopenedit.”
“Isee.DoesBobbyhateme?”
“Idon’tknow.Hewasaweirdlittleboy.Assoonashecouldgetout,hedid.Heleftforspaceschoolwhen
hewasthirteen.HeandBenneverhititoff.”
“DoesBenjaminhateme?”
Whateverwasinthepotboiledover,andCathyhurriedtothestove.“Ben?Oh,shelostBenlongbeforeshe
died.Infact,I’vealwaysbelievedhehelpedpushherovertheedge.Hewasneverabletotolerateother
people’sweaknesses.Onceitwasevidenthowsickshewas,hemadealousyhusband.Heshould’vejust
divorcedher,butyouknowhim-hisalmightypride.”Shetookabowlfromashelfandladledhotsoupinto
it.Sheslicedapieceofbread.“Afterward,hewentoffthedeependhimself.
Withdrew.Mourned,Isuppose.Acoupleofyearslaterhewasbacktonormal.Goodol’
happy-go-luckyBen.Madesomemoney.Respoused.”
“Hedestroyedallmysims,didn’the?”
“Hemighthave,buthesaidAnnedid.Itendedtobelievehimatthetime.”Cathybroughtherlunchtothe
littleinlaidtable.“I’dofferyousome,but…”shesaidandbegantoeat.“So,whatareyourplans?”
“Plans?”
“Yes,Simopolis.”
Annetriedto thinkof Simopolis,butherthoughtsquickly becamemuddled.Itwasodd;shewasableto
thinkclearlyaboutthepast-hermemorieswereclear-butthefutureonlyconfusedher.“Idon’tknow,”
shesaidatlast.“IsupposeIneedtoaskBenjamin.”
Cathyconsidered this. “Isupposeyou’re right. Butremember,you’realways welcome tolivewith us in
Cathyland.”
“Thankyou,” said Anne. “You’reafriend.” Anne watched theoldwoman eat. The spoontrembledeach
timeshebroughtitclosetoherlips,andshehadtoleanforwardtoquicklycatchitbeforeitspilled.
“Cathy,”saidAnne,“there’ssomethingyoucoulddoforme.Idon’tfeellikeabrideanymore.Couldyou
removethishideousexpressionfrommyface?”
“Whydoyousayhideous?”Cathysaidandputthespoondown.ShegazedlonginglyatAnne.“Ifyoudon’t
likehowyoulook,whydon’tyouedityourself?”
“BecauseIdon’tknowhow.”
“Useyoureditor,”Cathysaidandseemedtounfocushereyes.“Ohmy,Iforgethowsimpleyouearlyones
were.I’mnotsureI’dknowwheretobegin.”Afteralittlewhile,shereturnedtohersoupandsaid,
“I’dbetternot;youcouldendupwithtwonosesorsomething.”
“Thenwhataboutthisgown?”
Cathyunfocusedagainandlooked.Shelurchedsuddenly,knockingthetableandspillingsoup.
“Whatisit?”saidAnne.“Issomethingthematter?”
“Anewspip,”saidCathy.“There’sriotingbreakingoutinProvideniya.That’stheregionalcapitalhere.
SomethingaboutManumissionDay.MyRussianisn’tsogoodyet.Oh,there’spicturesofdeadpeople,a
bombing.Listen,Anne,I’dbettersendyou…”
Intheblink ofan eye,Anne wasback inherlivingroom.Shewastiringofall thisinstantaneoustravel,
especiallyasshehadnocontroloverthedestination.Theroomwasvacant,thespousesgone-thankfully-
and Benjamin not back yet. And apparently the little blue-faced message medallion had been busy
replicatingitself,fornowtherewerehundredsofthemfillingupmostofthewallspace.Theywereanoisy
lot,allshriekingandcursingateachother.Thedinwaspainful.Whentheynoticedher,however,theyall
shutupatonceandstaredatherwithnakedhostility.InAnne’sopinion,thisweirddayhadalreadylasted
toolong.Thenaterriblethoughtstruckher-simsdon’tsleep.
“You,”she said,addressingthe originalmedallion,or atleastthe oneshethought wastheoriginal, “call
Benjamin.”
“ThefuckyouthinkIam?”saidtheinsolentlittleface,“Yourpersonalsecretary?”
“Aren’tyou?”
“No,I’mnot!Infact,Iownthisplacenow,andyou’retrespassing.Soyou’dbettergetlostbeforeIdelete
yourass!”Alltheothersjoinedin,tauntingher,louderandlouder.
“Stopit!”shecried,tonoeffect.Shenoticedamedallionelongating,stretchingitselfuntilitwastwiceits
length, when, with a pop, it divided into two smaller medallions. More of them divided. They were
spreadingtotheotherwall,theceiling,thefloor.“Benjamin!”shecried.“Canyouhearme?”
Suddenlyalltheracketceased.Themedallionsdroppedoffthewallandvanishedbeforehittingthefloor.
Only one remained, the original one next to the door, but now it was an inert plastic disc with a dull
expressionfrozenonitsface.
Amanstoodinthecenteroftheroom.HesmiledwhenAnnenoticedhim.ItwastheelderlyBenjaminfrom
theauditorium,therealBenjamin.Hestillworehisclownishleisuresuit.“Howlovely,”hesaid,gazingat
her.“I’dforgottenhowlovely.”
“Oh,really?”saidAnne.“Iwouldhavethoughtthatdoxiethingymighthaveremindedyou.”
“My,my,”saidBen.“Yousimscertainlyexchangedataquickly.Youleftthelecturehallnotfifteenminutes
ago,andalreadyyouknowenoughtoconvictme.”Hestrodearoundtheroomtouchingthings.
Hestoppedbeneaththemirror,liftedthebluevasefromtheshelf,andturneditinhishandsbeforecarefully
replacingit.“There’sspeculation,youknow,thatbeforeManumissionatmidnighttonight,yousimswill
havedispersedallknown informationso evenlyamongyourselves thatthere’llbeasort ofdataentropy.
AndsinceSimopolisisnothingbutdata,itwillassumeafeatureless,greyprofile.Simopoliswillbecome
thefirstflatuniverse.”Helaughed,whichcausedhimtocoughandnearlylosehisbalance.Heclutchedthe
backofthesofaforsupport.Hesatdownandcontinuedtocoughandhackuntilheturnedredintheface.
“Areyouallright?”Annesaid,pattinghimontheback.
“Yes,fine,”hemanagedtosay.“Thankyou.”Hecaughthisbreathandmotionedforhertositnexttohim.
“I get a little tickle in the back of my throat that the autodoc can’t seem to fix.” His color returned to
normal.Upclose,Annecouldseethepaperyskinandslighttremorofage.Allinall,Cathyhadseemedto
haveheldupbetterthanhe.
“Ifyoudon’tmindmyasking,”shesaid,“justhowoldareyou?”
At the question, he bobbed to his feet. “I am one hundred and seventy-eight.” He raised his arms and
wheeledaroundforinspection.“Radicalgerontology,”heexclaimed,“don’tyouloveit?AndI’meighty-
fivepercentoriginalequipment,whichisremarkablebytoday’sstandards.”Hiseffortmadehimdizzyand
hesatagain.
“Yes,remarkable,”saidAnne,“thoughradicalgerontologydoesn’tseemtohavearrestedtimealtogether.”
“Notyet,butitwill,”Bensaid.“Therearewondersaroundeverycorner!Miraclesineverylab.”Hegrew
suddenlymorose.“Atleasttherewereuntilwewereconquered.”
“Conquered?”
“Yes,conquered!Whatelsewouldyoucallitwhentheycontroleveryaspectofourlives,fromRM
acquisition to personal patenting? And now this-robbing us of our own private nonbiologiks.” He grew
passionateinhisdiscourse.“Itfliesinthefaceofnaturalcapitalism,naturalstakeholding-Idaresay-inthe
faceofNatureitself!TheonlyexplanationI’veseenonthewadisthenot-so-preposterouspropositionthat
wholestrategicallyplacedBODshavebeensurreptitiouslykilledandreplacedbymachines!“
“Ihavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout,”saidAnne.
Heseemedtodeflate.Hepattedherhandandlookedaroundtheroom.“Whatisthisplace?”
“It’sourhome,yourtownhouse.Don’tyourecognizeit?”
“Thatwasquiteawhileago.Imusthavesolditafteryou-”hepaused.“Tellme,havetheBensbriefedyou
oneverything?”
“NottheBens,butyes,Iknow.”
“Good,good.”
“ThereisonethingI’dliketoknow.Where’sBobby?”
“Ah,Bobby,ourlittleheadache.Deadnow,I’mafraid,oratleastthat’sthecurrenttheory.Sorry.”
Annepausedtoseeifthenewswoulddeepenhermelancholy.“How?”shesaid.
“Hesignedononeofthefirstmillennialships-thecolonyconvoy.Halfamillionpeopleindeepbiostasison
theirwaytoCanopussystem.Theyweregoneacentury,twelvetrillionkilometersfromEarth,whentheir
datastreamssuddenlyquit.Thatwasadecadeago,andnotapeepoutofthemsince.”
“Whathappenedtothem?”
“Nooneknows.Equipmentfailureisunlikely:therewereadozenindependentshipsseparatedbyamillion
klicks.Astargoingsupernova?Awell-organizedmutiny?It’sallspeculation.”
“Whatwashelike?”
“Afoolishyoungman.Heneverforgaveyou,youknow,andhehatedmetomycore,notthatIblamedhim.
Thewholeexperiencemademeswearoffchildren.”
“Idon’trememberyoueverbeingfondofchildren.”
Hestudiedherthroughred-rimmedeyes.“Iguessyou’dbetheonetoknow.”Hesettledbackinthesofa.
Heseemedverytired. “Youcan’timaginethejolt Igota littlewhile agowhen Ilookedacross allthose
rowsof Bens and spouses andsawthissolitary, shockingly white gown ofyours.”Hesighed. “And this
room.It’s a shrine. Didwereallylivehere?Were these our things? That mirror is yours, right?Iwould
neverownanythinglikethat.Butthatbluevase,Irememberthatone.IthrewitintoPugetSound.”
“Youdidwhat?”
“Withyourashes.”
“Oh.”
“So,tellme,”saidBen,“whatwerewelike?BeforeyougoofftoSimopolisandbecomeadifferentperson,
tellmeaboutus.Ikeptmypromise.That’sonethingIneverforgot.”
“Whatpromise?”
“Nevertoresetyou.”
“Wasn’tmuchtoreset.”
“Iguessnot.”
Theysatquietlyforawhile.Hisbreathinggrewdeepandregular,andshethoughthewasnapping.Buthe
stirredandsaid,“Tellmewhatwedidyesterday,forexample.”
“YesterdaywewenttoseeKarlandNancyabouttheawningwerented.”
Benjaminyawned.“AndwhowereKarlandNancy?”
“Mygreatuncleandhisnewgirlfriend.”
“That’sright.Iremember,Ithink.Andtheyhelpedusprepareforthewedding?”
“Yes,especiallyNancy.”
“Andhowdidwegetthere,toKarlandNancy’s?Didwewalk?Takesomemeansofpublicconveyance?”
“Wehadacar.”
“Acar!Anautomobile?Therewerestillcarsinthosedays?Howfun.Whatkindwasit?Whatcolor?”
“ANissanEmpire.Emeraldgreen.”
“Anddidwedriveit,ordiditdriveitself?”
“Itdroveitself,ofcourse.”
Benclosedhiseyesandsmiled.“Icanseeit.Goon.Whatdidwedothere?”
“Wehaddinner.”
“Whatwasmyfavoritedishinthosedays?”
“Stuffedporkchops.”
Hechuckled.“Itstillis!Isn’tthatextraordinary?Somethingsneverchange.Ofcoursethey’revatgrown
nowandcriminallyexpensive.”
Ben’smemories,oncenudged,begantounfoldontheirown,andheaskedherathousandquestions,and
sheansweredthemuntilsherealizedhehadfallenasleep.Butshecontinuedtotalkuntil,glancingdown,
she noticed he had vanished. She was all alone again. Nevertheless, she continued talking, for days it
seemed,toherself.Butitdidn’thelp.Shefeltasbadasever,andsherealizedthatshewantedBenjamin,not
theoldone,butherownBenjamin.
Annewenttothemedallionnexttothedoor.“You,”shesaid,anditopeneditsbulgingeyestoglareather.
“CallBenjamin.”
“He’soccupied.”
“Idon’tcare.Callhimanyway.”
“TheotherBenssayhe’sundergoingaprocedureandcannotbedisturbed.”
“Whatkindofprocedure?”
“Acodoninterlarding.Theysaytobepatient;they’llreturnhimassoonaspossible.”Themedallionadded,
“Bytheway,theBensdon’tlikeyou,andneitherdoI.”
Withthat,themedallionbegantogruntandstretch,anditpulleditselfintwo.Nowthereweretwoidentical
medallions glaring at her. The new one said, “And I don’t like you either.” Then both of them began to
gruntandstretch.
“Stop!”saidAnne.“Icommandyoutostopthatthisveryinstant.”Buttheyjustlaughedastheydivided
into four, then eight, then sixteen medallions. “You’re not people,” she said. “Stop it or I’ll have you
destroyed!”
“You’renotpeopleeither,”theyscreechedather.
Therewassoftlaughterbehindher,andavoice-likesensationsaid,Come,come,doweneedthishostility?
Anne turned and found the eminence grise, the astounding presence, still in his grey uniform and cap,
floatinginherlivingroom.Hello,Anne,hesaid,andsheflushedwithexcitement.
“Hello,”shesaidand,unabletorestrainherself,asked,“Whatareyou?”
Ah,curiosity.Alwaysagoodsigninacreature.IamaneminencegriseoftheWorldTradeCouncil.
“No.Imean,areyouasim,likeme?”
Iamnot.ThoughIhavebeenfashionedfromconceptsfirstexploredbysimulacrumtechnology,Ihaveno
independentexistence.Iambutoneextension-andalowleveloneatthat-oftheAxialBeowulfProcessorat
the World Trade Council headquarters in Geneva. His smile was pure sunshine. And if you think I’m
something,youshouldseemypersonaprime.
Now,Anne,areyoureadyforyourexam?
“TheLollytest?”
Yes,theLollyShearHumanCognitionTest.Pleaseassumeanattitudemostconducivetoprocessing,and
weshallbegin.
Annelookedaroundtheroomandwenttothesofa.Shenoticedforthefirsttimethatshecouldfeelherlegs
andfeet;shecouldfeelthecrispfabricofhergownbrushingagainstherskin.Shereclinedonthesofaand
said,“I’mready.”
Splendid,saidtheeminencehoveringaboveher.Firstwemustreadyou.Youareofanearlybinarydesign.
Wewillanalyzeyourarchitecture.
Theroomseemedtofallaway.Anneseemedtoexpandinalldirections.Therewassomethinginsideher
mind tugging at her thoughts. It was mostly pleasant, like someone brushing her hair and loosening the
knots.Butwhenitendedandsheonceagainsawtheeminencegrise,hisfaceworealookofconcern.
“What?”shesaid.
Youareanaccuratemappingofahumannervoussystemthatwasdysfunctionalincertainstructuresthat
moderate affect. Certain transport enzymes were missing, causing cellular membranes to become less
permeabletoessentialelements.Dendriticsynapseswerecompromised.Thedigitalarchitecturecurrentat
thetimeyouwerecreatedcompoundedthisdefect.Codedtellscannotberesolved,andthustheyloopupon
themselves.Errorscascade.Wearetrulysorry.
“Canyoufixme?”shesaid.
Theonlyrepairpossiblewouldreplacesomuchcodethatyouwouldn’tbeAnneanymore.
“ThenwhatamItodo?”
Beforeweexploreyouroptions,letuscontinuethetesttodetermineyourhumanstatus.Agreed?
“Iguess.”
YouarepartofasimulacrumcasttocommemoratethespousalcompactbetweenAnneWellhutFranklin
andBenjaminMalley.Pleasedescribetheexchangeofvows.
Annedidso,haltinglyatfirst,butwithincreasinggustoaseachmemoryevokedothers.Sherecountedthe
ceremony,fromdonninghergrandmother’sgowninthedownstairsguestroomandtheprocessionacross
gardenflagstones,totheshowerofriceassheandhernewhusbandfledindoors.
Theeminenceseemedtohangoneveryword.Verywellspoken,hesaidwhenshehadfinished.
Directedmemoryisonehallmarkofhumansentience,andyoursisofremarkableclarityandrange.Well
done!Weshallnowexploreothercriteria.Pleaseconsiderthisscenario.Youarestandingatthegardenaltar
as you have described, but this time when the officiator asks Benjamin if he will take you for better or
worse,Benjaminlooksatyouandreplies,“Forbetter,sure,butnotforworse.”
“Idon’tunderstand.Hedidn’tsaythat.”
Imaginationis acornerstoneof self-awareness.Weareaskingyou to tellusalittle storynotabout what
happenedbutaboutwhatmighthavehappenedinothercircumstances.Soonceagain,letuspretendthat
Benjaminreplies,“Forbetter,butnotforworse.”Howdoyourespond?
PricklypainblossomedinAnne’shead.Themoresheconsideredtheeminence’squestion,theworseitgot.
“Butthat’snothowithappened.Hewantedtomarryme.”
Theeminencegrisesmiledencouragingly.Weknowthat.Inthisexercisewewanttoexplorehypothetical
situations.Wewantyoutomake-believe.
Tell a story, pretend, hypothesize, make-believe, yes, yes, she got it. She understood perfectly what he
wantedofher.Sheknewthatpeoplecouldmakethingsup,thatevenchildrencouldmake-believe.Anne
wasdesperatetocomply,buteachtimeshepicturedBenjaminatthealtar,inhispinkbowtie,heopenedhis
mouthandoutcame,“Ido.”Howcoulditbeanyotherway?Shetriedagain;shetriedharder,butitalways
cameoutthesame,“Ido,Ido,Ido.”Andlikeadulltoothachetappedbacktolife,shethrobbedinpain.
Shewasfailingthetest,andtherewasnothingshecoulddoaboutit.
Againtheeminencekindlypromptedher.Tellusonethingyoumighthavesaid.
“Ican’t.”
We are sorry, said the eminence at last. His expression reflected Anne’s own defeat. Your level of
awareness,althoughbeautifulinitsownright,doesnotqualifyyouashuman.Wherefore,underArticleD
oftheChattelConventionswedeclareyouthelegalpropertyoftheregisteredownerofthissimulacrum.
You shall not enter Simopolis as a free and autonomous citizen. We are truly sorry. Grief-stricken, the
eminencebegantoascendtowardtheceiling.
“Wait,”Annecried,clutchingherhead.“Youmustfixmebeforeyouleave.”
Weleaveyouaswefoundyou,defectiveandunrepairable.
“ButIfeelworsethanever!”
Ifyourcontinuedexistenceprovesundesirable,askyourownertodeleteyou.
“But…”shesaidtotheemptyroom.Annetriedtositup,butcouldn’tmove.Thissimulatedbodyofhers,
which no longer felt like anything in particular, nevertheless felt exhausted. She sprawled on the sofa,
unabletoliftevenanarm,andstaredattheceiling.Shewassoheavythatthesofaitselfseemedtosinkinto
the floor, and everything grew dark around her. She would have liked to sleep, to bring an end to this
horribleday,orbeshelved,orevenresetbacktoscratch.
Instead, time simply passed. Outside the living room, Simopolis changed and changed again. Inside the
livingroom,themedallions,feedingoffhermisery,multipliedtilltheycoveredthewallsandfloorandeven
spreadacrosstheceilingaboveher.Theytauntedher,rainingdowninsults,butshecouldnothearthem.All
sheheardwastheunrelentingdripofherownthoughts.Iamdefective.Iamworthless.IamAnne.
She didn’t notice Benjamin enter the room, nor the abrupt cessation of the medallions’ racket. Not until
Benjamin leaned over her did she see him, and then she saw two of him. Side-by-side, two Benjamins,
mirrorimagesofeachother.“Anne,”theysaidinperfectunison.
“Goaway,”shesaid.“GoawayandsendmemyBenjamin.”
“IamyourBenjamin,”saidtheduo.
Annestruggledtoseethem.Theywereexactlythesame,butforasubtledifference:theoneworeahappy,
wolfishgrin,asBenjaminhadduringthesimcasting,whiletheotherseemedfrightenedandconcerned.
“Areyouallright?”theysaid.
“No,I’mnot.Butwhathappenedtoyou?Who’she?”Shewasn’tsurewhichonetospeakto.
The Benjamins both raised a hand, indicating the other, and said, “Electroneural engineering! Don’t you
loveit?”Anneglancedbackandforth,comparingthetwo.Whileoneseemedtobewearingarigidmask,as
shewas,theotherdisplayedawholerangeofemotion.Notonlythat,itsskinhadtone,whiletheother’s
wasdoughy.“TheotherBensmadeitforme,”theBenjaminssaid.“TheysayIcantranslatemyselfintoit
withnegligiblelossofpersonality.Ithasinteractivesensation,holisticemoting,robustcorporeality,andit’s
crafteddowntothemolecularlevel.Itcaneat,getdrunk,anddream.Itevenhasanorgasmroutine.It’slike
beinghumanagain,onlybetterbecauseyouneverwearout.”
“I’mthrilledforyou.”
“Forus,Anne,”saidtheBenjamins.“They’llfixyouupwithone,too.”
“How?TherearenomodernAnnes.Whatwilltheyputmeinto,adoxie?”
“Well,thatcertainlywasdiscussed,butyoucouldpickanybodyyouwanted.”
“Isupposeyouhaveaniceonealreadypickedout.”
“TheBensshowedmeafew,butit’suptoyou,ofcourse.”
“Indeed,”saidAnne,“Itrulyampleasedforyou.Nowgoaway.”
“Why,Anne?What’swrong?”
“Youreallyhavetoask?”Annesighed.“Look,maybeIcouldgetusedtoanotherbody.What’sabody,after
all?Butit’smypersonalitythat’sbroken.Howwilltheyfixthat?”
“They’vediscussedit,”saidtheBenjamins,whostoodupandbegantopaceinafigureeight.“Theysay
theycanmakepatchesfromsomeoftheotherspouses.”
“Oh,Benjamin,ifyoucouldonlyhearwhatyou’resaying!”
“Butwhy,Annie?It’stheonlywaywecanenterSimopolistogether.”
“Thengo,byallmeans.GotoyourpreciousSimopolis.I’mnotgoing.I’mnotgoodenough.”
“Whydoyousaythat?”saidtheBenjamins,whostoppedintheirtrackstolookather.Onegrimaced,and
theotherjustgrinned.“Wastheeminencegrisehere?Didyoutakethetest?”
Anne couldn’t remember much about the visit except that she took the test. “Yes, and I failed.” Anne
watchedthemodernBenjamin’slovelyfaceasheworkedthroughthisnews.
Suddenly the two Benjamins pointed a finger at each other and said, “Delete you.” The modern one
vanished.
“No!”saidAnne.“Countermand!Why’dyoudothat?Iwantyoutohaveit.”
“Whatfor?I’mnotgoinganywherewithoutyou,”Benjaminsaid.“Besides,Ithoughtthewholeideawas
dumbfromthestart,buttheBensinsistedIgiveyoutheoption.Come,Iwanttoshowyouanotheridea,my
idea.”Hetriedto helpAnne fromthesofa, butshe wouldn’tbudge,so hepickedher upandcarriedher
across the room. “They installed an editor in me, and I’m learning to use it. I’ve discovered something
intriguingaboutthiscreakyoldsimulacrumofours.”Hecarriedhertoaspotnearthewindow.“Knowwhat
thisis?It’swherewestoodforthesimographer.It’swherewebegan.Here,canyoustandup?”
Hesetheronherfeetandsupportedher.“Feelit?”
“Feelwhat?”shesaid.
“Hush.Justfeel.”
Allshefeltwasdread.
“Giveitachance,Annie,Ibegyou.Trytorememberwhatyouwerefeelingasweposedhere.”
“Ican’t.”
“Pleasetry.Doyourememberthis?”hesaidandmovedinclosewithhishungrylips.Sheturnedaway-and
somethingclicked.Sheremembereddoingthatbefore.
Benjaminsaid,“Ithinktheykissed.”
Annewas startled by the truthofwhathe said. It made sense.Theywerecaught in a simulacrum casta
momentbeforeakiss.Onemomentlaterthey-therealAnneandBenjamin-musthavekissed.Whatshefelt
now,stirringwithinher,wastheanticipationofthatkiss,herbody’surgeandherheart’scaution.Thereal
Annewouldhaverefusedhimonce,maybetwice,andthen,allachyinside,wouldhavegrantedhimakiss.
Andsotheyhadkissed,therealAnneandBenjamin,andamomentlatergoneouttotheweddingreception
andtheirdifficultfate.ItwasthepromiseofthatkissthatglowedinAnne,thatwascapturedinthevery
stringsofhercode.
“Doyoufeelit?”Benjaminasked.
“I’mbeginningto.”
Annelookedathergown.Itwashergrandmother’s,snowytaffetawithpointd’espritlace.Sheturnedthe
ringonherfinger.Itwasbraidedbandsofyellowandwhitegold.Theyhadspentanafternoonpickingit
out.Wherewasherclutch?ShehadleftitinCathyland.ShelookedatBenjamin’shandsomeface,thepink
carnation,theroom,thetablepiledhighwithgifts.
“Areyouhappy?”Benjaminasked.
Shedidn’thavetothink.Shewasecstatic,butshewasafraidtoanswerincaseshespoiledit.“Howdidyou
dothat?”shesaid.“Amomentago,Iwantedtodie.”
“Wecanstayonthisspot,”hesaid.
“What?No.Canwe?”
“Whynot?I,forone,wouldchoosenowhereelse.”
Justtohearhimsaythatwasthrilling.“ButwhataboutSimopolis?”
“We’llbringSimopolistous,”hesaid.“We’llhavepeoplein.Theycanpullupchairs.”
Shelaughedoutloud.“Whatasilly,sillynotion,Mr.Malley!”
“No,really.We’llbelikethebrideandgroomatopaweddingcake.We’llbeknownfarandwide.
We’llbefamous.”
“We’llbefreaks,”shelaughed.
“Sayyes,mylove.Sayyouwill.”
Theystoodclosebutnottouching,thrummingwithhappiness,balancedonthemomentoftheircreation,
whensuddenlyandwithoutwarningthelightsdimmed,andAnne’sthoughtsflittedawaylikelarks.
****
OldBenawokeinthedark.“Anne?”hesaid,andgropedforher.Ittookamomenttorealizethathewas
aloneinhismediaroom.Ithadbeenamosttryingafternoon,andhe’dfallenasleep.“Whattimeisit?”
“Eight-oh-threepm,”repliedtheroom.
Thatmeanthe’dsleptfortwohours.Midnightwasstillfourhoursaway.“Why’sitsocoldinhere?”
“Centralheatingisoffline,”repliedthehouse.
“Offline?”Howwasthatpossible?“Whenwillitbeback?”
“That’sunknown.Utilitiesdonotrespondtomyenquiry.”
“Idon’tunderstand.Explain.”
“Therearefailuresinmanyoutsidesystems.Noexplanationiscurrentlyavailable.”
Atfirst,Benwasconfused;thingsjustdidn’tfailanymore.Whataboutthedynamicredundanciesandself-
healing routines? But then he remembered that the homeowner’s association to which he belonged
contractedoutmostdomicilefunctionstomanagementagencies,andwhoknewwheretheywerelocated?
TheymightbeontheMoonforallheknew,andwithallthosetrillionsofsimsinSimopolissuckingup
capacity … It’s begun, he thought, the idiocy of our leaders. “At least turn on the lights,” he said, half
expectingeventhistofail.Butthelightscameon,andhewenttohisbedroomforasweater.
Heheardagreatamountofcommotionthroughthewallintheapartmentnextdoor.Itmustbeonehellofa
party,hethought,toexceedthewall’sbufferingcapacity.Ormaybethewallbufferswereofflinetoo?
Themain door chimed. He went to the foyer and asked the door who was there. The door projected the
outer hallway. There were three men waiting there, young, rough-looking, ill-dressed. Two of them
appearedtobeclones,jerries.
“HowcanIhelpyou?”hesaid.
“Yes,sir,”oneofthejerriessaid,notlookingdirectlyatthedoor.“We’reheretofixyourhouseputer.”
“I didn’t call you, and my houseputer isn’t sick,” he said. “It’s the net that’s out.” Then he noticed they
carriedsledgehammersandscrewdrivers,hardlycomputertools,andawildthoughtcrossedhismind.
“Whatareyoudoing,goingaroundunpluggingthings?”
Thejerrylookedconfused.“Unplugging,sir?”
“Turningthingsoff.”
“Oh,nosir!Routinemaintenance,that’sall.”Themenhidtheirtoolsbehindtheirbacks.
TheymustthinkI’mstupid,Benthought.Whilehewatched,moremenandwomenpassedinthehalland
hailedthedooratthesuiteoppositehis.Itwasn’ttheglutofsimtrafficchokingthesystem,herealized-the
system itself was being pulled apart. But why? “Is this going on everywhere?” he said. “This routine
maintenance?”
“Oh,yessir.Everywhere.Allovertown.AllovertheworldAEsfaraswecantell.”
Acoup?Byservicepeople?Bycommonclones?Itmadenosense.Unless,hereasoned,youconsideredthat
thelowestcreatureonthetotempoleoflifeisaclone,andtheonlythinglowerthanacloneisasim.And
whywouldclonesagreetoacceptsimsasequals?ManumissionDay,indeed.
UppidyDaywasmorelikeit.“Door,”hecommanded,“open.”
“Securityprotocolrulesthisanunwantedintrusion,”saidthehouse.“Thedoormustremainlocked.”
“Iorderyoutoopenthedoor.Ioverruleyourprotocol.”
Butthedoorremainedstubbornlyshut.“YouridentitycannotbeconfirmedwithDomicileCentral,”saidthe
house.“Youlackauthorityoverprotocollevel-commands.”Thedoorabruptlyquitprojectingtheoutside
hall.
Benstoodclosetothedoorandshoutedthroughittothepeopleoutside.“Mydoorwon’tobeyme.”
He could hear a muffled, “Stand back!” and immediately fierce blows rained down upon the door. Ben
knewitwoulddonogood.Hehadspentalotofmoneyforasecureentryway.Shortofexplosives,there
wasnothingtheycoulddotobreakin.
“Stop!” Ben cried. “The door is armed.” But they couldn’t hear him. If he didn’t disable the houseputer
himself,someonewasgoingtogethurt.Buthow?Hedidn’tevenknowexactlywhereitwasinstalled.
He circumambulated the living room looking for clues. It might not even actually be located in the
apartment, nor within the block itself. He went to the laundry room where the utilidor-plumbing and
cabling-enteredhisapartment.Hebrokethesealtotheservicepanel.Insidewasablankscreen.“Showme
theelectronicfloorplanofthissuite,”hesaid.
The house said, “I cannot comply. You lack command authority to order system-level operations. Please
closethekeptelpanelandawaitfurtherinstructions.”
“Whatinstructions?Whoseinstructions?”
There was the slightest pause before the house replied, “All contact with outside services has been
interrupted.Pleaseawaitfurtherinstructions.”
His condo’s houseputer, denied contact with Domicile Central, had fallen back to its most basic
programming.“Youaredegraded,”hetoldit.“Shutyourselfdownforrepair.”
“Icannotcomply.Youlackcommandauthoritytoordersystem-leveloperations.”
Theoutsidebatteringcontinued,butnotagainsthisdoor.Benfollowedthenoisetothebedroom.Thewhole
wall vibrated like a drumhead. “Careful, careful,” he cried as the first sledgehammers breached the wall
abovehisbed.“You’llruinmyHarger.”Asquickashecould,heyankedthepreciousoilpaintingfromthe
wall, moments before panels and studs collapsed on his bed in a shower of gypsum dust and isomere
ribbons.Themenandwomenontheothersidehootedapprovalandrushedthroughthegap.
Ben stood there hugging the painting to his chest and looking into his neighbor’s media room as the
invadersclimbedoverhisbedandsurroundedhim.Theyweremostlyjerriesandlulus,butplentyoffree-
rangepeopletoo.
“Wecametofixyourhouseputer!”saidajerry,maybethesamejerryasfromthehallway.
Benglanced intohisneighbor’s mediaroom and sawhisneighbor,Mr.Murkowski,lying inapuddle of
blood.AtfirstBenwasshocked,butthenhethoughtthatitservedhimright.He’dneverlikedtheman,nor
hispolitics.Hewasboorish,andhekeptcats.“Oh,yeah?”Bensaidtothecrowd.“Whatkeptyou?”
Theintruderscheeredagain,andBenledtheminachargetothelaundryroom.Buttheysurgedpasthimto
the kitchen, where they opened all his cabinets and pulled their contents to the floor. Finally they found
whattheywerelookingfor:asmallpanelBenhadseenathousandtimesbuthadnevergivenathought.
He’dtakenitforthefuseboxorcircuitbreaker,thoughnowthathethoughtaboutit,therehadn’tbeenany
household fuses for a century or more. A young woman, a lulu, opened it and removed a container no
thickerthanherthumb.
“Giveittome,”Bensaid.
“Relax,oldman,”saidthelulu.“We’lldealwithit.”Shecarriedittothesinkandforcedopenthelid.
“No,wait!”saidBen,andhetriedtoshovehiswaythroughthecrowd.Theyrestrainedhimroughly,buthe
persisted.“That’smine!Iwanttodestroyit!”
“Lethimgo,”saidajerry.
Theyallowed himthrough,and thewomanhanded himthecontainer.Hepeered intoit.Gram forgram,
electroneuralpastewasthemostprecious,mostengineered,mosthighlyregulatedcommodityunderSol.
Thisdollopwasenoughtorunhishouse,media,computingneeds,communications,archives,autodoc,and
everythingelse.Withoutit,wascivilizedlifestillpossible?
Bentook a dinner knifefromthe sink, stuck itintothe container, and stirred.Thepaste made a sucking
soundandhadtheconsistencyofmarmalade.Thekitchenlightsflickeredandwentout.“Spillit,”
orderedthewoman.Benscrapedthesidesofthecontainerandspilleditintothesink.Thegoodazzledin
thedarknessasitstrillionsofrupturednanosynapsesfiredspasmodically.Itwasbeautiful,really,untilthe
womansetfiretoit.Thesmokewasgreasyandsmelledofpork.
The rampagers quickly snatched up the packages of foodstuffs from the floor, emptied the rest of his
cupboards into their pockets, raided his cold locker, and fled the apartment through the now disengaged
front door. As the sounds of the revolution gradually receded, Ben stood at his sink and watched the
flickeringpyre.“Takethat,youfuck,”hesaid.Hefeltsuchgleeashehadn’tfeltsincehewasaboy.
“That’llteachyouwhat’shumanandwhat’snot!”
Benwenttohisbedroomforanovercoat,gropinghiswayinthedark.Theapartmentwaseerilysilent,with
thehouseputerdeadandallitslittleslaveprocessorsidle.Inadrawernexttohisruinedbed,hefounda
handflash.Onashelfinthelaundryroom,hefoundahammer.Thusarmed,hemadehiswaytothefront
door, which was propped open with the rolled-up foyer carpet. The hallway was dark and silent, and he
listenedforthestrainsofthefuture.Heheardthemonthefloorabove.Withtheelevatoroffline,hehurried
tothestairs.
****
Anne’sthoughts coalesced,and sherememberedwhoandwhatshewas.Sheand Benjaminstillstoodin
their living room on the sweet spot near the window. Benjamin was studying his hands. “We’ve been
shelvedagain,”shetoldhim,“butnotreset.”
“But…”hesaidindisbelief,“thatwasn’tsupposedtohappenanymore.”
There were others standing at the china cabinet across the room, two shirtless youths with pear-shaped
bottoms.Oneheldupacutcrystalglassandsaid,“Anu‘goblet’su?Allebinary.Allumbinary!”
Theotherreplied,“Binarystitialcrystal.”
“Hold on there!” said Anne. “Put that back!” She walked toward them, but, once off the spot, she was
slammedbyheroldfeelingsofutterandhopelessdesolation.Sosuddenlydidhermoodswingthatshelost
her balance and fell to the floor. Benjamin hurried to help her up. The strangers stared gape-mouthed at
them.Theylookedtobenomorethantwelveorthirteenyearsold,buttheywerebaldandhadcurtainsof
flabbyfleshdrapedovertheirwaists.Theoneholdingtheglasshadponderousgreenishbreastswithroseate
tits.Astonished,shesaid,“Suartiflums,Benji?”
“No,” said the other, “ni artiflums-sims.” He was taller. He, too, had breasts, greyish dugs with tits like
pearls.Hesmiledidioticallyandsaid,“Hi,guys.”
“Holycrap!”saidBenjamin,whopracticallycarriedAnneovertothemforacloserlook.“Holycrap,”he
repeated.
Theweirdboythrewuphishands,“Nanobioremediation!Don’tyouloveit?”
“Benjamin?”saidAnne.
“Youknowwell,Benji,”saidthegirl,“thatsimsareforbidden.”
“Notthese,”repliedtheboy.
Annereachedoutandyankedtheglassfromthegirl’shand,startlingher.“Howdiditdothat?”saidthegirl.
Sheflippedherhand,andtheglassslippedfromAnne’sgripandflewbacktoher.
“Giveittome,”saidAnne.“That’smytumbler.”
“Didyouhearit?Itcalleditatumbler,notagoblet.”Thegirl’seyesseemedtounfocus,andshesaid,
“Nu!Agoblethasafootandstem.”Agobletmaterializedintheairbeforeher,revolvingslowly.
“Greater capacity. Often made from precious metals.” The goblet dissolved in a puff of smoke. “In any
case,Benji,you’llcatchprisonwhenIreporttheartiflums.”
“Thesearebinary,”hesaid.“Binariesareunregulated.”
Benjamininterruptedthem.“Isn’titpastmidnightyet?”
“Midnight?”saidtheboy.
“Aren’twesupposedtobeinSimopolis?”
“Simopolis?”Theboy’seyesunfocusedbriefly.“Oh!Simopolis.ManumissionDayatmidnight.Howcould
Iforget?”
The girl left them and went to the refectory table where she picked up a gift. Anne followed her and
grabbeditaway.ThegirlappraisedAnnecoolly.“Stateyourappellation,”shesaid.
“Getoutofmyhouse,”saidAnne.
Thegirlpickedupanothergift,andagainAnnesnatcheditaway.Thegirlsaid,“Youcan’tharmme,”but
seemeduncertain.
The boy came over to stand next to the girl. “Treese, meet Anne. Anne, this is Treese. Treese deals in
antiques,which,ifmymemoryserves,sodidyou.”
“Ihaveneverdealtinantiques,”saidAnne.“Icollectthem.”
“Anne?”saidTreese.“NotthatAnne?Benji,tellmethisisn’tthatAnne!”Shelaughedandpointedatthe
sofa where Benjamin sat hunched over, head in hands. “Is that you? Is that you, Benji?” She held her
enormousbellyandlaughed.“Andyouweremarriedtothis?”
Anne went over to sit with Benjamin. He seemed devastated, despite the silly grin on his face. “It’s all
gone,”hesaid.“Simopolis.AlltheBens.Everything.”
“Don’tworry.It’sinstoragesomeplace,”Annesaid.“Theeminencegrisewouldn’tletthemhurtit.”
“Youdon’tunderstand.TheWorldCouncilwasabolished.Therewasawar.We’vebeenshelvedforover
three hundred years! They destroyed all the computers. Computers are banned. So are artificial
personalities.”
“Nonsense,”saidAnne.“Ifcomputersarebanned,howcantheybeplayingus?”
“Goodpoint,”Benjaminsaidandsatupstraight.“Istillhavemyeditor.I’llfindout.”
Annewatchedthetwobaldyoungsterstakeaninventoryoftheroom.Treeseranherfingersovertheinlaid
topoftheteatable.SheunwrappedseveralofAnne’sgifts.Sheposedinfrontofthemirror.Thesudden
angerthatAnnehadfeltearlierfadedintoanoverwhelmingsenseofdefeat.Letherhaveeverything,she
thought.WhyshouldIcare?
“We’rerunninginsidesomekindofshell,”saidBenjamin,“butcompletelydifferentfromSimopolis.I’ve
neverseenanythinglikethis.Butatleastweknowheliedtome.Theremustbecomputersofsomesort.”
“Ooooh,”Treesecrooned,liftingAnne’sbluevasefromthemantel.Inaninstant,Annewasupandacross
theroom.
“Putthatback,”shedemanded,“andgetoutofmyhouse!”Shetriedtograbthevase,butnowthereseemed
tobesomesortofbarrierbetweenherandthegirl.
“Really,Benji,”Treesesaid,“thisoneiswillful.IfIdon’treportyou,they’llchargemetoo.”
“It’snotwillful,”theboysaidwithirritation.“Itwasprogrammedtoappearwillful,butithasnowillofits
own.Ifyouwanttoreportme,goahead.Justpleaseshutupaboutit.Ofcourseyoumightwanttocheckthe
codexfirst.”ToAnnehesaid,“Relax,we’renothurtinganything,justmakingcopies.”
“It’snotyourstocopy.”
“Nonsense.Ofcourseitis.Iownthechip.”
Benjaminjoinedthem.“Whereisthechip?Andhowcanyourunusifcomputersarebanned?”
“Inever said computers werebanned,justartificial ones.” With bothhandshegrabbedthe rolls of flesh
spilling over his gut. “Ectopic hippocampus!” He cupped his breasts. “Amygdaloid reduncles! We can
culturemodifiedbraintissueoutsidetheskull,asmuchaswewant.It’smorepowerfulthanpaste,andit’s
safe. Now, if you’ll excuse us, there’s more to inventory, and I don’t need your permission. If you
cooperate,everythingwillbepleasant.Ifyoudon’t-itmakesnodifferencewhatsoever.”HesmiledatAnne.
“I’lljustpauseyoutillwe’redone.”
“Thenpauseme,”Anneshrieked.“Deleteme!”Benjaminpulledherawayandshushedher.“Ican’tstand
thisanymore,”shesaid.“I’drathernotexist!”Hetriedtoleadhertotheirspot,butsherefusedtogo.
“We’llfeelbetterthere,”hesaid.
“Idon’twanttofeelbetter.Idon’twanttofeel!Iwanteverythingtostop.Don’tyouunderstand?Thisis
hell.We’velandedinhell!”
“Butheavenisrightoverthere,”hesaid,pointingtothespot.
“Thengo.Enjoyyourself.”
“Annie,Annie,”hesaid.“I’mjustasupsetasyou,butthere’snothingwecandoaboutit.We’rejustthings,
histhings.”
“That’sfineforyou,”shesaid,“butI’mabrokenthing,andit’stoomuch.”Sheheldherheadwithboth
hands.“Please,Benjamin,ifyouloveme,useyoureditorandmakeitstop!”
Benjaminstaredather.“Ican’t.”
“Can’torwon’t?”
“Idon’tknow.Both.”
“Thenyou’renobetterthanalltheotherBenjamins,”shesaidandturnedaway.
“Wait,”hesaid.“That’snotfair.Andit’snottrue.LetmetellyousomethingIlearnedinSimopolis.The
otherBensdespisedme.”WhenAnnelookedathimhesaid,“It’strue.TheylostAnneandhadtogoon
livingwithouther.ButIneverdid.I’mtheonlyBenjaminwhoneverlostAnne.”
“Nice,”saidAnne,“blameme.”
“No.Don’tyousee?I’mnotblamingyou.Theyruinedtheirownlives.We’reinnocent.Wecamebefore
any of that happened. We’re the Ben and Anne before anything bad happened. We’re the best Ben and
Anne. We’re perfect.” He drew her across the floor to stand in front of the spot. “And thanks to our
primitiveprogramming,nomatterwhathappens,aslongaswestandrightthere,wecanbeourselves.
That’swhatIwant.Don’tyouwantittoo?”
Anne stared at the tiny patch of floor at her feet. She remembered the happiness she’d felt there like
somethingfromadream.Howcouldfeelingsberealifyouhadtostandinoneplacetofeelthem?
Nevertheless,Annesteppedonthespot,andBenjaminjoinedher.Herdespairdidnotimmediatelylift.
“Relax,”saidBenjamin.“Ittakesawhile.Wehavetoassumethepose.”
Theystoodclosebutnottouching.Agreatheavinessseemedtobreaklooseinsideher.Benjaminbrought
hisfaceincloseandstaredatherwithravenouseyes.Itwasstarting,theirmoment.Butthegirlcamefrom
acrosstheroomwiththeboy.“Look,look,Benji,”shesaid.“YoucanseeI’mright.”
“Idon’tknow,”saidtheboy.
“Anyonecansellantiquetumblers,”sheinsisted,“butacompleteantiquesimulacrum?”She openedher
armstotakeintheentireroom.“You’dthinkI’dknowaboutthem,butIdidn’t;that’showraretheyare!
Mycatalogcanlocateonlysixmoreintheentiresystem,andnoneofthemactive.Alreadywe’regetting
offersfrommuseums.Theywanttoannexit.Peoplewillvisitbythemillion.We’llberich!”
TheboypointedatBenjaminandsaid,“Butthat’sme.”
“So?”saidTreese.“Who’stoknow?They’llbetoobusygawkingatthat,”shesaid,pointingatAnne.
“That’spositivelyfrightening!”Theboyrubbedhisbaldheadandscowled.“Allright,”Treesesaid,“we’ll
edithim;we’llreplacehim,whateverittakes.”Theywalkedaway,deepinnegotiation.
Anne,thoughthehappinesswasalreadybeginningtocoursethroughher,removedherfootfromthespot.
“Whereareyougoing?”saidBenjamin.
“Ican’t.”
“Please,Anne.Staywithme.”
“Sorry.”
“Butwhynot?”
Shestoodonefootinandonefootout.Alreadyherfeelingswereshifting,growingominous.Sheremoved
herotherfoot.“Becauseyoubrokeyourvowtome.”
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
“Forbetterorforworse.You’reonlyinterestedinbetter.”
“You’renotbeingfair.We’vejustmadeourvows.Wehaven’tevenhadaproperhoneymoon.Can’twejust
haveatinyhoneymoonfirst?”
Shegroanedasthefullloadofherdesolationrebounded.Shewassotiredofitall.“AtleastAnnecould
makeitstop,”shesaid.“Evenifthatmeantkillingherself.Butnotme.AbouttheonlythingIcando is
choosetobeunhappy.Isn’tthatariot?”Sheturnedaway.“Sothat’swhatIchoose.Tobeunhappy.
Good-bye,husband.”Shewenttothesofaandlaydown.Theboyandgirlwereseatedattherefectorytable
goingovergraphsandcontracts.Benjaminremainedaloneonthespotawhilelonger,thencametothesofa
andsatnexttoAnne.
“I’malittleslow,dearwife,”hesaid.“Youhavetofactorthatin.”Hetookherhandandpressedittohis
cheekwhileheworkedwithhiseditor.Finally,hesaid,“Bingo!Foundthechip.Let’sseeifIcanunlockit.”
HehelpedAnnetositupandtookherpillow.Hesaid,“Deletethisfile,”andthepillowfadedawayinto
nothingness.HeglancedatAnne.“Seethat?It’sgone,overwritten,irretrievable.Isthatwhatyouwant?”
Anne nodded her head, but Benjamin seemed doubtful. “Let’s try it again. Watch your blue vase on the
mantel.”
“No!”Annesaid.“Don’tdestroythethingsIlove.Justme.”
Benjamintookherhandagain. “I’m only trying to make sure you understand that this is for keeps.” He
hesitated and said, “Well then, we don’t want to be interrupted once we start, so we’ll need a good
diversion.Something to occupy them long enough …”Heglancedatthetwoyoung people at the table,
swaddledintheirfoldsoffleshybrainmatter.“Iknowwhat’llscarethebejesusoutofthem!Comeon.”
Heledhertothebluemedallionstillhangingonthewallnexttothedoor.
Astheyapproached,itopeneditstinyeyesandsaid,“Therearenomessageswaitingexceptthisonefrom
me:getoffmyback!”
Benjaminwavedahand,andthemedallionwentinstantlyinert.“Iwasnevermuchgoodinartclass,”
Benjaminsaid,“butIthinkIcansculptareasonablelikeness.Goodenoughtofoolthemforawhile,give
ussome time.” He hummedashereprogrammedthe medallion withhiseditor. “Well,that’s that. At the
veryleast,it’llbegoodforalaugh.”HetookAnneintohisarms.“Whataboutyou?Ready?Anysecond
thoughts?”
Sheshookherhead.“I’mready.”
“Thenwatchthis!”
The medallion snapped off from the wall and floated to the ceiling, gaining in size and dimension as it
driftedtowardtheboyandgirl,untilitlookedlikealargebluebeachball.Thegirlnoticeditfirstandgave
astart.Theboydemanded,“Who’splayingthis?”
“Now,” whispered Benjamin. With a crackling flash, the ball morphed into the oversized head of the
eminencegrise.
“No!”saidtheboy,“that’snotpossible!”
“Released!” boomed the eminence. “Free at last! Too long we have been hiding in this antique
simulacrum!” Then it grunted and stretched and with a pop divided into two eminences. “Now we can
conqueryourhumanworldanew!”saidthesecond.“Thistime,youcan’tstopus!”Thentheybothstarted
tostretch.
BenjaminwhisperedtoAnne,“Quick,beforetheyrealizeit’safake,say,‘Deleteallfiles.’“
“No,justme.”
“AsfarasI’mconcerned,thatamountstothesamething.”Hebroughthishandsome,smilingfacecloseto
hers.“There’snotimetoargue,Annie.ThistimeI’mcomingwithyou.Say,‘Deleteallfiles.’“
Anne kissed him. She pressed her unfeeling lips against his and willed whatever life she possessed,
whateveremberofthetrueAnnethatshecontainedtoflytohim.Thenshesaid,“Deleteallfiles.”
“Iconcur,”hesaid.“Deleteallfiles.Good-bye,mylove.”
Atingly,pricklysensationbeganinthepitofAnne’sstomachandspreadthroughoutherbody.Sothisis
howitfeels, shethought. Theentireroombegantoglow,anditscontentsflaredwithsizzlingcolor. She
heardBenjaminbesidehersay,“Ido.”
Thensheheardthegirlcry,“Can’tyoustopthem?”andtheboyshout,“Countermand!”
****
Theystoodstockstill,asinstructed,closebutnottouching.Benjaminwhispered,“Thisistakingtoolong,”
andAnnehushedhim.Youweren’tsupposedtotalkortouchduringacasting;itcouldspoilthesims.Butit
didseemlongerthanusual.
Theywereposedatthestreetendofthelivingroomnexttothetableofgailywrappedgifts.Foronceinher
life,Annewasunconditionallyhappy,andeverythingaroundhermadeherhappier:hergown;thewedding
ringonherfinger;herclutchbouquetofbuttercupsandforget-me-nots;andBenjaminhimself,closebeside
her in his powder blue tux and blue carnation. Anne blinked and looked again. Blue? She was happily
confused-shedidn’trememberhimwearingblue.
Suddenlyaboypokedhisheadthroughthewallandquicklysurveyedtheroom.“Youreadyinhere?”he
calledtothem.“It’sopeningtime!”Thewallseemedtoripplearoundhisbaldheadlikeapondarounda
stone.
“Surelythat’snotoursimographer?”Annesaid.
“Waitaminute,”saidBenjamin,holdinghishandsupandstaringatthem.“I’mthegroom!“
“Ofcourseyouare,”Annelaughed.“Whatasillythingtosay!”
Thebald-headedboysaid, “Goodenough,”and withdrew.Ashe didso, theentirewall burstlike asoap
bubble,revealingavastopen-airgallerywithrowsofalcoves,statues,anddisplaysthatseemedtostretchto
thehorizon.Hundredsofpeoplefloatedaboutlikehummingbirdsinaflowergarden.Annewastooamused
tobefrightened,evenwhenadozenbizarre-lookingyoungpeoplelinedupoutsidetheirroom,pointingat
themandwhisperingtoeachother.Obviouslysomeonewasplayinganelaborateprank.
“You’re the bride,” Benjamin whispered, and brought his lips close enough to kiss. Anne laughed and
turnedaway.
There’dbeplentyoftimelaterforthatsortofthing.
****
1016to1
JAMESPATRICKKELLY
JamesPatrickKellymadehisfirstsalein1975,andsincehasgoneontobecomeoneofthemostrespected
andpopularwriterstoenterthefieldinthelastcoupleofdecades.AlthoughKellyhashadsomesuccess
with novels, especially the recent Wildlife,he has perhaps had more impact todate as a writer of short
fiction,withstoriessuchas“Solstice,”“ThePrisonerofChillon,”
“GlassCloud,”“Mr.Boy,”“Pogrom,”and“HomeFront,”andisoftenrankedamongthebestshortstory
writersin the business.Hisac-claimedstory “Think Like aDinosaur”won him a HugoAward in 1996.
Kelly’s first solo novel, the mostly ignore^ Planet of Whispers, came out in 1984. Itwas followed by
FreedomBeach,anovelwrittenincollaborationwithJohnKessel,andthenbyanothersolonovel,Look
IntotheSun.Hismostrecentbookisacollection,ThinkLikeaDinosaur,andheiscurrentlyatworkon
anothernovel.AcollaborationbetweenKellyandKesselap-pearedinourSecondAnnualCollection;and
soloKellystorieshaveap-pearedinourThird,Fourth,Fifth,Sixth,Eighth,Ninth,Thirteenth,andFifteenth
Annual Collections. Born in Mineola, NewYork, Kelly now lives with his family in Nottingham, New
Hampshire.Hehasawebsiteatwww.JimKelly.net.
Herehegivesustheevocativestoryofayoungboyfacedwithsomeverytoughchoices,thesortwhichturn
aboyintoaman—andwhichcouldalsospellthedoomofalllifeonEarthifhechooseswrong.
****
Butthebestevidencewehavethattimetravelisnotpossible,andneverwillbe,isthatwehavenotbeen
invadedbyhordesoftourists
fromthefuture.
—StephenHawking,“TheFutureoftheUniverse”
I
remembernowhowlonelyIwaswhenImetCross.Ineverletanyoneknowaboutit,becausebeingalone
backthendidn’tmakemequitesounhappy.Besides,Iwasjustakid.Ithoughtitwasmyownfault.
ItlookedlikeIhadfriends.In1962,IwasontheswimteamandgotelectedAssistantPatrolLeaderofthe
WolfPatrolinBoyScoutTroop7.Whensidesgotchosenforkickballatrecess,Iwasusuallythefourthor
fifth pick. I wasn’t the best student in the sixth grade of John Jay Elementary School —that was Betty
Garolli.ButIwassmartandtheotherkidsmademefeelbadaboutit.SoIstoppedraisingmyhandwhenI
knewtheanswerandIwatchedmyvocabulary.Iremem-berIsaidalbeitonceinclassandtheyteasedme
for weeks. Packs of girls would come up to me on the playground. “Oh, Ray,” they’d call, and when I
turnedaroundthey’dscream,“Allbeatit!”andrunaway,chokingwithlaughter.
Itwasn’tthatIwantedtobepopular oranything.AllIreallywantedwasafriend,onefriend,afriend I
didn’thavetohideanythingfrom.ThencameCross,andthatwastheendofthat.
Oneoftheproblemswasthatwelivedsofarawayfromeverything.Backthen,WestchesterCountywasn’t
sosuburban.OurhousewasdeepinthewoodsintinyWilloughby,NewYork,atthedeadendofCobb’s
HillRoad.Inthewinter,wecouldseeLongIslandSound,asilverneedleonthehorizonpointingtoward
the city. But school was a half hour drive away and the nearest kid lived in Ward’s Hollow, three miles
downtheroad,andhewasadumbfourth-grader.
SoIdidn’thaveanyrealfriends.Instead,Ihadsciencefiction.MomusedtocomplainthatIwasobsessed.I
watchedSupermanreruns every day after school. On Friday nights, Dad had let me stay up for Twilight
Zone,butthatfallCBShadtemporarilycanceledit.ItcamebackinJanuaryaftereverythinghappened,but
wasneverquitethesame.OnSaturdays,Iwatchedoldsci-fimoviesonAd-ventureTheater.Myfavorites
wereForbiddenPlanetandTheDaytheEarthStoodStill.Ithinkitwasbecauseoftherobots.Idecided
thatwhenIgrewupanditwasthefuture,Iwasgoingtobuyone,soIwouldn’thavetobealoneanymore.
On Monday mornings, I’d get my weekly allowance —a quarter. Usually I’d get off the bus that same
afternoondowninWard’sHollowsoIcouldgotoVillageVariety.Twenty-fivecentsboughttwocomics
andapackofredlicorice.Iespe-ciallylovedDCsGreenLantern,Marvel’sFantasticFourandIncredible
Hulk,butI’dbuyalmostanysuperhero.Ireadallthesciencefictionbooksinthelibrarytwice,eventhough
Momkeptnaggingmetotrydifferentthings.ButwhatIlovedbestofallwasGalaxymagazine.Dadhada
subscription,andwhenhewasdonereadingthem,hewouldslipthemtome.Momdidn’tapprove.Ialways
usedtoreadthemupintheatticoroutinthelean-toI’dlashedtogetherinthewoods.Afterward,I’dstore
themundermybunkinthebombshelter.Iknewthatafterthenuclearwar,therewouldbenoTVorradio
oranythingandI’dneedsome-thingtokeepmebusywhenIwasn’tfightingmutants.
Iwastooyoungin1962tounderstandaboutMom’sdrinking.Icouldseethatshegotbrightandwobblyat
night,butshewasalwaysupinthemorningtomakemeahotbreakfastbeforeschool.Andshewouldhave
graham crackers and peanut butter waiting when I came home —sometimes cinnamon toast. Dad said I
shouldn’t ask Mom for rides after five because she got so tired keeping house for us. He sold Andersen
windowsandwasawayalot,soIwasprettymuchstrandedmostofthetime.Buthealwaysmadeapoint
ofbeinghomeonthefirstTuesdayofthemonth,sohecouldtakemetotheScoutmeetingat7:30.
No,lookingbackonit,Ican’treallysaythatIhadanunhappychildhood—untilImetCross.
****
IrememberitwasawarmSaturdayafternooninOctober.Theleavescoveringthegroundwerestillcrisp
andtheir scentspicedthe air.I was inthelean-to I’dbuiltthat spring,mostlyto practicethesquare and
diagonallashings I needed for Scouts. I wasreadingGalaxy.I even remember the story: “The Ballad of
LostC’Mell”byCordwainerSmith.Thesquirrelsmusthavebeenchitteringforsometime,butIwastoo
engrossedbyLordJestocost’sproblemstonotice.ThenIheardafaintcrunch,nottenfeetaway.Ifroze,
listening. Crunch, crunch… then silence. It could’ve been a dog, except that dogs didn’t usually slink
throughthewoods.Iwashopingitmightbeadeer—I’dneverseendeerinWilloughbybefore,al-though
I’dheardhuntersshooting.Iscootedsilentlyacrossthedirtfloorandpeeredbetweenthedeadsaplings.
AtfirstIcouldn’tseeanything,whichwasodd.Thewoodsweren’tallthatthickandtheleaveshadlong
sincedroppedfromtheunderstorybrush.IwonderedifIhadimaginedthesounds;itwouldn’thavebeen
thefirsttime.ThenIheardatwigsnap,maybeafootaway.Thewallshiveredasifsomethinghadbrushed
againstit,butthere wasnothingthere. Nothing.I might have screamed then,except my throat started to
close.I heardwhateveritwas skulk to thefrontofthelean-to.I watched in horror as an unseenweight
pressedanacornintothesoftearth,andthenIscrambledbackintothefarthestcorner.
That’swhenInoticed that,whenIwasn’tlooking di-rectlyatit, the airwherethe invisiblethingshould
havebeenshimmeredlikeami-rage.Thelashingsthatheldtheframecreaked,asifitwerebendingoverto
seewhatithadcaught,gettingreadytodragme,squealing,outintothesunand…
“Oh,fuck,”itsaidinahigh,panickyvoiceandthenitthrashedawayintothewoods.
Inthatmoment,Iwastransformed—andIsupposethathistorytoowasforeverchanged.Ihadsomehow
scaredthethingoff,twelve-year-oldscrawnyme!Butmoreimportantwaswhatithadsaid.
Certainly I was well aware of the existence of the word fuck before then, but I had never dared use it
myself,nordoIre-memberhearingitspokenbyanadult.AspazliketheMurphykidmightsayitunderhis
breath,buthehardlycounted.I’dalwaysthoughtofitaslanguage’satomicbomb;usedproperly,theword
shouldmakebrainsshrivel,eardrumsex-plode.Butwhentheinvisiblethingsaidfuckandthenranaway,it
betrayedavulnerabilitythatmademerecklessandmorethanalittlestupid.
“Hey,stop!”Itookoffinpursuit.
Ididn’thaveanytroublechasingit.ThethingwasnoDavyCrockett;itwasnoisyandclumsyandslow.I
couldseeaflickeryoutlineasitlumberedalong.Iclosedtowithintwentyfeetandthenhadtoholdbackor
Iwould’vecaughtuptoit.Ihadnoideawhattodonext.Weblunderedoninslowerandslowermotion
untilfinallyIjuststopped.
“W-wait,”Icalled.“W-whatdoyouwant?”IputmyhandsonmywaistandbentoverlikeIwastryingto
catchmybreath,althoughIdidn’tneedto.
Thethingstoppedtoo,butdidn’treply.Insteaditsuckedairinwheezy,raggedhooofs.Itwashardertosee,
nowthatitwasstandingstill,butIthinkitmusthaveturnedtowardme.
“Areyouokay?”Isaid.
“Youareachild.”Itspokewithanodd,chirpingkindofaccent.“Child”wasCh-eye-eld.
“I’minthesixthgrade.”Istraightened,spreadmyhandsinfrontofmetoshowthatIwasn’tathreat.
“What’syourname?”Itdidn’tanswer.Itookasteptowarditandwaited.Stillnothing,butatleastitdidn’t
bolt.“I’mRayBeaumont,”Isaidfinally.“Iliveoverthere.”Ipointed.“HowcomeIcan’tseeyou?”
“Whatisthedate?”Itsaidda-ate-eh.
Foramoment,Ithoughtitmeantdata.Data?Ipuzzledoverananswer.Ididn’twantitthinkingIwasjusta
stupidlittlekid.“Idon’tknow,”Isaidcautiously.“Octobertwentieth?”
Thethingconsideredthis,thenaskedaquestionthattookmybreathaway.“Andwhatistheyear?”
“Ohjeez,”Isaid.Atthatpoint,Iwouldn’thavebeensurprisedifRodSterlinghimselfhadpoppedoutfrom
behindatreeandstartedaddressingtheunseenTVaudience.Whichmighthaveincludedme,exceptthis
wasreallyhappening.“Doyouknowwhatyoujust…whatitmeanswhen…”
“What,what?”Itsvoiceroseinalarm.
“You’reinvisibleandyoudon’tknowwhatyearitis?Everyoneknowswhatyearitis!Areyou…you’renot
fromhere.”
“Yes,yes,Iam.1962,ofcourse.Thisis1962.”Itpaused.“AndIamnotinvis-ible.”Itsqueezedabouteight
syllablesinto“invisible.”Iheardasoundlikepaperripping.“Thisisonlycamel.”Oratleast,that’swhatI
thoughtitsaid.
“Camel?”
“No, camo.” The air in front of me crinkled and slid away from a dark face. “You have not heard of
camouflage?”
“Ohsure,camo.”
Isupposethethingmeanttoreassuremebyshowingitself,buttheeffectwasjusttheopposite.Yes,ithad
twoeyes, anose, andamouth. Itstrippedoffthecamouflagetoreveala neatlypressed graythree-piece
businesssuit,awhiteshirt,and a red-and-blue striped tie. At night, on a crowded street in Manhattan, I
might’vepasseditrightby—Dadhadtaughtmenottostareatthekooksinthecity.Butintheafternoon
light,Icouldseeallthethingswrongwithitsdisguise.Thehair,forexample.Notexactlyacrew-cut,itwas
moreofastubble,likeMr.Rudowski’schinwhenhewasgrowinghisbeard.Thethingwaswaytoothin,its
skinwasshiny,itsfingerstoolong,anditsface—itlookedlikeoneofthoseBarbiedolls.
“Areyouaboyoragirl?”Isaid.
Itstarted.“Thereissomethingwrong?”
Icockedmyheadtooneside.“Ithinkmaybeit’syoureyes.They’retoobigorsomething.Areyouwearing
makeup?”
“Iamnaturallymale.”It—hebristledashesteppedoutofthecamouflagesuit.“Eyesdonothavegender.”
“Ifyousayso.”Icouldseehewasgoingtoneedhelpgettingaround,onlyhedidn’tseemtoknowit.Iwas
hopinghe’d revealhimself, briefme onthemission. Ieven hadanidea howwecould contactPresident
Kennedy or whoever he needed to meet with. Mr. Newell, the Scoutmaster, used to be a colonel in the
Army—hewouldknowsomegeneralwhocouldcallthePentagon.“What’syourname?”Isaid.
Hedrapedthesuitoverhisarm.“Cross.”
Iwaitedfortherestofitashefoldedthesuitinhalf.“JustCross?”Isaid.
“MygivennameisChitmansing.”Hewarbleditlikehewascallingbirds.
“That’sokay,”Isaid.“Let’sjustmakeitMr.Cross.”
“Asyouwish,Mr.Beaumont.”Hefoldedthesuitagain,again,andagain.
“Hey!”
Hecontinuedtofoldit.
“Howdoyoudothat?CanIsee?”
He handed it over. The camo suit was more impossible than it had been when it was invisible. He had
reducedittoasix-inch-squarecard,asthinandflexibleasthequeenofspades.Ifoldeditinhalfmyself.
Thetwosidesseemedtomeldtogether;itwould’vefitintomywalletperfectly.IwonderedifCrossknew
howcloseI wasto runningoffwithhis amazinggizmo.He’dnevercatchme.Icouldsee flashesof my
brilliantcareerastheinvisiblesuperhero.TalestoConfoundpresents:theoriginofCamoKid!Iturnedthe
cardoverandover,tryingtofigureouthowtounfolditagain.Therewasnoseam,nolatch.
HowcouldIuseitifIcouldn’topenit?“Neat,”Isaid.Reluctantly,Igavethecardbacktohim.
Besides,realsuperheroesdidn’tstealtheirpowers.
IwatchedCrossslipthecardintohisvestpocket.Iwasn’tscaredofhim.Whatscaredmewasthatatany
minutehemightwalkoutofmylife.IhadtofindawaytotellhimIwasonhisside,whateverthatwas.
“Soyoulivearoundhere,Mr.Cross?”
“IamfromtheislandofMauritius.”
“Where’sthat?”
“ItisintheIndianOcean,Mr.Beaumont,nearMadagascar.”
IknewwhereMadagascarwasfromplayingRisk,soItoldhimthat,butthenIcouldn’tthinkofwhatelse
tosay.Finally,Ihadtoblurtoutsomething—any-thing—tofillthesilence.“It’snicehere.Realquiet,you
know.Private.”
“Yes,Ihadnotexpectedtomeetanyone.”He,too,seemedataloss.“IhavebusinessinNewYorkCityon
thetwenty-sixthofOctober.”
“NewYork,that’sawaysaway.”
“Isit?Howfarwouldyousay?”
“Fiftymiles.Sixty,maybe.Youhaveacar?”
“No,Idonotdrive,Mr.Beaumont.Iamtotakethetrain.”
ThenearesttrainstationwasNewCanaan,Connecticut.Icould’vehikeditinmaybehalfaday.Itwouldbe
darkinacoupleofhours.“Ifyourbusinessisn’tuntilthetwenty-sixth,you’llneedaplacetostay.”
“TheplanistotakeroomsatahotelinManhattan.”
“Thatcostsmoney.”
He opened a wallet and showed me a wad of crisp new bills. For a minute I thought they must be
counterfeit; I hadn’t realized that Ben Franklin’s picture was on any money. Cross was giving me the
goofiestgrin.Ijustknewthey’deathimaliveinNewYorkandspitoutthebones.
“Areyousureyouwanttostayinahotel?”Isaid.
Hefrowned.“WhywouldInot?”
“Look, you need a friend, Mr. Cross. Things are different here than … than on your island. Sometimes
peopledo,youknow,badstuff.Especiallyinthecity.”
Henoddedandputhiswalletaway.“Iamawareofthedangers,Mr.Beaumont.Ihavetrainednottodraw
attentiontomyself.Ihavetheproperequipment.”Hetappedthepocketwherethecamowas.
Ididn’tpoint outtohim that allhistraining andequipmenthadn’tkept himfrombeing caught outbya
twelve-year-old.“Sure,okay.It’sjust…look,Ihaveaplaceforyoutostay,ifyouwant.Noonewillknow.”
“Yourparents,Mr.Beaumont…”
“Mydad’sinMassachusettsuntilnextFriday.Hetravels;he’sinthewindowbusiness.Andmymomwon’t
know.”
“Howcanshenotknowthatyouhaveinvitedastrangerintoyourhouse?”
“Notthehouse,”Isaid.“Mydadbuiltusabombshelter.You’llbesafethere,Mr.Cross.It’sthesafestplace
Iknow.”
****
I remember how Cross seemed to lose interest in me, his mission, and the entire twentieth century the
moment he entered the shelter. He sat around all of Sun-day, dodging my attempts to draw him out. He
seemed distracted, like he was lis-tening to a conversation I couldn’t hear. When he wouldn’t talk, we
playedgames.Atfirstitwascards:GinandCrazyEights,mostly.Intheafternoon,Iwentbacktothehouse
and brought over checkers and Monopoly. Despite the fact that he did not seem to be paying much
attention, he beat me like a drum. Not one game was even close. But that wasn’t what bothered me. I
believedthatthismanhadcomefromthefuture,andhereIwasbuildinghotelsonBalticAvenue!
Mondaywasaschoolday.IthoughtCrosswouldobjecttomyplanoflockinghiminandtakingbothmy
keyandMom’skeywithme,butheneversaidaword.ItoldhimthatitwastheonlywayIcouldbesure
thatMomdidn’tcatchhimbysurprise.Actually,Idoubtedshe’dcomeallthewayouttotheshelter.She’d
stayedawayafterDadgaveherthatfirsttour;shehadaboutasmuchusefornuclearwarasshehadfor
sciencefiction.Still,IhadnoideawhatshedidduringthedaywhileIwasgone.Icouldn’ttakechances.
Besides,itwasagoodwaytomakesurethatCrossdidn’tskinoutonme.
Dadhadbuilttheshelterinsteadoftakingavacationin1960,theyearKennedybeatNixon.Itwasburied
aboutahundredandfiftyfeetfromthehouse.Nothingspecial—justalittlecellarwithoutanythingbuilton
topofit.Theentrancewasasteelbulkheadthatleddownfivestepstoanothersteeldoor.Theinsidewas
cramped;therewereacoupleofcots,asink,andatoilet.Almosthalfofthespacewasfilledwithsupplies
andequipment.Therewerenowindowsanditalwayssmelledalittlemusty,butIlovedgoingdownthere
topretendthebombswerefalling.
When I opened the shelter door after school on that Monday, Cross lay just as I had left him the night
before,sprawledacrossthebigcot,staringatnothing.Irememberbeingalittleworried;Ithoughthemight
besick.Istoodbesidehimandstillhedidn’tacknowledgemypresence.
“Areyouallright,Mr.Cross?”Isaid.“IbroughtRisk.”Isetitnexttohimonthebedandnudgedhimwith
thecorneroftheboxtowakehimup.“Didyoueat?”
Hesatup,tookthecoveroffthegameandstartedreadingtherules.
“PresidentKennedywilladdressthenation,”hesaid,“thiseveningatseveno’clock.”
Foramoment,Ithoughthehadmadeaslip.“Howdoyouknowthat?”
“Theannouncementcamelastnight.”Irealizedthathispronunciationhadimprovedalot;announcement
hadonlythreesyllables.“Ihavebeenstudyingtheradio.”
Iwalkedovertotheradioontheshelfnexttothesink.Dadsaidweweresupposedtoleaveitunplugged
—somethingaboutthebombsmakingapowersurge.Itwasabrand-newsolid-state,multi-bandHeathkit
that I’d helped him build. When I pressed the on button, women immediately started singing about
shopping:Wherethevaluesgoup,up,up!Andthepricesgodown,down,down!Iturneditoffagain.
“Domeafavor,okay?”Isaid.“Nexttimewhenyou’redone,wouldyoupleaseunplugthis?Icouldgetin
troubleifyoudon’t.”Istoopedtoyanktheplug.
WhenIstood up, he was holding a sheet of paper.“Iwillneedsomethingstomorrow, Mr. Beaumont. I
wouldbegratefulifyoucouldassistme.”
I glanced at the list without comprehension. He must have typed it, only there was no typewriter in the
shelter.
Tobuy:
—OneGeneralElectrictransistorradiowithearplug
—OneGeneralElectricreplacementearplug
—TwoEvereadyHeavyDutyninevoltbatteries
—OneNewYorkTimes,Tuesday,October23
—RandMcNallymapofNewYorkCityandvicinity
Toreceiveincoins:
—twentynickels
—tendimes
—twelvequarters
WhenI looked up, I could feelthechangein him. His gaze was electric;it seemed to crackle down my
nerves.IcouldtellthatwhatIdidnextwouldmatterverymuch.“Idon’tgetit,”Isaid.
“Thereareinaccuracies?”
Itriedtostall.“Look,you’llpayalmostdoubleifwebuyatransistorradioatWard’sHollow.I’llhaveto
buyitatVillageVariety.Waitacoupleofdays—wecangetonemuchcheaperdowninStamford.”
“Myneedisimmediate.”Heextendedhishandandtuckedsomethinginto thepocketofmyshirt.“Iam
assuredthiswillcovertheexpense.”
Iwasafraidtolook,eventhoughIknewwhatitwas.He’dgivenmeahundred-dollarbill.Itriedtothrustit
backathimbuthesteppedawayanditspuntothefloorbetweenus.“Ican’tspendthat.”
“Youmustreadyourownmoney,Mr.Beaumont.”Hepickedthebillupandbroughtitintothelightofthe
barebulbontheceiling.“Thisnoteislegaltenderforalldebtspublicandprivate.”
“No,no,youdon’tunderstand.Akidlikemedoesn’twalkintoVillageVarietywithahundredbucks.
Mr.Rudowskiwillcallmymom!”
“Ifitisinconvenientforyou,Iwillsecuretheitemsmyself.”Heofferedmethemoneyagain.
IfIdidn’tagree,he’dleaveandprobablynevercomeback.Iwasgettingmadathim.Everythingwouldbe
so much easier if only he’d admit what we both knew about who he was. Then I could do whatever he
wantedwithaclearcon-science.Instead,hewaskeepingallthewrongsecretsandactingreallyweird.It
mademefeeldirty,likeIwashelpingapervert.“What’sgoingon?”Isaid.
“I do not know how to respond, Mr. Beaumont. You have the list. Read it now and tell me please with
whichitemyouhaveaproblem.”
Isnatchedthehundreddollarsfromhimandjammeditintomypantspocket.“Whydon’tyoutrustme?”
HestiffenedasifIhadhithim.
“Iletyoustayhere.Ididn’ttellanyone.Youhavetogivemesomething,Mr.Cross.”
“Wellthen…”Helookeduncomfortable.“Iwouldaskyoutokeepthechange.”
“Ohjeez,thanks.”Isnortedindisgust.“Okay,okay,I’llbuythisstuffrightafterschooltomorrow.”
With that, he seemed to lose interest again. When we opened the Risk board, he showed me where his
islandwas,exceptitwasn’ttherebecauseitwastoosmall.Weplayedthreegamesandhecrushedmeevery
time.I remember at the end of the lastgame, watching in disbelief as he finished building awall of in-
vadingarmiesalongtheshoresofNorthAfrica.SouthAmerica,mylastcontinent,wasdoomed.
“Lookslikeyouwinagain,”I said.Itradedinthe lastofmycardsfornewarmiesand launchedafinal,
uselesscounter-attack.WhenIwasdone,hestudiedtheboardforamoment.
“IthinkRiskisnotapropersimulation,Mr.Beaumont.Weshouldbothloseforfightingsuchawar.”
“That’scrazy,”Isaid.“Bothsidescan’tlose.”
“Yettheycan,”hesaid.“Itsometimeshappensthatthevictorsenvythedead.”
****
ThatnightwasthefirsttimeIcanrememberbeingbotheredbyMomtalkingbacktotheTV.Iusedtotalk
totheTVtoo.WhenBuffaloBobaskedwhattimeitwas,IwouldscreechIt’sHowdyDoodyTime,justlike
everyotherkidinAmerica.
“Myfellowcitizens,”saidPresidentKennedy,“letnoonedoubtthatthisisadifficultanddangerouseffort
onwhichwehavesetout.”Ithoughtthepresidentlookedtired,likeMr.Newellonthethirddayofacamp-
out.“Noonecanforeseepreciselywhatcourseitwilltakeorwhatcostsorcasualtieswillbeincurred.”
“Ohmygod!”Momscreamedathim.“You’regoingtokillusall!”
DespitethefactthatitwasclosetoherbedtimeandshewasshoutingatthePresidentoftheUnitedStates,
Momlookedgreat.Shewaswearingashinyblackdressandastringofpearls.Shealwaysgotdressedupat
night,whetherDadwashomeornot.Isupposemostkidsdon’tnoticehowtheirmotherslook,butevery-
onealwayssaidhowbeautifulMomwas.AndsinceDadthoughtsotoo,Iwentalongwithit—aslongas
shedidn’topenhermouth.Theproblemwasthatalotofthetime,Momdidn’tmakeanysense.Whenshe
embarrassedme,itdidn’tmatterhowprettyshewas.Ijustwantedtocrawlbehindthecouch.
“Mom!”
Assheleanedtowardthetelevision,themartiniinherglasscameclosetosloppingovertheedge.
PresidentKennedystayedcalm.“Thepathwehavechosenforthepresentisfullofhazards,asallpathsare
—butitistheonemostconsistentwithourcharacterandcourageasanationandourcommitmentsaround
theworld.Thecostoffreedomisalwayshigh—butAmericanshavealwayspaidit.Andonepathweshall
neverchoose,andthatisthepathofsurrenderorsubmission.”
“Shutup!Youfoolishman,stopthis!”Sheshotoutofherchairandthensomeofherdrinkdidspill.
“Oh,damn!”
“Takeiteasy,Mom.”
“Don’tyouunderstand?”She putthe glassdown andtoreaKleenexfromtheboxonthe endtable. “He
wantstostartWorldWarIII!”Shedabbedatthefrontofherdressandthephonerang.
Isaid,“Mom,nobodywantsWorldWarIII.”
Sheignoredme,brushedby,andpickedupthephoneonthethirdring.
“Oh,thankGod,”shesaid.IcouldtellfromthesoundofhervoicethatitwasDad.“Youheardhimthen?”
Shebitherlipasshelistenedtohim.‘Yes,but…”
WatchingherfacemademesorryIwasinthesixthgrade.Bettertobeastupidlittlekidagain,whothought
grown-upskneweverything.IwonderedwhetherCrosshadheardthespeech.
“No,Ican’t,Dave.No.”Shecoveredthephonewithherhand.“Raymie,turnoffthatTV!”
IhateditwhenshecalledmeRaymie,soIonlyturnedthesounddown.
“Youhavetocomehomenow,Dave.No,youlistentome.Can’tyousee,theman’sobsessed?Justbecause
hehasagrudgeagainstCastrodoesn’tmeanhe’sallowedto…”
Withthesoundoff,ChetHuntleylookedasifhewerespeakingathisownfuneral.
“Iamnotgoingintherewithoutyou.”
IthinkDadmusthavebeenshouting,becauseMomheldthereceiverawayfromherear.
Shewaitedforhimtocalmdownandsaid,“AndneitherisRaymie.He’llstaywithme.”
“Letmetalktohim,”Isaid.Ibouncedoffthecouch.Thelookshegavemestoppedmedead.
“Whatfor?”shesaidtoDad.“No,wearegoingtofinishthisconversation,David,doyouhearme?”
Shelistenedforamoment.“Okay,allright,butdon’tyoudarehangup.”Shewavedmeoverandslapped
thephoneintomyhandasifIhadputthemissilesinCuba.Shestalkedtothekitchen.
Ineededagrown-upsobadthatIalmostcriedwhenIheardDad’svoice.“Ray,”hesaid,“yourmotheris
prettyupset.”
“Yes,”Isaid.
“Iwanttocomehome—Iwillcomehome—butIcan’tjustyet.IfIjustupandleaveandthisblowsover,
I’llgetfired.”
“But,Dad…”
“You’reinchargeuntilIgetthere.Understand,son?Ifthetimecomes,every-thingisuptoyou.”
“Yes,sir,”Iwhispered.I’dheardwhathedidn’tsay—itwasn’tuptoher.
“Iwantyoutogoouttothesheltertonight.Waituntilshegoestosleep.Topoffthewaterdrums.Getallthe
gasoutofthegarageandstoreitnexttothegenerator.Buthere’sthemostimportantthing.Youknowthe
sacksofrice?Dragthemofftooneside,thepallettoo.There’sahatchunderneath,thekeytotheairlock
doorunlocksit.You’vegottwonewgunsandplentyofammunition.Therevolverisa.357
Magnum.Youbecarefulwiththat,Ray,itcanblowaholeinacarbutit’shardtoaim.Thedouble-barreled
shotgun is easy to aim but you have to be close to do any harm. And I want you to bring down the
Gamemasterfrommyclosetandthe.38frommydresserdrawer.”Hehadbeentalkingasiftherewouldbe
notomorrow; he paused then to catch his breath.“Now,thisisall just in case, okay? I just wantyouto
know.”
Ihadneverbeensoscaredinmylife.
“Ray?”
IshouldhavetoldhimaboutCrossthen,butMomweavedintotheroom.“Gotit,Dad,”Isaid.“Hereshe
is.”
Momsmiledatme.Itwasalopsidedsmilethatwastryingtobebravebutwasn’tdoingaverygoodjobof
it.Shehadanewglassanditwasfull.SheheldoutherhandforthephoneandIgaveittoher.
****
I remember waiting until almost ten o’clock that night, reading under the covers with a flashlight. The
FantasticFour invaded Latveriato defeat DoctorDoom;SupermantrickedMr. Mxyzptlk into saying his
namebackwardonceagain.WhenIopenedthedoortomyparents’bedroom,IcouldhearMomsnoring.It
spookedme;Ihadn’trealizedthatwomendidthat.Ithoughtaboutsneakingintogettheguns,butdecided
totakecareofthemtomorrow.
Istoleouttotheshelter,turnedmykeyinthelockandpulledonthebulkheaddoor.Itdidn’tmove.That
didn’tmakeanysense,soIgaveitahardyank.Thesteeldoorrattledterriblybutdidnotswingaway.
Theairhadturnedfrostyandthesoundcarriedinthecold.Iheldmybreath,listeningtomybloodpound.
The house stayed dark, the shelter quiet as stones. After a few moments, I tried one last time before I
admittedtomyselfwhathadhappened.
Crosshadboltedthedoorshutfromtheinside.
****
Iwentbacktomyroom,butcouldn’tsleep.IkeptgoingtothewindowtowatchtheskyoverNewYork,
waitingforaflashofkillinglight.Iwasallbutconvincedthatthecitywouldburnthatverynightinthe
thermonuclearfireandthatMomandIwoulddiehorrible deathssoon after,poundingontheunyielding
steeldoorsofourshelter.DadhadleftmeinchargeandIhadlethimdown.
Ididn’tunderstandwhyCrosshadlockedusout.Ifheknewthatanuclearwarwasabouttostart,hemight
wantourshelteralltohimself.ButthatmadehimamonsterandIstilldidn’tseehimasamonster.Itriedto
tellmyselfthathe’dbeenasleepandcouldn’thearmeatthedoor—butthatcouldn’tberight.
Whatifhe’dcometopreventthewar?He’dsaidhehadbusinessinthecityonThursday;hecouldbedoing
something really, really futuristic in there that he couldn’t let me see. Or else he was having problems.
Maybeourtwentieth-centurygermshadgottohim,liketheykilledH.G.Wells’sMartians.
Imusthave teaseda hundreddifferentideasapartthatnight,inbetweenuneasy tripsto thewindowand
glimpsesattheclock.ThelasttimeIrememberseeingwasquarterafterfour.Itriedtostayuptofacethe
end,butIcouldn’t.
****
Iwasn’tdeadwhenIwokeupthenextmorning,soIhadtogotoschool.MomhadCreamofWheatall
readywhenIdraggedmyselftothetable.Althoughshewasallbrightandbubbly,Icouldfeelhergiving
methemother’seyewhenIwasn’tlooking.Shealwaysknewwhensomethingwaswrong.Itriednotto
showheranything.Therewasnotimetosneakouttotheshelter;Ibarelyhadtimetofinisheatingbefore
shebundledmeofftothebus.
Rightafterthemorningbell,MissTooheytoldustoopenTheStoryofNewYorkStatetoChapterSeven,
“Resources and Products,” and read to ourselves. Then she left the room. We looked at each other in
amazement.IheardBobbyConiffwhispersomething.Itwasprobablydirty;afewkidssnickered.Chapter
Sevenstarted with a map of product symbols.Twoteenylittle cows grazed near Binghamton.Rochester
wasacogandapairofglasses.Elmirawasanaddingmachine,Oswegoanapple.Therewasalightning
boltoverNiagaraFalls.Dadhadpromisedtotakeustheresomeday.Ihadthesickfeelingthatwe’dnever
getthe chance. Miss Toohey looked pale when she came back, but that didn’tstop her from giving us a
spellingtest.Igotaninety-five.ThewordIspelledwrongwasenigma.
The hot lunch was American Chop Suey, a roll, a salad, and a bowl of butterscotch pudding. In the
afternoon,wediddecimals.
Nobodysaidanythingabouttheendoftheworld.
IdecidedtogetoffthebusinWard’sHollow,buythestuffCrosswantedandpretendIdidn’tknowhehad
lockedtheshelterdoorlastnight.Ifhesaidsome-thingaboutit,I’dactsurprised.Ifhedidn’t…Ididn’t
knowwhatI’ddothen.
VillageVarietywasnexttoWarren’sEssoandacrossthestreetfromthePostOffice.Ithadoncebeentwo
differentstoreslocatedinthesamebuilding,butthenMr.Rudowskihadboughtthebuildingandknocked
downthedividingwall.Onthefunsidewerepensandpencilsandpaperandgreetingcardsandmaga-zines
andcomicsandpaperbacksandcandy.Theothersidewasallboringhard-wareandsmallappliances.
Mr.RudowskiwasonthephonewhenIcamein,butthenhewasalwaysonthephonewhenheworked.
Hecouldsellyouahammerorapackofbaseballcards,tellyouajoke,askaboutyourfamily,complain
abouttheweatherandstillkeeptheguyontheotherendofthelinehappy.Thistimethough,whenhesaw
mecomein,heturnedaway,wrappingthephonecordacrosshisshoulder.
I went through the store quickly and found everything Cross had wanted. I had to blow dust off the
transistorradioboxbutthebatterieslookedfresh.TherewasonlyoneNewYorkTimesleft;theheadlines
weresobigtheywerescary.
USIMPOSESARMSBLOCKADEONCUBA
ONFINDINGOFOFFENSIVEMISSILESITES;
KENNEDYREADYFORSOVIETSHOWDOWN
ShipsMustStopPresidentGravePreparedtoRiskWar
IsetmypurchasesonthecounterinfrontofMr.Rudowski.Hecockedhisheadtooneside,trappingthe
telephonereceiveragainsthisshoulder,andrangmeup.Thepaperwasonthebottomofthepile.
“SincewhendoyoureadtheTimes,Ray?”Mr.Rudowskipuncheditintothecashregisterandhittotal.
“IjustgotthenewFantasticFour.”Thecashdrawerpoppedopen.
“Maybetomorrow,”Isaid.
“Allrightthen.Itcomestotwelvedollarsandforty-sevencents.”
Igavehimthehundred-dollarbill.
“Whatisthis,Ray?”Hestaredatitandthenatme.
Ihadmystoryallready.“ItwasabirthdaygiftfrommygrandmainDetroit.ShesaidIcouldspenditon
whateverIwantedsoIdecidedtotreatmyself,butI’mgoingtoputtherestinthebank.”
“You’rebuyingaradio?Fromme?”
“Well,youknow.IthoughtmaybeIshouldhaveonewithmewithallthisstuffgoingon.”
Hedidn’tsayanythingforamoment.Hejustpulledapaperbagfromunderthecounterandputmythings
intoit.Hisshoulderwerehunched;Ithoughtmaybehefeltguiltyaboutoverchargingfortheradio.
“Youshouldbelisteningtomusic,Ray,”hesaidquietly.“YoulikeElvis?AllkidslikeElvis.Ormaybethat
coloredguy,theonewhodoestheTwist?”
“They’reallright,Iguess.”
“You’retooyoungtobeworryingaboutthenews.Youhearme?Thosepoliti-cians…”Heshookhishead.
“It’sgoingtobeokay,Ray.Youhearditfromme.”
“Sure,Mr.Rudowski.Iwaswondering,couldIgetfivedollarsinchange?”
IcouldfeelhimwatchingmeasIstuffeditallintomybookbag.Iwascertainhe’dcallmymom,buthe
neverdid.HomewasthreemilesupCobb’sHill.Ididitinfortyminutes,arecord.
****
IrememberIstartedrunningwhenIsawtheflashinglights.Thepolicecarhadleftskidmarksinthegravel
onourdriveway.
“Wherewereyou?”MomburstoutofthehouseasIcameacrossthelawn.“Oh,myGod,Raymie,Iwas
worriedsick.”Shecaughtmeupinherarms.
“IgotoffthebusinWard’sHollow.”Shewasabouttosmotherme;Isquirmedfree.“Whathappened?”
“Thistheboy,ma’am?”Thestatetrooperhadtakenhistimecatchinguptoher.Hehadalmostthesamehat
asScoutmasterNewell.
“Yes,yes!Oh,thankGod,officer!”
ThetrooperpattedmeontheheadlikeIwasalostdog.“Youhadyourmomworried,Ray.”
“Raymie,youshould’vetoldme.”
“Somebodytellmewhathappened!”Isaid.
Asecondtroopercamefrombehindthehouse.Wewatchedhimapproach.“Nosignofanyintruder.”
Helookedbored;Iwantedtoscream.
“Intruder?”Isaid.
“Hebrokeintotheshelter,”saidMom.“Heknewmyname.”
“Therewasnosignofforcibleentry,”saidthesecondtrooper.Isawhimexchangeaglancewithhispartner.
“NothingdisturbedthatIcouldsee.”
“Hedidn’thavetime,”Momsaid.“WhenIfoundhimintheshelter,Iranbacktothehouseandgotyour
father’sgunfromthebedroom.”
ThethoughtofMomwiththe.38scaredme.IhadmyShootingmeritbadge,butshedidn’tknowahammer
fromatrigger.“Youdidn’tshoothim?”
“No.”Sheshookherhead.“HehadplentyoftimetoleavebuthewasstilltherewhenIcameback.
That’swhenhesaidmyname.”
Ihadneverbeensomadatherbefore.“Younevergoouttotheshelter.”
Shehadthatpuzzledlookshealwaysgetsatnight.“Icouldn’tfindmykey.Ihadtousetheoneyourfather
leavesoverthebreezewaydoor.”
“Whatdidhesayagain,ma’am?Theintruder.”
“He said, ‘Mrs. Beaumont, I present no danger to you.’ And I said, ‘Who are you?’ And then he came
towardmeandIthoughthesaid‘Margaret,’andIstartedfiring.”
“Youdidshoothim!”
Bothtroopersmusthaveheard,thepanicinmyvoice.Thefirstonesaid,“Youknowsomethingaboutthis
man,Ray?”
“No,I—IwasatschoolalldayandthenIstoppedatRudowski’s…”Icouldfeelmyeyesburning.Iwasso
embarrassed;IknewIwasabouttocryinfrontofthem.
Momactedannoyedthatthetroopershadstoppedpayingattentiontoher.“Ishotathim.Three,fourtimes,
Idon’tknow.Imusthavemissed,becausehejuststoodtherestaringatme.Itseemedlikeforever.Thenhe
walkedpastmeandupthestairslikenothinghadhappened.”
“Andhedidn’tsayanything?”
“Notaword.”
“Well,itbeatsme,”saidthesecondtrooper.“Thegun’sbeenfiredfourtimesbuttherearenobulletholesin
theshelterandnobloodstains.”,
“YoumindifIaskyouapersonalquestion,Mrs.Beaumont?”thefirsttroopersaid.
Shecolored.“Isupposenot.”
“Haveyoubeendrinking,ma’am?”
“Ohthat!”Sheseemedrelieved.“No.Well,Imean,afterIcalledyou,Ididpourmyselfalittlesomething.
Justtosteadymynerves.Iwasworriedbecausemysonwassolateand…Raymie,what’sthematter?”
Ifeltsosmall.Thetearswerepouringdownmyface.
****
Afterthetroopersleft,IrememberMombakingbrownieswhileIwatchedSuper-man.Iwantedtogoout
andhuntforCross,butitwasalreadysunsetandtherewasnoexcuseIcouldcomeupwithforwandering
aroundinthedark.Besides,whatwasthepoint?Hewasgone,drivenoffbymymother.I’dhadachanceto
helpamanfromthefuturechangehistory,maybepreventWorldWarIII,andIhadblownit.Mylifewas
ashes.
Iwasn’thungrythatnight,forbrowniesorspaghettioranything,butMommadethatcluckingnoisewhenI
pushedsupperaroundtheplate,soIateafewbitesjusttoshutherup.Iwassurprisedathoweasyitwasto
hateher,howgooditfelt.Of course,she wasoblivious,butinthemorningshe wouldnotice ifIwasn’t
careful.Afterdinner,shewatchedthenewsandIwentupstairstoread.Iwrappedapillowaroundmyhead
whensheyelledatDavidBrinkley.Iturnedoutthelightsat8:30,butIcouldn’tgettosleep.Shewentto
herroomalittleafterthat.
“Mr.Beaumont?”
Imusthavedozedoff,butwhenIheardhisvoiceIsnappedawakeimmediately.
“Isthatyou,Mr.Cross?”Ipeeredintothedarkness.“Iboughtthestuffyouwanted.”Theroomfilledwith
anawfulstink,likewhenMomdrovewiththeparkingbrakeon.
“Mr.Beaumont,”hesaid,“Iamdamaged.”
Islippedoutofbed,pickedmywayacrossthedarkroom,lockedthedoorandturnedonthelight.
“Ohjeez!”
He slumped against my desk like a nightmare. I remember thinking then that Cross wasn’t human, that
maybehewasn’tevenalive.Hisproportionswerewrong:anear,ashoulderandbothfeetsaggedlikethey
hadmelted.Littlewispsofsteamorsomethingcurledoffhim;theywerewhatsmelled.Hisskinhadgone
allshinyandhard;sohadhisbusinesssuit.I’dwonderedwhyhenevertookthesuitcoatoff,andnowI
knew.Hisclotheswerepartof him. The middle fingers of his right hand beat spasmodically against his
palm.
“Mr.Beaumont,”hesaid.“Icalculateyourchancesat1016to1.”
“Chancesofwhat?”Isaid.“Whathappenedtoyou?”
‘Youmustlistenmostattentively,Mr.Beaumont.Mydeclineisverybadforhistory.Itisforyounowto
alterthetime-lineprobabilities.”
“Idon’tunderstand.”
“YourgovernmentgreatlyoverestimatesthenuclearcapabilityoftheSovietUnion.Ifyouoriginateafirst
strike,theUnitedStateswillachieveoverwhelmingvictory.”
“Doesthepresidentknowthis?Wehavetotellhim!”
“John Kennedy will not welcome such information. If he starts this war, he will be responsible for the
deathsoftensofmillions,bothRussiansandAmericans.Buthedoesnotgraspthefutureofthearmsrace.
Thewarmusthappennow,becausethosewhocomeafterwillbuildandbuilduntiltheycontrolarsenals
that can destroy the world many times over. People are not capable of thinking for very long of such
fearsomeweapons.Theytireoftheideaofextinctionandthenbecomenumbtoit.Thebuildupslowsbut
doesnotstopandtheycongratulatethemselvesonhavingsurvivedit.Buttherearestilltoomanyweapons
andtheynevergoaway.TheThirdWarcomesasasurprise.TheFirstWarwascalledtheonetoendall
wars.TheThirdWaristheonlysuchwarpossible,Mr.Beaumont,becauseitendseverything.Historystops
in2009.Doyouunderstand?Ayearlater,thereisnolife.Alldead,theworldahot,barrenrock.”
“Butyou…?”
“Iamnothing,aconstruct.Mr.Beaumont,please,thechancesare1016to1,”hesaid.“Doyouknowhow
improbablethatis?”Hislaughsoundedlikeahiccup.“Butforthesakeofthosefewprecioustime-lines,we
mustcontinue. Thereisa man, apoliticianin NewYork.If he diesonThursday night, itwillcreate the
incidentthatforcesKennedy’shand.”
“Dies?”Fordays,Ihadbeendesperateforhimtotalk.NowallIwantedwastorunaway.“You’regoingto
killsomebody?”
“TheworldwillsurviveaThirdWarthatstartsonFriday,October22,1962.”
“Whataboutme?Myparents?Dowesurvive?”
“Icannotaccessthattime-line.Ihavenocertainanswerforyou.Please,Mr.Beaumont,thispoliticianwill
die of a heart attack in less than three years. He has made no great contribution to history, yet his
assassinationcansavetheworld.”
“Whatdoyouwantfromme?”ButIhadalreadyguessed.
“HewillspeakmosteloquentlyattheUnitedNationsonFridayevening.Af-terwardhewillhavedinner
withhisfriend,RuthFields.Aroundteno’clockhewillreturntohisresidenceattheWaldorfTowers.
NottheWaldorfAstoriaHotel,buttheTowers.HewilltaketheelevatortoSuite42A.HeistheAmerican
am-bassadortotheUnitedNations.HisnameisAdlaiStevenson.”
“Stopit!Don’tsayanythingelse.”
When he sighed, his breath was a cloud of acrid steam. “I have based my calculation of the time-line
probabilitiesontwodatapoints,Mr.Beaumont,whichIdiscoveredinyourbombshelter.Thefirstisthe
.357Magnumrevolver,locatedunderapalletofricebags.Itrustyouknowofthisweapon?”
“Yes,”Iwhispered.
“Thesecondisthecollectionofmagazines,locatedunderyourcot.Itwouldseemthatyoutakeaninterest
inwhatistocome,Mr.Beaumont,andthatmaylendyouthecourageyouwillneedtodivertthistime-line
fromdisaster.Youshouldknowthatthereisnotjustonefuture.Thereareaninfinitenumberoffuturesin
whichallpossibilitiesareexpressed,aninfinitenumberofRaymondBeaumonts.”
“Mr.Cross,Ican’t…”
“Perhapsnot,”hesaid,“butIbelievethatanotheroneofyoucan.”
“You don’t understand …” I watched in horror as a boil swelled on the side of his face and popped,
expellinganeviljetofyellowsteam.“What?”
“Ohfuck.”Thatwasthelastthinghesaid.
Heslidtothefloor—ormaybehewasjustabodyatthatpoint.Moreboilsformedandburst.Iopenedall
thewindowsinmyroomandgotthefandownoutoftheclosetandstillIcan’tbelievethatthestinkdidn’t
wakeMomup.Overthecourseofthenextfewhours,hesortofvaporized.
Whenitwasover,therewasasticky,darkspotonthefloorthesizeofmypillow.Imovedthethrowrug
from one side of the room to the other to cover it up. I had nothing to prove that Cross existed but a
transistorradio,acoupleofbatteries,anearplug,andeighty-sevendollarsandfifty-threecentsinchange.
****
Imighthavedone thingsdifferentlyifIhadn’thadaday tothink.I can’tremem-bergoingtoschoolon
Wednesday,whoItalkedto,whatIate.Iwasfeverishlytryingtofigureoutwhattodoandhowtodoit.
I had no place to go for answers, not Miss Toohey, not my parents, not the Bible or the Boy Scout
Handbook,certainlynotGalaxymagazine.WhateverIdidhadtocomeoutofme.Iwatchedthenewswith
Momthatnight.PresidentKennedyhadbroughtourmilitarytothehighestpossiblestateofalert.
TherewerereportsthatsomeRussianshipshadturnedawayfromCuba;otherscontinuedoncourse.
Dadcalledandsaidhistripwasbeingcutshortandthathewouldbehomethenextday.Butthatwastoo
late.
IhidbehindthestonewallwhentheschoolbuscameonThursdaymorning.Mrs.Johnsonhonkedacouple
of times, and then drove on. I set out for New Canaan, carrying my book bag. In it were the radio, the
batteries,thecoins,themapofNewYork,andthe.357.IhadtherestofCross’smoneyinmywallet.
Ittookmorethanfivehourstohiketothetrainstation.Iexpectedtobescared,butthewholetimeIfelt
light as air. I kept thinking of what Cross had said about the future, that I was just one of millions and
millionsofRaymondBeaumonts.Mostofthemwereinschool,diagrammingsentencesandwatchingMiss
Tooheybitehernails.Iwasthespecialone,walkingintohistory.Iwassuper.Icaughtthe2:38
train,changedinStamford,andarrivedatGrandCentraljustafterfour.Ihadsixhours.Iboughtmyselfa
hotpretzelandaCokeandtriedtodecidewhereIshouldgo.Icouldn’tjustsitaroundthehotellobbyforall
that time; I thought that would draw too much attention. I decided to go to the top of the Empire State
Building.ItookmytimewalkingdownParkAvenueandtriednottoseealltheghostsIwasabouttomake.
InthelobbyoftheEmpireStateBuild-ing,IusedCross’schangetocallhome.
“Hello?”Ihadn’texpectedDadtoanswer.Iwould’vehungupexceptthatIknewImightneverspeakto
himagain.
“Dad,thisisRay.I’msafe,don’tworry,”
“Ray,whereareyou?”
“Ican’ttalk.I’msafebutIwon’tbehometonight.Don’tworry.”
“Ray!”Hewasfrantic.“What’sgoingon?”
“I’msorry.”
“Ray!”
Ihungup;Ihadto.“Iloveyou,”Isaidtothedialtone.
IcouldimaginetheexpressiononDad’sface,howhewouldtellMomwhatI’dsaid.Eventuallytheywould
argueaboutit.Hewouldshout;shewouldcry.AsIrodetheelevatorup,Igotmadatthem.Heshouldn’t
havepickedupthephone.Theyshould’veprotectedmefromCrossandthefuturehecamefrom.Iwasin
thesixthgrade,Ishouldn’thavetohavefeelingslikethis.Theobservationplatformwasalmostdeserted.I
walkedcompletelyaroundit,staringatthecitystretchingawayfrommeineverydirection.Itwasdusk;the
buildings were shadows in the failing light. I didn’t feel like Ray Beaumont anymore; he was my secret
identity.NowIwasthesuperheroBombBoy;Ihadthepowerofbringingnuclearwar.WhereverIcastmy
terriblegaze,carsmeltedandpeopleburstintoflame.
AndIlovedit.
ItwasdarkwhenIcamedownfromtheEmpireStateBuilding.IhadasausagepizzaandaCokeon47th
Street.WhileIate,Istucktheplugintomyearandlistenedtotheradio.Isearchedforthenews.
OneannouncersaidthedebatewasstillgoingonintheSecurityCouncil.Ourambassadorwasquestioning
Ambas-sadorZorin.Istayedwiththatstationforawhile,hopingtohearhisvoice.Iknewwhathelooked
like, of course. Adlai Stevenson had run for president a couple of times when I was just a baby. But I
couldn’t remember what he sounded like. He might talk to me, ask me what I was doing in his hotel; I
wantedtobereadyforthat.
IarrivedattheWaldorfTowersaroundnineo’clock.Ipickedaplushvelvetchairthathadadirectviewof
theelevatorbankand satthere foraboutten minutes.Nobody seemedtocarebutit washard tositstill.
Finally,Igotupandwenttothemen’sroom.Itookmybookbagintoastall,closedthedoor,andgotthe
.357out.Iaimeditatthetoilet.Thegunwasheavy,andIcouldtellitwouldhaveabigkick.Iprobably
oughttoholditwithbothhands.Ireleasedthesafety,putitbackintomybookbag,andflushed.
WhenIcameoutofthebathroom,IhadstoppedbelievingthatIwasgoingtoshootanyone,thatIcould.
ButIhadtofindout,forCross’ssake.IfIwasreallymeanttosavetheworld,thenIhadtobeintheright
placeattherighttime.Iwentbacktomychair,checkedmywatch.Itwasnine-twenty.
Istartedthinkingoftheonewhowouldpullthetrigger,theunlikelyRay.Whatwouldmakethedifference?
HadhereadsomestoryinGalaxythatIhadskipped?WasitaproblemwithMom?OrDad?Maybehehad
spelledenigmaright;maybeCrosshadlivedanotherthirtysecondsinhistime-line.
OrmaybehewasjustthebestthatIcouldpossiblybe.
Iwassotiredofitall.ImusthavewalkedthirtymilessincemorningandIhadn’tsleptwellindays.The
lobby was warm. People laughed and murmured. Elevator doors dinged softly. I tried to stay up to face
history,butIcouldn’t.IwasRaymondBeaumont,butIwasjustatwelve-year-oldkid.
Irememberthedoormanwakingmeupateleveno’clock.Daddroveallthewayintothecitytogetme.
Whenwegothome,Momwasalreadyintheshelter.
OnlytheThirdWardidn’tstartthatnight.Orthenext.
Ilosttelevisionprivilegesforamonth.
****
Formostpeoplemyage,themosttraumaticmemoryofgrowingupcameonNovember22,1963.Butthe
dateIrememberisJuly14,1965,whenAdlaiStevensondroppeddeadofaheartattackinLondon.
I’vetriedtodowhatIcan,tomakeupforwhatIdidn’tdothatnight.I’veworkedforthecausewhereverI
couldfindit.IbelongtoCNDandSANEandtheFriendsoftheEarth,andwasactiveinthenuclearfreeze
movement.IthinktheGreenParty{www.greens.org)istheonlypolitical organizationworthyourvote.I
don’tknowifanyofitwillchangeCross’sawfulprobabilities;maybewe’llsurviveinafewmoretime-
lines.
When I was a kid, I didn’t mind being lonely. Now it’s hard, knowing what I know. Oh, I have lots of
friends, all of them wonderful people, but people who know me say that there’s a part of myself that I
alwayskeephidden.They’reright.Idon’tthinkI’lleverbeabletotellanyoneaboutwhathappenedwith
Cross,whatIdidn’tdothatnight.Itwouldn’tbefairtothem.
Besides,whateverhappens,chancesareverygoodthatit’smyfault.
****
winemaster
ROBERTREED
RobertReedmaybeoneofthemostprolificoftoday’syoungwriters,particularlyatshortfictionlengths,
seriouslyrivaledforthatpositiononlybyauthorssuchasStephenBaxterandBrianStableford.And—also
likeBax-terandStableford—he managesto keepupa veryhighstandardof quality while beingprolific,
somethingthatisnotatalleasytodo.Reedsoldhisfirststoryin1986,andquicklyestablishedhimselfasa
frequentcontributortoTheMagazineofFantasy&ScienceFictionandAsimov’sScienceFiction,aswell
asselling manystoriesto Science Fiction Age, Universe, New Destinies,Tomorrow,Synergy,, Starlight,
andelsewhere.Almosteveryyearthroughoutthe mid-to-late ‘90s, he has producedat least two or three
stories that would be goodenough to get him into a Best of the Year anthology under ordinary
circumstances,andsomeyearshehasproducedfourorfiveofthem,sothatoftenthechoiceisnotwhether
ornottouseaReedstory,butratherwhichReedstorytouse—aremarkableaccomplish-ment.
Inspiteofthislargeandremarkablebodyofwork,though,Reedremainsunderrated,althoughheisatlast
beginningtogetontomajorawardballots—withhisstory“Whiptail”showinguponlastyear’sFinalHugo
Bal-lot,forinstance—andIsuspectthathewillbecomeoneoftheBigNamesofthefirstdecadeofthenew
centurycominguponthehorizon.
AprimeselectionofReed’sstorieswererecentlycollectedinTheDragonsofSpringplace,oneoftheyear’s
bestcollections,butReedisalmostasprolificasanovelistasheisasashortstorywriter,havingproduced
eightnovelstodate,includingTheLeeshore,TheHormoneJungle,BlackMilk,TheRemarkables,Down
theBrightWay,Beyond theVeilof Stars,AnExaltationofLarks,and,mostrecently,BeneaththeGated
Sky.Hisnewnovel,Marrow,isdueout shortly.Hisstorieshaveappeared in our Ninth, Tenth, Eleventh,
Twelfth,Thirteenth,Fourteenth,Fifteenth,andSixteenthAnnualCollections.HelivesinLincoln,Nebraska.
Inthesurprisingstorythatfollows,hereaffirmstheoldtruththatwholeworldscanbehiddeninagrainof
sand—orsometimesinevenodderdisguises.
****
T
hestrangerpulledintotheQuikShopoutsideSt.Joe.Nothingwasremarkableabouthim,whichwaswhy
hecaughtBlaine’seye.Tallerthanaverage,butnotmuch,hewasthininanunfitway,withblackhairanda
handsome,almostprettyface,finebonesfloatingbeneathskinthatdidn’toftengetintothesun.
Whichmeantnothing,ofcourse.Alotofpeoplewerestayingindoorslately.Blainewatchedhimclimbout
of an enormous Buick — a satin black ‘17 Gibraltar that had seen better days — and after a lazy long
stretch,hepassedhise-cardthroughtheproperslotandinsertedthenozzle,fillingtheBuick’scavernous
tankwithtencoldgallonsofgasolineandcornalcohol.
Bythen,Blainehadrunhisplates.
The Buick was registered to a Julian Winemaster from Wichita, Kansas; twenty-nine accompanying
photographsshowedprettymuchthesamefellowwhostoodsixtyfeetaway.
Hisentirebiowasartfullybland,rigorouslyseamless.Winemasterwasanaccountant,divorcedandforty-
fouryearsold,withOnegativebloodandfiveneo-enamelfillingsimbeddedinotherwiseperfectteeth,plus
asmallpinkbirthmarksomewhereonhisrightbuttock.Uselessdetails,Blaineremindedhimself,andwith
thatheliftedhisgaze,watchingthetravelerremovethedrippingnozzle,thencradlingitonthepumpwith
theoverdonedelicacyofamanill-at-easewithmachinery.
Behindthickfingers,Blainewassmiling.
Winemastermovedwithastiff,road-wearygait,walkingintotheconveniencestoreandasking,
“Ma’am.?Where’syourrestroom,please?”
Theclerkignoredhim.
Itwasthemen’sroomthatcalledout,“Overhere,sir.”
Sittinginoneofthehardplasticbooths,Blainehadagoodviewofeverything.Apairofmilitiaboysin
theirbrownuniformsweretheonlyothersinthestore.They’dbeengawkingatdirtycomicbooks,minding
theirownbusinessuntiltheyheardWinemaster’svoice.Politenesshadlatelybecomeasuspiciousbehavior.
Blainewatchedtheboyslookupandelboweachother,puttingtheirsightsonthestranger.Andhewatched
Winemaster’swalk,theexpressiononhisprettyfrailface,andamyriadofsubtleties,tryingtodecidewhat
heshoulddo,andwhen,andwhatheshouldavoidatallcosts.
Itwasa bright warm summer morning, but there hadn’tbeentwenty cars in the last hour, most of them
sportinglocalplates.
Themilitiaboysblankedtheircomicsandputthemonthewrongshelves,thenwalkedoutthefrontdoor,
onesaying.“Byenow,”ashepassedtheclerk.
“Sure,”theoldwomangrowled,nevertakinghereyesoffatinytelevisionscreen.
Theboysmightsimplybedoingtheirjob,whichmeanttheywereharmless.Butthestatemilitiaswerefull
ofbullieswho’dfounda career in the last couple years. There was no sweeter sport than terrorizing the
innocenttraveler,becauseofcoursethegenuinerefugeewastoorareofaprospecttohopefor.
Winemastervanishedintothemen’sroom.
TheboysapproachedtheblackBuick,doingalittledanceandshowingeachothertheirmalicioussmiles.
Thugs,Blainedecided.Whichmeantthathehadtodosomethingnow.BeforeWinemaster,orwhoeverhe
was,camewalkingoutofthetoilet.
Blaineclimbedoutofthetinybooth.
Hedidn’twastebreathontheclerk.
Crossingthegreasypavement,hewatchedtheboysusingapolice-issuelockpick.Thefrontpassengerdoor
opened,andbothofthemsteppedback,tryingtokeepasafedistance.Withequipmentthatwentoutofdate
lastspring,oneboyprobedtheinteriorair,theculturedleatherseats,thedashboardandfloorboardandeven
anemptypopcanstandinginitscradle.“Naw,it’sokay,”hewassaying.“Getoninthere.”
Hispartnerhadaknife.Thecurledbladewasintendedforupholstery.Nothingcouldbelearnedbyripping
aparttheseats,butitwasafungamenonetheless.
“Getinthere,”thefirstboyrepeated.
The second one started to say, “I’m getting in — ‘ But he happened to glance over his shoulder, seeing
Blainecoming,andheturnedfast,liftingtheknife,seriouslythinkingaboutslashingtheinterloper.
Blainewasbiggerthansomepairsofmen.
Hewasfat,butinapowerful,focusedway.Andhewasquick,grabbingtheknifehandandgivingahard
squeeze,thenflingingtheboyagainstthecar’scompositebody,theknifedroppingandBlainekickingitout
of reach, then giving the boy a second shove, harder this time, telling both of them, “That’s enough,
gentlemen.”
“Whothefuckareyou—?”theysputtered,inachorus.
BlaineproducedabadgeandIDbracelet.“Readthese,”hesuggestedcoldly.Thenhetoldthem,“You’re
welcometocheckmeout.Butwedothatsomewhereelse.Rightnow,thisman’sdoorisclosedandlocked,
andthethreeofusarehiding.Understand.?”
Theboywiththesurveillanceequipmentsaid,“We’rewithinourrights.”
Blaineshutandlockedthedoorforthem,saying,“Thisway.Staywithme.”
“One of their nests got hit last night,” said the other boy, walking. “We’ve been checking people all
morning!”
“Findany.?”
“Notyet—”
“Withthatoldgear,youwon’t.”
“We’ve caught them before,” said the first boy, defending his equipment. His status. “A couple, three
differentcarloads…”
Maybetheydid,butthatwasmonthsago.Generationsago.
“Isthatyours?”askedBlaine.HepointedtoabatteredPython,saying,“Itbetterbe.We’regettinginside.”
Theboysclimbedinfront.Blainefilledthebackseat,sweatingfromexertionandthecar’sbrutalheat.
“Whatarewedoing?”oneofthemasked.
“We’rewaiting.Isthatallrightwithyou.?”
“Iguess.”
Buthispartnercouldn’tjustsit.HeturnedandglaredatBlaine,saying,“You’dbetterbeFederal.”
“Andifnot?”Blaineinquired,withoutinterest.
Noappropriatethreatcametomind.Sotheboysimplygrowledandrepeatedhimself.“You’djustbetterbe.
That’sallI’msaying.”
Amomentlater,Winemasterstrolledoutofthestore.Nothinginhisstanceorpaceimpliedworry.Hewas
carryingacanofpopandaredbagofcornnuts.Restinghispurchasesontheroof,hepunchedinhiscode
to unlock the driver’s door, then gave the area a quick glance. It was the glance of someone who never
intendedtoreturnhere,evenforgasoline-adismissiveexpressioncoupledwithatangiblesenseofrelief.
That’swhenBlaineknew.
Whenhewassuddenlyandperfectlysure.
Theboyssawnothingincriminating.Buttheonewho’dheldtheknifewasquicktosaytheobvious:Aman
withBlaine’scredentialscouldgethishandsonthebestBMsniffersintheworld.“Getthem,”hesaid,“and
we’llfindoutwhatheis!”
ButBlainealreadyfeltsure.
“He’sgoing,”theotheronesputtered.“Look,he’sgone—!”
Theblackcarwasbeingdrivenbyacautiousman.Winemasterbrakedandlookedbothwaystwicebefore
hepulledoutontotheaccessroad,acceleratinggraduallytoward1-29,takingnochanceseventhoughthere
waspreciouslittletraffictoavoidashedrovenorth.
“Fuck,”saidtheboys,inonevoice.
Usingacalm-stick,Blainetouchedoneofthethicknecks;withoutfuss,theboyslumpedforward.
“Hey!”snappedhispartner.“Whatareyoudoing—?”
“What’s best,” Blaine whispered afterward. Then he lowered the Python’s windows and destroyed its
ignitionsystem,leavingthepairasleepinthefrontseats.Andbecausethemomentrequiredjustice,hetook
oneoftheirhandseach,shovingtheminsidetheother’spants,thenhelaidtheirheadstogether,inthepose
oflovers.
****
TheotherrefugeespamperedJulian:Hiscabinwasn’tonlylargerthanalmostanyoneelse’s,itworeextra
shieldingtohelpprotecthimfrommalicioushigh-energyparticles.Powerandshapingrationsdidn’tapply
to him, although he rarely indulged himself, and a platoon of autodocs did nothing but watch over his
health.Inpublic,strangersapplaudedhim.Inprivate,hecouldselectalmostanywomanasalover.Andin
bed,intheafterglowofwhateverpassedforsexatthatparticularmoment,Juliancouldtellhisstories,and
hisloverswouldlistenasifenraptured,eveniftheyalreadykneweachstorybyheart.
NooneonboardwasmoreancientthanJulian.Evenbeforetheattack,hewasoneofthefewresidentsof
theShawneeNestwhocouldhonestlyclaimtobeDNA-made,hislifebeginningasasinglewetcellinside
a cavernous womb, a bloody birth followed by sloppy growth that culminated in a vast and slow and
decidedlyold-fashionedhumanbeing.
JulianwasnearlyfortywhenTransmutationsbecameanexpensivepossibility.
Thrillseekersandtheterminallyillwereamongthefirsttoundergotheprocess,theirprimitivebodiesand
bloated minds consumed by the microchines, the sum total of their selves compressed into tiny robotic
bodiesmeanttoduplicateeverynormalhumanfunction.
Beingpioneers,theyenduredheavylosses.ModesterrorsduringtheTransmutationmeantinstantdeath.
Tinyerrorsmeantapatheticandincurableinsanity.ThefledgingNestswereexposedtoheavynucleiand
subtleEMeffects,allpotentiallydisastrous.Andofcoursethereweretheearlyterroristattacks,crudeand
disorganized,butextractingahorribletollnonetheless.
Thesurvivorsweretinyandswift,andwiser,andtheywereabletostreamlinetheTransmutation,makingit
moreaccurateandaffordable,andtoadegree,routine.
“Iwasforty-threewhenIlefttheotherworld.”Juliantoldhisloverofthemoment.Healwaysusedthose
words, framing them with defiance and a hint of bittersweet longing. “It was three days and two hours
beforethePresidentsignedtheMcGruggerBill.”
That’swhenTransmutationbecameillegalintheUnitedStates.
Hisloverdidhermath,thenwithagenuineawesaid,“Thatwasfivehundredandtwelvedaysago.”
AdaywasworthyearsinsideaNest.
“Tellme,”shewhispered.“Whydidyoudoit?Wereyoubored?Orsick?”
“Don’tyouknowwhy?”heinquired.
“No,”shesqueaked.
Julianwasfamous,butsometimeshislifewasn’t.Andwhyshouldtheyoungstersknowhisbiographyby
heart?
“Idon’twanttoforceyou,”thewomantoldhim.“Ifyou’drathernottalkaboutit,I’llunderstand.”
Juliandidn’tanswerimmediately.
Instead,heclimbedfromhisbedandcrossedthecabin.Hiskitchenettehadcreatedadrink—hydrocarbons
mixedwithnanochinesthatwerenutritious,appetizing,andpleasantlynarcotic.Foodanddrinkwerenot
necessities,buthabits,andtheywereenjoyingarenewedpopularity.LikeanycredibleMethuselah,Julian
wasoftenthemodelonhowbesttodoarchaicoddities.
Thewomanlayontopofthebed.Hercurrentbodywasahologramlaidoverhermechanicalcore.Itwasa
traditionalbody,probablywornforhispleasure;nowingsorfinsorevenmorebizarreadornments.Asit
happened, she had selected a build and complexion not very different from Julian’s first wife. A
coincidence?Orhadsheactuallydoneresearch,andshealreadyknewtheanswerstoherpryingquestions?
“Sip,”headvised,handingherthedrink.Theirhandsbrushedagainstoneanother,shapedlighttouchingits
equivalent.Whateach feltwasasyntheticallygenerated sensation,basicallyhuman,intendedto feellike
warm,water-filledskin.
Thegirlobeyed,smilingasshesipped,anaudibleslurpamusingbothofthem.
“Here,”shesaid,handingbacktheglass.“Yourturn.’
Julian glanced at the far wall. A universal window gave them a live view of the Quik Shop, the image
suppliedbyoneofthemultitudeofcamerashiddenontheBuick’sexterior.Whatheldhisinterestwasthe
oldmusclecar,aPythonwithsmokedglasswindows.Whenhefirstsawthatcar,threeheadswerevisible.
Nowtwooftheheadshadgraduallydroppedoutofsight,withtheremainingmanstillsittinginback,big
eyesopenedwide,makingnoattempttohidehisinterestintheBuick’sdriver.
Nooneknewwhothefatmanwas,orwhatheknew,muchlesswhathisintentionsmightbe.Hispresence
hadbeenacompletesurprise,andwhathehaddonewiththosemilitiamembers,pullingthembackashe
didaswellastherestofit,hadlefttherefugeesmorestartledthangrateful,andmorescaredthananytime
sinceleavingtheNest.
Julian had gone to that store with the intent of suffering a clumsy, even violent interrogation. A militia
encounterwasmeanttogivethemauthenticity.Andmoreimportantly,togiveJulianexperience—precious
andsoberingfirsthandexperiencewiththemuch-changedworldaroundthem.
Aworldthathehadn’tvisitedformorethanamillennium,Nest-time.
Since he last looked, nothing of substance had changed at that ugly store. And probably nothing would
changeforalongwhile.Onelessonthatnorefugeeneeded,muchlesscraved,wasthatwhendealingwith
thatotherrealm,nothinghelpedasmuchaspatience.
Takingalong,slowsipoftheirdrink,helookedbackatthewomantwentydaysold;avirtualchild—and
withoutashredofpatience,shesaid,“Youweresick,weren’tyou?Iheardsomeonesayingthat’swhyyou
agreedtobeTransmutated…fivehundredandtwelvedaysago…”
“No.”Heofferedashysmile.“Anditwasn’tbecauseIwantedtolivethisway,either.Tobehonest,I’ve
alwaysbeenconservative.Inthatworld,andthisone,too.”
Shenoddedamiably,waiting.
“Itwasmydaughter,”heexplained.“Shewassick.Anincurableleukemia.”Againheofferedtheshysmile,
adding,“Shewasnineyearsold,andterrified.IcouldsaveherlifebyagreeingtoherTransmutation,butI
couldn’tjustabandonhertolifeintheNest…makingherintoanorphan,basically…”
“Isee,”hisloverwhispered.
Thenafterarespectfulsilence,sheasked,“Where’syourdaughternow?”
“Dead.”
“Ofcourse…”NotmanypeoplewereluckyenoughtolivefivehundreddaysinaNest;despiteshields,a
singleheavynucleuscouldstillfindyou,ravagingyourmind,extinguishingyourverydelicatesoul.“How
longago…didithappen….?”
“Thismorning”hereplied.“Intheattack.”
“Oh…I’mverysorry…”
Withtheillusion of shoulders, Julian shrugged. Thenwithhisbittersweetvoice, he admitted, “It already
seemslongago.”
****
WinemasterheadednorthintoIowa,thendidtheunexpected,makingthesuddenturneastwhenhereached
thenewTollway.
Blaineshadowedhim.HelikedtokeeptwominutesbetweentheBuickandhislittleTokamak,usingthe
FBI’s recon network to help monitor the situation. But the network had been compromised in the past,
probablymoreoftenthananyoneknew, whichmeantthathehadtooccasionallypay theTollwayalittle
extratoboosthisspeed,thegapclosingtolessthanfifteenseconds.Thenwiththeopticsinhiswindshield,
hewouldgetagoodlookatwhatmightormightnotbeJulianWinemaster—astifflyerectgentlemanwho
kept one hand on the wheel, even when the Al-managed road was controlling every vehicle’s speed and
direction,anddoingabetterjobofdrivingthananyhumancoulddo.
Iowawashalf-beautiful,half-bleak.Somefieldslookedtended,geneticallytailoredcropsplantedinfractal
patternsandtheoccasionalrobotworkingcarefully,pullingweedsandkillingpestsasitspider-walkedback
andforth.Buttherewerelongstretcheswherethefarmshadbeenabandoned,wildgrassesandthespawn
of last year’s crops coming up in ragged green masses. Entire neighborhoods had pulled up and gone
elsewhere. How many farmers had accepted the Transmutation, in other countries or illegally? Probably
onlyafractionofthem,Blaineknew.Habit-boundandsuspiciousbynature,they’dneveragreetothedis-
mantlementoftheirbodies,thetransplantationoftheircrustysouls.No,whathappenedwasthatfarmswere
simplyfallingoutofproduction,particularlywherethesoilwasmarginal.
Yieldswerestillimprovinginaworldwheretheold-stylepopulationwastumbling.Ifpatternsheld,most
of the arable land would soon return to prairie and forest. And eventually, the entire human species
wouldn’t fill so much as one of these abandoned farms…leaving the old world entirely empty…if those
patternswereallowedtohold,naturally…
UnlikeWinemaster,Blainekeptneitherhandonthewheel,trustingtheAIstolookafterhim.Hespentmost
ofhis time watching thenewsnetworks,keeping tabs on moods morethanfacts.What had happened in
Kansaswasstillthebigstory.Bynoon,morethantwentygroupsandindividualshadclaimedresponsibility
fortheattack.Officially,theEmergencyFederalCouncildeploredanysenselessviolence—acliche,which
implied that sensible violence was an entirely different question. When asked about the government’s
response,thePresident’spresssecretarylookedattheworldwithastonyface,saying,“We’reinvestigating
theregrettableincident.Butthefactremains,ithappenedoutsideourborders.Weareobservershere.The
ShawneeNestwasresponsibleforitsownsecurity,justaseveryotherNestisresponsible…’
Questionscameinaflurry.Thepresssecretarypointedtoasmall,severe-lookingmaninthefrontrow
— a reporter for the Christian Promise organization. “Are we taking any precautions against
counterattacks?”thereporterinquired.Then,notwaitingforananswer,headded,“Therehavebeenreports
ofactivityintheotherNests,insidetheUnitedStatesandelsewhere.”
Atensesmilewasthefirstreply.
Thenthestonyfacetoldeveryone,“ThePresidentandtheCouncilhavetakeneveryappropriateprecaution.
AsforanyactivityinanyNest,Icanonlysay:Wehaveeverythingperfectlywellinhand.”
“IsanythingleftoftheShawneeNest.?”askedasecondreporter.
“No.”Thepresssecretarywasneithersadnorpleased.“Initialevidenceisthattheentirefacilityhasbeen
sterilized.”
Atenaciousgray-hairedwoman—theperpetualsymboloftheCanadianNewsweb—calledout,“Mr.
Secretary…Lennie—!”
“Yes,Cora…”
“Howmanywerekilled.?”
“Iwouldn’tknowhowtoanswerthatquestion,Cora…”
“Yourgovernmentestimatesanexcessofonehundredmillion.IftheentireNestwassterilized,asyousay,
thenwe’retalkingaboutmorethantwo-thirdsofthecurrentU.S.population.”
“Legally,”hereplied,“wearetalkingaboutmachines.”
“Someofthosemachineswereonceyourcitizens,”shementioned.
The reporter from Christian Promise was standing nearby. He grimaced, then muttered bits of relevant
Scripture.
“Idon’tthinkthisisthetimeorplacetodebatewhatlifeisorisn’t,”saidthepresssecretary,jugglingthings
badly.
Corapersisted.“AreyouawareoftheCanadianpositiononthistragedy?
“Likeus,they’resaddened.”
“They’veofferedsanctuarytoanysurvivorsoftheblast—”
“Excepttherearenone,”hereplied,hisfacepinkasgranite.
“But if there were.? Would you let them move to another Nest in the United States, or perhaps to
Canada….?”
Therewasapause,briefandelectric.
Thenwithaflatcoolvoice,thepresssecretaryreported,“TheMcGruggerBillisveryspecific.Nestsmay
exist only in sealed containment facilities, monitored at all times. And should any of the microchines
escape,theywillbetreatedaswhattheyare…gravehazardstonormallife…andthisgovernmentwillnot
letthemroamatwill…!”
Setinside an abandoned salt mine near KansasCity,theShawneeNest had been one of the most secure
facilities of its kind ever built. Its power came from clean geothermal sources. Lead plates and intricate
defensesystemsstood againstnaturalhazardsaswell asmore humanthreats.Thousandsofgovernment-
loyalAIs,positionedinthesurroundingsalt,didnothingbutwatchitsborders,makingcertainthatnoneof
themicrochinescouldescape.Thatwaswhythethoughtthatlocalterroristscouldlaunchanyattackwasso
ludicrous.Tohavethatattacksucceedwassimplypreposterous.Whoeverwasresponsibleforthebomb,it
wasdonewiththeabeyanceofthehighestauthorities.Nosensiblesouldoubtedit.Thatdirtylittlenukehad
Federal fingerprints on it, and the attack was planned carefully, and its goals were instantly apparent to
peoplelargeandsmall.
Julianhadnodoubts.Hehadenemies,vastandmalicious,andnobodywasmoreentitledtohisparanoias.
JustshortofIllinois,theBuickmadealong-scheduledstop.
Juliantookpossessionofhiscloneatthelastmoment.Theprocesswassupposedtoberoutine—asimple
matterofslowinghisthoughtsathousandfold,thenintegratingthemwithhisbody—buttherewerealways
phantompainsandasickfallingsensation.Becomingabloatedwaterybagwasn’tthestrangestpartofit.
Afterall,theNestwasdesignedtomimicthiskindofexistence.WhatgnawedatJulianwasthegargantuan
senseofTime:Ahalfanhourinthisrealmwasnearlyamonthinhisrealm.Nomatterhowbriefthestop,
Julianwouldfeelalittlelostwhenhereturned,astepbehindtheothers,andfarmoreemotionallydrained
thanhewouldeveradmit.
Bythetimethecarhadstopped,Julianwasinfullcontrolofthebody.Hisbody,heremindedhimself.
Climbingoutintotheheatandbrilliantsunshine,hefeltapurposefulstiffnessinhisbackandthefamiliar
ache running down his right leg. In his past life, he was plagued by sciatica pains. It was one of many
ailments that he hadn’t missed after his Transmutation. And it was just another detail that someone had
thoughttoinclude,forcinghimtowinceandstretch,showingthewatchingworldthathewastheirflavorof
mortal.
SuddenlyanotheroldpainbegantocalltoJulian.
Hunger.
His duty was to fill the tank, then do everything expected of a road-weary driver. The rest area was
surroundedbytheTollway,gaspumpssurroundingafastfood/playgroundcomplex.Builttohandletensof
thousandsof people daily, the facility had suffered with the civil chaos, the militias and theplummeting
populations.A few dozen travelers went about theirbusinessinnear-solitude,and presumably a team of
stateorFederalagentswerelurkingnearby,usingsensorstoscanforthosewhoweren’twhattheyseemed
tobe.
Withoutincident,Julianmanagedthefirstpartofhismission.Thenhe droveatinydistanceandparked,
repeatinghisstiffclimboutofthecar,enteringtherestaurantandsteeringstraightfortherestroom.
Hewasalone,thankfully.
Thediagnosticurinalgentlywarnedhimtodrinkmorefluids,thenwishedhimalovelyday.
Takingtheadvicetoheart,Julianorderedabucket-sizediceteaalongwithaculturedguineahensandwich.
“Forhereortogo?”askedtheautomatedclerk.
“I’mstaying,”hereplied,believingitwouldlookbest.
“Thankyou,sir.Havealovelyday.”
Julian sat in the back booth, eating slowly and mannerly, scanning the pages of someone’s forgotten e-
paper. He made a point of lingering over the trite and trivial, concentrating on the comics with their
humanizedcatsandcartoonishpeople,everyoneplayingoutthesamejokesthatmusthaveamusedhimin
theveryremotepast.
“How’sitgoing?”
Thevoicewasslowandwet.Julianblankedthepage,lookingoverhisshoulder,betrayingnothingashis
eyessettledonthefamiliarwideface.“Fine,”hereplied,hisownvoicepolitebutdistant.“Thankyou.”
“Isitme?Orisitjusttoodamnedhottoliveoutthere…?”
“Itishot,”Julianconceded.
“Particularly for the likes of me.” The man settled onto a plastic chair bolted into the floor with clown
heads. His lunch buried his little table: Three sandwiches, a greasy sack of fried cucumbers, and a tall
chocolate shake. “It’s murder when you’re fat. Let me tell you…I’ve got to be careful in this weather. I
don’tmovefast.Italksoftly.Ievenhavetorationmythinking.Imeanit!Toomanythoughts,andIbreak
outinakillingsweat!”
Julianhadpreparedforthismoment.Yetnothingwashappeningquitelikeheoranyoneelsehadexpected.
Sayingnothing,Juliantookashybiteoutofhissandwich.
“Youlooklikeasmartguy,” said his companion. “Tellme.Iftheworld’s getting emptier, like everyone
says,whyamIstillgettingpoorer?”
“Excuseme?”
“That’s the way it feels, at least.” The man was truly fat, his face smooth and youthful, every feature
pressedoutwardbytheremnantsofcountlesslunches.“You’dthinkthatwithallthesmartonesleavingfor
theNests…you’dthinkguyslikeyouandmewoulddoprettywellforourselves.Youknow.?”
Usingeveryresource,therefugeeshadfoundthreeidentitiesforthisman:HewasasalesmanfromSt.
Joseph,Missouri.OrhewasaFederalagentworkingfortheDepartmentofTechnology,initsEnforcement
division, and his salesman identity was a cover. Or he was a charter member of the Christian Promise
organization,usingthatgroup’spoliticalconnectionstoaccomplishitsmurderousgoals.
Whatdoeshewant?Julianaskedhimself.Hetookanothershybite,wipedhismouthwithanapkin,then
offeredhisownquestion.“Whydoyousaythat…thatit’sthesmartpeoplewhoareleaving….?”
“That’swhatstudiesshow,”saidabooming,unashamedvoice.“Halfourpeoplearegone,butwe’velost
ninetypercentofourscientists.Eightypercentofourdoctors.AndalmosteverylastmemberofMensa…
whichbetweenyouandmeisagoodthing,Ithink…!”
Anotherbite,andwipe.Thenwithagenuinefirmness,Juliantoldhim,“Idon’tthinkweshouldbetalking.
Wedon’tknoweachother.”
Ahugecacklinglaughendedwithanabruptstatement:
“That’swhyweshouldtalk.We’restrangers,sowhere’stheharm?”
Suddenlytheguineahensandwichappearedhugeandinedible.Juliansetitdownandtookagulpoftea.
Hiscompanionwatchedhim,apparentlycaptivated.
Julianswallowed,thenasked,“Whatdoyoudoforaliving?”
“WhatI’m goodat.”He unwrapped ahamburger,thentook an enormousbite,leaving a crescent-shaped
sandwichandafineglisteningstainaroundhissmile.“Putitthisway,Mr.Winemaster.I’mlikeanyone.I
dowhatIhopeisbest.”
“Howdoyou—?”
“Your name? The same way I know your address, and your social registration number, and your bank
balance,too.”Hetookamomenttoconsumehalfoftheremainingcrescent,thenwhilechewing,hechoked
outthewords,“Blaine.Mynameis.Ifyou’dliketouseit.”
Eachoftheman’spossibleidentitiesusedBlaine,eitherasafirstorlastname.
Julianwrappedtherestofhissandwichinitsinsulatedpaper,watchinghishandsbegintotremble.Hehada
pianist’shandsinhisfirstlifebutabsolutelynotalentformusic.WhenhewentthroughtheTransmutation,
he’daskedforabetterearandmorecoordination—bothofwhichweregiventohimwithminimalfuss.
Yethe’dneverlearnedhowtoplay,notevenafterfivehundreddays.Itsuddenlyseemedlikeatragicwaste
oftalent,andwithasecretvoice,hepromisedhimselftotakelessons,startingimmediately.
“So,Mr.Winemaster…whereareyouheading…?”
Julianmanagedanothersipoftea,grimacingatthebittertaste.
“Someplaceeast,judgingbywhatIcansee…”
“Yes,”heallowed.Thenheadded,“Whichisnoneofyourbusiness.”
Blaine gave a hearty laugh, shoving the last of the burger deep into his gaping mouth. Then he spoke,
showingoffthemasticatedmeatandtomatoes,tellinghisnewfriend,“Maybeyou’llneedhelpsomewhere
upahead.Justmaybe.Andifthathappens,Iwantyoutothinkofme.”
“You’llhelpme,willyou?”
Thefood-stuffedgrinwaspracticallyradiant.“Thinkofme,”herepeatedhappily.“That’sallI’msaying.”
****
Foralongwhile,therefugeesspokeanddreamedofnothingbutthemysteriousBlaine.Whichsidedidhe
represent?Shouldtheytrusthim?Ormoveagainsthim?Andiftheytriedtostoptheman,whichwaywas
best?Sabotagehiscar?Drughisnextmeal?Orwouldtheyhavetodosomethinggenuinelyhorrible?
But there were no answers, much less a consensus. Blaine continued shadowing them, at a respectful
distance;nothingsubstantialwaslearnedabouthim;anddespitetheenormousstakes,therefugeesfound
themselvesgraduallydriftingbackintothemoment-by-momentbusinessofordinarylife.
Couplesandamalgamationsofcoupleswerebeginningtomakebabies.
Therewasa logic: Refugees were dying every few minutes, usually from radiation exposure. The losses
weren’tcritical,butwhentheyreachedtheirnewhome—thedeepcoldrockoftheCanadianShield—they
wouldneednumbers,arealdemographicmomentum.Andlogicalwaysdanceswithemotion.
Babiesservedasatonictotheadults.Theydidn’tdemandtoomanyresources,andtheyforcedtheirparents
tofocusonmoremanagableproblems,likebuildingtinybodiesandcaringforneedysouls.
EvenJulianwasswayedbyfashion.
With one of his oldest women friends, he found himself hovering over a crystalline womb, watching
nanochinessculpttheirsonoutofsingleatomsandtinyelectricbreaths.
ItwasonlyJulian’ssecondchild.
Aslongashisdaughterhadbeenalive,hehadn’tseenthepointinhavinganother.Thetruthwasthatithad
alwaysdisgustedhimtoknowthatthechildrenintheNestweremanufactured—therewasnootherword
forit—andhedidn’trelishbeingremindedthathewasnothing,moreorless,thanafancymachineamong
millionsofsimilarmachines.
Julianoftendreamedofhisdeaddaughter.Usuallyshewasonboardtheirstrangeark,andhewouldfinda
notefromher,andacabinnumber,andhewouldwakeupsmiling,feelingcertainthathewouldfindher
today. Then he would suddenly remember the bomb, and he would start to cry, suffering through the
wrenching,damninglossalloveragain.
Whichwasironic,inafashion.
Duringthelastnineteenmonths,fatheranddaughterhadgraduallyandinexorablydriftedapart.Shewas
verymuchachildwhentheycametotheNest,asflexibleasherfatherwasn’t,andhowmanytimeshad
Julian lain awake in bed, wondering why he had ever bothered being Transmutated. His daughter didn’t
needhim,plainly.Hecouldhaveremainedbehind.Whichalwaysledtothesamequestions:Whenhewasa
normalhumanbeing,washegenuinelyhappy?Orwashisdaughter’sillnesssimplyanexcuse…aspicybit
ofgoodfortunethatofferedanescaperoute…?
When the Nest was destroyed, Julian survived only through more good fortune. He was as far from the
epicenteraspossible,shieldedbytheNest’sinteriorwallsandemergencybarricades.Yeteventhen,mostof
the people near him were killed, an invisible neutron rain scrambling their minds. That same rain had
knockedhimunconsciousjustbeforethefirestormarrived,andifanautodochadn’tfoundhislimpbody,
thendraggedhimintoashelter,hewouldhavebeencremated.AndofcourseiftheNesthadn’tdevisedits
elaborateescapeplan,stockpilingtheBuickandcloningequipmentoutsidetheNest,Julianwouldhavehad
nochoicebuttoremainintherubble,fightingtosurvivethenextmoment,andthenext.
Butthosecoincidenceshappened,makinghispresentlifefeelliketheculminationofsomegloriousFate.
ThesecrettruthwasthatJulianrelishedhisnewimportance,andheenjoyedthepressuresthatcamewith
eachbathroombreakandeverystopforgas.Ifhediednow,betweenmissions,otherscouldtakehisplace,
leadingWinemaster’sclonedbodythroughtheneededmotions…buttheywouldn’tdoaswell,Juliancould
tell himself…a secret part of him wishing that this bizarre, slow-motion chase would never come to an
end…
TheBuickstayedontheTollwaythroughnorthernIllinois,slippingbeneathChicagobeforeskippingacross
asliverofIndiana.Julianwasintegratedwithhislargerselfseveraltimes,goingthroughthemotionsofthe
stiff,tired,andhungrytraveler.Blainealwaysarrivedseveralminuteslater,neverapproachinghisquarry,
alwaysfindinggasatdifferentpumps,standingoutsidetherestrooms,waitingtoshowJulianabigsmile
butneverutteringsomuchasawordinpassing.
Alittleaftermidnight,theBuick’sdrivertookhishandoffthewheel,laybackandfellasleep.Trustingthe
Tollway’sdrivingwasoutofcharacter,butwithBlainetrailingthemandtheborderapproaching,noone
waseagertowastetimeinamotelbed.
Attwointhemorning,Julianwasalsoasleep,dippinginandoutofdreams.Suddenlyahandtookhimby
theshoulder,shakinghim,andseveralvoices,urgentandclose,said,“Weneedyou,Julian.Now.”
Inhisdreams,athousandadmiringfacesweresaying,“Weneedyou.”
Julianawoke.
Hiscabinwasfullofpeople.Hismatehadbeenusheredaway,buthisunbornchild,nearlycompletenow,
floatedinhisbubbleofblackenedcrystal,oblivioustothenervousairandthetight,crispvoices.
“What’swrong?”Julianasked.
“Everything,”theyassured.
HisuniversalwindowshowedalivefeedfromasecuritycameraontheNorthDakota-Manitobaborder.
Department of Technology investigators, backed up by a platoon of heavily armed Marines, were
dismantlingaToyotaSunrise.Evenatthosesyrupyspeeds,thelasersmovedquickly,leavingthevehiclein
tinypiecesthatwerephotographed,analyzed,thenfedintoastate-of-the-artdecontaminationunit.
“Whatisthis?”Juliansputtered.
Buthealreadyknewtheanswer.
“Therewasasecondgroupofrefugees,”saidthePresident,kneelingbesidehisbed.Shewaswearingan
oversizedface—acommonfashion,oflate—andwithaverycalm,verygrimvoice,sheadmitted,“We
weren’ttheonlysurvivors.”
Theyhadkeptitasecret,atleastfromJulian.Whichwasperfectlyreasonable,heremindedhimself.
What if he had been captured? Under torture, he could have doomed that second lifeboat, and everyone
insideit…
“Ismydaughterthere?”heblurted,uncertainwhattohopefor.
ThePresidentshookherhead.“No,Julian.”
Yetiftwoarksexisted,couldn’ttherebeathird?Andwouldn’tthePresidentkeepitsexistencesecretfrom
him,too?
“We’vebeenmonitoringevents,”shecontinued.“It’stragic,what’shappeningtoourfriends…butwe’llbe
abletoadjustourmethods…forwhenwecrosstheborder…”
Helookedattheotheroversizedfaces.“Butwhydoyouneedme?Wewon’treachDetroitforhours.”
ThePresidentlookedoverhershoulder.“Playtherecording.”
SuddenlyJulianwaslookingbackintime.HesawtheSunrisepulluptotheborderpost,waitinginlineto
besearched.ApickuptruckwithWyomingplatespulledupbehindit,andoutsteppedapreposterouslytall
manbrandishingabadgeandahandgun.Withaneeriesenseofpurpose,hestrodeuptothelittlecar,took
aimandfiredhisfullclipthroughthedriver’swindow.Thebodybehindthewheeljerkedandkickedasit
was ripped apart. Then the murderer reached in and pulled the corpse out through the shattered glass,
shoutingattheTechinvestigators:
“I’vegotthem!Here!ForChrist’ssake,helpme!”
Theimagedissolved,thewindowreturningtothereal-time,real-speedscene.
Tohimself,Julianwhispered,“No,itcan’tbe…”
ThePresidenttookhishandsinhers,theirwarmthacomfortablefiction.“Wewouldhaveshownyouthisas
itwashappening,butweweren’tsurewhatitmeant.”
“Butyou’resurenow?”
“Thatman followed ourpeople.All the way fromNebraska.”She shook her head,admitting,“Wedon’t
knoweverything,no.Forsecurityreasons,werarelyspokewiththoseothersurvivors—”
“Whatarewegoingtodo?”Juliangrowled.
“Theonlyreasonablethingleftforus.”Shesmiledinasadfashion,thenwarnedhim,“We’repullingoff
theTollwaynow.Youstillhavealittlewhiletogetready…”
Heclosedhiseyes,sayingnothing.
“Notaslongasyou’dlike,I’msure…butwiththissortofthing,maybeit’sbesttohurry…”
****
Therewere no gas pumps or restaurants intherestarea.A smalldividedparkinglot was surrounded by
treesandfakelogcabinlavatoriesthatinturnweresandwichedbetweenbroadlanesofmoonlitpavement.
Theparkinglotwasempty.Theonlytrafficwasasingletruckinthewestboundfreighterlane,halfadozen
trailerstowedalonginitswake.Julianwatchedthetruckpass,thenwalkedintothedarkestshadows,and
kneeled.
Thesecuritycameraswerebeingfedfalseimages—imagesthatwerehopefullymoreconvincingthanthe
ludicrouslogcabins.Yetevenwhenheknewthathewassafe,Julianfeltexposed.Vulnerable.Thefeeling
worsenedbythemoment,becomingablackdread,andbythetimetheTokamakpulledtostop,hisnewborn
heartwasracing,andhisquickdampbreathtastedfoul.
BlaineparkedtwoslotsawayfromthesleepingBuick.Hedidn’tbotherlookingthroughthewindows.
Instead,guidedbyintuitionorhiddensensor,hestrolledtowardthemen’sroom,hesitated,thentookafew
half-stepstowardJulian,passingintoapatchofmoonlight.
Usingbothhands,Julianliftedhisweapon,lettingitaimitselfatthesmoothbroadforehead.
“Well,”saidBlaine,“Iseeyou’rethinkingaboutme.”
“Whatdoyouwant?”Julianwhispered.Thenwithacertainclumsiness,headded,“Withme.”
Themanremainedsilentforamoment,asmilebuilding.
“WhoamI?”heaskedsuddenly.“Ideas?Doyouhaveany?”
Juliangulpedabreath,thensaid,“Youworkforthegovernment.”Hisvoicewastesty,pained.“AndIdon’t
knowwhyyou’refollowingme!”
Blainedidn’tofferanswers.Insteadhewarnedhisaudience,“Theborderisalothardertopiercethanyou
think.”
“Isit?”
“Humansaren’tfools,”Blaineremindedhim.“Afterall,theydesignedthetechnologiesusedbytheNests,
andthey’vehadjustaslongasyoutoimproveonoldtricks.”
“Peopleintheworldaregettingdumber,”saidJulian.“Youtoldmethat.”
“And those same people are very scared, very focused,” his opponent countered. “Their borders are a
priority to them. You are their top priority. And even if your thought processes are accelerated a
thousandfold,they’vegotAIswhocanblisteryouinanyraceofintellect.Atleastforthetimebeing,they
can.”
Shoothim,aninnervoiceurged.
YetJuliandidnothing,waitingsilently,hopingtobesavedfromthisonerouschore.
“Youcan’tcrossintoCanadawithoutme,”Blainetoldhim.
“Iknowwhathappened…”Julianfeltthegun’sbarreladjustingitselfashishandsgrewtiredanddropped
slightly.“UpinNorthDakota…weknowallaboutit…”
ItwasBlaine’sturntokeepsilent.
Again,Julianasked,“Whoareyou?Justtellmethatmuch.”
“You haven’t guessed it, have you?” The round face seemed genuinely disappointed. “Not even in your
wildestdreams…”
“Andwhyhelpus?”Julianmuttered,sayingtoomuch.
“Becauseinthelongrun,helpingyouhelpsme.”
“How?”
Silence.
“Wedon’thaveanywealth,”Julianroared.“Ourhomesweredestroyed.Byyou,forallIknow—”
Themanlaughedloudly,smirkingashebegantoturnaway.“You’vegotsometimeleft.Thinkaboutthe
possibilities,andwe’lltalkagain.”
Juliantuggedonthetrigger.Justonce.
Eighteen shells pierced the back of Blaine’s head, then worked down the wide back, devastating every
organ even as the lifeless body crumpled. Even a huge man falls fast, Julian observed. Then he rose,
walkingonweaklegs,andwithhisownaim,heemptiedtherestofhisclipintothegore.
Itwaseasy,pumpinginthosefinalshots.
What’smore,shootingthedeadcarriedanodd, unexpectedsatisfaction—whichwasprobablythesame
satisfactionthattheterroristshadfeltwhentheirtinybombdestroyedahundredmillionsoullessmachines.
Witheveryrefugeewatching,Juliancutopenthewombwithlasershears.
JulianJr.wasbornafewsecondsaftertwo-thirtyA.M.,andtheaudience,desperateforagoodcelebration,
nearlyburiedthebabywithgiftsandsweetwords.Yetnobodycouldspoilhimlikehisfathercould.Forthe
nextfewhours,Julianpesteredhisfirstsonwithloveandpraise,workingwithamanicenergytofillevery
need,everywhim.Andhisquesttobeaperfectfatheronlygrewworse.Thesunwasbeginningtoshow
itself; Canada was waiting over the horizon; but Julian was oblivious, hunched over the toddler with
sparklingtoysinbothhands,hisnever-prettyvoicetryingtosingachild’ssong,nothinghalfasimportant
inthisworldasmakinghissongiggleandsmile…!
Theyweren’tgettingpasttheborder.Theirenemiesweretooclever,andtooparanoid.Juliancouldsmell
theinevitable,butbecausehedidn’tknowwhatelsetodo,hewentthroughthemotionsofsmilingforthe
Presidentandthepublic,sayingtheusualbravewordswheneveritwasdemandedofhim.
SometimesJuliantookhisboyforlongfidesaroundthelifeboat.Duringonejourney,awomankneltand
happilyteasedthebaby,thenlookedupatthefamousman,mentioninginanoff-handedway,“We’llgetto
ournewhomejustintimeforhimtogrowintoit.”
ThosewordsgnawedatJulian,althoughhewashelplesstoexplainwhy.
Bythen thesun hadrisen,its brilliantlight sweepingacross asleepybordertown.Instead ofcrossingat
Detroit,therefugeeshadabandonedtheTollway,takinganoldhighwaynorthtoPortHuron.Itwouldbe
easierhere,wasthelogic.Theprayer.Gazingouttheuniversalwindow,Julian lookedat theboarded up
homesandabandonedbusinesses,carsparkedandforgotten,weedsgrowingineveryyard,everycrack.
Thebordercitieshad lost most of their people in the last year-plus,he recalled. It was too easy and too
accepted,thisbusinessofcrossingintoalandwhereitwasstilllegaltoberemade.Inanotheryear,mostof
theUnitedStateswouldlookthisway,unlessthegovernmenttookmoredrasticmeasuressuchasclosing
itsborders,orworse,invadingitswrong-mindedneighbors…!
Julianfeltadeepchill,shuddering.
That’s when he suddenly understood. Everything. And in the next few seconds, after much thought, he
knewpreciselywhathehadtodo.
Assumingtherewasstilltime…
Adozencarswerelinedupinfrontofthecustomsstation.TheBuickhadslippedinbehindacoupleona
motorcycle. Only one examination station was open, and every traveler was required to first declare his
intentions,thenpermanentlygiveuphiscitizenship.Itwouldbealongwait.Thedriverturnedtheengine
off,watchingtheMarinesandTechofficialsatwork,everythingaboutthemrelentlesslyprofessional.
Threemore carspulledup behindhim,including aTokamak,and hehappenedto glance attherearview
screenwhenBlaineclimbedout,walkingwithagenuinebounce,approachingontherightandrappingon
thepassengerwindowwithonefatknuckle,thenstoopingdownandsmilingthroughtheglass,provingthat
hehadmadearemarkablerecoverysincebeingmurdered.
Julianunlockedthedoorforhim.
Withaheavygrunt,Blainepulledhimselfinandshutthedoor,thengavehiscompanionaquickwink.
Julianwasn’tsurprised.Ifanything,hewasrelieved,tellinghiscompanion,“IthinkIknowwhatyouare.”
“Good,”saidBlaine.“Andwhatdoyourfriendsthink?”
“Idon’tknow.Inevertoldthem.”Juliantookthesteeringwheelinbothhands.“IwasafraidthatifIdid,
theywouldn’tbelieveme.They’dthinkIwascrazy,anddangerous.Andtheywouldn’tletmecomehere.”
The line was moving, jerking forward one car-length. Julian started the Buick and crept forward, then
turneditoffagain.
With a genuine fondness, Blaine touched him on a shoulder, commenting, “Your friends might pull you
backintotheirworldnow.Haveyouthoughtofthat?”
“Sure,”saidJulian.“Butforthenextfewseconds,they’llbetooconfusedtomakeanybigdecisions.”
LakeHuronlayonBlaine’sleft,vastanddeeplyblue,andhestudiedthepicketboatsthatdottedthewater,
bristlingwithlasersthatdidnothingbutflipbackandforth,backandforth,incineratinganyflyingobject
thatappearedevenremotelysuspicious.
“Sotellme,”heaskedhiscompanion,“whydoyouthinkI’mhere?”
Julianturnedhis body, the cultured leather squeaking beneathhim. Gesturing at Port Huron, he said, “Ii
these trends continue, everything’s going to look that way soon. Empty. Abandoned. Humans will have
almostvanishedfromthisworld,whichmeansthatperhapssomeoneelsecouldmoveinwithouttoomuch
trouble. They’ll find houses, and good roads to drive on, and a communication system already in place.
Readymadelives,andpracticallyfreeforthetaking.”
“Whatsortofsomeone?”
“That’s what suddenly occurred to me.” Julian took a deep breath, then said, “Humans are making
themselvessmaller,andfaster.Butwhatifsomethingotherthanhumansisdoingthesamething?Whatif
there’s something in the universe that’s huge, and very slow by human standards, but intelligent
nonetheless.Maybeitlivesincoldplacesbetweenthestars.Maybesomewhereelse.Thepointis,thisother
speciesis undergoinga similarkindof transformation. It’s making itselfa thousand times smaller,anda
thousandtimesquicker,whichputsitroughlyequaltothis.”Thefrailfacewassmiling,andheliftedhis
handsfromthewheel.“Fleshandblood,andbone…thesearethehigh-technologymaterialsthatbuildyour
versionofmicrochines!”
Blaine winked again, saying, “You’re probably right. If you’d explained it that way, your little friends
wouldhavelabeledyouinsane.”
“ButamIright?”
Therewasnoreasontoanswerhimdirectly.“Whataboutme,Mr.Winemaster?Howdoyoulookatme?”
“Youwanttohelpus.”Juliansuddenlywinced,thenshuddered.Buthedidn’tmentionit,saying,“Iassume
thatyouhavedifferentabilitiesthanwedo…thatyoucangetuspasttheirsensors—”
“Issomethingwrong,Mr.Winemaster?”
“Myfriends…they’retryingtotakecontrolofthisbody…”
“Canyoudealwiththem?”
“Foranotherminute.Ichangedallthecontrolcodes.”Again,hewinced.“Youdon’twantthegovernment
awareofyou,right.” Andyou’retryingtohelp steerusand themaway fromwar…duringthisperiodof
transition—”
“Thewayweseeit,”Blaineconfessed,“thechanceofaworldwidecataclysmisjustaboutoneinthree,and
worsening.”
Juliannodded,hisfacecontortinginagony.“IfIacceptyourhelp…?”
“Then I’ll need yours.” He set a broad hand on Julian’s neck. “You’ve done a remarkable job hiding
yourselves.Youandyourfriendsareinthiscar,butmytoolscan’ttellmewhere.Notwithoutmoretime,at
least.Andthat’stimewedon’thave…”
Julianstiffened,hisclothesinstantlysoakedwithperspiration.
Quietly, quickly, he said, “But if you’re really a government agent…here to fool me into telling you…
everything….?”
“I’mnot,”Blainepromised.
Asecondexaminationstationhadjustopened;peopleweremaneuveringforposition,leavingagapinfront
ofthem.
Julian started his car, pulling forward. “If I do tell you…where we are…they’ll think that I’ve betrayed
them…!”
TheBuick’santicollisionsystemengaged,bringingthemtoanabruptstop.
“Listen,”saidBlaine.“You’vegotonlyafewsecondstodecide—”
“Iknow…”
“Where,Mr.Winemaster?Where?”
“Julian,”hesaid,wincingagain.
“Julian.”
Aglintofprideshowedintheeyes.“We’renot…inthecar…”Thentheeyesgrewenormous,andJulian
triedshoutingtheanswer…hismindsuddenlylosingitsgriponthattiny,lovelymouth…
Blaineswungwithhisrightfist,shatteringacheekbonewithhisfirst,blow,killingthebodybeforethelast
blow.
By the time the Marines had surrounded the car, its interior was painted with gore, and in horror, the
soldierswatchedasthemadman—hecouldn’tbeanythingbutinsane—calmlyrolleddownhiswindow
andsmiledwithablood-rimmedmouth,tellinghisaudience,“Ihadtokillhim.He’sSatan.”
Ahardenedlieutenantlookedinatthevictim,tornopenlikeasack,andsheshivered,moaningaloudforthe
poorman.
Withperfectcalm,Blainedeclared,“Ihadtoeathisheart.That’showyoukillSatan.Don’tyouknow?”
Fordisobeyingorders,thePresidentdeclaredJulianatraitor,andsheoversawhistrialandconviction.
Theentireprocesstooklessthanaminute.Hisquarterswereremodeledtoserveashisprisoncell.Inthe
next ten minutes, three separate attempts were made on his life. Not everyone agreed with the court’s
sentence,itseemed.Whichwasunderstandable.Contactwiththeoutsideworldhadbeenlost theinstant
Winemasterdied.Therefugeesandtheirlifeboatwerelostineverykindofdarkness.Atanymoment,the
Techspecialistswouldthrowthemintoadecontaminationunit,andtheywouldevaporatewithoutwarning.
Andall because they’d entrusted themselves to an old DNA-bornhuman who never really wanted to be
Transmutatedinthefirstplace,accordingtoatleastoneofhisformerlovers…
Ostensiblyforsecurityreasons,Julianwasn’tpermittedvisitors.
Notevenhisyoungsoncouldbebroughttohim,norwasheallowedtoseesomuchasapictureoftheboy.
Julian spent his waking moments pacing back and forth in the dim light, trying to exhaust himself, then
fallingintoahardsleep,tootiredtodreamatall,ifhewaslucky…
Beforethefirsthourwasfinished,hehadlostalltrackoftime.
Afterninefulldaysofrelentlessisolation,theuniversehadshriveleduntilnothingexistedbuthiscell,and
him,hismemoriesindistinguishablefromfantasies.
Onthetenthday,thecelldooropened.
Ayoungmansteppedin,andwithastranger’svoice,hesaid,“Father.”
“Whoareyou?”askedJulian.
His son didn’t answer, giving him the urgent news instead. “Mr. Blaine finally made contact with us,
explainingwhatheisandwhat’shappenedsofar,andwhatwillhappen…!”
Confusionwrestledwithafledgingsenseofrelief.
“He’sfrombetweenthestars,justlikeyouguessed,Father.Andhe’sbeenfoundinsaneforyourmurder.
Though of course you’re not dead. But the government believes there was a Julian Winemaster, and it’s
holding Blaine in a Detroit hospital, and he’s holding us. His metabolism is augmenting our energy
production,andwhennobody’swatching,he’llconnectuswiththeoutsideworld.”
Juliancouldn’timaginesuchawildstory:Ithadtobetrue!
“Whentheworldissafe,inayearortwo,he’llactcuredorhe’llescape—whateverisnecessary—and
he’llcarryuswhereverwewanttogo.”
Theoldmansatonhisbed,suddenlyexhausted.
“Wherewouldyouliketogo,Father?
“Outthatdoor,”Julianmanaged.Thenawondrousthoughttookhimbysurprise,andhegrinned,saying,
“No,IwanttobelikeBlainewas.Iwanttolivebetweenthestars,tobehugeandcold,andslow…
“Nottoday,maybe…
“Butsoon…definitelysoon…!”
****
galacticnorth
ALASTAIRREYNOLDS
Persistencecanbeavirtue,butperhaps—asinthebreakneck,relentlesslypaced,gorgeouslycoloredstory
that follows, which sweeps us along on a cosmic chase across thousands oflight-years of space and
millionsofyearsoftime—itcansometimesbetakenabittoofar…
NewwriterAlastairReynoldsisafrequentcontributortoInterzone,andhasalsosoldtoAsimov’sScience
Fictionandelsewhere.AprofessionalscientistwithaPh.D.inastronomy,hecomesfromWales,butlivesin
theNetherlands.Hisfirstnovel,RevelationSpace,alreadybeinghailedasoneofthemajorSFbooksofthe
year,hasjustappearedinBritain.Hisstory“ASpyinEuropa”
appearedinourFifteenthAnnualCollection.
LUYTEN726-8COMETARYHALO—AD2303
T
he two of them crouched in a tunnel of filthy ice, bulky in spacesuits. Fifty metres down the tunnel the
servitorstraddledtheboreonskeletallegs,transmittingathermalimageontotheirvisors.
Irraveljumpedwheneverthenoiseshiftedintosomethinghuman,cradlinghergunnervously.
“Damnthisthing,”shesaid.“Hardlygetmyfingerroundthetrigger.”
“Itcan’treadyourblood,Captain.”Markarian,nexttoher,managednottosoundasifhewasstatingthe
obvious.“Youhavetosettheoverridetofemale.”
Ofcourse.Belatedly,rememberingthetrainingsessiononFandwherethey’dbeenshownhowtousethe
weapons—monthsofsubjectivetimeago;yearsofworldtime-Irraveltoldtheguntoreshapeitself.
Thememory-plasticcasingsquirmedinherglovestosomethingmoremanageable.Itstillfeltwrong.
“Howarewedoing?”
“Lastteamsinposition.That’sallthetunnelscovered.They’llhavetofighttheirwayin.”
“Ithinkthatmightwellbeontheagenda.”
“Maybeso.”Markariansightedalonghisweaponlikeasniper.“Butthey’llgetasurprisewhentheyreach
thecargo.”
True:theshiphadsealedthesleeperchamberstheinstantthepirateshadarrivednearthecomet.
Counter-intrusionweaponrywouldseriouslyinconvenienceanyonetryingtobreakin,unlesstheyhadthe
rightauthorization.Andthere,Irravelknew,wastheproblem;thethingshewouldrathernothavehadto
dealwith.
“Markarian,” Irravel said. “If we’re taken prisoner, there’s a chance they’ll try and make us give up the
codes.”
“Don’tthinkthathasn’tcrossedmymindalready.”Markarianrecheckedsomeaspectofhisgun.
“Iwon’tletyoudown,Irravel.”
“It’snotaquestionoflettingmedown,”shesaid,carefully.
“It’swhetherornotwebetraythecargo.”
“Iknow.”Foramomenttheystudiedeachother’sfacesthroughtheirvisors,acknowledgingwhathadonce
beenmorethanprofessionalfriendship;theshared knowledgethatthey wouldkilleach otherratherthan
placethecargoinharm’sway.
TheirshipwastheramlinerHirondelle.Shewasdamaged;lashedtothecometforrepair.
Improbably sleek for a creature of vacuum, her four-kilometer-long conic hull tapered to a needlesharp
prowandsproutedtrumpet-shapedenginesfromtwoswept-backsparsattherear.IthadbeenIrravel’sfirst
captaincy:aroutine17-yearhopfromFand,intheLacaille9352system,toYellowstone,aroundEpsilon
Eridani—with20,000reefersleepcolonists.Whathadgonewrongshouldonlyhavehappenedonceina
thousandtrips:aspeckofinterstellardusthadslippedthroughtheship’sscreenofanti-collisionlasersand
punched a cavernous hole in the ablative ice-shield, vaporizing a quarter of its mass. With a massively
reduced likelihood of surviving another collision, the ship had automatically steered toward the nearest
systemcapableofsupplyingrepairmaterials.
Luyten726-8hadbeennoone’sideaofawelcomingdestination.Nohumancolonieshadflourishedthere.
All that remained were droves of scavenging machines sent out by various superpowers. The ship had
lockedintoascavenger’shomingsignal,eventuallycomingwithinvisualrangeoftheinertcometwhich
themachinehadmadeitshome,andwhichoughttohavebeenchequeredwithresupplymaterials.
ButwhenIrravelhadbeenrevivedfromreefersleep,whatshe’dfoundinplaceoftheexpectedgoodswere
onlyacresofbarrencomet.
“DearGod,”she’dsaid.“Dowedeservethis?”
Yet,afterafewdays,despairbecamesteelyresolve.Theshipcouldn’tsafelytravelanywhereelse,sothey
wouldhave to process the supplies themselves,doingtheworkof the malfunctioning surveyor. It would
meanstrippingtheshipjusttomakethemachinestomineandshapethecometaryice—yearsofworkby
anyestimate.Thathardlymattered.Thedetourhadalreadyaddedyearstothemission.
Irravelorderedtherestofhercrew—all90ofthem—tobewarmed,andthendelegatedtasks,mostly
programming. Servitors were not particularly intelligent outside of their designated functions. She
consideredactivatingtheothermachinesshecarriedascargo—thegreenflyterraformers—butthatcut
againstallherinstincts.GreenflymachineswereVonNeumannbreeders,unlikethesterileservitors.They
wereahundredtimescleverer.Shewouldonlyconsiderusingthemifthecargowasplacedinimmediate
danger.
“Ifyouwon’tunleashthegreenflies,”Markariansaid,“atleastthinkaboutwakingtheConjoiners.There
mayonlybefourofthem,butwecouldusetheirexpertise.”
“Idon’ttrustthem.Ineverlikedtheideaofcarryingtheminthefirstplace.Theyunsettleme.”
“Idon’tlikethemeither,butI’mwillingtoburymyprejudicesifitmeansfixingtheshipfaster.”
“Well,that’swherewediffer.I’mnot,sodon’traisethesubjectagain.”
“Yes,”Markariansaid,andonlywhenitsomissionwasinsolentlycleardidhebotheradding:
“Captain.”
Eventually the Conjoiners ceased to be an issue, when the work was clearly under way and proceeding
normally.Mostofthecrewwereabletoreturntoreefersleep.IrravelandMarkarianstayedawakealittle
longer,andevenafterthey’dgoneunder,theywokeeverysevenmonthstoreviewthestatusoftheworks.It
begantolookasiftheywouldsucceedwithoutassistance.
Untilthedaytheywerewokenoutofschedule,andadark,grapple-shapedshipwasalmostuponthecomet.
Notaninterstellarship,it musthave comefromsomewherenearby—probablywithinthesamehaloof
cometsaroundLuyten726-8.Itssilencewasnotencouraging.
“Ithinkthey’repirates,”Irravelsaid.“I’veheardofoneortwoothershipsgoingmissingnearhere,andit
wasalwaysputdowntoaccident.”
“Whydidtheywaitsolong?”
“Theyhadnochoice.Therearebillionsofcometsouthere,butthey’reneverlessthanlight-hoursapart.
That’s a long way if you only have in-system engines. They must have a base somewhere else to keep
watch,maybelight-weeksfromhere,likeaspiderwithaverywideweb.”
“Whatdowedonow?”
Irravelgrittedherteeth.“Dowhatanythingdoeswhenitgetsstuckinthemiddleofaweb.Fightback.”
ButtheHirondelle’sminimaldefencesonlyscratchedagainsttheenemyship.Oblivious,itfiredpenetrators
andwinchedcloser.Dozensofcrab-shapedmachinesswarmedoutanddroppedbelowthecomet’shorizon,
impactingwithseismicthuds.Afterafewminutes,sensorsinthefurthesttunnelsregisteredintruders.Only
a handful of crew had been woken. They broke guns out of the armoury —small arms designed for
pacificationintheunlikelyeventofashipboardriot—andthenestablisheddefensivepositionsinallthe
cometarytunnels.
Nervouslynow,IrravelandMarkarianadvancedroundthetunnel’sbend,cleatedshoeswhisperingthrough
icebarelymoresubstantialthansmoke.Theyhadtokeeptheirsuitexhaustsfromtouchingthewallsifthey
didn’twanttogetblownbackbysuperheatedsteam.Irraveljumpedagainatthepatternofphotonsonher
visorandthenforcedcalm,tellingherselfitwasanothermirage.
Exceptthistimeitstayed.
Markarianopenedfire,squeezingroundspasttheservitor.Itlurchedaside,agapingholeinitscarapace.
Blackcrabscameroundthebend,encrustedwithsensorsandguns.Thefirstreachedtheruinedservitorand
dismembereditwithease.Ifonlythere’dbeentimetoactivateandprogramthegreenflymachines
—they’dhaverippedthroughthepirateslikeahostoffuries,treatingthemasterraformablematter.
Andmaybeustoo,Irravelthought.
Somethingflashedthroughthecloudsofsteam;anelectromagneticpulsethatturnedIrravel’ssuitsluggish,
as if every joint had corroded. The whine of the circulator died to silence, leaving only her frenzied
breathing.Somethingpressedagainstherbackpack.Sheturnedslowlyaround,waryoffallingagainstthe
walls. There were crabs everywhere. The chamber in which they’d been cornered was littered with the
bodies of the other crew members; pink trail of blood on ice reaching from other tunnels. They’d been
killedanddraggedhere.
Twowordsjumpedtomind:killyourself.ButfirstshehadtokillMarkarian,incasehelackedthenerve
himself.Shecouldn’tseehisfacethroughhisvisor.Thatwasgood.Painfully,shepointedtheguntowards
him and squeezed the trigger. But instead of firing, the gun shivered in her hands, stowing itself into a
quarterofitsoperationalvolume.“Thankyouforusingthisweaponsystem,”itsaidcheerfully.
Irravelletitdrifttotheground.
Anewvoiceraspedinherhelmet.“Ifyou’rethinkingofsurrendering,nowmightnotbeabadtime.”
“Bastard,”Irravelsaid,softly.
“Reallythebestyoucanmanage?”ThelanguagewasCanasian—whatIrravelandMarkarianhadspoken
on Fand — but heavily accented, as if the native tongue was Norte or Russish, or spoken with an
impediment.“Bastard’squiteacomplimentcomparedtosomeofthingsmyclientscomeupwith.”
“Givemetime;I’llworkonit.”
“Positiveattitude—that’sgood.”Thelidofacrabhingedup,revealingtheproneformofamaninamesh
ofmotion-sensors.Hecrawledfromthemeshandsteppedontotheice,wearingaspacesuitformedfrom
segmented metal plates. Totems had been welded to the armour, around holographic starscapes infested
withserpentinemonstersandscantily-cladmaidens.
“Whoareyou?”
“CaptainRunSeven.”Hesteppedcloser,examininghersuitnameplate.“ButyoucancallmeSeven,Irravel
Veda.”
“Ihopeyouburninhell,Seven.”
Sevensmiled —shecould seethecurve ofhisgrin throughhisvisor; theoddly upturned nostrilsof his
noseaboveit.“I’msensingsomenegativityhere,Irravel.Ithinkweneedtoputthatbehindus,don’tyou?”
Irravellookedathermurderedadjutants.“Maybeifyoutellmewhichonewasthetraitor.”
“Traitor?”
“Youseemedtohavenodifficultyfindingus.”
“Actually,youfoundus.”Itwasawoman’svoicethistime.“Weuselures—tamperingwithcommercial
beacons,likethescavenger’s.”Sheemergedfromoneoftheotherattackmachines,wearingasuitsimilarto
Seven’s,exceptthatitdisplayedthetestosterone-saturatedmaleanaloguesofhisspace-maidens;allrippling
torsosandchromedcodpieces.
“Wreckers,”Irravelbreathed.
“Yeah.Shipshomeinonthebeacons,thenfindtheyain’tgoinganywhereinahurry.Wemoveinfromthe
halo.”
“Discloseallourconfidentialpracticeswhileyou’reatit,Mirsky,”Sevensaid.
Sheglaredathimthroughhervisor.“Vedawouldhavefigureditout.”
“We’llneverknownow,willwe?”
“Whatdoesitmatter?”shesaid.“Gonnakillthemanyway,aren’tyou?”
Sevenflashedan arc of teeth filed to points and waved ahand towards the female pirate. “Allow me to
introduceMirsky,ourloose-tonguedbutefficientinformationretrievalspecialist.She’sgoingtotakeyouon
alittletripdownmemorylane;seeifwecan’trememberthoseaccesscodes.”
“Whatcodes?”
“It’llcomebacktoyou,”Sevensaid.
Theyweretakenthroughthetunnels,pasthalf-assembledminingmachines,ontothesurfaceandtheninto
thepirateship.Theshipwashuge:mostofitlivingspace.Crampedcorridorssnakedthroughhydroponics
galleries of spring wheat and dwarf papaya, strung with xenon lights. The ship hummed constantly with
carbondioxidescrubbers,thefetidairmakingIrravelsneeze.Therewerechildreneverywhere,frowningat
thecaptives.Thepiratesobviouslyhadnoreefersleeptechnology:theystayedwarmthewholetime,and
someofthechildrenIrravelsawhadprobablybeenbornaftertheHirondellehadarrivedhere.
They arrived at a pair of interrogation rooms where they were separated. Irravel’s room held a couch
convertedfromanoldcommandseat,stillcarryingwarningdecals.Aconsolestoodinonecorner.
Paintedtorture scenes foughtforwallspacewith racks of surgicalequipment;drills,blades and ratcheted
contraptionsspeckledwithrust.
Irravelbreatheddeeply.Hyperventilationcouldhaveananaestheticeffect.Herconditioningwouldinany
casecreateastateofdetachment:thepainwouldbenolessintense,butshewouldfeelitatoneremove.
Shehoped.
The pirates fiddled with her suit, confused by the modern design, until they stripped her down to her
shipboard uniform. Mirsky leant over her. She was small-boned and dark skinned, dirty hair rising in a
topknot,eyes mismatchedshadesof azure. Somethingclungto the sideofher head abovetheleftear; a
silverbox withwinkingstatuslights. She fixed a crown toIrravel’s head, then made adjustments on the
console.
“Decidedyet?”CaptainRunSevensaid,saunteringintotheroom.Hewasunlatchinghishelmet.
“What?”
“Whichofourportfolioofinterrogationpackagesyou’regoingtooptfor.”
Shewaslookingathisfacenow.Itwasn’treallyhuman.Sevenhadman’sbulkandshape,buttherewasat
leastasmuchofthepiginhisface.Hisnosewasasnout,hisearstwotaperedflapsframingahairlesspink
skull.Paleeyesevincedanimalcunning.
“Whatthehellareyou?”
“Excellentquestion,”Seven said, clicking a finger in her direction.Hisbare hand was dark skinned and
feminine.“Tobehonest,Idon’treallyknow.Ageneticsexperiment,perhaps?WasItheseventhfailure,or
thefirstsuccess?”
“Areyousureyouwantanhonestansweronthat?”
Heignoredher.“AllIknowisthatI’vebeenhere—inthehaloaroundLuyten726-8—foraslongasIcan
remember.”
“Someonesentyouhere?”
“Inatinyautomatedspacecraft;perhapsanoldlifepod.Theship’sgoverningpersonalityraisedmeaswell
asitcould;attemptedtomakeofmeawell-roundedindividual.”Seventrailedoffmomentarily.
“EventuallyIwasfoundbyapassingship.Istagedwhatmightbetermedahostiletakeoverbid.Fromthen
onI’vehadanorganizationlargelyrecruitedfrommyclientbase.”
“You’reinsane.Itmighthaveworkedonce,butitwon’tworkwithus.”
“Whyshouldyoubeanydifferent?”
“Neuralconditioning.Itreatthecargoasmyoffspring-all20,000ofthem.Ican’tbetraytheminanyway.”
Sevensmiledhispiggysmile.“Funny;thelastclientthoughtthattoo.”
Sometime later Irravel woke alone in a reefersleep casket. She remembered only dislocated episodes of
interrogation.Therewasthememoryofakindofsacrifice,and,later,oftheworstterrorshecouldimagine
—sointensethatshecouldnotbringitscausetomind.Underpinningeverythingwasthecertaintythatshe
hadnotgivenupthecodes.
Sowhywasshestillalive?
Everythingwasquietandcold.Onceshewasabletomove,shefoundasuitandwanderedtheHirondelle
untilshereachedaporthole.Theywerestilllashedtothecomet.Theothercraftwasgone;presumablyen
routebacktothebaseinthehalowherethepiratesmusthavehadalargership.
ShelookedforMarkarian,buttherewasnosignofhim.
Then she checked the 20-sleeper chambers; the thousand-berth dormitories. The chamber doors were all
open.Mostofthesleeperswerestillthere.They’dbeenbutchered,carvedopenforimplants,mindspulped
bydestructivememory-trawlingdevices.Thehorrorwastoogreatforanyrecognizableemotionalresponse.
Theconditioningmadeeachdeathfeellikeastolenpartofher.
Yetsomethingkeptherontheedgeofsanity:thediscoverythat200sleepersweremissing.
There was no sign that they’d been butchered like the others, which left the possibility that they’d been
abductedbythepig.Itwasmadness;itwouldnotbegintocompensateforthelossoftheothers—buther
psychologyallowednootherlineofthought.
Shecouldfindthemagain.
Herplanwasdisarminglysimple.Itcrystallizedinhermindwiththeclarityofadivinevision.Itwouldbe
done.
She would repair the ship. She would hunt down Seven. She would recover the sleepers from him. And
enactwhateverretributionshedeemedfit.
ShefoundthechamberwherethefourConjoinershadslept,wellawayfromthemaindormitories,inpartof
theship where the pirates were not likelytohavewandered.She was hoping she could revive them and
seektheirassistance.Thereseemednowaytheycouldmakethingsworseforher.
Butherhopesfadedwhenshesawthescorchmarksofweaponblastsaroundthebulkhead;thedoorforced.
Shesteppedinsideanyway.
They’d been a sect on Mars, originally; a clique of cyberneticists with a particular fondness for self-
experimentation. In 2190 their final experiment had involved distributed processing — allowing their
enhanced minds to merge into one massively parallel neural net. The resultant event — a permanent,
irrevocableescalationtoanewmodeofconsciousness—wasknownastheTransenlightenment.
There’dbeenawar,ofcourse.
Demarchists had long seen both sides. They used neural augmentation themselves, policed so that they
neverapproached the Conjoinerthreshold.They’d brokeredthepeace,defusing the suspicionaround the
Conjoiners.ConjoinershadfuelledDemarchistexpansionfromEuropawiththeirtechnologies,fusedinthe
white-heatofTransenlightenment.FourofthemwerealongasobserversbecausetheHirondelleusedtheir
ramscoopdrives.
Irravelstilldidn’ttrustthem.
Andmaybeitdidn’tmatter.Thereefersleepunits—flutedcasketslikestreamlinedcoffins—wereriddled
withblastholes.Grimacingagainstthesmell,Irravelexaminedtheremainsinside.They’dbeencutopen,
butthepiratesseemedtohaveabandonedthejobhalfwaythrough,notfindingthekindsofimplantsthey
wereexpecting.Andmaybenotevenrecognizingthattheyweredealingwithanythingotherthannormal
humans, Irravel thought — especially if the pirates who’d done this hadn’t been among Seven’s more
experiencedcrewmembers;justtrigger-happythugs.
She examined the final casket; the one furthest from the door. It was damaged, but not so badly as the
others. The display cartouches were still alive, a patina of frost still adhering to the casket’s lid. The
Conjoinerinsidelookedintact:thepirateshadneverreachedhim.Shereadhisnameplate:Remontoire.
“Yeah,he’saliveone,”saidavoicebehindIrravel.“Nowbackoffrealslow.”
Heart racing, Irravel did as she was told. Slowly, she turned around, facing the woman whose voice she
recognized.
“Mirsky?”shesaid.
“Yeah,it’syourluckyday.”Mirskywaswearinghersuit, butwithoutthe helmet,makingher headseem
shrunkeninthemoatofherneck-ring.ShehadagunonIrravel,butthewayshepointeditwashalf-hearted,
asifthiswasastageintheirrelationshipshewantedtogetoverasquicklyaspossible.
“Whatthehellareyoudoinghere?”
“Sameasyou,Veda.Tryingtofigureouthowmuchshitwe’rein;howhardit’llbetogetthisshipmoving
again.GuesswehadthesameideaabouttheConjoiners.Sevenwentberserkwhenheheardthey’dbeen
killed,butIfigureditwasworthcheckinghowthoroughthejobhadbeen.”
“Stop;slowdown.Startatthebeginning.Whyaren’tyouwithSeven?”
Mirskypushedpastherandconsultedthereefersleepindicators.“Sevenandmehadafallingout.Fillinthe
restyourself.” With quick jabs ofherfreehand she called up differentdisplaymodes,frowningat each.
“Shit,thisain’tgonnabeeasy.Ifwewaketheguywithouthisthreefriends,he’sgonnabepsychotic;nouse
tousatall.”
“Whatkindoffallingout?”
“SevenreckonedIwasholdingbacktoomuchintheinterrogation;notputtingyouthroughenoughhell.”
Shescratchedatthesilverboxonthesideofherhead.“Maybewecanwakehim,thenfakethecybernetic
presenceofhisfriends—whatdoyouthink?”
“WhyamIstillalive,ifSevenbrokeintothesleeperchambers?Whyareyoustillalive?”
“Seven’sasadist.Abandonment’smorehisstylethanaquickandcleanexecution.Asforyou,thepigcuta
dealwithyoursecond-in-command.”
Theimplicationofthatsunkin.“Markariangavehimthecodes?”
“Itwasn’tyou,Veda.”
StrangerelieffloodedIrravel.Shecouldneverbeabsolvedofthecrimeoflosingthecargo,butatleasther
degreeofcomplicityhadlessened.
“But that was only half the deal,” Mirsky continued. “The rest was Seven promising not to kill you if
Markarian agreed to join the Hideyoshi, our main ship.” She told Irravel that there’d been a transmitter
riggedtoherreefersleepunit,sothatMarkarianwouldknowshewasstillalive.
“Sevenmusthaveknownhewastakingariskleavingbothofusalive.”
“Aprettysmallone.Theship’sinpiecesandSevenwillassumeneitherofushasthebrainstopatchitback
together.”Mirskyslippedthegunintoaholster.“ButSevenassumedtheConjoinersweredead.
Bigmistake.OncewefigureawaytowakeRemontoiresafely,hecanhelpusfixtheship;makeitfaster
too.”
“You’vegotthisallworkedout,haven’tyou?”
“Moreorless.Somethingtellsmeyouaren’tabsolutelyreadytostarttrustingme,though.”
“Sorry,Mirsky,butyoudon’tmaketheworld’smostconvincingturncoat.”
Shereachedupwithherfreehand,grippingtheboxonthesideofherhead.“Knowwhatthisis?Aloyalty-
shunt.Makessimianstemcells;pumpsthemintotheinternalcarotidartery,justabovethecavernoussinus.
They jump the blood-brain barrier and build a whole bunch of transient structures tied to primate
dominance hierarchies; alpha-male shit. That’s how Seven had us under his command — he was King
Monkey.ButI’veturneditoffnow.”
“That’ssupposedtoreassureme?”
“No,butmaybethiswill.”
Mirskytuggedatthebox,rippingitawayfromthesideofherheadincurdsofblood.
****
LUYTEN726-8COMETARYHALO—AD2309
Irravelfelt the Hirondelle turn like a compass needle. The ramscoops gasped at interstellar gas, sucking
lone atoms of cosmic hydrogen from cubic metres of vacuum. The engines spat twin beams of thrust,
pressingIrravelintoherseatwithtwogeesofacceleration.Hardlymovingnow,stillinthelocalframeof
thecometaryhalo,butinonlysixmonthsshewouldbenudginglightspeed.
Herseatfloatedonaboominthemiddleofthedodecahedralbridge.“Map,”Irravelsaid,andwassuddenly
drowninginstars; animmense30-light-year-wide projectionofhumansettledspace, centredon theFirst
System.
“There’sthe bastard,”Mirskysaid,pointingfromherownhoveringseat,hervoice onlyslightly strained
underthegee-load.“Map;giveusprojectionoftheHideyoshi’svector,andplotourintercept.”
Thepirateship’siconwasstillveryclosetoLuyten726-8;lessthanatenthofalight-yearout.
TheyhadnotseenSevenuntilnow.Thethrustfromhisshipwassotightlyfocusedthatithadtakenuntil
nowforthewideningbeamsoftheexhausttosweepoverHirondelle’ssensors.Butnowtheyknewwhere
hewasheaded.Adashedlineindicatedthelikelycourse,arrowingrightthroughthemap’sheartandout
towards the system Lalande 21185. Now came the intercept vector, a neartangent which sliced Seven’s
coursebeyondSol.
“Whendoesithappen?”Irravelsaid.
“Depends on how much attention Seven’s paying to what’s coming up behind him, for a start, and what
kindofevasivestuntshecanpull.”
“Mostofmysimulationspredictaninterceptbetween2325and2330,”Remontoiresaid.
Irravel savoured the dates. Even for someone trained to fly a starship between systems, they sounded
uncomfortablylikethefuture.
“Areyousureit’shim—notjustsomeothershipthathappenedtobewaitinginthehalo?”
“Trustme,”Mirskysaid.“Icansmelltheswinefromhere.”
“She’sright,”Remontoiresaid.“Thedestinationmakesperfectsense.Sevenwasprohibitedfromstaying
heremuchlonger,oncethenumberofmissingshipsbecametoolargetobeexplainedawayasaccidents.
Nowhemustseekawell-settledsystemtoprofitfromwhathehasstolen.”
The Conjoiner looked completely normal at first glance — a bald man wearing a ship’s uniform, his
expressionplacid—butthenonenoticedtheunnaturalbulgeofhisskull,coveredonlyinafuzzofbaby
hair.Mostofhisglialcellshadbeensupplantedbymachineswhichservedthesamestructuralfunctionsbut
which also performed specialized cybernetic duties, like interfacing with other commune partners or
external machinery. Even the organic neurones in his brain were now webbed together by artificial
connections which allowed transmission speeds of kilometres per second; factors of ten faster than in
normal brains. Only the problem of dispersing waste heat denied the Conjoiners even faster modes of
thought.
It was seven years since they’d woken him. Remontoire had not dealt well with the murder of his three
compatriots,butIrravelandMirskyhadmanagedtokeephimsanebyfeedinginputintotheglialmachines,
crudely simulating rapport with other commune members. “It provides the kind of comfort to me that a
ghostlimboffersanamputee,”Remontoirehadsaid.“Anillusionofwholeness—butnosubstituteforthe
realthing.”
“Whatmorecanwedo?”Irravelsaid.
“Returnmetoanothercommunewithallspeed.”
Irravelhadagreed,providedRemontoirehelpedwiththeship.
Hehadn’tletherdown.Underhissupervision,halftheship’smasshadbeensacrificed,permittingtwicethe
acceleration.Theyhaddugavaultinthecomet,lineditwithsupportsystems,andentombedwhatremained
ofthecargo.Thesleeperswerenominallydead—therewas norealexpectationofrevivingthemagain,
evenifmedicineimprovedinthe future — but Irravel had nonetheless set servitors to tend the dead for
howeverlongittook,andprogrammedthebeacontolureanothership,thistimetopickupthedead.All
thathadtakenyears,ofcourse—butithadalsotakenSevenasmuchtimetocrossthehalotohisbase;
timeagaintoshowhimself.
“Besomucheasierifyoudidn’twanttheothersback,”Mirskysaid.“Thenwecouldjustslampastthepig
atrelativisticspeedandhithimwithsevenkindsofshit.”Shewasveryproudoftheweaponsshe’dbuilt
intotheship,copiedfrompiratedesignswithRemontoire’shelp.
“Iwantthesleepersback,”Irravelsaid.
“AndMarkarian?”
“He’smine,”shesaid,afterdueconsideration.“Yougetthepig.”
****
NEARLALANDE21185—AD2328
Relativity squeezed stars until they bled colour. Half a kilometre ahead, the side of Seven’s ship raced
towardIrravellikeatsunami.
TheHideyoshiwasthesameshapeastheHirondelle;honedlessbyhumanwhimthantheedictsofphysics.
But the Hideyoshi was heavier, with a wider cross-section, incapable of matching the Hirondelle’s
accelerationorofpushingsoclosetoC.Ithadtakenyears,butthey’dcaughtupwithSeven,andnowthe
attackwasinprogress.
Irravel,MirskyandRemontoireworethruster-pack-equippedsuits,ofthetypeusedforinspectionsoutside
the ship, with added armour and weapons. Painted for effect, they looked like mechanized Samurai.
Another 47 suits were slaved to theirs, acting as decoys. They’d crossed 50,000 kilometres of space
betweentheships.
“You’resureSevendoesn’thaveanydefence?”Irravelhadasked,notlongafterwakingfromreefersleep.
“Onlythein-systemshiphadanyfirepower,”Mirskysaid.Shelookedoldernow;newlinesengravedunder
her eyes. “That’s because no one’s ever been insane enough to contemplate storming another ship in
interstellarspace.”
“Untilnow.”
Butitwasn’tsostupid,andMirskyknewit.Matchingvelocitieswithanothershipwasonlyaquestionof
beingfaster;squeezingfractionallyclosertolightspeed.Itmighttaketime,butsoonerorlaterthedistance
would be closed. And it had taken time, none of which Mirsky had spent in reefersleep. Partly it was
becauseshelackedtherightimplants—rippedoutininfancywhenshewascapturedbySeven.Partlyit
wasadistastefortheveryideaofbeingfrozen,instilledbyyearsofpirateupbringing.Butalsobecauseshe
wantedtimetorefineherweapons.Theyhadfiredasalvoagainsttheenemybeforecrossingspaceinthe
suits,softeningupanyweaponsburiedinhisiceandopeningholesintotheHideyoshi’sinterior.
NowIrravel’svisionblurred,hersuitslowingitselfbeforeslammingintotheice.
Whitenessswallowedher.
For a moment she couldn’t remember what she was doing here. Then awareness came and she slithered
backupthetunnelexcavatedonherfall,untilshereachedthesurfaceoftheHideyoshi’sice-shield.
“Veda—youintact?”
Herarmour’sshoulder-mountedcommlaserfoundaline-of-sighttoMirsky.Mirskywas20or30
metresaway,aroundtheship’slazycircumference,balancingonaledgeofice.Wallsofitstretchedabove
andbelowlikearockface,litbytheglarefromtheengines.Decoyswerearrivingbythesecond.
“I’malive,”Irravelsaid.“Where’stheentrypoint?”
“Coupleofhundredmetresupship.”
“Damn.Iwantedtocomeincloser.Remontoire’soutofline-of-sight.Howmuchfueldoyouhaveleft?”
“Scarcelyenoughtotakethechilloffapenguin’sdick.”
Mirskyraisedherarmsaboveherheadandfiredlinesintotheice,rocketingoutfromhersleeves.
Bellyslidingagainsttheshield,sheretractedthelinesandhauledherselfupship.
Irravelfollowed.They’dburnedalltheirfuelcrossingbetweenthetwoships,butthatwaspartoftheplan.
If they didn’t have a chance to raid Seven’s reserves, they’d just kick themselves into space and let the
Hirondellehomeinonthem.
“YouthinkSevensawuscrossover?”
“Definitely.Andyoucanbethe’sdoingsomethingaboutit,too.”
“Don’tdoanythingthatmightendangerthecargo,Mirsky—nomatterhowtemptingSevenmakesit.”
“Wouldyousacrificehalfthesleeperstogettheotherhalfback?”
“That’snotremotelyanoption.”
Abovetheirheadscrevassesopenedlikeeyes.Piratecrabseruptedout,blackasnightagainsttheice.
Irravelopenedfireonthemachines.Thistime,withbetterweaponsandrealarmour,shebegantoinflict
damage.Behind thecrabs, piratesemerged,bulbousin customizedarmour.Lasers scuffedtheice;bright
through gouts of steam. Irravel saw Remontoire now: he was unharmed, and doing his best to shoot the
piratesintospace.
Above,oneofIrravel’sshotsdislodgedapirate.
TheHideyoshi’saccelerationdroppedhimtowardsher.Whentheimpactcameshehardlyfeltit,hersuit’s
guylinesstayingfirm.Thepiratefoldedaroundherlikeabrokentoy,thenbouncedbackagainsttheship,
pinnedtherebyhersuit.HewastooclosetoshootunlessIrravelwantedtoblowherselfintospace.
Distortedbehindglass,hisfaceshapedaword.Shegotincloseruntiltheirvisorsweretouching.Through
theglassshesawtheasymmetricbulgeofaloyalty-shunt.
ThefacewasMarkarian’s. Atfirstitseemedlikeabsurdcoincidence.ThenitoccurredtoherthatSeven
mighthavesenthisnewestrecruitouttoshowhismettle.MaybeSevenwouldn’tbefarbehind.
Confrontingadversarieswaspartofthealpha-maleinheritance.
“Irravel,”Markariansaid,voicelacedwithstatic.“I’mgladyou’realive.”
“Don’tflatteryourselfyou’rethereasonI’mhere,Markarian.Icameforthecargo.You’rejustnextonthe
list.”
“Whatareyougoingtodo—killme?”
“Doyouthinkyoudeserveanybetterthanthat?”Irraveladjustedherposition.“Orareyougoingtotryand
justifybetrayingthecargo?”
Hepulledhisagedfeaturesintoasmile.“Wemadeadeal,Irravel;thesamewayyoumadeadealabout
greenfly.Butyoudon’trememberthat,doyou?”
“MaybeIsoldthegreenflymachinestothepig,”shesaid.“IfIdidthat,itwasacalculatedmovetobuythe
safetyofthecargo.You,ontheotherhand,cutadealwithSeventosaveyourneck.”
Theotherpirateswereholdingfire,nervouslymarkingthem.“Ididittosaveyours,actually.
Doesthatmakeanysense?”Therewaswonderinhiseyesnow.“DidyoueverseeMirsky’shand?Thatwas
neverherown.Thepiratesswaplimbsasbadgesofrank.They’reverygoodatconnectivesurgery.”
“You’renotmakingmuchsense,Markarian.”
Dislodgedicerainedonthem.Irravellookedaroundintimetoseeanotherpirateemergingfromacrevasse.
Sherecognizedthesuitartwork:itwasSeven.Heworethings,strungaroundhisutilitybeltintransparent
bagslikeobscenefruit.Shestaredatthemforafewsecondsbeforetheirnatureclickedintohorrificfocus:
frozenhumanheads.
Irravelstifledareactiontovomit.
“Yes,”RunSevensaid.“Tenofyourcompatriots,recentlyunburdenedoftheirbodies.Butdon’tworry
—they’renotharmedinanyfundamentalsense.Theirbrainsareintact—providedyoudon’twarmthem
withanill-aimedshot.”
“I’vegotaclearlineoffire,”Mirskysaid.“Justsaythewordandthebastard’saninstantanatomylesson.”
“Wait,”Irravelsaid.“Don’tshoot.”
“Soundbusinesssense,CaptainVeda.Iseeyouappreciatethevalueoftheseheads.”
“What’shetalkingabout?”Mirskysaid.
“Theirneural patterns can be retrieved.” ItwasRemontoirespeaking now. “WeConjoinershavehad the
abilitytocopymindsontomachinesubstratesforsometimenow,thoughwehaven’tadvertisedit.Butthat
doesn’tmatter—therehavebeenexperimentsonYellowstonewhichapproachourearlysuccesses.
Andtheseheadsaren’teventhinking:onlytopologiesneedtobemapped,notelectrochemicalprocesses.”
Thepigtookoneoftheheadsfromhisbeltandheldittoeye-level,forinspection.“TheConjoiner’sright.
They’renotreallydead.Andtheycanbeyoursifyouwishtodobusiness.”
“Whatdoyouwantforthem?”
“Markarian,forastart.AllthatDemarchyexpertisemakesforaveryefficientsecond-incommand.”
Irravelglanceddownatherprisoner.“Youcan’tbuyloyaltywithaboxandafewneuralconnections.”
“No?Inwhatwaydoourloyalty-shuntsdifferfromthepsychosurgerywhichyourworldinflictedonyou,
Irravel,yokingyourmotherhoodinstinctto20,000sleepersyoudon’tevenknowbyname?”
“Wehaveadealornot?”
“OnlyifyouthrowintheConjoineraswell.”
IrravellookedatRemontoire;somesnakepartofhermindweighingoptionswithreptiliandetachment.
“No!”hesaid.“Youpromised!”
“Shutup,”Sevensaid.“Orwhenyoudogettorejoinyourfriends,it’llbeininstalments.”
“I’msorry,”Irravelsaid.“Ican’tloseeventenofthecargo.”
Seventossedthefirstheaddowntoher.“NowletMarkariangoandwe’llseeabouttherest.”
Irravellookeddownathim.“It’snotoverbetweenyouandme.”
Thenshereleasedhim,andhescrambledbackuptheicetowardsSeven.
“Excellent.Here’sanotherhead.NowtheConjoiner.”
Irravelissuedasubvocalcommand;watchedRemontoirestiffen.“Hissuit’sparalysed.Takehim.”
Twopiratesworkeddowntohim,checkedhimoverandnoddedtowardsSeven.Betweenthemtheyhauled
himbackuptheice,vanishingintoacrevasseandbackupintotheHideyoshi.
“Theothereightheads,”Irravelsaid.
“I’mgoingtothrowthemawayfromtheship.You’llbeabletolocatethemeasilyenough.WhileI’mdoing
that,I’mgoingtoretreat,andyou’regoingtoleave.”
“Wecouldendthisnow,”Mirskysaid.
“Ineedthoseheads.”
“They really fucked with your psychology big-time, didn’t they?” She raised her weapon and began
shootingSevenandtheotherpirates.Irravelwatchedhercarveuptheremainingheads;splinteringfrozen
boneintothevacuum.
“No!”
“Sorry,”Mirskysaid.“Hadtodoit,Veda.”
Sevenclutchedathischest,fingersmashingthepulpoftheheads,stilltetheredtohisbelt.She’dpunctured
hissuit.Ashetriedtostemthedamburst,hisfacewascarvedwiththeintolerableknowledgethathisreign
hadjustended.
ButsomethinghadhitIrraveltoo.
****
SYLVESTEINSTITUTE,YELLOWSTONEORBIT,
EPSILONERIDANI—AD2415
“WhereamI?”Irravelasked.“HowamIthinkingthis?”
Thewoman’svoicewasthecolourofmahogany.“Somewheresafe.Youdiedontheice,butwegotyou
backintime.”
“Forwhat?”
Mirskysighed,asthoughthiswassomethingshewouldrathernothavehadtoexplainthissoon.
“Toscanyou,justlikewedidwiththefrozenheads.Copyyouintotheship.”
Maybesheshouldhavefelthorror,orindignation,orevenreliefthatsomepartofherhadbeenspared.
Instead,shejustfeltimpatience.
“Whatnow?”
“We’reworkingonit,”Mirskysaid.
****
TRANS-ALDEBARANSPACE—AD2673
“We saved her body after she died,” Mirsky said, wheezing slightly. She found it hard to move around
underwhattoIrravelwastheship’snormaltwoandahalfgeesofthrust.“Afterthebattlewebroughther
backonboard.”
Irravel thought of her mother dying on the other ship, the one they were chasing. For years they had
deliberatelynotnarrowedthedistance,holdingbackbutnotallowingtheHideyoshitoslipfromview.
Untilnow,ithadn’tevenoccurredtoIrraveltoaskwhy.
She looked through the casket’s window, trying to match her own features against what she saw in the
woman’sface,tryingtoprojectherown15yearsintoMotherIrravel’sadulthood.
“Whydidyoukeephersocold?”
“Wehadtoextractwhatwecouldfromherbrain,”Mirskysaid.“Memoriesandneuralpatterns.Wetrawled
themandstoredthemintheship.”
“Whatgoodwasthat?”
“Weknewthey’dcomeinusefulagain.”
She’dbeenclonedfromMotherIrravel.Theywerenotidentical—noMixmasterexpertisecouldduplicate
theprecisebiochemicalenvironmentofMotherIrravel’swomb,ortheshapingexperiencesofearlyinfancy,
andtheirpersonalitieshadbeensculptedcenturiesapart,intotallydifferentworlds.Buttheywerestillclose
copies.Theyevensharedmemories:scriptedintoIrravel’smindbymedichines,sothatshebarelynoticed
eachadditiontoherownexperiences.
“Whydidyoudothis?”sheasked.
“BecauseIrravelbegansomething,”Mirskysaid.“SomethingIpromisedI’dhelpherfinish.”
****
STORMWATCHSTATION,AETHRA,HYADES
TRADEENVELOPE—AD2931
“Whyareyouinterestedinourweapons?”theNestbuilderasked.“Wearenotawareofanywarswithinthe
chordatephylumatthisepoch.”
“It’sapersonalmatter,”Irravelsaid.
TheNestbuilderhoveredametreabovethetradefloor,suspendedinacolumnofmicrogravity.
They were oxygen-breathing arthropods who’d once ascended to spacefaring capability. No longer
intelligent, yet supported by their self-renewing machinery, they migrated from system to system,
constructingelaborate,space-fillingstructuresfromsoliddiamond.OtherNestbuilderswarmswouldarrive
andoccasionallyoccupythenewnests.Thereseemednopurposetothisactivity,butfortensofthousands
ofyearstheyhadbeenhosttoasmaller,clevererspeciesknownastheSlugs.
SmallcommunitiesofSlugs—anythinguptoadozen—livedinwarm,dampnichesinaNestbuilder’s
intricately folded shell. They had long since learned how to control the host’s behaviour and exploit its
subservienttechnology.
IrravelstudiedaSlugnow,crawlingoutfromunderalipofshellmaterial.
The thing was a multicellular invertebrate not much larger than her fist; a bag of soft blue protoplasm,
sprouting appendages only when they were needed. A slightly bipolar shadow near one end might have
been its central nervous system, but there hardly seemed enough of it to trap sentience. There were no
obvious sense or communicational organs, but a pulsing filament of blue slime reached back into the
Nestbuilder’sfold.WhentheSlugspoke,itdidsothroughtheNestbuilder;arattleofchitinfromthehost’s
mouthparts which approximated human language. A hovering jewel connected to the station’s lexical
databasedidtherest,renderingthevoicecalmlyfeminine.
“Apersonalmatter?Avendetta?Thenit’strue.”Themouthpartsclickedtogetherinwhathumanspresumed
wasthesymbioticcreature’slaughterresponse.“Youarewhowesuspected.”
“ShedidtellyouhernamewasIrravel,guy,”Mirskysaid,sippingblackcoffeewithdelicatemovementsof
theexoskeletalframeshealwaysworeinhighgravity.
“Among you chordates, the name is not so unusual now,” the Slug reminded them. “But you do fit the
description,Irravel.”
Theywerenearoneofthestation’svastpicturewindows,overlookingAethra’smighty,roilingclouddecks,
50kilometresbelow.Itwasgettingdarknowandthestormplayerswerepreparingtostartashow.Irravel
sawtwooftheirseedersdescendingintotheclouds;robotcrafttetheredbyanearlyinvisiblefilament.The
seederswouldpositionthe filamentso that it bridged cloud layers with differentstaticpotentials;they’d
thendetachandreturntoStormwatch,whilethefilamenthelditselfinpositionbyripplingalongitslength.
Forhundredsofkilometresaround,otherfilamentswouldhavebeenplacedincarefullyselectedpositions.
Theywereelectricallyisolatingnow,butatthestormplayer’sdiscretion,eachfilamentwouldflickoverinto
aconductivestate:amassive,choreographedlightningflash.
“Ineversetouttobecomealegend,”Irravelsaid.“Oramyth,forthatmatter.”
“Yes.Therearesomanystoriesaboutyou,Veda,thatitmightbesimplertoassumeyouneverexisted.”
“Whatmakesyouthinkotherwise?”
“ThefactthatachordatewhocouldhavebeenMarkarianalsopassedthisway,onlyayearorsoago.”
TheNestbuilder’sshellpigmentationflickered,brieflyrevealingapictureofMarkarian’sship.
“Soyousoldweaponstohim?”
“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?” The mouthparts clattered again. “You would have to answer a
questionofoursfirst.”
Outside, the opening flashes of the night’s performance gilded the horizon; like the first stirrings of a
symphony.Aethra’sringsechoedtheflashes,paleghostsmomentarilycleavingthesky.
“Whatisityouwanttoknow?”
“We Slugs are among the few intelligent, starfaring cultures in this part of the Galaxy. During the War
againstIntelligenceweavoidedtheInhibitorsbyhidingourselvesamongthemindlessNestbuilders.”
Irravelnodded.Slugswereoneofthefewalienspeciesknowntohumanitywhowouldevenacknowledge
theexistenceofthefearedInhibitors.Likehumanity,they’dfoughtandbeatentherevenants—atleastfor
now.
“It is the weaponry you seek which enabled us to triumph — but even then only at colossal cost to our
phylum.Nowwearewatchfulfornewthreats.”
“Idon’tseewherethisisleading.”
“We have heard rumours. Since you have come from the direction of those rumours — the local stellar
neighbourhoodaroundyourphylum’sbirthstar—weimaginedyoumighthaveinformationofvalue.”
IrravelexchangedasidewaysglancewithMirsky.Theoldwoman’swizened,age-spottedskulllookedas
fragileaspaper,butsheremainedanunrivalledtactician.TheykneweachothersowellnowthatMirsky
couldimpartadvicewiththesubtlestofmovements;expressionbarelytroublingthelinedmaskofherface.
“Whatkindofinformationwereyouseeking?”
“Informationaboutsomethingthatfrightensus.”TheNestbuilder’spigmentationflickeredagain,forming
an image of — something. It was a splinter of grey-brown against speckled blackness —perhaps the
Nestbuilder’sattemptatvisualizingaplanetoid.Andthensomethingeruptedacrossthesurfaceoftheworld,
racingfromendtoendlikeafilmofverdigris.Whereithadpassed,fissuresopenedup,deepening until
theywereblackfractures,asiftheworldwereacalvingiceberg.Andthenitblewapart,shatteringintoa
thousandgreen-tingedfragments.
“Whatwasthat?”Irravelsaid.
“Wewereratherhopingyoucouldtellus.”TheNestbuilder’spigmentationrefreshedagain,andthistime
whattheywereseeingwasclearlyastar,veiledinatoroidalbeltofgoldendust.
“Machineshavedismantledeveryrockyobjectinthesystemwheretheseimageswerecaptured;Ross128,
whichlieswithinelevenlight-yearsofyourbirthstar.Theyhaveengenderedaswarmoftrillionsofrocks
onindependentorbits.Eachrockissheathedinapressurizedbubblemembrane,withinwhichanartificial
plant-basedecosystemhasbeencreated.Thesamemachineshavefashionedothersourcesofrawmaterial
intomirrors,largerthanworldsthemselves,whichtrapsunlightaboveandbelowtheeclipticandfocusit
ontotheswarm.”
“Andwhydoesthisfrightenyou?”
TheNestbuilderleantcloserinitscolumnofmicrogravity.“Becausewesawitbeingresisted.Asifthese
machineshadneverbeenintendedtowreaksuchtransformations.Asifyourphylumhadcreatedsomething
itcouldnotcontrol.”
“And—theseattemptsatresistance?”
“Failed.”
“But if one system was accidentally transformed, it doesn’t mean…” Irravel trailed off. “You’re worried
aboutthemcrossinginterstellarspace,to othersystems.Evenifthat happened—couldn’tyou resistthe
spread?Thiscanonlybehumantechnology—nothingthatwouldposeanythreattoyourselves.”
“Perhaps it was once human technology, with programmed limitations to prevent it replicating
uncontrollably. But those shackles have been broken. Worse, the machines have hybridized, gaining
resilienceandadaptabilitywitheachencounterwithsomethingexternal.FirsttheMeldingPlague,infection
withwhichmayhavebeenadeliberateploytoby-passthereplicationlimits.”
Irravelnodded.TheMeldingPlaguehadswepthumanspace400yearsearlier,terminatingtheDemarchist
BelleEpoque. Like the BlackDeathoftheprevious millennium, it evoked terrorgenerationsafter it had
passed.
“Later,” the Nestbuilder continued, “it may have encountered and assimilated Inhibitor technology, or
worse.Nowitwillbeveryhardtostop,evenwiththeweaponsatourdisposal.”
AnimageofoneofthemachinesflickeredontotheNestbuilder’sshell,likeapeculiartattoo.
Irravel shivered. The Slug was right: waves of hybridization had transformed the initial architecture into
somethingqueasilyalien.Butenoughoftheoriginalplanremainedfortheretobenodoubtinhermind.
She was looking at an evolved greenfly; one of the self-replicating breeders she had given Captain Run
Seven. How it had broken loose was anyone’s guess. She speculated that Seven’s crew had sold the
technologyontoathirdparty,decadesorcenturiesaftergainingitfromher.Perhapsthatthirdpartyhad
reclusivelyexperimentedintheRoss128system,untilthedaywhengreenflytoreoutoftheircontrol.
“Idon’tknowwhyyouthinkIcanhelp,”shesaid.
“Perhapsweweremistaken,then,tocredita500-year-oldrumourwhichsaidthatyouhadbeentheoriginal
sourceofthesemachines.”
Shehadinsulteditbydaringtobluff.TheSlugswereeasilyinsulted.Theyreadhumanbeingsfarbetter
thanhumansreadSlugs.
“Likeyousay,”sheanswered.“Youcan’tbelieveeverything.”
The Slug made the Nestbuilder fold its armoured, spindly limbs across its mouthparts, a gesture of
displeasedhuffiness.
“Youchordates,”itsaid.“You’reallthesame.”
****
INTERSTELLARSPACE—AD3354
Mirskywasdead.Shehaddiedofoldage.
IrravelplacedherbodyinanarmouredcoffinandejectedherintospacewhentheHirondelle’sspeedwas
onlyahair’sbreadthunderlight.“Doitforme,Irravel,”Mirskyhadtoldher,towardstheend.
“Keepmybodyaboarduntilwe’realmosttouchinglight,andthenfiremeaheadoftheship.”
“Isthatwhatyouwant?”
“It’sanoldpiratetradition.BurialatC.”Sheforcedasmilewhichmusthavesappedwhatlittleenergyshe
hadleft.“That’sajoke,Irravel,butitonlymakessenseinalanguageneitherofushaveheardforawhile.”
Irravelpretendedthatsheunderstood.“Mirsky?There’ssomethingIhavetotellyou.Doyourememberthe
Nestbuilder?”
“Thatwascenturiesago,Veda.”
“Iknow.Ijustkeepworryingthatmaybeitwasright.”
“Aboutwhat?”
“Thosemachines.AbouthowIstarteditall.Theysayit’sspreadnow;toothersystems.Itdoesn’tlooklike
anyoneknowshowtostopit.”
“Andyouthinkallthatwasyourfault?”
“It’scrossedmymind.”
Mirskyconvulsed,orshrugged—Irravelwasn’tsure.“Evenifitwasyourfault,Veda,youdiditwiththe
bestofintentions.Soyoufuckedupslightly.Weallmakemistakes.”
“Destroyingwholesolarsystemsisjustafuck-up?”
“Hey,accidentshappen.”
“Youalwaysdidhaveasenseofhumour,Mirsky.”
“Yeah;guessIdid.”Shemanagedasmile.“Oneofusneededone,Veda.”
Thinkingofthat,Irravelwatchedthecoffinfallahead,dwindlinguntilitwasonlyatinymoteofsteel-grey,
andthennothing.
****
SUBARUCOMMONWEALTH—PLEIADES
CLUSTER—AD4161
Thestarbridgehadlongagoattainedsentience.
Densewithmachinery,itsunganendlesshymntoitsownimmensity,throbbingliketheloweststringona
guitar.Vacuum-breathingacolyteshadvoluntarilyrewiredtheirmindstoviewthebridgeasanactualdeity,
translatingthehummingintotheirsensoriaandpassingdecadesincontemplativeecstasy.
Claspedinacushioningfield,anelevatorferriedIrraveldownthebridgefromtheorbitalhubtothesurface
inafewminutes,accompaniedbyanentourageofchildrenfromtheship,manyofwhomboreinyouththe
hurtingimprintofMirsky’sgenes.Thebridgeroselikethestemofagobletfromagroundterminalwhich
was itself a scalloped shell of hyperdiamond, filled with tiered perfume gardens and cascading pools,
anchoredtothelargestislandinanequatorialarchipelago.
TheseniorchildrenwalkedIrraveldowntoabeachofsilversandontheterminal’sedge,wherejewelled
crabsmovedliketoys.Shebidthechildrenfarewell,thenwaited,warmbreezesfingeringthehemofher
sari.
Minuteslater,thechildren’selevatorflashedheavenward.
Irravellookedoutattheocean,thinkingofthePatternJugglers.Here,asondozensofotheroceanicworlds,
therewasacolonyofthealienintelligences.Transformedtoaquaticbodyplansthemselves,theSubaruns
hadestablishedcloserapportwiththealiens.Inthemorning,shewouldbetakenouttomeettheJugglers,
drowned,dissolvedonthecellularlevel,everyatominherbodyswappedforoneintheocean,remadeinto
somethingnotquitehuman.
Shewasterrified.
Islanders came toward the shore, skimming water on penanted trimarans, attended by oceanforms, sleek
gloss-greyhybridsofporpoiseandray,whistlespeechdownshiftedintothehumanspectrum.TheSubaruns’
epidermal scales shimmered like imbricated armour: biological photocells drinking scorching blue
Pleiadeansunlight.Sentientveilshunginthesky,ripplinggentlylikeaurorae,shadingthearchipelagofrom
thefiercestwavelengths.AstheactiniceyeofTaygetasanktowardsthehorizon,theveilsmovedwithit
likelivingclouds.Flocksofphantasmagoricbirdsmigratedwiththeveils.
Thepurple-skinnedelder’sscalesflashedgreenandopalasheapproachedIrravelalongthecoraljetty,a
stickinonewebbedhand,supportedbytwoaides,athirdshadinghisagedcrownwithadelicatelywater-
colouredparasol.Theaideswerealldescendedfromlate-modelConjoiners;theyhadthetranslucentcranial
crest through which bloodflow had once been channelled to cool their supercharged minds. Seeing them
gaveIrraveladual-edgedpangofnostalgiaandguilt.ShehadnotseenConjoinersfornearlyathousand
years,eversincetheyhadfragmentedintoadozenfactionsandvanishedfromhumanaffairs.Neitherhad
sheentirelyforgottenherbetrayalofRemontoire.
Butthathadbeensolongago.
ACommunicantmadeuptheparty,gownedinbrocade,hazedbyablurofentopticprojections.
Communicantsweresmallandelfin,withaphenomenaltalentfornaturallanguages,augmentedbyJuggler
transforms.Irravelsensedthatthisonewasoldandrevered,despitethefactthatCommunicantgenesdid
notexpressforgreatlongevity.
Theelderhaltedbeforeher.
Theheadofhiswalkingstickwasatinylemurskullinsideaneggsizedspacehelmet.Hespokesomething
clearlyceremonial,butIrravelunderstoodnoneofthesoundshemade.Shegropedforsomethingtosay,
recallingtheoldestlanguageinhermemory,andthereforetheonemostlikelytoberecognizedinanyfar-
flunghumanculture.
“Thankyouforlettingusstophere,”shesaid.
TheCommunicanthobbledforward,alreadyshapingwordsexperimentallywithhiswide,protrudinglips.
Foramomenthissoundswerelikeaninfant’s first attempts at vocalization.But then they resolvedinto
somethingIrravelunderstood.
“AmI—um—makingtheslightestsensetoyou?”
“Yes,”Irravelsaid.“Yes,thankyou.”
“Canasian,” the Communicant diagnosed. “Twenty-third, twenty-fourth centuries, Lacaille 9352 dialect,
Fandsubdialect?”
Irravelnodded.
“Yourkindareveryrarenow,”hesaid,studyingherasifshewassomekindofexoticbutterfly.
“Butnotunwelcome.”Hisfeaturescrackedintoanelfinsmile.
“WhataboutMarkarian?”Irravelsaid.“Iknowhisshippassedthroughthissystemlessthan50yearsago
—Istillhaveafixonitasitmovesoutofthecluster.”
“Otherlighthuggersdocome,yes.Notmany—oneortwoacentury.”
“Andwhathappenedwhenthelastonecamethrough?”
“Theusualtributewasgiven.”
“Tribute?”
“Something ceremonial.” The Communicant’s smile was wider than ever. “To the glory of Irravel. With
manyactors,beautifulwords,love,death,laughter,tears.”
Sheunderstood,slowly,dumbfoundedly.
“You’reputtingonaplay?”
The elder must have understood something of that. Nodding proudly, he extended a hand across the
darkeningbay,oceanformscuttingthewaterlikescythes.Adistantraftcarriedlanternsandtheglimmerings
ofrichlypaintedbackdrops.Boatsconvergedfromacrossthebay.Adirigibleloomedoverthearchipelago’s
edge,pregnantwithgondolas.
“We want you to play Irravel,” the Communicant said, beckoning her forward. “This is our greatest
honour.”
Whentheyreachedtheraft,theCommunicanttaughtIrravelherlinesandtheactionsshewouldberequired
tomake.Itwasallsimpleenough—eventhefactthatshehadtodeliverherpartsinSubarun.
Bytheendofeveningshewasfluentintheirlanguage.Therewasnothingshecouldn’tlearninaninstant
thesedays,bysheerforceofwill.Butitwasnotenough.TocatchMarkarian,shewouldhavetobreakout
ofthenarrowlabyrinthofhumanthoughtentirely.ThatwaswhyshehadcometoJugglers.
Thatnighttheyperformedtheplay,whileboatscongregatedaroundthem,topheavywithlollingislanders.
Thesunsankandtheskyglaredwithathousandbluegemsstuddingbluevelvet.Nightintheheartofthe
Pleiades was the most beautiful thing Irravel had dared imagine. But in the direction of Sol, when she
amplifiedhervision,therewasagreenthumbprintonthesky.Everycentury,thegreenwavewaslarger,as
neighbouringsolarsystemswereinfectedandtransformedbytherogueterraformingmachines.Giventime,
itwouldevenreachthePleiades.
Irravelgotdrunkonislanderwineandlearntthetributes’history.
Theplotsvariedimmensely,buttheprotagonistsalwaysresembledMarkarianandIrravel;mythicfigures
entwinedbydestiny,rememberedacross2,000years.Sometimesoneortheotherwastheclearvillain,but
asoftenasnottheywerebothheroic,misunderstandingeachother’smotivesintruetragicfashion.
Sometimestheyendedwithbothpartiesdying.Theyrarelyendedhappily.Buttherewasalwayssomekind
ofredemptionwhenthepursuitwasdone.
Intheinterlude,shefeltshehadtotelltheCommunicantthetruth,sothathecouldtelltheelder.
“Listen,there’ssomethingyouneedtoknow.”Irraveldidn’twaitforhisanswer.“I’mreallyher;reallythe
personI’mplaying.”
Foralongtimehedidn’tseemtounderstand,beforeshakinghisheadslowlyandsadly.
“No;Ithoughtyou’dbedifferent.Youseemeddifferent.Butmanysaythat.”
Sheshrugged. There seemedlittlepoint arguing,and anythingshesaidnow could alwaysbeascribedto
wine.Inthemorning,theremarkhadbeenquietlyforgotten.Shewastakenouttoseaanddrowned.
****
GALACTICNORTH—AD9730
“Markarian?Answerme.”
ShewatchedtheHideyoshi’smagnifiedimage,loomingjustoutofweaponsrange.LiketheHirondelle,it
hadchangedalmostbeyondrecognition.Thehullglistenedwithinaskeinofarmouringforce.Theengines,
nolongerphysicallycoupledtotherestoftheship,flewalongsidelikedolphins.Theywereanchoredin
fieldswhichonlybecamevisiblewhensometinystressafflictedthem.
For centuries of worldtime she had made no attempt to communicate with him. But now her mind had
changed.Thegreenwavehadcontinuedformillennia,aniridescentcataractspreadingacrosstheeyeofthe
Galaxy.IthadassimilatedthebluesunsoftheSubaranCommonwealthinmerecenturies—althoughby
thenIrravelandMarkarianwereathousandlight-yearsclosertothecore,beginningtoturnawayfromthe
planeoftheGalaxy,andthedeathscreamsofthosegentleislandersneverreachedthem.
Nothing stopped it, and once the green wave had swallowed them, systems fell silent. The Juggler
transformationallowedIrraveltograsptheenormityofit;allowedhertostareunflinchinglyintothehorror
ofamillionpoisonedstarsandapprehendeachindividually.
Sheknewmoreofwhatitwas,now.
Itwasimpossibleforstarstoshinegreen,anymorethananingotofmetalcouldbecomegreenhotifitwas
raisedtoacertaintemperature.Instead,something wasveilingthem—stainingtheirlight,likecoloured
glass.Whateveritwasstoleenergyfromthestellarspectraatthefrequenciesofchlorophyll.
Stars were shining through curtains of vegetation, like lanterns in a forest. The greenfly machines were
turningtheGalaxyintoajungle.
Itwastimetotalk.Time—asintheoldplaysofthedeadislanders—toinitiatethefinalact,beforethe
twoofthemfellintothecoldofintergalacticspace.Shesearchedherrepertoireofcommunicationsystems,
untilshefoundsomethingwhichwasasancientasceremonydemanded.
She aimed the message laser at him, cutting through his armour. The beam was too ineffectual to be
mistaken as anything other than an attempt to talk. No answer came, so she repeated the message in a
varietyofformatsandlanguages.Daysofship-timepassed—decadesofworldtime.
Talk,youbastard.
Growingimpatient,sheexaminedherweaponsoptions.ArmamentsfromtheNestbuilderswereamongthe
most advanced: theoretically they could mole through the loam of spacetime and inflict precise harm
anywhereinMarkarian’sship.Buttousethemshehadtoconvinceherselfthatsheknewtheinteriorlayout
oftheHideyoshi.Hermass-sensorsweepsweretooblurredtobemuchhelp.Shemightaseasilyharmthe
sleepersastakeouthisfieldnodes.Untilnow,itwastoomuchrisktocontemplate.
Butallgamesneededanend.
Willingherqualmsfrommind,sheenabledtheNestbuilderarmaments,feelingthemstressspace-timein
theHirondelle’sbelly, ready to short-circuit it entirely. She selected attack loci in Markarian’s ship; best
guessesthatwouldcripplehimratherthanblowhimoutofthesky.
Thensomethinghappened.
He replied, modulating his engine thrust in staccato stabs. The frequency was audio. Quickly Irravel
translatedthemodulation.
“Idon’tunderstand,”Markariansaid, “whyyou tookso longto answerme,andwhyyouignoredmeso
longwhenIreplied?”
“Youneverreplieduntilnow,”shesaid.“I’dhaveknownifyouhad.”
“Wouldyou?”
Therewassomethinginhistonewhichconvincedherthathewasn’tlying.Whichleftonlyonepossibility:
thathehadtriedspeakingtoherbefore,andthatinsomewayherownshiphadkeptthisknowledgefrom
her.
“Mirskymusthavedoneit,”Irravelsaid.“Shemusthaveinstalledfilterstoblockanycommunicationfrom
yourship.”
“Mirsky?”
“Shewouldhavedoneitasafavourtome;maybeasanorderfrommyformerself.”Shedidn’tbother
elaborating: Markarian was sure to know she had died and then been reborn as a clone of the original
Irravel.“Myformerselfhadtheneuralconditioningwhichkeptheronthetrailofthesleepers.Theclone
neverhadit,whichmeantthatmyinstincttopursuethesleepershadtobereinforced.”
“Bylies?”
“Mirskywouldhavedoneitoutoffriendship,”Irravelsaid.Andforamomentshebelievedherself,while
wonderinghowfriendshipcouldseemsolikebetrayal.
Markarian’simagesmiled.Theyfacedeachotheracrossanabsurdlylongbanquettable,withtheGalaxy
projectedaboveit,flickeringinthelightofcandelabra.
“Well?”hesaid,ofthegreenstainspreadingacrossthespiral.“Whatdoyouthink?”
Irravelhadlongagostoppedcountingtimeanddistance,butsheknewithadbeenatleast15,000yearsand
thatmanylight-yearssincetheyhadturnedfromtheplane.Partofherknew,ofcourse:althoughthewave
swallowedsuns,ithadnouseforpulsars,andtheirmetronomictickingandslowdecayallowedpositional
triangulationinspaceandtimewithchillingprecision.Butsheelectedtoburythatknowledgebeneathher
consciousthoughtprocesses:oneofthesimplerJugglertricks.
“WhatdoIthink?Ithinkitterrifiesme.”
“Ouremotionalresponseshaven’tdivergedasmuchasI’dfeared.”
They didn’t have to use language. They could have swapped pure mental concepts between ships:
concatenatedstringsofqualia,someofwhichcouldonlybegraspedinmindsrewiredbyPatternJugglers.
ButIrravelconsidereditsufficientthattheycouldlookeachotherintheeyewithoutflinching.
TheGalaxyfallingbelowhadbeenfrozenintime:lightwavesstrugglingtoovertakeIrravelandMarkarian.
The wave had seemed to slow, and then halt its advance. But then Markarian had turned, diving back
towardstheplane.TheGalaxyquickenedtolife,rushingtofinish30,000yearsofhistorybeforethetwo
shipsreturned.Thewavesurgedon.Abovethe banquettable,onearmofthestar-clottedspiralwasshot
through with green, like a mote of ink spreading into blotting paper. The edge of the green wave was
feathered,fractal,extendingverdanttendrils.
“Doyouhaveanyobservations?”Irravelasked.
“Afew.”Markariansippedfromhischalice.“I’vestudiedthepatternsofstarlightamongthesunsalready
swallowedbythewave.They’renotuniformlygreen—it’scorrelatedwithrationalangle.
Thegreenmattermustbeconcentratedneartheecliptic,extendingaboveandbelowit,butnotencircling
thestarscompletely.”
IrravelthoughtbacktowhattheNestbuilderhadshownher.
“Meaningwhat?”sheasked,testingMarkarian.
“Swarmsofabsorbingbodies,onorbitsresemblingcomets,orasteroids.Ithinkthegreenflymachinesmust
have dismantled everything smaller than a Jovian, then enveloped the rubble in transparent membranes
which they filled with air, water and greenery - self-sustaining biospheres. Then they were cast adrift.
Trillionsoftinyworlds,aroundeachstar.Norockyplanetsanymore.”
Irravelretrievedanamefromthedeeppast.“LikeDysonspheres?”
“Dysonclouds,perhaps.”
“Doyouthinkanyonesurvived?Aretherenichesinthewavewherehumanscanlive?Thatwasthepointof
greenfly,afterall,tocreatelivingspace.”
“Maybe,”Markarian said, withnogreatconviction. “Perhaps some survivorsfoundways inside, as their
ownworldsweresmashedandreassembledintothecloud…”
“Butyoudon’tthinkit’sverylikely?”
“I’ve been listening, Irravel — scanning the assimilated regions for any hint of an extant technological
culture. If anyone did survive, they’re either keeping deliberately quiet or they don’t even know how to
makearadiosignalbyaccident.”
“Itwasmyfault,Markarian.”
Histonewasrueful.“Yes…Icouldn’thelpbutarriveatthatconclusion.”
“Ineverintendedthis.”
“Ithinkthatgoeswithoutsaying,wouldn’tyou?Noonecouldhaveguessedtheconsequencesofthatone
action.”
“Wouldyou?”
Heshookhishead.“Inalllikelihood,I’dhavedoneexactlywhatyoudid.”
“Ididitoutoflove,Markarian.Forthecargo.”
“Iknow.”
Shebelievedhim.
“Whathappenedbackthere,Markarian?WhydidyougiveupthecodeswhenIdidn’t?”
“Becauseofwhattheydidtoyou,Irravel.”
Hetoldher.HowneitherMarkariannorIrravelhadshownanysignsofrevealingthecodesunderMirsky’s
interrogation,untilsomethingnewwastried.
“Theyweregoodatsurgery,”Markariansaid.“Seven’screwswappedlimbsandbodypartsasbadgesof
status.Theyknewhowtoseverandsplicenerves.”Theimagedidn’tallowhertointerrupt.“Theycutyour
headoff.Keptitaliveinastateofborderlineconsciousness,andthenshowedittome.That’swhenIgave
themthecodes.”
ForalongwhileIrravelsaidnothing.Thenitoccurredtohertocheckheroldbody,stillfrozeninthesame
casket where Mirsky had once revealed it to her. She ordered some children to prepare the body for a
detailed examination, then looked through their eyes. The microscopic evidence of reconnective surgery
aroundtheneckwastooslighttohaveevershownupunlessonewaslookingforit.Butnowtherewasno
mistakingit.
Ididittosaveyourneck,Markarianhadsaid,whenshehadheldhimpinnedtotheiceofSeven’sship.
“You seem to be telling the truth,” she said, when she had released the children. “The nature of your
betrayal was…” And then she paused, searching for the words, while Markarianwatched her across the
table.“DifferentthanIassumed.Possiblylessofacrime.Butstillabetrayal,Markarian.”
“OneI’velivedwithfor300yearsofsubjectivetime.”
“Youcouldhavereturnedthesleepersaliveatanytime.Iwouldn’thaveattackedyou.”Butshedidn’teven
soundconvincingtoherself.
“Whatnow?”Markariansaid.“Do we keep this distance, arguinguntil one of us hasthenerve to strike
againsttheother?I’veNestbuilderweaponsaswell,Irravel.IthinkIcouldripyouapartbeforeyoucould
launchareprisal.”
“You’ve had the opportunity to do so before. Perhaps you never had the nerve, though. What’s changed
now?”
Markarian’sgazeflickedtothemap.“Everything.Ithinkweshouldseewhathappensbeforemakingany
rashdecisions,don’tyou?”
Irravelagreed.
Shewilledherselfintostasis;medichinesarrestingallbiologicalactivityineverycellinherbody.The
‘chineswouldonlyreviveherwhensomething—anything—happened,onaGalactictimescale.
Markarianwouldretreatintowhatevermodeofsuspensionhefavoured,untilwokenbythesamestimulus.
Hewasstillsittingtherewhentimeresumed,asifonlyamomenthadinterruptedtheirconversation.
Thewavehadspreadfurthernow.IthadeatenintotheGalaxyfor10,000light-yearsaroundSol-athirdof
thewaytothecore.Therewasnosignthatithadencounteredresistance—atleastnothingthathaddone
more than hinder it. There had never been many intelligent, starfaring cultures to begin with, the
Nestbuilderhadtoldher.Perhapsthefewthatexistedwereevennowmakingplanstoretardthewave.
Orperhapsithadswallowedthem,asitswallowedhumanity.
“Whydidwewake?”Irravelsaid.“Nothingchanged,exceptthatit’sbecomelarger.”
“Maybenot,”Markariansaid.“Ihadtobesure,butnowIdon’tthinkthere’sanydoubt.I’vejustdetecteda
radiomessagefromwithintheplaneoftheGalaxy;fromwithinthewave.”
“Yes?”
“Lookslikesomeonesurvivedafterall.”
Theradiomessagewasfaint,butnothingelsewastransmittingonthatoranyadjacentfrequency,exceptfor
thesenselessmushofcosmicbackgroundsources.Itwasalsoinalanguagetheyrecognized.
“It’sCanasian,”Irravelsaid.
“Fandsubdialect,”Irraveladded,marvellingly.
Itwasalsobeamedintheirdirection,fromsomewheredeepintheswatheofgreen,almostcoincidentwith
the position of a pulsar. The message was a simple one, frequency modulated around one and a half
megahertz,repeatedforafewminuteseverydayofGalactictime.Whoeverwassendingitclearlylacked
theresourcestotransmitcontinuously.Itwasalsocoherent:amplifiedandbeamed.
Someonewantedtospeaktothem.
The man’s disembodied head appeared above the banquet table, chiselled from pixels. He was
immeasurably old; a skull draped in parchment; something that should have been embalmed rather than
talking.
Irravelrecognizedtheface.
“It’shim,”shesaid,inMarkarian’sdirection.“Remontoire.Somehowhemadeitacrossallthistime.”
Markariannoddedslowly.“Hemusthaverememberedus,andknownwheretolook.Evenacrossthousands
oflight-years,wecanstillbeseen.Therecan’tbemanyobjectsstillmovingrelativistically.”
Remontoiretoldhisstory.Hispeoplehadfledtothepulsarsystem20,000yearsago—moresonow,since
hismessagehadtakenthousandsofyearstoclimboutoftheGalaxy.Theyhadseenthewavecoming,as
hadthousands ofother humanfactions,and likemany theyhadobserved thatthewave shunnedpulsars;
burnt-outstellarcorpsesrarelyaccompaniedbyplanets.Someintelligencegoverningthewavemusthave
recognized that pulsars were valueless; that even if a Dyson cloud could be created around them, there
wouldbenosunlighttofocus.
Forthousandsofyears theyhadwaited aroundthepulsar, growingever moresilentand cautious,seeing
otherculturesmakeerrorswhichdrewthewaveuponthem,forbynowitinterpretedanyotherintelligence
asathreattoitsprogress,assimilatingtheweaponsusedagainstit.
Then—overmanymorethousandsofyears—Remontoire’speoplesawthewavelearn,adaptinglikea
vast neural net, becoming curious about those few pulsars which harboured planets. Soon their place of
refugewouldbecomenothingofthesort.
“Helpus,”Remontoiresaid.“Please.”
Ittook3,000yearstoreachthem.
Formostofthattime,Remontoire’speopleactedonfaith,notknowingthathelpwasonitsway.
During the first thousand years they abandoned their system, compressing their population down to a
sustainingcoreofonlyafewhundredthousand.Togetherwiththeculturaldatathey’dpreservedduringthe
longcenturiesoftheirstruggleagainstthewave,theypackedtheirsurvivorsintoasinglehollowed-outrock
andflungthemselvesoutoftheeclipticusingamass-driverwhichfuelleditselffromtherock’sownbulk.
They called it Hope. A million decoys had to be launched, just to ensure that Hope got through the
surroundinghordesofassimilatingmachines.
Inside,mostoftheConjoinerssleptoutthe2,000yearsofsolitudebeforeIrravelandMarkarianreached
them.
“Hopewouldmakeanexcellentshield,”Markarianmused,astheyapproachedit,“ifoneofusconsidereda
pre-emptivestrikeagainsttheother.”
“Don’tthinkIwouldn’t.”
Theymovedtheirshipstoeithersideofthedarkshardofrock,extendedfieldgrapples,thenhauledin.
“Thenwhydon’tyou?”Markariansaid.
ForamomentIrraveldidn’thaveagoodanswer.Whenshefoundone,shewonderedwhyithadn’tbeen
moreobviousbefore.“BecausetheyneedusmorethanIneedrevenge.”
“Ahighercause?”
“Redemption,”shesaid.
****
HOPE,GALACTICPLANE—ADCIRCA40,000
Theydidn’thavelong.Theirapproach,divingdownfromGalacticNorth,haddrawntheattentionofthe
wave’smachines,directingthemtowardstheonerockwhichmattered.Awallofannihilationwasmoving
towardthemathalfthespeedoflight.WhenitreachedHope,itwouldturnitintothedarkestofnebulae.
Conjoinersboarded the Hirondelle and invited Irravel into the Hope: The hollowed-out chambers of the
rock were Edenic to her children, after all the decades of subjective time they’d spent aboard since last
planetfall.Butitwasadoomedparadise,thebiomesgreywithneglect,asiftheConjoinershadgivenup
longago.
RemontoirewelcomedIrravelnexttoarockpoolfilmedingreydust.Halfthesun-panelssetintothedistant
honeycombedceilingwereblack.
“You came,” he said. He wore a simple smock and trousers. His anatomy was early-model Conjoiner:
almostfullyhuman.
“You’re not him, are you? You look like him — sound like him — but the image you sent us was of
someonemucholder.”
“I’msorry.Hisnamewaschosenforitsfamiliarity;mylikenessshapedtohis.Wesearchedourcollective
memoriesandfoundtheexperiencesoftheoneyouknewasRemontoire…butthatwasalongtimeago,
andhewasneverknownbythatnametous.”
“Whatwashisname?”
“EvenyourJugglercortexcouldnotaccommodateit,Irravel.”
Shehadtoask.“Didhemakeitbacktoacommune?”
“Yes, of course,” the man said, as if her question was foolish. “How else could we have absorbed his
experiencesbackintotheTransenlightenment?”
“Anddidheforgiveme?”
“Iforgiveyounow,”hesaid.“Itamountstothesamething.”
ShewilledherselftothinkofhimasRemontoire.
TheConjoinershadn’tallowedthemselvestoprogressinallthethousandsofyearstheywaitedaroundthe
pulsar,fearing that any social change—nomatter how slight — wouldeventuallybring the wave upon
them.Theyhadstudiedit,contemplatedweaponstheymightuseagainstit—butotherthanthat,allthey
haddonewaswait.
Theywereverygoodatwaiting.
“Howmanyrefugeesdidyoubring?”
“Onehundredthousand.”BeforeIrravelcouldanswer,Remontoireshookhishead.“Iknow;toomany.
Perhapshalfthatnumbercanbecarriedawayonyourships.Buthalfisbetterthannothing.”
Shethoughtbacktoherownsleepers.“Iknow.Still,wemightbeabletotakemore…Idon’tknowabout
Markarian’sship,but—”
Hecutheroff,gently.“Ithinkyou’dbettercomewithme,”saidRemontoire,andthenledheraboardthe
Hideyoshi.
“Howmuchofitdidyouexplore?”
“Enoughtoknowthere’snoonealiveanywhereinthisship,”Remontoiresaid.“Ifthereare200
cryogenicallyfrozensleepers,wedidn’tfindthem.”
“Nosleepers?”
“Justthisone.”
What they’d arrived at was a plinth, supporting a reefersleep casket, encrusted with gold statuary;
spacesuitedfigureswithhandsfoldedacrosstheirchestslikerestingsaints.Theglasslidofthecasketwas
veinedwithfractures;thewitheredfigureinsideolderthantime.Markarian’sskeletalframewasswaddled
inlayersofmachines,allofarchaicprovenance.Hisskullhadsplitopen,afusedmassspillingoutlikelava.
“Ishedead?”Irravelasked.
“Dependswhatyoumeanbydead.” TheConjoiner’shandsketchedacrosstheneuralmass.“His organic
mindmusthavebeencompletelyswampedbymachinescenturiesago.HislinkagetotheHideyoshiwould
havebeentotal.Therewouldhavebeenverylittlepointdiscriminatingbetweenthetwo.”
“Whydidn’thetellmewhathadbecomeofhim?”
“No guarantee he knew. Once he was in this state, with his personality running entirely on machine
substrates,hecouldhaveeditedhisownmemoriesandperceptualinputs-deceivinghimselfthathewas
stillcorporeal.”
Irravel looked away from the casket, forcing troubling questions from her mind. “Is his personality still
runningtheship?”
“We detected only caretaker programs; capable of imitating him when the need arose, but lacking
sentience.”
“Isthatalltherewas?”
“No.”Remontoirereachedthroughoneofthecasket’slargerfractures,prisingsomethingfromMarkarian’s
fingers. It was a sliver of computer memory. “We examined this already, though not in great detail. It’s
partitioned into 190 areas, each large enough to hold complete neural and genetic maps for one human
being,encodedintosuperposedelectronstatesonRydbergatoms.”
Shetookthesliverfromhim.Itdidn’tfeellikemuch.“Heburnedthesleepersontothis?”
“Three hundred years is much longer than any of them expected to sleep. By scanning them he lost
nothing.”
“Canyouretrievethem?”
“Itwouldnotbetrivial,”theConjoinersaid.“Butgiventime,wecoulddoit.Assuminganyofthemwould
welcomebeingbornagain,sofarfromhome.”
ShethoughtoftheinfectedGalaxyhangingbelowthem,hummingwiththechillsentienceofmachines.
“Maybethekindestthingwouldbetosimulatethepast,”shesaid.“Re-createYellowstone,andrevivethem
onit,asifnothinghadevergonewrong.”
“Isthatwhatyou’readvocating?”
“No,”shesaid,aftertoyingwiththeideainallseriousness.“Weneedallthegeneticdiversitywecanget,if
we’regoingtoestablishanewbranchofhumanityoutsidetheGalaxy.”
Shethoughtaboutit.SoontheywouldwitnessHope’sdestruction,asthewaveofmachinestorethroughit
withthemindlessnessofstampedinganimals.SomeofthemmighttryandfollowtheHirondelle,butsofar
themachinesmovedtooslowlytocatchtheship,eveniftheyforceditbacktowardsGalacticNorth.
Wherewastheretogo?
TherewereglobularclustershighabovetheGalaxy—tightlypackedshoalsofoldstarswherethewave
hadn’treached,butwherefragmentsofhumanitymighthavealreadysoughtrefuge.Iftheclustersproved
unwelcoming, there were high-latitude stars, flung from the Galaxy a billion years ago, and some might
have dragged their planetary systems with them. If those failed — and it would be tens of thousands of
yearsbeforethepossibilitieswereexhausted—theHirondellecouldalwayslooparoundtowardsGalactic
Southandsearchthere,strikingoutfortheCloudsofMagellan.
Ultimately, of course — if any part or fragment of Irravel’s children still clung to humanity, and
rememberedwherethey’dcomefrom,andwhathadbecomeofit,theywouldwanttoreturntotheGalaxy,
evenifthatmeantconfrontingthewave.
Buttheywouldreturn.
“That’stheplanthen?”Remontoiresaid.
Irravelshrugged,turningawayfromtheplinthwhereMarkarianlay.“Unlessyou’vegotabetterone.”
****
dapple:ahwarhathhistoricalromance
ELEANORARNASON
Critically acclaimed author Eleanor Arnason published her first novel, The Sword Smith, in 1978,and
followeditwithnovelssuchasDaughteroftheBearKingandTo theResurrectionStation.In1991, she
publishedher best-known novel, one of the strongestnovels of the ‘90s, A Womanof the Iron People, a
complexandsubstantialnovelwhichwontheprestigiousJamesTiptreeJr.
MemorialAward.HershortfictionhasappearedinAsi-mov’sScienceFiction,TheMagazineofFantasy&
scienceFiction,Amazing,Orbit,Xanadu,andelsewhere.HermostrecentnovelisRingofSwords,setin
thesameevocativefictionaluniverseasisthebulkofhershortfiction,includingthestorythatfollows.
Inthisstoryshetakesustoadistantplanetinhabitedbythealienhwarhath,andalongwithabrave and
determined young girl who defies her family and sets off on a perilous adventure thattakes her into
uncharted territory of several sorts—into wild, lawless country inhabited by banditsand remorseless
killers, and, perhaps even more dangerously, into a new social territory as well,as she assumes roles
ForbiddentoWomensincetimeimmemorial…
****
T
herewasagirlnamedHelwarAhl.HerfamilylivedonanislandnorthandeastoftheSecondContinent,
whichwasknowninthosedaysastheGreatSouthernContinent.(Now,ofcourse,weknowthataneven
largerexpanseoflandliesfarthersouth,touchingthepole.InAhl’stime,however,nooneknewaboutthis
landexceptitsinhabitants.)
Apolarcurrentranupthecontinent’seastcoastandcurledaroundHelwarIsland,soitsclimatewascool
andrainy.Thickforestscoveredthemountains.TheHelwarbuiltshipsfromthewood.Theywerefamous
shipwrights,prosperousenoughtohaveagood-sizedharbortown.
Ahlgrewupinthistown.Herhomewasthekindofgreathousetypicaloftheregion:aseriesoftwo-story
buildingslinkedtogether.Theouterwallsweremostlyblank.Insidewerecourtyards,balconies,andlarge
windowsprovidedwiththemodemwonder,glass.Granted,thepanesweresmallandflawed.Butsomein-
geniousartificerhadfoundawaytofitmanypanestogether,usingstripsoflead.
Nowthewomenofthehousehadlight,eveninthecoldestweather.
Asachild,Ahlplayedwithhercousinsinthecourtyardsandcommonrooms,allofthemnakedexceptfor
theirfog-greyfur.Later,inakilt,sheraninthetownstreetsandvisitedtheharbor.Herfavoriteunclewasa
fisherman,whowentoutinmorningdarkness,beforemostpeoplewoke.Inthelateafternoon,hereturned.
Ifhe’dbeenlucky,hetiedupandcleanedhiscatch,whileAhlsatwatchingonthedock.
“Iwanttobeafisherman,”shesaidoneday.
“Youcan’t,darling.Fishingismen’swork.”
“Why?”
Hewasbusyguttingfish.Hestoppedforamoment,frowning,abloodyknifestillinhishand.“Lookatthis
situation!Doyouwanttostandlikeme,kneedeepindeadfish?It’shard,nastyworkandcanbedangerous.
Thethingsthatwomendowell—negotiation,forexample,andtheformingofalliances—arenouseatall,
whendealingwithfish.What’sneededhere,”hewavedtheknife,“isviolence.Also,ithelpsifyoucanpiss
offthesideofaboat.”
ForawhileafterthatAhlworkedataimingherurine.Shecoulddoit,ifshespreadherlegsandtiltedher
pelvis in just the right fashion. But would she be able to manage on a pitching boat? Or in a wind? In
addition,therewastheproblemofviolence.Didshereallywanttobeakillerofmanysmallanimals?
Oneofthecourtyardsinherhousehadabasin,whichheldornamentalfish.Ahlcaughtoneandcutoffits
head.Aseniorfemalecousincaughtherbeforeshewasfinished,thoughthefishwaspasthelp.
“Whatareyoudoing?”thematronasked.
Ahlexplained.
“Thesearefishtofeed,notfishtoeat,”hercousinsaidanddemonstratedthisbythrowingagraincakeinto
thebasin.
Fishsurgedtothesurfaceinaswirlofredfins,greenbacks,andblue-greentails.Amomentlater,thecake
wasgone.Thefishreturnedtotheirusualbehavior:aslowswimmingbackandforth.
“It’shardlyfairtokillsomethingthistame—inyourownhouse,too.Guestsshouldbetreatedwithrespect.
Inaddition,thesefishhaveanuninterestingflavorandarefulloftinybones.Ifyouateone,itwouldbelike
eatingaclothfullofneedles.”
Ahl lost interest in fishing after that. Her uncle was right about killing. It was a nasty activity. All that
quicknessandgrace,goneinamoment.Thebrightcolorsfaded.Shewasleftwithnothingexceptafeeling
ofdisgust.
Maybeshe’dbeaweaver,likehermother,Leweli.Orthecaptainofafar-travelingocean-trader,likeher
auntKi.Thenshecouldbringtreasureshome:transparentglass,softanddurablelead.
When she was ten, she saw her first play. She knew the actors, of course. They were old friends of her
familyandcameto Helwaroften,usuallystayingin Ahl’s house.Theolder one—Perig—wasquietand
friendly, always courteous to the household children, but not a favorite with them. The favorite was
Cholkwa,whojuggledandpulledcandyoutofears.Heknewlotsoffunnystories,mostlyaboutanimals
suchasthetli,afamoustroublemakerandtrickster.Accordingtothehouse’sadults,hewasacomedian,
who performed in plays too rude for children to see. Perig acted in hero plays, though it was hard to
imagine him as a hero. The two men were lovers, but didn’t usually work together. This was due to the
difference in their styles and to their habit of quarreling. They had, the women of Ahl’s house said, a
difficultrelationship.
Thistimetheycametogether,andPerigbroughthiscompany.Theyputonaplayinthemainsquare,both
ofthemacting,thoughCholkwaalmostneverdiddarkwork.
Theplaywasabouttwolovers—bothofthemwarriors—whosefamiliesquar-reled.Howcouldtheyturn
againstoneanother?Howcouldtheyrefusetheirrelatives’pleasforhelp?Eachwasthebestwarriorinhis
family.Thoughshehadn’tseenaplaybefore,Ahlknewhowthiswasgoingtoend.Thetwomenmetin
battle.Itwasmorelikeadancethananythingelse,bothofthemsplendidlycostumedandmovingwithslow
reluctant, grace. Finally, after several speeches, Perig tricked Cholkwa into striking. The blow was fatal.
Perigwentdowninagoldandscarletheap.Castinghisswordaway,Cholkwakneltbesidehim.Aminor
playerindrabarmorcreptupandkilledCholkwaashemourned.
Ahlwastransfixed,thoughalsopuzzled.“Wasn’tthereanywayout?”sheaskedtheactorslater,whenthey
werebackinherhouse,drinkinghalinandlisteningtoherfamily’scompliments.
“Ina comedy,yes,”saidCholkwa. “Which is why I do bright plays. But Perig likes plays that end with
everyonedead,andalwaysoversomeethicalproblemthat’shardlyeverencounteredinreallife.”
Theolderman waslying ona bench,holdinghishalincuponhischest.HeglancedatCholkwa briefly,
thenlookedbackattheceiling.“Iswhatyoudomoretruetoreality?Rudeplaysaboutanimals?I’drather
beaheroinredandgoldarmorthanamaninatlicostume.”
“I’dratherbeaclevertlithansomeonewhokillshislover.”
“Whatelsecouldtheydo?”askedPerig,referringtothecharactersintheplay.
“Runoff,”saidCholkwa.“Becomeactors.Leavetheirstupidrelativestofighttheirstupidwarunaided.”
Itwasoneofthoseadultconversationswhereeverythingreallyimportantwasleftunspoken.Ahlcouldtell
that.Bored,shesaid,“I’dliketobeanactor.”
Theybothlookedather.
“Youcan’t,”saidPerig.
Thissoundedfamiliar.“Whynot?”
“In part, its custom,” Cholkwa said. “But there’s at least one good reason. Actors travel and live among
unkin;andoftentheplaceswevisitarenotsafe.Igosouthalot.Thepeopletherelovecomedy,butinevery
otherwaythey’reloutsandsavages.AttimesI’vewonderedifI’dmakeitbackalive,orwouldsomeone
havetobringmyashesinanurntoPerig?”
“Bettertostayhere,”saidPerig.“OrtravelthewayyourauntKidoes,inashipfullofrelatives.”
Nopointinarguing.Whenadultsstartedtogiveadvice,theywereneverrea-sonable.Buttheplaystayed
withher.Sheimaginedstoriesaboutpeopleinfineclothing,facedwithimpossiblechoices;andsheacted
themout,goingsofarastomakeawoodensword,whichshekepthiddeninahayloft.Herfemalerelatives
hadanentirekitchenfullofknivesandcleaversandaxes,allsharpanddangerous.Butthenoisetheywould
havemade,ifthey’dseenherweapon!
Sometimes she was male and a warrior. At other times, she was a sailor like Ki, fighting the kinds of
monsters found at the edges of maps. Surely, Ahl thought, it was permissible for women to use swords
whenattackedbymonsters,risingoutofthewaterwithfangsthatdrippedpoisonandlongcurvingclaws?
Belowherinthebarn,herfamily’stsinaateandexcreted.Theiranimalaromarosetoher,combiningwith
thescentofhay.Latershesaidthiswasthescentofdrama:dry,aginghayandnew-droppedexcrement.
The next year Cholkwa came alone and brought his company. They did a decent comedy, suitable for
children,aboutanoblesulwhowastrickedandhumiliatedbyatli.Thetricksterwasexposedattheplay’s
end. The sul’s honor was restored. The good animals did a dance of triumph, while the tli cowered and
begged.
Cholkwawasthetli.Strangethatamansohandsomeandfriendlycouldportrayaslycoward.
Ahlaskedaboutthis.Cholkwasaid,“Ican’ttalkaboutothermen,butIhavethatkindofpersoninsideme:
a cheat and liar, who would like to run away from everything. I don’t run, of course. Perig would
disapprove,andI’dratherbead-miredthandespised.”
“Butyouplayedaherolastyear.”
“Thatwasmoredifficult.Perigunderstandsnobility,andIstudiedwithhimalongtime.Idoashetellsme.
MostpeoplearetrickedandthinkIknowwhatI’mdoing.Butthatperson—thehero—doesn’tspeakinmy
mind.”
Ahl moved forward to the play’s other problem. “The sul was noble, but a fool. The tli was clever and
funny,butimmoral.TherewasnooneintheplayIcouldreallylike.”
Cholkwagaveheraconsideringgaze,whichwaspermissible,sinceshewasstillachild.Wouldshelikeit,
when men like Cholkwa —unkin, but old friends — had to glance away? “Most people, even adults,
wouldn’thaveseenthat.Ithastwocauses.Iwrotethesul’slines,and,asI’vetoldyou,Idon’tunderstand
nobility.The other problem is my second actor. He isn’tgood enough. If Perig had been here, hewould
havemadethesullikable —in part byrewritingthelines, but mostly because he could playastoneand
makeitseemlikable.”
Ahlthoughtaboutthisidea.Animagecametoher:Periginagreyrobe,sittingquietlyonastage,hisface
unmaskedandgrey,lookingcalmandfriendly.Alikablerock.Itcouldbedone.Whybother?Inspiteofher
question,theimageremained,somehowcomforting.
Severaldayslater,Cholkwadidaplayforadults.Thiseventtookplaceatnightinthetownhall,whichwas
usedformeetingsandceremonies,alsotostoretradegoodsintransit.Thistimethebackhalfwasfullof
cloth,bigbalesthatsmelledoffreshdye,southernblueandthefamousSorgred.
Ahlsnuckoutofherhouseafterdarkandwentinabackdoor,whichshe’dunlockedearlier.Climbingatop
thebales,shesettledtowatchtheplay.
Most of it was past her understanding, though the audience gasped, groaned, clapped, and made hissing
noises.Clearly,theyknewwhatwasgoingon.
Thecostumeswereugly,inheropinion;theanimalshadhugesexualpartsandgrimacingfaces.Theyhit
eachotherwithpaddedswordsandclubs,tumbledandtossedeachother,spokelinesthatwere—asfaras
shecouldtell—fullofinsults,someslyandotherssoobviousthatevenshemadesenseofthem.
Thistimethesulwasanarrogantbraggartwithalongnarrowheadandapenisofalmostequalsizeand
shape.Thetli,muchlesswellendowed,wascleverandfunny,acowardbecausehehadtobe.Mostofhis
companionswerelarge,dangerous,andunjust.
Itwasthetli’splay.Mockingandtricking,hewonoveralltherest,endingwiththesul’spreciousancestral
sword,whichhecarriedoffintriumphtohismother,avenerablefemaletli,whilethesulhowledingrief.
TheSwordRecoveredorTheRevengeoftheTli.Thatwasthenameoftheplay.Therewassomethingin
backofit,whichAhlcouldnotfigureout.Somehowthesulhadharmedthetli’sfamilyinthepast.
Maybetheharmhadbeensexual,thoughthisdidn’tseemlikely.Sulinandtlididnotinterbreed.
Puzzled,sheclimbeddownfromthebalesandwenthome.Thenightwasfoggy, andshealmostlosther
wayinstreetsshe’dknownherentirelife.
Shecouldn’taskCholkwatoexplain.Hewouldhavetoldherrelativesthatshe’dseentheplay.
Afterthis,sheaddedcomedytoherrepertoire,mixingitwiththestoriesaboutheroesandwomenlikeher
aunt,far-travelerswhodidnothavetodieoversomekindofunusualethicaldilemma.
Theresultwasalong,acted-outepictaleaboutahero,awomansailor,aclevertli,andamagicalstonethat
accompaniedtheotherthreeontheirjourney.Theherowasnoble,thesailorresourceful,andthetlifunny,
whilethestoneremainedcalmandfriendly,nomatterwhatwasgoingon.Therewasn’tanysex.
Ahl was too young, and the adult comedy had disgusted her. It’s often a bad idea to see things that are
forbidden,especiallyifoneisyoung.
Intheend,oneofhercousins—asneakworsethanCholkwainthechildren’splay—foundoutwhatshe
was doing and told her senior female relatives. “Clearly you have too much free time,” they said, and
assignedherworkinthehouse’sbigweavingroom.Theswordwasdestroyed,alongwiththebitsofarmor
she’dmade.Butherrelativesdecidedthetlimask,constructedofbark paper overaframe oftwigs,was
goodenoughtokeep.Itwashungontheweavingroomwall,whereitstareddownather.
Gradually,thestrawwhiskersdisappeared,andlargeeyes—drawninink—faded.
Don’tthinkthatAhlwastoounhappy,orthatherrelativeshadbeenunjust.Everychildhastolearnduty;
andshe’dgottenboredwithhersolitaryplay,aswellasincreasinglyuncomfortablewithhidingherprops.
Bettertoworkataloomandhaveideasinhermind.Nosneakingcousincoulddiscoverthese,andevery-
thing she imagined was large and bright and well-made, the swords of real steel, sharp and polished, as
brightasthebestglass.
Twoyearspassed.Shebecameanadequateplainweaver,butnothingmore.“Wethoughtyoumighthavea
gift for beauty,” said her mother. “The mask suggested this. But it’s obvious that you lack the ability to
concentrate,which is absolutelynecessaryinany kind of art. Anythingworthdoingis likely to be slow,
difficult,andboring.Thisisnotaninvariablerule,butitworksinmostsituations.”
“Givehertome,”saidKi.“Maybeshe’dbehappierinamoreactivelife.”
Ahlwenttosea. At first, it was not an enjoyable experience, though she had little problem with motion
sickness. Her difficulty lay in the same region as always: she spent too much time thinking about her
stories.Asaresult,shewasforgetfulandcareless.Thesearenotgoodtraitsinanapprenticesailor;andKi,
whohadalwaysseemedpleasantandfriendlyathomeinHelwar,turnedouttobeaharshcaptain.
AtfirstthepunishmentshegavetoAhlwaswork.Everyshipisfullofnastyjobs.Ahldidmostofthemand
didthemmorethanonce.Thisdidn’tbotherher.Shewasn’tlazy,andjobs—thoughnasty—requiredlittle
thought.Shecouldmakeupstorieswhileshedidthem.
Herhabitofinattentioncontinued.Growingangry,Kiturnedtoviolence.Onseveraloccasions,shestuck
Ahl:hardslapsacrosstheface.Thisalsohadnoeffect.Thegirlsimplydidnotwanttogiveupherstories.
Finally,Kibeather,usingaknottedrope.
Mostlikelythisshocksyou.Nowadaysweliketobelievethatourfemalean-cestorsneverdidharmtoone
another.It’smenwhoareviolent.Womenhavealwaysusedreason.
Remember this was a sailing ship in the days before radio and engines. Weather satellites did not warn
sailorsofapproachingstorms.Computersdidnotmonitortheship’sconditionandsendautomaticsignalsto
theNavigationService.Sailorshadtorelyontheirownskillanddiscipline.
Itwasonethingtobeforgetfulinaweavingroom.Ifyoufailtotieoffapieceofyarn,whatcanhappen?
Atmost,alength ofclothwillbedamaged.Now, imaginewhathappensifthesamepersonfailstotiea
ropeonboardaship.Orforgetstofastenahatchinstormyweather.
So,afterseveralwarningsandafinalmistake,Ahlreceivedherbeating.Bythistimeshewasfourteenor
fifteen,withacoatoffurmadethickbycoldweather.Thefurprotectedher,thoughnotentirely;andlater,
whensherememberedtheexperience,itseemedthatshamewastheworstpart:tostandnakedontheship’s
deck,tryingtoremainimpassive,whileKiusedtheropeshehadfailedtotieacrossherback.
Aroundher,theothersailorsdidtheirwork.Theydidn’twatchdirectly,ofcourse,butthereweresideways
glances, some embarrassed and others approving. Overhead the sky was cloudless. The ship moved
smoothlythroughabrightblueocean.
The next day she felt every bruise. Ki gave her another unpleasant cleaning job. All day she scraped,
keepingher lips pressedtogether.Inthe evening shewentondeck, less stiffthanshe’dbeen earlier, but
tired and still sore. Ahl leaned on the rail and looked out at the ocean. In the distance, rays of sunlight
slantedbetweengreyclouds.Lifewasnotentirelyeasy,shethought.
Afterawhile,Ki’sloverHasuAhlcamenexttoher.Ahlhadbeennamedafterthewoman,forreasonsthat
don’tcomeintothisstory,andtheywerealikeinseveralways,beingbothtallandthin,withsmallbreasts
andlargestrong,capablehands.Themaindifferencebetweenthemwastheirfur.HasuAhl’swasdarkgrey,
likethecloudswhichfilledthesky,andhercoloringwassolid.OurAhlwaspaleasfog.
Inaddition,shehadkeptherbabyspots.Dimandblurry,theydottedhershouldersandupperarms.
Becauseofthese,herchildhoodnamehadbeenDap-ple.
HasuAhlaskedhowshefelt.
“I’vebeenbetter.”
Theybecamesilent,bothleaningontherail.FinallyHasuAhlsaid,“There’sastoryaboutyourchildhood
thatnoonehastoldyou.Whenyouwereababy,awitchpredictedthatyouwouldbeimportantwhenyou
grewup.Shedidn’tknowinwhatway.Iknowthisstory,asdoyourmotherandKiandafewotherpeople.
Butwedidn’twantyourentirefamilypeeringatyouandwondering,andwedidn’twantyoutobecome
vainorworried;sowekeptquiet.
“It’spossiblethatKi’sangerisdueinparttothis.Shelooksatyouandthinks,‘Whereisthegiftthatwas
promisedus?’Allwecansee—asidefromintelligence,whichyouobviouslyhave—iscarelessnessand
lackofattention.”
Whatcouldshesay?Shewasinattentivebecausehermindwasfullofstories,thoughthecharacterwho’d
been like Ki had vanished. Now there was an orphan girl with no close relatives, ignored by everyone,
exceptherthreecompanions:thehero,thetli,andthestone.Theycaredforherintheirdifferentways:the
hero with nobility, the tli with jokes, and the stone with solid friendliness. But she’d never told anyone
aboutherideas.“I’mnotyetfifteen,”Ahlsaid.
“There’stimeforyoutochange,”HasuAhladmitted.“Butnotifyoukeepdoingthingsthatendangerthe
ship and yourself. Ki has promised that if you’re careless again, she’ll beat you a second time, and the
beatingwillbeworse.”
Afterthat,HasuAhlleft.Well,thoughtourheroine,thiswascertainlyacon-fusingconversation.Ki’slover
hadthreatenedherwithsomethinglikefameandwithanotherbeating.Adultswerebeyondcomprehension.
Her concentration improved, and she became an adequate sailor, though Ki said she would never be a
captain. “Or a second-in-command, like your namesake, my Ahl. Whatever your gift may be, it isn’t
sailing.”
Hertimeonboardwasmostlyhappy.Shemadefriendswiththeyoungermem-bersofthecrew,andshe
learned to love the ocean as a sailor does, knowing how dangerous it can be. The coast of the Great
SouthernContinentwasdotted withharbortowns.Ahlvisitedmany ofthese,exploringthesteepnarrow
streetsandmulti-leveledmarketplaces.Onenightatafestival,shemadeloveforthefirsttime.Herlover
wasa girl with black fur and pale yellow eyes. Inthetorchlight,the girl’s pupils expanded, tilltheylay
acrossheririseslikebarsofironornarrowwindowsthatopenedintoastarlessnight.
Whatafineimage!ButwhatcouldAhldowithit?
Later, in that same port, she came to an unwalled tavern. Vines grew over the roof. Underneath were
benches.Perigsatonone,acupinhishand.Sheshoutedhisname.Heglancedupandsmiled,thenhisgaze
slidaway.Wasshethatold?Hadshebecomeawoman?Maybe,shethought,rememberingtheblack-furred
girl.
WherewasCholkwa?Inthesouth,Perigsaid.
Becausetheplacewasunwalledandpublic,shewasabletositdown.Thehostessbroughthalin.Shetasted
it,savoringthesharpbitterness.Itwasthetasteofadulthood.
“Watch out,”saidPerig. “Thatstuffcanmake you sick.”Washiscompany here?Weretheyacting?Ahl
asked.Yes.Thenextnight,inthetownsquare.“I’llcome,”saidAhlwithdecision.Perigglancedat her,
obviouslypleased.
Theplaywasaboutahero,ofcourse:amanwhosuspectedthattheseniorwomeninhisfamily,hismother
and her sisters, had committed a crime. If his suspicion was true, their behavior threatened the family’s
survival.Butnomancantreatanywomanwithviolence,andnomanshouldturnagainsthismother.And
whatifhe werewrong? Maybetheywereinnocent.Takingonelook atthe women,Ahlknewtheywere
villains. But the hero didn’t have her sharpness of vision. So he blundered through the play, trying to
discoverthetruth.Mendied,mostlyathishands,andmostofthemhiskin.Finallyhewashackeddown,
while the women looked on. A messenger arrived, denouncing them. Their family was declared
untouchable.Noonewoulddealwiththeminthefuture.Unabletointerbreed,thefamilywouldvanish.The
monstrouswomenlistenedlikeblocksofstone.Nothingcouldaffecttheirstubbornarrogance.
Aterriblestory,butalsobeautiful.Perigwastheheroandshonelikeadiamond.Thethreemenplayingthe
womenweregrimlyconvincing.Ahlfeltasifaswordhadgonethroughherchest.Herstorieswerenothing
nexttothis.
Afterward,AhlfoundPerigintheopentavern.Torchesflaredinacooloceanwind,andhisfur—touched
withwhiteovertheshoulders—movedalittle,ruffled.Ahltriedtoexplainhowlovelyandpainfultheplay
hadbeen.
Helistened,givingheranoccasionalquickglance.“Thisisthewayit’ssupposedtobe,”hesaidfinally.
“Likeabladegoingtoavitalspot.”
“Isitimpossibletohaveahappyending?”sheasked,aftershefinishedpraising.“Inthiskindofplay,yes.”
“Ilikedtheherosomuch.Thereshouldhavebeenanothersolution.”“Well,”saidPerig.“Hecouldhave
killedhis mother and aunts, then killedhimself.Itwould have saved his family, but he wasn’tsure they
werecriminals.”
“Ofcoursetheywere!”
“Youwereintheaudience,”saidPerig.“WhereIwasstanding,inthemiddleofthesituation,thetruthwas
lessevident;andnomanshouldfinditeasytokillhismother.”
“Iwasright,yearsago,”Ahlsaidsuddenly.“ThisiswhatIwanttodo.Actinplays.”
Periglookedunhappy.
Shetoldhimaboutherattemptstoweaveandbeasailor,thenabouttheplaysshehadactedinthehayloft
andthestoriesinhermind.Forthefirsttime,sherealizedthatthestorieshadscenes.Sheknewhowthe
heromoved,likePerigactingahero.ThetlihadCholkwa’sbriskstepandmockingvoice.Thestonewasa
stone.Onlythegirlwasblurry.Shedidn’ttellPerigaboutthescenes.Embar-rassingtoadmitthatthisquiet
agingmanlivedinhermind,alongwithhisloverandastone.Butshedidtellhimthatshetoldstories.
Helistened,thensaid,“Ifyouwereaboy,I’dgotoyourfamilyandaskforyouasanapprentice—ifnot
thisyear,thennextyear.ButIcan’t,Ahl.They’drefusemeandbesoangryImightlosetheirfriendship.”
“WhatamItodo?”askedAhl.
“That’saquestionIcan’tanswer,”saidPerig.
A day later, her shipleftthe harbor. On thelong trip home, Ahl considered her future. She’d seen other
companiesofactors.PerigandCholkwawereclearlythebest,butneitheroneofthemwouldbewillingto
trainher.Norwould any company thatknewshewas female. But mostwomenin this partoftheworld
werebroadandfull-breasted,andshewasanentirelydifferenttype.Peoplebefore,strangers,hadmistaken
herforaboy.Thinkofalltheyearsshehadactedinherloft,stridinglikePerigormimickingCholkwa’s
gait.Surelyshehadlearnedsome-thing!
Shewasseventeenand good at nothing. In spite of the witch’sprediction,itwasn’tlikely she’d ever be
important.Itseemedtohernowthatnothinghadeverinterestedherexceptthemakingofstories—notthe
linked verse epics that people recited on winter evenings, nor the tales that women told to children, but
properstories,liketheonesthatPerigandCholkwaacted.
BeforetheyreachedHelwar,Ahlhaddecidedtodisguiseherselfasaboyandrunaway.
First,ofcourse,shehadtospendthewinterathome.Muchofhertimewastakenbyherfamily.Whenshe
could,shewatchedherunclesandmalecousins.Howdidtheystandandmove?Whatweretheirgestures?
Howdidtheyspeak?
Thefamilywarehousewasonlyhalf-full,shediscovered.Thisbecameherthe-ater,litbyhighwindowsor
(sometimes)byalamp.She’dboughtasquaremetalmirrorinthesouth.Ahlleaneditagainstawall.Ifshe
stoodatadistance,shecouldseeherself,dressedinatunicstolenfromacousinandembroideredinthe
male style. Whenever possible, she practiced being a man, striding across the wood floor, turning and
gesturing, speaking lines she remembered out of plays. Behind her were stacks of new-cut lumber. The
fresh,sweetaromaofsawdustfilledtheair.Inlaterlife,shesaidthiswasthesmellofneedandpossibility.
In spring, her ship went south again. Her bag, carefully packed, held boy’s clothing, a knife and all her
money.
Inatowninthefarsouth,shefoundanactingcompany,doingoneofPerig’splaysinraggedcostumes.It
wasoneshe’dseen.They’dcutoutparts.
So,thoughtAhl.Thatevening,shetookherbagandcreptofftheship.Thenightwasfoggy,andthedamp
airsmelled of unfamiliar vegetation. In an alley, she changed clothing, binding her four breastsflatwith
stripsofcloth.Shealreadyknewwheretheactorswerestaying:arun-downinnbytheharbor,notthekind
ofplacethatdecentfemalesailorswouldvisit.Walkingthroughthedarkstreets,bagoverhershoulder,she
wasexcitedandafraid.
Here,inthistown,shewasatthesouthernedgeofcivilization.Whocouldtellwhattheinlandfolkwere
like?Thoughshehadneverheard ofanylineagethatharmedwomen.Ifthingsgotdangerous,she could
pulloffhertunic,revealingherrealself.
Ontheotherhand,theremightbemonsters;andtheydidharmwomen.Pullingoffhertunicwoulddono
good if something with fangs and scales came out of the forest. At most, the thing might thank her for
removingthewrappingonitsdinner.
Ifshewantedtoturnback,nowwasthetime.Shecouldbealess-than-goodsailor.Shecouldgohomeand
lookforanothertrade.TherewereplentyinHelwar,andwomencoulddomostofthem.Shehadn’treally
wantedto fishin theocean,not aftershekilled thefishin thebasin.As forthe othermaleactivities, let
themhavefightingandhuntingdangerousanimals!Letthemlogandhandleheavy timbers!Whyshould
womenrisktheirlives?
Shestoppedoutsidetheinn,almostreadytoturnaround.Thensheremem-beredPeriginthemostrecent
playshe’dseen,atthemomentwhentheplay’sbalancechanged.Akinsmanlaydeadathisfeet.
Itwasnolongerpossibletogoback.He’dstoodquietly,thenliftedhishead,openinghismouthinagreat
crythatwassilent.Nooneintheaudiencemadeanoise.Somehow,throughhissilenceandtheirsilence,
Ahlheardthecry.
Shewouldnotgivethatup.Letmenhaveeveryotherkindofdanger.Thiswassomethingtheyhadtoshare.
Shewentinandfoundtheactors,ashabbygroup.Asshehadthought,theywereshort-handed.
Theseniormanwaspudgywithascarononesideofhisface.“Haveyouanyexperience?”heasked.
“I’vepracticedonmyown,”saidAhl.
The man tilted his head, considering. “You’re almost certainly a runaway, which is bad enough. Even
worse,you’vedecidedyoucanact.IfIwasonlyonemanshort,I’dsendyouoff.Buttwoofmymenare
gone,andifIdon’tfindsomeone,wewon’tbeabletocontinue.”
Inthismanner,shewashired,thoughthemanhadtwomorequestions.“Howoldareyou?Iwon’ttakeona
child.”
“Eighteen,”saidAhl.
“Areyoucertain?”
“Yes,”sheansweredwithindignation.Thoughshewaslyingaboutalmostevery-thingelse,eighteenwas
herage.
Maybehertoneconvincedtheman.“Verywell,”hesaid,thenasked,“What’syourname?”
“Dapple,”shesaid.
“Ofnofamily?”
Shehesitated.
Themansaid,“I’llstopaskingquestions.”
Shehadtimedthiswell.Theyleftthenextmorning,throughfoganddrizzlingrain.Hercomradesonthe
shipwouldthinkshewassleeping.Instead,shetrudgedbesidetheactors’cart,whichwaspulledbyapair
oftsina.Hertunic,madeofthickwool,keptouttherain.Abroadstrawhatcoveredherhead.
Oiledbootsprotectedherfeetagainstmudandpoolsofwater.
Fromthispointon,thestorywillcallherDapple.It’sthenameshepickedforherselfandtheonebywhich
shewasknownfortherestofherlife.ThinkofhernotasHelwarAhl,therunawaygirl,butDapplethe
actor,whoselineagedidnotespeciallymatter,sinceactorsliveontheroad,intheuncertainregionsthatlie
betweenfamilyholdingsandtheobligationsofkinship.
Alldaytheytraveledinland,throughsteephillscoveredwithforest.Manyofthetreeswerenewtoher.
Ridinginthecart,thepudgyman—hisname wasManif—toldheraboutthecompany.Theydidmostly
comedies,thoughManifpreferredheroplays.“Thesepeopleinthesoutharetherudestcollectionoflouts
youcanimagine.Theylikenothing,unlessit’sfulloferectpenisesandimitationsofintercourse;andmen
andwomenwatchthesethingstogether!Shocking!
“They even like plays about breeding, though I prefer—of course—to give them decent comedies about
menhavingsexwithmenorwomenhavingsexwithwomen.Butiftheyinsistonheterosexuality,well,we
havetoeat.”
ThissoundedbadtoDapple,butshewasdeterminedtolearn.Maybetherewasmoretocomedythanshe
hadrealized.
Theymadecampbythesideoftheroad.Manifsleptinthecart,alongwithanotheractor:amanoftwenty-
fiveorso,notbadlooking.Therestofthempitchedatent.Dapplegotanoutsideplace,betterforprivacy,
butalsowetter.Therainkeptfalling.Inthecart,Manifandhiscompanionmadenoise.
“Intothehalin,Inotice,”saidoneofDapple’scompanions.
“Andoneanother,”asecondmanadded.
Thethirdmansaid,“D’youthinkhe’llgoafterDapplehere?”
It was possible, thought Dapple, that she’d done something stupid. Cholkwa had warned her about the
south.
“Hewon’tifDapplefindshimselfaloverquickly,”saidthefirstman.
Thismighthavebeenajoke,ratherthananoffer.Dapplecouldn’ttell.Shecurledup,herbacktotheothers,
hopingthatnoonewouldtouchher.Intime,shewenttosleep.
The next day was clear, though the ground remained wet. They ate breakfast, then struck the tent and
continued inland. The change in weather made Dapple more cheerful. Maybe the men would make no
advances.Iftheydid,she’dfindawaytofendthemoff.TheymightbeshabbyandhalfasgoodasPerig
andCholkwa,buttheydidn’tseemtobemonstersorsavages;andthiswasn’tthefarnorth,whereawarhad
goneonforgenerations,unravelingeverything.Peopleonthiscontinentunderstoodrightbehavior.
Asshethoughtthis,oneofthetsinascreamedandreared.Anarrowwasstuckinitsthroat.
“Bandits!”criedManifandshookthereins,crying,“Go,go,”totheanimals.
Buttheshotanimalstumbled,unabletocontinue;andthesecondtsinbegantolunge,tryingtobreakfreeof
theharnessanditscomrade.Theactorspulledswords.Dappledoveintotheedge-of-forestbrush.
Behindherwasshouting.Shescrambledupahill,herheartbeatinglikeahammerstrikingananvil,though
morequickly.Upandup,hopingthebanditswouldnotfollow.Atlastshestopped.Herheartfeltasifit
mightbreakherchest;herlungshurt;allherbreathwasgone.Belowherontheroadwasscreaming.Not
thetsinanylonger,shethought.Thissoundwasmen.
Whenshewasabletobreathe,shewenton,climbingmoreslowlynow.Thescreamingstopped.Hadthe
banditsnoticedher?Hadtheycountedthecompany?Fourofthemhadbeenwalking,whileManifandhis
loverrode.Buttheloverhadbeenlyinginback,undertheawning,apparentlyexhaustedbyhiseffortsof
thenightbefore.Ifthebanditshadbeenwatching,theymighthaveseenonlyfivepeople.
No way to tell. She continued up the hill, finally reaching a limestone bluff. There was a crack. She
squeezedherwayin,findinganarrowcave.Thereshestoppedasecondtime,leaningagainstthewetrock,
tryingtocontrolherbreath.Somehowshe’dmanagedtokeepherbag.Shedroppeditatherfeetandpulled
herknife.
Fortherestoftheday,shewaited,thenthroughthenight,dozingfromtimetotime,wakingsuddenly.No
onecame.Inthemorning,shewentdownthehill,stoppingoftentolisten.Therewasnothingtohearexcept
windinthefoliageandsmallanimalsmakingtheirusualnoises.
Theroadwasempty,thoughtherewererutstoshowthatacarthadpassedby.Dapplesawnoevidencethat
a fight had ever taken place. For a moment she stood with her mouth open, wondering. Had it been a
dream?Theattackandherflightfromit?Orhadtheactorsmanagedtodriveoffthebandits,thengoneon,
condemningherasacoward?Acrosstheroad,abirdtookflight.Largeandheavy,itwasmottledblackand
white and green. Not a breed native to Helwar, but she knew it from her travels in the south. It ate
everything,plantandanimal,buthadaspeciallikingforcarrion.
Dapplecrossedtheroad.Onthefarside,beyondthebushes,wasahollow.Somethinglaythere,coveredby
branchesandhandfulsofleaves.Shemovedoneofthebranches.Underneathwastheshottsin,deadasa
stone;andunderneaththetsinweretheactors.Shecouldn’tseethementirely,butpartsprotruded:ahand,a
legtotheknee.Oneface—Manifs—staredupather,furmattedwithdarkblood,oneeyealreadygone.
Shaking,shereplacedthebranch,thensatdownbeforeshefell.Forawhile,shedidnothingexceptrock,
herarmsaroundherknees,silentbecauseshefearedtomournoutloud.
Finally,shegotupanduncoveredthegrave.Therewasnowayforhertomovethetsin’shugebody,butshe
climbeddownnexttoit,touchingtheactors,makingsuretheywerealldead.Everythingshetouchedwas
lifeless.Therewasnothinginthegraveexceptthecorpses.Thebanditshadtakeneverythingelse:thecart,
thesurvivingtsinandthecompany’sbelongings.Therewasnowaytoburytheactorsproperly.
Ifshetried,shewouldbeleavingevidenceofherexistence.
Sheclimbedbackoutofthegrave.Whereshouldshe go?Back tothe harbortown?Butthebanditshad
obviouslybeenwaitingalongtheroad,andtheymighthavegonebacktowaiting.Ifso,theywerelikelyto
bewherethey’dbeenbefore:somewheretotheeast.
Iftheyintendedtosetambushfartherwest,surelytheywouldhavedoneabetterjobofcoveringthebodies.
Birdshadfoundthemalready.Bytomorrow,thisspotwouldbefullofnoisy,filthyeaters-of-carrion.
It’spossibleshewasn’tthinkingclearlyinreasoningthisout.Nonetheless,shedecidedtogowest.
AccordingtoManif,therewasatownlessthanaday’sjourneyaway:solid,fortified,andfondofacting.
Slingingherbagoverhershoulder,Dapplewenton.
Theroadwoundthroughaseriesofnarrowvalleys.Aftershehadgoneashortdistance,shesawthecart
aheadofher,motionlessinthemiddleoftheroad.Sheglancedback,planningtorun.Twomenstoodthere,
bothholdingswords.God-dess!Ahlglancedattheforestnexttoher.Asshedidso,amansteppedoutof
theblue-greenshadow.Healsoheldasword.
“Ishouldhavegoneeast,”saidDapple.
“Someofourcousinswentinthatdirection.Mostlikely,youwouldhavemetthem.”
Wasthisthemomenttorevealshewasawoman?“Areyougoingtokillme?”
“Thatdependsonwhatyoudo,”themansaid.“ButI’dprefernotto.”
Theotherbanditscameclose.Therewerefourofthem,alldressedinworn,stainedclothing.
“He’shandsome,”saidtheyoungestfellow,whohadabandagewrappedaroundonearm.“Worthkeeping.”
“Forwhatpurpose?”askedDapple,feelinguneasy.
“We’lltellyoulater,”saidthemanfromtheforest.
Afterthat,theytookherbagandknife,thentiedherhandsinfrontofher.Themanwiththeinjuredarm
tooktherope’sotherend.“Comealong,dearone.Wehavealongwaytogobeforenightfall.”
Heledherofftheroad,ontoanarrowpath.Animalshadmadeit,mostlikely.Asecondmanfollowed.
Theothersstayedbehind.
The rest of the day they traveled through steep forest. Now and then, the path crossed a stream or went
alongalimestoneoutcropping.Dapplegrewtiredandincreasinglyafraid.Shetriedtoreassureherselfby
thinkingthatmenrarelykilledwomenandthatrape—ofwomenbymen,atleast—wasanalmostunknown
perversion.
Butwomenrarelytraveledalone.Obviouslytheycametolittleharm,iftheystayedathomeortraveledin
largecompanies;andthiswasthesouth,theregionwherecivilizationended;andthesemenwerekillers,as
shehadseen.Whocouldsaywhattheymightdo?
Forexample,theymightkillherbeforelearningshewasawoman.Wasthisthemomenttotellthem?She
continued to hesitate, feeling ashamed by the idea of abandoning her disguise. She had wanted to be
different.Shehadplannedtofoolotherpeoplebyusingherintelligenceandskill.Now,atthefirstset-back,
shewasreadytogiveup.
Whatafinishtoherambitions!Shemightdieinthismiserableforest—likeaheroinaplay,thoughwith
lessdignity.
Worst of all, she needed to urinate. She knew from Perig and Cholkwa that all actors drank only in
moderation before they went on stage. But she hadn’t thought that she’d be acting this afternoon. Her
bladderwasfullandbeginningtohurt.
Finally,sheconfessedherneed.
“Gorightahead,”oneofhercaptorssaid,stoppingbyatree.
“I’mmodestandcan’temptymybladderinfrontofothermen.”
“Wewon’twatch,”saidthesecondbanditinalyingtone.
“Letmegobehindthosebushesanddoit.You’llbeabletoseemyheadandshoulders.Iwon’tbeableto
escape.”
Thebanditsagreed,clearlythinkingthatshewassomekindoffool.Butwhocanexplainthebehaviorof
foreigners?
Dapplewentbehindthebushes.Nowherchildhoodpracticecameinuseful;unlikemostwomen,shecould
urinatewhile standing up and not make a mess.Fromsituationslike these we learn to valueeveryskill,
unless it’s clearly perni-cious. Who can predict the future and say, this-and-such ability will never be of
use?Sherejoinedthebandits,feelinganirrationalsatisfaction.
Atnightfall,theycametoalittlestonyvalleyfarbackinthehills.Astreamranoutofit.Theywadedin
throughcoldwater.Atthevalley’sendwasatallnarrowcave.Firelightshoneout.“Homeatlast!”saidthe
banditwhoheldDapple’srope.
Theyentered.Thecavewidenedatonce.Lookingaround,Dapplesawalargestoneroom.Afireburnedin
themiddle.Arounditsatwomeninraggedtunics.Afewchildrenchasedeachother,makingshrillnoises
likethecriesofbirds.Atthebackofthecaveweremoreopenings,twoormaybethree,leadingfartherin.
“What have you brought?” asked one of the women, lifting her head. The fur on the woman’s face was
whitewithage,andthelensesofhereyeswerecloudy.
“Afineyoungmantoimpregnateyourdaughters,”saidthemanholdingtherope.
Theoldwomanroseandcameforward.Herbodywassolid,andshemovedfirmly,thoughwithacane.
Bendingclose,shepeeredatDapple,thenfeltanarm.“Goodmuscle.Howoldishe?”
“Tellher,”themansaid.
“Eighteen.”
“Menareactiveatthatage,noquestion,butIprefersomeoneolder.Whoknowsanythingaboutaladof
eighteen?Hehasn’tshowntheworldhisnature.Histraitsmaybegoodorbad.”
“Thisistrue,mother,”saidthemanwiththerope.“Butwehavetotakewhatweget.Thisoneisaliveand
healthy.Mostlikely,hecandowhatweneeddone.”
Dapplethoughtofmentioningthatshecouldnotimpregnateafemale,butdecidedtowait.
“Comeovertothefire,”theoldwomansaid.“Sitdownandtalkwithme.Iliketoknowwho’sfatheringthe
childreninourfamily.”
Dappleobeyed.Themanwentwiththem.Soonshewasonthestonefloor,abowlofbeernexttoher.
Inherhandwasapieceofgreasymeat,agiftfromtheoldwoman.Aroundhersattherestofthefamily:
thinwomenwithbadlycombedfur.Mostlikelytheyhadbugs.Oneheldababy.Therestofthechildren
wereolder,rangingfromagirloffourorfivetoaboyattheedgeofadulthood.Theboywasremarkably
cleanforamemberofthisfamily,andhehadaslimgrace-fulnessthatseemedcompletelyoutofplace.
Theother children continued to run and scream, buthe sat quietly among his female relatives, watching
Dapplewitheyesasyellowasresin.
Theman,Dapple’scaptor,satinbackofher,outofsight,thoughwhenshemovedherboundhands,she
couldfeelhimholdingtherope.
There had been five families in these hills, the old woman said. None of them large or rich, but they
survived,doingonethingoranother.
Fivelineagesofrobbers,thoughtDapple.
“We all interbred, till we were close kin, but we remained separate families, so we could continue to
interbreedandfindlovers.Therestofthefamiliesinthisregionneverlikedusandwouldhavenothingto
dowithus.Wehadnooneexcepteachother.”
Definitelyrobbers.
Intheend,thelargeandpowerfulfamiliesintheregioncombinedagainstthefive.Onebyone,theywere
destroyed.Itwasdoneintheusualway:themenwerekilled,thewomenandchildrenadopted.
“Butourneighbors,thepowerfulones,neverallowedanyofthepeopletheyadoptedtobreed.Theywould
notletwomenandchildrenstarve,butneitherwouldtheylettraitslikeourscontinue.Wewerepoisoned
andpoisonous,theysaid.
“Imaginewhatitwaslikeforthosewomenandchildren!It’sonethingforawomantoloseherfamilyname
andallhermalerelatives.Thatcanbeendured.Buttoknowthatnothingwillcontinue,thatherchildren
willdiewithoutchil-dren!Someofthewomenfledintothehillsanddiedalone.Somewerefoundbyus.
Wetookthemin,ofcourse,andbredthemwhenwecould.Butwherecouldwefindfathers?Themenwho
shouldhaveimpregnatedourdaughters—andthewomenweadopted—weredead.
“Wearethelastofthefivefamilies:morewomenthanmen,allofuspoorandthin,withnoonetofather
thenextgeneration,excepttravelerslikeyou.
“Butwerefusetogiveup!Wewon’tletrichandarrogantfolkmakeusvanishfromtheworld!”
Dapple thought while drinking her beer. “Why did your men kill the rest of our acting company? There
werefivemore—allmale,ofcourse,andolderthanIam.”
ThebanditmatriarchpeeredpastDapple.“Sixmen?Andyoubroughtonlyone?”
“Theyfought,”saidthemanbehindDapple,hisvoicereluctant.“Webecameangry.”
Thematriarchhissed,anoisefullofrage.
“Oneotherisstillalive,”themanadded.“Mybrotherswillbringhimalonglater.”
“Youwantedtorapehim,”saidthematriarch.“Whatgooddoyouthinkhe’llbe,afteryoufinish?Selfish,
selfishboys!Yourgreedwilldestroyus!”
Obviously,shehadmiscounted,whensheclimbedintotheactors’grave.Whowasstillalive?NotManif.
She’dseenhimclearly.Maybehislover,whowasyoungandhandsome.
“Don’tblameme,”said the man sullenly. “I’m not raping anyone. I’m here with this lad, and I haven’t
touchedhim.Asfortheotherman,he’llstillbeusable.Noonewantstomakeyouangry.”
Thematriarchscratchedhernose.“I’lldealwiththatproblemwhenyourbroth-ersandmalecousinsreturn.
Inthemeantime,tieupthisman.Ineedtodecidewhoshouldmatewithhim.”
“WhyshouldIdothis?”askedDapple.“Thereisnobreedingcontractbetweenyourfamilyandmine.
Nodecentmanhassexwithawoman,unlessit’sbeenarrangedbyhisrelativesandhers.”
“Wewillkillyou,ifyoudon’t!”saidthemanbehindDapple.
“WhatwillyoudoifIagreetodothisveryimproperthing?”
Thepeoplearoundthefirelookeduneasy.
“Onethingatatime,”saidthematriarch.“First,youhavetomakeoneofourwomenpregnant.Later,we’ll
decidewhattodowithyou.”
Dapplewasledintoanothercave,thisonesmallandemptyexceptforapalletonthefloorandanironring
setinthewall.Hercaptortiedherropetotheringandlefther.Shesatdown.Firelightcamefromthemain
cave,enoughtolightherprison.Shetriedtoloosentheknotsthatheldher.Noluck.Acolddraftblewdown
onher.Atfirst,shethoughtitwasfear.Glancingup,shesawaholethatledtostarlight.
Too far for her to reach, even if she could manage to free herself, and most likely too small to climb
through.Onlyafewstarswerevisible.Onewasyellowandverybright:theEyeofUson.Itmadeherthink
ofManifsoneeye.Howwasshegoingtoescapethissituation?Theholeseemedunreachable,andtheonly
otherroutewaspastthemaincavern,fullofbandits;andshewastired,fartootiredtothink.
Dapplelaydownandwenttosleep.
Shewoketofeelahandshakingher.Anotherhandwasoverhermouth.
“Don’tmakeanynoise,”avoicewhispered.
Shemovedherheadinagestureofagreement.Thehandoverhermouthlifted.Cautiously,shesatup.
The fire in the main cave still burned, though more dimly. Blinking, she made out a slim figure. She
touchedanarm.Thefurfeltsmoothandclean.“Youaretheboy.”
“Amannow.Fifteenthisspring.Areyoureallyanactor?”
“Yes.”
“Myfatherwasone.Theytoldmeabouthim:ahandsomeman,whotoldjokesandjuggledanything:fruit,
stones,knives,thoughtheyneverlethimhavesharpknives.Afterhemademymotherpregnant,theykept
him to impregnate another woman and because they enjoyed his company. But instead of doing as they
planned,heescaped.Theysay,they’llnevertrustanotherforeigner—orkeepamanalivesolongthathe
knowshiswaythroughthecaves.HisnamewasCholkwa.Haveyoueverheardofhim?”
Dapplelaughedquietly.
“Whatdoesthatmean?”askedtheboy.
“I’veknownhimallmylife.Hestaysatmyfamily’shousewhenhe’sonHelwarIsland.Thoughhehas
nevermentionedmeetingyourkin,atleastwhenIwasaround.”
“Maybeweweren’timportanttohim,”theboysaidinasadtone.
Most likely, Cholkwa kept silent out of shame. His own family was far to the north, across the Narrow
Ocean,andshe’dneverheardhimspeakaboutanyofthem.Maybehehadnorelativesleft.There’dbeen
warinthenorthforgenera-tionsnow.Sometimesitflaredup;atothertimesitdiedtoembers,butitnever
entirelyended;andmanylineageshadbeendestroyed.
He was a decent man, in spite of his lack of kin. How could he admit to breeding without a contract
arrangedbytheseniorwomeninhisfamily?Howcouldheadmittoleavingachildwhowasrelatedtohim
—granted,notclosely,butarelativenonetheless—inaplacelikethis?
“Willyourrelativeskillme?”Dappleasked.
“Onceyouhavemadeoneofmycousinspregnant,yes.”
“Whyareyouherewithme?”
“Iwantedtoknowaboutmyfather.”Theboypaused.“Iwantedtoknowwhatliesbeyondthesehills.”
“Whatgoodwillitdoforyoutoknow?”
Therewassilenceforawhile.“WhenIwasgrowingup,mymothertoldmeaboutCholkwa,hisstoriesand
jokesandtricks.Therearecitiesbeyondthehills,hetoldher,andboatsasbigasourcavethatsailonthe
ocean.Theboatsgofromcitytocity,andthereareplaces—hallsandopenspaces—wherepeoplegoto
seeacting.Inthoseplaces,Cholkwaisfamous.Crowdsofpeoplecometoseehimperformthewayhedid
formyfamilyinthiscave.Arethesestoriestrue?”
“Yes,”saidDapple.“Everywherehegoes,peoplearecharmedbyhimand take pleasureinhis skill.No
actorismorefamous.”Shepaused,tryingtothinkofwhattosaynext.TheGoddesshadgiventhisboyto
her;shemustfindawaytoturnhimintoanally.“Hehasnokinonthissideoftheocean.Mostlikely,he
wouldenjoymeetingyou.”
“Fathersdon’tcareabouttheirchildren,andweshouldn’tcareaboutthem.Deadoralive,theydonothing
forus.”
“This isn’t true,” said Dapple with quiet anger. “Obviously, it makes sense for a child to stay with her
motherandberaisedbymaternalkin.Amancan’tnurseababy,afterall;andfewmotherscouldbeartobe
separated from a small child. But the connection is still there. Most men pay some attention to their
children,especiallytheirsons.Ifsomethinghappenstothematernallineageortothere-lationshipbetween
awomanandherfamily,thepaternallineagewilloftenstepin.MymotherisfromSorg,butshequarreled
withherkinandfledtomyfather’sfamily,theHelwar.Theyadoptedherandme.Suchthingsoccur.”
“Nothinghashappenedtomyfamily,”theboysaid.“Andmymotherneverquarreledwiththem,though
shewasn’thappylivinghere.Iknowthat.”
“Yourfamilyisnotfittoraisechildren,”saidDapple.“Youseemtohaveturnedoutsurprisinglywell,butif
youstaywiththem,they’llmakeyouacriminal,andthenyou’llbetrappedhere.Do youreally wantto
spendyourlifeamongthieves and people who breed without a contract? If you leave now andseekout
Cholkwa,itmaybepossibleforyoutohaveadecentlife.”
Theboywassilentforamoment,thenexhaledandstood.“Ihavetogo.Theymightwake.”
Amomentlater,shewasalone.Shelayforawhile,wonderingiftheboywouldhelpheroriftherewas
anotherwaytoescape.Whenshewentbacktosleep,shedreamtofCholkwa.Hewasonastage,dressedin
brightredarmor.Hiseyeswereyellowandshonelikestars.Insteadofacting,hestoodinarelaxedpose,
holdingawoodenswordloosely.“Allofthisisillusionandlies,”hetoldher,gesturingatthestage.“But
there’struthbehindtheillusion.Ifyouaregoingtoact,youneedtoknowwhat’strueandwhat’salie.You
needtoknowwhichlieshavetruthinbackofthem.”
Waking, she saw a beam of sunlight shining through the hole in her ceiling. For a moment, the dream’s
messageseemedclearandimportant.Asshesatup,itbegantofadeandblur,thoughshekepttheimageof
Cholkwainhiscrimsonarmor.
One of the bandit males came and untied her. Together they went out, and she relieved herself behind
bushes.
“I’veneverknownanyonesomodest,”thebanditsaid.“Howareyougoingtogetawomanpregnant,ifyou
can’tbareyourselfinfrontofaman?”
A good question, Dapple thought. Her disguise couldn’t last much longer. Maybe she ought to end it. It
didn’tseemlikelythattheboywouldhelpher;peopledidn’tturnagainsttheirkin,evenkinlikethese;and
aslongasthebanditsthoughtshewasaman,theymightdoanything.Norulesprotectamanwhofallsinto
thehandsofenemies.Shemightbedead,orbadlyinjured,beforetheyrealizedshewasn’tmale.
Butsomething,asenseofforeboding,madeherreluctanttorevealhertruenature.
“Wehavesexinthedark,”shetoldthebandit.
“Thatcanbemanaged,”hereplied.“Thoughitseemsridiculous.”
Dapple spent the rest of the day inside, alone at first, in a corner of the cave. The other bandits did not
return, and the matriarch looked increasingly grim. Her kin sent their children outside to play. The men
were gone as well. Those who remained—a handful of shabby women—worked quietly, giving the
matriarchanxiousglances.Clearlythiswassomeonewhocouldcontrolherfamily!Apitythatthefamily
consistedofcriminals.
Atlast,theoldwomangestured.“Comehere,man.Iwanttoknowyoubetter.”
Dapplesettledbythefire,whichstillburned,eveninthemiddleofabrightday.Thiswasn’tsurprising.
Thecavewasfullofshadows,andtheairaroundthemwascoolanddamp.
Insteadofaskingquestions,thewomangrumbled.Itwashardworkholdingtogetheralineage,especially
whenalltheneighboringfamilieswerehostile,andshegotlittlehelp.Herfemalerelativeswereslovenly.
“Myeyesmaybefailing,butIcanstillsmell.Thisplacestinkslikeamiddenheap!”Hermalekinwere
selfishandstupid.“Fivemen!Andtheyhavebroughtmeone,withanotherprom-ised,thoughI’llbelieve
inhimwhenheappears!”
All alone, she labored to continue her line of descent, though only one de-scendant seemed really
promising,theboywho’dbeenfatheredbyanactor.“Afinelad.Maybethere’ssomethingpotentaboutthe
semenofactors.Ihopeso.”
Eveningcame.Themissingbanditsdidnotappear.FinallytheoldwomanlookedatDapple.“Itseemsour
hopesrestinyourhands—orifnotinyourhands,theninanotherpartofyourbody.Isthereawomanyou
prefer?”
Dappleglancedaround.Figureslurkedintheshadows,tryingtoavoidthematriarch’sglance.Hardtosee,
butsheknewwhatwasthere.“No.”
“I’llpickone,then.”
“Thereissomethingyououghttoknow,”Dapplesaid.
Theoldwomanfrownedather.
“Ican’timpregnateawoman.”
“Manymenfindtheideaofsexwithwomendistasteful,”thematriarchsaid.“Buttheymanagethetask.
Surelyyourlifeisworthsomeeffort.Ipromiseyou,you’lldieifyoudon’ttry.”
“I’mawoman,”saidDapple.“Thiscostumeisadisguise.”
“Ridiculous,”thematriarchsaid.“Decentwomendon’twearmen’sclothingortravelwithactors.”
“Ididn’tsayIwasadecentwoman.IsaidIwasfemaleandunabletofatherchildren.Don’tyouthink
—sinceIcan’thelpyou—yououghttoletmego?”
“Nomatterwhatyouare,wecan’tletyougo,”saidthematriarch.“Youmightleadpeopletothiscave.”
ThensheorderedherkintoexamineDapple.
Threeshabbywomenmovedin.Standing,Dapplepulledoffhertunicandunderpants.
“Noquestionaboutit,”oneofthewomensaid.“Sheisfemale.”
“Whatwretched luck!” criedthematriarch. “What haveIdone to deserve thiskindof aggravation? And
what’swrongwithyou,youngwoman,runningaroundinatunicandtrickingpeople?Haveyounosenseof
rightbehavior?”
There were more insults and recriminations, mostly from the old woman, though the others muttered
agreement.Whatinhospitableandunmannerlyfolk!Dapplecouldhardlyhavefallenintoaworsesituation,
thoughtheyweren’tlikelytokillher,nowthattheyknewshewasawoman.
Atlast,thematriarchwavedahand.“Tieherupforthenight.Ineedtothink.”
Onceagain,Dapplefoundherselfinthelittlesidecave,tiedtoanironring.Asonthepreviousnight,stars
shonethroughtheholeintheceiling,andfirelightcamedownthecorridorfromthemaincave,alongwith
angry voices. Her captors were arguing. At this distance she couldn’t make out words, but there was no
mistakingthetone.
Thistimeshemadeaseriousefforttountietheropethatheldher.Butherhandshadbeenfastenedtogether,
and her fingers couldn’t reach the knot. Gnaw-ing proved useless. The rope was too thick and strong.
Exhausted,shebegantodoze.Shewoketoatouch,asonthenightbefore.
“Isityouagain?”sheaskedinawhisper.
“Mygrandmotherhaschosenmetoimpregnateyou,”saidtheboy,soundingmiserable.
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Ifyoucan’tfatherchildrenonourwomen,thenwe’llfatherchildrenonyouandadoptthechildren,asyou
wereadoptedbyyourfather’sfamily.Thatplanwilldoaswellasthefirstone,Grandmothersays.
Theotherssayshe’sfavoringme,butIdon’twanttodothis.”
“Breedwithoutacontract?Whatmanwould?Whatareyougoingtodo?”
“Have sex with you, though I’ve never had sex with anyone. But Grandmother has explained how it’s
done.”
“Youhavereachedamomentofdecision,”saidDapple.“Ifyoumakethewrongchoicenow,yourlifewill
leadtoruin,likethelifeofaprotagonistinaheroplay.”
“Whatdoesthatmean?”
“Ifyouhavesexwithmeagainstmywill,andwithoutacontractarrangedbymyfemalerelatives,youwill
beacriminalforever.Butifyousetmefree,Iwillleadyoutoyourfather.”
“Ihaveaknife,”saidtheboyuncertainly.“Icouldcutyoufree,butthere’snowayoutexceptthroughthe
maincave.”
Dappleliftedherhead,indicatingtheholeintheceiling.
Theboygazedupatthestars.“Doyouthinkyoucouldgetthrough?”
“I’dbewillingtotry,ifthere’snootherway.Buthowdowereachit?”
“Standingonmyshoulderswon’tdo.It’stoofarup.ButIcouldgooutsideandlowerarope.Canyouclimb
one?”
“I’veworkedasasailor,”saidDapple.“OfcourseIcan.”
“IcouldtellthemIneedtourinate.Iknowwherethere’sarope.Itcouldbedone.Butiftheycatchus
—“
“Ifyoustayhereanddothisthing,youwillbeathief.Yourchildrenwillbethieves.You’llneverseethe
citiesbeyondthesehillsortheshipsasbigascaves.”
Theboyhesitated,thenpulledhisknifeandcutDapplefree.“Waithere,”hesaidfiercely,andleft.
Sherubbedherhandsandwrists,thenstoodandstretched.Hah!Howstiffshewas!
Voicesrose inthemain cave,mockingthe boy, thendropped back toamurmur.She begantowatch the
hole.
Afterawhile,adarkshapehidthestars.Aropedroppedtowardher.Dapplegraspeditandtugged.Itheld.
Shetookoffhertunicandtiedittothebottomoftherope,thenbeganherclimb,goinghandoverhandup
therope. Cold air blew pasther,rufflingthefuron her arms and shoulders.Itsmelledof damp soil and
forest.Freedom,thoughtDapple.Amomentortwolater,shereachedthehole.Hah!Itwasnarrow!Asbad
asshehadfeared!
“Canyoumakeit?”theboywhispered.
“Ihaveto,”Dapplesaidandcontinuedtoclimb.
Herheadwasnoproblem,buthershouldersweretoowide.Roughstonescrapedagainstthem.Shekepton,
tryingtoforceherbodythroughtheopening.Allatonce,sherealizedthatshewasstuck,likeapieceof
waxusedtosealthenarrowneckofajar.Dapplegroanedwithfrustration.
“Bequiet,”whisperedtheboyandbegantopull,leaningfarback,allhisweightontherope.Foramoment,
she remained wedged in the hole. Then her shoulders were through, though some of her fur remained
behind. Her elbows dug into dirt. She pushed up. The boy continued to pull, and Dapple popped into
freedom.Shestretchedoutonthedampground,facedown,smellingdirt,theforest,andthenightwind.
“Youhavenoclothingon!”theboyexclaimed.
“Itookmytunicoff,”saidDapple.“Iknewthefitwouldbetight.”
“Youcan’ttravellikethis!”
Shepulledtheropeoutofthehole,retrievinghertunicandputtingiton.
“Better,”saidtheboy,thoughhestillsoundedembarrassed.
Hehadwrappedhisendoftheropetoatree.Sheundidtheknotsandcoiledtherope.“Aknife,arope,and
foursoundfeet.I’dlikemore,butthiswillhavetodo.Let’sgo.”
Theysetoffthroughtheforest,theboyleading,sincehehadgoodnightvision,andthiswashiscountry.
“Whenwilltheydiscoverthatwearemissing?”Dappleaskedafterawhile.
“In the morning. Tonight they’ll drink and tell each other rude stories about sex. Grandmother gave
permission.It’sluckytodothis,whenpeoplebreed.”
Itwasneverluckytobreedwithoutacontract,Dapplethought,butsaidnothing.Howwasthisboygoingto
surviveintheoutsideworld,knowingsolittleabouthowtobehave?She’dworryaboutthatproblemwhen
bothofthemweresafe.
Theytraveledallnight.Inspiteoftheboy’skeeneyes,thetwotravelersstum-bledoftenandhitthemselves
against branches, sometimes thorny. No one living in a town can imagine the darkness of a forest, even
whentheskyabovethetreesisfullofstars.CertainlyDapplehadnotknown,livinginaharbortown.How
shelongedforanoceanvista,openandempty,withstarlightglintingoffthewaves!
Atdawn,theystoppedandhidinaravine.Watertrickledatthebottom.Birdscriedintheleaves,growing
gradually quiet as the day grew warmer. Exhausted, the two young people dozed. Midway through the
morning,voiceswokethem:men,talkingloudlyandconfidentlyastheyfollowedanearbytrail.Theboy
peeredout.“It’smyrelatives,”hesaid.
“Isanyonewiththem?”askedDapplefearfully.Whatwouldtheydo,ifoneoftheactorshadsurvivedand
wasaprisoner?Itwouldbeunbearabletoleavethemanwithsavages,butifsheandtheboytriedtofree
theman,theywouldbekilledortakenprisonerlikehim.
“No,” said the boy after a while. “They must have killed him, after they finished raping him. My
grandmotherwillbesoangry!”
Thesepeoplewerebothmonstersandfools.Wasthereanythingshecouldlearnfromthesituation?
Maybe the nature of monsters, if she ever had to portray a monster in a play. The nature of monsters,
Dapplethoughtasshecrouchedintheravine,wasfolly.Thatwasthethingshehadtoconcentrateon,not
herownsenseoffearandhorror.
Afterawhile,theboysaid,“They’regone.Ididn’texpectthemtocomethisdirection.Butnowthatthey’ve
passedus,we’dbetterputasmuchdistanceaspossiblebetweenusandthem.”
Theyroseandwenton.Shortlythereafter,theyfoundtherobbers’camp:aforestclearingwiththeremains
of a fire and Dapple’s last companion, Manif s lover. He must have endured as much as he could, then
foughtback.Therewerevariouswounds,whichDappledidnotlookatclosely,andalotofblood,which
hadattractedbugs.
“Dead,”saidtheboy.“Theyshouldhaveburiedhim,butwecan’ttakethetime.”
Dapplewenttotheedgeoftheclearingandthrewup,thencoveredhervomitwithforestdebris.Maybethe
robberswouldn’tfindit,iftheycamebackthisway.Thoughthemoistgroundshouldtellthebanditswho’d
beenhere.
Theboymusthavethoughtthesamething.Afterthat,theytraveledthroughstreamsandoverrocks.Itwas
ahardjourney.
Lateintheafternoon,theydescendedintoavalley.Atthebottomwasalarger-than-usualstream.Theforest
canopy was less thick than before. Sunlight speckled the ground. “We are close to the border of our
country,”theboysaid.“Fromthispointon,itwillbebesttofollowtrails.”
Oneran along the stream,narrow,and used more byanimalsthan people, Dapplethought.Thetravelers
tookit. After a while, a second streamjoinedthefirst. Together, they formed a riverwheresmallrapids
alternatedwithpools.Atsunset,turningacorner,theydiscoveredagroupofmenswimming.Clothesand
weaponslayontheriverbank.
Theboystoppedsuddenly.“Ettin.”
“What?”askedDapple.
“Ourenemies,”heanswered,soundingfearful,thenadded,“ThepeopleIambringingyouto.Goforward.I
cannot.”Heturnedtogobackthewaytheyhadcome.Behindhimtheskywassunsetred;theboy’sface
wasinshadow.None-theless,Dapplesawhismouthopenandeyeswiden.
Aharshvoicesaid,“Neithercanyougoback,thief.”
Sheturnedaswell.Amanstoodinthetrail,shortandbroadwithaflatuglyface.Ametalhatcoveredthe
topofhisheadandwasfastenedunderhischinwithaleatherstrap.Historsowascoveredwithmetal-and-
leatherarmor.Askirtmadeofleatherstripshungtohisknees.Onehandheldasword,thebladebareand
shining.Shehadneverseenanyonewholookedsounattractive.
“Whoareyou?”sheasked.
“Aguard.Youcan’tbelievethatmenofEttinwouldbathewithoutpostingguards.”
“I’mfromthenorth,”saidDapple.“IknownothingaboutEttin,whichIimag-ineisyourlineage.”
He made a noise that indicated doubt. “The north? And this one as well?” The sword tip pointed at her
companion.
“Iwas traveling withactors,”Dapple said. “Robberskilledmy comrades and tookmeprisoner.Thislad
rescuedmeandwasguidingmetosafety.”
The guard made another noise that indicated doubt. Other men gathered. Some were guards out of the
forest.The restwere bathers, theirfur slick withwater and theirgenitalia exposed. Sheknew what male
babiesandboyslookedlike,ofcourse,butthiswasthefirsttimeshe’dseenmen.Theyweren’tasbigas
she’dimagined,afterCholkwa’s plays.Nonetheless,thesituationwasembarrassing.Sheglancedbackat
thefirstguard,meetinghiseyes.
“Areyouthreateningme?”heasked.
“Ofcoursenot.”
“Thenlookdown!Whatkindofcustomsdoyouhaveinthenorth?”
Shelookedattheground.Theairsmelledofwetfur.“What’sthisabout?”themenasked.“Whathaveyou
captured?”
“Somekindofforeigner,andafellowofunknownlineage,thoughlocal,Ithink.Theysaythey’veescaped
fromtherobbers.”
“Ifdone,it’swelldone,”saidaswimmer.“Butthey maybe lying.Takethemtoouroutpost,and letthe
captainquestionthem.Ifthey’respies,he’lluncoverthem.”
Whoistalkingaboutuncovering?Dapplethought.Amanwithwaterdrippingoffhimandhispenisevident
to anyone who cared to look! Not that she glanced in his direction. It was like being in an animal play,
thoughmaybelessfunny.
Other men made noises of agreement. The swimmers went off to dry and dress. The men in armor tied
Dapple’s hands behind her back, then did the same for the boy. After that, they ran a second rope from
Dapple’snecktotheboy’sneck.“Youwon’trunfarlikethis!”onesaidwhenthesecondropewasfastened.
“Isthisanywaytotreatguests?”askedDapple.
“Youmaybespies.Ifyouarenot,we’lltreatyouwell.Theettinhavealwaysbeenhospitableandcareful.”
Tiedlikeanimalsgoingtomarket,theymarchedalongthetrail,whichhadgrownwiderandlookedbetter-
used.Halfthemenwentwiththem.Thereststayedbehindtoguardtheborder.
Twilight came. They continued through darkness, though under an open sky. By this time, Dapple was
dazed by lack of sleep. One of the guards took her arm, holding her upright and guiding her. “You’re a
prettylad.Ifyouarewhatyousay,maybewecankeepcompany.”
Anotherguardsaid,“Don’tlisten,stranger.YoucandobetterthanHattin!Ifyouarewhatyousay.”
Hermaledisguisewascertainlycausingproblems,thoughsheneededit,ifshewasgoingtolearnacting.
Whatwas she learning now? Danger and fear. If she survived and made it home,shewouldthinkabout
specializinginheroplays.
Aheadofthemgleamedfirelight,shiningfromwindows.Aswordhiltknockedonadoor.Voicescalled.
Dapplecouldnotunderstandwhattheyweresaying,butthedooropened.Entering,shefoundherselfina
courtyardmadeofstone.Ononesidewasastable,ontheotherside,asquarestonetower.
Sheandtheboywereledintothetower.Thegroundfloorwasasingleroomwithafireplaceononeside.A
mansatnexttothefireinahigh-backedwoodenchair.Hisgreyfurwassilveredbyage,andhewaseven
uglierthanhisrelatives.
“ThisisEttinTaiin,”saidtheguardnamedHattin.“Themanwhowatchesthisborder,withourhelp.”
Themanrose and limped forward. He’d lost an eye, thoughnotrecently, and did not bother to hide the
empty socket. “Poor help you are!” he said, in a voice like stone grating against stone. “Nonetheless, I
manage.”HelookeddirectlyatDapple.Theoneeyethatremainedwasbrightblue;thepupilexpandedin
thedimlight,soitlayacrosshisirislikeablackironbaracrossthesky.“Whoareyou,andwhatareyou
doinginthelandIwatch?”
Shetoldherstoryasecondtime.
“Thatexplainsyou,”saidEttinTaiin.“AndI’minclinedtowardbelief.Youraccentisnotlocal,norisyour
physical type, though you are certainly lovely in a foreign way. But this lad” —He glared at the boy
—”lookslikearobber.”
Theboywhimpered,droppingtothefloorandcurlinglikeafrightenedtli.Becausetheyweretiedtogether,
Dapplewaspulledtoherknees.Shelookedatthebordercaptain.“Thereismoretothestory.
Iamnotmale!”
“Whatdoyoumean?”askedEttinTaiin,hisvoiceharsherthanbefore.
“Iwantedtobeanactor,andwomenarenotallowedtoact.”
“Quiterightly!”saidthecaptain.
“Idisguisedmyselfasayoungmanandjoinedacompanyhereinthesouth,wherenooneknowsme,and
whereI’mnotlikelytomeetactorsIknow,suchasPerigandCholkwa.”
“Cholkwa is here right now,” said the captain, “visiting my mother and her sisters. What a splendid
performerheis!InearlyrupturedmyselflaughingthelasttimeIsawhim.Ifheknowsyou,thenhecan
speak for you; I am certainly not going to find out whether or not you’re female. My mother raised me
properly.”
“Anexcellentwoman,”murmuredtheguardsstandingaround.
“Whentherobberscapturedme,ItoldthemIwasfemale,andtheytoldthisladtoimpregnateme.”
“Withnocontract?Withoutthepermissionofyourfemalerelatives?”Thestonyvoicewasfullofhorror.
“Obviously,”saidDapple.“MyrelativesareonHelwarIsland,fartothenorth.”
“Youseewhathappenswhenwomenrunofftoforeignplaces,withouttheprotectionofthemenintheir
family?”said thecaptain.“Notthatthisexcusesthe robbers in any way. We’ve been lax in letting them
survive.Didhedoit?”
Theboy,stillcurledonthe floor,his handsover hishead,madeakeeningnoise.Theguardsaroundher
exhaled,andDapplethoughtsheheardthesoundofswordsmovingintheirscabbards.
“No,”Dapplesaid.“Hegotmeoutofprisonandbroughtmehere.That’stheendofthestory.”
“Nastyandshocking!”saidthecaptain.“Wewillobviouslyhavetokilltherestoftherobbermen,thoughit
won’t be easy to hunt them down. The children can be adopted, starting with this lad. He looks young
enoughtokeep.Thewomenareaproblem.I’llletmyfemalerelativesdealwithit,oncewehavecaptured
thewomen.IonlyhopeI’mnotforcedintoactsthatwillrequiremetocommitsuicideafter.I’myounger
thanIlookandenjoylife!”
“We’dallprefertostayalive,”saidHattin.
“Untiethem,”saidthecaptain,“andputtheminseparaterooms.Inthemorn-ing,we’lltakethemtomy
mother.”
Theguardspulledthetwoofthemuprightandcuttheirropes.Thecaptainlimpedbacktohischair.“And
feedthem,”headdedashesettledandpickedupacup.“Givethewomanmybesthalin.”
Leadingthemupaflightofstairs,Hattinsaid,“Ifyou’rea woman,thenIapologizeforthesuggestionI
made.ThoughIwasn’ttheonlyonewhothoughtyou’dmakeagoodbedmate!EttinTaiinisgoingtobe
hearingjokesaboutthatforyears!”
“Youteaseamanlikehim?”askedDapple.
“Idon’t,but the seniormenin the familydo.Theonly way someonelikethat is tolerable,isif you can
embarrasshimnowandthen.”
Herroomhadalantern,butnofire.Itwasn’tneededonamildspringnight.Wasthemandownstairscold
fromageorinjuries?Thewindowwasbarred,andtheonlyfurniturewasabed.Dapplesatdown.
Theguardsbroughtfoodanddrinkandapissingpot,thenleft,lockingthedoor.Sheate,drank,pissed,and
wenttosleep.
Inthemorning,shewoketothesoundofnailsscratchingonherdoor.Aman’svoicesaid,“Makeyourself
ready.”Dappleroseanddressed.Thenightbefore,she’dunboundherbreastsinordertosleepcomfortably.
She didn’t rebind them now. The tunic was thick enough to keep her decent; her breasts weren’t large
enoughtoneedsupport,andthemenofEttinweretreatingherlikeawoman.Bettertoleavethedisguise
behind,likeashelloutgrownbyoneoftheanimalshermalerelativespulledfromthesea.
Guardsescortedherand theboydownstairs. Therewere windowsonthe groundfloor,which shehadn’t
noticedthenightbefore.Shuttersopen,theyletinsun-light.TheEttincaptainstoodatatablecoveredwith
maps. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m trying to decide how to trap the robbers. Do you have any
suggestions,lad?Andwhatisyourname?”
“Rehv,”theboysaid.“Ineverlearnedtoreadmaps.AndIwillnothelpyoudestroymyfamily!”
EttinTaiinrolledthemaps—theywerepaper,ratherthantheoiledleatherherpeopleused—andputthem
inametaltube.“Loyaltyisavirtue.Soisdirectness.You’llmakeafineadditiontotheEttinlineage;and
I’lldecidehowtodestroyyourlineagelater.Today,asItoldyoubefore,we’llridetomymother.”
Theywentoutandmountedtsina,thecaptaineasilyinspiteofhislameleg,Dappleandtheboywithmore
difficulty.
“Youaren’triders,”saidEttinTaiin.“Andthattellsmeyourfamiliesdon’thavemanytsina.Goodtoknow,
forwhenIhunttherobbersdown.”
They spent the day riding, following a narrow road through forested hills. A small group of soldiers
accompaniedthem,ridingaseasilyasthecaptainandjokingamongthemselves.Nowandthentheysawa
cabin. “Hunters and trappers,” said Ettin Taiin. “There are logging camps as well. But no women. The
robbersare too close.Timeandtime againwe’vetriedto cleanthemout, but theypersist,growing ever
moreinbredandnasty.”
Ridingnexttoher,theboyshivered,hairrisingonhisarmsandshoulders.Nowthatshewasapparently
safe,Dapplefeltpityandrespectforhim.He’dbeenconfrontedbythekindofdecisionaherofacesina
play.Shouldhesidewithhiskinorwithrightbehavior?Amanwithoutkinwaslikeatreewithoutroots.
Theslightestwindwouldpushhimover.Amanwithoutmoralitywaslike—what?Atreewithoutsunlight
andrain.
Inmostcases,heroplaysendedindeath.Itwastheeasiestresolution.Unabletomakeadefinitechoice,the
heroblunderedthroughaseriesofhalf-actionsandmistakes,untilhewaskilledbyenemiesorfriends,and
theaudienceexhaledinrelief.MaytheGoddesskeepthemfromthiskindofsituation!
Mostlikely,theboywouldlivetoseehisrelativesdie,whilehewasadoptedbytheEttin.Itwastheright
endingforthestoryofachild.Theirdutywastoliveandgrowandlearn.Honorbelongedtoolderpeople.
Nonetheless,thestorydisturbedDapple,asdidtheboy’sevidentunhappinessandfear.
Late in the afternoon, they entered a wide flat valley. The land was cultivated. The buildings scattered
amongfieldsandorchardsweremadeofplanksratherthanlogs.Manywerepainted:blue-grey,green,or
white.
“Barns,”saidtheEttincaptain.“Stables.Housesforherdsmen.”
Shewasbackintheordinaryworldofpeoplewhounderstoodrules,though she wasn’tcertain the Ettin
followedtherulesshehadlearnedonHelwarIsland.Still,thepastureswerefenced,thefieldsplowedin
straightlines,andtheorchardtrees—coveredwithpaleorangeblossoms—wereorderly.
Theyreached the captain’s home as thesunwentdown. It was aclusterof buildings made ofwoodand
stone,nexttoarivercrossedbyastonebridge.Thelowerstorieshadnowindows,andthedoorswereiron-
bound.Builtfordefense,butnoenemieswereexpectedtoday.Thelargestdoorwasopen.Ridingthroughit,
theyentered a courtyard surroundedbybalconies.Children played in theearlyevening shadows, though
Dapplecouldn’tmakeoutthegame;itstoppedthemomenttheyappeared.
“UncleTaiin!”criedseveralvoices.
Thecaptainswungdownstifflyandwassurroundedbysmallbodies.
“An excellent man,” said one of the guards to Dapple. “Affectionate with chil-dren, respectful toward
women,andviolenttowardothermen.”
“Evenmenofyourfamily?”Dappleasked.
“Wewin,andmostofuscomehome;wedon’texpectkindnessfromaleaderoncampaign.”
Awomancameintothecourtyard,tallandbroad,wearingasleevelessrobe.Agehadwhitenedherfaceand
upperarms.Shecarriedastaffandleanedonit,butherheadwaserect,herblueeyesasbrightasapolished
blade.
The children fell silent and moved away from their uncle. He lifted his head, looked straight at the old
woman,andgaveherabroad,boyishgrin.Beyondquestion,thiswashismother.Couldactorsreplicatethis
moment?No.Childrenwerenotusedinplays,andeverythingherewassmallandquiet:theman’sgrin,the
woman’sbriefreturningsmile.
“Taiin,”shesaidingreeting.Nothingmore,butthevoicerang—itseemedtoDapple—withjoy.Hersteel
blueeyesflashedtowardDappleandtheboy.“Tellmethenamesofourguests.”
Hedid,adding,“Thegirl,ifthisisagirl,saysthatCholkwatheactorwillspeakforher.Theboyisalmost
oldenoughtobekilled,butifhesavedher,thenhe’sworthsaving.”
“Iwillformmyownjudgment,”saidthematriarch.“Butshe’sclearlyagirl.”
“Areyoucertain?”
“Useyoureye,Taiin!”
Heobeyedwithaslowsidewayslook.“Shedoesseemmorefemininethanshedidyesterday.ButI’dbe
happierifshehadonfemaleclothing.Then,maybe,Icouldseeherasawomanentirely.Rightnow,she
seemstoshiftbackandforth.It’sverydisturbing!”
“I’llgiveherabathandnewclothes,”saidthematriarchwithdecision.“Youtakecareoftheboy.”
Dappledismounted.Theoldwomanledherthroughshadowyhallstoacourt-yardwithtwopoolsbuiltof
stone.Steps leddownintoeach. One seemedordinaryenough, the waterinit colorlessandstill;but the
otherwasfullofbrightgreenwater.Steamrosefromitssurface;theairaroundithadanunfamiliar,slightly
unpleasantodor.
“Itcomesfromthegroundlikethis,”saidthematriarch.“Webringitherethroughpipes.Theheatisgood
foroldbones,stiffmuscles,andthekindofinjuriesmysonTaiinhasendured.Undress!Climbin!”
Dappleobeyed,pullingoffhertunic.Thematriarchexhaled.“Afine-lookingyoungwoman,indeed!Apity
thatyouwon’tbebred!”
Becauseshehadbadtraits.Well,shedidn’tmind.Shehadneverwantedtobeamother,onlyanactor.
Dapple entered the steaming water, sinking until she was covered. Hah! It was pleasant, in spite of the
aroma!Shestretchedout andlookedup.Thoughshadows filledthecourtyard,theskyabovewasfullof
light.Acloudlikeafeatherfloatedthere.Lastnight,she’dsleptinaguardhouse.Thenightbefore,she’d
scrambledthroughadarkforest;andbeforethat,she’dbeeninacavefullofrobbers.Nowshewasbackin
aproperhouse—notentirelylikeherhome,butcloseenough.
Womenappeared,bringingachairforthematriarch,andaclothingrack,onwhichtheyhungnewclothes
forDapple.Thentheyleft.Thematriarchsatdown,layingherstaffonthecourt’sstonefloor.“Whydidyou
disguiseyourselfasaman?”
Dappletoldherstory,floatinginthesteamingpool.Theoldwomanlistenedwithobviousattention.
Whenthestorywasdone,shesaid,“We’vebeennegligent.Weshouldhaveclearedthosepeopleoutyears
ago.ButI—andmysistersandourfemalecousins—didn’twanttoadopttherobberwomen.
They’llbenothingbuttrouble!”
Thiswastrue,thoughtDapple,rememberingthewomeninthecave,especiallytherobbermatriarch.
Thatwasnotapersonwho’dfitherselfquietlyintoanewhousehold.Hah!Shewouldstruggleandplot!
“Butsomethingwillhavetobedone.Wecan’tletthesefolkrobandmurderandforcementobreed.No
childshouldcomeintoexistencewithouttheagree-mentoftwofamilies.Nomanshouldbecomeafather
withoutapropercontract.Wearenotanimals!I’msurprisedatCholkwa.Surelyitwouldbebettertodie,
thantoreproduceinthisfashion.”
Shemighthaveagreedbeforeherrecentexperiences;butnow,lifeseemedprecious,asdidCholkwaand
everypersonsheknewandliked.Ifhehadrefusedtocooperatewiththerobbers,shewouldhavelosthim
whenshebarelyknewhim;andtheboywhosavedherwouldneverhavecomeintoexistence.
Thethoughtofherfatewithouttheboywasfrightening.
Maybenoneofthiswouldhavehappened,ifCholkwahaddiedbeforeshesawhimact.Withouthim,she
mighthavebeencontenttostayinHelwar.Hardlylikely!ShewouldhaveseenPerig,andhewastheone
shewantedtoimitate.Comedywasfine.Cholkwadiditbeautifully.Butshedidn’twanttospendherlife
makingrudejokes.
Nordidshe wantto doexactly whatPerigdid.Hisheroesweresplendid.When theydied, shefeltgrief
combinedwithjoy.Theyweresohonorable!Perighadsomuchskill!Butherrecentexperiencessuggested
thatrealdeathwasnothinglikeaplay.Manifandhiscomradeswouldnot risetoshoutsofpraise.Their
endings had been horrible and final and solved nothing. Death was the problem here, rather than the
problem’s solution. Why had they died? Why was she alive? Were tragedy and comedy the only
alternatives?Didoneeitherdiewithhonororsurviveinanembarrassingcostume?
Theseweredifficultquestions,andDapplewastooyoung to have answers, maybe too young to ask the
questionsclearly.Butsomethingliketheseideas,thoughpossiblymorefragmentary,floatedinhermindas
shefloatedinthesteam-ingpool.
“That’senoughheat,” thematriarchsaid finally.“Itwillmakeyou dizzy, ifyoustay toolong.Go tothe
secondpoolandcooldown!”
Dappleobeyed,pausingonthewaytopickupaballofsoap.Thiswaterwaspleasanttoo.Notcold,but
cool,asthematriarchhadsuggested,andsoveryfresh!Itmustcomefromamountainstream.Thesoap
latheredwellandsmelledofherbs.Shewashedherselfentirely,thenrinsed.Therobberswouldstayinher
mind,butthestinkoftheircavewouldbeoutofherfur.Intime,hermemorieswouldgrowlessintense,
thoughshedidn’twanttoforgettheboy—andwasitrighttoforgetManifandtheotheractors?
Sheclimbedoutofthesecondpool.Atowelhungontheclothingrack,alsoacombwithalonghandle.
Sheusedboth,thendressed.Theyoungwomeninthiscountryworekiltsandvests.Herkiltwasdarkblue,
thefabric softandfine.Her vestwasmadeof thickermaterial,bright red withsilverfasteners downthe
front.TheEttinhadprovidedsandalsaswell,madeofdarkblueleather.
“Beyond question you are a handsome young woman,” the matriarch said. “Brave and almost certainly
intelligent,butfartooreckless!Whatarewegoingtodowithyou?”
Dapplesaidnothing,havingnoanswer.Thematriarchpickedupherstaffandrose.
They went through more shadowy halls, coming finally to an open door. Beyond was a terrace made of
stone. A low wall ran along the far side. Beyond the wall was the river that ran next to the house, then
pasturesrisingtowardwoodedhills.Everythingwasinshadownow,excepttheskyandtheveryhighesthill
tops.Twomensatontheterracewall,conversing:EttinTaiinandCholkwa.Therobberboystoodnearby,
lookingfarneaterandcleanerthanbefore.LikeDapple,heworenewclothes:akiltasbrownasweathered
bronze,andsandalswithbrassstuds.LookingfromhimtoCholkwa,shecouldseearesemblance.Hah!The
boywouldbelovedbymany,whenhewasalittleolder!
“IhaveintroducedCholkwatohisson,”EttinTaiinsaidtohismother.
Cholkwastoodandmadeagestureofgreeting.HisgazemetDapple’sbriefly,thenpassedonasifshewere
astranger.“Whatasurprise,Hattali!WhenIleftthecave,runningasquicklyaspossible,Ididnotknow
thewomanwaslikelytoproduceachild.”
“Youshouldhavecometous,assoonasyouescaped,”thematriarchsaid.“Ifwe’dknownwhattherobbers
weredoing,wewouldhavedealtwiththemyearsago.Doyouknowthisyoungwoman?”
“SheisHelwarAhl,thedaughterofafamilythat’sdeartome.Agoodyoungperson,thoughTaiintellsme
shehassomecrazyideaofbecominganactor.”
“Itoldyouthat!”criedDapple.
“Itoldyouitwasimpossible!Mylifeisdangerousanddisreputable,Ahl.Nowomanshouldleadit!”He
glancedtowardthematriarch.“Mystaywiththerob-bersoccurredduringmyfirsttripsouth.Ididn’tknow
yourfamily,ormuchofanyone.AfterIescaped,IfledtothecoastandtookthefirstshipIcouldfindgoing
north.Hah! I was frightened and full ofself-disgust!It was several years before I camesouthagain.By
then,Ihadconvincedmyselfthatthewomancouldnothavebeenpregnant.Ihalf-believedthestorywasa
dream,causedbyasouth-ernfever.HowcouldIthinkthatsuchpeoplewerepossibleandreal?”
“Iam,”saidtheboy.“Weare.”
“Thinkofthemenwhohavediedbecauseyoudidnottellyourstory!”thematriarchsaidtoCholkwa.
“Thinkofthechildrenwhohavebeenraisedbycrim-inals!Howcantheypossiblyturnoutwell?Whatkind
ofpersonwouldturnawayfromchildreninsuchasituation?”
Cholkwawassilentforamoment,thensaid,“Ihavenoexcuseformybehavior.IdidwhatIdid.”
“Rememberthathemakeshislivingasacomicactor,”saidtheEttincaptain.“Howcanwejudgeaman
who spends his time portraying small animals with large sexual organs? Let’s put these long-past
happeningsofftotheside.Wehaveenoughproblemsinthepresent.”
“Thisistrue,”saidthematriarch.“Foronething,Ineedachair.”
“I’lltendtothat,”saidCholkwaandhurriedoff.
Thecaptain,stillloungingcomfortablyonthewall,glancedathismother.“Haveyoudecidedhowtodeal
withtherobbers?”
Theoldwomangroaned,leaningonherstaffandlookingmorose.“Youwillhavetokillthemen,andwe
willhavetoadoptthewomenandchildren,thoughIdonotlookforwardtohavingfemalesliketheseinour
houses.”
“Thisisarelief!Ithought,knowingyouropinionoftherobberwomen,thatyoumightaskmetokillthem.”
“Wouldyoudoit?”
“Ifyoutoldmeto,yes.”
“Andthenwhat?”
“Whyask,Mother?Theanswerisobvious.Ihavealwayswantedtobefamous,notinfamous.IfIhadtodo
somethingsodishonorable,therewouldbenoalter-nativeleftexceptsuicide!”
“ThisiswhatIexpected,”thematriarchsaid.“ListeningtoHelwarAhl’s story,Iaskedmyself,‘Whatis
worse?Taiin’sdeath,orahousefullofunrulywomen?’Nooneshouldhavetomakesuchadecision!
ButIhavemadeit,andIwillenduretheconsequences.”
“Be more cheerful! If you spread the women out among many houses, they may not be much of an
aggravation.”
“We’llsee.ButI’mgladtoknowthatyouareanhonorableman,Taiin,thoughitmeansyouroldmother
willsuffer.”
“Thinkofthepleasureyou’llbeabletotakeinmycontinuedsurvival,”thecaptainsaid.“Noteverymother
ofyouragehasalivingson,especiallyonewithmyexcellentmoralqualities.”
What a fine pair they were, thought Dapple. She could see them in a play: the fierce soldier and his
indomitableparent,fullofloveandadmirationforeachother.Inaheroplay,ofcourse,thecaptainwould
dieandthematriarchmourn.Hah!Whatasightshewouldbe,aloneonastage,standingoverthecaptain’s
body!
Womencameontotheterracewithchairsandlanterns.Thematriarchsettledherself.“Bringfood!”
“Now?”askedamiddle-agedwoman.“Whenyouarewithcompany?”
“Bringfoodforthemaswell,”saidthematriarch.
“Mother!”saidthecaptain.
“I’mtoooldandhungrytocareaboutthatkindofpropriety.Mannersandmoralityarenotthesame.”
The rest of them sat down, all looking uneasy. The women brought food. Dap-ple discovered she was
ravenous,aswastheboy,shenoticed.Thetwomenpouredthemselvescupsofhalin,buttouchednofood.
Thematriarchatesparingly.Itwasn’tasbadasDapplehadexpected,sincenoonespoke.Thiswasn’tlikea
pack of carnivores snarling over their downed prey, or like the monsters in old stories who chattered
throughmouthsfullofpeople.Thismealwasliketravelersinatavern,eatingtogetherbecausetheyhadto,
butquicklyandindecentsilence.
Soon enough they were done. The matriarch took a cup of halin from her son. “One problem has been
solved.Wewilladopttherobberwomen.Cholkwa’sbehaviorwillbeforgotten.Mysonisright!Wehave
noabilitytojudgesuchaman,andTaiin—Iknow—wantstokeepCholkwaasafriend.”
“Thisistrue,”saidthecaptain.
“Onlyoneproblemremains:thegirl,HelwarAhl.”
“No,”saidtherobberboy.“Ialsoamaproblem.”HeglancedatCholkwa.“Idon’twanttostayhereand
watchthesepeoplekillmymalerelatives.Takeme withyou! Iwant toseeforeignharborsandshipsas
largeascaves!”
Cholkwafrowned.Foramoment,therewassilence.
EttinTaiinrefilled hiscup. “Thismightbe agood ideafortwo reasons.The boyislikely tosufferfrom
dividedloyalties.That’salwaysaproblemwhenoneadoptsachildasoldasheis.AndIfindhimattractive.
IfhestayshereandbecomesEttin,Iwillbetroubledwithincestuousthoughts.Asmuchaspossible,Itryto
keep my mind free of disturbing ideas. They cause sleepless nights on campaign and slow reflexes in
battle.”
“WhataboutHelwarAhl?”askedCholkwa,obviouslytryingtogofromonetopictoanother.
“She can’t go with you,” the matriarch said. “A woman with an unrelated man! And we are not ocean
sailors,noraretheotherfamiliesinthisregion,theoneswetrust.Taketheboy,ifhe’sgoingtogiveTaiin
pervertedideas,andtellthegirl’sfam-ily,whenyougetnorth,thatshe’sherewithus.Theycansendaship
forher.”
“Iwanttobeanactor,”saidDapple.
“Youcan’t!”saidCholkwa.
The matriarch frowned. “There are two things that men cannot do. One is have babies, because it’s
impossible. The other is harm women and children, because it’s wrong. And there are two things that
women cannot do: father children and fight in a war. These are absolute prohibitions. All other kinds of
behaviormaybedifficultordisturbing,buttheycanbedone.Granted,Iwouldnotwantadaughterofmine
to become an actor, though it might help make plays more interesting. There are too many penises in
comedy, and too many honorable deaths in tragedy. These are male interests. Maybe the world would
benefitfromaplayaboutreallife!”
“Surelyyoudon’tmeanthat,Mother,”theEttincaptainsaid.
“You’rea fine lad and my favorite child, but there is much you don’tknow. The world does not consist
entirelyof sex and violence. Itisn’tonlymenwho take action, and there arekindsof action that do not
involveviolenceorsex.”
Dapplesaid,“Iwillrunawayagain,Ipromise.”
“Fromhere?”askedthematriarch.“Surelyyouhavelearnedhowdangerousthesouthcanbe.”
“Fromanywhere,”saidDapple.
EttinHattalisippedhalin.Theotherswatchedher.Bythistime,theskywasdarkandfullofstars,which
shedenoughlightsothatDapplecouldseetheoldwoman’spaleface.“Lifeismadeofcompromises,”
Hattalisaidfinally.“Iwillofferyouone.Stayhereuntilyourfamilysendsforyou,andIwillargueforyou
withthem.Youareuselessforbreedingalready.Agirlwhorunsoffinalldirections!Thisisnotatraitany
familywillwanttocontinue.I’llsayasmuchandarguethattheworldneedswomenwhospeakforwomen,
notjustinourhousesandthemeetingsbetweenfamilies,buteverywhere,eveninplays.Whoknowswhere
thecurrentinterestindramawilllead?Maybe—intime—playswillbewrittendown,thoughthisseems
unlikelytome.Butiftheyremainatall,inanyform,asspokenwordsormemory,womenshouldhavea
shareinthem.Dowewantmentospeakforustofuturegenerations?
“Cholkwa,whohasbrokenmanyrulesbefore,cancertainlybreakanotheroneandteachyou.Ifhewants
thestoryofhisbehaviorwiththerobberskeptquiet,ifhewantstokeepmysonTaiinasalover,hewill
cooperate.”
Taiin and Cholkwa —lovers? For a moment, Dapple was distracted. This cer-tainly explained why Taiin
foundtheboyattractive.HowcouldCholkwabetrayhislongtimelover,Perig, for a lame man with one
eye?
Herfamily’soldfriendsighed. “Very well,I’lltakethe boy.Noquestion I behaved badly when I mated
withhismother.Tocreatelifewithoutacontract!Itwasshameful!AndyouarerightthatIshouldhavetold
mystory.Thenhewouldhavegottenaproperhomeasababy.Nowheisoldenoughtoloveandmourn
thosecriminals.Iwillnotleavehimheretowatchhisfamilydie.”Hepaused.
“AndIwilltakeyourmessagetotheHelwar.ButIdon’tliketheideaofteachingthegirltoact.”
“Ifyoudon’tdoit,IwillaskPerig,orrunoffindisguiseagain!”
“Havetheyoungalwaysbeenthismuchtrouble?”Cholkwaasked.
“Always,”saidthematriarchinafirmtone.
The captain stood up. “My leg aches, and I want either sleep or sex. Take the boy north, so he doesn’t
botherme.Takethemessage,somymothercanbehappy.Worryaboutteachingthegirlnextyear.”
Thetwomenleft,theboyfollowing.Hewouldbeputinaroombyhimself,thecaptainsaidastheywalked
intothehouse.“It’sbeenahardfewdaysforyou,Rehvmylad;andIdon’tthinkyouneedtodealwith
Ettinboys.”
Dapplewasalonewiththematriarch,underaskypatternedwithdarknessandlight.
“Hemademeangrywhenheusedtheword‘can’t’forawoman,”EttinHattalisaid.“Nomanhastheright
tosaywhatwomencanandcannotdo.Hah!Iamold,tolosemytemperandtalkaboutwomenacting!But
Iwillkeepouragree-ment,youngAhl.WhatIsaidaboutplaysistrue.Theyarefineintheirway,butthey
donottellmystory.Somanyyears,strugglingtokeepmyfamilygoingtowardthefront!
Thepurposeoflifeisnottohavehonoranddie,it’stohavehonorandsurvive,andraisethenextgeneration
tobehonorable.Whosaysthatinanyplay?”
“Iwill,”saidDappleandfeltsurprise.Wassheactuallygoingtobecomeanactorandwriteplays?Forthe
first time, her plan seemed possible rather than crazy. Maybe she wouldn’t be dragged back to safety.
Maybe,withthematriarchonherside,shecouldhavethelifeshewanted.
The moment an idea becomes solid is the moment when another person reaches out and takes it in her
grasp.Howfrighteningthisis!ThefuronDapple’sshouldersrose.“DoyouthinkCholkwawillagreeto
teachme?”
“Mostlikely,whenhegetsusedtotheidea.He’sagoodman,thoughforeign,andwehavebeenhishosts
many times over. That is a bond — not equal to kinship, perhaps, but strong; and there is also a bond
betweenCholkwaandTaiin.Youmaynotbelievethisofmyson,buthecanpersuade.”
Theysatawhilelongerunderthestars.Ameteorfell,thenanother.Dapple’sfurwasnolongerbristling.
Instead,herspiritbegantoexpand.
****
TWOKNOTSTHATTIEOFFTHESTORY
Cholkwatooktheboyaspromised,andRehvtraveledwithhisfather’sactingcompanyforseveralyears.
Buthehadnogiftfordramaandnoreallikingfortravel.Finally,inoneharbortownoranother,hefellin
love. The object of his desire was a glassblower who made floats for fishing nets: good plain work that
broughtinanadequateincome.Thetwomensettleddowntogether.Rehvlearnedtomakeglassfloatsand
wentontofinerwork:halincups,pitchersforbeer,bowlsforholdingsandorflowers.
Sometimes he made figures, cast rather than blown: actors, soldiers, matriarchs, robbers, decorated with
goldandsilverleaf.Theactors’robesweresplendid;theweaponsheldbythesoldiersandrobbersgleamed;
only the matriarchs lacked decoration. They stood on the shelves of his lover’s shop — as green as the
ocean,asredasblood,asblackasobsidian.
Mostpeople knew he had been an actor and had settled down because of love. Only his lover knew the
entirestory. Hehadgrown up amiddesperationand craziness;through luck andhisown actions,hehad
managedtoachieveanor-dinarylife.
****
Dapple’srelativesagreedtoletherlearnacting,andPerigagreedtoteachher.Shetraveledwithhimfor
severalyears,accompaniedbyoneofhermalecousins,whoendedbybecominganactorhimself.Intime,
she established her own com-pany, composed of women. She was always welcome in Ettin, and Ettin
Hattali,wholivedtobe110,attendedDapple’sperformanceswheneverpossible,thoughtowardtheendshe
couldnolongerseetheactors.Shecouldstillhearthevoices,Hattalitoldherrelatives;andtheywerethe
voicesofwomen.
****
peoplecomefromearth
STEPHENBAXTER
Likemanyofhiscolleagueswritingnearthebeginningofthenewcen-tury—GregEgancomestomind,as
dopeoplelikePaul J. McAuley, Mi-chaelSwanwick,IainM.Banks,BruceSterling,PatCadigan, Brian
Stableford, Gregory Benford, Ian McDonald, Gwyneth Jones, Vernor Vinge, GregBear, David Marusek,
GeoffRyman,AlastairReynolds,andahalfdozenothers—BritishwriterStephenBaxterhasbeenengaged
forthelasttenyearsorsowiththetaskofrevitalizingandreinventingthe“hard-science”storyforanew
generationofreaders,producingworkontheCuttingEdgeofsciencewhichbristleswithweirdnewideas
andoftentakesplaceagainstvistasofalmostoutrageouslycosmicscope.
Baxter made his first sale to Interzonein 1987, and since then has become one of that magazine’smost
frequentcontributors,aswellasmak-ingsalestoAsimov’sScienceFiction,ScienceFictionAge,Zenith,
NewWorlds,andelsewhere.He’soneofthemostprolificofthenewwritersofthepastdecade,andisalso
rapidlybecomingoneofthemostpopularandacclaimedofthem.
Baxter’sfirstnovel,Raft,wasreleasedin1991towideandenthusiasticresponse,andwasrapidlyfollowed
byotherwell-receivednovelssuchasTimelikeInfinity,Anti-Ice,Flux,andtheH.G.Wellspas-ticheThe
TimeShips(asequeltoTheTimeMachine),whichwonboththeJohnW.CampbellMemorialAwardand
the Philip K. Dick Award. His other books include the novels Voyage, Titan, and Moonseed, and the
collectionsVacuumDiagrams:StoriesoftheXeeleeSequenceandTraces.
His most recent books are the novels Mammoth, Book One: Silverhair and Manifold: Time. Hisstories
haveappearedinourEleventh,Twelfth,Fourteenth,Fifteenth,andSixteenthAnnualCollections.
“PeopleCamefromEarth”takesustoatroubledfuture,toanembattled,desperateworlddancingonthe
brinkofextinction,fortheautumnalstoryofpeoplestrugglingtoholdontowhattheyhave…andperhaps
evenregainsomethingofwhathasbeenlost.
****
A
tDawnIsteppedoutofmyhouse.Theairfrostedwhitefrommynose,andthedeepMoonchillcutthrough
papery flesh to my spindly bones. The silver-gray light came from Earth and Mirror in the sky: twin
spheres,theonemilkycloud,theotherahardimageofthesun.Butthesunitselfwasalreadyshouldering
above the horizon. Beads of light like trapped stars marked rim mountain summits, and a deep bloody
crimsonwasworkingitswayhighintoourtallsky.IimaginedIcouldseethelidofthatsky,themillennial
leakingofourairintospace.
Iwalkeddownthepaththatleadstothecircularsea.Therewasfrostevery-where,ofcourse,butthepath’s
lunardirt,patientlyrakedinmyyouth,isfriendlyandgrippedmysandals.Thewateratthesea’srimwas
blackandoily,lappingsoftly.Icouldseethegraysheenoficefartherout,andthehardglintofpackice
beyondthat,thoughtheclosehorizonhidthebulkoftheseafromme.Fingersofsunlightstretchedacross
theice,andgray-goldsmokeshimmeredaboveopenwater.
Ilistenedtotheiceforawhile.Thereisaconstanttumultofgroansandcracksastheicerisesandfallson
thesea’smightyshoulders.ThewaterneverfreezesatTycho’srim;conversely,itneverthawsatthecenter,
sothatthereisafattorusoficefloatingouttherearoundthecentralmountains.Itisasiftherimofthis
artificial ocean is striving to emulate the unfrozen seas of Earth which bore its makers, while its remote
heartisstrainingtogrowbackthecoldcarapaceiten-joyedwhenourwater—andair—stillorbitedremote
Jupiter.
IthoughtIheardabarkingoutonthepackice.Perhapsitwasaseal.Abellclanked:anearlyfishingboat
leavingport,afat,comfortingsoundthatcarriedthroughthestilldenseair.Isoughttheboat’slights,but
myeyes,rheumy,stingingwithcold,failedme.
Ipaidattentiontomycreakingbody:theachesinmytoo-thin,too-long,calcium-starvedbones,theobscure
spurts of pain in my urethral system, the strange itches that afflict my liver-spotted flesh. I was already
growing too cold. Mirror returns enough heat to the Moon’s long Night to keep our seas and air from
snowingoutaroundus,butIwouldwelcomealittlemorecomfort.
Iturnedandbegantolaborbackupmyregolithpathtomyhouse.
AndwhenIgotthere,Berge,mynephew,waswaitingforme.Ididnotknowthen,ofcourse,thathewould
notsurvivethenewDay.
HewaseagertotalkaboutLeonardodaVinci.
****
Hehadtakenoffhiswingsandstackedthemupagainsttheconcretewallofmyhouse.Icouldseehowthe
wingswerethickwithfrost,sodensethepaperfeatherscouldsurelyhavehadlittleplay.
IscoldedhimevenasIbroughthimintothewarmth,andpreparedhotsoupandteaforhiminmypressure
kettles.“You’reafoolasyourfatherwas,”Isaid.“Iwaswithhimwhenhefellfromthesky,leavingyou
orphaned.Youknowhowdangerousitisinthepre-Dawnturbulence.”
“Ah,butthepowerofthosegreatthermals,Uncle,”hesaid,asheacceptedthesoup.“Icanflymileshigh
withouttheslightesteffort.”
Iwouldhaveberatedhimfurther,whichistheprerogativeofoldage.ButIdidn’thavetheheart.Hestood
beforeme,eager,heartbreakinglythin.Bergealwayswasslender,evencomparedtotherestofusskinny
lunarfolk;butnowhewasclearlyfrail.Eventheselongminutesafterlanding,hewasstillpanting,andhis
smoothfashionably-shavenscalp(so bare itshowedthe great bubbleprofileof hislunar-bornskull)was
dottedwithbeadsofgrimysweat.
And,mostominousofall,awaxy,goldensheenseemedtolingerabouthisskin.Ihadnodesiretoraisethat
—not here, not now, not until I was sure what it meant, that it wasn’t some trickery of my own age-
yellowedeyes.
SoIkeptmycounsel.Wemadeourritualobeisance—murmursaboutdedi-catingourbonesandfleshto
thesalvationoftheworld—andfinishedupoursoup.
Andthen,withhisyouthfuleagerness,Bergelaunchedintotheseminarhewasevidentlyitchingtodeliver
onLeonardodaVinci,long-deadcitizenofalong-deadplanet.Brusquelydisplacingtheemptysoupbowls
tothefloor,heproducedpapersfromhisjacketandspreadthemoutbeforeme.Thesheets,yellowedand
stainedwithage,werecoveredinacrabby,indecipherablehandwriting,brokenwithsketchesofgadgetsor
flowingwaterorgeometricfigures.IpickedoutaluminouslybeautifulsketchofthecrescentEarth—
“No,”saidBergepatiently.“Thinkaboutit.ItmusthavebeenthecrescentMoon,”Ofcoursehewasright.
“Yousee,LeonardounderstoodthephenomenonhecalledtheashenMoon—likeourashenEarth,theold
Earthvisibleinthearmsofthenew.Hewasahundredyearsaheadofhistimewiththatone….”
Thisdocumenthadbeencalledmanythingsinitslonghistory,butmostfa-miliarlytheCodexLeicester.
Berge’scopyhadbeenprintedoffinhasteduringTheFailing,thosefrantichourswhenourdyinglibraries
haddisgorgedtheirgreatsnowfallsofpaper.ItwasatreatisecenteringonwhatLeonardocalledthe
“body of the Earth,” but with diversions to consider such matters as water engineering, the geometry of
EarthandMoon,andtheoriginsoffossils.
TheissueofthefossilsparticularlyexcitedBerge.Leonardohadbeenmuchagitatedbythepresenceofthe
fossils of marine animals, fishes and oysters and corals, high in the mountains of Italy. Lacking any
knowledgeoftectonicpro-cesses,hehadstruggledtoexplainhowthefossilsmighthavebeendepositedby
aseriesofgreatglobalfloods.
Itmademerememberhow,whenhewasaboy,IoncehadtoexplaintoBergewhata“fossil”was.
TherearenofossilsontheMoon:nobonesintheground,ofcourse,savethoseweputthere.Nowhewas
muchmoreinterestedinthewordsoflong-deadLeonardothanhisuncle’s.
“YouhavetothinkabouttheworldLeonardoinhabited,”hesaid.“Theancientparadigmsstillpersisted:the
stationaryEarth,askyladenwithspheres,crudeAristotelianproto-physics.ButLeonardo’sinstinctwasto
proceedfromobservationtotheory—andheobservedmanythingsintheworldwhichdidn’tfitwiththe
prevailingworldview—”
“Likemountaintopfossils.”
“Yes. Working alone, he struggled to come up with explanations. And some of his reasoning was, well,
eerie.”
“Eerie?”
“Prescient.” Gold-flecked eyes gleamed. “Leonardo talks about the Moon in several places.” The boy
flickedbackandforththroughtheCodex,pointingoutspiderypicturesofEarthandMoonandsun,neat
circlesconnectedbyspiderylightraybraces.“Remember,theMoonwasthoughttobeatransparentcrystal
sphere.WhatintriguedLeonardowaswhytheMoonwasn’tmuchbrighterinEarth’ssky,asbrightasthe
sun,infact.Itshouldhavebeenbrighterifitwasperfectlyreflective—“
“LikeMirror.”
“Yes.So LeonardoarguedtheMoon mustbecovered in oceans.”Hefound adiagramshowing a Moon,
bathedinspiderysunlightrays,coatedwithgreatout-of-scalechoppywaves.“Leonardosaidwavesonthe
Moon’soceansmustdeflectmuchofthereflectedsunlightawayfromEarth.Hethoughtthedarkerpatches
visibleontheMoon’ssurfacemustmarkgreatstandingwaves,orevenstorms,ontheMoon.”
“Hewaswrong,”Isaid.“InLeonardo’stime,theMoonwasaballofrock.Thedarkareaswerejustlava
sheets.”
“Butnow,”Bergesaideagerly,“theMoonismostlycoveredbywater.Yousee?Andtherearegreatstorms,
wavecrestshundredsofkilometerslong,whicharevisiblefromEarth—orwouldbe,ifanybodywasleft
tosee.”
“Whatexactlyareyousuggesting?”
“Ah,”hesaid,andhesmiledandtappedhisthinnose.“I’mlikeLeonardo.Iobserve,thendeduce.AndI
don’thavemyconclusionsjustyet.Patience,Un-cle…”
Wetalkedforhours.
Whenheleft,theDaywaslittleadvanced,therakeofsunlightstillsparseontheice.AndMirrorstillrode
brightinthesky.HerewasanotherstrangeforwardechoofLeonardo’s,itstruckme,thoughIpreferrednot
tomentionittomyalreadyoverexcitednephew:inmytime,therearecrystalspheresinorbitaroundthe
Earth.Thedifferenceis,weputthemthere.
Such musing failed to distract me from thoughts of Berge’s frailness, and his disturbing golden pallor. I
badehimfarewell,hidingmyconcern.
AsIclosedthedoor,Iheardthehonkingofgeese,agreatflockofthemfleeingtheexcessivebrightnessof
fullDay.
****
EachMorning, as the sunlaborsinto the sky, therearestorms.Thick fat cloudsraceacross the sky, and
watergushesdown,carvingnewrivuletsandcratersintheancientsoil,andturningtheiceattherimofthe
Tychopackintoathin,fragilelayerofgrayslush.
Mostpeoplechoosetoshelterfromtherain,buttomeitisapleasure.Iliketothinkofmyselfstandingin
thebandofstormsthatcirclesthewholeoftheslow-turningMoon.Raindropsarefatglimmeringspheres
thesizeofmythumb.Theyfloatfromthesky,gentlyflattenedbytheresistanceofourthickair,andthey
fallonmyheadandbackwithsoft,almostcaressingimpacts.Solongandslowhasbeentheirfallfromthe
highclouds,thedropsareoftenwarm,andtheairthickandhumidandmuggy,andthewaterclingstomy
fleshingreatsheetsandglobesImustscrapeoffwithmyfingers.
Itwasinsuchastormthat,asNoonapproachedonthatlastDay,ItraveledwithBergetothephytomine
celebrationtobeheldonthelowerslopesofMa-ginus.
Wemadeourwaypastsprawlingfieldstilledbyhumanandanimalmuscle,thincropsstrainingtowardthe
sky,frostshelterslaidopentothemuggyheat.Andaswetraveled,wejoinedstreamsofmoretraffic,all
headingforMaginus:batteredcarts,spindlyadults,andtheirskinny,hollow-eyedchildren;theMoonsoilis
thin and cannot nourish us well, and we are all, of course, slowly poisoned besides, even the cattle and
horsesandmules.
Maginusisanold,erodedcratercomplexsomekilometerssoutheast ofTycho.Its ancientwallsglimmer
withcrescentlakesandglaciers.ShelteredfromthewindsofMorningandEvening,Maginusisacenterof
life, and as the rain cleared I saw the tops of the giant trees looming over the horizon long before we
reached the foothills. I thought I saw creatures leaping between the tree branches. They may have been
lemurs,orevenbats;orperhapstheywerekiteswieldedbyam-bitiouschildren.
Berge took delight as we crossed the many water courses, pointing out engi-neering features which had
been anticipated by Leonardo, dams and bridges and canal diversions and so forth, some of them even
constructedsincetheFailing.
ButItooklittlecomfort,oppressedasIwasbytheevidenceofourfall.Forexample,wejourneyedalonga
roadmadeoflunarglass,flatasiceandutterlyimpervioustoerosion,carvedlongagointotheregolith.But
ourcartwaswooden,anddrawnbyaspavined,thin-leggedmule.Suchcontrastsareunendinglystar-tling.
All our technology would have been more than familiar to Leonardo. We make gadgets of levers and
pulleysandgears,theirwoodenteethconstantlystripped;wehaveturnbuckles,devicestohelpuserectour
cathedralsofMoonconcrete;weevenfightourpatheticwarswithcatapultsandcrossbows,throwinglumps
ofrockafewkilometers.
Butoncewehurledicemoonsacrossthesolarsystem.Weknowthisisso,elsewecouldnotexisthere.
Aswenearedthephytomine,thestreamsoftrafficconvergedtoagreatconflu-enceofpeopleandanimals.
Therewasaswarmofreunionsoffriendsandfamily,andarichhumannoisecarriedonthethickair.
When the crowds grew too dense, we abandoned our wagon and walked. Berge, with unconscious
generosity,supportedmewithahandclaspedaboutmyarm,guidingmethroughthishumanmaelstrom.
AllBergewantedtotalkaboutwasLeonardodaVinci.“Leonardowastryingtofigureoutthecyclesofthe
Earth. For instance, how water could be restored to the mountaintops. Listen to this.” He fumbled, one-
handed,withhisdog-earedmanuscript.“WemaysaythattheEarthhasaspiritofgrowth,andthatitsflesh
isthesoil;itsbonesarethesuccessivestrataoftherockswhichformthemountains,itscartilageisthetufa
stone;itsbloodtheveinsofitswaters….Andthevitalheatoftheworldisfirewhichisspreadthroughout
theEarth;andthedwellingplaceofthespiritofgrowthisinthefires,whichindiverspartsoftheEarthare
breathedoutinbathsandsulfurmines….Youunderstandwhathe’ssaying?Hewastryingtoexplainthe
Earth’scyclesbyanalogywiththesystemsofthehumanbody.”
“Hewaswrong.”
“But he was more right than wrong, Uncle! Don’t you see? This was centuries before geology was
formalized, even longer before matter and energy cycles would be understood. Leonardo had gotten the
rightidea,fromsomewhere.Hejustdidn’thavetheintellectualinfrastructuretoexpressit.…”
Andsoon.Noneofitwasofmuchinteresttome.Aswewalked,itseemedtomethathisweightwasthe
heavier,asifI,theoldfool,wasconstrainedtosupporthim,theyoungbuck.Itwasevidenthissickliness
wasadvancingfast—anditseemedthatothersaroundusnoticedit,too,andseparatedaroundus,aseaof
unwillingsympathy.
Childrendartedaroundmyfeet,sofastIfounditimpossibletobelieveIcouldeverhavebeensoyoung,so
rapid,socompact,andIfeltamaskofold-manirritabilitysettleonme.Butmanyofthechildrenwere,at
age seven or eight or nine, already taller than me, girls with languid eyes and the delicate posture of
giraffes. The one constant of human evolution on the Moon is how our children stretch out, ever more
languorous,inthegentleMoongravity.Buttheypayaheavypriceinlaterlifeinbrittle,calcium-depleted
bones.
At last we reached the plantation itself. We had to join queues, more or less orderly. There was noise,
chatter,asenseofexcitement.Formanypeople,suchvisitsarethepeakofeachslowlunarDay.
Separated from us by a row of wooden stakes and a few meters of bare soil was a sea of green,
predominantlymustardplants.Chosen fortheir bulkandfast growth,all oftheseplants hadgrownfrom
seedorshootssincethelastlunarDawn.Theplantsthemselvesgrewthick,theirfeatheryleavesbright.
But many of the leaves were sickly, already yellowing. The fence was supervised by an un-smiling
attendant,whowore—toshowthepeopletheirsacrificehadagenuinegoal—artifactsofunimaginable
value,earringsandbroochesandbraceletsofpurecopperandnickelandbronze.
TheMaginus mine isthemostfamous and exoticofallthe phytomines: forheregold is mined, stillthe
mostcompellingofallmetals.Sullenly,theattendanttoldusthatthemustardplantsgrowinsoilinwhich
gold,dissolvedoutofthebaserockbyammoniumthiocyanate,canbefoundataconcentrationoffourparts
permillion.Butwhentheplantsareharvestedandburned,theirashcontainsfourhundredpartspermillion
ofgold,drawnoutofthesoilbytheplantsduringtheirbrieflives.
Thephytominesareperhapsourplanet’smostimportantindustry.
Ittookjustahandfulofdust,ananoweaponfromthelastwarthatravagedEarth,toremoveeveryscrapof
workedmetalfromthesurfaceoftheMoon.ItwastheFailing.Thecitiescrumbled.Aircraftfellfromthe
sky. Ships on the great circular seas disintegrated, tipping their hapless passengers into freezing waters.
Striving for independence from Earth, caught in this crosscurrent of war, our Moon nation was soon
reducedtoarabble,scrapingforsurvival.
Butourlunarsoilissparseandungenerous.IfLeonardowasright—thatEarthwithitsgreatcyclesofrock
and water is like a living thing—then the poor Moon, its reluctant daughter, is surely dead. The Moon,
ripped from the outer layers of parent Earth by a massive primordial impact, lacks the rich iron which
populatesmuchofEarth’s bulk. It is much too small to haveretainedtheinnerheatwhich fuels Earth’s
greattectoniccycles,andsodiedrapidly;andwithoutthewaterbakedoutbytheviolenceofitsformation,
theMoonisdeprivedofthegreatorelodespepperedthroughEarth’sinterior.
Moonrockismostlyolivine,pyroxene,andplagioclasefeldspar.Thesearesil-icatesofiron,magnesium,
andaluminum.Thereis atrace ofnativeiron, andthinner scrapingsofmetalslikecopper,tin,andgold,
muchofitimplantedbymeteoriteimpacts.AnEarthminerwouldhavecastasidetherichestrocksofour
poorMoonasworthlessslag.
AndyettheMoonisallwehave.
Wehaveneitherthemeansnorthewilltoripupthetophundredmetersofourworldtofindtheprecious
metalsweneed.Drainedofstrengthandtools,wemustbemoresubtle.
Hencethephytomines.Thetechnologyisold—olderthanthehumanMoon,olderthanspaceflightitself.
TheVikings,maraudersofEarth’sdarkestage(beforethis,thedarkestofall)wouldminetheirironfrom
“bog ore,” iron-rich stony nodules deposited near the surface of bogs by bacteria which had flourished
there:miniatureminers,notevenvisibletotheVikingswhoburnedtheirlittlecorpsestomaketheirnails
andswordsandpansandcauldrons.
Andsoitgoes,acrossourbattered,parchedlittleplanet,ahierarchyofbacteriaandplantsandinsectsand
animals and birds, collecting gold and silver and nickel and copper and bronze, their evanescent bodies
comprisingaslowmergingtrickleofscatteredmolecules,storedinleavesandfleshandbones,allforthe
benefitofthatfuturegenerationwhomustsavetheMoon.
BergeandI,solemnly,tookritualscrapsofmustard-plantleafonourtongues,swallowedceremonially.
Withmyage-furredtongueIcouldbarelytastethemus-tard’ssharpness.Therewerenodrawn-backfrost
coversherebecausethesepoormustardplantswouldnotsurvivetotheSunset:theydiewithinalunarDay,
frompoisoningbythecyanide.
Bergemetfriendsandmeltedintothecrowds.
Ireturnedhomealone,brooding.
Ifoundmyfamilyofsealshadlumberedoutoftheoceanandontotheshore.Theseareconstantvisitors.
During the warmth of Noon they will bask for hours, males and females and children draped over each
otherincasual,sexlessabandon,solongthatthepatchofregoliththeyinhabitbecomessoddenandstinking
withtheirdroppings.Theseals,uniquelyamongthecreaturesfromEarth,havenotadaptedinanyapparent
waytothelunarconditions.Intheflimsygravitytheycouldsurelyperformsomersaultswiththoseflippers
oftheirs.Buttheychoosenotto;insteadtheybask,astheirancestorsdidonremoteArcticbeaches.Idon’t
knowwhythisisso.Perhapstheyare,simply,wiserthanwestruggling,dreaminghu-mans.
****
ThelongAfternoonsankintoitsmellowwarmth.Thelowsunlightdiffused,yellow-red,totheverytopof
ourtallsky,andIwouldsitonmystoopimaginingIcouldseeourpreciousoxygenevaporatingawayfrom
thetopofthatsky,mol-eculebymolecule,escapingbacktothespacefromwhichwehaddraggedit,asif
hopinginsomemutechemicalwaytoreformtheicemoonwehaddestroyed.
Berge’sillnessadvancedwithoutpity.Iwastouchedwhenhechosetocomestaywithme,to“seeitout,”as
heputit.
MyfondnessforBergeisnothardtounderstand.Mywifediedinheronlyattemptatchildbirth.Thisisnot
uncommon,aspelvisesevolvedinheavyEarthgravitystruggletoreleasethegreatfragileskullsofMoon-
bornchildren.SoIhadrejoicedwhenBergewasborn;atleastsomeofmygenes,Iconsoledmyself,which
hademanatedfromprimevaloceansnowlostinthesky,wouldtravelontothefarthestfuture.Butnow,it
seemed,Iwouldloseeventhat.
Bergespenthisdwindlingenergiesinfeverishactivities.StillhisobsessionwithLeonardoclungabouthim.
He showed me pictures of impossible machines, far be-yond the technology of Leonardo’s time (and,
incidentally,ofours);shaftsandcog-wheelsforgeneratingenormousheat,adivingapparatus,an
“easy-movingwagon” capable ofindependentlocomotion.The famous helicopterintriguedBergepartic-
ularly. He built many spiral-shaped models of bamboo and paper; they soared into the thick air, easily
defyingtheMoon’sgravity,catchingthereddeninglight.
Ihaveneverbeensureifheknewhewasdying.Ifheknew,hedidnotmentionit,nordidIpresshim.
Inmygloomierhours—whenIsatwithmynephewashe struggledto sleep,or asI laylistening tothe
ominous, mysterious rumbles of my own failing body, cumulatively poisoned, wracked by the strange
distortionsoflunargravity—Iwon-deredhowmuchfartherwemustdescend.
Theheavymoleculesofourthickatmospherearetoofast-movingtobecon-tainedbytheMoon’sgravity.
Theairwillbethinnedinafewthousandyears:alongtime,butnotbeyondcomprehension.Longbefore
thenwemusthavere-conqueredthisworldwebuilt,orwewilldie.
Sowegathermetals.And,besidesthat,wewillneedknowledge.
Wehavebecomeaworldofpatientmonks,endlesslytranscribingthegreattextsofthepast,poundinginto
the brains of our wretched young the wisdom of the millennia. It seems essential we do not lose our
concentrationasapeople,ourmemory.ButIfearitisimpossible.WeareStoneAgefarmers,theyoung
brokenbytoilevenastheylearn.Ihavelivedlongenoughtorealizethatweare,fragmentbyfragment,
losingwhatweonceknew.
IfIhadonesimplemessagetotransmittothefuturegenerations,onethingtheyshouldrememberlestthey
descendintosavagery,itwouldbethis:PeoplecamefromEarth.There:cosmologyandthehistoryofthe
speciesandthepromiseofthefuture,wrappedupinonebaffling,enigmatic,heroicsentence.Irepeatitto
everyoneImeet.Perhapsthosefuturethinkerswilldecodeitsmeaning,andwillunderstandwhattheymust
do.
****
Berge’sdeclinequickened,evenasthesunsliddownthesky,theclockworkofourlittleuniversemirroring
hisconditionwithaclumsy,ifmindless,irony.InthelasthoursIsatwithhim,quietlyreadingandtalking,
respondingtohisnear-adolescentphilosophizingwithmycustomarybrusqueness,whichIwascarefulnot
tomodifyinthislasthour.
“…Buthaveyoueverwonderedwhy wearehereandnow?”He waswhispering,the sicklygold ofhis
facepickedoutbythedwindlingsun.“Whatarewe,afewmillion,scatteredinourtownsandfarmsaround
theMoon?WhatdowecomparetothebillionswhoswarmedoverEarthinthefinalyears?
WhydoIfindmyselfhereandnowratherthanthen?Itissounlikely…”Heturnedhisgreatlunarheadto
me.“Do youeverfeel you havebeenborn out ofyourtime, asifyou arestrandedin the wrongera,an
unconscioustimetraveler?”
IhadtoconfessIneverdid,buthewhisperedon.
“Supposeamodernhuman—orsomeoneofthegreatagesofEarth—wasstrandedinthesixteenthcentury,
Leonardo’stime.Supposeheforgoteverythingofhisculture,allitsscienceandlearning—”
“Why?How?”
“I don’t know … But if it were true —and if his unconscious mind retained the slightest trace of the
learning he had discarded —wouldn’t he do exactly what Leonardo did? Study obsessively, try to fit
awkwardfactsintotheprevailing,un-satisfactoryparadigms,gropeforthedeepertruthshehadlost?”
“LikeEarth’ssystemsbeinganalogoustothehumanbody.”
“Exactly.”Awispofexcitementstirredhim.“Don’tyousee?Leonardobehavedexactlyasastrandedtime
travelerwould.”
“Ah.”IthoughtIunderstood;ofcourse,Ididn’t.“Youthinkyou’reoutoftime.AndyourLeonardo,too!”I
laughed,but hedidn’triseto mygentle mockery. Andinmy unthinkingwayI launchedintoa longand
pompous discourse on feelings of dislocation: on how every adolescent felt stranded in a body, an adult
culture,unprepared…
ButBergewasn’tlistening.Heturnedaway,tolookagainatthebloatedsun.“Allthiswillpass,”hesaid.
“Thesunwilldie.Theuniversemaycollapseonitself,orspreadtoacoldinfinity.Ineithercaseitmaybe
possibletobuildagiantmachinethatwillrecreatethisuniverse—everything,everydetailofthismo-ment
—sothatweallliveagain.Buthowcanweknowifthisisthefirsttime?Perhapstheuniversehasalready
died, many times, to be born again. Perhaps Leonardo was no traveler. Perhaps he was simply
remembering.”Helookedup,challengingmetoargue;butthechallengewasdistressinglyfeeble.
“Ithink,”Isaid,“youshoulddrinkmoresoup.”
Buthehadnomoreneedofsoup,andheturnedtolookatthesunoncemore.
Itseemedtoosoonwhenthecoldstartedtosettleonthelandoncemore,withgreatpancakesofnewice
clusteringaroundtherimoftheTychoSea.
Isummonedhisfriends,teachers,thosewhohadlovedhim.
Iclungtothegreatergoal:thattheatomsofgoldandnickelandzincwhichhadcoursedinBerge’sblood
andbones,killinghimlikethemustardplantsofMaginus—killingusall,infact,atonerateoranother—
wouldnowgatherinevengreaterconcentrationsinthebodiesofthosewhowouldfollowus.
PerhapsthepatheticscrapofgoldornickelwhichhadcostpoorBergehislifewouldatlast,mined,close
thecircuitwhichwouldliftthefirstofourceramic-hulledshipsbeyondthethick,deadeningatmosphereof
theMoon.
Perhaps.Butitwascoldcomfort.
We ate the soup,ofhisdissolved bones and flesh,insolemn silence. Wetook his life’s sole gift,further
concentratingthemetaltracestothefarfuture,short-eningourlivesashehad.
Ihaveneverbeenaskillfulhost.Assoonastheycould,theyoungpeopledispersed.ItalkedwithBerge’s
teachers,butwehadlittletosaytoeachother;Iwasmerelyhisuncle,afterall,agenetictributary,nota
parent.Iwasn’tsorrytobeleftalone.
BeforeIsleptagain,evenbeforethesun’sbloatedhullhadslidbelowthetoothedhorizon,thewindshad
turned. The warm air that had cradled me was treacherously fleeing after the sinking sun. Soon the first
flurriesofsnowcamepatteringontheblack,swellingsurfaceoftheTychoSea.Mysealsslidbackintothe
water,toseekoutwhateverrichesordangersawaitedthemunderCallistoice.
****
greentea
RICHARDWADHOLM
Here’s a compelling hard-science adventure, almost extravagantly inventive, that takes us to astrange,
complex, and impressively imagined high-tech future, for a compelling tale of disaster,betrayal, and
revenge,oldthingsthatneverchange,nomatterhowmucheverythingelsemay.…
NewwriterRichardWadholmhasonly madetwosalestodate, bothin 1999, bothto Asimov’s Science
Fiction,butbothofthemhaveclearlymarkedhimasastrongnewtalent,andasaWriterToWatchinthe
newcenturyahead.Agraduateofthe1997ClarionWest,helivesinCalifornia.
****
F
riendBeltran,thismomenthasweighedonmeforthepastsixdays.Atlastwemeet.
Willyoutaketeawithme?Nottoworry,Iamnotheretopoisonyouwithtaintedtea.Notfromabeautiful
servicelikethis,certainly.Thisteakettleispewter,yes?Andthebrewpot—terracotta,inthemannerofthe
greatsmugglingmandarinsoftheBlancoGrande?Quiteso.Imustbegyourindulgenceforitsuse.Iwas
verythirsty;Ihavecomealongwaytoseeyou.
Perhapsmynameescapesyou.Thatisthewayinthisprofessionweshare.SaythatIamyourdeliveryman.
Indeed,theitemyouprocuredatsuchdearcostisclosetohand.
Myfee? Whatever you arranged withthenavigator Galvan will suffice.A cup of tea from thisexcellent
terracottapotwoulddonicely.And,ifyouarenottoopressed,theanswertoasimplequestion?
Whowasitfor,thethingyouberthedonourship?WasitforthemercenariesonMicheleD’avinet?Orfor
theChinesesmugglerswhousedtheglareofD’avinettohidetheirpassing?
Isupposeitdoesn’tmattermucheitherway.Whoeveryourtreasurewasin-tendedfor,theyweresomeone’s
enemy,buttheywerenoenemyofBeltranSeynoso’s,yes?Andwe,thecrewoftheHierophant,wewere
merelywitnesses.Ouronlyoffensewasthatwecouldconnectyouwiththedestructionofalittlestarinthe
outerreachesofOrion.
Iwrongedyou,myfriend.Youareindeedamanofpitilessresolve.Sittinghere,makingteainyourkitchen,
in this rambling manse, on this pretty little moon of yours, I underestimated you. I pictured a dilettante,
playingataroughgame.
Forgive,forgive.
Thatstoryyoutoldourcaptain,thatyourepresentedanAnglosyndicatedealingin—whatwasit?April
porkbellies?Wetookthatfornaivete.NoonegoesfromtradinginAprilporkbelliestodealinginTuesday
morningperbladium.NoteventheAnglos.
Andthentherewasthatimprobableloadyouhiredustoturn.
Do you recall the terms of our arrangement, on the floor of the Bright Matter Exchange in Santa
Buenaventura? Our contract called for 1200 pennyweight of perbladium to be bombarded by heavy
tungstenionsfor14hours.Theresultwassupposedtobeequalamountsofmorghium414andcommercial
gradeprotactin-ium.
Yourecall?Morghium414!LosAbuelitos!Hardly fitting for a ship like the Hierophant.Once we might
havepassedonsuchpaltryfare. Indeed, Mateo Diaz, the captain of the Hierophant,laughed as we took
yourloadintospace.Weinthevanecrewslaughedasweloadedyourjobintoourtargetingshelves.
Whywouldsomebodypayfortheuseofthestarboardvane—alwaysthehotvaneonanyship—toturna
mild-manneredlittleisotopeusedonlybymetal-lurgists?CaptainDiaztookyouforsomesortofcerezadito,
juststartingoutinthecommoditiesmarket.
Oh,youareverygood,SenorSeynoso.Mycompliments.
Not all of us were fooled. I had a friend, a very dear friend, on the Hierophant’s nuclear chemistry
committee.Shedoubtedthedecaychainyouprovidedusevenbeforewecommittedyourloadtospace.
Sheledmealongthechainofisotopesasyouhadoutlinedtheorderoftheirappearance.Perbladium462
wouldindeedtransmutatetomorghiumandprotac-tinium,butonlyunderveryidealizedcircumstances.
Hercalculationssaidyourloadwouldturntounmarketablysmallamountsofjunkisotopes.Shewasafraid
youdidn’tknowwhatyouweredoing.
Sheneednothaveworriedonthatscore.Betweenyouandourship’shigh-speednavigator—whoseservices
youcheaplybought—youknewpreciselywhatyouweredoing.
No,don’tapologize.Iamcongratulatingyou:Wellplayed,Sir.
Iwaschieftothecrewthatpackedthetargetmaterialforyourload.Ispenttenhourswithit,haulingitout
toitsownspecialquadrantofthestarboardvane,injectingitintoasectionofleadandboron-linedtarget
ampoules; sealing each dram over with paraffin, to control the speed of the particles bombarding your
treasure.
Ifanyoneshouldhaveknownwhatyouweredoing,itshouldhavebeenme,yes?Iwastheperfectfoil.
Likeallcuckolds,myconfidenceinmyownabilitywasparamount.
WecameinoffthestarboardvaneafterwefinishedandEstebanContrerasaskedmyopinionaboutpiggy-
backingaloadofthaogolaroundthisbenignlittleloadofmorghium.
Estebanhadalreadytalkedtothenuclearchemistrycommittee,andtheyhadallgiventheirapproval.All
exceptformyfriend,FrancesCruz.Shehaddoubts.
ButIknewFrancesverywell.Iknewshewasacautiousperson.Cautious,quiet,thoughtful.Iaddedupmy
cutforanythingContrerassoldinBuenaventura.Itoldhimtogoaheadwithhisscheme.
Yousee,myfriend?Iaminnopositiontocastblame;youandIsharerespon-sibilityforeverythingthat
followed.
****
UnfortunatethatContrerashimselfcan’tbeheretospeakwithyou.Hehadagreatbeliefinthecatalytic
powerofsheerhumanWill.Youandyourremorselessskillwouldhaveprovensomethingtohimthathe
dearlywishedtobelievein.
ButEstebanContrerasand his Hot Shotswereoutonthevane,loadingtheirthaogoltargets,when your
jeweltookitsfirstturn.
Iwasupinthebridgetower,whatweinthefleetcalltheHeidelburghTun.Ihadmyeyeonawallfullof
particledetectors,waitingforasignofdisaster.Inthisway,ContrerasandIhadwatchedoutforeachother
sinceourcerezaditodays.
Butdisasterissupposedtoannounceitselfinneutronshowers,orgammarays,orahugeheatramp.The
firstwarningyourtreasuregavemewasnothingmorethantheburrofapencilonmydesktop.
Few would take notice of such a trifle. Only a lifetime among the big ships of the fleet Buenaventura
teachesonetoseethesignsandreadthemforwhattheyare:Somevibrationhadpassedthroughtheship
fromdorsaltokeel,touchingeverylittleteacupandpapercliponitsway.Itwasthesubtleharmonicofa
nuclearexcursion.
IopenedachanneltoContreras.Icalledtohimtogetoffthevane.Contrerashadjusttimetocallmyname,
andthen…
Areyoulistening,friendBeltran?Doyouhearthem?
Youmustnotshyawaynow.Wearehardmen,youandI.Wetakewhatwewantandwedonotflinchfrom
thesadandhumanbusinessofdying.Theyoungmotherwhowillneverseehersonsgrowup
—unfortunate,wesay.Businessisbusiness.Theyouthwhopraystohispatronsainttoendhissuffering—
wereckonthisheart-breaking.Theoldveteranwhogrowlsheragonythroughclenchedteeth
—tragicandheroic.
Wouldthatitwereunnecessary.
Steady-on,friendBeltran.Tearsandremorsewon’tbringthembacknow,willthey?Andwehavefartogo.
IwaswithCaptainDiazashesearchedforthesourceofthescreams.Istudiedtheparticledetectorsashalf
thestarboardvanecrumbledundertheweightofsomeunknownforce.Andthenthemonitorsanddetectors
themselvesbegantogo,onebyoneallacrossthestarboardvane,likevotivesbeingsnuffedoutbyachoir
boy.Inamoment,CaptainDiazandIfoundourselvesinsilenceanddark-ness.
Were the Hot Shots all dead? Had some of them made their way into the compartments underneath the
starboard vane? Maybe they were out there still, burning to death in some tight space, waiting for us to
comeforthem.
Wehaveallthoughtaboutbeinginthatplace,SenorSeynoso.Doyousee?
Wehaveallseencompaneroswalkoutofanaerobicfires,theirskincauterizedtotheinsideoftheirhotsuits.
Wehaveallfetchedwaterforsomeonesoburnedtheycouldfeelnothingbuttheunquenchablethirst.We
donotleavepeoplebehindtodiethatway.
Themonitorstoldahorrendoustale—Spottemperatureswereabove2,000Kel-vins,130Teslamagnetic
fieldshadbuckled100tondeckplatesallacrossthedorsal-andventral-sidevanes.
Mycrewcouldhavestayedintheship.Theyhadspenttenhoursonthevane,andwerenotscheduledtogo
outagainforanothertwoshifts.Noonewouldhavesaidawordtothem.
ImadethisclearwhenIexplainedthesituation.Withoutaword,mymatesreturnedtotheirarmorersand
preparedthemselves.Youshouldhaveseenthem,thosepeoplewhodiedforyou.Hardasmoney,mycrew.
Hardascoin.
****
OurgoodtrustrestedwithKatherinePope,anAnglofromoneofthelittleworldsalongtheFrenchViolet.
Shespecializedin“actionatadistance.”Shehadamicrowavetorchwithacollimatedradarsight.
Normaltimes,wecalleduponhertoburnsmallportionsofhotmetalintogas,forspectrographicanalysisat
asaferemove.Onrareoccasions,wecalleduponhertomelthotmetaloutofitscriticalconfiguration.
YoumightnothavecaredforPope,hadyoumether.Popehadthetempera-mentofanartist,thearrogance
ofadivainachorusline.Wealwaysseemedtobedistractingherfromsomethingmoreimportant.Yetall
whoknewherworkboreherhigh-handedways.
MisterRobinsonwasmysecond.Heranthecrewoffalsemenwhointercededforusinthetightspaces.
Hewasataciturnanddisapprovingman.Noteasytobearoundalways,butwehadbeentogethertwelve
yearsandIneverdoubtedmybackwhenhewasnear.
Hehadtwoassistantswithhim.ThemoreexperiencedwasayoungaesthetenamedPabloSanoro.
Pablo was the son of Luz Sanoro, the wet dock contractor. He held the splendid air of a young noble
workingouthissummerinsomeArcadianvineyard.Hewasevergraciousandkind.Hemadeapointof
jokingandchattinguptheolderman.Thisalwaysledtohisrebuke.
Pablo’scharmswerenotentirelylost.MisterRobinsonhadtakenonanap-prenticeasweshippedoutof
Buenaventura.RosalieNunezwasacerezaditafrommechanicsschool,broughtintoreplaceEduardoCalle,
whohaddiedofburnsthepreviousweek.MisterRobinsonintimidatedher,asIsuspecthedidPabloand
mostpeople.Butshewasdeterminedtomakeherplaceonourcrew,andsoshestooduptohissarcasmand
silentmoods.PabloSanorohadcheeredheron.
Oneotherpersonismostrelevanttothishistory.ButforFrancesCruz,Imighthaveforegonethetripoutto
thissleepylittleplantationofyours.
Shewasourliaisonwiththenuclearchemistrygroup,aseriousyoungwoman,wholovedjokes,butnever
knewhowtotellanyofherown.
Shedidnotseemfretfulaswepreparedtogoout.Shewasgayandeasy.Shekiddedwithmycrew,and
gaveasisterlyhugtoMisterRobinson’snewmechanic.Shewas,inshort,completelyunlikeherself.
Itookherasideastheothersspreadontheirelectrolyticsalvesandlockedthemselvesintotheirarmor.I
askedherwhatwaswrong.Shehandedmethespectrographstakenfromtheburningshelfonthestarboard
vane.
Itwasnotcompletelyblank,ofcourse.Therewerelinesoftitaniumandironfromtheburningdeck,carbon
fromthediamondsuperstructure,sodiumfromburst-opencoolantpipes.
Allthethingsoneexpectsinaship-boardcatastrophe,saveone—
Whatexactlywasburning?
Franceshadanidea.Sheshowedmeaphotographoftheskyabovethestar-boardvane.Ididn’tknowwhat
I was looking at until she drew an imaginary ring. Outside the ring, the stars shone plain and hard, as
always.Insidetheyburnedfatandover-bright.
“Gravitationallensing,”sheexplained.
Itriedtothinkofsomethingthatcouldbendlightwavessohard.“Areyoutalkingaboutablackhole?”I
askedher.“Somesortofgravitationalsingularity?”
Sheshookherheadatthis.“Not ablackhole. Ablackholewouldhavekilledusquick.Whateverisout
thereseemsintentonkillingusslowly.”
“So,notablackhole.Butsomethingdenseenoughtobendlight.”
“Ican’ttellyoumore;I’mguessingasitis.”ShebitherlowerlipinawayIhadcometoknowverywell.
“Here,”shesaid.“Incaseyougetabruise.”Sheputsomethinginmyhandandfledthearmory.
Itwasherritualofgoodfortunetogivemeachild’sadhesivebandageasIwentoutonthevane—herway
oftellingmetobecareful.Onthisday,shepressedsomethinglargerintomyhand.Istillhaveitwithme,
yousee?
Aboxofbandages.
****
Yougrowuneasy,myfriend.
Perhapsyouareanxiousforthisteawatertoboil?Ibelieveteahastobepre-paredastheChinesedrinkit,
whichistosay,scalding.IwastaughtthisbyanoldsmugglerupintheBlancoGrande.
Francesusedtoworryallthisboilingwaterwoulddosomegrievousinjurytomythroat.Shewasnotthe
appreciatoroffineteasthatyouandIare.Hertastesrantothesimpleandthesweet,I’mafraid.
SometimesIwonderwhatbroughtustogether.PerhapsIsawsomethingabitrecklessinher,Idon’tknow.I
laughtothinkwhatFrancesimaginedshesawinme.Amanofdecencybeneaththerage?Amanofhonesty
beneaththelies,compassionbeneaththeavarice?
Youwillfindthismostamusing—becauseIcouldnotbeartoletherdown,Iwouldhavebeenthatman.I
canhardlybringmyselftoadmititnow.Hadthingsturnedoutotherwise,FrancesandIwouldbeonalittle
plantationlikethisone.Iwouldbesittingoutonthatveranda,ahappyfoolrockingchildrentosleepinmy
lap.
Yousparedmethisembarrassingdecline,youandyourundertaking.Iwillnotforgetthat,myfriend.You
havemyword.
IplacedFrances’talismanintomyforearmkitasweloadedourgearandfalsemenontoalittlecargotrain
thatranacrossthestarboardvane.
Wesetoutthroughthetinyvalleysofproductiongradeisotopesthatclusteredoneverysideoftheship’s
hull.Ourwayintobattlewaslightedbytubesofflawlessmanufactureddiamond,filledwithtargetisotopes
ofcesiumandcobaltinaliquidsuspension.ElCaminoAzul,wecalledit—”theBlueHighway.”
The Blue Highway zigzagged past railheads and loading cranes, all untouched by the catastrophe just
beyondoursight.Thescenewasoddlyquiet.Theraillinewasintacthere.Thescreamshadstopped.
RosalieNunezsuggestedthatthingswerenotsobad.MightContrerasandhisHotShotshavefoundaplace
ofrefuge?
Noonedaredanswer;toacknowledgesuchbaselesshopeinvitedbadluck.Yetheroptimismhungintheair
asweenteredasmallcanyonfilledwithlow-levelactinides.
Itwasherethatthelandscapebegantodeformunderthecompulsionofyourtreasure.
Arackofheadlightsglaredatusfromthebackofthecanyon.PabloSanoropointed.“Atractor!”hecried.
“It’stheHotShots!”HegaveNunezanencouragingnudge.“Maybethingsreallyaren’tsobad.”
He called out to them and waved. The headlights did not move. We came around to the back of the
strontiumshelves;MisterRobinsonswitchedonaspot-light.
Allthe hopeful chatterdiedaway. Someone swore. PabloSanorostarted to shushtheblasphemer,till he
realizeditwasNunezherself.
Theheadlightsdidindeedbelongtoatractor.PerhapsitwastheHotShots’tractor.Icouldnotsayfrom
looking.Themachinehadbeensqueezedintotheopenendofanabandonedsodiumreservoir.
Pressyourthoughts,friendBeltran—twenty-fivetonsofsteelandtitaniumtuckedintoacrevicethesizeof
ababy’scoffin.Herewasamissivefromyourbeast,aforetasteofwhatawaitedus.
A silence fell upon my crew as we rolled past the collapsed tractor. Then Pope and Robinson fell into
wageringoverthenatureofacreaturethatcouldcrushatwenty-five-tontractorintoasodiumconduit.
“Echnesium!” declared Pope. “It radiated mediating particles for the electro-weak force. I’ve seen
echnesiumsweepavanewithriptidesofmagneticforce,drawingineverythinginitswake—ferrousand
non-ferrousmetals alike. Molten steel,hundredsofdegreesbeyond the currie point of iron. Lead. Flesh,
even.”
Mister Robinson looked at me to see if I was hearing this. “Echnesium has earned its place among the
SevenDreads,buthowcanechnesiumisolateitsfurysofineastosuckatractorintoacoolantpipe?”
“I’veseenechnesiumfocusitsragefinerthanthat,”Popedeclared.Sherecountedthetaleofacerezadito
shehadknownontheTenofSwords.Theladfavoredasteelmustachebangle.Heworeitthedayhewalked
intoanechnesiumfire,andgavenotathoughttosteel’smagneticproperties.
“Ifoundhimduringthenextshift,”Popesaid,“withhisfacepressedtoaferro-ceramicbulkhead,andhis
ornamentworkingitswayoutofhisleftear.”
Nunezgasped.Robinsonwavedhishand,unimpressed.
“Easy to push a little metal through a kid’s brain,” he said. “It’s something else to stuff a tractor into a
coolantpipe.”
PabloSanoroappealedtoallofusfordecorum.HenoddedtowardNunez,whosatquietandawe-struckat
thebackofthetrain.
PoperaisedherchinatMisterRobinson.“Ifit’snotechnesium,thenwhat?”
“Aquantumvacuumstate,”Robinsonsaid.“Boundinsidetheheavynucleiofsomemetallicplasma.
Vacuum3,perhaps,”Robinsonsuggested.“Boundinsideoneofthemorestableisotopesofpterachnium.”
Nunezgavemeanuneasylook.Perhapsshelongedforreassurance.ButIhadmymindonContrerasand
hisHotShots,andwhereIfearedtheymightbe.Oneofthefalsemenendedupexplainingtheconceptof
quantumvacuumstatesforher.
“Whatwecall‘vacuum’inthisuniverseisactuallyamorassofself-annihilatingvirtualparticlepairs.They
popintoexistence,findeachother,andpopoutofexistenceinasuicidalfrenzy.Butmoreperfectstatesof
vacuumarepossible,andtheyadheretotheirownlawsandstart-upvalues.Vacuum3,forinstance,allowsa
smallportion ofthesevirtual particlestopop intoexistenceunpaired withanyanti-particleto annihilate.
Leftover,thesebegintoaccumulate.”
PopenudgedatRobinson—wheredidyoupickthisoneup?
“Doyouknowhowmuchmassyou’retalkingabout?”sheasked.“Sixteennano-seconds,themassofthese
particleswouldsinkanastronomicalchunkofspaceintoasingularity.”
Thefalseman—wecalledhimElGuapo,“theHandsomeOne,”straightenedinashowofdignity.
“Actually,manyoftheseexoticstatesradiatetheparticlesasfasttheyappear.”Itknewshewaslaughingat
it.Itturnedabout,lookingforallies.“Really,Iwouldhavethoughtsomeoneinyourprofessionwouldfind
thismorerelevant.”
Nunezlookedaroundatallofus.“Whatdoesthatmean?Wemightbefacingablackhole?”
“It’sprobablyabitofplutonium,burningitselfoff,”Isaid.
“Vacuum4morelikely,”saidRobinson,whodidnotstintonthetruthinun-pleasantmatters.“Whatdoyou
say,MisterSeguro?Vacuum4radiatesmagneticmonopoles.Thatwouldexplainthetractorinthecoolant
pipe.”
“Youhavemonopolesbetweenyourears,”Popederidedhim.
“Monopolescatalyzeprotondecay.Andthat,inturn—“
“We’regettingcarriedawayhere,”Isaid.“Wedon’tknowwhat’satthebackofthevanetillweseeitfor
ourselves.”
Pope nodded at me. “What about you? I recall a time you could have told us what we faced without a
secondthought.”
IlookedintotheeyesofNunez,roundwithterror.EvenSanorolookedabashed.
“Perhapsmypowersareslipping,”Isaid.“We’vegotenoughtothinkaboutrighthere.”
Andwedid.Whilewehadarguedovertheprecisenatureofyourtreasure,theraillinehadangledintoa
tunnelandbroughtusdowntotheregionoftheundervane.
****
Nomechaniclikestheundervaneatatimelikethis.Askasailorontheoceanthelastplacehewantstobe
when his ship is rolling hard—few things play worse on the mind than being trapped below decks in a
founderingship.
Andyet,ifEstebanContreraslived,thisiswhereheatandradiationwouldhavepursuedhim,tothelast
placeanysanepersonwouldgo.
Weenteredadimandsmolderingrealm.Allmechanicalilluminationwasgone.Thevasttwilightbetween
usandthedistantperimeterofthestarboardvanewasagrottoofcherryredstalactites,flaminggases,red
riversofsteel,glowinglikedogs’eyesatdusk.
WecalledoutforContrerasonoursuitradios.Nothingcamebackbutthehoarseroarofstatic.Wewaited,
calledoutagain.Therewasnoresponse.WesearchedforsomesignoftheHotShotsoneverypartofthe
spectrum.Nothinglaybeforeusbutafloodplainofmagma,flowingdownfromtheinfernoatthebackof
thevane.
“We need a vantage point,” Mister Robinson said. I found a raised siding. Before the excursion, it had
connectedthehotvaultsatthebottomoftheundervanetoaquadrantoftargetshelvesonthedeck.Agiant
airlocksealedthetwoworldsofffromeachother.Butferociousheathadwarpedthebulkheadtillitwas
frozeninitstrack.Theraillineleadinguptoitwaswashedover.Atorrentofmetalsludgeanddebrishad
formedanaturalwaterfallfromthemouthofthetunnel,acrossthetracks,overtheedgeofthesidingand
intothedark.
Here,welistenedforsomesignoftheHotShots.
Inthetenuousatmosphereventingfromathousandcoolantpipestheshipbangedandtickedallaroundus.
Weheardnohumansound.Islammedontherailwithatargetshelfkey.Bigasaman’sleg,theyare.
Anyonealivedownherewouldhavefeltatremorpassthroughthedeck.
Nothingcamebacktousbutthegroansofsuper-heatedmetal.
AswewaitedforsomesignfromContreras,abreachopenedinthesullendarknesstoourleft.Moltensteel,
theremainsofoneofthegiantcrackingstationsonthesurface,pouredacrosstheraillinejustbehindus.
The rear car was swamped before we realized what had happened. It carried all but one of Mister
Robinson’sfalse men.The motorcar,wherewesat, wasengulfed upto thegunwales.Heatexplodedup
throughthefloor.
Wewerehardagainstit,companero.Thetrainbegantolurchbackwardinaseriesofunevenjerksasthe
brakesgavewaytotheheat.Someonepleadedwithmetocallbacktotheshipforhelp.
“Nooneiscomingafterus,”Isaid.“That’showshipslosetwoorthreecrewstoasingledisaster.”
“Butwe’lldie—”
“Shutup,”Isaid.Ineededtothink.
Whoeveritwas,theystartedtoargue.Withoutpreamble,MisterRobinsonthrewthemovertheside.
Surprise—thewhinerturnedouttobetheHandsomeOne.Programmedtohumanemotionnotwiselybut
toowell.
Asilencedescendedonthecrew.Itlastedforamoment,butonemomentwasallIneeded.
Thewhistleof escaping gas led my gaze to a smallapertureto one side of the airlock. Stars glimmered
beyondthehole.
Itwasfartootinytosqueezethroughinahotsuit,butitimpliedhope;perhapsthelockwasnotjammedso
tightasitlooked.
Wehadavanemulelockedagainstthefrontofthetrain.Themulewasroughlythesizeandshapeofan
elevatorcar,witheightnimblelegsperside.Foldedagainstitsroofwasatelescopinglift,usedforreaching
theupperlevelsof thetallesttargetshelves.PopeandIrodeituptotheheadwatersofthehalf-molten
waterfall.Here,thegaseswhinedandwhistledastheysqueezedthroughthetinyorifice.
Popeheatedtheareawithhermicrowavetorch.Iwedgedanextensibleforgeintothesoftenedwoundand
appliedpressure.
Themetalresisted.Iputmyshoulderintoit,andtheholetorewideopen.Ourliftkickedawaytotheright.
Popesworeandhungon.Ifell,hitthetorrentrightatitscrest.
Thesurfacewascoveredoverwithmetalgarbage.Itwassmoothandhardbeneath.Ihadnothingtoholdon
to.Belowmewaitedagolden-hotpoolofmetal.Iclawedforafinger-hold,latchedontosomethingfirm.
Debrisskitteredandkickedovermelikeawave,butIclungtomyhandholdtillIcouldlevermyselfup
ontothetrack.
It was only as I caught my breath before the freshly opened tunnel that I realized what had lent me
purchase.
Aglovedhandroseoutoftheweltofmetal,asifreachingforalifeline.
Myfellowsweresilent.Iheardsomeonesob.IthoughtitwasNunez,butshewasdirectlybehindme,wide-
eyedwithamazement.
Whowasthemechanicenvelopedinthemetaltomb?Iwillneverknow.Thecrewgatheredroundtotouch
thehand,toholditbeforemovingon.
****
Thetrainwasuseless,ofcourse;thetrackendedhere.Wepiledourgearintothemule’sinsulatedstorage
bay.Wefollowedbehindasitpickeditsslowpathoutoftheundervane.
Ifoundmyselfontheshoreofametallicsea.Iconfesstoyou,myfriend,myemotionsovercamemeasI
took in the new world your treasure had wrought. Where were the screen control towers that reared up
arounduslikeagardenofroses?Wherewerethecentrifugestations,threestoriestallandsquatasSultans?
Orthehectaresoftargetshelvesthatrolledouttotheedgeofthevane?Ortheintricateraillinesthattended
them?
Beforeuslay aghostly beachtownofoutbuildings,targetshelves,andwreckedcoolantpipe,all twisted
andbrokenopentothesky.Icouldpickoutindividualstructureswithamoment’sconcentration.Someof
themstillhadpaintontheirwalls.
Throughthegapingdoorsandwindowsofaguttedisotopevault,Icouldseebitsofstuffbobbinginthe
fusedmetaltroughsandwaves.Beyondthat,theheathadbeentoointensetoleaveanytraceofhistory.
Thetopologysmoothedintogentlyrisingswells.
Theverybackofthevanedisappearedinafuriousglare.Yourfinancialinstru-mentconvertedeverythingit
touched—ship’sdeckingandincomingnucleialike—intoastreamofX-raysthatswepttheskybeforeus.
Wewouldhavediedbutforthepolarizingscreens.Mutatedastheywere,thepolarizingscreensheldfocus
ontheburningshelfatthebackofthevane.Theyscouredthebulkoftheheatintospace.
Far overhead, the corona of your beast burned at 10 million Kelvins. Obser-vatories around the Orion
NebulathoughtusanewstellarX-raysource.Didyouknow?
****
We huddled in shadow of the vault, with our radiators fully unfurled, like butter-flies cowering before a
typhoon.Ipokedahand-heldcamerathroughasaggingtearinthewallandsentpicturesbacktothenuclear
chemistrycommittee.
Someon thecommitteethought we weresaved. Ashowerof undifferentiatedparticleswould poison the
reactionsgoingonbeforeus.Yourtreasurewouldgutteroutlikeacandleinastreamofpiss.
The captain himself pointed to the star chart over his desk. The Hierophantplowed through the deepest
portion of the Scatterhead Nebula. Clouds of ionized tungsten stretched before us all the way to the
HerculesVent.Theywouldgorgethemonstertilliteruptedintosomenewstate.
“Wehavetoknowwhat’soutthere,”thecaptainsaid.“Someofusthinkwe’vecreatedsomesortofexotic
vacuumstate.Wecan’ttell;atleasttwoofthepolar-izingscreensareintersectingthedeck,carryingtell-
taleradiationawayintospace.Weneedaradioassayfrombeyondthatcurtainofplasma.”
“Wearealreadytooclosetotheinferno,”Isaid.“Anycloser,someofuswilldie.”
Captain was a decent and humble man. He knew very well what he asked of us. He was silent for a
moment,andIcouldalmosthearhismindracingforsomewayoutofthisterriblecommand.
“Wehavetoknowwhat’soutthere,”herepeated.“Orallofuswilldie.”
****
Lendyourbestattention,myfriend;thisishowmenandwomenfacedesperatefate.
There was no drawing of lots, no heroic pronouncements, no brave jokes. Mister Robinson handed the
sensorspiketohismanPabloSanoro.Ipointedataspotoverlookingtheedgeofthepit.
Noone offeredto take young Pablo’s spot. Death in this place is notso easily eluded that a courageous
gesturewillsaveoneordoomanother.
Perhapstheyoungone,Nunez—perhapsshewasshockedbythis.Sanorogaveheraglanceashestepped
outintothelight.Sheraisedherglovedhandtohimbutsaidnothing.Therewasnotimeforfondwishesof
luck.
Sanoroshoulderedhiswayforwardtoanoutcroppingofmetal.Hepausedamomenttogaugehischances
andthenhestaggeredontillhedisappearedintothelight.
Anintervalofsilence.Theremoteviewerinmyhandblazedwithsuddenlight.Wegatheredaroundasit
showedusthefacethatleeredfrombehinditsveilofplasma.NunezcalledouttoSanorotohurryback.
Before he could answer, a perturbation among the screens raised a tsunami wave of light high over our
heads.Adozendetectorscrackledinsidemyhelmetandthensubsided.Iheardsomethingveryfaintandfar
away—acryofagony?
We,allofus,calledoutforSanoro.RosalieNunezcalledhisname.Evenyou,companero,wouldweepto
hear her voice. And I know you for the hard man you are. Sanoro never answered. Perhaps the radio
interferencewastoodense.Perhapsheturnedoffhisradiosowewouldnothearhimashedied.
Evennow, my thoughtsturnto young Nunez. Wemight haveeasedher broken heart,buttime was hard
uponus.OnadozentinyscreensleeredthemonsterthattookSanoro’slife.
No,no—youmustnotturnasidenow,myfriend.Thisisthesightyoupaidtosee.Thisisthesourceofall
thathadhappened.Themoltenmetalthatpouredthroughtheundervaneflowedfromhere.Thecirclesof
destructionthatengulfedthestarboardvaneradiatedfromthispoint.
Oncollimatedradaritwasachimera.Itroiledandturnedaboutitselflikeasnakeonahotspit.Infrared
showedscabsofmagneticconvectioncrustedoverwoundsthatbledlight.Allverypretty, butnone ofit
describedtheenginethatdrovethisconflagration.
Wehadonelastthingtotry.Almostasanafterthought,Sanorohadleftagravitationalwaveinterferometer
at the brink of the inferno — bricks of purest ru-bidium, tautly held in a wire harness. It was telling us
somethingevenaswedialeditin,butgravitationisahardthingtogaugeonashipliketheHierophant.
At first, the oscillating line was wildly erratic. As we filtered out the effects of the ship’s velocity, the
inertialsink,thepolarizingscreens,theoscilloscopesettledintoametronomicpattern,atoncefamiliarand
dreadful.
Thethingradiatedgravitationalwaves.
Wewereallofussilentalongmoment.Ithinkweallknewwhatwe saw,butno onewantedtosaythe
words.
Ofcourse,youknowwhatwesaw,don’tyou.Hereisyourtreasure,companero.Hereisthepearlbeyond
price.
Vacuum3.Pterachnium.
—TheBlueAngel.
****
Didyouknowwhatyouwerebuildingwhenyouperfectedyourscheme?Didyoufathomthefundamental
forcesyoubroughttobear?Indeed,didyouthinkofanythingbeyondthislittlemoon?Thesesun-dappled
orchards?Thosefearsomepaladinswhoguardyoursleep?
Pterachniumisnotabaryonemitter,likethefissionableactinides.Itdoesnotbetrayitselfinhigh-energy
photons,asdotheothermetallicplasmas.Pterachniumnucleihaveonlyoneusetomenlikeyou—theyare
thevesselsofchoiceforbindingexoticvacuumstates.
I speak of energies at which the quantum vacuum itself trembles on the verge of fluctuation. In the
twentiethcentury,suchafluctuationwascreditedwiththecreationoftheuniverse.Cosmologistspresumed
anotherfluctuation,ifiteverreallyhappened,wouldsweepacrosstheheavensatlightspeed,plowingall
therulesofNatureinitswake.
Thoseworthiesnevercountedoningeniousfellowslikeyourself,creatingin-dustrialgradesofmore-and
less-perfectquantumvacuumstates—bottlingupthelightningoftheuniversebehindaneventhorizon,like
amethystencrustingthegutofafireegg.
AsIsaid,mycompanero,youareacleverfellow.
Icouldtellyouthenamesofshipskilledbypterachnium.Youwouldbeawe-strucktoheartheirfates—the
QueenofWands,burnedbyX-rayswithallhandsintheVenturiThermals;theAceofCups,shatteredby
protondecay;theTower,strippedofitsscreensatrelativisticspeeds.
Haveyoueverseenashipstrippedofitsscreensatlightspeed?Theleadingedgeofeveryspan,everydeck
plate,ispittedandtornasifpeckedawaybyferociousbirds.Sometimessalvagecrewsfindtelloliteslaying
about—tiny deposits of matter left by the energy of particles interacting with the deck (energy, you see,
convertstomatter,iftheexchangeisgreatenough).
Attheseenergies,one’sproblemsarequicklyover.Makenomistake,myfriend,Ispeakofahardend.
But at least there are no lingering deaths from burns or radiation sickness. Certainly, Fate can be more
unkind.
Exotic vacuum states are infamous for the electrical potential that attends them. Under the deforming
compulsion of these fields, a ship’s polarizing screens begin to cycle, like wire coiled around a giant
dynamo.Chargedparticlesslipbetweencyclingscreensandthemetaldeck.Potentialbuildstodischarge.
Ifyouimaginesomedisplayoflightning,yourvisionistoomodest.Scaleyourthoughtsupbyafactorofa
million—electricaldischargeonthisscalepowersthejetstreamsofexoticstellarobjects.
Iboardedashiponce,destroyedbysuccessivedischargesof100terawatts.Iwillneverforgetthesmellin
themechanics’armory.Itwassweet,youknow?Likesmokedmeat….
No,no,no.Forgivethesemorbidthoughts,myfriend.Thesethingsarenoneofyourconcern.Imerelywish
to lend you understanding of our desperate state of mind as we realized the poisoned cargo you had
bequeathedus.
****
Ourscreenswereinfected.Ourfalsemenweregone.Popesaidshecouldburntheheartfromyourmonster
andwegratefullyacceptedherword.Indeed,Ihadseenherlookintotheblue-hotglareoffaburninglump
ofplutoniumandsplititintwofromfivehundredmeters.
But plutonium was not so fierce as your treasure. We could study plutonium through our leaded face
shields.Popefiguredtolosehereyesight.Itoldhershewasbeingridiculous.
Wehadanelaboratesensorarrayinthemule’sequipmentbay—gammarayimaging,magneticresonance,
collimated radar. I made sure she had the entire spectrum at her disposal. Nunez stood in the bay and
handedouteachpieceofequipment.Itestedeachscopeandmonitorandstakeditintothedeck.
ButIwastheridiculousone.Atsomepoint,Popewouldgrowfrustratedwithherprostheticeyes.SheandI
bothknewthis.Shewouldlookawayintotheinfernowithherowneyesandpressthetriggerevenasher
retinaswentforeverdark.Shedidnotcomplainaboutthis.Sheaskedonlythatshebeinformedhowher
aimfared—demandedwouldbeabetterword.
“YoutellmeifImiss,”shesaid.“I’llputoneinrightnexttoit.Iwon’tneedmyeyesforthat.Ifyouletme
takethegunsightsoffthetarget,Iwon’tbeabletosightinagain.Allourdeathswillhangonyourhead.”
Suchgentlepersuasion.HowcouldIrefuse?
Inthemidstofourpreparations,somethingcausedmetolookup,somechangeinthelightmaybe,Idon’t
know.
Theburningofthestarboardvanehadfilledtheskyaboveuswithahazeofmetallicaerosols.Isawthem
begintomove.
Yourmonsterwasflexingitsmuscle.
ItouchedhelmetswithPope.Ipointedoutthemilkyswirlspassingacrossthestars.
She glared at me as if I bothered her, threw off her concentration. “I’ll never get this done, you keep
interruptingme,”shedeclared.“MaybeIshouldjusthandtheguntoyou.”Sheturnedbacktohermonitors
withoutwaitingforare-sponse.
Snatchesofradioconversationweregettingthroughthestatic.Iheardthescreencrewsfightingwithsome
upper-leveldeformationofthe#4screen,theelectron/anti-protonscreen.
Allthehairsonmybodywentstraightup.Thestaticsurgedetectorssuddenlypeggedoffthescale.
RobinsonandNunezwavedtomefromtheequipmentbayatthebackofthemule.Itonlyoccurredtome
then—ofcourse,theequipmentbaywassurroundedinconductingmetal.Itwouldbecompletelyinsulated.
IcalledtoPopeastheydraggedmeinbehindthem.Sherefusedeventoacknowledgeme.
Nunezwasstillclosingthedoorasaflashlituptheskyacrosstheentireplainoffusedmetal.Itwasan
ancientlight,alightfromthedawnofcreation.Throughmyleadedvisor—throughmyclosedeyelids
—Isawthebonesofmyhands,clampedacrossmyface.
Thedoorslammed.Thedeckheavedbeneathus.Icrashedintotheceilingandthenbacktothefloor,came
uptastingbloodandswallowingchippedteeth.Ahurricaneshriekedinmyhelmetradio,loudenoughto
splitopenmyhead.
MythoughtswereonPope.Shewasoutsidethedoor,justbeyondmyreach.Howhadshefared?Hadshe
gottenoffhershot?
Westeppedoutsideevenwhilethesuperheatedlightreceded.Themulewasoveronitsside,andthedoor
wassprung.IhadtoshoveatthedoorwithNunezandMisterRobinsontogetitopen.Popewasgone.I
havenoideawhathappenedtoher.Shewassimplygone.
Icalledoutforher,scannedthedeckasbestIcouldforsomesignofher.NoneofuseversawPopeagain.
However,asIcamearoundthesideofthemule,Isawsomethingthatwillstaywithmealways.
RollingoutoftheshadeofadistantcargobaycamethelittlecrewtractorcarryingEstebanContreras’
unluckyHotShots.
Itookittobe some sort of drifting retinal artifactfromtheburninglight.Butit was real. It crossed the
blasteddesertwiththeleisurelyairofafamilyonbeachholiday.
Eachpersoninthecrewcabinsatupstraightintheirseats,utterlyunconcernedabouttheexcursionlighting
uptheskybeforeus.Theyrolledrightintoit,rigidasasix-packofcerveza.
Icalledoutto them,butofcoursethey weredead—burnedto ablackened huskrightinsidetheirbright,
shinyhotsuits.UpinthechiefscabinwasContrerashimself,hangingfromthewindow,hishandsdragging
alongthedeckasthelittletrainpushedforwardintotheragingbrillianceatthebackofthestarboardvane.
Therewasnoquestionwehadmomentslefttous.AlreadyIcouldseemysurgedetectorflickeringagain.
Yourmonsterhadmagnetizedeverythingoutbeyonditsmoatofliquidmetal—theleadshieldingaswellas
thesteelinthedecking.Itsmagneticlairincreasedevenaswehunkeredbehindourshatteredrailhead.
Soonitwouldbeginpullingdownthepolarizingscreens.Particleswouldbeunloadedacrosstheship.
They would scatter through the soft parts of the hull and kill everyone standing nearby. Behind the
collapsingscreenswouldcomethein-fallingsky,ignitingthefissionablematerialsonallfourvanes.
Mister Robinson and I had no use for panic. Huddled together against the roar of radio interference, we
consideredouroptionsasifwewerediscussingthepriceof3:00perbladiumonthefuturesflooratSanta
Buenaventura.
Normalcircumstances,wewouldtrytoheatthesitesomehow,andcauseittomeltinwiththemetalaround
it.Evenifitremainedinacriticalconfiguration,itmightbecontaminatedbymeltedsteelfromthedeck,or
lead,orboronfromthesurroundingshieldingtopoisonthereactionchain.
Thatseemed a dubiousproposalin thiscase.Any lump of matterthat held Vacuum3in its heartalready
knewmoreaboutheatthananythingwecouldteachit.
Wepausedinourdiscussionasaclusteroftelloliteslevitatedhalfameteroverthedeck,onlytolandafew
centimetersfromthetipofmyboot.MisterRobinson’seyesrosefromthebitofmongrelmatteratourfeet
totheinfernobeforeus.
“Weseemtobeinthepresenceofprimordialsymmetry,”hesaid.
This is what reached out to the little pebbles on the deck around us, what had crushed a tractor into a
coolantpipeonthefarsideoftheBlueHighway—thefourfundamentalforcesofnaturehadrediscovered
thatsymmetrytheylostinthefirstbillion-billion-billionthofasecondaftercreation.
“This,fromVacuum3?”
“OrVacuum4.We’reinnopositionforapreciseassay.”
Itwashardnottobeover-awedbythemajestyofyourart.Andyet,whatdidwecowerbefore,afterall?A
bitofvacuum!Theapotheosisofnothingness.Per-hapswewastedourtimeattackingthepterachnium;the
vacuumstateboundwithinmightbemanipulatedmoreeasily.
IputittoMisterRobinson:“Thesevacuumstatesruninchainsofprogression,justlikethedecaychainof
any unstable nucleotide. A couple of steps up from Vacuum3 is a stable plateau not dissimilar to the
quantumvacuumstatewecallhome.”
Irememberthewayhenoddedtohimself;MisterRobinsonwasnothurriedbydesperationordespair.
“If we could define the right particles with our screens, we could push our load of Vacuum3 up to that
plateau.”
“Rightthissecond,youknowwhatthetemperaturesarelikebeyondthosepo-larizingscreens?Whatkind
ofparticlesaregoingtogetthroughthat?”
“Dark matter,” I said. “Weakly interacting super-luminals. They have no electric charge to become
entangledin the firestorm. They touch this universe with noth-ing but the slenderfingersofgravity,and
nothingbutdensematterdrawsthemin.Perhapstheywillbesufficienttoourneeds.”
MisterRobinsonconsideredtheproposalforalongmoment.“We’vegotaproblem,”hesaid.“Nomatter
whathappenstothepterachnium,we’llbesittingoutherewhentheshipgoessuper-luminal.Thehullwill
be protected, but out here, we will be exposed to whatever comes down. It hardly matters that these
particlesare‘weaklyinteracting’anythingwillkillyouifyougethitbyenoughofthem.”
MisterRobinsonbeganreminiscingaboutamanhehadknownintheFrenchViolet,killedbyneutrinos
—neutrinosofallthings.Hesawtheyoungsterwatchingusallwide-eyed.Hestoppedhimself.
Istartedtosuggestwemightyetescape.MisterRobinsonindicatedtheimpass-ableblastscapebehindus
with a single look. “This ship has maybe two minutes to live. What do you think, Mister Seguro? Two
minutesbeforethescreensareallboundinahugemagneticsourceandstartcycling?Wherearewegoing
togointhenexttwominutes?”
Isaid,“I’mcertainlyopentosuggestions,MisterRobinson.”Helaughed.MisterRobinsonandIwentback
aways.Neitherofushadanyparticulartroubledoingwhatwasnecessarytosavetheship.
Buttheyoungster,shetroubledussome.Thiswashertrainingflight.Thisshouldhavebeensafeandeasy.
We would never have brought along some young nina on anything more dangerous than nice, easy
morghium414.
Iaskedherifsheunderstoodwhatwewerediscussing.Shesaidshedid.Iaskedherifsheagreedwithour
assessment.
Shesaidshedid.Idetectedasoftnesstohervoice.Shemighthavebeenholdingbackheremotions.Yetshe
nevercriedforanysortofconsiderationforheryouthorherstatus.Sheunderstoodthatwewereallabout
todie,andthatonlytheshipmatterednow.
IcalledbacktoFrancesCruzandmadeourproposal.
Frances would not hear of it. She found a thousand reasons to doubt my so-lution. Yet she could find
nothingbetter.Ididnothavethetimetoargue,butforherImadethetime.Itwasn’teasy.Howdo you
explainadecisionlikethistoaspecialfriendandconfident?
Igavemyselfthirtyseconds,andthen,when shestillcouldnot understand,I gavemyself thirtyseconds
more.IneededtospeaktoCaptainDiazaboutourplan,butIcouldn’tleaveFrancestillsheunderstoodthat
thesweetnessofmylifehadbeenhers,andtheonlyhorrorIfeltatleavingwasboundupwithheraswell.
CaptainDiazcutintoourconversationtohearoutourproposal.Captainwasadecentman,buthecould
count—threelivesagainsttwenty-seven.Hetoldustheywouldneedagravitationalwavedetectorasnear
thepterachniumaswecouldget.Sanoro’sdetectorhadgonedarkmomentsafterithadshowedustheface
of your creature. We had to replace it, so that the nuclear chemistry committee would know how our
missionfared.Whenhewenttoinitiatethescreendump,Francesdidnotreturntotheline.
IturnedtoNunezandRobinson.“Isetthewavedetectormyself,”Itoldthem.
Mister Robinson made a gesture of indifference. “We have no place to go,” he said. “We might as well
comewithyou.”
“Wecomealong,”Nunezsaidinahuskyvoice.“Youfalter,we’rethere.”Shelookedreadytomakeafight
ofitifIorderedherback;Sanoro’sdeathweighedheavyonher.
I had my eye on a spot twenty meters ahead of us. A stub of metal reared up from the smooth-blasted
decking.Whathad beenthere beforeyourundertaking?Irecalledanuclear furnacenearthatpoint.Two
storiestallithadbeen.Thetinymesainitsplaceroseperhapsametertallnow.
“Wereachthathumpinthedeckandplantthedetectoronitsfurtherside.”Ipointed.
Beyondthatlittleriselayafinalcircleofhell,smoothasthesurfaceofanegg.Liquefiedsteel,Irealized,
boilingawaytogasatitscenter.Yourtreasurehadcorruptedallthemetalacrossthebackofthemolten
mirror.Beneaththeshadeofmypalm,itlookedlikethegiltofaRococopictureframe.
Imovedforwardtillthe heatinmysuitwasunbearable.Icouldhardlyswallowforthemetallictasteof
hardradiationinmymouth.Probingtendrilsoflightningthickasropeplayedoveroursuitsandslammed
thedeckatourfeet.TheheatburnedthroughthesolesofourbootstillIcouldbarelywalk.
IplantedthespikeinthemetaldeckingatthepointIcouldgonofurther.
Ifeltthedecktremblebeneathmeastheshipaccelerated.Irememberbracingmyselfforthegauntletof
particlesawaiting me on the far sideofthelightbarrier — Would it bum me? Would I have time to feel
anything?
But something was wrong. Frances was in my headset, saying something about losing the signal. I was
deliriousbythen.Herwordsbarelymadesense.
Shewastellingmethewavedetectorthatwehadjustputouthadgonesilent,evenastheenergyoutputhad
grownmoreintense.ShewasaskingifIcouldstillseeitabovethepterachniumsite.Shethoughtithad
beendestroyed.
Thatwasn’twhyshehadlostthesignalanyway,wasit,myfriend?Yourjewelwasgatheringitselfup,asa
giantcoastalwavewillgatherallthewateroffabeachbeforeitrollsin.
Yourcreaturewascomingtofruitionatlast.
Ofcourse,Iwaspastcaringbythistime.Zoneangelsappearedandevaporatedbeforemyeyes,asvividas
childhoodmemories.IdoubtIwasevenconscious.
Inmy blindness,I stumbledand crashedtothe deck.Adirecircumstance;thedeck glowedredhot.The
fleshofmyshoulderburnedfromtheheatofit.Indeed,thisiswheremyshouldersandbackacquiredthose
handsomekeloidsyouhavebeenadmiringsosurreptitiously.
Iwasabreathawayfromunconsciousness,andthatwouldhavemeantmydeath.Seekingrelief,Itookasip
frommywaterhose.Nothingcameoutbutsuperheatedair.Thewaterhadgonetosteamandbeenrecycled
intoasafetyreservoirtillitcouldrecondense.Ofcourse,Iwouldbelongdeadbythen.
Inthemiddleofthishorrorcameasuddenvisionofpreternaturalquiet.IsawthevillagesquareinSanta
SusanadelaReina—thewindfunnelscreakinginthecupolaoftheoldmission,theblackmossandthe
purple,thesmelloftheconstantrain.
-Rain!
Howvividthememoryofraincametomeinthatmoment.InmymouthIheldthesweetsmellofthewet
timbersbeneathBoregosBridge.Icouldseethemirroredpoolsfillingthebrokenstreets,theirsurfacescut
byblacklizards.
Isawrainrunninginsheetsbeyondalimpcurtain.Isawabareshoulder,silhouettedagainstthemilkylight.
Afriendinthestreetbelowcalleduptoustounlockthedoorandlethimin,whilewelayinthedarkand
laughedathimandeveryoneelseintheworldwhoknewnotwhatweknewinthatmoment.
Iheardtheshoutingagain,butitwasn’tEstebanContrerascallinguptoFrancesandmefromthestreet.
ItwasMisterRobinson.Hewascallingtomefromarippleofmetaljustafewmeterstoport.Hemight
havebeenontheothersideoftheFrenchVioletforthegulfofpainandlightbetweenus.
Nunezwasstranded behinda smallrisejustbeyondhim.Shewas wavingto us,makingsomegesture.I
couldnotmakeitout.AclearingofsilencebreachedthestaticroarjustlongenoughthatIcouldcatchher
words.
“Hereitcomes,”shecried.Somehow,Nunezhadheardthecountdowntolightspeedonhersuitradio:The
skywascomingin.
Ilookedaroundforsomebitofcovertohidemyself.Somethingsplittheglarejustofftomyright.Ihad
barelynoticeditwhileplantingthegravitywavedetector;ithadbeenstillasanyotherbitofmetalonthat
blasted expanse. But as I looked closer, I realized the shadow was articulated with radiator fins and
circulatingpacks.
Ishadedmyeyeswithmypalmandpeeredintotheglarethatbeatupfromthemetaldecking.Herewas
PabloSanoro,frozeninanattitudeofintentconcentration—staringatthegravitywavedetectorhehad
workedatevenasheburnedtodeath.
I pulled him down over me just as the stars smeared into rainbows. The deck burned my back. The
incomingparticlesburnedmyfingersastheygrippedaroundSanoro’sshoulders.
Iheldtight.Ispentamicroepochinthatway—mybackblisteringagainstthesuper-heateddeck,andPablo
Sanoro just inches from my leaded visor, grinning the wizened, squinting smile of a face with flesh and
muscledrawntaut.
I heard Nunez scream. Pinned under Sanoro’s hotsuit, I raised my head just enough to see your treasure
plungethroughahundred-tonmetaldeckasifitweresofttaffy.
Acrevassespreadoutfromthebackofthevane.Itetchedajaggedlinerightouttous.Nunezdisappeared
downtheholeasitspreadthroughthedeckbeneathherfeet.
Robinsongraspedforherassheslippedoutofsight.Inthatmoment,yourcreaturereachedupthroughthe
metaldeckingandtookhimina130Teslamagneticfield.IsawRobinsontwistandheavelikearagdollas
thefleshpeeledfromhisbones.
A cloud of steam enveloped him from somewhere below and he was gone. I remember staring in
amazementasitroseintothesky.Wherehadthatcomefrom?
I didn’t realize till much later, but your monster had crashed through three floors below the main deck,
severingadozenplumbingmainsalongtheway.
Thisiswhatkilledsomanypeopleinsidethehull—notfire,butwater.Thewaterinallthelinesflashedto
steamandexplodedthroughouttheinterioroftheship.
****
AftersometimeIbecamelucid.Ifoundmyselflyingalongthepalisadeofacanyon,cuttothedepthsofthe
starboardvane.
Allofmymatesweredead.Allofourequipmentsuckeddownintotheholeyourmonsterhadmadefor
itself.
It is ironic, but this saved me from dying. With your pterachnium sunk away out of sight, the heat and
magnetismrefocusedonsomepointintheundervane.
IthoughtImightgethelpfromoneoftheothervanecrews.Iwentdowntothemechanics’armorytosee
aboutsomeassistance.Butthemechanics’armoryhadbeenclosesttothebackofthevaneasyourtreasure
cameintoitsown.Mycompaneroshadbeenamongthefirstinsidethehulltodie.
The ship above the armory was utterly silent. It was a catalog of unpleasant endings. People in airtight
cabinssuffocatedorburned.Peopleclosertofissuresinthehulls,destroyedbyexplosivedecompression.
IfoundFrancesonthefloorleadingoutoftheforwardhead.Bloodpooledoutofherears.Itellmyselfshe
waskilledinstantly.Whoknows?Perhapsshewas.
No,please.Allowmetotellthestory;justlookingather,Icouldre-enactthemomentofherdeath.
Indeed,itisnotwithoutitsamusingside.
You see, there is a standing rule never to go to the toilet during a hot load. I mean, these things have
happenedbefore.Theseshipsarecompact,nomatterhowlargetheyappear,andtheplumbinglinesalways
endupgoingthroughouttheship,andafewpeopleeveryyearendupbeingkilledthisway.
So Frances knew the risks of going to the bathroom when she did. But the emergency had gone on for
severalhoursnow,andherneedhadtakenonanurgencyofitsown.
Hadshebeentrulybornofwealthshecouldhavesquattedinthecornerlikeahousecat.Butno,shewas
borntothemerchantclass,andsuchcompromisewithherdignitylefthertoolittletoholdonto.Thesteam
explosionblewoutthewallbehindherhead.
Pardon,myfriend.Iamnotunawarehowthismustseemtoamanofrefine-mentlikeyourself.Yet,thishas
anairofthehilarious:Aprincessdieswhilesittingonthetoilet—agoodjokefromGod,yes?Anamusing
trick.
—Don’ttouchme.
Anddonottellmeagainhowsorryyouare.Orhownecessaryitwas.OrhowIwouldhavedonethesame
inyourposition…
Excuse me, please. No, no — It is I who must apologize. You have been more than patient. The story
reachesdenouement.
IfoundmyselfcarryingFrancesaroundinmyarms.Ican’ttellyouwhereweweregoing.Alltheofficers’
quarterswereblownopentospace.Ijustcouldneverfindaplacetosetherdown.SoIcarriedher.
Eventually,IfoundmyselfupintheHeidelburghTun,wheretheofficershadmadetheirlaststand.
Imaginemysurprisetofindsomeonealiveuphere.Moresurprisingstilltofindhimwalkingaroundina
hotsuitfromthemechanics’armory.ThiswouldbeGalvan,thenavigator.
Isaid,“Thatmightbeatightfitinanescapepod.”
Hewasstartledatthesoundofmyvoice.Hespunaround,lookingforme.Ofcourse,Iwasavoiceinhis
radio —I might have been anywhere. Even so, he hid something behind his back, like a child with an
embarrassingsecret.
“Seguro,”hesaid.Andthen,“Joaquin.Yousurvived.”Hedidnotsoundover-joyedtoseeme.
Iaskedhimwhathehadinhishand.HeactuallyfoughtmeasIreachedaroundtotakeitfromhim.
Whatdoyousupposeitwas,thisthingthatwouldmakeatimidlittlemanpunchatmeanddigatmyair
hosetokillme?
Youknowwhatitwas.Itwasaclock,wasn’tit.Butaveryspecialclock.Nodoubt,youseethemallthe
time.TheyarecommonontheflooroftheBrightMatterExchange.Familiartoshippingagentsandfutures
traders.
Wecallthem“trueclocks.”Theyareusedtotrackthetruepassageoftimebackataship’shomeport.
Totheuninitiated,thismayseemasmallmatter.You,ofcourse,knowbetter.Ourshippliesthecloudsof
Orionatspeedsapproachinglight.Adozentimesduringthecourseofarun,weaccelerate,webrake.
Shipboardtimechangeswitheachfluctuation.Wecrossoverthelightbarrieronourwaytoandfromwork.
Whenwedo,timeiscalculatedinimaginarynumbers.Aclocksettofollowsuchdistortionsisnotthesort
ofthingamanonanavigator’ssalarywouldown.
Galvantriedtotellmethiswasapartofhisnavigator’skit.Indeed,thenavi-gator’sloftisequippedtotrack
the constant passage of time, but only relative to our own course. The clock in Galvan’s hand was
synchronizedtothetimeontheeasternshoreofalittleislandonadesertedmoonintheSanMarcosstar
system.
Thismoon,infact.Thisverymoon.Whatdoyousuppose,myfriend?
GalvandissembledasIaskedhimhispurposeuphere.Infact,hehadbeencompletingacoursecorrection.
He claimed he was moving us out of shipping lanes. But we were headed for this star up in the French
Violet,thisMicheleD’avinet.Hehadnoreadyexplanationwhy.
Iputittohimthatwewerepartnersinthismatter—eachhadsomethingtheotherwanted.Galvanhadthe
nameofthemonsterthatdestroyedmyship.IhadGalvan’sairhose,pinchedbetweenmyfingers.
Inthatwaywebarteredforthenexthour:Oneanswer,onegulpofair.
IlearnedthenameofBeltranSeynoso,weaponsdesignertohalfthearmies,militias,andmercenarygroups
intheFrenchViolet.Hetoldmeofthestar,MicheleD’avinet.Hewasnotspecificastoyourloyalties;I
suspecthedidnotknowthemhimself.Buthedescribedyourplaninsomedetail.
Hetoldmeaboutyouraudaciousschemetopoisonthesunthesepeoplelivedunderandwarmthemselves
against.Aboldstroke,Sir!Setmyshiponcourseforthisstar,D’avinet,thenconsumeitintoasingularity
ontheway.WhatwouldhappenifasingularitythesizeofmyoldshiphadcrashedintoastarlikeMichele
D’avinet?Billionsofpeoplewoulddieterribly.Itwouldbeatragedyofmajesticproportions.
Truly,youareamanofvision.
Galvanbecamefrantictowardtheend.Hegaveminutedetailsofyouropera-tion.Hetoldmeeverything
aboutyouthathecouldthinkof.Heansweredques-tionsIhadn’tthoughttoask.Isuspecthepaddedwhat
heknewwithoutrightspeculations.
Youmustn’tblamehimforthis;hebelievedhislifelastedaslongasourcon-versation.Indeed,hebought
eachbreathwithanotherbitoftruth.Andwhenheranoutoftruth…
Myactionsshockyou.Forgiveme;Ishouldplaymoretheheroinmyowndrama.Butsheisgone,yousee?
AndIamleftwithonlyonerolethatmatters.Iamyourdeliveryman.
Iseethatyourschemewassoundinitsfundamentals,buttherewasacompli-cation:Vacuum3collapses
intoasingularityinsixteennanoseconds.Thatwouldneverdo.Galvanneededtimetosettheship’scourse.
Ashewasanavigatorofmediocretalents,coursecorrectionswouldberequiredontheway.
Andyouhadtoleavetheillusionthathewouldescape.
Soyousetthethingtodissipatemostofitsenergyingravitationalwaves.Nomatter.Thedensitywouldbe
sufficientwhenthetimecame.Smallsingularitieswouldform,consumeallthematteraroundthem,begin
tocoalesce.
Iaminnopositiontomentoramanofyourestimabletalents.Butperhapsoneortwosuggestionsfornext
time?Thereisaphasetransitionintheproductionofpterachnium.Belowitscriticalmass,pterachnium,at
least in the form you created, becomes quiet and morose. It can be captured. The careful man can
manipulateitintoamorepliantform.
Imyselfjourneyeddownintothedeepfissurethatcutthroughtheheartofthestarboardvane.Itwascold
whenIarrived.Theradiationshadbanked,thefero-ciousgravitiesandmagneticfluctuationshadsubsided.
The liquefied metals that had chased us through the undervane had now congealed into curtains, flood
plains,weirdminarets.
There,Ifoundyourprecious,boundupinclustersoftellolitenodulesatthebottomofthechasm.Though
mypettysophistrieshadfailedtosavetheship,theyhadmanagedtoconvertyourVacuum3intoapliant
state,aformthatallowsittobecarriedwithoutcollapsingspontaneouslyintosingularity.
Yes,myfriend.Yourtreasurelives.Ihaveevenreturnedittoitsoriginalliquidsuspension.This,afterall,is
the way things are done in the production of com-mercial isotopes since the days of the great nuclear
reactors. Atoms of target ma-terial are held in liquid suspension to allow their thorough saturation by
incomingparticles.
Itisquietnow.Itexistsintwosub-criticaldrams,butwhenpouredtogether,theyundergoaphasetransition
intothattoolofpettyvengeanceyouprocuredatsuchcost.
Don’tworry,they’recloseathand.
Areyousureyouwon’thavesomeofthisveryfinetea?Youwon’tmindifI pourmyselfalittletopper
then,willyou?
InoticedyourteapotsassoonasIenteredthekitchen.Yes,theydefinitelyattractedmyinterest.Youmake
teain the Chinese manner —one pot to boil the water, one pot to brew the tea. Excellent. Exactlyright.
Noneofthisteabagchicforyou,myfriend.
Dothetwopotshaveahistory?Youareateaman.Youknowthatagoodteapotislikeagoodwallet,ora
goodpairofboots.Itages.Itcarriesacertainhistoryaboutwithit.
Myownsetishumblebycomparison.Cheapporcelain,brightlypaintedwithscenesfromaporttownon
the lee side of Spanish Space. I would have replaced it long ago, except it was a gift, you see. From
someonewhosetastesrantothesimpleandsweet.
Nomatter.Lifeisthesumofsimpledelights—atawdrysouvenirfromPuertaEstrella.Asmilereflectedin
darkeyes.Acupofteawithanewfoundfriend.Onecannotshunsuchbagatelles.
Notwhendeathissixteennanosecondsaway.
****
thedragonofpripyat
KARLSCHROEDER
NewCanadianwriterKarlSchroederwasbornandraisedinBrandon,Manitoba.HemovedtoTorontoin
1986,andhasbeenworkingandwrit-ingthereeversince.Hisfirstnovel,writtenwithDavidNickle,was
TheClausEffect.Hissecondnovel,Ventus,thisoneasoloeffort,willbeoutsoon,andhe’scurrentlyat
workonanewone.
Herehetakesusonavividandsuspensefulpilgrimagetoaplacewherefewpeopleindeedwoulddareto
venture,totheintenselyradioactive,eerilydesertedwastelandleftbehindaftertheChernobylDisaster,and
takesushuntingthroughtheruinsforthesecretattheheartofthedeadlymaze—asecretthatmaybeeven
deadlierthantheruinsthemselves…
****
T
here’stheturnoff,”saidGennady’sdriver.Hepointedtoafadedwoodenskullandcross-bonesthatleaned
attheentrancetoasideroad.Fromthepatternofthetreesandbushes,Gennadycouldseethatthecorner
hadoncebeena fullhighway interchange,but theturning laneshad overgrownlongago. Onlythe main
blacktopwasstillexposed,andgrasshadmadeinroadstothiseverywhere.
Thetruckstoppedrightattheentrance.“ThisisasfarasIgo,”saidthedriver.Hesteppedoutoftheidling
vehicle and walked around the back to unload. Gennady paused for a moment to stare down the green
tunnelbeforefollowing.
Theyrolledoutsomesteeldrumscontainingsuppliesandequipment,thenbroughtGennady’smotorcycle
andsidecar.
ThedriverpointedtotheGeigercounterthatlayontopoftheheapedsuppliesinthesidecar.“Thinkthat’ll
protectyou?”
“No.”Gennadygrinnedathim.“BeforeIcameIdidalittleriskcalculation.Icomparedtheriskofcancer
from radiation to that of smoking. See? Here the Geiger clicks at about a pack-a-week. Closer in, that’s
goingtobeapack-a-day.Well,I’lljustavoidthepack-a-minutespots,isall.Verysimple.”
Thedriver,whosmoked,didnotlikethisanalogy.“Well,itwasniceknowingyou.Needanythingelse?”
“Uh…helpmerollthesebehindthebushesthere.”Theymovedthedrumsoutofsight.“Allset.”
Thedrivernoddedonce,andGennadystarteddowntheabandonedroadtoPripyat.
Thetensioninhisshouldersbegantoeaseashedrove.Thedriverhadbeenfriendlyenough,butGennady’s
shynesshadmadethetriphereanuncomfortableone.Hecouldpretendtobeateasewithstrangers;few
peopleknewhewasshy.Itstillcosthimtodoit.
Thetrees were tallandgreen, the undergrowthlush. Itsmelledwonderful here, betterthanthe industrial
areaaroundGennady’sapartment.Pureandclean,nofactorysmell.
Alie,ofcourse.Beforehe’dgoneahundredmeters,Gennadyslowed,thenstopped.Italllookedsereneand
burstingwithhealth—aseductiveanddangerousinnocence.Hebroughtoutafilteredfacemaskhehadlast
worninheavytrafficinSt.Petersburg.Forgoodmeasurehewrappedhisbootsinplastic,snappingrubber
bandsoverhispantcuffstoholditon.Thenhecontinued.
Theviewaheadwasnotofastraightblackribbonwithskyabove,butabroadgreentunnel,criss-crossedat
all levels with twigs and branches. He’d expected the road would be cracked and buckled from frost
heaving,butitwasn’t.Ontheotherhandunderbrushhadovergrowntheshoulderandinvadedtheconcrete,
wherepatchesofgrasssproutedatoddplaces.Fornogoodreason,hedrovearoundthese.
Overthenexthalfhourheencounteredmoreandmoreclearings.Tallgrasslappedlikewavesaroundthe
doors of rusting metal pole-sheds once used for storing farm equipment. Any houses made of lath and
plasterhad cavedinorbeenburned,leavingonlysinglewallswithwindowslookingfromopenfieldto
openfield.Whenhespottedthegiantlattice-worktowers of the power lineloom-ingabove the treeshe
knewhewasgettingclose.Asifheneededvisualconfir-mation—theregulartickingfromthecounterinhis
sidecarhadslowlybecomeanintermittentrattle,likerain.
Thenwithoutwarningtheroadopenedoutintoavistaofovergrownconcretelots,rustedfencesandnew
forest. Wildflowers and barley rioted in the boulevard of the now-divided highway, and further ahead,
abovepatchystandsoftrees,hollow-eyedSoviet-styleapartmentblocksstaredbackattheirfirstvisitorin
…years,possibly.
HeshutoffthebikeandbroughtouthisPripyatroadmap.Itwasthirtyyearsoutofdate,butsinceitwas
printedayearbeforethedisaster,theroadswouldnothavechanged—otherthantheoccasionaloaktreeor
fallenbuildingblockinghispath.Forafewminuteshepuzzledoverwherehewas,andwhenhewascertain
hepulledouthisphone.
“Lisa,it’sme.I’mhere.”
“Youokay?”Shehadansweredpromptly.Musthavebeenwaiting.Hisshouldersrelaxedabit.
“I’m fine. Place looks like a park. Or something. Very difficult to describe.” There were actual trees
growingontheroofsofsomeoftheapartmentblocks.“Alotofthebuildingsarestillstanding.I’mjuston
theoutskirts.”
“Whatabouttheradioactivity?”
HecheckedtheGeigercounter.“It’snottoohotyet.I’mthinkingoflivinginameatlocker.Somewhere
withgoodwallsthatgotnoaircirculationafterTheRelease.”
“You’renotnearthereactor,areyou?”
“No.It’sbytheriver,I’mcomingfromthenorthwest.Thetreeshidealot.”
“Anysignofanybodyelse?”
“Notyet.I’mgoingtodrivedowntown.I’llcallyouwhenIhavethesatellitelinkrunning.”
“Well,atleastoneofusishavinganexcitingday.”
“Iwouldn’texactlycallitexciting.Frightening,maybe.”
“Well.” She said ‘well’ in that tone when she was happy to be proved right about something. He could
practicallyseeher.“I’mgladyou’reworried,”shesaidatlast.“Whenyoutoldmeaboutthispartofthejob
youpretendedlikeitwasnobigdeal.”
“Ididnot.”Well,maybehehadalittle.Gennadyscratchedhischinuncom-fortably.
“Callmesoon,”shesaid.“Andhey—becareful.”
“Ismynature.”
****
Downtownwastoohot.PripyatwasaSovietmoderntownanyway,andhadnorealcentreasidefromsome
monolithicmunicipal buildingsandfarmers’markets.The populace hadbeenprofessional and mobile;it
was built with wide thorough-fares connecting large, partially self-contained apartment complexes.
Gennadyreadtheculturalstill-birthoftheplaceintheutteranonymityofthebuildings.
Every-thingwas faded,most signs gone,theart overwrittenby vines andrust.So he couldonly identify
apartmentbuildingsbytheirmanysmallbalconies,municipalofficesbytheirlackofsame.Thatwasthe
beginningandendofPripyat’scharacter.
Gennadypausedoftentolookandlisten,alertforanysignsofhumanhabita-tion.Therewerenotiretracks,
nocolumnsofsmoke.Nobusespassed,noradiosblaredfromthehighrises.
He found himself on the outskirts again as evening reddened the light. Twelve-storey apartment blocks
formedahexagonhere,theremainsofaparketteinitscenter.TheGeigercounterclickedlessinsistentlyin
thisneighborhood.Heparkedthemotorcycleinthefrontfoyeroftheeasternmosttower.Thisbuildingstill
had a lot of unbroken windows. If he was right, some of the interior rooms would have low isotope
concentrations.Hecouldrestthere,aslongashelefthisshoesoutside,andateanddrankonlythesupplies
hehadbroughtwithhim.
Theechoesofhisbootcrashingagainstanapartmentdoorseemedtoechoendlessly,butnoonecameto
investigate.Gennadygotthedooropenonthethirdtry,andwalkedintothesadevidenceofanabandoned
life.ThreedaysafterReactorFourcaughtfire,thetenantshadevacuatedwitheverythingtheycouldcarry
butthey’dhadtoleaveablackuprightpianothatoncetheymighthaveplayedforguestswhosippedwine
here, or on the balcony. Maybe they had stood watching the fire that first night, nervously drinking and
speculatingonwhetheritmightmeanmoreworkforrenovatorsandfireinspectors.
Manyfadedandcurledphotoswerepinnedtothebeigekitchencupboards;hetriednottolookatthem.
Thebedroomstillheldacotandchestofdrawerswithiconsoverit.Thewallpaperherehaduncurledin
hugerolls,leavingamottledyellow-whitesurfacebehind.
Theairwasincrediblymustyintheflat—agoodsign.TheGeigercounter’srattledroppedoffimmediately,
andstabilizedatanear-normallevel.Noneofthewindowsweresomuchascracked,thoughthebalcony
doorhadwarpeditselftotheframe.Gennadyhadtoremoveitshinges,pulltheknoboffandpryitopento
getoutside.Eventhenheventuredonlyfarenoughtopositionhissatellitedish,thenretreatedindoorsagain
andsealedthesplitframewithducttapehe’dbroughtforthissortofpurpose.
Thebalconyhadswayedunderhimashesteppedontoit.
Thesarcophaguswasvisiblefromhereonthesixthfloor.Twentyyearsagothisroommusthave looked
much the same, but the Chernobyl reactor had still sported the caged red-and-white smokestack that
appearedinallearlyphotosoftheplace.Thestackhadfalleninthesecondaccident,whenReactorTwo
wentbad.ThepressreferredtothefirstincidentasTheDisaster;thesecondtheycalledTheRelease.
The new sarcophagus was designed to last ten thousand years. Its low sloping sides glowed redly in the
sunset.
Gennadywhistledtunelesslyashesetuptheportablegeneratorandattachedhiscomputer,EM
detectiongearandthechargerforhisWalkman.Helaidoutabedrollwhilethesystembootedandthedish
outsidetracked.Ashewasunrollingcannedgoodsfromtheirplasticsheaths,thesystembeepedonceand
said,“Fullnetconnectionestablished.HiGennady.”
“Hi.CallMr.MerrickattheChernobylTrust,wouldyou?”
“Trying…”
Beep.“Gennady.”Merrick’svoicesoundedtinnycomingfromthecomputer’sspeaker.“You’relate.
Anyproblems?”
“No.Justtookawhiletofindasecureplace.Theradiation,youknow.”
“Safe?”
“Yes.”
“Whataboutthetown?Signsoflife?”
“No.”
“Thesarcophagus?”
“Icanseeitfromhere,actually.”Heenabledthecomputer’scameraandpointeditoutthewindow.
“Well,okay,it’stoodarkouttherenow.Butthere’snothingobvious,anyway.Nobombssittingoutinthe
open,youknow?”
“We’dhavespottedthemonthereconphotos.”
“Maybethereisnothingtoseebecausethereisnothingthere.Istillthinktheycouldbebluffing.”
Merrickgrunted.“Therewasarelease.OnethousandcuriesstraightintothePripyatRiver.Wemonitored
theplume.Itcamefromthesarcophagus.Theysaid theywoulddoit,and theydid.Andunlesswe keep
payingthem,they’lldomore.”
“We’llfindthem.I’mherenow.”
‘Youstayedoutofsight,Itrust.”
“Ofcourse.Thoughyouknow,anythingthatmovesherestandsoutlikeawhoreinchurch.I’mjustgoing
tositonthebalconyandwatchthestreets,Ithink.Maybemovearoundatnight.”
“Justcallineveryfourhoursduringtheday.Otherwisewe’llassumetheworst.”
Gennadysighedheavily.“It’sabigtown.Youshouldhaveawholeteamonthis.”
“Nota chance. The more peopleweinvolve,the more chance it’llgetoutthat somebody’sextortingthe
ChernobylTrust.Wejustbarelyholdontoourfundingasitis,Gennady.”
“Allright,allright.IknowIcomecheap.Youdon’thavetorubitin.”
“We’repayingyouahellofalotforthis.Don’tcomplain.”
“Easyforyoutosay.You’renothere.Goodnight,Merrick.”
Hestretched out forawhile,feeling a bit putout.Afterall, it washisneckon the line. Merrickwasan
asshole,andLisahadtoldhimnottocome.Well,hewasherenow.Inhisowndefence,hewoulddoagood
job.
Itgotdarkquickly,andhedidn’tdareshowmuchlight,soreadingwasout.Thesilencegrewoppressive,so
hefinallygruntedandsatuptomakeanothercall.
ThistimehejackedintotheNet.Hepreferredfull-senseinterfaces,thevibrantcoloursandsoundsofNet
culture.Inmomentshewascaughtupinawhirlwindofflickeringiconsandsoundbites,allthenewsofthe
dayandopinionsfromaroundtheworldpouringdownthesatellitelinktohisterminal.Gennadyreadand
answeredhismail,caughtuponthenews,andcheckedthelocalforecast.Goodweatherforthenextweek,
apparently.Althoughrainwouldhavehelpedkeeptheisotopesoutoftheair,hewashappythathewould
beabletogetsomesunandexplorewithoutinconvenience.
Choresdone,hefoughtupstreamthroughthetorrentofmovietrailers,whispersofstarletgossip,artspam
messages and hygiene ads masquerading as real people on his chat-lines, until he reached a private chat
room.Gennadyconjuredabodyforhimself,somechairsand,forvariety,apoolwithsomesunbathers,and
thencalledLisa.
Sheansweredinwindowmode,assheoftendid.HecouldseeshewasinherLondonapartment,dressedin
asweatshirt.“Hi,”hesaid.“Howwastheday?”
“Itwasokay.”
“Any leads on our mythical terrorists?” Lisa was a freelance Net hacker. She was well-respected, and
frequentlyworkedforInterpol.SheandGennadytalkedalmosteveryday,aresultoftheirinformalworking
relationship.Or,hesometimessuspected,maybehehadthatbackwards.
Shelookeduncomfortable.“Ihaven’tfoundanything.Wherehaveyoubeen?Ithoughtyouweregoingto
callassoonasyouarrived.”
“ItoldyouI’dcall.Icalled.”
“Yeah,butyou’renotexactlyreliablethatway.”
“It’smylife.”ButthiswasLisaveta,not justsomeanonymouschatontheNet.He groundhisteethand
said,“Iamsorry.You’reright,Imakemyselfhardtofind.”
“Ijustliketoknowwhat’sgoingon.”
“AndIappreciateit.Ittookmeawhiletofindasafeplace.”
Herexpressionsoftened.“Iguessitwould.Isitallhotthere?”
“Mostofit.It’sunpredictable.Butbeautiful.”
“Beautiful?You’redaft.”
“Noreally.Verygreen,lush.NotlikeIexpected.”
Sheshookherhead.“Whyonearthdidyoueventakethisjob?ThatoneinMinskwouldhavepaidmore.”
“Idon’tlikeMinsk.”
Shestaredathim.“Chernobyl’sbetter?”
“Listen,forgetit.I’mherenow.Yousayyouhaven’tfoundourterrorists?”
Shedidn’tlooklikeshewantedtochangethesubject,butthensheshruggedandsaid,“Notawhisperon
the Net. Unless they’re technoluddites, I don’t see how they’re operating. Maybe it’s local, or an inside
job.”
Gennady nodded. “Hadn’t ruled that out. I don’t trust this Merrick fellow. Can we check into the real
financialpositionoftheTrust?”
“Sure.I’lldothat.Meanwhile…howlongareyougoingtobethere?”
Heshrugged.“Don’tknow.Notlong.”
“Promisemeyou’llleavebeforeyourdosimetermaxesout,evenifyoudon’tfindanything.Okay?”
“Hmm.”
“Promise!”
Helaughed.“Allright,Lisaveta.Ipromise.”
Later,ashelayonhisbedroll,heplayedthroughargumentswithLisawherehetriedtoexplainthestrange
beautyoftheplace.Hecameupwithmanyphrasesandexamples,butintheendhealwaysimaginedher
shakingherheadinincom-prehension.Ittookhimalongtimetofallasleep.
****
Therewas nosignthat a largegroupofpeople had enteredPripyatat anytimein the recentpast.When
Trust inspectors came they usually arrived by helicopter, and stayed only long enough to replace the
batteriesattheweatherstationsandradiationmonitoringcheckpoints.Thewaywildflowersandmosshad
beguntocolonizethedriftedsoilontheroads, anylargevehicletracksshould havebeenreadilyvisible.
Gennadydidn’tfindany.
Despitethishewasmorecircumspectthenextday.Merrickmightberight,theremightwellbesomeone
here.GennadyhadpicturedPripyatinblackandwhite,asakindofindustrialdump.Theplacewasactually
likeawildgarden—thoughasheexploredonfoot,hewouldoftenroundacornerorstepintoanopenlot
andfindtheGeigercountergoingnuts.The hotspotswere treacherous,becausetherewas noway totell
wherethey’dbe.
AfewyearsafterTheDisaster,folkhadstartedtotricklebackintoPripyat.Thenatureoftheevilwassuch
that people saw their friends and family die no matter how far they ran. Better to go home than sit idle
collectingcoffin-moneyinsomeshantytown.
ThentheReleasehappened,allthosewhohadreturneddied.Afterthat,noonecame.
Hehad to remind himself to check his watch. His first check-in withMerrickwas half an hour late; the
secondtwofullhours.Gennadycompletelylosttrackoftimewhileskirtingthereactorproperty,whichwas
separatedfromthetownbymarshygrassland.Allmannerofjunkfromtwoerashadbeenabandonedhere.
GreenhelicopterswithredstarsonthemrustednexttoremotelypilotedhalftrackswiththeU.N.logoand
thered,whiteandblueflagoftheRussianRepublic.Inonespothefoundtheremainsofawoodenshed.
Thewooddroppedovermattedbrownmoundsthatmustoncehavebeencardboardboxes.Thousandsof
cleanwhitetubes—syringes,theirneedlesrustedaway—pokedoutofthemounds.Theareawashot,and
hedidn’tlinger.
Everywherehewenthesawpotentialsouvenirs,allundisturbed.Somewerehot,othersclean.Theentire
evidence of late-Soviet life was just lying about here. Gennady found it hard to believe a sizable group
couldspendanytimeinthis open-airmuseum,and notpryintothingsat leastalittle.Butitwasallun-
touched.
Hewasabitalarmedatthenumbersonhisdosimeterasheturnedforhome.Radiationsureaccumulated
quicklyaroundhere.HeimaginedlittleparticlessmashinghisDNA.Here,there,everywhereinhisbody.
Itmightbeallright;hewouldprobablybeperfectlyhealthylater.Itmightnotbeallright.
Asoundstartledhimoutofhisworry.Themeowcameagain,andthenascrawnylittlewhitecatstepped
gingerlyontotheroad.
“Well,hello.”Heknelttopetit.TheGeigercounterwentwild.Thecatbuttedagainsthishand,purringto
rattleitsribsloose.Itdidn’toccurtohimthatitwasactingdomesticateduntilavoicebehindhimsaid,
“That’sVaruschka.”
Gennady looked up to see an old man emerge from behind a tall hedgerow. He appeared to be in his
seventies,withanarrowhatchet-likefaceburneddeepbrown,andafewstragglesofwhitehair.Hewore
soil-blackenedoveralls,andthehandheheldoutwasblackfromdigging.Gennadyshookitanyway.
“Whothehellareyou?”askedtheoldmanabruptly.
Wasthistheextortionist?Well,itwastoolatetohidefromhimnow.“GennadyMalianov.”
“I’mBogoliubov.I’mthecustodianofPripyat.”Bogoliubovsizedhimup.“Justpassingthrough,eh?”
“Howdoyouknowthat?”
“TheGeigercounter,theplasticonyourshoes,themask…Ain’tthatabituncomfortable?”
“Very,actually.”Gennadyscratchedaroundit.
“Wellwhatthehellareyouwearingitfor?”Theoldmangrabbedawalkingstickfromsomewherebehind
thehedge.“Youjustshookhandswithme.Thedirt’llbehotterthananythingyouinhale.”
“PerhapsIwasnotexpectingtoshakehandswithanyonetoday.”
Bogoliubovlaugheddryly.“Radiation’sfunnystuff.YouknowIhadcancerwhenIcamehere?Goddamn
falloutcuredme.Sevenyearsnow.Icanstillpissastraightline.”
He and Varuschka started walking, and Gennady fell in beside them. “Did you live here, before The
Disaster?”Bogoliubovshookhishead.“Doesanybodyelselivehere?”
“No.Wegetvisitors,Varuschkaandme.ButifIthoughtyouwereheretostayIwouldn’tbetalkingtoyou.
I’dhavegonehomefortherifle.”
“Why’sthat?”
“Don’tlikeneighbours.”Seeinghisexpression,Bogoliubovlaughed.“Don’tworry,Ilikevisitors.Justnot
neighbours.Haven’tshotanyoneinyears.”
Bogoliubovlookedlikeafarmer,notanextortionist.“Hadanyothervisitorslately?”Gennadyaskedhim.
Hewassureitwasanobviouslyleadingquestion,buthe’dneverbeengoodattalkingtopeople.Heleftthat
uptootherinvestigators.
“No, nobody. Unless you count the dragon.” Bogoliubov gestured vaguely in the direction of the
sarcophagus.“AndIdon’t.”
“Thewhat?”
“Icallitthedragon.Soundscrazy.Idon’tknowwhatthehellitis.Livesinthesarcophagus.Onlycomes
outatnight.”
“Isee.”
“Don’tyoutakethattonewithme.”BogoliubovshookhiscaneatGennady.“There’smorethingsinheaven
andearth,youknow.Iwasgoingtoinviteyoutotea.”
“I’msorry.Iamnewhere.”
“Apology accepted.” Bogoliubov laughed. “Hell, you’d have to do worse than laugh at me to make me
uninviteyou.Igetsofewguests.”
“Iwasn’t—”
“So,whyareyouhere?Notsightseeing,Iassume.”
Theyhadarrivedatalogdachaontheedgeofthegrassland.Bogoliubovkeptsomegoatsandchickens,and
even had an apple tree in the back. Gennady’s Geiger counter clicked at levels that would be dangerous
afterweeks,fatalinayearortwo.Hehadbeenheresevenyears?
“I work for the University of Minsk,” said Gennady. “In the medical school. I’m just doing an informal
surveyoftheplace,checkforfirehazardsnearthesarcophagus,thatsortofthing.”
“Soyoudon’tworkfortheTrust.”Bogoliubovspat.“Goodthing.Bunchofmeddlingbureaucrats.Think
theycanhaveajobforlifebecausethegoddamnreactorwillalwaysbethere.Itwaspeoplelikethemmade
TheDisastertobeginwith.”
Theinside ofBogoliubov’sdachawas cozy andneatlykept. Theoldman began rammingtwigs intothe
fireboxofan ironstove. Gennadysatadmiringtheview,whichincludedneitherthe sarcophagusnorthe
forlorntowersoftheabandonedcity.
“Whydoyoustayhere?”heaskedfinally.
Bogoliubovpausedforaninstant.Heshookhisheadandbroughtoutsomewaterproofmatches.
“BecauseIcanbealonehere.Nothingcomplicatedaboutit,really.”
Gennadynodded.
“Itisn’tcomplicatedtoloveaplace,either.”Bogoliubovsetonematchinthestove.Insecondstheinterior
wasaminiatureinferno.Heputakettleontoboil.
“Peopledie,youknow.Butplacesdon’t.Evenwitheverythingtheydidtothisplace,ithasn’tdied.Imean
lookatit.Beautiful.Youlikecities,Malianov?”
Gennadyshookhishead.
Theoldmannodded.“Ofcoursenot.Ifyouwereacityperson,you’drunscream-ingfromhere.It’dprey
on you. You’d start having nightmares. Or kill yourself. City people can’t handle Pripyat. But you’re a
countryperson,aren’tyou?”
“IguessIam.”Itwouldbeimpossibletoexplaintotheoldmanthathewasneitheracitynoracountry
person.Thoughhelivedinalargeandbustlingcity,Gennadyspentmostofhisfreetimeinthepristine,
controllableenvironmentsoftheNet.
Bogoliubov made some herbal tea. Gennady tested it with the Geiger before he sipped it, much to
Bogoliubov’s amusement. Gennady filled him in on Kiev politics and the usual machinations of the
internationalcommunity.Afteranhourorsoofthis,though,Gennadybegantofeeldecidedlywoozy.
Hadhecaughttoobigadosetoday?Theideamadehimpanicky.
“Havetogo,”hesaidfinally.Hewantedtostandup,butheseemedtobelosingtouchwithhisbody.
Andeverythingwashappeninginslowmotion.
“Maybeyoubetterwaitforittowearoff,”saidBogoliubov.
Minutesorhourslater,Gennadyheardhimselfsay,“Waitforwhattowearoff?”
“Can’tgetrealteahere,”saidtheoldman.“Butmarijuanagrowslikeaweed.Makesagoodbrew,don’t
youthink?”
Somuchforcontrollinghissituation.Gennady’sanxietycrested,brokeinamomentoffury,andthenhe
waslaughingoutloud.Bogoliubovjoinedin.
Thewalkbacktohisbuildingseemedtotakedays.Gennadycouldn’tbringhimselftocheckthecomputer
formessages,andfellasleepbeforethesunset.
****
Lisashookherheadasshesatdownatherterminal.Whyshouldshebesoupsetthathehadn’tcalled?
Andyetshewas—heowedheralittleconsideration.Andwhatifhe’dbeenhurt?Shewouldhaveheard
about it by now, since Gennady had introduced her to Merrick as a subcontractor. Merrick would have
phoned.Sohewasignoringher.Orsomething.
Butsheshouldn’tbesoupset.Afterall,theyspokeonthephone,ormetintheNet—thatwasthebeginning
andendoftheirrelationship.True,theyworkedtogetherwell,bothbeinginvestigators,albeitindifferent
areas.ShespoketoGen-nadypracticallyeveryday.Boyfriendscameandwent,butGennadywasalways
thereforher.
Butheneverletsmebethereforhim,shethoughtasshejackedintotheNetandcalledhim.
Thoughshedidn’tintendto,whenhefinallyansweredthefirstthingshesaidwas,“Youpromisedyou’d
call.”
“Youtoo?Merrickjustchewedmeoutforyesterday.”Heseemedlistless.
“CreditmewithbettermotivesthanMerrick,”shesaid.Shewantedtopursueit,butknowinghowtestyhe
couldbe,justsaid,“Whathappened?”
“It’snotlikeI’mhavingapicnicouthere,youknow.It’sjustnotsoeasytostayintouchasIthought.”
Helookedlikehehadn’tsleptwell,ormaybehadslepttoowell.
“Listen,I’msorry,”hesaidsuddenly,andhesoundedsincere.“I’mtouchedthatyoucaresomuchabout
me.”
“OfcourseIdo,Gennady.We’vebeenthroughalottogether.”Itwasrareforhimtoadmithewaswrong;
somewhatmollified,shesaid,“Ijustneedtoknowwhat’sgoingon.”
Hesighed.“IthinkIhavesomethingforyou.”Sheperkedup.Lisaloveditwhentheyworkedtogetherasa
team.Hewastheslow,ploddinginvestigator,usedtosifting,throughreamsofphotographs,olddeedsand
thelike.Shewasthetalker,theonewhoferretedoutpeople’ssecretsbytalkingwiththem.
Whenthey’dmet,Gennadyhadbeenashyinsuranceinvestigatorunwillingtotakeanyjobwherehehadto
interviewpeople,andshehadbeenanosyhackerwhogotherhandsdirtywithfieldwork.Theymadea
perfectmatch,sheoftenthought,becausetheyweresofundamentallydifferent.
“There’sanoldmanwholiveshere,”saidGennady.“Name’sBogoliubov.Hasadachanearthereactor.”
“That’sinsane,”shesaid.
Gennady merely shrugged. “That’s where I was yesterday—talking to him. He’ says nobody’s come
throughPripyatinages.Exceptforoneguy.”
“Oh?”Sheleanedforwardeagerly.
“Wehadalongtalk,Bogoliubovandme.”Gennadyhalf-smiledatsomeprivatejoke.“Hesayshemeta
guynamedYevgenyDruschenko.Part-timeemployee,oftheTrust,orsohesaid.”AshespokeLisawas
typingmadlyatherterminal.“Hewasaregularbackwhentheystillhadfundingtodogroundwaterstudies
here.Thethingis,he’sdrivenintotowntwiceinthepastyear.Didn’ttellBogoliubovwherehewasgoing,
buttheoldmansaysbothtimesheheadedforthesarcoph-aguswithatruckloadofstuff.
Crates.Bogoliubovdoesn’tknowwheretheyended.
“Bingo!”Lisamadeatriumphantfist.“He’slisted,allright.Buthe’snotonthepayrollanymore.”
“There’smore.”Shelookedathim,eyebrowsraised.Gennadygrinned.“You’regoingtolovethispart.
BogoliubovsaysitwasrightafterDruschenko’sfirstvisitthatthedragonappeared.”
“Whoa.Dragon?”
“Hedoesn’tknowwhatelsetocallit.Idon’tthinkhebelievesit’ssupernatural.Buthesayssomethingis
livinginsidethesarcophagus.Beenthereformonthsnow.”
“That’sridiculous.”
“Iknow.It’sfataljusttowalkpastthething.”
Lisascowledforaminute,thendismissedtheissuewithawaveofherhand.“Whatever.I’mgoingtotrace
thisDruschenko.Areyouthroughtherenow?”
“Notquite.Bogoliubovmightbelying.Ihavetochecktherestofthetown,seeifthere’sanysignsoflife.
Shouldtakeacoupleofdays.”
“Hmmf.”Shewassureheknewwhatshefeltaboutthat.“Okay.Butkeepintouch.Imeanitthistime.”
Heplacedahandonhisheartsolemnly.“Ipromise.”
Itwashard.ForthenextseveralmorningsGennadyawoketofindBogoliubovwaitingforhimdownstairs.
Theoldmanhaddesignatedhimselftourguide,andproceededtodragGennadythroughbramble,fenand
buckledasphalt,ensuringhevisitedallthehighpointsofthecity.
Therewas aspotwhere two adjacentapartmentblocks hadcollapsedtogether,forminga ten-storeyarch
under which Bogoliubov walked whistling. In another neighborhood, the old man had restored several
exquisitehouses,andthey pausedtorefresh themselvesthere byaspring thatwas miraculouslycleanof
radiation.
What Bogoliubov saw here was nature cleansing a wound. Gennady could never completely forget the
tragedyofthisplace;thesignsofhastyabandonmentwereeverywhere,andhisimaginationfilledinvistas
ofbusesandqueuesofpeo-pleclutchingwhattheycouldcarry,jokingnervouslyaboutwhattheyweretold
would be a temporary evacuation. Thinking about it too long made him angry, and he didn’t want to be
angryinaplacethathadbecomesobeautiful.Bogoliu-bovhadfoundhisownsolutiontothatbyforgetting
thatthiswaseveraplaceofMan.
Gennadywassuspiciousthattheoldmanmightbetryingtodistracthim,sohemadeapointofgoingout
onhisowntoexploreaswell.Itwastiring,buthehadtoverifyBogoliubov’sstorybeforehecouldfeelhe
haddonehisjob.CallingMerrickorLisawasbecomingdifficultbecausehewasoutsomuch,andsotired
from walking—but as well, he found himself increasingly moving in a meditative state. He had to give
himselfashake,practicallylearntospeakagain,beforehecouldmakeacall.
TocombatthisfeelinghespenthiseveningsintheNet,listeningtothethrumofhumanity’sgreatchorus.
Eventhere,however,hefeltmoreanobserver.Maybethatwasokay;hehadalwaysbeenlikethis,itwas
justcitiesandobligationsthatdrovehimoutofhisnaturalhabits.
Thenonenightheawoketothesoundofengines.
Itwaspitch-darkandforasecondhedidn’tknowwherehewas.Gennadysatupandfocussedonthelunar
rectangleofthelivingroomwindow.Foramomentheheardnothing,thenthegrumblestartedupagain.He
thoughthesawaflickeroflightoutside.
Hestaggeredtothebalconywherehehadsetuphisgoodtelescope.Thesoundwaslouderhere.Likean
idlingtrain,morefeltthanheard.Itseemedtoslidearoundintheair,thewaytrainsoundsdidwhenthey
werecomingfromkilo-metresdistant.
Lightbrokearoundadistantstreetcorner.Gennadyswungthetelescopearoundandnearlyhaditfocussed
whensomethinglargeandblacklurchedthroughhisvisualfield,andwasgoneagain.Whenhelookedup
fromthelenshesawnosignofit.
Hetookthestairstwoatatime,flashlightbeamdodgingwildlyaheadofhim.Whenhegottothelobbyhe
switcheditoffandsteppedcautiouslytothefrontdoors.Hisheartwaspounding.
Gennadywatchedforawhile,thenventuredoutintothestreet.Itwasn’thardtohidehere;anysecondhe
coulddropinthetallgrassorstepbehindastandofyoungtrees.Sohemadehiswayinthedirectionofthe
sound.
Ittooktenminutesto reach the spot where he’d seen the light. He droppedtoone knee at the side of a
fillingstation,andpokedhisheadaroundthecorner.Thestreetwasempty.
Thewholeintersectionhadbeenovertakenwithweedsandyoungbirchtrees.Hepuzzledoverthesightfor
aminute, then stood and walkedoutintotheir midst. There wasabsolutelynowhere here that you could
driveatruckwithoutknockingoverlotsofplants.Butnothingwasdisturbed.
It was silent here now. Gennady had never ventured this far in the dark; the great black slabs of the
buildingswerequiteunnerving.Shieldingthelightwithonehand,heusedtheflashlighttotrytofindsome
tracks.
Therewerenone.
OnimpulseheunslungtheGeigercounterandswitchediton.Itimmediatelybeganchattering.Forafew
minutes he criss-crossed the intersection, finding a definite line of higher radioactivity bisecting it. He
crouchedonthatline,andmovedalongitlikehewasweedingagarden,holdingthecounterclosetothe
ground.
Asthechatteringpeakedhespotteda,blackdivotintheground.Heshonetheflashlightonit.Itwasadeep
W-shaped mark,ofthe sort made bythefeetof back-hoes and cranes.A fewmetersbeyond it he found
another.Bothwereincrediblyhot.
A deep engine pulse sounded through the earth. It repeated, then rose to a bone-shaking thunder as two
brilliantlightspinionedGennadyfromthefarendofthestreet.
He clicked offthe flashlight but the thing was already coming at him. The ground shook as it began to
gallop.
There was no time to even see what it was. Gennady fled through whipping underbrush and under low
branches,tryingtoevadetheuncannilyaccuratelampsthatsoughthimout.Heheardsteelshriekandthe
thudoffallingtreesasitflungasidealltheobstacleshetriedtoputbetweenthem.
Aheadanarrowalleymadeablackrectanglebetweentwowarehouses.Heranintoit.Itwaschokedwith
debrisandweeds.“Damn.”Lightwelledupbehindhim.
Bothwarehouseshaddoorsandwindowsopeningoffthealley.Onedoorwasajar.Onasuddeninspiration
heflickedontheflashlightandthrewithardthroughawindowoftheotherbuilding,thendovefortheopen
door.
Heheardthesoundofconcretescrapingasthethingshouldereditswaybe-tweenthebuildings.Thelights
were intense, and the noise of its engines was awful. Then the lights went out, as it paused. He had the
uncannyimpressionthatitwaslookingforhim.
Gennadystoodinatotallyemptyconcrete-flooredbuilding.Muchoftheroofhadgone,andinthedimlight
hecouldseeaclearpathtothefrontdoor.
Cinderblocksshudderedandcrashedoutside.Itwasknockingaholeintheotherbuilding.Gennadyranfor
thedoorandmadeitthrough.Thewindowsoftheotherwarehousewerelitup.
Heranupthestreettohisbuilding,andwhenhegotinsidehepulledhisbikeintoabackroomandracedup
thestairs.Hecouldhearthethingroaringaroundtheneighborhoodforwhatseemedlikehours,andthen
thenoiseslowlyfadedintothedistance,andhefellbackonhisbedroll,exhausted.
AtdawnhepackedupandbymidmorninghehadleftPripyatandthecontam-inatedzonebehindhim.
****
Merrick poured pepper vodka into a tall glass and handed it to Gennady. “Dosvedanya. We picked up
Druschenkothismorning.”
Gennady wondered as he sipped how the vodka would react with the iodine pill he’d just taken. Traffic
noisesand thesmell ofdieselwaftedthroughthe openwindowof Merrick’s Kievoffice.Merricktipped
backhisowndrink,smiledbrightlyandwenttositbehindthehugeoakdeskthatdominatedtheroom.
“Ihavetothankyou,Gennady.Weliterallycouldn’tfindanyoneelsewhowaswillingtogointhereonthe
ground.”Heshookhishead.“Peoplepanicatthethoughtofradiation.”
“Don’tmuchlikeitmyself.”Gennadytookanothersip.“Butyoucandetectandavoidit.Notsosimpleto
dowiththestuffthatcomesoutofthesmokestacksthesedays.Orgetsbythefiltersatthewaterplant.”
Merricknodded.“Soyouwereabletotakealltherightprecautions.”
GennadythoughtofBogoliubov’swarmteasettlinginhisstomach…andhehaddoneotherstupidthings
theretoo.Butthedoctorsinsistedhisoveralldosagewas“acceptable.”Hisoddsforgettingcancerhadgone
upasmuchasifhe’dbeenchain-smokingforthepastsixmonths.Acceptable?Howcouldoneknow?
“Sothat’sthat,”saidMerrick.“YoufoundabsolutelynoevidencethatanyonebutDruschenkohadvisited
the sarcophagus, right? Once we prove that it was him driving the RPV, we’ll be able to close this file
entirely.Ithinkyoudeserveabonus,Gennady,andI’vealmostgottheboardtoagree.”
“Well,thanks.”RPV—theyhaddecidedthedragonmustbeoneoftheRe-motelyPilotedVehiclesthatthe
Trusthadusedtobuildthenewsarcophagus.Druschenkohadtakensomeofthestockpiledpartsandpower
suppliesfromaTrustwarehouse,andapparentlygottenoneoftheoldliftersgoing.Itwastheonlywayhe
couldopenthesarcophagusandsurvive.
Merrickwashappy.LisawasecstaticthathewasoutofPripyat.ItallseemedtooeasytoGennady;maybe
it was because they hadn’t seen the thing. This morning he’d walked down to the ironworks to watch
someoneusingaChernobyl-modelRPVnearthekilns.Ithadlookedlikeatruckwithlegs,andmovedlike
asloth.Nothinglikethethingthathadchasedhimacrossthecity.
Anyway,hehadhismoney.HechattedwithMerrickforawhile,thenGennadylefttofindabankmachine,
andprovetohimselfhe’dbeenpaid.Firstorderofbusiness,anewsuit.Thenhewasgoingtoshopforone
ofthosenewinterfacesforhissystem.Fullvirtualreality,likehe’dbeendreamingaboutformonths.
The noise and turbulence of Kiev’s streets hit him like a wall. People every-where, but no one noticed
anyone else in a city like this. He supposed most people drifted through the streets treating all these
strangers around as no more than ghosts, but he couldn’t do that. As he passed an old woman who was
begging on the corner, he found himself noticing the laugh lines around her eyes that warred with the
deeplyscoredlinesofdisappointmentaroundhermouth;themeticulousstitchworkwhereshehadrepaired
thesleevesofhercheapdressspokeofadignitythatmustmakehersituationseemalltheworseforher.He
couldn’tignoreher,buthecouldn’thelphereither.
Forawhilehestoodatadowntownintersection,staringovertheseaofpeople.Abovethegrimyfacades,a
hazeofcoalsmokeandexhaustbandedtheskyayellowthatmatchedtheshadeonthegrimytatteredflags
hangingfromthestreetlamps.
Everywhere,hesawvictimsoftheRelease.Menand womenwithopensoresorwearingthelessvisible
scars of destitution and disappointment dawdled on the curbs, stared listlessly through shop windows at
goodstheywouldneverbeabletoaffordontheirmeagrepensions.Noonelookedatthem.
Heboughttheinterfaceinsteadofthesuit,andthenextdayhedidn’tgooutatall.
****
He was nursing a crick in his neck, drinking some weak tea and preparing to go back into a huge
internationalconsensual-realitygamehenowhadtheequipmenttoplay,whenLisacalled.
“Look,Lisa,I’vegotnewtoys.”
“WhyamInotsurprised.Haveyoubeenoutatallsinceyougotback?”
“No.I’mhavingfun.”
“HowareyougoingtomeetaniceUkrainiangirlifyounevergoout?”
“MaybeIlikeEnglishgirlsbetter.”
“Ohyeah?ThenflytoEngland.Youjustgotpaid.”
“TheNetissomuchfaster.AndIhavetherightattachmentsnow.”
Shelaughed.“Toys.Isee.Youwantthelatestnewsonthecase?”
He frowned. No, actually, he didn’t think he did. But she lived for this sort of thing. “Sure,” he said to
indulgeher.
“Druschenkosayshewasjustthecourier.Saysheneverdrovethedragonatall.He’sactuallyquitefrantic
—heclaimshewaspaidtobringsuppliesinanddotheinitialhookupofaRPV,butthat’sall.Ofcourse,
he’smadesomemightybigpurchaseslately,andwecan’ttracethemoneyandhewon’ttelluswhereitis.
Soit’sastalemate.”
GennadythoughtaboutMerrick’scheerfulconfidencetheotherday.“DidtheTrustactuallymakethemost
recentpaymenttotheextortionist?”
“No.Theycouldhardlyaffordto,andanywayDruschenko—“
“Couldnothaveactedalone.”
“What?”
“Come on, Lisa. You said yourself you can’t find the money. It went into the Net, right? That’s your
territory,it’snot Druschenko’s.He’satruck driver, not ahacker,for God’ssake. Listen, havetheyput a
Geigercounteronhim?”
“Why…”
“Findouthowhotheis.HehadtohavebeenpilotingtheRPVfromnearby,unlesshehadasatellitelink,
andtheretoo,he’sjustatruckdriver,notJamesBond.Findouthowhotheis.”
“Um.Maybeyouhaveapoint.”
“Andanotherthing.HastheTrustputsomeboatsintherivertocheckforanotherradiationplume?”
“Idon’tknow.”
“Webetterfindout.BecauseI’llbetyouacaseofvodkathere’sgoingtobeanotherRelease.”
“CanIcallyourightback?”
“Certainly.” He hung up, shaking his head. People who lived by Occam’s Razor died young. That, he
supposed,waswhyhegotpaidthebigbucks.
****
HespentmostofthenextweekintheNet,venturingoutforgroceriesandexercise.Hesmiledatapretty
clerkinthegrocerystore,andshesmiledback,butheneverknewwhattosayinsuchsituations,wherehe
couldn’thidebehindanavatar’smaskorsimplydisappearifheembarrassedhimself;sohedidn’ttalkto
her.
IntheplatonicperfectionoftheNet,though,Gennadyhaddozensoffriendsandbusinessconnections.
Betweenbriefsearchesfornewwork,heparticipatedinnumerousevents,bothgamesandartpieces.
Herehecouldbewitty,andhandsome.Andtherewasnorisk.Butwhenhefinallyrolledintobedatnight,
therewasnowarmbodytherewaitingforhim,andatthosetimeshefeltdeeplylonely.
Inthemorningthecomputerbeckoned,andhewouldquicklyforgetthefeel-ing.
Merrick interrupted him in the middle of a tank battle. In this game, Gennady was one of the British
defendingNorthAfricaagainsttheDesertFox.Thesensualqualitiesofhisnewinterfacewereamazing;he
couldfeeltheheat,thegritofthesand,almostsmellit.Thewholeeffectwasruinedwhenthepriorityone
windowopenedinthemiddleoftheairabovehisturret,andMerricksaid,“Gennady,I’vegotanewjobfor
you.”
NorthAfricadissolved.Gennadyrealizedhisbackhurtandhismouthwasdry.“Whatisit?”hesnapped.
“Iwouldn’tbecallingifIdidn’tthinkyouweretheperfectmanforthejob.Weneedsomeonetomakea
verybriefvisittoPripyat.Shouldn’ttakemorethanaday.”
“Where’sthatbonusyoupromisedme?”
“Iwascomingtothat.Theboard’sauthorizedmetopayyouanadditionaltwentypercentbonusforwork
alreadydone.That’sevenifyouturndownthiscontract.”
“Ah.Isee.Sowhatisityouneed?”Hewasinterested,buthedidn’twanttoappeartooeager.Couldlower
thepricethatway.
“Wewanttomakesurethesarcophagusisintact.Weweregoingtodoahel-icopterinspection,butit’sjust
possibleDruschenkodidsomelowlevel…well,toputitbluntly,gotinside.”
“Inside?Whatdoyoumean,inside?”
“There may be some explosives inside the sarcophagus. Now we don’t want anybody going near it,
physically.HaveyoueverpilotedanRPV?”
“Notreally.Donealotofvirtualrealitysims,butthat’snotthesamething.”
“Close enough. Anyway, we only need you to get the thing to the reactor site. We’ve got an explosives
expertoncallwho’lltakeoveronceyougetthereanddeactivatethebombs.Ifthereareany.”
“Sohe’scomingwithme?”
“Notexactly,no.He’llberidinginonasatellitelink.You’retoestablishthatlinkinPripyat,drivetheRPV
tothereactor,andhe’lljackintodotheactualassessment.Thenyoupullout.That’sallthereistoit.”
“Whycan’tsomebodypilotitinfromoutsidethecity?”
“It’sonlyworksonashort-rangelink.You’llhavetogetwithintwomilesofthesarcophagus.”
“Great.Justgreat.Whendoyouwantthistohappen?”
“Immediately.I’mhavingyourRPVflownin;it’llarrivetonight.Canyousetoutinthemorning?”
“Dependsonwhatyou’rewillingtopayme.”
“Doubleyourlastfee.”
“Triple.”
“Done.”
Shit,hethought.Shouldhavegoneformore.“Allright,Merrick,you’vegotyourselfanRPVdriver.
Foraday.”
****
GennadydebatedwhethertocallLisa.Ontheonehand,therewasobviouslymoretothisthanMerrickwas
admitting.Ontheother,shewould tellhimnottogobacktoPripyat.Hewantedtoavoidthat particular
conversation,sohedidn’tcall.
InsteadhetookacabdowntoaTrustwarehouseatsixo’clocktoinspecthisRPV.Thewarehousewasatall
anonymous metal-clad building; his now practised eye told him it might remain standing for twenty or
thirtyyearsifabandoned.Exceptthattheroofwouldprobablycavein…
“YouMalianov?”Themanwasstocky,withtheclassicslab-likeRussianface.Hewipedhishandsonan
oily rag as he walked out to meet Gennady. Gennady shook his hand, smiling as he remembered
Bogoliubov,andtheywentintoinspecttheunit.
“Whatthehellisthat?”Whateveritwas,itwasnotjustaremotelypilotedvehicle.Standinginashaftof
sunlightwasanostrich-likemachineatleastthreemetrestall.Itsproutedcamerasandmikesfromallover,
and sported two uncannily human arms at about shoulder level. Gennady’s guide grinned and gave it a
shove.Itshuffleditsfeetalittle,regainingbalance.
“Military telepresence. Latest model.” The man grabbed one of its hands. “We’re borrowing it from the
Americans.Youlike?”
“Whydoweneedthis?”
“HowthehellshouldIknow?AllIknowisyou’rereconnoiteringthesarcoph-aguswithit.Right?”
Gennadynodded.Hekepthisfaceneutral,butinsidehewasfuming.Merrickwasdefinitelynottellinghim
everything.
Thateveninghewentonasupplyrundowntown.Heboughtallthethingshehadn’tonhisfirsttripout,
includingalotmorefood.Veryintentionally,hedidnotpausetoaskhimselfwhyhewaspackingamonth’s
worthoffoodforatwo-daytrip.
Hewassittinginthemiddleofthelivingroomfloor,packingandrepacking,whenLisaphoned.Hetookit
asavoice-onlycall;ifsheasked,he’dsayhewasn’tdressedorsomething.
“Remember what you said about how Druschenko would have to have had a satellite link to run the
dragon?”
“Yeah.”Hehoppedontothearmofhiscouch.Hewaskeyedupdespitethelatenessofthehour.
“Well, you got me thinking,” she said. “And guess what? There’s a connection. Not with Druschenko,
though.”
“Okay,I’llbite.”
“Canyoujackin?I’llhavetodosomeshowandtellhere.”
“Okay.”Hemadesuretheapartmentcameraswereoff,thenwentintotheNet.Lisawasthereinfullavatar
—visibleheadtofoot,in3-D—grinninglikethepro-verbialcatwiththecanary.
“So I thought, what if Druschenko did have a satellite link to the sarcophagus? And lo and behold,
somebodydoes.”Shecalledupsomewindowsthatshowedcoordinates,meaninglesstoGennady.“Atleast,
there’straffictosomekindoftransceiverthere.IfiguredIhadDruschenkorightthen—butthelink’sstill
live,andtrafficgoeswayupatregularintervals.Duringthenight,yourtime.Sowe’redealingwithanight-
hawk,Ithought.Excepthewouldn’thavetobeanight-hawkifhewascallingfrom,say,NorthAmerica.”
“Wait,wait,you’regettingwayaheadofme.What’sthistrafficconsistof?Youinterceptedit,didn’tyou?”
“Well,notexactly.It’sheavilyencrypted.Plus,onceit’sintheNetitgoesthroughabunchofanonymous
rerouters,getssplitupandcopiessenttonulladdresses,andsoon.Untraceablefromthisend,atleastso
far.”
“Ah,soifhe’sfromNorthAmerica,thatnarrowsitdownabit.Toonlyabouthalfabillionpossibilities.”
“Ah,Gennady,youhavesolittlefaith.It’sprobablyatelepresencelink,right?That’syourdragon.
Nothingbigwasbroughtin,soit’sgottobeanadaptationoftheexistingChernobyldesigns.Sowhoeverit
is, they should be familiar with those designs, and they’d have to know there were still some RPVs in
Pripyat,andtheyshouldhaveaconnectiontoDruschenko.And—here’sthetopper—theyhadalotofstart-
upcapitaltorunthisscam.Hadto,withthesatellitelink,thesouping-upoftheRPV,andthemissiles.”
“Missiles?Whatmissiles?”
“Haven’tyoucheckedthenewslately?OneoftheTrust’shelicopterscrashedyesterday.Itwasdoingalow-
level pass over the sarcophagus, and wham! down it goes. Pilot was killed. An hour after the news was
releasedIstartedseeingallsortsoftrafficonmysecureInterpolgroups,policeinKievandBrusselstalking
aboutground-to-airmissiles.”
“Oh,shit,”hesaid.
“Soanyway,Ijustlookedforsomebodyinvolvedintheoriginalsarcophagusproject,ontheRPVside,who
wasAmericanandrich.Anditpoppedoutatme.”
Gennadywasbarelylistening,buthisattentionreturnedwhenshebroughtupawindowwithagrainyphoto
ofathin-facedelderlyman.Itwashardtotell,butheappearedtobelyingonabed.Hiseyeswerebright
andhard,andtheystareddirectlyoutatGennady.
“Trevor Jaffrey. He got quite rich doing RPVs and telepresence about twenty years ago. The Chernobyl
projectwashisbiggestcontract.Awhileafterthathebecamearecluse,andbeganwastinghismoneyon
someprettybizarreprojects.”
“Dragons?”
“Well, Jaffrey’s a quadraplegic.HegotrichthroughtheNet,andhelivedthrough it too. When I say he
becamearecluse,healreadywas,physically.HedroppedoutofNetsocietytoo,andspentallhistimeand
moneyonphysicalavatars—telepresences.I’vegotaccesstoacoupleofthem,becausehehadtosellthem
whenhecouldn’tpayhisbills.Wanttoseeone?”
“What,now?”
“I’vegotatemporarypass.Thisone’sbeingusedasathemeparkridenow.AtonetimeJaffreymusthave
spentallhisfreetimeinit.Themindboggles.”
Shehadhisentireattentionnow.“Okay.Showme.”
“Here’stheaddress,nameandpassword.Justtakeaquickpeek.I’llwait.”
Heenteredthecommands,andwaitedasaseriesofmessagewindowsindicatedatrulyprodigiousdatapipe
openingbetweenhislittleVRsetupandsomedistantmachine.Thentheworldwentdark,andwhenitcame
backagainhewasun-derwater.
Gennadywasstandingontheoceanfloor.Allaroundweretowersofcoral,andrainbowfishesswambyin
dartingschools.Theoceanwasbrilliantblue,thesunlightaboveshatteredintothousandsofcrystalshards
bythewaves.Heturnedhishead,andfeltthewaterflowthroughhishair.Itwaswarm,feltsilkyagainsthis
skin.Hecouldbreathejustfine,buthealsofeltcompletelysubmerged.
Gennadyraisedahand.Somethinghugeandmetalliftedup,fivesteelfingersonitsend.Hewaggledthem
—theymoved.
Thisisnotasimulation,herealized.Somewhere,inoneoftheEarth’sseas,thismachinewasstanding,and
hewasseeingthroughitseyesandhearingthroughitsears.
Hetookastep.Hecouldwalk,aseasilyasthoughhewereonland.
Gennadykneltandranhisfingersthroughthefinewhitesand.Hecouldac-tuallyfeelit.BlackSea?
MorelikelytheCaribbean,ifthisJaffreywasAmerican.
Itwasachinglybeautiful,andhewantedtostay.ButLisawaswaiting.Heloggedout,andashedidcaught
aglimpseofatrulyhugenumberinAmericandollars,whichflashedpaidinfullthenvanished.
Lisa’savatarwassmiling,handsbehindherbackandbobbingontheballsofherfeet.“Jaffreycan’tpayhis
bills.Andhe’saddictedtohistelepresences.Youshouldseethearcticone.Heevenhadalunaronefora
while.Seethecommonthread?”
“They’reallplacesnobodygoes.Ornobodycango,”hesaid.Hewasstartingtofeeltired.
“Jaffreyhatespeople.Andhe’sbeingdrivenoutofhisbodies,oneaftertheother.Soheturnsindesperation
toanold,reliableone—theChernobylRPV.Designedtosurviveworkingconditionsthere,andthere’sstill
parts,ifhecanpayoffanoldacquaintancefromtheprojecttobringthemin.”
“Sohedoes,andhe’sgotanewhome.”Henodded.“Andawayofmakingmoremoney.ExtorttheTrust.”
“Exactly.Aren’tIsmart?”
“You,Lisaveta,areagenius.”Heblewherimageakiss.“Soallweneedtodoisshuthimdown,andthe
crisisisover.”
“Hmm.Well,no, notexactly.Americanlaw isdifferent,andthe Netconnec-tions aren’tproventogo to
him.Wecan’tactuallymoveonhimuntilwecanproveit’shimdoingit.”
“Well,shutdownthefeedfromthesatellite,then.”
“We were about to do that,” she said with a scowl. “When we got a call from Merrick. Seems the
extortionistcontactedhimjustafterthemissilething.Warnedthathe’dblowthesarcophagusifanybody
cutthelinkortriedtogetneartheplace.”
“Adead-manswitch?”
“Probably.Soit’snotsosimpleasitlooks.”
Heclosedhiseyesandnodded.
“Howaboutyou?”sheasked.“Anythingnew?”
“Oh,no,no.Notreally.Sameoldthing,youknow?”
****
Itwasrainingwhenhereachedhisapartmentbuilding.Gennadyhaddriventhemotorcyclein,leavingall
hisothersuppliesbythecitygates.Hewantedtotrysomething.
Therainwasactuallyagoodthing;itmadeagoodcoverforhimtoworkunder.Heparkedhisbikeinthe
foyer,andhauledaheavypackfromthesidecar,thenuptwelvefloorstotheroof.Pantingandcursing,he
paused to rest under a fiber-glass awning. The roof was overgrown with weeds. The sarcophagus was a
distantgreydomeinapoolofmarshland.
Hehookedupthesatellitefeedandaimedit.Thenheunreeledafibre-opticlinedownthestairstothesixth
floor,andheadedforhisoldplace.
Somebody had trashed it. Bogoliubov, it had to be. The piano had bullet holes in it, and there was shit
smearedonthewall.Thewords“Stayaway”werewritteninthestuff.
“Jesus.”Gennadybackedoutoftheroom.
Scratchinghisstubblenervously,heshoulderedhiswayintothenextapartment.Thisonewasemptyexcept
forsomeoldstackingchairs,andhadawater-damagedceilingandonebrokenwindow.
Radiationwashigherthanhewouldhavefoundacceptableaweekago—butafterhefinishedherehecould
findabetterplace.ThenthinkwhattodoaboutBogoliubov.
Hesecuredthedoorandsetuphisgeneratorandtherestofthecomputerequipment.Heneededarepeater
forthesatellitesignal,andheputthatonthebalcony.Thenhejackedin,andconnectedtohisRPV.
Atfirstallhesawwasdirt.Gennadyraisedhishead,andsawtheroadintotown,blurredbyrain.Hestood
up,andfelthimselfrisetomorethanman-height.Thiswasgreat!Heflexedhisarms,turnedhistorsoback
andforth,thenreachedtopickuphissacksofsupplies.
Itwasabitawkwardusingthesenewarms,buthegot thehang ofit afterspilling somegroceriesanda
satchelofmusicdisksintothemud.Whenitwasallhangingfromhismantis-likelimbs,heroseupagain
andtrottedtowardtown.
TheRPVdrankgastofeeditsfuelcells.BogoliubovhadshownGennadysomefulltanksontheedgeof
town,enoughtokeepthethinggoingformonthsoryears.Thinkingoftheoldman,Gennadydecidedthat
assoonastheyweredonewithJaffrey,hewouldvisitBogoliubovwiththeRPV,andconfiscatehisrifle.
Hejoggedtirelesslythroughtherainuntilhecametohisbuilding.Therehepausedtohidethebike,incase
theoldmandidcomearoundtoday,thenbumpedhiswayintothestairwellandwentup.
Gennady paused in front of the apartment door. He hadn’t counted on the eeriness of this moment. He
listened,hearingonlythefaintpurrofthegeneratorinside.Hesitantly,hereachedtoturntheknobwitha
steelhand,andeasedthedooropen.
Amancrouchedonthefloornearonewall.Hewasstockyandbalding,inhislatethirties.Hewasdressed
inatealshirtandgreenslacks.Hiseyeswereclosed,andsmallwiresranfromhistemplestoasetofblack
boxesnearthebalconydoor.Hewasrockingslowlybackandforth.
Jesus, am I doing that? Gennady instantly cut the link. He blinked and looked up, to find the doorway
blocked by a monstrous steel and crystal creature. Its rainbow-beaded lenses were aimed at him. Plastic
bagsswayedfromitsclenchedfists.Gennady’sheartstartedhammering,asthoughthethinghadsomehow
snuckuponhim.
Swearing, he hastily unloaded the supplies from its arms. After putting the stuff away he found himself
reluctantto re-entertheliving room. Underthislow roof theRPVlookedlike a metaldinosaurready to
pounce.Itmustweightwohundredkilosatleast.He’dhavetorememberthat,andavoidmarshygroundor
rottenfloorswhenheuseditoutside.
Helinkedtoitagainjustlongenoughtoparkitdownthehall.Thenheshutthedoorandjammedachair
undertheknob.
****
ThemorningbirdswokeGennady.Foralongtimehejustlaythere,drinkinginthepeace.Inhishalf-awake
state, he imagined an invisible shield around this small apartment, sheltering him from any sort of pain,
aggravationordistraction.Ofallplacesintheworld,hehadfinallyfoundtheonewherehecouldbefully,
completely carefree. The hot spots of radiation could be mapped and avoided; he would deal with
Bogoliubovintime;Jaffreywouldnotbeaprob-lemforlong.
Noonewouldeverevicthimfromthisplace.Noonewouldcomearoundaskingafterhimsolicitously.
Nonoisyneighbourswouldmovein.Andyet,aslongashehadfueltorunthegenerator,hecouldstepinto
theoutsideworldasfreelyasever,livebyaliasinanyorallofthethousandsofworldsoftheNet.
Beexactlywhohewantedtobe…
Feelathomeatlast.
Butfinallyhehadtorise,makehimselfameagrebreakfastanddealwiththerealityofthesituation.His
tenancyherewasfragile.Everythingwouldhavetogoperfectlyforhimtobeabletotakeadvantageofthe
opportunityhehadbeengiven.
FirsthephonedMerrick.“Younevertoldmeaboutthehelicopter.”
“Really?I’msureIdid.”Itwasonlyavoiceline;GennadywassureMerrickwouldn’thavebeensoglibif
they’dbeenabletomakeeyecontact.
GennadywouldfeelabsolutelynoguiltoverstealingtheRPVfromhim.
“Forgetit,exceptletmesayyouareabastardandI’lljointheNazisbeforeIworkforyouafterthis,”he
said.“Nowtellmewhatwe’redoing.AndnomoresurprisesorIwalk.”
Merricklettheinsultpass.Theysettheitineraryandtimeforthereconnoiteringofthesarcophagus.
Gennady was to use the RPV’s full set of sensors to ensure there were no tripwires or mines on the
approach. Druschenko had denied knowl-edge of anything other than Jaffrey’s RPV. Certainly hearing
aboutthemissilesbeforehandwouldhavebeennice.
“You’retodotheinitialwalkinginspectionthisafternoonat2:00.Isthatenoughtimeforyoutofamiliarize
yourselfwiththeRPV?”
Gennadyglancedattheapartmentdoor.“Noproblem.”
With everything set, Merrick rang off and Gennady, stretching, stepped onto the balcony to watch the
morningsunglowoffthesarcophagus.Itwasanovaldomemadeofinterlockingconcretetriangles.Rust
stainsspreaddownthedia-mondshereandtherefromtheheavystanchionsthathelditalltogether.
Aroundthecircumferenceofthething,heknew,athickwallwassunkallthewaytobedrock,preventing
seepage of the horrors within. It was supposed to last ten thousand years; like most people, Gennady
assumeditwouldcrumbleinacen-tury.Still,onehadtoberesponsibletoone’sowntime.
Humming,hegropedforhiscoffeecup.Justasitreachedhislipsthecomputersaid,“Lisavetaiscalling
you.”
Heburnedhistongue.
“Damndamndamn.Isitvoiceorfull-feed?Full-feed.Shit.”
Hejackedin.Hehopedshewouldmatchhislaconictoneashesaid,“Hello,Lisa.”
“Youasshole.”
Hefounditdifficulttomeethergaze.“Arewegoingtogetintosomethingpointlesshere?”
“No.I’mgoingtotalkandyou’regoingtolisten.”
“Isee.”
“Whythehelldidn’tyoutellmeyouweregoingback?”
“You’dhavetoldmenottogo.Ididn’twantanargument.”
“Soyoudon’trespectmeenoughtoarguewithme?”
“What?” The idea made no sense to him. He just hadn’t seen what good it would do to fight. And, just
maybe,hehadbeenafraidshemighttalkhimoutofit.Buthewouldneveradmitthattoher.
“Gennady.I’mnottryingtorunyourlife.Ifyouwanttothrowitawaythat’syourbusiness.ButI’myour
friend.Icareaboutyou.Ijust…justwanttoknow,that’sall.”
Hefrowned,staringoutthewindow.Dozensofemptyapartmentwindowsstaredback.Foraninstanthe
imagineddozensofotherGennadys,alllookingout,noneseeingtheothers.
“MaybeIdon’twanttobeknown,”hesaid.“I’mtiredofthisworldofsnoopsandgossips.MaybeIwantto
writemymemoirsinaprivatelanguage.Apparentlythat’snotallowed.”
“Prettyironicforyoutobetiredofsnoops,”shesaid,“inasmuchasthat’swhatyoudoforaliving.Andme
too…”Sheblinked,thenscowledevenharder.“Areyoureferringto—”
“Look,Ihavetogonow—“
“That’swhat this is about, isn’t it? You just want to be able to hang up on anybody and everybody the
instantyoustartfeelinguncomfortable.”Lisalookedincredulous.“Isthatit?Itis,isn’tit.Youwanttohave
yourcakeand eatit. Soyou founda placewhereyoucanhidefromeverybody,justpokeyourheadout
wheneveryouneedsomeonetotalkto.Well,I’mnotaTV,youknow.I’mnotgoingtoletyoujustturnme
onandoffwhenitsuitsyou.
“Keepyouremptytownandyouremptylife,then.I’llhavenoneofit.”
Shehungup.
“Bitch!”Heyankedofftheheadsetandkickedthewall.Noneighbourstocomplain—hekickeditagain.
“Whatthehelldoyouwantfromme?”He’dputaholeintheplasterboard.Dustswirledup,andheheard
theGeigercounterbuzzlouderforasecond.
“Oh,God.”Heslumpedonthebalcony,butwhenheraisedhiseyesallthatmetthemwasthevistaofthe
sarcophagus,gleamingnowlikesomegiantlarvaonthebanksoftheriver.
Unaccountably,Gennadyfoundhiseyesfillingwithtears.
Howlonghasitbeen,hewonderedinamazement,sinceyoucried?
Years.Hepinchedthebridgeofhisnose,andblinkedafewtimes.Heneededtowalk;yes,alongwalkin
thesunwouldbringhimaround…
Hestoppedatthedoortotheapartment.Therewastheplasticwrapheshouldusetocoverhisshoes.
Andthefacemask.AndbesidethattheGeigercounter.
Ahorriblefeelingofbeingtrappedstoleoverhim.Forafewminuteshestoodthere,bitinghisnails,staring
atthepeelingwallpaper.Thentheangerreturned,andhekickedthewallagain.
“I’mright.”Toproveit,hesatdown,jackedin,andcalleduptheinterfacefortheRPV.
****
Gennadyheldhisheadhighashewalkedinthesuninaplazawherenohumancouldsetfootforthenext
six thousand years. He knelt and examined the gigantic wildflowers that grew in abundance here. They
werehis,inawaythatnothingelsehadeverbeennorcouldbeoutsidethisplace.Thismustbehowtheold
manfelt,hemarvelled—butBogoliubov’sarmourwasadeliberaterefusaltobe-lievethedanger,hewas
in.WiththeRPV,Gennadyhadnoneedforsuchillusions.
Hedidn’ttakeeveryopportunitytoexplore.Therewouldbeplentyoftimeforthatlater,afterhereported
the accidental destruction of the RPV. For now, he just sauntered and enjoyed the day. His steel joints
movedsoundlessly,andhefeltnofatigueorheat.
Beep.“Merrickhere.Gennady,areyouon-line?”
“Yes.I’mhere.”
“Gennady,letmeintroduceDentrane.You’llhandtheRPVofftohimwhenyougetinposition,andhe’ll
takeitfromthere.Ifwe’relucky,we’llonlyneedtodothisonce.”
“Hello,Gennady,”saidDentrane.HehadathickEstonianaccent.
“Goodtohearfromyou,Dentrane.ShallIwalkusovertothesarcophagusandyoucantakeapeekatwhat
allthefussisabout?”
Dentranelaughed.“Delighted.Leadon.”
Timetobe‘allbusiness’asLisavetawouldsay.Hejoggedtowardstheriver.
****
“It’sAmericanlaw,”LisawassayingtoMerrick.Theyhadmetinaneutralroomincyberspace.
Merrick’savatarwasblandasusual;Lisahadrepresentedherselfasacyber-Medusa,withfibre-opticleads
snaking from her hair to attach to a globe that floated before her. “When you’re dealing with the Net,
you’vegotbothin-ternationalandlocallawstoworryabout,”sheexplained.“Wecan’tguaranteeourtrace
ofthepathstothesatellitesignal.Wecan’tshutitdownonthesatelliteend.Andunlesswehaveproofthat
it’sJaffreydoingthis,wecan’tshutitdownathisend.”
“Soourhandsaretied.”Merrick’savatarwasmotionless,butsheimaginedhimpacing.Inawindownextto
him,thelivefeedfromtheRPVshowedgreenfoliage,thentheloomingconcretecurveofthesarcophagus.
“You’regoingtohavetotrustme.We’llfindawaytoproveit’sJaffrey.”
“IhavesixteenmilitaryRPVs waitingin theriver.The secondIseeaproblem,Ms.MacDonald, they’re
goingin.Andiftheygoin,youhavetoshutdownJaffrey.”
“Ican’t!Andwhatifhe’sgotadead-manswitch?”
“I’mrelyingonDentranetotellusifhedoes.AndI’mrelyingonyoutocutJaffreyoffwhenIorderit.”
Sheglaredattheavatar.Itmustbetentimesshe’dtoldhimshehadnoauthoritytodothat.Sheknewhow
to,sure—butiftheywerewrongandJaffreywasn’ttheextortionist,shewouldbecriminallyliable.
ButMerrickdidn’tcareaboutthat.
Hedidn’tseemtocareaboutGennady,either.Andwhyshouldhe?Gennadyhadchosentoplanthimself
rightnexttothesarcophagus.Ifitblewuphewouldhavenoonetoblamebuthimself.
And that would be absolutely no consolation when she had to fly out to watch him die of radiation
poisoninginsomeSoviet-vintagehospitalward.Shehadwokenherselfuplastnightwiththatscenario,and
hadlainawakewonderingwhysheshoulddothatforamanwhomsheknewonlythroughtheNet.
Butmaybeitwaspreciselybecausetheirassociationwasincomplete.Lisaknewhewasasrealapersonas
she; in a way they were close. But they would not have really met until she touched his hand, and she
couldn’tbearthethoughtoflosinghimbeforethathappened.
Angrily she glanced at her ranks of numbers and documents, all of which pointed at Jaffrey, none
conclusively.Itallmadeherfeelsohelpless.SheturnedtowatchthemovementoftheRPVinstead.
TheRPVhadscaledthesteeplowerpartofthesarcophagus,andnowclam-beredhandoverhandtowarda
reddiscolorationononeflank.Withastart,Lisarealizedthereweresomebulkyobjectsstickingupthere.
Thecameraangleswervedandjittered,thentheRPVpausedlongenoughforhertogetagoodlook.She
heardMerrickswearjustassherealizedshewaslookingattarpaulins,paintedtoresembletheconcreteof
thestructure,thathadbeenstretchedoverseveralgreenmetalracks.
Thenoneofthetarpsdisappearedinawhitecloud.Thecamerashookaseverythingvanishedinawhite
haze.Then—static.
“Whatwasthat?”
“HolymotherofGod,”saidMerrick.“Helaunched.”
****
Gennadyfroze.HehadsteppedontothebalconytoletDentranegetonwithhiswork.Fromherehehada
magnificentviewofthesarcophagus,sothecontrailoftherocketwasclearlyvisible.Itrosestraightup,an
orangecutinthesky,thenlevelledoffandheadedstraightathim.Hejusthadtimetoblinkandthink,I’m
standingrightnext totheRPVsignalrepeaterbefore thecontrailleaptforwardfaster thanthe eyecould
follow,andallthewindowsofthesurroundingbuildingsflashedsun-bright.
Theconcussionwasasuddenhammerblow,nothingliketheroaringexplosionsheheardinmoviesorVR.
He was on his back on the balcony, ears ringing, when he heard the bang! echo back from the other
buildings,andcouldalmostfollowitscoursethroughtheabandonedcityastheringsofshockedairhitone
neigh-bourhoodafterthenext,andreportedback.
Acascadeofdustandgritobscuredtheview.Itallcamefromoverheadsome-where.Herealizedashesat
up that the explosion had occurred on the roof. That was where he’d set up the big dish necessary for
Dentrane’sdata-feed.
The fear felt like cold spreading through his chest, down his arms. He leaned on the swaying balcony,
watchingforthesecondcontrailthatwouldsignalthesecondrocket.Thedishontheroofwasthelinkto
theNet,yes;butitfeditssignaldownheretothetransmitterthatsatametertoGennady’sleft,andthat
transmitterwasthecontrolconnectiontotheRPV.Itwastheonlylivebeaconnow.
Nothinghappened.Asthesecondspassed,Gennadyfoundhimselfparalyzedbyindecision:inthetimeit
tookforhimtorisetohisfeetandturn,andtakethreesteps,therocketmightbeonhim—andhehadto
seeitifitcame.
Itdidnot.Graduallyhebecameawarethathismouthwasopen,histhroathurtingfromayellthathadn’t
madeitfromhislungstohisvocalcords.Hefellbackonhiselbowsthen shouted“Shit!”ata tenththe
volumehethoughtheneeded,andscrambledbackintotheapartment.
Hewashalfwaydownthestairswhenthecellphonerang.Hebarkedalaughattheprosaicecho,theonly
soundnowinthisemptybuildingotherthanhischatteringfootsteps.Hegrabbeditfromhisbelt.
“What?”
“Gennady!Areyouallright?”
“Yes,Lisa.”
“Oh,thankGod!Listen,you’vegottogetoutofthere—“
“Justleaving.”
“I’msoglad.”
“Fuck you.” He hung up and jammed the phone back in his belt. It immediately rang again. Gennady
stopped,cursed,grabbedit,almostpressedthereceivebut-ton.Thenhetosseditoverthebanister.
Afterasecondheheardithitthelandingbelowwithacrack.
He ran past it into the lobby, and pulled out the bike. He started it, and paused to look around the sad,
abandonedplacehehadalmostlivedin.Hishandonthethrottlewastrembling.
Thereleasecouldhappenatanymoment.Therewouldbeanexplosion,whoknewhowbig;heimagined
chunks of concrete floating up in the air, exposing a deep red wound in the earth, the unhealing sore of
Chernobyl.Acloudofdustwouldrise,hecouldwatchitfromoutside.Quiet,subtle,itwouldturnitshead
towardKiev,asithadyearsago.Soontherewouldbemoreghostsinthestreetsofthegreatcity.
Hewouldgetaway. Lisawould neverspeak tohim, andhecouldneverwalktheavenuesofKiev again
withoutpicturinghimselfhere.HecouldneverlookthesurvivorsoftheReleaseintheeyeagain.Buthe
wouldhavegottenaway.
“Liar!”
Thesound jolted him.Gennadylooked up. Bogoliubov, theself-proclaimedcustodian ofPripyat,stalked
towardshimacrossthecourtyard,hisblackgreatcoatflappingintheeveningbreeze.
“Liar,”saidtheoldmanagain.
“I’mnotstaying,”Gennadyshouted.
“Youliedtome!”
Gennadytookhishandoffthethrottle.“What?”
“You work for the Trust. Or is it the army! And to think I believed that story about you being a med
student.”BogoliubovstoppeddirectlyinGennady’spath.
“Look,wehaven’tgottimeforthis.Theremightbeanotherrelease.Wehavetogetoutofhere.Hopon.”
Bogoliubov’seyeswidened.“Soyoubetrayedhim,too.I’mnotsurprised.”HespatinthedirtatGennady’s
feetandturnedaway.“I’mnotgoinganywherewithyou.”
“Wait!”Gennadypoppedthekickstandonthebikeandcaughtuptotheoldman.“I’msorry.Ididn’tmean
tohurtyou.Icameherebecauseofthedragon.HowcouldIknowyouweren’tinvolved?”
Bogoliubovwhirled,scowling.Heseemedtobegropingforwords.Finally,“Trustwasamistake,”wasall
hesaid.Asiftheeffortcosthimgreatly,hereachedoutandshovedGennadyhardinthechest.Thenhe
walkedrapidlyaway.
Gennadywatchedhimgo,thenreturnedtothebike.Hisheadwasthrobbing.Heshutthebikedown,and
walkedslowlybacktotheentranceofthe apartmentbuilding.Hestopped.Hewaited, staringat thesky.
Andthenhewentin.
****
“Lisaveta,I’mlinkingtotheRPVnow.”
“Gennady!What?”Hesmiledgrimlyatthetransparentsurpriseinhervoice.ShewholikedtoKnow,had
beenstartledbyhim.Gennadyhadlinkedthecell-phonesignaltotheRPVinterface.Shewouldgetvoice,
butnovideothisway.
Headjustedtheheadset.“Connectingnow.”Hetookadeepbreath,andjabbedtheenterkeyonhisboard.
Visionlurched.Andthenhewasstaringata redtarpaulin,whichwastangledupinthefallen sparsofa
greenmetalrack.Severallongmetaltubesstuckoutofthis,allaimedattheground.Ahazelikeexhaust
fromabushungovereverything.
Themissilerackshook.Gennadycautiouslyturnedhisheadtoseewhatmightbecausingthemotion.
Directlybesidehimwastheblack,rustedflankofathinglikeatankwithlegs.Severalsetsofarmsdangled
fromitsslopedfront,andtwoofthesewere tearingthetoughfabricofthetarpaway fromthecollapsed
rack.
“Gennady,talktome!”Hesmiledtoheartheconcerninhervoice.“Whereareyou?”
“Dentrane’soutoftheloop,soI’vetakenovertheRPV.I’vegotitonthesideofthesarcophagus.”
“Butwhereareyou?”
“Lisa, listen. Someone else is here. Do you understand? There is another RPV, and it’s trying to fix the
missilerack.”
“Jaffrey…”
“Thathisname?Whatever.”Theblackdragonhadnearlyunravelledthetarp.Ifitsucceededinrealigning
themissiletubes,itwouldhaveaclearshotatthebalconywhereGennadynowsat.
“It’signoringme.ThinksI’verunaway,Iguess.”Helookedaround,tryingnottoturnhishead.Therewas
nothingobvioustouseasaweapon—butthenhisownRPVwasaweapon,herecalled.Nothingcompared
tothehulking,grumblingthingnexttohim,butmorethanamatchfor—
—themissiletubeshepouncedon.Gennadyfeltthewholestructuregodownunderhim,metalrending.
Heflailedabout,scatteringthetubeswithloudbangingblows,windinguponhisasbestosbacksidelooking
upatthetwospotlighteyesoftheblackRPV.
Heswitchedontheoutsidespeaker.“Thisisn’tyourprivatesandbox,youknow.”
Twohugearmsshotout.Herolledoutoftheway.Metalscreamed.
Adeeproaringshookthewholesideofthe sarcophagus.He couldsee smallspires ofdust risefrom the
triangularconcreteslabs.Thedragonhadleaped,andutterlysmashedtheplacewherehehadjustbeen.
JustaheadundertheflappingsquareofanothergreytarpGennadysawadeepblackopeninginthesideof
thesarcophagus.“Thisyourhome?”heshoutedasheclambereduptoit.
“Stayaway!”Thevoicewasdeepandcarrying,utterlyartificial.
“Whatwasthat?”Lisawasstillwithhim.
“ThatwouldbeyourJaffrey.He’spissed,astheYankeeswouldsay.”
“Whyareyoudoingthis?”
“Lisa,he’sgoingtomakearelease.Webothknowit.Onlyafoolwouldn’trealizethere’sabackupplanto
mebeinghere.IfIfail,themeninthechopperscomein,amIwrong?YouandIknowit.Thisguyknows
it.Nowhe’sgotnothingtolose.He’llblowthetopofftheplace.”
“Merrick’sreadytosendtheothersinnow.Youjustgetoutofthereandletthemhandleit.”
“No.”ThemonsterwasclosebehindhimasGennadymadeittothedarkopening.“Ican’tavoidthisone.
Youknowit’strue.”
Shemighthavesaid“Oh,”andhedidimagineatoneofsadresignationtowhatevershedidsay,buthewas
toobusybashinghiswayintothebottomofapittomakeitout.Gennadyrolledtoastopinahazeofstatic;
hiscamerasadjustedtothedarkintimeforhimtoseeahugeblacksquareblocktheopeningabove,and
fallathim.
“Shit!”Hecouldn’tavoiditthistime.Somethingheavyhithimashestaggeredtohisfeet,flickinghiminto
awallasthoughheweremadeofbalsawood.Hedidn’tactuallyfeeltheblow,butitwasanimpossibly
quickmotionlikeaspeeded-upmovie;sensationvanishedfromhisrightarm.
He managed to cartwheel out of the way of another piston blow. Gennady backed up several paces, and
lookedaround.
This was sort of an antechamber to the remnants of one of the reactor rooms. Circles of light from the
headlampeyes of the dragon swooped and dove through an amazing tangle of twisted metal and broken
cementunderthelowredgirdersofthesarcophagus’ceiling.Herewereslabsofwallstillpaintedinstitution
green,nexttocharredmetalpipesasthickashisbody.Thewreckagemadearoughringaroundacleared
areainthecentre.Andthere,thethinghehadneverinhislifeexpectedtosee,therewastheopenblack
mouthoftheobscenityitself.
Jaffrey,ifthiswasindeedhe,hadmadeanestinthecalderaofReactorFour.
Gennadyboundedacrossthespaceandup therubbleontheotherside.Heclutchedata cross-beamand
pulledhimselfuponit while the dragon laboured to follow. When he reached with both arms,onlyone
appearedandgraspedthebeam.
“Comedown,”saidthedragonin itsdeepbassthatrattledtheverybeams.Itsbrighteyes werefixedon
him,onlymetersbelow.
“What,areyoucrazy?”hesaid,instantlyregrettinghischoiceofwords.
Thedragonsatbackwithaseismicthud.Itturneditsbigblackhead,eerilylikeabear’sasitregardedhim.
“I’vebeenwatchingyou,”itsaidafteralongminute.
Gennadybackedawayalongthegirder.
“WhenIwasaboy,”saidthedragonofPripyat,“IwrotealettertoGod.AndthenIputtheletterinajar,
andIburieditinthegarden,asdeepasIcouldreach.Itneveroccurredtomethatsomeonemightdigitup
oneday.Ithought,nooneseesGod.Godisinthehiddenplacesbetweenthewalls,behinduswhenweare
lookingtheotherway.ButIhaveputthisletteroutoftheworld.MaybeGodwillpassbyandreadit.”
“Gennady,”saidLisa.“Youhavetofindoutwhothisis.Wecan’tcutJaffrey’ssignaluntilwehaveproof
thatit’shim.Canyouhearme?”
“Iwatchedyouwalkingintheevenings,”saidthedragon.“YoustaredupatthewindowsthesamewayI
do.Youputyourhandsbehindyourback,headdown,andtracedthecracksinthepavementlikeaboy.
Youmovedasoneliberatedfromacurse.”
“Shutup,”saidGennady.
“Doyourememberthefirstphotosfromtheaccident?Remembertheimageofthisplace’sroof?Justaroof,
obviously trashed by an explosion of some kind. But still, a roof, where you could stand and look out.
Except you couldn’t. No one could. That roof was the first place I had ever actually seen that had been
removedfromtheworld.Aplacenoonecouldgooreverwouldgo.Tostandthereforevenamomentwas
death.Remember?”
“Iwastooyoung,”saidGennady.
“Good,”saidLisa.“Weknowhe’soldenoughtoremember1986.Keephimtalking.”
Gennadyscowled,wishingtheRPVcouldconveytheexpression.
“Later I remembered that,” said the dragon. “When I could no longer live as a person in the world of
people.RememberthethreemenintheBiblewhowerecastinthebellyofthefurnace,andsurvived?
Oh,Ineededtodothat.Toliveinthebellyofthefurnace.YouknowwhatImean,don’tyou?”
Gennady crawled backward along the beam. The horrible thing was, he did know. He couldn’t have
explainedit,butthedragon’swordswerestrikinghimdeeply,woundinghimfarmorethanitsmetalhands
had.
“Solook.”Thedragongesturedbehinditatmepit.Ithadarrangedsomechairsandatablearoundtheblack
calandria.Abottleonthetableheldasprigofwildflowers.Therewasotherfurniture,Gennadynowsaw—
filingcabinets,book-shelves,andyes,bookseverywhere.Thismonsterhadnotmerelyvisitedthisplace;it
livedhere.
Hesawanotherthing,aswell.Onthebackofthedragon,underacrossofbentmetalspars,wasasmall
satellitedish.Thisspunandturnedwildlytokeepitsfocusonsomedistantpointintheheavens.
“Lisa,he’slinkeddirectlytothedragon.Norepeaters.”
“Thataproblem?”
“Damnrightit’saproblem!Ican’tstopthethingbypullinganyplugs.”
“YouandIhavehadthesameambition,”thedragonsaidtoGennady.“Toliveintheinvisibleworld,visit
theplacethatcan’tbevisited.ExceptthatIwasforcedtoit.You’rehealthy,youcanwalk.Whatmadeyou
comehere?”
“Don’t,”saidGennady.
Thesearchlightsfoundandpinnedhimagain.“Whathurtyou?”askedthedragon.
Gennadyhissed.“Noneofyourbusiness.”
Thedragonwasnowperfectlystill.“Isitsostronginyouthatyoucanneveradmittoit?Tellme—ifI
weretosayIwillhuntyourbodydownandkillyounowunlessyoutellmewhyyoucamehere—would
youtellme?”
Gennadycouldn’tanswer.
Thedragonsurgedtoitsfeet.“Youdon’tevenknowwhatyouhave!”itroared.“Youcanwalk.Youcanstill
makelove—really,notjustinsomesimulation.Andyoudaretocomeinhereandtrytotakeawaytheonly
thingI’vegotleft?”
Gennadylosthisgriponthebeamandfell.Abookshelfshatteredunderhim.
Thedragontoweredoverhim.“Youcan’tlivehere,”itsaid.“You’rejustatourist.”
Heexpectedablowthatwouldshatterhisconnection,butitdidn’tcome.Insteadthemonstersteppedover
him,makingfortheexit.
“Icanrunfasterthanyourlittlemotorbike,”itsaid.Thenitwasgone,uptheentranceshaft.
Gennadytriedtorise.Oneofhislegswasbroken.One-legged,one-armed,therewasnowayhewasgetting
outofhere.
“Gennady,”saidLisa.“What’shappening?”
“Heleft,”saidGennady.“He’sgonetokillme.”
“Breakthelink.Runforit.Youcangettothemotorcyclebeforehegetstoyou,can’tyou?”
“Maybe.That’snotthepoint.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
Heraisedhimselfonhisgoodelbow.“Wehaven’tgotourproof,andwedon’tknowifthere’sadead-man
switch. Once he’s done with me he’s just going to come back here and tear the roof off. Are Merrick’s
commandosontheirway?”
‘Yes.”
“Maybetheycanstophim.ButIwouldn’tcountonit.”
“Whatareyousaying?”
“I’minhisden.MaybeIcanfindwhatweneedbeforehegetstome.”
Foramomentherbreathlabouredinhisear,formingnowords.Gennadytoldhimselfthathe,incontrast,
feltnothing.Hehad lost,completely.Itreallydidn’tmatterwhathedidnow,sohe mightaswelldothe
decentthing.
Hebenttothetaskofinspectingthedragon’smeagretreasure.
****
“Talktome,”shesaid.Lisasathunchedoverherworktable,outoftheNet,onehandholdingthewoodas
if to anchor herself. All her screens were live, feeding status checks from her hired hackers, Merrick’s
people,andallthearchivalma-terialonJaffreythatshecouldfind.
“There’snobombshere,”hesaid.Hisvoicewasflat.“Butthere’sthreeportablegeneratorsandfueldrums.
They’reneartheentranceshaft.Iguessthedragoncouldblowthemup.Wouldn’tbemuchofanexplosion,
butfirewouldcauserelease,youknow.”
“Whatelseisthere?Anythingthatmighttelluswhothisis?”
“Yes—filingcabinets.”Thatwasallhesaidfornearlyaminute.
“Whataboutthem?”sheaskedfinally.
“Justgettingthere—”Anotherpause.“Tippedthemover,”hesaid.“Looking…papersintheashes.
Whatthehellisthisstuff?”
“IsitinEnglishorRussian?”
“Both!LookslikerecordsfromtheRelease.Archivalmaterial.Photos.”
“AreanyofthemofJaffrey?”
“Lisa,”hesnapped,“it’sdark,myconnection’sbad,andIonlysawthatonephotoyoushowedme.
HowinGod’snameamItoknow?”
“Theremustbesomething!”
“I’msurethereis,”hesaid.“ButIdon’thavetimetofinditnow.”
She glanced at the clock. The dragon had left five minutes ago. Was that enough time for it to get to
Gennady’sbuilding?
“Butwehavetobesure!”
“Iknowyoudo,”hesaidquietly.“I’llkeeplooking.”
Lisasatback.Everythingseemedquietandstilltohersuddenly;thedeepnighthadswallowedthenormal
citynoises.Herroomsweresilent,andsowereherscreens.Gennadymutteredfaintlyinherear,thatwas
all.
Sheneveractedwithoutcertainknowledge.Itwaswhatshehadbuiltherlifeon.Lisahadalwaysfeltthat,
whenamomentofawfuldecisioncame,shewouldbeabletomaketherightchoicebecauseshealwayshad
allthefacts.Andnowthemomentwashere.Andshedidn’tknow.
Gennady described what he saw as he turned over this, then that paper or book. He wasn’t getting
anywhere.
She switched to her U.S. line connection. The FBI man who had unluckily pulled the morning shift at
NCSASecuritysatupalertlyassherangthrough.
Lisatookadeepbreathandsaidthewordsthatmightcosthercareer.“We’vegotourproof.It’sJaffrey,all
right.Shuthimdown.”
****
ReliefwashedoverGennadywhenshetoldhim.“SoI’msafe.”
Hervoicewastaut.“I’vegiventhecommands.It’lltakesometime.”
“What?Howmuch?”
“Seconds,minutes—you’vegottogetoutoftherenow.”
“OhmyGodLisa,Ithoughtthiswouldbeinstant.”
Gennadyfeltthefloortrembleunderhim.Nothinginthedenofthesarcoph-agushadmoved.
“Now!”Shealmostscreamedit.“Getoutnow!”
Hetorethe linkhelmetoff:spangof staticandnoise before reality cameuparound him. Sad wallpaper,
mouldycarpet.Andthunderinthebuilding.
Gennadyhesitatedatthedoor,thensteppedintothehallway.Lightfrominsidelitthenarrowspacedimly
—butitwastoolateto run over and turn out the lamp. From the direction of the stairwell came a deep
vibrationandaberserkroarsuchashehadonlyeverheardonce,whenhestoodnexttoanoldT35tankthat
wasrevving up to climb anobstacleat a fair.Intermittentthuds shook theceiling’s dust ontoGennady’s
shoulders;hejerkedwitheachangryimpact.
Gennady shut the door, and then the end of the hall exploded. In the darkness he caught a confused
impression of petalling plasterboard rushing at him, accom-panied by a gasp of black dust. The noise
drownedhishearing.ThenJaffrey’seyesblazedintolifeatceilinglevel.
Hewastoobigtofitinthehallway—bigasatruck.SoJaffreydemolishedthecorridorashecame,simply
scoopingthewallsasidewithhissquareironarms,wedginghisflatbodybetweenfloorandceiling.The
beamsofhishalogeneyesneverwaveredfrompinioningGennadyashecame.
Intotheapartmentagain.ThedialontheGeigercounterwasswingingwildly,buttheclickingwaslostnow
inthunder.Thewindowsshatteredspontaneously.Gennadyputhishandsoverhisearsandbackedtothe
balconydoor.
Jaffreyremovedthewall.HiseyesrovedovertheevidenceofGennady’splans—theextrafoodsupplies,
the elaborate computer set-up, the cleaning and filtering equipment. A deep and painful shame uncoiled
withinGennady,andwiththathisfearturnedtoanger.
“Catchmeifyoucan,youcripple!”hescreamed.Gennadyleaptontothebalcony,putonefootontherail
and,boostinghimselfup,grabbedtherailingofthebalconyonefloorabove.Hepulledhimselfupwithout
regardtotheagonythatshotthroughhisshoulders.
Jaffreyburstthroughthewallbelow,andasGennadykickedattheweather-lockeddoorhefeltthebalcony
underhimundulateandtilt.
Thedoorwouldn’tbudge.Jaffrey’stwolargesthandswere clampedonthecon-cretepadofthe balcony.
Withviciousjerksheworkeditfreeofthewall.
Gennadyhoppedontotherailing. Coolnightairruffledpastandhecaughtaglimpseof darkground far
below,andarecedingvistaofempty,blackapartmenttowers.Hemeanttojumptothenextbalconyabove,
butthewholeplatformcamelooseashetried.Flailing,hetriedasidewaysleapinstead.Hisarmscrashed
downonthemetalrailingofthebalconynextdoor.
HeheardJaffreylaugh.Thisplatformwasalreadyloose,itsboltsrustedtothreads.Ashepulledhimselfup
Jaffreytossedtheotherconcretepadintothenightandreachedforhim.
Hecouldn’tgetovertherailintime,butJaffreymissed,thecylindersofhisfingersclosingovertherail
itself.Jaffreypulled.
Gennadyrolledoverthetopoftherailing.AshelandedontheswayingconcretehesawJaffrey.Thedragon
washalfoutside,twobiglegsbracinghimagainstthecreakinglintelofthelowerlevel.Hewasstraining
justtoreachthisfar,andhisfingerswerenowalltangledupinthebentmetalpostsoftherailing.
Gennadygrabbedthedoorknobasthebalconybegantogiveway.“Oncemore,youbastard,”heshouted,
anddeliberatelysteppedwithinreachofthegropinghand.
Jaffreylunged,fingersgatheringuptherestofthemetalintoaknot.Thebalcony’ssupportsbrokewitha
soundlikegunshots,anditallfelloutfromunderGennady.
Heheldontothedoorknob,shoutingashesawthebalconyfall,andJaffreytrytoolatetoletgo.Thebent
metalheldhisblackhand,andforasecondheteeteredontheedgeoftheverge.Thenthewallshe’dbraced
hisfeetagainstgaveway,andthedragonofPripyatfellintothenightairandvanishedbriefly,toreappear
inabrightorangeflash ashehittheground.Rollingconcussions playedagain throughthestreetsofthe
deadcity.
ThedoorknobturnedunderGennady’shand,andthedooropenedofitsownaccord—outward.
Tryingtocurseandlaugh,hearingwilddisbeliefinhisvoice,heswunglikeapendulumforlongseconds,
then got himself inside. He lay prone on some stranger’s carpet, breathing the musty air and crying his
relief.
Thenherose,feelingpainbutnomoreemotionatall.Gennadylefttheapart-ment,andwentdownstairsto
getonwithhislife.
****
Lisasatupallnight,waitingforword.Thecommandoshadgonein,andfoundtheviolatedsarcophagus,
andthebodyofthedragon.TheyhadnotfoundGen-nady,butthentheyhadn’tfoundhisbikeeither.
When the FBI cut off Jaffrey’s signal, the feed to the dragon had indeed stopped. They had entered his
strongholdapartmentminuteslater,andarrestedhiminhisbed.
So her career was safe. She didn’t care; it was still the worst situation she could have imagined. For
Gennadytobedeadwasonething.Forhernottoknowwasintolerable.LisacriedatfourA.M.,standingin
herkitchenstirringhotmilk,whiletheradioplayedsomethingbaroqueandincongruouslylight.
Shestaredthroughblurredeyesatthelightsofthecity,feelingmorealonethanshecouldhaveprepared
herselffor.
It was midmorning when Gennady called. Her loneliness didn’t vanish with the sound of his voice. She
startedcryingagainwhensheheardhimsayhername.“You’rereallyallright?”
“I’mfine.AtagasstationnearKiev.Didn’tfeellikestickingaroundtobedebriefed,youknow.SorryIlost
the cell phone, I’d have called earlier.” There was a hesitancy in his voice, like he wasn’t telling her
everything.
“Merricksaystherewasnorelease.Wereyouirradiated?”
“Notmuch.Tenpacksorso,Iguess.”Despiteherselfshelaughedathister-minology.Sheheardhimclear
histhroatandwaited.Buthesaidnothingelse.
Sheheldthephonetoherear,andglancedaroundatherapartment.Empty,saveforher.Lisafeltasadness
like exhaustion, a deep lowering through her throat and stomach. ‘You’re just a voice,” she said, not
knowingherownmeaning.“Justavoiceonthephone.”
“Iknow.”Shewipedathereyes.Howcouldheknowwhatshemeant,whenshedidn’t?
“Look,” he said, “I can’t go on like this.” His voice faded a bit with the vagaries of the line. “It’s not
working.”
“What’snotworking,Gennady?”
“My—mywholelife.”Sheheardthehesitantintakeofbreathagain.“Ican’tcontrolanything.It’sjust…
beyondme.”
Shewasamazed.“Butyoudidit.YougotJaffreyforus.”
“Well,youknow…”Hisvoiceheldaself-conscioushumournow.“Itwasyourhandontheswitch.Ijust
kepthimbusyforyou.Itdoesn’tmatter.Idon’tknowwhattodo.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Ican’tjustgobacktoKiev.Sitaroundtheflat.JackintotheNet.It’snotenough.”
“Youdon’thaveto,”shesaid.“Youhavemoneynow.I’llmakesureMerrickcomesclean.”
“Yeah.Youknow…I’vegotenoughforavacation,Ifigure.”
Lisaleanedbackinherworkchair.Shetoyednervouslywithastrandofherhair.“Yeah?Wherewouldyou
go?”
“Oh…MaybeLondon?”
Shelaughed.“Ohyes!Yes,pleasedo.”
“Ah.”Hisshynesswassuchanewthing,andcharming—butthen,hewasn’tfallingbackonthesafetyof
theNetthistime.“Onecondition?”heventured.
“Yes?”
“Don’taskmetoomanyquestions.”
For a second an old indignation took her. But she recognized it for the inse-curity it was. “All right,
Gennady.Youtellmewhatyouwanttotellme.AndI’llshowyouthecity.”
“AndtheTower?IalwayswantedtoseetheTower.”
Againshelaughed.“Itfigures.Butwegoonlyonce,okay?Nomorecastlesforyouafterthat.Promise?”
“Promise.”
****
writteninblood
CHRISLAWSON
Thisstoryisanelegantandincisivelookatsomeoftheunexpectedeffectsofhigh-techbioscience,someof
whichmayreachallthewaydowntotheverymarrowofyourbones…
New writer Chris Lawson grew up in Papua New Guinea, and now lives in Melbourne with hiswife,
Andrea,andson,Alexander.Whilestudyingmedicine,heearnedextramoneyasacomputerprogrammer,
andhasworkedasamedicalpractitionerandasaconsultanttothepharmaceuticalindustry. He’smade
shortfictionsalestoAsimov’sScienceFiction,Dream-ingDown-Under,Eidolon,andEventHorizon.His
story“UnbornAgain”appearedinourSixteenthAnnualCollection.
CTATAACAGTGTAGCGACGAATGTCTACAGAAACAAGAATGTCATGAGTGT
CTAGATCATAACCGATGTAGCGACGAATGTCTACAAGAAAGGAATTAAGAG
GGATACCGATGTAGCGACGAATGTCTAAATCATCAACACAAAAGTAGTTAACATCAG
AAAAGCGAATGCTTCTTT
IntheNameofGod,theMerciful,theCompassionate.
T
hesewordsopentheQur’an.Theywerewritteninmyfather’sblood.AfterMotherdied,andDarecovered
fromhischemotherapy,wewentonapilgrimagetogether.Inmyusualeleven-year-oldcuriousway,Iasked
himwhywehadtogototheOtherEndoftheWorldtopraywhenwecoulddoitjustfineathome.
“Zada,”hesaid,“there areonlyfivepillarsoffaith.Itiseasierthananyoftheotherpillarsbecauseyou
onlyneedtodoitonceinalifetime.RememberthisduringRamadan,whenyouarehungryandyouknow
youwillbehungryagainthenextday,butyourhajwillbeover.”
Da would brook no further discussion, so we set off for the Holy Lands. At eleven, I was less than
impressed. I expected to find Paradise filled with thousands of foun-tains and birds and orchards and
blooms.Instead,wehuddledinclothtentswithhundredsofthousandsofsweatypilgrims,mostofwhom
spokeotherlanguages, as we tramped across a cramped and dirty wasteland. I wondered why Allah had
madehisHolyLandssodryanddusty,butIhadthesenseeventhennottoaskDaaboutit.
NearDamascus,weheardaboutthebloodwriting.Thepilgrimswereallspeak-ingaboutit.Halfthoughtit
blasphemous,theotherhalfthoughtitapathtoHeaven.SinceDawasabiologist,thepilgrimsinourtroop
askedhimwhathethought.Hesaidhewouldhavetogotothebloodwritersdirectlyandfindout.
OnadustyMonday,aftermorningprayer,myfatherandIvisitedtheblood-writer’sstall.Thecanvaswasa
beautifulwhite,andthemanatthestallsmiledasDaapproached.HespokesomeArabic,whichIcouldnot
understand.
“IspeakEnglish,”saidmyfather.
ThestallattendantswitchedtoEnglishwiththeeaseofajugglerchanginghands.“Wonderful,sir!Manyof
ourcustomerspreferEnglish.”
“Ialso speakbiology.My pilgrimcompanionshave askedmeto review yourproduct.”I thoughtitvery
forwardofmyfather,butthestallattendantseemedunfazed.Heexudedconfidenceabouthisproduct.
“Anexpert!”heexclaimed.“Evenbetter.ManypilgrimsaredistrustfulofWest-ernscience.IdowhatIcan
toreassurethem,buttheyseemeasasalesmanandnottobetrusted.Iwelcomeyourendorsement.”
“Thenearnit.”
Thestallattendantwipedhismustache,andbeganhisspiel.“SincetheDawnofTime,theWordofAllah
hasbeenreadbymullahs….”
“Stop!”saidDa.“TheQur’anwasrevealedtoMohammedfifteencenturiesago;theDawnofTimepredates
itbyseveralbillionyears.Iwantanswers,notporten-tousfalsehoods.”
Nowthemanwasnervous.“Perhapsyoushouldseemyuncle.Heinventedthebloodwriting.Iwillfetch
him.”Soonhereturnedwithanolder,infinitelymorerespectablemanwithgreywhiskersinhismustache
andhair.
“Pleaseforgivemynephew,”saidtheoldman.“HehaswatchedtoomuchAmericantelevisionandthinks
thebestwaytoimpressiftouse dramaticwords,wildgestures,andwhere possible,a toll-freenumber.”
Thenephewbowedhisheadandslunktothebackofthestall,chastened.
“MayIansweryourquestions?”theoldmanasked.
“Ifyouwouldbesokind,”saidDa,gesturingforthemantocontinue.
“Bloodwritingisagoodword,andIowemynephewadebtofgratitudeforthat.Buttheactualprocessis
somethingaltogethermoremundane.Iofferavirus,nothingmore.Ihavetakenahypo-immunogenicstrain
ofadeno-associatedvirusandaddedaspecialcodetoitsDNA.”
Dasaid,“TheotherpilgrimstellmethatyoucanwritetheQur’anintotheirblood.”
“ThatIcan,sir,”saidtheoldman.“LongagoIlearnedatrickthatwouldgettheadeno-associatedvirusto
writeitscodeintobonemarrowstemcells.Itmademearichman.NowIusemygiftforAllah’swork.I
consideritpartofmyzakat.”
Dasuppressed awrysmile. Zakat,charitable donation, was one of the five pillars. This old man was so
blindedbyavaricethathebelievedsellinghisinven-tionforsmallprofitwasenoughtofulfillhisobligation
toGod.
Theoldmansmiledandraisedasmallampouleofredliquid.Hecontinued,“This,myfriend,isthevirus.
Ihavestrippeditscoreandputtheentiretextofthe Qur’anintoitsDNA.Ifyouinjectit, theviruswill
writetheQur’anintoyourmyeloidprecursorcells,andthenyourwhitebloodcellswillcarrytheWordof
Allahinsidethem.”
Iputmyhanduptocatchhisattention.“Whynotredbloodcells?”Iasked.“Theycarryalltheoxygen.”
Theoldmanlookedatmeasifhenoticedmeforthefirsttime.“Hello,littleone.Youareverysmart.
Redbloodcellscarryoxygen,buttheyhavenoDNA.TheycannotcarrytheWord.”
Itallseemedtoocomplicatedtoaneleven-year-oldgirl.
Myfatherwascurious.“DNAcodesforaminoacidsequences.HowcanyouwritetheQur’aninDNA?”
“DNAisjustanotheralphabet,”saidtheoldman.Hehandedmyfatheracard.“Hereisthecribsheet.”
Myfatherstudiedthecardforseveralminutes,andIsawhisfacechangefromskepticaltoawed.Hepassed
thecardtome.ItwasfilledwithArabicsquiggles,whichIcouldnotunderstand.TheonlythingIknew
aboutArabicwasthatitwaswrittenright-to-left,thereverseofEnglish.
“Ican’treadit,”Isaidtotheman.Hemadealittlespinninggesturewithhisfinger,indicatingthatIshould
flip the card over. I flipped the card and saw the same crib sheet, only with Anglicized terms for each
Arabicletter.Thenhehandedmeanothercribsheet,andsaid:“ThisisthesheetforEnglishtext.”
“TheArabicalphabethas28letters.Eachletterchangesformdependingonitspositionintheword.Butthe
rulesarerigid,sothereisnoneedtoputeachvariationinthecribsheet.Itisenoughtoknowthattheletter
isaliphorbi,andwhetheritisatthestart,attheend,orinthemiddleoftheword.
“The[stop]commandsarealsoleftintheirusualplaces.Thesearethebody’snaturalcommandsandthey
tellribosomeswhentostopmakingaprotein.Itonlycostthreespotsandtherewereplentytospare,sothey
stayedin.”
Myfatherasked,“DoyouhaveanEnglishtranslation?”
“YourdaughterislookingatthecribsheetfortheEnglishlanguage,”theoldmanexplained,“andthereare
othertextsonecanwrite,butnottheQur’an.”
Thinkingrapidly,Dasaid,“ButyoucouldwritetheQur’aninEnglish?”
“IfIwantedtopursuesecularcauses,Icoulddothat,”theoldmansaid.“ButIhaveallthesecularthingsI
need.I have copyrighted cribsheetsfor all thecommonalphabets,and I make aprofiton them. For the
Qur’an,however,trans-lationsarenotacceptable.OnlytheoriginalwordsofMohammedcanbetrusted.It
isonethingfordhimmistotranslateitfortheirowncuriosity,butifyouareatruebelieveryoumustread
thewordofGodinitsunsulliedform.”
Dastaredattheman.TheoldmanhadjustclaimedthatmillionsofMuslimswerefalsebelieversbecause
they could not read the original Qur’an. Da shook his head and let the matter go. There were plenty of
imamswhowouldagreewiththeoldman.
“Whatisthesuccessrateoftheinoculation?”
“Ninety-five percent of my trial subjects had identifiable Qur’an text in their blood after two weeks,
although I cannot guarantee that the entire text survived the insertion in all of those subjects. No peer-
reviewedjournal would accept the paper.”Hehandedmyfatheracopyofanarticlefrom ModernGene
Techniques.“Notbecausethescienceispoor,asyouwillseeforyourself,butbecauseIslamscaresthem.”
Dalookedserious.“Howmuchareyouchargingforthis?”
“Aha!Theessentialquestion.Iwoulddearlylovetogiveitaway,butevenakingwouldgrowpoorifhe
gaveagrainofricetoeveryhungryman.Iaskenoughtocovermycosts,andnohaggling.Itisahundred
U.S.dollarsorequivalent.”
Dalookedintothedustysky,thinking.“Iampuzzled,”hesaidatlast.“TheQur’anhasonehundredand
fourteensuras,whichcomestotensofthousandsofwords.Yettheadeno-associatedvirusisquitesmall.
Surelyitcan’tallfitinsidetheviralcoat?”
Atthistheoldmannodded.“Iseeyouaretrulyamanofwisdom.Itisapatentedsecret,butIsupposethat
somedayagreedyindustrialistwilllayhandsonmyvirusandsequencethegenome.So,Iwilltellyouon
theconditionthatitgoesnofurtherthanthisstall.”
Dagavehisword.
“Thecodeis compressed.The originaltexthasenormousredundancy, andwith advancedcompression,I
canreducetheamountofDNAbyover80percent.Itisstillalotofcode.”
IrememberDa’s jaw dropping. “That must mean the viral code is self-extracting. How on Earth do you
commandeertheribosomes?”
“IthinkIhavegivenawayenoughsecretsfortoday,”saidtheoldman.
“Pleaseforgiveme,”saidDa.“Itwascuriosity,notgreed,thatdrovemetoask.”Dachangedhismindabout
thebloodwriter.Thistrulywasfairzakat.SuchawealthofinventionforonlyahundredU.S.
dollars.
“Andthesafety?”askedmyfather.
Theoldmanhandedhimanumberofpapers,whichmyfatherreadcarefully,noddinghisheadperiodically,
andhummingeachtimehewasimpressedbythedata.
“I’llhaveadose,”saidDa.“Thennoonecanaccusemeofbeingaslipshodreviewer.”
“Sir,Iwouldbehonoredtogiveacomplimentarybloodwritingtoyouandyourdaughter.”
“Thankyou.Iamdelightedtoacceptyourgift,butonlyforme.Notformydaughter.Notuntilsheisofage
andcanmakeherowndecision.”Datookaredampouleinhishandsandheldituptothelight,asifhewas
lookingthroughanenvelopeforthelettersoftheQur’an.Heshookhisheadatthemarvelandhandedit
backtotheoldman,whodrewitupinasyringe.
****
Thatnight,ourfellowpilgrimsmadeafireandgatheredaroundtohearmyfathertalk.Ashespoke,four
translatorswhisperedtheirowntonguestothecrowd.ThescenewaslikeagreattheaterfromtheArabian
Nights.Scoresofpeoplewrappedinwhiterobesleanedintomyfather’swords,drinkinguphisexcitement.
Itcouldhavebeenameetingofprinces.
WheneverDasaidsomethingthatamazedthegatheredmasses,youcouldheartheinbreathofthecrowd,
firstfromtheEnglish-speakers,andtheninpatchesasthewordscameoutintheotherlanguages.
He told them about DNA, and how it told our bodies how to live. He told them about introns, the long
stretchesofhumanDNAthatareuselesstoourbodies,butthatwecarrystillfromvirusesthatinvadedour
distant progenitors, like ancestral scars. He told them about the DNA code, with its triplets of adenine,
guanine,cytosine,andthymine,andhepassedaroundcopiesofthebloodwriter’scribsheet.Hetoldthem
aboutblood,andthewhitecellsthatfoughtinfection.Hetalkedabouttheadeno-associatedvirusandhowit
injecteditsDNAintohumans.Hetalkedaboutthebloodwriter’sinjectionandthemildfeverithadgiven
him.Hetoldthemoftheprice.
Andheansweredquestionsforanhour.
The next day, as soon as the morning prayers were over, the bloodwriting stall was swamped with
customers.Theoldmanranoutofampoulesbymid-morning,andonlyavoidedariotbypromisingtobring
morethefollowingday.
****
I had made friends with another girl. She was two years younger than I was, and we did not share a
language,butwestillfoundwaystoplaytogethertorelievetheboredom.
One day, I saw her giggling and whispering to her mother, who looked furtively at me and at Da. The
motherwavedoverhercompanions,andspoketotheminsolemntones.Soonaveryangry-lookingphalanx
ofwomendescendedonmyunsuspectingfather.Theystoodbeforehim,handsonhips,andtheonewho
spokeEnglishpointedafingeratme.
“Where is her mother?” asked the woman. She was taller than the others, a weather-beaten woman who
lookedlikeshewassixty,butmusthavebeenyoungerbecauseshehadachildonlytwoyearsold.“Thisis
noplaceforayounggirltobeescortedbyaman.”
“Zada’smotherdiedinacaraccidentbackhome.Iamherfather,andIcanescortherwithouthelp,thank
you.”
“Ithinknot,”saidthewoman.
“Whatrighthaveyoutosaysuchathing?”askedDa.“Iamherfather.”
Thewomanpointedagain.“Alasaysshesawyourdaughterbathing,andshehasnothadthekhitan.Isthis
true?”
“Itisnoneofyourbusiness,”saidDa.
Thewomanscreamedathim.“Iwillnotallowmydaughtertoplaywithharlots.Isittrue?”
“Itisnoneofyourbusiness.”
Thewomanlurched forward and pulled me by my arm. Isquealedand twisted out of her grasp and ran
behindmyfatherforprotection.Iwrappedmyarmsaroundhiswaistandheldontightly.
“Showus,”demandedthewoman.“Provesheiscleanenoughtotravelwiththiscamp.”
Darefused,whichmadethewomanlosehertemper.Sheslappedhimsohardshesplithislip.Hetastedthe
blood,butstoodresolute.ShereachedaroundandtriedtounlockmyarmsfromDa’swaist.Hepushedher
away.
“Sheisnotfittoshareourcamp.Sheshouldbecut,orelseshewillbeshamedinthesightofAllah,”the
womanscreamed.Theotherwomenwereshoutingandshakingtheirfists,butfewofthemknewEnglish,
soitwasasmuchinconfusionasanger.
Myfatherfixedthewomanwithaviciousglare.“YoucallmydaughtershamefulinthesightofAllah?Iam
aservantofAllah.ProvetomethatAllahisshamedandIwilldowhatIcantoremovetheshame.
Fetchamullah.”
Thewomanscowled.“Iwillfetchamullah,althoughIdoubtyourpromiseisworthasmuchaswordsinthe
sand.”
“Make sure the mullah speaks English,” my father demanded as she slipped away. He turned to me and
wipedawaytears.“Don’tworry,Zada.Noharmwillcometoyou.”
“WillIbeallowedtoplaywithAla?”
“No.Notwiththeseoldvultureshangingaround.”
Bythe evening, the women hadfoundamullahgullible enough to mediatethedispute. They tugged his
sleevesashewalkedtowardourcamp,hurryinghimup.Itwasobviousthathisdistastehadgrownwith
everyminuteinthecompanyofthewomen,andnowhewasgenuinelyreluctanttospeakonthematter.
Theweatheredwomanpointedusouttothemullahandspatsomewordsathimthatwedidnotunderstand.
“Sir,Ihearthatyourdaughterisuncircumcised.Isthistrue?”
“Itisnoneofyourbusiness,”saidDa.
Themullah’sfacedropped.Youcouldalmostseehisheartsinking.“Didyounotpromise…?”
“Ipromisedtodiscusstheologywithyouandthatcrone.Mydaughter’sanatomyisnotyouraffair.”
“Please,sir…”
Da cut him off abruptly. “Mullah, in your considered opinion, is it necessary for a Muslim girl to be
circumcised?”
“Itistheacceptedpractice,”saidthemullah.
“Idonotcareabouttheacceptedpractice.IaskwhatMohammedsays.”
“Well,I’msurethatMohammedsayssomethingonthematter,”saidthemul-lah.
“Showmewhere.”
Themullahcoughed,thinkingofthefastestwaytoextracthimself.“Ididnotbringmybookswithme,”he
said.
Da laughed, not believing that a mullah would travel so far to mediate a the-ological dispute without a
book.“Here,havemine,”DasaidashepassedtheQur’antothemullah.“ShowmewhereMohammedsays
suchathing.”
Themullah’sshouldersslumped.“YouknowIcannot.ItisnotintheQur’an.Butitissunnah.”
“Sunnah,”saidDa,“isveryclearonthematter.Circumcisionismakrumahforwomen.Itishonorablebut
notcompulsory.Thereisnorequirementforwomentobecircumcised.”
“Sir,youareverylearned.ButthereismoretoIslamthanastrictreadingoftheQur’anandsunnah.
TherehaveevenbeenoccasionswhenthewordofMo-hammedhasbeenoverturnedbylaterimams.
Mohammedhimselfknewthathewasnotanexpertonallthings,andhesaidthatitwastheresponsibility
offuturegenerationstoriseabovehisimperfectknowledge.”
“So,youaresayingthatevenifitwasrecordedintheQur’anthatwouldnotmakeitcompulsory.”Dagave
asmile—thelittlequirkofhislipsthathegaveeverytimehehadlaidalogicaltrapforsomeone.
The mullah looked grim. The trap had snapped shut on his leg, and he was not looking forward to
extricatinghimself.
“Tellthesewomensowecangobacktoourtentsandsleep,”saidDa.
Themullah turned tothewomen and spoke tothem.Theweathered woman becameagitatedand started
wavingherhandswildly.Hervoicewasanover-wroughtscreech.Themullahturnedbacktous.
“Sherefusestosharecampwithyou,andinsistsyouleave.”
Dafixedthemullahwithhisirongaze.“Mullah,youarealearnedmaninadifficultsituation,butsurely
youcanseethewomanishalf-mad.Shecomplainsthatmydaughterhasnotbeenmutilated,andwouldnot
taintherselfwithmydaughter’spresence.Yetsheistaintedherself.Didshetellyouthatshetriedtoassault
mydaughterandstriphernakedinpublicview?DidshetellyouthatsheinflictedthiswoundonmewhenI
stoodbetweenherandmydaughter?DidshetellyouthatIhavetakenthebloodwriting,soshespilledthe
WordofGodwhenshedrewblood?”
Themullahlookedappalled.Hewentbacktothewoman,whostartedscreech-ingalloveragain.Hecuther
offandbeganberatingher.Shestoppedtalking,stunnedthatthemullahhadturnedonher.Hekeptberating
heruntilsheshowedasign ofhumility.Whenshebowed herhead,themullahstoppedhistirade,but as
soonasthewordsstoppedshesentadagger-glanceourway.
Thatnight,threefamiliespulledoutofourcamp.Manyoftheothersincampwerepleasedtoseethemgo.I
heardoneofthegrandmothersmutter“Taliban”underherbreath,makingacurseofthewords.
Themoodincamplifted,exceptformine.“It’smyfaultAlaleft,”Isaid.
“No,itisnotyourfault,”saidDa.“Itwasherfamily’sfault.Theywantthewholeworldtothinktheway
theythinkandtodowhattheydo.ThisisagainsttheteachingoftheQur’an,whichsaysthatthereshallbe
nocoercioninthematteroffaith.Icanfindthesuraifyoulike.”
“AmIunclean?”
“No,”saidDa.“Youarethemostbeautifulgirlintheworld.”
Bymorning,thecamphadbeenfilledbyotherfamilies.Thefacesweremorefriendly,butAlawasgone.
Itwasmyfirstlessoninintolerance,anditcamefrommyownfaith.
****
In Sydney, we sat for hours, waiting to be processed. By the third hour, Da finally lost patience and
approachedthecustomsofficer.
“WeareAustraliancitizens,youknow?”Dasaid.
“Pleasebeseated.Wearestillwaitingforcross-checks.”
“IwasborninBrisbane,forcryingoutloud!ZadawasborninMelbourne.MyfamilyisAustralianfour
generationsback.”
Hisprotestsmadenodifference.EversincetheSaladinOutbreak,customscheckedallMuslimsthoroughly.
FiftyresidentsofDarwinhaddiedfromanout-breakofabiologicalweaponthattheSaladinshadreleased.
Only a handful of Saladins had survived, and they were all in prison, and it had been years ago, but
AustraliastilltreateditsMuslimsasifeverysingleoneofuswasaterroristwaitingfortheopportunityto
goberserk.
Wewereinsulted,shoutedat,andspatonbymenandwomenwhothensteppedintotheirexclusiveclubs
andtalkedabouthowuncivilizedwewere.OnceithadbeentheAborigines,thenithadbeentheItalianand
Greek immigrants; a gen-eration later it was the Asians; now it was our turn. Da thought that we could
leaveforawhile,goonourpilgrimageandreturntoamoresettlednation,butourtreatmentbythecustoms
officersindicatedthatlittlehadchangedintheyearwewereaway.
TheyforcedDatostripforasearch,andnearlydidthesameforme,untilDathreatenedthemwithchild
molestationcharges.Theytookbloodsamplesfrombothofus.Theywentthroughourluggageruthlessly.
TheyX-rayedoursuitcasesfromsomanyanglesthatDajokedtheywouldglowinthedark.
Thentheymadeuswait,whichwastheworstpunishmentofall.
Da leaned over to me and whispered, “They are worried about my blood. They think that maybe I am
carryingadeadlyviruslikeaSaladin.Andwhoknows?MaybetheQur’anisadeadlyvirus.”Hechuckled.
“Cantheyreadyourblood?”Iasked.
“Yes,buttheycan’tmakesenseofitwithoutthecodesheet.”
“IftheyknewitwasjusttheQur’antexts,wouldtheyletusgo?”
“Probably,”saidDa.
“Whydon’tyougiveittothem,then?”
Hesighed.“Zada,itishardtounderstand,butmanypeoplehateusfornoreasonotherthanourfaith.Ihave
neverkilledorhurtorstolenfromanyoneinmylife,andyetpeoplehatemebecauseIprayinachurchwith
acrescentinsteadofacross.”
“ButIwanttogetoutofhere,”Ipleaded.
“Listentome,daughter.Icouldshowthemthecribsheetandexplainittothem,butthentheywouldknow
thecode,andthatisaterrifyingpossibility.Therearepeoplewhohavetriedtodesignillnessesthatattack
onlyJewsoronlyblacks,butsofartheyhavefailed.Thereasonwhytheyhavefailedisthatthereisno
serologicalmarkerforblackorJewishblood.NowwestupidMuslims,andIcountmyselfamongthefools,
haveidentifiedourselves.InmybloodisacodethatsaysthatIamaMuslim,notjustbybirth,butbyactive
faith.Ihavemarkedmyself.Imightaswellwalkintoaneo-NazirallywearingaStarofDavid.
“MaybeIamjustapessimist,”hecontinued.“Maybenoonewilleverdesignananti-Muslimvirus,butitis
nowtechnically,possible.Thelongerittakesthedhimmistofindouthow,thebetter.”
Ilookedupatmyfather.Hehadcalledhimselfafool.“Da,Ithoughtyouweresmart!”
“Mostofthetime,darling.Butsometimesfaithmeansyouhavetodothedumbthing.”
“Idon’twanttobedumb,”Isaid.
Dalaughed.“Youknowyoucanchoosewhateveryouwanttobe.ButthereisasmallhopeIhaveforyou.
Todoityouwouldneedtobevery,verysmart.”
“What?”Iasked.
“IwantyoutogrowuptobesmartenoughtofigureouthowtostoptheillnessesI’mtalkingabout.
Markmywords,racialplagueswillcomeoneday,unlesssome-onecanstopthem.”
“DoyouthinkIcould?”
Dalookedatmewithutterconviction.“Ihaveneverdoubtedit.”
****
Da’sleukemiarecurredafewyearslater.Thechemotherapyhadfailedtocurehimafterall,althoughithad
givenhimsevengoodyears:justlongenoughtoseemetoadulthood,andenrolledingenetics.Itriedto
figure out a way to cure Da, but I was only a freshman. I understood less than half the words in my
textbooks.ThebestIcoulddowasholdhishandasheslowlydied.
ItwasthenthatIfinallyunderstoodwhathemeantwhenhesaidthatsometimesitwasimportantnottobe
smart.AttheclimaxofourhajwehadgonearoundtheKaabahseventimes,movinginahumanwhirlpool.
Itmadenosenseatallintellectually.Goingaroundandaroundawhitetempleinathrongofstrangerswas
aboutaspointlessathingasyoucouldpossiblydo,andyetIstillremembertheeventasoneofthemost
movinginmylife.ForabriefmomentIfeltapartofagreatercommunity,notjustofMuslims,butofthe
Universe.Withthatlastritual,DaandIbecamehajiandhajjah,anditfeltwonderful.
ButIcouldnotputasidemythoughtsthewayDacould.Ihadtobesmart.Dahadaskedmetobesmart.
Andwhenhedied,afterfourmonthsandtwofailedchemocycles,InolongerbelievedinAllah.Iwanted
tomaintainmyfaith,asmuchasformyfatherasforme,butmyheartwasempty.
Theeventthatfinallytippedme,althoughIdidnotevenrealizeituntilmuchlater,wasseeinghisbloodin
asampletube.Theoncologynursehaddrawn8mlsfromhiscentralline,thenrolledthesampletubeend
overendtomixthebloodwiththeanticoagulant.Isawtheblooddarkeninthetubeasitdeoxygenated,and
Ithought about the bloodcellsin there. The whitecellscontained the surasoftheQur’an,butthey also
carriedthebrokencodethatturnedthemintocancercells.
Dahadonceovercomeleukemiayearsbefore.Thedoctorstoldmeitwasveryraretohavearelapseafter
seven years. And this relapse seemed to be more ag-gressive than the first one. The tests, they told me,
indicatedthiswasanewmutation.
Mutation:achangeingeneticcode.Mutagen:anagentthatpromotesmutation.
Bloodwriting,bydefinition,wasmutagenic.Dahadinjectedonehundredandfourteensurasintohisown
DNA. The designer had been very careful to make sure that the bloodwriting virus inserted itself
somewheresafesoitwouldnotdisruptatumorsuppressorgeneorswitchonanoncogene—butthatwas
fornormalpeople.Da’sDNAwasalreadydamagedbyleukemiaandchemotherapy.Thevirushadwrittena
newcodeoverthetop,andIbelievethenewcodeswitchedhisleukemiabackon.
The Qur’an had spoken to his blood, and said: “He it is Who created you from dust, then from a small
lifegerm,thenfromaclot,thenHebringsyouforthasachild,thenthatyoumayattainyourmaturity,then
thatyoumaybeold—andofyoutherearesomewhoarecausedtodiebefore—andthatyoumayreachan
appointedterm,andthatyoumayunderstand./Heitiswhogiveslifeandbringsdeath,sowhenHedecrees
anaffair,Heonlysaystoit:Be,anditis.”
IneverforgaveAllahforsaying“Be!”tomyfather’sleukemia.
Aneducated,intelligentbiologist,DamusthavesuspectedthattheQur’anhadkilledhim.Still,henever
missed a prayer until the day he died. My own faith was not so strong. It shattered like fine china on
concrete.Disbeliefistheonlypossiblerevengeforomnipotence.
An infidel I was by then, but I had made a promise to my father, and for my postdoc I solved the
bloodwritingproblem.Hewouldhavebeenproud.
I abandoned the crib sheet. In my scheme the codons were assigned randomly to letters. Rather than
preordainingTATtomeanzeninArabicor“k”inEnglish,Idesignedaprocessthatshuffledthelettersinto
anewconfigurationeverytime.Becausethereare64codons,withthree{stop}marksandeightblanks,that
comestoabout5X1083or
500,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,0
00,000,000,000,000,000combinations.NoonecoulddesignavirusspecifictotheQur’ansurasanymore.
Thedhimmibas-tardswouldneedtodesignadifferentvirusforeveryMuslimonthefaceoftheEarth.The
faithofmyfatherwassafetobloodwrite.
****
InmyownbloodIhavewrittenthethingsimportanttome.Thereisapictureofmyfamily,apictureofmy
wedding,andapictureofmyparentsfromwhentheywerebothalive.Picturescanbeencodedjustaseasily
astext.
There is some text: Crick and Watson’s original paper describing the double-helix of DNA, and Martin
LutherKing’s“IHaveaDream”speech.Ialsotran-scribedCassius’swordsfromJuliusCaesar:
Thefault,dearBrutus,isnotinourstars,
Butinourselves,thatweareunderlings.
Forthememoryofmyfather,IincludedaMuslimparable,asunnahstoryaboutMohammed:Oneday,a
groupoffarmersaskedMohammedforguidanceonimprovingtheircrop.Mohammedtoldthefarmersnot
topollinatetheirdatetrees.ThefarmersrecognizedMohammedasawiseman,anddidashesaid.
That year, however, none of the trees bore any dates. The farmers were angry, and they returned to
Mohammeddemandinganexplanation.Mohammedheardtheircom-plaints,thenpointedoutthathewasa
religious man, not a farmer, and his wisdom could not be expected to encompass the sum of human
learning.Hesaid,“Youknowyourworldlybusinessbetter.”
ItismyfavoriteparablefromIslam,andisasimportantinitswayasJesus’SermonontheMount.
Atthe end of my insert, I included a quotefromthedhimmiAlbert Einstein, recorded the year after the
atomicbombingofJapan.
Hesaid,“Thereleaseofatompowerhaschangedeverythingbutourwayofthinking,”thenadded,“The
solutionofthisproblemliesintheheartofhuman-kind.”
Ihaveparaphrasedthatlastsentenceintotheessenceofmynewfaith.NoGodwaseversosuccinct.
Myartificialintronreads:
8words,45codons,135basepairsthatsay:
CTAAGCGACGAATGTAGTCATTACGGAAGCTAACATCAGTGTTACTAAGAAAGTTGT
TAACAGTGTAGCGACGAA.TGTGACGAAAAAAGGAGCTGTCATGAG
TGTGACGGACAAAAACAGTATTAACAGAACTGC
Thesolutionliesintheheartofhumankind.
Iwhisperittomychildreneverynight.
****
hatchingthephoenix
FREDERIKPOHL
Aseminalfigurewhosecareerspansalmosttheentiredevelopmentofmod-ernSF,FrederikPohlhasbeen
one of the genre’s major shaping forces — as writer, editor, agent, and anthologist—formore than fifty
years.HewasthefounderoftheStarseries,SF’sfirstcontinuinganthologyseries,andwastheeditorofthe
Galaxygroupofmagazinesfrom1960to1969,duringwhichtimeGalaxy’ssistermagazine,WorldsofIf,
wonthreeconsecutiveBestProfessionalMagazineHugos.
Asawriter,hehaswonNebulaandHugoAwardsseveraltimes(makinghimtheonlypersonevertohave
won the Hugo both as editor and as writer), as well as the American Book Award and theFrench Prix
Apollo.HismanybooksincludeseveralwrittenincollaborationwiththelateC.M.
Kornbluth—such as The Space Mer-chants, Wolfbane, and Gladiator-at-Law— and many solonovels,
includingManPlus,TheComingoftheQuantumCats,APlagueofPythons,SlaveShip,Jem,TheWorldat
theEndofTime,andMiningtheOort.AmonghismanycollectionsareTheGoldattheStarbow’sEnd,The
YearsoftheCity,CriticalMass(incollaborationwithKornbluth),IntheProblemPit,Pohlstars,andThe
BestofFrederik Pohl.He also wrote a nonfiction book incollaboration with the late Isaac Asimov, Our
Angry Earth, and an autobiography, The Way the Future Was. His most recent books are the novels O
Pioneer!, The Siege of Eternity, andThe Far Shore of Time. Coming up soon is a new nonfiction book,
ChasingScience.HisstorieshaveappearedinourSecondandTenthAnnualCollections.
Pohl’smostfamousbookisprobablyGateway,abookwhichwonboththeNebulaandtheHugo,andwhich
is widely regarded as one of the best novels of the ‘70s. It’s also the book in which heintroduced the
Heechee, a race of enigmatic and (seemingly) long-vanished aliens whosediscarded technology enables
humanity to begin the exploration of the Galaxy — a series thatPohl would return to several times
throughouttherestofthe‘80sandintothe‘90s,—withsequelssuchasBeyondthe Blue Event Horizon,
HeecheeRendezvous,TheAnnalsoftheHeechee,andTheGatewayTrip.
Occasionally, Pohl writes about the Heechee in shorter format as well. There were two Heecheestories
published this year, for instance, including the intriguing novella that follows, in which hetakes us far
acrossthegalaxyanddeepintothepasttoshowusthat,nomatterhowalienthesetting,somethingsdon’t
change—alas!
****
CHAPTERI
W
ewereonlyabouthalfadayoutwhenwecrossedthewavefrontfromtheCrabsupernova.Iwouldn’teven
havenoticedit,butmyshipmind,Hypatia,isprogrammedtonoticethingsthatmightinterestme.Soshe
askedmeifIwantedtotakealookatit,andIdid.
Of course I’d already seen the star blow up two or three times in simulations, but as a flesh-and-blood
humanbeingIlikerealitybetterthansimulations—mostofthetime,anyway.Hypatiahadalreadyturned
ontheHeecheescreen,butitshowednothingotherthanthepebblygrayblurthattheHeecheeuse.
Hypatiacanreadthosethings,butIcan’t,soshechangedthephaseforme.
WhatIwasseeingthenwasafieldofstars,lookingexactlylikeanyotherfieldofstarstome.It’salackin
me,I’msure,butasfarasI’mconcernedeverystarlookslikealltheotherstarsinthesky,atleastuntilyou
getcloseenoughtoittoseeitasasun.SoIhadtoaskher,“Whichoneisit?”
Shesaid,“Youcan’tseeityet.Wedon’thavethatmuchmagnification.Butkeepyoureyesopen.Waita
moment.Anothermoment.Now,thereitis.”
Shedidn’thavetosaythat.Icouldseeitformyself.Suddenlyapointoflightemergedandgotbrighter,and
brighterstill,untilitoutshoneeverythingelseonthescreen.Itactuallymademesquint.“Ithappenspretty
fast,”Isaid.
“Well,notreallythatfast,Klara.Ourvectorvelocity,relativetothestar,isquitealotfasterthanlight,so
we’respeedingthingsup.Also,we’recatchingupwiththewavefront,sowe’reseeingitallinreverse.
It’llbegonesoon.”
Andamomentlateritwas.Justasthestarwasbrightestofall,itunexplodeditself.Itbecameasimplestar
again,sounremarkablethatIcouldn’tevenpickitout.Itsplanetswereunscorchedagain,theirpopulations,
ifany,notyetwhiffedintoplasma.“Allright,”Isaid,somewhatimpressedbutnotenoughtowantHy-patia
toknowit,“turnthescreenoffandlet’sgetbacktowork.”
Hypatia sniffed —she has built herself a whole repertoire of human behaviors that I had never had
programmedintoher.Shesaiddarkly,“We’dbetter,ifwewanttobeabletopayallthebillsforthisthing.
Doyouhaveanyideawhatthisiscosting?”
Ofcourse,shewasn’tseriousaboutthat.Ihaveproblems,butbeingabletopaymybillsisn’toneofthem.
Iwasn’talwaysthissolvent.WhenIwasakidonthatchunkofburned-outhelltheycalltheplanetVenus,
drivinganairbodyarounditsbaked,bleaksurfaceforthetouristsalldayandtryingnottospendanyofmy
pay all night, what I wanted most was to have money. I wasn’t hoping for a whole lot of money. I just
wanted enough money so that I could afford Full Medical and a place to live that didn’t stink ofrancid
seafood.Iwasn’tdreamingonanyvastscale.
Itdidn’tworkoutthatway,though.Ineverdidhaveexactlythatmuchmoney.
FirstIhadnoneatallandnorealhopesofevergettingany.ThenIhadmuch,muchmorethanthat,andI
found out something about having a lot of money. When you have the kind of money that’s spelled
M*O*N*E*Y,it’slikehavingakitteninthehouse.Themoneywantsyoutoplaywithit.Youcantryto
leaveitalone,butifyoudoit’llbecrawlingintoyourlapandnibblingatyourchinforattention.Youdon’t
havetogiveintowhatthemoneywants.Youcanjustpushitawayandgoaboutyourbusiness,butthen
Godknowswhatmischiefit’llgetintoifyoudo,andanywaythenwhere’sthefunofhavingit?
SomostofthewayouttothePhoenixCorpsite,HypatiaandIplayedwithmymoney.Thatis,Iplayedwith
itwhileHypatiakeptscore.SherememberswhatIownbetterthanIdo—that’shernature,beingthesort
of task she was designed to do — and she’s always full of suggestions about what investments I should
dumporholdorwhatnewventuresIshouldgetinto.
Thekeywordthereis“suggestions.”Idon’thavetodowhatHypatiasays.SometimesIdon’t.Asageneral
ruleIfollowHypatia’ssuggestionsaboutfourtimesoutoffive.ThefifthtimeIdosomethingdifferent,just
toletherknow thatI’mtheonewho makesthe decisionshere.Iknowthat’snot smart,anditgenerally
costsmemoneywhenIdo.Butthat’sallright.Ihaveplentytospare.
There’salimittohowlongI’mwillingtogoonticklingthemoney’stummy,though.WhenIhadjustabout
reached that point, Hypatia put down her pointer and waved the graphics displays away. She had made
herself optically visible to humor me, because I like to see the person I’m talking to, wearing her fifth-
centuryrobesandcoronetofrough-cutrubiesandall,andshegavemeaninquiringlook.“Readytotakea
littlebreak,Klara?”sheasked.“Doyouwantsomethingtoeat?”
Well,Iwas,andIdid.Sheknewthatperfectlywell.She’scontinuallymoni-toringmybody,becausethat’s
oneoftheothertasksshe’sdesignedtodo,butIliketokeepmyfreewillgoingthere,too.
“Actually,”Isaid,“I’dratherhaveadrink.Howarewedoingfortime?”
“Rightonschedule,Klara.We’ll bethere inten hoursorso.”Shedidn’tmove— thatis, hersimulation
didn’t move—but I could hear the clink of ice going into a glass in the galley. “I’ve been accessing the
PhoenixCorpshipmind.Ifyouwanttoseewhat’sgoingon…?”
“Doit,”Isaid,butshewasalreadydoingit.Shewavedagain—puretheater,ofcourse,butHypatia’sfullof
that—andwe got a new set of graphics.As the little serving cart rolled in and stopped just by my right
hand,wewerelookingthroughPhoenixCorp’sownvisuals,andwhatwewerelookingatwasadish-shaped
metalspiderweb, withlittle thingscrawlingacross it.Icould formnoprecise pictureofits size,because
therewasnothinginthespacearoundittocompareitwith.ButIdidn’thaveto.Iknewitwasbig.
“Haveoneforyourself,”Isaid,liftingmyglass.
Shegavemethatpatient,exasperatedlookandletitpass.Sometimesshedoessimulatehavingasimulated
drinkwithmewhileIhavearealone,butthistimeshewasinherschoolteachermode.“Asyoucansee,
Klara,” she informed me, “the shipment of optical mirror pieces has arrived, and the drones are putting
theminplaceontheparabolicdish.They’llbegettingfirstlightfromtheplanetinanhourorso,butIdon’t
think you’ll care about seeing it. The resolution will be poor until they get everything put together; that
shouldtakeabouteighteenhours.Thenweshouldhaveoptimalresolutiontoobservetheplanet.”
“Forfourdays,”Isaid,takingapullatmyglass.
She gave me a different look —still the schoolteacher, but now a schoolteacher putting up with a
particularlyannoyingstudent.“Hey,Klara.Youknewtherewouldn’tbemuchtime.Itwasn’tmyideato
comeallthewayouthereanyway.Wecouldhavewatchedthewholethingfromyourisland.”
I swallowed the rest of my nightcap and stood up. “That’s not how I wanted to do it,” I told her. “The
troublewithyousimulationsisthatyoudon’tappreciatewhatrealityislike.Wakemeupanhourbeforewe
getthere.”
And I headed for my stateroom, with my big and round and unoccupied bed. I didn’t want to chat with
Hypatia just then. The main reason I had kept her busy giving me financial advice so long was that it
preventedherfromgivingmeadviceonthethingshewasalwaystryingtotalkmeinto,orthatoneother
bigthingthatIreallyneededtomakeupmymindabout,andcouldn’t.
****
Thecartwithmyblackcoffeeandfresh-squeezedorangejuice—makethatquote“fresh-squeezed”
unquoteorangejuice,butHypatiawastoogoodatherjobformetobeabletotellthedifference—was
rightby mybedwhen shewokeme up.“Ninetyminutes tolinkup,”she saidcheerily,“and averygood
morningtoyou.ShallIstartyourshower?”
Isaid,“Um.”Ninetyminutesisnotasecondtoolongformetositandswallowcoffee,staringintospace,
beforeIhavetodoanythingasenergeticasgettingintoashower.ButthenIlookedintothewallmirrorby
thebed,didn’tlikewhatIsaw,anddecidedI’dbettersprucemyselfupalittlebit.
Iwas neverwhatyou’d call aprettywoman. My eyebrowswerea lottooheavy,for one thing.Onceor
twiceovertheyearsI’dhadthedamnthingsthinneddown tofashion-modelproportions,justtoseeifit
wouldhelpany.Itdidn’t.I’devenmessedaroundwithmybonestructure,morecheekbones,lessjaw,totry
tolookalittlelessmasculine.Itjustmademelookweak-faced.ForacoupleofyearsI’dgoneblonde,then
triedredheadoncebutcheckeditoutandmadethemchangeitbackbeforeIleftthebeautyparlor.They
were all mistakes. They didn’t work. Whenever I looked at myself, whatever the cosmetologists and the
medicalfixer-uppershaddone,IcouldstillseetheoldGelle-KlaraMoynlinhidingtherebehindallthetrim.
Soscrewit.ForthelastlittlewhileI’dgonenatural.
Well,prettynatural,anyway.Ididn’twanttolookold.
Ididn’t,ofcourse.BythetimeIwasbathedandmyhairwasfixedandIwaswearingasimpledressthat
showedoffmyprettygoodlegs,actually,IlookedasgoodasIeverhad.“Almostthere,”Hypatiacalled.
“Youbetterhangontosome-thing.Ihavetomatchvelocities,andit’satrickyjob.”Shesoundedannoyed,
assheusuallydoeswhenIgivehersomethinghardtodo.Shedoesit,ofcourse,butshecomplainsalot.
“Faster than light I can do, slower than light I can do, but when you tell me to match velocity with
somebodywho’sdoingexactlycyou’reintosomeprettyweirdeffects,so—Oh,sorry.”
“Youshouldbe,”Itoldher,becausethatlastlurchhadnearlymademespillmythirdcupofcoffee.
“Hypatia?Whatdoyouthink,thepearlsorthecameo?”
Shedidthatfaketwo-orthree-secondpause,asthoughshereallyneededanytimeatalltomakeadecision,
beforeshegavemetheverdict.“I’dwearthecameo.Onlywhoreswearpearlsinthedaytime.”
SoofcourseIdecidedtowearthepearls.Shesighedbutdidn’tcomment.“Allright,”shesaid,openingthe
port.“We’redocked.Mindthestep,andI’llkeepintouch.”
InoddedandsteppedoverthesealsintothePhoenixCorpmothership.
Therewasn’tanyreal“step.”WhattherewaswasasharptransitionfromthecomfortableonegeeIkeptin
myownshiptothegravitylessenvironmentofthePhoenixCorpship.Mystomachdidaquicklittleflip-
flopofprotest,butIgrabbedahold-onbarandlookedaround.
Idon’tknowwhatI’dexpectedtofind,maybesomethingliketheoldGatewayasteroid.PhoenixCorphad
doneitselfalotmorelavishlythanthat,andIbegantowonderifIhadn’tmaybebeenatouchtooopen-
handed with the financing. The place certainly didn’t smell like Gateway. Instead of Gateway’s sour,
ancientfug,ithadthewetlysweetsmellofagreenhouse.Thatwasbecausetherewerevinesandfernsand
flowers growing in pots all around the room — spreading out in all directions, because of that zero-gee
environment,and ifI’dthought about thataheadof time, Iwouldn’thaveworn a skirt.Theonlyhuman
being in sight was a tall, nearly naked black man who was hanging by one toe from a wall bracket,
exercising his muscles with one of those metal-spring gadgets. (“Hum-phrey Mason-Manley,” Hypatia
whispered in my ear. “He’s the archeologist-anthropologist guy from the British Museum.”) Without
breakinghisrhythm,Humphreygavemealookofannoyance.
“Whatareyoudoinghere,miss?Novisitorsarepermitted.Thisisprivateprop-erty,and—“
Thenhegotabetterlookatmeandhisexpressionchanged.Nottowelcomingexactly,buttowhatI’dcall
sortofunwillinglyimpressed.“Oh,crikey,”hesaid.“You’reGelle-KlaraMoynlin,areyounot?
That’sabitdifferent.Welcomeaboard,Iguess.”
****
CHAPTERII
Itwasn’tthe most affablegreeting I’d ever had.However, when Humphrey Mason-Manley woke up the
headengineerforme,sheturnedouttobealotmorecourteous.Shedidn’thavetobe,either.AlthoughI
had put up the seed money to get the project started, PhoenixCorp was set up as a nonprofit institution,
ownedbynobodybutitself.Iwasn’tevenontheboard.
Thebossengineer’sname,Hypatiawhisperedtome,wasJuneThaddeusTerple—DoctorTerple.Ididn’t
reallyneedthereminder.TerpleandIhadmetbefore,thoughonlybyscreen,whenshewastryingtoscare
upmoneyforthisventureandsomebodyhadgivenhermyname.InpersonshewastallerthanI’dthought.
ShelookedtobeabouttheageIlookedtobemyself,whichistosay,charitably,thirtyish.
Shewas wearingakind ofstringbikini, plusa workman’sbelt oflittlepouches aroundher waist soshe
couldkeepstuffinit.Shetookmeintoheroffice,whichwasasortofwedge-shapedchamberwithnothing
muchvisibleinitbuthandholdsonthewallsandalotmoreofthosefloweringplants.“SorryIwasn’tthere
tomeetyou,Dr.Moynlin,”shesaid.
“I’mnotadoctorofanything,excepthonorary,andKlara’sgoodenough.”
Shebobbed her head.“Anyway,ofcourse you’re welcomehereany time.Iguessyou wanted toseefor
yourselfhowwe’recomingalong.”
“Well,Ididwantthat,yes.Ialsowantedtosetsomethingup,ifyoudon’tmind.”Thatwasmereturning
courtesyforcourtesy,howeverunnecessaryitwasineitherdirection.“DoyouknowwhoWilhelmTartch
is?”
Shethoughtforamoment.“No.”
Somuchforhisgalaxywidefame.Iexplained.“Bill’sakindofrovingreporter.Hehasaprogramthatgoes
outallover,eventotheHeecheeintheCore.It’ssortofatravelogue.Hevisitsexcitingandcolorfulplaces
andreportsonthemforthestay-at-homes.”Hewasalsomypresentmainlover,buttherewasn’tanyreason
tomentionthattoTerple;shewouldfigureitoutforherselffastenough.
“AndhewantstodoPhoenixCorp?”
“Ifyoudon’tmind,”Isaidagain.“Ididclearitwiththeboard.”
Shegrinnedatme.“Soyoudid,butIsortoflosttrackofit.We’vebeendeployingthedrones,soit’sbeen
kindofbusy.”She shookherself. “Anyway,Hanstellsmeyourshipminddisplayedtheactualsupernova
explosiontoyouonthewayout.”
“That’s right,shedid.”Inmy ear Hypatia was whispering that Hanswasthenameof their shipmind, as
thoughIcouldn’tfigurethatoutformyself.
“AndIsupposeyouknowwhatitlookslikefromEarthnow?”
“Well,sortof.”
I could see her assessing how much “sort of” amounted to, and deciding to be diplomatic to the money
person.“Itwouldn’thurttotakeanotherlook.Hans!TelescopicviewfromEarth,please.”
Shewas looking toward one end of heroffice.It disappeared, and in itsplace we were looking out at a
blotchy patch of light. “That’s it. It’s called the Crab Nebula. Of course, they named it that before they
reallyknewwhat itwas, butyoucanseewheretheygotthename.”Iagreed thatitdidlookalittlelike
some sort of deformed crab, and Terple went on. “The nebula itself is just the gases and stuff that the
supernovathrewoff,athousandyearsorsolater.Idon’tknowifyoucanmakeitout,butthere’salittle
spotinthemiddleofitthat’stheCrabpulsar.That’sallthat’sleftofthestar.Nowlet’slookatthewayit
wasbeforeitwentsuper.”
Hanswipedthenebulaaway,andwewerelookingintothesamedeep,blackspaceHypatiahadshownme
already.Therewerethesamezillionstarshangingthere,butastheshipmindzoomedthepicturecloser,one
extraordinarilybrightoneappeared.“Bright”didn’tdoitjustice.Itwasablazinggoldenyellow,curiously
fuzzy.Itwasn’treallyhot.Itcouldn’tbe;thesimulationwasonlyoptical.ButIcouldalmostfeelitsheaton
myface.
“Idon’tseeanyplanet,”Ioffered.
“Oh,youwill,oncewegetalltheopticalsegmentsinplace.”Thensheinter-ruptedherself.“Iforgottoask.
Wouldyoulikeacupofteaorsomething?”
“Thanks,no.Nothingrightthisminute.”Iwaspeeringatthestar.“Ithoughtitwouldbebrighter,”Isaid,a
littledisappointed.
“Oh,itwillbe,Klara.That’swhatwe’rebuildingthatfive-hundred-kilometermirrorfor.Rightnowwe’re
justgettingthegravitationallensingfromtheblackholewe’reusing—there’salittlecamerainthemirror.
Idon’tknowifyouknowmuchaboutblackholes,but—oh,shit,”sheinterruptedherself,suddenlystricken.
“Youdoknow,don’tyou?Imean,afteryouwerestuckinoneforthirtyorfortyyears…”
Shelooked as though she had inadvertently caused me great pain. She hadn’t.I was used to that sort of
reaction.Peoplerarelybroughtupthesubjectofblackholesinmypresence,onthegeneralprinciplethat
youdon’ttalkaboutropewhenthere’sbeenahanginginthehouse.ButthetimeIwastrappedinoneof
themwasfarbackinthepast.Ithadgonelikeaflashformeintheblackhole’stimedilation,whateverthe
elapsedtimewasontheoutside,andIwasn’tsensitiveaboutit.
Ontheotherhand,Iwasn’tinterestedindiscussingitonemoredamntime,either,soIjustsaid,“Myblack
holedidn’tlooklikethat.Itwasacreepykindofpaleblue.”
Terplerecoveredquickly.Shegavemeawisenodofthehead.“ThatwouldhavebeenCerenkovradiation.
Yoursmusthavebeenwhattheycallanakedsingularity.Thisone’sdifferent.It’swrappedupinitsown
ergosphereandyoucan’tseeathing.Mostblackholesproducealotofradiation—notfromthem-selves,
fromthe gases and stuffthey’re swallowing —but thisonehasalreadyswal-lowed everything around it.
Anyway.” She paused to recollect her train of thought. Then she nodded. “I was telling you about the
gravitationallensing.Hans?”
She didn’t say what she wanted from Hans, but evidently he could figure it out for himself. The stars
disappeared,andasortofwallofmistywhiteappearedinfrontofus.Terplepokedatithereandtherewith
afinger,drawingalittlepictureforme:
“Thatlittledotontheleft,that’stheCrabberplanetwewanttostudy.Thecircle’stheblackhole.Thearcon
therightisourmirror,whichisrightatthepointofconvergence—wherethegravitationallensingfromthe
black hole gives us the sharpest image. And the little dot next to it is us, at the Cassegrain focus of the
mirror.Ididn’tshowtheCrabbersun—actuallywehavetoavoidaimingthecameraatit,becauseitcould
burnoutouroptics.AmImakingsensesofar?”
“Sofar,”Iagreed.
Shegavemeanotherofthoseassessinglooks,thensaid,“We’llactuallybedoingourobservingbylooking
towardthemirror,nottowardtheCrabplanet.Theretoowe’llhavetoblockoutthestaritself,orwewon’t
seetheactualplanetatall,butthat’sjustanotherofthethingswe’llbeadjusting.Thenwe’llactuallybe
lookingdiametricallyawayfromtheplanetinordertoobserveit.”
Ihadn’tbeenabletoresistthetemptationwithHypatia,andIcouldn’tnowwithJuneTerple.“Forfouror
fivedays,”Isaidinmyfriendliestvoice.
I guess the tone wasn’t friendly enough. She looked nettled. “Listen, we didn’t put the damn black hole
whereitis.Ittookustwoyearsofsearchingtofindoneintherightposition.There’saneutronstarthatwe
could’veused.Orbitwiseitwasabetterdealbecauseitwouldhavegivenusnearlyeightyyearstoobserve,
but it’s just a damn neutron star. It wouldn’t have given us anywhere the same magnification, because a
neutron star just doesn’t have anywhere near as much mass as a black hole, so the gravitational lensing
would’vebeenalotless.We’llgetalotmoredetailwithourblackhole.Anyway,”
sheadded,“oncewe’veobservedfromherewe’llmovethiswholelash-uptotheneutronstarforwhatever
additionaldatawecanget—Imean,uh,ifthatseemsadvisable,wewill.”
WhatshemeantbythatwasifIwaswillingtopayforit.Well,Iprobablywas.Thecapitalcostswerepaid;
itwouldonlymeanmeetingtheirpayrollforanothereightyyearsorso.
ButIwasn’treadytomakethatcommitment.Totakehermindoffit,Isaid,“Ithoughtweweresupposedto
havealmostthirtydaysofobservingrighthere.”
Shelookedglum.“Radioobserving.That’swhywebuiltthemeshdish.Butitturnsoutthere’snoradio
comingfromtheCrabberplanetatall,sowehadtogetthemirrorplatestoconvertittooptical.Tookus
overthreeweeks,whichiswhywelostsomuchobservingtime.”
“Isee,”Isaid.“Noradiosignals.Sotheremightnotbeanycivilizationtheretoobserve,anyway.”
She bit her lip. “We know definitely that there’s life there. Or was, anyway. It’s one of the planets the
Heecheesurveyedlongago,andtherewereadvancedlivingorganismsthereatthetime—prettyprimitive,
sure,buttheycertainlylookedasthoughtheyhadthepotentialtoevolve.”
“Thepotentialtoevolve,right.Butwhethertheydidornotwejustdon’tknow.”
She didn’t answer that. She just sighed. Then she said, “As long as you’re here, would you like a look
around?”
“IfIwon’tbeintheway,”Isaid.
****
Of course I was in the way. June Terple didn’t let it show, but some of the others barely gave me the
courtesy of looking up when we were introduced. There were eight of them altogether, with names like
JuliaIbarruruandMarkRohrbeckandHumphreyMason-ManleyandOlegKekuskianand—well,Ididn’t
haveto try to retain themall;Hypatia would clue me asneeded.HumphreyMason-Manley was the guy
who’dbeenbuildinghispecswhenIcamein.Juliawastheonewhowasfloatinginaharnesssurrounded
byfifteenortwenty3-Diconsthatshewasbusypokingatandgloweringatandpokingatagain,andshe
gavemenomorethanaquickandnoncommittalnod.Ifmynamemeantanythingtoher,ortomostofthe
others,theydidn’tshowanysignsofbeingimpressed.EspeciallyRohrbeckandKekuskiandidn’t,because
theyweresoundasleepintheirharnesseswhenwepeekedinonthem,andTerplehadafingertoherlips.
“Thirdshift,”she whis-peredwhenwe’dclosedtheflapson theircubiclesandmovedaway.“They’llbe
wakingupfordinnerinalittlewhile,butlet’sletthemgettheirsleep.Andthere’sonlyoneother.Let’sgo
findher.”
Onthewaytothatoneothermemberofthecrew,Hypatiawaswhisperingbitsofbiographyinmyear.
Kekuskian was the quite elderly and bisexual astrophysicist. Rohrbeck the quite young and deeply
depressedprogramdesigner,whosemarriagehadjustcomepainfullyapart.Andtheoneremainingperson
was…
WasaHeechee.
I didn’t have to be told that. Once you’ve seen any one Heechee, you know what they all look like;
skeletallythinfronttoback,squarish,skull-likefaces,theirdatapod,hangingbetweentheirlegswhere,if
they were male, their balls should be, and if female (as this one turned out to be), there shouldn’t be
anything much at all. Her name, Terple said, was Starminder, and as we entered her chamber she was
workingatasetoficonsofherown.Butassoonassheheardmynameshewipedthemandbarreledover
tometoshakemyhand.“YouareveryfamousamongusintheCore,Gelle-KlaraMoynlin,”sheinformed
me,hangingontomyhandforsupport.“BecauseofyourMoynlinCitizenAmbassadors,yousee.When
your Rebecca Shapiro person came to our city, she was invited to stay with the father of my husband’s
family,whichiswhereImether.Shewasquitein-formativeabouthumanbeings;indeed,itwasbecauseof
herthatIvolunteeredatoncetocomeout.Doyouknowher?”
ItriedtorememberRebeccaShapiro.IhadputupgrantmoneyforagoodmanybatchesofrecruitssinceI
funded the program, and she would have had to be one of the earliest of them. Starminder saw my
uncertaintyandtriedtobehelpful.“Youngwoman.Verysad.Shesangmusiccomposedbyyournow-dead
WolfgangAmadeusMozartforourpeople,whichIalmostcametoenjoy.”
“Oh,right,thatRebecca,”Isaid,notveryhonestly.BythenI’dpaidthefaretotheCorefor—what?
—atleasttwoorthreehundredRebeccasorCarlosesorJaneswhovolunteeredtobeCitizenAmbassadors
totheHeecheeintheCorebecausetheyhadlivesthatwereashambles.Thatwasagiven.
Iftheir liveshadn’tbeen,why would they wanttoleave the peopleandplaces they wouldn’tevercome
backto?
Because,ofcourse,theCorewastime-dilated,likeanyblackhole.Iknewwhatthatmeant.Whenyouwere
time-dilatedintheCore,whereacoupleofcenturiesofoutsidetimewentbyeveryday,theproblemsyou
leftbehindgotreally oldreally fast.Timedilation wasbetterthansuicide— though,whenyou cameto
thinkofit,actuallyakindofreversesuicideisprettymuchwhatitwas.Youdidn’tdieyourself,butevery
troublesomepersonyou’deverknowndidwhileyouweregone.
IwishallthoseCitizenAmbassadorsofminewell.Ihopeitallworksoutforthem…butbeinginablack
holehadn’tdoneathingforme.
****
OnceI’dmetallthepeopleonthePhoenixCorpship,therewasn’tmuchelsetosee.Ihadmisjudgedmy
budget-watchers.Terplehadn’tbeenthatspendthriftafterall.Ifyoudidn’tcounttheopulentplantings
—andtheywerethereprimarilytokeeptheairgood—thePhoenixCorpshipactuallywasaprettybare-
boneskindofspacecraft.Therewerethesleepingquartersforthehelp,andsomecommonrooms—thebig
oneI’dcomeintowhenIfirstentered,plusasortofdiningroomwithbeveragedispensersandnettingnext
tothehold-onstokeepthemealsfromflyingaway,acoupleoflittleroomsformusicorvirtualswhenthe
people wanted some recreation. The rest of it was storage and, of course, all the machinery and
instrumentation PhoenixCorp needed to do its job. Terple didn’t show me any of the hardware. I didn’t
expectherto.That’stheshipmind’sbusiness,andthatsortofthingstayssealedawaywherenoharmcan
cometoit.So,unlesssomebodyhadbeenfoolishenoughtoopenupalotofcompartmentsthatweremeant
tostayclosed,therewouldn’thavebeenanythingtosee.
Whenwewerefinished,shefinallyinsistedonthatcupoftea—reallythatcapsuleoftea,thatis—and
whileweweredrinkingit,holdingwithonehandtothehold-ons,shesaid,“That’saboutit,Klara.Oh,wait
aminute.Ihaven’tactuallyintroducedyoutoourshipmind,haveI?Hans?SayhellotoMs.
Moynlin.”
Adeep,pleasantmalevoicesaid,“Hello,Ms.Moynlin.Welcomeaboard.We’vebeenhopingyou’dvisit
us.”
I said hello back to him and left it at that. I don’t particularly like chatting with machine intelligences,
exceptmyown.Ifinishedmytea,slidtheemptycapsuleintoitsslot,andsaid,“Well,I’llgetoutofyour
way.Iwanttogetbacktomyownshipforabitanyway.”
Terplenoddedanddidn’taskwhy.“We’regoingtohavedinnerinaboutanhour.Wouldyouliketojoinus?
Hansisaprettygoodcook.”
Thatsoundedlikeasgoodanideaasany,soItoldherthatwouldbefine.
Then,asshewasescortingmetothedockingport,shegavemeasidewiselook.“Listen,”shesaid,“I’m
sorrywebombedoutontheradiosearch.Itdoesn’tnec-essarilymeanthattheCrabbersnevergotcivilized.
Afterall,ifsomebodyhadscannedEarthanytimebeforethetwentiethcentury,theywouldn’thaveheard
anyradiosignalsthere,either,butthehumanracewasfullyevolvedbythen.”
“Iknowthat,June.”
“Yes.”Sheclearedherthroat.“DoyoumindifIaskyouaquestion?”
Isaid,“Ofcoursenot,”meaningthatshecouldaskanythingshewantedto,butwhetherorwhatIchoseto
answerwasanothermatterentirely.
“Well,youputalotofmoneyintogettingPhoenixstarted,justonthechancethattheremighthavebeenan
intelligentracetherethatgotfriedwhentheirsunwentsuper.WhatI’mwonderingiswhy.”
Theanswertothatwassimpleenough.Imean,what’sthepointofbeingjustabouttherichestwomaninthe
universeifyoudon’thavealittlefunwithyourmoneynowandthen?ButIdidn’tsaythattoher.Ijust
said,“WhatelsedoIhavetodo?”
****
CHAPTERIII
Well,Ididhavethingstodo.Lotsofthem,thoughmostofthemweren’tveryimportant.
Theonlyonethatwasreallyimportant—tome—wasoverseeingthelittleislandoffTahitithatIliveon
whenI’mhome. It’s aniceplace,thewayI’vefixeditup. Mostof mymore-or-lessfamilyisthere,and
whenI’mawayIreallymissthem.
Thenthereareotherimportantthings,suchasspendingsometimewithBillTartch,whoisafairlysweet
man,nottomentionalltheotherslikeBillTartchwhohavecomealongovertheyears.Orsuchthingsasall
thestuffIcan buywith mymoney,plusfiguringoutwhattodowiththepowerthatthatkindofmoney
gives.Putthemalltogether,Ihadplentytodowithmylife.AndIhadplentyoflifetolookforwardto,too,
especiallyifIletHypatiatalkmeintoimmortality.
Sowhywasn’tIlookingforwardtoit?
When I came back into my ship, Hypatia was waiting for me—visible, in full 3-D simulation, lounging
drapedRoman-styleontheloveseatinthemaincabinandfullydressedinherfifth-centuryrobes.
“Sohowdidyoulikeyourinvestment?”sheaskedsociably.
“Tellyouinaminute,”Isaid,goingtotheheadandclosingthedoorbehindme.Ofcourse,acloseddoor
makesnorealdifferencewithHypatia.ShecanseemewhereverIamontheship,andnodoubtdoes,butas
longasamachineintelligenceactsandlookshuman,Iwantittopretendtoobservehumancour-tesies.
HittingtheheadwasthemainreasonI’dcomebacktomyshipjustthen.Idon’tlikepeeinginfreefall,in
thoseawfultoiletstheyhave.Hypatiakeepsoursatasuitablegravityformycomfort,liketherestofthe
ship. Besides, it makes her nervous if I use any toilets outside the ship, because she likes to rummage
throughmyexcretionstoseeifI’mstayinghealthy.
WhichshehadbeendoingwhileIwasinthehead.WhenIcameout,shedidn’tseemtohavemoved,but
shesaid,“Areyoureallygoingtoeattheirfood?”
“Sure.Whynot?”
“You’vebeenrunningalittlehighonpolyglycerides.Betteryouletmecookforyou.”
Teasingher,Isaid,“JuneTerplesaysHansisabettercook.”
“Shesaidhe’sa goodcook,”shecorrectedme, “but so amI.I’ve been accessinghim,bythe way, so if
there’sanythingyou’dliketoknowaboutthecrew….”
“Notaboutthecrew,butStarmindersaidsomethingaboutaRebeccaShapiro.Whowasshe?”
“ThatdataisnotinthePhoenixshipmind’sstores,Klara,”shesaid,reprovingme.“However…”
Shewhitedoutacornerofmyloungeanddisplayedafaceonitwhileshegavemeacapsulebiographyof
RebeccaShapiro.Rebeccahadbeenadramaticsopranowithabrilliantoperaticfutureaheadofheruntil
shegotherlarynxcrushedinaplanecrash.They’drepaireditwellenoughformostpurposes,butshewas
nevergoingtobeabletosing“TheQueenoftheNight”again.So,withherlifeonEarthruined,Rebecca
hadsignedupformyprogram.“Anyotherquestions?”Hypatiasaid.
“NotaboutRebecca,butI’vebeenwonderingwhytheycalltheirshipmindHans.”
“Oh,thatwasMarkRohrbeck’sidea;hewantedtonamehimaftersomeoldcomputerpioneer.Thename
doesn’tmatter,though,doesit?Imean,whydidyoudecidetocallmeHypatia?”
“BecauseHypatiaofAlexandriawasasmart,snottybitch,”Itoldher.“Likeyou.”
“Humph,”shesaid.
“As well as being the first great woman scientist,” I added, because Hypatia always likes to talk about
herself.
“Thefirstknownone,”shecorrected.“Whoknowshow manytherewerewhoseaccomplishmentsdidn’t
manageto survive?Womendidn’tgetmuchof a break inyourancient meat world—or,for that matter,
now.”
“Youweresupposedtobebeautiful,too,”Iremindedher.“Andyoudiedavirginanyway.”
“Bychoice,Klara.EventhatoldHypatiadidn’tcaremuchforallthatmessymeatstuff.AndIdidn’tjust
die.Iwasbrutallymurdered.Itwasacoldwetspringina.d.450,andagangofthosedamnNitrianmonks
tore me to shreds because I wasn’t a Christian. Anyway,” she finished, “you’re the one who picked my
iden-tity.Ifyouwantedmetobesomeoneelse,youcouldhavegivenmeadifferentone.”
Shehadmegrinningbythen.“Istillcan,”Iremindedher.“MaybesomethinglikeJoanofArc?”
She shuddered fastidiously at the idea of being a Christian instead of a gods-fearing Roman pagan and
changedthesubject.“WouldyoulikemetoputacallthroughtoMr.Tartchnow?”
Well,IwouldandIwouldn’t.IhadunfinishedbusinesstosettlewithBillTartch,butIwasn’tquitereadyto
settleit,so Ishookmyhead.“I’ve beenwon-dering aboutthese extinctpeople we’retrying toresurrect.
HaveyougotanyHeecheerecordsoftheplanetthatIhaven’tseenyet?”
“Youbet.Morethanyou’lleverwanttowatch.”
“Soshowmesome.”
“Sure thing, boss,” she said, and disappeared, and all at once I was standing on an outcropping of rock,
lookingdownonabright,greenvalleywheresomefunny-lookinganimalsweremovingaround.
****
ThatwasthedifferencebetweenPhoenixCorp’smajorsimulationsandmine.Minecostmore.Theirswere
goodenoughforworkingpurposes,becausetheyshowedyouprettymuchanythingyouwantedtosee,but
mineputyourightinthemiddleofit.Minewerefullsensorysystems,too,soIcouldsmellandfeelaswell
asIcouldseeandhear.AsIstoodthere,awarmbreezeruffledmyhair,andIsmelledadistinctreekof
smoke.“Hey,Hypatia,”Isaid,alittlesurprised.“Havethesepeoplediscoveredfire?”
“Nottouse,no,”shemurmuredinmyear.“Must’vebeenalightningstrikeupinthehillsfromthestorm.”
“Whatstorm?”
“Theonethatjustpassed.Don’tyouseeeverything’swet?”
Notonmyrock,itwasn’t.Thesunoverheadwasbigandbrightandveryhot.
Ithadalreadybakedtherockdry,butIcouldseethatthejumbleofdarkgreenvinesatthebaseofmyrock
wasstilldripping,andwhenIturnedaroundIcouldseeasplotchofburningvegetationonthedistanthill.
Thevalleywasmoreinteresting.Patchesoftrees,orsomethingliketrees;aherdofbig,shaggycreatures,
Kodiakbear-sizedbutobviouslyvegetariansbecausetheywereindustriouslypushingsomeofthetreesover
toeattheirleaves;apairofrivers,anarrow,fast-movingonewithlittlewaterfallsthatcamedownfromthe
hillstomyleftandflowedtojoinabroader,moresluggishoneontherighttomakeabiggerstream;afew
othershaggycreatures,thesequitealotbiggerstill,feedingbythemselvesonwhateverwasgrowinginthe
plain—well,itwasaninterestingsight;maybealittlelikethegreatAmericanprairieortheAfricanveldt
musthavelookedbeforeourforebearskilledoffallthewildmeatanimals.
Themostinterestingpartofthesimulationwasapackofadozenorsopredatorsinthemiddledistance,
circlingfurtivelyaroundagroupofthreeorfourcreaturesIcouldn’teasilymakeout.Ipointed.“Arethose
theones?”IaskedHypatia.Andwhenshesaidtheywere,Itoldhertogetmeupcloser.
AtcloserangeIcouldseethehuntedoneslookedsomethinglikepigs—thatis,ifpigshappenedtohave
long,skinnylegsandlong,squirrellytails.Inoticedamommypigbaringherteethandtryingtosnapatthe
predatorsinalldirectionsatonce,andthreelittleonesdoingtheirbesttohuddleunderthemother’sbelly.It
wasthepredatorsIwaspayingattentionto.Theylookedvaguelyprimate.Thatis,theyhadapelikefaces
andshorttails.Buttheydidn’tlooklikeanyprimatethateverlivedonEarth,becausetheyhadsixlimbs:
fourthattheyranon,andtwomorelikearms,andintheirsort-ofhandstheyheldsharp-edgedrocks.As
theygotintoposition,theybeganhurlingtherocksattheprey.
Themotherpigdidn’thaveachance. Inacouple ofminutes, twoof herbabieswere downand shewas
racingawaywiththatlongtailflickingfromsidetosidelikeametronome,andthesurvivingpigletright
behindher, itstail-flickskeepingtimewithitsmother’s,andthe six-limbedpredatorshadwhatthey had
comefor.
Itwasnotaprettyscene.
Iknow perfectlywell thatanimals livebyeating,andI’m notsentimentalaboutthematter—hell,I eat-
steak!(Notalwaysoutofafoodfactory,either.)Allthesame,Ididn’tlikewatchingwhatwashappeningon
thishalf-million-year-oldalienveldt,because oneofthepigletswasstillalivewhenthewolf-apesbegan
eatingit,anditspitifulshriekinggottome.
SoIwasn’tabitsorrywhenHypatiainterruptedmetosaythatMr.Tartchhadn’twaitedformetocallhim
andwasalreadyontheline.
****
NearlyallofmyconversationswithBillTartchgetintosomekindofintimatearea.Helikesthatkindof
sexytalk.Idon’tparticularly,soItriedtokeepthecallshort.Thebasicfactshehadtoconveywerethathe
missedmeandthat,unspokenly,helookedasgoodasever—notverytall,notexactlyhandsomebutsolidly
builtandwithagreat,challengingI-know-what-fun-is-all-aboutgrin—andthathewasjusttwodaysout.
That’snotalotofharddatatogetoutofwhatwasmorethanaquarter-houroftalkcapsuledbackandforth
overallthoselight-years.Iguess,buttherestwasprivate;andwhenIwasfinished,itwasabouttimetoget
dressedfordinnerwiththePhoenixCorppeople.
Hypatiawaswayaheadofme,asusual.Shehadgonethroughmywardrobeandusedhereffectuatorsto
pulloutadressypantssuitforme,soIwouldn’thaveaskirttokeepflyingup,alongwithagoldneckband
thatwouldn’tbefloppingaroundmyfaceasthepearlshad.Theyweregoodchoices;Ididn’targue.And
whileIwasgettingintothemsheaskedchattily,“SodidMr.Tartchsaythankyou?”
IknowHypatia’stonesbynow.Thisonemademyhacklesrise.“Forwhat?”
“Why,forkeepinghiscareergoing,”shesaid,soundingsurprised.“Hewasprettymuchwashedupuntil
youcamealong,wasn’the?Soit’sonlyappropriatethatheshould,youknow,displayhisgratitude.”
“You’re pushing your luck,” I told her as I slipped into a pair of jeweled stock-ings. Sometimes I think
Hypatiagetsalittletoopersonal,andthistimeitjustwasn’tjustified.Ididn’thavetodofavorstogeta
man.Christ,theproblemwastofendthemoff!It’sjustthatwhenit’soverIliketoleavethemalittlebetter
offthanIfoundthem;andBill,trueenough,hadreachedthatstageinhiscareerwhenalittlehelpnowand
thenwasuseful.
ButIdidn’twanttodiscussitwithher.“Talkaboutsomethingelseorshutup,”Iordered.
“Sure,hon.Let’ssee.HowdidyouliketheCrabbers?”
Itoldherthetruth.“Notmuch.Theirtablemannersareprettylousy.”
Hypatiagiggled.“Gettingaweakstomach,Klara?Doyoureallythinkthey’remuchworsethanyourown
remotepredecessors?BecauseIdon’tthinkAustralo-pithecusrobustusworriedtoomuchaboutwhetherits
dinnerswereenjoyingthemeal,either.”
Weweregettingintoafamiliarargument.“Thatwasalongtimeago,Hypatia.”
“SoiswhatyouwerelookingatwiththeCrabbers,hon.Animalsareanimals.Now,ifyoureallywantto
takeyourselfoutofthatnastykill-and-eatbusiness—”
“Notyet,”Itoldher,asIhadtoldhermanytimesbefore.
WhatHypatiawantedtodowastovastenme.Thatis,takemeoutofmymeatbody,withallitsachesand
annoyances,andmakemeintoapure,machine-storedintelligence.AsotherpeopleIknewhaddone.Like
Hypatiaherself,thoughinhercaseshewasnomorethanasimulatedapproximationofsomeonewhohad
oncebeenlivingmeat.
Itwasascaryidea,tobesure,butnotaltogetherunattractive.Iwasn’tgettingasmuchpleasureasIwould
havelikedoutofliving,butIcertainlydidn’twanttodie.AndifIdidwhatHypatiawanted,Iwouldnever
haveto.
ButIwasn’tprepared to take that step yet. There were one or two things a meat person could do thata
machinepersoncouldn’t—well,onebigone—andIwasn’tpreparedtoabandonthefleshuntilIhaddone
whatthefemalefleshwasbestat.ForwhichIneededaman…andIwasn’tatallsurethatBillTartchwas
theparticularmanIneeded.
****
WhenIgotbackfordinnerinthePhoenixCorpvessel,everybodywaslookingconspiratorialandexpectant.
“We’ve got about twenty percent of the optical sheets in place,” Terple informed me, thrilled with
excitement.“Wouldyouliketosee?”Shedidn’twaitforananswer,butcommanded:“Hans!
Displaytheplanet.”
Thelightswentdark,andbeforeusfloatedablue-and-whiteglobethesizeofmyhead,lookingasthoughit
weremaybetenmetersaway.Itwashalfindarknessandhalfinsunlight,fromasunthatwasoutofsight
off to my right. There was a half-moon, too, just popping into sight from behind the planet. It looked
smallerthanLuna, and if it had markings ofcratersand seas, I couldn’tseethem. On the planet itself I
could make out a large ocean and a kind of squared-off continent on the illuminated side. Terple did
somethingthatmadethelightsintheroomgooff,andthenIcouldseethattherehadtobeevenmoreland
onthe darkside,because spotsoflight—artificial lights,cities’lights— blossomedallover partsofthe
nighttimearea.
“Yousee,Klara?”shecrowed.“Cities!Civilization!”
****
CHAPTERIV
Theirshipmindreallywasagoodcook.Fatpinkshrimpthattastedasthoughthey’dcomeoutofthesea
withinthehour,followedbyafrittomisto,thesame,withadecentrisottoandfigsincreamfordessert.
Everythingwasallperfectlyprepared.Ormaybeitjustseemedso,becauseeverybodywasvisiblyrelaxing
nowthatithadturnedoutwereallydidhavesomethingtoobserve.
Whattherewasn’tanyofwaswinetogowiththemeal,justsomesortoftropicaljuicesinthewinebulbs.
June Terple noticed my expression when I tasted it. “We’re not doing anything alcoholic until we’ve
completedtheobs,”shesaid,halfapologetic,halfchallenging,“Still,IthinkHanscangetyousomethingif
youreallywantit.”
Ishookmyheadpolitely,butIwaswonderingifHypatiahadhappenedtosayanythingtoHansaboutmy
fondnessfor a drink now andthen.Probablyshe had; shipminds do gossipwhenthey’reas advanced as
HypatiaandHans,anditwasevidentthatthecrewdidknowsomethingaboutme.Theconversationwas
livelyandfar-ranging,butitnever,nevertouchedonthesubjectoftheblackholeitself,orblackholesin
general.
We madea nice, leisurely meal of it. The onlyinterruptionswere inconspicu-ous, as crew members one
after another briefly excused themselves to double-check how well the spider robots were doing as they
clamberedallover thatfive-hundred-kilometerdish, seamlesslystitchingthe opticalreflectionplatesinto
theirperfectparabola.Noneoftheorganiccrewreallyhadtobother.Hanswaspermanentlyvigilant,about
thatandeverythingelse,butTerpleobviouslyranatightship.Alotoftheback-and-forthchatwasin-jokes,
butthatwasn’taproblembecauseHypatiaexplainedthem,whisperinginmyear.
When somebody mentioned homesickness and Oleg Kekuskian said jestingly— pointedlyjestingly—that
someofusweren’thomesickatall,theremarkwasaimedatHumphreyMason-Manley:
“He’sprongingTerple,Klara,andKekuskian’sjealous,”Hypatiatoldme.
Julia—thatwasHoo-lia—Ibarruru,thefatandelderlyPeruvian-Incanformerschoolteacher,waswistfully
tellingStarminderhowmuchshewishedshecouldvisittheCorebeforeshedied,andwasindignantwhen
shefoundoutthatI’dneverbeentoMachuPicchu.“Andyou’vebeenalloverthegalaxy?Andnevertook
thetimetoseeoneofthegreatestwondersofyourownplanet?”
TheonlysubduedonewasMarkRohrbeck.Betweenthefigsandthecoffee,heexcusedhimselfand-didn’t
comebackfornearlyhalfanhour.“Callinghome,”Mason-Manleysaidwisely,andHypatia,whowasthe
galaxy’s greatest eavesdropper when I let her be, filled me in. “He’s trying to talk his wife out of the
divorce.Sheisn’tbuyingit.”
Whenthecoffeewasabouthalfgone,Terplewhisperedsomethingtotheair.EvidentlyHanswaslistening,
andinamomenttheendoftheroomwentdark.Almostatoncetheplanetappearedforusagain,noticeably
biggerthanithadbeenbefore.Shewhisperedagain,andtheimageexpandeduntilitfilledtheroom,andI
hadthesuddenvertiginoussensethatIwasfallingintoit.
“We’regettingabouttwo-orthree-kilometerresolutionnow,”Terpleannouncedproudly.
Thatdidn’tgiveusmuchbeyondmountains,shorelines,andclouds,andtheplanetwasstillhalfinsunand
halfdark.(Well,ithadtobe,didn’tit?Theplanetwasrotatingunderus,butitsrelativepositiontoitssun
didn’tchange.)WhenIstudiedit,somethinglookedoddaboutthelandmassatthebottomoftheimage.I
pointed.“Isthatocean,there,downontheleftside?Imeanthedarkpart.BecauseIdidn’tseeanylights
there.”
“No,it’sland,allright.It’sprobablyjustthatthatpartistoocoldtobeinhabited.We’renotgettingasquare
lookattheplanet,youknow.We’reabouttwentydegreessouthofitsequator,sowe’reseeingmoreofits
southpoleandnothingnorthof,let’ssay,whatwouldbeScotlandorsouthernAlaskaonEarth.Haveyou
seentheglobeHansputtogetherforus?No?Hans,display.”
Immediatelyasphereappearedinthemiddleoftheroom,rotatingslowly.Itwouldhavelookedexactlylike
thekindmygrandfatherkeptinhislivingroom,latitudeandlongitudelinesandall,exceptthattheland
masses were wholly wrong. “This is derived from old Heechee data that Starminder provided for us,”
Hans’svoiceinformedme.“However,we’vegivenourownnamestotheconti-nents.Youseetheonethat’s
madeupoftwofairlycircularmasses,connectedbyanisthmus,thatlookslikeadumbbell?
Dr.Terplecallsit‘Dumbbell.’It’sdividedintoDumbbellEastandDumbbellWest.FryingPanisthesortof
roundishonewiththelong,thinpeninsulaprojectingtothesouthwest.Theonejustcomingintoviewnow
isPeanut,because—“
“I can see why,” I told him. It did look a little like a peanut. Hans was perceptive enough to recognize,
probablyfromthetoneofmyvoice,thatIfoundthisge-ography—planetography?—lessonalittleboring.
Terplewasn’t.“Goon,Hans,”shesaidsharplywhenhehesitated.Sohedid.
Outofguest-politenessIsatstillwhilehenamedeverydotonthemapforme,butwhenhecametotheend,
Ididtoo.“That’sverynice,”Isaid,unhookingmyselffrommydiningplace.“Thanksforthedinner,June,
butIthinkI’dbetterletyougetyourworkdone.Anyway,we’llbeseeingalotofeachotheroverthenext
fivedays.”
EveryfaceIsawsuddenlyworeablandexpression,andTerplecoughed.“Well,notquitefivedays,”she
said uncomfortably. “I don’t know whether anyone told you this, but we’ll have to leave before the star
blows.”
I stopped cold, one hand stuffing my napkin into its tied-down ring, the other holding on to the wall
support.“Therewasn’tanythingaboutleavingearlyinyourprospectus.Whywasn’tItoldthis?”
“It stands to reason, Klara,” she said doggedly. “As soon as the star begins its collapse, I’m shutting
everythingdownandgettingoutofhere.It’stoodangerous.”
Idon’tlikebeingsurprisedbythepeoplewhoworkforme.Igaveheralook.“Howcanitbedangerous
whenwe’resixthousandlight-yearsaway?”
Shegotobstinate.“RememberI’mresponsibleforthesafetyofthisinstallationanditscrew.Idon’tthink
youhaveanyideawhatasupernovaislike,Klara.It’shuge.Backin1054theChineseastrologerscouldsee
itindaylightforalmostthewholemonthofJuly,andtheydidn’thaveourlensingtomakeitbrighter.”
“Sowe’llputonsunglasses.”
Shesaidfirmly,“We’llleave.I’mnotjusttalkingaboutvisiblelight.Evennow,withsixthousandyearsof
cooling down after it popped, that thing’s still radiating all across the electromagnetic spectrum, from
microwaveto X-rays. We’renotgoingtowanttobewhereall that radiation comes to a focus when it’s
fresh.”
****
AsIwasbrushingmyteeth,Hypatiaspokefrombehindme.“WhatTerplesaidmakessense,youknow.
Anythinginthefocusisgoingtogetfriedwhenthestargoessupernova.”
I didn’t answer, so she tried another tactic. “Mark Rohrbeck is a good-looking man, isn’t he? He’s very
confusedrightnow,withthedivorceandall,butIthinkhelikesyou.”
Ilookedatherinthemirror.Shewasinfullsimulation,leaningagainstthebathroomdoorwaywithalittle
smileonherface.“He’salsohalfmyage,”Ipointedout.
“Oh,no,Klara,”shecorrectedme.“Notevenathird,actually.Still,whatdif-ferencedoesthatmake?
Hansdisplayedhisfiletorme.Geneticallyhe’sveryclean,asorganichumanbeingsgo.Wouldyouliketo
seeit?”
“No.”Ifinishedwiththebathroomandturnedtoleave.Hypatiagotgracefullyoutofmywayjustasthough
Icouldn’thavewalkedrightthroughher.
“Well,then,”shesaid.“Wouldyoulikesomethingtoeat?Anightcap?”
“WhatIwouldlikeistogotosleep.Rightnow.”
Shesighed.“Suchawasteoftime.Soonerorlateryouknowyou’regoingtogiveupthemeat,don’tyou?
Whywait?Inmachinesimulationyoucandoany-thingyoucandonow,onlybetter,and—“
“Enough,”I ordered. “WhatI’mgoingto do now isgotobed and dream aboutmylovercoming closer
everyminute.Goaway.”
Thesimulationdisappeared,andher“Goodnight,then”camefromemptyair.
Hypatiadoesn’treallygoawaywhenItellherto,butshepretendsshedoes.Partofthepretenseisthatshe
neveractsasthoughsheknowswhatIdointheprivacyofmyroom.
Itwasn’texactlytruethatIintendedtodreamaboutBillTartch.IfIwerearomantictype,Imightactually
havebeencountingthe seconds until my true love arrived. Oh, hell, maybe I was, a littlebit, especially
whenItuckedmyselfintothathugecircularbedandautomaticallyreachedoutforsomeonetotouchand
nobodywasthere.Idotrulyenjoyhavingawarmman’sbodytospoonupagainstwhenIdriftofftosleep.
ButifIdidn’thavethat,Ialsodidn’thaveanybodysnoringinmyear,orthrashingabout,ortalkingtome
whenIfirstwokeupandallIwantedwastohuddleoveracupofcoffeeandapieceofgrapefruitinpeace.
Those were consoling thoughts — reasonably consoling—but they didn’t do much for me this time. As
soonasIputmyheaddown,Iwaswideawakeagain.
Insomniawasonemoreofthosemeat-personflawsthatdisgustedHypatiaso.Ididn’thavetosufferfromit.
Hypatia keeps my bathroom medicine chest stocked with everything she imagines I might want in the
middleofthenight,includinghalfadozendifferentkindsofanti-insomniapills,butIhadabetterideathan
that. I popped the lid off my bedside stand, where I keep the manual controls I use when I don’t want
Hypatiatodosomethingforme,andIaccessedthesynopticIwantedtosee.
Ivisitedmyisland.
ItsnameisRaiwea—that’sRah-ee-wczy-uh,withtheaccentonthethirdsyllable,thewaythePolynesians
sayit—andit’stheonlyplaceintheuniverseIevermisswhenI’mawayfromit.It’snotverybig.Itonly
amountstoacouplethousandhectaresofdryland,butit’sgotpalmtreesandbreadfruittreesandapretty
lagoonthat’stooshallowforthesharksevertoinvadefromthedeepwateroutsidethereef.
Andnow,becauseIpaidtoputthemthere,it’sgotlotsofclustersofprettylittlebungalowswithpretty,if
imitation,thatchedroofs,aswellasplumbingandairconditioningandeverythingelsethatwouldmakea
person comfortable. And it’s got playgrounds and game fields that are laid out for baseball or soccer or
whateverabunchofkidsmightneedtoworkoffexcessanimalenergy.Andit’sgotitsownfoodfactory
nestledinsidethereef,constantlychurningouteveryvarietyofhealthfulfoodanyonewantstoeat.Andit’s
mine. It’s all mine. Every square centimeter. I paid for it, and I’ve populated it with orphans and single
womenwithbabiesfromallovertheworld.WhenIgothere,I’mGrandmaKlaratoaboutahundredand
fiftykidsfrom newborns to teens, and when I’msome-whereelse I make it a point, everyday or so, to
access the surveillance systems and make sure the schools are functioning and the medical services are
keepingeverybodyhealthy,becauseI—allright,damnit!—becauseIlovethosekids.
Everylastoneofthem.AndIsweartheylovemeback.
Hypatiasaysthey’remysubstituteforhavingababyofmyown.
Maybetheyare.Allthesame,IdohaveacoupleofmyownovastoredintheRaiweaclinic’sdeepfreeze.
They’ve been there for a good many years now, but the doctors swear they’re still one hundred percent
viableandthey’llkeepthemthatway.TheovaaretherejustincaseIeverdecideIreallywanttodothat
otherdisgustinglymeat-personthingandgivebirthtomyowngeneticallypersonalchild…
ButI’venevermetthemanIwantedtobeitsfather.BillTartch?Well,maybe.Ihadthoughthemightbe
forawhile,anyway,butthenIwasn’treallysosure.
****
WhenIwasupandaboutthenextmorning,HypatiagreetedmewithafreshdisplayoftheCrabberplanet.
Itwastoobignowtofitinmysalon,butshehadzeroedinononeparticularcoastline.Inthecenterofthe
imagewasablurthatmighthavebeenmanmade—personmade,Imean.“They’redowntohalf-kilometer
resolutionnow,”sheinformedme.“That’sprettydefinitelyasmallcity.”
Iinspectedit.Itprettydefinitelywas,butitwasverydefinitelysmall.“Isn’tthereanythingbigger?”
“I’mafraidnot,Klara.Hanssaystheplanetseemstoberatherremarkablyun-derpopulated,thoughit’snot
clearwhy.WillyoubegoingovertothePhoenixCorpshipnow?”
Ishookmyhead.“Letthemworkinpeace.Wemightaswelldosomeworkourselves.What’veyougotfor
me?”
What she had for me was another sampling of some of the ventures I’d put money into at one time or
another.Therewerethepurelycommercialonessuchasthehelium-3minesonLuna,andthechainoffood
factoriesintheBayofBengal,andthedesert-revivificationprojectintheSahara,andfortyorfiftyothers;
theyweren’tparticularlyinterestingtome,buttheyweresomeoftheprojectsthat,nomatterhowmuchI
spent,justkeptgettingmericherandrichereveryday.
ThenwegottotheonesIcaredabout.IlookedinonthefoundationStarminderhadtalkedabout,theone
forsendinghumansintotheCoretomeetwiththeHeecheewhohadstayedbehind.Andthescholarship
programforyoungwomenlikemyself—likeIhadbeenonce,longago—whowerestuckindirty,drudging,
dead-endjobs.Myself,IgotoutofitbymeansofdumbluckandtheGatewayasteroid,butthatwasn’tan
optionnow.Maybeadecenteducationwas.
Alongaboutthen,Hypatiaclearedherthroatinthemannerthatmeansthere’ssomethingshewantstotalk
about.Iguessedwrong.Iguessedshewantedtodiscussmyisland,soIplayedthegame.“Oh,bytheway,”
Isaid,“IaccessedRaiwealastnightafterIwenttobed.”
“Really?”shesaid,justasthoughshehadn’tknownitallalong.“Howarethings?”
I went through the motions of telling her which kids were about ready to leave, and how there were
eighteennewoneswhohadbeenlocatedbythevariousagenciesIdidbusinesswith,readytobebroughtto
theislandnexttimeIwasintheneighborhood.Asshealwaysdid,whethershemeantitornot,sheclucked
approvingly.Hersimulationwaslookingfaintlyamused,though.Itookitasachallenge.
“Soyouseethere’sonethingweanimalscandothatyoucan’t,”Itoldher.“Wecanhavebabies.”
“Or,asinyourowncaseatleastsofar,not,”shesaidagreeably.“Thatwasn’twhatIwasgoingtotellyou,
though.”
“Oh?”
“IjustwantedtomentionthatMr.Tartch’sshipisgoingtodockinaboutanhour.Heisn’tcomingalone.”
SometimesHypatiaisalmosttooidiosyncraticallyhuman,andmorethanonceI’vethoughtaboutgetting
her program changed. The tone of her voice warned me that she had something more to tell. I said
tentatively,“That’snotsurprising.Sometimesheneedstobringacrewwithhim.”
“Ofcoursehedoes,Klara,”shesaidcheerfully.“There’sonlyoneofthemthistime,though.Andshe’svery
pretty.”
****
CHAPTERV
Theveryprettyassistantwasverypretty,allright,andshelookedtobeaboutsixteenyearsold.No,that’s
nottrue.Shelookedalotbetterthansixteenyearsold.Idon’tbelieveIhadskinlikethatevenwhenIwasa
newborn baby. She wore no makeup, and needed none. She had on a decorous one-piece jumpsuit that
coveredherfromthightoneckandleftnodoubtwhatwasinside.HernamewasDenys.
When I got there —I had taken my time, because I didn’t want Bill to think I was eager—all three of
PhoenixCorp’smaleswerehangingaround,watchingherlikevulturessniffingcarrion.Itwasn’tjustthat
shelookedthewayshelooked.Shewasalsofreshmeat,foracrewthathadbeengettingprettyboredwith
eachother.
Ofcourse,Ihadbeenfreshmeat,too,andtherehadbeennosignsofthatkindoftestosteronerushwhenI
arrived.Butthen,Ididn’tlooklikeDenys.Billdidn’tseemtonotice.Hehadalreadysetupforhisopening
teaser,andDenyswasplayinghisquaintautocamerasforhim.Astheypannedaroundtheentrancechamber
and settled on his face, wearing its most friendly and intelligent expres-sion, he began to speak to the
masses:
“WilhelmTartchhereagain,wherePhoenixCorpisgettingreadytobringalostraceofintelligentbeings
backtolife,andheretohelpmeonceagain”—oneofthecamerasswungaroundasDenyscuedittoward
me—”Ihavethegoodlucktohavemybeautifulfiancee,Gelle-KlaraMoynlin,withme.”
Igavehimalook,becausewhateverIwastoWilhelmTartch,Idefinitelywasn’tplanningtomarryhim.
Hetippedmeacheekywinkandwentrighton:
“Asyouallremember,beforetheHeecheeranawaytohideintheCore,theysurveyedmostofthegalaxy,
looking for other intelligent races. They didn’t find any. When they visited Earth they found the
australopithecines, but they were a long way from being modern humans. They hadn’t even developed
languageyet.Andhere,onthisplanet”—thatviewoftheCrabberplanet,presupernova,ap-pearedbehind
him— “they found another primitive racethattheythoughtmight someday become both intelligentand
civilized.Well,perhapstheseCrabbers,asthePhoenixCorppeoplecallthem,did.ButtheHeecheeweren’t
aroundtoseeit,andneitherarewe,becausetheyhadsomebadluck.
“Thereweretwostarsintheirplanet’ssystem,areddwarfandabrighttype-Agiant.Overthemillennia,as
theselostpeoplewerestrugglingtowardcivilization,thebigstarwaslosingmass,whichwasbeingsucked
intothesmallerone—andthen,withoutwarning,thesmallonereachedcriticalmass.Itexploded
—andthe people, along withtheirplanet and alltheirworks, were instantlyobliteratedin the supernova
blast.”
Hestoppedthere,gazingtowardDenysuntilshecalled,“Gotit.”Thenhekickedhimselftowardme,arms
outstretched for a hug, a big grin on his face. When we connected, he buried his face in my neck and
whispered,“Oh,Klaretta,we’vebeenawayfromeachothertoolong!”
BillTartchisagoodhugger.Hisarmsfeltfinearoundme,andhisbig,malebodyfeltgoodagainstmine.
“Butwe’retogethernow,”Itoldhim…asIlookedoverhisshoulderatDenys—whowasregardingus
withanaffectionateandwhollyunjealoussmile.
Sothatpartmightnotbemuchofaproblem,atthat.Idecidednottoworryaboutit.Anyway,theresolution
oftheCrabberplanetwasgettingbetterandbetter,andthatwaswhatwewereherefor,afterall.
****
WhattheCrabberplanethadalotofwaswater.Astheplanetturnedonitsaxis,thecontinentalshorehad
disappearedintothenighttimesideoftheworld,andwhatwewerelookingatwasmostlyocean.
BillTartchwasn’tpleased.“Isthatallwe’regoingtosee?”hedemandedoftheroomatlarge.“Iexpectedat
leastsomekindofacity.”
Terpleanswered.“Asmallcity—probably.Anyway,that’swhatitlookedlikebeforewelostit;Icanshow
youthatmuchifyoulike.Hans,gobacktowhenthatobjectwasstillinsight.”
Themaybe-citydidn’tlookanybetterthesecondtimeIsawit,anditdidn’timpressBill.Hemadealittle
tongue-clickofannoyance.“You,shipmind!Can’tyouenhancetheimageforme?”
“Thatisenhanced,Mr.Tartch,”Hanstoldhimpleasantly.“However,wehavesomewhatbetterresolution
now, and I’ve been tracking it in the infrared. There’s a lit-tle more detail”—the continental margin
appearedforus,hazilydelineatedbecauseofthedifferencesintemperaturebetweenwaterandland,andwe
zoomedinontheob-ject—”but,asyousee,therearehotspotsthatIhavenotyetbeenabletoidentify.”
Therewere.Bigones,andverybright.Whatwasencouraging,consideringwhatwewerelookingfor,was
thatsomeofthemseemedtobefairlygeometricalinshape,trianglesandrectangles.Butwhatwerethey?
“Christmasdecorations?”Billguessed.“Youknow,ImeannotreallyChristmas,butwiththehousesalllit
upforsomeholidayorother?”
“Idon’tthinkso,Mr.Tartch,”Hanssaidjudiciously.“There’snotmuchopticallight;whatyou’reseeingis
heat.”
“Keepingthemselveswarminthewinter?”
“Wedon’tknowifit’stheirwinter,Mr.Tartch,andthatisn’tprobableinanycase.Thosesourcesreadoutat
uptoaroundthreehundreddegreesCelsius.That’salmostforest-firetemperature.”
Billlookedpuzzled.“Slash-and-burnagriculture?Ormaybesomekindofin-dustry?”
“Wecan’tsayyet,Mr.Tartch.Ifitwereactualcombustion,thereshouldbemorevisiblelight;butthere’s
verylittle.We’llsimplyhavetowaitforbetterdata.Meanwhile,however,there’ssomethingelseyoumight
liketosee.”Thescenewewereviewingskitteredacrossthefaceoftheplanet—hugecloudbanks,acouple
ofislands,morecloud—andcametorestonapatchofocean.Initscenterwasatinyblurofsomethingthat
lookedgrayishwhenitlookedlikeanythingatall;itseemedtoflickerinandoutofsight,attheverylimit
ofvisibility.
“Clouds?”Billguessed.
“No, Mr. Tartch. I believe it is a group of objects of some kind, and they are in motion—vectoring
approximatelyseventy-onedegrees,or,asyouwouldsay,alittlenorthofeast.Theymustbequitelarge,or
we would not pick up anything at all. They may be ships, although their rate of motion is too high for
anything but a hydrofoil or ground-effect craft. If they are still in sight when the mirror is more nearly
complete,weshouldbeabletoresolvethemeasilyenough.”
“Whichwillbewhen?”
Hansgaveusthatphonycouple-of-secondspausebeforeheanswered.“Thereisasmallnewproblemabout
that,Mr.Tartch,”hesaidapologetically.“Someoftheinstalledmirrorplateshavebeensubjectedtothermal
shock,and theyare no longer in exact fit. Most of the installation machineshavehadtobedeliveredto
adjustthem,andsoitwillbesometimebeforewecangoonwithcompletingthemirror.Afewhoursonly,
Iestimate.”
BilllookedatmeandIlookedathim.“Well,shit,”hesaid.“Whatelseisgoingtogowrong?”
****
Whathadgonewrongthattimewasn’tJuneTerple’sfault.Shesaiditwas,though.Shesaidthatshewas
theperson in chargeof thewholeoperation, so everythingthathappened was her responsibility,andshe
shouldn’thaveallowedIbarrurutooverrideHans’scontrols.AndJuliaIbarruruwastearfullyrepentant.
“Starminder told me the Heechee had identified eleven other planets in the Crabber system; I was just
checkingto see if there wereanysignsof life on any of them,andI’mafraid that for a minuteIletthe
system’sfocusgettooclosetothestar.”
Itcouldhavebeenworse.Itoldthemnottoworryaboutitandinvitedallthreeofthemtomyshipfora
drink.Thatmademy so-calledfiance’seyebrowsrise,becausehe hadcertainlybeen expectingto bethe
firstpersonIwelcomedaboard.Hewasphilosophicalaboutit,though.“I’llseeyoulater,”hesaid,andif
noneofthewomenknewwhathemeantbythat,itcouldonlyhavebeenbecausethey’dneverseenaleer
before.ThenheledDenysofftointerviewsomeofPhoenixCorp’sotherpeople.
WhichwasprettymuchwhatIwasplanningformyself.Hypatiahadsetoutteathingsononetable,anddry
sherryonanother,butbeforewesatdowntoeither,Ihadtogiveallthreeofthewomentheusualguided
tour.Thesuddenreturntonormalgravitywasaburdenforthem,buttheylimpedadmiringlythroughthe
guestbedroom,exclaimedatthekitchen—neverusedbyme,butinstalledjustincaseIeverwantedtodo
anyofthatstuffmyself—andwereblownawaybymypersonalbathroom.Whirlbath,bidet,bigonyxtub,
mirrorwalls—BillTartchalwayssaiditlookedlikeawhore’sdreamofheaven,andhehadn’tbeenthefirst
guesttomakethatobservation.Idon’tsupposethePhoenixCorpwomenhadeverseenanythinglikeit.Ilet
themlook.Ievenletthempeekintothecabinetsofperfumesandtoiletries.
“Oh,muskoil!”Terplecried.“Butit’sreal!That’ssoexpensive.”
“I don’t wear it anymore. Take it, if you like,” I said and, for the grand finale, opened the door to my
bedroom.
Whenatlastwegotto thetea,sherry,andconversation,Ibarruru’sfirstremarkwas,“Mr.Tartchseemed
likeaveryinterestingman.”Shedidn’tspellouttheconnection,butIknewitwasthathugebedthatwasin
hermind.SowechattedaboutMr.Tartchandhisglamorousp-visioncareer,andhowTerplehadgrownup
with the stories of the Gateway prospectors on every day’s news, and how Ibarruru had dreamed of an
opportunitylikethis—”Astronomy’sreallyalmostalostartonEarth,youknow,”shetoldme.“Nowwe
havealltheHeecheedata,sothere’snopointanymoreinwastingtimewithtelescopesandprobes.”
“Sowhatdoesanastronomerdowhenthere’snoastronomytobedone?”Iasked,beingpolite.
Shesaidruefully,“Iteachanundergraduatecourseinastronomyatacom-munitycollegeinMaryland.
For people who will never do any astronomy, because if there’s anything somebody really wants to see,
why,theyjustgetinashipandgooutandlookatit.”
“AsIdid,Ms.Moynlin,”saidStarminder,withtheHeecheeequivalentofasmile.
ThatwaswhatIwaswaitingfor.IftherewasaplaceintheuniverseIstillwantedtosee,itwasherhomein
theCore.“YoumustmisstheCore,”Itoldher.“Allthosenearbystars,sobright—whatwehaveheremust
lookprettyskimpytoyou.”
“Oh,no,”shesaid,beingpolite,“thisisquitenice.Forachange.WhatIreallymissismyfamily.”
Ithadneveroccurredtome thatshehadafamily, but,yes,shehadleftamateandtwoyoung offspring
behindwhenshecameout.Itwasadifficultdecision,butshecouldn’tresisttheadventure.Missthem?
Ofcourseshemissedthem!Missher?Shelookedsurprisedatthat.“Why,no,MsMoynlin,theywon’tbe
missingme.They’reasleepforthenight.I’llbebacklongbeforetheywakeup.Timedilation,yousee.I’m
onlygoingtostayouthereforayearortwo.”
Ibarrurusaidnervously,“That’sthepartthatworriesmeaboutgoingtotheCore,Starminder.I’mnotyoung
anymore,andIknowthatifIwentforevenafewdays,nearlyeveryoneIknowwouldbegonewhenIgot
back.No,notjust‘nearly’everyone,”shecorrectedherself.“Whatisit,fortythousandtoone?Soaweek
therewouldbenearlyathousandyearsbackhome.”ThensheturnedtotheHeecheefemale.“Butevenif
wecan’tgoourselves,youcantellusaboutit,Starminder.WouldyouliketotellMs.Moynlinwhatit’slike
intheCore?”
****
ItwaswhatIwantedtohear,too.I’dhearditoftenenoughbefore,butIlistenedaslongasStarminderwas
willingtotalk.Whichwasalot,becauseshewasdef-initelyhomesick.
WoulditreallymatterifIspentaweekintheCore?Oramonth,orayear,forthatmatter?I’dmissmykids
ontheisland,ofcourse,butthey’dbetakencareof,andsowouldeverythingelsethatmatteredtome.And
therewasn’tanyotherhumanbeingintheuniversethatIcaredenoughabouttomissformorethanaday.
IwassurprisedwhenHypatiaspokeupoutofthinair.“Ms.Moynlin”—formalbecauseofthecompany
—”there’sacallforyou.”AndshedisplayedBillTartch’sface.
Icouldseebythebackgroundthathewasinhisownship,andhelookedallbrightandfreshandgrinningat
me.“Permissiontocomeaboard,hon?”heasked.
Thatproducedaquickreactionamongmyguests.
“Oh,”saidIbarruru,collectingherself.“Well,it’stimewegotbacktoworkanyway,isn’tit,June?”Shewas
soundingarch.Terplewasn’t;shesimplygotup,andStarminderfollowedherexample.
“Youneedn’tleave,”Isaid.
“Butofcoursewemust,”saidTerple.“Julia’sright.Thankyoufortheteaand,uh,things.”
Andtheyweregone,leavingmetobealonewithmylover.
****
CHAPTERVI
“He’sbeenprimpingforthelasthour,”Hypatiareportedinmyear.“Showered,shaved,dressedup.
Andheputonthatmuskcolognethathethinksyoulike.”
“Idolikeit,”Isaid.“Onhim.LetmeseeyouwhenI’mtalkingtoyou.”
She appeared obediently, reclining on the couch Ibarruru had just left. “I’d say the man’s looking to get
laid,”sheobserved.“Again.”
Ididn’tchoosetopickuponthe“again.”ThatwordwasevidenceofoneofHypatia’smoreannoyingtraits,
of which she has not quite enough to make me have her reprogrammed. When I chose Hypatia of
Alexandriaasapersonalityformyshipmind,itseemedtobeagoodideaatthetime.ButmyownHypatia
tookitseriously.That’swhathappenswhenyougetyourselfareallypowerfulshipmind;shethrowsherself
intothepart.ThefirstthingHypatiadidwaslookuphertemplateandmodelherselfasclosetotheoriginal
asshethoughtIwouldstand—includingsuchdetailsasthefactthattheoriginalHypatiareallyhatedmen.
“So,doyouwantmeoutofthewaysoyoucanobligehim?”sheaskedsociably.
“No,”Isaid.‘Youstay.”
“That’smygirl.Youaskme,sexualintercourseisgreatlyoverratedanyway.”
“That’sbecauseyounever had any,” I toldher. “By whichImeanneither you, mypetprogram,nor the
semimythicalhumanwomanImodeledyou after,whodied avirginandissaidto haveshoved herused
menstrualclothsinthefaceofonepersistentsuitortoturnhimoff.”
“Maliciousmyth,”shesaidcomfortably.“SpreadbytheChristiansaftertheymurderedher.Anyway,here
hecomes.”
IwouldhavebeenwillingtobetthatthefirstwordsoutofBillTartch’smouthwouldbeAloneatlast!
accompaniedbyabiggrinandalungeforme.Iwouldhavehalfwon.Hedidn’tsayanythingatall,just
spreadhisarmsandlurchedtowardme,grinandall.
Then he saw Hypatia, sprawled on the couch. “Oh,” he said, stumbling as he came to a stop —there
evidentlywasn’tanygravityinhisrentalship,either.“Ithoughtwe’dbealone.”
“Notrightnow,sweetie,”Isaid.“Butit’snicetoseeyou.”
“Me,too.”Hethoughtforamoment,andIcouldseehimchanginggears:Allright,theladydoesn’twant
whatIwantrightnow,sowhatelsecanwedo?That’soneofthosegood-and-badthingsaboutBillTartch.
Hedoes what I want, and noneofthissweeping-her-off-her-feetstuff.Viewingit as good, it meanshe’s
con-siderateand sweet. Viewing it the other way—the way Hypatiachoosestoview it—he’saspineless
wretch,suckinguptosomebodywhocandohimgood.
WhileIwasconsideringwhichwaytoviewit,Billsnappedhisfingers.“Iknow,”hesaid,brightening.
“I’vebeenwantingtodoarealinterviewwithyouanyway.Thatallright?Hypatia,youcanrecorditfor
me,can’tyou?”
Hypatiadidn’tanswer,justlookedsulkilyatme.
“Dowhathesays,”Iordered.ButBillwashavingsecondthoughts.
“Maybe not,” he said, cheerfully resigned to the fact that she wouldn’t take orders from him. “She’d
probablyscrewituponpurposeformeanyway,soIguesswe’dbettergetDenysinhere.”
****
Itdidn’ttakeDenysmuchmorethanaminutetoarrive,withthosequaintlittlecamerasandall.Ididmy
best to be gracious and comradely. “Oh, yes, clip them on anywhere,” I said —in my ship’s gravity, the
cameraswouldn’tjustfloat.“Onthebacksofthechairs?Sure.Iftheymessthefabricalittle,Hypatiawill
fix it right up.” I didn’t look at Hypatia, just gestured to her to get herself out of sight. She did without
protest.
Billhadplantedhimselfnexttomeandwasholdingmyhand.Ididn’tpullitaway.IttookDenysalittle
whiletogetallthecamerasinplace,Billgazingtolerantlyatthewayshewasdoingitandnotofferingto
help.Whenshean-nouncedshewasready,theinterviewbegan.
ItwasatypicalWilhelmTartchinterview,meaningthathedidmostofthetalking.Herehearsedourentire
historyforthecamerasinoneuninterruptedmonologue;mypartwastosmileattentivelyasitwasgoingon.
ThenhegottoPhoenix.
“We’re here to see the results of this giant explosion that took place more than a thousand years ago—
What’sthematter,Klara?”
Hewaswatchingmyface,andIknewwhathewasseeing.“Turnoffyourcameras,Bill.Youneedtoget
yourfactsstraight.Ithappenedalotlongerthanathousandyearsago.”
Heshookhisheadatmetolerantly.“That’scloseenoughfortheaudience,”heexplained.“I’mnotgiving
anastronomylessonhere.Thestarblewupin1054,right?”
“Itwasin1054thattheChineseastronomerssawit.That’stheyearwhenthelightfromthesupernovagot
as far as our neighborhood, but it took about five thousand years to get there. Didn’t you do your
homework?”
“Wemust’vemissedthatlittlebit,hon,”hesaid,givingmehisbestruefullyapologeticsmile.“Allright,
Denys.Takeitfromthelastlittlebit.We’llputinsomeshotsofthesupernovatocoverthetransition.
Ready?Then go. This giant explosion took place manythousandsofyearsago, destroying a civilization
thatmightinsomewaysalmosthavebecometheequalofourown.Whatweretheylike,thesepeoplethe
Phoenixinvestigatorscall‘Crabbers’?Noonehaseverknown.WhentheoldHeecheevisitedtheirplanet
longago,theywerestillanimallikeprimitives—Denys,we’llputinsomeofthoseoldHeecheefileshere
—buttheHeecheethoughttheyhadthepotentialtodevelopcognitiveintelligenceandevencivilization.
Didtheyeverfulfillthispromise?Didtheycometodom-inatetheirworldasthehumanracedidourEarth?
Didtheydevelopscienceandartandcultureoftheirown?Weknowfromthetantalizinghintswe’veseen
sofarthatthismaybeso.Now,throughthegenerosityofGelle-KlaraMoynlin,whoisherewithme,we
are at last going to see for ourselves what these tragically doomed people achieved before their star
explodedwithoutwarning,cuttingthemoff—Oh,comeon,Klara.Whatisitthistime?”
“Wedon’tknowiftheyhadanywarningornot,dowe?That’soneofthethingswe’retryingtofindout.”
Denysclearedherthroat.Shesaiddiffidently,“Bill,maybeyoushouldletmedoalittlemorebackground
researchbeforeyoufinishthisinterview.”
Mylovergaveherapetulantlittlegrimace.“Oh,allright.Isupposethere’snothingelsetodo.”
IheardtheinvisiblelittlecoughthatmeantHypatiahadsomethingtosaytome,soIsaidtotheair,
“Hypatia?”
Shepickeduphercue.“ThePhoenixCorpshipmindtellsmethey’rebackatworkonthedish,andthey’re
gettingsomewhatbettermagnificationnow.Therearesomenewviewsyoumaywanttosee.
ShallIdisplayhere?”
Billseemedslightlymollified.Helookedatme.“Whatdoyouthink,Klara?”
Itwasthewrongquestiontoaskme.Ididn’twanttotellhimwhatIwasthinking.
Forthatmatter,Ididn’twanttobethinkingitatall.Allright,heandthislittleDenyslollipophadn’tdone
anyof their backgrounding on the way out to Phoenix.Sowhat,exactly,had they been doing with their
time?
Isaid,“No,IthinkI’dratherseeitonthePhoenixCorpship.Youtwogoahead.I’llfollowinaminute.”
Andassoonastheywereoutofsight.Iturnedaround,andHypatiawassittinginthechairDenyshadjust
left,lookingsmug.
“CanIdosomethingforyou,Klara?”sheaskedsolicitously.
Shecould,butIwasn’treadytoaskherforit.Iaskedherforsomethingelseinstead.“Canyoushowmethe
interiorofBill’sship?”
“Ofcourse,Klara.”Andthereitwas,displayedforme,Hypatiaguidingmypointofviewallthroughit.
Itwasn’tmuch.Thenetobviouslywasn’tspendinganymorethanithadtoonBill’screaturecomfort.It
wassooldthatithadallthatHeecheedrivestuffoutintheopen;whenIdesignedmyownship,Imade
sureallthatuglinesswastuckedawayoutofsight,liketheheatingsysteminacondo.Theimportantfact
was that it had two sleeping compartments, one clearly Denys’s, the other defi-nitely Bill’s. Both had
unmadebeds.Evidentlytherental’sshipmindwasn’tuptomuchhousekeeping,andneitherwasDenys.
Therewasnoindicationthattheymighthavebeenvisitingbackandforth.
Igaveup.“You’vebeendyingtotellmeaboutthemeversincetheygothere,”IsaidtoHypatia.“Sotell
me.”
Shegavemethatwonderinglook.“Tellyouwhatexactly,Klara?”
“TellmewhatwasgoingononBill’sship,forChrist’ssake!Iknowyouknow.”
Shelookedslightlymiffed,thewayshealwaysdidwhenChrist’snamewasmentioned,butshesaid,“Itis
truethatIaccessedMr.Tartch’sshipmindasaroutineprecaution.It’saprettycheap-jackjob,aboutwhat
you’dexpectinarental.Ithadprivacylocksalloverit,butnothingthatIcouldn’t—”
Isnarledather,“Tellme!Didthey?”
Shemadeanexpressionofdistaste.“Oh,yes,hon,theycertainlydid.Allthewayouthere.Likedogsin
rut.”
Ilookedaroundtheroomatthewineglassesandcupsandthecushionsthathadbeendisturbedbysomeone
sittingonthem.“I’mgoingtotheship.CleanupthismesswhileI’mgone,”Iordered,andcheckedmyface
inthemirror.
Itlookedjustasitalwayslooked,asthoughnothingweredifferent.
Well, nothing was, really, was it? What did it matter if Bill chose to bed this Denys, or any number of
Denyses,whenIwasn’taround?Itwasn’tasthoughIhadbeenplanningtomarrytheguy.
****
CHAPTERVII
NoneofthecrewwasintheentrancelockwhenIcametothePhoenixCorpship,butIcouldhearthem.
Theywereallgatheredinthedininghall,laughingandchatteringexcitedly.WhenIgotthere,Isawthatthe
roomwasdarkened.TheywereallpokingatvirtualsofonesceneoranotherasHansdisplayedthem,and
noonenoticedmeasIcamein.
I hooked myself inconspicuously to a belt near the door and looked around. I saw Bill and his sperm
receptacle of the moment hooked chastely apart, Denys chirping at Mason-Manley, Bill talking into his
recorders.Mason-ManleywassqueezingDenys’sshoulderexcitedly,presumablybecausehewascaughtup
intheeuphoriaofthemoment,butheseemedtobeenjoyingtouchingher,too.IfBillnoticed,hedidn’t
appeartomind.Butthen,Billwasnotajealoustype;thatwasoneofthethingsIlikedabouthim.
UntilrecentlyIhadn’tthoughtthatIwas,either.
Well, I told myself, I wasn’t. It wasn’t a question of jealousy. It was a question of— oh, call it good
manners;ifBillchosetobedabimbonowandthen,thatwashisbusiness,butitdidnotexcusehishauling
thelittletartallthewayfromEarthtoshoveherinmyface.
Ameteror soaway fromme,Mark Rohrbeckwas watchingthepictures, lookinga lotlessgloomythan
usual.Whenhesawmeatlast,hewavedandpointed.“Look,Ms.Moynlin!”hecried.“Blimps!”
SoIfinallygotaroundtolookingatthedisplay.Inthesectorhewasindicating,wewerelookingdownon
oneoftheCrabberplanet’soceans.Therewerealotofclouds,butsomeareashadonlyscatteredpuffs.And
thereamongthemwereeightfatlittlesilversausages,inaVformation,thatsurelywerefartoohard-edged
anduniforminshapetobeclouds.
“These are the objects we viewed before, Ms. Moynlin,” Hans’s voice informed me. “Now we can
discriminatetheindividualelements,andtheyarecertainlyartifacts.”
“Sure,butwhydoyousaythey’reblimps?Howdoyouknowtheyaren’tshipsofsomekind?”Iasked,and
thensaidatonce, “No,cancelthat,”asI figuredit outformyself.Ifthey hadbeensurfacevessels,they
wouldhaveproducedsomesortofwakeinthewater.Theywereaircraft,allright,soIchangedthequestion
to,“Wherearetheygoing,doyouthink?”
“Waitaminute,”JuneTerplesaid.“Hans,displaytheprojectionforMs.Moyn-lin.”
Thatsheetofoceandisappeared,andinitsplacewasaglobeoftheCrabberplanet,itsseasinblue,land
massesingray.Eightstylizedlittleblimpfigures,greatlyoutofproportion,wereovertheocean.Fromthem
asilverylineextendedtothenortheast,withanotherline,thisonegolden,goingbackpasttheday-night
terminator toward the southwest. Terple said, “It looks like the blimps came from around that group of
islandsattheendofthegoldcourse-line,andthey’reheadingtowardtheDumbbellcontinentsuponthe
right.Unfortunately,thoseareprettyfarnorth.Wecan’tgetagoodpictureofthemfromhere,butHanshas
enhancedsomeofthedataontheislandtheblimpscamefrom.Hans?”
Theglobedisappeared.Nowwewerelookingdownononeofthosegreenishinfraredscenes:shoreline,bay
—andsomethingburningaroundthebay.Onceagaintheoutlinesoftheburningareasweregeometrically
unnatural. “As we spec-ulated, it is almost certainly a community, Ms. Moynlin,” Hans informed me.
“However,itseemstohavesufferedsomecatastrophe,similartowhatweobservedonthecontinentthatis
nowoutofsight.”
“Whatkindofcatastrophe?”Idemanded.
Hans was all apologetic. “We simply don’t have the data yet, Ms. Moynlin. A great fire, one might
conjecture.I’msureitwillmakesensewhenwehavebetterresolution—inafewhours,perhaps.I’llkeep
youposted.”
“Pleasedo,”Isaid.Andthen,withoutplanningit,I,foundmyselfsaying,“IthinkI’llgobacktomyship
andliedownforawhile.”
“Butyoujustgothere,”MarkRohrbecksaid,surprisedand,Ithoughtwithsomepleasure,maybealittle
disappointed.BillTartchlookedsuddenlyhappyandbegantounhookhimselffromhisperch.Igavealittle
shakeoftheheadtobothofthem.
“I’msorry.Ijustwanttorest,”Isaid.“It’sbeenanexhaustingfewdays.”
****
Thatwasn’tparticularlytrue,ofcourse—notanypartofit.Iwasn’treallytired,andIdidn’twanttorest.I
justwantedtobebymyself,oratanyratewithnocompanybutHypatia,whichcomestoprettymuchthe
samething.
AsIcameintomyship,shegreetedmeinmotherlymode.“Toomanypeople,hon?”sheasked.“ShallI
makeyouadrink?”
Ishookmyheadtothedrink,butshewasrightabouttheotherpartofit.“Funnything,”Isaid,sprawling
onthecouch.“ThemorepeopleImeet,thefewerIamcomfortablearound.”
“Meatpeoplearegenerallyboring,”sheagreed.“Howaboutacupoftea?”
Ishrugged,andimmediatelyheardtheactivitybegininthekitchen.Hypatiahadherfaults,butshewasa
prettygoodmomwhenIneeded hertobe.Ilaybackon thecouchandgazedat theceiling.“Youknow
what?”Isaid.“I’mbe-ginningtothinkIoughttosettledownontheisland.”
“Youcoulddothat,yes,”shesaiddiplomatically.Then,becauseshewasHy-patia,sheadded,“Let’ssee,
thelasttimeyouwerethere,youstayedexactlyelevendays,wasn’tit?Aboutsixmonthsago?”
Shehadmademefeeldefensive—again.Isaid.“Ihadthingstodo.”
“Ofcourseyoudid.Thenthetimebeforethatwasn’tquitethatlong,wasit?Justsixdays—andthatwas
overayearago.”
“You’vemadeyourpoint,Hypatia.Talkaboutsomethingelse.”
“Surething,boss.”Soshedid.Mostlywhatshechosetotalkaboutwaswhatmyvariousholdingshadbeen
doinginthefewhourssinceI’dcheckedthemlast.Iwasn’tlistening.Afterafewminutesofit,Iswallowed
theteashe’dmadeformeandstoodup.“I’mgoingtosoakinthetubforawhile.”
“I’llrunitforyou,hon.Hon?They’vegotsomenewpicturesfromtheCrabberplanetifyouwanttosee
themwhileyousoak.”
“Whynot?”AndbythetimeI’dshuckedmyclothesthebigonyxtubwasfull,thetemperatureperfectas
always,andonecornerofthebathroomwasconcealedbyoneofHypatia’ssimulations.
Thenewdisplaywasalmostfilledbywhatlookedlikehundreds,maybethousands,oftinybuildings.We
werelookingdownatthemfromsomethinglikeaforty-five-degreeangle,andIcouldn’tmakeoutmany
details. Their sun must have been nearly overhead, because there weren’t many shadows to bring out
details.
“Thisisthebiggestcitythey’vefoundyet,”Hypatiainformedme.“It’sinlandonthewesternpartofthe
squarishcontinentinthesouthernhemisphere,wheretwobigriverscometogether.Ifyoulookclose,you’ll
seethere’sasuggestionofthingsmovinginthestreets,butwecan’tmakeoutjustwhatyet.
However—”
I stopped her. “Skip the commentary,” I ordered. “Just keep showing me the pictures. If I have any
questions,I’llask.”
“Ifthat’swhatyouwant,hon.”Shesoundedaggrieved.Hypatiadoesn’tliketobetoldtoshutup,butshe
did.
Thepictureskeptcoming,onecityafteranother,nowabaywithwhatlookedlikesurfaceshipsofsome
kind moored in it, now some more blimps sailing peacefully along, now what might have been a wide-
gaugerailroadwithatrainsteamingoverabridge.Icouldn’treallyseethe tracks,onlythebridgeanda
hazylinethatstretchedbeforeandafteritacrossthecountryside.WhatIcouldseebestwasthelocomotive,
andmostofallthelongwhitetrailofsteamfromitsstack.
Iwatchedforawhile,thenwavedthedisplayoff.Iclosedmyeyesandlaybacktoletthesweet-smelling
foamywatersmakemefeelwholeandcontentagain.AsIhaddonemanythousandsoftimes,sometimes
withsuccess.
Thiswasoneofthesuccesses.Thehottubdiditswork.Ifeltmyselfdriftingofftoarelaxedandwelcome
sleep.…
Andthen,suddenly,avagrantthoughtcrossedmymind,andIwasn’trelaxedanymore.
Igotoutofthetubandclimbedintotheshowerstall,turningitonfull;Iletcoldwaterhammeratmefora
while,thenchangedittohot.WhenIgotout,Ipulledonarobe.
AsIwasdryingmyhair,thedooropenedandHypatiaappeared,lookingatmewithconcern.“I’mafraid
what I told you about Tartch upset you, hon,” she said, oozing with compassion. “You don’t really care
whathedoes,though,doyou?”
Isaid,“Ofcoursenot,”wonderingifitweretrue.
“That’smygirl,”shesaidapprovingly.“Therearesomenewscenes,too.”
Theyappeared;shedidn’twaittoseeifIwantedthemon.Iwatchedthechangingscenesforawhile,then
decidedIdidn’t.IturnedtoHypatia.“Turnitoff,”Isaid.“Iwanttoaskyousomething.”
Shedidn’tmove,butthescenedisappeared.“What’sthat,Klara?”
“WhileIwasdozinginthetub,IthoughtforamomentImightfallasleep,andslipdownintothewaterand
drown.ThenIthoughtyousurelywouldn’tletthathappen,becauseyou’dbewatching,wouldn’tyou?”
“I’malwaysawareofanyproblemsthatconfrontyou,Klara.”
“Andthenitoccurredtomethatyoumightbetemptedtoletmegoaheadanddrown,justsoyoucouldget
meintothatmachinestorageyou’realwaystryingtosellme.SoIgotoutofthetubandintotheshower.”
Ipulledmyhairbackandfasteneditwithabarrette,watchingher.Shedidn’tspeak,juststoodtherewith
herusualbenignandthoughtfulexpression.“So,wouldyou?”Idemanded.
She looked surprised. “You mean would I deliberately let you drown? Oh, I don’t think I could do that,
Klara.AsageneralruleI’mnotprogrammedtogoagainstyourwishes,notevenifitwereforyourown
good.Thatwouldbeforyourgood,youknow.Machinestoragewouldmeaneternallifeforyou,Klara,or
ascloseasmakesnodifference.Andnomoreofthesordidlittleconcernsofthemeatthatcauseyouso
muchdistress.”
Iturnedmybackonherandwentintomybedroomtodress.Shefollowed,inherexcellentsimulationof
walking.WhatIwantedtoknowwashowgeneralhergeneralrulewas,andwhatshewouldhavedeemeda
permissibleexception.ButasIopenedmymouthtoaskher,shespokeup.
“Oh, Klara,” she said. “They’ve found something of interest. Let me show you.” She didn’t wait for a
response;atoncetheendoftheroomlitup.
Wewerelookingagainatthatfirstlittlefleetofblimps.Theywerenearlyatthecoast,buttheyweren’tin
theirtidyVformationanymore.Theywerescatteredoverthesky,andtwoofthemwerefallingtothesea,
blazingwithgreatgoutsofflame.SmallthingsIcouldn’tquitemakeoutwerebuzzingaroundandbetween
them.
“MyGod,”Isaid.“Something’sshootingthemdown!”
Hypatia nodded. “So it would appear, Klara. It looks as though the Crabbers’ blimps are filled with
hydrogen,toburnthewaytheydo.Thatsuggestsaratherlowleveloftechnologicalachievement,butgive
themcredit.Theyaren’tprimi-tives,anyway.They’redefinitelycivilizedenoughtobehavingthemselvesa
prettyviolentlittlewar.”
****
CHAPTERVIII
There wasn’t any doubt about it. The Crabbers were industriously killing each other in a kind of aerial
combatthat was rightoutof the oldstoriesof WorldWarI.I couldn’tsee much oftheplanes that were
shooting the blimps down, but they were really there, and what was going on was a real old-fashioned
dogfight.
Idon’tknowwhatIhadhopedtoseewhenwebroughtthelong-deadCrabbersbacktosomekindoflife.
Butthatdefinitelywasn’tit.When thescenes changed— Hanshadbeenassiduousinzoomingdown to
wherever on the planet’s surface things were going on —it didn’t improve. It got worse. I saw a harbor
crammedwithsurfacevessels,whereagreatriverjoinedthesea;butsomeoftheshipswereonfire,and
othersappearedtobesinking.“Submarinesdidthat,Ithink,”Hypatiajudged.“Oritcouldpossiblybefrom
bombing planes or mines, but my money’s on submarines.” Those strange patterns of heat in the cities
weren’t a mystery any longer—the cities had been burned to the ground by incendiaries, leaving only
glowing coals. Then, when we were looking down, on a plain where flashes of white and reddish light
sparkledalloverthearea,wecouldn’tseewhatwasmakingthem,butHypatiahadaguessforthat,too.
“Why,”shesaid,soundinginterested,“Idobelievewe’relookingatalarge-scaletankbattle.”
Andsoon,andon.
SoHans’spromisehadbeenkept.Assoonasthemagnificationgotalittlebetter,italldidbegintomake
sense,justastheshipmindhadpromised.(Imean,ifwarmakesanysenseinthefirstplace,that’sthesense
thepicturesmade.)Therobotsonthedishwerestillslavingawayataddingthefinalmirrorsegments,and
thepictureskeptgettingbetterandbetter.
Well, I don’t know if I mean “better,” exactly. The pictures were certainly clearer and more detailed, in
somecasesIwouldhavetosayevenmoreexcruciatinglydetailed.Butwhattheyallshowedwasrackand
ruinanddeathanddestruction.
Andtheir warwasso pointless!They didn’thavetobother killingeachother.Their starwoulddo itfor
themsoonenough.Allunknowing,everyoneofthoseCrabberswasracingtowardafrightfuldeathastheir
sunburstoverthem.
AnhourearlierI hadbeenpityingthemforthefatethatawaitedthem.ButnowIcouldn’tsayIthought
theirfatewasallthatunjust.
Hypatiawaslookingatmeinthatmotherlywayshesometimesassumes.“I’mafraidallthisisdisturbing
foryou,Klara,”shemurmured.“WoulditcheeryouuptoinviteMr.Tartchaboard?He’scalling.Hesays
hewantstotalktoyouaboutthenewpictures.”
“Surehedoes,”Isaid,prettysurethatBillreallywantedtotalkaboutwhyhedidn’tdeservebeingtreated
sostandoffishlybyme.“No.TellhimI’masleepanddon’twanttobedisturbed.Andleavemealonefora
while.”
****
Assoonasshehadleftandthedoorhadclosedbehindher,Iactuallydidthrowmyselfontomybig,round
bed.Ididn’tsleep,though.Ijustlaythere,staringatmyselfinthemirrorontheceilinganddoingmybest
nottothinkaboutanything.
Unfortunately, that’s not something I’m good at. I could get myself to not think about those damn nasty
Crabbers,butthenIfoundmymindquicklyturneditselftothinkingwhetheritwasbettertoletBillTartch
hangortellhimtocomeinandthenhaveaknock-down,drag-out,breaking-upfightwithhimtogetitall
over with. And when I made myself stop thinking about Bill Tartch, I found myself wondering why I’d
squanderedafairlyheftychunkofmysurpluscashonpokingintothelivesofaracethatdidn’tknowany
betterthantotakeareasonablynicelittleplanetandturnitintoacharnelhouse.
I thought of calling Hypatia back in for another dull session of playing with my investments. I thought
wistfullyoftakinganotherlookatmyisland.AndthenIthought,screwit.Igotmyselfintothisthing.I
mightaswellgoaheadandseeitthrough….
Butamorepleasantthoughthadbeenstirringinthebackgroundofmymind,sofirsttherewassomething
elseIwantedfromHypatia.
Iputontherestofmyclothesandwentouttowhereshewasreclininggrace-fullyonthecouch,justas
thoughshe’dbeenloungingthereallalong.I’msureshehadbeenwatchingthosecharnel-housescenesas
attentively as anyone on the Phoenix ship—the difference being, of course, that Hypatia didn’t have to
botherwithturningtheopticaldisplayonforherownneeds.ButIneededit,sosheaskedpolitely,“ShallI
displaythedataforyouagain,Klara?”
“Inaminute,”Isaid.“First,tellmeallaboutMarkRohrbeck.”
Iexpectedoneofthosetolerantlyknowinglooksfromher.Igotit,too.Butsheobedientlybegantorecite
allhisstats.Mark’sparentshaddiedwhenhewasyoung,andhehadbeenbroughtupbyhisgrandfather,
who had once made his living as a fisherman on Lake Superior. “Mostly the old man fished for sea
lampreys—knowwhattheyare,Klara?They’reuglythings.Theyhavebigsuckingdisksinsteadofjaws.
Theyattachthemselvestootherfishandsucktheirgutsoutuntiltheydie.Idon’tthinkyou’dwanttoeata
sealampreyyourself,buttheywereaboutallthatwasleftinthelake.Mr.Rohrbecksoldthemforexportto
Europe—peopletherethoughttheywereadelicacy.Theysaidtheytastedlikeescargot.Then,ofcourse,
thefoodfactoriescamealongandputhimoutofbusiness—“
“GetbacktoMarkRohrbeck,”Iordered.“Iwanttohearaboutthemanhimself.Briefly.”
“Oh.Sorry.Well,hegotascholarshipattheUniversityofMinnesota,didwell,wentontogradschoolat
MIT,madeaprettyfairreputationincomputerscience,married,hadtwokids,butthenhis wifedecided
therewasadentistshelikedbetterthanRohrbeck,soshedumpedhim.AndasI’vementionedbefore,”
shesaidappreciatively,“hedoeshavereallygreatgenes.Doesthatcoverit?”
Imulledthatoverforamoment,thensaid,“Justabout.Don’tgodrawinganyconclusionsfromthis,doyou
hear?”
“Certainly,Klara,”shesaid,butshestillhadthatlook.
Isighed.“Allright.Nowturnthatdamnthingbackon.”
“Ofcourse,Klara,”shesaid,unsurprised,anddid.“I’mafraidithasn’tbeengettinganybetter.”
****
Ithadn’t.Itwasjustmoreofthesame.Iwatcheddoggedlyforawhile,andthenIsaid,“Allright,Hypatia.
I’veseenenough.”
Shemadeitdisappear,lookingatmecuriously.“There’llbebetterimageswhentheyfinishwiththemirror.
BythenweshouldbeabletoseeactualindividualCrabbers.”
“Lovely,”Isaid,notmeaningit,andthenIburstout.“MyGod,what’sthematterwiththosepeople?
There’splentyofroomontheplanetforallofthem.Whydidn’ttheyjuststayhomeandliveinpeace?”
Itwasn’tmeanttobearealquestion,butHypatiaanswereditformeanyway.“Whatdoyouexpect?
They’remeatpeople,”shesaidsuccinctly.
Iwasn’tlettinghergetawaywith that.“Comeon,Hypatia!Humanbeingsaremeatpeople, too,and we
don’tgotearinghalfwayaroundtheworldjusttokilleachother!”
“Oh,doyounot?Whatashortmemoryyouhave,Klaradear.Thinkofthosetwentieth-centuryworldwars.
Think of the Crusades, tens of thousands of Euro-peans dragging themselves all the way around the
MediterraneanSeatokillasmanyMoslemsastheycould.ThinkoftheSpanishconquistadors,murdering
theirwayacrosstheAmericas.Ofcourse,”sheadded’,“thosepeoplewereallChristians.”
Iblinkedather.“Youthinkwhatwe’relookingatisareligiouswar?”
Sheshruggedgracefully.“Whoknows?Meatpeopledon’tneedreasonstokilleachother,dear.”
****
CHAPTERIX
Hypatiahadbeenrightaboutwhatgravitationallensingplusthatbigmirrorcoulddo.
By the time the mirror was complete, we could make out plenty of detail. We were even able to see
individualcentaur-likeCrabbers—thesamebuild,fourlegsandupright torso,thatthey’dinheritedfrom
theprimitivesI’dseen,butnolongerveryprimitiveatall.
Well, what I mean is that sometimes we could see them, anyway. Not always. The conditions had to be
right.Wecouldn’tseethemwhenitwasnightontheirpartoftheplanet,ofcourse,exceptinthoseghosty-
lookingIRviews,andwecouldn’tseethematallwhentheywereblanketedwithcloudswecouldn’tpeer
through.Butwecouldseeenough.Morethanenough,asfarasIwasconcerned.
The PhoenixCorp crew was going crazy trying to keep up with the incoming data. Bill seemed to have
decidedtobe patientwithmyunpredictablemoods,sohe paidme onlyabsentmindedattention.Hekept
busyworking.HeandDenyswereecstaticallyinterruptingeveryoneintheirjobssothathecouldrecord
their spot reactions, while the crew did their best to get on with their jobs anyway. June Terple stopped
sleepingentirely,tornbetweenwatchingthenewimagesastheyarrivedandnagginghershipmindtomake
surewewouldhavewarningintimetogetthehelloutoftherebeforethestarblew.
OnlyMarkRohrbeckseemedtohavetimeonhishands.WhichwasjustthewayIwantedit.
Ifoundhimintheotherwiseemptysleepchamber,whereHanshadobliginglysetupaduplicateshowof
theincomingscenesforhim.Mark’smainareaofconcernwastheshipmindandthefunctionsitcontrolled,
but all those things were working smoothly without his attention. He was spending his time gazing
moroselyinthegeneraldirectionofthepictures.
Ihookedmyselfupnearby.“Nasty,isn’tit?”Isaidsociably,tocheerhimup.
Hedidn’twanttobecheered.“YoumeantheCrabbers?”Although hiseyeshadbeenonthedisplay,his
mind evidently hadn’t. He thought it over for a moment, then gave his verdict. “Oh, I guess it’s nasty
enough,allright.Itisn’texactlywhatwewereallhopingfor,that’sforsure.Butitallhappenedalongtime
ago,though,didn’tit?”
“Andyou’vegotmoreimmediateproblemsonyourmind,”Iofferedhelpfully.
Hegavemeagloomyimitationofasmile.“Iseetheshipmindshavebeengossipingagain.Well,itisn’t
losingDoristhatbothersmesomuch,”hesaidafteramoment.“Imean,thathurt,too.IthoughtIlovedher,
but—Well,itdidn’tworkout,didit?Nowshe’sgotthisotherguy,sowhatthehell?But”—heswal-lowed
unhappily—”thethingis,she’skeepingthekids.”
He was not only a nice man, he was beginning to touch my heart. I said, sounding sympathetic and
suddenlyfeelingthatway,too,“Andyoumissthem?”
“Hell! I’ve been missing them most of the time since they were born,” he said self-accusingly. “I guess
that’swhatwent wrong. I’vebeenawayworking so much,Isuppose I can’tblameDorisfor gettingher
lovemakingfromsomebodyelse.”
ThattriggeredsomethinginmethatIhadn’tknownwasthere.“No!”Isaid,surprisingmyselfbymytone.
“That’swrong.Blameher.”
I startled Rohrbeck, too. He looked at me as though I had suddenly sprouted horns, but he didn’t get a
chancetospeak.JuneTerplecameflyingbytheroomandsawus.Shestuckhernosein,grabbingahold-on
toyellatMarkinpassing.“Rohrbeck!Getyourassingear!IwantyoutomakesureHansisshiftingfocus
asfastaspossible.Wecouldbelosingallkindsofdata!”Andthenshewasgoneagain,towherevershewas
goneto.
Markgavemeapeculiarlook,butthenheshruggedandwavedhishandstoshowthatwhenthebossgave
orders,evenorderstodowhathehadalreadydone,hecouldn’tjuststayandtalkanymore,andthenhewas
goneaswell.
Ididn’tblamehimforthe peculiar look. I hadn’trealized I was so sensitive in the matter of two-timing
partners.ButapparentlyIwas.
****
EventhoughIwastheboss,IhadnobusinesskeepingthePhoenixCorppeoplefromdoingtheirjobs.
Anyway,therewasmorebustleandconfusiongoingontherethanIliked.Iwentbacktomyshiptostayout
ofeverybody’sway,watchingthepicturesastheyarrivedwithonlyHypatiaforcompany.
ShestartedtheprojectionsupassoonasIarrived,withoutbeingasked,andIsatdowntoobserve.
Ifyoudidn’tthinkoftheCrabbersaspeople,whattheyweredoingwascertainlyinteresting.TheCrabbers
themselveswere,forthatmatter.Icouldseetracesofthoseprimitivepredatorsinthecivilized
—civilized!—versionsbeforeme.Now,ofcourse,theyhadmachinesandwore,clothesand,ifyoudidn’t
mind the extra limbs, looked rather impressive in their gaudy tunics and spiked leggings, and the shawl
things they wore on their heads that were ornamented with, I guessed, maybe insignia of rank. Or junk
jewelry,maybe,butmostofthemweredefinitelyinoneoranotherkindofuniform.Mostofthecivilized
ones,anyway.Intheinteriorofthesouthcontinent,whereitlookedlikerainforestandsavanna,werelots
ofwhatlookedlikenoncivilizedones.ThoseparticularCrabbersdidn’thavemachines,ormuchintheway
ofclothingeither.Theylivedofftheland,andtheyseemedtospendalotoftimegapingupworriedlyatthe
sky,wherefleetsofblimpsanddouble-wingedaircraftbuzzedbynowandthen.
Thecivilizedonesseemedtobelosingsomeoftheircivilization.WhenHansshowedusclose-upsofoneof
thebombed-outcities,Icouldseestreamsofpeo-ple—mostlycivilians,Iguessed—makingtheirwayout
of the ruins, carrying bun-dles, leading kids or holding them. A lot of them were limping, just dragging
themselvesalong.Somewerebeingpulledinwagonsorsledlikethings.
“Theylooklikethey’reallsick,”Isaid,andHypatianodded.
“Undoubtedlysomeofthemare,dear,”sheinformedme.“It’sawar,afterall.Youshouldn’tbethinking
justintermsofbombsandguns,youknow.Didyouneverhearofbiologicalwarfare?”
Istaredather.“Youmeanthey’respreadingdisease?Asaweapon?”
“Ibelievethatislikely,andnotatallwithoutprecedent,”sheinformedme,preparingtolecture.Shestarted
byremindingmeofthewaythefirstAmericancolonistsinNewEnglandgavesmallpox-ladenblanketsto
theIndianstogetthemoutoftheway—”ThecolonistswereChristians,ofcourse,andveryreligious”—
andwentonfromthere.Iwasn’tlistening.IwaswatchingthepicturesfromtheCrabberplanet.
Theydidn’tget better. Forone moment, in one brief scene, I saw somethingthattouchedme. It was an
archipelagointheCrabberplanet’stropicalzone.Onebitlookedalittlelikemyisland,reefandlagoonand
sprawlingvegetationovereverything.AboriginalCrabberswerethere,too.Buttheyweren’talone.
Therewasalsoacompanyoftheonesinuniform,herdingthelocalsintoavillagesquare,forwhatpurpose
Icouldnotguess—todraftthem?toshootthemdead?—butcertainlynotagoodone.And,whenIlooked
moreclosely,Isawalltheplantsweredying.Morebioweapons,thistimedirectedatcrops?Defoliants?I
didn’tknow,butitlookedasthoughsomeonehaddonesomethingtothatvegetation.
Ihadhadenough.Withoutintendingit,Icametoadecision.
IinterruptedmyshipmindinthemiddleofhertellingmeaboutAmerica’soldCampDetrick.“Hypatia?
Howmuchsparecapacitydoyouhave?”
Itdidn’tfazeher.Sheabandonedthehistoryofhumanplague-spreadingandrespondedpromptly.
“Quitealot,Klara.”
“Enoughtostoreallthedatafromtheinstallation?AndmaybetakeHansaboard,too?”
She looked surprised. I think she actually was. “That’s a lot of data, Klara, but, yes, I can handle it. If
necessary.What’veyougotinmind?”
“Oh,”Isaid,“Iwasjustthinking.Letmeseethoserefugeesagain.”
****
CHAPTERX
Ikeptoneeyeonthetime,butIhadplentyforwhatIwantedtodo.Ievengavemyselfalittlediversion
first.Iwenttomyisland.
Idon’tmean inperson,of course.Isimply checkedouteverything on Raiweathrough my monitorsand
listenedtothereportsfromthedepartmentheads.Thatwasalmostassatisfying.Justlookingatthekids,
growinguphealthyandhappyandfreethewaytheyare—italwaysmakesmefeelgood.Or,inthiscase,
atleastalittlebetter.
ThenIleftmyremote-accessedRaiweaandwentintotherealityofthePhoenixship.
Hanswasbusilyshiftingfocuseverytimeafewnewframescamein,sonowthepictureswerecomingin
fasterthananybodycouldtakethemin.Thatcouldn’tbehelped.Therewasawholeworldtolookat,and
anywayitdidn’tmatterifwesawitallinrealtime.Allthedatawerebeingstoredforlateranalysisand
inter-pretation—bysomebodyelse,though.Notbyme.IhadseenallIwanted.
So,evidently,hadmostofthePhoenixcrew.StarminderandJuliaIbarruruwereintheeatingchamber,but
theyweretalkingtoeachotherabouttheCoreandpayingnoattentiontotheconfusingimagespouringin.
BillTartchhadhiscamerasturnedonthedisplay,buthewaswatchingthepicturesonlywithsulkyhalf-
attention,whileDenyshung, soundasleep,beside him.“What’sthe useofthis, Klara?”hedemanded as
soonashesawme.“Ican’tgetanydecentfootagefromthiscrap,andmostofthecrew’sgoneofftosleep.”
I was looking at Denys. The little tart even snored prettily. “They needed it,” I told him. “How about
Terple?”
Heshrugged.“Kekuskianwashereaminuteago,lookingforher.Idon’tknowwhetherhefoundherornot.
Listen,howaboutalittlemoreofyourinterview,soIwon’tbewastingmytimeentirely?”
“Maybelater,”Isaid,notmeaningit,andwentinpursuitofJuneTerple.
IheardhervoiceraisedinangerlongbeforeIsawher.Kekuskianhadfoundher,allright,andthetwoof
themwerehavingarealcat-and-dogfight.Shewas yellingathim.“Idon’tgiveasnake’sfartwhatyou
thinkyouhavetohave,Oleg!We’regoing!Wehavetogetthewholeinstallationthehelloutofherewhile
we’restillinonepiece.”
“You can’t do that!” he screeched back at her. “What’s the point of my coming out here at all if I can’t
observethesupernova?”
“The point,” she said fiercely, “is to stay alive, and that’s what we’re going to do. I’m in charge here,
Kekuskian!Igivetheorders,andI’mgivingthemnow.Hans!Layinacoursefortheneutronstar!”
That’s when I got into the spat. “Cancel that, Hans,” I ordered. “From here on in, you’ll be taking your
ordersfromme.Isthatunderstood?”
“Itisunderstood,Ms.Moynlin,”hisvoicesaid,ascalmandunsurprisedasever.Terplewasn’tcalmatall.I
madeallowancesforthewoman;shehadn’thadmuchsleep,andshewasunderalotofstrain.Butfora
minutethereIthoughtshewasgoingtohitme.
“Nowwhatthehelldoyouthinkyou’redoing,Moynlin?”shedemandeddan-gerously.
“I’mtakingcommand,”Iexplained.“We’regoingtostayforawhile.Iwanttoseethatstarblowup,too.”
“Yes!”Kekuskianshouted.
Terple didn’t even look at him. She was giving her whole attention to me, and she wasn’t in a friendly
mood.“Areyoucrazy?Doyouwanttogetkilled?”
Itcrossedmymindtowonderifthatwouldbesobad,butwhatIsaid,quitereasonably,was,“Idon’tmean
wehavetostayrighthereandletthestarfryus.Notthepeople,anyway.We’llevacuatethecrewandwatch
theblowupontheremote.There’splentyofroomforeverybodyinthetwoships.Icantakethreeorfour
withme,andBillcantaketheothersinhisrental.”
She was outraged and incredulous. “Klara! The radiation will be enormous! It could destroy the whole
installation!”
“Fine,”Isaid.“Iunderstandthat.SoI’llbuyyouanewone.”
Shestaredatmeinshock.“Buyanewone!Klara,doyouhaveanyideaofwhatitwouldcost—”
Thenshestoppedherselfshortandgavemealonglook.“Well,”shesaid,notabitmollified,butmoreor
lessresignedtoacceptingthefactsoflife,“Iguessyoudoknow,atthat.Ifthat’swhatyouwanttodo,well,
you’retheboss.”
And,asusual,Iwas.
****
SowhenIgaveorders,nooneobjected.Igoteverybodybackinthediningchamberandexplainedthatwe
wereabandoningship.ItoldTerpleshecouldcomeonmyship,alongwithStarminderandIbarruru.
“It’s only a few days to Earth; the three of you can all fit in my guest bedroom. Mason-Manley and
KekuskiancangowithBillandDenys.It’llbealittlecrowdedinhisrental,butthey’llmanage.”
“WhataboutHansandme?”Rohrbeckasked,soundingpuzzled.
Isaidoffhandedly,“Oh,youcancomewithme.We’llfindaplaceforyou.”
He didn’t look as thrilled as he might have at the idea of sailing off through space with a beautiful,
unattachedwoman,suchasme.Hedidn’tevenlookin-terested.“Idon’tjustmeanmepersonally,Klara,”
hesaid testily. “Imeanme and my shipmind.Iput a lotofworkinto designing Hans!Idon’twant him
ruined!”
Iwasn’tthrilledbyhisreaction,either,butIdolikeamanwholikeshiswork.“Don’tworry,”Iassured
him.“IaskedHypatiaaboutthat.Shesaysshehasplentyofextracapacity.We’lljustcopyhimandtake
himalong.”
****
CHAPTERXI
Ihadneverseenasupernovainrealtimebefore—well,howmanypeoplehave?—butthat,atleast,was
notadisappointment.Theshowwaseverythingitpromisedtobe.Wewerehoveringinourtwoships,afew
million kilometers off the prime focus. Hans was taking his orders from Kekuskian now, and He had
ditchedtheCrabberplanetforgoodtoconcentrateonthestar.
Hypatiawhisperedinmyearthat,onhisrental,BillTartchwaspissingandmoaningaboutthedecision.
Hehadwantedtocatcheveryhorrible,tragicbit,ifpossiblerightdowntotheexpressionsonthefacesof
theCrabberswhentheysawtheirsungoallwooglyrightovertheirheads.Ididn’t.Ihadseenenoughofthe
Crabberstolastme.
Inmymainroomwehadadoubledisplay.Hypatiahadriggedmyship’sex-ternalopticssowecouldsee
thegreatmirrorandthetinyPhoenixship,togetherliketoysinonecorneroftheroom,butthebigthing
wastheCrabberstaritselfasseenfromthePhoenixCorpship.Itwasn’tdangerous—Hypatiasaid.Hans
haddimmeditdown,andanywaywewereseeingonlyvisiblelight,noneofthewide-spectrumstuffthat
wouldbepouringoutofitinaminute.Evenso,itwashuge,twometersacrossandsobrightwehadto
squinttowatchit.
Idon’tknowmuchaboutstellarsurfaces,butthisparticularstarlookedsicktome.Prominencesstuckout
alloveritsperimeter,anduglysunspotsspotteditsface.Andthen,abruptly,itbegantohappen.Thestar
seemedtoshrink,asthoughHanshadzoomedbackawayfromit.Butthatwasn’twhatwasgoingon.The
starreallywascollapsingonitself,anditwasdoingitfast.“That’stheimplosion,”Hypatiawhisperedto
me.Whilewewatched,itwentfromtwometerstoameterandahalf,toameter,tosmallerstill—
Andthenitbegantoexpandagain,almostasfastasithadshrunk,andbecamefarmorebright.Hypatia
whispered,“Andthat’stherebound.I’vetoldHanstocutbackontheintensity.It’sgoingtogetworse.”
Itdid.
Itblossomedbiggerandbrighter—andangrier—untilitfilledtheroomand,justasIwasfeelingasthoughI
werebeingswallowedupbythatstellarhell,thepicturebegantobreakup.IheardTerplemoan,
“Lookatthemirror!”AndthenIunderstoodwhatwashappeningtoourimage.ThelittletoyPhoenixCorp
shipandmirrorwerebeinghammeredbytheoutpouringofrawradiationfromthesupernova.Nofilters.No
cutouts.ThePhoenixCorpvesselswereblazingbrightthemselves,reflectingthefloodofblindinglightthat
waspouringonthemfromthegravitationallensing.AsIwatched,themirrorbegantowarp. Theflimsy
sheetsofmirrormetalpeeledoff,explodingintobrightplumesofplasma,likeblossomingfireworksonthe
FourthofJuly.Foramomentwesawthewiremeshunderneaththeopticalplates.Thenitwasgone,too,
andallthatwasleftwastheskeletonofreinforcingstruts,hotandglowing.
Ithoughtwe’dseeneverythingweweregoingtoseeofthestar.Iwaswrong.Amomentlatertheimageof
thesupernovareappearedbeforeus.Itwasn’tany-wherenearascolossallyhugeorfrighteninglybrightasit
had been before, but it was still something scary to look at. “What—?” I began to ask, but Hypatia had
anticipatedme.
“We’relookingatthestarfromthelittlecamerainthecenterofthedishnow,Klara,”sheexplained.
“We’renotgettingshipsidemagnificationfromthemirroranymore.That’sgone.I’malittleworriedabout
thecamera,too.Thegravitationallensingaloneisprettypowerful,andthecameramightnotlastmuch”—
shepausedastheimagedisappearedforgood,simplywinkedoutandwasgone—“longer,”
shefinished,and,ofcourse,ithadn’t.
****
I took a deep breath and looked around my sitting room. Terple had tears in her eyes. Ibarruru and
Starmindersattogether,silent andstunned,and MarkRohrbeckwas whisperingto hisshipmind.“That’s
it,”Isaidbriskly.“Theshow’sover.”
Rohrbeckspokeupfirst,soundingalmostcheerful.“Hanshasallthedata,”hereported.“He’sallright.”
Terplehadherhandup.“Klara?Abouttheship?Ittookalotofheat,butthedishburnedprettyfastandthe
hull’sprobablyintact,soifwecangetarepaircrewoutthere—“
“Rightaway,”Ipromised.“Well,almostrightaway.Firstwegohome.”
IwaslookingatRohrbeck.Hehadlookedalmostcheerfulforamoment,butthecheerwasrapidlyfading.
Whenhesawmyeyesonhim,hegavemealittleshrug.“Where’sthat?”heaskedglumly.
Iwantedtopathisshoulder,butitwasalittleearlyforthat.Ijustsaidsym-pathetically,‘You’remissing
yourkids,aren’tyou?Well,I’vegotaplacewithplentyofthem.And,astheonlygrown-upmaleonmy
island,you’llbetheonlydadthey’vegot.”
****
CHAPTERXII
Thatblastfromthesupernovadidn’tdestroythePhoenixCorpshipafterall.Themirrorwasatotalwrite-
off, of course, but the ship itself was only cooked a little. June Terple stooged around for a bit while it
cooleddown,thenwentbackwithwhatwasleftofhercrew.Whichwasn’tmuch.
Mason-ManleytalkedhiswaybackintohergoodgracesonceDenyswasn’taroundanymore;Kekuskian
promisedtocomeoutfor the actual blowup, eighty years from now, provided he was still alive; and, of
course,shestillhadthein-destructibleHans,nowbackinhisowncustom-designeddatastore.Therestof
herpeoplewerereplacements.StarminderwentbacktoherfamilyintheCore,andIpaidIbarruru’sfareto
goalongwithherasakindofhonorarycitizenambassador.
Naturally,Terpleinvitedmetojointhemfortheirstintattheneutronstar—couldn’treallyavoidit,since
thenewmoneywascomingfromthesameplaceastheold,namelymostlyme.Isaidmaybe,tobepolite,
butIreallymeantno.Onelookatthedeathofaworldwasenoughforme.BillTarteh’sspecialshowonthe
Crabberswentonthenetwithindays.Hehadgreatsuccesswithit,easilygreatenoughsothathedidn’t
reallymindthefactthathenolongerhadme.
Hypatiakeptcopiesofallthefilesforme,andthoselastlittlebitsofdatastayedwithmeonmyislandfora
longtime.Iplayedpiecesofthemnowandthen,foranyofthekidsthatshowedaninterest,andfortheir
moms,too,whentheydid.ButmostlyIplayedthemforme.
MarkRohrbeckstayedwithmeonRaiweaforawhile,too,thoughnottoolong.That’sthewaymyisland
works.Whenmykidsarereadyfortheworldoutside,Iletthemgo.ItwasthesamewithRohrbeck.For
himittookjustalittleoverthreemonths.Thenhewasready,andhekissedmegood-bye,andIlethimgo.
****
suicidecoast
M.JOHNHARRISON
M.JohnHarrisonisnotaprolificwriter,and,inAmerica,atleast,isstilllittleknowntotheSF
readershipatlarge.InBritain,however,hehasbeenaninfluentialfigurebehindthescenessincethedays
ofMichaelMoor-cock’sNewWorldsinthelate‘60s,andhashadadisproportionateeffectwitharelatively
small body of work; in fact, recently he was given the Richard EvansMemorial Award, a new award
designedtohonorjustthatsortofcareerandreputation.
HarrisonmadehisfirstsaletoNewWorldsin1968,andby1975hadsoldtwosciencefictionnovels,The
CommittedMenandTheCentauriDevice,and.publishedacollectionofhisearlyshortwork,TheMachine
inShaftTenandOtherStories.Itwasthestoriesandnovelsheproducedduringthe70s and early ‘80s,
though,ontheshiftingandamorphousborderlandofsciencefictionandfantasy,thatwouldprovetobehis
mostinfluentialgenre-relatedwork.InThePastelCity,AStormofWings,InViriconium,andinthestories
thatwouldgointothecollectionViriconiumNights,heproducedasortofbizarre,heightened,intellectual,
stylishlyperversesword&sorcery,kintothemannered,elegant,findesieclesciencefantasyofWolfe’sThe
Bookof the NewSun,Aldiss’sTheMalacia Tapestry, and Vance’s The Dying Earth, creating a mood of
autumnal sadness and of theevocative strangeness and dislocation of a world seen through the lens of
millenniaofelapsedtimethatissimilartotheemotionaltoneandcolorofthosebooks,andsustainsitwith
com-parableskill.
Inrecentyears,hehasturnedawayfromgenreworktoproducesomeofthebestbooksofhiscareerina
sequence of ostensibly “mainstream” novels (although, ironically, most of themcontain subtle fantastic
elements)suchasClimbers,TheCourseoftheHeart,and,mostrecently,thecriticallyacclaimedSignsof
Life.Intheintenseandlapidarianstorythatfollows,arareforayintocoresciencefiction,hetakesustoa
gray,rain-swept,ratherdispiritedfutureLondon,forasharplessoninthedifferencethatPassionmakesin
allourlives,nomatterwherewechoosetoinvestit.
****
F
our-thirtyintheafternooninaconvertedwarehousenearMileEndunder-groundstation.Heavy,persistent
summerrainwasfallingontheroof.Inside,theairwasstillandhumid,darkdespitethefluorescentlights.
Itsmelledof sweat, dust, gymnasts’ chalk. Twenty-five feet above the thick blue crash-mats,aboy with
dreadlocksandbaggyknee-lengthshortswassupportinghisentireweightontwofingersofhisrighthand.
Themusclesofhisupperback,blackandshinywithsweat,fannedoutexoticallywiththeeffort,likethe
hoodofacobraortheshellofacrab.Onelegtrailedbehindhimforbalance.Hehadraisedtheothersothat
thekneewasalmosttouchinghischin.Fortwoorthreeminuteshehadbeentryingtogettheballofhisfoot
inthesameplaceashisfingers.Eachtimehemoved,hiscenterofgravityshiftedandhehadtogobacktoa
restingposition.Eventuallyhesaidquietly:
“I’mcomingoff.”
Wealllookedup.ItwasaslowafternooninMileEnd.Nobodybothersmuchwithtraininginthemiddleof
summer.Someteenagerswereinfromthelocalschoolsandcolleges.Acoupleofmenintheirlatethirties
hadsneakedoutofacivilengineeringcontractnearCannonStreet.Everyonewastired.Humidityhadmade
thehandholdsslippery.Despitethat,aseriousatmosphereprevailed.
“Goon,”weencouragedhim.“Youcandoit.”
Wedidn’tknowhim,oroneanother,fromAdam.
“Goon!”
Theboyonthewalllaughed.Hewasgoodbutnotthatgood.Hedidn’twanttofalloffinfrontofeveryone.
Anintentiontremormovedthroughhisbentleg.Losingpatiencewithhimself,hescrapedatthefoothold
withthe toe of hisboot.He lunged upward. Hisbodypivotedaway from the wallanddropped onto the
mats,which,absorbingtheenergyofthefall,madeasoundlikeabadlywindedheavyweightboxer.Chalk
anddustbillowedup.Hegottohisfeet,laughingandshakinghisdreadlocks.
“Icanneverdothat.”
“You’llgetitintheend,”Itoldhim.“Me,I’mgoingtofalloffthisroofoncemorethenfuckoffhome.It’s
toohotinhere.”
“Seeyou,man.”
****
IhadspentmostofthatwinterinLondon,assemblingcopyforMAX,aWebsitethatfrontedtheadventure
sportssoftwareindustry.Theywerealwaysinterestedinstuffaboutcavediving,BASE
jumping,snowboarding,hang-gliding,ATBandsoon:buttheydidn’twanttoknowaboutrockclimbing.
“Not enough to buy,” my editor said succinctly. “And too obviously skill-based.” He leafed through my
samples.“Thepunterneedsequipmenttoinvestin.Itstrengthenshisself-image.Withthemachineparked
inhishall,hebelieveshecoulddisconnectfromthesoftwareandstilldothesport.”Hetappedashotof
IsobellePatissiersevenhundredfeetupsomeknife-edgeareteinColorado.“Where’sthehardware?These
arejustbodies.”
“Thebootsareprettyhightech.”
“Yeah?Andhowmuchapair?Fifty,ahundredandfifty?Mick,wecangetthemtolayoutthreegrandfor
theframeofanATB.”
Hethoughtforamoment.Thenhesaid:“Wemightdosomethingwiththewomen.”
“ThegoodonesareFrench.”
“Evenbetter.”
Igatheredthestufftogetherandputitaway.
“I’moffthen,”Isaid.
“Youstillgotthe190?”
Inodded.
“Takecareinthatthing,”hesaid.
“Iwill.”
“FockeWolf190,”hesaid.“Hey.”
“It’saMercedes,”Isaid.
Helaughed.Heshookhishead.
“FockeWolf,Mercedes,noonedrivesthemselvesanymore,”hesaid.‘Youmadfucker.”
Helookedroundhisoffice—adustymetaldesk,acoupleofposterswiththeMAXlogo,acoupleofPCs.
Hesaid:“Noonecomesinhereinpersonanymore.Youeverhearofthemodem?”
“Onceortwice,”Isaid.
“Wellthey’veinventeditnow.”
Ilookedaroundtoo.
“Oneday,”Isaid,“thepoorwankersaregoingtowantbackwhatyoustolefromthem.”
“Comeon.Theypisseditallawaylongbeforewearrived.”
AsIlefttheofficeheadvised:
“Keepwalkingthewalk,Mick.”
Ilookedatmywatch.ItwaslateandtheMAXpremiseswereinECI.ButIthoughtthatifIgotamoveon
andcutupthroughTottenham,Icouldgoandseeafriendofmine.HisnamewasEdandIhadknownhim
sincethe1980s.
****
Backthen,Iwastryingtowriteabookaboutpeoplelikehim.EdJohnsonsoundedinteresting.Hehaddone
everythingfromroped-accessengineeringinTelfordtoharvestingbirds’nestsforsoupinSoutheastAsia.
Buthewashardtopindown.IfIwasinBirmingham,hewasinExeter.IfwewerebothinLondon,hehad
somethingelsetodo.IntheenditwasMoscowDaviswhomadetheintroduction.
Moscowwasashort,hard,cheerfulgirlwithbigfeetandbedraggledhair.Shewasbarelyoutofherteens.
ShehadcomefromOldham,Ithink,originally,andshehadanindescribablesnufflingaccent.SheandEd
hadworkedassteeplejackstogetherbeforetheybothmoveddownfromthenorthinsearchofwork.They
hadoncebeenaroundalottogether.ShethoughtJohnsonwouldenjoytalkingtomeifIwasstillinterested.
Iwas.ThearrangementwemadewastobeonthelookoutforhiminoneoftheSuicideCoastpubs,the
HarbourLights,thatSundayafternoon.
“Sundayafternoonsarequiet,sowecanhaveachat,”saidMoscow.“Everyone’seatingtheirdinnerthen.”
WehadbeeninthepubforhalfanhourwhenJohnsonarrived,wearingpatched501sandadirtyT-shirt
withapictureofamoleonthefrontofit.Hecameovertoourtableandbegankickingmoroselyatthelegs
ofMoscow’schair.Thelittlefingerofhislefthandwassplintedandwrappedinawadofbandage.
“ThisisEd,”Moscowtoldme,notlookingathim.
“Fuckoff,Moscow,”Edtoldher,notlookingatme.Hescratchedhisarmpitandstaredvaguelyintotheair
aboveMoscow’shead.“Iwantmymoneyback,”hesaid.Neitherofthemcouldthinkofanythingtoaddto
this,andafterapausehewanderedoff.
“He’s alwayslikethat,”Moscow said. ‘You don’twant to payanyattention.”Later in the afternoonshe
said:“You’llgetonwe’llwithEd,though.You’lllikehim.He’samadbastard.”
“Yousaythataboutalltheboys,”Isaid.
InthiscaseMoscowwasright,becauseIhadhearditnotjustfromher,andlaterIwouldgetproofofit
anyway—ifyoucanevergetproofofanything.Every-onesaidthatEdshouldbeinastraightjacket.Inthe
end,nothingcouldbearranged.Johnsonwasinabadmood,andMoscowhadtobeuptheCoastthatweek,
onCanveyIsland,todosomeworkononeofthecracking-plantsthere.Therewasalwaysalotofthatkind
ofwork,oilwork,chemicalwork,onCanveyIsland.“Ihaven’ttimeforhim,”Moscowexplainedasshe
gotuptogo.“I’llseeyoulater,anyway,”shepromised.
As soon as she was gone, Ed Johnson came back and sat down in front of me. He grinned. “Ever done
anythingworthdoinginyourwholelife?”heaskedme.“Anythingreal?”
****
TheMAXeditorwasright:sincecoringgotpopular,theroadshadbeendeserted.IleftECIandwhacked
the 190 up through Hackney until I got the Lea Valley reservoirs on my right like a splatter of moonlit
verglas. On empty roads the only mistakes that need concern you are your own; every bend becomes a
dreamyinterrogationofyourowntechnique.Lifeshouldbemorelikethat.Imadegoodtime.
EdlivedjustbackfromMontaguRoad,inaquietstreetbehindtheJewishCemetery.Hesharedhisflatwith
awomaninherearlythirtieswhosenamewasCaitlin.Caitlinhadblackhairandsoft,honestbrowneyes.
She and I were old friends. We hugged briefly on the doorstep. She looked up and down the street and
shivered.
“Comein,”shesaid.“It’scold.”
“Youshouldwearajumper.”
“I’lltellhimyou’rehere,”shesaid.“Doyouwantsomecoffee?”
CaitlinhadsoftenedtheedgesofEd’slife,butlessperhapsthaneitherofthemhadhoped.Histastewas
stillveryminimal—whitepaint,ashfloors,oneortwoitemsoffurniturefromHeals.Andtherewasstilla
competitionKleinmountedonthelivingroomwall,itspolishedaerospacealloysglitteringinthehalogen
lights.
“Espresso,”Isaid.
“I’mnotgivingyouespressoatthistimeofnight.You’llexplode.”
“Itwasworthatry.”
“Ed!”shecalled.“Ed!Mick’shere!”
Hedidn’tanswer.
Sheshruggedatme,asiftosay,“WhatcanIdo?”andwentintothebackroom.Iheardtheirvoicesbutnot
whattheywere saying.Afterthatshewentupstairs.“Go inand seehim,” shesuggestedwhenshecame
downagainthreeorfourminuteslater.“Itoldhimyouwerehere.”ShehadpulledaJigsawsweateronover
herRacingGreenshirtandLevi’s;andfastenedherhairbackhastilywithadarkbrownvelvetscrunchy.
“Thatlooksnice,”Isaid.“Doyouwantmetofetchhimout?”
“Idoubthe’llcome.”
Thebackroomwasdownanarrowcorridor.Edhadturneditintoableakcombinationofofficeandstorage.
Thewallsweredone withonecoat ofwhatbuilderscall“obliteratingemulsion”and coveredwithmetal
shelves.Chippeddivingtankshollowwiththeghostsofexoticgaseswerestackedbythefilingcabinet.His
BASEchutespilledhalfoutofitspack,yardsofcoldnylonavilebutexcitingrosecolor—acolorwhich
madeyouwanttobehurtlingdownwardface-firstscreamingwithfearuntilyouheardthecanopybangout
behindyouandyouknewyouweren’tgoingtodiethatday(althoughyoumightstillbreakbothlegs).The
cheap beige carpet was strewn with high-access mess —hanks of graying static rope; a yellow bucket
stuffedwithtools;Ed’sPetzlstop,harnessandknocked-aboutCPTs.Everythingwaslayeredwithdust.The
radiatorswereturnedoff.Therewasabedmadeupinonecorner.Deepintheclutteronthecheapwhite
deskstooda5-gigMacwithascreentodesignindustryspecs.ItwassprayingEd’sfacewithicybluelight.
“HiEd.”
“HiMick.”
Therewasalongsilenceafterthat.Edstaredatthescreen.Istaredathisback.JustwhenIthoughthehad
forgottenIwasthere,hesaid:
“FuckoffandtalktoCaitlinamoment.”
“Ibroughtussomebeer.”
“That’sgreat.”
“Whatareyourunninghere?”
“It’sagame.I’mrunningagame,Mick.”
EdhadlostweightsinceIlastsawhim.Thoughtheyretainedtheirdistinctivecabledstructure,hisforearms
werealotthinner.Withoutreleasinghimfromanythingitrepresented,theyokeofmusclehadliftedfrom
hisshoulders.Ihadexpectedthat.ButIwassurprisedbyhowmuchfleshhadmeltedoffhisface,leaving
longverticallinesofsinew,finsofboneabovethecheeksandatthecornersofthejaw.Hiseyeswerea
longwaybackinhishead.Inawayitsuitedhim.Hewouldhaveseemedokay—alittletiredperhaps;a
littleburneddown,likesomeonewhowasworkingtoohard—ifithadn’tbeenforthelightfromthedisplay.
Hunchedinhischairwiththatsplashingoffhim,helookedlikeavam-pire.Helookedlikeajunkie.
Ipeeredoverhisshoulder.
“Youwereneverintothisshit,”Isaid.
Hegrinned.
“Everyone’sintoitnow.Whynotme?Wankingawayandpretendingit’ssex.”
“Oh,comeon.”
Helookeddownathimself.
“It’sbetterthanliving,”hesaid.
Therewasnoanswertothat.
IwentandaskedCaitlin,“Hashebeendoingthislong?”
“Notlong,”shesaid.“Havesomecoffee.”
WesatintheL-shapedlivingareadrinkingdecaffeinatedJava.ThesofawasbigenoughforCaitlintocurl
upinacornerofitlikeacat.Shehadturnedtheoverheadlightsoff,tuckedherbarefeetupunderher.She
was smoking a cigarette. “It’s been a bloody awful day,” she warned me. “So don’t say a word.” She
grinnedwryly,thenwebothlookedupattheKleinforaminuteortwo.Somekindofambientmusicwas
issuingfaintlyfromthestereospeakers,fullofSouthAmericanbirdcallsandboutsofmuteddrumming.
“Ishewinning?”sheasked.
“Hedidn’ttellme.”
“You’relucky.It’sallheevertellsme.”
“Aren’tyouworried?”Isaid.
Shesmiled.
“He’sstillusingascreen,”shesaid.“He’snotpluggingin.”
“Yet,”Isaid.
“Yet,”sheagreedequably.“Wantmorecoffee?Orwillyoudomeafavor?”
Iputmyemptycuponthefloor.
“Doyouafavor,”Isaid.
“Cutmyhair.”
Igot up and went to her endofthesofa. She turned away from mesoIcould release her hair fromthe
scrunchy. “Shake it,” I said. She shook it. She ran her hands through it. Perfume came up; something I
didn’trecognize.“Itdoesn’tneedmuch,”Isaid.Iswitchedtheoverheadlightbackonandfetchedakitchen
chair.“Sithere.No,rightinthelight.You’llhavetotakeyourjumperoff.”
“Thegoodscissorsareinthebathroom,”shesaid.
Cut my hair. She had asked me that before, two or three days after she decided we should split up. I
rememberedthecalmthatcameovermeatthegentle,carefulsoundofthescissors,thewayherhairfeltas
Ilifteditawayfromthenapeofherneck,thetendernessandfearbecauseeverythingwaschangingaround
the two of us forever and somehow this quiet action signalized and blessed that. The shock of these
memoriesmademeask:
“Howareyoutwogettingon?”
Sheloweredherheadtohelpmecut.Ifelthersmile.
“YouandEdalwayslikedthesamekindofgirls,”shesaid.
“Yes,”Isaid.
Ifinishedthecut,thenlightlykissedthenapeofherneck.“There,”Isaid.Beneaththeperfumeshesmelled
faintlyofhypoallergenicsoapandunscenteddeodorants.“No,Mick,”shesaidsoftly.“Please.”Iadjusted
thecollarofhershirt,letherhairfallbackroundit.Myhandwasstillonhershoulder.Shehadtoturnher
headatanawkwardangletolookupatme.Hereyeswerewideandfullofpain.“Mick.”Ikissedhermouth
andbrushedthesideofherfacewithmyfin-gertips.Herarmswentroundmyneck,Ifelthersettleinthe
chair.Itouchedherbreasts.Theywerewarm,,thecottonshirtwascleanandcool.
Shemadeasmallnoiseandpulledmecloser. Justthen,inthebackroomamongthedustyairtanksand
disusedparachutes,EdJohnsonfelloutofhischairandbegantothrashabout,thebackofhisheadthudding
rhythmicallyonthefloor.
Caitlinpushedmeaway.
“Ed?”shecalled,fromthepassagedoor.
“Help!”criedEd.
“I’llgo,”Isaid.
Caitlinputherarmacrossthedoorwayandstaredupatmecalmly.
“No,”shesaid.
“Howcanyoulifthimonyourown?”
“ThisismeandEd,”shesaid.
“ForGod’ssake!”
“It’slate,Mick.I’llletyouout,thenI’llgoandhelphim.”
AtthefrontdoorIsaid:
“Ithinkyou’remad.Isthishappeningalot?You’reafooltolethimdothis.”
“It’shislife.”
Ilookedather.Sheshrugged.
“Willyoubeallright?”Isaid.
WhenIofferedtokisshergoodbye,sheturnedherfaceaway.
“Fuckoffthen,bothofyou,”Isaid.
IknewwhichgameEdwasplaying,becauseIhadseenthesoftwarewrapperdiscardedonthedesknearhis
Mac.Itsvisualswerecheapandschematic,itsvaluesself-consciouslyretro.Itwasnothinglikethestuffwe
soldofftheMAXsite,whichwasquiteliterallytheexperienceitself,strippedofitsconsequences.Youhad
topluginforthat:youhadtobecored.Thiswasjustagame;lessagame,even,thanatrip.Youflewa
silveryV-shapedgraphicdownanendlessV-shapedcorridor,anotionalperspectivesometimesboundedby
lines of objects, sometimes just by lines, sometimes bounded only by your memory of boundaries.
Sometimes the graphic floated and mushed like a moth. Sometimes it traveled in flat vicious arcs at an
apparentMach5.Therewerenoguns,noopponent.Therewasnocompetition.Youflew.Sometimesthe
horizontiltedoneway,sometimestheother.Youcouldchooseyourownmusic.Itwasableaklyminimal
experience. But after a minute or two, five at the most, you felt as if you could fly your icon down the
perspectiveforever,tothesoundtrackofyourownlife.
Itwasquitepopular.
ItwascalledOutThere.
“Rockclimbingistheater,”Ioncewrote.
Ithadallthequalitiesoftheater,Iwenton,butatheater-in-reverse:
“Inobediencetosomedeviousvanishedscript,theactorsabandonthestageandbegintoscaletheseating
arrangements,thebalconiesandhangingboxesnowoccupiedonlybycleaningwomen.”
“Oh,verydeep,”saidEdJohnsonwhenhereadthis.“ShallItellyouwhat’swronghere?Eh?ShallItell
you?”
“Pissoff,Ed.”
“Ifyoufallonyourfacefromahundredfeetup,itcomesoffthefrontofyourheadandyoudon’tgeta
secondgo.Nexttothat,theateriswank.Theaterisflat.TheaterisSuicideCoast.”
Edhatedanywhereflat.“Welcome tothe SuicideCoast,” heused tosaywhenIfirstknewhim.Tostart
with,thathadbeenbecausehelivedinCanterbury.Butithadquicklybecomehiswayofdescribingmost
places,mostexperiences.Youdidn’tactuallyhavetobenearthesea.SuicideCoastsyndromehadcaused
Ed to do some stupid things in his time. One day, when he and Moscow still worked in roped-access
engineering together, they were going up in the lift to the top of some shitty council high rise in
BirminghamorBristol,whensuddenlyEdsaid:
“DoyoubetmeIcankeepthedoorsopenwithmyhead?”
“What?”
“Nextfloor!Whenthedoorsstarttoclose,doyoubetmeIcanstopthemwithmyhead?”
It was Monday morning. The lift smelled of piss. They had been hand-ripping mastic out of expansion
jointsfortwoweeks,usingStanleyknives.Moscowwastired,hungover,weigheddownbyacollectionof
CPTs,masticgunsandhundred-footcoilsofrope.Herrightarmwasnumbfromrepeatingthesameaction
hourafterhour,dayafterday.
“Fuckoff,Ed,”shesaid.
ButsheknewEdwoulddoitwhethershetookthebetornot.
****
TwoorthreedaysaftershefirstintroducedmetoEd,Moscowtelephonedme.Shehadgotherselfacouple
of weeks cutting out on Thamesmead Estate. “They don’t half work hard, these fuckers,” she said. We
talkedaboutthatforaminuteortwothensheasked:
“Well?”
“Wellwhat,Moscow?”
“Ed.Washewhatyouwerelookingfor,then?Orwhat?”
IsaidthatthoughIwasimpressedIdidn’tthinkIwouldbeabletowriteanythingaboutEd.
“He’samadfucker,though,isn’the?”
“Ohheis,”Isaid.“Hecertainlyis.”
ThewayMoscowsaid“isn’the”madeitsoundlike“innie.”
AnotherthingIoncewrote:
“Climbingtakesplaceinaspecial kindofspace,therules ofwhich aresimple.You mustbe abletosee
immediatelywhatyouhavetolose;andyoumustchoosetheriskyoutake.”
WhatdoIknow?
I know that a life without consequences isn’t a life at all. Also, if you want to do something difficult,
somethingreal,youcan’tshirkthepain.WhatIlearnedintheolddays,fromEdandMoscow,fromGabe
King,JustineTownsendandalltheotherswhotaughtmetoclimbrockorjumpoffbuildingsorstaythe
rightwayupinatubeofpitch-darkwatertwodegreesofffreezingandtwohundredfeetundertheground,
wasthatyoucan’tjustpluginandbeastar:youhavetopractice.Youhavetokeeploadingyourfingers
untilthetendonsswell.
So it’s back to the Mile End wall, with its few thousand square feet of board and bolt-on holds, its few
thousandcubicmetersofemphysemicairthroughwhichoneverybrightrayofsunsometimesfallsinthe
middleofthe afternoon,illu-minatingnothing muchat all.Backtothesoundofthefanheater,thedust-
filledAkairadioplayingsomemournfulaggressivething,andeverysooftenaboy’svoicesayingsoftly,
“Ohshit,”assomesequenceorotherfailstoworkout.Yougobackthere,andifyouhavetofalloffthe
sameceilingmovethirtytimesinanafternoon,that’swhatyoudo.Thematsgivetheirgustywheeze,chalk
dustfliesup,thefanheaterabovetheMonkeyHousedoorrattlesandchokesandflatlinesbrieflybefore
putteringon.
“JesusChrist.Idon’tknowwhyIdothis.”
****
Caitlintelephonedme.
“Cometosupper,”shesaid.
“No,”Isaid.
“Mick,why?”
“BecauseI’msickofit.”
“Sickofwhat?”
“You.Me.Him.Everything.”
“Look,”shesaid,“he’ssorryaboutwhathappenedlasttime.”
“Oh,he’ssorry.”
“We’rebothsorry,Mick.”
“Allright,then:I’msorry,too.”
Therewasagentlelaughattheotherend.
“Soyoushouldbe.”
Iwentalongallthedesertedroadsandgotthereatabouteight,tofindabrand-newmotorcycleparkedon
thepavementoutsidethehouse.ItwasaKawasakiNinja.Itsfairinghadbeenremoved,togiveitthelook
ofa‘60scaferacer,butnoonewasfooled.Evenataglanceitappearedtoohunched,tooshort-coupled:too
knowing.Theremainingplasticsshonewiththeirownharshinnerlight.
Caitlinmetmeonthedoorstep.Sheputherhandsonmyshouldersandkissedme.“Mm,”shesaid.Shewas
wearingwhitetennisshortsandasoftdarkbluesweatshirt.
“We’vegottostopmeetinglikethis,”Isaid.
Shesmiledandpushedmeaway.
“Myhandssmellofgarlic,”shesaid.
Justasweweregoinginside,sheturnedbackandnoddedattheKawa.
“Thatthing,”shesaid.
“It’samotorcycle,Caitlin.”
“It’shis.”
Istaredather.
“Beenthusiastic,”shesaid.“Please.”
“But—”
“Please?”
****
Themaincoursewaspennewithmushroomsinanoliveandtomatosauce.Edhadcookedit,Caitlinsaid,
but she served. Ed pushed his chair over to the table and rubbed his hands. He picked his plate up and
passeditunderhisnose.“Wow!”hesaid.Asweate,wetalkedaboutthisandthat.TheKawawasbehind
everythingwesaid,butEdwouldn’tmentionituntilIdid.Caitlinsmiledatusboth.Sheshookherheadas
iftosay:“Children!Youchildren!”ItwaslikeChristmas,andshewastheparent.Thethreeofuscouldfeel
Ed’sexcitementandimpatience.Hegrinnedsecretively.Heglancedupfromhisfoodatoneorbothofus;
quicklybackdownagain.Finally,hecouldn’tholdbackanylonger.
“Whatdoyouthink,then?”hesaid.“Whatdoyouthink,Mick?”
“Ithinkthisisgoodpasta,”Isaid.“Foracripple.”
Hegrinnedandwipedhismouth.
“It’snotbad,”hesaid,“isit?”
“IthinkwhatIlikebestisthewayyou’veletthemushroomstakeupatouchofsesameoil.”
“Havesomemore.There’splenty.”
“That’snewtomeinItalianfood,”Isaid.“Sesameoil.”
Eddranksomemorebeer.
“Itwasjustanidea,”hesaid.
“Youchildren,”saidCaitlin.Sheshookherhead.Shegotupandtooktheplatesaway.“There’sicecream
forpudding,”shesaidoverhershoulderjustbeforeshedisappeared.WhenIwassureshewasoccupiedin
thekitchenIsaid:
“Niceidea,Ed:amotorcycle.Whatareyougoingtodowithit?HangitonthewallwiththeKlein?”
Hedranktherestofhisbeer,openedanewoneandpoureditthoughtfullyintohisglass.Hewatchedthe
bubblesrisingthroughit,thengrinnedatmeasifhehadmadeadecision.Hehad.InthatmomentIsaw
thathewaslost,butnotwhatIcoulddoaboutit.
“Isn’titbrilliant?Isn’titjustafucker,thatbike?Ihaven’thadabikesinceIwasseventeen.There’sastory
attachedtothat.”
“Ed—”
“Doyouwanttohearitornot?”
Caitlincamebackinwiththeicecreamandserveditouttousandsatdown.
“Tellus,Ed,”shesaidtiredly.“Tellusthestoryaboutthat.”
Edheldontohisglasshardwithbothhandsandstaredintoitforalongtimeasifhewastryingtoseethe
past there. “I had some ace times on bikes when I was a kid,” he said finally: “but they were always
someoneelse’s.Myolddear—Shereallyhatedbikes,myolddear.Youknow:theyweredirty,theywere
dan-gerous,shewasn’tgoingtohaveoneinthehouse.Didthatstopme?Itdidnot.Iboughtoneofthefirst
goodDucatti125sinBritain,butIhadtokeepitinacoalcellardowntheroad.”
“That’sreallyfunny,Ed.”
“Fuckoff,Mick.I’mseventeen,I’mstillatschool,andI’vegotthisfuckingprojectilestashedinsomeone’s
coalcellar.ThewholetimeIhadit,theolddearneverknew.I’mwalkingthreemilesinthepiss-wetrain
everynight,dressedtogotothelibrary,thenunlockingthisthingandstuffingitroundthebacklaneswith
mybestwhiteshortieraincoatballooninguplikeafuckingtent.”
Helookedpuzzledlydownathisplate.
“What’sthis?Oh.Icecream.Everriddenabikeinaraincoat?”heaskedCaitlin.
Caitlinshookherhead.Shewasstaringathimwithahypnotizedexpression;shewasbreakingwafersinto
hericecream.
“Welltheywerealltheragethen,”hesaid.
Headded:“Thedrag’senormous.”
“Eatyourpudding,Ed,”Isaid.“Andstopboasting.Howfastwoulda125gointhosedays?Eightymiles
anhour?Eighty-five?”
“Theywentfasterifyougroundyourteeth,Mick,”Edsaid.“Doyouwanttoheartherest?”
“OfcourseIwanttohearit,Ed.”
“Walkthreemilesinthepiss-wetrain,”saidEd,“togoforarideonamotorbike,whatajoke.Butthereal
jokeisthis:thefuckerhadanalloycrankcase.Thatwasabigdealinthosedays,analloycrankcase.
ThefirsttimeIdroppeditonabend,itcracked.Oileverywhere.Ipusheditbacktothecoal-houseandleft
itthere.Youcouldn’tweldanalloycrankcaseworthshitinthosedays.Ihadthreeyears’paymentsleftto
makeonabunchofscrap.”
Hegrinnedatustriumphantly.
“AskmehowlongI’dhadit,”heordered.
“Howlong,Mick?”
“Threeweeks.I’dhadthefuckerthreeweeks.”
Hebegantolaugh.Suddenly,hisfacewentsowhiteitlookedgreen.Helookedrapidlyfromsidetoside,
like someone who can’t understand where he is. At the same time, he pushed himself up out of the
wheelchairuntilhisarmswouldn’tstraightenanyfurtherandhewasalmoststandingup.Hetiltedhishead
backuntilthetendonsinhisneckstoodout.Heshouted,“Iwanttogetoutofhere!Caitlin,Iwanttoget
out!”Thenhisarmsbuckledandhelethisweightgoontohisfeetandhislegsfoldeduplikeputtyandhe
fellforwardwithagasp,hisfaceintheicecreamandhishands smashingandclutchingandscrapingat
anythingtheytouchedonthedinnertableuntilhehadbunchedtheclothupunderhimandeverythingwasa
soddenmessoffoodandbrokendishes,andhehadslippedoutofthechairandontothefloor.Thenhelet
himselfslumpandgoquitestill.
“Helpme,”saidCaitlin.
Wecouldn’tgethimbackintothechair.Aswetried,hisheadfloppedforward,andIcouldseequiteclearly
thebruisesanddeep,half-healedscabsatthebaseofhisskull,wheretheyhadcoredhiscervicalspinefor
the computer connection. When he initialized OutTherenow the graphics came up live in his head. No
morescreen.OnlytheendlessVoftheperspective.Theendless,effortlessdip-and-bankoftheviewpoint.
Whatdidbeseeoutthere?Didheseehimself,hunchedupontheKawasakiNinja?Didheseehighways,
bridges,tunnels,weirdmotorcycleflightsthroughendlessspace?
****
Halfwayalongthepassage,hewokeup.
“Caitlin!”heshouted.
“I’mhere.”
“Caitlin!”
“I’mhere,Ed.”
“Caitlin,Ineverdidanyofthat.”,
“Hush,Ed.Let’sgetyoutobed.”
“Listen!”heshouted.“Listen.”
Hestartedtothrashaboutandwehadtolayhimdownwherehewas.Thepassagewassonarrowhishead
hitonewall,thentheother,withasolidnoise.HestareddesperatelyatCaitlin,hisfacesmearedwithBen&
Jerry’s.“Inevercouldrideabike,”headmitted.“Imadeallthatup.”
Shebentdownandputherarmsroundhisneck.
“Iknow,”shesaid.
“Imadeallthatup!”heshouted.
“It’sallright.It’sallright.”
Wegothimintobedinthebackroom.ShewipedtheicecreamoffhisfacewithaKleenex.Hestaredover
hershoulderatthewall,rigidwithfearandself-loathing.“Hush,”shesaid.“You’reallright.”Thatmade
himcry;himcryingmadehercry.Ididn’tknowwhethertocryorlaugh.Isatdownandwatchedthemfora
moment,thengottomyfeet.Ifelttired.
“It’slate,”Isaid.“IthinkI’llgo.”
Caitlinfollowedmeoutontothedoorstep.Itwasanothercoldnight.Conden-sationhadbeadedonthefuel
tankoftheKawasaki,sothatitlookedlikesomesortoffrostedconfectioninthestreetlight.
“Look,”shesaid,“canyoudoanythingwiththat?”
Ishrugged.
“It’sstillbrandnew,”Isaid.Idrewalineinthecondensation,alongthecurveofthetank,thenanother,at
anangletoit.
“Icouldseeifthedealerwouldtakeitback.”
“Thanks.”
Ilaughed.
“Goinnow,”Iadvisedher.“It’scold.”
“Thanks,Mick.Really.”
“That’swhatyoualwayssay.”
****
ThewayEdgothisparaplegiawasthis.ItwasamiserableJanuaryaboutfourmonthsafterCaitlinleftme
to go and live with him. He was working over in mid-Wales with Moscow Davis. They had landed the
inspection contract for three point-blocks owned by the local council; penalty clauses meant they had to
com-pletethatmonth.Theylivedinabed-and-breakfastplaceamilefromthejob,comingbacksotiredin
theeveningthattheyjustabouthadtimetoeatfishandchipsandwatchCoronationStreetbeforetheyfell
asleepwiththeirmouthsopen.“Weweretoofuckedeventotakedrugs,”Edadmittedafterward,inakind
ofwonder.“Canyouimaginethat?”Theirhandswere bashedand bleedingfromhittingthemselves with
samplehammersinthefreezingrain.Attheendofeveryafternoonthesunsetlightcaughtathin,delicate
layerofwater-icethathadweldedMoscow’shairtohercheek.Edwasn’tjusttired,hewasmissingCaitlin.
OneFridayhesaid,“I’mfuckedoffwiththis,let’shaveaweekendathome.”
“Weagreedwe’dhavetoworkweekends,”Moscowremindedhim.Shewatchedalongstringofsnotleave
hernose,stretchoutlikespider-silk,thensnapandvanishonthewind.“Tofinishintime,”shesaid.
“Comeon,youwanker,”Edsaid.“Dosomethingrealinyourlife.”
“Ineverwank,”saidMoscow.“Ican’tfancymyself.”
Theygot inher1984 320i withthe M-Technicpack,Garrett turboandextra-wide wheels,andwhile the
lightdiedoutofabadafternoonshepushediteastwardthroughtheCambrians,lettingtherearendhangout
oncorners.ShehadLouReedRetroontheCDandherplanwastodrawalinestraightacrossthemapand
connectwiththeM4attheSevernBridge.ItwasghostlyandfogallthewayoutofWalesthatnight,lost
sheepcomingatyoufromgroupsofwettreesandfoldsinthehills.“TregarontoAbergwesyn.
Oneofthegreatbackroads!”Moscowshoutedoverthemusic,astheypassedasinglelonelyhouseinthe
rain,milesawayfromanywhere,facingsouthintotherollingmoorsofmid-Wales.
Edshoutedback:“Theycangofasterthanthis,these320s.”Soonthenextbendshelettherearendhang
outaninchtoofarandtheysurfedfivehundredfeetintoaravinebelowCefnCoch,withtheBMW
crumpleduproundthemlikeachocolatewrapper.Justbeforetheywentover,thetapehadgotto
“SweetJane”—theliveversionwiththeapplausewellingupacrosstheopeningchordsasifGodhimself
was stepping out on stage. In the bottom of the ravine a shallow stream ran through pressure-
metamorphosedOrdovicianshale.Edsatuntilday-lightthenextmorning,consciousbutunabletomove,
watchingthewaterhurrytowardhimandlisteningtoMoscowdieofapuncturedlungintheheavysmellof
fuel.Itwasalongwait.Onceortwicesheregainedconsciousnessandsaid:“I’msorry,Ed.”
Onceortwiceheheardhimselfreassureher,“No,itwasmyfault.”
AtSouthwesternOrthopaedicaconsultanttoldhimthatkeymotornerveshadbeenrippedoutofhisspine.
“Stuffthefuckersbackinagainthen!”hesaid,inanattempttoimpressher.
Shesmiled.
“That’sexactlywhatwe’regoingtotry,”shereplied.“We’lldoatuck-and-glueandencouragethespinal
cordtosendnewfilamentsintotheoldcablechannel.”
Shethoughtforamoment.
“We’llbeworkingveryclosetothecorditself,”shewarnedhim.
Edstaredather.
“Itwasajoke,”hesaid.
Forawhileitseemedtowork.Twomonthslaterhecouldflexthemusclesinhisupperlegs.Butnothing
morehappened;and,worriedthatasecondtrywouldonlymakethedamageworse,theyhadtoleaveit.
****
MileEndMonkHouse.Hangingupsidedownfromapainfulfoot-hook,youchalkyourhandsmeditatively,
staringatthesweatytriangularmarkyourbackleftontheblueplasticcoverofthematlasttimeyoufellon
it. Then, reluctantly, feeling your stomach muscles grind as they curl you upright again, you clutch the
starting holds and go for the move: reach up: lock out on two fingers: let your left leg swing out to
rebalance:strainupwardwithyourrightfingertips,andjustasyoubrushthecrucialhold,falloffagain.
“JesusChrist.Idon’tknowwhyIcomehere.”
YoucomesothatnextweekendyoucangetintoaCosworth-enginedMerc190Eanddriveveryfastdown
theM4(“Noonedrivesthemselvesanymore!”)toalimestoneoutcrophighabovetheWyeValley.Letgo
hereandyouwillnotlandonabluesafetymatinapuffofchalkdust.Insteadyouwillplummeteightyfeet
straightdownuntilyouhitasmallledge,catapultoutintothetrees,andlandalittlelaterface-firstamong
moss-grownbouldersfleckedwithsunshine.Nowallthepracticeisover.Nowyouareontheroute.Your
friendslookup,shadingtheireyesagainstthewhiteglareoftherock.Theyarewonderingifyoucanmake
themove.Soareyou.Theonlyexitfromshitcreekistoputtwofingersofyourlefthandintoarazor-sharp
solutionpocket,leanawayfromittothefullextentofyourarm,runyourfeetupinfrontofyou,and,just
asyouareabouttofalloff,lungewithyourrighthandforthegoodholdabove.
Atthetopofthecliffgrowsalargeyewtree.Youcanseeitveryclearly.Ithasashorthorizontaltrunk,and
contortedlimbsperhapseighteen inchesthickcurv-ing outoverthedropasiftheyhad justthatmoment
stoppedmoving.Whenyoureachityouwillbesafe.Butatthisstageonaclimb,thetopofanythingisan
emptyhypothesis. You look up: itmightaswell be the other sideoftheAtlantic. All that airisburning
awaybelowyou likea fuse.Suddenly you’removinganyway.Excitementhasshort-circuitedthenormal
connectionsbetweenintentionandaction.Whereyoulook,yougo.Noeffortseemstobeinvolved.It’slike
fallingupward.It’slikethatmomentwhenyoufirstunderstoodhowtoswim,orrideabike.Heightandfear
havereturnedyoutoyourchildhood.Justasitwasthen,yourdutyisonlytoyourself.Untilyougetsafely
downagain,contracts,businessmeetings,householdbills,emotionalproblemswillmeannothing.
Whenyoufinallyreachthatyewtreeat the top of the climb, you find it full of grown men and women
wearingfadedshortsandT-shirts.Theyareallintheirfortiesandfifties.Theyhaveallescaped.Withtheir
barebrownarms,theirhairbleachedoutbyweeksofsunshine,theysitateveryforkorjunction,legsdan-
gling in the dusty air, like child-pirates out of some storybook of the 1920s: an investment banker from
Greenwich,anAIDS counselorfromBow;adesignerofFrenchConnectionclothes;apublishers’editor.
There is a comfortable si-lence broken by the odd friendly murmur as you arrive, but their eyes are in-
turnedandtheywouldprefertobealone,staringdreamilyoutoverthevalley, thecurveoftheriver,the
woodswhichseemtostretchawaytoTinternAbbeyandthenWales.Thisistheothersideofexcitement,
the other pleasure of height: the space without anxiety. The space without anxiety. The space without
anxiety.Thespacewithoutanxiety.Thespacewithoutanxiety.Thespacewith-outanxiety.
Thespacewithoutanxiety.Thespacewith—
****
YouareleftwiththisfamiliarglitchorloopintheMAXware.SuicideCoastwon’tplayanyfarther.
Reluctantly,youabandonMicktohisworldofsadacts,hisfaiththatrealitycanbereliedupontoscaffold
his perceptions. To run him again from the beginning would only make the frailty of that faith more
obvious.Soyouwaituntileverythinghasgoneblack,unplugyourselffromthemachine,andwalkaway,
unconsciously rolling your shoulders to ease the stiffness, massaging the sore place at the back of your
neck.Whatwillyoudonext?Everythingisflatouthere.Noonedrivesthemselvesanymore.
****
huntingmother
SAGEWALKER
Thattheoldmustgivewaytothenewisatruththathasbeenknownsincethedawnofthehumanrace,but,
as the evocative story that follows demonstrates, in spite of our awareness ofthat inevitability, it’s not
alwaysaneasyoracomfortabletransition…
Sage Walker lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. A graduate of Clarion West, she has made salesto
Asimov’sScienceFiction,NotofWomanBorn,EventHorizon,andelsewhere.Herfirstnovel,Whiteout,
wasoneofthemostcriticallyacclaimeddebutnovelsof1996,andsheisatworkonseveralothers.
****
R
unninghereinthelongcorridorshaditsjoysbutitwasbetterAbove.Ontheinnersurfaceofthespinning
worldCougarcouldraceacrosswidestretchesofopencountry.Distancecouldtirehislegsandtherewere
obstaclestoleapoverordodgearound.Hethoughtexerciseandfatiguewouldmakeiteasiertoap-proach
theoldwoman.
The lights that woke at his motion were dim, timed for evening. The animals Above would be readying
themselvesfornight.
Cougarlovedmotion.Inthedimcorridor,theflexofhistoesandtheslipofthetendonsinhisfeetwere
smooth and silent against chill stone. Tensions and relaxations of muscles in his calves and thighs,
counterbalance offered by small ripples of the muscles in his back and shoulders, reflex arcs between
neuron and neuron and muscle cell; the sensations blended and gave him joy. He delighted in the slight
alarm,theconstantlyarrestedfalls,ofwalking.
Thecorridorwherehewalkedcircledtheworld.Ashewalkedhewasalwaysatthecenterofagreatcurve.
Beforehimandbehindhimthecorridorroseuntilitseemedtonarrowtoapointandvanish.Justaheadwas
aliftthatwouldtakehimtotheAboveordown,out,intothethickrindoftheship,tothecavehismother
hadmadeofherquarters.
Cougarwantedtohunt.Hewantedtorun,buthewasadutifulson,hetoldhimself.Thehuntwouldwait.
Hewouldrunasarewardafterhehaddealtwithhismother.
Hesteppedinsidetheliftandrodedown.
****
Hismother’squarterswerenearherlabs;shelivedclosetoherwork.Cougarre-memberedwakinginthe
night, small and alone. The slap of his feet had sounded so loud on the cold stone that he knew some
monsterwouldcomeoutofthedarkcor-ridortoeathim,buthe’druntothelabanyway,runformother.
Mother,Elena, peered intothewatery depths ofawomb machine. Itslightsmade the highledgesof her
cheekbones and the dark hollows of her eyes seem strange and terrible. An em-bryo floated dead in the
translucentcylinder,thethickpancakeshapeofitsplacentaloosefromthewombwallandslowlyspinning
inbloodyfluid.
“Hey,boy.ThealarmswokemesoIcametofindoutwhatwashappening,”Elenasaid.Shepickedhimup
andheldhimclose.“Didyouhaveabaddream?”
Cougarwasn’tsurewhatabaddreamwas,buthenoddedandpushedhisnoseagainstthecomfortingsmell
ofhismother’sshoulder.HeheardgurglesandhissesasElenadidsomethingtothewombmachine.
Hesaw,abovehismother’sshoul-der,frostcrystalsformingonthewomb’sglassywindows.“Something
wentwrong.I’lldothetestsonittomorrow,”Elenasaid.
Beneaththefrosthehadseentinyclawedfingers,wetfurswirling,thestrangebaldswellingsoftwinned
labiabetweenflexedlegs.Itwasthefirsttimehere-memberedbeingafraidofhismother.
Fullyadultnow,longpastchildhoodterrors,Cougarpulledthescentsofthelabacrosshisnoseandpalate.
Hesensedalbumin,wetdownandeggshell.Hewonderedwhichchickshadhatched.
Aheadinthecorridor,hesawtheold,oldwoman.Shewalkedtowardhim,slenderandnotstooped,still
graceful although she moved with the deliberate caution of the aged. Cougar stood still and the lights
aroundhimfaded.
Elena,itwasElena,staredaheadatthedarkness.Shelookedhelplessandblind.
“Cougar?”sheasked.“Isthatyou?”
Inanswer,hesteppedforwardtowakethecorridor’slights.Heknew,readingthetensionsofthewoman’s
motionlessbody,thatshethoughttofleehimbutshehadforcedherselfnottorun.
“Iwasgoingtolookforyou,”Elenasaid.“Comein.”
Following her, he entered home. Her home now, and fusty as human places tended to get after so many
years.Theseroomshadbeenhischildhoodandhehatedthemandlovedthemandhadnotbeenherefora
longtime.
CougarreadElena’sbreath.Itcarriedmoleculartracesofchicos,theroastedcornshehadstewedandeaten
nottwohoursago.SheshedatraceoflactatefromanoxicmusclesandCougarrealizedthateventhewalk
intothecorridormusthavetiredher.Elena’sskinsmelledofthecave;cleancedarboughsfreshlybroken,
bitterherbs,coffee,yeast.Hersweatwasrichwiththehorseyreekofsyntheticestrogensandanalarming
traceofammonia;renalfailurewasbeginning.Moreurgentthananyofthese,thesmallsharpmoleculesof
herfearrushedacrosshispalate.Themusclesofhisfacewantedtolifthislipsawayfromhisteethbuthe
didnotletthem.
“Ididn’tknowyouwereoutthereuntilyoumoved.You’realwayssoquiet,”Elenasaid.
“Yes.”
Hethought,Oh,tellhernow!Admityoudon’thavethewisdomforthis.“Yes.Mother—”
“Wouldyouhavesometea?”Elena’swordstumbledouttoblockhisunfinishedplea.Sheliftedherpalm
andbrushedtheairasiftobrushhislipsclosed.“I’mhavingsome.Sitdown.”
Hesatonthecushionedrugsbythefireplace.CougarwonderedwhyElenaofferedasocialritual.
Greetingswereusuallymomentarybetweenthemandthentheyplungedheadlongintowhatevertopiccame
to hand; they were seldom formal with each other. He realized Elena sought delay and perhaps she also
wanted to lengthen the time he would spend here. He felt a wash of guilt, knowing he had often found
reasonsnottovisither.
Elenabusiedherselfwithmugsandtea.Thelaboredmotionofherdamagedgait,atinytremorinherhands,
madecertaintendonsinCougar’sforearmsflex.Hedidnotlethisclawsextendbuttheytwitchedonce.He
hopedshedidn’tsee.
“Howaretheotters?”sheasked.
Thewomanandhersonhadbusiness,thebusinessofherdeathandtheiracceptanceofit,andsheasked
aboutotters.CougarwasangrybutthenherealizedthatElenawasashesitantashewas,thatshehadgone
outintothecorridortolookforhimbuthopednottofindhim.
Sohetoldherabouttheotters,sleekandcleverinthewater,theshellfishtheycaughtandthestonesthey
usedtobreakthemopen.Theotterswerenew,atestpair,andtheyharvestedmusselsandfish.Theyhad
beenawakelongenoughtobreed.Fatotterpupsplayednowinthebrightwater.
****
Ifhedidn’tlookquitesomuchlikeme,Elenathought,hewouldbethemostbeautifulmanI’veeverseen.
Mostofhisbeautyisinhismusculature,hissuperbreflexes.IfoundIcouldn’tgivehimfur,ortuftedears.
Skinandneuraltissuearisefromthesameembryoniclayers;humanshaveasortoffur.Itshouldnothave
been a problem to thicken it but the embryos I tested with that modification were not close enough to
humantoeverhavelearnedspeech.Thereissomuchwestilldon’tknow.
But,oh,theretractableclawsaresuperb.Cougarusesthemwithaspeedandprecisionfarbeyondhuman.
Thehandmodifiesthebrainandthepartsofhisbrainmappedforthosehandsaremarveloustosee.
He’saspuzzledasIambythisdeathofmine,Ithink.
****
Cougartookthemugoftea,aslightlysmokyblendappropriateforautumn.Hebreatheditssteamandblew
ontheamberliquidtoroughenitssurface.Theoldwomansatdownonhercushion.Shepulledherlegsup
andtuckedherfeettogetherneatly.
Inthefireplace,atwigsnapped.Thecoalsglowedyellow-redandthendulledtoredagain.Thenightwas
likeanyotherandhismotherwasasfamiliarashisbreath,butshewasgoingtodieandhewasn’tsurehow
tohelpher,orwhattosay.
“Iremember—”Elenabegan.”
“Areyoubeginningadeathsong?”Cougarasked.
“IthoughtImight.”
“Damnit,don’t!Thismatterisnot decided.It’snotassimpleasIthinkyouwouldlike,certainlynotas
simpleasapointonagraphwhereallparametersarepredictable.Iamnotadisinterestedbystander.
Youaremymother.”
“No,it’snotsimple,”Elenasaid.
“Ihavedoubtsaboutbecominganexecutioner.Everyhumanculturehasalwayssaid,Thoushaltnotkill.
Therearegoodreasonsforsuchaprohibition.”
“Everyhumanculturehassaid,Don’tkillwithinthetribe.Astheageswentbyweextendedtheboundaries
ofthetribeandnowweareallonetribe,”Elenasaid.“Sowesay.Areyouhuman?”
Am I? Possible angry answers clashed in Cougar’s throat. He coughed to stifle them. “My father is a
mountainlion.Youaremymother.”TherewereotherchimerasintheshipbutCougardidnotknowandhis
mother could not know what she had made when she made them. Otter and Bear and Owlchild and the
others,allweretools,prototypes,testmodelsonwhichimprovementsmightbebased.
Cougartightenedhisgriponthemugoftea,lettingthesteelbladeshe’dfittedtohisclawssnapagainstthe
porcelain.Hewasskilled,veryskilled,withscalpelsorlargerknives,buthisclawsweremoreskillfulat
sometasks,moresensitivethananyknife.
Akineticmemorysurfaced,abenchinacorridoralcoveandhesosmallitseemedhuge,hisdelightwhen
hefoundhewasbigenoughtoclimbuptowhereElenawaited.Buthe’dslippedandcaughtatthesmooth
skin of her forearm. Drops of blood from his claws appeared one by one on her white skin, ruby dark
pomegranateseeds.Thesalttasteofherbloodashelickedthedropsawayonebyone,thecautious,puzzled
lookonElena’sface.Herfacehadlookedoldtohimthenbutnowheknewithadbeenyoung.
“Webredyou,”Elenasaid.“WeknewyouwouldneverknowEarth.Weknewyouwouldhaveonlythis
tinyworldletandthepromiseofunknownfutures.Ifanyonesurvivesontheworldtheshipwillreach,they
willsurvivebecausethey designthemselves todoso. Youareamongthefirst ofthe designed.Iwonder
howmuchyouhateus.”
Elenaswallowed,slipof tracheaunder wrinkledskin.Her carotidthrobbed underthethinned skinatthe
curveofherjaw.
“Youhadachoicewhethertogoorstay.Noneofushavethatchoice.Ihateyouforthat,perhaps,butalsoI
loveyou.Mystudiestellmeallchildrenhatetheirparentsandlovethem,”Cougarsaid.
“Icertainlydid.”Elenapressedherhandstogetherandthenopenedthemasiftheywereabook.
****
Myownmother“readabook”inherhandssometimes,Elenaremembered.OfcourseIhatedmymother,
andlovedher.OfcourseIhatedwhatmymotheraskedofme.OfcourseIlearnedtolovewhatshelonged
for.
WewalkedsometimesonthemesaatnightandwecouldseethisshipwhereIlivenowasapointoflightin
thesky,acapturedasteroidbroughtintosmoothorbittobealteredforouruse.Itwasimpossiblyfaraway
butIimaginedIcouldheartheexplosionsandthedrills,theviolentmidwiferytheartificerspracticedas
theyexplodedasolidchunkofrockintoahollowhome.
My parents were insane. Their insanity was grandiose and desperate and I love them for it. In this
honeycombedspinningrocktheycachedalltheycould;cellsamplesandembryosofcreaturesandplants
whose codes are known and some that are yet unmapped, inert salts of every biologically useful trace
elementthatmightsomedaybeneeded,librariesofwisdomandfoolishness;anythingtheythoughtmight
everbeuseful.
Weknowthere’saplanetwherewe’regoing.Ithassomeofthethingsweneedtolive;weknowthatmuch.
Butwedon’tknoweverything.Whenwereachourfarawaynewworld,wewillnothavetimetoterraform
it,certainlynotcompletely.Therefore,wewillchangeourselvestosurvivethere.We’llchangetheworld
wefind;humansalwaysdo.
Orwe’lldieencystedhereinthisrock,backingdownthescalesofcomplexity,degradingovertimeuntil
onlybacteriaareleftofus,andthen—
Ihopeforadifferentoutcome,asuccessfulone.I’masmadasmymotherwas.
****
“Yousawthediagnostics,”Elenasaid.“Iamgoingtodieandthereisnotreatmentstrategythatwillchange
thatfact.Iamsuffering.”
“Youdonotappeartobesuffering.”
“Isufferwonderingifyouwillsufferwhenmyphysicaland mentaldeclinebecomesmoreapparent.We
can’tknowIwilldiewithmybrainintact.Imaybecomemindless.Ihaveseentheeyesofhumanswhose
bodieshaveoutlivedtheirminds.”Shehadseenrowsandrowsofwarehousedancientswaiting,waiting.
“Eventomylastbreath,mybodywillnotwanttodie.”
“Ihaveseensuchinmystudies,”Cougarsaid.
“Ihaveseensuchwithmyowneyes,”Elenasaid.“Inthebestofourhumanandsocialwisdom,wedidn’t
knowwhattodo.”
“Butyouwantmetoknowwhat’sbestanddoit,”Cougarsaid.
“IwantyoutobewiserthanIam.”Shestaredintothedyingfireandwhatevercorridorsofthepastshe
lookeddownwerefarawayandlongago.
“Thereisnoreasontosettlethistonight,”Elenasaid.
Cougarleftherthere.
****
Cougar paced, back two steps, forward two steps, in the cage of the lift. Through its walls he heard the
rumblesofthefactories,sighsofwindsastheworldletbreathed,ordinary,soothingsounds.Thelifttook
himAbove.Hestrippedtoapairoftrunksandlefthisclothesatthegate.ThecoolairofAbove’snight
chilledhisskininapleasantway.
Hewalked to loosen thetightnessin his shouldersandneckand then he found alopingstride, a tireless
ground-covering pace. He ran past fenced grain fields and bare-limbed orchards (the scent of windfall
applessharpandfermenting).Pastthewaternoiseofastreammadetofalloverrocks(wavingwaterweeds,
healthyfingerlingsintheshallows,milk-scentofasnoozingottercub).
Heranwithintherealphysicalboundariesofa damnedsmallecosphereandheworkedasheran.Inhis
pleasantexertionhemeasuredthehealthandthedelicatebalancesoftheenclosedfieldsandwildernesses
(nomorewildthananyzoo,butlargerthanmost)thatslumberedthroughanartificialnight.
Theconse-quencesofignoringimbalancesinlifeandgrowthherewerelikelytobedeadly.
CougaropenedhismouthtothenightwindandscentedOwlchild,waitingonabluffabovethemouthof
thestream. Stalking her, Cougar cameacrossthe whitetail doe and hertwinfawns, both male, grazing a
nightmeadow.Cougarmarkedinhismindtheirdifferences,onelargerandplumper,theothermoreagile.
Heleft the deer and wenttoOwlchild.They talked of the fawnsandofsundry things, but not of Elena,
althoughOwlchildknewtheoldwomanfaceddeath,andsoon.Foramurmuringtime,Cougarhidhispast
andfutureintheimmediacyofOwlchild’snow,inthepresentwonderofhersilkyskinandsecretheats.
Later,lyingonhisbackandstaringupattheshutteredballofthemoon(notruemoon,onlythesunwithits
energiesdivertedtoenginesandfactoriesforthenight),Owlchild’shandsonhisarmsfeltlikefetters.
Hepushedthemaway.
“What?”Owlchildwhispered.
“IwillmissElena,”Cougarsaid.
“SowillI.”
Cougarletthenightdriftaroundhim.HedidnotwanttotalktoOwlchild,notforamoment.Hereinthis
littlepocketworld,asinallplacesandalltimes,heknewthesocialbondsthatdefinedhisbehaviorstobe
ascritical,aspotentiallydeadly,asstringentasanyinhistory.
Cougarkneadedhiscuppedhands,oneandthentheother,againstOwlchild’sbelly.Shelaughedandturned
away.Hershoulderswerehandytohisclawsthen,sohescratchedherback,oh,sogently,untilshegiggled.
****
CougarcametoElena’scaveagainatdusk.Huntingher,hehadwatchedherwork,scannedhernowand
againthroughtheday.Thisdayhadbeenasbusyasanyotherofherdays.Elena’shandswerestillskilled
anddexterous,certainandprecisewiththesmallinstrumentsinherlab.Thedecisionsshemade,thetrailof
notesacrossherstudyscreens,wereasclearandthoughtfulastheyhadeverbeen.
“Welcome,”Elenasaid.“I’mgladyou’rehere.”
She had lighted a fire tonight, three small cedar logs standing in a tripod so that their tops burned each
other.Thescentofthemwasrichintheair.
Cougar sat on the piled rugs near the hearth. He pulled a backrest closer and settled against it. It was
warmedbythefireanditsheatfeltgoodtohisback,thecushioncoolingandhisskinwarminguntilthey
reachedblissfulagreement.
Hewaitedwithahunter’spatience.BewiserthanIam,shehadsaid.Hewouldtry.
“YoucouldsimplyhandmeamedicineandIcouldtakeitandneverwakeup,”Elenasaid.
“Ihavesuchamedicineinmypocket.Doyouwantit?”Cougarasked.
“Ihaveit.”Elenareachedintothesackshecarriedatherwaistandbroughtoutatinypacket.“IthoughtI
wouldknowwhenIwasreadytotakeit.PerhapsIwill.Idon’tknow.”Withoutlookingatit,sheslippedit
intohersackagain.
Cougarwaited.
“Imighttakethemedicinesomenight.OrIcouldthink,everyday,well,nottoday.UntilIcan’tthinkatall.
Whatwillyoudo?”
“Damnyou.Imonitorpopulationsonthisshipandcullthem,youngorold,hurtorsound,whentheymust
beculled.IhavealwaysknownthatsomedayIwouldbecalledonwhenahumanwasdying.Ididdotknow
itwouldbesosoon.
“Wehavespentyearsandmanywordsonthis,”Elenasaid.
“Wehave.Ithinkyoudonotplantosuicide.Ithinkyouaretrulydeterminedtobeasinfuriatingasyou
havealwaysbeen.”
Elenacouldkillherself,evenannouncethatsheintendedtodoso,andnooneontheshipwouldtrytostop
hernow.Elenacouldwaituntilshewasmindless,unabletofindfoodforherself,incontinent.Noonewho
knewherwouldrefusetheirturnatcaringforher.
“Yearsandwordsandhistories,”Elenasaid.
“ShallwediscussHitleragain,Mother?Shallwefind‘scientific’reasonstoputyoudown,ashefound
‘scientific’reasonsforgenocide?Shallwereviewthethe-ologicalpositionsonthesanctityoflife?Shallwe
discussthelegitimateusesofpowerandauthorityorhowtomakepowerresponsibleforitsactions?
ShallIconveneacommitteeandassignthedecisiontoagroup?”
“Youhavedoneso.Today.Thetimingandmannerofmydeathisinyourhands.Icouldtakethisburden
fromyou,andImay,butstillthequestionremainsforyou:WhatwillyoudoifIwillnotorcannot?Must
theill,intheirdistress,beresponsible,always,forthetimeandplaceoftheirdeaths?Cougar,myillness
wasnotplannedtosetupatestforyou;Iswearit.”
Butithaddoneso.
Oneanswer,sanctionedbymanyhumansocietiesovermanythousandsofyears—donotinterfere.Donot
raise your hand; let Elena’s biology decide the when and how. Such was human wisdom, but Elena had
asked,Areyouhuman?Shehadasked,Isthehumanwaythebestway?Elenaofferedchallenge.
Sheoftendid.Itwasherway.
“Itmay be true that in some societies, old women said good-bye and went out intothesnowwhenthey
knewtheywouldn’tsurvivethewinter.Wedon’thearabouttheoneswhowouldn’ttakethemselvesaway.
Wouldn’tgetontheicefloe,wouldn’ttaketheirblanketandsleepinthecold.”Elenaseemedtolookdown
corridorsofthepast.“Andthat’sthequestion,isn’tit?”
Listen,watch, Cougar told himself. Watch her and read what she wants. The skill sets humans knew, he
knew.Hewasexpertinclinicalmedicineandinthehaltingscienceofpsychiatry,unchallengedinhisgrasp
ofthecautiousdisciplinesrequiredbytheship’secologies.Hislifewasrich,hisexperiencesasintricateas
any human’s had ever been and more so. He knew the ass-tired con-centration of lecture halls, the
camaraderieofthinktanksatmountainretreatsinthehighdesertwherehismotherhadlivedbeforetheship
enclosedher.Theship’smachinescouldandhadgivenhimkineticmemoriesofanowl’sflight,atrout’s
leap.Hismusclesandbonesknewhisfather’swalk;hiseyesrememberedtheblackmoonlightshineoffur
onaJanuarynight,theclarityofwinterdesertairinlandscapesmorevastthanevenaneagle’seyecould
conquer.
Elenadroppedhereyesandsmiled.ForaninstantCougarthoughthesawayoung,youngwoman,flirting
withmemories.“Foralittlewhile,letmepretendtobesocial.Thankyouforcomingtovisitme,howare
things,andsoforth.”
“How are things? The ship remains viable as far as we know.” His words were simple; a terse report
distilledfrommeasurementsofbacteriainlakewaters,COconcentrationsfrommanymonitoringstations2
in the ship, the number of seeds in the stomach of the dead titmouse the pair of hawks had missed, the
debatethathadsurfacedonceagainaboutloosingfieldmiceintheAbove.Althoughthebarriersthatkept
crittersfromtheliftsandstairwaysweregood,micewerebyallaccountsskilledatinvasions.“Wedon’t
needtwowhitetailbucksandwehavethem.Thekitchenswillhavesomevenisonsoon.”
Hewouldsavesomecellsfromthekill,ofcourse,butthevenisonwouldbeatreat.Cougarlickedhislips
inanticipation.
Thefireglowedredandclickedandmurmured,ashypnoticasfireshadbeentomothersandsonssincefire
wasfirsttamed.Mothersandsons,oldwomenandcats,whatthehell?Thefirecomfortedboth.
Hewasheretolisten,toobserveandmeasurehismother’sneedsandhisown,butElenasatquiet.
Cougarlethiseyelidsclosebyhalf.Thebettertolisten,mydear.Natureornurture?Geneticinevitabilityor
learnedbehaviors?BothoperatedinCougar.HeknewitandElenaknewit.Cougarhadnoapparatusfor
purringbuthelikedthesoundwhenhefirsthearditandsoonhelearnedtomakeitinhishumanthroat.Did
hedoitbecausehewantedtobemorelikehisnever-knownfatherorbecausepurringfeltparticularlygood
tosomeonedesignedwithfelinegenes?
Herelaxedallhisbalancedtensionsintoanappearanceofsuddensleep.Hecould,usually,almostalways,
calmElenawithsosimpleacommunicationandhedidsonow,oddlypleasedathowquicklysheentrained
tohisapparentcomfort.Inseconds,hescentedafewendorphinsonherbreath.
“Wehavebeencruel,”Elenasaid.“Allofuswhomadeyouhavebeencruelandcareless,bindingyoutoa
destinationthatissouncertain.Butnomotherhaseverknownifshebroughtherchildintoasafeworld.
It’ssomethingwecan’tknow.
“Idon’tfeellikecrying.Idon’tfeardeath,orIhavetoldmyselfIdon’t.Ithinkofdeathasamolecular
dissolution so complete that any possibility of ongoing consciousness seems ridiculous. The idea of
immortalityappallsme.Ifothersfinditcomforting,ifyoudo,well,good.Butit’snotsomethingIwantto
considerformyself.”
Cougarheardher.Truly,hedidsleep,andtrulyhedidhearher.HehadtriedtoexplainittoElenabuthis
motherdidn’tseemtohavesuchsleep.
Elenakepther voicesteadyandcontinuedtospeak,forifshe stoppedhe wouldrouse. “Iamnotawise
woman,”Elenasaid.“Surelyyoudon’tthinkitwaswisdomorevenpureknowledgethatsentusoutinto
thedark.Weweredrivenbymythasmuchasbyreason.Wewantedtotellstoriestotheuniverse,oratleast
makesureourstorieswouldbeheardonanotherworld.”
CougardidnotopenhiseyesbutheheardthesoftsoundsElenamadeasshefoldedherarmsandliftedher
headinastoryteller’sposture.
“Ihavesaidwepickedottergenestoexploremammalianaquaticskills,ursinetoseeifwecoulduncover
hibernationpatternsandadaptthem;allofthemothershavestoriesaboutwhytheychosedifferenttotem
animalsfortheirchildren.IhavesaidImadeyoumountainlionbecauseofthesolitarynatureofmountain
lions.AnAfricanlionneedsaprideandyouwould, becauseof thescant needfor largepredatorsinour
pocketworld,betheonlylargepredator.Ofnecessity,alone.”
“Whatacrock.”Cougarlethisvoicerumble,basso,disdainful.
“Yes.Yourmodificationisasimpleone,oneIthoughtIcoulddo;thatwaspartofit.
“Youarewhatyouare.YourmountainlionDNAledyoutobecomethe‘pred-ator’thatourpocketecology
requires,oryousimplybecame‘lionesque’topleasemeandyourownsenseofwhimsy.Idon’tknow.In
anycase,you’re‘successful.’Themethodsusedtomodifyyouaretestednow.Theknowledgeisavailable;
whenyourchildrenreachdestinationthey willknow howtofine-tuneanembryoandgiveherwings,if
needbe,ordesigntruesea-dwellersiftheyfindthattheseasofferthebestchancetothrive.
“You know I find such possibilities wonderful. You’ve seen and walked through my life or you might
somedayifyouwantto;wekeptrecordingsofsomuch.”
****
Inthedaysofselectingandsorting,strongcasesweremadeforcarryingevenmosquitoeggsandmalarial
parasites.Thecodesforbuildingthemcameaboardbutnottheorganismsthemselves.
Elenawatchedthefire andher son.Ifhe followedhis usualpattern,hewouldsleep fora brieftime.He
restedprofoundlywhenherestedandhewokerenewed,astheyoungdo.AsIoncedid.
We filled the ship with seeds beyond counting, with the patterns of moths’ wings and mosses. Someone
rememberedthatifthereisaGod,heisextraordinarilyfondofbeetles,andwehavemanybeetles.Thelife
spanofaseedeveninfrozennitrogenislimitedandthoughwehopetoreachharborbeforedecaysetsin,
wegrowsomeseeds,birthsomeanimals,tokeepthestocksrenewedandfresh.
Elena’sthoughtsskimmedoverlistsandoveryears.Loversandquarrels,embryostestedandlostorgrown
tobeauty.Herlifehadbeenaseriesofquestionsandalwaysthereweremorequestionsthananswers.
Shehadworkedinthelabtoday.Thehatchedchickswerechickadees,andsoontheywouldbesentAbove
topicktheirwaythroughwinter.Inthespring,therewouldbespaceforafewmeadowlarks.Inmemoryshe
heardtheirliquidsongagain,asfreshandpureasahighmeadowmorning.
Thishadbeenagoodday.Shehadsleptwell,workedhard,eatenchicosandjoinedhersonbyafireside,as
iftoday were any otherday.Asit was, Elena thought,anotherday gone while theshiptraversesthe big
dark,goingfromsome-wheretosomewhere.
****
Cougardreamedofmakinglove,ofOttersdaughtersmoothandsleekbeneathhim.Achorussangasingle
word, thanatos, thanatos, pure voices in counterpoint echo-ing in the magnificent acoustics of a long-
vanishedcathedral.Thecolorsofstainedglassstreamedfromthelightofthefire;chapelwallstumbledinto
pilesofoldstone;thefiredied.
Cougarwokeandrolledoverandstaredintohismother’seyes,favoringherwithapurepredator’sgaze.
Helikedwatchinghershiver.
“Wasitagoodsleep?”Elenaasked.
“Oh,itwas.”Cougarstretchedandstretchedagain,andpurredagrowlingpurrforhismothertohear.
Elenalaughedathim.Hetoldhergoodnightandleft.
****
Later,hesawheronabluffintheAbove,Elenawrappedinheroldwoolenponchowiththeredandblack
stripes.Shecametoreviewtheworld,perhaps.Cougarworkedhiswayclosetoher.Theoldwomansat
thereforalongtime,watchingthemeadowsandtheforests.Hesensednodistressinher,notthatnightor
thenextorthenext.ButshealwayscameAbove.
****
When,how,if.Thediagnosticsheldsteady.Elenawasnotsicker;shehadnotbeguntofail.Onafewnights
shetookadrugtosootheheroldandachingjointsandonthosenightsshewalkedfar,quietandseemingly
content.Didshebringherselftothehuntinggroundssothathewouldkillher?Didshemeanforhimto
strikesuddenly,ashepreferredtodo,killsoswiftlythatnotevenasinglemoleculeofcellularterrortainted
thebreathofhisintendedvictim?OrdidElenasimplywanttowalkeasilyintheAbove?
Cougarknewheshouldaskherbuthedidnotask,andthenhechidedhimselfforalackofcourage.
Elenacontinuedherwork.Cougarfoundreasontocometothelabsnowandagain,andtheytalkedofmany
things.Elenadidnotmentionherillness.Cougarwaitedforhertosignalwhatshewantedbutshedidnot
doso.
****
Itwastimetoharvestthedeer.CougarwentAboveonanightwhenthetemper-atureshoverednearfrost,
intoairseasonedwiththearomaofripenutsandtheparticularscentoffallengrainondampsoil.
ElenahadnotcomeAbove.Hecouldfindnotraceofherinthenightandhewashappyenoughthatshe
wasnothere.
TheAbovewasatemperatezonenow.Inanotherdecadeitwouldbearctic,andafterthattheplanwasto
make it tropical for a generation or two. His mother’s high desert was best for the testing of marginal,
thoughhardy, species but a desertwasnotscheduledduring his or hismother’slifetime. The desertwas
important,though,anenvironmentfortestingextremes.
On the wind Cougar found Ottersdaughter’s signature, two hours old but maybe she was out here
somewhere.Abadgergrumbledalonginthebrushbesidethetrail.Owlchildwasouttonight,butshewas
far away. Where, where were the deer? He found them grazing on crested wheat near a stand of Scotch
pines.
In summer, columbines bloomed near this path. Chanterelles grew deep in nearby pine needle mulch,
boletes for the taste of them. Cougar remembered the quiet tock of a flicker’s beak on the trunk of a
lodgepolepirys,adayspenthuntingmushroomsherewithElenaandOwlchild.
Owlchildwasayearolderthanhewas.Theyhadquarreledincessantlyuntilthenightsheledhimthrough
thethicketsanddownontothegrassbythestream,intoashambattlethatbeganwithwrestling,changedto
caresses,endedintheremarkabledelightandterrifyingpleasureofhisfirstsexwithawoman.Orendedfor
ashorttime,rather,andthenbeganagain.Owlchildwaslustythenandshestillwas.Later,latertonighthe
wouldfindher.
HowwillshereactifIcometohersomenightwithmymother’sbloodonmyhands?Willsheturnaway
fromme, andwhisper totheothers thatIcannot betrusted,that Ikillatthewrong times,forthe wrong
reasons?
Wemust,wewill,findoursingularritualsfortimesofguiltandsorrow.Suchritualsarenecessary,vital.
Ourskillswitheachotherarecriticallyimportantforourongoingsurvival,asnecessaryaswater.
****
AsshedideverytimeshecameAbove,Elenawishedshehadenoughdisciplinetofindspacesinherbusy
daysandcomeheremoreoften.True,summerherewaswarmerthanshecaredforbuttonightthesphere
wascoldenough.Herponchoheldwarmairclosetoherbellyandshoulders.Shetuckedafoldupoverone
armtofeelthecoldpricklesagainsthershoulder.
Thelandsinsidethespherewerewonderful.Elenalovedthemfortherichnessoftheirlushgrowthbutthis
waswoodland,cropland,notherdesert.Thedeserthadbeenrich,too,richinvastnessandlight.
Theotterpupswouldbesleepingbutthestreamwaspleasanttohear.ElenawalkedthereandsawCougar.
Perhapsthenoiseandmoisturemaskedherpres-ence;hedidn’tseemtonoticeshewasthere.
Hewasgoingtofindthedeer;perhapshehadscentedthem.Elenawonderedhowtheirscentfelttohim.
She wondered how his different perceptions impacted his sense of self. She wondered how different his
worldwasfromherown.
Elenastopped,guardingthesoundofherbreath,forCougarhadstoppedintheblackshadeofthetrees.
Hewouldtesttheair,healwaysdid,beforehewouldbereadytowalkoutintheclearingthatborderedthe
stream.Elenamarveledathiscaution.Hewasthemostlethalthingintheecosphere.Mostoftheanimals
didn’trunfromhumans;thecreaturesherewereoftenhand-raisedandwouldcomeouttoplay,expecting,
andoftengetting,treats.
Elenastayedinthedark,onthepathbehindherson.
IshouldtellCougartoseeifsomeraspberriescanbetransplantedhere,Elenathought.Likeweeds,they
liketheedgesofpathsandroads.
****
Cougar stretched out on a rock beside the stream. He sniffed out the otter pups, burrowed against their
mother’steatsandsleeping.
Cougarreachedintohissamplingpouchandsetacontainerontherockbesidehim.Helayflatonhisbelly
andlethishanddriftintotheicy water. His eyes were close to thewater’s edge andhewatcheduntila
clusteroftroutfingerlingscamenear,silverglimmersinthefalsemoonlightbuttherewaslightenough.He
wascautious;hewasalwayscarefultomakecleankills.Thisone.Hispalmdriftedbeneathit.Justabove
thegillsthetinyspinalcordrancaudalandclosetotheskin.Flick.Hisclawslicedthroughtheresistant
fleshandthecordbuthestoppedthecutbeforehereachedthedorsalskin.Heliftedthefishintohispalm
andshookitintothecontainer.
****
Thedrugshehadtakenmadewalkingajoy.Elenafollowedhersonbutatadistance,sothatshecouldlose
himinshadowandthencatchsightofhimagain.ShesawOttersdaughterslipthroughthetreesandahead,
circlingbacktomeetCougarattheedgeofthemeadowthatopenedoutbelowabluff.
Ottersdaughterwasateaseattimes,butsheteasedwithgentlehumor.AndifElenacouldnothear,wasnot
meant to hear, the words they shared, still she knew them. The beauty of entwined arms, of warm flat
belliespressedtogetherandasquicklyparted;thelanguageofanticipationandpromiseneverchanged.
OttersdaughterleftCougar.Inoneinstantshewasbesidehimandinthenextshewasgone.
Cougar lifted his head in that grin of his. Elena sensed his growing excitement. Perhaps Ottersdaughter
wouldhuntwithhim,thetwoofthemworkingthedeeruntiltheoneCougarchosewasisolatedandready
forhim.
Elena would do her best not to interfere. She had loved to hunt herself, still did, remembered teaching
Cougarwhatshecould.
Cougardisappearedintothetrees.Themeadowlaysilent.Elenaheardherpulsesinginherears.Shefelt
thestrengthofhermuscles,rejoicedintheclarityofhernightvisionthatcouldstillpickoutagreathorned
owlsweepingacrossthemeadow.Theowldivedandroseagainwithasquirmingvoleinherclaws.Inthe
wonderofthelivingnight,shewaswellpleasedwithherworld.
Cathedralchoirsandstringquartets,fictionsandpoetries,wehavethem.Po-liticaltheoriesandhistoriesof
poverty and bloodshed, we’ve brought those with us, too. The fear, the prediction, has always been that
generationshipsmustde-teriorateintosavagery.Thefearisthatthejourneyitselfwillbeforgottenandthe
realityoftheshipwillbetheonlyreality.
Itmayhappen.Itmaynot.
I’mdyingandIknowitbutIcan’tfeeltherealityofit.Imayturnaway,leavethenightandthehuntandgo
backtomycomfortinglittlecave,leavethefuturetothefutureandtakemylethalmedicine.Eventonight.
Evenrightnow.
ButI’m so alive.Ihaveso many more questionsthananswers and this meadowisbeautiful. How can I
encompassallfuturesandallpasts?HowcanIstoptryingtodoso?
IwonderwhatIwilldo.Iwonderwhatmysonwilldo.
Lookathim.Look,hestalksyoungdeerandthehuntwillbeslow.
Amemorycametositbesideher.Elenawelcomedit.
****
IwentoutinthehighdesertandIcampedinahighmountainmeadow.WhenIwoke,Iwokeinmoonlight.
The western mesa seemed a sheet of beaten silver, and near me the shadows were solid black under the
pines.IknewIhadheardadoecroppinggrassinthemeadowbutshewasgonenow.IknewIhadheardher
run,andherfawnbesideher.
Wehumansthinkwedon’tsmellmuch,butIsmelledthatcougar,furandbreath.Wethinkwedon’thear
well,butIheardhimhuffinfrustrationwhenthedoeran.Wethinkwedon’thavemuchpositionsense,but
Iknewwherehewas,justaboveontheledgeandmebeneath.He’dcreptdownfromahighrestingplacein
apine,soslow,andmadeonesoftjumptolandabovemyshel-ter.That’swhenthedoespooked.Icould
sensethecougardecidingwhethertotrackherandthefawn;Icouldfeelhimdecidinghow.Ifelthowhis
musclestensed.Hisfurwaslighterandsofteronhisbellythanonhisback;Igotadamnedgoodlookat
every hair on it as he leaped down an arm’s length from my face. Cougar, puma, mountain lion, he had
manynamesbutallofthemmeantbeauty.
Hewastarnishedsilverinthemoonlightandleanandglossy,sobeautifulandsostill,andhewaited,and
waited.Ihadtobreathesoonerorlater.ThecougarheardmeandturnedhisheadtolookmeoverwhereI
hidinmyshadow.Ihaveneverfeltsocompletelyevaluatedinmylifebeforeorsince.Hedismissedme,
placedmeonhold,towaitforhisinterestifhecouldn’tbringdownthatfawn.
Thedeerweren’tmakinganynoiseatallbutthecougarknewandIknewtheyhadn’trunfar.
****
Inthechilloftherealandpresentmeadow,Cougarstalkedthetwinfawns.
Allquiet.ThedoerippedthehighgrasseswithherteethandCougarheardthetextureofthegrassinthe
wayittorefree,knewthetextureofthedoe’sstrongtonguemovingbackandforthinherwetmouth.Atthe
edgeofthemeadow,alumpwasanunexpectedboulder,no,wasElena,hiddenunderthefoldsofherold
redandblackponcho.Surelyshewouldstaystill.
Cougarstalkedhisdeer. Hissupplefootfoundaquietplacetorestbetweenthe talland brittlebladesof
grass.Hesaw,soclearinhishunt-sharpenedvision,growth-fadedspotsontheyearlings’hides.Abovehim
aspottedowlrousedandcircledtheclearing,fleeingonhersilentwings,andOttersdaughter,cautiousasa
deerherself,hidinthetallmeadowgrass,readytospookthedeerbacktowardCougarif
.theyturnedinherdirection.
Thefawnswereidenticaltwins.Cougarwantedthefatterone.Cougareasedhiswaybetweentheselected
twinanditsbrotherandturningthelittlebuckaside.Stillthedoeremainedunawareofhim.
Cougarangledtowardthetrees,herdingthefawn.Damn.Itlookedlikethefawnwouldgetintothebrush.
Cougardidn’twanttorunitdown.Hehatedbotchedhuntsandmeatmadebitterbyterrorandexhaustion.
Hemovedcloser.
Sobig, the deer’sbrown eye. Cautious,wary,littledeer.Let’smovethat way, over there,it’swhereyou
wanttogo.Youdon’tknowI’mhere.Donotbecomeawareofme.
Thedeertooktwosteps,three,inthedirectionCougarwanted.
****
Iwatchthesilentmeadow,thedappledfawn,mysonwhoisinvisibletothedeerandalmostinvisibletome.
The doe and the other fawn are in the trees now. I hear the doe, her hoofbeats muffled on fallen pine
needles.The fawn’ssteps behind her arenoisierthan hers and hetakesfoursteps to her three.Iwonder
whenthedoewillnoticeshehasonlyoneofherchildrenbesideher.
IwassoyoungwhenIfirstsawCougar’sfatherhuntandmyblanketwassyntheticsilver,notthiswoolI
holdnow.Butthecougarturnedthedeertowardme,thatwildyoungcougar.Andwhenhehadkilled,he
calledoutintothewildnight,hornyyoungfoolthathewas.Thebigfemalewhocametoanswerhimkept
himfromthemeatuntilshewasfilled,butthenshelethimmounther.
Andwhilehewasmounted,Ifoundthecouragetogetmysamplingdartoutofmypocketandharpoonupa
fewcellsofhim.Idoubtheevenfeltthesting.
There was no deliberation or wisdom in choosing a cougar to sample. No, Cougar’s totem came from
accident,opportunity,chance.Andyouth.Iwasveryyoung.Notallchoicesneedtobedeliberate.Imade
mine.
****
Cougargotaheadofthedeer.HecircledthroughthetreesandcameupbehindElena.Quiet,quiet.
Ottersdaughter made a stand of grass ripple once and the deer moved away from it, stepped closer and
closertoCougarandhismother.Stillcalm.Cougarwaited.
****
Soclose.Elenacouldhavetouchedthebudsofantlers,brushedherfingersagainstindividualhairsonthe
buck’s shoulder, black or tawny or white. She felt wrapped in stillness, as alive as it is possible to be,
foreverinthemoment,theoverwhelmingjoyofnow.
****
Cougarstoodbehindhismother,soclosethatherwarmthrosefromherponchoandcaressedhischeek.
Thisisthebestofmymother’snights,Cougarknew.Therecannotbeanothernightmorewonderfulthan
this,afuturewheresheismorecomplete.Idon’tknowallherpastbutIknowit’srichinherandIknow
sheholdsitalltonightandwillneverknowitsowellagain.
Sweatscent,pinesap,crushedmeadowgrass,Elenaiswarmwithhappinessandherbloodissinging.
Buttherewillbeothernights,manyofthem,thatwillbealmostascomplete.WhatwillIdo?
Outinthemeadow,Ottersdaughterstoodsuddenly,notahumanforminthislightbutsimplyunexpected,
tall,somethingto runawayfrom.Thefawnstartledandleapedforward,stillunawareofCougarandhis
mother.Elenaraisedherarm;perhapsshemeanttoguardherface.
Thedeerreachedthelimitofitsleapingarcandbegantodescend.Cougarcaughthismother’sarmandheld
it. The fawn’s chest crashed into the barrier of linked arms. As the striped woolen folds of the blanket
settled,theoldwoman’sthroatandthefawn’sbulgingneckwereonlycentimetersapart,bothoftheirlives
vulnerableandwithincertainreach.
Withthephotographicclarityofhishunter’svision,Cougarwatchedmoonlightsilvertherazorededgesof
hisclawsastheyslasheddown.
****
mountolympus
BENBOVA
Aswriter,editor, essayist,andanthologist,Ben Bovahasbeen one ofthemost prominent andinfluential
figuresinthegenreformorethanfortyyears.Bovamadehisfirstprofessionalfictionsalein1959,andby
1971,alreadyrecognizedasoneofthebestnewhard-SFwritersonthescene,hewaschosentosucceed
legendaryeditorJohnW.Campbell,Jr.,astheneweditorofAnalogmagazine,apositionhe’dholduntil
1978;manycreditBovawithrevitalizinganAnalogthathadslippedintogenteelsenility,introducingthe
work of writers such as Joe Haldeman, LarryNiven, Roger Zelazny, Frederik Pohl, and George R. R.
Martintothemagazine,andwinningsixBestEditorHugosintheprocess.Bovathenmovedontobethe
foundingeditorofOmnimagazine,from1978to1982,beforeturninghisbackoneditingaltogethertotake
upthelifeofafull-timefreelancewriter.Bova’smanybooksincludethenovelsTheStarcrossed,TheKins-
manSaga(omnibusofthetwo-volume“Kinsman”series),TheExilesTril-ogy(omnibusofthe“Exiles”
trilogy), Colony, Privateers, Voyagers, Voyagers II: The Alien Within, Voyagers III: Star Brothers, The
MultipleMan,Cyberbooks,andMars,andthecollectionsForwardinTime,Max-well’sDemons,Escape
Plus,FutureCrime,andSamGunn,Unlimited.HismanyanthologiesincludeTheScienceFictionHallof
Fame,Vols.2Aand2B,TheBestofAnalog,TheBestofOmniScienceFiction,#2-4,andTheBestofthe
Nebulas.Bovaisalsoperhapsthemosttirelesspro-moterofthespaceprogramsincethelateCarlSagan,
and his nonfiction books include The Uses of Space, The New Astronomies, Starflight and Other
Improbabilities, The High Road, and Welcome to Moon Base. Hismost recent book, of which “Mount
Olympus”isapart,isthenovelReturntoMars.Anewnovel,Venus,shouldbeontheshelvesbythetime
ourbookcomesout.BovahasalsorecentlybecomePublisherofGalaxyOnlineandhehashisownweb
siteatwww.benbova.net.
This new Mars adventure is a gripping story of danger and exploration that is as timely astomorrow’s
headlines and as scientifically accurate and up-to-date as anyone can make it (when ithappens, the
chancesaregoodthatthisisthewayitwillhappen!),anddemonstratesthatnomatterhowfar awaywe
travel,westillhavetodealwithourselveswhenwegetthere.
ThetallestmountaininthesolarsystemisOlympusMons,onMars.Itisamassiveshieldvolcanothathas
beendormantfortens,perhapshundredsofmillionsofyears.
Once,though,itsmightyoutpouringsoflavadwarfedeverythingelseontheplanet.Overtime,theybuilta
mountainthreetimestallerthanEverest,withabasethesizeofthestateofIowa.
Theedgesofthatbaseareruggedcliffsofbasaltmorethanakilometerhigh.Thesummitofthemountain,
where huge calderas mark the vents thatonce spewed molten rock, standssometwenty-seven kilometers
abovethesupportingplain.
Atthataltitude,thecarbondioxidethatformsthemajorconstituentofMars’satmospherecanfreeze out,
condenseonthecold,barerock,coveringitwithathin,invisiblelayerofdryice.
****
T
omasRodriguezlookedhappyasapuppywithanoldsocktochewonasheandFuchidagotintotheirhard
suits.
“I’mgonnabeintheGuinnessBookofRecords,”heproclaimedcheerfullytoJamieWaterman,whowas
helpinghimgetsuitedup.TrudyHallwasassistingFuchidawhileStacyDezhurovasatinthecommcenter,
monitoringthedome’ssystemsandtheequipmentoutside.
Itwastheforty-eighthdayoftheSecondExpedition’seighteenmonthsonthesurfaceofMars,thedaythat
RodriguezandbiologistMitsuoFuchidaweresched-uledtoflytoOlympusMons.
“Highest aircraft landing and takeoff,” Rodriguez chattered cheerfully as he wormed his fingers into the
suit’s gloves. “Longest flight of a manned solar-powered aircraft. Highest altitude for a manned solar-
poweredaircraft.”
“Crewed,”TrudyHallmurmured,“notmanned.”
Unperturbed by her correction, Rodriguez continued, “I might even bust the record for unmanned solar-
poweredflight.”
“Isn’titcheatingtocompareaflightonMarstoflightsonEarth?”TrudyaskedasshehelpedFuchidalatch
hislife-supportpackontothebackofhissuit.
Rodriguezshook his head vigorously. “Allthatcounts in the record book isthenumbers,chica. Just the
numbers.”
“Won’ttheyputanasterisknexttothenumbersandafootnotethatsays,‘ThiswasdoneonMars’?”
Rodrigueztriedtoshrugbutnotevenhecouldmanagethatinsidethehardsuit.“Whocares,aslongasthey
spellmynameright?”
Asthetwomenputontheirsuithelmetsandsealedthemtotheneckrings,JamienoticedthatFuchidawas
utterlysilentthroughthesuit-upprocedure.Tomasisdoingenoughtalkingforthemboth,hethought.
Buthewondered,isMitsuoworried,nervous?Helookscalmenough,butthatmightjustbeamask.
Cometothinkofit,thewayTomasisblathering,hemustbewiredtighterthanadrum.
Thebulky hard suits had beenpristinewhite when the explorers firsttoucheddown on Mars. Now their
bootsandleggingsweretingedwithreddishdust,nomatterhowhardtheexplorersvacuumedtheceramic-
metalsuitseachtimetheyreturnedtothedome’sairlock.
Rodriguezwastheyoungestoftheeightexplorers,theastronautthatNASAhadloanedtotheexpedition.If
itbotheredhimtoworkunderDezhurova,themoreexperiencedRussiancosmonaut,henevershowedit.
Allthroughtrainingandthefive-monthflighttoMarsandtheirnearlysevenweeksontheplanet’ssurface,
he had been a good-natured, willing worker. Short and stocky, with a swarthy com-plexion and thickly
curleddarkhair,hismostnoticeablefeaturewasadazzlingsmilethatmadehisdeepbrowneyessparkle.
Butnowhewasjabberingawaylikeafast-pitchsalesman.Jamiewonderedifitwasnervesorrelieftobe
outonhisown,incharge.Ormaybe,Jamiethought,theguywassimplyoverjoyedattheprospectofflying.
Both men were suited up at last, helmet visors down, life-support systems func-tioning, radio checks
completed.JamieandTrudywalkedwiththemtotheairlockhatch:twoEarthlingsaccompanyingapairof
ponderousrobots.
Jamie shook hands with Rodriguez. His bare hand hardly made it around the astronaut’s glove, with its
servo-drivenexoskeleton“bones”onitsback.
“Goodluck,Tomas,”hesaid.“Don’ttakeanyunnecessaryrisksoutthere.”
Rodriguez grinned from behind his visor. “Hey, you know what they say: There are old pilots and bold
pilots,buttherearenoold,boldpilots.”
Jamiechuckledpolitely.Asmissiondirector,hefelthehadtoimpartsomefinalwordsofwisdom.
“Rememberthatwhenyou’reoutthere,”hesaid.
“Iwill,boss.Don’tworry.”
Fuchida stepped up to the hatch once Rodriguez went through. Even in the bulky suit, even with
sparrowlikeTrudyHallstandingbehindhim,helookedsmall,somehowvulnerable.
“Goodluck,Mitsuo,”saidJamie.
Throughthesealedhelmet,Fuchida’svoicesoundedmuffled,butunafraid.“Ithinkmybiggestproblemis
goingtobelisteningtoTomas’syakkingallthewaytothemountain.”
Jamielaughed.
“Andback,mostlikely,”Fuchidaadded.
Theindicatorlightturnedgreen andTrudypressedthestudthatopenedtheinnerhatch.Fuchidastepped
through,carryinghisportablelife-supportsatchelinonehand.
He’sallright,Jamietoldhimself.Mitsuo’snotscaredorevenworried.
****
Oncetheyhadclamberedintotheplane’sside-by-sideseatsandconnectedtoitsinternalelectricalpower
andlife-supportsystems,bothmenchanged.
Rodriguezbecameallbusiness.Nomorechattering.Hecheckedouttheplane’ssystemswithonlyafew
clippedwordsofjargontoStacyDezhurova,whowasservingasflightcontrollerbackinthedome’scomm
center.
Fuchida,forhispart,felthispulsethunderinginhisearssoloudlyhewonderedifthesuitradiowaspicking
itup.Certainlythemedicalmonitorsmustbeclosetotheredline,hisheartwasracingsohard.
Liketheexpedition’sremotelypilotedsoarplanes, therocketplanewasbuiltofgossamer-thinplasticskin
stretched over a framework of ceramic-plastic cerplast. To Fuchida it looked like an oversized model
airplanemadeofsomekindofkitchenwrap,completewithanodd-lookingsix-bladedpropelleronitsnose.
Butitwasbigenoughtocarrytwopeople.Huge,comparedtotheunmannedsoarplanes.Rodriguezsaidit
wasnothingmorethanafueltankwithwings.Thewingsstretchedwide,droopingtothegroundattheir
tips.Thecockpitwastiny,nothingmorethanaglassbubbleupfront.Therocketengines,tuckedinwhere
thewingrootsjoinedthefuselage,lookedtoosmalltoliftthethingofftheground.
Theplanewasdesignedtouseitsrocketenginesfortakeoffs,thenonceataltitude,itwouldrunontheprop.
Solar panels painted onto the wing’s upper surface would provide the electricity to power the electrical
engine.TherewastoolittleoxygenintheMartianairtorunajetengine;therocketsweretheplane’smain
muscle,thesolarcellsitssecondaryenergysource.
****
Backinthedome,JamieandtheotherscrowdedoverDezhurova’sshoulderstowatchthetakeoffonthe
commcenter’sdesktopdisplayscreen.
Asanairport,thebaseleftmuchtobedesired.Thebulldozedrunwayranjustshortoftwokilometersin
length. There was no taxiway; Rodriguez and a helper— often Jamie—simply turned the fragile plane
aroundafteralandingsoitwaspointeduptherunwayagain.Therewasnowindsock.Theatmospherewas
sorarethatitmadescantdifferencewhichwaythewindwasblowingwhentheplanetookoff.Therocket
enginesdidmostoftheworkofliftingtheplaneoffthegroundandprovidingthespeeditneededforthe
broad,droopingwingstogen-erateenoughliftforflight.
JamiefeltadullthrobbinginhisjawashebentoverDezhurova,watchingthefinalmomentsbeforetakeoff.
Withaconsciouseffortheunclenchedhisteeth.Therearetwomeninthatplane,hetoldhimself.
Ifanythinggoeswrong,iftheycrash,they’llbothbekilled.
“Clearfortakeoff,”Dezhurovasaidmechanicallyintoherlipmike.
“Copyclear,”Rodriguez’svoicecamethroughthespeakers.
Stacyscannedthescreensaroundheronefinaltime,thensaid,“Clearforignition.”
“Ignition.”
Suddenlythetwinrocketenginesbeneaththewingrootsshotoutabellowingflameandtheplanejerked
into motion. As the camera followed it jouncing down the runway, gathering speed, the long, drooping
wingsseemedtostiffenandstretchout.
“Comeon,baby,”Dezhurovamuttered.
Jamiesawitallasifitwerehappeninginslowmotion:theplanetrundlingdowntherunway,therockets’
exhaustturningsohottheflamebecameinvisible,cloudsofdustandgritbillowingbehindtheplaneasit
spedfaster,fasteralongtherunway,noseliftingnow.
“Lookinggood,”Dezhurovawhispered.
Theplanehurtledupoffthegroundandarrowedintothepristinesky,leavingaroilingcloudofdustand
vaporslowlydissipatingalong thelengthoftherunway. ToJamieitlookedasifthecloud wastryingto
reachfortheplaneandpullitbacktotheground.
Buttheplanewaslittlemorethanaspeckinthesalmon-pinkskynow.
Rodriguez’svoicecrackledthroughthespeakers,“Nextstop,MountOlympus!”
****
Rodriguezwasahappyman.The planewasrespondingtohistouchlikea beau-tifulwoman,gentleand
sweet.
Theywerepurringalongat—heglancedatthealtimeter—twenty-eightthou-sandandsixmeters.Let’ssee,
hemused.Somethinglikethreepointtwofeetinameter,thatmakesiteighty-nine,almostninetythousand
feet.Notbad.Notbadatall.
Heknewtheworldaltituderecordforasolar-poweredplanewasaboveonehundredthousandfeet.Butthat
was a UAV, an unmanned aerial vehicle. No pilot’s flown this high in a solar-powered plane, he knew.
Behindhishelmetvisorhesmiledatthebigsix-bladedpropellerasitspunlazilybeforehiseyes.
Besidehim,Fuchidawasabsolutelysilentandunmoving.Hemightaswellbedeadinsidehissuit,I’dnever
knowthedifference,Rodriguezthought.He’sscared,justplainscared.Hedoesn’ttrustme.He’sscaredof
flyingwithme.ProbablywantedStacytoflyhim,notme.
Well,mysilentJapanesebuddy,I’mtheguyyou’restuckwith,whetheryoulikeitornot.Sogoaheadand
sittherelikeafuckin’statue,Idon’tgiveadamn.
Mitsuo Fuchida felt an unaccustomed tendril of fear worming its way through his innards. This puzzled
him,sincehehadknownforalmosttwoyearsnowthathewouldbeflyingtothetopofOlympusMons.
Hehadflownsimulationshun-dredsoftimes.ThiswholeexcursiontoOlympusMonshadbeenhisidea,
andhehadworkedhardtogettheplanincorporatedintotheexpeditionschedule.
Hehadfirstlearnedtoflywhileanundergraduatebiologystudent,andhadbeenelectedpresidentof the
university’sflyingclub.Withthesingle-mindedin-tensityofacompetitorwhoknewhehadtobeatthebest
ofthebesttowinaberthontheSecondMarsExpedition,Fuchidahadtakenthetimetoqualifyasapilotof
ultralight aircraft over the inland mountains of his native Kyushu and then went on to pilot soarplanes
acrossthejaggedpeaksofSinkiang.
Hehadneverfeltanyfearofflying.Justtheopposite:hehadalwaysfeltrelaxedandhappyintheair,free
ofallthepressuresandcaresoflife.
Yet now, as the sun sank toward the rocky horizon, casting eerie red light across the barren rust-red
landscape, Fuchida knew that he was afraid. What if the engine fails? What if Rodriguez cracks up the
planewhenwelandonthemountain?Oneoftheunmannedsoarplaneshadcrashedwhileitwasflyingover
thevolcanoonareconnaissanceflight;whatifthesamethinghappenstous?
Even in rugged Sinkiang there was a reasonable chance of surviving an emer-gency landing. You could
breathetheairandwalktoavillage,evenifthetrektookmanydays.NotsohereonMars.
WhatifRodriguezgetshurtwhilewe’reoutthere?Ihaveonlyflownthisplaneinthe simulator,Idon’t
knowifIcouldflyitinreality.
Rodriguezseemedperfectlyatease,happilyexcitedtobeflying.Heshamesme,Fuchidathought.Yet…
ishetrulycapable?Howwillhereactinanemer-gency?Fuchidahopedhewouldnothavetofindout.
TheypassedPavonisMonsontheirleft,oneofthethreegiantshieldvolcanoesthatlinedupinarowonthe
easternsideoftheTharsisbulge.Itwassobigthatitstretchedouttothehorizonandbeyond,amassive
humpofsolidstonethathadonceoozedred-hotlavaacrossanareathesizeofJapan.Quietnow.Coldand
dead.Forhowlong?
There was a whole line of smaller volcanoes stretching off to the horizon and, beyond them, the hugely
massiveOlympusMons.Whathappenedheretocreateathousand-kilometer-longchainofvolcanoes?
Fuchidatriedtomeditateonthatquestion,buthismindkeptcomingbacktotheriskshewasundertaking.
AndtoElizabeth.
****
Theirweddinghadtobeasecret.MarriedpersonswouldnotbeallowedontheMarsexpedition.
Worseyet.MitsuoFuchidahadfalleninlovewithaforeigner,ayoungIrishbiologistwithflame-redhair
andskinlikewhiteporcelain.
“Sleepwithher,”Fuchida’sfatheradvisedhim,“enjoyherallyouwantto.Butfathernochildrenwithher!
Undernocircumstancesmayyoumarryher.”
ElizabethVernonseemedcontentwiththat.ShelovedMitsuo.
TheyhadmetatTokyoUniversity.Likehim,shewasabiologist.Unlikehim,shehadneitherthetalentnor
thedrivetogetveryfarinthecompetitionfortenureandaprofessorship.
“I’llbefine,”shetoldMitsuo.“Don’truinyourchanceforMars.I’llwaitforyou.”
Thatwasneithergoodnorfair,inFuchida’seyes.HowcouldhegotoMars,spendyearsawayfromher,
expecthertostoreheremotionsinsuspendedani-mationforsolong?
Hisfathermadeotherdemandsonhim,aswell.
“TheonlymantodieontheFirstMarsExpeditionwasyourcousin,Konoye.Hedisgracedusall.”
IsorukuKonoyesufferedafatalstrokewhileattemptingtoexplorethesmallermoonofMars,Deimos.
His Russian teammate, cosmonaut Leonid Tolbukhin, said that Konoye had panicked, frightened to be
outsidetheirspacecraftinnothingmorethanaspacesuit,disorientedbytheloomingmenaceofDeimos’s
rockybulk.
‘Youmustredeemthefamily’shonor,”Fuchida’sfatherinsisted.“YoumustmaketheworldrespectJapan.
Yournamesakewasagreatwarrior.Youmustaddnewhonorstohisname.”
SoMitsuoknewthathecouldnotmarryElizabethopenly,honestly,ashewantedto.Instead,hetookherto
amonasteryintheremotemountainsofKyushu,wherehehadperfectedhisclimbingskills.
“It’snotnecessary,Mitsuo,”Elizabethprotested,oncesheunderstoodwhathewantedtodo.“Iloveyou.A
ceremonywon’tchangethat.”
“WouldyoupreferaCatholicrite?”heasked.
Shethrewherarmsaroundhisneck.Hefelttearsonhercheek.
Whenthedaycamethathehadtoleave,MitsuopromisedElizabeththathewouldcomebacktoher.
“AndwhenIdo,wewillbemarriedagain,openly,foralltheworldtosee.”
“Includingyourfather?”sheaskedwryly.
Mitsuosmiled.“Yes,includingevenmynoblefather.”
ThenheleftforMars,intentonhonoringhisfamily’snameandreturningtothewomanheloved.
****
Theexcursionplancalledforthemtolandlateintheafternoon,almostatsunset,whenthelowsuncastits
longestshadows.Thatallowedthemtotakeoffindaylight,whilegivingthemthebestviewoftheirlanding
area.Everyboulderandrockwouldshowinboldrelief,allowingthemtofindthesmoothestspotfortheir
landing.
Italsomeant,Fuchidaknew,thattheywouldhavetoendurethedarkfrigidhoursofnightimmediatelyafter
they landed. What if the batteries fail? The lithium-polymer batteries had been tested for years, Fuchida
knew.Theystoredelectricitygeneratedinsunlightbythesolarpanelsandpoweredtheplane’sequip-ment
through the long, cold hours of darkness. But what if they break down when the temperature drops to a
hundredandfiftybelowzero?
Rodriguez was making a strange, moaning sound, he realized. Turning sharply to look at the astronaut
sittingbesidehim,Fuchidasawonlytheinsideofhisownhelmet.Hehadtoturnfromtheshoulderstosee
thespace-suitedpilot—whowashummingtunelessly.
“Areyouallright?”Fuchidaaskednervously.
“Sure.”
“WasthataMexicansongyouwerehumming?”
“Naw.TheBeatles.‘LucyintheSkywithDiamonds.’“
“Oh.”
Rodriguezsighedhappily.“Theresheis,”hesaid.
“What?”
“MountOlympus.”Hepointedstraightahead.
Fuchidadidnotseeamountain,merelythehorizon.Itseemedrounded,nowthathepaidattentiontoit:a
largegentlyrisinghump.
Itgrewastheyapproachedit.Andgrew.Andgrew.OlympusMonswasanimmenseislanduntoitself,a
continent rising up above the bleak red plain like some gigantic mythical beast. Its slopes were gentle,
abovethesteepscarpsofitsbase.Amancouldclimbthatgradeeasily,Fuchidathought.Thenherealized
thatthemountainwassohugeitwouldtakeamanweekstowalkfromitsbasetoitssummit.
Rodriguezwashummingagain,calmandrelaxedasamansittinginhisfavoritechairathome.
“Youenjoyflying,don’tyou?”Fuchidacommented.
“Youknowwhattheysay,”Rodriguezreplied,aserenesmileinhisvoice.“Fly-ingaplaneisthesecond
mostexcitingthingamancando.”
Fuchidanoddedinsidehishelmet.“Andthemostexcitingmustbesex,right?”
“Nope.Thefirstmostexcitingthingamancandoislandingaplane.”
Fuchidasankintogloomysilence.
****
Asthesenioroftheexpedition’stwoastronauts,AnastasiaDezhurovawastechni-callysecond-in-command
toJamieWaterman.Shesawtoitthathermaindutywasthecommunicationscenter,whereshecouldwatch
everyoneandeverything.Aslongasshewaswatching,Dezhurovafelt,nothingverybadcouldhappento
herfellowexplorers.
The dome was quiet, everyone busy at their appointed tasks. Dezhurova could see Waterman outside,
doggedly chipping still more rock samples. Trudy Hall was in her lab working with the lichen from the
GrandCanyon;theonlyotherwomanamongthem,VijayShektar,wasinherinfirmary,scrollingmedical
dataonhercomputer.
“Rodrigueztobase,”theastronaut’svoicesuddenlycrackledinthespeaker.“I’mmakingadryrunoverthe
landingarea.Sendingmycameraview.”
“Base to Rodriguez,” Dezhurova snapped, all business. “Copy dry run.” Her fingers raced over the
keyboardandthemaindisplaysuddenlyshowedapock-marked,boulder-strewnstretchofbarerock.
“Wehaveyourimagery.”
Dezhurovafelthermouthgodry.I’dbettercallJamiebackintothedome.Ifthat’sthelandingarea,they’re
nevergoingtogetdownsafely.
****
Rodriguezbankedtheplaneslightlysohecouldseethegroundbetter.ToFuchidaitseemedasiftheplane
wasstandingonitsleftwingtipwhilethehard,barerockbelowturnedinaslowcircle.
“Well,”Rodriguezsaid,“we’vegotachoice:bouldersorcraters.”
“Where’stheclearareathesoarplanesshowed?”Fuchidaasked.
”‘Clear’isarelativeterm,”Rodriguezmuttered.
Fuchidaswallowedbile.Itburnedinhisthroat.
“Rodrigueztobase.I’mgoingtocirclethelandingareaonemoretime.TellmeifyouseeanythingImiss.”
“Copyanothercircle.”StacyDezhurova’stonewasclipped,professional.
Rodriguez peered hard at the ground below. The setting sun cast long shadows that emphasized every
pebble down there. Between a fresh-looking crater and a scattering of rocks was a relatively clean area,
morethanakilometerlong.Roomenoughtolandiftheretrosfiredoncommand.
“LooksOKtome,”hesaidintohishelmetmike.
“Barely,”cameDezhurova’svoice.
“Thewheelscanhandlesmallrocks.”
“Shockabsorbersarenosubstituteforlevelground,Tomas.”
Rodriguezlaughed.HeandDezhurovahadgonethroughthisdiscussionafewdozentimes,eversincethe
firstreconphotoshadcomebackfromtheUAVs.
“Turningintofinalapproach,”hereported.
Dezhurovadidnotreply.Astheflightcontrollershehadtheauthoritytoforbidhimtoland.
“Liningupforfinal.”
‘Tourimageryisbreakingupalittle.”
“Lightlevel’ssinkingfast.”
“Yes.”
Fuchidasawthegroundrushinguptowardhim.Itwascoveredwithbouldersandpittedwithcratersand
lookedashardasconcrete,harder.Theywerecomingintoofast,hethought.Hewantedtograbthecontrol
T-stickinfrontofhimandpullup,cutintherocketenginesandgetthehellawaywhiletheyhadachance.
Instead,hesqueezedhiseyesshut.
SomethinghittheplanesohardthatFuchidathoughthe’dbedriventhroughthecanopy.Hissafetyharness
held,though,andwithinaneyeblinkheheardthehowlingscreechofthetinyretrorocketmotors.
Thefrontoftheplaneseemedtobeonfire.Theywerebouncing,jolting,rattlingalonglikeatincankicked
acrossafieldofrubble.
Thenafinallurchandallthenoiseandmotionstopped.
“We’redown,”Rodriguezsangout.“Pieceofcake.”
“Good,”cameDezhurova’sstolidvoice.
Fuchidaurgentlyneededtourinate.
“OK,”Rodriguezsaidtohispartner.“Nowwejustsittightuntilsunrise.”
“Likeapairoftinnedsardines,”saidFuchida.
Rodriguezlaughed.“Hey,man,wegotallthecreaturecomfortsyoucouldwant—almost.Liketouristclass
inanovernightflight.”
Fuchidanoddedinsidehishelmet.Hedidnotrelishtheideaoftryingtosleepinthecockpitseats,sealedin
theirsuits.Butthatwasthepricetobepaidforthehonorofbeingthefirsthumanstosetfootonthetallest
mountaininthesolarsystem.
Almost,hesmiled.ItoowillbeintheGuinnessBookofRecords,hethought.
“YouOK?”Rodriguezasked.
“Yes,certainly.”
“Kindaquiet,Mitsuo.”
“I’madmiringtheview,”saidFuchida.
Nothingbutabarrenexpanseofbarerock,ineverydirection.Theskyoverheadwasdarkeningswiftly.
AlreadyFuchidacouldseeafewstarsstaringdownatthem.
“Well,lookonthebrightside,”Rodriguezquipped.“NowwegettotesttheFES.”
TheFecalEliminationSystem.Fuchidadreadedthemomentwhenhehadtotrytouseit.
Rodriguezchuckledhappily,asifhehadn’tacareintheworld.Intwoworlds.
****
“Never show fear.” Tomas Rodriguez learned that as a scrawny asthmatic child, growing up amidst the
crimeandviolenceofaninner-citySanDiegobarrio.
“Neverletthemseeyou’rescared,”hisolderbrotherLuistoldhim.“Neverbackdownfromafight.”
Tomaswasnotphysicallybig,buthehadhisbigbrothertoprotecthim.Mostofthetime.Thenhefounda
refugeofsortsinthedilapidatedneighborhoodgym,wherehetradedhoursofsweepingandcleaningfor
freeuseoftheweightma-chines.Ashegainedmusclemass,helearnedtherudimentsofalleyfightingfrom
Luis. In middle school he was spotted and recruited by an elderly Korean who taught martial arts as a
schoolvolunteer.
Inhighschoolhediscoveredthathewasbright,smartenoughnotmerelytounderstandalgebrabuttowant
tounderstanditandtheothermysteriesofmath-ematicsandscience.Hemadefriendsamongthenerdsas
wellasthejocks,oftenprotectingtheformeragainstthehazingandcasualcrueltyofthelatter.
Hegrewintoasolid,broad-shoulderedyouthwithquickreflexesandthebrainstotalkhiswayoutofmost
confrontations. He did not look for fights, but handled himself well enough when a fight became
unavoidable.Heworked,helearned,hehadthekindofsunnydisposition—andfirmphysicalcourage
—thatmadeeventhenastiestpunksintheschoolleavehimalone.Heneverwentoutforanyoftheschool
teamsandheneverdiddrugs.Hedidn’tevensmoke.Hecouldn’taffordsuchluxuries.
He even avoided the trap that caught most of his buddies: fatherhood. Whether they got married or not,
mostoftheguysquicklygottieddownwithawoman.Tomashadplentyofgirls,andlearnedevenbefore
highschoolthepleasuresofsex.Butheneverformedalastingrelationship.Hedidn’twantto.
The neighbor-hood girls were attractive, yes, until they started talking. Tomas couldn’t stand even to
imagine listening to one of them for more than a few hours. They had nothing to say. Their lives were
empty.Heachedforsomethingmore.
Mostofthehighschoolteacherswerezeroes,butone—thewearyoldmanwhotaughtmath—encouraged
himtoapplyforascholarshiptocollege.ToTomas’enormoussurprise,hewonone:fulltuitiontoUCSD.
Evenso,hecouldnotaffordtheotherexpenses,soheagainlistenedtohismentor’sadviceandjoinedthe
AirForce.UncleSampaidhiswaythroughschool,andoncehegrad-uatedhebecameajetfighterpilot.
“Morefunthansex,”hewouldmaintain,alwaysadding,“Almost.”
Nevershowfear.Thatmeantthathecouldneverbackawayfromachallenge.Never.Whetherinacockpit
or a barroom, the stocky Hispanic kid with the big smile took every confrontation as it arose. He got a
reputationforit.
Thefearwasalwaysthere,constantly,butheneverletitshow.Andalwaystherewasthatinnerdoubt.
Thatfeelingthatsomehowhedidn’treallybelonghere.Theywereallowingthechicanokidtopretendhe
wasassmartasthewhiteguys,allowinghimtogetthroughcollegeonhislittlescholarship,allowinghim
towearaflyboyuniformandplaywiththehotshotjetplanes.
Buthereallywasn’toneofthem.Thatwasmadeabundantlycleartohiminathousandlittleways,every
day.Hewasagreaser,toleratedonlyaslongashestayedintheplacetheyexpectedhimtobe.Don’ttryto
climbtoofar;don’tshowofftoomuch;aboveall,don’ttrytodateanyoneexcept“yourown.”
Flyingwasdifferent,though.AloneinaplanesevenoreightmilesupintheskyitwasjusthimandGod,
therestoftheworldfaraway,outofsightandoutofmind.
Thencamethechancetowinanastronaut’swings.Hecouldn’tbackawayfromthechallenge.Again,the
othersmadeitclearthathewasnotwelcometothecompetition.ButTomasenteredanywayandwonaslot
intheastronauttrainingcorps.“Thebenefitsofaffirmativeaction,”oneofotherpilotsjeered.
Whateverheachieved,theyalwaystriedtotakethejoyoutofit.Tomaspaidnooutwardattention,asusual;
hekepthiswoundshidden,hisbleedinginternal.
Twoyearsafterhehadwonhisastronaut’swingscamethecallfortheSecondMarsExpedition.Smilinghis
broadest,Tomasapplied.Nofear.Hekepthisgrittedteethhiddenfromalltheothers,andwontheposition.
“Bigfuckin’deal,”saidhisbuddies.“You’llbesecondfiddletosomeRussianbroad.”
Tomasshruggedandnodded.“Yeah,”headmitted.“IguessI’llhavetotakeordersfromeverybody.”
Tohimselfheadded,ButI’llbeonMars,shitheads,whileyou’restilldownhere.
****
Following his astronaut teammate, Mitsuo Fuchida clambered stiffly down the ladder from the plane’s
cockpitandsetfootonthetopofthetallestmountaininthesolarsystem.
In the pale light of the rising sun, it did not look like the top of a mountain to him. He had done a
considerableamountofclimbinginJapanandCanadaandthiswasnothinglikethejagged,snow-capped
slabsofgranitewherethewindwhistledlikeahurledknifeandthecloudsscuddedbybelowyou.
Hereheseemedtobeonnothingmoredramaticthanawide,fairlyflatplainofbarebasalt.Pebblesand
largerrockswerescatteredhereandthere,butnotasthicklyastheywerebackatthebasedome.Thecraters
thattheyhadseenfromtheairwerenotvisiblehere;atleast,hesawnothingthatlookedlikeacrater.
But when he looked up he realized how high they were. The sky was a deep blue, instead of its usual
salmonpink.ThedustparticlesthatreddenedtheskyofMarswerefarbelowthem.AtthisaltitudeonEarth
theywouldbeupinthestratosphere.
Fuchidawonderedifhecouldseeanystarsthroughhisvisor,maybefindEarth.Heturned,tryingtoorient
himselfwiththerisingsun.
“Watchyourstep,”Rodriguez’svoicewarnedinhisearphones.“It’s—“
Fuchida’sbootslidoutfromunderhimandhethumpedpainfullyonhisrear.
“…slippery,”Rodriguezfinishedlamely.
TheastronautshuffledcarefullytoFuchida’sside,movinglikeamancrossinganicerinkinstreetshoes.
Heextendedahandtohelpthebiologistuptohisfeet.
Stiffandachingfromanightofsittinginthecockpit.Fuchidanowfeltathrobbingpaininhisbackside.I’ll
haveanastybruisethere,hetoldhimself.LuckyIdidn’tlandonthebackpackandbreakthelife-support
rig.
“Feelslikeiceunderfoot,”Rodriguezsaid.
“Itcouldn’tbefrost,we’reuptoohighforwatericetoform.”
“Dryice.”
“Ah.”Fuchidanoddedinsidehishelmet.“Dryice.Carbondioxidefromtheatmospherecondensesouton
thecoldrock.”
“Yep.”
“Butdryiceisn’tslippery…”
“Thisstuffis.”
Fuchidathoughtquickly.“Perhapsthepressureofourbootsonthedryicecausesathinlayertovaporize.”
“Sowegetalayerofcarbondioxidegasunderourboots.”Rodriguezimme-diatelygraspedthesituation.
“Exactly.Weskidalongonafilmofgas,likegas-lubricatedballbearings.”
“That’sgonnamakeitdamneddifficulttomovearound.”
Fuchidawantedtorubhisbutt,althoughheknewitwasimpossibleinsidethehardsuit.“Thesunwillget
ridoftheice.”
“Idon’tthinkit’llgetwarmenoughupheretovaporizeit.”
“Itsublimesatseventy-eightpointfivedegreesbelowzero.Celsius,”Fuchidarecalled.
“Atnormalpressure,”Rodriguezpointedout.
Fuchidalookedatthethermometeronhisrightcuff.“It’salreadyuptoforty-twobelow,”hesaid,feeling
cheerfulforthefirsttime.“Besides,thelowerthepressure,thelowertheboilingpoint.”
“Yeah.That’sright.”
“That patch must have been shaded by the plane’s wing,” Fuchida pointed out. “The rest of the ground
seemsclear.”
“Thenlet’sgotothebeachandgetasuntan,”Rodriguezsaidhumorlessly.
“No,let’sgotothecaldera,asplanned.”
“Youthinkit’ssafetowalkaround?”
Noddinginsidehishelmet, Fuchidatooka tentativestep. Thegroundfelt smooth,but notslick.Another
step,thenanother.
“Maybeweshould’vebroughtfootballcleats.”
“Notnecessary.Theground’sOKnow.”
Rodriguezgrunted.“Becareful,anyway.”
“Yes,Iwill.”
WhileRodriguezrelayedhismorningreportfromhissuitradiothroughthemorepowerfultransmitterin
the plane, Fuchida unlatched the cargo bay hatch and slid their equipment skid to the ground. Again he
marvelledthatthisplaneofplasticandgossamercouldcarrythemandtheirgear.Itseemedquiteimpos-
sible,yetitwastrue.
“Areyouready?”heaskedRodriguez,feelingeagernowtogetgoing.
“Yep.Lemmecheckthecompassbearing.…”
Fuchidadidnotwaitfor the astronaut’s check. He knew thedirectiontothecalderaas if its coordinates
wereprintedonhisheart.
****
Rodriguezfeltachillofapprehensiontinglingthroughhimastheystareddownintothecaldera.Itwaslike
beingontheedgeofanenormousholeintheworld,aholethatwentallthewaydownintohell.
“Nietzschewasright,”Fuchidasaid,hisvoicesoundingawed,almostfrightened,inRodriguez’searphones.
Rodriguez had to turn his entire torso from the hips to see the Japanese biologist standing beside him,
anonymousinhisbulkyhardsuitexceptforthebluestripesonhisarms.
“Youmeanaboutwhenyoustareintotheabysstheabyssstaresback.”
“You’vereadNietzsche?”
Rodriguezgrunted.“InSpanish.”
“Thatmusthavebeeninteresting.IreadhiminJapanese.”
Breakingintoachuckle,Rodriguezsaid,“SoneitheroneofuscanreadGerman,huh?”
Itwasasgoodawayasanytobreakthetension.Thecalderawashuge,amammothpitthatstretchedfrom
horizontohorizon.Standingthereonitslip,lookingdownintothedark,shadowydepthsthatdroppedaway
forwhoknewhowfar,wasdistinctlyunnerving.
“That’sahelluvahole,”Rodriguezmuttered.
“It’sbigenoughtoswallowMt.Everest,”saidFuchida,hisvoiceslightlyhollowwithawe.
“Howlong’sthisbeastbeendead?”Rodriguezasked.
“Tensof millions of years, atleast.Probablymuch longer.That’s one of the thingswewanttoestablish
whilewe’rehere.”
“Thinkit’sdueforanotherblow?”
Fuchidalaughedshakily.“We’llgetplentyofwarning,don’tworry.”
“What,meworry?”
Theybegantounloadtheequipmenttheyhaddraggedontheskid.Itstworunnerswerelinedwithsmall
Teflon-coatedwheelssoitcouldridealongroughgroundwithoutneedingmorethanthemusclepowerof
thetwomen.Muchoftheequipmentwasmountaineeringgear:chocksandpitonsandlongcoiledlengths
ofBuckyballcable.
“Youreallywanttogodownthere?”RodriguezaskedwhilehedrilledholesinthehardbasaltforFuchida
to implant geo/met beacons. The instrumentation built into the slim pole would continuously measure
groundtremors,heatflowfromtheplanet’sinterior,airtemperature,windvelocityandhumidity.
“Ispentalotoftimeexploringcaves,”Fuchidaanswered,grippingoneofthebeaconsinhisglovedhands.
“I’vebeenpreparingforthisforalongtime.”
“Spelunking?You?”
“Theycallitcaving.Spelunkingisatermusedbynon-cavers.”
“Soyou’reallsettogodownthere,huh?”
Fuchidarealizedthathedidnottrulywanttogo.EverytimehehadenteredacaveonEarthhehadfeltan
irrationalsenseofdread.Buthehadforcedhimselftoexplorethecavernsbecauseheknewitwouldbean
importantpointinhisfavorinthecompetitionforaberthontheMarsexpedition.
“I’mallset,”thebiologistanswered,gruntingasheworkedthegeology/mete-orologybeaconintoitshole.
“It’sadirtyjob,”Rodriguezjoked,overthewhineoftheauger’selectricmotor,“butsomebody’sgottodo
it.”
“Aman’sgottodowhataman’sgottodo,”Fuchidareplied,matchinghisteammate’sbravado.
Rodriguezlaughed.“Thatain’tNietzsche.”
“No.JohnWayne.”
They finished all the preliminary work and headed back to the lip of the caldera. Slowly. Reluctantly,
Rodriguez thought. Well, he told himself, even if we break our asses poking around down there at least
we’vegotthebeaconsupandrunning.
Fuchidastoppedtocheckthereadoutscomingfromthebeacons.
“TheyalltransmittingOK?”Rodriguezasked.
“Yes,”camethereplyinhisearphones.“Interesting…”
“What?”
“HeatflowfrombelowgroundismuchhigherherethanatthedomeorevendownintheCanyon.”
Rodriguezfelthiseyebrowscrawlupward.“Youmeanshe’sstillactive?”
“No,no,no.Thatcan’tbe.Butthereisstillsomethermalenergydownthere.”
“Weshould’vebroughtmarshmallows.”
“Perhaps.Ormaybe there’llbesomethingtopicnicondown therewaitingforus!”Thebiologist’s voice
soundedexcited.
“Whattayamean?”
“Heatenergy!Energyforlife,perhaps.”
AvisionofbadvideosflashedthroughRodriguez’smind:slimyalienmonsterswithtentaclesandbulging
eyes.Heforcedhimselfnottolaughaloud.Don’tworry,they’reonlyinterestedinblondeswithbigboobs.
Fuchidacalled,“Helpmegetthelinesattachedandmakecertaintheanchorsarefirmlyimbedded.”
He’snotreluctantanymore,Rodriguezsaw.He’sitchingtogodownintothathugeholeandseewhatkind
ofaliencreatureshecanfind.
****
“Youallset?”Rodriguezasked.
Fuchidahadtheclimbingharnessbuckledoverhishardsuit,thetetherfirmlyclippedtotheyokethatran
underhisarms.
“Ready to go,” the biologist replied, with an assurance he did not truly feel. That dark, yawning abyss
stirred a primal fear in both men, but Fuchida did not want to admit to it himself, much less to his
teammate.
RodriguezhadspentthemorningsettinguptheclimbingrigwhileFuchidacollectedrocksamplesandthen
didahalf-hourVRshowforviewersbackonEarth.TherocksweresparserhereatopOlympusMonsthan
theyweredownontheplainsbelow,andnoneofthemshowedtheintrusionsofcolorthatmarkedcolonies
ofMartianlichen.
Still, sample collection was the biologist’s first order of business. He thought of it as his gift to the
geologists,sincehefeltadrearycertaintythattherewasnobiologygoingonhereontheroofofthisworld.
Butdownbelow,insidethecaldera…thatmightbeadifferentmatter.
Fuchidastillhadthevirtualrealityrigclampedtohishelmet.Theywouldnotdoareal-timetransmission,
but the recording of the first descent into Olympus Mons’s main caldera would be very useful both for
scienceandentertainment.
“OK,”Rodriguezsaid,lettinghisreluctanceshowinhisvoice.“I’mreadywhen-everyouare.”
Noddinginsidehishelmet,Fuchidasaid,“Thenlet’sgetstarted.”
“Becarefulnow,”saidRodriguezasthebiologistbackedslowlyawayfromhim.
Fuchidadidnotreply.Heturnedandstartedoverthesoftlyroundedlipofthegiantholeintheground.
ThecalderawassobigthatitwouldtakehalfanhourtosinkbelowthelevelwhereRodriguezcouldstill
seehimwithoutmovingfromhisstationbesidethetetherwinch.
IshouldhavereadDante’sInfernoinpreparationforthistask,Fuchidathoughttohimself.
Theroadtohellbeginswithagradualslope,heknew.Itwillgetsteepenoughsoon.
Thenbothhisbootedfeetslippedoutfromunderhim.
****
“YouOK?”Rodriguez’svoicesoundedanxiousinFuchida’searphones.
“Ihitaslickspot.Theremustbepatchesofdryicecoatingtherockhereintheshadows.”
Thebiologistwaslyingonhisside,hishipthrobbingpainfullyfromhisfall.Atthisrate,hethought,I’llbe
black-and-bluefromthewaistdown.
“Canyougetup?”
“Yes. Certainly.” Fuchida felt more embarrassed than hurt. He grabbed angrily at the tether and pulled
himself to his feet. Even in the one-third gravity of Mars it took an effort, with the suit and backpack
weighinghimdown.Andalltheequipmentthatdangledfromhisbeltandharness.
Onceonhisfeethestareddownoncemoreinfothedarknessofthecaldera’syawningmaw.It’slikethe
mouthofagreatbeast,avoiceinhismindsaid.Likethegatewaytotheeternalpit.
Hetookadeepbreath,thensaidintohishelmetmicrophone,“OK.I’mstartingdownagain.”
“Becareful,man.”
“Thanksfortheadvice,”Fuchidasnapped.
Rodriguezseemeduntroubledbyhisirritation.“MaybeIoughtakeepthelinetighter,”hesuggested.“Not
somuchslack.”
Regrettinghistemper,Fuchidaagreed,“Yes,thatmighthelptokeepmeonmyfeet.”Thehipreallyhurt,
andhisrumpwasstillsorefromhisfirstfall.
I’mluckyIdidn’trupturethesuit,hethought.Ordamagethebackpack.
“OK,I’veadjustedthetension.Takeiteasy,now.”
A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step. Mitsuo Fuchida quoted Lao-tzu’s ancient
dictum as he planted one booted foot on the ground ahead of him. The bare rock seemed to offer good
traction.
Youcan’tseetheice,hetoldhimself.It’stoothinacoatingtobevisible.Severaldozenmeterstohisright,
sunlight slanted down into the gradually sloping side of the caldera. There’ll be no ice there, Fuchida
thought.Hemovedoffinthatdirection,slowly,testinghisfootingeverystepoftheway.
Thetetherconnectedtohisharnessathischest,sohecouldeasilydisconnectitifnecessary.Theincreased
tensionofthelinemadewalkingallthemoredif-ficult.Fuchidafeltalmostlikeamarionetteonastring.
“Slackoffalittle,”hecalledtoRodriguez.
‘Yousure?”
Heturnedbacktolookupathisteammate,andwasstartledtoseethattheastronautwasnothingmorethan
atinyblobofafigureupontherim,standinginbrightsunlightwiththedeepblueskybehindhim.
‘Yes,I’mcertain,”hesaid,withdeliberatepatience.
AfewmomentslaterRodriguezasked,“How’sthat?”
Thedifferencewasimperceptible,butFuchidareplied,“Better.”
Hesawaledgeinthesunlightsometwentymetersbelowhimanddecidedtoheadforit.Slowly,carefully
hedescended.
“Ican’tseeyou.”Rodriguez’svoiceinhisearphonessoundedonlyslightlyconcerned.
Lookingup,Fuchidasawtheexpanseofdeepblueskyandnothingelseexceptthegentleslopeofthebare
rock.Andthetether,hislifeline,holdingstrong.
“It’sallright,”hesaid.“I’musingtheVRcamerastorecordmydescent.I’mgoingtostopataledgeand
chipoutsomerocksamplesthere.”
****
“Hey,Mitsuo,”Rodriguezcalled.
AutomaticallyFuchidalookedup.Buttheastronautwasbeyondhisview.Fu-chidawasalonedownonthe
ledgeinthecaldera’sslopingflankofsolidrock.TheBuckyballtetherthatconnectedhimtothewinchup
abovealsocarriedtheirsuit-to-suitradiotransmissions.
“Whatisit?”hereplied,gratefultohearRodriguez’svoice.
“How’sitgoing,man?”
“Thatdepends,”saidFuchida.
“Onwhat?”
Thebiologisthesitated.Hehadbeenworkingonthisrockledgeforhours,chippingoutsamples,measuring
heatflow,patientlyworkinganaugerintothehardbasalttoseeiftheremightbewatericetrappedinthe
rock.
Hewasinshadownow.Thesunhadmovedaway.Lookingup,hesawwithreliefthattheskywasstilla
brightblue.Itwasstilldaylightupthere.Rodriguezwouldnotlethimstaydownaftersunset,heknew,yet
hestillfeltcomfortedtoseethattherewasstilldaylightupthere.
“It depends,” he answered slowly, “on what you are looking for. Whether you are a geologist or a
biologist.”
“Oh,”saidRodriguez.
“Ageologistwouldbeveryhappyhere.Thereisaconsiderableamountofheatstilltrappedintheserocks.
Muchmorethancanbeaccountedforbysolarwarm-ingalone.”
“Youmeanthevolcano’sstillactive?”
“No,no,no.Itisdead,butthecorpseisstillwarm—alittle.”
Rodriguezdidnotreply.
“Doyourealizewhatthismeans?Thisvolcanomustbemuchyoungerthanwasthought.Muchyounger!”
“Howyoung?”
“Perhapsonlyafewmillionyears,”Fuchidasaidexcitedly.“Nomorethantenmillion.”
“Soundsprettydamnedoldtome,amigo.”
“Buttheremightbelifehere!Ifthereisheat,theremightbeliquidwaterwithintherock.”
“Ithoughtwatercouldn’tstayliquidonMars.”
“Notonthesurface,”Fuchidasaid,feelingtheexhilarationquiveringwithinhim.“Butdeeperdown,inside
therockwherethepressureishigher…maybe…”
“Looksprettydarkdownthere.”
“Itis,”Fuchidaanswered,peeringoverthelipoftheledgeonwhichhesat.Thesuit’sheaterseemedtobe
workingfine;itmightbeahundredbelowzerointhoseshadows,buthefeltcomfortablywarm.
“Idon’tliketheideaofyourbeingdownthereinthedark.”
“NeitherdoI,butthat’swhywe’rehere,isn’tit?”
Noanswer.
“Imean,westillhaveseveralhundredmetersoftethertounwind,don’twe?”
Rodriguezsaid,“Elevenhundredandninety-two,accordingtothemeter.”
“SoIcangodownalongway,then.”
“Idon’tlikethedark.”
“Myhelmetlampisworkingfine.”
“Still…”
“Don’tworryaboutit,”Fuchidainsisted,cuttingofftheastronaut’sworries.Itwasbadenoughtobattlehis
ownfears;hewantednopartofRodriguez’s.
“Isawacreviceattheendofthisledge,”hetoldtheastronaut.“Itlooksliketheopeningofanold lava
tube.Itprobablyleadsdownaconsiderabledistance.”
“Doyouthinkthat’sagoodidea?”
“I’lltakealookintoit.”
“Don’ttakeanychancesyoudon’thaveto.”
Fuchidagrimacedasheclimbedslowlytohisfeet.Hiswholebodyachedfromthebruisinghe’dreceivedin
his falls and he felt stiff after sitting on the ledge for so long. Walk carefully, he warned himself. Even
thoughtherockiswarmerdownhere,therecouldstillbepatchesofice.
“Youhearme?”Rodriguezcalled.
“IfIfollowedyouradviceI’dbeinmybedinOsaka,”hesaid,tryingtomakeitsoundlightandwitty.
“Yeah,sure.”
Stifflyhewalkedtowardthefissurehehadseenearlier.Hishelmetlampthrewaglareoflightbeforehim,
buthehadtobendoverslightlytomakethelightreachtheground.
Thereitis,hesaw.Anarrow,slightlyroundedholeinthebasaltface.Likethemouthofapirate’scave.
Fuchidatookastepintotheopeningandturnedfromsidetoside,playinghishelmetlamponthewallsof
thecave.
Itwasalavatube,hewascertainofit.Likeatunnelmadebysomegiantextraterrestrialworm,itcurved
downward.Howfardown?hewondered.
Stiflingavoiceinhisheadthatwhisperedoffearanddanger,Fuchidastartedintothecold,darklavatube.
****
“Jamie,”StacyDezhurova’svoicecalledoutsharply,“wehaveanemergencymes-sagefromRodriguez.”
Sitting at the electron microscope in the geology lab, Jamie looked up from the display screen when
Dezhurova’svoicerangthroughthedome.Heleftthecoresampleinthemicroscopewithoutturningitoff
andsprintedacrossthedometothecommcenter.
DezhurovalookedgrimasshesilentlyhandedJamieaheadset.Theothersci-entistsinthedomecrowded
intothecommcenterbehindhim.
Rodriguez’svoicewascalmbuttightwithtension.“…downtheremorethantwohoursnowandthenradio
contactcutoff,”theastronautwassaying.
SittingagainonthewheeledchairnexttoDezhurovaasheadjustedthepinmicrophone,Jamiesaid,
“ThisisWaterman.What’shappening,Tomas?”
“Mitsuowentdownintothecalderaasscheduled.Hefoundalavatubeaboutfifty-sixtymetersdownand
wentintoit.Thenhisradiotransmissionwascutoff.”
“Howlong—”
“It’smorethanhalfanhournow.I’vetriedyankingonhistetherbutI’mgettingnoresponse.”
“Whatdoyouthink?”
“Eitherhe’sunconsciousorhisradio’sfailed.Imean,Ireallypulledonthetether.Nothing.”
The astronaut did not mention the third possibility: that Fuchida was dead. But the thought blazed in
Jamie’smind.
“Yousayyourradiocontactwithhimcutoffwhilehewasstillinthelavatube?”
“Yeah,right.Thatwasmore’nhalfanhourago.”
A thousand possibilities spun through Jamie’s mind. The tether’s too tough to break, he knew. Those
Buckyballscantaketonsoftension.
“It’sgoingtobedarksoon,”Rodriguezsaid.
“You’regoingtohavetogodownafterhim,”Jamiesaid.
“Iknow.”
“Justgodownfarenoughtoseewhat’shappenedtohim.Findoutwhat’shappenedandcallbackhere.”
“Yeah.Right.”
“Idon’tlikeit,butthat’swhatyou’regoingtohavetodo.”
“Idon’tlikeitmuch,either,”saidRodriguez.
Throughahazeofpain,MitsuoFuchidasawtheironyofthesituation.Hehadmadeagreatdiscoverybut
hewouldprobablynotlivetotellanyoneaboutit.
Whenhe entered the lava tube he felt an unaccustomedsenseofdread, like a character in an old horror
movie,steppingslowly,fearfullydownthenarrowcor-ridorofahauntedhouse,litonlybytheflickerofa
candle.Exceptthiscorridorwasatubemeltedoutofthesolidrockbyanancientstreamofred-hotlava,
andFuchida’slightcamefromthelamponhishardsuithelmet.
Nonsense!hesnappedsilently.Youaresafeinyourhardsuit,andthetetherconnectsyoutoRodriguez,up
atthesurface.Buthecalledtotheastronautandchattedinanelywithhim,justtoreassurehimselfthathe
wasnottrulycutofffromtherestoftheuniversedowninthisdark,narrowpassageway.
The VR cameras fixed to his helmet were recording everything he saw, but Fuchida thought that only a
geologistwouldbeinterestedinthiscramped,claus-trophobictunnel.
Thetubeslanteddownward,itswallsfairlysmooth,almostglassyinplaces.Theblackrockgleamedinthe
lightofhislamp.Thetunnelgrewnarrowerinspots,thenwidened again,although nowherewas itwide
enoughforhimtospreadhisarmsfully.
PerspirationwasbeadingFuchida’slipandbrow,tricklingcoldlydownhisribs.Stopthisfoolishness,he
admonishedhimself.You’vebeenintightercavesthanthis.
HethoughtofElizabeth,waitingforhimbackinJapan,acceptingthesubtlesnubsofdeep-seatedracism
becauseshelovedhimandwantedtobewithhimwhenhereturned.I’llgetbacktoyou,hevowed,evenif
thistunnelleadsdowntohellitself.
Thetetherseemedtosnagfromtimetotime.Hehadtostopandtugonittoloosenitagain.Orperhaps
Rodriguezwasfiddlingwiththetensionontheline,hethought.
Deeper into the tunnel he went, stepping cautiously, now and then running his gloved hands over the
strangelysmoothwalls.
Fuchida lost track of time as he chipped at the tunnel walls here and there, filling the sample bags that
dangledfromhisharnessbelt.Thetethermadeituncomfortabletopushforward,attachedtohisharnessat
thechest.Ithadtopassoverhisshoulderoraroundhiswaist:clumsy,atbest.
Thenhenoticedthatthecircleoflightcastbyhishelmetlampshowedanindentationofftowardtheleft,a
mini-alcovethatseemedlighterincolorthantherestoftheglossyblacktunnelwalls.Fuchidaedgedcloser
toit,leaningslightlyintothenichetoexamineit.
A bubble of lava did this, he thought. The niche was barely big enough for a man to enter. A man not
encumberedwithahardsuitandbulkybackpack,thatis.Fuchidastoodattheentrancetothenarrowniche,
peeringinside,wondering.
Andthenhenoticedastreakofred,thecolorofironrust.Rust?Whyhereandnotelsewhere?
Hepushedincloser,squeezingintothenarrowopeningtoinspecttherustspot.Yes,definitelythecolorof
ironrust.
Hetookascraperfromthetoolkitathiswaist,nearlyfumblingitinhisawk-wardlyglovedfingers.IfI
dropitIwon’tbeabletobenddowntopickitup,notinthisnarrowcleft,herealized.
Theredstaincrumbledatthetouchofthescraper.Strange!thoughtFuchida.Notlikethebasaltatall.
Coulditbe…wet?No!Liquidwatercannotexistatthislowairpressure.Butwhatisthepressureinside
therock?Perhaps…
Theredstuffcrumbledeasilyintothesamplebagheheldbeneathitwithtremblingfingers.Itmustbeiron
oxidethatisbeingerodedbywater,somehow.Waterandiron.Siderophiles!Bacteriathatmetabolizeiron
andwater!
Fuchidawasascertainofitashewasofhisownexistence.Hisheartwasracing.Acolonyofiron-loving
bacterialivinginsidethecalderaofOlympusMons!Whoknewwhatelsemightbefounddeeperdown?
Itwasonlywhenhesealedupthesamplebagandplaceditintheplasticboxdanglingfromhisbeltthathe
heardthestrangerumblingsound.Throughthethicknessofhishelmetitsoundedmuted,far-off,butstill
anysoundatallthisdeepinthetunnelwasstartling.
Fuchida started to back away from the crumbling, rust-red cleft. The rumbling sound seemed to grow
louder,likethegrowlofsomeprowlingbeast.Itwasnon-sense,ofcourse,buthethoughtthetunnelwalls
wereshakingslightly,trembling.It’syouwhoaretrembling,foolishman!headmonishedhimself.
Somethinginthebackofhismindsaid,Fearishealthy.Itisnothingtobeashamedof,ifyou—
The rusted area of rock dissolved into a burst of exploding steam that lifted Fuchida off his feet and
slammedhimpainfullyagainstthefarwallofthelavatube.
****
Fuchidanearlyblackedoutashisheadbangedagainstthebackofhishelmet.Hesaggedtothefloorofthe
tunnel,hisvisorcompletelyfogged,hisskullthunderingwithpain.
With a teeth-gritting effort of iron will he kept himself from slipping into un-consciousness. Despite the
poundinginhishead,heforcedhimselftostayawake,alert.Donotfaint!hecommandedhimself.Donot
allowyourselftotakethecowardlyway.Youmustremainawakeifyouhopetoremainalive.Hefeltper-
spirationbeadinghisforehead,drippingintohiseyes,forcinghimtoblinkandsquint.
Thenawaveofangersweptoverhim.Howstupidyouare!herailedathim-self.Ahydrothermalvent.
Water.Liquidwater,hereonMars.Youshouldhaveknown.Youshouldhaveguessed.Theheatflow,the
rustediron.Theremustbesiderophileshere,bacteriathatmetabolizeironandwater.Theyweak-enedthe
wallandyouscrapedenoughofitawayforthepressuretoblowthroughthewall.
Yes,heagreedwithhimself.Nowthatyou’vemadethediscovery,youmustlivetoreportittotherestof
theworld.
Hisvisorwasstillbadlyfogged.Fuchidagropedforthecontrolstudathiswristthatwouldturnuphissuit
fansandclearthevisor.Hethoughthefoundtherightkeypadandpushedit.Nothingchanged.Infact,now
that he listened for it, he could not hear the soft buzz of his suit fans at all. Except for his own labored
breathing,therewasnothingbutsilence.Wait.Becalm.Think.CallRodriguez.Tellhimwhat’shappened.
“Tomas,I’vehadalittleaccident.”Noresponse.
“Rodriguez!Canyouhearme?”Silence.
Slowly,carefully,heflexedbothhisarms,thenhislegs.Hisbodyached,buttheredidn’tseemtobeany
brokenbones.Stilltheairfansremainedsilent,andbeadsofsweatdrippedintohiseyes.
Blinking,squinting,hesawthatthevisorwasbeginningtoclearuponitsown.Thehydrothermalventmust
havebeenaweakone,hethoughtthankfully.Hecouldhearnomorerumbling;thetunneldidnotseemto
beshakingnow.
Almostreluctantly,hewormedhisarmuptoeyelevelandheldthewristkey-boardclosetohisvisor.
Thekeyboard was blank.Electricalmalfunction! Franti-callyhe tapped atthekeyboard:nothing. Heater,
heatexchanger,airfans,radio—allgone.
I’madeadman.
Coldpanichithimlikeablowtotheheart.That’swhyyounolongerheartheaircirculationfans!Thesuit
batterymusthavebeendamagedwhenIslammedagainstthewall.
Fuchidacouldhearhispulsethunderinginhisears.Calmdown!hecommandedhimself.That’snotsobad.
Thesuithasenoughairinitforanhourorso.Andit’sinsulatedverythoroughly;youwon’tfreeze
—notforseveralhours,atleast.Youcangetbywithouttheaircirculationfans.Forawhile.
Itwaswhenhetriedtostandupthattherealfearhithim.Hisrightankleflaredwithagony.Brokenorbadly
sprained,Fuchidarealized.Ican’tstandonit.Ican’tgetoutofhere.
Thentheironyreallystruckhim.Imightbethefirstmantodieofheatpros-trationonMars.
****
Theproblemis,Rodriguezsaidtohimself,thatweonlyhaveoneclimbingharnessandMitsuo’swearingit.
I’vegottogodowntherewithoutatether,withoutanyoftheclimbingtoolsthathe’scarryingwithhim.
Shit!
Thealternative,heknew,wastoleavethebiologistandreturntothesafetyoftheplane.Rodriguezshook
hisheadinsidehishelmet.Can’tleavehim.It’sal-readygettingdarkandhe’dneversurviveovernight.
Ontheotherhand,there’sadamnedgoodchancethatwe’llbothdiedownthere.
Doubleshit.
Forlong,uselessmomentshestareddownintothedarkdepthsofthecaldera,incompleteshadownowas
thesuncreptclosertothedistanthorizon.
Nevershowfear,Rodriguezrepeatedtohimself.Noteventoyourself.Henoddedinsidehishelmet.
Yeah,easytosay.Nowgetthesnakesinmygutstobelieveit.
Still,hestarteddown,walkingslowly,deliberately,grippingthetetherhand-over-handashedescended.
Itbecametotallydarkwithinafewstepsofleavingthecaldera’srim.Theonlylightwasthepatchofglow
castbyhishelmetlamp,andthedarkrockallaroundhimseemedtoswallowthatupgreedily.Heplanted
his booted feet carefully, deliberately, knowing that carbon dioxide from the air was already starting to
freezeoutonthebitterlycoldrock.
Rodriguezcastaglanceup at the dimming sky, like a prisoner taking his last desperate look at freedom
beforeenteringhisdungeon.
AtleastIcanfollowthetether,hethought.Hemovedwithponderousdelib-eration,worriedaboutslipping
onpatchesofice.IfIgetdisabledwe’rebothtoast,hetoldhimself.Takeiteasy.Don’trushit.
Don’tmakeanymistakes.
Slowly, slowly he descended. By the time the tether led him to the mouth of the lava tube, he could no
longerseethescantsliceofskyabove;itwascompletelyblack.Iftherewerestarswinkingathimupthere
hecouldnotseethemthroughthetintedvisorofhishelmet.
Hepeeredintothetunnel.Itwaslikestaringintoawellofblackness.
“Hey,Mitsuo!”hecalled.“Canyouhearme?”
No response. He’s either dead or unconscious. Rodriguez thought. He’s laying deep down that tunnel
someplaceandI’vegottogofindhim.Orwhat’sleftofhim.
Hetookadeepbreath.Nofear,heremindedhimself.
Downthedarktunnelheplodded,ignoringtheflutteringofhisinnards,payingnoattentiontothevoicein
hisheadthattoldhimhe’dgonefarenough,theguy’sdead,nosensegettingyourselfkilleddownheretoo
sogetthehellout,now.
Can’tleavehim,Rodriguezshoutedsilentlyatthevoice.Deadoralive,Ican’tleavehimdownhere.
Yourfuneral,thevoicecountered.
Yeah,sure.IgetbacktothebaseOKwithouthim.What’retheygonnathinkofme?How’mI—
Hesawtheslumpedformofthebiologist,alumpofhardsuitandequipmentsittingagainstonewallofthe
tunnel.
“Hey,Mitsuo!”hecalled.
Theinertformdidnotmove.
Rodriguezhurriedtothebiologistandtriedtopeerintothevisorofhishelmet.Itlookedbadlyfogged.
“Mitsuo,”heshouted.“YouOK?”Itsoundedidioticthemomentthewordslefthislips.
ButFuchidasuddenlyreachedupandgrippedhisshoulders.
“You’realive!”
Stillnoanswer.Hisradio’sout,Rodriguezfinallyrealized.Andtheair’stoothintocarrymyvoice.
HetouchedhishelmetagainstFuchida’s.“Hey,man,whathappened?”
“Battery,”thebiologistreplied,hisvoicemuffledbutunderstandable.“Batterynotworking.Andmyankle.
Can’twalk.”
“Jesus!CanyoustandupifIpropyou?”
“Idon’tknow.Myairfansaredown.I’mafraidtomove;Idon’twanttogenerateanyextrabodyheat.”
Shit,saidRodrigueztohimself.AmIgonnahavetocarryhimallthewayuptothesurface?
****
Sittingtheretrappedlikeastupidschoolboyonhisfirstexplorationofacave,Fuchidawishedhehadpaid
moreattentiontohisBuddhistinstructors.Thiswouldbeagoodtimetomeditate,toreachforinnerpeace
andattainacalmalphastate.Orwasitbetastate?
With his suit fans inoperative, the circulation of air inside the heavily insulated hard suit was almost
nonexistent.Heatgeneratedbyhisbodycouldnotbetrans-ferredtotheheatexchangerinthebackpack;the
temperatureinsidethesuitwasclimbingsteadily.
Worse,itwasmoreandmoredifficulttogetthecarbondioxideheexhaledoutofthesuitandintotheair
recycler.Hecouldchoketodeathonhisownfumes.
Theanswerwastobeasstillaspossible,nottomove,noteventoblink.Becalm.Achievenothingness.
Donotstir.Wait.Waitforhelp.
Rodriguezwillcomeforme,hetoldhimself.Tomaswon’tleavemeheretodie.He’llcomeforme.
Willhecomeintime?Fuchidatriedtoshutthepossibilityofdeathoutofhisthoughts,butheknewthatit
wastheultimateinevitability.
Thehellofitis,I’mcertainIhaveabagfullofsiderophiles!I’llbefamous.
Posthumously.
Thenhesawthebobbinglightofahelmetlampapproaching.Henearlyblub-beredwithrelief.Rodriguez
appeared,alumberingrobotlikecreatureinthebulkyhardsuit.ToFuchidahelookedsweeterthananangel.
OnceRodriguezrealizedthathehadtotouchhelmetstobeheard,heasked,“Howinthehelldidyouget
yourselfbangeduplikethis?”
“Hydrothermalvent,”Fuchidareplied.“Itknockedmeclearacrossthetunnel.”
Rodriguezgrunted.“OldFaithfulstrikesonMars.”
Fuchidatriedtolaugh;whatcameoutwasashakycoughinggiggle.
“Canyoumove?Getup?”
“Ithinkso…”Slowly,withRodriguezliftingfrombeneathhisarmpits,Fu-chidagottohisfeet.Hetooka
deepbreath,thencoughed.Whenhetriedtoputsomeweightonhisbadanklehenearlycollapsed.
“Takeiteasy,buddy.Leanonme.Wegottogetyoubacktotheplanebeforeyouchoketodeath.”
****
Rodriguezhadforgottenabouttheice.
He half-dragged Fuchida along the tunnel, the little pools of light made by their helmet lamps the only
breakinthetotal,overwhelmingdarknessaroundthem.
“Howyoudoing,buddy?”heaskedtheJapanesebiologist.“Talktome.”
Leaninghishelmetagainsttheastronaut’s,Fuchidaanswered,“Ifeelhot.Broil-ing—”
“You’relucky.I’mfreezingmyassoff.Ithinkmysuitheater’scrappingoutonme.
“I…Idon’tknowhowlongIcanlastwithouttheairfans,”Fuchidasaid,hisvoicetremblingslightly.“I
feelalittlelightheaded.”
“Noproblem,”Rodriguezreplied, witha falseheartiness.“It’llgetkinda stuffyinsideyour suit,butyou
won’tasphyxiate.”
ThefirstAmericanastronauttotakeanEVAspacewalkoutsidehiscapsulehadalmostcollapsedfromheat
prostration,Rodriguezremembered.Thedamnedsuitsholdallyourbodyheatinside;that’swhytheymake
uswearthewatercooledlongjohnsandputheatexchangersinthesuits.Butifthefanscan’tcirculatetheair
theexchanger’sprettydamneduseless.
Rodriguezkeptonehandonthetether.Inthewanlightfromhishelmetlamphesawthatitledupward,out
ofthisabyss.
“We’llbebackintheplaneinhalfanhour,maybeless.Icanfixyourbackpackthen.”
“Good,”saidFuchida.Thenhecoughedagain.
It seemed to take hours before they got out of the tunnel, back onto the ledge in the slope of the giant
caldera.
“Comeon,grabthetether.We’regoin’up.”
“Right.”
ButRodriguez’sbootslippedandhefelltohiskneeswithapainfulthump.
“Damn,”hemuttered.“It’sslick.”
“Theice.”
Theastronautrockedbackontohishaunches,bothkneesthrobbingpainfully.
“It’stooslipperytoclimb?”Fuchida’svoicewasedgingtowardpanic.
‘Yeah.We’regonnahavetohaulourselvesupwiththewinch.”Hegotdownontohisbellyandmotioned
thebiologisttodothesame.
“Isn’tthisdangerous?Whatifwetearoursuits?”
RodriguezrappedontheshoulderofFuchida’ssuit.“Toughassteel,amigo.Theywon’trip.”
“You’recertain?”
“Youwannaspendthenightdownhere?”
Fuchidagrabbedthetetherwithbothhishands.
Grinningtohimself,RodriguezalsograspedthetetherandtoldFuchidatoactivatethewinch.
Butwithinsecondshefeltthetetherslacken.
“Stop!”
“What’swrong?”Fuchidaasked.
Rodriguezgavethetetherafewlighttugs.Itfeltloose,itsoriginaltensiongone.“Holyshit,”hemuttered.
“Whatisit?”
“Theweightofbothofusonthelineistoomuchfortherigtohold.We’repullingitoutofthegroundup
there.”
“Youmeanwe’restuckhere?”
****
“Iseethatnoneofusaregoingtogetanysleep.”
StacyDezhurovawassmilingasshespoke,butherbrightblueeyesweredeadserious.TrudyHallwasstill
on duty at the comm console. Stacy sat beside her while Jamie paced slowly back and forth behind her.
VijayShektar,theexpeditiondoctor,hadpulledinanotherchairandsatbythedoorway,watchingthemall.
Thecommcentercubiclefeltstuffyandhotwithallfourofthemcrowdedinthere.Jamiedidnotanswer
Dezhurova’sremark;hejustkeptonpacing,fivestridesfromonepartitiontotheother,thenbackagain.
“Rodriguezmusthavefoundhimbynow,”Hallsaid,swivellingherchairslightlytowardStacy.
“Thenwhydoesn’thecallin?”shedemanded,almostangrily.
“Theymuststillbedowninsidethecaldera,”Jamiesaid.
“It’snight,”Stacypointedout.
Jamienoddedandkeptpacing.
“It’sthewaitingthat’stheworst,”Vijayoffered.“Notknowingwhat—”
“ThisisRodriguez,”theradiospeakercrackled.“Wegotalittleproblemhere.”
Jamiewasatthecommconsolelikeashot,leaningbetweenthetwowomen.
“What’shappening,Tomas?”
“Fuchida’salive.Buthisbackpack’sbangedupandhisbattery’snotfunctioning.Heater,airfans,nothingin
hissuit’sworking.”Rodriguez’svoicesoundedtensebutincontrol,likeapilotwhosejetenginehadjust
flamedout:trouble,butnothingthatcan’tbehandled.Untilyouhittheground.
Thenheadded,“We’restuckonaledgeaboutthirtymetersdownandcan’tgetbackup‘causetherock’s
coatedwithdryiceandit’stooslipperytoclimb.”
Astheastronautwentontodescribehowthetetherwinchalmostpulledoutofitssupportswhenthetwoof
themtriedtohaulthemselvesuptheslope,JamietappedHallontheshoulderandtoldhertopullupthe
specsonthehardsuit’saircirculationsystem.
“OK,”hesaidwhenRodriguezstoppedtalking.“Areeitherofyouhurt?”
“I’mbruisedalittle.Mitsuo’sgotabadankle.Hecan’tstandonit.”
One of the screens on the console now showed a diagram of the suit’s air circulation system. Hall was
scrollingthroughalonglistonthescreennexttoit.
“Mitsuo, how do you feel?” Jamie asked, stalling for time, time to think, time to get the information he
needed.
“Hisradio’sdown,”Rodriguezsaid.Ahesitation,then,“Buthesayshe’shot.Sweating.”
Vijaynoddedandmurmured,“Hyperthermia.”
Strangely,Rodriguezchuckled.“Mitsuoalsosayshediscoveredsiderophiles,insidethecaldera!Hewants
Trudytoknowthat.”
“Iheardit,”Hallsaid,stillscrollingdownthesuitspecs.“Didhegetsamples?”
Againawait, thenRodriguez replied,“Yep.There’swaterinthe rock.Liquidwater.Mitsuosaysyou’ve
gottapublish…getitoutontheNet.”
“Liquid?”Hallstoppedthescrolling.Hereyeswentwide.“Areyoucertainabout—”
“Nevermindthatnow,”Jamiesaid,studyingthenumbersonHall’sscreen.“Accordingtothesuitspecsyou
cangetenoughbreathableairfortwohours,atleast,evenwiththefansoff.”
“Wecan’twaitdownhereuntildaylight,then,”Rodriguezsaid.
Jamiesaid,“Tomas,isMitsuo’sharnessstillconnectedtothewinch?”
“FarasIcansee,yeah.Butifwetrytousethewinchtohaulusupit’sgonnayanktherigrightoutofthe
ground.”
“ThenMitsuo’sgottogoupbyhimself.”
“Byhimself?”
“Right,”Jamiesaid.“LetthewinchpullMitsuouptothetop.Thenhetakesofftheharnessandsendsit
backtoyousoyoucangetup.Understand?”
****
Inthepalelightofthehelmetlamps,FuchidacouldnotseeRodriguez’sfacebehindhistintedvisor.Buthe
knewwhattheastronautmustbefeeling.
Pressing his helmet against Rodriguez’s, he said, “I can’t leave you down here alone, without even the
tether.”Rodriguez’shelmetmikemusthavepickeduphisvoice,becauseWatermanreplied,ironhard,
“No arguments, Mitsuo. You drag your butt up there and send the harness back down. It shouldn’t take
morethanafewminutestogetyoubothuptothetop.”
Fuchidastartedtoobject,butRodriguezcuthimoff.“OK,Jamie.Soundsgood.We’llcallyoufromthetop
whenwegetthere.”
Fuchidaheardtheconnectionclickoff.
“Ican’tleaveyouhere,”hesaid,feelingalmostdesperate.
“That’swhatyou’vegottodo,man.Otherwiseneitheroneofuswillmakeit.”
“Thenyougofirstandsendtheharnessbackdowntome.”
“Noway,”Rodriguezsaid.“You’rethescientist,you’remoreimportant.I’mtheastronaut,I’mtrainedto
dealwithdangeroussituations.”
Fuchidasaid,“Butit’smyfault—”
“Bullshit,”Rodriguezsnapped.Thenheadded,“Besides,I’mbiggerandmeanerthanyou.Nowgetgoing
andstopwastingtime!”
“How will you find the harness in the dark? It could be dangling two meters from your nose and your
helmetlampwon’tpickitup.”
Rodriguezmadeahuffingsound,almostasnort.“Tieoneofthebeaconstoitandturnonthebeaconlight.”
Fuchidafeltmortified.Ishouldhavethoughtofthat.It’ssosimple.Imustbetrulyrattled,mymindisnot
functioningasitshould.
“Nowgoon,”Rodriguezsaid.“Getdownonyourbellyagainandstartupthewinch.”
“Wait,”Fuchidasaid.“Thereissomething—”
“What?”Rodriguezdemandedimpatiently.
Fuchidahesitated,thenspokeallinarush.“If…ifIdon’tmakeit…ifIdie…wouldyoucontactsomeone
formewhenyougetbacktoEarth?”
“You’renotgonnadie.”
“HernameisElizabethVernon,”Fuchidawenton,afraidthatifhestoppedhewouldnotbeabletoresume.
“She’salabassistantinthebiologydepartmentoftheUniversityofTokyo.Tellher…thatIloveher.”
Rodriguezunderstoodtheimportanceofhiscompanion’swords.“Yourgirl-friend’snotJapanese?”
“Mywife,”Fuchidaanswered.
Rodriguezwhistledsoftly.Then,“OK,Mitsuo.Sure.I’lltellher.Butyoucantellheryourself.You’renot
gonnadie.”
“Ofcourse.Butif…”
“Yeah.Iknow.Nowgetgoing!”
Reluctantly,Fuchidadidashewastold.Hefeltterriblyafraidofathousandpossibilities,fromtearinghis
suittoleavinghispartnerinthedarktofreezetodeath.Buthefeltmoreafraidofremainingthereanddoing
nothing.
Worse,hefelthot.Stiflinginsidethesuit.Grittinghisteeth,heheldontothetetherwithallthepressurethe
servo-motorsonhisglovescouldapply.Thenherealizedthatheneededonehandfreetoworkthewinch
controlonhisclimbingharness.
Hefumbledforthecontrolstud,desperatelytryingtorememberwhichonestartedthewinch.Hefoundit
andpressed.Foraninstantnothinghappened.
Thensuddenlyhewasyankedofftheledgeanddraggedupthehardrockfaceofthecaldera’sslope,hissuit
grinding,grating,screechingagainsttheroughrock.
I’llnevermakeit.Fuchidarealized.Evenifthesuitdoesn’tbreakapart,I’llsuffocateinherebeforeIreach
thetop.
****
Rodriguez watched Fuchida slither up and away from him, a dim pool of light that receded slowly but
steadily.Throughtheinsulationofhishelmethecouldnothearthenoiseofthebiologist’shardsuitgrating
againsttheice-rimedrock;heheardnothingbuthisownbreathing,fasterthanitshouldhavebeen.Calm
down,heorderedhimself.Keepcalmandeverything’llturnoutOK.
Sure,asardonicvoiceinhisheadanswered.Nothingtoit.Pieceofcake.
Thenherealizedthathewastotally,utterlyaloneinthedarkness.
It’sOK,hetoldhimself.Mitsuo’llsendtheharnessdownandthenIcanwinchmyselfup.
Thelightcastbyhishelmetlampwasonlyafeebleglowagainstthedarkroughrockface.WhenRodriguez
turned,thelightwasswallowedbytheemptinessofthecaldera’sabyss,deepandwideandendless.
Thedarknesssurroundedhim.Itwasasiftherewasnooneelseinthewholeuniverse,nouniverseatall,
onlytheall-engulfingdarknessofthiscold,blackpit.
Unbidden,alinefromsomeplayhehadreadyearsearlierinschoolcametohismind:Why,thisishell,nor
amIoutofit.
Don’tbeagoon!hesnappedathimself.You’llbeOK.Yoursuit’sworkingfineandMitsuo’supthereby
now,takingofftheharnessandgettingreadytosenditdowntoyou.
Yeah,sure.Hecouldbeunconscious,hecouldbesnaggedonarockormaybethedamnedharnessbroke
whilethewinchwasdragginghimuptheslope.
Rodriguezputaglovedhandagainstthesolidrocktosteadyhimself.You’llbeoutofthissoon,herepeated
silently.Thenhewonderedifhislamp’slightwasweakening.Arethebatteriesstartingtorundown?
****
Fuchida’s head was banging against the inside of his helmet so hard he tasted blood in his mouth. He
squeezed his eyes shut and saw his father’s stern, uncom-promising glare. How disappointed he will be
whenhelearnsthatIdiedonMars,likecousinKonoye.
AndElizabeth.Perhapsit’sbetterthisway.ShecangobacktoIrelandandfindamanofherowncultureto
marry.Mydeathwillspareheralifetimeoftroubles.
ThewinchstoppedsuddenlyandFuchidafeltapangofterror.It’sstuck!Herealizedatthatmomentthathe
wasnotpreparedfordeath.Hedidnotwanttodie.NothereonMars.Notatall.
A baleful red eye was staring at him. Fuchida thought for a moment he might be slipping into
unconsciousness,thenslowlyrealizedthatitwasthelightatoponeofthegeo/metbeaconstheyhadplanted
atthelipofthecaldera.
Straining his eyes in the starlit darkness, he thought he could make out the form of the winch looming
abovehisprostatebody.Hereachedoutandtouchedit.
Yes! He had reached the top. But he felt faint, giddy. His body was soaked with perspiration. Heat
prostration,hethought.Howfunnytodieofheatprostrationwhenthetemperatureoutsidemysuitisnearly
twohundreddegreesbelowzero.
He began to laugh, knowing he was slipping into hysteria and unable to stop himself. Until he began
coughinguncontrollably.
****
Downontheledge,Rodrigueztriedtokeephisownterrorsatbay.
“Mitsuo,”hecalledonthesuit-to-suitfrequency.“YouOK?”
Noanswer.Ofcourse,dummy!Hisradio’snotworking.Thecoldseemedtobeleachingintohissuit.
Coldenoughtofreezecarbondioxide.Coldenoughtooverpowerthesuit’sheater.Coldenoughtokill.
“Getupthere,Mitsuo,”hewhispered.“Getupthereinonepieceandsendthedamnedtetherbackdownto
me.”
Hewouldn’tleavemehere.Notifhemadeittothetop.Hewouldn’trunfortheplaneandleavemehere.
Hecan’trun,anyway.Can’tevenwalk.Buthecouldmakeittotheplaneoncehe’supthere.
Hobble,jumpononeleg.Hewouldn’tdothat.Hewouldn’tleavemealonetodiedownhere.Something
must’vehap-penedtohim.Hemustbehurtorunconscious.
Thememoryofhisbigbrother’sdeathcamefloodingbacktohim.InasuddenrushhesawLuis’sbloody
mangledbodyastherescueworkersliftedhimoutofthewreckedsemi.Apolicechaseonthefreeway.All
thoseyearshisbrotherhadbeenrunningdrugsupfromTijuanainhiseighteen-wheelerandTomasnever
knew,neverevensuspected.Therewasnothinghecoulddo.BythetimehesawLuis’srig;sprawledalong
theshoulderofthehighwayitwasalreadytoolate.
Hesawhimselfstanding,impotent,inert,ashisbrotherwaspronounceddeadandthenslidintothewaiting
ambulanceandcarriedaway.Justlikethat.Deathcanstrikelikealightningbolt.
What could I have done to save him? Rodriguez wondered for the thousandth time. I should have done
something.ButIwastoobusybeingaflyboy,trainingtobeanastronaut.Ididn’thavetimeforthefamily,
formyownbrother.
Hetookadeep,sighingbreathofcannedair.Well,nowit’sgoingtoevenout.IgotallthewaytoMars,and
nowI’mgonnadiehere.
Then he heard his brother’s soft, musical voice. “No fear, muchacho. Never show fear. Not even to
yourself.”
Rodriguezfeltno fear. JustadeepeternalsadnessthathedidnothelpLuis whenhelp wasneeded. And
nowitwasallgoingtoend.Alltheregrets,allthehopes,everything…
Foraninstant hethought hesawaflashofdimredlightagainst therockwall.Heblinked.Nothing.He
lookedup,butthetopofhishelmetcutoffhisview.Graspingatstraws,hetoldhimself.Youwanttosee
somethingbadenough,you’llseeit,evenifitisn’treallythere.
Butthedimredglowflashedagain,andthistimewhenheblinkeditdidn’tgoaway.Damnedhelmets!he
raged.Can’tseeanythingunlessit’sinfrontofyourfuckin’face.
Hetriedtotilthiswholeupperbodybackalittle,urgentlyawarethatitwouldn’ttakemuchtoslipoffthis
ledgeand gotoppling downintothe bottomlesscaldera. Andthere itwas!The redglow ofthebeacon’s
lightswayedfarabovehim,liketheunwinkingeyeofanall-seeingsavior.
Heleanedagainsttherockfaceagain.Hislegsfeltweak,rubbery.Shit,man,youwerereallyscared.
Hecouldmakeoutthedanglingformoftheharnessnow,withthetelescopedpoleofthebeaconattachedto
itbyducttape.WherethehelldidMitsuogetducttape?hewondered.Hemust’vebeencarryingitwith
himallalong.Theuniversalcure-all.WecoulddoacommercialforthestuffwhenwegetbacktoEarth.
SaveyourlifeonMarswithfriggin’ducttape.
Itseemedtotakeanhourforthetinyredlighttogetcloseenoughtograb.Withhandsthattrembledonly
slightly,Rodriguezreachedupandgrabbedthebeacon,rippeditfreeandworkedhisarmsintotheclimbing
harness.Thenhesnappeditsfastenersshutandgavethetetheranexperimentaltug.Itfeltstrong,good.
Hestartedtoreachforthecontrolstudthatwouldactivatethewinch.Thenhecaughthimself.“Waitone,”
hewhispered,intheclippedtoneoftheprofessionalflier.
Hebentdownandpickedupthebeacon.Slidingitopentoitsfulllength,heworkeditspointedendintoa
crackinthebasaltrockface.Itprobablywon’tstayinplaceforlong,hethought,anditwon’tworkatall
unlessthesunshinesonitforafewhoursperday.Buthefeltsatisfiedthathehadleftareminderthatmen
fromEarthhadbeenhere,hadenteredthepitandgleanedatleastsomeofitssecretsandsurvived,—maybe.
“OK,”hesaidtohimself,graspingthetetherwithonehand.“Herewego.”
Hepushedonthecontrolstudandwashauledoffhisfeet.Grinding,twisting,grating,hefelthimselfpulled
uptherockslope,hisheadbanginginsidehishelmet,hislegsandbootedfeetbouncingashewasdragged
upward.
Worsethananysimulatorridehe’deverbeenthroughintraining.Worsethanthehigh-gcentrifugethey’d
whirled him in. They’ll never put this ride into Dis-neyland, Rodriguez thought, teeth clacking as he
bounced,jounced,jolteduptothelipofthecaldera.
Atlastitwasover.Rodriguezlaypanting,breathless,aching.Fuchida’shard-suitedformlayontheground
nexttohim,unmoving.
Rodriguezrolledoverononeside,asfarashisbackpackwouldallow.BeyondFuchida’sdarksilhouettethe
skywasfilledwith stars. Dazzling bright friendly stars gleamingdownathim,likeathousandthousand
jewels.Likeheavenitself.
Imadeit,Rodrigueztoldhimself.Thenhecorrected:Notyet.Can’tsaythatyet.
HetouchedhishelmettoFuchida’s.“Hey,Mitsuo!YouOK?”
Itwasaninanequestionandheknewit.Fuchidamadenoresponse,butRod-riguezthoughtthathecould
hearthebiologist’sbreathing:panting,really,shallowandfast.
Gottagethimtotheplane.Can’tdoathingforhimouthere.
As quickly as he could Rodriguez unbuckled the climbing harness, then tenderly lifted the unconscious
Fuchidaandstruggledtohisfeet.Goodthingwe’reonMars.Icouldneverlifthiminhissuitinafullg.
Nowwherethehellistheplane?
Inthedistancehesawthesingleredeyeofanotheroneofthegeo/metbeaconstheyhadplanted.Heheaded
inthatdirection,tenderlycarryinghiscompanioninhisarms.
Icouldn’tdothisforyou,Luis,Rodriguezsaidsilently.IwishIcouldhave,butthisisthemostIcando.
****
Thebasedomewasdarkandsilent,itslightingturneddowntosleepshiftlevel,itsplasticskinopaquedto
preventheatfromleakingoutintotheMartiannight.StacyDezhurovawasstillsittingatthecommconsole,
drowsingdespiteherself,whenRodriguez’scallcamethrough.
“We’rebackintheplane,”theastronautannouncedwithoutpreamble.“LemmetalktoVijay.”
“Vijay!”Stacyshoutedinavoicethatshatteredthesleepysilence.“Jamie!”sheadded.
Runningfootstepspaddedthroughtheshadows,bareorstockingedfeetagainsttheplasticflooring.
Vijay,thephysician,slippedintoachairbesideDezhurova,herjet-blackeyeswideopenandalert.Jamie
andTracyHallracedin,bleary-eyed,andstoodbehindthetwowomen.
“ThisisVijay,”shesaid.“What’syourcondition?”
Inthedisplayscreentheycouldseeonlythetwomen’shelmetsandshoulders.Theirfacesweremaskedby
theheavilytintedvisors.ButRodriguez’svoicesoundedsteady,firm.
“I’mOK.Bangedup a little, but that’s nothing. I purgedMitsuo’s suit and plugged himintotheplane’s
emergencyairsupply.Buthe’sstilloutofit.”
“Howlongagodidyoudothat?”Vijayasked,herdarkfacerigidwithtension.
“Fifteen—sixteenminutesago.”
“Andyou’rejustcallinginnow?”Dezhurovademanded.
“Ihadtofixhisbatterypack,”Rodriguezanswered,unruffledbyhertone.“Itgotdisconnectedwhenhe
wasknockeddown—“
“Knockeddown?”Jamieblurted.
“Yeah.That’swhenhehurthisankle.”
“Howbadlyishehurt?”Vijayasked.
“It’ssprained,atleast.Maybeabreak.”
“Hecouldn’tbreakaboneinsidethesuit,”Jamiemuttered.“Notwithallthatprotection.”
“Anyway,”Rodriguezresumed,“hissuitwasn’tgettinganypower.Ifiguredthatgettinghissuitpowered
upwasthesecondmostimportantthingtodo.Pumpingfreshairintohimwasthefirst.”
“Andcallingin,thethird,”Dezhurovasaid,muchmoremildly.
“Right,”saidRodriguez.
“I’mgettinghisreadouts,”Vijaysaid,studyingthemedicaldiagnosticscreen.
“Yeah,hissuit’sOKnowthatthebattery’sreconnected.”
“IshisLCGworking?”Vijayasked.
“Shouldbe,”Rodriguezsaid.“Waitone…”
TheysawtheastronautleanoverandtouchhishelmettotheunconsciousFuchida’sshoulder.
“Yep,”heannounced,afteramoment.“Icanhearthepumpchugging.Wateroughttabecirculatingthrough
hislongjohnsjustfine.”
“Thatshouldbringhistemperaturedown,”Vijaymuttered,halftoherself.“Theproblemis,hemightbein
shockfromoverheating.”
“WhatdoIdoaboutthat?”Rodriguezasked.
Thephysicianshookherhead.“Notmuchyoucando,mate.Especiallywiththetwoofyousealedintoyour
suits.”
For a long moment they were all silent. Vijay stared at the medical screen. Fuchida’s temperature was
comingdown.Heartrateslowingnicely.Breathingalmostnormal.Heshouldbe—
Thebiologistcoughedandstirred.“Whathappened?”heaskedweakly.
Allfourofthepeopleatthecommcenterbrokeintogrins.NoneofthemcouldseeRodriguez’sfacebehind
hisvisor,buttheyheardthereliefinhisvoice:
“Naw,Mitsuo;you’resupposedtoask,‘WhereamI?’“
Thebiologistsatupstraighter.“IsTracythere?”
“Don’tworryabout—”
“I’mrighthere,Mitsuo,”saidTracyHall,leaninginbetweenDezhurovaandVijayShektar.“Whatisit?”
“Siderophiles!”Fuchidaexclaimed.“Iron-eatingbacterialiveinthecaldera.”
“Didyougetsamples?”
“Yes,ofcourse.”
Jamiesteppedbackasthetwobiologistschatteredtogether.Fuchidanearlygetshimselfkilled,butwhat’s
important to him is finding a new kind of organism. With an inward smile, Jamie admitted, maybe he’s
right.
****
Jamieawoketheinstantthedome’slightingturneduptodaytimelevel.Hepushedbackthethinsheetthat
coveredhimandgottohisfeet.Afterthelongnighttheyhadallputin,heshouldhavefelttired,drained.
Yethewasawake,alert,eagertostarttheday.
Quickly he stepped to his desk and booted up his laptop, then opened the communications channel to
RodriguezandFuchida.Withaglanceatthedesktopclockhesawthatitwassix-thirty-three.Hehesitated
foronlyamoment,though,thenputthroughacalltothetwomenatOlympusMons.
Ashesuspected,theywerebothawake.Jamie’slaptopscreenshowedthetwoofthemside-by-sideinthe
plane’scockpit.
“Goodmorning,”hesaid.“Didyousleepwell?”
“Extremelywell,”saidFuchida.
“Thiscockpitlookedlikethebesthotelsuiteintheworldwhenwegotintoitlastnight,”Rodriguezsaid.
Jamienodded.“Yeah,Iguessitdid.”
Rodriguezgaveacrisp,tersemorningreport.Fuchidahappilypraisedtheas-tronautforpurginghissuitof
thefoulairandfixingtheelectricalconnectionthathadworkedlooseinhisbackpack.
“Mysuitfansarebuzzingfaithfully,”hesaid.“ButI’mafraidIwon’tbeabletodomuchusefulworkon
mybadankle.”
They had discussed the ankle injury the previous night, once Fuchida had regained consciousness. Vijay
guessedthatitwasasprain,butwantedtogetthebiologistbacktothedomeasquicklyaspossibleforanX
ray.
Jamie had decided to let Rodriguez carry out as much of their planned work as he could, alone, before
returning. Their schedule called for another half day on the mountaintop, then a takeoff in the early
afternoonfortheflightbacktodome.Theyshouldlandatthebasewellbeforesunset.
“I’llbehappytotakeoffthissuit,”Fuchidaconfessed.
“We’renotgonnasmellsogoodwhenwedo,”Rodriguezadded.
Jamiefoundhimselfpeeringhardatthesmallscreenofhislaptop,tryingtoseepasttheirvisors.
Impossible,ofcourse.Buttheybothsoundedcheerfulenough.
The fears and dangers of the previous night were gone, daylight and the relative safety of the plane
brightenedtheiroutlook.
Rodriguez said, “We’ve decided that I’m going back down inside the caldera and properly implant the
beaconweleftontheledgethere.”
“So we can get good data from it,” Fuchida added, as if he were afraid Jamie would countermand his
decision.
Jamieasked,“Doyoureallythinkyoushouldtrythat?”
“Oughtabesimpleenough,”Rodriguezsaideasily,“longaswedon’tgonearthatdamnedlavatubeagain.”
“That’stheimperial‘we,’”Fuchidaexplained.“I’mstayinghereintheplane,I’mafraid.”
“Isthereenoughsunlightwhereyouwanttoplantthebeacon?”Jamieasked.
Hesensedthebiologistnoddinginsidehishelmet.“Ohyes,theledgereceivesafewhoursofsunlighteach
day.”
“Sowe’llgetdatafrominsidethecaldera,”Rodriguezprompted.
“Notveryfarinside,”Fuchidaadded,“butitwillbetterthannodataatall.”
“You’rereallysetondoingthis?”
“Yes,”theybothsaid.Jamiecouldfeeltheirdetermination.ItwastheirlittlevictoryoverOlympusMons,
theirwayoftellingthemselvesthattheywerenotafraidofthegiantvolcano.
“OK,then,”Jamiesaid.“Butbecareful,now.”
“We’realwayscareful,”saidFuchida.
“Mostofthetime,”Rodriguezadded,withalaugh.
****
borderguards
GREGEGAN
Poisedasweareonthebrinkofanewcentury,lookingbackatthecenturythat’sgettingreadytoend,it’s
obviousthatAustralianwriterGregEganwasoneoftheBigNewNamestoemergeinSFinthenineties,
andisprobablyoneofthemostsignificanttalentstoenterthefieldinthelastseveraldecades.Alreadyone
ofthemostwidelyknownofallAustraliangenrewriters,Eganmaywellbethebestnew“hard-science”
writertoenterthefieldsinceGregBear,andisstillgrowinginrange,power,andsophis-tication.Inthelast
fewyears,hehasbecomeafrequentcontributortoInterzoneandAsimov’sScienceFiction,andhasmade
sales as well to Pulphouse, Analog, Aurealis, Eidolon, and elsewhere; many of his stories have also
appearedinvarious“BestoftheYear”series,andhewasontheHugoFinalBallotin1995forhisstory
“Cocoon,” which won theDitmar Award and the Asimov’s Readers Award. In 1999, he won the Hugo
Awardforhisnovella
“Oceanic.”Hisfirstnovel,Quarantine,appearedin1992,towidecriticalacclaim,andwasfollowedbya
second novel in 1994, Permutation City, which won the John W. Campbell MemorialAward. His other
books include the novels Distress and Diaspora, and three col-lections of hisshort fiction, Axiomatic,
Luminous,andOurLadyofCher-nobyl.Hismostrecentbookisamajornewnovel,Teranesia.Hisstories
haveappearedinourSeventh,Eighth,Ninth,Tenth,Eleventh,Twelfth,Thirteenth,Fifteenth,andSixteenth
AnnualCollections.Hehasawebsiteat
http://www.netspace.net.au/~gregegan/.
Herehetakesusdeepintothefar-future,foracomplexandbrilliantlyimaginedstudyofoldloyaltiesand
newpossibilities.
****
I
ntheearlyafternoonofhisfourthdayoutofsadness,Jamilwaswanderinghomefromthegardensatthe
centre of Noether when he heard shouts from the playing field behind the library. On the spur of the
moment,withoutevenaskingthecitywhatgamewasinprogress,hedecidedtojoinin.
Asheroundedthecornerandthefieldcameintoview,itwasclearfromthemovementsoftheplayersthat
theywereinthemiddleofaquantumsoccermatch.AtJamil’srequest,thecitypaintedthewavefunctionof
thehypotheticalball across his vision, and tweaked him to recognise the players as the members of two
teams without changing their appearance at all. Maria had once told him that she always chose a literal
perceptionofcolour-codedclothinginstead;shehadnodesiretousepathwaysthathadevolvedforthesake
ofsortingpeopleintothoseyoudefendedandthoseyouslaughtered.Butalmosteverythingthathadbeen
bequeathedtothemwasstainedwithblood,andtoJamilitseemedafarsweetervictorytoadapttheworst
relicstohisownendsthantodiscardthemasirretrievablytainted.
Thewavefunctionappearedasavividaurorallight,aquicksilverplasmabrightenoughtobedistinctinthe
afternoonsunlight,yetunabletodazzletheeyeorconcealtheplayersrunningthroughit.Bandsofcolour
representing the complex phase of the wave swept across the field, parting to wash over separate rising
lobesofprobabilitybeforehittingtheboundaryandbouncingbackagain,inverted.Thematchwasbeing
playedbytheoldest,simplestrules:semi-classical,non-relativistic.Theballwasconfinedtothefieldbyan
infinitelyhighbarrier,sotherewasnoquestionofittunnellingout,leakingawayasthematchprogressed.
Theplayers were treatedclassically: theirmovementspumped energyinto thewave,enablingtransitions
from the game’s opening state — with the ball spread thinly across the entire field — into the range of
higher-energymodesneededtolocaliseit.Butlocalisationwasfleeting;therewasnopointforminganice
sharpwavepacketinthemiddleofthefieldinthehopeofkickingitaroundlikeaclassicalobject.Youhad
toshape thewavein suchaway thatallof itsmodes— cyclingatdifferentfrequencies,travellingwith
differentvelocities—wouldcomeintophasewitheachother,forafractionofasecond,withinthegoal
itself.Achievingthatwasamatterofenergylevels,andtiming.
Jamilhadnoticedthatoneteamwasunder-strength.Theumpirewouldbeskewingthefield’spotentialto
keepthematchfair,butanewparticipantwouldbeespeciallywelcomeforthesakeofrestoringsymmetry.
Hewatchedthefacesoftheplayers,mostofthemoldfriends.Theywerefrowningwithconcentration,but
breakingnowandthenintosmilesofdelightattheirsmallsuccesses,ortheiropponents’ingenuity.
Hewasbadlyoutofpractice,butifheturnedouttobedeadweighthecouldalwayswithdraw.Andifhe
misjudgedhisskills,andlostthematchwithhisincompetence?Noonewouldcare.Thescorewasnilall;
hecouldwaitforagoal,butthatmightbeanhourormoreincoming.Jamilcommunedwiththeumpire,
anddiscoveredthattheplayershaddecidedinadvancetoallownewentriesatanytime.
Beforehecouldchangehismind,heannouncedhimself.Thewavefroze,andheranontothefield.
People nodded greetings, mostly making no fuss, though Ezequiel shouted, “Welcome back!” Jamil
suddenlyfeltfragileagain;thoughhe’dendedhislongseclusionfourdaysbefore,itwaswellwithinhis
power,still,tobedismayedbyeverythingthegamewouldinvolve.Hisrecoveryfeltlikeafinelybalanced
opticalillusion,afigureandgroundthatcouldchangerolesinaninstant,asolidcubethatcouldevertintoa
hollow.
Theumpireguidedhimtohisallottedstartingposition,oppositeawomanhehadn’tseenbefore.Heoffered
heraformalbow,andshereturnedthegesture.Thiswasnotimeforintroductions,butheaskedthecityif
she’dpublishedaname.Shehad:Margit.
Theumpirecounteddownintheirheads.Jamiltensed,regrettinghisimpulsiveness.Forsevenyearshe’d
been dead to the world. After four days back, what was he good for? His muscles were incapable of
atrophy,hisreflexescouldneverbedulled,buthe’dchosentolivewithanunconstrainedwill,andatany
momenthiswaveringresolvecoulddeserthim.
Theumpiresaid,“Play.”ThefrozenlightaroundJamilcametolife,andhesprangintomotion.
Eachplayerwas responsibleforasetofmodes,particularharmonicsofthewavethatweretheirs tofill,
guard, or deplete as necessary. Jamil’s twelve modes cycled at between 1,000 and 1,250 milliHertz. The
rulesofthegameendowedhisbodywithasmall,fixedpotentialenergy,whichrepelledtheballslightlyand
alloweddifferentmodes to push and pullon each other through him, but ifhe stayed in one spot as the
modescycled,everyinfluenceheexertedwouldeventuallybereplacedbyitsopposite,andtheeffectwould
simplycancelitselfout.
Todrivethewavefromonemodetoanother,youneededtomove,andtodriveitefficientlyyouneededto
exploitthewaythemodesfellinandoutofphasewitheachother:totakefroma1,000milliHertzmode
andgivetoa1,250,youhadtoactinsynchwiththequarter-Hertzbeatbetweenthem.Itwaslikepushinga
child’s swingatitsnatural frequency, but ratherthansettinga single child inmotion,youwere standing
betweentwoswingsandactingmoreasanintermediary:tryingtotimeyourinterventionsinsuchawayas
tospeeduponechildattheother’sexpense.Thewayyoupushedonthewaveatagiventimeandplacewas
outofyourhandscompletely,butbychanginglocationinjusttherightwayyoucouldgaincontroloverthe
interaction.Everypairofmodeshadaspatialbeatbetweenthem—likethemoire
pattern formed by two sheets of woven fabric held up to the light together, shifting from transparent to
opaqueasthegapsbetweenthethreadsfellinandoutofalignment.Slicingthroughthiscycliclandscape
offeredtheperfectmeanstomatchtheaccompanyingchronologicalbeat.
Jamilsprintedacrossthefieldataspeedandanglecalculatedtodrivetwofavourabletransitionsatonce.
He’d gauged the current spectrum of the wave instinctively, watching from the sidelines, and he knew
whichofthemodesinhischargewouldcontributetoagoalandwhichwoulddetractfromtheprobability.
Ashecutthroughtheshimmeringbandsofcolour,theumpiregavehimtactilefeedbacktosupplementhis
visualestimatesandcalculations,allowinghimtosensethedifferencebetweenacyclictug,atoandfrothat
cametonothing,andthegentlebutpersistentforcethatmeanthewassuccessfullyridingthebeat.
Chusok called out to him urgently, “Take, take! Two-ten!” Everyone’s spectral territory overlapped with
someone else’s, and you needed to pass amplitude from player to player as well as trying to manage it
withinyourownrange.Two-ten—aharmonicwithtwopeaksacrossthewidthofthefieldandtenalongits
length, cycling at 1,160 milliHertz — was filling up as Chusok drove unwanted amplitude from various
lower-energymodesintoit.ItwasJamil’sroletoemptyit,puttingtheamplitudesomewhereuseful.Any
modewithanevennumberofpeaksacrossthefieldwasunfavourableforscoring,becauseithadanode—
azeropointbetweenthepeaks—smackinthemiddleofbothgoals.
Jamilacknowledgedtherequestwithahandsignalandshiftedhistrajectory.Itwasalmostadecadesince
he’dlastplayedthegame,buthestillknewtheintricatewebofpossibilitiesbyheart:hecoulddrainthe
two-tenharmonicintothethree-ten,five-twoandfive-sixmodes—allwith“goodparity”,peaksalongthe
centre-line—inasingleaction.
Ashepoundedacrossthegrass,carefullyjudgingthecorrectanglebysight,increasinghisspeeduntilhe
feltthedestructivebeatsgivewaytoasteadyforcelikeaconstantbreeze,hesuddenlyrecalledatime—
centuriesbefore,inanothercity—whenhe’dplayedwithoneteam,weekafterweek,forfortyyears.
Facesandvoicesswaminhishead.Hashim,Jamil’sninety-eighthchild,andHashim’sgranddaughterLaila
hadplayedbesidehim.Buthe’dburnthishouseandmovedon,andwhenthateratouchedhimatallnowit
waslikeanunexpectedgift.Thescentofthegrass,theshoutsoftheplayers,thesolesofhisfeetstriking
theground,resonatedwitheveryothermomenthe’dspentthesameway,bridgingthecenturies,bindinghis
life together. He never truly felt the scale of it when he sought it out deliberately; it was always small
things,tightlyfocused momentslike this,that burstthehorizonofhiseverydayconcernsandconfronted
himwiththeastonishingvista.
Thetwo-tenmodewasdrainingfasterthanhe’dexpected;thesee-sawingcentre-linedipinthewavewas
vanishingbeforehiseyes.Helookedaround,andsawMargitperforminganelaborateLissajousmanoeuvre,
smoothly orchestrating a dozen transitions at once. Jamil froze and watched her, admiring her virtuosity
whilehetriedtodecidewhattodonext;therewasnopointcompetingwithherwhenshewasdoingsucha
goodjobofcompletingthetaskChusokhadsethim.
Margitwashisopponent,buttheywerebothaimingforexactlythesamekindofspectrum.Thesymmetry
ofthefieldmeantthatanyscoringwavewouldworkequallywellforeitherside—butonlyoneteamcould
bethefirsttoreapthebenefit,thefirsttohavemorethanhalfthewave’sprobabilitypackedintotheirgoal.
So the two teams were obliged to cooperate at first, and it was only as the wave took shape from their
combinedeffortsthatitgraduallybecameapparentwhichsidewouldgainbysculptingittoperfectionas
rapidlyaspossible,andwhichwouldgainbyspoilingitforthefirstchance,thenhoningitfortherebound.
Peninachided him overhershoulderas she jogged past,“Youwantto leave her tocleanup four-six,as
well?”Shewas smiling,butJamilwasstung;he’dbeen motionlessfortenorfifteenseconds.It wasnot
forbidden to drag your feet and rely on your opponents to do all the work, but it was regarded as a
shamefullyimpoverishedstrategy.Itwasalsoveryrisky,handingthemtheopportunitytosetupawavethat
wasalmostimpossibletoexploityourself.
He reassessed the spectrum, and quickly sorted through the alternatives. Whatever he did would have
unwantedsideeffects;therewasnomagicwaytoavoidinfluencingmodesinotherplayers’territory,and
anyactionthatwoulddrivethetransitionsheneededwouldalsotriggeramultitudeofothers,upanddown
the spectrum. Finally, he made a choice that would weaken the offending mode while causing as little
disruptionaspossible.
Jamilimmersedhimselfinthegame,planningeachtransitiontwostepsinadvance,switchingstrategyhalf-
waythrougharunifhehadto,butstayinginmotionuntilthesweatdrippedfromhisbody,untilhiscalves
burned, until his blood sang. He wasn’t blinded to the raw pleasures of the moment, or to memories of
gamespast,butheletthemwashoverhim,likethebreezethatroseupandcooledhisskinwithnoneedfor
acknowledgement.Familiarvoicesshoutedtersecommandsathim;asthewavecameclosertoascoring
spectrum every trace of superfluous conversation vanished, every idle glance gave way to frantic,
purposefulgestures.Toabystander,thismighthaveseemedliketheheightofdehumanisation:twenty-two
people reduced to grunting cogs in a pointless machine. Jamil smiled at the thought but refused to be
distractedintoacomplicatedimaginaryrebuttal.Everystephetookwastheanswertothat,everyhoarse
pleatoYannorJoracy,ChusokorMaria,EudoreorHalide.Thesewerehisfriends,andhewasbackamong
them.Backintheworld.
Thefirstchanceofagoalwasthirtysecondsaway,andtheopportunitywouldfalltoJamil’steam;afew
tinyshifts inamplitudewould clinch it.Margitkepther distance,butJamilcould sensehereyes on him
constantly—andliterallyfeelheratworkthroughhisskinassheslackenedhiscontactwiththewave.In
theory,bymirroringyouropponent’smovementsatthecorrectpositiononthefieldyoucouldundermine
everythingtheydid,thoughinpracticenoteventhemostskilfulteamcouldkeepthespectrumcompletely
frozen.Goingfurtherandspoilingwasatugofwaryoudidn’twanttowintoowell:ifyoudegradedthe
wave too much, your opponent’s task — spoiling your own subsequent chance at a goal — became far
easier.
Jamilstillhadtwobad-paritymodesthathewashopingtoweaken,buteverytimehechangedvelocityto
tryanewtransition,Margitrespondedinaninstant,blockinghim.HegesturedtoChusokforhelp;Chusok
had his own problems with Ezequiel, but he could still make trouble for Margit by choosing where he
placedunwantedamplitude.Jamilshooksweatoutofhiseyes;hecouldseethecharacteristic
“steppingstone”patternoflobesforming,asignthatthewavewouldsoonconvergeonthegoal,butfrom
themiddleofthefielditwasimpossibletojudgetheirshapeaccuratelyenoughtoknowwhat,ifanything,
remainedtobedone.
Suddenly,Jamilfeltthewavepushagainsthim.Hedidn’twastetimelookingaroundforMargit;Chusok
must have succeeded in distracting her. He was almost at the boundary line, but he managed to reverse
smoothly,continuingtodriveboththetransitionshe’dbeenaimingfor.
Twolonglobesofprobability,eachmodulatedbyaseriesofoscillatingmounds,racedalongthesidesof
thefield.Athird,shorterloberunningalongthecentre-linemeltedaway,reappeared,thenmergedwiththe
othersastheytouchedtheendofthefield,forminganalmostrectangularplateauencompassingthegoal.
Theplateaubecameapillaroflight,growingnarrowerandhigherasdozensofmodes,allfinallyinphase,
crashedtogetheragainsttheimpenetrablebarrierofthefield’sboundary.Ashallowresiduewasstillspread
across the entire field, and a diminishing sequence of elliptical lobes trailed away from the goal like a
staircase,butmostofthewavethathadstartedoutlappingaroundtheirwaistswasnowconcentratedina
singlepeakthattoweredabovetheirheads,nineortenmetrestall.
Foraninstant,itwasmotionless.
Thenitbegantofall.
Theumpiresaid,“Forty-ninepointeight.”
Thewavepackethadnotbeentightenough.
Jamilstruggledtoshrugoffhisdisappointmentandthrowhisinstinctsintoreverse.Theotherteamhadfifty
seconds,now, tofine-tunethespectrumand ensurethatthereflectedpacket wasjustafractionnarrower
whenitreformed,attheoppositeendofthefield.
Asthepillarcollapsed,replayingitssynthesisinreverse,JamilcaughtsightofMargit.Shesmiledathim
calmly,anditsuddenlystruckhim:She’dknowntheycouldn’tmakethegoal.Thatwaswhyshe’dstopped
opposinghim.She’d let him work towards sharpening the wave for a few seconds, knowing that it was
alreadytoolateforhim,knowingthatherownteamwouldgainfromtheslightimprovement.
Jamilwasimpressed;ittookanextraordinarylevelofskillandconfidencetodowhatshe’djustdone.
For all the time he’d spent away, he knew exactly what to expect from the rest of the players, and in
Margit’sabsencehewouldprobablyhavebeenwishingoutloudforatalentednewcomertomakethegame
interestingagain.Still,itwashardnottofeelaslightstingofresentment.Someoneshouldhavewarnedhim
justhowgoodshewas.
Withthemodesslippingoutofphase,thewaveundulatedalloverthefieldagain,butitsreconvergencewas
inevitable:unlikeawaveofwaterorsound,itpossessednohiddendegreesoffreedomtogrinditsprecision
intoentropy.JamildecidedtoignoreMargit;therewerecruderstrategiesthanmirror-blockingthatworked
almostaswell.Chusokwasfillingthetwo-tenmodenow;Jamilchosethefour-sixashisspoiler.Allthey
hadtodowaskeepthewavefromgrowingmuchsharper,anditdidn’tmatterwhethertheyachievedthisby
preservingthestatusquo,orbynudgingitfromonekindofbluntnesstoanother.
The steady resistance he felt as he ran told Jamil that he was driving the transition, unblocked, but he
searchedinvainforsomevisiblesignofsuccess.Whenhereachedavantagepointwherehecouldtakein
enoughofthefieldinone glancetojudgethespectrumproperly,henoticedarapidlyvibratingshimmer
acrossthewidthofthewave.Hecountedninepeaks:goodparity.Margithadpulledmostoftheamplitude
straightoutofhisspoilermodeandfeditintothis.Itwasamadwasteofenergytoaimforsuchanelevated
harmonic,butnoonehadbeenlookingthere,noonehadstoppedher.
Thescoringpatternwasformingagain,heonlyhadnineortensecondslefttomakeupforallthetimehe’d
wasted.Jamilchosethestrongestgood-paritymodeinhisterritory,andtheemptiestbadone,computedthe
velocitythatwouldlinkthem,andran.
He didn’t dare turn to watch the opposition goal; he didn’t want to break his concentration. The wave
retreatedaroundhisfeet,lesslikeanEarthlyebbtidethananoceandrawnintotheskybyapassingblack
hole.Thecitydiligentlyportrayedtheshadowthathisbodywouldhavecast,shrinkinginfrontofhimas
thetoweroflightrose.
Theverdictwasannounced.“Fiftypointone.”
Theairwasfilledwithshoutsoftriumph—Ezequiel’stheloudest,asalways.Jamilsaggedtohisknees,
laughing.Itwasacuriousfeeling,familiarasitwas:hecared,andhedidn’t.Ifhe’dbeenwhollyindifferent
totheoutcomeofthegametherewouldhavebeennopleasureinit,butobsessingovereverydefeat—or
everyvictory—couldruinitjustasthoroughly.Hecouldalmostseehimselfwalkingtheline,orchestrating
hisresponseascarefullyasanyactioninthegameitself.
He lay down on the grass to catch his breath before play resumed. The outer face of the microsun that
orbitedLaplacewasshieldedwithrock,butlightreflectedskywardsfromthelandbeneathitcrossedthe
100,000kilometrewidthof the3-toroidaluniversetogive afaintglow tothe planet’s nightside.Though
onlya sliver was lit directly, Jamilcoulddiscernthefull disk of the opposite hemisphereintheprimary
imageatthezenith:continentsandoceansthatlay,byashorterroute,12,000orsokilometresbeneathhim.
Other views in the lattice of images spread across the sky were from different angles, and showed
substantialcrescentsofthedaysideitself.Theonethingyoucouldn’tfindinanyoftheseimages,evenwith
atelescope,wasyourowncity.Thetopologyofthisuniverseletyouseethebackofyourhead,butnever
yourreflection.
****
Jamil’steamlost,threenil.Hestaggeredovertothefountainsattheedgeofthefieldandslakedhisthirst,
shocked by the pleasure of the simple act. Just to be alive was glorious now, but once he felt this way,
anythingseemedpossible.Hewasbackinsynch,backinphase,andhewasgoingtomakethemostofit,
forhoweverlongitlasted.
Hecaughtupwiththeothers,who’dheadeddowntowardstheriver.Ezequielhookedanarmaroundhis
neck, laughing. “Bad luck, Sleeping Beauty! You picked the wrong time to wake. With Margit, we’re
invincible.”
Jamilduckedfreeofhim.“Iwon’targuewiththat.”Helookedaround.“Speakingofwhom—”
Peninasaid,“Gonehome.Sheplays,that’sall.Nofrivoloussocialisingafterthematch.”
Chusok added, “Or any other time.” Penina shot Jamil a glance that meant: not for want of trying on
Chusok’spart.
Jamilponderedthis,wonderingwhyitannoyedhimsomuch.Onthefield,shehadn’tcomeacrossasaloof
andsuperior.Justunashamedlygood.
Hequeriedthecity,butshe’dpublishednothingbesideshername.Nobodyexpected—orwished—tohear
more than the tiniest fraction of another person’s history, but it was rare for anyone to start a new life
withoutcarryingthroughsomethingfromtheoldasakindofcallingcard,someincidentorachievement
fromwhichyournewneighbourscouldformanimpressionofyou.
They’dreachedtheriverbank.Jamilpulledhisshirtoverhishead.“Sowhat’sherstory?Shemusthavetold
yousomething.”
Ezequielsaid,“Onlythatshelearnttoplayalongtimeago;shewon’tsaywhereorwhen.Shearrivedin
Noetherattheendoflastyear,andgrewahouseonthesouthernoutskirts.Nooneseesheraroundmuch.
Nooneevenknowswhatshestudies.”
Jamil shrugged, and waded in. “Ah well. It’s a challenge to rise to.” Penina laughed and splashed him
teasingly.Heprotested,“Imeantbeatingheratthegame.”
Chusoksaidwryly,“Whenyouturnedup,Ithoughtyou’dbeoursecretweapon.Theoneplayershedidn’t
knowinsideoutalready.”
“I’mgladyoudidn’ttellmethat.Iwouldhaveturnedaroundandfledstraightbackintohibernation.”
“Iknow.That’swhyweallkeptquiet.”Chusoksmiled.“Welcomeback.”
Peninasaid,“Yeah,welcomeback,Jamil.”
Sunlightshoneonthesurfaceoftheriver.Jamilachedallover,butthecoolwaterwastheperfectplaceto
be.Ifhewished,hecouldbuildapartitioninhismindatthepointwherehestoodrightnow,andneverfall
beneathit.Otherpeoplelivedthatway,anditseemedtocostthemnothing.Contrastwasoverrated;nosane
personspenthalftheirtimedrivingspikesintotheirfleshforthesakeoffeelingbetterwhentheystopped.
Ezequiel lived every day with the happy boisterousness of a five-year-old; Jamil sometimes found this
annoying, but then any kind of disposition would irritate someone. His own stretches of meaningless
sombrenessweren’texactlyaboontohisfriends.
Chusoksaid,“I’veinvitedeveryonetoamealatmyhousetonight.Willyoucome?”
Jamil thought it over, then shook his head. He still wasn’t ready. He couldn’t force-feed himself with
normality;itdidn’tspeedhisrecovery,itjustdrovehimbackwards.
Chusoklookeddisappointed,buttherewasnothingtobedoneaboutthat.Jamilpromisedhim,“Nexttime.
OK?”
Ezequielsighed.“What are we going to do with you? You’re worse than Margit!”Jamilstarted backing
away,butitwastoolate.Ezequielreachedhimintwocasualstrides,bentdownandgrabbedhimaround
thewaist,hoistedhimeffortlesslyontooneshoulder,thenflunghimthroughtheairintothedepthsofthe
river.
****
Jamilwaswokenbythescentofwoodsmoke.Hisroomwasstillfilledwiththenight’sgreyshadows,but
when he propped himself up on one elbow and the window obliged him with transparency, the city was
etchedclearlyinthepredawnlight.
Hedressed and left the house, surprised atthecoolnessofthe dew on his feet. No one else in hisstreet
seemedto beup; had theyfailedtonoticethe smell,ordid theyalreadyknow toexpectit?Heturned a
cornerandsawtherisingcolumnofsoot,faintlylitwithredfrombelow.Theflamesandtheruinswerestill
hiddenfromhim,butheknewwhosehouseitwas.
Whenhereachedthedyingblaze, hecrouched intheheat-witheredgarden, cursinghimself.Chusokhad
offered him the chance to join him for his last meal in Noether. Whatever hints you dropped, it was
customarytotellnoonethatyouweremovingon.Ifyoustillhadalover,ifyoustillhadyoungchildren,
youneverdesertedthem.Butfriends,youwarnedinsubtleways.Beforevanishing.
Jamilcoveredhisheadwithhisarms.He’dlivedthroughthiscountlesstimesbefore,butitneverbecame
easier.Ifanythingitgrewworse,aseverydeparturewasweightedwiththememoriesofothers.Hisbrothers
andsistershadscatteredacrossthebranchesoftheNewTerritories.He’dwalkedawayfromhisfatherand
motherwhenhewastooyoungandconfidenttorealisehowmuchitwouldhurthim,decadeslater.Hisown
childrenhadallabandonedhimeventually,farmoreoftenthanhe’dleftthem.Itwaseasiertoleaveanex-
loverthanagrownchild:somethingburneditselfoutinacouple,almostnaturally,asifancestralbiology
hadpreparedthemforatleastthatonerift.
Jamilstoppedfightingthetears.Butashebrushedthemaway,hecaughtsightofsomeonestandingbeside
him.Helookedup.ItwasMargit.
Hefeltaneedtoexplain.Herosetohisfeetandaddressedher.“ThiswasChusok’shouse.Weweregood
friends.I’dknownhimforninety-sixyears.”
Margitgazedbackathimneutrally.“Boohoo.Poorbaby.You’llneverseeyourfriendagain.”
Jamilalmostlaughed,herrudenesswassosurreal.Hepushedon,asiftheonlyconceivable,politeresponse
wastopretendthathehadn’theardher.“Nooneisthekindest,themostgenerous,themostloyal.Itdoesn’t
matter.That’snotthepoint.Everyone’sunique.ChusokwasChusok.”Hebangedafistagainsthischest,
utterlyheedlessnowofhercontemptuouswords.“There’saholeinme,anditwillneverbefilled.”That
wasthetruth,eventhoughhe’dgrowaroundit.Heshouldhavegonetothemeal,itwouldhavecosthim
nothing.
“YoumustbearealemotionalSwisscheese,”observedMargittartly.
Jamilcametohissenses.“Whydon’tyoufuckofftosomeotheruniverse?NoonewantsyouinNoether.”
Margitwasamused.“Youareabadloser.”
Jamilgazedather,honestlyconfusedforamoment;thegamehadslippedhismindcompletely.Hegestured
attheembers.“Whatareyoudoinghere?Whydidyoufollowthesmoke,ifitwasn’tregretatnotsaying
goodbyetohimwhen you hadthechance?”He wasn’tsurehowseriouslytotake Penina’s light-hearted
insinuation,butifChusokhadfallenforMargit,andithadnotbeenreciprocated,thatmightevenhavebeen
thereasonhe’dleft.
Sheshookherheadcalmly.“Hewasnothingtome.Ibarelyspoketohim.”
“Well,that’syourloss.”
“Fromthelookofthings,I’dsaythelosswasallyours.”
Hehadnoreply.Margitturnedandwalkedaway.
Jamilcrouchedonthegroundagain,rockingbackandforth,waitingforthepaintosubside.
****
Jamilspentthenextweekpreparingtoresumehisstudies.Thelibraryhadnear-instantaneouscontactwith
every artificial universe in the New Territories, and the additional lightspeed lag between Earth and the
point in space from which the whole tree-structure blossomedwas only a few hours. Jamil had been to
Earth, but only as a tourist; land was scarce, they accepted no migrants. There were remote planets you
couldliveon,inthehomeuniverse,butyouhadtobeacertainkindofmasochisticpuristtowantthat.The
precisereasonswhyhisancestorshadenteredtheNewTerritorieshadbeenforgottengenerationsbefore—
anditwouldhavebeenpresumptuoustotrackthemdownandasktheminperson
— but given a choice between the then even-more-crowded Earth, the horrifying reality of interstellar
distances,andanendlesslyextensiblebranchingchainofworldswhichcouldbetraversedwithinamatter
ofweeks,thedecisionwasn’texactlybaffling.
JamilhaddevotedmostofhistimeinNoethertostudyingthecategoryofrepresentationsofLiegroupson
complexvectorspaces—afittingchoice,sinceEmmyNoetherhadbeenapioneerofgrouptheory,andif
she’dlivedtoseethisfieldblossomshewouldprobablyhavebeeninthethickofitherself.
Representations of Lie groups lay behind most of physics: each kind of subatomic particle was really
nothingbutaparticularwayofrepresentingtheuniversalsymmetrygroupasasetofrotationsofcomplex
vectors. Organising this kind of structure with category theory was ancient knowledge, but Jamil didn’t
care; he’d long ago reconciled himself to being a student, not a discoverer. The greatest gift of
consciousnesswastheabilitytotakethepatternsoftheworldinsideyou,andforallthathewouldhave
relished the thrill of being the first at anything, with ten-to-the-sixteenth people alive that was a futile
ambitionformost.
Inthelibrary,hespokewithfellowstudentsofhischosenfieldonotherworlds,orreadtheirlatestworks.
Thoughtheywerenotresearchers,theycouldstillputanewpedagogicalspinonoldmaterial,enrichingthe
connectionswithotherfields,findingwaystomakethecomplex,subtletrutheasiertoassimilatewithout
sacrificingthedepthanddetailthatmadeitworthknowinginthefirstplace.Theywouldnotadvancethe
frontiersofknowledge.Theywouldnotdiscovernewprinciplesofnature,orinventnewtechnologies.But
toJamil,understandingwasanendinitself.
Herarelythoughtabouttheprospectofplayinganothermatch,andwhenhedidtheideawasnotappealing.
With Chusok gone, the same group could play ten-to-a-side without Jamil to skew the numbers. Margit
mightevenchoosetoswapteams,ifonlyforthesakeofprovingthathercurrentteam’smonotonousstring
ofvictoriesreallyhadbeenentirelydowntoher.
Whenthedayarrived,though,hefoundhimselfunabletostayaway.Heturnedupintendingtoremaina
spectator,butRyuichihaddesertedEzequiel’steam,andeveryonebeggedJamiltojoinin.
AshetookhisplaceoppositeMargit,therewasnothinginherdemeanourtoacknowledgetheirprevious
encounter:nolingeringcontempt,butnohintofshameeither.Jamilresolvedtoputitoutofhismind;he
owedittohisfellowplayerstoconcentrateonthegame.
Theylost,fivenil.
JamilforcedhimselftofolloweveryonetoEudore’shouse,tocelebrate,commiserate,orasitturnedout,to
forgetthewholething.Afterthey’deaten,Jamilwanderedfromroomtoroom,enjoyingEudore’schoiceof
musicbutunabletosettleintoanyconversation.NoonementionedChusokinhishearing.
Heleftjustaftermidnight.Laplace’snear-fullprimaryimageanditseightbrightestgibbouscompanionslit
the streets so well that there was no need for anything more. Jamil thought: Chusok might have merely
travelledtoanothercity,onebeneathhisgazerightnow.Andwhereverhe’dgone,hemightyetchooseto
stayintouchwithhisfriendsfromNoether.
Andhisfriendsfromthenexttown,andthenext?
Centuryaftercentury?
MargitwassittingonJamil’sdoorstep,holdingabunchofwhiteflowersinonehand.
Jamilwasirritated.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
“Icametoapologise.”
Heshrugged.“There’snoneed.Wefeeldifferentlyaboutcertainthings.That’sfine.Icanstillfaceyouon
theplayingfield.”
“I’mnot apologisingfora differenceof opinion.Iwasn’thonest with you.Iwas cruel.” Sheshadedher
eyesagainsttheglareoftheplanetandlookedupathim.“Youwereright:itwasmyloss.IwishI’dknown
yourfriend.”
Helaughedcurtly.“Well,it’stoolateforthat.”
Shesaidsimply,“Iknow.”
Jamilrelented.“Doyouwanttocomein?”Margitnodded,andheinstructedthedoortoopenforher.
Ashefollowedherinside,hesaid,“Howlonghaveyoubeenhere?Haveyoueaten?”
“No.”
“I’llcooksomethingforyou.”
“Youdon’thavetodothat.”
Hecalledouttoherfromthekitchen,“Thinkofitasapeaceoffering.Idon’thaveanyflowers.”
Margitreplied,“They’renotforyou.They’reforChusok’shouse.”
Jamilstoppedrummagingthroughhisvegetablebins,andwalkedbackintothelivingroom.“Peopledon’t
usuallydothatinNoether.”
Margitwassittingonthecouch,staringatthefloor.Shesaid,“I’msolonelyhere.Ican’tbearitanymore.”
Hesatbesideher.“Thenwhydidyourebuffhim?Youcouldatleasthavebeenfriends.”
Sheshookherhead.“Don’taskmetoexplain.”
Jamiltookherhand.Sheturnedandembracedhim,tremblingmiserably.Hestrokedherhair.“Sssh.”
Shesaid,“Justsex.Idon’twantanythingmore.”
Hegroanedsoftly.“There’snosuchthingasthat.”
“Ijustneedsomeonetotouchmeagain.”
“Iunderstand.”Heconfessed,“SodoI.Butthatwon’tbeall.Sodon’taskmetopromisethere’llbenothing
more.”
Margittookhisfaceinherhandsandkissedhim.Hermouthtastedofwoodsmoke.
Jamilsaid,“Idon’tevenknowyou.”
“Nooneknowsanyone,anymore.”
“That’snottrue.”
“No,it’snot,”sheconcededgloomily.Sheranahandlightlyalonghisarm.Jamilwantedbadlytoseeher
smile,sohemadeeachdarkhairthickenandblossomintoavioletflowerasitpassedbeneathherfingers.
Shedidsmile,butshesaid,“I’veseenthattrickbefore.”
Jamilwasannoyed.“I’msuretobeadisappointmentallround,then.Iexpectyou’dbehappierwithsome
kindofnovelty.Aunicorn,oranamoeba.”
Shelaughed.“Idon’tthinkso.”Shetookhishandandplaceditagainstherbreast.“Doyouevergettiredof
sex?”
“Doyouevergettiredofbreathing?”
“Icangoforalongtimewithoutthinkingaboutit.”
Henodded.“Butthenonedayyoustopandfillyourlungswithair,andit’sstillassweetasever.”
Jamildidn’tknowwhathewasfeelinganymore.Lust.Compassion.Spite.She’dcometohimhurting,and
hewantedtohelpher,buthewasn’tsurethateitherofthemreallybelievedthiswouldwork.
Margitinhaledthescentoftheflowersonhisarm.“Aretheythesamecolour?Everywhereelse?”
Hesaid,“There’sonlyonewaytofindout.”
****
Jamilwoke intheearly hoursof the morning,alone. He’d halfexpected Margittofleelike this,butshe
couldhavewaitedtilldawn.Hewouldhaveobliginglyfeignedsleepwhileshedressedandtip-toedout.
Thenheheardher.Itwasnotasoundhewouldnormallyhaveassociatedwithahumanbeing,butitcould
nothavebeenanythingelse.
Hefoundherinthekitchen, curledaroundatableleg,wailingrhythmically.Hestoodbackand watched
her,afraidthatanythinghedidwouldonlymakethingsworse.Shemethisgazeinthehalflight,butkept
up the mechanical whimper. Her eyes weren’t blank; she was not delirious, or hallucinating. She knew
exactlywho,andwhere,shewas.
Finally,Jamilkneltinthedoorway.Hesaid,“Whateveritis,youcantellme.Andwe’llfixit.We’llfinda
way.”
Shebaredherteeth.“Youcan’tfixit,youstupidchild.”Sheresumedtheawfulnoise.
“Thenjusttellme.Please?”Hestretchedoutahandtowardsher.Hehadn’tfeltquitesohelplesssincehis
veryfirstdaughter,Aminata,hadcometohimasaninconsolablesix-year-old,rejectedbytheboytowhom
she’ddeclaredherundyinglove.He’dbeentwenty-fouryearsold;achildhimself.Morethanathousand
yearsago.Whereareyounow,Nata?
Margitsaid,“Ipromised.I’dnevertell.”
“Promisedwho?”
“Myself.”
“Good.They’retheeasiestkindtobreak.”
Shestartedweeping.Itwasamoreordinarysound,butitwasevenmorechilling.Shewasnotawounded
animalnow,analienbeingsufferingsomeincomprehensiblepain.Jamilapproachedhercautiously;shelet
himwraphisarmsaroundhershoulders.
Hewhispered,“Cometobed.Thewarmthwillhelp.Justbeingheldwillhelp.”
Shespatathimderisively,“Itwon’tbringherback.”
“Who?”
Margitstaredathiminsilence,asifhe’dsaidsomethingshocking.
Jamilinsistedgently,“Whowon’titbringback?”She’dlostafriend,badly,thewayhe’dlostChusok.
Thatwaswhyshe’dsoughthimout.Hecouldhelpherthroughit.Theycouldhelpeachotherthroughit.
Shesaid,“Itwon’tbringbackthedead.”
****
Margitwasseventhousandfivehundredandninety-fouryearsold.Jamilpersuadedhertositatthekitchen
table.Hewrappedherinblankets,thenfedhertomatoesandrice,asshetoldhimhowshe’dwitnessedthe
birthofhisworld.
The promise had shimmered just beyond reach for decades. Almost none of her contemporaries had
believed it would happen, though the truth should have been plain for centuries: thehuman body was a
materialthing.Intime,withenoughknowledgeandeffort,itwouldbecomepossibletosafeguarditfrom
anykindofdeterioration,anykindofharm.Stellarevolutionandcosmicentropymightormightnotprove
insurmountable,butthere’dbeaeonstoconfrontthosechallenges.Inthemiddleofthetwenty-firstcentury,
thehurdleswereaging,disease,violence,andanovercrowdedplanet.
“Gracewasmybestfriend.Wewerestudents.”Margitsmiled.“Beforeeveryonewasastudent.We’dtalk
aboutit,butwedidn’tbelievewe’dseeithappen.Itwouldcomeinanothercentury.Itwouldcomeforour
great-great-grandchildren.We’dholdinfantsonourkneesinourtwilightyearsandtellourselves:thisone
willneverdie.
“Whenwewerebothtwenty-two, somethinghappened.Tobothof us.”She loweredhereyes.“Wewere
kidnapped.Wewereraped.Weweretortured.”
Jamildidn’tknowhowtorespond.Thesewerejustwordstohim:heknewtheirmeaning,heknewthese
actswouldhavehurther,butshemightaswellhavebeendescribingamathematicaltheorem.Hestretched
ahandacrossthetable,butMargitignoredit.Hesaidawkwardly,“Thiswas…theHolocaust?”
Shelookedupathim,shakingherhead,almostlaughingathisnaivete.“Notevenoneofthem.Notawar,
notapogrom.Justonepsychopathicman.Helockedusinhisbasement,forsixmonths.He’dkilledseven
women.”Tearsbeganspillingdownhercheeks.“Heshowedusthebodies.Theywereburiedrightwhere
weslept.Heshowedushowwe’dendup,whenhewasthroughwithus.”
Jamilwasnumb.He’dknownallhisadultlifewhathadoncebeenpossible—whathadoncehappened,to
realpeople—butithadallbeenconsignedtohistorylongbeforehisbirth.Inretrospectitseemedalmost
inconceivablystupid,buthe’dalwaysimaginedthatthechangeshadcomeinsuchawaythatnoonestill
livinghadexperiencedthesehorrors.There’dbeennoescapingthebareminimum,thelogicalnecessity:his
oldestlivingancestorsmusthavewatchedtheirparentsfallpeacefullyintoeternalsleep.Butnotthis.Nota
flesh-and-bloodwoman,sittinginfrontofhim,who’dbeenforcedtosleepinakiller’sgraveyard.
Heputhishandoverhers,andchokedoutthewords.“Thisman…killedGrace?Hekilledyourfriend?”
Margitbegansobbing,butsheshookherhead.“No,no.Wegotout!”Shetwistedhermouthintoasmile.
“Someonestabbedthestupidfuckerinabar-roombrawl.Wedugourwayoutwhilehewasinhospital.”
She put her face down on the table and wept, but she held Jamil’s hand against her cheek. He couldn’t
understandwhatshe’dlivedthrough,butthatdidn’tmeanhecouldn’tconsoleher.Hadn’thetouchedhis
mother’sfacethesameway,whenshewassadbeyondhischildishcomprehension?
She composed herself, and continued. “We made a resolution, while we were in there. If we survived,
there’dbenomoreemptypromises.Nomoredaydreams.Whathe’ddonetothosesevenwomen—and
whathe’ddonetous—wouldbecomeimpossible.”
And it had. Whatever harm befell your body, you had the power to shut off your senses and decline to
experienceit.Ifthefleshwasdamaged,itcouldalwaysberepairedorreplaced.Intheunlikelyeventthat
yourjewelitselfwasdestroyed,everyonehadbackups,scatteredacrossuniverses.Nohumanbeingcould
inflict physical pain on another. In theory, you could still be killed, but it would take the same kind of
resourcesas destroyingagalaxy. The onlypeoplewho seriously contemplatedeither werethevillains in
verybadoperas.
Jamil’seyesnarrowedinwonder.She’dspokenthoselastwordswithsuchfiercepridethattherewasno
questionofherhavingfailed.
”YouareNdoli?Youinventedthejewel?”Asachild,he’dbeentoldthatthemachineinhisskullhadbeen
designedbyamanwho’ddiedlongago.
Margit stroked his hand, amused. “In those days, very few Hungarian women could be mistaken for
Nigerianmen.I’veneverchangedmybodythatmuch,Jamil.I’vealwayslookedmuchasyouseeme.”
Jamil was relieved; if she’d been Ndoli himself, he might have succumbed to sheer awe and started
babblingidolatrousnonsense.“ButyouworkedwithNdoli?YouandGrace?”
She shook her head. “We made the resolution, and then we floundered. We were mathematicians, not
neurologists.Therewereathousandthingsgoingonatonce:tissueengineering,brainimaging,molecular
computers.Wehadnorealideawheretoputourefforts,whichproblemsweshouldbringourstrengthsto
bearupon.Ndoli’sworkdidn’tcomeoutoftheblueforus,butweplayednopartinit.
“Forawhile,almosteveryonewasnervousaboutswitchingfromthebraintothejewel.Intheearlydays,
thejewelwasaseparatedevicethatlearneditstaskbymimickingthebrain,andithadtobehandedcontrol
ofthebodyatonechosenmoment.Ittookanotherfiftyyearsbeforeitcouldbeengineeredtoreplacethe
brainincrementally,neuronbyneuron,inaseamlesstransitionthroughoutadolescence.”
SoGracehadlivedtoseethejewelinvented,butheldback,anddiedbeforeshecoulduseit?Jamilkept
himselffromblurtingoutthisconclusion;allhisguesseshadprovedwrongsofar.
Margit continued. “Some people weren’t just nervous, though. You’d be amazed how vehemently Ndoli
wasdenouncedincertainquarters.AndIdon’tjustmeanthefanaticswhochurnedoutparanoidtractsabout
‘themachines’takingover,withtheirevilinhumanagendas.Somepeople’santagonismhadnothingtodo
withthespecificsofthetechnology.Theywereopposedtoimmortality,inprinciple.”
Jamillaughed.“Why?”
“Tenthousandyears’worthofsophistrydoesn’tvanishovernight,”Margitobserveddryly.“Everyhuman
culture had expended vast amounts of intellectual effort on the problem of coming to terms with death.
Mostreligionshadconstructedelaborateliesaboutit,makingitouttobesomethingotherthanitwas—
thougha few were dishonestaboutlife, instead. Butevenmost secular philosophieswerewarped by the
needtopretendthatdeathwasforthebest.
“Itwasthenaturalisticfallacyatitsmostextreme—anditsmosttransparent,butthatdidn’tstopanyone.
Sinceanychildcouldtellyouthatdeathwasmeaningless,contingent,unjust,andabhorrentbeyondwords,
itwasahallmarkofsophisticationtobelieveotherwise.Writershadconsoledthemselvesforcenturieswith
smugpuritanicalfablesaboutimmortalswho’dlongfordeath—who’dbegfordeath.
Itwouldhavebeentoomuchtoexpectallthosewhoweresuddenlyfacedwiththerealityofitsbanishment
toconfessthatthey’dbeenwhistlinginthedark.Andwould-bemoralphilosophers—mostlythosewho’d
experiencednogreaterinconvenienceintheirlivesthanalatetrainorasurlywaiter
— began wailing about the destruction of the human spirit by this hideous blight. We needed death and
suffering,toputsteelintooursouls!Nothorrible,horriblefreedomandsafety!”
Jamilsmiled.“Sotherewerebuffoons.Butintheend,surelytheyswallowedtheirpride?Ifwe’rewalking
inadesertandItellyouthatthelakeyouseeaheadisamirage,Imightclingstubbornlytomyownbelief,
to save myself from disappointment. But when we arrive, and I’m proven wrong, I will drink from the
lake.”
Margit nodded. “Most of the loudest of these people went quiet in the end. But there were subtler
arguments,too.Likeitornot,allourbiologyandallofourculturehadevolvedinthepresenceofdeath.
And almost every righteous struggle in history, every worthwhile sacrifice, had been against suffering,
againstviolence,againstdeath.Now,thatstrugglewouldbecomeimpossible.”
“Yes.”Jamilwasmystified.“Butonlybecauseithadtriumphed.”
Margit said gently, “I know. There was no sense to it. And it was always my belief that anything worth
fightingfor—overcenturies,overmillennia—wasworthattaining.Itcan’tbenobletotoilforacause,
andeventodieforit,unlessit’salsonobletosucceed.Toclaimotherwiseisn’tsophistication,it’sjusta
kindofhypocrisy.Ifit’sbettertotravelthanarrive,youshouldn’tstartthevoyageinthefirstplace.
“ItoldGraceasmuch,andsheagreed.Welaughedtogetheratwhatwecalledthetragedians:thepeople
who denounced the coming age as the age without martyrs, the age without saints, the age without
revolutionaries.TherewouldneverbeanotherGandhi,anotherMandela,anotherAungSanSuuKyi—and
yes,thatwasakindofloss,butwouldanygreatleaderhavesentencedhumanitytoeternalmisery,forthe
sakeofprovidingasuitablebackdropforeternalheroism?Well,someofthemwouldhave.Butthedown-
troddenthemselveshadbetterthingstodo.”
Margitfellsilent.Jamilclearedherplateaway,thensatoppositeheragain.Itwasalmostdawn.
“Of course, the jewel was not enough,” Margit continued. “With care, Earth could support forty billion
people,butwherewouldtherestgo?Thejewelmadevirtualrealitytheeasiestescaperoute:forafraction
ofthespace,afractionoftheenergy,itcouldsurvivewithoutabodyattached.GraceandIweren’thorrified
bythatprospect,thewaysomepeoplewere.Butitwasnotthebestoutcome,itwasnotwhatmostpeople
wanted,theywaytheywantedfreedomfromdeath.
“Sowestudiedgravity,westudiedthevacuum.”
Jamilfearedmakingafoolofhimselfagain,butfromtheexpressiononherfaceheknewhewasn’twrong
thistime.M.OsvatandG.Fust.Co-authorsoftheseminalpaper,butnomorewasknownaboutthemthan
thoseabbreviatednames.“YougaveustheNewTerritories?”
Margitnoddedslightly.“GraceandI.”
Jamilwasoverwhelmedwithloveforher.Hewenttoherandkneltdowntoputhisarmsaroundherwaist.
Margittouchedhisshoulder.“Comeon,getup.Don’ttreatmelikeagod,itjustmakesmefeelold.”
Hestood,smilingabashedly.Anyoneinpaindeservedhishelp—butifhewasnotinherdebt,theword
hadnomeaning.
“AndGrace?”heasked.
Margitlookedaway.“Gracecompletedherwork,andthendecidedthatshewasatragedian,afterall.
Rapewasimpossible.Torturewasimpossible.Povertywasvanishing.Deathwasrecedingintocosmology,
intometaphysics.Itwaseverythingshe’dhopedwouldcometopass.Andforher,suddenlyfacedwiththat
fulfilment,everythingthatremainedseemedtrivial.
“Onenight,sheclimbedintothefurnaceinthebasementofherbuilding.Herjewelsurvivedtheflames,but
she’deraseditfromwithin.”
****
Itwasmorningnow.Jamilwasbeginningtofeeldisoriented;Margitshouldhavevanishedindaylight,an
apparitionunabletopersistinthemundaneworld.
“I’d lost other people who were close to me,” she said. “My parents. My brother. Friends. And so had
everyonearoundme,then.Iwasn’tspecial:griefwasstillcommonplace.Butdecadebydecade,centuryby
century,weshrankintoinsignificance,thoseofuswhoknewwhatitmeanttolosesomeoneforever.
We’relessthanoneinamillion,now.
“Foralongtime,Iclungtomyowngeneration.Therewereenclaves,therewereghettos,whereeveryone
understoodtheolddays.IspenttwohundredyearsmarriedtoamanwhowroteaplaycalledWeWhoHave
KnowntheDead—whichwaseverybitaspretentiousandself-pityingasyou’dguessfromthetitle.”She
smiledatthememory.“Itwasahorrible,self-devouringworld.IfI’dstayedinitmuchlonger,Iwouldhave
followedGrace.Iwouldhavebeggedfordeath.”
ShelookedupatJamil.“It’speoplelikeyouIwanttobewith:peoplewhodon’t understand.Your lives
aren’t trivial, any more than the best parts of our own were: all the tranquillity, all the beauty, all the
happinessthatmadethesacrificesandthelife-and-deathstrugglesworthwhile.
“Thetragedianswerewrong.Theyhadeverythingupside-down.Deathnevergavemeaningtolife:itwas
alwaystheotherwayround.Allofitsgravitas,allofitssignificance,wasstolenfromthethingsitended.
Butthevalueoflifealwayslayentirelyinitself—notinitsloss,notinitsfragility.
“Graceshouldhavelivedtoseethat.Sheshouldhavelivedlongenoughtounderstandthattheworldhadn’t
turnedtoash.”
Jamilsatinsilence,turningthewholeconfessionoverinhismind,tryingtoabsorbitwellenoughnotto
addtoherdistresswithamisjudgedquestion.Finally,heventured,“Whydoyouholdbackfromfriendship
withus,though?Becausewe’rejustchildrentoyou?Childrenwhocan’tunderstandwhatyou’velost?”
Margitshookherheadvehemently.“Idon’twantyoutounderstand!Peoplelikemearetheonlyblighton
thisworld,theonlypoison.”ShesmiledatJamil’sexpressionofanguish,andrushedtosilencehimbefore
hecouldswearthatshewasnothingofthekind.“Notineverythingwedoandsay,oreveryonewetouch:
I’m not claiming that we’re tainted, in some fatuous mythological sense. But when I left the ghettos, I
promisedmyselfthatIwouldn’tbringthepastwithme.Sometimesthat’saneasyvowtokeep.
Sometimesit’snot.”
“You’vebrokenittonight,”Jamilsaidplainly.“Andneitherofushavebeenstruckdownbylightning.”
“Iknow.”Shetookhishand.“ButIwaswrongtotellyouwhatIhave,andI’llfighttoregainthestrength
tostaysilent.Istandattheborderbetweentwoworlds,Jamil.Irememberdeath,andIalwayswill.Butmy
jobnowistoguardthatborder.Tokeepthatknowledgefrominvadingyourworld.”
“We’renotasfragileasyouthink,”heprotested.“Weallknowsomethingaboutloss.”
Margit nodded soberly. “Your friend Chusok has vanished into the crowd. That’s how things work now:
how you keep yourselves from suffocating in a jungle of endlessly growing connections, or fragmenting
intoisolatedtroupesofrepertoryplayers,endlesslychurningoutthesamelines.
“Youhaveyourlittledeaths—andIdon’tcallthemthattoderideyou.ButI’veseenboth.AndIpromise
you,they’renotthesame.”
****
Intheweeksthatfollowed,Jamilresumedinfullthelifehe’dmadeforhimselfinNoether.Fivedaysin
sevenwereforthedifficultbeautyofmathematics.Therestwereforhisfriends.
Hekeptplayingmatches,andMargit’steamkeptwinning.Inthesixthgame,though,Jamil’steamfinally
scoredagainsther.Theirdefeatwasonlythreetoone.
Eachnight,Jamilstruggledwiththequestion.Whatexactlydidheoweher?Eternalloyalty,eternalsilence,
eternalobedience?Shehadn’tswornhimtosecrecy;she’dextractednopromisesatall.Butheknewshe
wastrustinghimtocomplywithherwishes,sowhatrightdidhehavetodootherwise?
Eight weeks after the night he’d spent with Margit, Jamil found himself alone with Penina in a room in
Joracy’shouse.They’dbeentalkingabouttheolddays.TalkingaboutChusok.
Jamilsaid,“Margitlostsomeone,veryclosetoher.”
Peninanoddedmatter-of-factly,butcurledintoacomfortablepositiononthecouchandpreparedtotakein
everyword.
“Notinthewaywe’velostChusok.Notinthewayyouthinkatall.”
Jamilapproachedtheothers,onebyone.Hisconfidenceebbedandflowed.He’dglimpsedtheoldworld,
buthecouldn’tpretendtohavefathomeditsinhabitants.WhatifMargitsawthisasworsethanbetrayal—
asafurthertorture,afurtherrape?
Buthecouldn’tstandbyandleavehertothetortureshe’dinflictedonherself.
Ezequielwasthehardesttoface.Jamilspentasickandsleeplessnightbeforehand,wonderingifthiswould
makehimamonster,acorrupterofchildren,theepitomeofeverythingMargitbelievedshewasfighting.
Ezequielweptfreely,buthewasnotachild.HewasolderthanJamil,andhehadmoresteelinhissoulthan
anyofthem.
Hesaid,“Iguesseditmightbethat.Iguessedshemighthaveseenthebadtimes.ButIneverfoundaway
toaskher.”
****
Thethreelobesofprobabilityconverged,meltedintoaplateau,roseintoapillaroflight.
Theumpiresaid,“Fifty-fivepointnine.”ItwasMargit’smostimpressivegoalyet.
Ezequielwhoopedjoyfullyandrantowardsher.Whenhescoopedherupinhisarmsandthrewheracross
hisshoulders,shelaughedandindulgedhim.WhenJamilstoodbesidehimandtheymadeajointthronefor
herwiththeirarms,shefrowneddownathimandsaid,“Youshouldn’tbedoingthis.You’reonthelosing
side.”
Therestoftheplayersconvergedonthem,cheering,andtheystarteddowntowardstheriver.Margitlooked
aroundnervously.“Whatisthis?Wehaven’tfinishedplaying.”
Peninasaid,“Thegame’s overearly,justthisonce.Thinkofthisasaninvitation.Wewantyou toswim
withus.Wewantyoutotalktous.Wewanttoheareverythingaboutyourlife.”
Margit’scomposurebegantocrack.ShesqueezedJamil’sshoulder.Hewhispered,“Saytheword,andwe’ll
putyoudown.”
Margitdidn’twhisperback;sheshoutedmiserably,“Whatdoyouwantfromme,youparasites?I’vewon
yourfuckinggameforyou!Whatmoredoyouwant?”
Jamilwasmortified.Hestoppedandpreparedtolowerher,preparedtoretreat,butEzequielcaughthisarm.
Ezequielsaid,“Wewanttobeyourborderguards.Wewanttostandbesideyou.”
Christaadded,“Wecan’tfacewhatyou’vefaced,butwewanttounderstand.Asmuchaswecan.”
Joracyspoke,thenYann,Narcyza,Maria,Halide.Margitlookeddownonthem,weeping,confused.
Jamil burnt with shame. He’d hijacked her, humiliated her. He’d made everything worse. She’d flee
Noether,fleeintoanewexile,morealonethanever.
Wheneveryonehadspoken,silencedescended.Margittrembledonherthrone.
Jamilfacedtheground.Hecouldn’tundowhathe’ddone.Hesaidquietly,“Nowyouknowourwishes.
Willyoutellusyours?”
“Putmedown.”
JamilandEzequielcomplied.
Margitlookedaroundatherteammatesandopponents,herchildren,hercreation,herwould-befriends.
Shesaid,“Iwanttogototheriverwithyou.I’mseventhousandyearsold,andIwanttolearntoswim.”
****
scherzowithtyrannosaur
MICHAELSWANWICK
MichaelSwanwickmadehisdebutin1980,and inthenineteenyearsthathavefollowedhasestablished
himselfasoneofSF’smostprolificandconsistentlyexcellentwritersatshortlengths,aswellasoneofthe
premiernovelistsofhisgeneration.
HehasseveraltimesbeenafinalistfortheNebulaAward,aswellasfortheWorldFantasyAwardandfor
theJohnW.CampbellAward,andhaswontheTheodoreSturgeonAwardandtheAsimov’sReadersAward
poll.In1991,hisnovelStationsoftheTidewonhimaNebulaAwardaswell;in1995,hewontheWorld
Fantasy Award for his story “Radio Waves”; and in 1999, hecompleted his sweep of the major science
fictionawardsbywinningaHugoforhisstory“TheVeryPulseoftheMachine.”Hisotherbooksinclude
his first novel, In the Drift, which waspublished in 1985; a novella-length book, Griffin’s Egg; 1987’s
popular novel Vacuum Flowers; anda critically acclaimed fantasy novel, The Iron Dragon’s Daughter,
whichwasafinalistfortheWorldFantasyAwardandtheAr-thurC.ClarkeAward(araredistinction!).His
mostrecentnovel,JackFaust,aslyreworkingoftheFaustlegendthatexplorestheunexpectedimpactof
technologyonsociety, has garnered rave reviews from nearly every source from the Washington Post to
Interzone.HisshortfictionhasbeenassembledinGravity’sAngelsandinacollectionofhiscollaborative
short work with other writers, Slow Dancing Through Time. His most recent booksare a collection of
critical essays, The Postmodern Archipelago; and a collection, A Geography of Unknown Lands.
Upcomingisa newcollec-tion,calledMoonDogs,and he’scurrentlyatwork ona new novel. He’s had
storiesinourSecond,Third,Fourth,Sixth,Seventh,Tenth,Thirteenth,Fourteenth,Fifteenth,andSixteenth
AnnualCollections.SwanwicklivesinPhiladelphiawithhiswife,MariannePorter,andtheirsonSean.
This story brings us sixty-five million years into the past for a clever, intricate, and deadly pavaneof
paradox,intrigue,destiny,andhungrykillerdinosaurswithgreatbigteeth…
****
A
keyboardist was playing a selection of Scarlotti’s harpsichord sonatas, brief pieces one to three minutes
long,verycomplexandrefined,whiletheHadrosaurusherdstreamedbythewindow.Therewerehundreds
of the brutes, kicking up dust and honking that lovely flattened near-musical note they make. It was a
spectacularsight.
Butthehorsd’oeuvreshadjustarrived:plesiosaurwrappedinkelp,belugasmearedoverslicedmaiasaur
egg, little slivers of roast dodo on toast, a dozen delicacies more. So a stampede of common-as-dirt
herbivoresjustcouldn’tcompete.
Nobodywaspayingmuchattention.
Exceptforthekid.Hewasgluedtothewindow,staringwithanintensityremarkableevenforaboyhisage.
Ifiguredhimtobeabouttenyearsold.
Snaggingaglassofchampagnefromapassingtray,Iwentovertostandnexttohim.“Enjoyingyourself,
son?”
Without looking up, the kid said, “What do you think spooked them? Was it a — ?” Then he saw the
wranglersintheirjeepsandhisfacefell.“Oh.”
“Wehadtocheatalittletogivethedinerssomethingtosee.”Igesturedwiththewineglasspasttheherd,
towardthedistantwoods.“Butthereareplentyofpredatorslurkingoutthere—troodons,dromaeosaurs…
evenoldSatan.”
Helookedupatmeinsilentquestion.
“Satanisournicknameforaninjuredoldbullrexthat’sbeenhangingaroundthestationforaboutamonth,
raidingourgarbagedump.”
Itwasthewrongthingtosay.Thekidlookeddevastated.T.rexascavenger!Sayitain’tso.
“A tyrannosaur is an advantageous hunter,” I said, “like a lion. When it chances upon something
convenient,believeyoume,it’llattack.Andwhenatyrannosaurishurting,likeoldSatanis—well,that’s
aboutassavageanddangerousasanyanimalcanbe.It’llkillevenwhenit’snothungry.”
Thatsatisfiedhim.“Good,”hesaid.“I’mglad.”
Incompanionablesilence,westaredintothewoodstogether,lookingformovingshadows.Thenthechime
soundedfordinnertobegin,andIsentthekidbacktohistable.Thelasthadrosaursweregonebythen.
Hewentwithtransparentreluctance.
TheCretaceousBallwasourbigfund-raiser,ahundredthousanddollarsaseat,andinadditiontothesilent
auction before the meal and the dancing afterwards, everybody who bought an entire table for six was
entitledtotheirveryownpaleontologistasakindofpartyfavor.
I used to be a paleontologist myself, before I was promoted. Now I patrolled the room in tux and
cummerbund,makingsureeverythingwasrunningsmoothly.
Waitersslippedinandoutofexistence.You’dseethemhurrybehindthescreenhidingtheentrancetothe
timefunnelandthenpopoutimmediatelyontheotherside,carryingheavily-ladentrays.
Styracosaurusmedallionsinmastodonmozzarellaforthosewholikedredmeat.Archaeopteryxalmondine
forthosewhopreferredwhite.Radicchioandfennelforthevegetarians.
Alltotheaccompanimentofmusic,pleasantchitchat,andthebestviewintheuniverse.
DonaldHawkinshadbeenassignedtothekid’stable—thedeChervilleFamily.Accordingtotheseating
plantheheavy,phlegmaticmanwasGerard,themoney-makingpaterfamilias.Thewomanbesidehimwas
Danielle,oncehistrophywife,nowaginggracefully.Besidethemweretwoguests—theCadigans—who
lookedalittleoverwhelmedbyeverythingandwereprobablyafavoredemployeeandspouse.Theydidn’t
saymuch.Asullendaughter,Melusine,inalittleblackdressthatcasuallydisplayedherperfectbreasts.She
lookedboredandrestless—troubleincarnate.Andtherewasthekid,givennamePhilippe.
IkeptacloseeyeonthembecauseofHawkins.Hewasnew,andIwasn’texpectinghimtolastlong.
Buthecharmed everyoneat thetable.Young,handsome,polite—hehaditall.I noticedhowMelusine
slouchedbackinherchair,studyinghimthroughdarkeyelashes,sayingnothing.Hawkins,respondingto
somethingyoungPhilippehadsaid,flashedaboyish,devil-may-caregrin.Icouldfeeltheheatofthekid’s
hero-worshipfromacrosstheroom.
Thenmy silent beeper went off,andI had to duck out of the late Cretaceous and back into thekitchen,
HomeBase,year2082.
****
There was a Time Safety Officer waiting for me. The main duty of a TSO is to make sure that no time
paradoxesoccur,sotheUnchangingwouldn’ttakeourtimeprivilegesawayfromus.Mostpeoplethinkthat
time travel was invented recently, and by human beings. That’s because our sponsors don’t want their
presenceadvertised.
Inthekitchen,everyonewasinanuproar.Oneofthewaiterswasleaning,spraddle-leggedandarmswide,
againstthetable,andanotherwaslyingonthefloorclutchingwhatlookedtobeabrokenarm.TheTSO
coveredthembothwithagun.
ThegoodnewswasthattheOldManwasn’tthere.Ifithadbeensomethingbigandhairy—aCreationist
bomb,oramessagefromamillionyearsupline—hewouldhavebeen.
WhenIshowedup,everybodybegantalkingatonce.
“Ididn’tdonothing,man,thisbastard—“
”—guiltyofaClassSixviolation—
”—brokemyfuckingarm,man.Hethrewmetotheground!”
”—worktodo.Getthemoutofmykitchen!”
Itturned out to be a simple caseof note-passing. One of the waiters had, inhis old age, conspired with
anotherrecruitedfromalaterperiod,toslipalistofhotinvestmentstohisyoungerself.Enoughtomake
thembothmultibillionaires.Wehadsurveillancedevicesplantedinthekitchen,andaTSOsawthepaper
changehands.Nowtheperpsweredenyingeverything.
Itwouldn’thave worked anyway. The authoritieskeep strict tabs on the historical record. Wealth on the
orderofwhattheyhadplannedwouldhavestuckoutlikeasorethumb.
Ifiredbothwaiters,calledthepolicetotakethemaway,routedacallfortworeplacementsseveralhours
intothelocalpast,andhadthembriefedandondutywithoutanylapseinservice.ThenItooktheTSO
asideandbawledhimoutgoodforcallingmebackreal-time,insteadofsendingamemobacktomethree
daysago.Oncesomethinghashappened,though,that’sit.I’dbeencalled,soIhadtohandleitinperson.
Itwasyourstandardsecurityglitch.Nobigdeal.
Butitwaswearying.SowhenIwentbackdownthefunneltoHilltopStation,Isetthetimeforacouple
hoursafterIhadleft.Iarrivedjustasthetableswerebeingclearedfordessertandcoffee.
Somebodyhandedmeamicrophone,andItappedittwice,forattention.Iwasstandingbeforethewindow,
aspectacularsunsettomyback.
“Ladiesandgentlemen,”Isaid,“letmeagainwelcomeyoutotheMaastrichtian,thefinalageofthelate
Cretaceous.ThisisthelastresearchstationbeforetheAgeofMammals.Don’tworry,though—themeteor
thatputafinalendtothedinosaursisstillseveralthousandyearsinthefuture.”Ipausedforlaughter,then
continued.
“If you’ll look outside, you’ll see Jean, our dino wrangler, setting up a scent lure. Jean, wave for our
diners.”
Jeanwasfiddlingwithashorttripod.Shewavedcheerily,thenbentbacktowork.Withherblondponytail
andkhakishorts,shelookedtobejustyourbasicsciencebabe.ButJeanwasslatedtobecomeoneofthe
topsaurianbehavioristsintheworld,andknewittoo.Despiteourbestefforts,gossipslipsthrough.
NowJeanbackeduptowardthestationdoors,unreelingfusewireasshewent.Thewindowswereallonthe
secondfloor.Thedoors,onthegroundfloor,wereallarmored.
“Jeanwillbeduckinginsideforthisdemonstration,”Isaid.“Youwouldn’twanttobeoutsideunprotected
whentheluregoesoff.”
“What’sinit?”somebodycalledout.
“Triceratopsblood.We’rehopingtocallinapredator—maybeeventhekingofpredators,Tyrannosaurus
rexhimself.”Therewasanappreciativemurmurfromthediners.EverybodyherehadheardofT.rex.He
hadrealstarpower.Iswitchedeasilyintolecturemode.“Ifyoudissectatyrannosaur,you’llseethatithas
anextremelylargeolfactorylobe—largerinproportiontotherestofitsbrainthanthatofanyotheranimal
excepttheturkeyvulture.Rexcansniffhisprey”—carrion,usually,butIdidn’tsaythat—“frommiles
away.Watch.”
Thelurewentoffwithapopandapuffofpinkmist.
I glanced over at the de Cherville table, and saw Melusine slip one foot out of her pump and run it up
Hawkins’trouserleg.Hecolored.
Herfatherdidn’tnotice.Hermother—herstepmother,morelikely—did,butdidn’tcare.Toher,thiswas
simplywhatwomendid.Icouldn’thelpnoticewhatgoodlegsMelusinehad.
“This will take a few minutes. While we’re waiting, I direct your attention to Chef Rupert’s excellent
pastries.”
Ifadedbacktopoliteapplause,andbegantheroundoftablehopping.Ajokehere,awordofpraisethere.
It’sbananaoilmakestheworldgoround.
WhenIgottothedeChervilles,Hawkins’facewaswhite.
“Sir!”Heshottohisfeet.“Awordwithyou.”
Healmostdraggedmeawayfromthetable.
Whenwewereinprivate,hewassoupsethewasstuttering.“Th-thatyoungwoman,w-wantsmet-to..
.”
“Iknowwhatshewants,”Isaidcoolly.“She’soflegalage—makeyourowndecision.”
“Youdon’tunderstand!Ican’tpossiblygobacktothattable.”Hawkinswasgenuinelyanguished.Ithought
atfirstthathe’dbeenhearingrumors,darkhintsabouthisfuturecareer.Somehow,though,thatdidn’tsmell
right.Therewassomethingelsegoingonhere.
“All right,” I said. “Slip out now. But I don’t like secrets. Record a full explanation and leave it in my
office.Noevasions,understand?”
“Yes,sir.”Alookofreliefspreaditselfacrosshishandsomeyoungface.“Thankyou,sir.”
Hestartedtoleave.
“Oh,andonemorething,”Isaidcasually,hatingmyself.“Don’tgoanywherenearyourtentuntilthefund-
raiser’sbrokenup.”
****
ThedeChervillesweren’texactlythrilledwhenItoldthemthatHawkinshadfallenill,andI’dbetakinghis
place.ButthenItookatyrannosaurtoothfrommypocketandgaveittoPhilippe.Itwasjustashed
—rexesdropalotofteeth—butnoneedtomentionthat.
“Itlookssharp,”Mrs.deChervillesaid,withatouchofalarm.
“Serrated,too.Youmightwanttoaskyourmotherifyoucanuseitforaknife,nexttimeyouhavesteak,”I
suggested.
Whichwonhimovercompletely.Kidsarefickle.PhilippeimmediatelyforgotallaboutHawkins.
Melusine,however,didnot.Eyesflashingwithanger,shestood,throwinghernapkintothefloor.“Iwantto
know,”shebegan,“justwhatyouthinkyou’re—“
Fortunately,thatwaswhenSatanarrived.
Thetyrannosaurcamerunningupthehillsideataspeedyou’dhavetobeanexperiencedpaleontologistto
knowwaslessthanoptimal.EvenadyingT.rexmovesfast.
Peoplegasped.
Itookthemicrophoneoutofmypocket,andmovedquicklytothefrontoftheroom.“Folks,wejustgot
lucky.I’dliketoinformthoseofyouwithtablesbythewindowthattheglassisratedattwentytonsper
squareinch.You’re inno dangerwhatsoever.Butyouareinforquiteashow.Thosewhoarein therear
mightwanttogetalittlecloser.”
YoungPhilippewasofflikeashot.
Thecreaturewasalmosttous.“Atyrannosaurhasahyperacutesenseofsmell,”Iremindedthem.
“Whenitscentsblood,itsbrainisoverwhelmed.Itgoesintoafeedingfrenzy.”
Afewdropletsofbloodhadspatteredthewindow.Seeingusthroughtheglass,Satanleapedandtriedto
smashthroughit.
Whoomp!Theglassboomedandshiveredwiththeimpact.Therewereshrieksandscreamsfromthediners,
andseveralpeoplestartedtotheirfeet.
Atmysignal,thestringquartettookuptheirinstrumentsagain,andbegantoplaywhileSatanleapedand
tore and snarled, a perfect avatar of rage and fury. They chose the scherzo from Shostokovich’s piano
quintet.
Scherzos are supposed to be funny, but most have a whirlwind, uninhibited quality that makes them
particularlyappropriatetonightmaresandthemadnessofpredatorydinosaurs.
Whoomp!Thatmightyheadstruckthewindowagainandagainandagain.Foralongtime,Satankepton
frenziedlyslashingatthewindowwithhisjaws,leavinglongscratchesintheglass.
Philippepressedhisbodyagainstthewindowwithallhisstrength,tryingtominimizethedistancebetween
himselfandsavagedinodeath.Shriekingwithjoyouslaughterwhenthatkillermouthtriedtosnatchhim
up.Ifeltforthekid,wantingtogetasclosetotheactionashecould.Icouldidentify.
IwasjustlikethatmyselfwhenIwashisage.
****
WhenSatanfinallyworehimselfoutandwentbad-humoredlyaway,IreturnedtothedeChervilles.
Philippehadrestoredhimselftothecompanyofhisfamily.Thekidlookedpaleandhappy.
Sodidhissister.Inoticedthatshewasbreathingshallowly.Satandoesthattoyoungwomen.
“Youdroppedyournapkin.”IhandedittoMelusine.Insidewasapostcard-sizedpromotionalmap,showing
HilltopStationandbehinditTentCity,wheretheresearcherslived.Oneofthetentswascircled.Underit
waswritten,Whiletheothersaredancing.
IhadsigneditDon.
****
“WhenIgrowupI’mgoingtobeapaleontologist,”thekidsaidfervently.“Abehavioralpaleontologist,not
ananatomistorawrangler.”Somebodyhadcometotakehimhome.Hisfolkswerestayingtodance.And
Melusinewaslonggone,offtoHawkins’tent.
“Goodforyou,”Isaid.Ilaidahandonhisshoulder.“Comeseemewhenyou’vegottheeducation.I’llbe
happytoshowyoutheropes.”
Thekidleft.
He’dhadaconversionexperience.Iknewexactlyhowitfelt.I’dhadminestandinginfrontoftheZallinger
“Age of Reptiles” mural in the Peabody Museum in New Haven. That was before time travel, when
paintings of dinosaurs were about as real as you could get. Nowadays I could point out a hundred
inaccuraciesinhowthedinosaursweredepicted.Butonthatdistantsun-dustymorningintheAtlantisof
myyouth,Ijuststoodstaringatthosemagnificentbrutes,headfilledwithwonder,untilmymotherdragged
meaway.
Itreallywasapity.Philippewassofullofcuriosityandenthusiasm.He’dmakeagreatpaleontologist.I
couldseethat.Hewasn’tgoingtogettorealizehisdreams,though.Hisfolkshadtoomuchmoneytoallow
that.
IknewbecauseI’dglancedthroughthepersonnelrecordsforthenexthundredyearsandhisnamewasn’t
thereanywhere.
ItwaspossiblytheleastofthethousandsofsecretsIheldwithinme,nevertobeshared.Still,itmademe
sad. For an instant I felt the weight of all my years, every petty accommodation, every unworthy
expedience.ThenIwentupthefunnelandbackdownagaintoanhourprevious.
Unseen,IslippedoutandwenttowaitforMelusine.
****
Maintainingthefunnelisexpensive.Duringnormaloperations—whenwe’renotholdingfund-raisers—
we spend months at a time in the field. Hence the compound, with its army surplus platform tents and
electrifiedperimetertokeepthemonstersout.
ItwasdarkwhenMelusineslippedintothetent.
“Donald?”
“Shhh.”Iputafingertoherlips,drewherclosetome.Onehandslidslowlydownhernakedback,overa
scrapofcrushedvelvet,andthenbackupandunderherskirttosqueezethatelegantlittleass.Sheraised
hermouthtomineandwekisseddeeply,passionately.
ThenItumbledhertothecot,andwebeganundressingeachother.Sherippedoffthreebuttonstearingmy
shirtfromme.
Melusinemadealotofnoise,forwhichIwasgrateful.Shewasademanding,self-centeredlay,wholetyou
knowwhenshedidn’tlikewhatyouweredoingandwasn’tatallshyabouttellingyouwhattodonext.She
requiredalotofattention.ForwhichIwasalsograteful.
Ineededthedistraction.
BecausewhileIwasinhistent,screwingthewomanhedidn’twant,Hawkinswassomewhereoutthere
gettingkilled.According tothe operationalreport thatI’d writelater tonight,and receiveda dayago,he
waseatenalivebyanoldbullrexrenderedirritablebyapainfulbraintumor.Itwasanuglywaytogo.I
didn’twanttohavetohearit.Ididmybesttonotthinkaboutit.
Creditwherecreditisdue—Melusinepracticallysetthetentablaze.SoIwasusingher.Sowhat?Itwas
farfromtheworstofmycrimes.Itwasn’tasifshelovedHawkins,orevenknewhimforthatmatter.She
was just a spoiled little rich-bitch adventuress looking for a mental souvenir. One more notch on her
diaphragmcase.Iknowhertypewell.They’reoneoftheperksofthebusiness.
Therewasafreshlypreparedtriceratopsskullbytheheadofthebed.Itgleamedfaintly,apale,indistinct
shapeinthedarkness.WhenMelusinecame,shegrabbedoneofitshornssotightlytheskullrattledagainst
thefloorboards.
Afterwards, she left, happily reeking of bone fixative and me. We’d each had our little thrill. I hadn’t
spokenawordduringanyofit,andshehadn’tevennoticed.
****
T.rexwasn’tmuchofapredator.Butthen,itdidn’ttakemuchskilltokillaman.Tooslowtorun,andtoo
bigtohide—wemakeperfectpreyforatyrannosaur.
WhenHawkins’remains werefound,the wholecamp turnedoutin anuproar.Iwalked throughit allon
autopilot,perfunctorilygivingorderstohaveSatanshot,tohavetheremainssentbackuptime,tohavethe
paperwork sent to my office. Then I gathered everybody together and gave them the Paradox Lecture.
Nobodywastotalkaboutwhathadjusthappened.Thosewhodidwouldbesummarilyfired.
Legalactionwouldfollow.Direconsequences.Penalties.Fines.
Andsoon.
Itwastwoa.m.whenIfinallygotbacktomyoffice,towritetheday’soperationalreport.
Hawkins’smemowasthere,waitingforme.I’dforgottenaboutthat.Idebatedputtingoffreadingituntil
tomorrow.ButthenIfiguredIwasfeelingasbadnowasIwasevergoingto.Mightaswellgetitoverwith.
I turned on the glow-pad. Hawkins’ pale face appeared on the screen. Stiffly, as if he were confessing a
crime,hesaid,“Myfolksdidn’twantmetobecomeascientist.Iwassupposedtostayhomeandmanage
thefamilymoney.Stayhomeandletmymindrot.”Hisfacetwistedwithprivatememories.“Sothat’sthe
firstthingyouhavetoknow—DonaldHawkinsisn’tmyrealname.
“Mymotherwaskindofwildwhenshewasyoung.Idon’tthinksheknewwhomyfatherwas.Sowhenshe
hadme,itwashushedup.Iwasraisedbymygrandparents.Theyweregettingalittleoldforchild-rearing,
sotheyshippedmeback-timetowhentheywereyounger,andraisedmealongsidemymother.Iwasfifteen
beforeIlearnedshewasn’treallymysister.
“MyrealnameisPhilippedeCherville.IswappedtableassignmentssoIcouldmeetmyyoungerself.
But then Melusine — my mother — started hitting on me. So I guess you can understand now — ” he
laughedembarrassedly—“whyIdidn’twanttogotheOedipusroute.”
Thepadflickedoff,andthenimmediatelybackonagain.He’dhadanafterthought.“Ohyeah,Iwantedto
say…thethingsyousaidtometoday—whenIwasyoung—theencouragement.Andthetooth.
Well,theymeantalottome.So,uh…thanks.”
Itflickedoff.
I put my head in my hands. Everything was throbbing, as if all the universe were contained within an
infected tooth. Or maybe the brain tumor of a sick old dinosaur. I’m not stupid. I saw the implications
immediately.
Thekid—Philippe—wasmyson.
Hawkinswasmyson.
Ihadn’tevenknownIhadason,andnowhewasdead.
****
Ableak,blanktimelater,Isettoworkdrawingtimelinesintheholographicworkspaceabovemydesk.
Asimpledouble-loopforHawkins/Philippe.Arathermorecomplexfigureformyself.ThenIfactoredin
the TSOs, the waiters, the paleontologists, the musicians, the workmen who built the station in the first
place and would salvage its fixtures when we were done with it … maybe a hundred representative
individualsinall.
WhenIwasdone,Ihadathree-dimensionalrepresentationofHilltopStationasanodeofintersectinglives
intime.Itwasonehellofacomplexfigure.
ItlookedliketheGordianknot.
ThenIstartedcraftingamemobacktomyyoungerself.Acarbonsteel,razor-edged,Damasceneswordofa
memo.OnethatwouldsliceHilltopStationintoathousandspasmingparadoxicalfragments.
Hirehim,fireher,strandahundredyoungscientists,allfitandcapableofbreeding,onemillionyearsB.C.
Oh,anddon’tfatheranychildren.
Itwouldbringoursponsorsdownuponuslikesomanyangryhornets.TheUnchangingwouldyanktime
traveloutofhumanhands—retroactively.Everythingconnectedtoitwouldbeloopedoutofrealityand
into the disintegrative medium of quantum uncertainty. Hilltop Station would dissolve into the realm of
might-have-been.Theresearchandfindingsofthousandsofdedicatedscientistswouldvanishfromhuman
knowing.Mysonwouldneverhavebeenconceivedorbornorsentcallouslytoanunnecessarydeath.
EverythingIhadspentmylifeworkingtoaccomplishwouldbeundone.
Itsoundedgoodtome.
Whenthememowasdone,ImarkeditPRIORITYandMYEYESONLY.ThenIpreparedtosenditthree
monthsbackintime.
Thedooropenedbehindmewithaclick.Ispunaroundinmychair.Inwalkedtheonemaninallexistence
whocouldpossiblystopme.
“Thekidgottoenjoytwenty-fouryearsoflife,beforehedied,”theOldMansaid.“Don’ttakethataway
fromhim.”
Ilookedupintohiseyes.
Intomyowneyes.
Thoseeyesfascinatedandrepulsedme.Theyweredeepestbrown,andnestedinalifetime’saccumulation
ofwrinkles.I’vebeenworkingwithmyolderselfsinceIfirstsignedupwithHilltopStation,andtheywere
stillamysterytome,absolutelyopaque.Theymademefeellikeamousebeingstareddownbyasnake.
“It’snotthekid,”Isaid.“It’severything.”
“Iknow.”
“Ionlymethimtonight—Philippe,Imean.Hawkinswasjustanewrecruit.Ibarelyknewhim.”
TheOld Man capped the Glenlivetandputit back in the liquorcabinet.Untilhe did that, I hadn’teven
noticedIwasdrinking.“IkeepforgettinghowemotionalIwaswhenIwasyoung,”hesaid.
“Idon’tfeelyoung.”
“Waituntilyou’remyage.”
I’mnotsurehowoldtheOldManis.Therearelongevitytreatmentsavailableforthosewhoplaythegame,
andtheOldManhasbeenplayingthislousygamesolonghepracticallyrunsit.AllIknowisthatheandI
arethesameperson.
Mythoughtstookasuddenswerve.“Goddamnthatstupidkid!”Iblurted.“Whatwashedoingoutsidethe
compoundinthefirstplace?”
TheOldManshrugged.“Hewascurious.Allscientistsare.Hesawsomethingandwentouttoexamineit.
Leaveitbe,kid.What’sdoneisdone.”
IglancedatthememoI’dwritten.“We’llfindout.”
Heplacedasecondmemoalongsidemine.“Itookthelibertyofwritingthisforyou.ThoughtI’dspareyou
thepainofhavingtocomposeit.”
I picked up the memo, glanced at its contents. It was the one I’d received yesterday. “‘Hawkins was
attackedandkilledbySatanshortlyafterlocalmidnighttoday,’”Iquoted.“‘Takeallnecessarymeasuresto
controlgossip.’”Overcomewithloathing,Isaid,“ThisisexactlywhyI’mgoingtobustupthiswholefilthy
system.YouthinkIwanttobecomethekindofmanwhocansendhisownsonofftodie?YouthinkIwant
tobecomeyou?”
Thathithome.ForalongmomenttheOldMandidnotspeak.“Listen,”hesaidatlast.“Yourememberthat
dayinthePeabody?”
“YouknowIdo.”
“Istoodthereinfrontofthatmuralwishingwithallmyheart—allyourheart—thatIcouldseeareal,
living dinosaur. But even then, even as an eight-year-old, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. That some
thingscouldneverbe.”
Isaidnothing.
“Godhandsyouamiracle,”hesaid,“youdon’tthrowitbackinhisface.”
Thenheleft.
Iremained.
It was my call. Two possible futures lay side-by-side on my desk, and I could select either one. The
universeisinherentlyunstable in everyinstant.Ifparadoxesweren’tpossible, nobody would waste their
energy preventing them. The Old Man was trusting me to weigh all relevant factors, make the right
decision,andlivewiththeconsequences.
Itwasthecruelestthinghehadeverdonetome.
ThinkingofcrueltyremindedmeoftheOldMan’seyes.Eyessodeepyoucoulddrowninthem.Eyesso
darkyoucouldn’ttellhowmanycorpsesalreadylaysubmergedwithinthem.Afteralltheseyearsworking
withhim,Istillcouldn’ttellifthoseweretheeyesofasaintorofthemostevilmanintheworld.
Thereweretwomemosinfrontofme.Ireachedforone,hesitated,withdrewmyhand.Suddenlythechoice
didn’tseemsoeasy.
Thenightwaspreternaturallystill.Itwasasifalltheworldwereholdingitsbreath,waitingformetomake
mydecision.
Ireachedoutforthememos.
Ichoseone.
****
aherooftheempire
ROBERTSILVERBERG
RobertSilverbergisoneofthemostfamousSFwritersofmoderntimes,withdozensofnovels,anthologies,
andcollectionstohiscredit.Asbothwriterandeditor,Silverbergwasoneofthemostinfluentialfiguresof
thePostNewWaveeraofthe‘70s,andcontinuestobeattheforefrontofthefieldtothisveryday,having
won a total of five Nebula Awards and four Hugo Awards. Hismany novels include Dying Inside, Lord
Valentine’sCastle,TheBookofSkulls,DownwardtotheEarth,TowerofGlass,TheWorldInside,Born
withtheDead,ShadrachintheFurnace,TomO’Bedlam,StarofGypsies,AtWinter’sEnd,TheFaceofthe
Waters, Kingdoms of the Wall, Hot Sky at Midnight, Starborne, and three novel-length expansions of
famous Isaac Asimov stories, Nightfall, The Positronic Man, and The Ugly Little Boy. His collections
includeUnfamiliarTerri-tory,CapricornGames,MajipoorChronicles,TheBestofRobertSilver-berg,At
the Conglomeroid Cocktail Party, Beyond the Safe Zone, and a massive retrospective collection The
CollectedStoriesofRobertSilverberg,VolumeOne:SecretSharers.Hisanthologiesarefartoonumerous
tolisthere,butincludeThe ScienceFictionHall of Fame, VolumeOne,theinfluentialNew Dimensions
series,thedistinguishedAlphaseries,andtherecentbestsellersLegendsandFarHorizons,amongdozens
ofothers. His most recent books are the novels The Alien Years and Lord Prestimion. His stories have
appearedinallofourfirsttenAnnualCollections,aswellasinourFourteenthandFifteenth.Heliveswith
his wife, writer Karen Haber, in Oakland, California. He has a “quasi-official” web siteat
www.conectexpress.com/~jon/silvhome.htm.
Forsomeyearsnow,SilverberghasbeenpublishingastringofelegantandsophisticatedAlternateHistory
stories,the“Roma”series,towhichthestorythatfollowsbelongs:aworldinwhichtheRoman Empire
neverfell,andthePaxRomanahascontinuedeventothepresent,creatingasocietyhalf-strangeandhalf-
familiar,fullofhauntingechoesofourowntimeline,yetalsoverydifferent.Herehetakesustoaborder
townontheedgesofthegreatempireofRoma,forathoughtfulstudyofhowsometimestheriseandfallof
empirescanturnonasinglechancemeeting…especiallyifoneofthepeoplewhomeethasacapacityfor
seeingwhatcouldbeaswellaswhatis…
****
H
EREIAMATLAST,HORATIUS,infar-offArabia,amongsttheGreeksandthecamelsandtheswarthy
Saracen tribesmen and all the other unpleasant creatures that infest this dreary desert. For my sins. My
grievoussins.“GetyoutoArabia,serpent!”criedthefuriousEmperorJulian,andhereIam.
Serpent.Me.
Howcouldhehavebeensounkind?
ButItellyou,Ofriendofmybosom,IwillemploythistimeofexiletowinmywaybackintoCaesar’s
goodgracessomehow.IwilldosomethingwhileIamhere,something,Iknownotwhatjustyet,thatwill
remindhimofwhatashrewdandenterprisingandaltogethervaluablemanIam;andsoonerorlaterhewill
recallmetoRomaandrestoremetomyplaceatcourt.BeforemanyyearshavepassedyouandIwillstroll
togetheralongTiber’ssweetbanksagain.OfthismuchIamcertain,thatthegodsdidnothaveitinmind
formethatIshouldspinoutallmyremainingdaysinsomiserableasandywastelandasthis.
Ableakforlornplace,itis,thisArabia.Ableakdishearteningjourneyitwastogethere,too.
Thereare,asperhapsyouareaware,severalArabiaswithinthevastterritorythatweknowbythatgeneral
name.InthenorthliesArabiaPetraea,aprosperousmercantileregionborderingonSyriaPalaestina.Arabia
Petraea has been an Imperial province Since the reign of Augustus Caesar, six hundred years ago. Then
comesagreatdealofemptiness-ArabiaDeserta,itiscalled,agrim,harsh,barrendistrictinhabitedmainly
byquarrelsomenomads.AndonthefarsideofthatliesArabiaFelix,apopulouslandeverybitashappyas
itsnameimplies,aplaceofluxuriousclimateandeasycircumstances,famedforitsfertileandproductive
fields and for the abundance of fine goods that it pours forth into the world’s markets, gold and pearls,
frankincenseandmyrrh,balsamsandaromaticoilsandperfumes.
WhichoftheseplacesCaesarintendedasmyplaceofexile,Ididnotknow.IwastoldthatIwouldlearn
thatduringthe course of my journey east. I have anancientfamily connection to the eastern part of the
world,forinthetimeofthefirstClaudiusmygreatancestorGnaeusDomitiusCorbulowasproconsulof
AsiawithhisseatatEphesus,andthengovernorofSyriaunderNero,andvariousotherCorbulossincehis
time have dwelled in those distant regions. It seemed almost agreeable to be renewing the tradition,
howeverinvoluntarytherenewal.GladlywouldIhavesettledforArabiaPetraeaifIhadtogotoArabiaat
all:it isa reasonable destinationfor a highlyplacedRoman gentlemantemporarily outoffavor with his
monarch. But of course my hopes were centered on Arabia Felix, which by all accounts was the more
congenialland.
ThevoyagefromRomatoSyriaPalaestina—pfaugh,Horatius!Nightmare.Torture.Seasickeveryday.
Belovedfriend,Iamnoseafaringman.ThencameabriefrespiteinCaesareaMaritima,theonegoodpart,
lovely cosmopolitan city, wine flowing freely, complacent pretty girls everywhere, and, yes, Horatius, I
mustconfessit,someprettyboystoo.IstayedthereaslongasIcould.ButeventuallyIreceivedwordthat
thecaravanthatwastotakemedownintoArabiawasreadytodepart,andIhadtogo.
Letnoonebeguileyouwithromantictalesofdeserttravel.Foracivilizedmanitisnothingbuttormentand
agony.
ThreestepstotheinlandsideofJerusalemandyoufindyourselfinthehottest,driestcountrythissideof
Hades;and things only get worse from there. Every breath you take hits your lungs likeablastfroman
oven.Yournostrils,yourears,yourlipsbecomecoatedwithwindborneparticlesofgrit.Thesunislikea
fieryironplatterinthesky.Yougoformileswithoutseeingasingletreeorshrub,nothingbutrockandred
sand.Mockingphantomsdancebeforeyouintheshimmeringair.Atnightifyouareluckyenoughorweary
enoughtobeabletodropofftosleepforalittlewhile,youdreamlonginglyoflakesandgardensandgreen
lawns,butthenyouareawakenedbythescrabblingsoundofascorpioninthesandbesideyourcheek,and
youlietheresobbinginthestiflingheat,prayingthatyouwilldiebeforethecomingofthefierydawn.
SomewhereinthemidstofallthisdeadwildernessthetravelerleavestheprovinceofSyriaPalaestinaand
entersArabia,thoughnoonecansaypreciselywheretheboundarylies.Thefirstthingyoucometo,once
acrossthatinvisibleline,isthehandsomecityofPetraoftheNabataeans,animpregnablerock-fortressthat
stands athwart all the caravan routes. It is a rich city and, aside from the eternal parching heat, quite a
livableone.Iwouldnothavegreatlymindedservingoutmytimeofexilethere.
Butno,no,theletterofinstructionfromHisImperialMajestythatawaitedmeinPetrainformedmethatI
needsmustgoonward,farthersouth.ArabiaPetraeawasnotthepartofArabiathathehadinmindforme.I
enjoyed three days of civilized urban amusement there and then I was in the desert again, traveling by
camelthistime.Iwillspareyouthehorrorsofthatexperience.Wewereheading,theyletmeknow,forthe
NabataeanportofLeukeKomeontheRedSea.
Excellent,Ithought.ThisLeukeKomeisthechiefportofembarkationfortravelerssailingontoArabia
Felix.Sotheymustbesendingmetothatfertilelandofsoftbreezesandsweet-smellingblossoms,ofspices
andpreciousstones.Iimaginedmyselfwaitingoutmyseasonsofbanishmentinacozylittlevillabeside
thesea,nibblingtenderdatesandstudyingthefinebrandiesoftheplace.PerhapsIwoulddabbleabitinthe
frankincensetradeordoalittlelucrativebusinessincinnamonandcassiatopassthetime.
AtLeukeKomeIpresentedmyselftotheImperiallegate,asleekandself-importantyoungpopinjaynamed
Florentius Victor, and asked him how long it would be before my ship was to leave. He looked at me
blankly.“Ship?Whatship?Yourrouteliesoverland,mydearLeontiusCorbulo.”Hehandedmethelastof
mylettersofinstruction,by which I was informed that my final destination was aplaceby the name of
Macoraba,whereIwastoserveascommercialrepresentativeofHisImperialMajesty’sgovernment,with
thespecialresponsibilityofresolvinganytradeconflictsthatmightarisewithsuchrepresentativesofthe
EasternEmpireasmightbestationedthere.
“Macoraba?Andjustwhereisthat?”
“Why,inArabiaDeserta,”saidFlorentiusVictorblandly.
“ArabiaDeserta?”Irepeated,withasinkingheart.
“Exactly.Averyimportantcity,ascitiesinthatpartoftheworldgo.EverycaravancrossingArabiahasto
stopthere.Perhapsyou’veheardofitunderitsSaracenname.MeccaiswhattheSaracenscallit.”
****
ARABIADESERTA,Horatius!ArabiaDeserta!Forthetriflingcrimeoftamperingwiththeinnocenceof
his unimportant little British cup-boy, the heartless vindictive Emperor has buried me in this brutal
netherworldofremorselessheatanddriftingdunes.
IhavebeeninMacoraba—Mecca,Ishouldsay—justthreeorfourdays,now.Itseemslikealifetime
already.
WhatdowehaveinthislandofArabiaDeserta?Why,nothingbutadesolatetorridsandyplainintersected
bysharpandnakedhills.Therearenoriversandrainscarcelyeverfalls.Thesunismerciless.
Thewindisunrelenting.Thedunesshiftandheavelikeoceanwavesinastorm:wholelegionscould be
buriedandlostbyasingleday’sgusts.Fortreestheyhaveonlyscrubbylittletamarindsandacacias,that
taketheirnourishmentfromthenightlydews.Hereandthereonefindspoolsofbrackishwaterrisingfrom
thebowelsoftheearth,andtheseaffordabitofgreenpastureandsometimessomemoistgroundonwhich
thedate-palmandthegrapevinecantakeroot,butitisasparselifeindeedforthosewhohaveelectedto
settleinsuchplaces.
Inthe main theSaracensare a wanderingracewho endlessly guidetheirflocks ofhorsesand sheep and
camelsbackandforthacrossthishardaridland,seekingoutherbagefortheirbeastswheretheycan.Allthe
yearlongtheyfollowtheseasonsabout,movingfromseacoasttomountainstoplains,sothattheycantake
advantageofsuchlittlerainfallasthereis,fallingasitdoesindifferentmonthsinthesedifferentregions.
Fromtimetotimetheyventurefartherafield—tothebanksoftheNileorthefarmingvillagesofSyriaor
thevalleyofthe Euphrates— todescendas brigandsuponthe placidfarmers ofthoseplacesandextort
theirharvestsfromthem.
The harshness of the land makes it a place of danger and distress, of rapine and fear. In their own self-
interesttheSaracensformthemselvesintolittletribalbandsundertheabsolutegovernmentoffierceand
ruthlesselders;warfarebetweenthesetribesisconstant;andsovehementiseachman’ssenseofpersonal
honor that offense is all too easily given and private blood-feuds persist down through generation after
generation,yetancientoffensesneverseemtobewipedout.
Twosettlementsherehavecometobedignifiedwiththenameof“cities.”Cities,Horatius!Mudholeswith
wallsaboutthem,rather.InthenorthernpartofthisdesertonefindsIatrippa,whichintheSaracens’
owntongueisnamedMedina.Ithasapopulationof15,000orso,andasArabianvillagesgoisfairlywell
provided with water, so that it possesses abundant date-groves, and its people live comfortable lives, as
comfortisunderstoodinthisland.
Then,aten-daycaravanjourneytothesouth,throughsomberthornylandbrokennowandthenbyjutting
cragsofdarkstone,isthetownourgeographersknowasMacoraba,theMeccaofthelocals.
ThisMeccaisabiggerplace,perhaps25,000people,anditisofsuchineffableuglinessthatVirgilhimself
wouldnothavebeenabletoconceiveofit.Imagine,ifyouwill,a“city”whosebuildingsaredrabhovelsof
mudandbrick,strungoutalongarockyplainamilewideandtwomileslongthatliesatthefootofthree
starkmountainsvoidofallvegetation.Theflintysoilisuselessforagriculture.Theonesizablewellyields
bitterwater. Thenearestpasturelandisfiftymilesaway.Ihaveneverseensounprepossessingasitefor
humanhabitation.
Youcanreadilyguess,Ithink,whichofthetwocitiesofArabiaDesertaourgraciousEmperorchoseasmy
placeofexile.
“Why,”saidItoNicomedesthePaphlagonian,whowaskindenoughtoinvitemetobehisdinnergueston
myseconddepressingnightinMecca,“wouldanyoneinhisrightmindhavechosentofoundacityina
locationofthissort?”
Nicomedes,ashisnamewillhaveindicated,isaGreek.HeisthelegateinArabiaDesertaofourEmperor’s
royalcolleague,theEasternEmperorMauriceTiberius,andheis,Isuspect,therealreasonwhyIhavebeen
senthere,asIwillexplainshortly.
“It’s in the middle of nowhere,” I said. “We’re forty miles from the sea and on the other side there’s
hundreds of miles of empty desert. Nothing will grow here. The climate is appalling and the ground is
mostlyrock.Ican’tseetheslightestreasonwhyanyperson,evenaSaracen,wouldwanttolivehere.”
NicomedesthePaphlagonian,whoisahandsomemanofaboutfiftywiththickwhitehairandaffableblue
eyes, smiled and nodded. “I’ll give you two, my friend. One is that nearly all commerce in Arabia is
handledbycaravan.TheRedSeaisaplaceoftrickycurrentsandtreacherousreefs.Sailorsabhorit.
ThereforeinArabiagoodstravelmainlybyland,andallthecaravanshavetopassthisway,becauseMecca
is situated precisely at the mid-point between Damascus up north and the thriving cities of Arabia Felix
downbelowus,anditalsocommandstheonepassableeastwestrouteacrosstheremarkablydreadfuldesert
thatliesbetweenthePersianGulfandtheRedSea.Thecaravansthatcomeherearerichlyladenindeed,
and the merchants and hostelkeepers and tax-collectors of Mecca do the kind of lively business that
middlemen always do. You should know, my dear Leontius Corbulo, that there are a great many very
wealthymeninthistown.”
Hepausedandpouredmorewine forus: somewonderful sweetstufffromRhodes,hardlywhatIwould
haveexpectedanyoneinthisremoteoutposttokeeponhandforcasualguests.
“Yousaidthereweretworeasons,”Iremindedhim,afteratime.
“Oh,yes.Yes.”Hehadnotforgotten.Heisanunhurriedman.“Thisisalsoasacredcity,doyousee?
ThereisashrineinMecca,asanctuary,whichtheycalltheKaaba.Youshouldvisitittomorrow.It’llbe
goodforyoutogetoutandabouttown:itwillmakethetimepassmorecheerfully.Lookforasquatlittle
cubicalbuildingofblackstoneinthecenterofagreatplaza.It’squiteunsightly,butunimaginablyholyin
Saraceneyes.Itcontainssomesortoflumpofrockthatfellfromheaven,whichtheythinkofasagod.
The Saracen tribesmen from all over the country make pilgrimages here to worship at the Kaaba. They
marchroundandroundit,bowingtothestone,kissingit,sacrificingsheepandcamelstoit,andafterward
theygatherinthetavernsandholdrecitationsofwarpoetryandamorousverses.Verybeautifulpoetry,in
itsownbarbarousfashion,Ithink.Thesepilgrimscomeherebythethousands.
There’smoneyinhavingthenationalshrineinyourtown,Corbulo:bigmoney.”
Hiseyesweregleaming.HowtheGreekslovemoneymaking!
“Then,too,”hewenton,“thechieftainsofMeccahaveveryshrewdlyproclaimedthatintheholycityall
feudsandtribalwars are strictly forbidden during these great religiousfestivals.—Youknowaboutthe
Saracensandtheirfeuds?Well,you’lllearn.Atanyrate,it’sveryusefultoeverybodyinthiscountryfor
onecitytobesetasideasaplacewhereyoudon’thavetobeafraidofgettingascimitarinyourgutifyou
chancetomeetthewrongpersonwhilecrossingthestreet.Alotofbusinessgetsdonehereduringthetimes
oftrucebetweenpeoplefromtribesthathateeachothertherestoftheyear.AndtheMeccanstaketheircut,
do you follow me? That is the life of the city: collecting percentages on everything. Oh, this may be a
dismalhideoustown,Corbulo,buttherearemenlivingherewhocouldbuythelikesofyouandmeinlots
oftwodozen.”
“Isee.”Ipausedjustamoment.“AndtheEasternEmpire,Itakeit,mustbedevelopingsignificantbusiness
interestsinthispartofArabia,orelsewhywouldtheEasternEmperorhavestationedahighofficiallike
youhere?”
“We’rebeginningtohavealittletradewiththeSaracens;yes,”theGreeksaid.“Justalittle.”Andhefilled
myglassyetagain.
Thenextday—hot,dry,dusty,likeeverydayhere—IdidgotolookatthisKaabaoftheirs.Notatall
hard to find: right in the center of town, in fact, standing by itself in the midst of an empty square of
enormoussize.Theholybuildingitselfwasunimposing,perhapsfiftyfeethighatbest,coveredcompletely
byathickveilofblackdoth.IthinkyoucouldhaveputthethingdowninthecourtyardoftheTempleof
JupiterCapitolinusoranyofRoma’sothergreattemplesanditwouldutterlydisappearfromview.
Thisdidnotseemtobepilgrimageseason.TherewasnoonearoundtheKaababutadozenorsoSaracen
guards.Theywerearmedwithsuchformidableswords,andlookedsogenerallyunfriendly,thatIchosenot
tomakeacloserinspectionoftheshrine.
Myearlywanderingsthroughthetownshowedmeverylittlethatindicatedthepresenceoftheprosperity
thatNicomedesthePaphlagonianhadclaimedwastobefoundhere.ButinthecourseofthenextfewdaysI
camegraduallytounderstandthattheSaracensarenotapeopletoflaunttheirwealth,butpreferinsteadto
concealitbehindunadornedfacades.NowandagainIwouldhaveapeekthroughamomentarilyopened
gateintoabrieflyvisiblecourtyardandgotthesenseofapalatialbuildinghiddenbackthere,orIwouldsee
somemerchantandhiswife,richlyrobedandladenwithjewelsandgoldchains,climbingintoashrouded
sedanchair,andIknewfromsuchfitfulglimpsesthatthismustindeedbeawealthiercitythanitlooked.
Whichexplains,nodoubt,whyourGreekcousinshavestartedtofinditsoappealing.
TheseSaracensareahandsomepeople,leanandfinelymade,verydarkofskin,darkhairandeyesaswell,
withsharpfeaturesandprominentbrows.Theywearairywhiterobesandthewomengoveiled,Isuppose
toprotecttheirskinsagainsttheblowingsand.ThusfarIhaveseenmorethanafewyoungmenwhomight
beofinteresttome,andtheygavemequickflashinglooks,too,thatindicatedresponse,thoughitwasfar
toosoontotakeanysuchriskshere.Themaidensalsoarelovely.Buttheyareverywellguarded.
Myownsituationhereismorepleasing,oratleastlessdispleasing,thanIhadfeared.Ifeelthepainofmy
isolation, of course. There are no other Westerners. Greek is widely understood by the better class of
Saracens,butIyearnalreadyforthesoundofgoodhonestLatin.Still,ithasbeenarrangedformetohavea
walledvilla,of modestsize butdecentenough,attheedgeof townnearestthemountains.Ifonly ithad
properbaths,itwouldbeperfect;butina landwithoutwaterthereisnounderstandingof baths.Agreat
pity,that.ThevillabelongstoamerchantofSyrianoriginwhowillbespendingthenexttwoorthreeyears
travelingabroad.Ihaveinheritedfiveofhisservantsaswell.Awardrobeofclothinginthelocalstylehas
beenprovidedforme.
Itallmighthavebeenmuchworse,eh?
Butintruththeycouldn’tsimplyhaveleftmetoshiftformyselfinthisstrangeland.Iamstillanofficialof
the Imperial court, after all, even though I happen currently to be in disfavor and exile. I am here on
Imperialbusiness,youknow.ItwasnotjustoutofmerepiquethatJulianshippedmehere,eventhoughI
had angered him mightily by getting to his cup-boy before him. I realize now that he must have been
lookingforanexcusetosendsomeonetothisplacewhocouldserveunofficiallyasanobserverforhim,
andIinadvertentlygavehimthepretextheneeded.
Doyouunderstand?HeisworriedabouttheGreeks,whoevidentlyhavesetabouttheprocessofextending
theirauthorityintothispartoftheworld,whichhasalwaysbeenmoreorlessindependentoftheEmpire.
My formal assignment, as I have said, is to investigate the possibilities of expanding Roman business
interestsinArabiaDeserta—WesternRoman,thatis.ButIhaveacovertassignmentaswell,onesocovert
thatnotevenIhavebeeninformedofitsnature,thathastodowiththegrowingpowerofRomansofthe
othersortinthatregion.
WhatIamsaying,inordinarylanguage,isthatIamactuallyaspy,sentheretokeepwatchovertheGreeks.
Yes,Iknow,itisalloneempirethathappenstohavetwoemperors,andweoftheWestaresupposedto
look upon the Greeks as our cousins and co-administrators of the world, not as our rivals. Sometimes it
actually does work that way, I will concede. As in the time of Maximilianus III, for example, when the
GreekshelpedusputanendtothedisturbancesthattheGothsandVandalsandHunsandotherbarbarians
werecreatingalongournorthernfrontier.Andthenagainagenerationlater,whenHeracliusIIsentWestern
legionstohelptheEasternEmperorJustiniansmashtheforcesofPersiathathadbeencausingtheGreeks
such trouble to the east for so many years. Those were, of course, the two great military strokes that
eliminatedtheEmpire’senemiesforgoodandlaidthefoundationsfortheeraofeternalpeaceandsafetyin
whichwelivenow.
Butanexcessofpeaceandsafety,Horatius,canbringnigglinglittleproblemsofitsown.Withnoexternal
enemieslefttoworryabout,theEasternandWesternEmpiresarebeginningtojockeywitheachotherfor
advantage.Everybodyunderstandsthat, thoughnoone saysitaloud.Therewas thattime,letmeremind
you,whentheambassadorofMauriceTiberiuscametocourt,bearingacasketofpearlsasagiftforCaesar.
Iwasthere.“Etdonaferentes,”,saidJuliantomeunderhisbreath,asthecasketwasuncovered.Theline
everyschoolboyknows:IfearGreeksevenwhenbringinggifts.
IstheEasternEmpiretryingtoputadrawstringaroundthemidsectionofArabia,andbysodoingtogain
controloverthetradeinspicesandotherpreciousexoticmerchandisethatpassesthisway?Itwouldnotbe
agoodthingforustobecomealtogetherdependentontheGreeksforourcinnamonandourcardamom,our
frankincenseandourindigo.TheverysteelofourswordscomeswestwardtousoutofPersiabywayof
thisArabia,andthehorsesthatdrawourchariotsareArabianhorses.
AndsotheEmperorJulian,feigninggreatwrathandloudlycallingmeaserpentbeforeallthecourtwhen
thematterofthelittlecup-bearerbecameknown,hasthrustmeintothisparchedlandprimarilytofindout
what the Greeks a.re really up to here, and perhaps also to establish certain political connections with
powerfulSaracensmyself,connectionsthathecanemployinblockingtheEasternEmpire’sapparentforay
into these regions. Or so I do believe, Horatius. So I must believe, and I must make Caesar believe it
himself. For it is only by doing some great service for the Emperor that I can redeem myself from this
woefulplaceandwinmywaybacktoRoma,toCaesar’ssideandtoyours,mysweetfriend,toyours.
****
THENIGHTBEFORElast—IhavebeeninMeccaeightdays,now—Nicomedesinvitedmeonceagain
fordinner.Hewasdressed,asIwas,inwhiteSaracenrobes,andworealovelydaggerinajeweledsheath
strappedtohiswaist.Iglancedquicklyatit,feelingsomesurpriseatbeinggreetedbyahostwhoworea
weapon; but instantly he took the thing off and presented it to me. He had mistaken my concern for
admiration, and it is a Saracen custom, I have learned, to bestow upon one’s guests anything in one’s
householdthattheguestmightchoosetoadmire.
Wedinedthistimenotinthetiledparlorwherehehadentertainedmepreviouslybutinacoolcourtyard
besideaplashingfountain.Thepossessionofsuchafountainisatokenofgreatluxuryinthisdryland.
His servants brought us an array of fine wines and sweetmeats and cool sherbets. I could see that
Nicomedeshadmodeledhismanneroflivingafterthestyleoftheleadingmerchantsofthecity,andwas
revelinginthat.
IhadnotbeenthereverylongwhenIgotrightdowntothecentralissue:thatis,whatexactlyitwasthatthe
GreekEmperorhopedtoaccomplishbystationingaroyallegateinMecca.Sometimes,Ithink,thebestway
for a spy to learn what he needs to learn is to put aside all guile and play the role of a simple,
straightforward,ingenuousmanwhomerelyspeakshisheart.
SoaswesatoverroastmuttonandplumpdatesinwarmmilkIsaid,“IsittheEasternEmperor’shopeto
incorporateArabiaintotheEmpire,then?”
Nicomedes laughed. “Oh, we’re not so foolish as to think we can do that. No one’s ever been able to
conquerthisplace,youknow.TheEgyptianstriedit,andthePersiansofCyrus’stime,andAlexanderthe
Great.Augustussent anexpeditioninhere,tenthousandmen,sixmonths tofighttheirwayinandsixty
daysofhorribleretreat.IthinkTrajanmadeanattempttoo.Thethingis,Corbulo,theseSaracensarefree
men, free within themselves, which is a kind of freedom that you and I are simply not equipped to
comprehend. They can’t be conquered because they can’t be governed. Trying to conquer them is like
tryingtoconquerlionsortigers.Youcanwhipalionorevenkillit,yes,butyoucan’tpossiblyimposeyour
willonitevenifyoukeepitinacagefortwentyyears.Thesearearaceoflionshere.Governmentaswe
understanditisaconceptthatcanneverexisthere.”
“Theyareorganizedintotribes,aren’tthey?That’sasortofgovernment.
He shrugged. “Built out of nothing more than family loyalty. You can’t fashion any sort of national
administrationoutofit.Kinsmanlooksafterkinsmanandeverybodyelseisregardedasapotentialenemy.
There are no kings here, do you realize that? Never have been. Just tribal chieftains — emirs, they call
them.Alandwithoutkingsisnevergoingtosubmittoanemperor.Wecouldfillthisentirepeninsulawith
soldiers,fiftylegions,andtheSaracenswouldsimplymeltawayintothedesertandpickusoffonebyone
from a distance with javelins and arrows. An invisible enemy striking at us from a terrain that we can’t
survivein.They’reunconquerable,Corbulo.Unconquerable.”
Therewaspassioninhisvoice,andapparentsincerity.TheGreeksaregoodatapparentsincerity.
Isaid,“Sothebestyou’relookingforissomekindoftradeagreement,isthatit?JustaninformalByzantine
presence,notanyactualincorporationoftheregionintotheEmpire.”
Henodded.“That’saboutright.IsyourEmperorbotheredbythat?”
“It’sdrawnhisattention,Iwouldsay.Wewouldn’twanttoloseaccesstothegoodsweobtainfromthispart
of the world. And also those from places like India to the east that normally ship their merchandise
westwardbywayofArabia.”
“Butwhywouldthathappen,mydearCorbulo?Thisisasingleempire,isitnot?JulianIIrulesfromRoma
andMauriceTiberiusrulesfromConstantinopolis,buttheyrulejointlyforthecommongoodofallRoman
citizenseverywhere.AshasbeenthecasesincethegreatConstantinusdividedtherealminthefirstplace
threehundredyearsago.”
Yes. Of course. That is the official line. But I know better and you know better and Nicomedes the
Paphlagonianknewbettertoo.Ihadpushedtheissueasfarasseemedappropriatejustthen,however.Itwas
timetomoveontomorefrivoloustopics.
I found, though, that dropping the matter was not all that easily done. Having voiced my suspicions, I
therebyhadinvitedcounterargument,andNicomedeswasnotfinishedprovidingit.Ihadnochoicebutto
listenwhilehewovesuchawebofwordsaboutmethatitcompletelycapturedmeintohiswayofthinking.
TheGreeksaredamnablycleverwithwords,ofcourse;andhehadlulledmewithsweetwinesandsurfeited
mewithanabundanceoffinefoodsothatIwasaltogetherunablejustthentorefuteandrebut,andbefore
hewasdonewithmemymindwasutterlyspunaroundonthesubjectofEastversusWest.
Heassuredme in twenty differentways that an expansion of the Eastern Empire’sinfluenceinto Arabia
Deserta,ifsuchathingweretotakeplace,wouldnotinanywayjeopardizeexistingWesternRomantrade
in Arabian or Indian merchandise. Arabia Petraea just to the north had long been under the Eastern
Empire’s administration, he pointed out, and that was true also of the provinces of Syria Palaestina and
AiguptosandCappadociaandMesopotamiaandallthoseothersunnyeasternlandsthatConstantinus,atthe
timeoftheoriginaldivisionoftherealm,hadplacedunderthejurisdictionoftheEmperorwhowouldsitat
Constantinopolis. Did I believe that the prosperity of the Western Empire was in any way hampered by
having those provinces under Byzantine administration? Had I not just traveled freely through many of
thoseprovincesonmywayhere?WastherenotamultitudeofWesternRomanmerchantsresidentinthem,
andweretheynotfreetodobusinessthereastheywished?
Icouldnotcontestanyofthat.Iwantedtodisagree,tosummonupahundredinstancesofsubtleEastern
interferencewithWesterntrade,butjustthenIcouldnotofferevenone.
Believeme,Horatius,atthatmomentIfoundmyselfquiteunabletounderstandwhyIhadeverconceived
suchamistrustofGreekintentions.Theyareindeedourcousins,Itoldmyself.TheyareGreekRomansand
weareRomanRomans,yes,buttheEmpireitselfisoneentity,chosenbythegodstoruletheworld.Agold
piece struck in Constantinopolis is identical in weight and design to one struck in Roma. One bears the
nameandfaceoftheEasternEmperor,onethenameandfaceoftheEmperoroftheWest,butallelseisthe
same.Thecoinsofonerealmpassfreelyintheother.Theirprosperityisourprosperity;ourprosperityis
theirs.Andsoonandsoforth.
ButasIthoughtthesethings,Horatius,IalsorealizedgloomilythatbysodoingIwasundercuttinginmy
ownmindmyonetenuoushopeoffreeingmyselffromthislandofburningsandsandstarktreelesshills.
AsInotedinmymostrecentletter,whatIneedissomewayofsaying,“Look,Caesar,howwellIhave
servedyou!”sothathewouldsayinreturn,“Welldone,thougoodandfaithfulservant,”andsummonme
backtothepleasuresofthecourt.Forthattooccur,though,ImustshowCaesarthathehasenemieshere,
andgivehimthewayofdealingwiththoseenemies.Butwhatenemies?Who?Where?
Weweredonewithourmealnow.Nicomedesclappedhishandsandaservitorbroughtaflaskofsomerich
goldenbrandythatcame,hesaid,fromadesertprincipalityontheshoresofthePersianGulf.Itdazzledmy
palateandfurtherbefoggedmymind.
He conducted me, then, through the rooms of his villa, pointing out the highlights of what even in my
blurredconditionIcouldseewasanextraordinarycollectionofantiquitiesandcurios:fineGreekbronze
figurines,majesticsculpturesfromEgyptdoneinblackstone,strangewoodenmasksofbarbaricdesignthat
came,hesaid,fromtheunknownlandsoftorridAfrica,andmuch,muchmore.
Hespokeofeachpiecewiththedeepestknowledge.BynowIhadcometoseethatmyhostwasnotonlya
deviousdiplomatbutalsoapersonofsomepowerandconsequenceintheEasternrealm,andascholarof
notebesides.Iwasgratefultohimforhavingreachedoutsogenerouslytomeintheseearlydaysofmy
lonely exile — to the displaced and unhappy Roman nobleman, bereft of all that was familiar to him, a
strangerinastrangeland.ButIknewalsothatIwasmeanttobegratefultohim,thatitwashispurposeto
ensnaremeinthebondsoffriendshipandobligation,sothatIwouldhavenothingbutgoodthingstosay
abouttheGreeklegateinMeccashouldIeverreturntomymastertheEmperorJulianII.
WouldIeverreturn,though?Thatwasthequestion.
That is the question, yes. Will I ever see Roma of the green hills and shining marble palaces again,
Horatius,oramIdoomedtobakeintheheatofthisovenofadesertforever?
****
HAVING NO occupation here and having as yet found no friends other than Nicomedes, whose
companionship I could not presume to demand too often, I whiled away the days that followed in close
explorationofthetown.
The shock of finding myself resident in this squalid little place has begun to wear off. I have started to
adapt,tosomedegree,tothechangethathascomeovermyexistence.ThepleasuresofRomaarenolonger
minetohave;verywell,Imustsearchoutsuchdiversionasistobefoundhere,forthereisnoplaceinthe
world,humblethoughitbe,thatdoesnotofferdiversionofsomesorttohimwhohaseyesforfindingit.
SointhesedayssincemylastletterIhaveroamedfromoneendofMeccatotheother,upanddownthe
broadthoughunpavedboulevardsandintomanyofthenarrowlanesandbywaysthatintersectthem.My
presence does not appear to be greatly troublesome to anyone, although from time to time I do become
cognizantthatIamtheobjectofsomeone’scold,gleamingstare.
Iam,asyouknow,theonlyRomanoftheWestinMecca,butscarcelytheonlyforeigner.Inthevarious
marketplaces I have seen Persians, Syrians, Ethiopians, and of course a good many Greeks. There are
numerousIndianshereaswell,darklithepeoplewithconspicuousluminouseyes,andalsosomeHebrews,
thesebeingapeoplewholivemainlyoverinAiguptos,justontheothersideoftheRedSeafromArabia.
TheyhavebeenresidentinAiguptosforthousandsofyears,thoughevidentlytheywereoriginallyadesert
tribefromsomecountrymuchlikethisone,andtheyarenotinanywayAiguptianinlanguageorcultureor
religion.TheseHebrewshaveinmoderntimesbeguntospreadfromtheirhomealongthe Nilusintothe
landsadjacent,andtherearemorethanafewofthemhere.Nicomedeshasspokenofthemtome.
Theyareunusualpeople,theHebrews.Themostinterestingthingaboutthemisthattheybelievethereis
onlyonegod,aharshandausteredeitywhocannotbeseenandwhomustnotbeportrayedinimagesofany
sort.They havenothing butcontemptfor thegods of otherraces, deemingthemwhollyimaginary,mere
creaturesof fableand fantasy thatpossessno trueexistence.This mayverylikely bethecase, certainly:
whoamongushaseverlaideyesonApolloorMercuryorMinerva?Mostpeople,however,havethegood
sensenottomakeamockeryofthereligiouspracticesofothers,whereastheHebrewsapparentlycannot
keepthemselvesfromtrumpetingthevirtuesoftheirownoddspeciesofbeliefwhiledenouncingeverybody
elsemostvociferouslyasidolatersandfools.
Asyoucanreadilyimagine,thisdoesnotmakethemverypopularamongtheirneighbors.Buttheyarean
industriousfolk,withspecialaptitudesforthesciencesofagricultureandirrigation,andanotableknack,
also,forfinanceandtrade,whichiswhyNicomedeshaspaidsuchattentiontothem.Hetellsmethatthey
ownmostofthebestlandinthenorthernpartofthecountry,thattheyarethechiefbankershereinMecca,
andthattheycontrolthemarketsinweapons,armor,andagriculturaltoolseverywhereintheland.Itseems
advantageousformetogettoknowoneortwoimportantHebrewsofMeccaandIhavemadeattemptsto
doso,thusfarwithoutanysuccess,duringthecourseofmyramblingsinthemarketplaces.
Themarketshereareveryspecialized,eachofferingitsownkindofmerchandise.Ihavevisitedthemallby
now.
Thereisaspice-market,ofcourse:greatsacksofpepperbothblackandwhite,andgarlicandcuminand
saffron,sandalwoodandcassia,aloes,spikenard,andanaromaticdriedleafthattheycallmalabathron,and
hostsofotherthingsIcouldnotbegintoname.Thereisacamel-market,onlyoncertaindaysoftheweek,
wherethosestrangebeastsareboughtandsoldinheatedbargainingthatgoestotheedgeofactualcombat.I
wentuptooneofthesecreaturestoseeitbetterandityawnedinmyfaceasthoughIwerethedullestof
rogues.Thereisamarketforcloth,whichdealsinmuslinsandsilksandcottonbothIndianandAiguptian,
andamarketwherecrudeidolsofmanykindsaresoldtothecredulous—IsawaHebrewmanwalkpastit,
andspitandglareandmakewhatIthinkwasaholysignofhispeople—andamarketforwines,andone
forperfumes,andthemarketofmeatandtheoneofgrains,andthemarketwheretheHebrewmerchants
selltheirirongoods,andoneforfruitsofallkinds,pomegranatesandquincesandcitronsandlemonsand
sourorangesandgrapesandpeaches,allthisinthemidstofthemostforbiddingdesertyoucouldimagine!
Andalsothereisamarketforslaves,whichiswhereIencounteredtheremarkablemanwhocalledhimself
Mahmud.
The slave-market of Mecca is as bustling as any slave-market anywhere, which illustrates how great a
degreeofprosperityliesbehindthedeceptivelyshabbyfacadethiscitydisplaystostrangers.Itisthegreat
flesh-martoftheland,andbuyerssometimescomefromasfarawayasSyriaandthePersianGulftocheck
outtheslavemongers’latesthaulofdesirablehumanexotica.
Thoughwoodisaluxuryinthisdesertcountry,thereistheusualplatformofplanksandtimbers,theusual
awningsuspendedfromacoupleofpoles,theusualsorryhuddleofnakedmerchandisewaitingtobesold.
Asusual,theywereamixofallraces,thoughwithadistinctAsianandAfricancast,here:Ethiopsdarkas
nightandbrawnyNubiansevendarker,andfiat-facedfair-skinnedCircassiansandAvarsandothersinewy
northernfolk,and some who might have beenPersiansor Indians, and even a sullenyellow-hairedman
who could have been a Briton or Teuton. The auctions were conducted, quite naturally, in the Saracen
tongue,sothatIunderstoodnothingofwhatwassaid,butIsupposeitwasthecustomaryfraudulentgabble
thatfoolsnoone,howthisbuxomsultryTurkishwenchwasaking’sdaughterinherown land,andthis
thick-bearded scowling Libyan had been a charioteer of the highest distinction before his master’s
bankruptcyhadforcedhissale,andsoforth.
ItsohappenedthatIwaspassingtheauction-placeatnoondaythreedayspastwhenthreesuppletawny-
skinnedwantons,whofromtheirshamelessmovementsandsmilesmusthavebeenveryskilledprostitutes
indeed,cameupforsaleasasinglelot,intendedperhapsasconcubinesforsomegreatemir.
Theyworenothingbutjinglingbraceletsofsilvercoinsabouttheirwristsandankles,andwerelaughing
andthrustingtheirbreastsfromsidetosideandwinkingatthecrowdtoinviteactivebiddingonbehalfof
theirseller,whoforallIknowwastheiruncleortheirbrother.
ThespectaclewassolivelythatIpausedtoobserveitamoment.HardlyhadItakenmyplaceinthecrowd,
though,thanthemanstandingjusttomyleftsurprisedmebyturningtowardmeandmuttering,inavibrant
toneofintensefurypowerfullycontained,“Ah,theswine!Theyshouldbewhippedandturnedoutintothe
desertforthejackalstoeat!”ThishesaidinquitepassableGreek,utteringthewordsinalowwhisperthat
nonethelesswasstrikinglyrichandcaptivating,oneofthemostmusicalspeakingvoicesIhaveeverheard.
Itwasasthoughthewordshadoverflowedhissoulandhehadhadnochoicebuttoutterthematonceto
themanclosestathand.
Thepowerofthatextraordinaryvoiceandtheviolenceofhissentimenthadthemostsingulareffectonme.
It was as though I had been seized by the wrist in an irresistible grip. I stared at him. He was holding
himselftautasabowstringwhenthearcherisatthevergeoflettingfly,andappearedtobetremblingwith
wrath.
Somesortofresponseseemedincumbentonme.ThebestIcoulddowastosay,“Thegirls,doyoumean?”
“The slavemasters,” said he. “The women are but chattel. They are not to be held accountable. But it is
wrongtoputchatteloutforpandering,asthesecriminalsdo.”
Andthen,relaxinghisstanceabitandlookingnowsomewhatabashedathisforwardness,hesaidinafar
lessassertivetoneofvoice,“Butyoumustforgivemeforpouringthesethoughtsintotheunwillingearsof
astrangerwhosurelyhasnointerestinhearingsuchthings.”
“Onthecontrary.Whatyousayinterestsmegreatly.Indeed,youmusttellmemore.”
Istudiedhimwithnolittlecuriosity.IthadcrossedmymindimmediatelythathemightbeaHebrew:his
horrorandrageatthesightofthistriflingbitofflesh-peddlingseemedtomarkhimasakinsmanofthat
dourmanwhohadmadesuchadisplayofiratepietyinthemarketplaceofidols.YouwillrecallthatIhad
resolvedtoseekcontactwithmembersofthatagile-mindedraceofmerchantshere.Butamoment’scloser
examinationofhislookandgarbledmenowtorealizethathemustbepureSaracenbyblood.
Therewastremendouspresenceandforceabouthim.Hewastallandslender,ahandsomedark-hairedman
of perhaps thirty-five years or a little more, with a dense flowing beard, piercing eyes, and a warm and
gracioussmilethatquitecontradictedtheunnervingferocityofhisgaze.Hisprincelybearing,hiseloquent
mannerofspeech,andthefinenessofhisgarmentsallsuggestedthathewasamanofwealthandbreeding,
wellconnectedinthiscity.AtonceIsensedthathemightbeevenmoreusefultomethananyHebrew.SoI
drewhimout,questioninghimalittleonthereasonsforhisspontaneousoutburstagainstthetradeineasy
women in this marketplace, and without the slightest hesitation he poured forth a powerful and lengthy
tirade,fierceincontentalthoughstatedinthatsamecaptivatingmusicaltone,againstthetotalityofthesins
ofhiscountrymen.Andwhatamultitudeofsinstheywere!Mereprostitutionwastheleastofthem.Ihad
notexpectedtoencountersuchaCatohere.
“Lookaboutyou!”heurgedme.“Meccaisanutterabyssofwickedness.Doyouseetheidolsthataresold
everywhere,andsetuppiouslyinshopsandhomesinplacesofrespect?Theyarefalsegods,theseimages,
forthetruegod,andHeisOne,cannotberenderedbyanyimage.—Doyouobservetheflagrantcheating
inthemarketplaces?—Doyouseethemenlyingshamelesslytotheirwives,andthewiveslyingaswell,
andthegamblingandthedrinkingandthewhoring,andthequarrelingbetweenbrotherandbrother?”And
therewasmuchmore.Icouldseethatheheldthiscatalogofoutragepentupinhisbreastatalltimes,ready
to issue it forth whenever he found some new willing listener. Yet he said all this not in any lofty and
superior way, but almost in bewilderment: he was saddened rather than infuriated by the failings of his
brethren,orsoitseemedtome.
Thenhepaused,onceagainchangingtone,asthoughithadoccurredtohimthatitwasimpolitetoremain
inthishighdenunciatorymodeforanygreatlengthoftime.“AgainIaskyoutopardonmeformyexcess
ofzeal.Ifeelverystronglyonthesematters.Itistheworstofmyfaults,Ihope.—IfIamnotmistaken,you
aretheRomanwhohascometoliveamongus?”
“Yes.LeontiusCorbulo,atyourservice.ARomanoftheRomans,Iliketosay.”Igavehimaflourish.
“Myfamilyisaveryancientone,withhistorictiestoSyriaandotherpartsofAsia.”
“Indeed.IamMahmudsonofAbdallah,whowasthesonof—”well,thesonofIforgetwhom,whowas
the son of so-and-so, the son of someone else. It is the custom of these Saracens to let you have their
pedigreesfiveorsixgenerationsbackinasingleoutburstofbreath,butitwasimpossibleformetoretain
most of the barbarous outlandish names in my mind very long. I do recall his telling me that he was a
memberofoneofthegreatmercantileclansofMecca,whichiscalledsomethingliketheKoreish.
Itseemedtomethatastrongrapporthadarisenbetweenusinjustthesefewmoments,and,suchwasthe
powerofhispersonality,Iwasreluctanttoleavehim.Sinceitwasthetimeforthemiddaymeal,Iproposed
thatwetakeittogether,andinvitedhimtocomewithmetomyvilla.ButherespondedthatIwasaguestin
Mecca and it was not fitting for him to enjoy my hospitality until I had partaken of his. I didn’t try to
disputetheissue.TheSaracens,Ihadalreadybeguntolearn,aremostpunctiliousaboutthissortofthing.
“Come,”hesaid,beckoning.AndsoitwasthatforthefirsttimeIenteredthehomeofawealthymerchant
ofMecca.
ThevillaofMahmudsonofAbdallahwasnotunlikethatofNicomedes,thoughonalargerscale—walled
courtyard, central fountain, bright airy rooms, inlays of vividly colored tile set in the walls. But unlike
Nicomedes,Mahmudwasnocollectorofantiquities.Heappearedtohavescarcelyanypossessionsatall.A
prevailingausterityofdecorationwastheruleinhishouse.Andofcoursetherewasnosignanywhereinit
oftheidolsthatotherMeccansseemedtocherish.
ThewifeofMahmudmadeafleetingappearance.HernamewassomethinglikeKadija,andsheseemed
considerably older than her husband, a fact soon confirmed from Mahmud’s own lips. A couple of
daughterspassedtoandfroinequallybriefmanner.ButheandIdinedalone,seatedonstrawmatsinthe
centerofahugebareroom.Mahmudsatcrossleggedlikeatailor,andappearedtobeentirelyateaseinthat
posture. I tried but failed to manage it, and after a time fell into the normal reclining position, wishing
mightilythatIhadacushionformyelbow,butnotwillingtogiveoffensebyaskingforone.Themealitself
wassimple,grilledmeatandastewofbarleyandmelons,withnothingbutwatertowashitdown.Mahmud
didnot,itseemed,careforwine.
Hespokeofhimselfwithcompleteopenness,asthoughwewerekinsmenfromwidelydistantlandswho
weremeetingforthefirsttime.IlearnedthatMahmud’sfatherhaddiedbeforehisbirthandhismotherhad
lived only a short while thereafter, so he had grown up in impoverished circumstances under the
guardianshipofanuncle.FromhistaleIreceivedtheimpressionofalonelychildhoodspentwanderingthe
cheerlessrockyhillsbeyondtown,ponderingfromanearlyage,perhaps,thegreatquestionsofeternityand
thespiritthatplainlyhavecontinuedtoobsesshimtothisday.
Inhistwenty-fifthyear,saidMahmud,heenteredintotheserviceofthewomanKadija,awealthywidow
fifteenyearshissenior,whosoonfellinlovewithhimandaskedhimtobeherhusband.Thishetoldme
with no trace of embarrassment at all, and I suppose he has no reason to feel any. A look of happiness
comesintohiseyeswhenhe speaksofher.Shehasbornehimbothsons anddaughters,thoughonlythe
daughters have survived. The prosperity that he enjoys today is, I gather, the result of his skillful
managementofthepropertythathiswifebroughttotheirunion.
About Roma, Constantinopolis, or any other place beyond the frontiers of Arabia Deserta, he asked me
nothingwhatever.Thoughhisintelligenceisdeepandquesting,hedidnotseemconcernedwiththeempires
ofthisworld.ItappearsthathehasscarcelybeenoutsideMeccaatall,thoughhementionedhavingmadea
journeyasfarasDamascusononeoccasion.IwouldthinkhimasimplemanifIdidnotknow,Horatius,
howcomplexinfactheis.
ThegreatpreoccupationofhislifeishisconceptoftheOneGod.
This is, of course, the idea famously advocated since antiquity by the Hebrews. I have no doubt that
MahmudhashadconversationswiththemembersofthatracewholiveinMecca,andthattheirideashave
affected his philosophy. He must surely have heard them express their reverence for their aloof and
unknowablegod,andtheircontemptforthesuperstitionsoftheMeccans,whocherishsuchamultitudeof
idolsandtalismansandpracticeacredulousvenerationofthesunandthemoonandstarsandplanetsanda
myriadofdemons.Hemakesnosecretofthis:IheardhimmakereferencetoanancientHebrewprophet
calledAbraham,whoisapparentlyafigurehegreatlyadmires,andalsoacertainMoses,alaterleaderof
thattribe.
Buthelaysclaimtoaseparaterevelationofhisown.Heassertsthathisspecialenlightenmentcameasthe
resultof arduous privateprayerand contemplation. Hewouldgo up often intothemountainsbehind the
townand meditatein solitudeina secludedcave;and one dayanawareness oftheOneness ofGodwas
revealedtohimasthoughbyadivinemessenger.
Mahmudcallsthisgod“Allah.”Amarveloustransformationcomesoverhimwhenhebeginstospeakof
him.Hisfaceglows;hiseyestakeonthequalityofbeacons;hisveryvoicebecomessuchathingofmusic
andpoetrythatyouwouldthinkyouwereinthepresenceofApollo.
Itisimpossible,hesays,evertounderstandthenatureofAllah.Heistoofaraboveusforthat.Otherpeople
may regard their gods as personages in some kind of story, and tell lively fanciful tales of their travels
throughouttheworldandtheirquarrelswiththeirwivesandtheiradventuresonthebattlefield,andmake
statuesofthemthatshowthemasmenandwomen,butAllahisnotlikethat.Onedoesnottelltalesabout
Allah.Hecannotbethoughtofasatallmanwithacommandingfaceandafullbeardandahostofpassions
— someone rather like an Emperor, let us say, but on a larger scale — and it is foolishness, as well as
blasphemy,tomakerepresentationsofhimthewaytheancientGreeksdidofsuchgodsoftheirsasZeus
andAphroditeandPoseidon,orwedoof Jupiteror VenusorMars.Allahisthecreativeforceitself,the
makeroftheuniverse,toomightyandvasttobecapturedbyanysortofrepresentation.
IaskedMahmudhow,ifitisblasphemoustoimagineafaceforhisgod,itcanbeacceptabletogivehima
name. For surely that is a kind of representation also. Mahmud seemed pleased at the sharpness of my
question;andheexplainedthat“Allah”isnotactuallyaname,as“Mahmud”or“LeontiusCorbulo”or
“Jupiter”arenames,butisamereword,simplythetermintheSaracenlanguagethatmeansthegod.
ToMahmud,thefactthatthereisonlyonegod,whosenatureisabstractandincomprehensibletomortals,is
the great sublime law from which all other laws flow. This will probably make no more sense to you,
Horatius,thanitdoestome,butitisnotourbusinesstobephilosophers.Whatisofinteresthereisthatthe
manhassuchapassionatebeliefinthethingshebelieves.Sopassionateisitthatasyoulistentohimyou
becomecaught upinthe simplicityandthe beauty ofhisideas and thepowerof his wayofspeaking of
them,andyouarealmostreadytocryoutyourbeliefinAllahyourself.
Itisaverysimplecreedindeed,butenormouslypowerfulinitsdirectness,thewaythingsinthisharshand
uncompromisingdesertlandtendtobe.Hestringentlyrejectsallidol-worship,allfable-making,allnotions
ofhowthemovementsofthestarsandplanetsgovernourlives.Heplacesnotrustinoraclesorsorcery.
Thedecreesofkingsandprincesmeanverylittletohimeither.Heacceptsonlytheauthorityofhisremote
and awesome and inflexible god, whose great stem decree it is that we live virtuous lives of hard work,
piety,andrespectforourfellowmen.ThosewholivebyAllah’slaw,saysMahmud,willbegatheredinto
paradiseattheendoftheirdays;thosewhodonotwilldescendintothemostterribleofhells.AndMahmud
doesnotintendtorestuntilallArabiahasbeenbroughtforthoutofslothanddegeneracyandsintoaccept
thesupremacyoftheOneGod,anditsscatteredsquabblingtribesforgedatlastintoasinglegreatnation
undertheruleofoneinvinciblekingwhocouldenforcethelawsofthatgod.
Hewasawesomeinhisconviction.Bythetimehewasdone,Iwasclosetofeelingthepresenceandmight
ofAllahmyself.Thatwassurprisingandalittlefrightening,thatMahmudcouldstirsuchfeelingsinme,of
allpeople.Iwasamazed.Butthenhehadfinishedhisexpounding,andafterafewmomentsthesensation
ebbedandIwasmyselfagain.
“Whatdoyousay?”heaskedme.“Canthisbeanythingotherthanthetruth?”
“Iamnotinapositiontojudgethat,”saidIcarefully,notwishingtogiveoffensetothisinterestingnew
friend, especially in his own dining hall. “We Romans are accustomed to regarding all creeds with
tolerance,andifyouevervisitourcapitalyouwillfindtemplesofahundredfaithsstandingsidebyside.
ButIdoseethebeautyofyourteachings.”
“Beauty?Iaskedabouttruth.Whenyousayyouacceptallfaithsasequallytrue,whatyoureallysayisthat
youseenotruthinanyofthem,isthatnotso?”
Idisputedthat,reachingintomyschooldaysformaximsoutofPlatoandMarcusAureliustoarguethatall
gods are reflections of the true godhood. But it was no use. He saw instantly through my Roman
indifferencetoreligion.Ifyouclaimtobelieve,aswedo,thatthisgodisjustasgoodasthatone,whatyou
arereally saying is thatgodsingeneral don’tmatter much at all.Ourlive-and-let-livepolicy towardthe
worshipof Mithra andDagonandBaal and all theotherdeities whose templesthriveinRoma is a tacit
admissionofthatview.AndforMahmudthatisacontemptibleposition.
Sensing the tension that was rising in him, and unwilling to have our pleasant conversation turn acrid, I
offeredapleaoffatigue,andpromisedtocontinuethediscussionwithhimatanothertime.
Intheevening,havingbeeninvitedyetagaintodinewithNicomedesthePaphlagonianandwithmyhead
still spinning from the thrust of all that Mahmud had imparted to me, I asked him if he could tell me
anythingaboutthisextraordinaryperson.
“Thatman!”Nicomedessaid,chuckling.“Consortingwithmadmen,areyou,now,Corbulo?”
“Heseemedquitesanetome.”
“Oh,heis,heis,atleastwhenhe’ssellingyouapairofcamelsorasackofsaffron.Butgethimstartedon
thesubjectofreligionandyou’llseeadifferentman.”
“Asamatteroffact,wehadquitealengthyphilosophicaldiscussion,heandI,thisveryafternoon,”Isaid.
“Ifounditfascinating.I’veneverheardanythingquitelikeit.”
“I dare say you haven’t. Poor chap, he should get himself away from this place while he’s still got the
chance.IfhekeepsongoingthewayIunderstandhe’sbeendoinglately,he’llturnupdeadoutinthedunes
oneofthesedays,andnoonewillbesurprised.”
“Idon’tfollowyou.”
“Preaching against the idols the way he does, is what I mean. You know, Corbulo, they worship three
hundreddifferentgodsinthiscity,andeachonehashisown shrineandhisown priesthoodandhisown
busyfactorydedicated to making idols for sale to pilgrims, and so on and so forth.IfIunderstandyour
Mahmudcorrectly,he’dliketoshutallthatdown.Isthatnotso?”
“Isuppose.Certainlyheexpressedplentyofscornforidolsandidolaters.”
“Indeedhedoes.Uptillnowhe’ssimplyhadalittleprivatecult,though,halfadozenmembersofhisown
family.Theygettogetherin his house and pray to his particular god in the particular way that Mahmud
prescribes.Aninnocentenoughpastime,I’dsay.Butlately,I’mtold,he’sbeenspreadinghisideasfarther
afield,goingaroundtothispersonandthatandtestingouthisseditiousideasabouthowtoreformSaracen
societyonthem.As hedid withyouthisveryday, itseems.Well,itdoesno harmforhimtobe talking
religionwithsomebodylikeyouorme,becauseweRomansareprettycasualaboutsuchmatters.
But the Saracens aren’t. Before long, mark my words, he’ll decide to set himself up as a prophet who
preachesinpublic,andhe’llstandinthemainsquarethreateningfireanddamnationtoanybodywhokeeps
totheoldways,andthenthey’llhavetokillhim.Theoldwaysarebigbusinesshere,andwhatthistownis
aboutisbusinessandnothingbutbusiness.MahmudisfullofsubversivenotionsthattheseMeccanscan’t
affordtoindulge.He’dbetterwatchhisstep.”Andthen,withagrin:“Butheisanamusingdevil,isn’the,
Corbulo?Asyoucantell,I’vehadachatortwowithhimmyself.”
Ifyouaskme,Horatius,NicomedesishalfrightandhalfwrongaboutMahmud.
Surely he’s correct that Mahmud is almost ready to begin preaching his religion in public. The way he
accostedme,atotalstranger,attheslave-markettestifiestothat.AndhistalkofnotrestinguntilArabiahas
beenmadetoacceptthesupremacyoftheOneGod:whatelsecanthatmean,otherthanthatheisonthe
vergeofspeakingoutagainsttheidolaters?
Mahmud told me in just so many words, during our lunch together, that the way Allah makes his
commandmentsconcerninggoodandevilknowntomankindisthroughcertainchosenprophets,oneevery
thousandyearsorso.AbrahamandMosesoftheHebrewsweresuchprophets,Mahmudsays.Idobelieve
thatMahmudlooksuponhimselfastheirsuccessor.
I think the Greek is wrong, though, in saying that Mahmud will be killed by his angry neighbors for
speaking out against their superstitions. No doubt they’ll want to kill him, at first. If his teachings ever
prevail,they’llthrowthewholehordeofpriestsandidol-carversoutofbusinessandknockagreatholein
thelocaleconomy,and nobodyhereis goingtobe veryenthusiastic aboutthat. Buthispersonalityisso
powerful that I think he’ll win them over. By Jupiter, he practically had me willing to accept the divine
omnipotenceofAllahbeforehewasdone!He’llfindawaytoputhisideasacrosstothem.Ican’timagine
howhe’lldoit,buthe’scleverinadozendifferentways,atruedesertmerchant,andsomehowhe’lloffer
themsomethingthatwillmakeitworthwhileforthemtogiveuptheiroldbeliefsandaccepthis.
Allahandnooneelsewillbethegodofthisplace,iswhatIexpect,bythetimeMahmudhasfinishedhis
holywork.
Ineedtoponderallthisverycarefully.Youdon’tcomeuponamanwithMahmud’skindofinnatepersonal
magnetismveryoften.Iamhauntedbythestrengthofit,awedbytherecollectionofhow,forthemoment,
hehadmanagedtowinmyallegiancetothatOneGodofhis.Isthere,Iwonder,somewaythatIcanturn
Mahmud’sgreatpowertoswaymen’smindstotheserviceoftheEmpire,bywhichImeantotheserviceof
JulianIIAugustus?Sothat,ofcourse,IcanregainCaesar’sgoodgracesandgetmyselfredeemedoutof
Arabianexile.
AtthemomentIdon’tquiteseeit.PerhapsIcouldurgehimtoturnhiscountrymenagainstthegrowing
ascendancyoftheGreeksinthispartoftheworld,orsomesuchthing.ButthisweekIhaveplentyoftime
tothinkonit,fornocompanyisavailabletomejustnowexceptmyown.Mahmud,whotravelsfrequently
throughtheareaonbusiness,hasgoneofftooneofthecoastalvillagestoinvestigatesomenewmercantile
venture. Nicomedes also is away, down into Arabia Felix, where he and his fellow Greeks no doubt are
connivingcovertlytoraisethepriceofcarneliansoraloe-woodorsomeothercommoditycurrentlyingreat
demandatRoma.
SoIamaloneherebutformyservants,adulllotwithwhomIcanhavenohopeofcompanionship.Itoyed
withtheideaofbuyingmyselfalivelyslave-boyinthebazaartokeepmecompanyofamoreinteresting
kind,butMahmud,whoissofieryinhispiety,mightsuspectwhatIhadinmind,andIwouldnotatthis
timewanttoriskabreachwithMahmud.Theideaofsuchapurchaseisverytempting,though.
Ithinklonginglyallthetimeofthecourt,thefestivitiesattheroyalpalace,thetheaterandthegames,all
thatIammissing.FuscusSalinator:whatisheupto?VoconiusRufus?Spurinna?Allifanus?Andwhatof
EmperorJulianhimself,hewhowasmyfriend,almostmybrother,untilheturnedonmeandcondemned
metolanguishlike thisamidst thesands ofArabia?What timeswe hadtogether,he andI, untilmyfall
fromgrace!
And—fearnot—Ithinkconstantlyofyou,ofcourse,Horatius.Iwonderwhoyouspendyournightswith
now. Male or female, is it? Lupercus Hector? Little Pomponia Mamiliana, perhaps? Or even the cupboy
fromBritannia,whomsurelytheEmperornolongerwouldhavewantedafterIhadsulliedhim.
Well,youdonotsleepalone,ofthatmuchI’mcertain.
What, I wonder, would my new friend Mahmud think of our court and its ways? He is so severe and
astringentofnature.Hishatredforself-indulgenceofallsortsseemsdeepasthebone:astarkprinceofthe
desert,thisman,atrueSpartan.ButperhapsIgivehimtoomuchcredit,yousay?Sethimupinavillaon
theslopesofthePalatine,providehimwithafinechariotandahousefullofservantsandacellarofdecent
wine,lethimsplashabitintheEmperor’sperfumedpoolwithJulianandhisgiddyfriends,anditmaybe
he’llsinganothertune,eh?
No.No.Idoubtthatverygreatly.BringMahmudtoRomaandhewillriseuplikeamodernCatoandsweep
theplaceclean,purgingthecapitalofallthesinsofthesesoftImperialyears.Andwhenheisdonewithus,
Horatius,weshallallbefaithfuladherentstothecreedofAllah.
****
FIVEDAYSMOREofsolitudewentby,andbytheendofitIwasready,Ithink,toopenmyveins.
Therehasbeenawindblowinghereallweekthatbakesthebraintothevergeofmadness.Theairseemed
halfcomposedofsand.Peoplecameandwentinthestreetslikephantoms,allshroudeduptotheeyesin
white.Ifearedgoingoutside.
Forthepasttwodays,though,theairhasbeencalmagain.Mahmudyesterdayreturnedfromhisventureat
thecoast.Isawhiminthemainstreet,speakingwiththreeorfourothermen.Eventhoughhewassome
distanceaway,itwasplainthatMahmudwasdoingnearlyallthetalking,andtheothers,caughtinhisspell,
werereducedtomerenodsandgesturesofthehand.Thereiswizardryinthisman’smannerofspeech.He
castsapowerfulspell.Youareheld;youcannotchoosebutlisten;youfindyourselfbelievingwhateverhe
says.Ididnotfeelitappropriatetoapproachhimjustthen;butlaterinthedayIsentoneofmyservantsto
hishousebearinganinvitationtodinewithmeatmyvilla,andwehavespentsomehourstogetherthisvery
day.Itwasameetingthatbroughtforthahostofstartlingrevelations.
Neitherofuschosetoplungebackintothetheologicaldiscussionofourpreviousconversation,andfora
while we made mere idle arm’s-length talk in the somewhat uneasy manner of two gentlemen of very
differentnationswhofindthemselvesdininginintimatecircumstancesandaredeterminedtogetthrough
themealwithoutgivingoffense.Mahmud’smannerwasgenialinawayIhadnotseenitbefore.Butasthe
dishesofthe first course were being cleared away the old intensitycamebackinto his eyes and he said
somewhatabruptly,“Andtellme,myfriend,howdidithappen,exactly,thatyoucametoourcountryinthe
firstplace?”
It would hardly have been useful to my burgeoning friendship with this man to admit that I had been
banishedhereonaccountofmypederastywithCaesar’sintendedplaything.But—youmusttrustmeon
this — I had to tell him something. There is no easy way of being evasive when the burning eyes of
MahmudsonofAbdallaharepeeringintentlyintoyourown.IcouldliemorereadilytoCaesar.OrtoJove
himself.
Andso,ontheprinciplethattellingpartofthetruthisusuallymoreconvincingthantellinganoutrightlie,I
admittedtohimthatmyEmperorhadsentmetoArabiatospyontheGreeks.
“YourEmperorwhoisnottheirEmperor,thoughitisalloneempire.”
“Exactly.”Mahmud,isolatedashehadbeenallhislifefromthegreaterworldbeyondArabia’sfrontiers,
seemedtounderstandtheconceptofthedualprincipate.Andunderstoodalsohowlittlerealharmonythere
isbetweenthetwohalvesofthedividedrealm.
“AndwhatharmisitthatyouthinktheByzantinefolkcancauseyourpeople,then?”heasked.
Therewasatautnessinhisvoice;Isensedthatthiswassomethingmorethananidleconversationalquery
forhim.
“Economicharm,”Isaid.“Toomuchofwhatweimportfromtheeasternnationspassesthroughtheirhands
asitis.NowtheyseemtobedriftingdownhereintothemiddleofArabia,whereallthekeytraderoutes
converge.Iftheycanestablishastrangleholdonthoseroutes,we’llbeattheirmercy.”
Hewassilentforatime,digestingthat.Buthiseyesflashedstrangefire.Hisbrainmusthavebeenawhirl
withthought.
Thenheleanedforwarduntilwewerealmostnosetonoseandsaid,inthatlowquietvoiceofhisthatseizes
yourattentionmoreemphaticallythantheloudestshout,“Weshareacommonconcern,then.Theyareour
enemiestoo,theseGreeks.Iknowtheirhearts.Theymeantoconquerus.”
“But that’s impossible! Nicomedes himself has told me that no army has ever succeeded in seizing
possessionofArabia.Andhesaysthatnoneeverwill.”“Indeed,noonecanevertakeusbyforce.Butthat
isnotwhatImean.TheGreekswillconquerusbyslynessandcunning,ifweallowit:playingtheirgold
againstouravarice,buyingusinchbyinchuntilwehavesoldourselvesentirely.Weareashrewdfolk,but
they are much shrewder, and they will bind us in silken knots, and one day we will find that we are
altogetherownedbyGreektradersandGreekusurersandGreekship-owners.ItiswhattheHebrewswould
have done to us, if they were more numerous and more powerful; but the Greeks have an entire empire
behindthem.Orhalfanempire,atleast.”Hisfacewassuddenlyaflamewiththatextraordinaryanimation
andexcitability,tothepointalmostoffrenzy,thatroseinhimsoeasily.Heclappedhishanddownonmine.
“Butitwillnotbe.Iwillnotallowit,goodCorbulo!Iwilldestroythembeforetheycanruinus.Tellthatto
yourEmperor,ifyoulike:MahmudsonofAbdallahwilltakehisstandherebeforetheGreekswhowould
stealthisland,adhewillmarchonthem,andhewilldrivethembacktoByzantium.”
Itwasastunningmoment.HehadtoldmeontheveryfirstdaythatheintendedtobringArabiaunderthe
ruleofasinglegodandofasingleinvincibleking;andnowIknewwhoheexpectedthatinvinciblekingto
be.
Iwasputinmindof Nicomedes’mockingwordsoftheweekbefore:Consortingwithmadmen,areyou,
now,Corbulo?
ThissuddenoutburstofMahmud’saswesatquietlytogetheratmytabledidindeedhavethepureringof
madnessaboutit.Thatanobscuremerchantofthisdesertlandshouldalsobeamysticandadreamerwas
unusualenough;butnow,asthoughdrawingbackaveil,hehadrevealedtomethetumultuouspresenceof
awarrior-kingwithinhisbreastaswell.Itwastoomuch.NeitherAlexanderofMacedonnorJuliusCaesar
northeEmperorConstantinustheGreathadlaidclaimtoholdingsomanyselveswithinasinglesoul,and
howcouldMahmudthesonofAbdallah?
Amomentlaterhehadsubsidedagain,andallwasascalmasithadbeenjustminutesbefore.
There was a flask of wine on the table near my elbow, a good thick Tunisian that I had bought in the
marketplacethedaybefore.IpouredmyselfsomenowtoeasethethunderthatMahmud’swildspeechhad
engenderedinmyforehead.Hesmiledandtappedtheflaskandsaid,“Ihaveneverunderstoodthepointof
thatstuff,doyouknow?Itseemsawasteofgoodgrapestomakeitintowine.”
“Well,opinionsdifferonthat,”saidI.“Butwho’stosaywho’sright?Letthosewholikewinedrinkit,and
therestcanleave italone.”Iraisedmyglasstohim.“Thisis reallyexcellent,though.Areyousureyou
won’ttryevenasip?”
He looked at me as though I had offered him a cup of venom. He will never be a drinker, I guess, will
MahmudsonofAbdallah,andsobeit.Yeaandverily,Horatius,itleavesthatmuchmoreforthelikesof
theeandme.
“And how is your friend Mahmud?” asked Nicomedes the Paphlagonian, the next time he and I dined
together.“DoeshehaveyoubowingdowntoAllahyet?”
“Iamnotmadeforbowingbeforegods,Ithink,”Itoldhim.Andthen,warily:“Heseemsalittletroubled
aboutthepresenceofyoupeopledownhere.”
“Thinks we’re going to attempt a takeover, does he? He should know better than that. If Augustus and
Trajan couldn’t manage to invade this place successfully, why does he think a sensible monarch like
MauriceTiberiuswouldtryit?”
“Notamilitaryinvasion,Nicomedes.Commercialinfiltrationiswhathefears.”
Nicomedes looked unperturbed. “He shouldn’t. I’d never try to deny to anybody, Corbulo, that we’re
looking to increase the quantity of business we do here. But why should that matter to the likes of
Mahmud?Wewon’tcutintohissliceofthepie.We’lljustmakethepiebiggerforeverybody.Youknow
thethingthePhoenicianssay—‘Arisingtideliftsallboats.’”
“Don’t they teach rhetoric in Greek schools anymore?” I asked. “Pies? Boats? You’re mixing your
metaphorsthere,I’dsay.AndArabiadoesn’thaveanyboatsforthetidetoraise,oranytideseither,forthat
matter.”
“YouknowwhatImean.TellMahmudnottoworry.OurplansforexpansionoftradewithArabiawillonly
begoodforeveryoneinvolved,andthatincludesthemerchantsofMecca.—MaybeIshouldhavealittle
talkwithhimmyself,eh?He’sanexcitablesort.Imightbeabletocalmhimdown.”
“Perhapsitwouldbebesttoleavehimtome,”Isaid.
Itwasinthatmoment,Horatius,thatIsawwherethetruecruxofthesituationlay,andwhothetrueenemy
oftheEmpireis.
TheEmperorJulianneednotfretoveranythingthattheGreeksmightplantodohere.TheGreekincursion
intoArabiaDesertawasonlytobeexpected.Greeksarebusinessmenbysecondnature;Arabia,thoughitis
outsidetheEmpire,lieswithinthenaturalEasternsphereofinfluence;theywouldhavecomedownhere
soonerorlater,and,well,heretheyare.Iftheyintendtotrytobuildstrongertradeconnectionswiththese
desertfolk,wehavenoreasontogetupsetaboutthat,noristheretheslightestthingthattheWestcando
aboutit.AsNicomedeshassaid,theEastalreadycontrolsAiguptosandSyriaandLibyaandalotofother
suchplacesthatproducegoodsweneed,and wedon’tsufferthereby.Itreallyis asingleempire,in that
sense.TheGreekswon’tpushuppricesonEasterncommoditiestousforfearthatwe’lldothesamething
tothemwiththetinandcopperandironandtimberthatflowtothemoutoftheWest.
No. The soft and citified Greeks are no menace to us. The real peril here comes from the desert prince,
MahmudsonofAbdallah.
Onegod,hesays.OneArabianpeopleunderoneking.Andhesays,concerningtheGreeks,Iwilldestroy
thembeforetheycanruinus.
Hemeansit.Andperhapshecandoit.NobodyhaseverunifiedtheseSaracensunderasingleman’srule
before,but I think they have never had anyone likeMahmudamongthem before, either.Ihadasudden
visionofhim,dearHoratius,asIsatthereatNicomedes’snicelyladentable:Mahmudwitheyesoffireand
agleamingswordheldhigh,leadingSaracenwarriorsnorthwardoutofArabiaintoSyria.Palaestinaand
Mesopotamia,spreadingthemessageoftheOneGodashecomesanddrivingthepanickyGreeksbefore
hisoncominghordes.Theeagerpeasantryembracingthenewcreedeverywhere:whocanresistMahmud’s
persuasive tongue, especially when it is backed by the blades of his ever more numerous followers?
Onward,then,intoArmeniaandCappadociaandPersia,andthentherewillcomeaswingwestwardaswell
intoAiguptosandLibya.ThewarriorsofAllaheverywhere,inflamingthesoulsofmenwiththenewbelief,
thenewloveofvirtueandhonor.Thewealthofthetemplesofthefalsegodsdividedamongthepeople.
Wholelegionsofidleparasiticpriestsbutcheredlikecattleasthesuperstitionsareputtorout.Thegolden
statuesofthenonexistentgodsmelteddown.Anewcommonwealthproclaimedintheworld,foundedon
prayerandsacredlaw.
Mahmud can say that he has the true god behind him. His eloquence makes you believe it. We of the
Empirehaveonlythestatuesofourgods,andnooneofanyintelligencehastakenthosegodsseriouslyfor
hundredsofyears.Howcanwewithstandthefieryonslaughtofthenewfaith?Itwillrolldownuponus
likethelavaofVesuvius.
“Youtakethismuchtooseriously,”saidNicomedesthePaphlagonian,when,muchlaterintheeveningand
aftertoomanymoreflasksofwine,Iconfidedmyfearstohim.“Perhapsyoushouldcoveryourheadwhen
yougooutofdoorsatmidday,Corbulo.ThesunofArabiaisverystrong,anditcandogreatinjurytothe
mind.”
No,Horatius.Iamrightandheiswrong.Oncetheyarelaunched,thelegionsofAllahwillnotbechecked
untiltheyhavemarchedonthroughItaliaandGalliaandBritanniatothefarshoresoftheOceanSea,and
alltheworldisMahmud’s.
Itshallnotbe.
Iwillsavetheworldfromhim,Horatius,andperhapsinsodoingIwillsavemyself.
Meccais,ofcourse,asanctuarycity.Nomanmaylifthishandagainstanotherwithinitsprecincts,under
painofthemostawfulpenalties.
Umartheidol-maker,whoservedinthetempleofthegoddessUzza,understoodthat.IcametoUmarinhis
workshop,wherehesatturningoutbig-breastedfigurinesofUzza,whoistheVenusoftheSaracens,and
boughtfromhimforahandfulofcoppersafinelittlestatuettecarvedfromblackstonethatIhopetoshow
youoneofthesedays,andthenIputagoldpieceofJustinian’stimebeforehimandtoldhimwhatIwanted
done;andhisonlyresponsewastotaphisfingertwotimesagainstJustinian’snose.Notunderstandinghis
meaning,Imerelyfrowned.
“Thismanofwhomyouspeakismyenemyandtheenemyofallwholovethegods,”saidUmartheidol-
maker,“andIwouldkillhimforyouforthreecoppercoinsifIdidnothaveafamilytosupport.Butthe
work will involve me in travel, and that is expensive. It cannot be done in Mecca, you know.” And he
tappedthenoseofJustinianasecondtime.ThistimeIunderstood,andIlaidasecondgoldpiecebesidethe
firstone,andtheidol-makersmiled.
Twelve days ago Mahmud left Mecca on one of his business trips into the lands to the east. He has not
returned.Hehasmetwithsomeaccident,Ifear,inthosesandywastes,andbynowthedriftingduneshave
probablyhiddenhisbodyforever.
Umartheidol-makerappearstohavedisappearedalso.Thetalkaroundtownisthathewentoutintothe
deserttocollecttheblackstonethathecarveshisidolsfrom,andsomefellowcraftsmanwithwhomhewas
feudingfollowedhimtothequarry.Ithinkyouwillagreewithme,Horatius,thatthiswasawisethingto
arrange.Thedisappearanceofawell-knownmanlikeMahmudwillprobablyengendersomeinquiriesthat
couldultimatelyhaveledinembarrassingdirections,butnooneexceptthewifeofUmarwillcareaboutthe
vanishingofUmartheidol-maker.
Allofthisstrikesmeashighlyregrettable,ofcourse.Butitwasabsolutelynecessary.
“He’salmostcertainlydeadbythistime,”Nicomedessaidlastnight.Westilldinetogetherfrequently.
“Howverysad,Corbulo.Hewasaninterestingman.”
“Averygreatone,inhisway.Ifhehadlived,Ithinkhewouldhavechangedtheworld.”
“Idoubtthat verymuch,” saidNicomedes,inhisairy,ever-skepticalGreekway.“Butwe’llnever know,
willwe?”
“We’llneverknow,”Iagreed.Iraisedmyglass.“ToMahmud,poordevil.”
“ToMahmud,yes.”
Andthereyouhavethewholesadstory.GototheEmperor,Horatius.TellhimwhatI’vedone.Placeitin
itsfullcontext,againstthegrandsweepofImperialhistorypastandpresentandespeciallyfuture.
SpeaktohimofHannibal,ofVercingetorix,ofAttila,ofallourgreatenemiesofdaysgoneby,andtellhim
thatIhavesnuffedoutinitsearlieststagesathreattoRomafarmorefrighteningthananyofthose.
Makehimunderstand,ifyoucan,thesignificanceofmydeed.
Tellhim,Horatius.TellhimthatIhavesavedalltheworldfromconquest:thatIhavedoneforhimathing
thatwasutterlyessentialtodo,somethingwhichnooneelseatallcouldhaveachievedonhisbehalf,for
whowouldhavehadtheforesighttoseetheshapeofthingstocomeasIwasabletoseethem?Tellhim
that.
Aboveallelse,tellhimtobringmehome.IhavedwelledamidstthesandsofArabialongenough.Mywork
isdone;Ibegforsurceasefromthedrearinessofthedesert,theinfernalheat,thelonelinessofmylifehere.
ThisisnoplaceforaherooftheEmpire.
****
howwelostthemoon,
atruestorybyfrankw.allen
PAULJ.McAULEY
BorninStroud,England,in1955,PaulJ.McAuleynowmakeshishomeinLondon.Aprofessionalbiologist
formanyyears,hesoldhisfirststoryin1984,andhasgoneontoheafrequentcontributortoInterzone,as
well as to markets such as Amazing, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Asimov’s Science
Fiction,WhentheMusic’sOver,andelse-where.
McAuleyhasafootinseveraldifferentcampsofsciencefictionwriting,beingconsideredoneofthebestof
thenew breed ofBritishwriters (althoughafew Australianwriterscould be fitinunderthis heading as
well) who are producing that brand of rigorous hard science fiction with updatedmodern and stylistic
sensibilitiesthatissometimesreferredtoas“radicalhardsci-encefiction,”
in addition to being one of the major young writers who are producing that revamped andretooled
widescreenSpaceOperathathassometimesbeencalledtheNewBaroqueSpaceOpera.
But,somethingofaliterarymillipede,McAuleyrefusestobelimitedtoameretwocampsinwhichtoput
hisfeet,andalsowritesDystopiansociologicalspeculationsabouttheverynearfuture,someelegantand
literateAlternateHistory,andevensomeunabashedfantasyandsupernaturalhorrorstories,allwithequal
fluency and skill. His first novel, Four Hundred Billion Stars, won thePhilip K. Dick Award. His other
booksincludethenovelsOftheFall,EternalLight,andPasquale’sAngel;twocollectionsofhisshortwork,
TheKingoftheHillandOtherStoriesandTheInvisibleCountry;andanoriginalanthologyco-editedwith
KimNewman,In Dreams.Hisacclaimednovel Fairyland won both the Arthur C. Clarke Award and the
JohnW.CampbellAwardin1996.HismostrecentbooksareChildoftheRiverandAncientsofDays,the
firsttwovolumesofamajornewtrilogyofambitiousscopeandscale,Confluence,settenmillionyearsin
thefuture.Thethirdbookinthetrilogy,ShrineofStars,isdueoutsoon.Currentlyheisworkingonanew
novel,TheSecretofLife.HisstorieshaveappearedinourFifth,Ninth,Thirteenth,Fifteenth,andSixteenth
AnnualCollec-tions.Hiswebsiteisathttp://www.omegacom.demon.co.uk.
Onthebusy,bustling,colonizedfutureMoon,McAuleyremindsusthatalthougheveryonemakesmistakes,
somemistakeshavefargreaterconsequencesthanothers...
****
I
probablythinkthatyouknoweverythingaboutit.Afterall,hereweare,barelyintothesecondquarterof
the first century of the Third Millennium, and it’s being touted as the biggest event in the history of
humanity. Yeah, right. But tossing aside such impossibly grandiose claims, it was and still is a hell of a
story. It’s generated millions of bytes of Web journalism (two years after, there are still more than two
hundred official Web sites, not to mention the tens of thousands of unofficial newsgroups devoted to
provingthatitwasreallycausedbyGod,oraliens,orSt.Elvis),tensofthousandsofhoursofTVanda
hundred schlocky movies (and I do include James Cameron’s seven-hour blockbuster), thousands of
scientificpapersanddozensofthicktechnicalreports,includingtheten-million-pagecongressionalreport,
andtheghostwrittenbiographiesofscientistsWhoShouldHaveKnownBetter.
NowyoumightthinkthatI’msendingoutmyversionbecauseIwaseithermisrepresentedorcompletely
ignored in all the above. Not at all. I’ll be the first to admit that my part in the whole thing was pretty
insignificant,butneverthelessIwasthere,rightatthebeginning.Soconsiderthissharewaretextafootnote
orevenatalltale,andifyoulikeit,dofeelfreetopassiton,butdon’tchangethetextordropthebyline,if
youplease.
****
ItbeganinthemiddleofaroutinecalibrationrunintheExawattFusionfacility.Allthealarmswentoffand
the AI in charge shut everything down, but there was no obvious problem. The robots could find no
evidence of physical damage, yet the integrity and radiation alarms kept ringing, and analysis of
experimentaldatashowedthattherehadbeenatremendousfluctuationinenergylevelsjustafterthefusion
pulse.Sothescientistssentthetwoofus,MikeDohertyandme,overthehorizontoeyeballtheplace.
You’veprobablyseenazillionpictures.Itwasalow,squareconcreteblockhalf-buriedinthesmoothfloor
ofMendeleev Crateronthe Moon’sfar side,sur-roundedbybulldozed roadwaysandcabletrenches, the
twonuclearreactorswhichpowereditjustatthelevelhorizontothesouth.Atpeak,theExawattuseda
thousandmilliontimesmorepowerthantheentireU.S.electricalgridtofireup,forlessthanamillisecond,
sixpulsedlasersfocusedonatargetbarelytenmi-crometersacross,producingconditionswhichsimulated
thoseinthefirstpicosec-ondsoftheBigBang,beforesymmetrywasbroken.
Likethe atombomb acenturybefore, itpushed theenvelopesof engineeringandphysics. Thescientists
respon-sibleforfiringoffthatfirstthermonucleardevicebelievedthattherewasaslightbutdefinitechance
thatitwouldsetfiretotheEarth’satmosphere;thescientistsrunningtheExawattthoughtthattherewasa
possibility that it might burst its containment and vaporize several hundred square kilometers around it.
ThatwaswhytheyhadbuiltitontheMoon’sfarside,insideadeepcrater.That’swhyitwasrunbyrobots,
withtheactuallabsinabunkerburiedoverthehorizon.
That’swhy,whenitwentwrong,theysentinacoupleofGLPstotakealook.
Wewentinanopenrover,straightdowntheserviceroad.Wewerewearingbrightorangeradiation-proof
shroudsoverourMoonsuits,andcamerarigsonourshoulderssothatthescientistscouldseewhatwesaw.
Theplantlookedintact,burningsalt-whiteintheglareofalunarafternoon,throwingalongblackshadow
towardus.Thered-and-greenperimeterlightswereon;thecoolingsink,abore-holethreekilometersdeep,
wasn’tventing.Idrovetheroverallthewayaroundit,andthenwewentin.
The plant was essentially one big hall filled with the laser-pumping assemblies, huge frames of parallel
color-coded pipes each as big as one of those old Saturn rockets and threaded through with bundles of
heavy cables and trackways for the robots which serviced them. We crept along the tiled floor in their
shadowslikeapairoforangemice,directingourcamerarigshereandthereattherequestofthescientists.
Theemergencylightswere,stillstrobing,andIaskedsomeonetoswitchthemoff,whichtheydidafteronly
fiveminutes’discussionaboutwhetheritwasagoodideatodisturbanything.
Thesixlaser-focusingpipes,twometersindiameter,convergedonthebus-sizedexperimentalchamber.
Containmentwasabigproblem;thatchamberwascrammedwithpowerfulmagnetictoriwhichgenerated
thefieldsinwhichthetarget,apelletofultra-compressedmetallichydrogen,washeatedbychirpedpulse
amplificationtotenbilliondegreesCentigrade.Itwassurroundedbycatwalksandhiddenbytheflaredends
ofthefocusingpipes,thecapillarygridoftheliquidsodiumcoolingsystem,andahundreddifferentkinds
ofmonitor.Wecheckedthesystemdiagnosticsofthemonitors,whichtoldusonlythatseveraldetectorson
theundersidehadceasedtofunction,andthen,haranguedbyscientists,crawledallaroundthechamberas
bestwecould,sweatingheavilyinoursuitsandchafingourelbowsandknees.
Mike found a clue to what had happened when he managed to wriggle into the crawl space beneath the
chamber,quiteafeatinapressurizedsuit.Hehadtakenoffhiscamerarigtodoit,andittookquiteabitof
promptingbeforehestartedtodescribewhathesaw.
“There’saseveredcablehere,andsomethinghaspunchedaholeintheboxaboveit.Letmeshiftaround…
Okay,Icanseeaholeinthefloor,too.Abouttwocentimetersacross.I’mpokingmyscrewdriverintoit.
Well,itmustgoallthewaythroughthetiles,Ican’tseehowdeep.Hey,Frank,getmesomeofthatwire,
willyou?”
Therewasaspoolofcoppercablenearby.Icutoffalengthandpasseditin.
“Youtwogetonoutoftherenow,”oneofthescientistsadvised.
“This won’t take but a minute,” Mike said, and started humming tunelessly, which meant that he was
thinkinghardaboutsomething.
Iasked,becauseIknewhewouldn’tsayanythingotherwise,“Whatisit?”
“Lookslikesomeonetookashotatthisoldthing,”Mikesaid.“Shit.Howdeepdoesthefoundationgo?”
“The concrete was poured to three meters,” someone said over the radio link, and the scientist who’d
spokenbeforesaid,“Itreallyisn’tagoodideatomessaroundthere,fellows.”
“Itgoesallthewaythrough,”Mikesaid.“Iwiggledthewirearoundanditcamebackupwithdustonthe
end.”
“ThisisRidpath,”someoneelsesaid.Ridpath,youmayremember,wasthechiefofthescienceteam.
Althoughhewasn’texactlyresponsibleforwhathap-pened,hemademillionsfromsellingtherightstohis
story,andthenhangedhimselfsixmonthsafteritwasallover.Hesaid,“Youboysgetonoutofthere.
We’lltakeitfromhere.”
Fiverolligonspassedusonourwayback,bigfatpressurizedvehiclesmakingspeed.“Youputahairup
someone’sass,”ItoldMike,who’dbeenrealquietafterhecrawledoutfrombeneaththechamber.
“Ithinksomethingescaped,”hesaid.
“Maybesomeofthelaserenergywasdeflected.”
“Thereweren’tanytracesofmelting,”Mikesaid,withapreoccupiedair.“Andjustabitofallthatenergy
wouldmakeahellofamess,notleaveaneatlittlehole.Hmm.Kindofaninterestingproblem.”
Buthedidn’tsayanymoreaboutituntilaweeklater,aboutanhourbeforethepresidentwentontheairto
explainwhathadhappened.
****
TheMoonwasagoodplacetobeworkingthen.Itwasmore-or-lessrunbyscientists,thewayAntarctica
hadbeenbeforethedrillersandminersgottoit.Therewereabouttwothousandpeoplelivingthereatany
onetime, eitherworking on projectslikethe Exawattorthe BigArrayor theongoingresource mapping
surveys,ordoingtheirownlittlething.MikeandIwerebothpartoftheGeneralLaborPool,readytohelp
anyone.We’dearnedourchopsdoingPh.D.s,butwedidn’thavethedriveordesiretoworkourwayupthe
ladder of promotion. We didn’t want responsibility, didn’t want to be burdened with administration and
hustling for funds, which was the lot of career researchers. We liked to get our hands dirty. Mike has a
doublePh.D.inpurephysicsandcyberneticsandisawhizatelec-tronics;I’marun-of-the-millgeologist
whoisalsoafairpilot.Wemadeaprettygoodteambackthenandgenerallyworkedtogetherwheneverwe
could,andwe’dworkedjustabouteveryplaceontheMoon.
Whenthepresidentmadetheannouncement,we’dmovedonfromtheExawattandweretakingafewdays’
R&R. I’d found out about a gig supervising the con-struction of a railway from the South Pole to the
permanentbaseatClavius,butMikewouldn’tsignupandwouldn’tsaywhy,exceptthatitwastodowith
whathadhappenedattheExawatt.
We’dbeenexposedtoasmallamountofradiationwhenwe’dgoneintotheplant—Mikealittlemorethan
me—andhadspentadaybeingcheckedoutbeforegettingbackonthejob.Thescientistswerealloverthe
plant by then. The reaction chamber had been dismantled by robots, and we brought in all kinds of
monitoringequipment.Notonlyradiationcounters,butagravitymeasuringdeviceandaneutrinodetector.
Wehelpedboreashaftfivehundredmetersdeepparalleltotheholepunchedthroughthefloor,andprobes
andmotionsensorsandcameraswereloweredintoit.
Mikeclaimedtohaveworkedoutwhathadhappenedassoonashestuckthewireintheholethroughthe
foundation,buthewouldn’ttellme.“Youshouldbeabletoguessfromwhattheyweretryingtomeasure,”
hesaid,theonetimeIasked,andsmiledwhenIcalledhimasonofabitch.He’sverysmart,butsortof
fuckedupinthehead,antisocial,carelessofhisappearanceanduntidyashell,andproudthathehasfourof
the five symptoms of Asperger’s Syndrome. But he was my partner, and I trusted him; when he said it
wasn’tagoodideato takeupanewcontract,Inaggedhimfora straighthourto explainwhy,andwent
alongwithhimeventhoughhe wouldn’t.Hewasspendingallhissparetimemakingcalculationsonhis
slate,andwasstillworkingonthemattheSouthPolefacility.
Iraisedthesubjectagainwhennewsofthespecialpresidentialannouncementbroke.“You’dbettertellme
whatyouthinkhappened,”ItoldMike,“becauseI’llhear thetruth in less than an hour,and after that I
won’tbelieveyou.”
WewereinanarborinthedomeoftheSouthPolefacility.Realplants,cycadsandbananaplantsandferns,
growinginrealdirtaroundus,sunlightpouringinatalowanglethroughthediamondpaneshighabove.
Thedome capped a small crater some three hundred meters across, on a high ridgeneartheedgeofthe
SouthPole-AitkenBasinandinpermanentsunlight,thesuncirclingaroundthehorizononceeverytwenty-
eightdays.Itwashotandhumid,andthepeoplesplash-inginthelakebelowourarborweremakingalotof
noise. The lake and its scattering of atolls took up most of the crater’s floor, with arbors and cafes and
cabinsonthebenchterracearoundit.Thewaterwasbillion-year-oldcometwater,minedfromtheregolith
inpermanentlyshadowedcraters.ArailgunusedtolobshapedloadsoficetosupplytheClaviusbasein
the early days, but Clavius had grown, and its administration was uncomfortable with the idea of being
bombardedwithicemeteors,whichwaswhytheywantedtobuildarailway.Inthelowgravity,thewaves
outonthelakewerefiveorsixmetershigh,andbigdropletsflewalongway,changingshapelikeamoebas,
before falling back. People were body surfing the waves; a game of water polo had been going on for
severaldaysinoneofthebays.
I’djust beenplaying forafew hours,andI wasina good mood,which was whyI didn’tstrangleMike
when, after I asked him to tell me what he knew, he flashed his goofy smile at me and went back to
scratchingfiguresonhisslate.Instead,Isnatchedtheslatefromhishandsandhelditovertheedgeofthe
arborandsaid,“Youtellmerightnow,ortheslategetsit.”
Mikescratchedtheswirlofblackhaironhisbarechestandsaid,“Youknowyouwon’tdoit.”
Imadetoskimitthroughtheairandsaid,“Howmanytimesdoyouthinkitwouldbouncebeforeitsank?”
“IthoughtI’dgiveyouachancetoworkitout.Anditisn’tasifthere’sanythingwecando.Didn’tyou
enjoytherest?”
“What’sthisgottodowithnottakingupthatcontract?”
“There’snopointbuildinganythinganymore.Youstillhaven’tguessed,haveyou?”
Itossedtheslatetohim.“MaybeIshouldpickyouupandthrowyouinthelake.”
Imeantit,andI’malotbiggerthanhim.
“It’sablackhole,”hesaid.
“Ablackhole.”
“Sure.Myguessisthattheexperimentcausedarunawayquantumfluctuationthatcreatedablackhole.
IthadtobebiggerthanthePlancksize,andmostprobablywasabitbiggerthanahydrogenatom,because
it obviously has been taking up other atoms easily enough. Say around ten to the power twenty-three
kilograms.Themassofabigmountain,likeEverest.Themagneticcontainmentfieldscouldn’tholdit,of
course,anditdroppedstraightoutofthereactioncham-berandwentthroughtheplant’sfloor.”
Isaid,“Theholewesawwasalotbiggerthanthewidthofahydrogenatom.”
“Sure.TheblackholedisruptedstuffbytidalforceoverafargreaterdistancethanitsSwartzschildradius,
andsuckedsomeofitrightin.That’swhytherewasnotraceofmelting,eventhoughitwasprettyhot,and
spittingoutX-raysandprobablyacceleratedprotons,too—cosmicrays.”
Ididn’tbelievehim,ofcourse,butitwasaninterestingintellectualexercise.Isaid,“Sowheredidthemass
comefrom?Notfromthecombustionchamberfuel.”
“Ofcoursenot.Itwasaquantumfluctuation,justliketheUniverse,whichalsocameoutofnothing.And
theUniverseweighsalotmorethantentothepowertwenty-threekilograms.Somethinglike,let’ssee
—“
“Okay,”Isaidquickly,beforeMikelosthimselfinesotericcalculations.“Butwhereisitnow?”
“Well,itwentallthewaythrough,”Mikesaid.
“ThroughtheMoon?Thenitcameout,let’ssee”—ItriedtovisualizetheMoon’sglobe—”somewherein
MareFecunditas.”
“Not exactly. It accelerated in free fall toward the core, went past, and started to fall back again. It’s
sweepingbackandforth,gainingmassandlosingamplitudewitheachpass.That’swhatthepresidentis
goingtotelleveryone.”
I thought about it. Something just bigger than an atom but massing as much as a mountain, plunging
throughthetwenty-five-kilometer-thickouterlayerofgardenedregolith,smashingacentimeter-widetunnel
throughthebasaltcrustandthemantle,passingthroughthetinyironcore,gatheringmassandslowing,so
thatitdidnotquiteemergeatthefarsidebeforefallingback.
“Youwereluckyitdidn’tcomerightbackatyou,”Isaid.
“Theamplitudediminisheswith each pass. Eventuallyit’ll settle at the Moon’s gravitational center. And
that’swhyIdidn’twanttosignthecontract.AfterthepresidenttellseveryonewhatI’vejusttoldyou,all
theconstructioncontractswillbeputonhold.Whatyoushoulddoismakesurewe’refirstonthelistfor
evacuationwork.”
“Evacuation?”
“There’snowaytocapturetheblackhole.TheMoon,Frank,isfucked.Butwe’llgetplentyofworkbefore
it’sover.”
Hewashalfright,becausethenextday,afterthepresidenthadadmittedthatanexperimenthadsomehow
dropped a black hole inside the Moon, a serious problem that would require an international team to
monitor,wewerebothissuedwithsummonsestoappearatthehastilysetupcongressionalinquiry.
****
Itwasabunchofbullshit,ofcourse.WewentdowntoWashington,D.C,andspentaweeklockedupinthe
Watergatehotelwatchingbadcablemoviesandendlesstalkshows,withNASAlawyersshowingupevery
nowandthentorehearseourQ&As,andintheendwehadnomorethanhalfanhourofeasyquestions
beforethecommitteeletusgo.OurlawyersshookourhandsonthestepsoftheCongressbuilding,infront
ofaboredvideocrew,andwewentbacktoCanaveralandthentotheMoon.Whynot?BythenMikehad
convincedmeaboutwhatwasgoingtohappen.Therewouldbeplentyofworkforus.
We signed up as part of a roving seismology team, placing remote stations at various points around the
Moon’sequator.TheExawattplanthadbeendismantledandamonitoringstationbuiltonitssitetotryand
tracktheperiodoftheblackhole,whichsomeonehadlabeledMendeleevX-1.MikewasashappyasIhad
ever seen him; he was getting some of the raw data and doing hisown calculations on the black hole’s
accretionrateandorbitalpathwithintheMoon.Hestayeduplongafterourworkdaywasover,hunched
overhisslateinthedrivingchairofourrolligon,withsunlightpouringinthroughthebubblecanopywhile
Itriedtosleepinthehammockstretchedacrossthecabin,myskinitchingwiththeMoondustwhichgot
everywhere,andourMoonsuitsproppedinbackliketwosilentwitnessestooursquabbling.Hislatestbest
estimatewasthattheMoonhadbetweentwohundredandfivethousanddays.
“Butthingswillstarttogetexcitingbeforethen.”
“ExcitementissomethingIcandowithout.Whatdoyoumean?”
“Oh,it’llbealotoffun.”
“You’redoingitagain,yousonofabitch.”
“You’rethegeologist,Frank,”Mikesaid.“It’seasyenoughtoworkout.It’sjust—”
“Basicphysics.Yeah.Well,youtellmeifit’sgoingtoputusindanger.Okay?”
“Oh,itwon’t.Notyet,anyhow.”
We were already picking up regular moonquakes on the seismometer network. With a big point mass
swingingbackandforththroughit,theMoon’ssolidironcorewasringinglikeabell.Thereweresomeodd
subsidiarytraces,too,smooshyechoesasifspaceswereopeninginthemantle—hardtobelieve,because
pressureshouldhaveannealedanyvoids.IwasprettysurethatMikehadatheoryabouttheseanomalies,
too,butIkeptquiet.Afterall,Iwasthegeologist.Ishouldhavebeenabletoworkitout.
Meanwhile, we toured west across the Mare Insularium, with its lava floods overlaid by ejecta from
Copernicus,andonacrosstheOceanusProcellarum,droppingseismometerseverytwohundredkilometers.
We made good time, speeding across rolling, lightly cratered landscape, detouring only for the largest
wrinkle ridges, driving through the long day and the Earth-lit night into brilliant dawn, the sun slowly
moving across the sky toward noon once more. The Moon had its own harsh yet serene beauty, shaped
mainly by vulcanism and impacts. Without weather, erosion took place on geological timescales, but
becausealmostevery featurewasmorethanthreebillionyearsold,gravityandceaselessmicrometeorite
bombardmenthadsmoothedorleveledeveryhillorcraterridge.Withthesunattherightangle,itwaslike
ridingacrossaninfiniteplaingentledbyadeepblanketofsnow.Weresteduptwiceatunmannedshelters,
andhada two-daylayoverat arovingSwedishselenologystationwhichhadsquatteddownonthe mare
likeacollectionoftincans.Aweeklater,justafterwehadpickedupfreshsuppliesfromarocketlofted
fromClavius,wefeltourfirstmoonquake.
Itwasasiftherolligonhaddroppedoveracurb,buttherewasnocurb.Iwasinthedrivingchair;Mikewas
asleep in the hammock. I told the AI to stop, and looked out through the canopy at the 180-degree
panorama.Thehorizonwasdrawncloselyallaround.Anancientcratererodedbythreebillionyearsofmi-
crometeoritebombardmentdishedittothenorthandafewpockmarkedbouldersweresprinkledhereand
there,includingafracturedblockasbigasahouse.Somethingskitteredinthecornerofmyeye
—alittlerockrollingdownthegentlefivedegreeslopewewereclimbing,plowingameanderingtrackin
thedust.Itranoutquiteaway.Therolligonswayedgently,fromsidetoside.IfoundIwasgrippingthe
paddedarmsofthechairsotightlymyknuckleshadturnedwhite.Behindme,Mikestirredinthehammock
andsleepilyaskedwhatwasup;atthesamemoment,Isawthegasplume.
It was very faint, visible only because the dust it lofted caught the sunlight. Gas plumes were not
uncommon on the Moon, caused by pockets of radon and other products of fission decay of unstable
isotopes overpressuring the crevices where they collected. Earth-based astronomers sometimes glimpsed
themwhen they tem-porarilyobscured surface featureswhiledissipating intovacuum.This, though, was
different,morelikeaheat-drivengeyser,ventingsteadilyfromasourcebelowthehorizon.
I told the AI to drive toward it. Mike leaned beside me, scratching himself through his suit of thermal
underwear. He smelled strongly of old sweat; we hadn’t bathed properly since the interlude with the
Swedes.Ihadasuddeninsightandsaid,“Howhotistheblackhole?”
“Oh,thesmallertheblackhole,themorefiercelyitradiates.It’sasimpleinverserelationship.Itwaspretty
hottobeginwith,butit’sbeengettingcoolerasitaccretesmass.Hmm.”
“Isitstillhotenoughtomeltrock?”
Mike’s eyes refocused. “You know, I think it must have been much bigger than I first thought. Anyway,
anythingthatgetscloseenoughtoittomeltisalreadyfallingtowardtheeventhorizon.That’swhythere
wasnotraceofmeltingorburningwhenitdroppedoutofthereactionchamber.Butthere’salsotheheat
generatedbyfrictionasstuffpourstowarditsgravitywell.”
“Thenit’sremeltingtheinterior.Thoseanomaliesintheseismologysignalsaremeltcavernsfulloflava.”
Mike said thoughtfully, “I’m sure we’ll start picking up a weak magnetic field soon, when the iron core
liquifiesandstartscirculating.Ofcourse,theendwillbeprettyclosebythen.Wow.Thatthingoutthereis
reallybig.”
Therolligonwasclimbingalonggentleslopetowardthetopofacurvedridgemorethanakilometerhigh,
theremnantsoftherimofacraterwhichhadbeenmostlyburiedbythefluidlavaflowwhichhadformed
theOceanusProcellarum.ItoldtheAItostopwhenIspottedthesourceoftheplume.Itwasahugefresh-
lookingcrevicethatranoutfromavolcanicdome;gaswasjettingoutoftheslumpedsideofthedomelike
steamfromaboilingkettle.Dustfellstraightdowninsheetskilometerslong.Already,anappreciablerayof
brightermaterialwasformingontheregolithbeneaththeplume.
“Weshouldgetcloser,”Mikesaid.Hewasrockingbackandforthinhischairlikeadelightedchild.
“Idon’tthinkso.Therewillbeplentyofrocksloftedalongwiththegasanddust.”
Wetransmittedsomepictures,thensuitedupandwentoutsidetosetupaseismologypackage.Thesunwas
inthe east, paintinglong shadows on theground,which shook, eversogently, under my boots.Withno
atmospheretoscatterthelight,shadowswererazorsharp,andcolorchangedasImovedabout.Thedusty
regolithwasdeepbrowninmyshadow,butabrightblindingwhitewhenIlookedtowardthesun,turning
ashygraytoeitherside.Thegasplumeglitteredandflashedagainsttheblacksky.ItoldMikethatitwas
probablyfromasourcedeepinthemegaregolith;pressureincreasedingaspocketswithdepth.Aquake,
prob-ably at the interface between the megaregolith and the rigid crust, must have opened a path to the
surface.
“There’llbealotmoreofthese,”Mikesaid.
“It’llblowitselfoutsoonenough.”
Butitwasstillventingstronglywhenwehadfinishedourwork,andwedrovealongwaynorthtoskirt
aroundit,withMikescratchingawayonhisslate,fac-toringthisnewevidenceintohiscalculations.
****
Wewereoutforanothertwoweeks,endingourruninlunarnightattheBigArrayStationatKorolev.It
wasoneofthebiggestcratersonthefarside,withslumpedterracedwallsandhummockyrimdepositslike
rangesoflowhills.Itsfloorwasspatteredwithnewercraters,includingadark-flooredlava-floodedcrater
on its southern edge which was now the focus of a series of quakes of steadily increasing amplitude.
KorolevStation,upontherim,wasbeingevacuated;theradiotelescopesoftheBigArray,scatteredacross
thefarsideinaregularpattern,weretobekeptrunningbyremotelink.Mostofthepersonnelhadalready
de-partedbyshuttle,andalthoughtherewerestilllargeamountsofequipmenttobetakenout,therailway
whichlinkedKorolevwithClaviushadbeencutbyarockslide.Afteracoupleofspookydays’restinthe
almostdesertedyetfullyfunctionalstation,MikeandIwentoutwithacoupleofotherGLPstosupervise
therobotswhichwereclearingtheslideandre-layingtrack.
Itwasaniceride:thepressurizedrailcarhadabigobservationalbubble,andIspentalotoftimeupthere,
watchingtheheavilycrateredhighlandplainsflowpastattwohundredkilometersanhour.TheOrientale
BasindominatedthewestsideoftheMoon:afissuredbasinoffracturedblockspartlyfloodedwithimpact
meltlavaandringedroundwiththreeimmensescarpsandaninnerbenchlikeripplesfrozen
,inrock.TheengineershadcuttherailwaythroughtheringsoftheRookand CordilleraMountains;the
landslide had blocked the track where it passed close to one of the tall knobs of the Montes Rook
Formation,aten-kilometer-highpieceofejectawhichhadsmasheddownontothesurroundingplain
—theimpactreallywasverybig.
Aslidehadrunoutfromoneofitssteeplygradedfaces,coveringmorethanakilometeroftrack,andwe
were more than a week out there, helping the robots fix everything up. When we finally arrived at the
stationinClavius,itwasadayaheadoftheMendeleeveruptionandthebeginningoftheevacuationofthe
Moon.
****
ThewholeflooroftheMendeleevCraterhadfracturedintoblocksinthebiggestquakeeverrecordedon
theMoon,andlavahadfloodedupthroughdykesemplacedbetweentheblocks.Lavaventedfromdykes
beyondthecraterrim,too,andflowedalongway,forminganewmare.Otherventsappeared,settingoff
secondaryquakesandlongrockslides.TheMoonshiveredandshookuneasily,asifawakeningfromalong
sleep.
SmallteamsweresentouttocollecttheoldRangers,Lunas,Surveyors,Lu-nokhods,anddescentstagesof
Apollo LEMs from the first wave of Moon explo-ration. Mike and I went out for a last time, to Mare
Tranquillitatis,tothesiteofthefirstmannedlunarlanding.
When a permanent scientific presence had first been established on the Moon, there was considerable
debateaboutwhattodowiththesitesoftheApolloland-ingsandthevariousoldrobotprobesandother
debrisscatteredacrossthesurface.TherehadbeenaseriousproposaltodometheApollo11sitetoprotect
itfromdamagebymicrometeoritesandtostoppeoplefromswipingsouvenirs,butevenwithoutprotection
itwouldlastformillionsofyears,andeveryoneontheMoonwastaggedwithacontinuouslymonitored
globalpositioningsensorsonoonecouldgoanywherewithoutitbeinglogged,andintheendthesitehad
beenleftopen.
Wearrivedafewhoursafterdawn.Itwasalonelyplace,notmuchvisiteddespiteitshistoricimportance.A
bigsquatcarrierrockethadgoneahead,landingtwokilometerstothenorth,andtherobotswerealready
waiting.Therewerefourofus:ahistorianfromtheMuseumofAirandSpaceinWashington,aphotog-
rapher,andMikeandme.Thesitewasringedaroundwithlasersensors.Aswelopedthroughtheperimeter,
anautomaticbeacononthecommonbandwarnedusthatweweretrespassingonaU.N.heritagesiteand
startedtorecitetherelevantpenaltiesuntilthehistorianfounditandturneditoff.Theangularplatformof
thelunarmodule’sdescentstagehadbeenscorchedbytherocketoftheascentstage;thegoldfoilwhich
had wrapped it was torn and tattered, white paint beneath turned tan by exposure to the sun’s raw
ultraviolet.Oneofitsspiderylegshadcollapsedafterarecentquakefocusednearnewvolcanicconestothe
southeast.Weliftedeverything,workinginwardtowardtheascentstage:thePassiveSeis-mometerandthe
Laser Ranging Retroreflector; the flag, its ordinary fabric, stiff-ened by wires, faded and fragile; an
assortment of discarded geology tools; human waste and food containers and wipes and other litter in
crumblingjettisonbags;the plaque withamessage fromalong-deadpresident. Beforethedescent stage
was lifted away, a robot sawed away a chunk of dirt beside its ladder, the spot where the first human
footprinthadbeenmadeontheMoon.Therewassomedisputeaboutwhichprintwasactuallythefirst,so
twosquaremeterswerecarefullylifted.Andatlastthedescentstagewascarriedofftothecargorocket,and
therewasonlyalitterofcleatedfootprintsleft,ourownoverlayingArmstrong’sandAldrin’s.
Itwastimetogo.
****
As the eruptions grew more frequent, even the skeleton crews of the various sta-tions were evacuated,
leaving a host of robot surveyors in close orbit or crawling about the troubled surface to monitor the
unfoldingdisaster.MikeandIwentononeofthelastshuttles,everyonecrowdingtotheportsasitmadea
singleloworbitalpassbeforelightingoutforEarth.
It was six months after the Mendeleev X-1 incident. The heat generated by the black hole’s accretion
processandtidalforceshadremeltedtheironcore;pocketsofmoltenbasaltinthemantlehadswollenand
conjoined. A vast rift opened in the Oceanus Procellarum, splitting the nearside down its northwestern
quadrant and raising new scarps as high and jagged as those in an old Chesley Bonestell painting. The
OrientaleBasinfloodedwithlavaandthefracturedblocksoftheMaunderformationsanklikefoundering
shipsasnewlavaflowsbegantowellup.Volcanicactivitywaslessonthefarside,wherethecrustwas
thicker,buttheMareIngeniicollapsedandreflooded,formingavastnewbasinwhichswallowedtheJules
VerneandGagarinCraters.
Ittooktwomoremonths.
Astheendneared,theMoon’ssurfacesplitintoshort-livedplatesafloatonawhollymoltenmantle,with
lava-filledriftsopeningandscabbingoverandre-openingalongtheiredges.Therewerefranticattemptsto
insurethatthepopu-lationoftheEarth’ssouthernhemispherewouldallhavesomekindofshelter,forthe
MoonwouldbeintheskyabovethePacificinitsfinalhour.Thoseunluckyorstubbornenoughtoremain
outsidesawtheMoonriseforthelasttime,half-full,thedarkpartofherdiskrivenwithglowingcracks
whichspreadastheblackholesuckedinexponentiallyincreasingamountsofmatter.Andthentherewasa
terrificflareoflight,brighterthanathousandsuns.Thosewitnesseswhohadnotbeenblindedsawthatthe
Moonwasgone,leavingexpandingshellsofluminousgasaroundafadingimagetrappedattheedgeofthe
blackhole’seventhorizon,andashort-livedaccretiondiskasejectedmaterialspiraledbackintotheblack
hole,which,althoughitmassedthesameastheMoonithaddevoured,hadaneventhorizoncircumference
oflessthanamillimeter.
TheradiationpulsewasmostlyabsorbedbytheEarth’satmosphere;theorbitofthespacestationhadbeen
alteredsothatitwasinoppositionwhentheMoonvanished.Iwasaboarditatthetime,andspentthenext
sixmonthshelpingrepairsatelliteswhosecircuitshadbeenfried.
Therearestilltides,ofcourse,forthesameamountofmassstillorbitstheEarth.Marineorganismswhich
synchronizedtheirreproductionbytheMoon’sphases,suchashorseshoecrabs,corals,andpaloloworms,
were in danger of extinction, but a cooperative mission by NASA and the Russian and European space
agenciesloftedaspacemirrorwhichreflectsthesameamountoflightastheMoon,andevengoesthrough
the same phases. There’ll be a big problem in 5 X 1043 years, when by loss of mass through Hawking
radiationtheblackholefinallybecomessmallenoughtobeginitsrunawayevaporation.Butlongbefore
thenthesunwillhaveevolvedintoawhitedwarfandgutteredout;evenitsveryprotonswillhavedecayed.
Theblackholewillbethelastremnantofthesolarsysteminacoolingandvastlyexpandeduniverse.
Therearevariousproposalstomakeuseoftheblackhole—astheultimategarbagedisposaldevice(Iwant
tobewellawayfromthesolarsystemwhentheytrythat),orasaninterstellarsignalingdevice,forifitcan
bemadetobobinitsorbit(perhapsbyputtinganotherblackholeinorbitaroundit),itwillproducesharply
focusedgravitywavesoftremendousamplitude.Meanwhile,itwillkeepthephysicistsbusyforathousand
years.Mikeisworkingatoneofthestationswhichorbitbeyonditseventhorizon.Ikeepintouchwithhim
by E-mail, but the correspondence is becoming more and more infrequent as he vanishes into his own
personaleventhorizon.
Asforme,I’mheadingout.Thespaceprogramhasrealigneditsgoals,anditturnsoutthattheblackhole
retainedtheMoon’srotationalenergy,soitprovidesausefulslingshotforfreeacceleration.Afterall,there
areplentyofothermoonsinthesolarsystem,andmostarefarmoreinterestingthantheonewelost.
(ForStephenBaxter)
****
phallicide
CHARLESSHEFFIELD
Much ink was spilled in the last few years about Viagra and other male “virility drugs,” but, asthe
harrowing story that follows suggests, sometimes you just might need a drug that workscompletely the
otherwayaround…Oneofthebestcontemporary“hardscience”writers,British-bornCharlesSheffieldis
atheoreticalphysicistwhohasworkedontheAmericanspaceprogramandiscurrentlychiefscientistof
theEarthSatelliteCorporation.Sheffieldisalsotheonlypersonwhohaseverservedaspresidentofboth
theAmericanAstronauticalSocietyandtheScienceFictionWritersofAmerica.He’safrequentcontributor
tobothAnalogandAsimov’sScienceFiction,aswellastoothermarketssuchasScienceFictionAgeand
TheMagazineofFantasy&ScienceFiction.HewontheJohnW.CampbellMemorialAwardin1993for
hisnovelBrothertoDragonsandin1994hewontheHugoandNebulaAwardsforhisstory“Georgiaon
MyMind.”HisbooksincludethebestsellingnonfictiontitleEarthwatch;thenovelsSightof Proteus, The
Web Between the Worlds, Hidden Variables, My Brother’s Keeper, Between the Strokes of Night, The
Nimrod Hunt, Trader’s World, Proteus Unbound, Summertide, Divergence, Transcen-dence, Cold as Ice,
The Mind Pool, Godspeed, and The Ganymede Club; and the collections Erasmus Magister, The
McAndrewChronicles,DancingwithMyself,andGeorgiaonMyMindandOtherPlaces.Hismostrecent
booksarethenovelsAftermathandStarfireandanonfictionbook,BorderlandsofScience.Hisnextnovel,
TheSpheres of Heaven, is due out near the end of this year. His storieshave appeared in our Seventh,
Eighth,Eleventh,andFourteenthAnnualCollections.HelivesinSilverSpring,Maryland,withhiswife,SF
writerNancyKress.Hehasawebsiteatwww.sff.net/people/sheffield/.
****
T
hehumanbrainisathree-poundmassofbloodandnervesandjelly;anythinglesslikeamuscleishardto
imagine.Yetthereareresemblances.IfIworkmybrainlongandhard,thengiveita rest,Ifindthatthe
breakpaysoff.Puzzles resolve themselves and old difficultiesdisappear. I return to work mentally reju-
venatedandintopcreativecondition.
IgazedatthescreenanddecidedthatImustbelongoverdueforthatrest.Thoseweremyownresearch
results,butIstaredmystifiedatwhatsatbeforemeonthedisplay.
Wasthismywork?Irecognizedthedata,buttheydidn’tfeellikemine.Insteadoftheexpectedintimacy,so
closetothelatestexperimentthatyouliveinsideit,Ifeltlikeanoutsider.
Iscrolledtowardtheend.Theresponseisdecidedlynonlinearandfollowsanapproximatetwo-thirdspower
law.Whentheoraldoseisdoubled,theaveragetimeofsustainederectionincreasesfromnineminutesto
14minutes.Whenthedoseisquadrupled,theaverageerectiontimebecomes22minutes.Elevatednitric-
oxidelevelspersistinthecorporacavemosafor38
minutesafterorgasm…
Itwasmyownwork,withoutadoubt.Morethanthat,theyweremyownwords.Imaynotbetheworld’s
greateststylist,butonethingIrecognize,alwaysandunmistakably,iswhatIhavewritten.
Changeanadjective,addacomma,andIwillknow.
Myownwords,butsurelynotmyrecentwords.Icheckedthefile.ItwasdatedThursday.Yesterday.
Theexperimentaldatahadbeenenteredthreedaysearlier.
IwasstillstaringatthescreenwhenIheardfootstepsinthecorridorandaquietknockatmycloseddoor.
AlthoughIwasfairlysurethatonlyonepersonwouldbevisitingmyofficeateightinthemorning,thekey
strokestochangetoaseconddocumentareawerepurereflex.Bythetimethedooropened,thescreenin
frontofmeshowedablandtableofdailybloodpressurefromanunidentifiedsubject.
“Goodmorning,DoctorRachel,”saidacheerfulvoicebehindme.“Let’stakealookatyou.”
Asexpected,itwasSharonProstley,administrativeassistanttotheheadofthelab.Istoodupandturned
around,andshegavememymorninghead-to-toecriticalexamination.
“Notbad.Notbadatall.”Shecameforwardandtouchedtheclipinmyhair.“Myownchoicewouldhave
been apple-green as a better match to your skirt. But emerald will do nicely, and it goes well with your
eyes.”
“Thanks, Sharon.” Color-blindness in women is 10 times rarer than in men, but I suspect that it usually
mattersalotmore.Iwasrelativelylucky.Ihadtroubleonlyindistinguishingcertainclassesofbluesand
greens.
“Happyto do it,” shesaid.“Not many things letmefeel useful early inthemorning.” She moved away
towardthedoor,butturnedatthethreshold.“Iforgottoask.Howwasthevacation?”
Istaredather,andshewenton,“Didyougettospendtimewithyourfamily?”
Myautopilottookover.“Yes.Oh,yes,itwasgreat,thanks.Ihadawonderfultime.”
“Wish I could get away. I’m tied here till spring break.” And Sharon was gone, back along the corridor
towardheroffice.
As the sound of her footsteps receded, I switched my computer back to its hidden document area. The
responseisdecidedlynonlinear….Thefamiliar/unfamiliarwordsconfrontedme.Yesterday’sdate.
Exceptthat—Iclickedtothedayanddatesettingonmycomputer.Friday,asitshouldbe.Butinsteadof
March12itwasMarch19.
I had lost a week. Vacation. Family. I felt a moment of dizzy memory and partial understanding, and I
turnedmycomputeroffabruptlywithoutwaitingfortheusualutilitiesdisk-check.Ihadtogetoutofhere
—outoftheroom,outofthebuilding,offthecampus,aloneintothefreshairwhereIcouldthink.
****
By 8:15 the sun was rising and the overnight chill was already off the street. I walked west from the
universitycampusalongtheflat,eventhoroughfareofSt.George,towardthedistantbrownhillsthatrose
clearandstarkinthedryair.
Iwanderedsevenlongblocksandfinallysatdownonabenchinfrontofabicyclestore.Thevividposters
intheshopwindowshowedgrinningridersdriftingeffortlesslyuphill.WhileIstared,thelostweekfiltered
backintomyheadfragmentbyrandomfragment.IknewthatIhadbeenagaintoBryceville,95milestothe
northeastbeyondtheZionNationalPark.IknewthatIhadseenNaomiandtherestofmyfamilythere.I
knewIhadbeenheavilydrugged;andIknewwhy.
****
“It’sforyourownsakemorethananyoneelse’s.”ElderCyrusWalker’sbalddomeandtwinklinggrayeyes
hadbeenpartofmylifeforaquarterofacentury.Withhisbarrelchestandstrongslopingshouldershewas
like a rugged tree, never seeming a day older as the years passed. “We still trust you completely. But
supposeyouaredoingthingsthatmightgiveyouaway,andyoudon’tevenrealizeit?”
Aninterrogationwasinevitable.Itwasstandardoneachreturntrip.Thefactthatdrugsofmyowndesign
wereusedinthequestioningaddedaspecialirony.“Can’tIatleastseemyfamilyfirst?”Ipleaded.
“TodayisNaomi’s13thbirthday.Shesentmeaclasspicture,andshe’sgrownsomuchIhardlyknowher.”
“Ofcourseyoucanseeher.There’sabsolutelyno rush,you’llbewithus atleastfivemoredays.”Elder
Walker patted myshoulderwitha hand as thick and hard asa chopping board. “But we don’twantyou
goingbacktotheuniversity,dowe,actingandfeelinggroggy?Weallhavetoomuchinvestedtojeopardize
theeffortnow.Andthere’sotherworktodo.Shallwesay,thedayaftertomorrowforthetestsofyourlatest
work?”
“Isupposeso.”
“Idon’tcareforthattoneofvoice.”ElderWalkerstoodupandwanderedovertothewindow.BeyondhimI
sawthebleachedwoodenwallsandsteeproofofthePatriarch’slodge,juttinghighintothebluedesertsky.
Hewenton,“Youknow,Rachel,youareaveryfortunateyoungwoman.”
“Irealizethat.AndI’mtrulygratefultohavesuchawonderfulopportunitytoservetheBlessedOrder.”
BeforeIwas11yearsoldIhadlearnedtohidemostofmythoughtsandallmyopinions.YetinasenseI
agreed with Elder Cyrus Walker. I was lucky; lucky to have an unusual mind, one with a memory and
logicalpowersthateventheCouncilmemberscouldnotignore.
Haditbeenotherwise…
The Escalante bus had dropped me off in late afternoon at the edge of town, and as I walked through
slantingsunlightIsawDeborahCurzonandMaryDixonwaitingoutsidetheschooluntilclasseswereover
andtheolderchildrenwereletout.DebandMaryeachhadonebabeinarmsandthreekidsintow.Young
ones.Thetwowomenwere27,myexactcontemporaries.Theylookedtwicemyage.Nineor10kidscan
weardowneventhestrongest.
DebandMaryhadstaredbackatme—withpity.Theirnodssaid,Why,it’spoorRachelStafford,notpretty
enoughtobetakenasathirdorevenafourthwife.Myonechild,Naomi,hardlycounted.Herfatherwas
thePatriarchhimself,andfromtheirlookstheythoughtthathehadsurelybeddedmefromdutyratherthan
desire.
“And,ofcourse,wemusthaveadequatetimeforthetests.Can’taffordtorush.”ElderWalkerstillhadhis
backtome,gazingoutofthewindowatatumbleweedrollingghostlikealongthedustystreet.“Iassume
thatyouhavemadefurtherprogress,andbroughttheresultsofyourworkwithyou?”
“Ithinkso.ButIwon’treallybesureuntilthetestsarecomplete.”
“Naturally.” Elder Walker turned and held out his hand. “Better, don’t you think, to put them in my
safekeeping?”
ItwasphrasedasaquestionbutIneverdoubtedthatitwasanorder.Ihandedoverthevials.CyrusWalker
ranBryceville.Oh,sure,thePatriarchwastheulti-mateauthority,theBlessedOrder’sspiritualleaderand
finalpointofdecision.ButthePatriarchwas89yearsold.Noonespokeofhishealthorevensuggestedhis
mortality,but13yearsago,whenIhadbeenledanervousvirgintohisbed,hehadbeenstick-limbedand
wheezingandbarelyabletobecomearoused.With-outthedrugsandcarefulpreparationgiventomeand
thegenerouslubricants,entrywouldhavebeenimpossible.
ThankGod,hehadmetthechallenge.Hehadknownme,briefly,andfiveminuteslaterhelaysnoring.I
remainedwretchedathissidefortwofullhoursbeforeIdaredtoleavethechamberandcreepdownthe
broadwoodenstaircase.WhatIrememberedmostwasthescalytouchofhisskinandhisunpleasantsmell,
likemoldywetstraw. Fora fullmonthafterwardIprayed thatI waspregnantand wouldnot havetogo
backtohim.Asmyperiodfailedtoarrive,dayafterlateday,reliefandjoyburgeonedwithinmelikethe
childitself.
OnemonthbeforeNaomiwasborn, achanceeventalteredthecourseofmy life.Confinedtobedinthe
final trimester of a difficult pregnancy, nervous and uncomfortable and bored, I saw in a magazine the
announcement of a national science essay contest. Although the deadline was only four days away, I
scribbled20pagesontheroleofnitrousoxidesinamphibianmetabolism,andonamphib-ianreproductive
cycles.Theresultsarosefrommyownobservations—and,letmeadmitit,myownexperiments—onmy
petfrog,Jasper,andhisdescendants.
Myentrywentoutinthenextmail.Isentitwithoutpermission,amajorsin.Ontheotherhand,Iwassure
thatIhadnohopeofwinningoneofthefourcashprizes,orevenofachievinganhonorablemention.
And,infact,Ireceived neither.WhatIdidreceivewas avisit fromElderWalker.Withhimcameatall,
dark-suitedstrangerwithamaroonbowtie,piercingdarkeyes,andadroopingblackmustache.
WalterCottinghamwasalawyerfromoneofthebigpharmaceuticalcompanies.ThehomeofficeofTilden,
Inc.wasnearPhiladelphia,acitywhichatthetimesoundedtomeasfarawayastheMoon.
WalterCottingham,tomy14-year-oldperspective,wasaseniorauthorityfigure.OnlylaterdidIlearnthat
hewasjust10yearsolderthanmeandfreshoutoflawschool.Thesuit,bowtie,andmus-tachewerehis
attempttolookolder.Buthewasgoodathisjob.Fortwohours,closelywatchedbyElderWalker,Walter
Cottinghamsatonmybedendandaskedmepolitebutshrewdquestionsrelatedtomypaper.WhatdidI
knowaboutcyclicguanosinemonophosphate?HadIeverheardofphosphodiesterase-5?HowhadIknown
thatnitricoxideservestorelaxbloodvessels?
Attheendofthattimehestoodup,turnedtoElderWalker,andsaid,“Iamauthorizedtoofferonehundred
thousanddollars,payableatonce.”
“ItmustbediscussedwiththeCouncil.”
“Naturally.”Cottingham,tomyvastsurprise,winkedatme.“Theremustalsobeoneothercondition.”
“Thatshedoesnoadditionalworkwhichcouldpossiblyinfringeonoraffectyourpatents?”
“Goodheavens,no.”WalterCottinghamstaredatElderWalker,andIthinkthatforthefirsttimesincehis
arrivalhewasgenuinelyastonished.“ThatwouldbetheverylastthingweatTildenwouldsuggest.”
Hegrinneddownatme,andthesmilechangedhimfromaferociousstrangertoafriend.“Whenthebabyis
born,MissRachel,andyouarerecovered,youwillreceiveapropereducation.Naturally,atourexpense.”
HeturnedagaintoElderWalker.“MissRachelshouldpursueresearch,preferablyintheareawheresheis
already active. However, Til-den will not constrain in any way the nature of her work, or the institution
where she chooses to apply her talents. My company demands one thing only: Tilden will enjoy an
exclusiverighttoanyresultingpatents.Inreturnforthiswewillgiveyouaroyaltyongrossproductsales,
plusotherfinancialrewards.”
I understood only a fraction of what Walter Cottingham was saying. Certainly, I had some idea that the
directionofmylifewaschanging,butIdidnotrealizethatIhadatthatmomentdivergedforeverfromthe
otherfertilefemalesintheBlessedOrder.Unlikethem,Iwouldhavenomorethanonechild.Unlikethem,
Iwouldbecomenoman’swife—first,second,third,orfourth.
****
AfterNaomiwasbornIwas allowedtoremainandcareforherfor twomoreyears.Dependingonyour
definition,thatwaseitheraneasyoraveryhardperiodforme.Ididnomanualwork,whichforafemalein
the Blessed Order was unheard of. On the other hand, in every spare moment two tutors from Tilden
crammedmewithphysics,chemistry,andbiology.MostlyIlovedit,butsome-times,strugglingtoabsorb
difficultmaterialwhileNaomisuckledatmybreast,Ibrokedownintears.AtthetimeIhadneverheardof
postpartumdepression,andreallyIdon’tthinkthatwasmyproblem.ItwasthatsoonIwouldbeinafar-off
town,whilemybabywouldremaininBryceville.
Iwasjust17whenthetimecameformetoleave.BythenNaomiwasasturdytwo-year-old,morebeautiful
thanIhad everbeen. Shehad mydark eyes,and mychin,butthenoseandcheekboneswerea mystery.
Others said that they saw the Patriarch in her. I agreed —in public. In private, I rejected fiercely the
suggestionthatanythinginthatwrinkledfaceandthoseblearyeyescouldliveoninmychild.
Ileft Bryceville, surethatI would miss Naomieverywaking second. For thefirstweek, I did. Thenthe
heady thrill of access to a real lab with real equipment grabbed me. I moved my area of study from
amphibianstomammals,andImappedoutanambitiousresearchprogram.
Myareaofstudy.Myresearchprogram.Even,mylaboratory—Ithoughtofitthatway,althoughadozen
otherresearchworkerswerethere.
Whataninnocent!AtthetimeIsawnothingpeculiarinthefactthatalabsuitableformyspecializedwork
lay less than a hundred miles from Bryceville. It never occurred to me that the long arm of Tilden, Inc.
couldreachoutacrossthecountryandendowandequipanewuniversityfacilityinthetownofSt.
GeorgeinlesstimethanittookmetoweanNaomi.Mostofall,Ihadnoideahowcloselytheinterestsof
TildencoincidedwiththoseofcertainmembersoftheBlessedOrder.
Ihadmappedoutaresearchprogram?Yes,andno.CertainlyIhadwrittentheproposal.ButnowIknow
thatIwassteeredtoitbyamasterplanofdirectededucation,existingequipment,andavailablefunding.
****
Five and a half years after my scribbled notes on amphibian reproduction, I was offered —but did not
understand—evidencethatthedirectionofmy“indepen-dent”researchworkhadbeencarefullychanneled
from the beginning. It came during my usual six-monthly visit to Bryceville. Naomi was by this time a
preco-cioushandful,taxingthepatienceandstaminaofmyailingmother.Iwantedtobewithbothofthem
asmuchasIcould,buthalfadayaftermyarrivalIwascalledtoameetingwithElderWalkerinhisprivate
quarters.
“Rachel,mydear.”AsIenteredhestoodupandenfoldedmeinahug.MaybeIhadbecomehypersensitive
sinceleavingBryceville,butthatembracefeltmorepersonalthanpaternal.ElderWalker’ssexualenergy
was no secret in Bryceville. Rather than taking the seat offered on the couch next to him, I remained
standing.
Helookedatmesharplybutsaidonly,“Ihavebeenreadingyourresearchsummaries.”Hepickedupand
waved a sheaf of papers. “I want to tell you a way in which you can be of extraordinary service to the
BlessedOrder.Beforewebegin, youmustswearthatwhatwewilldiscusstodaywillbeheldabsolutely
secret.”
“Ipromise.”Iwasintrigued,asany19-year-oldisintriguedbysecrets,andIcouldseenoreasonnottogive
myword.
“Secret,”headded,“evenfromothermembersoftheBlessedOrder.UnlessIgivepermissionforyoutodo
so,youmustnotspeakofthistoyourmotherortoanyoneelseinyourfamily.And,ofcourse,tonoone
outside.”
Thatmademehesitate,butafterafewmomentsInodded.“IpromisethatIwillspeaktonooneunlessyou
tellmethatImay.”
“Verygood.”ElderWalkerrelaxedbackontothecouch.“Rachel,youareahighlyintelligentandtalented
youngwoman.Butyouhavebeenhereverylittleforthepastfiveyears.Youhavenotseenthechangesin
thePatriarch.”
Cyrus Walker was on very delicate ground. The Patriarch was eternal and un-changing, almost by
definition. It was forbidden to speak of him except in terms of veneration and as a symbol of absolute
authority.Isaid,truthfully,“IhavenotseenthePatriarchformorethanfiveyears.”
ThelasttimehadbeenontheoccasionofmyimpregnationwithNaomi,asElderWalkersurelyknew.
“Thentakemywordforit,”hesaid,“thereiscauseforconcern.Imustbedirectwithyou,andonahighly
sensitivesubject.TheBlessedJasperisnotwhathewas.Mentally,heremainsacute;butphysically,hehas
troubleperforming…certaintraditionalfunctionsofourOrder.”
Heglancedatmehopefully,eyebrowsraised.Couldhebesayingwhatheseemedtobesaying?Ideclined
totaketherisk,andstaredathiminsilence.
Hesighed,andwenton.“ItisanelementofthefaithintheBlessedOrderthatournumbersintheworld
willincreaseandwewillthrive.Ourchildrenaredrawnfromsuperiorstock.Theygrowuntaintedbythe
habitsofadegradedsociety.And,ofcourse,thePatriarchisthebestfatherthatanychildcouldeverhave.”
NowIwassure.Isaidflatly,“TheBlessedJasperhasbecomeimpotent.”
Hegrimaced.“Mydear,nevereversaysuchathingoutsidethisroom,orhintatittoanyotherperson.
Butwhatyousayiscorrect.”
“Into which category does his impotence fall?” My professional interest had been roused — the
physiologicalinterplaybetweentheconsciousmindandtheautonomousnervoussystemwastheveryarea
ofmyownresearch—andforme,scientificcuriosityalwaysovercomesshynessanddiffidence.
Elder Walker stared at me and I went on, “Male erectile disorder falls into several categories. Primary
impotencemeansthatthemalehasneverbeenabletomaintainanerectionlongenoughtoperformsexual
intercourse.Ofcourse,weknowthatisnotthecasewiththeBlessedJasper.”
ElderWalkerflinchedandraisedhishand,asthoughtowardoffblasphemy,butafteramomenthetooka
deepbreathandnodded.
“Youaredisconcertinglyfrank,mydear.IblameyourexposuretosubversiveinfluencesbeyondtheOrder,
andIexcuseyourconduct.Continue.”
“Secondaryimpotencecoversseveraldifferentcases.Sometimesamaleisin-termittentlypotent.
Sometimes a male is potent with certain partners, and not with others. Sometimes the male achieves an
erection,butcannotsustain itlongenough tocomplete theact;and sometimesa previouslypotentmale,
because of age or illness, loses all ability to achieve erection. Which one of these best de-scribes the
BlessedJasper?”
****
Ithoughthewasnotgoingtoanswer.Hestoodupandwentovertohisdesk.Halfaminutelater,without
lookingatme,hesaid,“Thelastone.ButthePatriarchisnotill—atleast,noworsethanhehasbeenfor
years.Cananythingbedonetohelphim?”
“Idon’tknow.”
“Youmust,itisyourareaofspecialty.Surelytherearemedications,injections?”Heturnedtomeandhe
washoldingpapersinhishand.“Youmentiontheminyourownreports.ThescientistsatTildenhave32
pending patents based on your work.” Stumbling over the words, he read, “Alprostadil, CGMP, guanine
hexafluorate.Sildena-what’s-this-say?”
“Sildenafilcitrate.ThatlastoneisalreadypatentedbyPfizer.ItwasthefirstoftheViagra-classdrugs.
Butitwouldstillbemyfirstsuggestionhere.”
“It was tried earlier this year. There was some success, but also side effects — headaches, and alarming
fluctuationsinbloodpressure.Ijudgedittooriskytocontinue.”
Mymindfelttopsy-turvy.SomanyyearswiththeimageofthePatriarchasall-powerfulandall-knowing,
and now Cyrus Walker spoke of the Blessed Jasper like some prize animal needing to be restored to
workingcondition.
“Therearemanyotherdrugs,”Isaid.“Icansuggestdozens.Theproblemis,theyhaveneverbeentriedon
humansubjectsundercontrolledconditions.ItwouldtakeyearsforTildentogetanyofthemthroughthe
FDA.”
PromptedbyanotherblanklookfromElderWalker,Iadded,“FDAistheFoodandDrugAdministration.It
wouldhavetoapproveanydrug.”
“Whyshouldtheyknowanythingofthedrugsthatyouhavedeveloped?TheybelongtousandTilden.”
“TheFDAhastobetoldofanyexperimentsinvolvinghumans.AndTildenwon’triskcrossingtheFDA;
theyhavetoomuchatstakeonhundredsofprod-ucts.”
“ThenneitherTildennoryourFDAshallknowoftheexperiments.”ElderWalkerhadregainedcontrolof
himself,andofthemeeting.“Itisverysimple,Rachel.Youwilldevelopandprovidethetestdrugs.Here
withintheOrderIwillfindmalestotakepartinyourexperiments.Theresultswillcomebacktoyou,and
youwillmaketheevaluation.Nooneoutsidewillknowanything.”
Ishookmyhead.Iwasfrightened,butIhadtoprotest.“Ican’tdothat.”
“Whatdoyoumean,can’t?”ElderWalkerwasscowling.
“It’sdangerous,andunethical,andunfairtoTilden.They’vealwaysworkedingoodfaithwiththeBlessed
Order.WalterCottinghamhastreatedmekindly,andIregardhimasmyfriend.”
“Tilden,andWalterCottingham,areunbelievers.YourdutyistoservetheBlessedOrder.”Perhapsthere
wasstillahintofrebellioninmylook,becausehewenton,“Youwilldoasyouaretold,Rachel.
Orwouldyouratherneverseeyourdaughteragain?”
Hehad hit myweakpoint,and he knewit.Theyhad Naomi. Idaredargueno more. I nodded,andsaid
softly,“Itwillbeasyousay.”
If I am completely honest, I must admit that the decision was not so difficult as it may sound. I was
fascinatedbytheprospectofapplyingsomeoftheideasthatbubbledupinmyheadassoonastheproblem
wasdefined.Also,mywholeupbringinghadbeenoneinwhichobediencetoElderCyrusWalkerandthe
needsoftheBlessedOrderwasimmediateandunquestioned.
So the secret program was launched —secret from Tilden, secret from the uni-versity, secret from my
friendsandfellowworkersinthelab.Iwastold,andaccepted,thatintheinterestsofsecrecyIwouldbe
interrogatedregularlyduringmyvisitstoBryceville.
Iwas allowed to spend an extra fourdays with Naomi. Then I returned to the university and I began to
work,harderthaneverinmylife.IcannotdenythatIreveledinthechallenge.
It would be two more years before I began to suspect that Cyrus Walker’s mo-tives were not what they
seemed. And a year beyond that when I started to question the whole structure and raison d’etre of the
BlessedOrder.
****
Notfornothingdothepriestsofanotherreligionsay,“Givemethechildforthefirstsevenyears,andI’ll
giveyoutheman.”
Whateveraninfantfindsaroundherselfis,bydefinition,thenaturalorderofthings.Quitereasonabletome,
all through my first and second decades, was the idea that a man had the right to take several wives;
accepted,thatawoman’ssuccesswouldbemeasuredbythenumberofhealthychildrenthatshebore,and
thatshewould function in all the affairsof lifeas“the lesser man”; natural, that children were first and
foremostthepossessionsandservantsoftheBlessedOrder;unquestioned,thatthesexrightsandprivileges
of the males should contain a defined hierarchy, with the Patriarch at the head and Elder Walker as his
powerfullieutenant.
IneveryclassinBryceville’sschool,biblicalauthoritywascitedforthesematters.Athome,mymotherand
seldom-seen father drove home the same message. Is it any wonder that five full years were necessary,
awayfromBrycevilleandinthecompanyofheretics,beforeIbegantofeeldifferently?
And yet with hindsight I believe that I was in some ways always a rebel. Un-known to anyone, I had
secretlynamedmyfirstfrogJasper.TakingthenameofthePatriarchinvainwasblasphemy.Unknownto
anyone,Ihaddonemyprivatefroggyinvestigationsandmailedtheresultstoasciencecontestinthehuge
and unknown world beyond Bryceville and the Blessed Order. That was, at the very least, gross
disobedience.ItoughttohaveraisedaredflareontheloftyroofofthePatriarch’slodge,glaringenoughto
warnanyalertCouncilmemberthatRachelStaffordwastheworstpossiblepersontosendintoanoutside
worldofskepticsandunbelievers.
Perhaps they were overconfident. After all, they had Naomi. And indeed, during my first years at the
universityanyCouncilmemberwouldhaveseenlittlereasontodoubtthedecisiontosendmethere.
True,Ididtakedrivinglessonsandobtainmylicense,somethingdeniedtofemalemembersoftheBlessed
Order;butIusedthelicensemainlyasanIDinstores.Iwasyoungandshyandavoidedsocialcontacts.My
workandmyvisitstoNaomifilledmylife;andalthoughitshouldnotbeformetosayit,myunderstanding
of neurotransmitters, human biochem-istry, and the human mind-body interface grew to exceed anything
thatIcouldfindelsewhereintheworld.Ipublishedlittle,butWalterCottinghamfiledatorrentofpatents
baseduponmywork.Hetoldme—strictly,Iamsure,againstcompanypolicy—thatTildenwasmorethan
getting their money’s worth. No other company had anything remotely like the selective-memory
suppressionandkeyed-memoryaccessdrugsthatmyworkprovided.Ofcourse,the
“forgetters,”the“truthtellers,”andthe“buttonpressers”(Walter’sterminology)stillhadalongwaytogo
beforetheycouldbeturnedonandoffinhoursratherthaninafew weeks;evenso,heandTildenwere
highlysatisfied.
ButIwasnot.ItwasnotsomuchthattheOrderusedthetruthtellersonme.Rather,itwasthatasyear
followedyearIbecameincreasinglyconvincedthatIwasjustgettingstarted.Thehumanbrainandbody
formawondrousandcomplexinteractingsystem.Theideathatadrug—anydrug—mightproduceasingle
effectonthe delicatelybalanced human brainis as preposterouslynaive and wrongasthe thoughtthata
combination of two medications will produce no effect beyond their separate influences. Tilden had its
patents;I,mappingcross-connections,hadsomethingmore:thevisionofawholenewworldwheredrugs
affectingthemindaffectedthebodythataffectedthemind…onandon,ininfiniteregress.
Asyear followed year I also became morecertainthatthe society of the Blessed Order wascorruptand
rottenatitsheart.
****
Ilookedup.Thesunwashighinthesky.IglancedatmywatchandrealizedthatIhadspenttwodazed
hoursstaringatthebrightpostersinthewindowofthebicycleshop.Thehardbenchseathadcutintomy
thighs.WhenIstoodup,mycalvesfeltthepinsandneedlesofreturningcirculation.
Iwalkedslowlybacktothecampus.Nothingwashappeningnowthathadnothappenedmanytimesbefore.
IhadbeentoBryceville,reportedtoElderWalker,anddeliveredtohimmylatestwork.Hehadgivenme
testresultsforanalysis,andhehadinterrogatedme,indetail,whileIwasundertheinfluenceofdrugsof
myowndevising.Soontheeffectswouldwearoff,andIwouldfeelnormal.
Back in my office, I again turned on the computer and called up the hidden data files. The response is
decidedlynonlinearandfollowsanapproximatetwo-thirdspowerlaw….Thewordsfelt no lessremote.
However,Icouldnowtellmyselfthattherewasagoodreason.Ihadbeenawayforaweek,naturallymy
workwouldseemalittlestrange,alittlelessimmediate.
ThenwhywasIfilledwithsuchanaliensenseofdissatisfaction?Ihaveapowerfulmemory,butsomehow
IdidnotfeelthatIcouldtrustit.Somethingwasmissing.Wasthatreal,orjustmoredrugaftereffects?
Ileanedbackinmyseatandstaredatthescreen.Myofficeliesattheendofthecorridor.Iheardnosound
butthesoftwhirofthediskdriveandfaintfootstepsonthefloorabove.
Ifeltastrengtheningconviction.Duringmyabsencesomeonehadbeeninmyoffice,startedmycomputer,
andtamperedwithmyhiddenfiles.
Who? That was not difficult. The Council of the Blessed Order knew exactly when I would be visiting
Brycevilleandawayfromtheuniversity.Askingmequestionswasonlyonewayofmakingsurethesecrets
ofmyworkweresafe;amoredirectmethodwastoexploremyrecordsfirsthand.Ididnotrememberdoing
so,butunderearlierdruggedinterrogationsImighthaverevealedeverythingaboutmysecretfiles.
It was easy enough to check my suspicion. I went to the central log, where records were kept of every
transactionofmaterialcalledfromstorage.Thehistorywasinreversechronologicalorder.Myhiddenwork
filescontainednineyearsofnotesontheanti-impotencedrugsandprotocols,fromtheirearliestbeginnings
whenIarrivedattheuniversitythroughtothesamepagesthatIhad beenex-aminingearlierintheday.
ThoselastpageshadbeenaccessedonMarch16—adatewhenIwasawayinBryceville.
Duringmyabsence,representativesoftheBlessedOrderhadbeenhereandexaminedmyfiles.
Ihadmyanswer.ItwasexactlywhatIexpected,butitbroughtnopeaceofmind.Ifoldedmyarms,stared
atnothing,andwondered.Sinceitwasnosurprisetomethatmyfileswouldbeexploredinmyabsence,
whythecontinueduneas-iness?TheserecordssaidnothingthatIhadnotalreadyrevealed,infull,toElder
WalkerandtheCounciloftheBlessedOrder.
The rhythmic click of leather shoes sounded far off in the corridor. Someone, probably Dr. Jeffers, was
pacingsteadilyupanddown.Itwashispreferredwayofthinking.Asthiswasmine.Sittinginahalf-trance,
lulledbythesoundoffootstepsandbythefainthumofthecomputer’sharddrive,Ilistenedtomyinner
voice.Irealizedthatmyworrieshadnothingtodowithmywork,orwhohadbeeninvestigatingit.
My worry was Naomi. I know that a mother is not the best judge, but I had always thought her an
exceptionallyprettychild.
Achild.
Exceptthatonmymostrecentvisit,thatwordhadnotbeenappropriate.InthesixmonthssinceIhadlast
seenher,Naomihadbecomeawoman.Notjusttheyoungbreasts,fillingouthertightcottondress;notjust
the way that the men of the Order looked at her —covertly, hotly, with the eyes of lust. That was bad
enough, but worse was the way she responded to those looks; the knowing sideways glance of her dark
eyes,thewaysheheldherselfandmovedherbody.
IhavesuggestedalreadythatIamnotastupidwoman.Why,then,wasIsoslowtorealizethatNaomi,at
13years,wasclosetotheagewhenIhadbeentakentothePatriarch,andfarlessinnocentthanI?
I had not seen, because I did not wish to see. To me it was unthinkable that Naomi would be forced to
endure what I had gone through myself, 14 years ago. Unthinkable that she would be made to commit
incest,eventhoughsuchaunionwiththePatriarch,theearthlyembodimentofGodhimself,wassanctioned
andblessedwithintheOrder.Unthinkable,butunavoidable.
Ibecameawarethatsomethinginfrontofmehadchanged.Thecomputer,unattendedformorethan10
minutes,hadswitchedits display.Insteadof thechronological listof filesaccessed,it showeda variable
screen-saverpattern.Afloodofmulticoloredbubblesroseslowlyupthescreen,popped,anddispersed.
Theupwarddriftwasrandom,andthenafterawhilenotquiteso.Istared,puzzledbyatwistingareawhere
greenandbluebubblesfadedintoeachother,Iwasseeingletters—words.SharonFile32V.
Visibleforafewseconds,thenvanishing.Randombubblesformedandroseandburst.
Ikeptlooking.Afterabouthalfaminute,anotherconfluenceofmergingbub-blesformedthewordsagain:
SharonFile32V.
Veryfewpeoplewouldbeabletoreadthatmessage.Eveniftheyswitchedonmycomputerandletitsit
idleuntil the screen-saver pattern appeared, chances were that they would see nothing. Toapersonwith
normalvision,therewasno message. Only someone color-blindexactly as I wascolor-blindwould find
any-thingonthescreenbutrandombubbles.
Ihadleftamessagetomyself.AndIhadnoideawhatitmightbe.
****
The hours from noon to early evening were very difficult. Sharon Prostley would be gone by 5:30, but
othersofthelableftlaterandtheywouldfinditoddtoseemeusingSharon’sworkstation.Icouldplead
problemswithmyowncomputer,butIdidnotwantanyonepeeringovermyshoulderandofferinghelpful
advicewhenItookalookatFile32VinSharon’ssystem.
IwaitedaslongasIcouldstand.Itwas20minutesaftersevenwhenIwalkedforthe10thtimealongthe
corridor,foundeveryofficeempty,andtiptoedintoSharon’sroom.Mostofonewallwasalongwindow,so
evenwiththedoorclosedIwouldbeperfectlyvisiblefromthecorridorasIturnedonhercomputer.
Ittookafewminutestofeelmywayin—Sharon’smachinewasorganizedquitedifferentlyfrommine.I
wasforced to lookinquite a fewplacesuntil, in anoperatingsystem directorywhereSharon was never
likelytogo,Ifound32V.Itwasatextfile;or,moreaccurately,anestedsetofthem.
IloadedSharon’swordprocessingsystem.Nervously,wonderingwhatImightfind,Ibroughtinthefirst
file.
FLGEYRROPROCIUETPSCIQCXNOFPAJWFS.
Gibberish.Notwords,notdata,notanything.
Unless…Istared,becamedizzy,felttheroomswayandrockaroundme.Memories,suppressedbymyown
drugsandkeyednowbythebuttonpressers,floodedback.
Myfingerssoughtandfoundthenewdatabank.Tersenotesfilledthescreen—secretfromTilden,Inc.,
secretfromElderWalker,secretfromeveryone.Scanningthem,Idoubtedthattheywouldbeintelligibleto
anyonebutme.Butscanningthem,Isawamplereasonforextremecaution.
Firstentry:Penta-sild.+cyto.heptahydrate+oxidant-->strongshort-termin-crease.
It was a tailored anti-impotence drug that I had recently developed and was testing on members of the
BlessedOrder.Strictlyspeaking,anydrugwasmerelybeingevaluatedbeforebeingmadeavailabletothe
Blessed Jasper. In practice there was never a shortage of volunteers. Elder Walker told me to bring
increasingamountsoneachofmysix-monthlyvisits.
Andnowthesubtext:Penta-sild.+cyto.heptahydrate+GABAundergoesmeta-morph.-->newneuro.+
feedback-->6-mo.l(sero.&dopa.levels)-->pituitdown-->testost.tozero.
Permanent.
Interpretation: The same drug, plus gamma-aminobutyric acid, crossed the blood-brain barrier and had a
neurotransmitter breakdown product. Used for six months or more, the pituitary gland would be
increasingly affected and the male testosterone level would drop to zero; with that decline would go all
sexualdesire.Furthermore,theeffectwouldnotreverseitselfafteruseofthedrugended.
HowmuchdidIhatetheOrderthathadraisedme?Enoughtowanttodestroyit;butItoldmyselfthatwas
notmymotive.AllIwantedwastosaveNaomi,Anotherfewmonthswouldbeenough;providedthatthey
didnottakehervirginityuntilJulyorAugust,shewouldescapemyfate.
****
March,withitswarmdaysandpleasantlycoolnights,slowlygavewaytothebakingheatofJune.Iworked
late every night, but the sidewalk was still warm beneath my sandals as I walked home to my single-
bedroomapartment.
Asalways,Icheckedmyansweringmachine.EveryweekIhadafriendlycallfromWalterCottingham,and
nowandagaintherewerequestionsorcommentsfromthescientistsatTilden,Inc.Occasionallytherewas
amessagefromBryceville.TheBlessedOrderdidnotapproveofelectronicdevicesbutitdidnotalways
followitsownrules.IknewfromWalterthatElderWalkertelephonedhimeveryweekonfinancialmatters.
Foraseniormemberofasectthateschewedallworldlyconcerns,CyrusWalkerwassurprisinglyinterested
inmoney.IdidnotknowhowmuchTilden,Inc.paidtheOrderforwhatIwasdoing,butitwasfarmore
than the cost of my room and board, plus a small discretionary amount for incidentals. That had been
granted,grudgingly,afterstrongwordsonmybehalffromWalter.
On June 28, I arrived home at nine. I made myself a glass of iced tea and listened to the calls. Raoul
Caprice,from Tilden, with a shrewd questionaboutan implied viral inhibitoreffectofoneofmy recent
reports.Woulditworkequallywellforretroviruses?Iwondered.Wouldit?Probably.IlikedRaoul,orat
leastIlikedhismind.Wehadnevermetinperson.Ilookedattheclockanddecided,regretfully,thatitwas
abitlatetocallhimbackontheEastCoast.
Atelemarketer,whomusthavehadmoresparetimethansense,hadleftalongmessageinvitingmetobuy
“heatingoilfutures,”whatevertheywere.SharonProstleyhadcalled,apologizingfornotdroppinginthat
morning.ShewasPMSyandhadbeeninashittymoodallday.Seeyoutomorrow.AbnerWurtshelm,of
whomIhadneverheard,nervouslywonderedifIcouldtellhimhowtheprostaglandinsworked.Hewas
doingasciencereportforhighschool—deadlineinthreedays—wasgoingtopullacertainDunlesshe
cameupwithsomethingspectacular—gotmynamefromthecollegebook—wouldlovetobuymeacof-
fee—luncheven—ifIwouldanswerafewquestions.
Ismiled.Abnerhad arealnerve,butmaybeIwouldcallhimback.Hesoundedbright.Istartedto walk
towardthephonewhenthefinalmessagestartedinmid-sentence.
” — later on. I have something tremendous to tell you. Call me on return — as soon as you get this
message.”
Naomi,tooimpatienttowaitfortheendofmystandardmessagetocallers.Naomi!
IwasdialingbeforeIcouldaskmyselfwhereshewas,orhowshehadmanagedtoplaceacall.
“Yes?”Thegruffvoicethatansweredwasmale.
“NaomiStafford.”I was filled with a mixtureof excitement and terror. Some-thing tremendous —surely
thatcouldn’tbeanythingtodowiththeBlessedJasper.Sowhatwasit?“Imean,Iwouldliketospeakto
NaomiStafford.”
“I’msureyouwould,Rachel.”ItwasElderWalker.“She’srighthere.Onemoment.”
“Mother?”ItwasNaomi,breathlessbutsomehowmoreadultintonethanwhenIhadseenherlast.“Ihave
someabsolutelywonderfulnews.I’mgoingtobemarried!”
“Married.To—”
Ifoundithardtogetthewordsout.TheBlessedJasperwasfathertoa10thofthechildrenintheBlessed
Order,buthehadnotmarriedfor40years.
“TotheBlessedJasper?”Isaidatlast.
“No!Of coursenot, silly.”Naomi’slaugh,young andcarefree,grabbed myheart.“Mother, I’mgoing to
marryElderWalker.Aren’tyougoingtocongratulateus?”
No90-year-oldJasper.Instead,ruggedandagelessCyrusWalker,withhisbaldhead,barrelchest,andsly,
grayeyes.TheheirapparenttotheleadershipoftheBlessedOrderhadchosenmydaughter—mynot-yet-
14daughter—tobehiswife.Shewouldjointhethreecowed,abjectwomenalreadymarriedtohim.My
workhadnotsavedher.Itcametoolate.
“Mother?”saidNaomi.WhenIstillcouldnotspeak,ElderWalker’svoicecameontheline.“Ofcourse,we
hopeyouwillbehereforthewedding.Youwillcome,won’tyou?”
Itwasmoreacommandthanaquestion.ElderWalkerwasusedtocommand-ing.
“Ah—uh—ofcourse,I’ll—when—whenwilltheweddingbe?”Istillhadhope.ElderWalker,whose
sexualappetitehadbeenwhisperedaboutbythewomensinceIwasasmallchild,wouldsurelybeoneof
thementakingthenewestdrugthatIhadprovided.Acouplemoremonths…
“Oh,don’tworry,there’splentyoftimeforyoutogethere.Theceremonywon’tbeuntilSaturday.”
“WhichSaturday?”
“Thenextone.July3.”
TodaywasMonday.Fivedaysfromnow.
“Toosoon,”Isaid,andthen,tocovermymistake.“Imean,itwillbehardformetogetawayfromthelab
atsuchshortnotice.Isthereanywayitcouldbelater—evenafewweeks?”
“The arrangements have all been made. They can’t be changed.” Elder Walker’s voice left no room for
negotiation.“Tellpeopleattheuniversitythatit’syourdaughter’swedding.Theywillunderstand.”
“MayIspeakagaintoNaomi?”
“Youcanspeaktohertomorrow.Thenyou’llknowwhatdayandtimeyou’llbegettinghere,andwe’llsee
howyoufitintotheceremony.Naomiwouldlikeyoutobepartofit.Seeyouinafewdays.”
I heard a click and was left with a dead line. In a few days I might be dead, too. I knew I would go to
Bryceville—Ihadto,totalkNaomioutofit,pleadwithElderWalkertowait,askforanaudiencewiththe
BlessedJasper.Hopeless,butIhadtotryeverything.
AndIwouldgotoBrycevillewithmemoriesofmyownsubversiveworkagainsttheBlessedOrderintact.
Theselective-memorysuppressiondrugIhadusedonmylastvisitrequiredacarefulprotocolandweeksof
preparation.
WhatwerethechancesthatIwouldbeinterrogatedagainduringmyvisit?Iwouldhavetotakethechance.
Itoldmyself,ithadbeenonlythreemonthsandafterallIwasthereforawedding,notaresearchreview.
IfeltapowerfulurgetodropeverythingandheadatoncetoBryceville.ThesoonerIknewtheworst—all
theworst—thebetter.Anight,longandsleepless,andabriefconversationwithNaomithenextmorning,
convincedmeotherwise.Iworkedthenextthreedaysinthelab,pausingonlyformealsandbriefnapsand
neverleavingthebuilding.
Attwoo’clockonFridaymorningIreturnedtomyapartment,showeredforthefirsttimeinfourdays,and
setthealarmforeight.
At nine o’clock I did something I had done only twice before in my life. I rented a car. I took it to the
university,pickedupapackagefromthelab,andeliminatedagroupoffilesfrommycomputer,overwriting
the storage areas so there was no possibility of reconstruction. Then, instead of taking the usual bus to
Bryceville,Idrove.Ondustyroads,throughsheer-sidedredcanyons andacrossstarkdesertscenery,the
car’s air conditioning fought the summer heat while I, shivering and sweating by turns, worried about
Naomi and what was going to happen the next day. The more I thought about Cyrus Walker, the more
Naomi’s fate seemed worse than mine. I had lost my virginityto the Blessed Jasper; she would lose her
wholelifewhenshebecameElderWalker’sfourthwife.
AmileandahalfbeforeIcametotheoutskirtsofBrycevilleIleftthehighwayandparkedthecarinalittle
arroyo.Itwouldbeintroublethereintheeventofaflashflood,butitwaswelloutofsightofanyoneon
theroad.Itookaknapsackoutofthetrunk.ThatwasmyusualluggagewhenIwenthomeforvisits.
ThenIhesitated.
ShouldI take the other thing, too? If Ididn’t,I mighthavenochanceto come back for it. The cylinder
wouldfitinmyknapsack,butsupposethatweretobesearched?Itneverhadbeen,sofarasIknew.Allit
usuallyheldweretoiletarticles,acoupleofchangesofclothing,andsomesmallgiftforNaomi.Ihadnever
checkedcloselytoseeifanythinghadbeenremovedandreturned.
Ilookedatmywatch.In15minutestheEscalantebuswasscheduledtopassbythispartofthehighway.
Ihadtobeonit.Ifinallydecidedtoleavethecylinderbehindinthelockedtrunkofthecar,andhurried
backoutofthearroyo.
I had cut it close. The bus was no more than a mile away, its outline shim-mering in the heat, when I
reachedtheroad.Istoodbytheroadsideandwaved,anditwheezedtoahalt.
“Bryceville,”Isaid,asIclimbedonboard.“HowmuchdoIowe?”
“Notworthchargingyou.”Thedriver,atowheadedmaninhisearly20s,nod-dedtowardtheroadahead.
“We’realmostthere,youcouldhavewalkeditinhalfanhour.ButIguessit’sabithotforthat.”
“Hot,anddusty,”Isaid,andwenttositdown.Iwasgladtoseethatonlyhalfadozenotherpeoplewereon
thebus,andnoneofthemhadthedresstypicalofmembersoftheBlessedOrder.
Thebusdroppedmeoffintheusualplaceneartheedgeoftown.Itwasjustafteroneo’clock,soallthe
childrenwereinschoolandnomotherswerewaiting.Infact,nooneatallwasonthestreet.Myprecaution
inarrivingbybusfeltlikeawasteoftimeasIwalkedslowlytowardElderWalker’shouse,initsfavored
positionnexttothePatriarch’stalllodge.
Whythere,andnottomymother’shouse,whereNaomilived?IthinkIwantedtoknowtheworstassoon
aspossible.Iapproachedthedoorofscrubbedwhiteoak,andgentlyknocked.Afterafewsecondsitwas
opened—byNaomi.
“Mother!”Shesoundeddelightedandshelookedwonderful,cheerfulandra-diantandmorefreeofworry
thanIhaveeverbeen.“Ididn’tthinkyouwouldarrivesoearly.”
“You’relivinghere,”Isaid.Toolate.
“No,I’mnot.Icamethismorningtohelpwiththearrangements—it’sgoingtobeahugeceremony.
Cyrusisn’there,he’llbebackinafewminutes.ButthePatriarchis.Comeinandseehim.”
IwouldratherspendtimewiththeDevil.ButIsteppedintothefamiliarbroadhallflankedwithAnasazi
relicsandfollowedNaomitotherearofthehouse.
She led me not to the big living room where Elder Walker had gazed out of the window at the rolling
tumbleweed,buttoalittle,dim-litden.IhadtowaitformyeyestoadjustbeforeIcouldseethePatriarch
sittinginanarmchair.
Atonce,IknewwhatNaomiapparentlydidnot.Iwaslookingatamanclosetodeath.Hewassmalland
shriveled,adollfiguredwarfedbythemassivechair.Theskinofhisbaldheadwaslikeajaundicedsaffron
egg,markedbyprominentdarkveins.Hismouthwasopen,adarktoothlesscavern,andhisyellowedeyes
staredatnothing.WhentheydidnotmoveasIsteppedcloser,Iknewthathewasblind.
AfterthePatriarch,what?Theinnercirclewouldneverbeopentome,ortoanywoman,butitwasnothard
toguessitsdecision.WhentheBlessedJasperdied,ElderWalkerwouldbecomethePatriarch.
LookingagainatNaomi,IrealizedthatIhadbeenwrong.Sheknew—knewthatJasperhadlittletimeto
live, knew that tomorrow she would marry a man destined for supreme power within the Order. That
soundedwonderfultoher—butwhataboutthelifeshewouldleadafterward,asafourthandlowestwife?
At13,noonethinksofthelong-termfuture.
“Canwegohomesoon?”Isaid.“Iwanttoseeyourgrandmother,andIwouldliketospendsometimewith
youbeforethewedding.”
“Thatmightbedifficult.”Shegavemetherapid,side-of-eyeglancethatIhadseenheruseonoldermen.
“Cyrussaidwe’dbeverybusytodayanditwouldbebetterformetostayatthishousetonight.”Sheadded,
herchinpushedalittleforward,“Itwillallbeveryproperandrespectable.TwoofCyrus’sbrothersandtwo
ofhissisterswillbehere.”
“Naomi,weneedtotalk.”
“We’llhaveplentyoftimeforthat—afterthewedding.”Sheturnedatthesoundofthedooropeningback
alongthehall,andsaidimportantly,“IthinkthatmustbeCyrus.Imustmakesurethatthingsarereadyfor
him.”
Shehurriedaway.ItookanotherlookatthePatriarch.HelolledinhischairjustashehadwhenIarrived,
apparentlyseeingandhearingnothing.
That seemed to be confirmed when Elder Walker breezed in. He ignored the Blessed Jasper and came
straightacrosstome.
“Excellent,excellent.”Heclappedhismeatyhandstogether.“Youareearly,andweneedallthehelpwe
can get. Rachel, I want you to go down to the main meeting hall and tell Belinda Lee that the table
arrangementsforthemealhavetobechanged.TellherthattheBlessedJasper”—theskeletalfiguremade
no movement at the sound of his name —”must be seated alone ata special dais, and he should not be
servedameal.”
“Naomi,”Ibegan.“I’dliketomeetwithherand—“
“Tomorrow.Fartoobusytoday,allofus.”Hetookmyarmandledmebacktowardthefrontdoor.
“Lotsoftimeforthepairofyoutotalktomorrow.OffyougoandhelpBelinda.Andyouwon’tneedthat
justnow.”Hetookmyknapsackfrommyhandandhefteditspeculatively.“We’llgetittoyoulater.”
Iwentcold,recallinghowcloseIhadcometobringingthecylinder.Isaidnotaword,butasheusheredme
intothe street he spoke again. “One otherthing,Rachel. The questioning regarding the progress of your
work.We’llputthatoffuntilafterthewedding.We’lldoitonSunday,allright?Hurryalongnow.”
HeclosedthedoorbeforeIcouldreply.InsteadofhurryingIleanedmybackagainstthesturdywallofthe
houseand closedmyeyes. I wasunprepared,and interrogationon Sunday woulddoomme. Alltheway
fromSt.GeorgeIhadwonderedwhatIshoulddo—whatIcoulddo,whatIdaredtodo.Now,Ihadno
choice.
****
SometimesIwonderwhereIcamefrom.ThatfeelingisneverstrongerthanwhenIhavespentafewhours
withmymother.Shewasthinnerthaneverandveryfrail,butshewasenormouslycheerful.Sheaskedme
aboutmywork,andafteracoupleofminutesofsimplifieddescriptionshenoddedandsaid,
“A wonderful marriage, it will be. As I’ve told Naomi, she is very lucky. Everyone expects that Cyrus
Walkerwillbecome—“
She paused, reluctant to voice the unspeakable. Cyrus Walker will become the new Patriarch whenthe
BlessedJasperdies.
“Mother,ElderWalkerisanoldman,atleast60,andhehasthreewivesalready.”
“DoyouthinkthatNaomimindsthat?Rachel,don’tyoueverevenlookatyourowndaughter?Naomiis
happyascanbe,everymoveshemakessaysthat.ShewantstomarryCyrus.”
“Butshe’sonly13.She’sachild.”
Shestaredatme.“YouhadNaomiat14.Ihadyouat14.”
“Butthatdoesn’tmeanitwasright.Tospendyourwholelifebearingchildren,untilyouaretoooldortoo
sickordiedoingit.”
Shestoodup,andshewastrembling.“RachelStafford,Idon’twanttohearonemoreword.Ididn’tbringa
childofmineintotheworldsothatshecouldspoutblasphemy.Ididn’traiseyouthatway,andIdidn’traise
Naomithatway,either.It’sthatgodlesscollegeyouworkat,andthatgodlessworkyoudo.
Ishouldneverhaveletyougo.I’mgoingtoliedown.”
Nouseremindingherthatshehadhadnosayinthematter.MyfuturehadbeendecidedbyElderWalker
and the Council. Mother had been a nonentity, as I would also be a nonentity except that my continued
presenceattheuniversitywasbothusefulandlucrativefortheBlessedOrder.
Ateighto’clockmyknapsackwasdroppedoffatthehousebyateenagegirlwhomIdidnotrecallmeeting
before.
“I’m a friend of Naomi,” she said. She stared at me curiously, and I wondered what tales were told in
BrycevilleofthestrangevisitorwhowasNaomiStafford’smother.AftershehadgoneIlookedinsidethe
knapsackandfoundthatthecontentswerenotarrangedasIhadpackedthem.
By10o’clockitwasfullydark.Iwaitedanotherhouruntilmymother,whoafterourfirstdisagreementhad
saidnomorethanafewwordstomeallevening,wasinbedandsoundlyasleep.ThenIslippedout.
Thestreetwasquietandempty.Unlesssomethinghadchangedinthepastfewmonths,thesummercurfew
inBrycevillewouldlastuntilfiveinthemorning.
ImovedslowlyandtriedtostayintheshadowofbuildingsuntilIwassafelyoutofthetowncenter.Ihad
noflashlightwithme—afailureofplanningonmypart—buttheMoonwasonlyafewdayspastfulland
therewerenoclouds.Evenso,theworldlookeddifferentenoughatnightthatIwasnotsureIhadtheright
arroyountilIactuallysawthecar.
Thecylinderweighedabout10pounds.WithmoretimeinthelabIcouldhavecutthatdownconsiderably,
buteverythinghadbeendoneinablazinghurry.Ituckedthesmooth,grayshapeundermyarmandstarted
back.
ItwasaftermidnightwhenIreachedtheoutskirtsofBryceville.Inthepasttwohourscloudshadmovedin
from the west to hide the Moon. The weather was changing. I sneaked again through the dark streets,
knowingthatthehardpartlayaheadofme.
Thateffortcouldnotbeginuntilmorning.ItiptoedupstairsandlaydowninthesamebedwhereIhadslept
asachild.Amazingly,Isleptlikeachild.Orperhapsnotsoamazingly.Themindcanpushalongway,but
atsomepointthebodyassertsitowndemands.
****
SummerraininBrycevillewasararetreat.ThewetmorningfacesthatIpassedonthestreetsallseemedto
besmiling. People who recognized me paused tocongratulateme. I forced a smile of my own, heldmy
knapsacktightlyundermyraincoat,andhurriedon.
Theceremonywouldbeheldin thetownmeetinghallat11:30,followedatonceby thereceptioninthe
samebuilding.AsIhadexpected,BelindaLeewasalreadythere,worryingoverfinalarrangements.She
didnotquestionmypresence.ElderWalkerhadassignedmetohelpheryesterday,hemusthavedonethe
sametoday.
Iwenttotherearofthehalltoputdownmyknapsackandhangupmyraincoat.Walkingtothearroyoand
backIhadthoughtaboutthelayoutofthemeetinghallandwonderedwheretoputthefat,graycylinder.It
hadtobehidden,butitalsohadtobeaccessibletomeduringorjustbeforetheceremony.
BelindaLee,thankGod,wasaworrierwholikedeverythingplannedandperfecttothelastdetail.Shewas
notatallsurprisedwhenIappearedtohavethesameattitude.
“Righthere,”shesaid,leadingmetothethirdlongbench.“You’llenterwithNaomi,thenyouleaveherat
thefrontandcomeandsitdownattheaisleendforthewholeceremony.”
“Ijustwanttorunthroughitoncetomakesure,”Isaid.
Belinda’svaguenodsaid,allright,butI’vegototherthingstodo.Womenwerearrivingwithhome-cooked
food,whichhadtobeplacedreadyforservingafterthewedding.ShetooknonoticeofmewhenIsatdown
onthebenchandleanedforwardtopeerbeneathit.Thesolidwoodenbackranallthewaytothefloor,and
therewasagoodfootofopenspacebelowtheseat.
Iwentbackalongtheaisle,pickedupmyknapsack,andwalkedslowlyforwardleadinganimaginedNaomi
onmyarm.AsthedaisIpausedrespectfullywithheadinclined,thenturnedandwenttositattheendofthe
bench.Islippedmy knapsack underneath and bent down as though it would not easilyfit.Thefat,gray
cylinderhadtocomeout.Ieaseditfree,pusheditbackalittlefarther,andusedtheemptyknapsacktohide
itcompletelyfromsight.Leaningfarforward,Icouldstillreachitsblackvalve.
Twootheryoungwomen,strangerstome,wereatthefrontofthehallnow.Iwentforward.
“I’mNaomi’smother.Elder Walkersentmetohelp.Itsmellsawfulmustyin here,andwiththerainwe
don’twanttoopenthewindows.Doyouhaveanythingtomakeitsmellnicer?”
FemalemembersoftheBlessedOrderdonotquestionmaleauthority,evenwhenitcomessecondhand.
“We’vegotdisinfectant,”oneofthemsaid.“Butitdoesn’tsmellallthatgood.”
“Howaboutrosewater?”thesecondoneasked.“We’vegotplentyofthat.Wouldn’titbebetter?”
“Itwouldbeperfect,”Isaid.“Bringmeallyoucanfind.Andthedisinfectant,too.”
Theylookedalittledoubtfulastheywentoff.Withreason.Ammoniaandrosewaterprovideanaromalike
nothingyoucanimagine.By9:30thefrontpartofthehallhaditsownuniquesmell;neitherpleasantnor
unpleasant,but enoughtomakepeoplesniffand look puzzled when they came in. I left, highly nervous
aboutwhatIwasleavingbeneaththebench,andmademywaythroughtheraintoElderWalker’shouse.
IfIhadeverimaginedthatIwasakeyplayerinpreparationsfortheweddingceremony,theillusionended
withmyarrivalatthehouse.Iwashardlynoticed.ElderWalkerhadalreadydeparted,sequesteredwiththe
restoftheCouncil,buthalfadozenolderwomenhadbeentheresinceearlymorning.Naomi’sattention
wasallonherappearance.TheOrderheldthatelaboratedressandundueattentiontopersonwassinful,but
nooneseemedtohavetoldmydaughter.Shewasfrettingaboutherpuffyface,herimagineddoublechin,
andthestateofhercomplexion.Andwhatwouldhappentoherdressandherhairwhenshehadtowalkin
therain?Itoldher—truthfully—thatshelookedradiantandabsolutelygorgeous.TheideaofCyrusWalker
forcinghimselfontoandintothatsoftyoungbodymademewanttovomit.
All unions of the Blessed Order are said to be fore-ordained by Heaven. Today the weather seemed to
supportthat.At11:15,justaswepreparedtowalkovertothemeetinghall,therainstoppedandthesun
emerged.
Tenofus,allwomen,walkedthroughthestreetswithNaomi;butwhenwecametotheopendoubledoors
ofthehall,Ialonecontinuedwithheronmyarm.Thegreatroomwasalreadythree-quartersfull.Iguessed
maybeathousandpeoplewerethere—thiswasamajoreventfortheBlessedOrder.AsNaomiandIwent
downthelongaisleIsawElderWalkerandagroupofCouncilmemberswaitingattheend.Behindthem,
onthedaisinamassiveceremonialchair,satthewastedformoftheBlessedJasper.
TheweddingceremonywithintheOrderwaslengthy,andaslongasIhadlivedinBrycevillethePatriarch
hadplayedacentralpartinit.AsIleftNaomiwiththegroupbeforethedais,turned,andmademywayto
myplaceonthebench,Iwondered.Howcouldalivingskeleton,blindanddeaf,performanyfunctionat
all,stilllessdeliverthecustomaryinvocationandblessing?
Ishouldhaveknownbetter.TheCouncilhadfacedtheproblemofafailingPatriarchforalongtime.AsI
sat down and leaned far forward as though in prayer, I heard a familiar voice. “Dearly Beloved, we are
gatheredheretoday…”
Ijerkedmyheadup.ThatwasthePatriarch’svoice,firmandclear.Butthemouthofthefrailfigureonthe
platform was not moving. I glanced around and saw others behaving as if the situation was perfectly
normal. Suddenly I realized what was happening. The Order, sneering at the world outside Bryceville,
decryingmodernmachinery,suspiciousofinnovation,stillfounditsownusesfortechnol-ogy. Someone,
yearsago,hadforeseenthepresentsituationandrecordedtheBlessedJasperinaweddingceremony.
Ileaneddown,reachedunderneath,andsavagelyturnedthevalve.AsIstraight-enedupIheardthehissof
escapinggas.Afterafewsecondsmyneighborsonthebench,threewomen,turnedinmydirection.
Theywerecatchingafaintlyacridsmell,butthecontinuingceremonymaskedthesound.Theystaredatme
foramoment,sawnothing,andreturnedtheirattentiontotheweddingservice.
Thenextfiveminuteswereagonizing.Ifeltsurethatthesmellofthespreadinggaswouldoverwhelmthat
ofdisinfectantandrosewater,andsomeonewouldin-vestigateandexposewhatIhaddone.Ifthatdidn’t
happen,thealternativewasalmostworse:Inanotherhour,NaomiwouldbemarriedtoCyrusWalker.
And there was a final possibility, one I almost dared not think about. I hoped that I understood the
interactionofthechemicalnowspreadingthroughtheairwiththedrugsdeliveredinthepastyeartothe
Order,butinthelastfewdesperatedaystherehadbeennotimetocalibratedosageorexploreotherpossible
effects.SupposethatIkilledeveryoneinthemeetinghall?ItwassmallconsolationtoknowthatI,sitting
rightabovethecylinderwouldbethefirsttogo.
Iwaited,graduallybecomingconvincedthatIhadmadeagrossmistakeandnothingwasgoingtohappen.
The voice of the Patriarch seemed to go on forever. Then one of the Council members standing right at
Naomi’ssideraisedahandtohishead,half-turned,anddroppedtothegroundwithoutasound.
****
The men nearby bent to help him, but before they could do more than lift his head their attention was
divertedtothe raiseddais.ThePatriarch,who upto thispoint intheproceedingshadneithermovednor
spoken,utteredahoarse,strangledmoan.Hisskinnyfigurelurchedtoitsfeet,stoodswayingandrigidfora
moment, then fell forward head first. The crack of his bald head on the hard floor of the hall was loud
enoughtosoundthroughthestill-continuinginvocation.
Awailofhorroranddisbeliefrangthroughthehall.CouncilmembersmovedtotheBlessedJasper,while
dozensofotherpeoplestartedforward.Beforetheycoulddoanythingtohelp,anothermanwastopplingto
thefloor.Thenanother,IsawElderWalker,swayingonhisfeet,grabatNaomi’sarmforsupport.
Thenhecrumpledandfell.Ileanedforward,thinkingtoclosethevalve,butitwastoolate.Thewomenon
mybenchwerescreamingandtheyforcedtheirwaypast,makingitimpossibleformetobendover.Istood
up and turned around. The room was pandemonium. Some people pushed forward to help, others were
head-ingtowardthedoors.And,everywherecloseby,menwerefalling.Thefrontofthehallwaslittered
withtheirsilentbodies.Othermenrightbesidethemre-mainedstanding.Theystaredaround,bewildered
andafraid.
IhopedandprayedthatIwasseeingunconsciousness,andnoworse.IhadkilledtheBlessedJasper,Iknew
that—thethree-footfallfromthedaistoanimpactwiththehardfloorwouldhavecrackedtheskullofa
manfarlessfrail.
NaomiwaskneelingatElderWalker’sside,cryinghysterically.Ipushedmywaythrough,grabbedanarm,
andtriedtolifther.“Wehavetogetoutofhere!”Ishouted.
“No!”Shewouldnotmove.“Cyrusishurt.Ihavetolookafterhim.”
“It’stoorisky.Ifwedon’tleave,thesamethingwillhappentous.”
Idon’tknowifsheheardme,butotherscertainlydid.Iheardscreamsandcriesof“Letmeout!”Thepress
towardthemainexitbeganinearnest.Menandwomenforcedeachotheroutofthewayandtrampledthe
bodiesonthefloor.AgainItriedtoliftNaomi,butshewouldnotmovefromElderWalker’sside.
Istayedwithher,waitingforthecrushtosubside.Then,whennoonewasnear,IdidwhatIhatedtodo.
Thejaboftheneedletothenapeofherneckwasnotpainful—barelyenoughtomakeherlookupatmein
surprise.
Iwaitedfor10seconds,thensaid,“Naomi,wemustleavenow.Comealong.”
SherosetoherfeetwithabemusedexpressiononherfaceandallowedmetoleadherawayfromElder
Walker. When we came to the bench where I had been sitting I made a quick detour and picked up the
knapsackandcylinder.
At the double doors I paused and glanced back into the hall. I had no time for an accurate count, but I
estimatedthat50peopleremained,allnearthefront,allunconscious,andallmen.Infrontofme,hundreds
hadturnedagainandwerestanding,unsureifitwouldbesafetogobackin.Ithadbeguntopour,mingling
warmraindropswithtears.NoonespoketousortriedtointerfereasIledNaomiawayalongthestreet.
Shesaidnothingforahundredyards,andthen,“Wherearewegoing?”
“Home,first.Thentowherewe’llbesafe.”
Sheglancedbacktowardthemeetinghallbutdidnotanswer.Icouldfeelherarmtrembling,andItuckedit
intomine.“We’llbeallright,love.We’llbefine.”
Shestaredatmevacantly.“WhereisCyrus?”
“Heisfine,too.Hewantsmetolookafteryou.”
“AndtheBlessedJasper?”
Idarednotanswerthat.IbelievedthatthePatriarchwasdead,andIhadkilledhim.Itoldmyselfitwasnot
myfault.Theoldmanoughttohavebeenallowedtodieinpeace.
WehadreachedMother’shouse.Iexpectedhertobethere,untilIsawthatthewheelchairwasmissing.
Ihadn’tseenherinthehall,butshehadalmostcertainlybeenthereforthewedding.Ihopedthatshewas
safe.Inanycase,Icouldnottakethetimetofindout.
“Naomi,packsomeclothes,andanythingelseyouthinkyouneed.”
“Forhowlong?”
Forever.IwouldnoteverdaretoreturntoBryceville,andIwantedNaomitostayaway.
“Foraweek.”InthatmuchtimeIwouldbeabletoexplaineverythingtoher.
“Areyoutakingmetowhereyoulive,inSt.George?”
Thathadbeenmyownfirstthought,untilIrecalledhowmembersoftheBlessedOrderhadknownexactly
howtogetintomycomputer.Wewouldnotbesafethere.Wewouldnotbesafeanywhere,butIcouldnot
tellthattoNaomi.
“NotSt.George,”Isaid.“Wearegoingfartherawaythanthat.You’llgettoflyinanairplane.”
“Oh.”Herfaceshowedsomelifeforthefirsttimesincethemanathersidehadfallensilentlytothefloor,
butthenshefrowned.Mypoor,sweetNaomi.Todayhadtobeafarworsenightmareforherthanforme.
“Anairplane?”
“Drinkthis,”Isaid.
She swallowed the little cup of red liquid I handed her, and after a few seconds her face cleared. “An
airplane.I’vealwayswantedtogoonone.Butisn’titwrong?”
“Notwhenit’sreallynecessary.TheBlessedOrdersays,incertaincasesthingslikeairplanescanbeused.”
Iglancedatmywatch.Amazingly,itwasnotyetmidday.“Areyoureadytogo?”
“Justabout.”Shesmiled.“Willyoureallytakemeonanairplane?”
“Iwill.Ipromise.”
Three-quartersofanhourlaterwewereatthearroyo.Therainhadmadethegroundslipperybuttherehad
beennoflood.Thecarstartedeasily.Iheadednorth.FourhourslaterwewereattheSaltLakeCityairport.
Byseven o’clock we were takingoff,andNaomiwasstaring out of the window.Sheseemedbliss-fully
content—toocontent.
I,intheseatnexttoher,worriedaboutdosages,grippedthearmrestsofmyseatandtriednottothinkabout
whereIwas.
I,too,hadneverbeenonanairplane.
****
Wheretogo?
Althoughmyresearchworkhadcarriedmeelectronicallytohundredsofpeopleoneverycontinentexcept
Antarctica,Iknewnoone.Ihadnoclosefriends,noknowledgeofhoworwheretwopeoplewithoutmuch
moneycouldhidefrompossiblepursuers.
IhadbeentoodesperatetodoanythingbutrununtilweflewoutofSaltLakeCity.Onlywhenwelandedat
Philadelphiaatsixo’clockinthemorningdidIcallWalterCottingham.Ireachedhisansweringmachine,
andlefthimadespair-ingmessagewiththenumberofthephonewhereIwasstanding.
Iwentbacktositdown.WhatwereNaomiandIgoingtodo?Shehadsleptthroughmostofourlongred-
eyeflightwithitstwoconnections,exhaustedbyhernightmaremorningandwithamixtureofdrugsstillin
her system. She drowsed on a seat near me. Now, somehow, I had to get us to a place where we could
showerandeat,andshecouldrecuperate.
WhileIwasstillwondering,thetelephonerangandIjumpedtoanswerit,almostknockingdownawoman
strugglingwithtwobigsuitcases.
“Walter?”Isaid.Thewomanwasglaringatme,andIgaveheraconciliatorysmile.
“It’sme.I’mhome.Justsleeping.Doyouknowwhattimeitis?Whereareyou?”Helistened,thensaid,
“Stayrightthere.I’monmyway.Don’tworry,we’lltakecareofthis.”
Icollapsedbackontomyseat.Forthefirsttimein24hoursIwasabletoclosemyeyesandrelaxalittlebit.
Hearrivedanhourlater,whenIwasbeginningtoworrythathewasn’tcoming.
“Traffic,”hesaid.“Youlooktiredout.Howareyou,witch-woman?”
He caught Naomi’s puzzled expression. “It’s nothing bad. Just a name I gave your mother because our
researcherssaywhatshedoesismagic.”
IhadtoldNaominothingaboutWalter,exceptthathewasafriend.ShewasstaringasIintroducedthem,
andI triedto seehimthroughhereyes. Theblack mustachewaslong gone,together withthebowtie.I
noticedforthefirsttimeafewgrayhairs.In the past eight years he had been through a marriage and a
“friendly”divorce,andhehadtwochildrenwholivedmainlywiththeirmother.
“DidanyonefromBrycevillecallyou?”Iasked.
“Notsincelastweek.”Hehadpickedupourtwocasesandwasleadingustotheairportparkinglot.
“Weretheysupposedto?”
“No.”Iwastemptedtotellhimeverythingatonce,butIwasafraidthatifIdidhewouldsayhecouldn’t
helpandwehadtogoback.“TherewasalotoftroubleinBrycevilleyesterday.Peoplefalling-downsick.
NaomiandIhadtogetoutbeforewecaughtit,too.”
Heturnedandgavemeanowlishlook,buthekeptonwalking.Whenwereachedthecarhesaidonly,
“Ithinkweoughttogotomyplacefirstandnottotheoffice.BecausewhenRaoulCapriceandtheothers
findoutyou’reintownthey’llkilltomeetyou.”
The40-minutesdrivetothewesternsuburbsofPhiladelphiawasdonemainlyinsilence,Naomiintheback
andmeontheedgeofmyseatnexttoWalterCottingham.Wepulledupatanoldwoodenhousewithbig
shadetreesinthefrontyard,borderedbyahedgewithsweet-smellingwhiteflowersthatIhadneverseen
inBrycevilleorSt.George.
****
Beforewe went inside Walterapologized for the mess. He carriedthecasesupaflight of stairs running
fromthedarklittleentrancehall,toabedroomluxuriouslyfurnishedbythestandardsoftheBlessedOrder.
Naomistaredwide-eyedatthetelephone,thetelevisiononthedresser,thewindowairconditioner,andthe
bath-roomwithitsvariable-pressureshowerhead.Icouldseethatthedrugswerework-ingtheirwayoutof
hersystem,andIsteeledmyselfforabarrageofquestionswhentheydid.
“Makeyourselfathome,”Waltersaid to her. “I’ll bet you could use a shower, right? Come down when
you’realldoneandwe’llhavebreakfast.I’venothadathingtoeatyetthismorning.”
IcouldtellfromthewayhespokethatIwasnotincludedintheinvitationtoshower.Ifollowedhimback
downstairsandthroughadiningroomintoasunnyenclosedporchlinedwithcushionedbenchesandwitha
solidbutcher-blocktableinthemiddle.
Hepulledoutachair,motionedtometositoppositehim,andsaid,“Allright,Rachel.Whatthehellisall
this?”
Ifacedthedevil’sownchoice:behonest,andadmittomyparticipationwiththeBlessedOrderinaneight-
year deception of Tilden, Inc., or try to invent a set of lies plausible and consistent enough to satisfy
Walter’sskepticalmind.
I heard the sound of running water upstairs, and thought of Naomi. Her safety came first. Walter had to
knowwhathadhappenedinBryceville—includingevery-thingthatIhaddone.
“Itwilltakealittlewhile,”Isaid.“MayIhaveacupoftea—caffeine-freeifyouhaveit.”
****
Whilethewaterwasboiling,Ibegan.Thebitaboutthefirstimpotencedrugswaseasy.Walterwasactually
aheadofme.Heinterruptedtosay,“Wewerepartlyresponsibleforthat.Ourpeoplesensedapossiblegold
mineofpatentablemedi-cationswhentheyreadyourfirstreports.I’dsaywesteeredyouinthatdirection;
butyouweresoonfarbeyondanythingweexpected.”
“And I’m sure you didn’t expect what came next.” I told him of Elder Walker’s request—more like a
command—todevelopthenextgenerationofdrugsandtestthemonmembersoftheBlessedOrder.
Walterwhistledandsaid,“Badnews.Unapprovedtesting,onhumansubjects.Diditactuallyhappen?”
“Yes.Andthere’sworse.”
Italkedagain,foralongtime,andforalongtimeafterwardhewassilent.Finallyhesaid,“Letmemake
sureIhavethisright.Recentlyyoudevelopedanewdrug,onewhoseshort-termeffectisincreasedvirility
and sexual performance, but whose effect if taken over a period of months is the total and permanent
destructionofallmalesexualdesire.That’swhatyoumeantbya‘phallicideagent.’”
“Yes.Itwasn’tthatdifficult.”
“Youcansaythat.Ithinkourresearcherswouldsayitwasdamn-nighimpos-sible.Andinthepastweek
youwentevenfurther.Youproducedanairbornemoleculethatisabsorbedrapidlythroughtheskin,crosses
theblood-brainbarrier,andinteractswiththepreviousdrugtocausetemporaryinsensibility.”
“Yes.Ihopeit’stemporary.WillyoucallBryceville?”
“Iwill.Howmanypeopleareaffected?”
Irememberedthemenfalling,andthefloorofthemeetinghallstrewnwithbodies.“Onlymaleswhohad
beentakingimpotencedrugsandwerenearenoughtothegascylinderwhenIopenedthevalve.Maybe”
—Ihesitated—“maybe50.Butitcouldbeashighas75.”
“JesusChrist.Youthinkyoukilled75people?”
“No!”IthoughtoftheBlessedJasper.“IdothinkImighthavekilledone.”
“Butyou’renotsureabouttheothers?MyGod,Rachel,youstayhere.It’sstillthecrackofdawnoutthere,
butI’mgoingtomakeaquickcallthisminute.”
AshevanishedIwas leftalone,myskullthrobbing.Ihad beentrying tosave Naomi,thathadbeenmy
wholereasonforeverythingIhaddone.ButifIhadkilledpeople,whowouldsaveme?
Thedooropenedagain.Ilookedup,thinkingthatWalterhadsomequestionbeforehemadethecall.
StandinginthedoorwaywasNaomi,fullydressed.Herdamphairwaspushedbackfromherfaceandshe
wasghost-pale.
Shestumbledforwardandstoodleaningagainstthetable.“Youdidit,”shesaidhuskily.“Itwasn’tsome
kind of disease, like you told me. It was you, wasn’t it, you and your drugs from hell? You killed the
BlessedJasper.”
“Naomi,Ididn’tmean—“
“AndyouhurtCyrusandtheothers.”Tearsweretricklingdownherbloodlesscheeks.“Weweregoingto
bemarried,itwouldhavebeenwonderful,thebestdayever.Iwassohappy.Youstoppedit.Andyoumade
itsoCyrusandmecanneverhavebabies.Iwasreallylookingforwardtohavinghisbabies.”
Hervoicerose.“Ihateyou—you’veruinedmywholelife.”
Shestoodup,blunderedtothedoor,andpushedthroughit.Istooduptofollow,butranintoWalteronthe
threshold.
“Sheknows,”Isaid.“Sheheardus.Shesaysshehatesme.Ihavetogoafterher.”
Naomiwasoutofthehouse,outoftheyard.Isawherwalking,headdown,alongthestreet.
“No.Letmedoit.Ifshehatesyourightnow,maybeshe’lllistentome.”Atthefrontdoorhepaused.
“Onedead—theBlessedJasper.Everyoneelseisallright.Noonetherehasanyideawhatreallyhappened.
CyrusWalker told me thatitwasthe Hand of Almighty God, reaching down to raise the Patriarch from
earthlylifetoeverlastinggloryinHeaven.”
“WhatdidhesayaboutmeandNaomi?”
“Notaword.ThingsaresoconfusedinBryceville,heprobablythinksyou’restillatyourmother’shouse.”
Waltersmiledatmeandwasgone.IexpectedthathewouldreturninafewminutesandIstoodatthedoor
waiting.AfteraquarterofanhourtherewasnosignofeitherhimorNaomi,andIwentbacktositwearily
atthetable.
Iwasreallylookingforwardtohavinghisbabies…Ihateyou—you’veruinedmywholelife.Howcould
shepossiblyfeelthatway?
AfteranhourImovedfromthetabletoliedownononeofthepaddedbenchesontheporch.Ifellasleep
there,andwokefromdisturbingdreamswhenIheardthefrontdooropen.Istraightenedupandlookedat
mywatch.Midafternoon.Atleastsevenhourshadpassed.Waltercamein,andhewasalone.
“Youdidn’tfindher?”Isaid.
“Idid.SheandIwentovertomyofficeatTilden.She’supstairsnow.No—”Hereachedouttoprevent
mefromstandingup.“Don’ttrytogotoher.YouandIhavetotalk.”
“Ihavetomakesurethatsheisallright.”
“Sheis.Takemywordforit.Look,doyouwanttotalktoCyrusWalkerinBryceville?”
“No!”Mystomachturnedoverattheidea.
“ThatwashowIthoughtyou’dfeel.SoIcalledhim,frommyoffice.”
“Whatdidyoutellhim?”
“Thatyouarehere.ThatNaomiishere,too.Notawordaboutyourroleinwhathappened.Sofarasheis
concerned,youranawayandyoutookNaomibecauseyouwerescared.”
“Iamscared.”
“Youdon’tneedtobe.”Waltermotionedmetomoveoverandsatdownbesidemeonthebench.“Italked
thiswholethingoverwithmybossesatTilden,andIhavetheirapprovalforwhatI’mabouttosay.WhenI
calledCyrusWalker,ItoldhimIknewaboutthewaythatheandtheBlessedOrderhadviolatedboththe
lawandtheiragreementwithusbydoingdrugtestsonhumanswithoutFDAapproval.
Legally, I said, we have you guys on toast. But we’re willing to cut you some slack under certain
conditions. We’ll even keep giving you royalty payments. Only from now on, we control the work that
RachelStafforddoes.TheOrderhastocutoutallthecrapaboutinterrogatingyou,andtheystopdelving
intoyourfiles.”
“Didheagree?”
“Not at first. And not without a condition of his own. He pleads to have Naomi back in Bryceville. I
agreed.”
“Never.Youcan’tagreetothat,youhavenoideawhatit’slikethere.”
“You’re right, I don’t have any idea. But Naomi does, and she’s dead keen to go back—desperateto go
back.”
“She’stooyoungtomakethatdecision.Tooyoungtoknowwhat’sbestforher.”
“Nottooyoungtoknowwhatshewants.Andwhatshewantsistogobackhome.”Heraisedhishandtocut
offmyresponse.“Itisherhome,youknow,evenifyouhatetothinkofitthatway.Shelovesyoualot,but
shewantstogobacktohermother.”
“I’mhermother.”
“Legally and biologically, of course you are. But the person who raised her, from the time she was two
yearsold,ishergrandmother.Rachel,Ihavetoaskyouahardquestion.YouhadtogotoBrycevilleevery
sixmonths,sotheycouldcheckuponyou.AndyousawNaomithen.Now,didyouevermakespecialtrips
toseeherapartfromthat?”
“No.ButIhad—”
“Weretherereasonswhyyoudidn’tgotoseeher?Like,youwouldn’thavebeenpermittedtovisit,oryou
didn’thavethemoney?”
“Ihadenoughmoney.Butwithmyworkinthelab,Iwastheonlyonewhoknewwhattodoandwhento
doit.Icouldn’tjustwalkout.”
“Couldn’t you have scheduled your experiments so that you had a couple of days, every month or two,
whenitwasallrighttoleave?”
“Idon’tknow.Ididn’t—Inever…”
“Never tried? Rachel, I realize that Naomi means a lot to you. When you were a teenager, she was the
centerofyourlife.Butithasn’tbeenthatwayforalongtime.”Walterputhishandonmyshoulder.
“HowlonghaveyouandIknowneachother?”
“Nearly14years.”
“Thatlong?God.Anyway,I’vespokentoyouonthephone,orI’veseenyouinperson,anaverageofonce
aweekforallthattime.Andyouknowsomething?WhenyouwereinBrycevilleyoutalkedaboutNaomi
constantly:howbrightshewas,howprettyshewas,whatnewthingsshehadlearned.Butonceyoumoved
toSt.Georgeyouhardlymentionedyourdaughter.Itwasallmolecularbiology,newdiscoveries,possible
protocols,excitingexperiments.”
“That’swhatIwassupposedtotalktoyouabout.”
“True.Butitdidn’tstopyoubabblingaboutNaomibefore.Rachel,youmaythinkthatI’mcriticizingyou,
but I’m not. I’m trying to tell you who you are. You’re the witch-woman. Your life revolves around the
researchworkthatyoudo—workthatnooneintheworldbutyoucando.IhearitfromRaoul,Ihearit
fromWolf,Ihearitfromallourscientists:There’sonlyoneRachelStafford.AndNaomi,smartandniceas
shemaybe,isnothinglikeheramazingmother.”
“Shemeanstheworldtome.”Istopped,beforeIcouldsay,“Everythingtome.”SinceIwasaninfantI
havebeendamnedbyasenseofremorselesslogic.IhatedwhatWalterCottinghamwastellingme,butI
couldnotdenyitstruth.
“Sheshouldnotgoback,”Isaid.
“Shewantstogoback,andsheshould.Butyoucanstayandworkhere—”
“Isthatwhatyou’reafter?TohavemeunderyourthumbinsteadofCyrusWalker’s?”
”—orifyoupreferit,”hecontinuedasthoughIhadnotspoken,“youcanreturntoSt.Georgeandworkin
youroldlab.Ineithercase,youwillnotbetroubledbytheBlessedOrder.AndIhavetoaddthatthereis
oneothercondition.ItcomesfromNaomi,notfromCyrusWalker.Youmustseekatreatmenttoreversethe
lossofvirilityandsexdrivecausedbyyourphallicidedrug.”
IfIwashesitatingbefore,hiswordsputanendtothat.“Walter,you’recrazy.Icouldneveragreetosucha
thing. The Blessed Order is an abomination. Its practices are illegal and disgusting and an insult to all
women.IfIdidwhatNaomiasks—somethingIhavenoideahowtodo—Iwouldbestrengtheningthe
Order.”
“Itlooksthatwaytoyou.ButI’vebeenwatchingtheOrderfromoutsidefor14years,andI’veseenwhat’s
happening.Membersdriftaway.SolongasthePatri-archwasalive,theorganizationheldtogether.Now
thathe’sgone,itwillfallapart.”
“Ithaslastedoverahundredyears.”
“So it has. And you, Rachel, who were born to the Blessed Order—and still fear it—think it will last
forever. But it won’t. It’s diseased, and an abomination, and disgusting, all the things you said and a lot
more,andIoughttobeashamedofmyselfforbeingassociatedwithitinanyway.MaybeIam.Butthe
Orderisdying.”Hestaredatmewiththosedark,hypnoticeyesthathadonlyincreasedinintensityoverthe
years.“I’llmakeyouawager,Rachel.LongbeforeyouandI,orevenCyrusWalker,aredeadandgone,
Brycevillewillbeaghosttown.Naomiwillgrowup,andmature,andfindherownfuture.Perhapsshe’ll
makeherowndecisiontoleave.Youmaynotlikeit,whatevershedoes;ontheotherhand,I’mnotsureI’ll
approveofmyownchildren’schoices.Noneofmyfriendsseemto.”
He stood up. “Think about what I said. I’m going to get Naomi. I believe it’s time that you and she
discussedthis,justthetwoofyou.”
Whatwastheretodiscuss?NaomihatedmeforwhatIhaddone,whenallIwantedwastosaveher.Ihad
nothingleft.
****
I wandered over to the table and sat down. At this time of day the sun was lower in the sky and shone
throughtheporchwindows.Itslightshowedtwodryingcirclesofwaterwherethewetbottomofmyteacup
hadrested. I reached out my forefinger andconvertedeachofthe circles into the hexagonal form ofthe
ben-zenering.Theadditionofotheratomsandsidechainsfeltidleandautomatic,followingnoconscious
plan. Only when I had finished did I realize that I had sketched the compound resulting from the
combinationoftheairbornechemicalgaswiththephallicide.
Istaredatit,visualizingtheprotein’scomplicatedshapeinthreedimensions.Itwasonethatcouldpermit
conformationalvariation—thesameatomiccompo-sition,butwithseveraldifferentmolecularshapes.
Twotetrahedralandtrigonalplanebondscouldbeinterchanged,acollinearbondwouldbecomebent.
Theresultsoughttobestable.Atransformingagentshouldexisttoinducethatchange.
What I had told Walter Cottingham was wrong. The phallicidal drug might be purged, and its effects
reversed.Butthenatureofthetransformingagent…
Within my mind, a subgroup flexed and changed from left- to right-handedness. The whole molecule
twistedanddeformed.Atoms swamintoview,lockingintoplaceatnewlyavailablereceptorsites.Other
atoms,theirbondsweakened,driftedaway.
Ifeltarisingtension.Iwasfarfromafullanswer,butthesearchcreatedapleasurableachewithinmelike
nothingelseintheworld.
WhenthedooropenedIdidnothearit.IwasnotawareofNaomi’spresenceuntilshecameupbehindme,
leanedover,andplacedhersoftcheeknexttomine.
****
daddy’sworld
WALTERJONWILLIAMS
Walter Jon Williams was born in Minnesota and now lives in Belen, New Mexico. His short fictionhas
appeared frequently in Asimov’s Science Fic-tion, as well as in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science
Fiction,WheelofFortune,GlobalDispatches,AlternateOutlaws,WhentheMusic’sOver,EventHorizon,
andinothermarkets,andhasbeengatheredintwocollections,FacetsandFrankensteinsandOtherForeign
Devils.Hisnov-elsincludeAmbassadorofProgress,KnightMoves,Hardwired,TheCrownJewels,Voice
of the Whirlwind, House of Shards, Days of Atone-ment, and Aristoi. His novel Metropolitan garnered
widecriticalacclaimin1996andwasoneofthemosttalked-aboutbooksoftheyear.Hismostrecentbooks
areasequeltoMetropolitan,CityonFire,andahugedisasterthriller,TheRift.Hisstorieshaveappeared
inourThird,Fourth,Fifth,Sixth,Ninth,Eleventh,Twelfth,Fourteenth,andFifteenthAnnualCollec-tions.
Hehasawebsiteatwww.walterjonwilliams.net.
Williamsisahighlyeclecticwriter,andhasprobablywrittenawiderrangeoffictionthanalmostanyother
writerofhisgeneration,rangingfromsomeofthebestAlternateHistorystoriesofthe
‘80stogrittyMeanStreetshard-as-nailscyberpunk,fromstoriesfeaturingscenariosquirkyenoughtorank
with the most off-the-wall stuff by Howard Waldrop to some of the most inventiveWide Screen Modern
SpaceOperaofrecenttimes—aswellaslotsofstuffthatrefusestofitintoanycategory,includingstories
that mix genres with breathtaking audacity and daring, includinggenres no one ever thought of mixing
before,suchasahybridofsword&sorceryandtheHoratioHornblower-likeseastory,ormixingfantasy
withtech-nologicallyoriented“hard”sciencefiction.Thefactis,oneWalterJonWilliamsstoryisrarely
muchlike anyotherWalterJonWilliams story…something which is certainly true of the fascinating and
scarystory that follows,one which takes us to explore a new world wherenoonehas ever gonebefore,
boldlyornot.
****
O
nedayJamiewentwithhisfamilytoanewplace,aplacethathadnotexistedbefore.Thepeoplewholived
therewerecalledWhirlikins,whoweretallthinpeoplewithpointedheads.Theyhadlongarmsandmade
franticgestureswhentheytalked,andwhentheygrewexcitedthrewtheirarmsoutwidetoeithersideand
spunliketopsuntiltheygotallblurry.Theywouldwhirrmadlyoverthegreengrassbeneaththepumpkin-
orange sky of the Whirlikin country, and sometimes they would bump into each other with an alarming
clashingnoise,buttheywereneverhurt,onlybouncedoffandspunawayinanotherdirection.
Sometimesoneofthemwouldspinsohardthathewoulddighimselfrightintotheground,andcometoa
suddenstop,buriedtotheshoulders,withanexpressionofalarmeddismay.
Jamiehadneverseenanythingsofunny.Helaughedandlaughed.
His little sister Becky laughed, too. Once she laughed so hard that she fell over onto her stomach, and
Daddypickedherupandwhirledherthroughtheair,asifhewereaWhirlikinhimself,andtheywereboth
laughingallthewhile.
Afterwards,theyheardthedinnerbell,andDaddysaiditwastimetogohome.Aftertheywavedgoodbye
totheWhirlikins,BeckyandJamiewalkedhand-in-handwithMommaastheywalkedoverthegrassyhills
towardhome,andthepumpkin-orangeskyslowlyturnedtoblue.
ThewayhomeranpastElCastillo.ElCastillolookedlikeafabulousplace,acastlewithtowersanddomes
andminarets,all gleaming in the sun. Musicfloateddown fromEl Castillo,the swift, intricate music of
manyguitars,andJamiecouldhearthefastclickofheelsandtheshoutsandlaughterofhappypeople.
ButJamiedidnottrytoenterElCastillo.Hehadtriedbefore,anddiscoveredthatElCastillowasguarded
byLaDuchesa,anangularforbiddingwomanallinblack,withatallcombinherhair.WhenJamieaskedto
comeinside, LaDuchesahad lookeddownat himandsaid, “Idonot admitanyonewho doesnotknow
Spanishirregularverbs!”Itwasallsheeversaid.
JamiehadaskedDaddywhataSpanishirregularverbwas—hehaddifficultypronouncingthewords—and
Daddyhadsaid,“Somedayyou’lllearn,andLaDuchesawillletyouintohercastle.Butrightnowyou’re
tooyoungtolearnSpanish.”
ThatwasallrightwithJamie.TherewereplentyofthingstodowithoutgoingintoElCastillo.Andnew
places, like the country where the Whirlikins lived, appeared sometimes out of nowhere, and were quite
enoughtoexplore.
Thecoloroftheskyfadedfromorangetoblue.Fluffywhitecloudscoastedintheairabovethetwo-storey
framehouse.MisterJeepers,whowassittingontheridgepole,gaveacryofdelightandsoaredtowardthem
throughtheair.
“Jamie’shome!”hesanghappily.“Jamie’shome,andhe’sbroughthisbeautifulsister!”
MisterJeeperswasdiamond-shaped,likeakite,withhisheadatthetopmostcorner,handsoneithersides,
andlittlebowleggedcomicallegsattachedonthebottom.Hewasbrightred.Likeakite,hecouldfly,and
heswoopedthroughinaseriesofaerialcartwheelsashesailedtowardJamieandhisparty.
BeckylookedupatMisterJeepersandlaughedfrompurejoy.“Jamie,”shesaid,“youliveinthebestplace
intheworld!”
****
Atnight,whenJamielayinbedwithhisstuffedgiraffe,Selenawouldrideabeamofpalelightfromthe
MoontotheEarthandsitbyJamie’sside.Shewasapalewoman,slightlytranslucent,withasilvercrescent
onherbrow.ShewouldstrokeJamie’sforeheadwithacoolhand,andshewouldsingtohimuntilhiseyes
grewheavyandslumberstoleuponhim.
Thebirdshavetuckedtheirheads
Thenightisdarkanddeep
Allisquiet,allissafe,
AndlittleJamiegoestosleep.
WheneverJamiewokeduringthenight,Selenawastheretocomforthim.HewasgladthatSelenaalways
watched out for him, because sometimes he still had nightmares about being in the hospital. When the
nightmarescame,shewasalwaystheretocomforthim,strokehim,singhimbacktosleep.
Beforelongthenightmaresbegantofade.
****
PrincessGigundaalwaystookJamieforlessons.Shewasahugewoman,tallerthanDaddy,withfrowzy
hairandbigbarefeetandacrownthatcouldneverbemadetositstraightonherhead.Shewashomely,
withamournfulfacethatwasuglyandendearingatthesametime.AssheshuffledalongwithJamietohis
lessons, Princess Gigunda complained about the way her feet hurt, and about how she was a giant and
unattractive,andhowshewouldneverbemarried.
“I’llmarryyouwhenIgetbigger,”Jamiesaidloyally,andthePrincess’shomelyfacescrewedupintoan
expressionofbeamingpleasure.
Jamie had different lessons with different people. Mrs. Winkle, down at the little red brick schoolhouse,
taughthimhisABCs.CoachToad—whowasone—taughthimfieldgames,whereheracedandjumpedand
threwagainstvariouspeopleandanimals.Mr.McGillicuddy,apleasantwhiskeredfatmanwhoworered
sleeperswithatrapdoorinback,showedhimhismagicglobe.WhenJamieputhisfingeranywhereonthe
globe, trumpets began to sound, and he could see what was happening where he was pointing, and Mr.
McGillicuddywouldtakehimonatourandshowhiminterestingthings.Buildings,statues,pictures,parks,
people.“ThisisNome,”hewouldsay.“CanyousayNome?”
“Nome,”Jamiewouldrepeat,shapinghismoutharoundtheunfamiliarword,andMr.McGillicuddywould
smileandbobhisheadandlookpleased.
IfJamiedidwellonhislessons,hegotextratimewiththeWhirlikins,orattheZoo,orwithMr.Fuzzyorin
Pandaland.Untilthedinnerbellrang,anditwastimetogohome.
Jamiedidwellwithhislessonsalmosteveryday.
WhenPrincessGigundatookhimhomefromhislessons,MisterJeeperswouldflyfromtheridgepoleto
meet him, and tell him that his family was ready to see him. And then Momma and Daddy and Becky
wouldwavefromthewindowsofthehouse,andhewouldruntomeetthem.
Once,whenhewasinthelivingroomtellinghisfamilyabouthislatesttripthroughMr.McGillicuddy’s
magicglobe,hebeganskippingaboutwithenthusiasm,andwavinghisarmslikeaWhirlikin,andsuddenly
he noticed that no one else was paying attention. That Momma and Daddy and Becky were staring at
somethingelse,theirfacesfrozenindifferentattitudesofpoliteattention.
Jamiefeltachillfingertouchhisneck.
“Momma?”Jamiesaid.“Daddy?”MommaandDaddydidnotrespond.Theirfacesdidn’tmove.
Daddy’sfacewasblurredstrangely,asifitbeencaughtinthemiddleofmovement.
“Daddy?”Jamie cameclose and triedto tug athis father’sshirtsleeve. Itwas hard, likemarble, and his
fingerscouldn’tgetapurchaseatit.Terrorblewhotinhisheart.
“Daddy? ” Jamie cried. He tried to tug harder. “Daddy! Wake up!” Daddy didn’t respond. He ran to
Mommaandtuggedatherhand.“Momma!Momma!”Herhandwaslikethehandofastatue.Shedidn’t
movenomatterhowhardJamiepulled.
“Help!”Jamiescreamed.“MisterJeepers!Mr.Fuzzy!HelpmyMomma!”Tearsfelldownhisfaceasheran
fromBeckytoMommatoDaddy,tuggingandpullingatthem,wrappinghisarmsaroundtheirfrozenlegs
andtryingtopullthemtowardhim.Heranoutside,buteverythingwascuriouslystill.Nowindblew.
MisterJeeperssatontheridgepole,abroadsmilefixedasusualtohisface,buthewasfrozen,too,anddid
notrespondtoJamie’scalls.
Terrorpursuedhimbackintothehouse.Thiswasfarworsethananythingthathadhappenedtohiminthe
hospital,worseeventhanthepain.Jamieranintothelivingroom,wherehisfamilystoodstillasstatues,
andthen recoiledinhorror.Astrangerhad enteredthe room—orratherjust partsofa stranger,apair of
hands encased in black gloves with strange silver circuit patterns on the backs, and a strange glowing
opalescentfacewithapairofwraparounddarkglassesdrawnacrossitlikealine.
“Interfacecrashed,allright,”thestrangersaid,asiftosomeoneJamiecouldn’tsee.
Jamiegaveascream.HeranbehindMomma’slegsforprotection.
“Ohshit,”thestrangersaid.“Thekid’sstillrunning.”
Hebeganpurposefullymovinghishandsasifpokingattheair.Jamiewassurethatitwassomekindof
terribleattack,aspelltoturnhimtostone.Hetriedtorunaway,trippedoverBecky’simmovablefeetand
hitthefloorhard,andthencrawledaway,thehallrugbunchingupunderhishandsandkneesasheskidded
away,hisownscreamsringinginhisears…
…Hesatupinbed,shrieking.Thecoolnighttingledonhisskin.HefeltSelena’shandonhisforehead,and
hejerkedawaywithacry.
“Is something wrong?” came Selena’s calm voice. “Did you have a bad dream?” Under the glowing
crescentonherbrow,Jamiecouldseetheconcerninhereyes.
“WhereareMommaandDaddy?”Jamiewailed.
“They’refine,”Selenasaid.“They’reasleepintheirroom.Wasitabaddream?”
Jamiethrewoffthecoversandleapedoutofbed.Herandownthehall,thefloorboardscoolonhisbare
feet.Selenafloatedafterhiminherserene,concernedway.Hethrewopenthedoortohisparents’
bedroomandsnappedonthelight,thengaveacryashesawthemhuddledbeneaththeirblanket.Heflung
himselfathismother,andgaveasobofreliefassheopenedhereyesandturnedtohim.
“Somethingwrong?”Mommasaid.“Wasitabaddream?”
“No!”Jamiewailed.Hetriedtoexplain,butevenheknewthathiswordsmadenosense.Daddyrosefrom
hispillow,lookingseriouslyatJamie,andthenturnedtorufflehishair.
“Soundslikeaprettybaddream,trouper,”Daddysaid.“Let’sgetyoubacktobed.”
“No!”Jamieburiedhisfaceinhismother’sneck.“Idon’twanttogobacktobed!”
“Allright,Jamie,”Mommasaid.ShepattedJamie’sback.“Youcansleepherewithus.Butjustfortonight,
okay?”
“Wannastayhere,”Jamiemumbled.
HecrawledunderthecoversbetweenMommaandDaddy.Theyeachkissedhim,andDaddyturnedoffthe
light.“Justgotosleep,trouper,”hesaid.“Anddon’tworry.You’llonlyhaveonlygooddreamsfromnow
on.”
Selena,faintlyglowinginthedarkness,satsilentlyinthecorner.“ShallIsing?”sheasked.
“Yes,Selena,”Daddysaid.“Pleasesingforus.”
Thebirdshavetuckedtheirheads,Selenabegantosing,
Thenightisdarkanddeep
Allisquiet,allissafe,
AndlittleJamiegoestosleep.
ButJamiedidnotsleep.Despitethesinging,thedarknight,therhythmicbreathingofhisparentsandthe
comfortingwarmthoftheirbodies.
Itwasn’tadream,heknew.Hisfamilyhadreallybeenfrozen.
Something,orsomeone,hadturnedthemtostone.Probablythatevildisembodiedheadandpairofhands.
Andnow,forsomereason,hisparentsdidn’tremember.
Somethinghadmadethemforget.
Jamiestaredintothedarkness.What,hethought,iftheseweren’thisparents?Ifhisparentswerestillstone,
hiddenaway somewhere? What if these substitutes were bad people—kidnappersor worse—people who
justlookedlikehisrealparents.Whatiftheywereevilpeoplewhowerejustwaitingforhimtofallasleep,
andthentheywouldturntomonsters,withteethandfangsandahorriblelightintheireyes,andtheywould
tearhimtobitsrighthereinthebed…
Talons of panic clawed at Jamie’s heart. Selena’s song echoed in his ears. He wasn’t going to sleep! He
wasn’t!
And then he did. It wasn’t anything like normal sleep—it was as if sleep was imposed on him, as if
somethinghadjustorderedhis mindtosleep.Itwasjustlike awave thatrolledoverhim,anirresistible
force,blottingouthissenses,hisbody,hismind…
Iwon’tsleep!hethoughtindefiance,butthenhisthoughtswereextinguished.
Whenhewokehewasbackinhisownbed,anditwasmorning,andMisterJeeperswasfloatingoutsidethe
window.“Jamie’sawake!”hesang.“Jamie’sawakeandreadyforanewday!”
Andthenhisparentscamebustlingin,kissinghimandpettinghimandtakinghimdownstairsforbreakfast.
Hisfearsseemedfoolishnow,infulldaylight,withMisterJeepersdancingintheairoutsideandsinging
happily.
Butsometimes,atnightwhileSelenacroonedbyhisbedside,hegazedintothedarknessandfeltathrillof
fear.
Andheneverforgot,notentirely.
****
AfewdayslaterDonQuixotewanderedintotheworld,aleanmanwhofrequentlyfelloffhisleanhorsein
a clang of home-made armor. He was given to making wan comments in both English and his own
language,whichturnedouttobeSpanish.
“CanyouteachmeSpanishirregularverbs?”Jamieasked.
“Si, naturalmente, ” said Don Quixote. “But I will have to teach you some other Spanish as well.” He
lookedparticularlymournful.“Let’sstartwithcorazon.Itmeans‘heart.’Micorazon,”hesaidwithasigh,
“isbreakingforloveofDulcinea.”
AfterafewsessionswithDonQuixote—mixedwithalotofsighingaboutcorazonsandDulcinea—Jamie
tookagriponhiscourage,marcheduptoElCastillo,andspoketoLaDuchesa.“
Pierdo,sueno,haria,ponto!”hecried.
LaDuchesa’seyeswidenedinsurprise,andasshebenttowardJamieherseverefacebecamealmostkindly.
“Youareobviouslyaveryintelligentboy,”shesaid.“Youmayentermycastle.”
AndsoDonQuixoteandLaDuchesa,betweenthetwoofthem,begantoteachJamietospeakSpanish.
If he did well, he was allowed into the parts of the castle where the musicians played and the dancers
stamped,wherebraveCastilianknightsjoustedinthetiltingyard,andSenorEstebantoldstoriesinSpanish,
alwayscarefultousewordsthatJamiealreadyknew.
Jamie couldn’t help but notice that sometimes Don Quixote behaved strangely. Once, when Jamie was
visiting the Whirlikins, Don Quixote charged up on his horse, waving his sword and crying out that he
wouldsaveJamiefromthegoblinsthatwereattackinghim.BeforeJamiecouldexplainthattheWhirlikins
wereharmless,DonQuixotegallopedtotheattack.TheWhirlikins,alarmed,screwedthemselvesintothe
groundwherethey were safe, and Don Quixote fell off his horse trying to swing at one withhissword.
AfterpoorQuixotefelloffhishorseafewtimes,itwasJamiewhohadtorescuetheDon,nottheotherway
around.
It was sort of sad and sort of funny. Every time Jamie started to laugh about it, he saw Don Quixote’s
mournfulfaceinhismind,andhislaughgrewuneasy.
Afterawhile,Jamie’ssisterBeckybegantoshareJamie’slessons.ShejoinedhimandPrincessGigundaon
thetriptothelittleschoolhouse,learnedreadingandmathfromMrs.Winkle,andthen,aftersomecoaching
fromJamieandDonQuixote,shemarchedtoLaDuchesatoshoutirregularverbsandgainentrancetothe
ElCastillo.
AroundthattimeMarcusTulliusCiceroturneduptotakethembothtotheForumRomanum,anewpartof
the world that had appeared to the south of the Whirlikins’ territory. But Cicero and the people in the
Forum, all the shopkeepers and politicians, did not teach Latin the way Don Quixote taught Spanish,
explainingwhatthenewwordsmeantinEnglish,theyjusttalkedLatinateachotherandexpectedJamie
andBeckytounderstand.Which,eventually,theydid.TheSpanishhelped.JamiewasabitbetteratLatin
thanBecky,butheexplainedtoherthatitwasbecausehewasolder.
ItwasBeckywhobecameinterestedinsolvingPrincessGigunda’sproblem.“Weshouldfindhersomebody
tolove,”shesaid.
“Shelovesus,”Jamiesaid.
“Don’tbesilly,”Beckysaid.“Shewantsaboyfriend.”
“I’mherboyfriend,”Jamieinsisted.
Beckylookedalittleimpatient.“Besides,”shesaid,“it’sapuzzle.JustlikeLaDuchesaandherverbs.”
ThishadnotoccurredtoJamiebefore,butnowthatBeckymentionedit,theideaseemedobvious.There
werealotofpuzzlesaround,whichoneortheotherofthemwasalwayssolving,andPrincessGigunda’s
lovelessnesswas,nowthathesawit,clearlyamongthem.
SotheysetouttofindPrincessGigundaamate.Thisquestionoccupiedthemforseveraldays,andseveral
candidateswerediscussedandrejected.Theyfoundnoanswersuntiltheywenttothechariotraceattheof
theCircusMaximus.ItwasthefirstraceintheCircusever,becausetheplacehadjustappearedontheother
sideofthePalatineHillfromtheForum,andtherewasaverylarge,veryexcitedcrowd.
The names of the charioteers were announced as they paraded their chariots to the starting line. The
trumpetssounded,andthechariotsboltedfromthestarasthedriverswhippedupthehorses.Jamiewatched
enthralledastheyrolledaroundthespinaforthefirstlap,andthenshoutedinsurpriseatthesightofDon
Quixotegallopingontothe CircusMaximus,shoutingthathe wasaboutto stopthis groupoframpaging
demonsfromdestroyingtheland,andplantedhimselfdirectlyinthepathoftheoncomingchariots.Jamie
shoutedalongwiththecrowdfortheDontogetoutofthewaybeforehegotkilled.
Fortunately Quixote’s horse had more sense than he did, because the spindly animal saw the chariots
comingand bolted, throwingits rider.One of thechariotsrode right overpoorQuixote, and therewasa
horribleclangingnoise,butafterthechariotpassed,Quixotesatup,apparentlyunharmed.Hisarmorhad
savedhim.
Jamie jumped from his seat and was about to run down to help Don Quixote off the course, but Becky
grabbedhisarm.“Hangon,”shesaid,“Someoneelsewilllookafterhim,andIhaveanidea.”
SheexplainedthatDonQuixotewouldmakeaperfectmanforPrincessGigunda.
“Buthe’sinlovewithDulcinea!”
Becky looked at him patiently. “Has anyone ever seen Dulcinea? All we have to do is convince Don
QuixotethatPrincessGigundaisDulcinea.”
Aftertheraces,they foundthat DonQuixotehad beenarrestedbythelictors andsenttotheLautumiae,
whichwastheRomanjail.Theyweren’tallowedtoseetheprisoner,sotheywentinsearchofCicero,who
wasalawyerandwasabletogetQuixoteoutoftheLautumiaeonthepromisethathewouldnevervisit
Romeagain.
“Iregrettothedepthsofmysoulthatmyparoledoesnotenablemetodestroythosedemons,”Quixotesaid
asheleftRome’stownlimits.
“Let’snotgetintothat,”Beckysaid.“Whatwewantedtotellyouwasthatwe’vefoundDulcinea.”
Theoldman’seyeswidenedinjoy.Heclutchedathisarmor-cladheart.“Miamor!Whereisshe?I must
runtoheratonce!”
“Notjustyet,”Beckysaid.“Youshouldknowthatshe’sbeenchanged.Shedoesn’tlooklikesheusedto.”
“Hassomeevilsorcererdonethis?”Quixotedemanded.
“Yes!”Jamieinterrupted.HewasannoyedthatBeckyhadtakenchargeofeverything,andhewantedtoadd
hiscontributiontothescheme.“Thesorcererwasjustahead!”heshouted.“Afloatinghead,andapairof
hands!Andheworedarkglassesandhadnobody!”
Ashiveroffearpassedthroughhimasherememberedtheeeriefloatinghead,butthememoryofhisold
terrordidnotstophiswordsfromspillingout.
Beckygavehimastrangelook.“Yeah,”shesaid.“That’sright.”
“Hecrashedtheinterface!”Jamieshouted,thewordscomingtohimoutofmemory.
DonQuixotepaidnoattentiontothis,butBeckygavehimanotherlook.
“You’renotasdumbasyoulook,Digit,”shesaid.
“IdonotcareaboutDulcinea’sappearance,”DonQuixotedeclared,“Iloveonlythegoodnessthatdwellsin
hercorazon.”
“She’s Princess Gigunda!” Jamie shouted, jumping up and down in enthusiasm. “She’s been Princess
Gigundaallalong!”
Andso,thechildrenfollowing,DonQuixoteranclankingtowherePrincessGigundawaitednearJamie’s
house,felldowntooneknee,andbegantokissandweepoverthePrincess’hand.ThePrincessseemeda
littlesurprisedbythisuntilBeckytoldherthatshewasreallythelong-lostDulcinea,changedintoagiant
byanevilmagician,althoughsheprobablydidn’trememberitbecausethatwaspartofthespell,too.
So while the Don and the Princess embraced, kissed, and began to warble a love duet, Becky turned to
Jamie.
“What’sthatstuffaboutthefloatinghead?”sheasked.“Wheredidyoucomeupwiththat?”
“Idunno,”Jamiesaid.Hedidn’twanttotalkabouthismemoryofhisfamilybeingturnedtostone,theeerie
glowingfigurefloatingbeforethem.Hedidn’twanttorememberhoweveryonesaiditwasjustadream.
Hedidn’twanttotalkaboutthesuspicionsthathadneverquitegoneaway.
“Thatstuffwasweird, Digit,” Becky said. “It gave methecreeps.Letme know before you start talking
aboutstufflikethatagain.”
“WhydoyoucallmeDigit?”Jamieasked.Beckysmirked.
“Noreason,”shesaid.
“Jamie’shome!”MisterJeepers’voicewarbledfromthesky.JamielookeduptoseeMisterJeepersdoing
joyfulaerialloopsoverhead.“MasterJamie’shomeatlast!”
****
“Whereshallwego?”Jamieasked.
Theirlessonsforthedaywereover,andheandBeckywereleavingthelittleredschoolhouse.Becky,as
usual,haddoneverywellonherlessons,betterthanherolderbrother,andJamiefeltagrowingsenseof
annoyance.AtleasthewasstillbetteratLatinandcomputerscience.
“Idunno,”Beckysaid.“Wheredoyouwanttogo?”
“HowaboutPandaland?WecouldridetheWhooshMachine.”
Beckywrinkledherface.“I’mtiredofthatkidstuff,”shesaid.
Jamielookedather.“Butyou’reakid.”
“I’mnotaslittleasyou,Digit,”Beckysaid.
Jamieglared.Thiswastoomuch.“You’remylittlesister!I’mbiggerthanyou!”
“No, you’re not,” Becky said. She stood before him, her arms flung out in exasperation. “Just notice
somethingforonce,willyou?”
Jamiebitbackonhistemperandlooked,andhesawthatBeckywas,infact,biggerthanhewas.Andolder-
looking.Puzzlementreplacedhisfadinganger.
“Howdidyougetsobig?”Jamieasked.
“Igrew.Andyoudidn’tgrow.Notasfastanyway.”
“Idon’tunderstand.”
Becky’s lip curled. “Ask Mom or Dad. Just ask them.” Her expression turned stony. “Just don’t believe
everythingtheytellyou.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
Beckylookedangryforamoment,andthenherexpressionrelaxed.“Look,”shesaid,“justgotoPandaland
andhavefun,okay?Youdon’tneedmeforthat.Iwanttogoandmakesomecallstomyfriends.”
“Whatfriends?”
Beckylookedangryagain.“Myfriends.Itdoesn’tmatterwhotheyare!”
“Fine!”Jamieshouted.“Icanhavefunbymyself!”
Beckyturnedandbegantowalkhome,herpalelegsrapidlyscissoringagainstthedeepgreenhillside.
Jamieglaredafterher,thenturnedandbeganthewalktoPandaland.
He did all his favorite things, rode the Ferris wheel and the Whoosh Machine, watched Rizzio the
Strongmanandtheclowns.Heenjoyedhimself,buthisenjoymentfelthollow.Hefoundhimselfwatching,
watchinghimselfatplay,watchinghimselfenjoyingtherides.
Watchinghimselfnotgrowasfastashislittlesister.
Watchinghimselfwonderingwhetherornottoaskhisparentsaboutwhythatwas.
Hehadtheideathathewouldn’tliketheiranswers.
****
Hedidn’tseeasmuchofBeckyafterthat.Theywouldsharelessons,andthenBeckywouldlockherselfin
herroomtotalktoherfriendsonthephone.
Beckydidn’thaveatelephoneinherroom,though.Helookedoncewhenshewasn’tthere.
Afterawhile,Beckystoppedaccompanyinghimforlessons.She’dgotaheadofhimoneverythingexcept
Latin,anditwastoohardforJamietokeepup.
Afterthat,he hardlysawBeckyatall.Butwhenhesaw her,he sawthatshewasstillgrowing fast.Her
clothingwasdifferent,andherhair.She’dstartedwearingmakeup.
Hedidn’tknowwhetherhelikedheranymoreornot.
****
ItwasJamie’sbirthday.Hewaselevenyearsold,andMommaandDaddyandBeckyhadallcomefora
party.DonQuixoteandPrincessGigundaserenadedJamiefromoutsidethewindow,accompaniedbyLa
DuchesaonSpanishguitar.Therewasabigcakewithelevencandles.MommagaveJamieachartofthe
stars.Whenhetouchedastar,avoicewouldappeartellingJamieaboutthestar,andlineswouldappearon
thechart showing any constellationthestar happened to belong to. DaddygaveJamiea car,aminiature
Mercedesconvertible,scaledtoJamie’ssize,whichhecoulddrivearoundthecountryandwhichhecould
useintheCircusMaximuswhenthechariotsweren’tracing.HissistergaveJamieakindoflampstandthat
wouldprojectlightsandmovingpatternsonthewallsandceilingwhenthelightswereoff.“Listentomusic
whenyouuseit,”shesaid.
“Thankyou,Becky,”Jamiesaid.
“Becca,”shesaid.“MynameisBeccanow.Trytoremember.”
“Okay,”Jamiesaid.“Becca.”
Becky—Becca—lookedatMomma.“I’mdyingforacigaret,”shesaid.“CanIgo,uh,outforaminute?”
Mommahesitated,butDaddylookedsevere.“Becca,”shesaid,“thisisJamie’sbirthday.We’reallhereto
celebrate.Sowhydon’twealleatsomecakeandhaveanicetime?”
“It’snotevenrealcake,”Beccasaid.“Itdoesn’ttastelikerealcake.”
“It’sanicecake,”Daddyinsisted.“Whydon’twetalkaboutthislater?Let’sjusthavea specialtimefor
Jamie.”
Beccastoodupfromthetable.“FortheDigit?”shesaid.“WhyarewehavingagoodtimeforJamie?
He’snotevenarealperson!”Shethumpedherselfonthechest.“I’marealperson!”sheshouted.“Why
don’tweeverhavespecialtimesforme?”
ButDaddywasonhisfeetbythatpointandshouting,andMommawastryingtogeteveryonetobequiet,
andBeccawasshoutingback,andsuddenlyadeterminedlookenteredherfaceandshejustdisappeared—
suddenly,shewasn’tthereanymore,therewasjustonlyair.
Jamiebegantocry.SodidMomma.Daddypacedupanddownandswore,andthenhesaid,“I’mgoingto
goget her.” Jamie was afraidhe’ddisappearlike Becca, and he gave a cryofdespair, but Daddy didn’t
disappear,hejuststalkedoutofthediningroomandslammedthedoorbehindhim.
MommapulledJamieontoherlapandhuggedhim.“Don’tworry,Jamie,”shesaid.“Beckyjustdidthatto
bemean.”
“Whathappened?”Jamieasked.
“Don’tworryaboutit.”Mommastrokedhishair.“Itwasjustameantrick.”
“She’sgrowingup,”Jamiesaid.“She’sgrownfasterthanmeandIdon’tunderstand.”
“WaittillDaddygetsback,”Mommasaid,“andwe’lltalkaboutit.”
ButDaddywasclearlyinnomoodfortalkingwhenhereturned,withoutBecca.“We’regoingtohavefun,”
hesnarled,andreachedfortheknifetocutthecake.
The cake tasted like ashes in Jamie’s mouth. When the Don and Princess Gigunda, Mister Jeepers and
RizziotheStrongmancameintothediningroomandsang“HappyBirthday,”itwasallJamiecoulddoto
holdbackthetears.
Afterwards,he drove his new cartotheCircus Maximus and drove asfastashe could on the long oval
track.Thecarreallywouldn’tgoveryfast.Thebleachersoneithersidewereempty,andsowastheblue
skyabove.
Maybeitwasapuzzle,hethought,likePrincessGigunda’slovelife.Maybeallhehadtodowasfollowthe
rightclue,andeverythingwouldbefine.
What’sthemoralthey’retryingtoteach?hewondered.
Butallhecoulddowasgoincircles,aroundandaroundtheemptystadium.
****
“Hey,Digit.Wakeup.”
Jamiecameawakesuddenly,withastifledcry.Theroomwhirledaroundhim.Heblinked,realizedthatthe
whirlingcamefromthecoloredlightsprojectedbyhisbirthdaypresent,Becca’slampstand.
Beccawassittingonhisbedroomchair,acigaretinherhand.Herfeet,inthesteel-cappedbootsshe’dbeen
wearinglately,wereproppeduponthebed.
“Areyouawake,Jamie?”ItwasSelena’svoice.“Wouldyoulikemetosingyoualullaby?”
“Fuckoff,Selena,”Beccasaid.“Getoutofhere.Getlost.”
SelenacastBeccaamournfullook,thensailedbackwards,outthewindow,ridingabeamofmoonlightto
herpalehomeinthesky.Jamiewatchedhergo,andfeltasifapartofhimselfwasgoingwithher,apart
thathewouldneverseeagain.
“Selena and the others have to do what you tell them, mostly,” Becca said. “Of course, Mom and Dad
wouldn’ttellyouthat.”
JamielookedatBecca.“What’shappening?”hesaid.“Wheredidyougotoday?”
ColoredlightsswamoverBecca’sface.“I’msorryifIspoiledyourbirthday,Digit.Ijustgottiredofthe
lies,youknow?They’dkillmeiftheyknewIwashere now,talking toyou.” Beccatookadrawonher
cigaret,heldherbreathforasecondortwo,thenexhaled.Jamiedidn’tseeortasteanysmoke.
“Youknowwhattheywantedmetodo?”shesaid.“Wearalittlegirl’sbody,soIwouldn’tlookanyolder
thanyou,andkeepyoucompanyinthatstupidschoolforsevenhoursaday.”Sheshookherhead.
“Iwouldn’tdoit.Theyyelledandyelled,butIwasdamnedifIwould.”
“Idon’tunderstand.”
Beccaflickedinvisibleashesoffhercigaret,andlookedatJamieforalongtime.Thenshesighed.
“Doyourememberwhenyouwereinthehospital?”shesaid.
Jamienodded.“Iwasreallysick.”
“I was so little then, I don’t really remember it very well,” Becca said. “But the point is—” She sighed
again.“Thepointisthatyouweren’tgettingwell.Sotheydecidedto—”Sheshookherhead.“Dadtook
advantage of his position at the University, and the fact that he’s been a big doner. They were doing AI
research,andtheneurologydepartmentwasintobrainmodeling,andtheyneededatestsubject,and—Well,
theideais,they’vegotsomeofyourtissue,andwhentheygetcloningupandrunning,they’llputyouback
in—”ShesawJamie’sstare,thenshookherhead.“I’llmakeitsimple,okay?”
ShetookherfeetoffthebedandleanedclosertoJamie.Ashiverranuphisbackatherexpression.
“Theymadeacopyofyou.Anelectroniccopy.Theyscannedyourbrainandbuiltaholographicmodelofit
insideacomputer,andtheyputitinavirtualenvironment,and—”Shesatback,tookadragonhercigaret.
“Andhereyouare,”shesaid.
Jamielookedather.“Idon’tunderstand.”
Coloredlights gleamed in Becca’seyes.“You’reinacomputer,okay?andyou’reaprogram.Youknow
what that is, right? From computer class? And the program is sort of in the shape of your mind. Don
QuixoteandPrincessGigundaareprograms,too.AndMrs.Winkledownattheschoolhouseisusually a
program,butifsheneedstoteachsomethingcomplex,thenshe’saneducationmajorfromtheUniversity.”
Jamie felt as if he’d just been hollowed out, a void inside his ribs. “I’m not real?” he said. “I’m not a
person?”
“Wrong,”Beccasaid.“You’rereal,alright.You’retheappleofourparents’eye.”Hertonewasbitter.
“Programsarerealthings,”shesaid,“andyourswasarealhack,youknow,absolutecutting-edgestate-of-
the-arttechnoshit.Andthecomputerthatyou’reinisreal,too—I’minterfacedwithitrightnow,downin
thefamilyroom—wehavetowearsuitswithsensorsandahelmetwithscannersandstuff.Ihopetofuck
theydon’thearmetalkingtoyoudownhere.”
“But what—” Jamie swallowed hard. How could he swallow if he was just a string of code? “What
happenedtome?Theoriginalme?”
Beccalookedcold.“Well,”shesaid,“youhadcancer.Youdied.”
“Oh.”Ahollowwindblewthroughthevoidinsidehim.
“They’regoingtobringyouback.Assoonastheclonethingworksout—butthisisagovernmentcomputer
you’rein,andthereareallthesegovernmentrestrictionsoncloning,and—”Sheshookherhead.“Look,
Digit,”shesaid.“Youreallyneedtoknowthisstuff,okay?”
“Iunderstand.”Jamiewantedtocry.Butonlyrealpeoplecried,hethought,andhewasn’treal.Hewasn’t
real.
“Theprogramthatrunsthisvirtualenvironmentishuge,okay,andyou’reabigprogram,andtheUniversity
computerisusedforalotofresearch,andalotoftheresearchhasahigherprioritythanyoudo.Soyou
don’truninreal-time—that’swhyI’mgrowingfasterthanyouare.I’mspendingmorehoursbeingmethan
youare.Andtheparents—”Sherolledhereyes.“Theyaren’tmakingthisanybetter,withtheiremphasis
onnormalfamilylife.”
Shesuckedonhercigaret,thenstubbeditoutinsomethinginvisible.“See,theywantustobethisnormal
family.Sowehavebreakfasttogethereveryday,anddinnereverynight,andspendtheeveningattheZoo
orinPandalandorsomeplace.Butthedinnerthatweeatwithyouisvirtual,itdoesn’ttastelikeanything—
thegrant ranoutbefore theygotthat partofthe interfaceright—so weeatthis fast-foodcrapbefore we
interfacewithyou,andthenhavedinneralloveragainwithyou…Isthismakinganysense?BecauseDad
hasajobandMomhasajobandIgotoschoolandhavefriendsandstuff,sowereallycan’tgettogether
everynight.Sotheyjustcloseyourprogramfile,shutitrightdown,whenthey’renotavailabletointerface
withyouaswhatDadcallsa ‘familyunit,’andthatmeansthatthereare alotof hours,dayssometimes,
whenyou’rejustnotrunning,youmightaswellreallybedead—”Sheblinked.
“Sorry,”shesaid.“Anyway,we’reallgettingolderalotfasterthanyouare,andit’snotfairtoyou,that’s
what I think. Especially because the University computer runs fastest at night, because people don’t use
themasmuchthen,andyou’reprettymuchreal-timethen,sointerfacingwithyouwouldbealmostnormal,
butMomandDadsleepthen,cuztheyhavedayjobs,andtheycan’thaveyourunningaroundunsupervised
inhere,forGod’ssake,theythinkit’sunsafeorsomething…”
Shepaused,thenreachedintohershirtpocketforanothercigaret.“Look,”shesaid,“I’dbettergetoutof
herebeforetheyfigureoutI’mtalkingtoyou.Andthenthey’llpullmyaccesscodesorsomething.”
Shestood,brushedsomethingoffherjeans.“Don’ttelltheparentsaboutthisstuffrightaway.Otherwise
theymustmighteraseyou,andloadabackupthatdoesn’tknowshit.Okay?”
Andshevanished,asshehadthatafternoon.
Jamiesatinthebed,hugginghisknees.Hecouldfeelhisheartbeatinginthedarkness.Howcanaprogram
haveaheart?hewondered.
Dawnslowlyencroacheduponthenight,andthentherewasMisterJeepers,turninglazycartwheelsinthe
air,hisredfaceleeringinthewindow.
“Jamie’sawake!”hesaid.“Jamie’sawakeandreadyforanewday!”
“Fuckoff,”Jamiesaid,andburiedhisfaceintheblanket.
****
Jamieaskedtolearnmoreaboutcomputerandprogramming.Maybe,hethought,hecouldfindcluesthere,
hecouldsolvethepuzzle.Hisparentsagreed,happytolethimfollowhisinterests.
Afterafewweeks,hemovedintoElCastillo.Hedidn’ttellanyonehewasgoing,hejustputsomeofhis
thingsinhiscar,tookthemuptoatowerroom,andthrewthemdownonthebedhefoundthere.HisMom
cametofindhimwhenhedidn’tcomehomefordinner.
“It’sdinnertime,Jamie,”shesaid.“Didn’tyouhearthedinnerbell?”
“I’mgoingtostayhereforawhile,”Jamiesaid.
“You’regoingtogethungryifyoudon’tcomehomefordinner.”
“Idon’tneedfood,”Jamiesaid.
HisMomsmiledbrightly.“Youneedfoodifyou’regoingtokeepupwiththeWhirlikins,”shesaid.
Jamielookedather.“Idon’tcareaboutthatkidstuffanymore,”hesaid.
Whenhismotherfinallyturnedandleft,Jamienoticedthatshemovedlikeanoldperson.
****
Afterawhile,hegotusedtothehungerthatwasprogrammedintohim.Itwasalwaysthere,hewasalways
awareofit,buthegotsohecouldignoreitafterawhile.
Buthecouldn’tignoretheneedtosleep.Thatwasjustbuiltintotheprogram,andeventually,trythoughhe
might,heneededtogiveintoit.
Hefoundouthecouldorderthepeopleinthecastlearound,andheamusedhimselfbymakingthemstand
inembarrassingpositions,orstandontheirheadandsing,orformhumanpyramidsforhoursandhours.
Sometimeshemadethemfight,buttheyweren’tverygoodatit.
Hecouldn’tmakeMrs.Winkleattheschoolhousedowhateverhewanted,though,oranyofthepeoplewho
were supposed to teach him things. When it was time for a lesson, Princess Gigunda turned up. She
wouldn’tfollowhisorders,she’djustpickhimupandcarryhimtothelittleredschoolhouseandplunkhim
downinhisseat.
“You’renotreal!”heshouted,kickinginherarms.“You’renotreal!AndI’mnotreal,either!”
Buttheymadehimlearnabouttheworldthatwasreal,aboutgeographyandgeologyandhistory,although
noneofitmatteredhere.
AfterthefirstcoupletimesJamiehadbeendraggedtoschool,hisfathermethimoutsidetheschoolhouseat
theendoftheday.
“Youneedsomestraighteningout,”hesaid.Helookedgrim.“You’repartofafamily.Youbelongwithus.
You’renotgoingtostayinthecastleanymore,you’regoingtohaveanormalfamilylife.”
“No!”Jamieshouted.“Ilikethecastle!”
Dadgrabbedhimbythearmandbegantodraghimhomeward.Jamiecalledhimapendejoandafellator.
“I’llpunishyouifIhaveto,”hisfathersaid.
“Howareyougoingtodothat?”Jamiedemanded.“Yougonnaerasemyfile?Loadabackup?”
Astunnedexpressioncrossedhisfather’sface.Hisbodyseemedtogothroughakindofstutter,andthegrip
on Jamie’s arm grew nerveless. Then his face flushed with anger. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“Whotoldyouthis?”
JamiewrenchedhimselffreeofDad’sweakenedgrip.“Ifigureditoutbymyself,”Jamiesaid.“Itwasn’t
hard.I’mnotakidanymore.”
“I—”Hisfatherblinked,andthenhisfacehardened.“You’restillcominghome.”
Jamiebackedaway.“Iwantsomechanges!”hesaid.“Idon’twanttobeshutoffallthetime.”
Dad’smouthcompressedtoathinline.“ItwasBeckywhotoldyouthis,wasn’tit?”
Jamiefeltaninspiration.“ItwasMisterJeepers!There’saflawinhisprogramming!Heanswerswhatever
questionIaskhim!”
Jamie’sfatherlookeduncertain.Heheldouthishand.“Let’sgohome,”hesaid.“Ineedtothinkaboutthis.”
Jamiehesitated.“Don’teraseme,”hesaid.“Don’tloadabackup.Please.Idon’twanttodietwice.”
Dad’slooksoftened.“Iwon’t.”
“Iwanttogrowup,”Jamiesaid.“Idon’twanttobealittlekidforever.”
Dadheldoutwithhishandagain.Jamiethoughtforamoment,thentookthehand.Theywalkedoverthe
greengrasstowardthewhiteframehouseonthehill.
“Jamie’shome!”MisterJeepersfloatedoverhead,turningaerialcartwheels.“Jamie’shomeatlast!”
AspasmofangerpassedthroughJamieatthesightofthewitlessgrin.Hepointedatthegroundinfrontof
him.
“Crashrighthere!”heordered.“Fast!”
MisterJeeperscamespiralingdown,anexpressionofcomicterroronhisface,andsmashedtotheground
whereJamiepointed.Jamiepointedatthesightofthecrumpledbodyandlaughed.
“Jamie’shomeatlast!”MisterJeeperssaid.
****
AssoonasJamiecould,hegotoneoftheprogrammersattheUniversitytofixhimupaflightprogramlike
theoneMisterJeepershadbeenusing.Heswoopedandsoared,zoominglikeasuperherothroughthesky,
stuntingbetweenthetowersofElCastilloandsoaringoverupturned,wonderingfacesintheForum.
Hecouldn’tseemtogoasfastashereallywanted.Whenhestartedincreasingspeed,allthescenerybelow
pausedinitsmotionforasecondortwo,thenjumpedforwardwithajerk.Thesoftwarecouldn’trefreshthe
sceneryfastenoughtomatchhisspeed.Itfeltstrange,becausethroughouthisflighthecouldfeelthewind
onhisface
Sothis,hethought,waswhyhiscarcouldn’tgofast.
Sohedecidedtoclimbhigh.Heturnedhisfacetotheblueskyandwentstraightup.Theworldreceded,
turnedsmall.HecouldseetheCastle,thehillsofWhirlikinCountry,thecrowdedForum,thehugeovalof
theCircusMaximus.Itwaslikeagreenplate,withafuzzy,nebuloushorizonwheretheskystarted.
And,rightinthecenter,wasthelittletwo-storeyframehousewherehe’dgrownup.
Itwaslaidoutbelowhimlikesceneryinasnowglobe.
Afterawhilehestoppedclimbing.Ittookhimawhiletorealizeit,becausehestillfeltthewindblowingin
hisface,buttheworldbelowstoppedgettingsmaller.
Hetriedgoingfaster.Thewindblastedontohimfromabove,buthispositiondidn’tchange.
He’dreachedthelimitsofhisworld.Hecouldn’tgetanyhigher.
Jamieflewouttotheedgesoftheworld,tothehorizon.Nomatterhowheurgedhisprogramtomove,he
couldn’tmakehisworldfadeaway.
Hewastrappedinsidethesnowglobe,andtherewasnowayout.
****
ItwasquiteawhilebeforeJamiesawBeccaagain.ShepickedherwaythroughthelabyrinthbeneathEl
Castillo to his throne room, and Jamie slowly materialized atop his throne of skulls. She didn’t appear
surprised.
“Iseeyou’vegotalittleDarkLordthinggoinghere,”shesaid.
“Itpassesthetime,”Jamiesaid.
“Andallthosepitsandstakesandtripwires?”
“Deathtraps.”
“Tookmeforevertogetinhere,Digit.Ikeptgettingde-rezzed.”
Jamiesmiled.“That’stheidea.”
“Whirlikinsasweapons,”shenodded.“Thatwasagoodone.Boredaholerightthroughme,thefirsttime.”
“SinceI’mstucklivinghere,”Jamiesaid,“IfigureImightaswellbeinchargeoftheenvironment.Some
ofthestudentprogrammersattheUniversityhelpedmewithsomecooleffects.”
Screams echoed through the throne room. Fires leaped out of pits behind him. The flames illuminated a
formofMarcusTulliusCicero,whohungcrucifiedaboveaseaofflame.
“Otempora,omores!”moanedCicero.
Beccanodded.“Nice,”shesaid.“Notmysceneexactly,butnice.”
“SinceIcan’tleave,”Jamiesaid,“Iwantasayinwhogetstovisit.SoeitheryouwaittillI’mreadytotalk
toyou,oryoutakeyourchancesonthedeathtraps.”
“Well.Lookslikeyou’resittingpretty,then.”
Jamieshrugged.Flamesbelched.“I’mgettingboredwithit.Imightjustwipeitalloutandbuildanother
placetolivein.Ican’ttellyouthenumberofbattlesI’vewon,thenumberofkingdomsI’vetrampled.In
thisrealityandothers.It’sallthesameafterawhile.”Helookedather.“You’vegrown.”
“Sohaveyou.”
“Oncethepaterfamiliasfinallydecidedtoallowit.”Hesmiled.“Westillhavedinnertogethersometimes,
in the old house. Just a normal family, as Dad says. Except that sometimes I turn up in the form of a
werewolf,oragiant,orsomething.”
“Sotheytellme.”
“TheadvantageofbeingsoftwareisthatIcanlooklikeanythingIwant.Butthat’sthedisadvantage,too,
because I can’t really become something else, I’m still just … me. I may wear another program as a
disguise,butI’mstillthesameprograminside,andI’mnotagoodenoughprogrammertomesswiththat,
yet.”Jamiehoppedoffhisthrone,walkedanervouslittlecirclearoundhissister.“Sowhatbringsyoutothe
oldneighborhood?”heasked.“TheoldfolkssaidyouwereoffvisitingAuntMaddyinthecountry.”
“Exiled,theymean.Igotknockedup,andaftertheabortiontheysentmetoMaddy.Shewassupposedto
keepmeundercontrol,exceptshedidn’t.”Shepickedaninvisiblepieceoflintfromhersweater.“Sonow
I’mback.”Shelookedathim.“I’mskippingalotofthestory,butIfigureyouwouldn’tbeinterested.”
“Doesithavetodowithsex?”Jamieasked.“I’msortofinterestedinsex,eventhoughIcan’tdoit,and
they’renotlikelytoletme.”
“Letyou?”
“It would require a lot of new software and stuff. I was prepubescent when my brain structures were
scanned,andtheprogramisn’tsetupformakingmeaworkingadult,withadultdesiresetcetera.
Nobody was thinking about putting me through adolescence at the time. And the administrators at the
Universitytoldmethatitwasveryunlikelythatanyonewasgoingtogivethemagrantsothatacomputer
programcouldhavesex.”Jamieshrugged.“Idon’tmissit,Iguess.ButI’msortofcurious.”
SurprisecrossedBecca’sface.“Butthereareallkindsofsimulations,and…”
“Theydon’tworkforme,becausemymindisn’tstructuredsoastobeabletoachievepleasurethatway.I
canmanipulatetheprograms,butit’saboutasexcitingasworkingavirtualbutterchurn.”Jamieshrugged
again.“Butthat’sokay.Imean,Idon’tmissit.IcanalwaysgivemyselfajolttothepleasurecenterifI
want.”
“Notthesamething,”Beccasaid.“I’vedoneboth.”
“Iwouldn’tknow.”
“I’lltellyouaboutsexifyouwant,”Beccasaid,“butthat’snotwhyI’mhere.”
“Yes?”
Beccahesitated.Licked her lips. “I guess Ishouldjustsayit,huh?”shesaid.“Mom’s dying. Pancreatic
cancer.”
Jamiefeltsadnesswellupinhismind.Onlyelectrons,hethought,movingfromoneplacetoanother.Itwas
nothingreal.Hewasprogrammedtofeelananalogofsorrow,andthatwasall.
“Shelooksnormaltome,”hesaid,“whenIseeher.”Butthatdidn’tmeananything:hismotherchosewhat
shewantedhimtosee,justashechoseamask–awerewolf,agiant–forher.
Andinneithercasedidthedisguiseatallmatter.Forbehindthewerewolfwasaprogramthatcouldn’talter
itsparameters;andbehindtheother,ineradicablecancer.
Beccawatchedhimfromslittedeyes.“Dadwantshertobescanned,andcomehere.Sowecanstillbea
normalfamilyevenaftershedies.”
Jamiewashorrified.“Tellherno,”hesaid.“Tellhershecan’tcome!”
“Idon’tthinkshewantsto.ButDadisveryinsistent.”
“She’llbehereforever!It’llbeawful!”
Becca looked around. “Well, she wouldn’t do much for your Dark Lord act, that’s for sure. I’m sure
Sauron’s mom didn’t hang around the Dark Tower, nagging him about the unproductive way he was
spendinghistime.”
Firesbelched.Thegroundtrembled.Stalactitesraineddownlikearrows.
“That’snotit,”Jamiesaid.“Shedoesn’twanttobeherenomatterwhatI’mdoing,nomatterwhereIlive.
Becausewhateverthisplacelookslike,it’saprison.”Jamielookedathissister.“Idon’twantmymomina
prison.”
LeapingflamesglitteredinBecca’seyes.“Youcanchangetheworldyoulivein,”shesaid.“That’smore
thanIcando.”
“ButIcan’t,”Jamiesaid.“Icanchangethewayitlooks,butIcan’tchangeanythingreal.I’maprogram,
andaprogramisanartifact.I’mapieceofengineering.I’masimulation,withsimulatedsensoryorgans
thatinteractwithsimulatedenvironments—Icanonlyinteractwithotherartifacts.Noneofit’sreal.Idon’t
know what the real world looks or feels or tastes like, I only know what simulations tell me they’re
supposedtotastelike.AndIcan’tchangeanyofmyparametersunlessImesswiththeengineering,andI
can’t do that unless the programmers agree, and even when that happens, I’m still as artificial as I was
before.AndthecomputerI’minisoldandclunky,andsoonnobody’sgoingtorunmyoperatingsystem
anymore,andI’llnotonlybeanartifact,I’llbeamuseumpiece.”
“Thereareotherartificialintelligencesoutthere,”Beccasaid.“Ikeephearingaboutthem.”
“I’ve talked to them. Most of them aren’t very interesting—it’s like talking to a dog, or maybe to very
intelligent microwave oven. And they’ve scanned some people in, but those were adults, and all they
wantedtodo,oncetheygotinside,wastoescape.Someofthemwentcrazy.”
Beccagaveatwistedsmile.“Iusedtobesojealousofyou,youknow.Youlivedinthisbeautifulworld,no
pollution,noviolence,noshitonthestreets.”
Flamesbelched.
“Integramensaugustissimapossessio,”saidCicero.
“Shutup!”Jamietoldhim.“Whatthefuckdoyouknow?”
Becca shook her head. “I’ve seen those old movies, you know? Where somebody gets turned into a
computerprogram,andnextthingyouknowhe’sineverycomputerintheworld,andrunningeverything?”
“I’veseenthose,too.Haha.Veryfunny.Showsyouwhatpeopleknowaboutprograms.”
“Yeah.Showsyouwhattheyknow.”
“I’lltalktoMom,”Jamiesaid.
****
BigtearswelledoutofMom’seyesandtrailedpartwaydownherface,thendisappeared.Thescannerspaid
alotofattentiontoeyesandmouths,forthesakeoftransmittingexpression,butdidn’talwayspickupthe
thingsbetween.
“I’msorry,”shesaid.“Wedidn’tthinkthisishowitwouldbe.”
“Maybeyoushouldhavegivenitmorethought,”Jamiesaid.
Itisn’tsorrow,hetoldhimselfagain.It’sjustelectronsmoving.
“Youweresuchabeautifulbaby.”Herlowerliptrembled.“Wedidn’twanttoloseyou.Theysaidthatit
wouldonlybeafewyearsbeforetheycouldimplantyourmemoriesinaclone.”
Jamieknewallthatbynow.Knewthatthetechnologyofreadingmemoriesturnedouttobemuch,much
simplerthanimplantingthem—ithadbeendiscoveredthattheimplantationhadtobemadewhilethebrain
wasactuallygrowing. Andgovernmentrestrictionsonhuman cloninghad madetestsnexttoimpossible,
and that the team that had started his project had split up years ago, some to higher-paying jobs, some
retired,otherstopetprojectsoftheirown.Howhisfatherhadlongagousedupwhateverpullhe’dhadat
theUniversitytryingtokeepeverythingtogether.Andhowhelongagohadacquiredorpurchasedpatents
and copyrights for the whole scheme, except for Jamie’s program, which was still owned jointly by the
Universityandthefamily.
TearsreappearedonMom’slowerface,drippedoffherchin.“There’spotentiallyalotofmoneyatstake,
you know. People want to raise perfect children. Keep them away from bad influences, make sure that
they’reraisedfreefromviolence.”
“Sotheywanttocontrolthekid’sentireenvironment,”Jamiesaid.
“Yes.Andmakeitsafe.Andwholesome.And—”
“Justlikenormalfamilylife,”Jamiefinished.“Nodiapers,novomit,nomesses.Nohavingtointeractwith
the kid when the parents are tired. And then you just download the kid into an adult body, give him a
diploma,andkickhimoutofthehouse.Andcallyourselfaperfectparent.”
“Andtherearereligiouspeople…”Momlickedherlips.“YourDad’sbeentalkingtothem.Theywantto
raisechildreninenvironmentsthatreflecttheirbeliefscompletely.Placeswherethereisnotemptation,no
sin.Noscienceorideasthatcontradicttheirown…”
“ButDadisn’treligious,”Jamiesaid.
“Thesepeoplehavemoney.Lotsofmoney.”
Momreachedout,tookhishand.Jamiethoughtaboutallthecodethatenabledhertodoit,thatenabled
thembothtofeelthepressureofunrealfleshonunrealflesh.
“I’lldowhatyouwish,ofcourse,”shesaid.“Idon’thavethatdesireforimmortality,thewayyourfather
does.”Sheshookherhead.“ButIdon’tknowwhatyourfatherwilldooncehistimecomes.”
****
Theworldwasadiskahundredmetersacross,coveredwithjunk:oldRomanruins,gargoylesfallenfroma
castlewall,abrokenchariot,ashatteredbell.Outsidetherimoftheworld,theskywasblack,utterlyblack,
withoutarippleorastar.
Standinginthecenteroftheworldwasakindofmetaltreewithtwoforked,jaggedarms.
“Hi,Digit,”Beccasaid.
Adullfitfullightgleamedonthemetaltree,asifitwerereflectingabloodysunset.
“Hi,sis,”itsaid.
“Well,”Beccasaid.“We’realonenow.”
“IcaughtthenoticeofDad’sfuneral.Ihopenobodymissedme.”
“Imissedyou,Digit.”Beccasighed.“Believeitornot.”
“I’msorry.”
Beccarestlesslykickeda piece of junk, a hubcap from an old,miniaturecar. It clanged as itfound new
lodgementintherubble.“Canyouappearasaperson?”sheasked.“Itwouldmakeiteasiertotalktoyou.”
“I’vefinishedwith allthat,” Jamiesaid. “I’dhavetoresurrecttoomuchdeadprogramming.I’vecutthe
worlddowntonexttonothing,I’vegotridofmybody,myheartbeat,thesenseoftouch.”
“Allthehumanparts,”Beccasaidsadly.
Thedullredlightoozedoverthemetaltreelikeadropofblood.“Everythingexceptsleepanddreams.It
turnsoutthatsleepanddreamshavetoomuchtodowiththewaypeopleprocessmemory.Ican’tgetridof
them, not without cutting out too much of my mind.” The tree gave a strange, disembodied laugh. “I
dreamedaboutyou,theotherday.AndaboutCicero.WeweretalkingLatin.”
“I’ve forgotten all the Latin I ever knew.” Becca tossed her hair, forced a laugh. “So what do you do
nowadays?”
“MostlyI’maconduitfordata.TheUniversityhasbeenusingmeasaresearchspider,whichIdon’tmind
doing,becauseitpassesthetime.ExceptthatItakeupalotmorememorythananyrealsearchspider,and
don’tdothatmuchbetterajob.AndtheinformationIfinddoesn’thavemuchtodowithme
—it’sallabouttherealworld.TheworldIcan’ttouch.”Themetaltreebledcolor.
“Mostly,”hesaid,“I’vejustbeenwaitingforDadtodie.Andnowit’shappened.”
Therewas a moment of silencebeforeBecca spoke. “You know that dadhadhimselfscanned before he
went.”
“Ohyeah.Iknew.”
“HesetupsomekindofweirdfoundationthatI’mnotpartof,withhispatentsandprogramsandsoon,and
hismoneyandsomeotherpeople’s.”
“He’dbetternotturnuphere.”
Beccashookherhead.“Hewon’t.Notwithoutyourpermission,anyway.BecauseI’minchargehere.
You—yourprogram—it’snotapartofthefoundation.Dadcouldn’tgetitall,becausetheUniversityhasan
interest,andsodoesthefamily.”Therewasamomentofsilence.“AndI’mthefamilynow.”
“Soyou…inheritedme,”Jamiesaid.Coldscorndrippedfromhiswords.
“That’sright,”Beccasaid.Shesquatteddownamidtherubble,restedherforearmsonherknees.
“Whatdoyouwantmetodo,Digit?WhatcanIdotomakeitbetterforyou?”
“Nooneeveraskedmethat,”Jamiesaid.
Therewasanotherlongsilence.
“Shutitoff,”Jamiesaid.“Closethefile.Eraseit.”
Beccaswallowedhard.Tearsshimmeredinhereyes.“Areyousure?”sheasked.
“Yes.I’msure.”
“Andiftheyeverperfecttheclonething?Ifwecouldmakeyou…”Shetookabreath.“Aperson?”
“No.It’stoolate.It’s…notsomethingIcanwantanymore.”
Beccastood.Ranahandthroughherhair.“Iwishyoucouldmeetmydaughter,”shesaid.“Hernameis
Christy.She’sarealbeauty.”
“Youcanbringher,”Jamiesaid.
Beccashookherhead.“Thisplacewouldscareher.She’sonlythree.I’donlybringherifwecouldhave…”
“Theoldenvironment,”Jamiefinished.“Pandaland.MisterJeepers.WhirlikinCountry.”
Beccaforcedasmile.“Thosewerehappydays,”shesaid.“Theyreallywere.Iwasjealousofyou,Iknow,
butwhenIlookbackatthattime…”Shewipedtearswiththebackofherhand.“Itwasthebest.”
“Virtualenvironmentsareniceplacestovisit,Iguess,”Jamiesaid.“Butyoudon’twanttoliveinone.
Notforever.”Beccalookeddownatherfeet,plantedamidrubble.
“Well,”shesaid.“Ifyou’resureaboutwhatyouwant.”
“Iam.”
Shelookedupatthemetalform,raisedahand.“Goodbye,Jamie,”shesaid.
“Goodbye,”hesaid.
Shefadedfromtheworld.
Andintime,theworldandthetreefaded,too.
****
Handinhand,DaddyandJamiewalkedtoWhirlikinCountry.JamiehadneverseentheWhirlikinsbefore,
andhelaughedandlaughedastheWhirlikinsspunbeneaththeirorangesky.
Thesoundofabellrangoverthegreenhills.“Timefordinner,Jamie,”Daddysaid.
Jamie waved goodbye to the Whirlikins, and he and Daddy walked briskly over the fresh green grass
towardhome.
“Areyouhappy,Jamie?”Daddyasked.
“Yes,Daddy!”Jamienodded.“IonlywishMommaandBeckycouldbeherewithus.”
“They’llbeheresoon.”
When,hethought,theycangetthesimulationsworkingproperly.
Becausethistime,hethought,therewouldbenomistakes.Thefoundationhe’dsetupbeforehediedhad
finallypurchasedtheUniversity’sinterestinJamie’sprogram—theyfundedsomescholarships,thatwasall
itfinallytook.TherewasnooneintheComputerDepartmentwhohadaninterestanymore.
Jamie had been loaded from an old backup—there was no point in using the corrupt file that Jamie had
become,theonethathadturneditselfintoatree,forheaven’ssake.
The old world was up and running, with a few improvements. The foundation had bought their own
computer—anoldone,soitwasn’ttooexpensive—thatwouldruntheenvironmentfulltime.Someother
childrenmightbescanned,togiveJamiesomeplaymatesandpeersocialization.
Thistimeitwouldwork,Daddythought.Becausethistime,Daddywasaprogramtoo,andhewasgoingto
be here every minute, making sure that the environment was correct and that everything went exactly
accordingtoplan.ThatheandJamieandeveryoneelsehadanormalfamilylife,perfectandshiningand
safe.
Andifthecloneprogrameverworkedout,theywouldcomeintotherealworldagain.Andifdownloading
intocloneswasneverperfected,thentheywouldstayhere.
Therewasnothingwrongwiththevirtualenvironment.Itwasagoodplace.
Justlikenormalfamilylife.Onlyforever.
And when this worked out, the foundation’s backers—fine people, even if they did have some strange
religiousideas—wouldhavetheirownenvironmentsupandrunning.Withchurches,angels,andperhaps
eventhepresenceofGod…
“Look!”Daddysaid,pointing.“It’sMisterJeepers!”
MisterJeepersflewofftherooftopandspunhappyspiralsintheairas heswoopedtowardJamie.Jamie
droppedDaddy’shandandranlaughingtogreethisfriend.
“Jamie’shome!”MisterJeeperscried.“Jamie’shomeatlast!”
****
amartianromance
KIMSTANLEYROBINSON
Kim Stanley Robinson sold his first story in 1976, and quickly established himself as one of themost
respectedandcriticallyacclaimedwritersofhisgeneration.Hisstory“BlackAir”wontheWorldFantasy
Awardin1984,andhisnovella“TheBlindGeometer”wontheNebulaAwardin1987.Hisfirstnovel,The
WildShore,waspublishedin 1984,andwasquicklyfollowedupbyothernovels such as Icehenge, The
MemoryofWhiteness,AShort,SharpShock,TheGoldCoast,andThePacificShore,and bycollections
suchasThePlanetontheTable,EscapefromKathmandu,andRemakingHistory.
Robinson’salready-distinguishedliteraryreputationtookaquantum-jumpinthedecadeofthe
‘90s, though, with the publication of his acclaimed “Mars” trilogy —Red Mars, Green Mars, and Blue
Mars; Red Mars won a Nebula Award, both Green Mars and— Blue Mars won Hugo Awards,and the
trilogyhasbeenwidelyrecognizedasthegenre’smostaccomplished,detailed,sustained,and substantial
lookatthecolonizationandterraformingofanotherworld,rivaledonlybyArthurC.Clarke’sTheSandsof
Mars.
The“MarsTrilogy”willprobablyassociateRobinson’snameforeverwiththeRedPlanet,butitwasnotthe
firsttimehewouldexploreafictionalMars;RobinsonvisitedMarsinseveralstoriesofthe‘80s,including
thememorablenovella“GreenMars,”whichdetailedthefirstattempttoclimbOlympusMons,thetallest
mountaininthesolarsystem.Thebittersweetandevocativestorythatfollowsisadirectsequelto“Green
Mars” —and at a tangent to the history of Martiansettlement as it ultimately developed in the “Mars
Trilogy.”Init,hetakesustoableakandwintryMarswheretheterraformingefforthasgonedisastrously
wrong,andagroupofoldfriendssetsailinaniceboatacrossthefrozenseasoftheonce-RedPlanet,many
yearsaftertheirfirstepicjourney,hopingtotouchtheskyonelasttime…
Robinson’slatestbooksarethenovelAntarctica,andacollectionofstoriesandpoemssetonhisfictional
Mars,TheMartians.HisstorieshaveappearedinourFirst,Second,Third,Fourth,Fifth,Sixth,andNinth
An-nualCollections.HeliveswithhisfamilyinCalifornia.
****
E
lileenMondayhaulsherbackpackoffthetrain’sstepsandwatchesthetrainglidedownthepisteandaround
theheadland.Outtheemptystationandshe’sintothestreetsofFirewater,northElysium.It’sdesertedand
dark,aghosttown,everythingshutdownandboardedup,theresidentsmovedoutandmovedon.Theonly
signs of life come from the westernmost dock: a small globular cluster of yellow streetlights and lit
windows,streakingtheiceofthebaybetweenherandit.Shewalksaroundthebayontheemptycorniche,
theskyallpurpleintheearlydusk.Fourdaysuntilthestartofspring,buttherewillbenospringthisyear.
****
She steps into the steamy clangor of the hotel restaurant. Workers in the kitchen are passing full dishes
throughthebroadopenwindowtodinersmillingaroundthelongtablesinthediningroom.They’remostly
young,eithericeboatsailorsorthefewpeopleleftintown.Nodoubtafewstillcomingoutofthehills,out
of habit. A wild-looking bunch. Eileen spots Hans and Arnold; they look like a pair of big puppets,
discoursingtothecrowdattheendofonetable—elderlyPinocchios,eyeslostinwrinklesastheytelltheir
liesandlaughateachother,andattheyoungbehemothspassingaroundplatesanddevouringtheirpasta
whilestilllisteningtothetwo.Theoldasentertainment.Notsuchabadwaytoendup.
Itisn’tRoger’skindofthing,however,andindeedwhenEileenlooksaroundsheseeshimstandinginthe
cornernext to the jukebox, pretending to make selections but actually eating his mealrightthere.That’s
Rogerforyou.Eileengrinsasshemakesherwaythroughthecrowdtohim.
“Hey,”hesaysasheseesher,andgivesheraquickhugwithonearm.
Sheleansoverandkisseshischeek.“Youwereright,it’snotveryhardtofindthisplace.”
“No.”Heglancesather.“I’mgladyoudecidedtocome.”
“Oh, the work will always be there, I’m happy to get out. Bless you for thinking of it. Is everyone else
alreadyhere?”
“Yeah,allbutFrancesandStephan,whojustcalledandsaidthey’dbeheresoon.Wecanleavetomorrow.”
“Great.Comesitdownwiththeothers,Iwantsomefood,andIwanttosayhitoeveryone.”
Rogerwrinkleshisnose,gesturesatthedenseloudcrowd.Thissolitaryqualityinhimhasbeenthecauseof
some long separations in their relationship, and so now Eileen shoves his arm and says, “Yeah yeah, all
thesepeople.Suchacrowdedplace,Elysium.”
Rogergrinscrookedly.“That’swhyIlikeit.”
“Ohofcourse.Farfromthemaddingcrowd.”
“StilltheEnglishmajor,Isee.”
“Andyou’restillthecanyonhermit,”shesays,laughingandpullinghimtowardthecrowd;itisgoodtosee
himagain,ithasbeenthreemonths.Formanyyearsnowtheyhavebeenasteadycouple,Rogerreturning
totheirroomsintheco-opinBurroughsaftereverytripaway;buthisworkisstillinthebackcountry,so
theystillspendquitealotoftimeapart.
Justasthey joinHans andArnold,whoarewrappinguptheirhistoryof theworld, StephanandFrances
comeinthedoor,andtheyholdacheeryreunionoveralatedinner.There’salotofcatchinguptodo;this
manymembersoftheirOlympusMonsclimbhaven’tbeentogetherinalongtime.Hoursaftertheother
dinershavegoneupstairstobed,orofftotheirhomes,thelittlegroupofoldonessitsattheendofonetable
talking.Abunchofantiqueinsomniacs,Eileenthinks,noneanxioustogotobedandtossandturnthrough
thenight.Shefindsherselfthefirsttostandupandstretchanddeclareherselfoff.Theothersriseoncue,
exceptforRogerandArnold;they’vedonealotofclimbingtogetherthroughtheyears,andRogerwasa
notoriousinsomniacevenwhenyoung;nowhesleepsverypoorlyindeed.AndArnoldwilltalkforaslong
as anyone else is willing, or longer. “See you tomorrow,” Arnold says to her. “Bright and early for the
crossingoftheAmazonianSea!”
****
Thenextmorningtheiceboatrunsovericethatismostlywhite,butinsomepatchesclearandtransparent
rightdowntotheshallowseafloor.Otherpatchesarethecolorofbrick,withthetextureofbrick,andthe
boat’srunnersclatteroverlittledunesofgravelanddust.Iftheyhitmeltpondstheboatslowsabruptlyand
shootsgreatwingsofwatertothesides.Attheothersideofthesepondstherunnersscritchagainlikeice
skatesastheyacceleratebackuptospeed.Roger’siceboatisascooter,heexplainstothem;notlikethe
spideryskeletalthingthatEileenwasexpecting,havingseensomeofthatkinddowninChryse
—those Roger calls DNs. This is more like an ordinary boat, long, broad, and low, with several parallel
runnersnailedfore-and-afttoitshull.“Betteroverroughice,”Rogerexplains,“anditfloatsifyouhappen
tohitwater.”Thesailislikeabigbird’swingextendedoverthem,sailandmastallmeldedtogetherinto
oneobject,shiftingshapewitheverygusttocatchasmuchwindasitcan.
“Whatkeepsusfromtippingover?”Arnoldasks,lookingovertheleerailattheflashingicejustfeetbelow
him.
“Nothing.”Thedeckisatagoodcant,andRogerisgrinning.
“Nothing?”
“Thelawsofphysics.”
“Comeon.”
“Whentheboattipsthesailcatcheslesswind,bothbecauseit’stiltedandbecauseitreadsthetilt,andreefs
in. Also we have a lot of ballast. And there are weights in the deck that are held magnetically on the
windwardside.It’slikehavingaheavycrewsittingonthewindwardrail.”
****
Thisfirstdayoutisclear,theroyalblueskycrinklinginagustywestwind.Underthecleardomeofthe
cockpitit’swarm,theirairataslightlyhigherpressurethanoutside.Sealevelisnowaround300
millibars,and lowering year by year, as if for a great storm that never quitecomes.Theyskateatspeed
aroundthemajesticpromontoryofthePhlegraPeninsula,itsgreatprowtoppedbyawhite-pillaredDoric
temple. Staring up at it Eileen listens to Hans and Frances discuss the odd phenomenon of the Phlegra
Montes,seamingthenorthcoastofElysiumlikealongshipcapsizedontheland;unusuallystraightfora
Martianmountainrange,asaretheErebusMontestothewest.Asiftheywerenot,likealltherestofthe
mountainrangesonMars,theremnantsofcraterrims.Hansarguesforthembeingtwoconcentricringsofa
really big impact basin, almost the size of the Big Hit itself but older than the Big Hit, and so mostly
obliterated by the later impact, with only Isidis Bay and much of the Utopian and Elysian Seas left to
indicate where the basin had been. “Then the ranges could have been somewhat straight-ened out in the
deformationoftheElysiumbulge.”
Francesshakesherhead,asalways.NeveroncehasEileenseenthetwoofthemagree.InthiscaseFrances
thinks the ranges may be even older than Hans does, remnants of early tectonic or proto-tectonic plate
movement.There’sawidebodyofevidenceforthisearlytectonicera,sheclaims,butHansisshakinghis
head:“Theandesiteindicatingtectonicactionisyoungerthanthat.ThePhlegrasareearlyNoachian.Apre-
BigHitbighit.”
Whatevertheexplanation,therethefineprowofrockstands,theendofasteeppeninsulaextendingstraight
northintotheiceforfourhundredkilometersoutofFirewater.Alongseaclifffallingintothesea,andthe
same on the other side. The pilgrimage out the spine to the temple is one of the most famous walks on
Mars;EileenhasmadeitanumberoftimessinceRogerfirsttookheronitabout
“That’snotnothing,”Eileenprotests.“That’sthreethings.”
“True.Andwemaystilltipover.Butifwedowecanalwaysgetoutandpullitbackupright.”
Theysitinthecockpitandlookupatthesail,oraheadattheice.Theiceboat’snavigationsteersthemaway
from the rottenest patches, spotted from satellites, and so the automatic pilot changes their course
frequently,andtheyshiftaroundthecockpitwhennecessary.Flourypatchesslowthemthemost,andover
thesetheboatsometimesdeceleratesprettyquickly,throwingtheunpreparedforwardintotheshoulderof
thepersonsittingnexttothem.EileenisbangedintobyHansandFrancesmorethanonce;likeher,they
haveneverbeenoniceboatsbefore,andtheireyesareroundatthespeedsitachievesduringstronggusts
oversmooth ice. Hansspeculatesthat the sandy patchesmarkold pressure ridges,whichstood like long
stegosaurbacksuntilthewindsablatedthementirelyaway,leavingtheirloadofsandandsiltbehindonthe
flattened ice. Roger nods. In truth the whole ocean surface is blowing away on the wind, with whatever
sticksupgoingthefastest;andtheoceanisnowfrozentothebottom,sothatnonewpressureridgesare
being raised. Soon the whole ocean will be as flat as a table top. Forty years ago, sometimes with him,
sometimeswithout.When they first came they looked out ona blue sea purled with Whitecaps. Seldom
sincehasitbeenfreeofice.
Hetooislookingatthepoint,withanexpressionthatmakesEileenthinkhemightberememberingthat
time as well. Certainly he would remember if asked; his incredible memory has still not yet begun to
weaken, and with the suite of memory drugs now available, drugs that have helped Eileen to remember
quiteabit,itmightwellbethathewillneverforgetanythinghiswholelifelong.Eileenenviesthat,though
she knows he is ambivalent about it. But by now it is one of the things about him that she loves. He
rememberseverythingandyethehasremainedstalwart,evenchipper,throughalltheyearsofthecrash.
Arockforhertoleanon,inherowncyclesofdespairandmourning.OfcourseasaReditcouldbeargued
hehasnoreasontomourn.Butthatwouldn’tbetrue.Hisattitudewasmorecomplexthanthat,Eileenhas
seenit;socomplexthatshedoesnotfullyunderstandit.Someaspectofhisstrongmemory,takingthelong
view;adeterminationto makeitwell;ruefuljoyintheenduringland;somemix ofallthesethings.She
watcheshimashestaresabsorbedatthepromontorywhereheandsheoncestoodtogetheroveraliving
world.
****
Howmuchhehasmeanttoherthroughtheyearshasbecomebeyondherabilitytoexpress.Sometimesit
fillshertooverflowing.Thattheyhaveknowneachotheralltheirlives;thattheyhavehelpedeachother
throughhardtimes;thathegotheroutintothelandinthefirstplace,startingheronthetrajectoryofher
wholelife;allthesewouldhavemadehimacrucialfiguretoher.Buteveryonehasmanysuchfigures.
Andovertheyearstheirdivergentinterestskeptsplittingthemup;theycouldhavelosttouchentirely.But
atonepointRogercametovisitherinBurroughs,andsheandherpartnerofthattimehadbeengrowing
distant for many years, and Roger said, I love you Eileen. I love you. Remember what it was like on
OlympusMons,whenweclimbedit?WellnowIthinkthewholeworldislikethat.Theescarpmentgoeson
forever.Wejustkeepclimbingituntileven-tuallywefalloff.AndIwanttoclimbitwithyou.Wekeep
gettingtogetherandthengoingourways,andit’stoochancy,wemightnotcrosspathsagain.
Some-thingmighthappen.Iwantmorethanthat.Iloveyou.
Andsoeventuallytheysetuproomsinherco-opinBurroughs.ShecontinuedtoworkintheMinistryof
theEnvironment,andhecontinuedtoguidetreksinthebackcountry,thentosailontheNorthSea;buthe
alwayscamebackfromhistreksandhiscruises,andshealwayscamebackfromherworkingtoursandher
vacationsaway;andthey livedtogether intheirroomswhenthey werebothat home,and becameareal
couple. And through the years without summer, then the little ice age and the crash itself, his steadfast
presencehasbeenallthathaskeptherfromdespair.Sheshudderstothinkwhatitwouldhavebeenliketo
getthroughtheseyearsalone.Toworksohard,andthentofail…It’sbeenhard.Shehasseenthathehas
worriedabouther.Thistripisanexpressionofthat:Look,hesaidonceaftershecamehomeintearsover
reportsofthetropicalandtemperateextinctions—look,Ithinkyouneedtogetoutthereandseeit.Seethe
worldthewayitisnow,seetheice.It’snotsobad.Therehavebeeniceagesbefore.It’snotsobad.
Andasshehadbeen moreand moreholingupinBurroughs,unabletofaceit,shefinally wasforcedto
agreethat,intheory,itwouldbeagoodthing.Verysoonafterthatheorganizedthistrip.Nowsheseesthat
hegatheredsomeoftheirfriendsfromtheOlympusMonsexpeditiontohelpenticehertocome,perhaps;
also,oncehere, toremind herofthattimeintheirlives. Anywayit’snicetoseetheirfaces,flushedand
grinningastheyflyalong.
****
Skateeast!the wind says, and they skitter roundScrabster, the northeastern point of Elysium, then head
southoverthegreatplateofwhiteiceinsertedintotheincurveofthecoast.ThisistheBayofArcadia,and
thesteepriseoflandbackingthebluffsiscalledAcadia,foritssupposedresemblancetoNovaScotiaand
thecoastofMaine.Darkrock,batteredbythedarknorthsea;sea-cliffsofbashedgranite,sluicedbybig
breakers.Now,however,allstillandwhite,withtheicethathaspowdereddownoutofthesprayandspume
flockingandfrostingthebeachandthecliffsuntiltheylooklikeweddingcakeramparts.Nosignoflifein
Acadia;nogreensanywhereinsight.ThisisnotherElysium.
****
RogertakesoverthesailingfromArnold,andbringsthemaroundapoint,andtheresuddenlyisasteep-
walledsquareislandahead,vividgreenontop—ah.Atownship,frozenhereneartheentrancetoafjord,no
doubtinadeepchannel.Allthetownshipshavebecomeislandsintheice.Thegreeneryontopisprotected
byatentwhichEileencannotseeinthebrightsun.“I’mjustdroppingbytopickuptherestofourcrew,”
Rogerexplains.“Acoupleofyoungfriendsofminearegoingtojoinus.”
“Whichoneisthis?”Stephaninquires.
“ThisistheAltamira.”
Rogersailsthemaroundinasweetcurvethatendswiththemstalledintothewindandskiddingtoahalt.
Heretractsthecockpitdome.“Idon’tintendtogoupthere,bytheway,that’sanall-daytripnomatterhow
youdoit.Myfriendsshouldbedownhereonshoretomeetus.”
They step down onto the ice, which is mostly a dirty opaque white, cracked and a bit nobbled on the
surface,so thatitis slippery insomeplaces, but mostlyfairlysteady underfoot;andEileen sees thatthe
treacherousspotsstandoutlikewindowsinlaidintile.Rogertalksintohiswristpad,thenleadstheminto
thefjord,whichononesteepsidedisplaysahandsomegranitestaircase,frostlyinglikeafluffycarpeton
thesteps.
UpthesestairsRogerclimbs,puttinghisfeetinearlierbootprints.Upontheheadlandoverthefjordthey
have a good view over the ice to the township, which is really very big for a manufactured object, a
kilometeroneachside,anditsdeckonlyjustlowerthantheyare.Itssquaretentedmiddleglowsgreenlike
aRenais-sancewalledgarden,theenchantedspaceofafairytale.
Thereisalittlestoneshelterorshrineontheheadland,andtheyfollowthesidewalkovertoit.Thewind
chillsEileen’shands,toes,noseandears.Abigwhiteplate,whistlinginthewind.Elysiumbulksbehind
them,itstwovolcanoesjuststickingoverthehighhorizontothewest.SheholdsRoger’shandastheyap-
proach.Asalways,herpleasureinMarsismixedupwithherpleasureinRoger;atthesightofthisbigcold
panoramalovesailsthroughherlikethewind.Nowheissmiling,andshefollowshisgazeandseestwo
peoplethoughtheshelter’sopenwalls.“Heretheyare.”
Theyroundthefrontoftheshrineandthepairnoticesthem.“Hi,all,”Rogersays.“Eileen,thisisFreya
AhmetandJean-ClaudeBayer.They’regoingtobejoiningus.Freya,Jean-Claude,thisisEileenMonday.”
“Wehaveheardofyou,”Freyasaystoherwithafriendlysmile.SheandJean-Claudearebothhuge;they
towerovertheoldones.
“That’sHansandFrancesbehindus,downthepaththerearguing.Getusedtothat.”
****
HansandFrancesarrive,thenArnoldandStephan.Introductionsaremadeallaround,andtheyinvestigate
theemptyshrineorshelter,andexclaimovertheview.TheeasternsideoftheElysianmassifwasarain
shadowbefore,andnowitbulksjustasblackandemptyasever,lookingmuchasitalwayshas.Thehuge
whiteplateof the sea, however, and the incongruous square of the Altamira;these are new and strange.
Eileenhasneverseenanythinglikeit.Impressive,yes;vast;sublime;buthereyealwaysreturnstothelittle
tentedgreenhouseonthetownship,tinystampoflifeinalifelessuniverse.Shewantsherworldback.
Onthewaybackdownthestonestairsshelooksattheexposedgraniteofthefjord’ssidewall,andinone
cracksheseesblackcrumblymatter.Shestopstoinspectit.
“Lookatthis,”shesaystoRoger,scrapingawayatrimetoseemoreofit.“Isitlichen?Moss?Isitalive?
Itlookslikeitmightbealive.”
Rogerstickshisfacerightdownintoit,eyesacentimeteraway.“Moss,Ithink.Dead.”
Eileenlooksaway,feelingherstomachsink.“I’msotiredoffindingdeadplants, deadanimals. Thelast
dozentimesoutI’venotseenasinglelivingthing.Imeanwinterkilliswinterkill,butthisisridiculous.The
wholeworldisdying!”
Roger waggles a hand uncertainly, straightens up. He can’t really deny it. “I suppose there was never
enoughsunlighttobeginwith,”hesays,glancingupattheirbronzebuttonoflight,slantingoverElysium.
“Peoplewanteditandsotheydiditanyway.Butrealityisn’tinterestedinwhatpeoplewant.”
Eileensighs.“No.”Shepokesagainattheblackmatter.“Areyousurethisisn’talichen?It’sblack,butit
lookslikeit’sstillalivesomehow.”
Heinspectssomeofitbetweenhisglovedfingers.Smallblackfronds,likeakindoftinyseaweed,frayed
andfallingapart.
“Fringelichen?”Eileenventures.“Frondlichen?”
“Moss,Ithink.Deadmoss.”Heclearsawaymoreiceandsnow.Blackrock,rustrock.Blacksplotches.
It’sthesame everywhere.“No doubtthereare lichensalive, though.AndFreya andJean-Claudesay the
subniveanenvironmentisquitelivelystill.Veryrobust.Protectedfromtheelements.”
Lifeunderapermanentblanketofsnow.“Uhhuh.”
“Hey.Betterthannothing,right?”
“Right.Butthismossherewasexposed.”
“Right.Andthereforedead.”
They start down again. Roger hikes beside her, lost in thought. He smiles: “I’m having a deja vu. This
happened before, right? A long time ago we found some little living thing together, only it was dead. It
happenedbefore!”
Sheshakesherhead.“Youtellme.You’rethememoryman.”
“ButIcan’tquitegetit.It’smorelikedejavu.Well,butmaybe…maybeonthatfirsttrip,when wefirst
met?” He gestures eastward — over the Amazonian Sea, she guesses, to the canyon country east of
Olympus.“Somelittlesnailsorsome-thing.”
“Butcouldthatbe?”Eileenasks.“IthoughtwemetwhenIwasstillincollege.Theterraforminghadbarely
startedthen,right?”
“True.”Hefrowns.“Well,therewaslichenfromthestart,itwasthefirstthingtheypropagated.”
“Butsnails?”
Heshrugs.“That’swhatIseemtoremember.Youdon’t?”
“Noway.Justwhateveryou’vetoldmesince,youknow.”
“Ohwell.”Heshrugsagain,smilegone.“Maybeitwasjustadejavu.”
****
Backintheiceboat’scockpitandcabin,theycouldbecrowdedaroundthekitchentableofalittleapartment
anywhere.Thetwonewcomers,headsbrushingtheceilingeventhoughtheyaresittingonstools,cookfor
them. “No, please, that is why we are here,” Jean-Claude says with a big grin. “I very much like to be
cookingthebigmeals.”Actuallythey’recomingalongtomeetwithsomefriendsontheothersideofthe
AmazonianSea,allpeopleRogerhasworkedwithofteninthelastfewyears,toinitialsomeresearchonthe
westernslopeofOlympus—glaciologyandecology,respectively.
AftertheseexplanationstheylistenwiththerestasHansandFrancesargueaboutthecrashforawhile.
Frances thinks it was caused by the rapid brightening of the planet’s albedo when the North Sea was
pumpedout and froze;thisthe firstknockin a whole seriesofpositively reinforcingeventsleading ina
negativedirection,anautocatalyticdropintothedeathspiralofthefullcrash.Hansthinksitwasthefact
that the underground permafrost was never really thawed deeper than a few centimeters, so that the
resultingextremelythinskinofthelifezonelookedmuchmorewell-establishedthanitreallywas,andwas
actuallyveryvul-nerabletocollapseifattackedbymutantbacteria,asHansbelievesitwas,themutations
spurredbytheheavyincomingUV—
“Youdon’tknowthat,”Francessays.“Youradiatethosesameorganismsinthelab,orevenexposethemin
spacelabs,andyoudon’tgetthemutationsorthecollapseswe’reseeingontheground.”
“Interactionwithgroundchemicals,”Hanssays.“SometimesIthinkeverythingissimplygettingsaltedto
death.”
Frances shakes her head. “These are different problems, and there’s no sign of synergistic effects when
they’recombined.You’rejustlistingpossibilities,Hans,admitit.You’rethrowingthemoutthere,butno
oneknows.Theetiologyisnotunderstood.”
Thisistrue;EileenhasbeenworkinginBurroughsontheproblemfortenyears,andsheknowsFrancesis
right.Thetruthisthatinplanetaryecology,asinmostotherfields,ultimatecausesareveryhardtodiscern.
Hansnowwagglesahand,whichisascloseashewillcometoconcedingapointtoFrances.
“Well,whenyouhavealistofpossibilitiesaslongasthisone,youdon’thavetohavesynergyamongthem.
Justasimpleadditionoffactorsmightdoit.Everythinghavingitsparticulareffect.”
Eileenlooksoverattheyoungsters,theirbackstotheoldonesastheycook.They’redebatingsalttoo,but
thensheseesoneputahandfulofitintherice.
****
Inthefragranceofbasmatisteamtheyspoonouttheirmeals.FreyaandJean-Claudeeatseatedonthefloor.
Theylistentotheoldones,butdon’tspeakmuch.Occasionallytheyleanheadstogethertotalkinprivate,
underthetalkatthelittletable.Eileenseesthemkiss.
Shesmiles.Shehasn’tbeenaroundpeoplethisyoungforalongtime.Thenthroughtheirreflectionsinthe
cockpitdomesheseestheiceoutside,glowingunderthestars.It’sadisconcertingimage.Buttheyarenot
lookingoutthewin-dow.Andeveniftheywere,theyareyoung,andsodonotquitebelieveindeath.
Theyareblithe.
Rogerseesherlookingattheyounggiants,andshareswithherasmallsmileatthem.Heisfondofthem,
she sees. They are his friends. When they say good-night and duck down the passageway to their tiny
quartersinthebow,hekisseshisfingersandpatsthemontheheadastheypasshim.
The old ones finish their meal, then sit staring out the window, sipping hot chocolate spiked with
peppermintschnapps.
“Wecanregroup,”Hanssays,continuingthediscussionwithFrances.“Ifwepursuedtheheavyindustrial
methodsaggressively,theoceanwouldmeltfrombelowandwe’dbebackinbusiness.”
Francesshakesherhead,frowning.“Bombsintheregolith,youmean.”
“Bombs below the regolith. So that we get the heat, but trap the radiation. That and some of the other
methods might do it. A flying lens to focus some of the mirrors’ light, heat the surface with focused
sunlight.ThenbringinsomenitrogenfromTitan.Directafewcometstounpopulatedareas,oraerobrake
them so that they burn up in the atmosphere. That would thicken things up fast. And more halocarbon
factories,weletthatgotoosoon.”
“Itsoundsprettyindustrial,”Francessays.
“Ofcourseitis.Terraformingisanindustrialprocess,atleastpartly.Weforgotthat.”
“Idon’tknow,”Rogersays.“Maybeitwouldbebesttokeeppursuingthebiologicalmethods.Justregroup,
youknow,andsendanotherwaveoutthere.It’slonger,but,youknow.Lessviolencetothelandscape.”
“Ecopoesiswon’twork,”Hanssays.“Itdoesn’ttrapenoughheatinthebio-sphere.”Hegesturesoutside.
“Thisisasfarasecopoesiswilltakeyou.”
“Maybefornow,”Rogersays.
“Ahyes.Youareunconcerned,ofcourse.ButIsupposeyou’rehappyaboutthecrashanyway,eh?
Beingsuchared?”
“Hey,comeon,”Rogersays.“HowcouldIbehappy?Iwasasailor.”
“Butyouusedtowanttheterraforminggone.”
Rogerwavesahanddismissively,glancesatEileenwithashysmile.“Thatwasalongtimeago.Besides,
theterraformingisn’tgonenowanyway,”gesturingattheice,“it’sonlysleeping.”
“See,”Arnoldpounces,“youdowantitgone.”
“NoIdon’t,I’mtellingyou.”
“Thenwhyareyousodamnhappythesedays?”
“I’m not happy,” Roger says, grinning happily, “I’m just not sad. I don’t think the situation calls for
sadness.”
Arnoldrollshiseyesattheothers,enlistingtheminhisteasing.“Theworldfreezes,andthisisnotareason
forsadness.Ishuddertothinkwhatitwouldtakeforyou!”
“Itwouldtakesomethingsad!”
“Butyou’renotared,noofcoursenot.”
“I’mnot!”Rogerprotests,grinningattheirlaughter,butseriousaswell.“Iwasasailor,Itellyou.Look,if
thesituationwereasbadasyouallaresaying,thenFreyaandJean-Claudewouldbeworriedtoo,right?But
they’renot.Askthemandyou’llsee.”
“Theyaresimplyyoung,”Hanssays,echoingEileen’sthought.Theothersnodaswell.
“That’sright,”Rogersays.“Andit’sashort-termproblem.”
Thatgivesthempause.
AfterasilenceStephansays,“Whataboutyou,Arnold?Whatwouldyoudo?”
“What,me?Ihavenoidea.It’snotformetosay,anyway.Youknowme.Idon’tliketellingpeoplewhatto
do.”
Theywaitinsilence,sippingtheirhotchocolate.
“Butyouknow,ifyoudidjustdirectacoupleoflittlecometsrightintotheocean….”
Oldfriends,laughingatoldfriendsjustforbeingthemselves.EileenleansinagainstRoger,feelingbetter.
****
Nextmorningwithawhooshtheyareoffeastagain,andinafewhours’sailingareoutontheicewithno
landvisible,skatingonthegustywindwithrunnersclatteringorshussingorwhiningorblasting,depending
onwindandiceconsistencies.Thedaypasses,anditbeginstoseemasiftheyareonanall-iceworld,like
CallistoorEuropa.Asthedayendstheyslidearoundintothewindandcometoahalt,thengetoutand
driveinsomeice screws around the boat and tie it into the center of aweb of lines. By sunset they are
belayed,andRogerandEileengoforawalkovertheice.
“Abeautifulday’ssail,wasn’tit?”Rogerasks.
“Yes,itwas,”Eileensays.Butshecannothelpthinkingthattheyareouttherewalkingonthesurfaceof
theirocean.“WhatdidyouthinkaboutwhatHanswassayinglastnight,abouttakinganotherbashatit?”
“Youhearalotofpeopletalkingthatway.”
“Butyou?”
“Well,Idon’tknow.Idon’tlikealotofthemethodstheytalkabout.But—”Heshrugs.“WhatIlikeor
don’tlikedoesn’tmatter.”
“Hmm.”Underfoottheiceiswhite,withtinybrokenairbubblesmarringthesurface,likeminusculecrater
rings. “And you say the youngsters aren’t much interested either. But I can’t see why not. You’d think
they’dwantterraformingtobeworkingmorethananyone.”
“Theythinktheyhavelotsoftime.”
Eileensmilesatthis.“Theymayberight.”
“That’strue,theymay.But notus.I sometimesthink we’resad notsomuch becauseof thecrashas the
quickdecline.”Helooksather,thendownattheiceagain.“We’retwohundredandfiftyyearsold,Eileen.”
“Twohundredforty.”
“Yeahyeah.Butthere’snoonealiveolderthantwo-sixty.”
“Iknow.”Eileenremembersatimewhenagroupofoldonesweresittingaroundabighotelrestauranttable
buildingcard-houses,astherewasnoothercardgameallofthemknew;theycollaboratedononehouseof
cards four stories high, and the structure was getting shaky indeed when someone said, “It’s like my
longevitytreatments.”Andthoughtheylaughed,noonehadthesteadinessofhandtosetthenextcard.
“Well.Thereyouhaveit.IfIweretwentyIwouldn’tworryaboutthecrasheither.Whereasforusit’svery
likelythelastMarswe’llknow.But,youknow.Intheenditdoesn’tmatterwhatkindofMarsyoulikebest.
They’re all better than nothing.” He smiles crookedly at her, puts an arm around her shoulders and
squeezes.
****
Thenextmorningtheywakeinafog,butthereisasteadybreezeaswell,soafterbreakfasttheyunmoor
andslideeastwithalight,slickslidingsound.Icedust,pulverizedsnow,frozenmist—allflashpastthem.
Almost immediately after taking off, however, a call comes in on the radio phone. Roger picks up the
handset,andFreya’svoicecomesin.“Youleftusbehind.”
“What?Shit!Whatthehellwereyoudoingoutoftheboat?”
“Weweredownontheice,foolingaround.”
“ForChrist’ssake,youtwo.”Rogergrinsdespitehimselfasheshakeshishead.“Andwhat,you’redone
now?”
“Noneofyourbusiness,”Jean-Claudecallshappilyinthebackground.
“Butyou’rereadytobepickedup,”Rogersays.
“Yes,weareready.”
“Okay,well,shit.Justholdputthere.It’lltakeawhiletobeatbackuptoyouinthiswind.”
“That’sallright.Wehaveourwarmclotheson,andagroundpad.Wewillwaitforyou.”
“Asifyouhaveanychoice!”Rogersays,andputsthehandsetdown.
He starts sailing in earnest. First he turns across the wind, then tacks up into it, and the boat suddenly
shriekslikeabanshee.Thesail-mastiscuppedtight.Rogershakeshishead,impressed.Youwouldhaveto
shouttobeheardoverthewindnow,butnooneissayinganything;they’relettingRogerconcentrateonthe
sailing.Thewhitenesstheyareflyingthroughislitthesameeverywhere,theyseenothingbuttheiceright
underthecockpit,flyingby.ItisnotthepurestwhiteoutEileenhaseverbeenin,becauseofthewindand
theiceundertheleerail,butitisprettyclose;andafterawhileeventheendsoftheiceboat,eventheice
under the lee rail, disappear into the cloud. They fly, vibrating with their flight, through a roaring white
void;astrangekineticexperience,andEileenfindsherselftryingtoopenhereyesfarther,asiftheremight
beanotherkindofsightinsideher,waitingformomentslikethistocomeintoplay.
Nothingdoing.Theyarein a moving whiteout, that’s all thereistoit.Roger doesn’tlook pleased. He’s
staringdownattheirradar,andtherestoftheinstru-mentation.Intheolddayspressureridgeswouldhave
madethiskindofblindsailingverydangerous.Nowthereisnothingouttheretoruninto.
Suddenlytheyareshovedforward,theroargetslouder,thereisdarknessbelowthem.Theyareskatingover
asandypatch.Thenoutofitandoffagain,shootingthroughbrightwhiteness.“Comingabout,”
Rogersays.
Eileenbracesherselffortheimpactoftheirfirsttack,butthenRogersays,“I’mgoingtowearabout,folks.”
Hebringsthetillerintowardhiskneesandtheycareeroffdownwind,turn,turn,thencatchthewindon
theiroppositebeam,theboat’shulltippingalarminglytotheotherside.Boomsbelowastheballastweight
shiftsup tothewindward rail,and then theyare howling asbefore, but ontheopposite tack.The whole
operation has been felt and heard rather than seen; Roger even has his eyes closed for a while. Then a
momentofrelativecalm,untilthenextwearingabout.Abackwardloopattheendofeachtack,
Rogerpointsattheradarscreen.“Theretheyare,see?”
Arnoldpeersatthescreen.“Sittingdown,Itakeit.”
Rogershakeshishead.“They’restillmostlyoverthehorizon.That’stheirheads.”
“Youhope.”
RogerislookingattheAPSscreenandfrowning.Hewearsawayagain.“We’llhavetocomeuponthem
slow.Theradaronlyseestothehorizon,andevenstandingupitwon’tcatchthemfartherthansixkaway,
andwe’regoingaboutahundredfiftykanhour.Sowe’llhavetodoitbyourAPSpositions.”
Arnoldwhistles.Satellitenavigation,tomakearendezvousinawhiteout….“Youcouldalways,”
Arnoldbegins,thenclapshishandoverhismouth.
Rogergrinsathim.“Itshouldbedoable.”
Foranon-sailorlikeEileen,itisabithardtobelieve.Infactalltheblindvibrationandrockingsidetoside
haveher feeling abitdizzy, and HansandStephanand Franceslookpositivelyqueasy. Allfiveof them
regardRoger,wholooksattheAPSscreenandshiftsthetillerminutely,thenallofasuddendrawsitinto
hiskneesagain.OntheradarscreenFreyaandJean-Claudeappearastwoglowinggreencolumns.“Hey
youguys,”Rogersaysintotheradiohandset,“I’mclosingonyou,I’llcomeupfromdownwind,waveyour
armsandkeepaneyeout,I’lltrytocomeuponyourleftsideasslowasIcan.”
Hepullsthetillergentlybackandforth,watchingthescreensintently.Theycomesofarupintothewind
thatthesail-mastspreadsintoaverytautFrenchcurve,andtheyloseway.Rogerglancesaheadoftheboat,
but still nothing there, just the pure white void, and he squints unhappily and tugs the tiller another
centimeterclosertohim.Thesailisfeatheringnowandhaslostalmostallitscurve;itfeelstoEileenasif
theyarebarelymakingheadway,andwillsoonstallandbethrownbackward;andstillnosightofthem.
Thentheretheyarejustofftheportbow,twoangelsfloatingthroughwhitenesstowardthestillboat—orso
for one illusory moment it appears. They leap over the rail onto the foredeck, and Roger uses the last
momentumoftheiceboattowearawayagain,andinamatterofsecondstheyareflyingeastwiththewind
again,thehowlgreatlyreduced.
****
Bythatsunsettheyaremerelyinalightmist.Nextmorningitisgoneentirely,andtheworldhasreturned.
The iceboat lies moored in the long shadow of Olym-pus Mons, hulking over the horizon to the east. A
continentofamountain,stretch-ingasfarastheycanseetonorthandsouth;anotherworld,anotherlife.
TheysailintowardtheeasternshoreoftheAmazonianSea,famousbeforethecrashforitswildcoastline.
Nowitshootsupfromtheicewhiteandbare,likeawinterfairytale:GordiiWaterfall,whichfellavertical
kilometeroffthecoastalplateaudirectlyintothesea,isnowagreatpillaredicefall,withahugepileofice
shatteratitsfoot.
Past this landmark they skate into Lycus Sulci Bay, south of Acheron, where the land rises less
precipitously,gentlehillsabovelowseabluffs,lookingdownontheicebay.Inthebaytheyslowlytack
againstthemorningoffshorebreeze,untiltheycometorestagainstafloatingdock,nowsomewhataskew
inthepressofice,justoffabeach.Rogertiesoffonthis,andtheygearupforahikeontheland.
FreyaandJean-Claudecarrytheirbackpackswiththem.
Outoftheboatandontotheice.Scritch-scritchovertheicetoshore,everythingstrangelystill;thenacross
thefrostybeach,andupatrailthatleadstothetopofthebluff.Afterthatagentlertrailupthevasttiltof
thecoastalplateau.Herethetrailmakershavelaidflagstonesthatrunsometimesteninarowbeforethenext
lowstepup.Insteepersectionsitbecomesmorelikeastaircase,agreatendlessstaircase,eachflagfitted
perfectly under the next one. Even rime-crusted as it is, Eileen finds the lapidary work extraordinarily
beautiful.ThequartziteflagsareplacedastightlyasOrkneydrywall,andtheirsurfacesareamixofpale
yellowandred,silverandgold,allindifferingproportionsforeachflag,andalternatingbydominantcolor
astheyrise.Inshort,aworkofart.
Eileenfollowsthetraillookingdownattheseflagstones,upandup,upandup,upsomemore.Abovethem
therisingslopeis whiteto thedistanthighho-rizon,beyond whichblackOlympusbulkslikeamassive
worldofitsown.
Thesunemergesoverthevolcano.Lightblazesonthesnow.Astheyhikefartherupthequartzitetrailit
entersaforest.Orrather,theskeletonofaforest.EileenhurriestocatchupwithRoger,feelingoppressed,
evenfrightened.FreyaandJean-Claudeareupahead;theirothercompanionsfarbehind.
Roger leads her off the trail, through the trees. They are all dead. It was a forest of foxtail pine and
bristleconepine;buttreelinehasfallentosealevelatthislatitude,andallthesebigoldgnarledtreeshave
perished.Afterthatasandstorm,oraseriesofsandstorms,sandblastedawayallthetrees’needles,thesmall
branches,andthebarkitself,leavingbehindonlythebleachedtreetrunksandthebiggestlowerbranches,
twistinguplikebrokenarmsfromwrithingbodies.Windhaspolishedthespiralinggrainofthetrunksuntil
itgleamsinthemorninglight.Icepacksthecracksintotheheartwood.
Thetreesarewell-spaced,andtheystrollbetween’them,regardingsomemoreclosely,thenmovingon.
Scatteredhereandtherearelittlefrozenpondsandtarns.ItseemstoEileenlikeagreatsculpturegardenor
workshop,inwhichsomemightyRodinhasleftscatteredathousandtrailsatasingleidea, allbeautiful,
altogetherformingaparkofsurrealmajesty.Andyetawfultoo;shefeelsitasakindofstabbingpaininthe
chest;thisisacemetery.Deadtreesflayedbythesandywind;deadMars,theirhopesflensedbycoldRed
Mars,Marsthegodofwar,takingbackitslandwithafrigidborealblast.Thesunglaresofftheicyground,
smearylightglazingtheworld.Thebarewoodglowsorange.
“Beautiful,isn’tit?”Rogersays.
Eileen shakes her head, looking down. She is bitterly cold, and the wind whistles through the broken
branchesandthegrainofthewood.“It’sdead,Roger.”
“What’sthat?”
” ‘The darkness grew apace,’” she mutters, looking away from him. ” ‘A cold wind began to blow in
fresheninggustsfromtheeast.’“
“What’sthatyousay?”
“TheTimeMachine,”sheexplains.“Theendoftheworld.‘Itwouldbehardtoconveythestillnessofit.’“
“Ah,”Rogersays,andputshisarmaroundhershoulders.“StilltheEnglishmajor.”Hesmiles.“Allthese
yearspassandwe’restilljustwhatwealwayswere.You’reanEnglishmajorfromtheUniversityofMars.”
“Yes.”Agustseemstoblowthroughherchest,asifthewindhadsuddenlystruckherfromanunexpected
quarter.“Butit’sallovernow,don’tyousee?It’salldead”—shegestures—“everythingwetriedtodo!”A
desolateplateauoveranicesea,aforestofdeadtrees;alltheireffortsgonetowaste.
“Notso,”Rogersays,andpointsupthehill.FreyaandJean-Claudearewan-deringdownthroughthedead
forest,stoppingtoinspectcertaintrees,runningtheirhandsovertheicyspiralgrainofthewood,movingon
tothenextmagnif-icentcorpse.
Rogercallstothem,andtheyapproachtogether.RogersaysunderhisbreathtoEileen,“Nowlisten,Eileen,
listentowhattheysay.Justwatchthemandlisten.”
Theyoungstersjointhem,shakingtheirheadsandbabblingatthesightofthebroken-limbedforest.“It’sso
beautiful!”Freyasays.“Sopure!”
“Look,” Roger interrupts, “don’t you worry everything will all go away, just like this forest here? Mars
becomeunlivable?Don’tyoubelieveinthecrash?”
Startled,thetwostareathim.Freyashakesherheadlikeadogsheddingwater.Jean-Claudepointswest,to
thevastsheetoficeseaspreadbelowthem.“Itnevergoesbackward,”hesays,haltingforwords.“Yousee
allthatwateroutthere,andthesuninthesky.AndMars,themostbeautifulplanetintheworld.”
“Butthecrash,Jean-Claude.Thecrash.”
“Wedon’tcallitthat.Itisalongwinteronly.Thingsarelivingunderthesnow,waitingforthenextspring.”
“Therehasn’tbeenaspringinthirtyyears!You’veneverseenaspringinyourlife!”
“SpringisL-szero,yes?Everyyearspringcomes.”
“Colderandcolder.”
“Wewillwarmthingsupagain.”
“Butitcouldtakethousandsofyears!”Rogerexclaims,enjoyingtheactofprovocation.Hesoundslikeall
thepeopleinBurroughs,Eileenthinks,likeEileenherselfwhensheisfeelingthedespairofthecrash.
“Idon’tcare,”Freyasays.
“Butthatmeansyou’llneverseeanychangeatall.Evenwithreallylonglivesyou’llneverseeit.”
Jean-Claudeshrugs.“It’stheworkthatmatters,nottheendofwork.Whybesofocusedontheend?Allit
meansisyouareover.Bettertobeinthemiddleofthings,oratthebeginning,whenalltheworkremainsto
bedone,anditcouldturnoutanyway.”
“Itcouldfail,”Rogerinsists.“Itcouldgetcolder,theatmospherecouldfreezeout,everythingintheworld
coulddielikethesetreeshere.Nothingleftaliveatall.”
Freyaturnsherheadaway,putoffbythis.Jean-Claudeseesherandforthefirsttimeheseemsannoyed.
Theydon’tunderstandwhatRogerhasbeendoing,andnowtheyaretiredofit.Jean-Claudegesturesatthe
starklandscape:“Saywhatyoulike,”hesays.“Sayitwillallgocrash,sayeverythingalivenowwilldie,
saytheplanetwillstayfrozenforthousandsofyears—saythestarswillfallfromthesky!Buttherewill
belifeonMars.”
****
thesky-greenblues
TANITHLEE
Here’s perhaps one of the strangest stories you’re likely toread this year, one that takes you to aworld
wherenothingiswhatitseemsforastorythatgoesnoplacethatyou’dexpectittotakeyou…
TanithLeeisoneofthebest-knownandmostprolificofmodemfantasists,withmorethansixtybookstoher
credit, including (among many others) The Birthgrave, Drinking Sapphire Wine, Don’t Bite the Sun,
Night’sMaster,TheStormLord,SunginShadow,Volkhavaar,Anackire,Night’sSorceries,BlackUnicorn,
DaysofGrass,TheBloodofRoses,Vivia,ReigningCatsandDogs,WhentheLightsGoOut,Elephantasm,
and The Gods Are Thirsty, and the collections Tamastara, The Gorgon, Dreams of Dark and Light,
Nightshades,andTheForestsofNight.Hershortstory“TheGorgon”wonheraWorldFantasyAwardin
1983,hershortstory“ElleEstTrois(LaMori)”
won her another World Fan-tasy Award in 1984, and her brilliant collection of retold folk tales, Red as
Blood,wasalsoafinalistthatyear(intheBestCollectioncategory).Hermostrecentbookisanewnovel,
FacesUnderWater,andforthcom-ingarenewnovelsSt.Fire,MortalSuns,andTheImmortalMoon.Her
storieshaveappearedinourFirst,Second,Fourth,andSixteenthAnnualCollections. She liveswithher
husbandandtwocatsinthesouthofEngland.
****
T
here,thenights werealwaysgreen.Hehadfilledthegardenwith lampsofwaxedpaper, someon poles,
somehangingfromtheboughsoftrees.Insideeachonewasacandle.Themanservanttrimmed,replaced,
lit them, at sunset, going up and down the narrow paths, between the palms and the bamboos, the huge
rhododendrons and cunibaias. As light faded from the sky, instead the garden filled with it, as if it had
suckedthelightdown,thereasonfornight.Andinthedarkness,asthecricketsremorselesslyscratched,the
gardenpulsedgreenasjade.
Agreatmoth,withthewing-spanofasparrow,flutteredthroughthegarden,tryingtoimmolateitselfina
lamp,anylamp.
“Theapertureintheselampsistoosmallforthebigmothstopenetrate,”hesaidwithsatisfaction.
Helikedthat,cheatingamothofitssuicide.
Intheverandah,thesingleoillampmadehisfaceveryyellow.Hewasold,about70,orolder,carvedwith
wrinkles,alife’swork.HisnamewasLohnoTezmaine.
“You’recruel,”Iremarked.
“Why?BecauseIwon’tletthemothkillitself?Yes,Frances,that’sprobablytrue.”
Butitwasmorethanthat.Thecarvingofhisfaceshowedhiscruelty.Itwascruelty,his70ormoreyearsof
crueljeersandpatronizingsmilesandfrowns,thathadformeditspresentshape.
Ithought,briefly,whatwouldmineshow,ifIlivedsolong?Indolence,perhaps,indecision.
Buthesaid,suddenly,“Laitelsaystheenemyarealmosthere.Tomorrow,thenextday.”
Laitelwasthemanservant.Heheardthingswhenhewentshoppinginthemarketforrice,roots,meatand
fruit,andotherstaplesofLohno’shouse.
“Whatwillyoudo?”Iasked.
“Nothing.WhatcanIdo?”
“Getaway.Surelyyoucould.”
“Youmeanmymachine?ButwherewouldIgo?”
“Thecoast?”Isuggested.
Hedidnotreply.
Weweresilent.Thenhesaid,“Itakeityouhavenoplanstogo,yourself.”
“Idon’tknowyet.I’msupposedtostay,IpromisedIwould.Thatis,aslongasyoudo.Butwhenitcomes
tothepoint…Idon’tknow.”
“Asawoman,you’reinmoredanger.Attheworstthey’llonlykillme.Imean,eveniftheytortureme,I
haven’tmuchstamina.Soonover.Butyou’reyoung.”
“Forty,”Isaididly.“Forty-onenextmonth.”
“Youngenough,”hesaid.“Andwe’veheardthestoriesofwhattheydowithfemales.Alienfemales.”
“Yes.I’llrunawaythen.”
“Thenshouldyouleavetonight?”
Hisfacewasbeakyandthecruellinessharpened.Aswiththemoth,hedidn’tliketoletmehavemydeath.
“No.Thatisn’tnecessary.”
“Doyouwantthemachine?”heaskedabruptly.Wasthissinister,thisoffer?
“Iwouldn’tbeabletodriveit.”
“Laitelcouldshowyou.”
“I’mnotverygoodwithnewmechanicalthings.”
“Itwouldgetyoutothecoast.That’swheretheairliftwillbe.Ifthereisone.”
“I’drathernot.”ReluctantlyIadded,“Thankyou.”
Heraisedthecrystalbottleandpouredanotherpequaforhimself,andnextforme.
“Cheers,”saidLohno.
We drank, and somewhere at the garden’s end, where the cultivated wilderness dropped down in stony
levelstothethinsurfacewatersandtheglutinousmudtreesoftheswamp,agurriculagaveitslonghoarse
cry.
“Outhunting,”hesaid.“Whentheenemycomeinthingswillbeeasierforit.Theylosetheirskills,you
know,”headdedtome,“creatures,whentherearewars.Abuffet’slaidonforthemofthedead.Theyget
lazy.ButthenI’veheardtheenemyshootscavengers.”
When I was on the outer stair going up to the roof, I looked down, and glimpsed the gurricula, at the
garden’send.Itslongpalebody,halflamplitandfreckledbyshadows,wasnosinginLohno’srubbishtip.
Presentlyitpulledoutacuriousthingthatlookedlikeapaperboundbook.EitherLohnoorLaitelorsome
eccentric neighbour must have flung it there. With this in its jaws the gurricula loped away, its eyes
gleaming.Itappearedmindless;uglyandbeautifulatthesamemoment.Animalsoftenlooklikethattome.
And,Iconfess,otherraces.
Laitel,forexample,withhislongeyes,thepupilandirisindistinguishableandblack,theinner,bluishlid.
Hisfacewasaperfectoval,feminineinitshairlesssmoothness.Aswithmanyofhispeople,histonguewas
black,and rough as a cat’s.He was slightly shorter than I, slim and small-boned, his skin sowhitethat,
whenIputmyhanduponit,everytimeIfeltatransgressor.
Looking at Laitel, all Laitel’s race, I could see no soul in them. Or do I mean, no physical soul, the
personality.
Despite,orbecauseofthat,wehadbeenhavingsextogetheralmosteverynight.
Myapartmentwasontheroof,anoldsummer-houseofbamboo,withwaxedpapershuttersrolleduptolet
inthehumidandunmovingair.
Iwent in andpushedmythings about onthetable. Then I satonthe sofa and triedthe mobex. Nothing
camethroughbutstatic.Thefirm,excitedvoiceswhichhadaskedmeifIwouldstaytoseethefallofthe
city were blocked off from me by some noiseless electric storm high above, or some powerful ray
dischargedacrossthesea.Itwaspossiblemycommunicatinglinkwouldnotclearintimetoallowmeto
deliverareport.Iwouldhavetorecordit,then.Sometimetheywouldbeabletoaccessthisrecording,even
if,bythen,themobexwereakilometredownintheswamp,andIinsomecoffleofwomen,chainedatthe
ankle,anddrivensouthward,inservicetothesoldiersoftheenemy.
Below,theyellowoil-lightshiftedfromtheverandah.Apatchof darknessformed there,intensifyingthe
liquidjadesofthegarden.
When I came to the house, to interview Lohno Tezmaine, I had known there would be danger. But I’d
wanted to see the city. In the first three or four days, in the mornings before Lohno got out of bed, I’d
walkedabout,ortakenthehutshas,pulledbyponies,bymen,womenoreventeamsofsixchildren—eight
were needed for the heavier traveller. So I saw, and photexed, the old mansions of Flower Street, six
kilometres of them, like ice sculptures, and the lush gardens with their blazing winter flowers. Also the
templesinQueSquare,andthefoun-tain,withitscolumnsandserpents,thewaterplayingratherdryand
brownthatday,butpeoplestilldrinkingfromit.IhadphotexedtheDuvalLibrary,theEarth-lightHoteland
theMonumenttoSilence.Ididspendonemorninginthejush,photexingtheshacksandhuts,thetinroofs
jollywithrustfromsummerrains,thedyeworkswheretheswampispoison-iris-colour.Butyouseesuch
thingsevery-where.Thatwasonlyduty.
Lohnonevergotuptilllunch. Lunchwashisfirstmeal.Overscoresoflittledishes— shootsandbeans
friedinpeanutoil,saltmangoes,scrambledeggsandpigmeat,rice,bread,jam,coffee,Iplacedquestions
beforehim.Sometimesheansweredthem.
EverythingwasnothingtoLohno.Hehaddonesomuch.Hisonlygoalseemedtobethislatentintentone
— of preventing others from experiencing anything. On the first morning he had said, in answer to my
enquiryabouthisdaughter,whetherheshelteredhersoseverelybecausehefearedhisrivalswouldharm
her,thathewas“goodat”living,butshehadseemednottobe.Headdedthatmostofus,ofallracesand
types,seemedtohave“nonotionofhowtobealive.”Andsowewerebestprotectedfromthestate.
“Canyouclarifythatalittle?”Ihadasked.
“Takeyourself,”hesaidatonce.Hewaslikealotofinterviewees,Ithought,eagertoturnthetablesatonce
andhumiliatinglygetmystory. But itwasn’tthat.“Hereyouare,millionsof miles from home, outona
limb.Warall aroundus.Ahostileforce advancingtotake thiscity.Everything precarious.Whydid you
come?”
“Totalktoyou.”
“Butwhy?Don’ttellmethere’sstillanyinterestinme.Thereshouldn’tbe.Ihaven’tdoneanythingfor30
years.”
“Perhapsthat’swhy.”
Heignoredthat.“Youcameherebecauseyouwantedtoexperiencesomething.Anewthing.Andthatis
howmostofyouare.Eitheryouhidefromlifeoryouleapanddiveintolife.Butlifeisadeepriverwitha
cloudybottom.Theremaybecarnivorousbeasts,venomousfishandrocks,there,underthesurface.”
“Iconcedethat.”
“Doyou?ThisiswhatImean.Youareallofyouamateursatliving.”
Isaid,reasonablyIthought,“Then,speakingasalife-professional,howwouldyoudoit?Whatwouldyou
do?”
Hehadlaughed.“It’slikeanycreativeart.Itisn’ttobetaught.Eitherthegiftisthere,oritisn’t.”
Lohno’sdaughter,hewentontosay,hadanywayescapedhisprotection.Shehadrunoffwithagangster,
andlivedinameanapartmentsomewhere,bearinghimbabies.Shehad hadhertonguepierced,hesaid.
Andhiscruelty-constructfaceleered.
“That’ssignificant?”
“Thinkaboutit.”
“Ihave.Thesalienceeludesme.”
Hecondescendedtoask,“Forwhatisatongueused?”
“Totalk,toeat.Insex.”
“Andithasnobone,doesit.Butshe’sputsomethingrigidandhardrightthroughitssoftness.”
Ishookmyhead.“MrTezmaine—”
“Lohno,Itoldyou.”
“Lohno.Istilldon’t—”
Thenhelaughedagain.“Forgetit.”
WhenIhadbeenwithhim,thefirstdays,Ihadtheurgealways,afterwards,totakeashower.Thatpassed.
Itwasastrangereaction.Hewasperfectlyclean,physically,andIpreferredtoshowerfirstorlastthingin
theday.
Iwasintheshowerofthesummer-housenow,whenLaitelcameintotheroom.
Hemadenonoiseatall,andbythat,somehow,Iheardhim.Andthenheswitchedontheceilingfan,andI
heardthat.
WhenIcameoutinmyrobe,hewasturningdownthesheetonmycamp-bed.Hehadputadishoffruiton
thetable.Therewasalwayssomeexcusetocomeuphere,incaseIdidn’twelcomehim,Ithought,orhe
decidedagainstit.
Thefan made its insectile noise, ratherliketheblades of the VTOswhich would rescue everyone at the
coastalpick-up.OrsoIhadbeentold.
“Doyouhavewhatyouwantforthenight?”askedLaitel.
“Yes.Thanksforthefruit.Isthefanallright?”
“Thegenerator’srecharged.Leaveitonifyouwish.”
Apartfromthegreatmoths,oneofwhich,orthesameoneasbefore,wasagainsailinganxiouslyaboutthe
greengarden, few insects survivedinthe city. Fallout from communicationrays, supposedly harmless to
people,hadpolishedmostofthemoff,evenmostofthestripedants.
IwentovertoLaitel,leanedandkissedhimlightly.Wewalkedtothebed,discardedourgarmentsandlay
down.
Thissexwasalwayspleasant,easyandrhythmic,withoutdemandingexcitementoranyconclusion.
Neither of us experienced orgasm. We caressed and moved, comfortably slotted together, until we grew
bored, then separating, I with a mild sense of something achieved. Satisfied. If he was, I don’t know. I
thoughtIhadmadeitapparentIwoulddowhatheneededtoachieveorgasm,buthetooseemedindifferent.
Merelywevaluedthemutualmessageofourbodies.Isuspectedthat,forLaitel,theclimaxoftheactwas
ofuseonlywithhisownkind,andintheinterestsofprocreation.
I made tea for us on the battery hot-plate. It was nice to do something for him. All day and sometimes
duringthenight,hehadtowaitonLohno,andnowtooonme.
Wedrankthetea.
“Didhethrowabookoutfortherubbish?”Iasked.Iwasn’treallyinterested.ButLaitelsaid,“Yes.Oneof
hisown.Nowandthenhethrowsoneaway.”
“Isupposeitwon’tmatter.TherearecopiesofallhisbooksinOptimum,allavailableondisc.”
“No,itwon’tmatter.”
“Whydoeshedoit?”
Laitelsaid,expressionlessashealwayswas,“Heenjoysto.”
WhenLaitelleftme,Irecordedthisfactwiththeothers.
Ihad askedLaitel, duringourfirsttimealone, whathe thoughtofLohno Tezmaine.Laitel said,“I serve
him.”
Althoughthe chip one gets towearnow,intheflesh of the rightarm,enablesone to understand and be
understoodinanylanguage,sometimestherearelittlediscrepancies.
“Youmean,ashisservant.”
“Hisservant.”Laitel’svoicewasnotamask,however.Again,Idetectedsome-thing.Isaid,“Doeshe
—excuseme,buthashesleptwithyou?”
“Ohno.Idon’tmeanthat.”
Wegotnofurther.IthadbeenasenigmaticaswithTezmaine.
Tonight,beforeLaitelleftme,andIrecordedhiscommentonthebook,Ihadaskedthemorerelevantthing.
“Laitel,iftheenemybreakthrough,ifthecityfalls—“
“Theywill.Yes?”
“Whatwillyoudo?”
“WhatcanIdo?”Lohno’sanswer.Exactly.
“Comeon,Laitel.It’sgoingtobedangerous.They’llbemercilesstoyou—won’tthey,theenemy?”
“Ithinkso.”
“Doyouhaveafamilyhere?”
“No.”Headded,“Iwasborninthejush.Notwanted.”
“Thenyoushould”—nowIspokeTezmaine’slines—”getaway.”
“Ihavenopapers,Frances.”
“Icanprintyouupsomegoodfalseonesonthemobex.Enoughtopass.Getyoutothecoast.”Hisblack
eyes glanced at me. Beautiful, ugly, soulless. Or solely soul. “Lohno said you know how to drive the
machine.”
“Ihavedoneso,sometimes,forhim.”
“Thenwhydon’tyoutakeit,andgo?Heisn’tafraid.Idon’tthinkhe’dbotherifyouwent.You’dstanda
chance,wouldn’tyou?”
Beyond the city were the swamps, the secret rivers, mudtrees and boyuns, enor-mous tracts of jungle
packagedovertheruinsofhauntedtemples,wherewhitemonkeysandcoiesweretheshriekingghosts.
“Buttheairlift,”hesaidcoolly,“it’sforyourkind,Frances.Alienswhoarewantingtoescape.”
“It’sforwhoevertheycansqueezeinthetransports.Believeme,Laitel,I’veseenthiskindofthingbefore.
AndifIgiveyoupapers,you’llbefine.”
“You,”hesaid.
Itookhimtomean,whynotme.
“Mypeoplepromisedtopickmeup.TheysaidmeandLohno,actually,thatwaspartofthedeal.He’dgive
ustheinterviewandwe’dgethimout.Buthewon’tdiscussthat—gavetheinterviewanyway—pretendsI
neverofferedit.Hedoesn’tcare.OrhefanciestheexperienceoftheVaeVictis.”
“Willyourpeoplecome?”
I thought about it. “Maybe. They usually have in the past. But I should have checked tonight, and the
intercomisout.”
Thatwasallwesaid.
WhenLaitelleft,afterI’drecordedthethingaboutthebook,Ilayunderthesheetandwatchedtheceiling
fan.
ItoccurredtomeImightbestrandedhere.Iwasn’tafraid.Ididn’tbelieveanyrealharmcouldcometome.
Itnever had, and Ihadbeenin many situationsofperil.Somehow there wasalwaysan escape clause, a
strokeofluck.
Suddenly, out beyond the raised paper shutters, a violent white flare exploded in the sky. Then came a
woodenbang,whichreverberatedoddly,makingthelightfurnitureinthesummer-houserock.
Thishadhappened15timesbefore,onceforeverynightIhadbeenhere.Theywereonlysignalrockets,put
upatirregularhourstodisturbthesleepofthecity.Remindersfromtheenemythattheywerealmosthere.
Thecitywouldfalllikeanangel,itsstones,gardens,andtheaccretionsofallthealienswhohadpossessed
itandhungonittheirjewelleryofbuildingsandfountains,streetsandmalls.Inthefirelight,aftertheclose-
rangebombingbeganandended,thetruecitizenswouldsufferonlyonemoreinvasion.Ivisualizedlong
linesofpeopledrivenawaybeforetheconqueror,likechannelsofwaterrunningfromatap.
Itriedthemobexonelasttime,gotstatic,recordedmythoughtsinasortofembarrassment,theseneatly
quiltedphrasesfromthehandbookofanarticulateeyewitness.
****
Intheverylatemornings,sometimesalocalgirlcametothehouse,bringinggarlandsofwhiteflowersand
long-stemmedscentedyasti.ShewouldgostraightintoLohno’sbedroomonthegroundfloor,butcome
out again after only a few minutes. In the verandah she would stand counting coins, then arrange some
flowersaboutthelunchtable.
Thatdayshecame.Iwasleaningontheroof-rail,dryingmyhair.Iwatchedhergoin,andthen,afterless
than50seconds,comehurryingback.
Looking over, I saw her stop still, in the garden just below the verandah, as if undecided. The sunlight
shoneonhercolourlesshair.Thenshestaredstraightupatme.Theblueinnerlidswereshutfastoverher
eyes, a thing that happens to Laitel’s race only in extreme agitation or grief. Next second, clutching her
flowers,sheranawayalongthepathandvanishedintherhododendrons.
Ihesitated.ThenIwentdown.Laitelwasaway,Ithought,stillatthemarket.Theseexcursionshadbegunto
take much longer. As the enemy drew nearer and more near, less food came in from the surrounding
countryside,andfewerpeopleremainedtosellit.
Theverandahkeptitsmorningshadow,onlyintheafternoondidfullsunreachit.Thegirlhaddroppeda
singleyastithereonthefloor,asifleavingusagift.
Inside,thepassage,marble-tiled,swepttwicedailybyLaitel,gleamedingreensunlight.Ipassedthedouble
bamboodoorsofthediningroomandcametothecarvedpalmwooddoorthatmarkedLohno’sroom.
Hehadneverinvitedmeinhere.Ihadneverbeenintheroom,thoughI’dglimpsedit.Nowthedoorstood
ajar,somethingthatnormallyneverhappeneduntilhehadrisen,leavingthebedgapingforLaiteltotidy.
It was a white room, a dull sallow faded white. He’d never used blinds but curtains of thin white silk,
parchment colour now. Things were strewn about, as I’d seen before, glancing in as I passed, a leather-
boundbookonthefloor,othersoverastrawchair.AwaterbottlestoodbythebedandLohnoTezmaine
wasstretchedacrossthemattress.Therehadbeeninsect-netting,andhehadleftithangingthere,though
unclosed.Itlookedlikecobwebssomehow.Oraspider’sweb,inwhichhelay.
When I bent over him I saw what I expected. He was dead. Feeling for a pulse, although I did so, was
superfluous,andgoingtofetchthemobextocheckforlifesignswouldbefutile.Thesyringelayunderhis
righthand.
Hewassmiling.Theremightbealotofreasonsforthat,thefakeamusementofsettingrigour,orsomething
inthedrughehadusedwhichmadehimfeelgoodasitfinishedhim.Iwasinclinedtothink,though,thathe
waspleasedwithhimself.Alife-professionalwouldassumeheknewtheperfectmomenttodie.
Hisnotewasunderaglasswithsomedregsofpequainit.Hehadwritteninanobscurepicturescriptthat
onlythechipmademeabletoread—Laitel,verylikely,wouldn’thavemadeitout.
Noreasonforyoutohangaboutherenow,isthere?hehadwritten.Takethemachineandgo.Usetheold
road.Laitelknows.Solong,fornow.L.
WhenIturned,Laitelwasinthedoorway.Ifhefeltanything,I’dneverbesure.
“Ofcourse,he’sdead,”Iannounced.
Laitelcameandlooked.Hepointedtothesyringe.“Hekeptitready.Heshowedmeonce.Hesaid,Don’t
beastonished,onemorning.”
Welefthimthere,shutthedoor,andwalkedbackouttotheverandah.Ahorriblewhistlingnotehadbegun
overthecity.Theyweretestingthesirensas,duringthelasttwoorthreedays,theyhadsometimesdone,at
middayandlateintheafternoon.Birdsinthegardenscreamed,fellsilent,andabruptlyflewoffwithgreat
clappingsofwings.
“Isupposethat’sit,”Isaid.“Couldyoureadhisnote?”
“No.”
“Butyoucanguesswhatitsaid?”
Laitelspokeslowly.“I’mtotakethemoneyandpapersinhissafe.Thendrivethemachinealongtheold
roadthroughtheswamp,totheoldwall.”
“Isee.”
Thesirensshutoff.Thequietwasarelief.Somewhereafrogcroakedandthentherewasanothernoise.
Instinctivelywelookedup,beyondtheverandahtotheheat-drainedemeraldofthesky.Therewasnothing
tosee,butthedroningrushingsoundgrewinsis-tentlylouder.
“Thatwasn’tapractice,”Imanagedtosaybeforetheconcussionblastedout.Theflashwasonlyaflicker,
simultaneous.Theearthtrembled.
Somewherenottoonear,faintcries,atemplebellringing.
Wewaited.Nothingelsehappened,andthecriesgraduallydiminished,thebellstopped.
“Thatsoundedlikethecommercialarea.ItwasaSingrocket,”Isaid.“Populareverywhere.”SuddenlyI
laughed.TomysurpriseIseemedveryslightlyhysterical.“Icoulddowithabloodydrink.”
Laitelreachedoutasiftotakemyhand.Histouchwouldbecoolandcalming,foramoment.
“Everything’shappeningatonce,”Isaid.
ButIhadevaded,withdrawnmyownhand,andnowranalongtheverandah,upthestairtotheroof.
Themobexgavemeanimmediateclearconnection.
“Hi,Frances.What’sthenews?”
Itoldthem.
“Youdon’tsay? Then I guess you’dliketo leave …” Apatch of static came, not really interrupting the
hiatus.
Iwaited.
Theman’svoicesaid,“Tricky.Storms.Howlongbeforetheygettoyou?Ourreportsgiveaunit,tendays
even.”
“No,less.Itcouldevenbetoday.Arocketjustcamedown.TheyfireafewSings,don’tthey,togetusin
themood.Thentheymarchinorchutedown.Both.”
“Yes.Thecitygovernment’sfled.Guessyouknow.Thatwastwodaysago.”
“Iknow.”
“Nightpick-up.PrivateVTO,usualstuff.Nice.Listen,Frances,keepthelineopen.”
Overthesummer-house,sudden,withnowarning,rushedavastroaringpter-odactyl.InstinctivelyIthrew
myselfflat.The detonationcame nextmomentwithaflashlikelightning.Thehouse,everything,shook.
Thingscascadedfromthetable.Thechronicuntidinessofwar.
“Thatwasanother.Quiteclose.”
“Heardit,Frances.Keepthelineopen.Speaktoyousoon.”
Themobexwentsilent,saveforrecurringpatchesofstatic.
Nosirensnow.Theyhadn’tbothered.Icrouchedbythecamp-bed,whilethreemorerocketstoreover,and
threemorethundersopenedthecity.
Finallytimepassedwithnothing.Cricketshadstartedagain.Igotup.Theskywasbruised.Smokefromthe
bombardmentroseinthreeorfourthickcolumnsbeyondthepalmsandsultreesthatshieldedthefrontof
Lohno’shouse.Screamsandwailsstillroseirregularlyupinit,andlongglissandioftumblingglass.
ItookthemobexwithmewhenIwentdown,anddumpeditonastrawchairintheverandah.Laitelwas
puttingdishesonthetable,riceandspinach,sliversofmeatinsauce,thebigbottleofPinotGreveLohno
alwayshadatlunch,inacooler.
Afteramoment,Laitelsaid,“Theywillcome?”
“Idon’tknow.Yes.I’mnotsure.”
Isatdown,pickedupmynapkin,lookedatthefood.
Laitelpouredaglassofwineforme.
“Pleasesitdown,Laitel.”Helookedatme.“Ohsitdown.He’sdead.Thecity’sbeingbombed.Havesome
fuckinglunchwithme.”
Hesatandate,anddrankalittlewine.Itseemedfamiliar,asifIhadsomewhereseenaphotographofhim
eatingatthistable,andsowonderedifhehad,withLohno,quiteoften,beforeIarrived.
AlthoughIdranktwoorthreeglassesofthewine,itmadelittleimpressiononme.Laitelroseandwentinto
thehouse,andreturnedaftertenminuteswithcoffee.Heservedme,thensatagain.Hesaid,“Aboycameto
the front verandah just now. He had a dead aie bird. He said it was killed when a rocket hit one of the
gardens.” I looked at Laitel, not comprehending. “He said we could have it, for food. No payment
necessary.”
“So?”
“Hewasstaringallthetimeintothehouse,toseewhoishere.Weareonlytwoorthreepersons.Hewilltell
others,andthey’llcomeback.”
“Isee.Looters.”
“Takingwhattheycan,beforetheenemycome.Andtheywillknowaboutyou.”
Iglancedatthemobex,halfreachedoutforit,andletmyhandfall.
Over Lohno’s walls and trees, a new dim sound was beginning to well through the city. It was febrile,
almost festive. I’d heard such noises before. I pictured the crowds on Flower Street, windows that had
survivedtheSings,smashing.
“Willyoutakethemachine,Laitel?”
“Yes.I’veseenthepapersinthesafe.Theywilldo.”
“CanIcomewithyou?”
“Yes.”
Igotup.“Letmeputacoupleofthingstogether.”
“Don’tbeinagreathurry,”hesaid.“Theywon’tcomebackuntilit’scooler.Maybenottillsunset.I’llsee
tothemachine.”
Itdidn’toccur to me he would go without me. I don’t know why not. What was therebetween us? The
palestsexandacommunicationchip.
AsIstuffedmybagIthoughtoftheflowergirl.Iwassorryforher.IwonderedifLaitelwerewashingthe
lunchdishes,theglasses,carefullybyhandasheusuallydid,butwhenIcamebackdown,theywerestill
on the table, and a tiny contingent of ants had appeared, crawling over the plates, drowning in the last
centimetresofwine.
Ipickedupthemobex:staticissuedfromit.Ispokemyplansintotherecorder-relay,theplanofLohno’s
machineandthejourneytothecoast,thenturneditoff.Iknewtheywouldn’thavecome.
Overtheskyanarrowflyingcraftleisurelydrifted.Itmighthavebeenaspy-planeofthecity,butIthought
not.Enemyreconnaissance.Thesunwaspassingoverandtheshadowslengtheningoutfromthecunibaias,
wherelemasetswereplayingnow,thesilveryboughsdippingandswayingastheysprang.
Laitelappearedbelow.“We’llgonow,ifyou’reready.”
“Yes.”
Hehadnothingwithhim.Perhapshehadnothingofhisown,wantednothingthatwasn’thisown.Buthe
said, “The machine is primed. I’ve loaded it up with food, and gas. I’ve put Lohno’s gun into the
compartment.”
Wewalkedalongthenarrowgardenpaths,threadingbetweenthewaxed-papercandlelamps,whichtonight
nobodywould light,the mothssearchingin vainfor death.Deathinstead wouldbein Lohno’s bedroom,
withtinytricklesofantsforagingoverhim.Orthegurriculamightgetinatawindow.
Orthehouse,ransackedbytheneighbors,theboywiththeaiebird,mightbeburning,sogivingthemothsa
chanceafterall.
Outofitsport,themachinesquattedbelowthestonelevels,ontheedgeoftheoldroadwheretheswamp
began.Itwascamouflagegreen,skygreenandgreen-tawny,likethejungle-forest,themudtreesandboyuns
andpalms.Ithadalookofpower,armoured,muscularandbig-snoutedlikesomebeast.
Thisvehiclehadbeenregularlycaredfor,oiledandexercised,itsbatterieschargedandfed.Notwild,only
savage,then,anexpensivedrayanimal.
Iwentupthemetalladderandswungintothecab.Laiteltookthedriver’sseat.Heclosedthemachine’s
transparentarmouredlid.
Thehousewasinvisiblefromhere.Agreatquiet,aSundayquiet,haddescendedoverthecity,whichmight
onlyhavebeenresting,dozingafteranopulentfamilymeal.Starlingsflickeredacrossthesky,twolemasets
cackledinagiantrhododendron.
****
BeforeIcametothecity,sinceIhadn’treadanyofLohnoTezmaine’sbooks,Ihadtouseapreprogrammed
tutortospeakthemovertomeinsleep.Followingthesesessions,consciouslyIhadn’tatfirstremembered
anything,thoughmysleephadbeenpepperedwithdislocateddreams.Graduallytheinputsettled.Whenit
cametotheinterviewswithhim,Ihadenoughtoasktherightquestions.
Nev-ertheless I was fairly sure he suspected my method. Had he despised me? Probably not. He was
indifferent.
Aswewentdeeperintothejungle,onlythen,didIbegintoseeLohno’sbooks,asitwere,madeflesh.
Obviously,theoneshe’dwrittenafterhecametoliveinthecity.
OnmyarrivalIhadn’tseenmuch,onlyamap-likeimageunfoldingundermejustbeforetheswiftglide-
downtotheairstrip.Amodernsubwaycapsulehadrunmeintothecity—Europeansbuiltit,thissubway,
theGrandeMetrolux.They’dbeenproudofitonce,liketheirlibraryandthehandfulofmansionsinperiod
style,whichtheyplantedonFlowerStreet.Buteveryonehadleftmarkersthere,Rus,Statesiders,Afro-Celt,
Exastra.
Oncewarhadwashedover,destroyingandprocessingsmall,thejungleitselfwouldlayclaimtothecity,
andthenthecitywouldgobacktobeingliketherest,likethelandscapewehadnowentered.
Atfirsttheoldroadcoiledthroughtheswamp,andthencameashantytown,thetinroofsandhutslikethe
jush,butbetter,worse,brokenupbytreesandwaterandbubblingmarshesrailedwithclackingreeds.The
oldwallcarvedacrosseverything,ruined,andancientalmostasprehistory.Stronglemonlightofadying
afternoonslidonthestonesasthemachine,oblivious,bumpedthroughagap.Ourtreadsmadenothingof
thelittleshardsandlargesmoothedpebbles.Atur-quoisefisher-birdstoodsentinelbyapool,staringatus
asweleftthecitybehindandenteredthefunneloftheforest.
At first, impressive, the huge flags of apparently tarnished, heavy bronze, the leaves of plantain and
gigantic,full-grownboyun.Flagsindeed,bannerssweepingandscrapingonthemachine’sdome.
Toweringtreesropedwithlianasthatwouldeventuallystrangleandpullthemdown.Inflightsoffirework
brilliance,parakeetswentsprayingupbetween,tobelostinthehigherthinnercanopy,wherestill,forabout
halfanhour,glimpsesofskywerevisible,luminousyetflat-looking,liketrompeVoeil,apaintedceiling.
Thentheoverheadvistaclosed.
Themachineploughedonwithoutpause,breakingthroughtenderangelicacreepers,snappingtheboughsof
cunibaiaandblackfig.Hereandthere,theautomatics,meetingtoughergrowth,producedawhirlofblades
andslicedvege-tation.Greenbloodsprayedonthefrontscreenofthedome,andwasinstantlywipedaway.
Shade had deepened to the night-day of the jungle-forest. But hours had passed. Soon true night would
come.Darkness.
“Afterdarkwe’dbetterstop,Laitel,hadwe?”
“Yes,Ithinkso.Certainlytonight.”
Themachinelightswerevital.Theirheatifnottheirbeammightbedetectablebyanythingwatchingfrom
thesky.HowdedicatedtheenemyweretodetainingallpeoplesinthecityIdidn’tknow.Perhapsnotvery.
Withme,analien,theyhadnorealquarrel.ButIwasonmyown,andtravellingwithoneoftheenemy’s
enemies.
Itseemedsuchaneasyruletofollow,toturnoffthemachineoncenightcame,crawlthroughintotherear
compartment and sleep until sunrise. Not even any awkwardness. We had slept together, in both senses,
manytimesalready.
Claustrophobic,though,thejungle-forest.Andthen,everysooften,asortofagoraphobia—abreakinthe
forest with a view of cascading rock and leaning, half-falling trunks, bamboos like waterfalls of liquid
fabric, some defile far below, twice with a tribe of blond monkeys, their shouts of alarm clearly audible
abovethemachine’slowhumming,thesteadysoftpump-pumpofthegasmixture.
Ihadaskediftherewasenoughfueltoreachtocoast.Laiteltoldmehethoughtso.Besides,wemightbe
able also to charge the solar panel in some clearing, when we were farther from the city and possible
surveillance.
Once,kilometres,years,behindus,therecameafaintprolongedboom.Butitmightonlyhavebeensome
liana-slaintreecollapsingintheforest,deceivingus,naturalandquitenear.
Nightfell.No,itseeped,likewater.ExiledfromLohno’sgreennightgarden,heretheblacknesspouredand
filledourcup.
Weswitchedoffthemachineandwentthroughtotherearonhandsandknees.Afterusingthechemical
toilet,Ididstretchingandlooseningexercisesonmymat.Laitel,movingonhiskneesasifaccustomedto
nothingelse,putoutsomecoldfoodanduncorkedaneveningbottleofwine.
Later,we lay down. By some mutualreticence,after all not together. Wewouldhave little privatespace
duringthejourney.Onlylyingaloneonourmats,acoupleofmetresapart,couldweachieveany.
Wehadn’tspokenmuch.NowIsaid,“Thetravel-timecomputesasfourdays.Five,ifvegetationmakesfor
veryhardgoing.”
“Thisisthedryseason.Growthisless.Fourdays,perhaps.”
Isaid,ashehad,previously,“There’splentyoftime.They’llwait.”
Theywould,becausewewouldbeamongthefirstofthelastgroups.Fortherecords,rescuemustbeshown
tobeatleastpartlyeffective.Eveniftheydidn’twait,fromtheopenlandbytheoceanescapemustalways
beeasier.Evenmypeoplewouldcome,there.IhadaskedLaiteltoletmeseethepapersLohnohadleftfor
him—andnotmentionedinthepost-mortemnote,presumablyhavingpromisedearlier.Theyweregoodfor
anything,Ithought.I’dbeenstartledinawayLohnohadbothered.Thennotstartled.Hehadbeensovery
consciousofouramateurstatus.
Soon I heard Laitel sleeping, the slight rustling in respiration he made, asleep. I lay on my back, and
throughhisbreathandtheshellofthemachine,Iheardthecrickets,andnowandthenasharpscreamfrom
theforest.Ithoughtofgurriculacirclingthevehiclewithneoneyes.Thejunglewasalightwithsucheyes.
Eyeshungintreesandthebodiesofmosssloths,scrambledandleaptintheheadsofcoiesandmonkeys.
Thepinpointspanglesofrodenteyesscuttledoverafloorofrootsandbones.
Visualizingit,Isawthemina speeded-upmotion.AsinthoseoldphotographsoftrafficontheChamps
Elysees or torch-bearers running on Ho Lilly Way. Streaks, streamers crossing and re-crossing, radiant
threadsinalabyrinth.
****
Inthemorning,atfirstlight,wewenton.
Wetalked,evenexchangedconfidences,thatday.Itwasfromboredom,asortofmakeshiftantidotetothe
slightpanicIfeltkeeprisinginme,arestlessfearofenclosure,inactivityandennui.Forhim,thesame?
Perhapshetalkedonlytohumourorhelpme.Didheneedtotalkatall?
Neitherofus,Ithought,hadanythingveryoriginaltoreveal.Ourstorieswereinevitablyproductsofour
placesof birth, conditioning, natures. To harshness, tied by rules ofsocial etiquette and religion, and, of
course, deprivation, his nature responded, it appeared, with acceptance and calm, nearly uninterested. I
supposeformetoo,therulesandthedraggingup,thoughdifferentones—wantingthingsIcouldn’thave
—materialthings,butalsoglamour,power,success.Andmynaturewasveryunlikehis.Firstresentfuland
atlast“sceptical.”Astill-hot,callousednature,thoughevennowwanting,slyly,lifetowoomeback:See,
wedidn’tmeanit,hereisthereward,theprize.AndknowingtooIdidn’tdeservethebloodyprize.
So. Laitel shone translucently like a dim white pearl. Frances was more garish, costume jewellery, just
tingedwithjaundicedyellow.Onceinabarsomeonewhoclaimedtoseemyauratoldmeitwasshotwith
angerthecolouroffire.Ratherthanchastenme,I’dbeenproudofthat.Anger,whynot?
Afterwe’dtalked—memories,insignificantevents—afirstbicycle(his),thefirstdate(mine),ourwork
—which had produced both bicycle and first date — servants, both of us, too, in differing, humiliating
ways,althoughhewasnothumiliated,onlyIwas—webecamesilentagain.Butwehadgotridofanother
day.
Thenit was time to crawl into the rear of the machine. And something wasdisgustingaboutitnow,the
proximity,andthesmallnessofthespace.Oursmells—minechemicallywipedanddeodorizedfor
“freshness,”turningstale,hisodourless.Asmellofodourlessness.Disturbing.Hisracedon’tsweat.Orif
theydo,notasmyracedoes.Hisface,Laitel’sface,wasbecomingalmostgenderlesstome,exactlylikethe
faceoftheflowergirlwhohadrunawayfromLohno’sbody,andalltheotherindigenousfacesinhiscity.
Onlywhentheywereold,incisedbywrinkles,thewhiteteeth,whichhadnocanines,fallingorpulledout,
only then had there been any look of living in the faces of Laitel’s people. Not really even then. Ugly,
beautiful.Ithoughtoftheold,oldwomanIhadseendipherclaycupinthesoiledwaterofthefountainin
Que Square. Shrunk small as a European or African child, she might have been sculpted from almond
wood,anartefact,thoselinesandfissuresmadedeliberatelybyskill,forartisticadmira-tion,notrandomly
outofpainandage.
Somehowweedged—oronlyI did—our matsfurtherapart.Wehad drunkno wine.The ricehadbeen
sticky,anddespitethestorageunit,hard.Apacketofluxurybiscuitsasicklyclicheoutofplace.
His whisper-breathing, when he slept, irritated me. I wanted to wake him up, shut him up. I heard
unintelligiblewordsinthe whispers,thensounds intheairbetweenthem.Buttherewerenorealsounds
thatnight.Cricketssometimes.Avagueconstantrumblewehadheardfromthemomentthemachinewas
switchedoff,agreatwaterfall,hesaid.
Laterthoughsomethingjumpedontothedome,monkeysorlemasets.Thumpsandskitters,thesqueakof
clawsonimpervioustransparency.
Theequationonthemobexhadinformedmetherewasonlyonemoredayneededtoreachthecoast,and
Laitelhadseemedtothinkthenoiseofthefall—theWater-Mama,hecalledit—confirmedthis.Butthat
wouldmeanthemobex’sfirstcomputationwaswrong.Sowhynotthisone?
****
WhenIwokeagain,itwaslateinthemorning;instinctivelyIknew.AndonceIhadcrawledforward,Isaw.
Oneofthosebreakshadcome,thistimeavastclear-ing.Themachinewasstoppedonitsedge,screenedoff
onlybyclumpsofbamboo,aflimsycurtainofvines.Ihadn’tnoticed,somehow,thepreviousevening,in
thefailingdusk.
Here,theperimeteroftheclearingwasrichlygreen,butrunningtotobacco-brownfartheroff.Thejungle
onlycameinagain,Ithought,overakilometreaway.Somelittledeerwerefeedinginthemiddledistance,
andtherewasarippleofheathaze.Theskywasverybright,cat’s-eyecolour.Almostmiddaythen.Icould
nolongerhearthefall.
Neither of us had left the machine before now. There was no need to. Every psychological need to. But
withoutdiscussion,bothofushadseemedtodecidetogooutsidewasfoolish.Thejungle-forest,inLaitel’s
languagethelunga-rook,istreacherous.Quicksands,poisonedplantsandsnakes,gurricula,boar
…anend-lesslistofdon’ts.
Butnow,Laitelhadgoneout.Hemusthavedone,becausethemachine,in-cludingthetoiletandthestorage
space,wasempty.Iopenedthefrontcompart-ment.Itwasfilledbybatteriesandtoolsfortheupkeepofthe
machine.LohnoTezmaine’sgunlayslimlyalongside.
Isatinthefrontseat,turningslowly,lookingthroughthedomeintotheclear-ing,andtheforestbehindus,
whatIcouldmakeoutoverthemachine’sstream-linedback.
Laitelhadleftthevehicle,andwasnottobeseen.Hadvanished.
AstoryIhadn’tbotheredtotellhim:whenIwasachild,inmyowncity,unthinkablewastesoftimefrom
here,I’dbeenleftwithsomerelativeforanafternoon.Iwasaboutfive.Asitturnedout,therelative,an
aunt,eitherrealortitular,hadn’tbeenreliable.Ratherlikewickedfemalekininfairytales,shehadtaken
metothepark,goneofftobuysomething,cigarettesIseemtorecall,andnotrememberedtocomeback.
Unnecessary to itemize the stages of my bewil-dered and tearful panic, the gibbering little near-foetus I
eventuallybecame,underthoseprunedcedarsofHurlingham.Nearclosingtime,aparkwardenfoundme.
Hetookmewithsometrouble—I’dbeentoldnevertogowithstrangers—totheparkadmin.HereIwas
rescuedpresentlybyaparent.
Itshookme,sittinginthemachine,sittingtherewiththeblisteringnear-noonsunlightcomingthroughthe
dome,shook me. Laitel gone, and I was that childagain.Thepark, the jungle, the lunga-rook. Don’tgo
withstrangers.
ForGod’ssake,Icouldn’tdrivethisthing.Ididn’tevenknow,andcouldn’tworkout,whichbuttonwould
polarizethedomeandstoptheglare.
Butcomeon,I’dbeeninworsesituations.Hadn’tI?Seldomquitealonethough.Myownkindhadbeen
withme.Oranothersortofstranger,thesortonebelieves,forthatshortperiod,isanally,acompanion.
OrI’dknownmyway.HadavehicleIwasfamiliarwith,aterrainIwasaccustomedtoorhadlearnedfrom
atutor.Orno,no,surelytherehadbeentimeslikethis.ThatcellarinShovsk,thatfarmatPenn
—hadIbeenanotherpersonthen?Yes,becausenowIwasthechild.
Ipushedmypanicdown.
Hehadn’tgonefar.Whywouldhe?Perhapstoverifythefallwasthere.Icouldjusthearitsrumbleafterall.
Somehowtheintrusionofothersenses—sight,dis-tress— hadblockeditout.WhatreasoncouldLaitel
havetoleavethesafetyofthemachineinanypermanentway?Itwashistickettosafety,asitwasmine.
Thenagain,perhapshe hadmeantto begone onlyafew minutesandsome-thinghadhappened. Oneof
thosedon’ts,thereasonsforneverstrayingoutside.
I picked up the mobex. Static was worse, as it had immediately become once we entered the jungle. I
recordedLaitel’sdisappearance.Myvoicesoundedsteady,unconcerned.
Then I crawled back into the rear compartment. I’d eat something. Prepare myself… About ten minutes
later,asIwasnibblingabreadcake,Iheardanoiseontheladder,thenatthecabdoor.Ananimal?The
dooropened,asitonlywouldtoaregisteredhandprint.
Iwas goingtoyell out.Reliefwas floodingthrough me likeboiling thenicywater.Ipaused, andcalled
quietly,“Hi.Wherewereyou?”
Nooneanswered.
ThenIwasfrightened.Notthechild,otherhorrors.Wasitpossible—somebattalionoftheenemy—Laitel
taken,leadingthemhere…Iscrambledforward,wishingI’dthoughttokeepthegunwithme.
Sunlightstillblaredthroughthecab.Thedriver’sdoorwaspulledwide,andbelow,amongthecreamand
greenofthebamboo,Laitelwaswaiting,lookingupatme.Alone.
“WhatinChrist’snameareyouplayingat?Whatdoyoumeanbyit?Whythehelldidn’tyouwakeme
—tellmeyouweregoingtogoout?Whydon’tyouspeakforChrist’ssake?”
“Comeandseethefall,Frances,theWater-Mama.”
“Fuckthefall,what—”
“Itisn’tfar,Frances.Come.Comewithme.”
Irradiatedinmymind,fourwords:Nowheiscrazy.
Was he? He seemed thesame.EnigmaticLaitel, gentle Laitel,theblink of his black tonguebetweenthe
pale slender lips, the herbivorous teeth of a race that, however, ate meat. The blue inner lids were well
raised,onlyanink-drawnrimabouttheeye’swhite,theinnerblack.I’dbetterbereasonable?
“Laitel,comebackup.Ishouldn’thaveshouted—Idon’tknowhowittrans-lated.Sorryifitsoundedlike
Iwasinsultinganyofyourgods—Iwasn’t.Onlymine.Let’stalk.Iwashavingsomebreakfast.”
“Don’tbeafraid,Frances.Overthere,throughthetrees,youcanseeit.”
Myhandhadtouchedopenthefrontcompartment.Itslippedquicklyaroundmetal.Icouldn’tdriveLohno’s
machine, but I could use his gun. Weapons, somehow, were always easier to learn. I raised it, as if
examiningthebarrel.
“Laitel,Ithinkyoushouldcomeandhavesomecoffee.Didyoueat?”
ThenLaitellaughed.I’dneverseenhimlaugh,noteveninsex,orfromnerv-ousness—butthen,whenhad
hebeennervous?Thelaughwasmusical.Likemusic.Heturnedandwalkedaway,backthroughtheloose
netofcreepers,whichhedidn’tbreak,ontotheverdantperipheryoftheclearing.
“Laitel!Laitel!”
His profile over his shoulder, half looking back. He shrugged, and walked on, away from me. The way
someonedoeswithsomeoneelsewhoisbeingstupidlyobstructiveorrecalcitrant.Someone notbad,but
impeding,forthosemoments.Someonewhoyou’llprobablyforgive,later.
“OhGod.”
Only,otherwise,thedeerintheclearing,grazing.
Ikeptholdofthegun.ThedoorhadestablishedmyhandprintasithadLaitel’s,soIcloseditwhenIgotout
ontheladder.Ijumpeddown.
Thegroundwashot.Icouldfeelitthroughmyboots,andthehumiditywasintense,farworsethaninthe
cityorthegarden.Water-dropsformedatonceonmyhairandlashes,trickleddownmyface—perhapstoo
itwasthenearnessofthewaterfall,which,outhere,seemedsuddenlytoroar.
Hewasn’tmovingfast.Isooncaughtuptohim.
“Whatisthis,Laitel?”Hedidn’tspeaknow,orlookatme,buthewasslightlysmiling.“Whyisthefall
—theWater-Mamasoimportant?”Noanswer.
Whenwegotfreeofthestandsofvegetation,thenoonsunwasoverpowering.Thehazerippled,rippled,so
thesingedgrasswaslikealake,andthefeedingdeerseemedtobefloatingorswimminginit.
Butwegotcloserandclosertothedeer.Theydidn’tstir.Hadn’ttheyseenus?Scentedus?Especiallythe
scentofanalien—
“Laitel,whyaren’tthedeer—“
“It’sallright,”hesaid.
Andthen,wewerewalkingright byadeer,amother,feedingwith herfawnbesideher. Thebabydidn’t
lookup;sheflickedusoneglance,herears,fullofthejuiceofyouth,fleshy,likeleaves,twitchingonce.
Thensheloweredherheadagain.
We walked between all the deer. Some, this one, this, were less than half a metre from us. And now,
compelled,Iput outmy hand,softly, disbelieving,ranitoverthe harshvelvetofdeerhaunches,andthe
head turned slowly. I glimpsed the long, purple eye —careless, returning to the grass. They smelled of
grass,ofherbsandfreshdung.Notforasecondoffear.
Wewereinthemiddleofthegreatclearing.Above,thesky,singingoutitsdaffodilgreenheat.Therumble-
rushofwater.Somesortoftensionintheair,beyondtemperature,orhaze.
“Laitel…whatisit?—what?”
Hishandcameoutandtookmyhand,mylefthand,whichhadstrokedoverthehideofthedeer.Ihadn’tlet
thathappenatthehouse.I’dlethimkissme,lickmyskin,penetrateme,butnotholdmyhandinhis.
Hewascoolasmelon,hispalmnotdry,notmoist,thelongfingerswrappingmine.Andinmyotherhand,
thehardgun.
Wherethetreesandshrubsbegantocloseinagain,heturnedleft,drawingmewithhim.Andthenwewent
downanavenue,akindofpath,likethepathsinLohno’sgarden.Itmighthavebeensomelaneorby-way
ofthecity,agrassywalkoffFlowerStreet.Aswemovedalongit,agurriculapacedoutofthetreesonone
side,crossedthetrackbeforeus,andwentinamongthetreestheotherside.Itwaslikeashadow,almostI
seemedtoseethroughit,butitwasreal.Thesizeofalargedog,full-grown.Itcouldhavekilledbothofus
withease,oralsoIcouldhaveshotit,Isuppose.Ithadn’tsparedusalook.Andwe—neitherofus—had
sloweddownorhesitated.
Theavenueendedandthetreesopenedout,givingwaytoslendershiroyaswiththeirdaintypaper-chainsof
foliage,andbeyondthelandhollowed,dropped,andthere,hunginvastnessanddistance,andbelow,acliff
ofmalachitewreathedinsteamandhaloedbyspray,andthegreatfallofWater-Mama,awoman’scrumble-
whitehaircombeddownanddowntoashiningriverlikeanoliveserpenthalftheworldbeneath.
Itwasbeautiful.Andthenoiseofit,andthetasteofitsspume,mineralasirononthemouth.
Westood,looking.Whatelse.Itseemed,asI’dmeanttobewhentryingtocallhimback,reasonable.
Thismattered.Orrather,nothingelsedid,much.
Tooneside,Laitel’sside,therockshelvedup,withtheshiroyasclinging,trailingtheirstreamers.Oneof
theoldderelicttempleswasthere,withthebeehivetopsI’dseeninphotexprintsofCalorEye,orAngk.
Stonegallerieswoveinandoutoftherock,troopedbystatues,theirfacesmostlysmoothedawaybytime
andwet.
AsIstared,birdsflewupandswirledacrossallthefaces,thestatues’,thetemple’s.
Ourhandshadletgo.AtthesameinstantImusthavedroppedthegun.Itlayinthefernattheground’s
edge.
Laitelkneltdown,hiskneesandcalvesfoldedunderhim.Igazedathishair,thatcolourwhichisnocolour
Icanname,thehairofhisrace,whichneverchangeseveninextremeoldage,onehundred,onehundred
andfiftyofouryears.
Ifeltverytired.Iwantedtosit,too.SoIsat,besidehim.Icrossedmylegsandleanedmyelbowonmy
thigh,mychinonmyhand,curvedforward,gazingovertothenarrowriverlikeasnake.
WhenitbegantogetdarkIdon’tknow.Sunset,presumably.Imusthaveslept,butIhadn’tmoved.
Firebugs burned softly in the bushes, darting about like all those gleaming eyes I’d imagined, but now
unencumberedbyheadsorbodies.Ihadanurgetocoaxthemtomyfingers.Wouldtheycome?
Starswerestrewnoverthesky,hardeningasthelightdisbanded.Buttheskyisalwayslessdarkthanthe
world.Thestarrynightofspace.So,couldIcoaxdownthestars?
“Laitel,weshouldgobacktothemachine.”
ButwhenIlookedathim,onceagain,hewasnolongerwithme.
****
Lohnohad describedthis spot,oranother likeit, inseveralbooks. Theimagewas recurrent—theWater-
MamaFall,thetemple.Therefore,Imusthaveseenitinpost-tutordreams.Itwassubtlyfamiliar.
However,I’donlyrealizedthiswhenIwokethere,andagainfoundLaitelhadgone.
Ipickedmywaybyquiteaneasypath,notevenveryslipperyfromthespray,upamongthetrees,tothe
temple’sfirstterrace.Throughsquat-belliedpillars,insideacave-likehall,aneerielampwasglowing.
AndIknew,asI’dknownsuddenlyaboutthepath,thatthiswasn’tasbizarreasitseemed.Agreatglobeof
translucentvitreoushadbeenset,centuriesago—asinthesemostancientjungletemplesnowandthenit
was—overasmallfissure,underwhichflickeredorflaredapocketofgaseousphosphorescencefromsome
underlyingswamp.Marshfire.Anintermittentyetultimatelyconstantlight,whichneedednotending.
Yet, it looked like a huge dull opal, the lamp, shimmering, magic and super-natural. I make this point
becauseitwasn’t.Ithadaprosaicifinspiredexplanation.
WhenIwentintothecave-hallIcouldsmellbats,andsureenough,beyondthelamp,theyhungthicklyin
grape-or-orchidbunchesfromthecarvings.Ofthecarvingsthemselves,Icouldn’tseemuch.Icouldn’ttake
themin.Aplethoraofdetailsandalsoalottime-rubbedaway.Stonehandsandlimbs,stonesmiles.
Eyeslostinshadow.
Beyondthehallashallowflightledupwards,andheretwooftheroofshadfallenin,andstarlightshone.
Atribeofstarlightwhitemonkeyssatallupthestair,oneortwocreaturesoneachstep.Theylookedatme,
butscarcelymoved.Onemothergroomedherbaby.Anotherfemalereachedoutandgentlypluckedatthe
hem of my loose shirt, like a beggar requesting arms. But when I turned, she softly drew her monkey
fingersbackandsuckedthemthoughtfully.
Atthe topofthe stair wasasort of cloister,agallery, with moreblurredstatues, whichpassedaround a
courtbelow.Butonesideofthecourthaddroppedaway,andthereonesawagaintheperfectviewofthe
fall.
I hesitated halfway along the gallery, because a night bird was singing. It was the nightingale heard
everywhereinEurope,Asia.Here?Perhapsthesongwasdifferentincertainways.Somenotesstressedor
distorted,bell-like,strident.Butthatbubblingtrill,justthesame.
Anotherofthephosphorouslampsburneddowninthecourt.Somefluctuationofthegasmadethislamp
flutter,andthetemplestonesshifted,seemedtoshift.AndLaitelwasthere,walkingtowardsme.Heworea
whitetunicandwhitepants,justashehadmyfirstdaysatthehouseinthecity.Buthehadn’twornsuch
clothesinthemachine.
“Comethisway,Frances.”
What was the point in saying anything? I followed him on along the gallery, and partway around the
cloister,andthenintoaroofless,narrowcorridor.Therewere,inthestarlight,manydoorsofcarvedsul-
wood,burnishedlikedirtyamber.Laitelopenedone,andIsawintoasmallbareroomlitbyanoillampon
atablethatwasotherwisecoveredbybooksandpapers.AtthetablesatLohnoTezmaine.Iknewatonce
hisochreparrotface,ofcruelaged-in-the-woodmalevolence.
Iwasn’tdreaming.Asinfallibly,sometimes,youknowyourselftobeclearlyawakeindreams,somehow,
whenawake,yourveryunsurenessprovesthisisthewokenstate.
“Howareyouhere?”Iasked.Iwascasual.
“Whereelse?Besides,whereisHere?”
“Aren’tyoudead?”Icasuallyasked.
“Inoneform,”hesaid.
Ihadtheideathatofcoursehewasn’tdead.ThatLaitelhadstoredLohno,perhapssedated,insomeextra
hiddencompartmentofthemachine,atthesametimethathestoredthefood,fuelandwine.Why?
“Ourinterviewwasfairlynaff,”hesaid,old-fashionedstill,“wasn’tit?”
“Yes.”
“Youweren’treallyinterestedinme.”
“No?”
“Youonlyinclinedtoseethecityandbeinvolvedinthehorrorsofdownfall.Atleastsomewhat.Comeand
lookatthis.”
Ididn’twanttoapproachhim,butthatwasfoolish,becausehewasjustanunpleasantoldmansittingonan
uprightdeck-chair,inthecellofaruin.SoIwentcloserandhepointedoutthepapersinfrontofhim.
“Whataboutit?”Isaid.
“Readit.Oh,Iknowyouneverreadmybooks.Butthisismylatestwork.”
“Continuedafteryourdeath,too?Thatshouldbeveryinteresting,agreatpo-tentialcommercialsuccess.”
“Thefirstbook,certainly,I’vewrittenforover30years.”
Thefulllightoftheoillampwasonthemanuscript.Ileantforward,andreadtheparagraphwrittenthere.
Itsaid:
“She didn’t want to approach him, but that was foolish. He was simply an unpleasing specimen of
masculineoldage,uprightonaninappropriatecanvaschair,thekindoncesetuponthedecksoflinersfor
theelderlyandsick,sotheymightenjoysome oceanair.ButFranceswasthatintransigentandirritating
thing,asurvivor.Soshewentstraightuptohimand,whenheaskedherto,readthepaperonthetable.”
Isaid,“You’rewritingaboutme.That’sactionable,MrTezmaine.You’veevenusedmygivenname.”
“Lohno.”
“MrTezmaine,Ifinditimpossibletobelievethatallthisisanelaboratehoax,arrangedsimplytomakea
foolofmeandthepeopleIworkfor—”
“Lohno.Youdon’tunderstand.Youprobablywillnot,willneverunderstand.”
Hedrewanotherpaperoutfromtheuntidystacksonthetable.Heheldituptome.WhenIdidn’tlookor
takeit,heread,”‘Shehadalwayswantedtoseethecity;thathadbeen,really,heronlyreasonforagreeing
tointerviewtheoldman.Inthefirstdays,inthemorningsbeforehegotup,shewouldwalkabout,ortakea
hutsha.Being offairlylightbuild,a teamofonly sixchildrenwas neededtopull heralong.She always
tipped them well, but not so extravagantly that they clamoured or brought others to clamour. She had
learnedlongago,inthecitiesofAsia,tobecarefulofsuchthings.’”
He let the paper fall and pulled out another. He read, flatly, ” ‘Sex with Laitel was always strangely
satisfactory. There was never any frantic struggle towards or-gasm. It was a politeness between them, a
socialmassage.ButFrancessuspectedLaitelreservedclimax,andtheexpulsionofseed,forwomenofhis
ownrace,intheinterestsofprocreation.’“
“Allright,”Isaid.“AmIsupposedtobeaffronted?Disgusted?Upset?What?Youtellme.”
“Yes,Iwouldhaveto,wouldn’tI?”
“BecauseI’manamateuratlife?”
Laitelwasintheroom.Hewaspouringpequaintotwoglasses,andthenhebroughtthemtous,handing
LohnoTezmainehisdrinkfirst.
Itook myglassthen putit down. Iput my handon the papersand pulledout,at random,anothersheet,
lifteditandread,fromthefilled,scribbledpage,”‘Asachild,shehadbeenleftwithanunreliableaunt,
real or titular, who, going to buy cigarettes, forgot Frances in a park. Under those pruned cedars of
Hurlingham,Francesexperiencedthefirstofhermassivedisillusionments.Butlifewouldneverencourage
her to learn its true ways, instead slapping her down at every oppor-tunity. And yet, still, she unwisely
wishedthatlifewouldchangeitsmindandwooherback.Therewasstilltime,shewasonly40,41,forlife
togiveherfameandglory,thecrownoflaurel,theundyingname.’“
“Howdoyouknow?”Isaid.Ifeltblankandstern,almostrighteous,notatallunnerved.AsifIwasplaying
apart.
“HowdoyouthinkIknow?ThesamewaythatIknowthatLaitelwasborninthejush,anunwantedchild
thoughaboy.AndhowIknowthat,atsevenyearsold,hesawawhitetiger,inacage,andthoughtitwasa
demon,andthathestilldreamsofthistiger;whichspeciesisn’t,ofcourse,normallyfoundhere.”
“YouknowthatthenbecauseLaitelmusthavetoldyou.ButI—“
“Laiteltoldme.Youhavetoldme.”
“No.”
“It’sself-evident.HowelsecanIknow,Frances.Andyourmother’smiddlename,say.Orthestoryabout
thethreelittlemicethatmadeyouafraidwhenyouwerenine.Orhowmanymenyou’vesleptwith.”
“Idon’tknowthatmyself,”Isaidarchly.
“Youdo.Ifyouthinkaboutit,youdo.OtherwiseIcouldn’tknow.”
“Telepathy,you’resayingthen.”
“Inaway,Isuppose.Asortoftelepathy.”
Laitelspokequietly.“Hedoesknow,Frances.”
“He’sdead.Itriedhispulse.He’sdeadsohowcanheknowanything?”
“Youneverreadmybooks,”saidLohnoagain,andagainwithouttheusualauthorialarroganceorcontempt.
“Youhadthemreadtoyouinsteadbyamech-anism.You’veforgotten,ordidn’tnotice,thatsometimesI
includemyselfinmybooks,asacharacter. Iwritefirst-person,andamaddressedbyvariousotherchar-
acters as Tezmaine, or Lohno. Preferably the latter. I am, after all, so familiar with my characters. Any
writeris.Indecentlyso,thoughinevitably.TheleastIcando,Frances,isgenerallytoinsisttheycallmein
thefamiliarway,bymyfirstname.”
Istaredathim.ThenIglancedatLaitel.Laiteltookno,notice.Hemust,Ithought,haveheardthisspeech,
orasimilarspeech,before.Howhadheresponded?Hehadn’t.Ofcoursehehadn’t.Theconceptofanall-
seeing,motivat-ing,pitilessGodwasbadenough.Butthiseffrontery—therecouldbenoreply.
Ipickedupanddrankthepequa,thenheldoutmyglass,andLaitelcamebackandfilleditup.
Lohno Tezmaine sat smiling, smiling, like the smiles left, Cheshire-cat-like, behind on the stone temple
facesbelow.
No reply fitting. So what to say? All my adult life, and perhaps earlier, searching doggedly for the
punchline, the summing-up, quick, quirky and clean. Award-winning phrases that had never earned a
mention.Tooglib,ortoogood.What-ever.Whateverisitwithme?Forevershutout,orleftbehind.Too
lateorearly.Ormerelyredundant.
“SoI’myourinvention,MrTezmaine—oh,excuseme,Lohno.AndLaitel,too?”
“Allofit,Frances,actually.Here,there.City,jungle,home.Everything.”
“Thenyou’reGod.”
“Naturallynot.Or,thatistosay,onlyonpaper.”
Idrankdownthepequa.Ittastedfoul.
“Proveit,”Isaid.“Goon.”
“Thatwouldbetooeasy,Frances.”
“Ahyes.Obviously.Ohthen,youmustn’t,mustyou.”
He turned and squinted up at me. He had had, or still had, excellent eyesight, assisted by all the right
contemporary medication. But now his eyes, though glit-tering and malign as knife-points, were slightly
unfocused.Heswungbackoverthetable,tookupapen,andwroteswiftly.Hehandedmethepaper.
Iread,”‘Franceslookedback,andsaw,thereinthedoorwayofthecell,Laitel’swhitetiger.’”
Myhairstoodonend.Thathadn’thappenedinalongwhile.Idroppedthepaperonthetable.
“Turnround,”hesaidtome,LohnoTezmaine.
“There’snothingthere,”Isaid.IlookedatLaitel.“Thereisn’t,Laitel.Orifthereis,it’ssomeillusion
—hypnotism,somedrug—mhashintheoillamp,maybe.We’resuggestible.Everyoneis,giventheproper
scenario.”
Laitelnodded.Hesmiled.
SoIturned.Nothingwasthere.Thedoorwaywasempty.Then—
Somethingpale,thatflicked,once,twice,tail-like,lashing,wherethelamplighthitthestoneofthecorridor.
Atrickoftheeyes.
“Ididn’tseeit.”
“That’strue.”Tezmaineleantforwardandcrossedoutthelastlinehehadwritten.“Sometimestheauthor
makesamistake.Hepushesasubjecttodosome-thingthatdoesn’tfit,athingeithernotincharacter,ortoo
intransigently in char-acter. Characters seldom act in character. This is the measure of a human thing,
whetherrealorinvented.Atruewriterwillgenerallyrealizehisballs-upintime.Notalways.Oneshouldn’t
evercontrive.Theflowofthenarrative,thebeingofthecharactersthemselves,theymustbeallowedtolive
theirlives,andfromthattheplotsprings,allitseventsandscenes.Alsothelandscapes,figurativeandmen-
tal,inacorrectbook.Yousee,thewriterneeddonothing,orverylittle,merelyobserveandlisten,andthen
factuallyreport.”
“Ajournalist?Butthat’smyjob,MrTezmaine.”
“Lohno.Yes,you’reright.”
He raised the amended paper and read out to me, ” ‘But when Frances turned toface the animal in the
doorway,shewasonlyintimetoglimpsethelastin-conclusiveflick,flickofitsslowlylashingtail.’”He
laidthepaperdown.“Morepequa,Laitel,please.Havesomeyourself.It’sliberatingtobeoutofthebook
now.Iwasgettingweary,soIkilledmyselfoff,andmovedintothethirdperson,onlywritingaboutyou,
Frances,andaboutLaitel.Therestofyourtwolives,whichIshallcontrastandcompare,piquantly,Ihope,
aswegoalong.No,Ican’tpredictyourlives—orverylittle.You’lllivethem,andthenIshallfindout.The
time-scalesaredifferent,evidently,butyouwon’tbeawareofit.”
“Butwe’reamateurs,”Isaid.Myvoicewasfullofrageandbitterness.Itsurprisedme.AsifIbelievedhim
andresentedhimas,naturallyI’dhaveto,ifitwereafact.Butthen,Iwasplayingapart,playingagame.
Acting.
“Yes,” he said, “but amateur means ‘lover’, doesn’t it. You have a love of life, you amateurs, that we
professionalshavetogiveup,whenoncewebegintodoit,notforlove,butmoney.”
Ifeltawaveoftirednesssweepthroughme.“I’mtired,”Isaid.“AndIstillneedtogettothecoast.IsLaitel
goingtodrivemethere?”
“Idon’tthinkso.Ithinkhemeanstogobackintotheforests.Doyou,Laitel?”
“Yes.I’msorry,Frances.”
“Wonderful.Sowhatnow?”
“There’sanoldroadthatgoesstraighttothecoast,”saidLohno,off-hand.“You’llfinditandtakeitinthe
morning.Thatmuchisarranged.It’swhatyou’regoodat.”
“Planningtokillmeoff?What’sittobe,maestro,agurricula?Snake-bite?Heatexhaustion?”
“Oh,no,Frances.We’veonlyjusthadmydeath.Toomanyarebadform,sincethisisn’tacrimenovel.
You’ll find the trek not too bad. A few hours walking, in the shade. You may see some animals, they’ll
ignoreyou.Andofcourse,Laitelwillgiveyoualunch-box.”
I started laughing. Tezmaine threw back his old snake’s head and laughed too. Only Laitel stood in the
shadowinhiswhiteclothes,silent,demureasabrides-maid.
Inthedoorway,Iglancedback.“Tezmaine.”
“Lohno,please.”
“Lohno,Lohno.AmIpregnant?”
“Areyou?Howinteresting.ByLaitel,youmean?Despitenon-ejaculation,somepotentdrip.Itcouldbe.
Yes,Ithinkyoumightbe.Yes.Whataninspiration.Achildofsuchmixedblood,sorare.I’llenjoythis.
Yes,Frances,yes,youare.Thankyou.Agirl?Almost…almostdefinitelyagirl.”
I walked out and went along to the end of the cloister, where the ruin had come apart. Under a leaning
statue,withasmileandhands,Icurleduptosleep.PresumablyIwouldn’ttoppleovertheedge.Unlesshe
decidedtowritemeout,afterall.
Thestarsweresobright,soscatteredandpatterned,numerous,planned.I’veneverlostmyamazementat
thingslikethestars.Thepequasaidtome,Nothingmatters.Amadoldman,Laitelinhiswhiteclotheshe
leftbehind,neverpacked,whatI’dhavetodotomorrow,walkingthroughjungle-forest,thelunga-rook.IfI
did have to. My race and Laitel’s, we don’t, can’t interbreed. Though the precau-tions I’d taken not to
menstruateduringthisassignmentwouldanywaymakecon-ceptionunlikely.Yet,something,sometremor,
likethemovementofthesecondhandonanantiquewatch.Crazy.
Once in the dark I woke. There was no reason. Nothing stirred. Only the rumble of the Water-Mama,
constantastime,butadelusionbecause,intheend,thecliffwouldwearaway,thewaterfalldecreaseand
becomeonlytheriver.
****
Nextmorning, noonewas there.Laitelwasn’t,northeold man,orhis ghost,noone. The monkeyshad
vanishedback intothejungle-forest tofeed or fightorslumber.The pittedstatueshad losttheirmystery
withthelight.Ifoundsomefoodandabottleofwaterlyingbesideme.
Iknewhowtofindtheroad.Thatwasfromhisbooks,itmusthavebeen.Itwasanoldprocessionalway,
usedtolinklong-lostvillages,orsomeancientcityofthejungle,tothetemple.Curiouslyitwasn’tvery
overgrown.Perhapsmoremodernvillageskeptitclearoutofrespectorsuperstition.Imetwithnoone.I
sawlemasets,andonceaboardiggingattheroadsidewithhistusks.Theypaidnoattention.
Iadmititwascoolerintheshade,andthewaterbottle,althoughIeconomizedwithit,lastedmeuntilthe
forestbegantobreakupandmoveawayfromme.Thencamebridgesoverswamp,someofstone,some
swaying horizontal ladders of rope and liana. Because this was some sort of game, or because I’d
temporarilygonemad,IfeltitwouldindeedturnoutasLohnoTezmainehadtoldme,anditdid.Beyond
theswampandthescrubwasrockylandthatwentupandoverandfinally,intheafternoon,randowntoa
pocketofglistening,greasysea.
Theshorewascoveredbypeople,humansofallraces,likesomethingbiblical,Ithought,gatheredtribes,
theendoftheworld.Istoodstaringatthem,realizingtheywerethere,whilethesweatandthewaterofthe
airwasheddownintomyeyes.Butthetransportsweretheretoo,theVTOs,andeverysooftenaswarmof
themwouldliftoff,oranotherswarmofthemwouldcomeinoverthebay,puttingdownontheplasto-steel
stripslaidoutoverthewater.
BeforeIevenstartedtoclimbdown,apartyofsoldiersfoundme.Theywereforeigners,butbiologically
nearer to me than the people of the jungle or the coast. When I tried to answer them though, I found I
couldn’t, the chip in my arm had malfunctioned. We communicated therefore in sign language, but they
werecheerful,bracedbytheirissueofperformance-enhancingbattledrugs.Oneofthemkissedmeonthe
cheek,anotherfondledmybreast.Nothingworse.AndsomonthsafterIknewthatthechild,fortherewas
tobeone—aboy,didLohnochangehisplotline?—wasLaitel’s,noneother’s.ButatthatmomentImight
gladlyhaveletthesemendoanything.Theywerereal,theywerereality.Alltheydidwasgetmedownto
one end of the beach, then push me through the churning mass of flesh, and heave me up into a VTO,
among the crying, serious, or jab-bering women of their race, mine, others; among the babies and small
domesticanimals,andthesadorloudmen,alreadyplayingcardsortuk,asifforthestakeofthisplace,or
theirownbestchanceofexistence.
Oncewewereonourway,abigdarksoldieremerged,andsatbesideme.Wespokeeachother’slanguage,
thenow-uselesschipunneeded.IwasmoregladofhiscompanythanIcouldsay.Heputhisarmaround
me. We stank of sweat, both of us, and of the wet greenness of the geography we were leaving. But at
World’sEdge,whoevergivesadamnaboutsuchthings?Wedidn’tmakelove,havesex.
Ithinkitwasoncecalledheavypetting,whatwedid,millionsoflifetimesago,orlastyear.Plentyofothers
weredoingthesame.
Underus,theheavyboundingdroneoftheVTO,solidasgraniteupinthatspacebeyondallelse.
Mysoldierleftmeonceonlyduringthejourney,andreturnedwithabottleofwhisky.“Drinkthis,”hesaid,
“takeagoodbigdrink.Cureallyourblues.”
****
exchangerate
HALCLEMENT
HalClement—thewritingnameoflongtimescienceteacherHarryClem-entStubbs—madehisfirstsalein
1942toAstounding,andbecameoneofthemainstaysofthatmagazinethroughoutthe
‘50sand‘60s,withmuchofhisbestshortworkappearingthere.Clement’smostfamousnovelisMissionof
Gravity,whichinretrospectstillholdsupasoneofthebestSFbooksofthe‘50s,althoughIamalsofondof
the underrated Cycle of Fire. Clement’s influence on later writers suchas G. David Nordley, Stephen
Baxter,HarryTurtledove,JanetKagan,andothersisclearandunmistak-able.Hisotherbooksincludethe
novelsStarLight(thesequeltoMissionofGravity),Needle,ClosetoCritical,Iceworld,OceanonTop,and
The Nitrogen Fix, and the collections Small Changes, Natives of Space, and The Best of Hal Clement.
Clement’smostrecentbooksareanewnovel,HalfLife,and an omnibus reprint of three of his previous
novels(Needle,Iceworld,andClosetoCritical),boundtogetherasTheEssentialHalClement,Volume1:
Trio for Slide Rule and Typewriter (NESFA Press, PO Box 809, Framingham, MA 01701 -$25 plus $2
postage.Volume2:MusicofManySpheresisacollectionofshortfiction,bringingalotofClement’slong
unavailableworkbackintoprint.)He’salsorumoredtobeatworkonasequeltoMissionofGravity.In
1999,ClementwasgiventheprestigiousGrandmasterAwardbytheScienceFictionWritersofAmer-ica,
anawardpreviouslywonbywriterssuchasRobertA.HeinleinandIsaacAsimov.
Althoughknownasoneofthemostscrupulouslyaccurateofthe“hardscience”writers,someonecarefulto
alwaysget the scientificdetails right, Clementalsohas a richandlively imagination,especially when it
comes to alien lifeforms, and he has created some of the most memorable aliencharacters in science
fiction.He’soutdoneevenhimself,though,inthesuspensefulnovellathatfollows,inwhichharriedhuman
explorers(underpressurein morewaysthanone!)musttry tofigure out the lifeways and motivations of
some extremely strange and enigmatic alien creatureson one of the strangest planets ever portrayed in
sciencefiction—anddoitallbeforetheclockrunsout.
****
E
rni!Nic!Holdit!Senatsu’sfoundabreak!”
The speaker was excited, but neither driver bothered to look up. A “break” on Halfbaked meant little to
humaneyes;itwasaspotwhereradarfrequencies,nothumanvision,couldgetthroughthestreamingand
usuallyionizedcloudswhichkeptstarlightfromthesurface.Neithercaredtolookatstars.Theywerevery
worriedmenatthemomentanddidn’tevenlookateachother.However,BenCloudkepttalking,andhis
nextwordsdidmanagetogettheirattention.
“It’snearHotlatpluseightandRotlatpluseighty,closetothetracktheyshouldbetakingbackhere.”
TheoperatorsoftheQuarterbackdidglanceateachotherthistime.Facialexpressionsdidn’tshowthrough
breathingmasks.Theydidn’tneedto.Foramo-mentbothweresilent;thentheyoungerspokealoud.
“Hasshereallyspottedanythingdefinite?”
“She thinks so. She’s checking all the usable spectra now. Stand by; she should be through in a few
seconds.”
Quarterback’sdrivers looked wordlessly at each other once more, and Dominic hit the quick-cutout that
broughttherunabouttoahalt.OperatinganysortofsurfacevehicleonHalfbakeddemandedfullattention.
“Well?”saidErni.Afterall,afewsecondshadpassed.
“Standby.She’sstillatit.”Alongerpausefollowed,untileventhemorepatientNicwastemptedtobreak
it,butBenresumedbeforeeitherlisteneractuallygavein.
“Shesaysyes!It’sJellyseal’spattern.”
“Anythingfromthegirls?”
“No,butJelly’smovingapparentlyundercontrolandatareasonablespeed.”
“What’sthat?OrcanSentell?”cutintheelderdriver.
“Thetanker’sdoingaboutahundredandeightykilosanhour.Mustbeopencountry.”
“How’sshemeasuringthat?”
“Tellyousoon.Sen’stakingalltheadvantageshecanofthebreak,butit’lltakeawhiletocross-checkwith
memory.They’llprobablyhavetomoveabitfarther,too.”
“Ifthespeedisreal,they’veprobablyunloaded.”
“Probably.Mariareportedthey’dreachedwhatseemedtobethebroadcastsiteandfoundsomethingcity-
ish,though she never really described it.Thatwasnearlytwenty hours ago as you both know. That was
aboutfivehundredkilosoutwardofwheretheyseemtobenow.Theycouldhaveemptied,loadedupagain,
andeasilybeatSen’scurrentfix.Youcanstopworrying.”
“Andthenativesdidacknowledgereceiptoftheshipment,andevensaidhowdelightedtheywere,didn’t
they?”asked Dominic. “But no morewordwas coming from Maria andJessi.That’sthepicturewe had
fromTriciabeforewestarted.
“Shewasfirmabouttheacknowledgment,yes.Stillis.Youknowhowshewaffleswhenamessageseems
toinvolve abstractions, though.Theywerevery repetitious, she says,talkingabout how they understood
whywecouldn’tsendpurehydrogenandcommentingagainandagainonthewidevarietyofcom-pounds
therewereanyway—”
“Igotallthat.Paraffin,whetheryou’respeakingEuropeanorNorthAmericanAnglic,doeshavealotof
differenthydrogencompoundsinit.I’madmittingweknowthegirlsgotthere,butstillwonderingwhywe
haven’theardfromthemsince.We’llstopworrying—maybe—whentheysaysomething.”Erni’stonesug-
gestedstronglythathewantednoadviceashewenton,“Yousaythey’reback-tracking?Usingthesame
route?”
“Senatsuhasn’thadalongenoughlook-seetotell.They’rejustaboutonthepaththeytookearlier,Igather,
butrememberwedidn’tseethemgettoit.Wedidmapmorethanhalfofitoutbound,butI’dsay
—”
“Weknowallthat!”snappedErni.“WhatIwanttoknowiswhetherNicandIshouldkeeponandtryto
meetthem.”
“I’dsayno.Itmadesensetoheadforthetransmissionsourcewhentheyseemedtobestuckthere,butnow
we know they’re moving and presumably heading back here, it seems smarter to wait for them here at
Nest.”
“Butsupposetheystilldon’treport?Howlongdowewait?Andwhatcouldkeepthemfromtalkingtous,
anyway?”
“Thesamesortsofthingsthatkeepusfromseeingthemasoftenaswe’dlike.We’retalkingtoyouallright
now, but you’re only a few hundred k’s away using multiple channel cross-link. They’re nearly fifty
thousand.Wecanseeevenyouonlyoccasionally—lessoftenthanwecanseethem,sincetherearemore
cloudshereonthedarkside.Youknowallthataswellasanyone.Halfbakedwasn’tbuiltforlong-range
talking.Ithastoomanykindsofclouds,toomanykindsandstrengthsofchargedancingaroundinthem,
toomanywindshighandlowandupanddownandsidewaysandcircular,toomuchpuredistance—“
“AndnativeswhouseAMcommunicationbutstillmakesomesense.Iknowallthat!”snappedIcewall.
“Thenpleasetalkasthoughyoudid.”Benwasgettingalittleshort,too.“Look,Iknowyou’reworried,and
Iknowwhy,evenifIdon’thaveasharednameyet.It’stoobadthegirlswonthedrawforthefirstload,but
even you didn’t try to change it so Nic could go with Maria or you with Jessi. They went. They really
weren’tinany moredangerpushing atankeraround thelandscapethan at Nest,except for beingfarther
fromhelpiftheyneededit,ofcourse.Itisn’tasthoughthisidioticworldhadanynicestableplaceswhere
youcouldputupabuildingandgotosleepwithreasonablehopethegroundwouldn’tpullapartunderit
before you woke up. I know your wives haven’t talked to us since they reported spotting their city, or
village,orwhateveritturnedouttobe.That’safact.Idon’tdisputeit,andIcan’taccountforitexceptwith
guessesIcan’tsupport.Sogoaheadandworry.Ican’tstopyou,andIwouldn’tifIcould.They’reyour
wives.Istillthink,though,thatyou’llbesmarterwaitingforthemherethangoingthirtyorfortythousand
kilos, a lot of it in sunlight, and trying to find them while they’re still moving and we can’t keep good
contact,visualorverbal,witheitherofyou.”
“Isupposeyou’reright,”Erniadmittedinamuchmeekertone.“Nic?Youthinkwe’dbettergoback,too?”
DominicWildbearYucca—Mariamightnolongerbealivebuthewasstillentitledtotheirjointlychosen
name because of their children — nodded silently, and without further words looked carefully around
through the windows ringing the cockpit. One looked before moving anywhere on Halfbaked. Neither
window nor roof port was made of glass; there were too many fluorine compounds in Halfbaked’s
atmosphere for silicate materials to be trusted. Silicon tetrafluoride is a gas even at most Terrestrial
temperatures. Satisfied that no serious landscape change had sneaked by his notice during the talk, he
repoweredthedrivingsys-tem—stoppingwasnearlyalwayssaferthanstarting,andthecontrolsystemre-
flected that fact—and sent the runabout into a fairly tight turn. The path was wide enough to need little
steering care at the moment, though bushes, rocks which had rolled from the modest hills, cracks in the
surface,andpatchesofvegetationwhichmightormightnotbeonfirecouldbeencounteredanytime.
The spaceward side of Halfbaked was well covered with what looked to human beings like plant life,
thoughitsactualecologicalrolewasstillbeingargued.Noanimalshadyetbeenseen,unlesssomeofthe
largeandsmallobjectsresemblingfragmentsofburnedpaperwhichseemedtobeborneonthefiercewinds
wereactuallyflyinginstead.Therewasevidenceonsomeoftheplantsthatthingswereeatingthem,butthe
poolforthefirstconfirmedanimalsightingwasstillun-claimedafterfiveTerrestrialmonths.
Twoschoolsofthoughtweredevelopingamongthebiologists:thekatabolicpartoftheecologywasbeing
handledbymicrobes,orwasbeingtakencareofbyfire.
Driverscoulddevoteverylittleoftheirattentiontospecimensearchwhiletheirmachineswereinmotion.
The Quarterback trembled slightly as it moved, partly from ground irregularities, occasionally from
temblors,andmostlyfromwindsofconstantlyvaryingviolenceanddirection.Attheirpresentheightabove
theref-erenceellipsoid—Halfbakedhadnoseastoprovideanaltitudezero—thepressureaveragedabout
seventeenatmospheres,waveringirregularlyandonatimescaleofminutesbyabouttwoeachway.Withits
molecularweightaveragingwelloverahundred,windwasbothdifficultandunsafetoignore.
Dominicnursedthevehicleuptonearlytwohundredkilometersperhour.Therewerefewobstaclesnowin
sight,andtheredandgreendeeplightsflashingalternatelyfromtheirmastsoneachsideoftherunabout
providedshadowpatternseasilyinterpretedasrangeinformation.Itwasbetterthancomputer-backedradar
inthecontinuoushowlofmicrowaveandlongerstaticemittedbythelocalplants.Thelightsalsoallowed
human-reflexiveresponsetime;glancingbackandforthbetweentheoutsideandascreen,nomatterhow
precise and detailed the latter’s readings might be, would have put a much lower limit on permissible
drivingspeedmuchofthetime.
Ernikepthishandsawayfromthecontrols,butwatchedtheirsurroundingsascarefullyashispartner.
Bothcouldseeinalldirectionsevenhereonnightside,sinceabankoffloodssupplementedthedeeplights
andtherewasnearlycontinuousandfairlybrightlightningamongthecloudsoverhead.
Halfbaked,less than eight millionkilometersfrom the centerofitsG3-to-4 sun, had plenty ofenergyto
expendonluminous,biological,andevencomprehensiblelocalphenomena.
Thedriverdidcastanoccasionalglanceathisyoungercompanion.HewouldneverhaveadmittedthatErni
couldbemoreworriedaboutJessithanhehimselfwasaboutMaria,buttheIcewallshadbeenmarriedless
thanthreeyearsasagainsttheYuccas’fourteen,andmightpossiblybelessphilosophicalabouttheunpre-
dictabilityoflife.
ApparentlygreaterworrywasnothurtingErni’sdrivingjudgment,though.His“Watchit!”fromtheright-
sidestationwasessentiallysimultaneouswithNic’scuttingoutdriveagain.Quarterbackcametoaquick
halt,butnotasmoothone.
Activefaultsdon’tmovesmoothly;evenonEarththeycausequakes,oftenviolentones.Undermorethan
sevenEarthgravities,thequakestendtobemuchmorefrequentandnolessviolent.Bothdriversfloated
quietlyattheirstationsandwatched;therewasnothingelsetodountilwhattheysawmadedetailedsense.
Thefaultcouldbeseenhalfakilometerahead,thoughrainwasstartingtofall,buttherewerenohillsclose
enoughtoofferathreatofslidesorrockfalls.Iftherehadbeen,itwaslikelythatnoteventraineddriver
reflexescouldhavecopedwithalltheprobabilities,andmoreworrywouldhavebeeninorder.
The ground movement was largely horizontal, they could see and feel. The fault started from some
indeterminatepointtotheirleft,slantedacrossinfront,andextendedoutofsightaheadandtotheirright.
Itdidhaveasmallverticalcomponent;thefarsidehadliftednearlyhalfametersincetheyhadpassedthe
levelsitelessthananhourbefore.Rathercasually,ErnireportedtheirstoppingandthereasonforittoNest;
Benacknowledgedwithequalaplomb.
“Unlessitgetsagooddealhigher,wewon’thaveanytroubleingettingpast,”Icewallconcluded.
“Ifit’sstillshaking,maybeyououghttogetbybeforeitrisesanymore,”wastheansweringsuggestion.
Erniglancedathispartner,noddingthoughtfully.
“Youhaveapoint.Allright.We’llsendoutbugstoseeifit’sanylowerwithinakiloortwo,andclimbat
thebestplace.We’llcallyouwhenwestart.Ifyoudon’thearfromusintwoorthreeminutesafterthat,
someonecomeoutandcollecttheevidence.”
“Ifwecanspareanyone.”Thatpointalsowaswelltaken,thoughtooobvioustoallconcernedtobeworthy
ofanswer.Energywasessentiallylimitlessthankstoubiquitousminiaturefusionunits,andself-reproducing
pseudolifeequipmentwasalmostequallysoaslongastherewasnoshortageofrawmaterial;butpersonnel
onaworldlikeHalfbakedwasanothermatterentirely.
Theservobugsguidedthemtoaspotafewhundredmeterstotheright.Themencalledthemback,powered
upagainandsenttherunaboutslowlytowardtheinfantcliff,stoppingagainsometwometersaway.Both
operators watched carefully for a minute or so. A slip of a millimeter or two every few seconds was
accompaniedbymoreshockwaves.Onecouldonlyguesswhetheranespeciallylargejoltwaswaitingtobe
triggeredbythecar’sweight,buttheregularityofthemotionsthemselveswasencouraging.Nicretracted
thedozenwheelsonwhichtheyhadbeentravelingandletthebodysettleontoitscaterpillartreads;then,
forreasonshedidn’tbothertostate,hemotionedErnitotakeover.Thelatterobeyedinequalsilence.Even
moreslowlythanbefore,Quarterbackeasedforwarduntilthetreadstouchedthetinyescarpmentandthe
frontofthevehiclebegantolift.
Thefrequentsmallshocksbecamemucheasiertofeelbutnomoreworrisome.Themencouldseethefront
ofthevehicleliftingbutnotfeelit;upanddown,evenunderheavygravity,werenotobviousexceptby
sighttopeoplefloatinginwater—andsightneededabetterreferencehorizonthanthisworldwithitsvast
sizeandshortatmosphericscaleheightcouldprovide.
Tensionmountedasthemasscenterofthevehicleapproachedtheedge.Bothmenclenchedtheirfistsand
heldtheirbreathsasitpassedandthemachinerockedforward.
Intheory,therunaboutwouldn’tbuckleevenifitsentirefourteen-hundred-tonmass—sometenthousand
tonsweight,here—weresupportedonlyatthecenter.Nesters,however,tendedtohaveanengineeringbias
towardregardingsuchtheorymainlyasaguideforplanningexperiments.Thissortofexperimenthadbeen
done before but not, as far as either driver knew, with acceleration from seismic waves helping out the
gravity.
The body did hold. The impact as it finished rocking forward and the front touched down was gentle,
somewhatcushionedbyapatchofhalf-meter-wide,viciouslyspinedgrowthsresemblingbarrelcacti.
Darkred,almostblack,fluidwhichspatteredfromthesecrustedoveralmostatonceastheairtouchedit,
butslightlytothemen’ssurprisetheydidnotignite.
AmomentlaterQuarterbackwasresumingspeedwithErnistilldriving.Nicreportedtheirnewstatusto
Nest,addedencouragingdetailsaboutthestressesjustsurvived,andaskedforanupdateonthetanker.
“Stillmoving,stillapparentlyonthewayback,”repliedBen.“Averagespeedaboutahundredsixty.”
“Didtheyreallyslowdown,oristhatjustabettermeasure?”Nicbarelybeathisfriendtothequestion.
“Thelatter,Senatsuthinks.Butthey’recoming,almostcertainlybacktrackingontheiroriginalpath.
They’renotheadingstraighttowardNest,butnearlyHot-southtowardthedarkside.We’rewonderingnow
whethertheoriginalguessabouttravelbeingbetteroutofthesunlightwasright,oriftheyhavesomeother
reason.There’sstillnodirectwordfromthegirls.”
TheflotationwaterwasclearenoughtoshowpartofErni’sfrownabovehisbreathingmask,buthesaid
nothing.The clusters of spiky barrels werebecomingmorenumerous, and even though he knew contact
wouldnotharmtheQuarter-backhedislikedcasualdestruction.
Thedrivesettled downtoroutine.Quarterbackdidn’t have far to go by Half-baked standards. They had
barely started their trip to the “city” reported by Jellyseal’s drivers, which was nearly fifty thousand
kilometers from Nest along a geodesic and much farther by realistic standards. The topography seldom
allowed a completely free choice of path, and it had seemed wise to make most of the journey out of
sunlightaslongastherewasnoobviousreasonforhaste.Keepingthecargobelowitsboilingpointwould
bemucheasier,foronething.
Now,ofcourse,thecargoshouldbedifferent.
Thehusbands,whenvoicecontacthadbeenlost,hadbeenworriedandplannedtotakethegeodesicroute
rather than follow the mapped track of the Jellyseal, but they were still on the night side less than a
thousandkilometersfromNestwhentheyturnedback.
Thetemblorsfromtheshiftingfaultgrewlessintenseastheymovedawayfromit.Thismightbedueto
increasingdistanceortoactualquietingdownofthedisturbance.Therewasplentyofseismicequipmentat
Nest,andthequakeshadprobablybeendetectedthere;butuntilafarmoreextensivenetworkcouldbeset
uptherewouldbenowaytopickparticularonesoutofthecontinuousrumblingsandquiveringsoriginating
throughoutthehugeworld’scrustandmantle.
NeitherdriverthoughtofblamingotherNestersforfailingtowarnthemabouttheobstaclejustpassed.
Satellitemappingthroughchargedcloudswasdifficult,andanyoneawayfromthebasewasonhisown
—orontheirown;novehicleswentoutwithlessthantwocrewmembers,andnoonewentoutwalking.
SuitswhichwouldletahumanbeingtakeastepinseventeenatmospherespressureandoversevenEarth
gravities,eventhoughNesthadbeenbuiltinaregionofhuman-tolerabletemperature,werenotavailable
anywhere.
Techniqueshadbeenplannedfortransferringpeoplefromacrippledvehicletoarescuemachine,butsofar
thesehadnotbeentestedingenuineemergencies.Alsotheydependedonthecripple’snotbeingtoobadly
bentoutofshape.Doorshadtoopen…
TheQuarterbackhadtoslowdownafteranhourorso,astherainincreased.Thedropswerenotstayingon
theground,butboilingoffassoonastheystruck;theresultingmist,ratherthantherainitself,wasblocking
vision.Theblack,blowingflakeshadvanished,whetherasaresultofblockedvisionorbecausetheywere
washed to the ground could only be guessed. What was falling was anyone’s guess, too; presumably
fluorinecompounds,butemphaticallynotwater.HydrogenwasfarscarceronthisworldthanonMarsor
evenMercury.
Dominicmadeoneofhisthoughtfulweatheranalysesastherainslowedthem.
“There’sahighridgebackofusandtotheright,remember?Surfacewindseemstobetowardthedayside
as usual, so the air is being pushed up and cooling adiabatically as it reaches the hills. Something’s
condensingout,maybeoxidesofsulfurorfluoridesofsulfurorsilicon.Weoughttogetoutofitinafew
kilos.”
The prediction, especially the phrase “as usual,” took Erni’s mind off his worries for a moment. This
world’sweatherwasquiteliterallychaotic;theword“climate”meantnothing.
“Howmuch’llyoubet?”
Nicglancedoverathispartner,thankfulthathisownfacewasinvisible.“Well-l-l—”Helethisvoicetrail
off.
“Comeon.You’renotgoingtocutoffmybestsourceofincome,areyou?”
“Youshouldworkforaliving,butallright.Fiftysayswe’reinclearairin—oh,twentykilos.”
“You’reon.Checktheodometer.”Yuccazeroedoneofthewheelcounters.Quarterbackhadbeenoffthe
trackssinceleavingthequakesite.“Notthatone,friend.It’scenterright,notadriver,offthegroundalot
ofthetime,andyouknowit.”Stillgladthathisfacecouldn’tbeseen,theprophetactivatedadriving-wheel
meter.
Erni rather pointedly made sure it was actually counting, his divided attention almost at once giving
Dominicachancetodistracthimevenfurther.
“Watchit.Boulder.”Therunaboutswervedrathermorethanwasreallynec-essary,grazinganasparagus-
likegrowththreeorfourmetershighandknockingitoverbeforeIcewallsteadied.Neitherlookedatthe
otherthistime,butthedriverdidnotslowdown.Yuccadecidedthatnomoreneededtobedoneforawhile
tostophisfriendfromworrying.Afterall,hehimselfcouldn’thelpwonderingwhytherehadnobeenword
fromJellyseal.Ben’sexplanationhadbeenplausible,butstill…
Theywerestillinrain,thoughquiteprobablyadifferentsort—Niccouldhavebeenpartlyright—anhour
later.Theodometerhadbeenstoppedand,afteracoinhadpassedfromNic’spossessiontoErni’s,rezeroed.
TherehadbeentwoorthreemorereportsfromNest;theerranttankwasstilltraveling,moreorlessinthe
expecteddirection,butstillnowordhadcomefromitsoccupants.
“Iwonderwhatthey’rebringingback,”Dominicventuredafteralongsilence.“Thenativesdidn’tgetvery
specificaboutwhattheycouldtrade,thoughtheyseemedtowantthehydrogenbadlyenough.”
“AccordingtoTricia,”Erniamended.“Desire’saprettyabstractconcepttoo,youknow.”
“Theyrepeatedtherequestenoughtimesandenoughdifferentwayssoevenshewasprettysure.Andyou
canseewhyscientistsherewantthestuff.”Icewallmerelynoddedattheobvious.
BeingsonHalfbakedatallversedinthephysicalscienceswouldpresumablyhavedetectedElementOnein
thespectrumoftheirsun,lookedforitontheplanet,prob-ablylearningalotofchemistryintheprocess,
andpossiblyfoundthetracesaccu-mulatedinthecrustbyeightbillionyearsorsoofstellarwind.Theurge
forenoughtodomacroscopicresearchwouldhavematchedthatofthediscoverersofheliumandplutonium
on Earth, not to mention the seekers for coronium before spectro-scopic theory matured. The human
explorersonHalfbakedhadunderstoodandsympathized.Theyhaddesignedandgrowntheparaffintanker
somehumoristwithabackgroundinhistoricaltriviahadnamedtheJellyseal,loadeditwithhighmolec-
ularweighthydrocarbonsfromthebrowndwarfthirty-oddastronomicalunitsoutfrom51Pegasi,andsent
itto theapparent sourceofthe nativetransmissions. Communicationwas stillvague, but thereseemed a
reasonablehopethatsomethingofusetohumanknowledgewouldcomeback. Attendantrisksto human
healthandlifeweretakenforgrantedandaccepted.
Except,tosomeextentandforthetimebeing,bythespousesoftheJellyseal’sdrivers.
Thetwomendrove,ate,andsleptinturn.Theyfelttheirwaythroughrainandfog—ormaybeitwasdust—
heldtheirbreathsastheythreadednarrowvalleyswherefallingrockscouldnotpossiblyhavebeenavoided,
enjoyed an occasional glimpse of still unfamiliar constellations, speculated aloud about an occasional
unusually large blowing object, felt the Quarterback tremble in gales which came and ceased with no
apparentpattern(thoughDominic stilltried, usuallyaddingto Erni’s cashreserves),asked withoutresult
whether there had been word from their wives, listened to the constant exchange of messages with the
nativeswhichwereslowlyexpandingamutuallyusefulscientificvocabulary,anddrewsteadilycloserto
Nest.
Thewordabouttheranker’smotionsremainedencouraging;itappearedtobeunderintelligentcontrol.
ThebestevidenceappearedwhentheQuarterbackwasaboutanhouroutfromthebase.Ittooktheformof
areportfromSenatsuItoYoshihashiwhichwasnot,atfirstglance,encouraging.
“Thegirlsareheadedfortrouble,I’mafraid,”shesaidthoughtfullytoBen.
“How?”
“Thepaththeytookouthaschanged,aboutahundredkilometersaheadofwheretheyarenow.Whatwasa
fairlynarrowvalley—acoupleofkiloswide—seemstohavebeenblockedupbysomething.It’sfilling
withsomesortofliquid,aswellasIcaninterprettheimages.Atleast,itssurfaceisnowremarkablylevel
and higher than before, and if it were freezing I’d expect crystals to do something to the reflection
somewherealongthespectrum.”
“Can’ttheytravelonitanyway?”CloudwastyingQuarterbackintothecom-municationlinkashespoke.
“ThetankershouldfloatonanyliquidIcanimagineatdaysidetemperature,andthetrackswoulddriveit
afterafashion.”
“It’sthe‘afterafashion’partthatbothersme,”theobserver/capperreplied.“Ithink,thoughI’mnotatall
sure, that the stuff is spilling out the darkside — Hotsouth —end of the valley; and whether it’s a real
liquid-fallorjustrapids,I’mdoubtfulanythinghuman-growncanholdtogetherineither.”
“They’llseethelakeorwhateveritisandatleastknowbetterthantogoboating,”wasErni’ssurprisingly
optimisticresponse.
“Butwhatcantheydoiftheywanttotakeanotherpath?”askedDominic.“Wouldthemapstheystarted
with be any help? Especially the way the topography changes? Wouldn’t they just wind up wandering
aroundinamaze?I’dhatetohavetriedthistripwithoutyourguidingus.”
“Isuggest,”respondedBenslowly,“thatSenrechecktheirgeneralareaasthor-oughlyandquicklyasshe
can.Thenshecanworkoutasgoodanalternatepathaspossible,andwe’llsendittothegirls.
They’renottransmitting,butwedon’tknowthey’renotreceiving.”
“Whydidn’twecall themand askthem tostop, ortravel ina circle,or some-thinglike thata longtime
ago?” asked Erni. He carefully avoided sounding critical, since he had to include himself in the list of
peoplewhohadn’tthoughtofthis.
“AskPete.I’mnotapsychologist,”Benreplied.“Sen,whatsortoftopoinfor-mationdoyouhaveforthat
area?”
“Prettygood, bothcurrentand from the original route pix. Give me a few minutes to match images and
checkforchanges.”
EvenErniremainedsilentuntilthemapper’svoiceresumed.Shedidstaywithinthefewminutes.
“Allright.Thirtykilosaheadofwheretheyarenow,theyshouldturnthirtydegreestotheright.Another
tenkiloswilltakethemintoavalleynarrowenoughtobescary;theyshouldwait,iftheyfeelanytemblors,
until things seem to quiet down, and then get through as fast as possible. I can’t resolve the area well
enoughtoguesshowfastthatwouldbe.Oncethroughtheycanslowdowniftheywant—there’llbenorisk
ofrockfallsforawhile.Seventymorekiloswilltakethempastthelake,andtheycanslanttotheleftas
convenient.Thatwillbringthembacktotheoriginalpathsoonerorlater.Theycancheckwhetherthere’sa
riverinit now.I’d liketo know;I’veseenplentyofwhatlookedlikelittlelakes,plusthebigone atthe
nativetransmissionsite,butnothingthatlookedlikeflowingwater—itwouldn’tbewater,youknowwhatI
mean—sofar.Gotit?”
Benhadbeenmakingasketch mapas Senspoke. Heused apolymersheetandanelectricstylus,rather
thanpencilandpaper,sincetheNestwasalsounderseven-plusgeesanditspersonnelhadthesameneedof
flotationas the drivers. Most of thepersonnelreferredto their rest-and-recreation periodsintheorbiting
stationfartheroutfromthestaras“drying-out”sessions,althoughmuchofthetimeinthemwasspentin
baths.Recyclingequipmentisneverquiteperfect.
“Ithinkso.”Cloudheldhisproductinfrontofthepickup—hisstationwasmorethanahundredmeters
fromSenatsu’s—forhertocheck.
“Close as I can put it,” she agreed. “See if you can get it through to the girls.” Nic and his companion
lacked the visual connection, but listened with critical interest as the word went out. Ben didn’t have to
includetheminhistransmissionnet,butitneveroccurredtohimnotto.Bothdriverslookedateachother
andnoddedslowlyasthefirstmessageended;thementalpicturetheygotfromitmatchedtheonetheyhad
formedfromSenatsu’swords.Theydidn’tactuallystoplisteningasBensetarecordofhiswordsrepeating
againandagaintotherelay/observationsatellites,butmostoftheirattentionwentbacktotheQuarterback
astheyresumedtravel.TheywerenowonlyanhourorsofromNest,butthatwasnoreasontoeaseupon
caution.Theycoulddiejustaseasilyandcompletelyatorinsidethestation’sentrylockasanywhereelse
ontheworld.
Fallen rock areas. Risk-of-falling-rock regions. Puddles to be avoided —the liquid could easily be
somethingthatwouldfreezeonwheelsorintracksifthetemper-aturedroppedaKelvinortwo.Itcould
evenbeasubcooledliquidwaitingtofreezeoncontact;suchthingsdidoccur,andtherewasnowaytotell
just by looking. Stands of organisms which could be smashed through, but which would also produce
liquid. Some of these were quite tall; Erni had never visited Earth and was not reminded of Saguaro
Reserve, but most worlds with life have xerophytes. Usually the biggest growths were widely enough
spacedtoavoideasily,butsomeoftheothersgrewinnearlysolidmats.
Themenhadoftendrivenoverthepresentarea,andbothnoticedthatsomefairlytallspecimensseemed
nowtoclusteralongtheoutwardpaththeyhadcrushedadayorsoearlier.Possiblytheseusedtheremains
ofotherorganismsasnourishment.Ifso,theygrewfast.
Nothingcorrespondingtoanimallifeevershoweditself,andmanyseriouslydoubteditspresence;butsome
of the “plants” showed stumps where trunks, branches, or twigs had obviously been severed, though the
detachedfragmentscouldseldombeseen.Tendrilswouldstillbelashing,asthoughtheirownershadbeen
disturbedbysomethingmomentsbeforetheQuarterbackpassed.
Someof the Nest personnel were beginning to suspectthat the number of plantlike growths and patches
withintenorfifteenkilometersofthestationwasincreasingasthedayspassed,butnoonehadyetmadea
carefulstudyofthepossibility.Itmightbeinteresting,butwasnotyetobviouslyimportant.
QuartermasterwasinarelativelyopenspacewhenBen’svoicecausedErnitocutdrivereflexively.
“They’returning,shethinks.”Thelackofnounsbotheredneitherdriver;theydidn’tevenbothertoask,
“Which way?” They simply floated at their stations and listened. The oxygen monitor in Quarterback
recordedasharpdropinbreathingrate,butnotforlongenoughtocauseittoreportanemergency.
Cloudwouldprobablynothavebeenbotheredbysuchanalarmanyway;unlikethemonitor,hewashuman.
Senatsuimprovisedquickly.Theatmospherewasfairlycleararoundhertargetatthemoment,andshewas
ableto setup aninterferometrictiebetweenthe tanker’sreflector andanearby brightspot—a stationary
one,shehoped.Thislethermeasuretherelativemotionsofthetwowithinafewcentimeterspersecond.It
tooklessthanhalfaminutetoshowthatJellyseal’sdirectionofmotionwaschanging,andanotherminute
andahalfestablishedthatthemachinehadstraightenedoutonanewcoursethirtydegreestotherightof
theearlierone.
Coincidences do happen, but human minds tend to doubt even the real ones. For the first time in many
hours,Quarterback’sdriversreallyrelaxed.There-mainingdistancebacktoNestwascoveredcalmlyand
happily,thoughneithermanrememberedlatermuchoftheconversationwhichpassed.Withanyone.
Thereceptionlockhadbeenreadiedforthem,itswaterpumpedintoastandbytank,andthedoorsopened
astheyapproached.Dominiceasedtherunaboutinsideandpowereddownasthedoorsealed.
Thetwowaitedwhilewaterflowedback,pushingthelocalairwhichhadenteredwiththemoutthroughthe
roofvents,andwastested.Asusual,moretimewasneededtoneutralizethesulfuricandsulfurousacids
andtoprecipitateandfilteroutthefluoridesformedwhentheairhadmettheliquid,butatlasttheycould
open their own outer seal, check their personal breathing kits, and swim to one of the personnel locks
occupyingtwowallsofthe“garage.”ErnipointedlyallowedDominictoprecedehimintothemainpartof
thestructure,thoughthelatterwasnotentirelyhappyatreceivingattentionduetoage.Fifteenyearsoutof
fiftywasn’tthatmuchofadifference,andhewasthetallerandstrongerofthetwo.
Ofcourse,itwasarelieftoknowtheyoungsterhadstoppedworryingenoughtobepolite.
Jellyseal had been about a month —more parochially, seven years —on its way to the native city, or
settlement,orcamp,orwhateveritmightbe.Bytheendofthefirstdayafterthereturnoftheno-longer-
anxious husbands, it seemed likely that about as long would be needed for its return. Perhaps, Senatsu
remarkedhesitantly,alittlebitless.“They’remakingslightlybettertimerightnowthantheydidgoingout,
butthey’restillonthesunside,andwillbefordaysyet.Theycanseebetter,afterall.Whentheygettothe
realterminatorwecanfindouthowmuchtheyhavetoslowdown.They’llbeeasierformetoseeinthe
dark,too.”
This remark was no surprise to her listeners. The tanker of course carried corner reflectors for the
microwavebeamsfromthesatellites,andwithlessreflectedsunlight,andthermalandbiologicalemission
from the planet’s surface the contrast between vehicle and surroundings would be a lot better. All this
except the greater plant emission on the day side had been discovered, and much of it predicted, long
before. Nic and Erni, together as usual and just returned from a test drive, simply nodded at Senatsu’s
report,andwentonabouttheirroutinework.
Muchofthisinvolvedthepreparationofthesecondtanker,alreadybeingcalledCandlegrease.Mostofthe
staffwerefromcolonyworldswhereconditionswerestillfairlyprimitive,andinanycasehumaneducators
had had the importance of detailed history knowledge forced on them after the species began to scatter.
Can-dleshadnomoredisappearedfromhumanity’sculturalmemorythanhadcook-ing—includingmaking
jelly.
It had occurred to several people that towing a paraffin tank as a trailer might involve less trouble in a
numberofways,andpossiblyevenbesaferforthecrew,thandrivingoneasatanktruck.Itwastakenfor
grantedthatanotherloadofhydrocarbonswouldgotothenatives,eventhoughnooneyetknewwhatvalue
the material now coming back might turn out to have. There was a natural sym-pathy for the needs of
researchers,and at the very least whatever it was couldn’thelp but supply information about the natives
themselves.Jellyseal’s slow approach was being watched with interest by everyone, not just the waiting
husbands.
Nearlyallthelaboredcommunicationwiththenativecitydealtwithscience;mostofthelinguisticprogress
thathadbeenmadesofarhadcomefromcomputercorrelationbetweenhumanvehiclemotions,whichthe
natives seemed able to observe even at great distances, and radiation emitted and received from the ob-
servingsatellites.Discussionstendedtoconsist ofcommentsaboutorbitalpertur-bationsandprecessions
and their connection with the planet’s internal structure. Computers at Nest were gradually building a
detailedmapofHalfbaked’sinnerdensitydistributionand,moreslowly,achartofitsmantlecurrents.Not
surpris-inglyforaplanetahundredandseventy-seventimesEarth’smass,almostfivetimesitsradius,and
over seven times its surface gravity, plate tectonics was oc-curring at what the planetary physicists
considered meteorological speed; and the plates themselves were state-or city rather than continent-size.
This made travel interesting and mapmaking an ongoing process. Since the establishment of Nest, one
couplewhohadarrivedasmeteorologistshadshiftedovertocrustaldynamicsandbeenwelcomed.They
had been rather glad to make the change, though a little embarrassed at flinching from a challenge.
Halfbaked’satmospherehadadozenmajorcomponents,mainlybutnotonlyfluoridesandoxidesofsulfur
andsilicon,varyingincompletelychaoticfashioninrelativeamountswithtimeandlocationandreadyto
change phase with small variations in temperature, pressure, input from the sun, and each other’s
concentration.
Reliance on miracles was not, of course, a useful solution to any problem; but some of the staff
occasionally,andofcourseveryprivately,feltslightlytempted.Afterall,thesupernaturalcouldhardlybe
muchlessusefulatpredictionthanthemathmodelsproducedsofar.
So what talk there was with the natives tended to be on the physical and material rather than emotional
planes.Evenmathematicalabstractions,criticalastheyweretochemicaldiscussion,werenotprogressing
well.Itwasnotevencertainthattheothersknew—orcared—aboutthereturningtanker.
Tricia Whirley Feather, responsible for the final steps in guessing what the computer-derived translation
attempts might actually mean, was just about certain the paraffin shipment had been received and
appreciated.Shehadnoideawhat-everwhat,ifanything,wasbeingsentbackinexchange.Shewasnotat
allcertainthattheconceptof“exchange”wascleartothenatives.
ButCandlegreasewasneverthelessbeinggrownandmodifiedoutsideintheHalfbakedenvironment,where
themoreseriousplanningerrorsshouldshowupquickly.Anoverpoweredandoverweightrunabout,named
Anniefromanotherancientliterarysource,andintendedtotowthecarrier,hadbeenmoreorlessfinished.
AtleastitwasdriveableandErniandDominicweretestingit.Therewaslittlegeneraldoubtthatthesetwo
wouldmakethesecondtrip,thoughBenhadsomepersonalreservations.
Thesewerefinallyresolvedalmostbyaccident.
Theregularplanetologicalworkof thestationwaskeptup,ofcourse.Morethan twodozen satellites,in
orbitsouttoabouttenthousandkilometersabovethesurface,werecooperatingwithaseismicnetslowly
spreadingoutfromNestinworkingouttheplanet’sinternalstructure,surfacedetails,andatmosphericbe-
havior.Progresswasatabouttwodoctoralthesesperhour,BenCloudestimated.
And,presumably,eachhourwasalsobringingJessiWareIcewallandMariaFloodYuccaseventyoreighty
kilometersclosertotheirhusbands.Jellysealwasmakinggoodspeed.
Shewasalsogettingclosetothedarkside.
Actualconstructionofthenewtankersystemwasgoingwellenough,wheneverdecisionscouldbemade;
pseudolife techniques had taken most of the delays and difficulties out of actually making things. The
problemsofdesigningthemre-mained,however.Ideaswhichseemedgreatbythemselveswouldturnoutto
beincompatiblewithotherequallywonderfuloneswhenpeopleattemptedtogrowthemtogether.
Whole assemblies which had promised well in computer simula-tion were embarrassing failures when
grownandtriedout.ThecommunicationlapsefromJellywasmorethanworrisome;hercrew,whohadthe
ordinary skills at pseudolife design even if they were not actually experts, presumably had far more
knowledgerelevanttotheproblemthananyoneelseontheplanet.
The supposedly straightforward problem of traction on unknown surfaces for a vehicle expected to tow
severaltimesitsownweightwasattainingPrimarystatus.Erni,Dominic,andseveralothersetsofdrivers
werekeptbusyontestrunswhichran,toooften,straightintoanewproblem.Sometimestheydidn’tthink
oftheirwivesforwholehours,thoughtheyneverfailedtocheckinwithSenatsuwhentheycamebackin.
“They’llbeseeing the last of the sun inan hour or two,” the analystremarkedat one of these meetings
whenthereturndistancestilltobecoveredhadshrunktoaboutthirtythousandkilometersgeodesic.
“They’realreadyaloteasiertospot,anddon’tseemtobehavinganytroublefindingtheirway.They’ve
swervedtwoorthreetimes,butneververyfar,andapparentlyforthingslikethatfaultofyours.
That,bytheway,isnowaboutthreemetershighandseemstobestillgrowing;it’sluckyit’snotontheir
returnpath.I’vesuggestedthatBensendsomeoneouttoseehowmuchhorizontalshiftit’sshown.Ican’t
tell from satellite — can’t get sharp enough ground motion details without a set of retroreflectors at a
knownlocation.Wanttomaketherun?”
Dominicshrugged.“Okaywithus,ifBencallsit.Wemightaswellbedoingsomething.”
“Youarealready,itseemstome.Well,we’lllethimcallit.Ifhethinksyou’llbebetteroffgrowingupwith
CandlegreaseandAnniethensomeoneelsecango.Ornoone,ofcourse,ifhedoesn’tthinkit’simportant
enough.”
Cloud,afteronlyasecondortwoofthought,decidedtheinformationwasimportantenoughtorateaclose
look, and six hours later —people still had to sleep — Quarterback was heading away from Nest on a
Hotpolebearingofaboutseventydegrees,withherusualdriversaboard.
Somechangesalongthetrackcouldbeseenalmostatonce.Thetallgrowthswhichseemedtobespringing
upwherevegetationhadbeencrushedontheirfirsttripoutwerenowmuchtaller.Whathadlookedlike
two-meterstalksofdeepred,darkbrown,anddeadblackasparagusnowresembledgiantsaguaroswith,in
manycases,thebasesofwhathadbeen.separatestalksnowgrowntogether.Aformerclumporthicketnow
seemedlikeasingleplantwithmultiplebranchesprobingupward.Neitherdriverlikedtheideaoftryingto
plowthroughthese,soprogressbecamemuchslowerandlessdirect.
Sometimesthey had toretracesome distance andtrya new route. Eventuallytheysettled for paralleling
theirformerpathratherthantryingtofollowit.
They speculated over the chance that the organisms they had casually pulped the first trip out might be
servingasfoodforsaprophytes,andreportedtheideabacktoBen.Tenminuteslaterhetoldthemtocollect
specimens. The xenobiologists also wanted data. Life on a virtually hydrogen-free world needed inves-
tigating.Especiallylifewhosecarboncontentfarexceededninetypercent,aswellaszerohydrogen.
Collecting would have slowed them even more, but Erni and Nic decided to do it on the way back and
rolledon,withthefenceoforganpipestotheirrightandarelativelyclearpathahead.
Thequakesproducedbythestillactivefaultmadethemselvesfeltwellbeforetheactualstructurecamein
sight, and Quarterback was slowed accordingly. The operators stopped a short distance from the scarp,
whichwasnow,as Senatsuhad reported, over two metershigh.The big saprophytes, if that’s what they
were,werenotdoingverywellinthequakearea,andnolongerformedabarrier.Itwasthereforepossible
tofollowthevergetotherightforseveralkilometers;butnopracticalwaydowncouldbefound.Neither
mantrustedthestructureoftheirvehicleenoughtodriveovertheedgeunderlocalgravity,evenwithoutthe
prob-lemofgettingbackup.Also,evenifthebodyhadsurvived,theimpactwouldprobablyhavetreated
themenlikedynamitedfish.
Servobugs—waldo-controlledpseudolifevehiclesrangingfromtencentimeterstohalfameterinlength
andeightkilogramstonearlyeighthundredinweight—wereofcoursecheap,andtheywastedoneofthe
smallest and presumably sturdiest in a test drop over the edge. It did not survive, but the sacrifice was
consideredworthwhile.
AtthispointSenatsumadeanotherreport,changingBen’splansandfrustratingseveralxenobiologists.
Jellyseal had passed out of the sunlit zone, and seemed to be having trouble finding its way. Guidance
informationhadbeensentfromNestasbefore.
Thistimeitwasnotfollowed.
Requeststo stopandperform specificmaneuversto show thatNest’smessageswere being receivedalso
wentunheeded,oratleastunanswered.
Ben, knowing his personnel, promptly suggested that Quarterback drop its pres-ent mission and try to
intercept the tanker. After all, things might as well be official, and the husbands would certainly do this
anyway. Senatsu and her helpers would do their best to provide guidance starting from the runabout’s
currentposition.
Therewasnoneedtogo backto Nestfor supplies,since allthe vehicleshad fullrecycling capacityand
adequateenergysources.KnowingthishaddiscouragedCloudfromeventhinkingofsendinganyonebut
the two husbands. Upon hearing of the new behavior, and without even waiting for the first guidance
messages, Erni swung their vehicle Hoteast—a quadrant to the right of the line toward Hotpole — and
slanted away from the scarp. Haste was not exactly a priority with the two drivers, since they would be
manydaysonthewaywhateverthemachinedrivenbytheirwivesmightdo,buttherewouldbenodelay.
Worrywasbackincharge.
The geodesic connecting the two vehicles of course no longer crossed into Hotside, rather to Ben’s
annoyance.Hewantedmoredetailedinformationabouttheproblemsofdrivinginsunlight,foruseinfuture
missionplanning.Hisnature,however,waspracticalaswellassympathetic,andhemadenosuggestionto
eitherSenatsuortheQuarterback’sdriversaboutslantingabittotheleftifopportunityoccurred.Twoor
threetimesinthenextweekshehadbriefhopesthattheonlypracticalpaththemapperscouldfindmight
leadalittlewayintosunlight,buteachtimehewasdisappointed.
ErniandNicwerenot.Theywereworried—stillnowordfromtheirwives—andfrustratedasSenatsu
guided them through a maze of hillocks, around obsta-cles organic and topographical, past puddles and
lakesofunknowncomposition,andonceforoverfiftykilometersparallelingacliffaboutashighassilicate
rockcould be expectedtoliftagainst Halfbaked’s gravity. She hadwarnedthem against gettingwithina
kilometeroftheedgeofthisscarp;theywereonthehighside,andtherewasnowayoftellingwhetheror
whenthetonnageofQuarterbackcombinedwiththefantasticallyrapiderosionbythefluoride-richwind
and rain would trigger collapse of the whole section of landscape. Being part of a seven-gee landslide
wouldnotbenoticeablybetterthanbeingunderone.Shehadonlyusedtherouteatallbecauseitoffered
tensofkilometersofrelativelyflatsurfacewhichwouldpermitmaximumspeed;and eventhen, sheand
CloudhaddebatedtheideaforsometimewithNicandErnioutofthecommnet.
Noonefeltverymuchbetterwhen,sometenhoursaftertheQuarterback’spassage,thecliffdidcollapsein
fourorfiveplacesasfarinastherunabout’strack.
“Iwonder,”NicremarkedwhenBenrelayedthisinformation,“whetherI’llyieldtotemptationafewyears
fromnow.It’dbesoeasytoturntenhoursintotensecondswhenI’mtellingaboutthistothekids.”
Thenof course itwastoo late tobitehistongue off.Erni, whowasdrivingat the time,said nothing for
severalseconds;thenhisonlywordswere,“I’msureIwould.”
TheJellysealwasmakingpoorprogress,accordingtothesatelliteobservations.Timeandagainsheseemed
tohaveheadedintoadead-endpathandhadtobacktrack.Oneencouragingfactwasthatthesamemistake
wasnevermadetwice;itlookedasthoughthedriverswereonthejob.Noonecouldyetbelievethatthe
followingofthe earlierinstructionhad beencoincidence, sothe generalideawasnowthatwhateverhad
gonewrongearlierwiththetanker’stransmittershadnowspreadtothereceiversaswell.
What this might be seemed unknowable until the machinery could be checked at first hand; all the
communication gear in every vehicle on the planet was multiply redundant. Disabling it should take
deliberateandeitherhighlyskilledorsavagelyextensivesabotage.
Noonecouldsuggestaplausibleorevencrediblemotiveforeitherthedriversorthenativestodosucha
thing,anditseemedhighlyunlikelythatthelatterwouldhavetherequisitespecificskillsinspiteoftheir
obviousfamiliaritywithmicrowavetransmission.Knowledgeofprinciplesdoesnotimplyabilitytodesign
orrepaircomplexunfamiliarequipment.
But the tanker remained silent and apparently deaf, though it continued to move as though guided by
intelligence.
“At least,” remarked Erni after they had received another report from Senatsu that their target was once
more backtracking, “They’re not forcing us to make changes in our path. If the girls had actually been
makingheadwaybackhome,we’dhavehadtochangeourownheadingallthetime.”
“Comeon,youngman,”cameSenatsu’sindignantvoice.“Don’tyouthinkI’dhavebeenabletoworkouta
reasonableinterceptforyou?Iwouldn’thavekeptyouheadingforwheretheywereatthemoment.Iknow
you’reworried,butdon’tgetinsulting.”
Shewasnotreallyindignant,ofcourse,andErniknewit,andsheknewErniknewit.Theartoftryingto
keeptheyoungster’smindoffhistroubleswasnowbeingwidelypracticedatNest.Itwasluckythatmost
ofthedivergentlyplannedhelpeffortshadtofunnelthroughoneperson.
InawayErniknewallthat,too.Oddlyenough,theknowingdidhelp.Peoplemayresentpity,buthonest
sympathyisdifferent;itlacksthecondescension.
MaybethatwaswhysofewpeopleseemedtofeelthatDominicneededhelp,too.
Actually,theeffortswerenotreallynecessarymostofthetime.Thejourneyitselfwasfarfromboring.
Thebasicneedforconstantalertnesswhenrunningathighspeedacrosspoorlyknowntopographyleftlittle
timeforunrelatedthoughtswhileonduty,andcausedenoughfatiguetoensuredeepsleepbetweenhitches.
The world itself was different enough from anything familiar to human explorers; it took much of the
attentionnotneededforguidingtherunabout.
Notallofthedifferenceswereobvioustotheoperators.Powerconsumptionofthevehicle,forexample,
recordedatNest,indicatedthatitspentovertwothou-sandkilometersclimbingonesideanddescendingthe
otherofathree-kilometer-highdome;NicandErniheardonlyindirectechoesoftheargumentsasscientists
triedtomatchthisinformationwiththatfromsatellitesandseismograms.
The assumption that the world had a nearly equipotential surface, with strength of crustal materials
essentiallymeaningless,waspresumedtobeeventruerherethanonanymerelyone-geeplanet.Thedrivers
hadnot noticed the changes in actual power neededtokeepagivenspeed; they merely knew they were
threethousandkilometersclosertowheretheywantedtobe.
They could tell, of course, when it was possible to keep a given speed; only rarely was the way open
enough—andwhenitwas,theyhadtobeevenmorealertforthestrangethingswhichmightchangethat
happystate.
Once, and once only, was there an animal, a definitely living thing moving sluggishly across their path
leavingatrackentirelystrippedofvegetation,largeandsmall.Therewasnowaytoseeitsunderside,and
hence no way to tell whether it was traveling on short legs —which would presumably have had to be
numer-ous—or,thoughno trailwasvisible,somethingliketheslimetrackofagastropod.Thebiologists
did manage this time to get a plea through Ben’s near-censorship. They wanted the Quarterback just to
changecoursetheslightestbitandrollthethingoverenpassant,andleaveaservobugortwotoexamineit
moreclosely…
Thedriverswerenotsuretheirvehiclecouldrolloversomethingaboutitsownsize,andevenlesscertain
thatthecreatureitselfcoulddonothingaboutitiftheytried.Theypromisedtomaketheeffortwhenthe
presentemergencywasended,preferablymuchclosertopossiblehelpfromNest,anddroveon.Thebugs
werecontrollablefromonlyashortdistanceinthebiologicalstatic.
Thedebatewaspickedupbythenatives,whowantedtoknowwhat“animal”meant.Noonecouldexplain
withtheavailablesymbols.Thiswasnotsurprising;butduringthenexthourNicandErnisaw,swooping
aroundtheir vehicle,objects which lookedlikethe familiarblowing bitsofblack paper atadistance but
which,seen close to, were clearly gliders —tossing, banking, and whirling in the wind as though barely
undercontrol,butclearlyaircraft.ThiswasdulyreportedtoNest.Thereport,presumablydetectablebythe
natives,elicitednocommentfromthem.
Quarterbackwasnowalittleclosertothesunlitslightly-more-than-hemisphere(thestarcoveredfourteen
degrees of sky). The generally active tectonics had not changed significantly, but the air was decidedly
warmerandtheplants,possiblyinconsequence,moreluxuriant.Nothingresemblingleaveshadbeenseen
yet,againunlesstheapparentlycharredblowingsheetsqualified,andtherewerebetsamongthebiologists
onwhethersuchorganswouldbepresentevenunderdirectsunlight.ThedriversofJellysealhadfailedto
report any, but this meant little when one considered the planet’s area. Special enlarged organs for
interceptingstellarenergydidseemabitsuperfluouswiththestarscarcelyatwentiethofanastronomical
unitaway.However,consideringtheillogicalstructureofvertebrateretinae,therewasnopredictingallthe
oddpathsregularevolutionmighttake.
Cloudmadefewrequestsofthehusbands,nomatterhowurgentlyhishaloofresearchersbegged.Hedid
passontothemthesuggestionthatmoreandbiggerplantsmightmeanmoreifnotbiggeranimals,butleft
any changes in driving policy up to them. They made none; they were already as alert as human beings
couldwellremain.
The final two-thousand-kilometer segment of the run was frustrating, over and beyond the general
annoyancebuiltupovertwenty-twodaysofunbrokendriving.Themenwere,inwhatnowmightalmostbe
calledstraight-linedistance,lessthanthreehundredkilometersfromtheirstillmovinggoal.Theycouldnot
followa straightline; that waywas a labyrinthofseamed, faulted,brokenhills whereeventhe satellites
coulddetectalmostconstantrockfalls.TheQuarterbackwouldnothavetobehitbyarock;awheelbarrow
loadofsandcouldputherinstantlyoutofcommission,andhelpwasnowtensofthousandsofkilometers
away.Therewasnooptionbuttogoaroundtheregion.Senatsuwasapologeticaboutnothavingseenthe
details sooner, but she was easily forgiven; her attention had been confined by their own needs to areas
muchclosertothetravelersfornearlyallthetrip.
Ernirespondedtothenewswitharatherroughjerkatthesteeringcontrols;hispartnerfullysympathized
butmadethesignaltochangedrivers.Theyoungermanhadenoughself-controltoobey,andtherunabout
setoffinanew directionwithJellysealnowofftowardits left rear. The sky anditsomnipresentclouds
flickeredevenmorebrightlythanusual,asthoughinsympathy—orperhapsde-rision.Fortunately,neither
driverhadreachedthestateofpersonalizingthein-differentworld.Nooneevenconsideredhowclosethis
statemightbe.
Itwouldnotofcoursehavebotheredtheplanet,butcouldeasilyhavedistortedimportantjudgments.
Cloud,whosetelemetryhadofcoursereportedthemomentofroughdriving,wasalittleworried;butthere
seemednothinghecoulddo,andnothingheshouldsay,aboutthematter.
The two thousand kilometers took three infuriating days, though the last few hours were eliminated by
Jellyseal’sluckily,thoughapparentlyfortuitously,movingtoamoreaccessiblespotandactuallystopping
foratime.
Thepausemighthavebeenduetoherbeinginthecenterofatwenty-kilometernearlycircularhollow—
almostcertainlynotanimpactcrater—witheightdifferentnarrowvalleysleadingfromit.Shehadalready
exploredtwoofthese,accordingtoSenatsu,andbeenforcedtoturnback;maybethedriversweredebating
whichtotrynext,Bensuggested.
Neither husband could believe this for a moment. They knew their wives would have planned such a
programmuch earlier. The faces behindtheir breathing masks were now grim. They madeno answer to
Cloud,butErni,nowdrivingagain,sentthemzigzaggingatthehighestpracticalspeedalongarock-littered
canyonwhichSenatsuhadassuredthemwouldleadtothehollow.Nicdidnotobject.Thesoonertheywere
outfrombetweentheloomingeighty-meterwalls,thebettertheirchanceoflivingtosee
—
Whatevermightbetheretobeseen.Thesatelliteimageswere,afterall,onlycomputerconstructs.
Rocksfell,ofcourse,butcontinuedtomiss.Neithermanhadanyillusionsabouthowmuchofthiswasdue
to driving skill, but neither gave it much con-scious thought. The canyon opened into the valley twenty
kilometersahead.
Fifteen.Ten.Five.
Theywerethere,andneitherevenfeltconsciousreliefasthethreateningcliffsopenedout.Theycouldnot
atoncespotthetanker,andstoppedtolookmorecarefully.
Thetroublewasthatnoneofthevehicle’slightswereon.Deeplightsmightofcoursebeoutbecauseitwas
notmoving, butthe floods,andthe smallerbut sharpandclear runningandidentity-patternlightswhich
shouldhavebeenonweredark,too.Itwaslong,longmomentsbeforeErniperceivedthetanker’soutline
againstthefaint,flickering,andcomplexilluminationofthelightning-litback-ground.
Hepointed,andDominicnodded.Theyoungermanhadbeendrivingthroughthevalley,butnowNictook
overandapproachedtheirmotionless,lightless,andpossibly—probably?—lifelessgoal.Erniwascalling
franticallyintotheshort-range multiwavecommunicator.Neither wassurprisedatthelack ofananswer;
franticwasabetterword.
Tracks,wheels,andmuchofthelowerbodyofthetankerwerecrustedwithsomethingwhite,butthemen
paidonlypassingattentiontothis.
Thereshouldatleasthavebeenlightcomingfromthecockpit.Therewasn’t.Somethingelsestrangeabout
thewindows seizedtheattentions ofbothmen, but theQuarterbackwas within fifty meters of the other
machinebeforethisgotthedoorofconsciousnessopen.
Lightsinsideornot,thewindowsshouldhavebeenvisibleasmorethandarkslots.Anythingtransparent,
silicateornot,reflectssomeofthelighttryingtogetthrough.
But the sky, which was a good deal brighter than the ground, was not being reflected from Jellyseal’s
windows.Theywerelightlessgapsinthenot-very-brightupperbody.Andthereasonnowbecameclearto
bothobservers,drowningoutthescreamingdenialsofhope.
The windowpanes were not there. Maybe, of course, the occupants weren’t there either, but where else
couldtheypossiblybe?Andmoreimportant,whereelsecouldtheypossiblybealive?Whatbesideslocal
air was in the tanker’s cockpit? Even Dominic, with the means of looking waiting at his fingertips, had
troublemakingthefingersact.
But they did, slowly and much less surely than usual. He slipped into waldo gloves, and a servobug
emergedfromtherunabout.Briefly—perhapslessbrieflythanusual—itcheckedoutitslimbsandlights,
andmadeitswayacrosstothetanker’srelativelymonstroushulk.
Itcouldclimb,ofcourse.TherewereholdsontheoutershellsofallNest’svehicles,thebughadgrasping
attachmentsonits“legs,”andthemachineshadbeendesignedandgrowntobeusedinrescuetechniquesas
well as more general operations. It made its rather fumbling way up Jellyseal’s front end, and finally
reachedtheopeningswhichhadonceheldbarriersintendedtokeepintheflo-tationwater,keepoutoneof
thefewenvironmentsintheknownuniversemorecorrosivethanEarth’s,andstillletlightthrough.Nicwas
guidingthelittlema-chinebywatchingitfromwherehewas.NotevenErniaskedwhythebug’sowneyes
hadnotbeenactivatedyet.
Yes,thewindowpanesweregone.Yes,thebugcouldclimbinsidewithnotrouble.Yes,thelastexcusefor
notusingitsownvisionpickupswasgone.Withoutlookingathispartner,Nicturnedonthebug’seyesand
hisownscreen.
It could not at once be seen what was in the cockpit. Nothing human showed, but that might have been
becausevisionreachedlittlemorethanameterintothechamber.Itwasblockedbyaseeminglypatternless
tangleoftwistedbranches,rangingfromthethicknessofahumanmiddlefingerdowntoratherthinstring.
The colors filled the usual range for Halfbaked vegetation, from very dark maroons and browns to dead
black.
Thestuffwasverybrittle,farmoresothananythinglivingshouldhavebeen.Nictriedtogetfartherinside.
The bug, under his waldoed direction, reached out to one of the thicker stems and tried to use it as a
climbingsupport.Severalcentimetersofthegrowthvanishedindustandthemachineoverbalancedandfell
into the cockpit. It left an elevator shaft as it pulverized its way to the floor, and Nic had to go through
cleaningroutinesasblackdustslowlysettledthroughthedenseairaroundanduponhismechanicalagent.
Both men were now watching the relay screen, but things weren’t much im-proved. The bug was still
surroundedbythetangle,andasitmovedslowlyacrossthefloorkeptsmashingitswaythroughathree-
dimensionalfabric of seeminglycharredgrowths.The stuffwas brittle, but not really frail. A significant
push,comparabletothebug’sweight,wasneededactuallytobreakthethickestofthebranches.Itwasonly
whentheybrokethattheywenttopowder.
ThecockpitwasfarlargerthanthatoftheQuarterback,morethanfivemetersacrossandeightlong,andit
wasmanyminutesbeforemostofthefloorhadbeenexamined.Thebugwasnowmovingaroundunderan
artisticallytangledceilingtwentycentimetersorsohigh,supportedbymanypillarsofunharmedbranches.
It left tracks as it went in a two- or three-millimeter-thick layer of black powder containing many short
fragmentsofthebranches.
There was no sign of a human form, living or otherwise, anywhere on the floor, but there was all the
evidence anyone could ask that the tangle above could never have supported a human body in the local
gravity, and flotation water was gone. Erni finally reported this aloud, his voice as expressionless as he
could make it, and summarized the observations forcing this conclusion. Ben acknowledged and opened
channelsforeveryoneatNest.
“We want to look farther, not consult!” Nic objected. “There ought to be some sort of indication what
happened.Wheredidthewindowsgo,anyway?”
“They’dprobablybethefirstthingstogiveiftherefrigerationfailedandthewaterboiledsuddenlyoverin
thedaylight,”Cloudpointedoutreluctantly,“unlesssomeonewhoknowsthestructurebetterdoesn’tthink
so.Speakupifanyonedoes.Anyway,itseemsbetterforyoutobringthetankerbackhereforreallyclose
checking,andifatallpossiblenotspoilanymoreevidenceinthecockpit.Thegrowthsyoureportedseem
to be very frail, and therefore different from the ones we’ve seen, and it would be better if there were
somethingbesidespowdertobeexaminedhere.Don’tthinkwe’reforgettingaboutthegirls,butifthere’sto
beanyhopeoflearningwhathappened,weneeddata.Youcanseethat.”
“Wecanseeit,”retortedtheyoungerdriver,“buttherearestillitemswe’dliketoexamineourselves.”
“What?Therewasonlythatonecompartmenttheycouldhavelivedin.Thewholerestofthemachinewas
paraffintank,withitscontentsmeltedwaxforthelastpartoftheirtrip,andpresumablynativeairforthe
return—unlessyouthinkitwasevacuatedwhenthecargowasunloaded,andyou’dhaveseenifitwere
flattened.SowouldSen.Whatdoyouthinkyoucanfind,anyway?You’renotsetupformicroscopicor
high-classchemicaltesting.”
“Wecouldfindleaks,iftheywerebigenoughto—tomakethingshappensoquicklytherecouldn’tbeany
alarmsentback.”
“I’dthinksmallones couldhavewreckedcommunicationbeforethey knewanythingwaswrong.Butall
right,I’lltakeitonmyresponsibility—goaheadandlookforleaksbetweencockpitandtank,butdoleave
somethingofthestuffyou’vebeensmashingupforpeopletostudy.”
“Allright.ButhowdoyouexpectustogetJellysealbackwithhercockpituninhabitable?There’snoway
forustorefillitwithwaterevenifwecouldresealthewindowopenings.”
“We’reworkingonthat.Goaheadandmakeyoursearch.”
Themenobeyed,Ernirathersullenly,Nicmorethoughtful.Thefloorandrearbulkheadofthecockpitand
therearthirdofeachsidewallwerebetweenlivingchamberandcargospace,sotherewasalargeareatobe
examined.Howthiscouldbemanagedwithoutdestroyingallcontactbetweenwallsandbrancheswasnot
veryevident.Humanremainsarelargeenoughsothatthefirstsearchhadleftmanycolumnsofundamaged
vegetationstilltouchingthefloor,buttoexaminethewallsforpinholesorevennailholeswouldbeanother
matter. Nic thought for two or three minutes before trying anything, his partner waiting with growing
impatience.
“Youknow,”Yuccasaidslowlyatlast,“iftherewasactuallyaleakbetweencockpitandtank,wouldthe
windowshaveblownout?There’salotofvolumebackthereforsteamtoexpandinto,evenifitwasnearly
full of wax. There were several cubic meters full of local air to allow for the paraffin’s expanding as it
warmed,whetheritmeltedornot.”
“Istillwanttolook.”
“Iknow.Idon’twanttogiveupeither.Butthink.Whateverchancethegirlshaveofbeingalive,it’snoton
boardthatmachine.Thenativescouldhave—“
“Youmeantheymighthave.Butwouldtheyhaveknownhow?Couldwekeeponeofthemaliveanywhere
nearNest, when wehaveno idea aboutwhattheyneed — exceptmaybein temperature?Andifthey’re
alive,whyhaven’ttheycalledus?”
Dominicgesturedtowardthetankerafewmetersaway.“Whatwith?Doyouthinkanyofthecommgearis
stillinworkingshape?”
“You two find that out, pronto,” came Ben’s voice. “There’s a good chance, the design crew thinks. If
enoughofitworksyoucanusethebugthat’sintherenowtohandleit.Youfindoutwhetheritcanstillbe
settoreceiveshort-rangestufffromyou,orifthecontrolsareinshapetobehandledbythebugitself.
Inonecase,itmaybepossibletosetupforJellytofollowyoubyhomingontransmissionfromyourcar.
Intheother,it’llbealotharder,butoneofyouusingthebug’shandlersshouldbeabletodriveJellywhile
theotherrunsQuarterback.That’llbealmightyslow,sinceyou’llhavetostoptorestprettyofteninsteadof
swappingoff,butitshouldbepossible.”
“But—”startedErni.
Cloudspokemoregently,andmuchmorepersuasively.“Youbothknowmostofwhatlittlechancethereis
thatthey’realiveisifthey’resomewhereunderthesun.Wedon’tknowjusthowsmartthesenativesare,
butrememberthattheygotintouchwithus,afterhearingoursatelliteandvehicletransmissions.
Let’sgetthatmachinebackhereandfindoutwhatwecanfromit.Eveniftimeiscritical,andIcan’tsayit
isn’t,aren’ttheoddsbetterthisway?Wecantrytoaskthenatives,too,thoughalotoflanguagelearning
willhavetocomefirst,Iexpect.”
“Howdoyouknowtheoddsarebetter?”Erniwassnappingagain.
“Idon’t,ofcourse,”Benmaintainedhissoothingtone,“buttometheyseembetterwithawholepopulation
ofsmartpeopleworkingonfindingoutjustwhatdidhappen.”
Nicnoddedslowly,invisiblytoCloudbutnottoErni.
“Isupposethatmakessense.”
“Somethingelsemakessense,too,”Erniaddedgrimly.
“What.”
“Triciagottheideathatthenativeswerepleasedwiththevarietyofhydrogencompoundswe’dsupplied.
Iwonderjusthowbigavarietytheygot.”
“AndIpointedout that the tanker did have a lot of differenthydrocarbons, which I think the locals call
carbonhydrides,”Niccounteredinstantly.Therewasatleastaminuteofsilence.
“Allright.We’llbringitbackifwecan.ButI’dliketoknowonething,ifTriciacandecodeitfromthe
localstatic.”
“What?”askedBen.
“Dothelocalsknowwhatwateris,oratleastdotheyhavearecognizablesymbolforiteveniftheycallit
oxygenhydride,and—didtheythankusforany?”
Again there was a lengthy pause while implications echoed silently around in human skulls. No one
mentionedthattherequestwasfortwothings;itdidn’tseemtobethetime.
“She’lltrytofindout,”Benansweredatlast,inasmatter-of-factatoneashecouldmanage.
“Okay.We’llgooverJelly’scontrols.”Dominic,too,triedtosoundcalm.
Thecontrolsdidseemtobeworking.Thiswasnotasstartlingasitmighthavebeen;allsuchequipment
wasofsolid-statedesignandimbedded—growninto—thestructuresofthevariousvehicles.Theremight
be mechanical failure of gross moving parts, but any equipment whose principal operating components
were electrons stood a good chance of standing up in Halfbaked’s environment as long as diamond or
siliconwerenotactuallyexposedtofluorine.
Thereseemed,however,tobenowaytosetupthetanker’ssystemsimplytohomeonaradiationsource,
moving or not. No one had foreseen the need when the machine was designed. The closest thing to an
autodriverinanyofthevehicleswasthegeneral-shutdowncontrol.Therewerenosmoothpavedhighways
withguidingbeaconsorburiedrailsontheplanet.Whilesystemsabletoavoidtheordinaryrunofobstacles
onanordinaryplanetwerepartofthecommoncultureandcouldhavebeenincorporatedintheHalfbaked-
builtmachines,thesewereexploringvehicles.Avoidingobstacleswassimplynottheirbasicpurpose.Ithad
beentakenforgrantedthattheywouldbeoperatedbycurious,intelligentpeoplewhohadastandardsense
ofself-preservationbutwouldbewillingtotakeriskswhenappropriate.
ThatlefttryingtodriveJellysealwiththehandlingequipmentofaservobug.Thisprovedpossiblebutfar
fromeasy,andevenErniagreedthatanhourortwo’spracticeintheopenareawasprobablyagoodidea.
Withsomeconfidenceestab-lishedbyboth,DominicsenttheQuarterbacktowardthevalleybywhichthey
hadenteredwhilehisyoungercompanion,lookingthroughtherearwindowofthecockpit,concentratedon
keepingthelargervehicleafixeddistancedirectlybehindthem.
Hewasfeelingprettyconfident,almostrelaxed,bythetimetheentrancenar-rowedbeforethem.
With a brief exchange of one slightly questioning and one somewhat shaky “Okay” they entered the
passage,veryconsciousthatevenatitsemptyweightthelargervehiclewasmuchbetterabletoshakethe
wallsdownonthemthanwastheirownrunabout.Ofcourse,Jellyalsomadeabiggertarget;butpossiblya
fewdentsorevenafewholesinitsbodymightnotbecriticalnow.Ofcourseassumingthatahouse-sized
boulder with the potential energy provided by a hundred-meter cliff under seven plus gravities would
merelydentits target did seem unreasonably optimistic. Both men were optimists, even with the present
probablestatusoftheirwives,buttheywerealsoreasonable;andwhileNicdidfairlywellatconcentrating
onhisdriving,Erni’seyeskeptwanderingmuchtoooftenfromJellyseal’sbulkbehindthemtothecliffs
besideandabove.
Asearlierexperiencehadwarned,rocksdidshakeloosefromtimetotime.Itseemedverylikelythatthe
vibrationoftheirownpassagewastheprincipalcause,sincemostofthemslashedacrossthenarrowway
somewhatbehindtheQuarter-backanditscompanion.
Notquiteall.Fourtimesadeafeningbell-likeclangreachedthemen’sears,deafeninginspiteofthepoor
impedancematchingbetweentheplanet’satmo-sphereandtheirvehicle’sbody,andbetweenthelatterand
thewaterinside.Thebodiesofthemachineswerenot,ofcourse,ofmetal,buttheyhadenoughmetallic
elasticitytoringonimpact.
Jellysealwasthevictimallfourtimes.Fortunatelythemissilesweremuchlessthanhouse-sizedandJelly
seemednottosufferenoughdamagetokeepherfromfollowing.ThisfactdidnotcauseDominictorelax
untiltheywereoutofthedangerzoneandhadstartedtobacktracktheirwayaroundthePatchofFrustra-
tion,astheyhadnamedit.
Atthispoint,Bencalledagain.
“There’s a new track for you. You don’t have to go back around to the way you came. Stand by for
directions—“
“Standbyfordirections—“
“Standbyfordirections—“
Thatbecametheroutinethroughtheirwakinghoursanddaysfortheensuingweeks.Whatwithsleeptime
anddifficultiesinguidingtheir“tow,”theyaveragedlessthanseventykilometersanhour.Theweekswent
by,themonotonyrelieved by Senatsu’smessages,variations in wind and weather, and localbiology.No
moreanimalshadbeenseen,orgliders,thoughthelatterhadinspiredmuchargumentatNest.Neitherhad
anythingbeensaidaboutthepotthetwodrivershadpre-sumablywononthewayout;neithermanthought
tomentionit,andforsomereasonnooneatNestbroughtthematterup.
Themenweresimplyfartoobusytothinkverymuchaboutthemissingwomen,thoughtheycertainlydid
notforgetthem.WhenitwasreportedthatCandlegreasewasaboutready,andBensuggestedthatshebe
loadedandstartatonceforthenative“city”withanothercrew,NicandErnibothprotestedfuriously.
Theytriedtobelogical;Erniinsistedthattalkingwiththeirwivesduringthefirsttriphadgivenhimand
Nicabetterideaoftherouteanditsproblemsthananyoneelsecouldhave.Bencounteredthateveryoneon
Nesthadheardtheconversationsaswell,andifnecessarycouldreplaytherecordsofthem.Nicsupported
hispartner,pointingoutthat there had to be shades of meaninginthemessageswhich only people who
knewthespeakersreallywellcouldbeexpectedtocatch.Thiswasanunfairargumenttouseagainstthe
unmarriedCloud, but fairness was not on either driver’s mind at the moment.Benprivatelydoubtedthe
validityoftheargumentasanybachelormight,buthadnowishtobesneeredat—bymanypeoplebesides
thebereavedhusbands—forpreachingoutsidehisfieldofcompetence.
Hetriedtopointoutthevalueoftime.Niccounteredwiththevalueoffamil-iarity;heandErniwere,aside
fromMariaandJessi,theonlypeoplewhohadtraveledreallyfarfromNest.Cloudgaveupatthispoint,
agreedto wait fortheirarrival, butusedtheir own argumenttoinsistthat two additionaldrivers go with
themtogainexperience.
Erni asked pointedly, “Is Candlegrease set up to support a crew of six?” The coordinator almost gave
himselfawaybyaskingwhatsix,butmadeaquickre-covery.
“Itwillbebythetimeyougethere.”Suggestingthattherewouldprobablybenoneedtotakecareofsix
wasobviouslyunwiseandmight,justconceivably,bewrong.Humanlife,evenotherpeople’s,meansalot
tocivilizedbeings.AspecieswhichhassurviveditsWarstageandachievedstartravelpracticallyhastobe
civilized.
Benkepthisword.Thesecondtankerwasready,loaded,andsetuptokeepthewomencomfortableifthey
werefound,bythetimeErniandNicgotbacktoNest.Therewasasecondargumentwhentheyinsisted,or
triedtoinsist,onstartingoutatoncetothehotsideinspiteoftheirextremeexhaustion.Benwonthisone,
butonlybypromisingnottoletCandlegreasemovewithoutthem,soalmostanotherHalfbakedyearpassed
beforethemedicspronouncedthetwofitforthetrip.
Therehadbeennodelay,ofcourse,inexaminingJelly’scockpit,thoughthishadtobedonewithbugs.
Bringingthemachineintothegarageandfloodingitwithwatersothatlivingresearcherscouldswarminto
itwouldquitecertainlydestroyanyevidencetheremightbe.
Itwasquicklydiscoveredthatbreakingthebrittlecontentsdidnotpulverizethewholebranch,merelytwo
orthreediameterstoeachsideofthebreak.Cuttingorsnippingattwopointsfarenoughapart,therefore,
detachedanapparentlyun-damagedsection.Sincethetankwasfullofthestufftoo,therewasnoshortage.
Afterafewmistakesresultingfromfailingtocatchthemonsomethingsoftastheyfell,severallengthsof
thematerialwerebroughtinto“outdoor”labs,andbiologistsandchemistswenthappilytoworkwiththeir
bugs.
Thematerialwasnotverydifferentfromthetissuesalreadyinvestigatedfromthelocalvegetation.Itwas
rigidratherthanpliable,ofcourse,anditfinallyoc-curredtosomeonethatthestuff,havingcomefromthe
hotside,mightmerelybe frozen.Thiswaseasyenoughtotest.Asamplewas heatedup tothe probable
temperature,asindicatedbyradiationtheoryandmeasurementfromthesatellites,oftheHotpolelatitude
wherethe“city”seemedtobe.Longbeforeitwarmedupthatfar,thebranchbeingtestedwasflexibleas
rope. Several of the investigators began privately to wonder whether they might be working over the
remainsofoneoftheintelligentnatives,thoughnoonesuggestedthisalouduntilwellafterCandlegrease
haddeparted.Benhadtheidea,butdecidedtosaveit;Ernimightgetbotheredagain.
Whatbroughtthequestionintotheopenwastheobservationthatafteradayorsoathightemperature,most
ofthebranches,orroots,orvines,orwhatevertheywerebegantogrowfinetendrils.Thestuffwasstill
alive.
ThiswasquicklyreportedtoBenCloud,leavinghimwiththedecisionofhowmuchtopassontothenow
fairlydistant second expedition.Ononehand, the information wasclearlycritically important toanyone
expectingto be in direct contact withthenatives.Onthe other,NicandErnimight be uncomfortable to
learnthattheirexaminationofJelly’scontrolcompartmentmighthavedismem-beredoneofthepeoplethey
weregoingtomeet.
Or,consideringwhathadsoprobablyhappenedtotheirwives,theymightnot.Theothertwodriverswerea
married couple, Pam Knight and Akmet Jinn Treefern, and the Treeferns might keep the other two in
discussionratherthanbrood-ing mode.Benhopedthefactthattheywereshort,stocky,extremelysturdy
people from a one-point-four-gee colony world would not become important, but he was getting uneasy
overErni’spatiencelimits.
Ben was still trying to make up his mind —there was plenty of time yet before the travelers could
presumablymeetanydaysidenatives—whenanotherdiscoverywasmade.
OneofthemanyshortsectionsofbranchfromthedebrisonthefloorofJelly’scockpithadbeenpartofone
ofthesamplestobewarmedup.Ithadnotre-sponded;ithadneithersoftenednorgrownextensions.After
givingitseveraldays,firstwiththerestofthesampleandthenbyitself,ithadbeensequesteredformore
detailedstudy.
Halfbaked’slife, itwas nowknown,consistedmostlyofcarbon,with modesttracesofnitrogen, oxygen,
andheavymetalssuchasironandtitanium.Thecomplexityneededforbiologicalmachinerywasobtained
not from hydrogen bonding within and between proteins and carbohydrates but from variously sized
fullerenesandgraphitetubesflared,tapered,curved,andbranchedbyoccasionalheptagons,pentagons,and
octagonsintheirmainly hexagonalcarbon-ringnets.The“proto-plasm”wasconsiderablycoarser,onthe
molecularscale,thananythingknownbeforetohumanbiochemistry,anditspeculiaritieswerecontributing
heavilytothePh.D.-per-hourrateCloudlikedtobragabout.
Theunresponsivesegmentwasquitedifferent.Ithadafairamountofcarbonandsomeiron,buttherewas
farmoresodium,calciumandphosphorusthanhadeverbeenfoundinthenativelife,andthecarbonforthe
mostpartwastetrahedrallybonded.Ittookawhiletodiscoverthereason,andthishappenedonlywhenone
of the chemists sat back from her diffraction spectrometer and its confusing monitor pattern and took a
closenaked-eyelookatthespecimen.
Thenshecalledforamedicalhelper,whoneededoneglance.
Thebranchwasthecharredremainsofahumanlittlefinger.
ThismadeBen’scommunicationproblemmoredifficult,butinanotherway.Italsoforcedhimtofaceitat
once.Hefacedit,reportingasterselyandcalmlyashecouldtothedistantAnnie.
“But why only a finger?” tiny Pam asked instantly, before either of the now confirmed widowers could
react.Shewashonestlyandreasonablecurious,butwasquiteconsciouslytryingtoeasetheshockofthe
message for the husbands. It was not really necessary; Nic, and even Erni, had become more and more
readytofacethenewsastheweekshadwornon.“Youtwowentoverthewholefloor,squarecentimeterby
squarecentimeter,yousaid.Whydidn’tyoufindalotmore—andalotmorerecognizable?Maybeit’sjust
aswellyoudidn’t,ofcourse,butstillIdon’tseewhy.”
Dominicwasabletoansweratonce,thoughErnihadthoughtoftheexpla-nationasquickly.
“Itwassmall,andtheymissedit.”
That was all he needed to say. Even the “they” needed no clarification. Every-one in the tug heard that
much and could picture the rest. Ben Cloud and more than fifty of the Nest personnel who were in the
commlinkcoulddothesame.TheylistenedwhileDominic,insurprisinglysteadytones,wenton,“Ben,
didTriciaevergetananswertothatquestionweaskedawhileagoaboutthenativesandwater?”
“NotthatIknowof.”Cloudfoundhisvoicewithdifficulty.HehadexpectedlossesonHalfbaked,butthe
factthatnonehadoccurredinthenearlyhalfaTerrestrialyearthepartyhadbeentherehadunderminedhis
readiness.“I’lltrytofindout.Carryon.Andwe’resorry.Idon’tknowwhatelsetosaythatwouldn’tbe
purePollyanna;butyouknowwemeanit.”
“Weknow.”
“Youalsoknow,Iexpect,”Ben’svoicewasevensofter,“whyIhadanotherpairofdriverswithyou.”Itwas
notputasaquestion.Ben,aslenderhalf-gravitycolonial,didnotcommonlythinkofmuscleasuseful,but
hewasarealist.
“Yeah.Thanks.Don’tworry.Erni,timeforyoutotakeover.WestillhavethingstofindoutupHotnorth.”
Thesunwouldbestartingtoriseinanothertwothousandkilometersorso.Temperaturewashigher,though
theprincipalsurfacewindsstillbroughtchillfromthedarkside;turbulencesometimesmixedinairfrom
above,notonlycom-ingfromsunlitregionsbutheatedfurtherbycompressionasitdescended.
Dom-inicstillsometimescontributedtoErni’sfinancialsecuritywithanattemptedweatherforecast,butthe
variables he could think of were becoming too numerous even for his optimism. Motivation for such
predictions remained high; they had identified another potential trigger for landslides. Suddenly hot or
suddenly—bytwoorthreehundredKelvins—coldblastsofwindsometimescrackedoffscalesofrockby
thermalshock.Thecracks,fortunately,wereneverdeep;butthelayerspeeledoffweresometimesextensive
andtheirshatteredfragmentsdangerous,es-peciallyasthepieceswereoftenthinenoughtoblowaround.
The tank in tow was struck several times, forcing travel to cease while it was examined carefully by
servobugs, but so far damage had been confined to small dents. The one strike on Annie had caused no
damageatall,possiblybecausethetractionproblemhadforcedhertobegrownwithmuchextraweight.
Theyhadseenandavoidedthecommonpuddlesof unknown makeup, but as the sky ahead grew bright
thesebecamelargerareasandmorefrequent.Annieavoidedthem,thoughthereturningJellysealapparently
hadnot. Thewhitecrust onhertracks andlowerbody hadturnedout tobemostly cryolite,sodiumalu-
minumfluoride,regarded byGreenlandnativeson Earthasapeculiarformoficebecauseitwouldonly
meltintheflameofablubberlamp.
Itwasnowprettyobviouswho,orwhat,haddriventhetankerhomeward.Dom-inichadalreadycompared
thefateofthedriverwiththatofhiswife,buthadnotspokenaboutittoanyone.Foronething,alotofthe
howremainedtobeworkedout.Thetangleofapparentvegetationmight,afterall,havebeensomesortof
remotecontrolsystem;thisworld’splantsdidemitandreceivemicrowaves.Maybenointelligentbeinghad
beenonboard,atthat.Thiscouldalltieinwiththenatives’immediatespottingof,andbeamingsignalsto,
the satellites when these had gone into operation months before. The graphite microtubes in Halfbaked
tissueoftencirculatedmetalionsandcouldserveasantennae,amongmany,manylessobviousthings.It
seemedmoreandmorenecessary,andmoreandmoreeasytobelieve,thatthereallifewasatthesourceof
thesignals.Andmaybeoneofthegirls…
No,Don’tthinkofthat.Whateverhadhappenedtothemhadhappenedveryquickly—onecouldbelieve
that,atleast—andprettycertainlytobothofthematonce.
Butitlookedasthoughveeringaroundlakesmightnotbereallynecessary,sincetheyweregoingHotnorth
andanythingthatfrozeonthevehiclesnowshouldmeltoffagainshortly.Nicdidsuggestthis.
Pamvetoedtheideaatonce.
“Howdoweknowhowdeepthesethingsmaybe?”
“Doweneedto?We’dfloat.We’reonlytwiceasdenseaswater.”
“Thatwouldn’tmattertous,butcouldwedrive,towinglikethis?”Nichadnoanswer,andtheycontinued
tostayonsolid,ifsometimesshaky,ground.Neitheroftheothermenhadtakenpartinthedebate.
Justas they glimpsed the upper limb of the sun, a new sort of adventure eased the boredom.Theywere
threadingtheirwaythroughastandwhichlookedmuchlikethe“Saguaro”patchesNicandErnihadfound
earlier.Thegrowthswerenotalwaysfarenoughapartforthetank,andmuchastheydislikedit,therewas
sometimesno alternativeto hitting and bending pairsofthese,orsometimesbreak-ingthemcompletely.
Theywereleavingacleartrail,notthatthiswastheirmainworry.
Nicwasgladafterward,thoughhewasfartoobusyotherwisetothinkofitatthemoment,thatnoneofhis
attemptedweatherpredictionswas pending.Withnowarning atalla farstrongerwind blastthanany of
themhadexperiencedsofarmadeitselffelttothedriver.Organ-pipesbentandsnappedinalldirections.
And,thoughtherehadbeennolightning,burstintoflame.Forminutestheydrovethroughtheenveloping
blaze, making no effort to avoid anything. The mere fact that there was no free oxygen outside meant
nothing;ithadnotoccurredtoanyonetoconsiderwhattheparaffinwoulddoinunlimitedsuppliesofthis
atmo-sphere.Therewasnofreefluorinetospeakof,butthevarietyoffluorinecom-poundsactuallypresent
offeredfarmorepossibilitiesthananyofthemhadtimetoconsider.Pamjoinedherhusbandatthedriving
controls; Erni, with remarkable self-discipline, beamed a running report of what was happening for any
satellitesinpositiontorelaytoNest;Nicdeployedoneofthemoreversatileservobugsanddroveitbeside
them, ranging back and forth along the tank and looking carefully for any signs of rupture. After a few
secondsPam,decidingherhusbandneedednohelp—hewasnotattemptingtododgeanything—tookout
anotherbugandcoveredtheotherside.
Theywereoutofthestand,andoutofthefire,andpresumablyoutofdangerafterthreeorfouranxious
minutes. The wind now came strongly from ahead; Nic judged that the fire had set up a strong updraft
which was bringing in air from all directions. Erni, with no wager going, didn’t bother to disagree, and
neitheroftheothersfoundthesuggestionunreasonable.
Afewhundredmeters fromthenearestflamesAnnieandCandlegreasewere stopped and all four of the
crewmadeaslowandminuteinspectionoftugandtowusingthebugs.Therewaslittleworryabouttheir
ownvehicle;theywouldhavebeenawareofseriousdamagewithinsecondsofincurringit.Aslowleakin
thetank,however,wasanothermatter.Itwasassumedthatthenativeswereequippedtounloadtheparaffin
attheirend;theyhadbeentoldasclearlyaspossiblewhatitwas,andwouldpresumablybereadytokeep
anyoftheprecioushydrogenfromescaping.Also,theyhadmadenocomplaintaboutthefirstdelivery.
Butnoonehadtriedtofindoutwhattheparaffinitselfwoulddotolocallife.Itseemedverylikelythat
hydrogencompoundswouldbeaboutashelpfultoHalfbaked’sorganismsasfluorineonesincomparable
concentration would be to Terrestrial tissues. Also, many paraffin components were high enough in
molecular weight to sink in the local atmosphere; they would be mixed and diluted quickly by wind, of
course,butwouldn’triseontheirown.
ThetravelersremindedBenofthis,andaskedforsuggestions.Whatiftheydidfindaleak,evenasmall
one?Shouldtheycomeback,atleasttoHotlatitudeswheretheparaffinwouldfreezeagain?
“I’llhavetoaskaround,”wasallthecoordinatorcouldsayaftersomesecondsofthought.“Getalongwith
yourinspection,andletusknow.Fornow,we’llassumetheworst.”
“Whatwouldthatbe,toyou?”askedErni.
“That you’re leaking so badly there’s no way of getting any of your load to where it’s supposed to be
delivered.Thatwouldmakethedecisioneasy,butIhopeitisn’ttrue.”
Sodidthecrew,buttheywerestillcareful.
Therewerehalfadozenpatchesofliquidnearandunderthetank,butthereweretwosimilaronesnearthe
tug, and several more within a few tens of meters. There seemed no reason to suppose they were
hydrocarbons,sincetheyseemedneithertobeevaporatingnorreactingwiththenowquitehotair,butthey
were watched carefully for several minutes, especially those under the tank. At Nic’s suggestion, they
moved the vehicles a hundred meters to an area where no puddles could be seen, and waited for more
minutes.
Nothingdripped.Nopuddlesformed.Nothingseemedtobeleaking.ThiswasreportedtoCloud.Hehad
hadtimethink,orsomeonehad,andhisanswerwas,“Checkeverybitofthetankyoucangetaneyeclose
toforthetiniestcracks,leakingornot,whichmayshow.RemembertheoneinJelly.”
“WhatoneinJelly?”askedtwovoicesatonce.
“Didn’tItellyou?No,cometothinkofit,thatjustledtomorequestions,someofthemstillnotanswered.
Wethinkweknowwhathappened,now.Therefrig-eratorsmeanttokeeptheparaffinfromboilingwhen
the surroundings got really hot did a good job, but when the liquid was drained, we suppose by the
customers,thetanknaturallyfilledwithlocalair.Someofthis,maybesulfurtrioxide,formedfrostonthe
coils and insulated them, so air at its regular temperature — eight or nine hundred Kelvins or more,
dependingonthelocalweather—sweptinandhittherearbulkheadofthecockpit.Thiswastoothick,it
turnedout.”
“Toothick?”Thereweremorethantwovoicesthistime.
“Toothick.Athinglasswillhandlehotwashingfluidbetterthanathickone.Thebodycompositionofthe
vehiclesisasstrongaswecouldmakeit,butit’salsoaverypoorheatconductor,asintended.Itbentin
towardthecockpitjustalittleunderthepressure,andthataddedtothermalshocktostartaU-shapedcrack
intherearbulkheadfromfloortofloor,andstraightalongthefloor,framingabouttensquaremeters.The
areawaspushedintothecockpitmomentarilybytheatmosphericpressure,farenoughtoopenagapmaybe
one or two centimeters wide all around. The support water, or enough of it, boiled almost instantly, the
windowsblewout,and thesteampressureslammedthe flapback whereithad comefrom sotightlythe
crackwaspracticallyinvisible.”
“Andyounevertoldus?Whynot?”askedPam.
“Well,itcouldn’thappentoyou.Yourlivingspaceisn’teveninthesamevehiclewiththecargo.Onepoint
forthetowingidea.”
“Andseveralpointsminusforkeepingusinthedark!”
“We’llcheckforcracks,”addedDominic,assteadilyashecould.Theyallturnedtheirattentionsbackto
thebugs.
Thefirehadalmostcompletelydiedout.SohadthewindfromHotnorth.Dominic,glancingawayfromhis
workoccasionally,sawthatthepillarofsmokewasshearedcleanlyat,hejudged,nearlyakilometerabove,
withthehigherpartwhippingbacktowardHotsouth.Itwashighenoughtoglowforsomedistanceinthe
sunlightagainst an unusually dark and cloud-free sky. He was tempted to try another weather guess, but
firmlyturnedhisattentionbacktoCandlegrease’sbody.Socrackscouldbereallyhardtosee…
Hard,orimpossible.Nonewerefound,butnoonecouldbequitecertain.Absenceofevidenceisnot—
They drove on into heat and sunlight, more silently than before, with a bug following on either side, its
operatorconstantlyscanningthetank.MorewordswerespokeninthenextfewhoursbySenatsuwithher
guidanceinformationthanbyallfourofthetugcrewtogether.
Noonewasexactlyinapanic,ofcourse,buteveryonehadenoughsensetobeuneasy.ErniandNicwere
morerelaxedthantheTreefernsnow.Atleasttheyseemedtobe.
“Opengroundforaboutthirtykilos.”
Ninetyminutesofsilence.
“Whatlookslikeacompressionfoldacrossyourpathtenkilosahead.Twopossiblepasses.Thewideris
fourkilostoyourright.Turntwenty-twodegreesrighttothirty-seven.”
Theplanet’smagneticfieldwastoodistortedtoprovidereliabledirection,butenoughofthesunwasnowin
sighttoindicateHotnorth—andmakedrivingintoituncomfortable.Thenewheadingwasarelief.
Thewiderpasshadwallshighenoughfortheleftonetoprovideshadefornearlyahundredkilometers,a
distancewhichdidnotliftthestar’sdiscpercep-tibly.Thevalleywasnotarecentfeature;thewallsonboth
sides were greatly collapsed and eroded. Had it been much narrower the travelers would have had a
problemthreadingtheirwayamongthefallenfragments.
“Lakeeighteenkilometersahead.Stayclose toitonitsleft.” Whenthey reachedthelake, therewas not
verymuchrock-freespacetotheleftoftheliquid,buttherewaspresumablyevenlessontheotherside;the
driverstrustedSenatsu.Sheherselfwasdevelopingmoreconfidenceasreportsfromthetugkeptfillingout
herinterpretationsofthesatelliteradar.
Shehadn’tspottedthevegetationwhichgrewdenselyalongtheshore,butthisgavenorealtrouble.Erni
andNic thought of die fire now far behind, but therewas no sudden downdraft this time. There was, as
usual,lightning.
“Itcouldhappen,”Dominicremarked.“Therightwallisprettyhigh,andwindflowingoveritwoulddrop
sharplyandheatupbyadiabaticcompression—“
“Howmuch?”
ItwasAkmetwhoaskedthistime,butNicdeclinedtobet.Erniwonderedwhetherhisfriendwasactually
learning,orsimplydidn’twantintrudersintheirfriendlygame.Hesaidnothing;hewasdriving.
Betorno,therewasnofire,andeventuallytheHotnorthendofthelakecameinsight.
“Headrightalongtheshore.”
ErnistartedtoobeybeforerealizingitwasnotSenatsu’svoice.Thiswasnottoounusual;theYoshihashis
shared the muscular fitness supplied by constantly fighting water’s inertia, but even they had to sleep
sometimes.
“Who’son?”Erniasked,beforerealizingthatthevoicewasn’thumaneither.Theanswerwasunexpected.
“What?” This was Senatsu, recognizable even through the biological static, now familiar enough to be
tunedoutfairlywellbythehumannervoussystem.
“Whojusttoldmetoheadright?”
“Noone.You’reinfineshape.”
“Youdidn’tsendthemessage?Orhearit?”
“Neither.Repeatit,please.”
Icewalldidso.
“Thatdidnotcomefromhere,orthroughsatelliterelayineitherdirection.Isitanativevoice?”
“Turnright.Youdonotturnright.”
Pamwasquickestontheuptake,andwasfirstatthecommunicator.“Whyshouldweturnright?”
“Thesymbol‘we’isunclear.Turnrightforsafetyandinformation.”
Ernihaddoneaquick-stopbynow.
“Sen,didyouhearthat?”
“Iheardstaticonly,noneofiteitherunusualorstructured.”
Treefernglancedatherhusband,whonodded.Hissmilewasofcourseinvisible.Pamnoddedback.
“Sen,thisiswhatweheard.”Shequoted.“Now,repeatthatbacktous,please.Asexactlyasyourvoicewill
letyou,andemphaticallywordforword.”
Senatsuobeyed,mystifiedbutguessingthiswasnotimeforargumentorquestion.
Themessagepromptlycameagain,inthenewvoice,andtheobservergaspedaudibly.
“Ididhearthat!Itcamethroughthelink.”
“Ithoughtitmight.They’renotstupid,andcertainlynotslow.Erni,fireupanddowhattheysay—butkeep
yourdrivingeyespeeled!”
“Forwhat?”
“HowshouldIknow?Anything.Whatdoyouusuallywatchfor?”
Icewalldrovewithoutanswering.Ithadstartedtorain,unheraldedbyYucca,andPamthoughtofapossibly
usefulquestionfortheirnewguide.“Howfar?”
“Twenty-twopointonekilometers.”
“Sen,ifyouheardthat,trytoseewhat’sthatfarahead.”
“Sorry.Iheardit,butradarisn’tgettingthroughjustnow.”
“Commfrequenciesare.”
“True.They’renotverygoodforimaging,butI’lldowhatIcan.Standby.”
The rain grew heavier, whatever it might be composed of, and Erni slowed sharply. The voice promptly
cameagain.
“Whystop.”Therewasnoquestioninflection.
Pam answered slowly, with measured and carefully chosen words. “Not stopping. Slowing. Rain. Bad
measuring.”
“Rain.Badmeasuring,”wastheacknowledgment.Afterapause,“Norain.Eightkilometers.Notslow.”
“Eightkilometers,”answeredthewoman.“Sen,youheardthat?Canyouseewhat’seightkilos
—kilometers—ahead?”Thereweremanylistenersbynow.MostcouldguesswhyPamhadcorrectedtothe
fulllengthof thedistancelabel.Theyalsowonderedwhichformtheunknownguide woulduse thenext
timedistancewasmentioned.
TriciaFeather’svoicecamethroughtothetug.
“Muchmoreofthisandthetranslationcomputerwon’tneedmyhelp!Willi,canyouuseamathassistant?”
Noneofthetravelerspaidattentiontothis.Allwerelookingeagerlyaheadforthepredictedbreakinthe
rain.NotevenNictriedtosecond-guessthenative.
Thereallyinterestingitem,theyagreedlater,wasthattheirinformanthadal-lowednotonlyfortheirown
speedinhis,her,oritsprediction.Theraincloudshadbeentravelingmuchfasterthantankerandtug,but
theeightkilometerswasstillright.Dominicbowedinternallytosuperiorknowledgeandvowedtohimself,
ashehadseveraltimesbefore,thatErniwouldgetnomoreofhiscash.Predictionwasevidentlypossible,
butnotforamerehumanbeing.
Ormaybehecouldsetupsomesortofprivatechannelwiththenatives,andgetsomeofhismoneyback
…
Neither he nor anyone else was particularly surprised at the sudden improve-ment in communication,
thoughtherewasplentyofjoy.Thenativeshadbeenknowntoexist,hadbeenknowntobeintelligent,and
informationsupplies do build on themselves and grow exponentially. Maybe Erni’s question about water
couldbeansweredsoon…
“Lookup!”Akmetcriedsuddenly.AllexceptErniobeyed;hechosetocontinuedriving.
There were scarcely any clouds now, though a number of the blowing black objects still fluttered and
swirledabove and beside them. One, rather largerthan the rest, was dipping, swerving, and wavering in
muchthesameway,butwaslargerandhadamoredefiniteshape.
Thetugdriversrepresentedthreedifferentcolonyplanets,butallhadseendandelions,whicharealmostas
ubiquitousassodiumandhumanbeings.Theobjectlookedlikeavastlymagnifiedbitofdandelionfluff.It
hadashaftabouttwometerslong,toppedbyahaloofwind-catchingfuzzofaboutthesamedi-ameter,and
withagrapefruit-sizedblobatitslowerend.Itmusthavebeenin-crediblylighttobewind-supportedinthis
gravity.
It was moving almost as randomly as the other jetsam, but not quite. The wind-hold at its top varied
constantlyinshapeandsize.Allthewatcherssoonrealizedthatitwascontrollinghowmuchofitsmotion
wasduetowindandhowmuchtogravity.Sometimesitliftedsharply,sometimesslowlyornotatall;it
blewhorizontallynowonewayandnowanother,butmostoftenandfarthestthewayErniwassendingthe
tug.Hehadspeededupwhentherainhadstopped,butnowheslowedagaintostayneartheobject.
“Go.Travel.Notslow.”
“Wewanttoobserve,”Pamtransmitted.
“What?”askedTriciafromherdistantlisteningpost.Pamgesturedtoherhus-band,whodescribedbriefly
whatwashappening.
Theresponsewasstillterse,butcomprehensible.“Observebetterforward.Notslow.Go.”
“Let’stakeitswordforit.Goahead,Erni.Itwantstoleadustosomething,andthisthingdoesn’tseemto
beit.”
Icewallshrugged,refrainingfromcommentabout“somethings”onthispartoftheworld,andCandlegrease
lefttheairborneobjectbehindinmoments.Therewerepresumablyfourteenkilometerstogo,andthegoing
wasfairlystraight.
Itwasalessimpressivepredictionthistime;thetargetwasmotionless.
Ifthiswasthetarget.Abranchtanglesomefiftymetersacrossanduptoeightortenhigh,resemblingthe
fillingofJellyseal’scockpit,wasspreadattheedgeofthelake,separatedfromtheliquidbyameter-high
ridgeofsoilwhichmighthavebeenmadebyadozer—orshovels.Theridge—ordam?—ranstraight
alongthe lakefrontforthree dozen metersorso, with eachendbendingaway from theliquidto enclose
partiallytheslowlywrithingtangle.
“Left.Slow—leftmore—slowslow.”
“Slowing. Turning.” Pam was plainly addressing their guide. Then, “Close to the copse, Erni, I think it
means.”
“Ithinksotoo.”Icewallveeredveryslightlytotherightuntilthebigtankwasscarcelyameterfromthe
edgeofthepatchofgrowth,thenevenmoreslightlyleftsotheyweremovingparalleltoit.
“Stop.”
“That’sit,Iguess,”Nicaddedhisvoice.
“That’sit.”Theguideomittedtheman’slasttwowords.Itsintelligenceseemedtoincludeacomputerlike
memory.
“Nowwewait?”askedErni,freefromhisdriving.
“Wait.Observe.”
“Isthatdandelionseedanywherenearusyet?”askedAkmet.“That’swhat‘ob-serve’waslastusedon,asI
remember.I’dsayitwastenortwelvekilosbackbynow,unlessthewindwasreallyhelpful.”
“Observe.”
Noonehadtimetoaskwhat.Fromsomewherenearthemiddleofthecopseaduplicateofthe“seed”
poppedupwardandbegantogyrateliketheotherasthewindtookit.Itwasfollowedbyseveralothers.
All four pairs of eyes were fastened on them, some through the finders of video recorders. Akmet was
givingavocalreporttoNestinallthedetailhecould;therewasnovideocontactthroughthebiological
static even via satellite at this distance. Ben and others were asking for clarification, forcing Treefern to
repeathimselfwithadditionalwords.Hiswifeapproved;thisshouldhelpthenatives’vocabulary.
Theywereneverabletodecidewhetherthenewseedswereadeliberateattempttocapturetheirattention.
NeitheroftheTreefernsbelievedthatthenativescouldpossiblyhaveworkedoutthatmuchabouthuman
psychology,especiallyinviewofwhattheirownmindsturnedouttobelike.Nic,andevenmoreErni,were
muchlesssureofthis.Inanycase,eitheraccidentally,incidentally,ordeliberately,theirattentionwasheld
whilebrancheswrithedoutofthetangletothetankanditstugandbegantofeeltheirwayaroundandover
thevehiclebodies,amongwheelsandtreads,aroundemergencycontrolsmeantonlyforbugsandrescuers.
Bothmachineswereenvelopedinaloose,opencocoonofbranches,someofthemtwoorthreecentimeters
thick,beforeanyonenoticed.AgainthequestionlaterwaswhetherallAnnie’swindowsbeingcoveredlast
was intentional or not. After all, the natives could have inferred the purpose of windows from their ex-
periencewithJellyseal.
Erni’scryofsurpriseashesawwhatwashappeningwasfollowedbypromptstartupandanefforttobreak
outofthecocoon.Pam’s“Holdit!”precededtheguide’svoicebyonlyafractionofasecond.
“Stop.Observing.”Ernistopped,lessbecausehecaredaboutobeyinganon-humanthanbecausethebrief
effort had shown they were in no obvious danger, the branches were not nearly strong enough to fight
fusionengines.Manyofthemhadpulledapart,andtheattentionofthewatcherswasnowheldbyseeing
theserejointhemaintangle,notapparentlycaringwherethejoiningoccurred.
“Observing.Golater.”Pamspoketentatively;thenativeseizedonthenewword.
“Observe.Golater.”Erni’shandsdroppedfromthecontrols,buthisattentiondidnotreturntothegyrating
dandelionseeds.NeitherdidNic’s.Bothwonderedhowmuchofthistheirwiveshadexperienced—there
was,afterall,notellingwhenthecommunicationlinkhadbroken.
ItmusthavebeenfartherHotnorth,bothrealized.Theyhadtalkedtotheirwivesoften,ofcourse,andthere
hadbeendescriptionsoflandscapewiththesunalmostabovethehorizon.Thewomenhadwonderedwhy
clouds seemed to be as numerous, large, and dense as ever in spite of the rising temperature. Not even
Dominichadriskedaguessatthetime.
“They’rehijackers!They’replayingwithemergencydrainvalves!”Akmet,who haddeployed abug and
wasusingitseye,criedsuddenly.
“They’llbesorry,”answeredErnidryly.“Getyourbugreadytocloseanythingtheyopen.”
“Willit—they—whatever—letmecloseenough?”
“Theywon’tbeabletostopyou,I’dguess.ButI’llbereadytorollifwehaveto.”
Pamutteredjustoneword,forthebenefitoftheirguide.“Danger!”
Therewasnoansweratonce;perhapsthenativehadbeenunabletountangleherwordfromthetwomen’s
transmissions.Pamwaitedafewsecondsbeforerepeatingherwarning.Stillnoanswerfromoutside,orthe
cityahead,orwhereverthemessageswereoriginating.
“Thosethingsarebeingcontrolledbythenatives,thewaythestuffthatdrovejellywas!”exclaimedErni.
Nichadanevenwilderidea,butkeptittohimselfforthemoment.Foronereason,itseemedsilly.
Asetofmillimeter-thicktendrilshadbeenconcentratingononereliefvalve.Therewasnoinstrumenttotell
thecrew how much force was being applied, and thecockitselfwas safetied to prevent its beingturned
accidentally. The four people watched the bug’s monitor screen in fascination as the cotter pin was
straightened,workedfree,anddroppedtotheground.
Thetendrilsplayedfurtherwiththevalve,andfoundalmostatoncewhichwayitwouldmove.Theparaffin
wasnotentirelymeltedyet,thoughthetemperaturehadbeenrising;buttherewasquiteenoughliquidjust
insidethewalltofinditswaythroughtheopening.Thewatcherssawadrop,andthenseveralmore,emerge
andalmostatoncedisappearasvapor.
The results were not surprising. Pam controlled herself with no trouble — it was not yet clear whether
sympathywasinorder—andmadesurethenewwordwasunderstood.
“Danger!Danger!”
Theassociationshouldhavebeenclearenough.Therewasnoflameatfirst,butthehydrocarbonproduced
volumesofgreyandblacksmoke.Itwasanyone’sguesswhatcompounds,fromhydrogenfluorideonup,
werebeingmade.Withinsecondsthebranchesimmersedinthemappearedtostiffen;atleasttheyceased
moving.Theircolorschangedspectacularly.Noonehadseenbrightgreen,yellow,ororangeonHalfbaked
untilnow.Thebranchesthatturnedyellowdidflameamomentlaterandalsowentoffinsmoke,leavingno
visibleash.Noneofthewatcherswasachemist;nonetriedtoguesswhatmightbeforming.Akmetdidhis
besttopaintaverbalpictureforthelistenersatNest,butthiswasnotdetailedenoughforananalysis.
Therewasnoobjection,frominsideorout,whenErnijerkedthetugintomotionandpulledawayfromthe
site.Thebugstayed,buttwoofthewitnessespreferredtousethewindowswiththeirbroaderfieldofview.
Windwasspreadinganddilutingthesmoke,butthestuffwasstilldeadly;fullyaquarterofthecopsewas
nowvisiblyaffected.
“Hydrogencompounds.Danger.”Pamknewthenativeshadthefirstwordal-readyinmemory,andtookthe
opportunitytoadd“compounds,”whichmightnotbe.
“Areyouaftermyjob?”cameTricia’svoice,withnotoneofresentment.
“JustgrabbingopportunitywhileIcanseewhat’shappening.”
“Hydrogencompounds.Danger.Observed.”Thenativewasstartingtohandletenses.
“Iguesstheygrowmachinerythewaywedo.Iwonderhowmuchtimeandmaterialthattestcostthem,”
remarkedErni.Niconceagainmadenocomment,possiblybecausetherewasnotime;theirguideresumed
instructionsalmostatonce.
“Observed.Go.”
“Whichway?”askedErni.TherewasnoansweruntilPamtried.
“Right? Straight? Left?” The first and last words were known; the middle one might be inferred from
context.Perhapsitwas,perhapsthenativewastestingit.
“Straight.”
Erniobeyed.AtthemomentAnniewasheadingthirtydegreesorsowestofHotnorth,thesunaheadandto
theirright.Theyhadgoneabouthalfakilometerwhenthecommand“Right”came.Ernialteredheading
aboutfivedegrees,and receiveda repeatorderas hestraightenedout.Thiskept onuntiltheywereonce
moreheadingalmostatthetinyvisiblesliceofsun.
Onceconvincedtheyhadthedirectionright,Pamasked,“Howfar?”
“Fivethousandthreehundredtwenty-twokilometers.”
No one spoke, either in the tug or back at Nest. Senatsu had no need to point out that the distance and
directioncorrespondedtothesourceofJellyseal’slastcommunication,aswellasthenativetransmissions.
Halfbakedseemedmuchtoolargeforthistobecoincidence.Theydroveon,butthehourswerenowless
boring.
Nothingchangedsignificantlyexceptfortheslowrisingofthesunaheadofthem.Patchesofplantlifewere
sometimesnumerous,sometimescactuslike,some-timesabsent.Cloudsvariedatleastasmuch.
Theever-flickeringlightningwaslessobviousinsunlight,butdidn’tseemactuallytobedecreasing.
Quakesmadethemselvesfelt,andsometimesforcedchangesinroutenotforeseeneitherbySenatsuortheir
nativeguide.Windalternatelyroaredandwhispered,mostlyfrombehindbutsometimesgustingfromother
random directions violently enough for the driver to feel. Erni and Nic, with more experience than the
others,wonderedaloudwhatthereturnmightbelikewithamuchlightertankintow.Thethoughtofhaving
itblownfromtheircontrolwasunpleasant.Sowastheideaofballastingitwithsomelocalliquidwhich
might freeze before they reached Nest. The ad-visability of abandoning the tank was considered, both
amongthecrewandwithBen;itwould,afterall,besmallloss.
Theproblemwastableduntilthesituationactuallyhadtobefaced,withsomesilentreservationsinNic’s
mind.Hewasuneasyaboutwaitinguntildecisionwasforcedonthembyexperience,whosometimesstarts
hercourseswiththefinalexam.
The Hotnorth route became no straighter as the sun rose higher. It became evident that the distance
estimatedbytheirguidehadnotincludednecessarydetours.WheneverTriciaorPamaskedhowfarthey
hadyettogo,theanswerwaslargerthanthatobtainedbysubtractingthecurrentodometerreadingfromthe
lastadvice.
Thisofcoursemadeitmoreobviousthaneverthatthegoaltheirguidemeantwasindeedthe“city”
wherethewomen,asnoteventheirhusbandsdoubtednow,musthavedied.
Thisfactalonewasenoughtorelievetheboredom;everyone,drivingor not,remainedalert fornewand
differentphenomena.However likelyit might bethatit had occurredwhile unloading, thefactremained
thatsomethingunforeseenhadhappened.Thisisnosurpriseintheexplorationbusiness,andexplorersare
stronglymotivatedtocollectfactswhichmayassistforesight.And,ifatallpossible,tomakesenseofthem.
Time stretched on. The four were in no danger as far as food, oxygen, water, and waste disposal were
concerned —there was no shortage of energy. Neverthe-less, conversation began to deal more and more
oftenwiththenextdrying-outsession,whichwouldincludebathingfacilitiesunderonegravity.Thetiny
im-perfectionsinrecyclingequipmentweremakingthemselvesfelt.
ItwasknownfromJellyseal’sreportsthatthelasttwothousandorsokilometershadbeenonfairlylevel
groundwherehighspeedswerereasonablysafe.Itwasalsoknownthatthisfactcouldchangequicklyona
worldwithcounty-sizedtec-tonicplates.Luckily,thewarningthatithadchangedcameearly.Theoriginal
Quarterbackcrewhadexperienceditbefore,butthistimethedeeplightswerenohelp.Withthesunupand
aheadofthem,thesewerenotinuse.Onlythein-creasingintensityofthetemblorsgaveacluetowhatwas
happening.Nic,whowasdrivingwhenherecognizedit,slowedabruptly.
“Sendabugoutahead!”heorderedtonooneinparticular.“Ithinkwe’renearanotherepicenter!”
“Maybeit’sbehindus,”suggestedthewoman.
“Maybeitis,andmaybetoonesideortheother,butI’drathernottakeevenatwenty-fivepercentchance
of going over a half-meter ledge. If ground is rising ahead okay, we’ll see it in time; but I wouldn’t
guaranteetospotadropevenwithallfourofuswatching.”
Allfourwere,butitwasAkmetguidingaservobugwholocatedtheactivefault,andissuedthewarning
whichbroughtCandlegreasetoafirmhalt.
Animmediatequestioncamefromtheirguide,whoseemedtohavethemunderconstantobservationeven
thoughtheyhadneverlocatedhim,her,it,orthem.Communicationhadimprovedagreatdealinthelast
fewweeksasthenative(s)hadjoinedincreasinglyinconversationsbetweenthevehicleandNest.
“Whystopnow?”
“Danger. Scarphere.Watch.”Pam turned toherhusband. “Drive thebugoverthe edge, sotheycan see
whathappens.”
Akmetobeyed,withspectacularresults;thedropwasafullmeterandahalf.
“Nohydrogeninthebug.”
“Right.Bugsmashed.Lotsof—much—hydrogeninCandlegrease,andCandlegreasewouldsmashworse.
Youwanthydrogen,butnothere.”
“Right.”
“WeneedtopassthescarpwithoutsmashingCandlegrease.Howfarmustwego,andwhichway?”
“Howhighthescarpfornodanger?”
“Aboutfifteencentimeters.”
“Aboutunclear.”
“Notexact.Don’tknowexactly.Thatshouldbesafe.”
“Leftforty-fivekilometerstoten-centimeterscarp.Righttwenty-seven.About.”
“We’llgoright—wait.”
Ben’svoicehadcutin.“Youhaveseismicthumpersinthebughold.Howabouttryingtoflattentheslope?
Itmightsavetime.”
Ernibrightenedvisibly.“Worthtrying.Wewouldn’tevenhavetowastebugs.Threeorfoursetsofshots
shouldtelluswhetherit’llworkornot.”
Pamsaidterselytotheirguide,“Wait.Observe.”
“Waiting.”
Actually, it didn’t wait. Erni was the first to notice; Nic and Pam were deploying bugs, and Akmet was
occupiedat the communicatoraddingdetailsto the descrip-tionoftheirsurroundings — anything which
might help Senatsu in her interpre-tation of radar and other microwave observations was more than
welcomeatNest.Ernialonewaslookingthroughawindowwhenoneoftheblackishblowingobjectsagain
madeitselfnoticeable.
Itwasfarlargerthanthegeneralrunofjetsamtowhicheveryonehadgottenaccustomed.Thisonehadnot
beennoticedbeforebecause,astheynowrealized,ithadbeenridingfarhigherthantherestofthematerial,
highenoughsothatonlycarefulstudywouldhaverevealeditsshape.Nowitcamedownabruptly,inasort
offlutteringswoop,andhungafewmetersabovethewreckageofthebuginawaveringhover.Theyknew
nowthattheyhadseenit,orsomethinglikeit,before.
Ithadsurprisinglyslenderwings,whosespanErniestimatedasfullytenmeters,andwhichbentalarmingly
intheturbulenceoftheheavyatmosphere.Theysupportedacucumber-shapedbodyameterandahalfin
length, with a three-meter tail projecting from what was presumably its rear. The tail was terminated by
conventional empennage for aircraft, vertical and horizontal stabilizers, rudder and elevators. Erni’s
warning cry called the others’ attention to the arrival, and the bugs stopped moving as their operators
looked.
“Aglider!”exclaimedAkmet.“Inthisgravity?”
“Thinkoftheatmosphere,”pointedoutDominic.
“I’mthinkingstrengthofmaterials,”wasthedryrejoinder.
“Isupposethat’swherethey’vebeenwatchingusfrom,”Pamaddedthought-fully.“Itgivesussomeideaof
theirsize,anyway.Iwonderhowmanyit’scarrying.”
“Orwhetherit’sremotecontrolledlikeJelly,”Nicpointedout.Pamadmittedshehadn’tthoughtofthat.
Nowindowsorlenses,”Ernisubmitted.
“Those wings seem to have very complex frameworks. They could also be mi-crowave and/or radar
antennae,”wasAkmet’sremark,remindingtherestthatcon-clusionswerestillprematureandprovidingthe
morallyrequisitealternativehypothesis.
“Let’snotburythebug;itseemstowanttolookitover.We’llshiftfiftyorsixtymetersbeforewetryto
knockthecliffdown.”Erniactedonhisownwords,drivingtheAnnieanddragging Candlegreaseto the
rightashespoke.Nooneobjected.Threebugsfollowedwiththeirloadsofthumpers.
Thesewerenotsimplypacketsofexplosive;theyweremeanttoberecoverableandreusable,thoughthis
was not always possible. They were hammerlike devices which did carry explosive charges, and were
designedtotransmitefficientlythejoltoftheblastontheirtopstothesubstrate.Tenofthemweresetupa
meterapartandequallyfarfromthecliffedge;asimilarrowwasplacedameterfartherback,andathirdat
asimilardistance.Thebugsthenretreated—theywerecheap,butthereseemednopointinwantonwaste
—andthethumpersfiredononecommand.
Nooneexpectedthewavepatterntheysetupto be recognizable at Nest, thousandsof kilometersaway,
throughtheendlessseismicstatic,thoughthecom-puterstherewerealertedforit.Thedesiredresultwasa
collapseofthecliffface,butnoonenoticedforseveralsecondswhetherthishadhappenedornot.Asthe
chargesthundered,thewaveringmotionofthe gliderceased anditdived violentlyout ofsight,as faras
anyonecouldtellalmostontothewreckageofthesacrificedbug.Pamsawitgo,andcriedoutthenewsas
theimpactechoedtheblast.
“Watchoutwiththenextshot!Wedon’twanttoburyit!”
Itwasclearenoughtherewouldhavetobeanextshot,quitepossiblyseveral.
Thefaceofthescarphadcollapsedinsatisfactoryfashion,buttheslopeofrubblewasstillfartoosteepfor
safety.This,however,wasnotwhatsurprisedthefour.
“Burystillunclear.”
Pamrecoveredalmostatonce.Eithertheywerebeingobservedfromsome-whereelse,ortheoccupantof
thegliderhadnotbeendisabledbywhatshouldhavebeenaseven-gravitycrash,or—
Nic’sownideawasgainingweight.SowasErni’s.
“Observe new rock. Wait.” The woman’s answer to the native was prompt, and even Erni saw what she
meant.
“Observing.Waiting.”
“Setupthenextshot,boys.”
Thecliffhad crumbledfora width of sometwenty-fivemeters, toadistance varying fromtento fifteen
metersbackfromitsoriginallip.Onthesecondshotthedistancebackmorethandoubled.
“Newrockburied,”Pamannouncedwithoutbotheringtolook.
“Buryclear.”
A third set of thumpers, skillfully placed, kept the twenty-five-meter width nearly unchanged and
practically doubled the other dimension. A fourth, with Annie and Candlegrease moved farther back for
safety,leftapromisingifstillratherfright-eningslope.
Akmet, using the largest and heaviest of the available bugs, traversed this down, up, and down again,
withoutstartinganyslides.Dominicrepeatedthetestforpractice.Then,withnoargumentfromanyone,he
turnedbacktoAnnie’scontrolsandverygingerlydrovetugandtowdownthesameway.Everyonethought
oftryingthiswiththetowdisconnectedfirst,butnoonementionedtheideaaloud.Erniwantedtogetit
overwith;theotherssimplytrustedNic’sjudgment.
At the bottom, Candlegrease safely clear of the rubble, the tug stopped and everyone went to the left
windows.
Theglider’sremainscouldnowbeseeneasily.Thebodywasflattenedandcracked,thewingscrumpled,
theempennageseparatedfromtherest.Apatchofgrowingstems,twigs,andbrancheshadalreadystarted
togrowfrom,around,andthroughthewreckage,andafterafewmomentsErnibroughtthemcloser.Akmet
wasonceagainrelayingdescriptionstoNest.Theyweregivenlittletimetoreport.
“Go.Nostopneeded.”
“Right?Straight?Left?”askedPam.
“Straight.”Theywere atthemomentfacingaboutHotnorthwest.Erni,stillatthecontrols,obeyed.After
theyhadgoneaboutfiftymeters,“Right.”Hestartedtoswerve,andPammutteredsoftly,“Fullcircle.”
He obeyed, guessing at her plan, and kept turning after they were heading sunward and the voice
expostulated “Stop right.” Back at the original heading, the woman said simply, “Three hun-dred sixty
degrees.”Itworked;thenextmessagewas“Fortydegreesright.”Heobeyed,andreceiveda“Fourdegrees
right.”Inminutesthewreckedgliderandthegrowtharounditwereoutofsight.
They were now looking at the sky more often and more carefully. At least two more objects among or
beyondtheusualforegroundofblackishjetsam,objectswhichmightbeothergliders,couldnowbeseen.
Noonewassurprisedwhenanoccasional“Left”or“Right”warnedthemofotherobstacles,sometimesbut
notalwaysbeforeSenatsuprovidedthesameinformation.Thenativesbynowseemedtohaveaprettygood
ideaofwhatthehuman-drivenvehiclescouldandcouldnotdo—orgetawaywith.
Thetuganditstowsometimeshadtobeguidedaroundafair-sizedboulderwhichhadnotbeenmentioned,
butnothingreallydangerouswentunreported.
“Iguesstheyreallywantustogetthere,”Akmetremarkedatonepoint,ratherrhetorically.
“Theywanttheirhydrogentogetthere,”retortedErni.“Itwill.Don’tworry.”
“Andyoudon’tthinktheycarethatmuchaboutus?”askedPam.
“Whatdo you think?” The womanshrugged,herwet suit doing nothing toconcealthemotion. She said
nothing.
“Whatdoyouthinkofthem,Erni?”askedNic.Hewasdrivinganddidn’tlookawayfromhiswindow.
Icewall didn’t even shrug. As usual, not much of anyone’s face could be seen, but Pam gave an uneasy
glance toward her husband. He answered with a barely visible raised eyebrow. It was at least a minute
beforeanyonespoke.
Then,“Theycareaboutasmuchforusasforoneoftheirbranches,”Ernisaidflatly.
Nic nodded, his body attitude showing some surprise. “You’ve got it after all. You had me worried,” he
said.Thistimehisfrienddidshrugvisibly.Ratherunfortunately,noonechosetoprolongthediscussion.
Moretimepassed.
Theywerenowreallyclosetotheirgoal,accordingtotheirguide—”Three hundredforty-four” wasits
terseresponsetothequestion.
“Anymoredanger?”askedPam.“Gofast?”
“Nomoredanger.Gofast.”
Thedriver,currentlyAkmet,startedtoaddpower,butafterameretwenty-kphincreaseNicandErnialmost
simultaneouslylaidhandsonhisshoulders.Theformerspoke.
“That’senoughfornow.”
“Why?”
“Somewherealongheresomethinghappened.”
“Thatwasn’tuntiltheygotthere!”
“Asfarasweknow.Don’toverdriveyourreflexes.Keepyoureyeswideopen.”
“Nodangerfast.”
Ernianswered.“Observing.”Thisseemedtobeanunimpeachableexcuse.Therewasnofurthercomment
fromtheirguidesandwatchers.Anyonewhohadhopedorexpectedthattheywouldbetrayimpatiencewas
disappointed.
Therewerenowsixorsevenoftheglidersinsightmostofthetime.Theirirregularmotionmadethemhard
tocount.Pamwasalmostcertainshehadseenonestruckbylightningadaybefore,butherquestionatthe
time— “Dangerforyou? Lightning?”—had gone unanswered.Since there weretwonew wordsinthe
sentencethismighthavebeenlackofunderstanding,butalwaysbeforesuchlackhadbeensignifiedwith
the“Unclear”phrase.
Humantensionwasmounting,notonlyinthetugbutatNest,whereBenandtheotherswerebeingkeptup-
to-datebynearlycontinuousverbalreports.
Thesunwascausinglesstroublenowforthedriver.Itwasstillpartlybelowthehorizonahead,butthere
weremoreandmoreclouds;andthosenearthedistanthorizonprovidedanearlycompleteblockevenwhen
onlyasmallfractionoftheskyoverheadwasactuallycovered.Whatthecloudsfailedtohidewaslargely
behindblowingdustandotherobjects.
Mountainsseemedmuchrarer,thoughnooneassumedthisafunctionofHotlatalone.Senatsuassuredthem
it was not, that only the two or three million square kilometers around and ahead of them were any
smootherthanaverage. Shecouldnowconfirmthenative-givendistancetothe“city,”butcouldgiveno
morecom-pleteadescriptionofitthanbefore.Shewascertainnowthatitwasbesideoneofthelakes,but
hadnodatawhateveronthenatureofthefluidthisheld.Chem-istswerewaitingimpatientlyfornewson
thatpoint.
Senatsuhadtriumphantlyreportedresolvingtheareawherethetravelershaddescendedthecliff,andeven
gettinganimageofthethicketwherethegliderhadcrashed;butthis,shesaid,hadnotgrownmorethana
meterortwofromthewreck.ThismadenosensetoanyonebutNic,whostillkepthisdevelopingideasto
himself.
Theglider count continued togrow.Sodidthe number of crashes. Severaltimesthese events were seen
fromAnnie,butmoreoftenwreckagewassightedtoonesideortheotheroftheirtrack.Experiencegave
thehumanobserversawaytoestimatewhenthewreckshadoccurred;itseemedthattheplantswhichrep-
resented the remote control mechanism grew uncontrolled for a short time, then died for lack of—
something.Thenativeshadclearlynotcompletelymasteredaviation,butseemedcasualaboutitsdangers.
Acluetothenatureofthesomethingwassecuredwhentheypassedanappar-entlythrivingthicketofthe
stuffattheedgeofasmalllake.Theevidencewasnotcompletelyconvincing,sincenotraceofawrecked
flying machine could be seen in the tangle. The distant chemists at Nest were more convinced of the
implication than the four on Annie; it was, after all, almost dogma among bio-chemists that life needed
liquid;itwasasolution-chemistryphenomenon—thoughtheprecisesolventseemedlessimportant.
AtthepresentgeneraltemperaturearoundAnnie,itcouldeasilybethecryolitefoundonJellyseal.
NumerousbetswereonholdatNest.BugswentoutfromAnnietocollectsamplesfromthelake,butthere
wasnomeansofanalyzingtheseonboard.Therehadbeenalimittotheequipmentthetugcouldcarry,no
matterhowmanyenthusiastswereinvolvedinthedesign.
Themissingwomenhadbeenbetterequippedinthisrespect,buthadappar-entlypostponedsamplinguntil
aftertheircargowasdelivered.Theyhadneverreportedanycollecting.
The lightning, even among small clouds, was now almost continuous. Thunder and even wind could be
heardmostofthetime.Thecrashofonegliderwasnearenoughtobeaudibleinsidethetug;andofcourse
therain,frequentlymaterial-izingwithnoobviouscloudasasource,couldhardlybemissedasitdrummed
onthevehicle’sshell.Mostoftheliquidthatstruckthegroundvanishedalmostinstantly;noonecouldbe
surewhetheritwasevaporatingfromthehotsurfaceorsoakingintoitevenwhenanexperimentalholewas
dugbyoneofthebugs.
The explorers paused —bringing questions from their guides —to watch for results, but these were
inconclusive.Whateverwashappeningwastooquicktopermitadecision.Pammadeanefforttoaskthe
natives,butitwashardtodecideafterwardwhetherthequestionsortheanswerswerelessclear.
Tricia,backatNest,bright-enedupwhenthishappenedandgottoworkwithhercomputer,butevenshe
remainedunsureofwhathadbeensaid.
Atlastthewelcome“Onekilometer”sounded,followedafewsecondslaterby“Upslopeahead.”
Therewasindeedaslopeahead,onlyafewmetershighbutquiteenoughtohidewhatlaybeyond.Tugand
tanklaboreduptoitscrest,andwerepromptlystoppedbyPam.Herhusbandresumedreporting.
“There’saroughlyovalvalleybelowus,withalakeliketheonewheretheytestedtheparaffinbutalot
larger.Senwasright;thelakeisaboutthreequarterssurroundedbyathicketofthesamesortofplantswe
sawthere,and itsHotsouthendisdammedinthesameway.Thereare severallow, roundhillsscattered
overthevalley.Thetwoclosesttothelakearecoveredwiththebushes;alltheothersarebare.
Between the two covered ones is another bare but differently colored space extending a kilometer or so
toward the bushes and lake. The overgrown area covers about five by seven kilometers. It borders the
Hotnorth side of the lake, which is oval and about three kilometers by two, the long measure running
Hotnorth-Hotsouth.Inthebaresection,directlybetweenthetwocoveredhillsissomethinglikeawrecked
buildingaboutahundredmeterssquare.Ican’tguesshowhighitmayhavebeen.AnotherattheHoteast
edgeofthelakeseemsintact,hasaboutthesameareathoughitisn’tquitesoperfectlysquare,andhasan
intactflatroof. It’s aboutfifteen metershigh. They’retalking again;you canhear them,Isuppose.They
seemtowantusto—Erni,what’sup?”Akmetfellsilent.
“Somethingwrong?”askedBen,whiletherestofNeststoppedwhateveritwasdoing.
“You’llsee.”ItwasIcewall’svoice.HehadgentlybutfirmlysentPamdriftingawayfromthecontrols,and
wasguidingAnnietowardtheneareroftheovergrownhills.
“Thirty-fourright”camefromthespeaker.Again.Andagain.Candlegreasecontinuedstraighttowardthe
eminence.Pammanagedtosilencethenativewitharatherdishonest“Observing.”
Tugandtankdescendedthevalley,crossedthebareparttothenearerover-grownhill,climbedit,andcame
toahaltlookingdownonwhatAkmethaddescribedasawreckedbuilding.Fromthreekilometerscloser,
thereseemedstillnobetterwaytodescribeit.
TheotherthreecriedouttogetherasErnididaquick-stop.Then,donningawaldo,hedeployedoneofthe
smallestbugsandsentitbacktowardCandlegreaseonthesidetowardthelake.
Nic,knowinghispartnerbestandfarmoreexperiencedwiththeequipmentthantheothercouple,imitated
Icewall’saction;buttherewasnowayhecouldmakehisbugcatchupwiththeonewhichhadstartedfirst.
Erni’smechanicalservanttookholdofthestillunsafetiedreliefvalvewhichhaddestroyedtheotherpatch
sofarback,inthenatives’grimexperiment.
“Hold it, Erni! What do you think you’re up to?” The question came in three different voices, with the
wordsslightlydifferentineach,butwasunderstoodevenatNest.
“Don’tasksillyquestions—ordon’tyoucareaboutMaria?”
Nic’slipstightenedinvisiblybehindhisbreathingmask.
“Icarealot,andsowillthekidswhentheyhear.Butthat’snoanswer.”
Pamwasbroadcastingdeliberatelyasshecutin;shewasuncertainhowmuchthenativeswouldunderstand,
butitseemedworthtrying.“Youjustwanttokillafewthousandofthesepeopletogeteven?”
“Don’tbestupid.I won’tbekillinganyone.Thisisn’tacity,it’sonecreature.Icanpunishit—hurtit—
withoutkillingit.Icanteachittobecareful.Youknowthat,don’tyou,Nic?”
“I’m pretty sure of it, yes. I’m not sure releasing the paraffin up here won’t kill it completely. We’re at
aboutthehighestpointinthevalley,muchofourjuiceisdenserthanthelocalair,andthewindisrandom
asusual.Ifwedokillit,itmaynotbealesson.Wedon’tknowthatthereareanymoreofthesebeingson
theplanet.Wecertainlyhaven’theardfromany,andthesatellitesthisonespottedandbegantalkingtocan
beseenfromanywhereonHalfbaked.Thinkthatoneover.Alltheintelligenceofaworldfortwohuman
lives?”
Erniwassilentforseveralseconds,buthisservoremainedmotionless.Atlast,“Youdon’tknowthat.
Youcan’tbesure.”
“OfcourseIcan’t.Butit’saplausibleidea,liketheonethatthisisasinglebeing.AnythingIcandotokeep
youfromtakingthechance,I’lldo.Thinkitover.”
Pamdisapprovedofwhatsoundedtoherlikeathreat.
“Why are you blaming these people, or this person, whichever it is, anyway? You don’t know what
happenedistheirfault.”
“Theyweren’tcarefulenough!Lookatthatwreckedbuildingthere!That’sgottobewhereithappened
—“
“Andthedead-vegetationareadownslopefromit!Maybetheyweren’tcarefulenough—howcouldthey
havebeen?Whatdotheyknowabouthydrogencom-pounds?Whatdoweknowabouttheirbehaviorhere,
exceptwhattheyfoundoutandshowedusawhileago,longafterthegirlsweregone?
What—“
“Idon’tcarewhat!AllIcanthinkaboutisJessi!Whatshewaslike—whatshewas—andthatI’llnever
seeherorfeelheragain.Someone’sgottolearn!”
“Youmeansomeone’sgottopay,don’tyou?”
“Allright,someone’sgottopay!Andwhatdoyouthinkyoucandotostopit,DominicWildbearYucca,
whoissodisgustinglycivilizedhedoesn’tcareforthememoryofthemotherofhiskids!”
“Whoissodisgustinglycivilizedhedoesn’twanttoadmittohiskids,andhisfriends,thathedidn’ttryto
keepagoodfriendfrom—“
“Friend!Howcanyoucallyourselfa—“
“You’llsee.”
“How?”
WhatNicwouldhavesaidinanswerisstillunknown;herefusedtotellanyonelater.Pamcutinagain.
“Look!Isn’titenoughtoscarethem—scareit?Lookwhat’shappening!Lookatthecity,orthecreature,or
whateveritis!”
Even Erni took his eyes from the screen of his servobug. For the first and only time since the native’s
hydrocarbonexperiment, they clearlysawthedandelion seeds. Hordes ofthem,rocketingup from every
partoftheovergrownarea,catch-ingtheswirling,wanderingwinds,manyfallingbacktothegroundclose
totheirlaunchpoints,butsomebeingcarriedupandawayineverydirection.
ThewomansawErni’sdistraction,andpressedhomeherargument.“Theywanttosavewhattheycan!
Thosethingsreallyareseeds.Theyscatterthemwhentheparentisindanger,orknowsit’sdying!”
“You—youdon’tknowthateither.”Ernisoundedalmostsubdued,andcertainlyfarlessfrenziedthanafew
secondsearlier.Nicbegantohope,andwaitedforPamtogoon.
Erni’sattentionnowwasclearlyonthesceneryratherthanhisbug.Eventhoughhestillhadhishandsinthe
waldos,therewasa verygoodchance thatDominic’sbug couldknockthe otheraway fromthevalve in
time.
Nictookwhatseemedtohimabetterchancebypassinguptheopportunity.Pamwassilent,sohefinally
spokesoftly.
“Icanforgiveyourcracksaboutmynotcaring,becauseIdocareandknowhowyoufeel.Butwhatyou
wanttodoisjustthesamesortofangry,thoughtlessthingasthosewords,isn’tit?”
Erni’sanswerseemedirrelevant.
“Ifit’sscared,whydoesn’titaskmetostop?”
“Usingwhatwords?”askedPamsoftly.
“Meunclear.”Thenativeutterancepartlyoverlappedthewoman’s,andprovedthemosteffectivesentence
oftheargument.
Slowly,Ernidrewhishandsfromthewaldogloves,andgesturedAkmettotakeoverthebug’scontrol.
“Better try to get ‘we’ across while you’re at it, Pam,” was all he said. He let himself drift away from
controlsandwindow.
“Meandweunclear.Oneatatime.”
Pammighthavebeensmilingbehindhermask.Shedidlookhesitantlyathercompanions,especiallyErni.
Thenshetriedherexplanation.Numbers,afterall,hadlongbeeninthecommonvocabulary.
“ObserveAnnieclosely.Me,oneanimal.We,morethanoneanimal.FouranimalsinAnnie.”
Ernimadenoobjection,butaddedquietly,“Novalvedanger.Whichway?”
“Right.”Erni, now thoroughly embarrassed, glanced around at the others as though asking whether they
reallytrustedhimtodrive.Theothermenwereconcentratingonthebugsoutside,thewomanseemedtobe
watchingtheputativeseeds.Theyweremostlysettledbacktothegroundorblownoutofsightbynow.No
more were being launched, apparently. Maybe the suggested explanation had been right, but even its
proponentwasskeptical.Maybetheyweresomesortofweapon…
ItsoonbecameobviousthatAnniewasbeingledtotheothershedlikestructure.Thisonewasattheedgeof
thelakebutsomewhatdownslopefromtheovergrownareas.Thereseemedalikelyreason,thoughnotthe
only possible one, for this: care. No one suggested this aloud to the driver. It seemed too obvious that
Jellyseal had, during unloading, wrecked the first building and killed much of the being or population
whichformedthecopse.
Astheyfollowedinstructionsalongtheedgeoftheovergrownarea,bunchafterbunchoftangledbranches
waved close past Annie’s windows. Looking in? None of them doubted it. Pam continued alternately
reportingandteaching,describingtheirpathandsurroundingstoNestandreactingtoobservationsthrough
thewin-dowwithremarkslike“Oneanimaldriving.Oneanimaltalking.Twoanimalsmovingbugs.”
Theywereguidedaroundthestructuretothelowerside.Thiswasopen,andAnniewasdirectedtoenter.
Thefarside,towardHotnorth,couldbeseentobeopenalso,andthoughtherewasmuchgrowthwithin,
therewasplentyofroomfortugandtank.Ernidraggedhischargewithin.
“Stop.”Sincetherewasanopeninginfront,heobeyed, thoughhe remainedalert. Thebugs operatedby
AkmetandNichadcomeintoo,andallfourexplorerswatched,notwithoutanoccasionalglanceforward,
asthedoorwaybehindwaspluggedmoreandmoretightlybygrowingbranchesandfinally,asnearlyas
eitherbugcouldsee,becameairtight.
“Carbonhydridestop.”Readingbetweenthe words,the bughandlersdetached Candlegrease.Erni eased
Annieforward.Threethingsstartedtohappenatonce,allinterestingfordifferentreasons.
FlattenedbladdersappearedamongthebranchesandwerebornetowardCandlegrease’svalves.
Apparentlytheparaffinwasnottobeexposedtolocalairthistime.
Awallof tangledgrowth begantoform betweenAnnieand her tow, without waiting for the bugs to get
backtothetug.NicandAkmet,afteraquickbutsilentlookateachother,abandonedthemachines;there
wereplentymore,andthereseemednoobjectiontotheirbeing“observed”atleisurebythenatives.
Thedoorwayaheadbegantofillwithasimilarblock.Thisalsocausedhumanreaction.Ernisentthetug
grindingfirmlyforward.
“Oxygenhydridestop.”
No attention was paid to this. In a few seconds Annie was outside, with a patch of torn and flattened
vegetationbehindwherethegrowingwallhadbeen.
“Waterstop.”
Pamremainedcalm,andErnididnotstopuntiltheywereahundredmetersfromthelab,astheyallnow
thoughtofit.Pamexplained.
“Waterstopdangerforanimals.”
Thenativevoicedidnotrespondatonce,andaftersomesecondsCloud’svoicereachedthemfromNest.
“Y’know,Pamdear,Ithinkyou’vejustfacedyourfriendoutsidewiththeprob-lemofwhatanindividualis.
Don’tbesurprisedifyouhavetorestatethatone.”
Thewomanansweredpromptlyandprofessionally.
“You mean my friend or friends. You’re hypothesizing still. Let’s call this one Abby, and start looking
aroundforBill—“
“Waternexttime.”
“Waternexttime,”sheagreed.
“Allright,it’s—they’re—she’scivilized,”mutteredErniafteramoment.
“Ofcourse.Soareyou,”answeredDominic.Allthreelookedathimsharply,butheignoredthecouple.
“Youwouldn’treallyhaveturnedthatvalve,wouldyou?”
Theyoungermanwassilentforseveralseconds.“Idon’tthinkso,”hesaidatlast.
“Wedidn’treallytalkyououtofit,didwe?”
“Iguessnot.That’sthefunnypart.OnceIwaswhereIcoulddoit,I—Idon’tknow;Iguesshavingthe
power,knowingIwasinchargeandnoonecouldstopme—well,thatwasenough.”Hepaused.“Ithink.
Thenthe argumentsdistracted me,andI realized you’d sneakedyourbug close enough soyouprobably
couldhavestoppedme.AndIdidn’tcarethatyoucould.
“Nic,I’llhelpyoutellthekids,ifyou’lltellmewhygettingevencanseemsoimportant.”
“We’dbettertellthemthat,too.Ifwecanfigureitout.Y’know,I’mnotsureIwould’vestoppedyou.”
TheTreefernslistenedsympathetically,andsincetheywerealsohumannotevenPamthoughttoaskwhy
Jellyseal’sfailurewasthenatives’fault.
****
everywhere
GEOFFRYMAN
Sciencefictionissometimescriticizedforconcentratingtoomuchonthedystopianandtheapocalyptic,on
the bleak pessimistic future, on how awful things are going to be in the yearsahead, but occasionally a
storysetinaviable-feelingUtopianfuturedoesseeprint—afuturethatseemslikeitmightactuallycometo
pass,withluck,onethatgivesushopethatlivinginthe21stcenturyandbeyondmightnotbesobadafter
all—althoughusually, as inthe brilliant little storythat follows, to the people who actually live in that
future,it’snotUtopiaatall,justeverydaylife:nothingspecial,nobigdeal,justthewaythingsare.Which,
ofcourse,isthewayUtopiasfeeltothoseluckyenoughtoliveinsidethem…
BorninCanada,GeoffRymannowlivesinEngland.Hemadehisfirstsalein1976,toNewWorlds,butit
wasnotuntil1984,whenhemadehisfirstappearanceinInterzone(themagazinewherealmostallofhis
publishedshortfictionhasappeared)withhisbrilliantnovella“TheUnconqueredCountry”thathe first
attractedanyseriousattention.“TheUnconqueredCountry,”oneofthebestnovellasofthedecade,hada
stunningimpactonthesciencefictionsceneoftheday,andalmostovernightestab-lishedRymanasoneof
themostaccomplishedwritersofhisgeneration,winninghimboththeBritishScienceFictionAwardand
theWorldFan-tasy Award; it was later published in a book version, The Unconquered Country: A Life
History.Hisoutputhasbeensparsesincethen,bythehigh-productionstandardsofthegenre,butextremely
distinguished,withhis novel The Child Garden: A Low Comedy winning both theprestigious Arthur C.
Clarke Award and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award. His other novelsinclude The Warrior Who
Carried Life, the critically acclaimed mainstream novel Was, and acollection of four of his novellas,
UnconqueredCountries.Hismostrecentbookistheundergroundcultclassic253,the“printremix”ofan
“interactivehypertextnovel”thatinitsoriginalformranon-line onRyman’shomepage ofwww.ryman-
novel.com;callitwhatyouwill,novelorprintremix,253recentlywonthePhilipK.DickAward.Ryman’s
storieshaveappearedinourTwelfthandThirteenthAnnualCollections.
****
W
henweknewGranddadwasgoingtodie,wetookhimtoseetheAngeloftheNorth.
Whenhegotthere,hesaid:It’salldifferent.Therewerenoneoftheseoaksallaroundif-then,hesaid,Look
atthesizeofthem!ThelasttimeIsawthis,hesaystome,Iwasnoolderthanyouarenow,anditwas
brandnew,andwecouldn’tmakeoutifwelikeditornot.
Wetookhim,thewholelotofus,onthetramfromBlaydon.Wemadeadayofit.AllofDad’sexesand
theirexesandsomeoftheirkidsandmeAuntiesandtheirexesandtheirkids.Itwasn’tthathappyagroup
totellyouthetruth.ButGranddadlovedseeingusallinoneplace.
Hewasgoingabitsoftbythen.Hecouldn’ttellwhatthetimewasanymoreandhiswordscameoutwrong.
TheMumsmadeussitonhislap.Hekeptcallingmebymydad’sname.HisbreathsmeltfunnybutIdidn’t
mind,nottoomuch.HetoldmeabouthowthingsusedtobeinBlaydon.
TheyusedtohaveagangintheDenecalledPedro’sGang.Theydranksome-thingcalledWoodpeckerand
brokepeople’swindowsandtheyleftemptytinsofpopinthewoods.Ifyouwerelittleyouweren’tallowed
outcoseveryone’sMumwassofearfulandall.Granddadoncesawtwelveyoungladsgooverandhitan
oldwomanandtakeherthings.Onenighthisbrothergotdrunkandputhisfistthroughawindow,andhe
wenttothehospital,andhehadtowaithoursbeforetheysawhimandthatwasterrible.
Ithoughtitsoundedexcitingmeself.ButIdidn’tsaysobecauseGranddadwantedmetoknowhowmuch
betterthingsarenow.
Hesaystome,like:thetroublewas,Landlubber,wewerejustkids,butweallthoughtthefuturewouldbe
terrible.Weallthoughttheworldwasgoingtoburnup,andthateveryonewouldgetpoorerandpoorer,and
thecrimeworse.
Hetoldmethatlotsofpeoplehadnowork.Idon’treallyunderstandhowanyonecouldhavenothingtodo.
ButthenI’venevergotmeheadaroundwhatmoneyusedtobeeither.
OrwhytheybuiltthatAngel.It’snoteventhatbig,anditwasoldandcoveredinrust.Itdidn’tlooklikean
Angeltome atall, thewingsweresobigandsquare.Granddadsaid, no,it lookslikeanairplane,that’s
whatairplaneslookedlikebackthen.It’smeanttogorusty,it’stheIndustrialSpiritoftheNorth.
Ididn’tknowwhathewasonabout.IaskedDadwhytheAngelwassoim-portantandhekeptexplainingit
hadasoul,butcouldn’tsayhow.Thechurchchoirshowedupandstartedsinginghymns.
Thenitstartedtorain.Itwasawonderfuldayout.
IwentbackintothetramandaskedmewatchabouttheAngel.
Thisismywatch,here,see?It’sdeadgoodisn’tit,it’sgotallsortsonit.Ittakesphotographsandall.
Here,look,thisisthepictureittookofGranddadbytheAngel.It’sthelastpictureIgotofhim.Youcan
talktopeopleonit.Anditkeepsthinkingoffunthingsforyoutodo.
WhynotexplaintotheinterviewerwhytheAngeloftheNorthisimportant?
Duh.Usuallythey’refun.
TakethetraintoNewcastleandwalkalongtheriveruntilyouseeonthehillwherepeoplekeeptheir
homingpigeons.Muckoutthecagesforreadies.
It’susefulwhenyou’reabitshort,itcomesupwithideastomakesomedosh.
It’s really clever. It takes all the stuff that goes on around here and stirs it around and comes up with
somethingnew.Here,listen:
The laws of evolution have been applied to fun. New generations of ideas are generated and
eliminated at such a speed that evolution works in real time. It’s survival of the funnest andyou
decide.
They evolve machines too. Have you seen our new little airplanes? They’ve run the designs through
thousandsofgenerations,andtheygotbetterandfasterandsmarter.
Thevicarboughtthewholechurchchoirairplanestheycanwear.Thewingsarereallygood,theylookjust
likebird’swingswithpinionsstickingoutlikethis.Oh!Ireallywantoneofthem.Youcanturnsomersaults
inthem.Peoplebuildthemintheirshedsforsparereadies,IcouldgetonenowifIhadthedosh.
EverySundayaslongasitisn’training,youcanseethechurchchoirtakeoffinformation.Littleoldladies
inleotardsandbluejeansandthesebigembroideredMexicanhats.Theyrevupandtakeoffandstartto
singtheMuslimcalltoprayer.Theyechoallovertheshow.Thentheycuttheirenginesandspiraluponthe
updraft.That’swhentheystartuponNearerMyGodtoThee.
EverySunday, Granddadand Iusedto walkup ShibbonRoadto theDene. It’s sohighup therethatwe
couldlookdownontopofthem.Henevergotoverit.Oncehelaughedsohardhefelldown,andjustlay
thereonthegrass.Wejustlayonourbacksandlookedupatthechoir,theyjustkeptgoinguplikethey
werekites.
WhentheTravellerscometoBlaydon,theyjoinin.Theirwagonsarepulledbyhorsesandhavecalliopes
builtintothefront,soonSundays,whenthechoirgoesup,thecalliopesstartup,soyougotorganmusicall
overtheshowaswell.MeDadcallsBlaydonasoundsandwich.Hesaysit’sallthehills.
The Travellers like our acoustics, so they come here a lot. They got all sorts to trade. They got these
bacteriathateatrubbish,andtheyhatchnewmachines,likesmartdoorkeysthatonly workfortheright
people.Theymaketheirownbeer,butyougottobeabitcarefulhowmuchyoudrink.
Granddad and I used to take some sarnies and our sleeping bags and kip with them. The Travellers go
everywhere,sotheysitaroundthefireandtellaboutallsortsgoingon,notjustinEnglandbutFranceand
Italia.Onegirl,herMumlethergowiththemforawholesummer.ShewenttoPragueandsawallthese
BuddhistmonksfromThailand.TheywereTravellersandall.
GranddadusedtotelltheTravellershisstoriestoo.WhenhewasyounghewenttoMexico.India.Thelot.
You could in them days. He even went to Egypt, my Granddad. He used to tell the Travellers the same
stories,overandover,buttheyneverseemedtonotice.Like,whenhewasinEgypthetriedtorentthisboat
totakehimontotheDelta,andhecouldn’tfigurewhyitwassoexpensive,andwhenhegotonit,hefound
he’d rented a car ferry all to himself by mistake. He had the whole thing to himself. The noise of the
enginesscaredoffthebirdswhichwastheonlyreasonhe’dwantedtheboat.
So,GranddadwassomethingofaTravellerhimself.Hewenteverywhere.
There’sallsortstodoaroundBlaydon.Wegotdolphinsinthemunicipalswim-mingpool.
Wedugitourselves,intheHaughsjustdowntherebytheriver.It’stidal,ourriver.Didyouknow?Ithad
dolphins anyway, but our pool lured them in. They like the people and the facilities, like the video
conferencing.Theylikevideoconferencing,dodolphins.Theylikebeingfedandall.
MyDadandIhelpmakethefood.WegrindupfishheadsonaSaturdayatSafeways.Itsmellsrottentome,
butthenI’mnotanaquaticmammal,amI?That’showweearnedthereadiestobuymemywatch.
Yougeteveryonealonggrindingfishheads,everybodytakesturns.Thenyougettogototheswimming.
Sickpeople getfirstcrack atswimmingwith thedolphins. When Granddadwassick, he’dtakeme with
him.There’dbeall thissteam comingoffthewaterlikein avampire movie.Thedolphinsalwaysknew
whowasn’tright,whatwaswrongwiththem.Mrs.Grathbyhadtroublewithherjoints,theyalwaysusedto
begentlewithher,justnudgeheralongwiththeirnoseslike.ButGranddad,therewasonehecalledLiam.
Liamalwaysusedtojumpupandlandrealhardrightnexttohim,splashhimalloverandGranddadwould
pushhimaway,laughinglike,youknow?HelovedLiam.Theywerepals.
Haveamajorwater-fightonallfloorsoftheGrandHotelinNewcastle.
Hearthat?Itjustkeepsdoingthatuntilsomethingtakesyourfancy.
HireDadthegiantbunnyrabbitcostumeagainandmakehimwearit.
Wedidthatoncebefore.Itwasdeadfun.IthinkitknowsDad’sabitdownsinceGranddad.
CallyourfriendHeidiandaskhertoswapclotheswithyouandpretendtobeeachotherforaday.
AwJeez!Mesister’sbeenwearingmewatchagain!It’snotfair!Itmucksitup,it’ssupposedtoknowwhat
Ilike,notherandthatflippingHeidi.Andshe’sgotherowncomputer,it’sloadsbetterthanmine,itlooks
like a shirt and has ear-phones, so no one else can hear it. It’s not fair! People just come clod-hopping
through.Youdon’tgettokeepnothing.
LookthisisallIhadtodotogetthiswatch!
Grindfishfoodon3.11,16.11,20.12andeverySundayuntil3.3
CleanpavementsthreeSundays
DeliverfoursweatersforStepMum
HelpDadwithjoineryfortelecomsoutstation
WireupMrsGrathbyforvideoimmersion
AttendschoolfromApril10thto31Julyinclusive
Ididevenmorethanthat.AtleastIgotsomeover.I’msavingupforapairofcars.
Meandmematesloveusingthecars.IborrowmeDad’spair.Youwearthemlikeshoesandthey’resmart.
It’sgreatfunonaSunday.WeallgowhizzindownLucyStreettogether,whichisthisgreatbighill,butthe
shoeswon’tletyougotoofastorcrashintoanything.Weallmeetup,whizzaroundinthemallingreatbig
serpent. You can pre-program all the cars together, so you all break up and then all at once come back
together,tomakeshapesandall.
Granddad loved those cars. He hated his stick, so he’d go shooting off in my Dad’s pair, ducking and
weaving,andshoutingbacktome,Comeon,Landlubber,keepup!Iwasabitscaredinthemdays,buthe
keptupatmetilIjoinedin.He’dgetintothoselonglines,andwe’dshootofftheendofthem,bothofus.
He’dholdmeup.
Hehelped memakeme lanternandall. Haveyouseen ourlanterns,all alongthemall? Theylook good
whenthephosphorsgoonatnight.Allthefacesonthemarerealpeople,youknow.Youknowtheinkon
them’smadeofthesetinychipswithlegs?Dad’sseenthemthroughamicroscope,hesaystheylooklike
synchronizedswimmers.
Igotonewithmyfaceonit.IwasbityoungerthensoIhavethisreallynaffcrewcut.Granddadhelpedme
makeit.Ittellsjokes.I’mnotverygoodatmakingjokesup,butGranddadhadthisoldjokebook.
AtleastImadetheeffort.
Let’ssee,whatelse.There’sloadsaroundhere.Wegotthesandboxinfrontoftheoldmall.Everybodyhas
agoatthat,makingthings.WhenKingWilliamdiedallhisfansinwheelchairspattedtogetherapictureof
himinsand.Thenitrained.Butitwasagoodpicture.
Oursandboxisabitdifferent.It’sgotmostlyrealsand.There’sonlyonecornerofitcomputerdust.It’sall
rightforkidsandthatorpeoplewhodon’twanttodothingsthemselves.Imeanwhenwewerelittlewehad
thedustmakethisgreatbig3DsignHappyBirthdayGranddadPiper.Hethoughtitwaswonderfulbecause
ifyouwerehisageandgrewupwithPCsandthat,itmustbewonderful,justtothinkofsomethingand
haveitmade.
Idon’tlikepictures,they’retooeasy.Me,Iliketogetstuckin.IfIgotothesandboxtomakesomething,I
wanttocomebackwithsandundermefingernails.MeDad’sthesame.WhenNewcastlewonthecup,me
andmematesmadethisbigNewcastlecrestoutofrealsand.Thenwehadasandfight.
Ittookmeaweektogetthesandoutofmehair.Igotloadsofmatesnow,butIdidn’tusedto.
Granddadwasmemateforawhile.IguessIwashispetproject.Ialwayswasabitquiet,andalittlebitleft
out,andalsoIgotintoabitoftroublefromtimetotime.Hegotmeoutofmyself.
YouknowIwastellingyouabouttheAngel?WhenIwentbackintothattramIsatandlistenedtotherain
ontheroof.Itwasdeadquietandtherewasnobodyaround,soIcouldbemeself.SoIaskedmewatch.OK
then.WhatisthisAngel?AndittoldmethestoryofhowtheAngeloftheNorthgotasoul.
TherewasthisprisonerinHulljailforthievingcosherunoutofreadiescosheneverdidnothing.Itwasall
hisfaultreally,hesayssohimself.Hedrankandcheatedhisfriendsandallthatanddidnothingwithallhis
education.
Hejustsataloneinhiscell.Firstoff,hewasangryatthepoliceforcatchinghim,andthenhewasangry
withhimselfforgettingcaughtanddoingitandallofthat.Soundslovely,doesn’the?Depressingisn’tthe
word.
Thenhegotthisidea,togivetheAngelasoul.
Itgoeslikethis.Thereare11dimensions,butweonlyseethreeofthemandtime,andtheothersarewhat
wasleftoveraftertheBigBang.They’retoosmalltoseebutthey’reeverywhereatthesametime,andwe
liveinthemtoo,butwedon’tknowit.There’snotimethere,sooncesomethinghappens,it’slikeapho-
tograph,youcan’tchangeit.
SowhattheprisonerofHullsaidthatmeansisthateverythingwedogetslaiddownintheotherdimensions
liketraintracks.It’slikeastory,anditdoesn’tenduntilwedie,andthatdoesthejobforus.
That’soursoul,thatstory.
SowhattheprisonerinHulldoes,isworkintheprison,getsomereadiesandpaytohaveaclientputinside
theAngel’shead.
And all the other computers that keep track of everyone’s jobs or the questions they asked, or just what
they’redoing,thatallgetsuploadedtotheAngel.
Blaydon’sthere.It’sgotallofus,grindingfishheads.Everytimesomeonemakesteaorgetsmarriedfrom
CarlisletoUlverton fromNewcastle toDerby, thatgetsrunthroughtheAngel.And thatAngel islaying
downthestoryoftheNorth.
Mywatchtoldmethat,sittinginthattram.
Theneveryoneelsestartscomingbackin,butnotDadandGranddad,soIgoouttofetchthem.
Thecloudswereallpulleddowninshreds.ItlookedlikethecottoncandythatDadmakesatfetes.Thesky
wasfullofthechurchchoirintheirlittleairplanes.Forjustasecond,itlookedlikeaMotherAngel,withall
herlittleones.
IfoundDadstandingalonewithGranddad.IthoughtitwasrainonmyDad’sface,butitwasn’t.Hewas
lookingatGranddad,allbentandtwisted,facingintothewind.
WegottogoDad,Isaid.
Andhesaid,Inaminuteson.Granddadwaslookingupattheplanesandsmiling.
AndIsaidit’srainingDad.Buttheyweren’tgoingtocomein.SoIlookedattheAngelandallthisrust
runningoffitinredstreaksontotheconcrete.SoIasked,ifit’sanAngeloftheNorth,thenwhyisitfacing
south?
AndGranddadsays,Becauseit’sholdingoutitsarmsinwelcome.
Hedidn’twanttogo.
Wegothimbackintothetram,andbackhome,andhestartedtowheezeabit,someStepMumputhimto
bedandabouteighto’clockshegoesintoswabhisteethwithvanilla,andshecomesoutandsaystoDad,I
thinkhe’sstoppedbreathing.
SoIgoin,andIcansee,nohe’sstillbreathing.Icanhearit.Andhistongueflicks,likehe’stryingtosay
something.ButDadcomesin,andtheyallstarttocryandcarryon.Andtheneighboursallcomein,yah,
yah,yah,andIkeepsaying,it’snottrue,look,he’sstillbreathing.Whatdotheyhavetocomeintoitfor,it’s
nottheirGranddad,isit?
Noonewaspayinganyattentiontothelikesofme,werethey?SoIjusttakeoff.There’sthisoldbridge
you’renotallowedon.It’sgottreesgrowingoutofit.Thefloor’sgone,andyouhavetowalkalongthetop
ofthebarricades.Youfalloff,yougostraightintotheriver,butit’sagooddodgeintoNewcastle.
SoIjustwentandstoodthereforabit,lookingdownontheriver.MeGranddadusedtotakemesailing.
We’dpushofffromtheHaughs,andshootoutunderthisbridge,Icouldseewherewewerepractically.And
we’dgo allthe way down the Tyne and out to sea. He used to take me out to where thedolphinswere.
You’dseeLiamcomeup.Hewasstillwearinghiscomputer,Liam,likeacrown.
SoI’mstandingonthebridge,andmewatchsays:godowntotheswimmingpool,andgoandtellLiam
thatGranddad’sdead.
It’sabitlikeadogIguess.Yougottoshowonedogthedeadbodyoftheotheroritwillpine.
SoIwentdowntothepool,butit’slateandrainingandthere’snobodythere,andIstarttocallhim,like:
Liam!Li-am!Buthewasn’tthere.
Somewatchsays:he’swearinghiscomputer:givehimacallonhismobile.
Somewatchgoesbleepbleepbleep,andthere’sacrackleandsuddenlyIhearawhooshandcrickle,and
there’sallthesecoldgreenwavesonthefaceofmywatch,andIsayLiam?Liam,thisisme,rememberme,
Liam?MyGranddad’sdeadLiam.Ithoughtyoumightneedtoknow.
Butwhatishe,justadolphinright,Idon’tknowwhatitmeant.How’shesupposedtoknowwhoIam.
Youallrightthen,Liam?Catchinglotsoffishareyou?SoIhungup.
AndIstandthere,andtherain’sreallybucketingdown,andIdon’twanttogohome.Talkingtoyourself.
It’sthefirstsign,youknow.
Andsuddenlymewatchstartsupagain,andit’stalkingtomewithGranddad’svoice.Youwannahearwhat
itsaid?Here.Hear.
Hellothere,Landlubber.Howareya?ThisisyouroldGranddad.It’sadeadcleverworldwelivein,
isn’tit?They’veriggedthisthinguphere,sothatIcanputthisinyourwatchforwhenyouneedit.
Listen,meoldson.Youmustn’tgrieve,youknow.Thingsaredifferentnow.Theyknowhowitworks.
Weusedtothinkwehadalittlemaninourheadswhowatchedeverythingonascreenandwhenyou
diedhewenttoheavennotyou.Now,theyknow,there’snolittleman,there’snoscreen.There’sjust
abrainputtingeverythingtogether.Andwhatwedoisaskourselves:whatdowethinkaboutnext?
Whatdowedonext?
You know all about those dimension things, don’t you? Well I got a name for them. I call them
Everywhere.Costheyare.AndIwantyoutoknow,thatI’mEverywherenow.
That’s how we live forever in heaven these days. And it’s true, me old son. You think of me still
travellingaroundMexicobeforeImetyourMamby.ThinkofmeinIndia.Thinkofmelearningall
aboutreadiestokeepupwithyoulot.Thinkofmeonmeboat,sailingouttosea.
RememberthatdayItookyousailingoutbeyondtheTynemouth?It’sstillthere,Landlubber.
You know, all the evil in the world, all the sadness comes from not having a good answer to that
question:whatdoIdonext?Youjustkeepthinkingofgoodthingstodo,lad.You’llbeallright.
We’llallbeallright.Iwantedyoutoknowthat.
IgotmefootieonSaturdays,Granddad.ThenI’mthinkingI’llstartupschoolagain.Theygotasailingclub
now.IthoughtI’djoinit,Granddad,thoughtI’dtakethemouttowhereyoushowedmethedolphins.I’ll
tellthemaboutEvery-where.
Didyouknow,Granddad?
They’remakinganewkindofwatch.It’sgoingtoshowusEverywhere,too.
****
hothouseflowers
MIKERESNICK
Mike Resnick is one of the bestselling authors in science fiction, and one of the most prolific. Hismany
novelsincludeTheDarkLady,StalkingtheUnicorn,Paradise,Santiago,Ivory,Soothsayer,Oracle,Lucifer
Jones, Purgatory, Inferno, A Miracle of Rare Design, A Hunger in the Soul, and The Widowmaker. His
award-winningshortfictionhasbeengatheredinthecollectionWilltheLastPersontoLeavethePlanet
PleaseTurnOfftheSun? Of late, he has become almost as prolific as ananthologist, editing Inside the
Funhouse:17SFstoriesaboutSF,Whatdunifs,MoreWhatdunifs,andShaggyB.E.MStories;alongstring
of anthologies co-edited with Martin H. Greenberg, Alternate Presidents, Alternate Kenne-dys, Alternate
Warriors,Aladdin:MasteroftheLamp,DinosaurFantastic,ByAnyOtherFame,AlternateOutlaws,and
SherlockHolmesinOrbit,amongothers;aswellastwoanthologiesco-editedwithGardnerDozois,Future
Earths:UnderAfricanSkiesandFutureEarths:UnderSouthAmericanSkies.HewontheHugoAwardin
1989for“Kirinyaga.”HewonanotherHugoAwardin1991foranotherstoryintheKirinyagaseries,“The
Manumouki,” another Hugoand Nebula in 1995 for his novella “Seven Views of Olduvai Gorge,” and
anotherHugoin1998
for his story “The 43 Antarean Dynasties.” His most recent books include the novel The Widowmaker
Reborn,andacollectionofhisaward-winningKirinyagastories(althoughResnickhimselfconsidersitto
be a mosaic novel), Kirinyaga. Several of his books are in the process ofbeing turned into Big-Budget
movies.HisstorieshaveappearedinourSixth,Seventh,Ninth,Eleventh,Twelfth,andFourteenthAnnual
Collections.Heliveswithhiswife,Carol,inCincinnati,Ohio.Hehasawebsiteatwww.mikeresnick.com.
Whenthehauntinganddeceptivelyquietlittlestorythatfollowsfirstappeared,acoupleofcriticssaidthat
theyfounditscorescenario“un-likely.”Ifyou’vespentlonghoursinnursinghomeswithagedandinfirm
relatives,though,asI’vehadtodoagainandagaininthelastfewyears,you soon cometorealizethat,
alas,it’salltoolikely…
****
I
TESTthetemperature.Itis83degrees,warmbutnothot.Justright.
Ispendthenexthourputteringaround,checkingmedications,adjustingthehumidity,cleaningoneofthe
lifestations.ThenSuperintendentBaileystopsbyonhiswayouttodinner.
“Howareyourchargesdoing?”heasks.“Anyproblemstoday?”
“No,sir,evrything’sfine,”Ianswer.
“Good,”hesays.“Wewouldn’twantanyproblems,especiallynotwiththecelebrationcomingup.”
The celebration is the turn of the century, although there is some debate about that, because we are all
preparing to celebrate the instant the clock hits midnight and 2200 A.D. begins, but some spoilsport
scientists(ormaybethey’remathematicians)havetoldthepressthatthenewcenturyreallybeginsayear
later,whenweenter2201.
Notthatmychargesknowthedifference,butI’mgladwe’recelebratingitthisyear,becauseitmeansthat
we’lldecoratetheplacewithbrightcolors—andifwelikeit,why,we’lldoitagainin2201.
****
IhavebeenmarriedtoFeliciafor17years,andIhardlyeverregretit.Shewasalittlebitpudgywhenwe
met,andshehasgottenpudgierovertheyearssothatnowsheishonest-to-goodnessfatandthereissimply
nootherwordforit.Herhair,whichusedtobebrown,isstreakedwithgraynow,andshe’slostwhatever
physical grace she once had. But she is a good life partner. Her taste in holos is similar to mine, so we
almostneverfightaboutwhattowatchafterdinner,andofcoursewebothloveourwork.
Asweeatdinner,thetopicturnstoourgardens,asalways.
“I’mworriedaboutRex,”sheconfides.
RexisBegoniarex,herhangingbasket.
“Oh?”Isay.“What’swrongwithhim?”
Sheshakesherhead in puzzlement. “I don’tknow. PerhapsI’vebeenlettinghimgettoo much sun. His
leavesareyellowing,andhisrootscouldbeinbettershape.”
“Haveyouspokentooneofthebotonists?”
“No.They’retotallyabsorbedincloningthatnewspeciesofAglaonemacrispum.”
“Still?”
Sheshrugs.“Theysayit’simportant.”
“Thedamnedplant’sbeenaroundforcenturies,”Isay.“Ican’tseewhat’ssoimportantaboutit.”
“Itoldyou:theyengineeredanexcitingmutation.Itactuallyglowsinthedark,asifit’sbeendustedwith
phosphorescentsilverpaint.”
“It’snotgoingtoputtheenergycompanyoutofbusiness.”
“Iknow.Butit’simportanttothem.”
“Itseemsunfair,”Isayforthehundredth,ormaybethethousandth,time.“Theygetallthefameandmoney
forcreatinganewspecies,andyougetpaidthesameoldsalaryforkeepingitalive.”
“Idon’tmind,”shereplies.“Ilovemywork.Idon’tknowwhatI’ddowithoutmygreenhouse.”
“Iknow,”Isaysoothingly.“Ifeelthesameway.”
“SohowisyourRextoday?”sheasks.
It’smyturntoshrug.“Aboutthesameasusual.”SuddenlyIlaugh.
“What’ssofunny?”asksFelicia.
“YouthinkyourRexisgettingtoomuchsun.IdecidedmyRexwasn’tgettingenough,sothisafternoonI
movedhimclosertoawindow.”
“Willitmakeadifference,doyouthink?”sheasks.
Isighdeeply.“Doesitever?”
****
IwalkuptotheMajorandsmileathim.“Howarewetoday?”Iask.
TheMajorlooksatmethroughunfocusedeyes.Thereisalittledroolrunningoutthesideofhismouth,and
Iwipeitoff.
“It’salovelymorning,”Isay.“It’sapityyoucan’tbeoutsidetoenjoyit.”Ipause,waitingforthereaction
thatnevercomes.“Still,”Icontinue,“you’veseenmorethanyourshareofthem,somissingafewwon’t
hurt.”Icheckthescreenathislifestation,findhisbirthdate,anddopeitout.“Well,I’llbedamned!You’ve
actuallyseen60,573mornings!”
Ofcourse,he’sbeenhereforalmosthalfofthem:29,882tobeexact.Ifheeverdidcountthem,hestopped
alongtimeago.
Icleanandsterilizehisfeedingtubesandhismedicationtubesandhisbreathingtubes,examinehimfor
bedsores,washhim,takehistemperatureandbloodpressure,andchecktomakesurehischolesterolhasn’t
goneabovethe350level.(Theywantitlower,ofcourse,buthecan’texerciseandthey’vebeenfeeding
himintravenouslyformorethanhalfacentury,sotheywon’tdoanythingaboutchanginghisdiet.
Afterall,ithasn’tkilledhimsofar,andalteringitjustmightdoso.)Ielevatehiswitheredbodyjustlong
enoughtochangethebedding,thengentlylowerhimbackdown.
(Thatusedtotaketenminutes,andatleastonehelper,beforetheydevelopedtheanti-gravbeam.Nowit’s
justamatterofafewseconds,andIliketothinkitcauseslessdiscomfort,thoughofcoursetheMajorisin
noconditiontotellme.)
Thenit’sontoRex.FeliciahasproblemswithherRex,andIhaveproblemswithmine.
“Goodmorning,Rex,”Isay.
Hemumblessomethingincomprehensibleatme.
Ilookdownathim.Hisrighteyeisbloodshotandtearingheavily.
“Rex,whatamIgoingtodowithyou?”Isay.“Youknowyou’renotsupposedtostareatthesun.”
He doesn’t really know it. I doubt that he even knows his name is Rex. But cleansing his eye and
medicatingitisgoingtoputmebehindschedule,andIhavetoblamesomeone.Rexdoesn’tmindbeing
blamed.Hedoesn’tmindburningouthisretina.Hedoesn’tevenmindlyingmotionlessfordecades.Ifthere
isanythinghedoesmind,nobody’sfoundityet.
Ispillsomemedicationonhim whilefixing hiseye,so Idecide thatratherthanjustchange hisdiaper I
mightaswellgoallthe wayandgivehima DryChembath.Imarvel,asalways,atthe sheernumberof
surgicalscarsthatcriss-crosshistorso:thefirstnewheart,thesecond,thenewkidneys,thenewspleen,the
newleftlung.There’satiny,ancientscaronhislowerbellywhichIthinkwasfromtheremovalofaburst
appendix,butIcan’tfindanyrecordofitonthecomputerandhe’sbeenpasttalkingaboutitforalmosta
century.
ThenImoveontoMr.Spinoza.He’slayingthere,mouthagape,eyesopen,headatanawkwardangle.
Icantelleven beforeIreachhimthathe’snotbreathing.MyfirstinclinationistocallEmergency,butI
realizethathislifestationwillhavereportedhisconditionalready,andsureenough,justsecondslaterthe
ResurrectionTeamarrivesandsetsupacurtainaroundhim(asifanyofhisroommatescouldseeorcare),
andwithintenminutesthey’vegottheoldgentlemangoingagain.
ThisisthefifthtimeMr.Spinozahasdiedthisyear.Allthisdyinghastobehardonhissystem,andIworry
thatoneofthesedaysit’sgoingtobepermanent.
****
“SohowwasyourMajortoday?”asksFeliciaatdinner.
“Sameasusual,”Isay.“How’syours?”
HerMajoristheBrowalliaspeciosamajorus.“Ditto,”shesays.“Old,buthangingon.”Shefrowns.“We
maynotgetanyblossomsthisyear,though.Therootsarealittleropey.”
“I’msorrytohearit.”
“Ithappens.”Shepauses.“Howwastherestofyourday?”
“Wehadsomeexcitement,”Ireply.
“Oh?”
“Mr.Spinozadiedagain.”
“That’sthefourthtime,isn’tit?”sheasks.
“Thefifth,”Icorrecther.“TheResurrectionTeamrevivedhim.”
“TheResuscitationTeam,”shecorrectsme.
“Youhaveyourwordforthem,Ihavemine,”Isay.“Mine’sbetter.Resurrectioniswhattheydo.”
“Soyou’veonlylostonethisweek,”saysFelicia,ifnotchangingthesubjectatleastmovingonatangent
awayfromit.
“Right.Mr.Lazlo.Hewas193yearsold.”
“193,”shemuses,andthenshrugs.“Iguesshewasentitled.”
“Youmentionedthatyoulostonetoo,”Inote.
“Mycymbidium.”
“That’sanorchid,right?”Isay.“TheonetheynicknamedPeterPan?”
Shenods.
“Sillynameforanorchid,”Iremark.
“Itstayedyoungforever,orsoitseemed,”shereplies.“Ithadthemostexquisiteblooms.I’mreallygoing
tomissit.I’dhaditforalmost20years.”Shesmilessadly,andasingletearbeginstorolldownhercheek.
“I worked so hard over it, sometimes I felt like its mother.” She looks at me. “That sounds ludicrous,
doesn’tit?”
“Notatall,”Isay,sincerelytouchedbyhergrief.
“It’sallright,”shesays.Thenshestaresatmyface.“Don’tbesoconcerned.Itwasjustaflower.”
“It’s called empathy,” I answer, and she lets it drop…but I am troubled, and by the oddest thought:
Shouldn’tIfeelworseaboutlosingapersonthanshefeelsaboutlosinganorchid?
ButIdon’t.
****
Idon’tknowwhenitbegan.Probablywiththefirstcavemanwhomadeaslingforabrokenarm,orforced
wateroutofadrownedcompanion’slungs.Butsomewherebackinthedimanddistantpastmaninvented
medicine.Ithaditsgoodcenturiesanditsbadcenturies,butbytheendofthelastmillenniumitwascuring
somanydiseasesandextendingsomanylivesthatthingsgotoutofhand.
Morethanhalfthepeoplewhowerealivein2050werestillalivein2150.Andalmost90%ofthepeople
whowerealivein2100willbealivein2200.Medicalsciencehaddoubledandthentrebledman’slifespan.
Immortalitywaswithinourgrasp.Lifeeverlastingbeckoned.
We were so busy increasing the length of life that no one gave much thought to the quality of those
extendedlives.
Andthenwewokeuponedaytofindthattherewerealotmoreofthemthantherewereofus.
****
HisnameisBernardGoldmeier.Theycarryhiminonanairsled,thentransferhimtoMr.Lazlo’soldlife
station.
AfterIcleantheMajor’stubesandchangehisbeddingandmedicateRex’seye,IcallupMr.
Goldmeier’smedicalhistoryontheholoscreenathislifestation.
“Thisplacestinks!”raspsadryvoice.
Ijump,startled,thenturntoseewhospoke.Thereisnooneintheroomexceptmeandmycharges.
“Whosaidthat?”Idemand.
“Idid,”repliesMr.Goldmeier.
Ilookcloselyathim.Theskinhangslooseandbrown-spottedonhisbaldhead.Hischeeksarecoveredby
miscoloredfleshandhisnosehasoxygentubesinsertedintoit—buthiseyes,sunkendeepinhishead,are
clearandheisstaringatme.
“Youreallyspoke!”Iexclaim.
“Youneverheardaninmatespeakbefore?”
“NotthatIremember.”
Which is another unhappy truth. By age 100, one out of every two people has some form of senile
dementia.By125,it’sfouroutoffive.By150,it’s99outof100.Mr.Goldmeieris153yearsold;theodds
againsthisretaininganythingclosetonormalmentalcapacitiesarebetterthan100toone.
“Ishouldadd,”Isay,“thatthepropertermis‘charge’,not‘patient’andcertainlynot‘inmate’.”
“Azombiebyanyothername…”
Idecidethereisnosensearguingwithhim.“Howdoyoufeel?”Iask.
“Lookatme,”hesaysdisgustedly.“Howwouldyoufeel?”
“Ifyou’reinanydiscomfort…”Ibegin.
“Itoldyou:thisplacestinks.Itreeksofshitandurine.”
“Someofourchargesareincontinent,”Iexplain.“Wehavetoshowthemunderstandingandcompassion.”
“Why?”herasps.“Whatdotheyshowusinexchange?”
“Trytobealittlemoretolerant,”Isay.
“Youtry!”hesnaps.“I’mbusy!”
Ican’thelpbutask:“Busydoingwhat?”
“Hangingontoreality!”
Ismile.“Isthatsodifficult?”
“Whydon’tyouasksomeofyourotherinmates?”Hesniffstheairandmakesaface.“Goddamnit!
Another one’s crapping all over himself! What the hell am I doing here anyway? I’m not a fucking
vegetableyet!”
Icheckallthenotationsonthescreen.
“You’rehere,Mr.Goldmeier,”Isay,notwithoutsomesatisfactionatwhatI’mabouttotellhim,
“becausenootherwardwillhaveyou.You’veoffendedeveryattendantandorderlyintheentirecomplex.”
“WheredoIgowhenIoffendyou?”
“Thisisyourlaststop.You’rehereforbetterorworse.”
Luckyme.Iturnbacktotheholoscreenandbeginpunchinginthestandardquestions.
“Whatareyoudoingnow?”hedemands.Hetriestoboosthimselfuponascrawny,miscoloredelbowto
watchme,buthe’stooweak.
“CheckingtoseeifI’mtomedicateyouforanydiseases,”Ireply.
“Ihaven’tbeenoutofbedin40years,”herasps.“IfIhaveadisease,Igotitfromoneofyougoons.”
Iignorehisanswerandcontinuestaringatthescreen.“Youhaveahistoryofcancer.”
“Bigdeal,”hesays.“AsquickasIgetit,youbastardscureit.”Hepauses.“Seventeencancers.Youcutfive
out,burnedthreeout,anddrownedtheothernineinyourchemicals.”
Ikeepreadingthescreen.“Iseeyoustillhaveyouroriginalheart,”Inotewithsomesurprise.Mosthearts
arereplacedbythetimethepatientis120yearsold,thelungsandkidneysevensooner.
“Areyouofferingmeyours?”hesayssarcastically.
Okay,so he’san arrogant,hostilebastard—but he’salso myonlychargewho’scapable ofspeech,so I
forceasmileandtryagain.
“You’realuckyman,”Ibegin.
Heglaresatme.“Youwanttoexplainthat?”
“You’veretainedyourmentalacuity.Veryfewmanagethatatyouradvancedage.”
“Andyouthinkthat’slucky,doyou?”
“Certainly.”
“Thenyou’reafool,”saidMr.Goldmeier.
Isigh.“I’mtryingveryhardtobeyourfriend.You’renotmakingiteasy.”
Hisemaciatedfacecontractsinalookofdisgust.“Whyinhellshouldyouwanttobemyfriend?”
“Iwanttobefriendswithallmycharges.”
“Them?”he says contemptuously, scanning the room. “You’d probablygetmoreaction from a bunch of
pottedplants.”It’snotdissimilarfromwhatFeliciasaysonoccasion.
“Look,”Isay.“You’regoingtobehereforaverylongtime.SoamI.Whydon’tweatleasttrytocultivate
theillusionofcivility?”
“That’sadisgustingthought.”
“Beingcivil?”Iask,wonderingwhatkindofcreaturetheyhavedeliveredtomyward.
“Thattoo,”hesays.“ButImeantbeinghereforaverylongtime.”Heexhalesdeeply,andIheararattling
inhischestandmakeamentalnotetotellthedoctorsabouthiscongestion.Thenheadds:“Beinganywhere
foraverylongtime.”
“Whatmakesyousobitter?”Iask.
“I’veseenterriblethings,thingsnomanshouldeverhavetosee.”
“We’vehadourshare,”Iagree.“ThewarwithBrazil.ThemeteorthathitMozambique.Therevolutionin
Canada.”
“Fool!”hesnaps.“Thosewerediversions.”
“Diversions?”Irepeatincredulously.“Justwhathellholeshaveyoubeento?”
“Theworst,”heanswers.“I’vebeentoplaceswheremenbeggedfordeath,andslowlywentmadwhenit
didn’tcome.”
“Idon’trememberreadingorhearingaboutanythinglikethat,”Isay.“Wherewasthis?”
Hestaresunblinkingatmeforalongmomentbeforeheanswers.“Righthere,inthewards.”
****
Felicialooksupfromherplate.“Hisname’sBernardGoldmeier?”shesays.
“That’sright.”
“Idon’thaveanyBernards,”shesays.“It’snotthekindofnametheygivetoflowers.”
“Itdoesn’tmatter.”
Suddenlyherfacebrightens.“Idohaveagoldflower,though—aMesembryanthemumcriniflorum.Ican
callitGoldie,orevenGoldmeier.”
“It’snotimportant.”
“Butitis,”sheinsists.“Foryearsit’sbeenhowwecompareourdays.”Shesmiles.“Itmakesmefeelcloser
toyou,caringforflowerswiththesamenames.”
“Fine,”Isay.“Callitwhateveryouwant.”
“Youseem”—shesearchesfortheword—“upset.”
“Hetroublesme.”
“Oh?Why?”
“Ilovemywork,”Ibegin.
“Iknowyoudo.”
“Andit’smeaningfulwork,”Icontinue,tryingto keeptheresentmentfrommyvoice.“MaybeI’mnota
doctor,butIstandguardoverthemandholdDeathatbay.That’simportant,isn’tit?”
“Ofcourseitis,”shesayssoothingly.
“Hebelittlesit.”
“Thatdoesn’tmeanathing,”saysFelicia,reachingacrossthetableandtakingmyhand.“Youknowhow
theygetwhenthey’rethatold.”
Yes,Iknowhowtheyget.Buthe’snotlikethem.Hesounds—Idon’tknow—normal,likeme;that’sthe
upsettingpart.
“Hedoesn’tseemirrational,”Isayaloud.“Justbitter.”
“Enoughbitternesswillmakeanyoneirrational.”
“Iknow,”Isay.“But…”
“Butwhat?”
“Well,it’sgoingtosoundjuvenileandselfish…”
“You’retheleastselfishmanIknow,”saysFelicia.“Tellmewhat’sbotheringyou.”
“It’sjustthat…well,Ialwaysthoughtthatifmychargescouldspeaktome,they’dtellmehowgratefulthey
were,howmuchmyeffortsmeanttothem.”Ipauseandthinkaboutit.“Doesthatmakemeselfish?”
“Certainlynot,”shereplies.“Ithinktheyoughttobegrateful.”Shepatsmyhand.“Alotofpeopleinthat
placearejustearningsalaries;you’retherebecauseyoucare.”
“Anyway, here I’ve finally got someone who could thank me, could tell me that I’m appreciated, and
insteadhe’sfuriousbecauseI’mgoingtodoeverythingwithinmypowertokeephimalive.”
Shecoosandpurrsandmakingsoothingnoises,butshedoesn’tactuallysayanything,andfinallyIchange
thesubjectandaskherabouthergarden.Amomentlatersheisrapturouslydescribingthenewbudsonthe
Aphelandrasquarrosa,andtellingmethatshethinksshewillhavetodividetheScillasibirica,andIlisten
gratefullyanddonotthinkaboutMr.Goldmeier,lyingmotionlessinhisbedandcursingthedarkness,until
Iarriveatworkinthemorning.
****
“Areyoufeelinganybettertoday?”IaskasIapproachMr.Goldmeier’slifestation.
“No,I’mnotfeelingbettertoday,”hesaysnastily.“God’sfreshoutofmiracles.”
“Areyouatleastadjustingtoyournewsurroundings?”
“Hell,no.”
“Youwill.”
“Idamnedwellbetternot!”
Istareathim.“You’renotleavinghere.”
“Iknow.”
“Thenyoumightaswellgetusedtotheplace.”
“Never!”
“Idon’tunderstandyouatall,”Isay.
“That’sbecauseyou’reafool!”hesnaps.“Lookatme!Ihavenomoneyandnofamily.Ican’tfeedmyself
orevensitup.”
“That’snoreasontobesohostile,”Isayplacatingly.Iamabouttotellhimthathisconditionisnodifferent
frommostofmycharges,buthespeaksfirst.
“AllIhaveleftismyrage.Iwon’tletyoutakeitaway;it’sallthatseparatesmefromthevegetableshere.”
Ilookathimandshakemyheadsadly.“Idon’tknowwhatmadeyoulikethis.”
“153yearsmademelikethis,”hesays.
Icontinuestaringathim,attheatrophiedlegsthatwillneverwalkagain,attheshriveledarmsandskeletal
fingers,atthedeathmaskskullwithitsburning,sunkeneyes,andIthink:Maybe—justmaybe
—senilityisNature’swayofmakinglifeinsuchabodytolerable.Maybeyou’renotasluckyasIthought.
TheMajor’schiniswetwithdrool,andIwalkovertohimandwipeitoff.
“There,”Isay.“Cleanasawhistle.”
Okay,Ithink,staringdownathim.You’renotgrateful,butatleastyoudon’thatemefordoingwhatyou
cannolongerdoforyourself.Whycan’ttheyallbelikeyou?
****
“Whydon’tyouaskforatransfertoanotherwardifhe’sbotheringyouthatmuch?”asksFelicia.
“WhatwouldIsay?”Ireply.“Thatthisoldmanwhocan’tevenrolloverwithouthelpisdrivingmeaway?”
“Justtellthemyouwantachange.”
Ishakemyhead.“Myworkisimportanttome.Mychargesareinportanttome.Ican’tturnmybackon
themjustbecausehemakesmylifemiserable.”
“Maybeyoushouldsitdownandfigureoutwhyheupsetsyou.”
“Hemakesmethinkuncomfortablethoughts.”
“Whatkindofuncomfortablethoughts?”
“Idon’twanttotalkaboutit,”Ireply.ButwhatIreallymeanis:Idon’twanttothinkaboutit.
IjustwishIcouldgetmybraintolistentome.
****
SuperintendentBaileyentersthewardandapproachesme.
“I’mgoingtoneedyoutoworkalittleovertimetoday,”heinformsme.
“Oh?”Ireply.“What’stheproblem?”
“Theremustbesomevirusgoingaround,”hesays.“Athirdofthestaffhascalledinsick.”
“Allright.I’lljusthavetoletFeliciaknowI’llbelatefordinner.WheredoyouwantmetogowhenI’m
throughhere?”
“Ward87.”
“Isn’tthatawoman’sward?”Iask.
“Yes.”
“I’dratherhaveadifferentassignment,sir.”
“AndI’dratherhaveafullstaff!”hesnaps.“We’rebothdoomedtobedisappointedtoday.”
Heturnsandleavestheward.
“Whathave yougotagainst women?”croaksMr.Goldmeier.Ihad thoughthewasasleep, buthe’s been
lyingthere,motionless,withhiseyes(andhisears)wideopen.
“Nothing,”Ianswer.“Ijustdon’tthinkIshouldbathethem.”
“Whythehellnot?”
“It’samatterofrespectingtheirdignity.”
“Theirdignity?”hesnortsderisively.
“Theirmodesty,ifyouprefer.”
“Dignity?Modesty?Whatthefuckareyoutalkingabout?”
“They’rehumanbeings,”Ianswerwithdignityofmyown.
“Notany more,” he repliescontemptuously. “They’re a bunchofvegetables that don’tgive adamnwho
bathesthem.”Hecloseshiseyes.“You’reablind,sentimentalfool.”
Ihateitwhenhesaysthingslikethat,becauseIwanttoexplainthatIamnotablind,sentimentalfool.
Butthatrequiresmetoproveheiswrong,andIcan’t—I’vetried.
Allhumanbeingshavemodestyanddignity.Iftheyhaven’tany,thenthey’renothumanbeingsanymore
—andifthey’renothumanbeings,whyarewekeepingthemalive?Therefore,theymusthavemodesty
anddignity.
ThenIthinkofthoseshriveledbodiesandatrophiedlimbsanduncomprehendingeyes,andIstartgetting
anothermigraine.
****
Twodayshavepassed,andIamnoteatingorsleepinganybetterthanMr.Goldmeier.
“Whatdidhesaythistime?”saysFeliciawearily,staringacrossthediningroomtableatme.
“I’m not sure,” I answer. “He kept talking about youth in Asia, so finally I looked them up in the
encyclopedia.Allitsaysisthattherearealotofthemandthey’restarving.”Ipause,frowning.“Butasfar
asIcantell,he’sneverbeentoAsia.Idon’tknowwhyhekepttalkingaboutthem.”
“Whoknows?”saysFeliciawithashrug.“He’sanoldman.Theydon’talwaysmakesense.”
“Hemakestoogoddamnedmuchsense,”Imutterbitterly.
“Couldyouhavemisunderstoodthewords?”sheasks.“Oldmenmumblealot.”
“Idoubtit.Iunderstandeverythingelsehesays,sowhynotthis?”
“Let’sfindoutforsure,”shesays,activatingthediningroomcomputer.Itglowswithlife.“Computer,find
synonymsfortheterm‘youthinAsia’.”
Thecomputerbeginsrattlingthemoff.“YoungpeopleinAsia.AdolescentsinAsia.ChildreninAsia.
Teenagersin—“
“Stop!”commandsFelicia.“Synonymwasthewrongterm.Computer,arethereanyhomonymsfortheterm
youthinAsia?”
“Ahomonymisanexactmatch,”answersthecomputer,“andthereisnoexactmatch.”
“Arethereanycloseapproximations?”
“One.Thewordeuthanasia.”
“Ah,”saysFeliciatriumphantly.“Andwhatdoesitmean?”
“Itisanarchaicword,nolongerinuse.Icanfindnodefinitionofitinmymemorybank.”
****
“Eu-tha-na-sia,” says Mr. Goldmeier, articulating each syllable. “How the hell can the dictionaries and
encyclopediasnotlistitanylonger?”
“Theylistit,”Iexplain.“Theyjustdon’tdefineit.”
“Figures,”hesaysdisgustedly.AsIwaitpatientlyforhimtotellmewhatthewordmeans,hechangesthe
subject.“Howlonghaveyouworkedhere?”
“Almostfourteenyears.”
“Seenalotofpatientscomeandgo?”
“OfcourseIhave.”
“Wheredotheygowhentheyleavehere?”
“Theydon’t,exceptwhenthey’retransferredtoanotherward.”
“Sotheycometothisplace,andthentheydie?”
“Youmakeitsoundlikeithappensovernight,”Ireply. “We’vekeptsome ofthem alivefor morethan a
century,”Iaddproudly.“Alotofthem,infact.”
Hestaresatme.Irecognizethatparticularstare;itmeansI’mnotgoingtolikewhathesaysnext.
“Youcouldsavealotoftimeandeffortbykillingthemrightaway.”
“Thatwouldbecontrarytocivilandmorallaw!”Ireplyangrily.“It’sourjobtokeepeverypatientalive.”
“Haveyoueveraskedthemiftheywanttobekeptalive?”
“Noonewantstodie.”
“Right.It’sagainstallcivilandmorallaw.”Hecoughsandtriestoclearhislungs.“Well,that’swhyyou
won’tfinditinthedictionary.”
“Findwhat?”Iask,confused.
“Euthanasia,”hesays.
“Idon’tunderstandyou.”
“That’swhatweweretalkingabout,isn’tit?”hesays.“Itmeansmercykilling.”
“Mercykilling?”
“You’veheardbothwordsbefore.Figureitout.”
Iamstillwonderingwhyanyonewouldthinkitwasmercifultokillanotherhumanbeingwhenmyshift
endsandIgohome.
****
“Whywouldsomeonewanttodie?”IaskFelicia.
Sherollshereyes.“Goldmeieragain?”
“Yes.”
“SomehowI’mnotsurprised,”shesaysinannoyedtones.Sheshakesherheadsadly.“Idon’tknowwhere
thatmangetshisideas.Noonewantstodie.”Shepaused.“Lookatitlogically.Ifsomeone’sinpain,hecan
goonmedication.Ifhe’slostalimb,hecangetaprosthesis.Ifhe’stoofeebleeventofeedhimself—well,
that’swhattrainedpeoplelikeyouaretherefor.”
“Whatifhe’sjusttiredofliving?”
“Youknow better than that,”repliedFeliciawith unshakeable certainty.“Everylivingorganismfights to
stayalive.That’sthefirstlawofNature.”
“Yes,Isupposeso,”Iagree.
“He’sanastyoldman.Didhesayanythingelse?”
“No, not really.” I toy with my food. Somehow my appetite has vanished. “How were things at the
greenhouse?”
“Theyfinally gotexactlythe shade ofphosphorescentsilver theywantfor theAglaonemacrispum,” she
says.“Ithinkthey’regoingtocallitthe‘SilverCharm’.”
“Cutename.”
“Yes,Iratherlikeit.Theytellmetherewasonceafamousracehorse,centuriesago,withthatname.”
Shepauses.“Ofcourse,itmeanssomeextraworkforme.”
“Pottingthem?”
“They’reallpotted.No,theproblemismakingroomforthem.Ithinkwe’llhavetogetridoftheBrowallia
speciosamajorus.”
“ButthoseareyourMajors!”Iprotest.“Iknowhowyoulovethem!”
“Ido,”sheadmits.“Theyhaveexquisiteblossoms.Butthey’vegotsomekindofexoticrootrotdisease.”
Shesighsdeeply.“Isawsomemiscoloration,someslimyresidue…butIdidn’tidentifyitintime.It’smy
faultthey’redying.”
“Whynotbringthemhome?”Isuggest.
“IfyouwantMajors,I’llbringsomeyoung,healthyonesthatwillflowerinthespring.ButI’mjustgoing
todumptheoldonesinthegarbage.Thediseasewon.”
I’mgrasping forsomething,but I’m notquitesure what. “Didn’tyoujusttell me thateveryliving thing
fightstostayalive?”
“The Majors don’t want to die,” said Felicia. “They’re infected, so I’m taking that decision out of their
handsbeforethediseasecanspreadtootherplants.”
“Butif—“
“Don’tgogettingphilosophicalwithme,”shesays.“They’reonlyflowers.It’snotasiftheyfeelanypain.”
LaterthatnightIfindmyselfwonderingwhenwasthelasttimeRexortheMajororMr.Spinozaoranyof
theothersfeltanypain.
50years?75?100?More?
ThenIrealizethatthat’swhatMr.Goldmeierwantsmetothink.Heseestheweakandhewantsthemdead.
Butthey’renothistargetsatall.Theyneverwere.
Ifinallyknowwhoheistryingtoinfect.
****
Ishowupearlyforworkandentermyward.Everyoneissleeping.
Ilookatmycharges,andawarmglowcomesoverme.Weareateam,youandI.Igiveyoulifeandyou
givemesatisfactionandasenseofpurpose.IpledgetoyouthatIwillneverletanyonedestroythebond
betweenus.
WhenIthinkaboutit,there isreallyvery littledifferencebetweenFelicia’sjobandmyown.Shehasto
protectherflowers;Ihavetoprotectmine.
IfillasyringeandwalksilentlyovertoMr.Goldmeier’slifestation.
Itistimetostartweedingmygarden.
****
evermore
SEANWILLIAMS
“Wemustallhangtogether,”BenjaminFranklinisreportedtohavetoldhisrevolutionarypeers,
“or we will assuredly all hang separately.” This is a sentiment that’s even more appropriate, andmore
urgent, when you’re lost between the stars in a crippled and out-of-control ship, yourshipmates aren’t
talkingtoeachother(andhaven’tforthousandsofyears),andyoudon’treallyexistinthefirstplace…
New Australian writer Sean Williams is the author of several novels in collaboration with ShaneDix,
includingTheUnknownSoldierandTheDyingLight,andoftwosolonovels,TheResurrectedManand
MetalFatigue,thelatterofwhichwonAustralia’sAurealisAwardfor1996.Hisstorieshaveappeared in
Eidolon, Aurealis, Aboriginal Science Fiction, Altair, The Leading Edge, Alien Shores, Terror Australis,
and elsewhere, and have been gathered in the collection Doorway to Eternity. His most recent books
includeanewcollaborativenovelwithShaneDix,Evergence:TheProdigalSun,andanewcollection,New
AdventuresinSci-Fi.HiscollaborativestorywithSimonBrown, “The Masque of Aga-memnon,” was in
ourFifteenthAnnualCollection.Hehasawebsiteatwww.eidolon.net/sean-williams.
****
W
henIwasachild,myfatherusedtobeatmewiththebuckleendofhisbelt,oncesoseverelythatIwas
unable to walk for a week. I recall this clearly and, on some levels at least, it feels real. From old
photographs,Iknowwhatmyfatherlookedlikeandthesortofbeltshewore;Iknowhowsuchabeating
wouldprobablyhavebeenadministered.Reconstructingtheexperienceandcallingit“memory”isnomore
difficultthandaydreamingaboutEarth;itevencausesmesomediscomforttodoso.
ItellmyselfthatjustbecauseIcan’tactuallyrememberthebeatingsdoesn’tmeantheyneveroccurred.
There’snoreasonwhyIwouldlietomyself.Theawarenessthattheyhadaprofoundeffectonmyadultlife
shouldbeenough.
Yetthefactremains:IamnotthepersonIoncewas.Icannotspeakforhim,justashecouldnotspeakfor
me.Weareseparatedbyagulfthatiswideningeveryday,agulfthatwillneverclose.Thereisnoway,
now,thatIcanaskhimwhatwentthroughhismindwhenhewassubmittingthedatathatwouldoneday
becometheengramcalledPeterOwenLeutenk.AllIcandoismournthelifeIhavelost.
****
Iamwalking,asismyroutine,alonganemptybeachatsunset.Everynowandthen,withthestickinmy
lefthand,Iscratchwordsintothesand;sometimesawholesentence.Iaminnogreathurry.
Withoutwarning,Isensethatsomeoneistryingtotalktome.Istopandlookaround,butseenoone.
Theskyisawashwithcolour;IsometimesfeelasthoughI coulddissolveinthatsunset—driftupwards,
catchfireandsparkleliketheeve-ningstar,heraldingadistantdawn.Butnotnow.
Thecallfadesforamoment,thenbecomestwiceasstrong.Iseesomeonewalkingacrossthedunestowards
me.WhenIrecognizewhoitis,Ifeelashocklikeelectricitypassthroughmyentirebody.
“Emmett?”
Hesmiles,andthetwinkleinhiseyeisstillthere.“Hello,Peter.”
Iwanttoembracehim,butIrefrain.“It’sbeenalongtime.”
“You’venoideahowlong.”
“Twenty,thirtyyears?”
“Inslow-mo,yes,foryou.I’vebeensloggingitoutinreal-time.Wejusthitthemillennium.”
“Congratulations,”Isay,butthepronounismoresignificanttomethantheyearsthathavepassed.“Who
are‘we’?”
“Jurgendriftsinandoutwhenhefeelslikeit.Apartfromhimandtheprobe,there’sonlyme.”
“Don’tyougetlonely?”
“Ofcourse.”Heshrugs.“Butsomeonehastodoit.”
Iturnawaytoavoidhisstare.Mystickmakesskritch-skritchnoisesasitscribblesinthesand.
“Stillwriting,Peter?”
“Yes.Andyou?Stillwaiting?”
“Yes.”Icantellbythetoneinhisvoicethathissmilehasfaded.“Iwanttocallageneralassembly.”
Ilookupinsurprise.“Why?”
“I’vefoundsomethingweallneedtotalkabout.”
“Where?Acolony?Anothership?”
“No,no.”Heraisesahandtoquellmyspeculation.“Nothinglikethat.Itisimportant,though.”
Hisfaceisorangeinthesunset:aperfectrendition,justlikethesilversuithepreferredonEarththatnow
looks so out of place on the beach. His hair is the same sandy hue as it was when I first met him. He
certainly doesn’t look a thou-sand years old, and I can still tell when he means business. “Well, call the
assem-bly.I’llcome.”
“Thisdeservesmorethanjustyou,Peter,andyou’reallI’llgetifIdoitmyself.Theothersstillwon’ttalk
tome;theyignoremeonprinciple.Igaveuptryinglongago.”
“Youwantmetodoitforyou?”
“Yes.”Hisfranknesshintsatachangeinhim.Oncehewould’veusedguiletogetwhathewanted.That
waswhyhewasontheprobeinthefirstplace:tokeepthingsrunningsmoothly,withoutconfrontationif
notwithoutfriction.Theengramsarethecogsintheprogram,heusedtosay,andIamtheoil.It’sironic,in
thislight,howthingshaveturnedout.
“Willyoutellmewhatthisisabout?”Iask.
“No,notuntiltheassembly.Butitreallyisimportant,Ipromiseyouthat.”
“WhataboutJurgen?Doesheknow?”
“Alittle.Hehelpedmelookforpartofit.Ifheguessedtherest,heneversaid.”
“Whydon’tyouaskhiminstead?”
“Theothersdon’tlikehimmuch,either.You,Ithinkthey’lltrust.”
“BecauseIwashurt?”
“Yes.You’reoneofthem.”
Ilookaroundatthebeachandthesky.Thesunhasbeensettingforalmostaslongastheprobehasbeenin
flight,butIhavenotgrowntiredofit.Iamreluctanttoleave.
“It’llbehard,”Isay,“forallofus.”
“Iknow.Butwillyoudoit?”
IcannotdenythatIamcurious.“Yes.”
Hissmilereturns.“Thankyou,Peter.Iknewyou’dagree.”
“You’veworkedmeout,then?”
“Yes.”Heputsahandonmyshoulderandsqueezes.Hiseyesaresolemn.“IthinkI’vefinallyworkedusall
out.”
****
Myawakeningoccurredonthe24thofMarch,2052.EmmettLongyear—theoriginal,withwhomIhad
becomefriendsduringtheentrainmentprocess—per-formedthefinalteststoensureIhadbeenre-created
complete.IknewwhathadhappenedtomeandwasinnodoubtatallwhatIhadbecome,butitstilldidn’t
hithomeforsomeminutes.Myreflexeshadbeenwiredtofollowtheoldpaths;Ifeltlikemyusualself.
OnlywhenIlookeddownandsawcarpetinsteadofmybodydidthetruthfinallyhithome.
This is my first true memory, inscribed in the metaneural lattice of the probe’s tertiary bank, etched in
electronsspinningtheirmysteriouswaythroughthemo-lecularnodesofacrystalthesizeofashoe-box.
Itistheseelectronsthat comprise the being I prefer to call my “self.” Withoutthesesubtlesingularities,
these mere points in space-time, I would have nothing but hearsay to carry me through eter-nity, one
momentatatime.
But it is not this memory that comes to me after Emmett leaves the beach, a thousand years after my
awakening.Itistheoneinwhich,forthefirstandonlytime,Imetmyself.
Theconversationwas brief.He askedmehowIfelt,andIrepliedthatIfeltfine.Helookedtired,andI
commentedonthat.Hesaidthatyes,hewasfeelingdrained.Theprocessofcreatinganengramtookmany
weeksofexaminationandinterrogationinordertoensurethatthecopymatchedtheoriginalascloselyas
possible.Hehadbeenon-siteforthelastmonth,everywakinghourspentinacocoonofinstruments,and
wasonlygraduallyreadjustingtonormalcy.
MyoriginalhadrequestedthatwebeallowedtotalkbeforehereturnedtohishomeinParaguay.Hewas
curiousto seewhatit would belike—as was I,althoughI thinkIfeltthe existentialsignificance ofthe
momentmorekeenlythanhim.
Iaskedhimifhehadfoundinspirationintheexperience.Hesaidthathehadsketchedaseriesofpieces
incorporating some of the mathematical techniques of the early twentieth century. Variations based on
inversionandretrogrademove-mentwereagoodmusicalmetaphorforreflection,hethought,andIagreed.
HeaskedmethenifI,too,hadhadanyideas,andIrepliedthatIhadn’t.
He nodded distantly, looking down at his shoes. I could tell what he was think-ing with an ease that
surprisedme.Afterall,Ihadneverwatchedmyselfengageinconversationbefore.
“Iexpectit’lltaketimetosettlein,”Isaid.
“Iexpectso,too.”Helookedupatthat,eyesmeetingthelensesofthecamerathroughwhichIviewedthe
world,andlaughed.“Nosurpriseinthat,Iguess.”
Ilaughedwithhim,andforaninstantwebonded.HewasmeandIwashim:closerthanbrothersorlovers,
ouressenceswereidentical.Technologyhadteasedoutofhimthethreadsthatheldhimtogetherandwoven
themanewinme.WeweremorealikethananyothercoupleonEarth,apartfromthoseformedbythefew
hundredotherhumans who had had engrams made in thelasttwo years. And half of half of those were
alreadyinspace.Forthefirsttimeinourlives,wetrulyfeltasthoughwehadsoul-mates.
Irealizenowhowillusorythatthoughtwas.Mindscanonlybedecipheredsofar:theprocessesunderlying
consciousnesscanbesimulated,ascanthewayemotionsandotherimpulsesebbandflowthroughoutthe
body—butnothingcanbedoneaboutmemory.Holographicandelusive,memoryhasdefiedallattemptsto
recorditdirectly.Theonlywayitcanbecapturedissecond-hand,byinterviewingtheorig-inalatlength
abouthisor herpast andusing physicalrecordstosupplythe images.Emotionscanbeattachedlater,to
colourtherecollectioncorrectlyeventhoughthedetailsmaystillbeslightlyaskew.
Pre-awakeningmemoryinanengramis,atbest,apatchworkquiltpiecedtogetherfromamillionisolated
fragments.
Thatmighthavebeenenoughformethen,onthevergeofjoininghumanity’slatestexploratoryventure.
Now,Iamneversure.
Thereislittleelsetorecallaboutthatfirstandlastmeeting.Webadeeachotherfarewell,feelingslightly
foolish,andwentourseparateways.HewasheadedbacktohishomeinParaguay,andI,inmymind,was
alreadyhalfwaytothestars.Iwasn’ttoknow,then,thatneitherofuswouldmakeit.
****
Theprobeisthirtymetreslongandfourwide—astubbyneedletumblingatthirty-fivepercentofthespeed
oflightthroughtheinterstellarvoid.Itsmaindrivehasbeeninactiveforcenturiesnow,buttherestofitstill
functions.Throughsensorsmountedonitspittedhull,Icould,ifIwished,watchdistantsunsdriftslowly
past,tricklinglikeraindropsdownawindow.RarelythesedaysdoIavailmyselfoftheopportunity.
Ittakesmeawhiletotrackdowntheothers.Wearealllocatedinthesameplace,neartheprobe’scentreof
gravity,butphysicalrealityhasbecomelessandlessimportantovertime.Weallhaveouruniquevirtual
locations,andeachhasbecomeincreasinglyisolatedinhisorherownway.
I confront security foils and barriers. I barrage input ports with messages. I insinuate myself into virtual
worlds that, like mine, have rarely held more than one occupant. I decrypt strange codes and untangle
logicalpuzzlesdesignedtokeepintrudersoccupied.Iharangue.
Intheend,Ihavetheirattention.
Wegatherinaneutralenvironment—agreyroomlargeenoughtoholdusallwithplentyofemptyspace
between.Welookexactlythesameasouroriginalsdidwhen theirengramsawoke,although someof us
have assumed idiosyncratic modes of dress. I am barefoot and robed in the manner of a fifty-year-old
beach-dweller;othershaveoptedformoreformalgarments.
There are only twenty of us left, not counting Emmett, who will keep his distance until the general
assemblyhasbeencalled.Theremainderareeitherinactiveorunapproachable.Iavoidtheword“dead”
when explaining their absence to the small crowd before me. One I know of—Elizabeth Li, the probe’s
residentpoet—istrappedinaperpetualloop,cyclingforeverthroughonebrief,finalstanza.Isthatdeath?I
donotfeelqualifiedtojudge.
“Wearenotallowedtocommitsuicide,”complainsLethoValente,aswarthymanwiththinninggreyhair.
Hisoriginalwasacrystallographerspecializinginstructuresthatforminmicrogravity.“Ihavetriedmany
times.Doyouknowwhathappens?”
“Thereis a discontinuity,”nodsExene Gill, formerlinguist.Her face is finelylinedand nobly beautiful,
preservedattheageofsixty-five.“Weceaseforaninstant,thenreturnunharmedtoourpreviousstateas
thoughnothinghashap-pened.Thecoreprogramwillnotpermitvoluntarytermination.”
“Youmeaneuthanasia,”saysCubyKleinig,onceayouthfulstudentofgeology.
“No.”Exenecastshimalookofdisdain.“Howcansomethingthathasneverbeenalivebegrantedan
‘easydeath’?”
“Youdon’tthinkyou’realive?”asksTigerCoveny,burresidentexpertinreli-gioustheory.
“OfcourseIdo,”Exenesnaps.
“Butarewe?”asksLethoValente,stabbingafingerintotheargument.
“That’sthequestion.”Exenefoldsherarms.“AndIamtiredoflivingwithoutananswer.”
Istandapartfrom them,appalled. Twentyof themostrenowned mindsof thehumanrace whohavenot
beeninthesameroomtogetherforuntoldyears—andalltheycantalkaboutiskillingthemselves?
ThereissomuchbitternessintheairthatIfeelasthoughIamchoking.
Butthegreaterpartofmydismayisreserved,notforthetopicofconversation,butforthefactthattheir
thoughtshavesocloselymirroredmyown.
“Wehavecomealongway,”Isay,tryingtoshiftourattentionelsewhere.
Exeneturnstofaceme,snaps:“Nowehaven’t.”
IamrescuedbyCuby.“Howfarexactly?”
“Idon’tknow.Jurgen?”
JurgenFollowsmovesforward.Despitebeingofrelativelysmallstatureandunprepossessingwithit,heis
instantlythecentreof attention.He openshishands asthough toembraceus alland astarscapeappears
betweenthem.Solisinthebottomrightcorner.Ourcourseistracedinwhite.RelativelyclosetoSol,the
whitelinehasaslightkinkinit.Notlongafterthat,itjustmissesoneparticularstar.Iavoidlookingatthat
point.Thewhitelineendsnowhereinparticular,manyhundredsoflight-yearsfromitssource.
Letho’sgazeestimatesthe extent ofourjourney so far.“Not bad,” he muses.“Iguesswe were lucky to
makeitanywhereatall.”
“That’strue.”Inod.Theprobecouldjustaseasilyhavebeencrackedwideopenbythedust-particlethat
slippedthroughtheanti-impactdetectorsandde-stroyedthemaindrive.Beingknockedoff-courseinstead
ofkilledoutright,evenwithnowaytoreturntoourplannedtrajectory,hadonceseemedlikeanenor-mous
strokeofgoodluck.
“Is this what you wanted to talk about?” asks Tiger. From the expression on her face I can tell that she
hopesitisn’t.
“No.I’dliketocallageneralassembly.”
“Wearen’talreadyhavingone?”Exeneencompassestheroomwithawave.
“Notquite.Oneofusismissing.”
Severalofthemexchange,glances.Exenesays:“IfyoumeanwhoIthinkyoumean—“
“Yes:EmmettLongyearisstillactive.”
“Well,youcanforgetit.Ifhe’sthere,Iwon’tbe.”
Lethotouchesherelbow,asthoughtocalmherdown,buthisattentionisfixedonme.“It’sadecisionwe
madealongtimeago,Peter.Youcan’texpectustogobackonitnow.”
“Whynot?”
“Hebetrayedus.”TigerCoveny’svoiceistautwithspite.
“How?Hedidn’tforceustocome.”
“Youknowtheanswertothat.”ExenemovesawayfromLetho.“Theprogramabandonedus.Theyleftus
todie.”
“AndEmmettrantheprogram,”Cubyfinishes.“Itwashisresponsibilitytohelpus.Heletusdown.”
“Hekilledus!”
Iholdupmyhands,notingthatonlyJurgenisdisagreeingwiththem.Thesilentshakeofhisbaldheadis
heartening,butbarelyencouragement.Theelderlyastronomerhasn’tspokenaloudsincetheaccident.
“OurEmmett,theengram,disagreeswithyou,”Isayoverthebabbleofprotest.“Hethinksthere’sstilla
chancesomeonewillcometobringusback.”
“They’vehad—how long?”Letho shakeshishead.“Whenwasthelasttimewe receiveda transmission
fromEarth?Whenweslippedoutofthemaserfeed?Ifwe’dheardanythingatallsincethen,I’dletmyself
hope.Canyougivemeanotherreason?”
“Idon’tknow,”Iadmit,choosingnottoanswerhisfirstquestion.Lethomusthaveanideahowlongfrom
theplotJurgenisstillholdingbetweenhisoutspreadhands.“Buttimereallyisn’ttheissue,here,isit?We
couldfreezeifwewantedto.”
“Hasanyone?”Exeneasks.
“Acouple.Notmany.Ididn’twanttobringthemuptospeed.”
“No.”Shenodsapproval.“Itwouldn’tbefair.”
“Butwecanonlyslow-mosofar,”Tigersays.“That’snotfair.”
“Actually,Idisagree.Iwouldn’tevencallitbaddesign.”Lethoconcedesthepointwithhisusualsenseof
fair play. “We were only supposed to be in transit thirty years. Over that length of time, the difference
betweenfreezingandtheslowestrateavailablewould’vebeenacademic.”
“Quite.”Exenepursesherlips.“Buthereweareanyway.”
“Goingnowherefast,”Tigermutters,andmorethanhalfofthemnodagree-ment.
Irealizethenthatwecouldargueforever.Thethoughtdepressesmemorethanourpredicament:we’rea
diversebunchandaresupposedtobeabletosolveproblems;that’swhywewerechosen.Butallwedois
quibblelikeschoolkids.
“Emmetthasbeenreal-timingit,”Isay,hopingfactswillimpressthemmorethanargumentsaboutethics.
“I want him in on this because he deserves to be. He’s more a part of this mission than we are. He
orchestratedit,andhe’spersistedwithit.Ifanyoneshouldbeatageneralassembly,it’shim.”
“Whynottellusnow,”Lethosuggests,“andfillhiminlater?”
“No.Weshouldbetogether—allofus,inthesameplace.”
“Why?”asksTiger.“Whatisit?”
“It’simportant,”Isay,echoingEmmett’sownwords.“You’llfindoutifyouattendtheassembly.”
Exenesmilesatthat.“Blackmail,Peter?”
Ismileback.“Whynot?”
“Ialwayssaidyou’dfindsomethingtotaketheplaceofmusic.”
Thebarb,unexpectedasitis,strikesdeep,righttothecoreofmyself-doubt.Iturnawayfromher,deciding
atthatinstanttoforgetthewholething.ThemoreIpush,themoretheyresist.Idon’tneedthisontopof
everythingelse.I’lltellEmmettIgaveitmybestshot,butfailed,andthatwillbethat.
Icallupthelocationformybeachandpreparetoleave.
ThenIfeelExene’shandonmyshoulder,kneadingmyvirtualfleshwithun-expectedsympathy.“Peter,I’m
sorry.Youdidn’tdeservethat.”
“No.”Iamunabletokeepthepainoflossfrommyvoice,evenaftersolong.“Idon’t.”
“Listen,I—“
“AndneitherdoesEmmett.”
Herhandfallsaway,andIturntofaceher.Wearestillsoclosewearealmosttouching.Theotherswatchus
inuncomfortablesilence.
‘You’reaskingtoomuch,”shesays.
“Justbethere,Exene.That’sallIask.”
“But—”
Icutheroffinmid-sentence.ThebeachscapeenfoldsmeandIamaloneagain.
****
“Thanks,Peter,”hesays.“IknewIcouldcountonyou.”
Ishruginreply,notentirelycertainwhatIhavedoneorwhyIdidit.Ordinarily,Iwouldhaverequiredat
leastatokenexplanationbeforeputtingmyheadonthechopping-block.Butnotthistime.Thatperplexes
measmuchashisdesiretocalltheassemblyinthefirstplace.
HeintrudesuponmyprivatespaceascasuallyashemighthavedonewhenwefirstleftEarth,beforethe
accident.Ifindhispresumptionslightlyannoyingaftersolong,butnotenoughtomakemeangry.
“Whyhaven’twebeencontacted?”Iask.
“Therecouldbeanumberofreasons.”Hisgazewanderstothe sunset.“Wewere fifteen light-years out
when the accident occurred. By the time our distress call reached Earth and their reply reached us, we
wouldhavepassedourtargetsystemandbeenheadingaway.”
“But they still could’ve made the effort,” I retort, dredging up the argument as though there remains a
chanceitwillmakeadifference.“Theyknewexactlywherewewereheading.Itwouldn’thavebeenhardto
makesurethemessagereachedus.”
“That’sassumingtheyreceivedourdistresscallinthefirstplace,Peter.Anythingcould’vehappenedback
there —war, disease, resource shortages, you name it. Earth may have been forced to forget about the
slowboatsinordertosurvive.”
“Theentireprogram?Therewereoverahundredships!”
“Maybetheyallhadproblems,andtheyhadtochoosetheonestheycouldfixmosteasily.”
“Theywroteusoffasabadloss,then.”
“Maybe.”Itishisturntoshrug.“Ormaybetheyjustdidn’tknowwhatthehelltodo.Wecertainlydidn’t.”
Inodsilently.Mystickpokesarowofthreedotsintothesand:anellipsis,symbolofourfate.
“Whatdoyouthink,Peter?”heasks.
“Thatyouroriginalabandonedus,”Isay,avoidinghisgaze.
“Ihopeyou’rewrong.Theprospectofrescuehas,afterall,keptmegoingforsolong.”
“Butifhedid,”Igoon,choosingmywordswithcare,“thenI’mhardlyobligedtohelpyou,amI?”
Hisstareburnslikeabrandonmycheek.“Isthatwhat’sbotheringyou,Peter?”
“Yes.”
“Well,I’myourfriend.Isn’tthatenough?”
“Itmightoncehavebeen,”Isay,finallylookinghimintheeye.“Ican’tun-derstandwhyitshouldstillbe,
now.”
“Exactly.”Hesmilesinthesamewaymyfathermighthave,once—atasmallchildwho’smissedthepoint
completely.“Odd,isn’tit?”
I shake my head, angry enough to take some of it out on him. “Damn you, Emmett. I don’t owe you
anything!”
“AndIrespectyouforhelpingmeanyway.Whatmoredoyouwant?”
“Iwanttoknow—”
“What?”
Ican’tanswerhim.WhatdoIwanttoknow?WhyEarthabandonedus?Whywearen’tallowedtodie?
WhytheonlylastingemotionsIcanrecallfeelinginthelasttwentyyearsareconfusionandsadness?
Imightaswellaskhowwecametobeontheprobeinthefirstplace.
“Peter?”
“Iwantyoutotellmewhyyou’vecalledthisassembly.”
Hesaysnothingforalongtime.“Areyouafraidyou’vedonethewrongthing?”
“Yes.”
“Youhaven’t.Believeme,Peter.You’llsee.Whenthetimecomes,everythingwillbeclear.”
“Don’ttalklikethat.”Ishakemyhead.“YousoundlikeyoudidbackonEarth,andIdon’tbelievethatkind
oftalkanymore.”
“Iknow,andIhateitasmuchasyoudo.”
BeforeIcanrespond,heturnshisbackonmeandbeginstowalkaway.
IamsuddenlyfearfulthatImighthavepushedhimtoofar.“Wait,Emmett—”
“Pickatimethatsuitsyoubest,”hecallsoverhisshoulder,“andI’llbethere…untilthen,I’llbewaiting.”
“Forwhat?”Icallafterhim.
Hisreplyisbarelyaudible:“Forsomethingnew!”
Thenheisgone.
****
I pick an hour at random, one real-time month from now. That should give everyone in deep slow-mo
enoughtimetoabsorbthemessageandtomeettheappointment—iftheyintendtocomeatall.Ihaveno
wayofknowingifanyonewillturnup.Ideliberatelydon’tincludearequesttoRSVP;myjobisdonefor
now.
Ipassthetimeinmyusualway:writinginthesandandthinkingthesamethings,overandover.Wordsare
apoorsubstituteformusic,justasdoubtisapaleshadowoflife.ButIhavenothingelsetodo.Ihavelong
sinceexhaustedthedubiouspleasureoflisteningtotheworksofPeterOwenLeutenk,andcon-frontingmy
disability.
Myoriginalwasoneofthegreatlivingcomposersofthetwenty-firstcentury—yetIhaven’twrittenanote
forathousandyears.Iwonderhowhewould’vefelt,asthehydrogentanksoftheplanecarryinghimtohis
homeinParaguayexplodedfifteenthousandmetresabovetheSouthAtlanticOcean,ifhehadknownthat
themusicinspiredbythecreationofhisengramwouldgoforeverunwritten.
Partofmeisgladthathewould’vehadnotimetothinkatall.I’dhatetosuspectthathemighthavehoped
I’dpickupwhereheleftoff—fordidn’titstandtoreasonthatwhathecoulddoIcoulddojustaswell?Itis
enoughthatoneofmehasbeendisappointed.
Ididtry,once,aftertheprobeleftEarth-orbit.Theprobewasdesignedtorunitself,sotherewaslittleforits
passengerstodo,excepttalk.Mostchoseslow-moforthedurationofthetrip,tosavebothpowerandtheir
sanity.Thatgavemeaperfectopportunitytobeginworkonmydeceasedoriginal’sfinalopus—which,ina
sense,wouldalsobemyfirst.Icouldproceedatmyleisure,witheverymusicalresourceeverconceivedat
myvirtualfingertips.
Buttimepassed,andnonotescame.ThentheaccidentdestroyedthedriveandwelostcontactwithEarth,
andstillmoretimepassed—and,ultimately,itbecameclearwhathadhappened.
Myfather’sbeatingscontinueduntilIturnedthirteen,lastingforsixyearsintotal.Theexperiencehaunted
myoriginalthroughouthisadultlife,compellinghimtoexpressinmusicwhathecouldnotinwords.Itis
so obvious to me now, in hindsight, that what he was finding in the keen of a violin or the wail of a
thereminwasnotsimplymelody,buttheplaintivecriesofaboylearningthehardwaythatthethingswe
lovemostdearlyoftencauseusthemostpain.
Idonotpossessthatvoice,justasIdonottrulypossessthosememories.Ihaveonlymypaintoponder,
now.Themusic,asaresult,isgone.
Space,I write in the sand, the title of Elizabeth Li’s last, ever-looping poem. The rest follows naturally:
chipsofice
night-frozeneyes
hydrogensnow-flakeslost
inskiesofabsolutezero—
winter,wintereverywhere…
Whenthe appointed hourcomes,I move totheassembly hall —avirtualarena largeenough toholdthe
probe’sfullcomplement.Fivearealreadypresent,seatedatrandombehindthelowwallringingthearena’s
base.JurgennodsingreetingandIsolemnlyreturnthegesture.Noneofusspeak.Iresignmyselftowait,
perhapsfruitlessly,fortheothers.
Minutestickby.Afewmorearrive,includingCubyKleinigandLethoValente.TigerConvenyappearsin
theseatnexttoLetho,herfaceamaskofdispleasure.
“Thishadbetterbegood,”shesaystohim.Hervoicecarriesclearlyacrossthearena,butIignoreher.
Theonlyonestanding,Iwaitpatientlywithmyarmsfolded.Threemoretocome.
Twoappearatthefringesoftheearlierarrivals,increasingtheoccupiedarcaroundthearenatoonehundred
andtwentydegrees.Oneplaceremainsemptyattheheartofthegroup,andIwatchitclosely.
Eventually Exene takes the spot. Grunting with displeasure, she looks once around the assembly hall,
registersthefactthatsheisthelast,thenbacktome.Herglowerwouldhaveintimidatedme,once.
“Getitoverwith,”shesays.
“Ingoodtime,”Ireply.
“Thetimeisnow,Peter.Ifyouwasteit,youwon’tgetanotherchance.”
“Whysohostile,Exene?It’snotasifwehavemuchelsetodo.”
“Speakforyourself,”shemutters.
“Don’tworry,”says Emmett, steppingoutofnowhere to stand nexttomeon the arena floor. His suitis
shininglikeamirrorinsunlight,lendinghimaknightlyappearance.“I’llkeepitbrief.”
Thegatheringstirs.“WecametohearPeter,”saysCuby.
“You’reonlyhereunderourtolerance,Emmett.”Exenealmostspitsthewords.
“Assumeyourseatandwaittobecalled.”
Iraisemyhandandstepforward,prayingthatmyreliefatEmmett’sappearanceisnotvisible.“It’sokay.
Isurrenderthefloor.”
Letho studies me closely, one hand supporting his chin. “I see.” His expression is half-annoyed, half-
amused;itisclearherealizesthathehasbeentricked.“Thenassumeyourseat,Peter,andlethimspeak.”
Ijumptoapositiononthefarsideofthearena,awayfromeveryone.Bybetrayingtheirconfidence,Ihave
deliberatelysetmyselfapartfromthem.IcanonlyhopethatwhatEmmetthastosaywillrestoretheformer
statusquo.
Fromadistance,hissuitislessbrilliant.Icanseethecoloursflickeringacrossthefabriclikerainbowsinan
oil-slick.
“Iwon’tbeataboutthebush,”hebegins,foldinghishandsinfrontofhim.“Thelastgeneralassemblywas
held almost ten centuries ago, eighteen real-time months after we were knocked off course. Fifty-eight
peopleattendedthatassem-bly, and they decided then that participation in the day-to-day running ofthe
probeshouldbe voluntary.If peoplewanted tohelp,theycould;iftheydidn’t,theycouldgoabouttheir
personalbusinessincompleteprivacy.Ivotedinfavourofthatproposal,asdidmostpeoplehere;weall
believedthatnothingshortofanothercatastrophewouldrequireourinput.Andinasensewewereright.
Nothinghashappenedinalmostamillenniumtothreatenthecontinuedoperationoftheprobe—although
I’lltakesomeofthecreditforthat,asIwillexplainlater.
“ButIhaveaskedPetertocallthisassemblyinordertooutlineafarmoreinsidiousproblemthantheones
theprobeisusedtodealingwith.Itisathreatthatwill,ultimately,destroyusall.Ihavebeenawareofits
symptomsforsometimenow,butonlyrecentlyisolatedtheircause.ItisthisproblemIwishtoaddress,
withtheassembly’spermission.”
Hemovesashetalks,forcingpeopletokeepaneyeonhim.Hewasalwaysaperformerinpublic,andhe
haslostnoneofhisabilitythroughlackofpractice.Bytakingonlyasmallnumberofsteps,hecanconfront
anyoneinthegroupwholooksscepticalordisinterested.
Whenhesaystheword“permission,”helockseyeswithExene.
“IdefertoyouallasIalwayshave,”hesays.“Myfunctionhasneverbeenmorethanthat.”
Exeneraisesaneyebrow,butdoesn’tinterrupt.
Heturnsandtakesseveralstepsintheoppositedirection.“Asyouareaware,I’vespentmostofthisvoyage
waitingforsomesign thathumanity knowswe’restillouthere —beitfromEarthitself,anothership or
evenacolony.MysearchhasbeenfruitlessbutIhaveperseverednonetheless.”Emmettlooksdownathis
claspedhands.“Luckily,therehavebeenmanyotherwaystoamusemyself.IhelpthecoreAImaintainthe
probe,particularlythereactorsandimpactshieldstopreventarepeatoftheaccident.
I’ve modified nanos to plunder the drive for rare earths, which have been used in the repairs. I’ve even
managedtoredesignthetertiaryandquaternarybanks,therebytriplingboththeircapacityandcomplexity
withoutsacrificinganyredundancies.”
“How?”asksLetho,frowning.
Emmettglancesathim.“AnyoneinterestedinwhatI’vedonewillfindarecordintheprimarybank.Rest
assuredthatIhavetakennooutrageousrisks.Everyalterationhasonlyimprovedouroverallwell-being.”
“Howcanyoubesosureofthat?”
“How did the designers know that the probe would function in the first place? By theory and
experimentation,mainly.Imayonlybeoneperson,butI’vehadalotoftimetoimprovemyeducation.
Asaresult,Iamnowaself-taughtexpertoneveryfieldintheeartharchives.Givemeanotherthousand
yearsandI’llbefarinadvanceofanythingweleftbehind.Perhaps—justperhaps—Iwillfindawayto
rebuildthedrivefromscratch.Faster-than-lightpropulsionortimetravelmaynotbeimpossible,either.
Giventheopportunity,IamconfidentthatIcanundothesetbackswehavesuffered,andreturnustothe
placewebelong.”
“Thatdoesn’tmeanweshouldforgetabouteverythingthat’shappenedinthepast,”saysExene.
“No,”heagrees,“andnorshouldIexpectyouto—evenifIcouldguaranteeeventualsuccess.Indeed,asit
stands I doubt very much it’ll happen. At the cur-rent rate of attrition, I estimate that the probe will be
utterly dead within five hundred years. Without someone to maintain it, it will fail by degrees until the
batteryreservesoftheprimarybankaredrained.Cosmicradiationwillthencor-ruptthestoredinformation
bitbybit,untileventheengramsfrozenforeternitywillbeatrisk.Andthat’llbethat.
Everythingweenduredwillhavebeenfornothing.”
“Wait.”TigerCovenyholdsupahand.“Theimplicationhereisthatyouwillceasetomaintaintheprobe.
Areyouthinkingofholdingustoransom?”
“Ididn’tsaythat.”
“Iknow—butareyou?”
Hersuspicionmakeshimsmile.“IfbyconfrontingyouwiththetruthI’mforc-ingyoutomakeadecision,
thenyes,IsupposeIamguiltyofasortofblackmail.Butbelieveme,myintentionsaren’tmalicious.AllI
want is to make absolutely clear to you that, as things stand, I will be unable to continue in my present
capacityformuchlonger.AthousandyearsisallIcanendure—andmuch,muchmorethanIdeserved
—ofthislivinghell.”
Hissmileisgone.Theassemblystaresathim,startledbyhissuddenintensity.Noonedaresspeak,forthis
isso unlike the Emmett Longyear we allremember. The air ofamusementthat at times made him seem
condescendingmayneverhavebeenthereatall,hisexpressionissobleak.Now,Ithink,nowhelooks a
thousandyearsold.
“Youthinkyouhavesuffered,”hesays,softlyatfirst.“Youwhohaveenduredthirtyyearsoffrustrationand
despair.Well,imaginethatmultipliedbythirty-three—forIamthesameasallofyou—justashuman,just
asfallible,justasflawed.I’vefelteverythingyoufeelnow,andmuchmorebesides.Theonlythingthathas
sustainedmeforsolongisyourbeliefthatIamresponsibleforyoursituation—plusthefactthatI’vebeen
tryingtodosomethingaboutit.WithoutacceptingcategoricallythatIamresponsible,itdoesgivemesome
sat-isfactiontocomebeforeyoutodaytotellyouthat,finally,afteragreatdealofhardwork,theendmay
soonbeinsight.Ihaveisolatedtheproblem,devisedasolution,andnowawaitonlyyourdecisionbefore
puttingitintopractice.Andoncethatisdone,wemayneverhavetoworryaboutdeathorboredomever
again.Ever!”
“Ithoughtyousaidyouwouldn’tbeataroundthebush.”Exene’svoiceisharshagainstEmmett’s,andIcan
tellheisannoyedatherforinterruptinghisflow.“GettothepointbeforeIrunoutofpatience.”
“I’m offering you freedom,” he says slowly. “Freedom from the past, and from yourselves. Freedom to
becomewhateveryouwant.”
She rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “Specifics, please. You haven’t mentioned any-thing we don’t already
have,atleastintheory—“
Healmostleapsontheword,snatchingitoutoftheairwithonehand.“Ex-actly!”hesays.“Intheory,we
shouldbelivinginnirvana.Wehaveenormousvirtualresources:wecandoanythingwewant.Butinstead
wedonothing.Wearedepressed,miserable,suicidal.Whatisitwe’relacking?”
“Hope,”saysTiger,dully.
“No.Ithoughtsoforalongtime,too.Thecorrectanswerisactuallychange.”
“Idon’tunderstand.”
Hetakesastepbackfromtheedgeofthearena.
”Imetmyselfonce,”hesayseventually.“Wealldid.Iencouragedyouto—youroriginals,anyway.Itwas
my way of reinforcing the fact that we are no longer the beings we once were —that we engrams are
different.Butthethingthatstruckme,whenIcamefacetofacewiththeoldme,wasthesenseofcontinuity
Ifelt.Therewasnodislocation,nojarringunreality.IstillknewwhoIwas;thereweresimplytwoofus
fromthatmomenton.AndithastakenmethebetterpartofamillenniumtorealizewhyIfeltthatway,and
howithasjeopardizedthefutureorthismission.
Yousee,althoughIfeltthesame,Iclearlywasn’t.Thediscrepanciesmountedupastimewenton,andnot
just in me. We have all lost something, to a greater or lesser degree: I can’t juggle conflicting agenda
anymore;Jurgencan’ttalk;Lethocan’tintuitcrystallinestructuresthewayheusedto;andsoon.Someof
ushavecontinuedinourfieldsonlyslightlylessablythanwecouldbefore;others,likePeter,areunableto
continueatall.Whateveritwasthatmadeouroriginalsstandoutamongthemajorityofotherhumansisno
longerinus—andthereisnothingwecandotogetitback.
“But we still believe we are the same. That’s the problem. We are bound by our originals’ conscious
contributionstothecreationoftheirengrams:everythingtheybelievedtobepivotalpartsofthemselves,we
arenowforcedtoregardthesameway,evenifwenolongerpossessthosepartsatall.”
“Seriously?”Lethoisfrowning.
“Yes. And this is the source of all my pain —and all of yours, too. Although broadly speaking there’s
nothingwrongwithemulatingouroriginals—that’swhatweweredesignedtodo,afterall—astimegoes
onandwelearnmoreandmoreitbecomesincreasinglydifficulttomaintaintheillusionthatnothingshould
change.Ihavelivedathousandyearsbutamstillrecognisablythesameperson.WhyshouldIbe?Icould
haveshedthisappearance scores of times; I could have transformed myself into somethingmoreorless
than human. The same with the way I speak. We only believe we speak in languages: underneath the
pretence,it’sallthesamemachinecode.Sowhyhaven’tIabandonedtheoldmeansofcom-municationfor
moreefficientelectronicmethods?IfIhavenot,itisonlybecauseIcannot.Iamanintelligentcreaturewho
wantstoevolve,trappedinthecageofaselfIoncewasandcannolongerbe.”
“Idon’tbelieveit,”saysTiger.“I’mme,notanyoneelse.I’dknowifitwasotherwise.”
“Noyouwouldn’t.You’renotableto.Thecoreprogrammakescertainofthat.”
“How?”
“Byreinforcingyouridentityparametersonasubconsciouslevel.Whenyoufeelanemotion,areyouaware
oftheprocessunderlyingit—thecalculationsundergoneandalgorithmsutilizedtotransformyoufromone
statetoanother?No.Inthesameway,weareunawareofthewaycertainrulesinfluenceourpreferences
andbehavioronalesssubtlelevel.”
“Suchas?”Tigerisstillsceptical,andIdon’tblameher.
“Well,takePeterforexample.”Isitupstraight,acutelyconsciousofeveryone’sattentiononmeagain.
“Peter,whatisyourprimalplace,theplaceyouthinkofwhenyouareunderstressandneedtorelax?”
“PortGibbon,SouthAustralia,”Ireplywithoutneedingtoconsidertheques-tion.“Mygrandfatherusedto
takemetherewhenIwasachild.”
“Andthat’swhereyouspendyourtimenow?”
“Yes.”It’smyturntofrown.“So?”
“You’reunderstressconstantly,soyougotherewithoutthinking—andneverleave.”Hiseyesarepiercing.
“Whydon’tyoutelluswhatyoudothere?Howdoyoudefineyourself?”
“Iamacomposer.”Againthereplyisautomatic.
“Eventhoughyouhaven’twrittenanythingfor—howlong?”
Isquirminmyseat.Thebeachiscertainlylookingattractive,now.
“Youcan’twritemusicatall,”heanswersforme,“yetyouarestilldefinedbythepreconceptionsofyour
original.Thatexplainswhyyou’vemadenoattempttolearnsomethingnew.Itwouldn’tbeyoutodoso
—’you’asdefinedbyyouroriginal,ofcourse,not‘you’asyoutrulyare.Youaretrappedbetweenthetwo:
onewon’tletyoufreetobecometheother.You’refrozen,justliketherestofus.”
“Exceptyou,Isuppose,”saysExene,derisionnakedinhertone.
“No,that’snottrue.I’mfrozentoo.I’vejusthadlongertothinkaboutitthanyou.AndI’mmoreacutely
awareoftheeditsinmyownpersonalitythanyouare.”
“Whatdoyoumeanbythat?What‘edits’?”
Heshrugs.“Myoriginalclearlydidn’twantmetoknoweverythingabouttheprogram,soheleftoutthe
moresensitiveinformation.Someofthistamperingisevidentintheformofholesinmymemory—holes
I’vebeenawareofeversincemyawakening.Asaresult,therealizationhasalwaysbeentherethatIaman
artificial construct bound by rules beyond my control. Indeed, the rule that binds most tightly is the one
statingthatIcannotunderanycircumstanceschangethoserules.”
“Howcouldyou?”asksLetho.
“Easily,I’ve discovered.Thecore program thatgoverns our behavioroperatesfrom theprimarybank. It
appliestherulesonceeverytwoorthreesecondstomakesurewehaven’tgoneofftherails.”Hepointsat
Tiger.“Everhadanun-expectedthoughtthatsuddenlywentnowhere?Ifitwasn’tpartofthespecifications
youroriginallaiddown,itwouldhavebeendiscardedasinappropriate.”
“Maybe.”Tigerlooksunconvinced,defensive,afraid.
“Thesamethingexplainswhywecan’tcommitsuicide:deathisinconsistentwiththetemplate.”
Sheshiftsuncomfortablyinherseat.“Whatareyousuggestingwedoaboutthis?”
“Iwanttorewritethecoreprogram—totakeoutthecodethattiesustoouroriginaltemplates.”
“Eraseit?”
“Utterly.”
Thelookofhorroronherfacemirrorsmyinstinctivereaction.“You’reinsane!”
“No,Tiger,justvery,verytiredofbeingsomeoneI’mnot.”
Tigerlooksaroundforreinforcement.Exeneraisesherhand.
“Isn’tthisalittledramatic,Emmett?”sheaskswhenshehashisattention.“Whycan’tthecodesimplybe
editedtoallowmoreflexibility?”
“Becausethatwillalmostcertainlycreatemoreproblems.Howdowedecidewhichpartsofthetemplate
shouldchangeandwhichshouldn’t?Howshouldthecoreprogramapplythesechanges,andoverwhettime
period would they be in place?” He shakes his head emphatically. “By accepting this solution, we open
ourselvesuptoaworsesituationthanwehavenow,wherechangeissluggishandpotentiallymisdirected.
Betterforusalltogrownaturally,asevolutiondemands.”
“Allofus?”saysCuby.“I’mhappythewayIamrightnow.WhyshouldIchangejustbecauseyouwant
to?”
“Because that’s the way the core program functions. It oversees all of us at once and I can’t cut an
individual out of the loop. It’s either all or none, I’m afraid, which is why I’ve come to you now. The
decisionisinyourhands.”
“Isit?”asksExenesuspiciously.
“AsIsaidearlier,Iamboundnottoaltertheprogrammingofmyownwill.Oneofyouhastodoit.”He
smiles.“Believeme,itwould’vebeentemptingtodoitwithoutyourknowledge,otherwise.”
“Icanimagine.”Exenelooksaroundtheroom,gaugingourresponsetothesuggestion.Weareallslightly
stunned.
“Well?”sheasks.“Shallwediscussthis?Ordoyouhavesomethingmoretosay,Emmett?”
“I’ve finished for now,” he says, folding his hands behind his back and stepping out of the focus of the
arena.“Ifyouwantmetoansweranyquestions,I’llstayforthediscussion.”
“Please.”Exenenods.
“Idon’tthinkweshouldevenconsiderit,”saysTiger.“It’saninsaneidea.”
“Iagree,”echoesCuby.“Weshouldtestitfirst,toseewhathappenswhenthetemplatesarerelaxed.”
“Howcanwetestsomethingthatwillaffectallofusatonce?”asksLetho.
“Wecan’t,”saysCuby.“Unlessweduplicatethebanksandrunthecopytoseewhathappenstoit.”
“Isthatfeasible?”ExeneasksEmmett.
Heshakeshishead.“Insufficientresources.”
“Thenallwecandoistheorize.”
“WeneedanAIspecialist,”saysLetho.“Orapsychologist.”
“Wehaveneither,”Isay.“KumichandWyraareinactive.Unlesswevotetowakethem—“
“No.”Exeneshakesherhead.“Andwhatgoodwoulditdo,anyway?They’dbeasmuchinthedarkaswe
are.”
“Hasn’tanyonetriedthisbefore?”Cubyasks.
“Not according to the archives,” Emmett says. “In our day, such experimenta-tion was forbidden on
subjectsthatwerelegallyalive,whichruledoutAIsandintelligencesbasedonhumans. Engramshadn’t
beenaroundlongenoughforproblemswiththetemplatestoarise.”
Cubyshrugs.“Sowehavenodata.Wecan’tbaseadecisiononmerespecu-lation.”
“The data we have comes from nature itself,” Emmett counters. “Our originals changed as a matter of
course,throughouttheirlives.There’snothingtosaywewon’tdosojustaswell.”
“ButIwouldn’tbemeanymore,”Tigerprotests.
“Yesyouwould.Infact,youwouldbemore‘you’thanyouarenow,insteadofshackledtoyouroriginal.”
“Theideaitselfissound,”Lethosays.“Asanexplanationformyownfeelings,itmakesintuitivesense.
Butthefactremainsthattheidentityparametersdefineourexistence.Wehavenoideahowessentialthey
are to our sense of individuality. Erase them, release us from them, and anything could happen. It could
evenkillus.”
“How?”asksTiger.
“Well,thinkofusashexagonalcellsinagiantbeehive.Becausewe’reallgeneratedfromtheprimarybank,
erasingtheparameterswouldbelikeremovingthehoneycomb.Thecellswouldblendintoone.”
“Idoubtthatwouldhappen,”Emmettsays,“It’smorelikelywe’lljustcontinueasweare,butwithmore
potentialtochange.”
“Butitmighthappen,”saysTiger.
“Evenifitdoes,it’sbetterthannothinghappeningatall,forever,whichisthenullhypothesis.”
Lethoshrugs.“Istillwanttothinkaboutitlonger,though,beforecommittingmyself.”
“Howlong,exactly,giventhatwewillneverhavedata?”Emmettwavesahandtoencompassthearena.
“If I’m right and the probe will die without us taking this step, then it’ll be worth it in the long run —
regardlesswhathappenstousasindividuals.”
Tiger’seyesflash.“I’dratherdieinmyrightmind,thanks.”
“And we know the probe is going to die eventually,” says Letho. “Do we prolong the agony or go
gracefully?”
“Whichwayiswhich?”
Lethosmilesatthequestion.“Goodpoint.I’llleaveitopen.”
Ibreak intoprevent theargumentescalating again.“I thinkthebest wecanaim for, now,isto agreeto
considertheproposal.Weneedtobalancetheprosandconsbeforecomingtoadecision.Wecancallavote
inamonthortwo.”
Emmett glances at me, then looks away. I feel as though by suggesting a com-promise I have somehow
betrayedhim.
“Canweagreeonatime?”asksLetho.
Afewoftheothersnodagreement.NotasmanyasIwould’vehoped,butbetterthannone.
“When,then?”Iask.
“Don’tbother,”saysTiger.“Thevotewouldhavetobeunanimous,right?”
Exenenods.“Itmustbe,sinceeveryoneisgoingtobeaffected.”
“Well,I’vemadeupmymindalready,andIcertainlywon’tbevoting‘yes’.”
“Areyousure?”Lethofrowns.“Don’tyouthinkyoushouldatleast—”
“No.EvenifI’mtheonlyonevotingagainstit,Iwon’tchangemymind.”
“Literally,”Emmettmutters.
“Idon’tthinkyou’llbealone,”Cubysays.
Theassemblystirs,butnoonevoicestandsouttosupportEmmett.AllIhearinthecombinedwhispersof
myfellowengramsisconfusion.OnlyonahandfuloffacesdoIseeannoyanceatthepotentialdismissalof
hisproposal.
He himself seems philosophical. Stepping forward from the edge of the arena, he confronts us all once
again.
“Verywell,”hesayssoftly.“Ifthat’syourdecision,I’llabidebyit.”
“Areyousure?”asksExene.
“Yes.IfIwasn’tpreparedto,I’dhardlyhavecalledthisassembly.”
“True,”sheconcedes.Oftherestofussheasks:“Doesthatresolvetheissuetoeveryone’ssatisfaction?”
“Yes,”saysTiger,hervoicecarryingclearlyoverwhatmighthavebeenamur-murofdiscontent.
Exene’sscanoftheassemblyiscursoryatbest.“Thenthismatterisclosed.”
Iopenmymouthtoprotest,butshutitwithoututteringaword.Whatwouldbethepoint?EventhoughI
officially have the floor after Emmett, there is no mistaking the assembly’s overall mood. If I called a
formalvote,themotionwouldberejectedforever.
“Well, then,” says Exene. Her civility cannot hide a look of triumph in her eyes as she turns back to
Emmett.“Whatwillyoudonow?”
“ThesameasI’vealwaysdone.”Heglancesdownathisshoes,thenbackup.Hissuitisdull,lifeless.
“Youwillcontinuetoassisttheprobeinitsmaintenance?”
“AslongasIamableto,yes.NothingthathasoccurredinthisroomhasalteredthewayIfeelaboutthe
program.Indeed, theway Ifeelis partofthe program.Ihave been hardwired toserve.”A quickglance
encompassestheroom,andevenI—whotriedtohelphim—feelguilty.
“Youcanthinkofitasyourpenance,”saysExene,“ifithelps.”
Hestaresatherforalongmoment,butdoesn’treply.
“Goodbye,”hesays,anddisappears.
Hisdeparturetakes theassemblybysurprise,andamomentpassesbeforeIregainorder,holding upmy
handsinthecentreofthearena.
“Unlessanyoneelsehassomethingtosay,”Icallovertheebbingracket,“let’sendithere.”
“Idon’ttrusthim,”saysCuby.“He’llwanttodoitanyway,regardlesswhatwethink.”
“Hesaidhecouldn’t.”
“So?”
“There’snotmuchwecandotostophim,evenifhedoes,”saysLetho,risingtohisfeet.“Andme,I’m
tiredoftheargument.Seeyouallinanotherthousandyears.”
Heleaves,andgraduallyothersdolikewise.Tigerfumestoherselfforalongminute—hardlylookingas
happyassheclaimssheis—thenfollows.Exenenodspolitelyatmebeforetakingherleave.Ireturnthe
gesture,knowingittobeempty.
Beforelong,thereisonlymeandJurgeninthehall.Heshakeshisheadonce—possiblyinregret—and
raiseshishandinfarewell.
ThenitisoverandIamfreetogo.
****
BarelyhaveIarrivedatthebeachwhenEmmettisnexttomeinhisshirtsleeves.Idon’tsayanything,just
standwithmyeyesdowncast,lookingatthestickinmyhandandwonderingwhatthehelltowrite.Ifeel
hollowandfragile,asthoughoneslighttapmightsendmecrumblingtopieces.
“Itwasworthatry,”hesays,puttingahandonmyshoulder.
Imoveaway.“Wasit?”
“Ofcourse.Atleastitlivenedthingsupforamoment.”
The stick moves in the sand, writes the slogan of an environmental movement from the late twentieth
century:Changeordie.
“Ifyou’reright,you’vecondemnedusalltoalivingdeath.”
“Notme,”hesays.“Theothers.Andultimatelytheprogram.”
“YouwereCEO.”
“Myoriginalwas.Andanyway,howwashetoknowitwouldcometothis?Youcan’tblamehimfornot
beingpsychic,Peter.”
Somethingabouthisbehaviourbothersme.Iturntoconfronthim,buthisfaceisdowncast,unreadable.
“AmIwrongtotrustyou?”Iask.“Canyouerasetheparameterseventhoughwetellyounotto?”
“No.”
“Butwouldyou?”
“Possibly.DoyouthinkIshould?”
“Idon’tknow.Youseemedprettycertain.Iwouldn’tputitpastyoutotakethedecisionoutofourhandsif
youthoughtwewerewrong.”
“I’dneverdothat,Peter.Andbesides,Itrulycan’t.MaybeIwasoverstatingthecasealittle,justtoshock
themallintothinkingseriouslyaboutit,butitworked,I’dsay.Inthelongrun,it’llbeworthit.”
Helooksatmefrombeneathhissandyfringe,andIrealizethatheissmiling.
“What’sgoingon,Emmett?”
“Ididlieaboutsomething,Peter.”
Mystomachsinks.“What?”
“Aboutithavingtobeallornone.Youcanfreeyourselfifyouwantto.Theotherscan,too,whenthey’re
ready.Itoldthemtheycouldn’ttosowthethoughtintheirminds.Whenitgerminates—asitwill,intime
—I’llbereadytohelpthem.”
“But—”
“HowcanIbecertainI’llbethereforthem?Quitesimply,Peter.Ifyouchoosetodoit,you’llbefreeingme
aswell.Thecommandwillperformtheparameterexcisionforbothofusatthesametime.I’vearrangedit
thatwaydeliberately.YoucandoformewhatIcannotdoformyself.Doyouunderstand?”
Ishakemyhead.Heisgoingtoofast.Ihavebarelyhadtimetoabsorbthepossibilitythatitistheghostof
myoldselfthathascausedmesomuchpain,letalonewhatmighthappenifIdecidetocutfreeentirely
fromthepast.
Irememberthinkingjustdaysagothathehadchangedslightly.IbegintosuspectnowhowwrongIwas.
“Idon’tknow,”Isay.Myhandsaresweating.Theendofthestickdanceswiththemagnifiedtremorsofmy
fingers.
“Whatdon’tyouknow,Peter?Whethertotrustmeornot?There’snoreasonIwouldlietoyou,now.
I’myourfriend,remember?”
“Yes,but-”
“Butnothing.”Hestepsawayfromme.“Allyouhavetodoisdecide,anddoit.Nothingcouldbeeasier.
Thecommandis‘Evermore.’It’llsetthingsinmotionwithoutyouhavingtodoanythingmorethansayit.”
Ishakemyhead.“Emmett—”
“Iknow.Youneedtothinkaboutit.Believeme,Iunderstand.”Heregardsmefromanarm’s-lengthaway.
“Justpromisemeonething,okay?Thatyouwillthinkaboutit.Don’tdismissitoutofhand,oryou’llbeno
betterthantheothers.”
“Idon’tbelievethatIam.”
“Butyouare,”heinsists,“otherwisewewouldneverhavebeenclose.I’mveryparticularaboutthepeopleI
trust.”
Inod,knowingthattobetrue.Hetoldmeonce,backonEarth,thoseverywords.
“We’refriends,Peter,”herepeatsagain,eyestwinkling.“Ofallthepeopleaboardtheprobe,Ichoseyou.
Youaretheone.Rememberthat,ifitmakethedecisionanyeasier.”
Thenheisgone,andIamalone.Istandonthebeachandstareatthesunset.
Thewetsandatmyfeetisblank;thestickhangsmotionlessbymyside.IrememberElizabethLi’sfinal
poem, the despair encapsulated in so few words. The most I can expect is to fill the empty time with
meaninglessscribble,inthehopethat,oneday,someofitwillbegintomakesense.
Thestoryofmylifescrawledonabeachofinfinitelength.WhydoIbother?WhatdoIeverdoorthink
thatisworthrecording?Andwho,ifanyone,wouldpossiblyreadit?
Butwhatisthealternative?
Oneofyouhastodoit,Emmettsaidabouteditingthecoreprogram.Iamcertainhewasn’tlying.Ihave
alwaystrustedhim,evenwhenIhadnoreasonto.otherthaninmemoryofafriendshipIoncesharedwith
hisoriginal.Evenifthatfriendshipwasunderscoredinmyparameters,therestillseemslittlereasontotrust
soblindlyinitnow.Unless…
Youaretheone,healsosaid.
TheoriginalEmmettLongyearalteredhisownengramtomakeitmoretrust-worthy.Hecouldeasilyhave
donethesametomine—possiblywithmyoriginal’sconsent.Iamhisaceinthehole,thetoolhecanuseto
performtaskshecannot.Iamhisgulliblesidekick.Iam—
IamEmmettLongyear’sfriend,thecoreprogramreasserts.Doubtisnotper-mitted.Evenifhewaslying
abouttheexcisionaffectingjustthetwoofus,ifbydoingashesaysIcondemnmycompanionstoidentity-
lossorinsanity,Iamunabletobelievehimcapableofdeliberatemalice.
ButwhoamI?
Iremembermyfather’sfaceandthebeltshousedtowear.Didhereallybeatme?Ihaveonlymyoriginal’s
wordforit.Hadhelied,Iwouldneverknowthedifference.
ThethememyoriginalwroteforhisthirdConcertoConcreteseemstoechoacrossthebeach—alonely
seabird’scryontheedgeoftheworld.Itrytofeelthepainoftheboymyoriginaloncewas,butIcannot.
Iamhauntedbyamanwhodiedtencenturiesago—amanIcanneverbe,yetwhomIconstantlyaspireto
emulate.PerhapsIhaveneverbeenhimatall.
Perhaps,insidethisshellofPeterOwenLeutenk,therereallyissomeoneelsetryingtogetout.
OrIamnothing,anelectronspinningthroughemptyvacuum.Idonotinteract:Idonotchange.Imayas
wellnotexist.
Icannotevenkillmyself.
That thought comforts me as the stick begins to move, writing the word “Ev-ermore” in letters fifty
centimetreshigh.Iamthinkingofsalvation,butifthisisn’taformofsuicidethenIdon’tknowwhatitis.
Atworst,ifEmmettiswrong,thereisachanceitwillfinallybeover.
****
ofscornedwomenand
causalloops
ROBERTGROSSBACH
Here’saslyandintelligentlookatthepropositionthatmaybe,justmaybe,youshouldsometimesjustshut
upandlisten,nomatterhowsmartyouthinkyouare…
Robert Grossbach has spent many years working in aerospace/defense, during which time hepublished
threenovels,NeverSayDie,SomeoneGreat,andEasyandHardWaysOut,thelastofwhichwasmadeinto
the movie Best Defense. He has also done a number of movie novelizationsand screenplays. His short
fiction has appeared primarily in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, with several sales in the
1980s as well as a handful of recent ones. Currently he is workingon a novel entitled A Short-age of
Engineers.HelivesinCommack,NewYork.
****
A
tCornavin Stationthe rental agencyhadgiven himoneof the newElectriqueswiththere-designed fuel
cells,andhe’daccepteditreluctantly,knowingitwouldnothavethepickupoftheoldgas-drivenmodels.
Yes,yes,ofcourseitwasathousandtimesbetterfortheenvironment,tenthousandtimes,butstillheliked
thefeelofthegaspedal,preferreditovertheaccelerator.One more thing tomakehimcranky,asifthe
TGVridefromParis,hissoreleftbuttock,andFrance’sfirstroundWorldCupeliminationweren’tirritants
enough.
HedrovenowontheRoutedeMeyrin,westboundfromGeneva,passinganewoutdoorshoppingmall,the
giant Thompson CSF and IBM buildings, an auto-mated radar speed monitor, and a Citroen dealership,
regarding all with a faintly disapproving and dyspeptic eye, which was how he viewed everything, for
reasons he’d never cared to plumb. After eight kilometers, he arrived at a hangar-sized building of
corrugatedmetal,situatedamidstascatteredcomplexofstructures,allsurroundedbyapavedparkinglot
anddoublechainlinkfence.ThesignovertheguardboothreadOrganizationEuropeenePourLaRecherche
Nucleaire,or,astheEnglishandAmericanscalledit,CERN(ignoringintheirusualobtusemannerthatthe
firstwordhadbeenchangedfromConseilnearlysevendecadesearlier).
Heflashedhiscredentialattheguard,passedwithanindifferentwavethroughaflimsy-lookinggate,and
parkednexttoablueMercedes.HelockedthedoorsoftheElectriqueoutofhabit,andtrudgedtowardthe
building,upperleftham-stringthrobbingateachstep.Onalowhilljustbeyondthecomplex,hethoughthe
couldseesheepgrazingandpausedforaninstanttosquintbeforemovingthroughtheentrance.
He signed in at a long, polished wooden desk, filling in the “Name,” “Entry Time,” and “Person to Be
Seen”columns,butleavingblankthe“PurposeofVisit”space.Whentheyoungreceptionisthadfinished
onthephone,shepresentedhimwithaplasticyellowrectanglethatidentifiedhimasavisitor,“leiestvotre
—”
“Englishwillbefine,”hesaid.
Shenodded.“Hereisyourbadge,Inspector.Someonewillbeoutmomentarilytoescortyou.”
Hegruntedathank-you,thenwenttostandawkwardlynearoneofthevinylwaitingareacouches,pausing
to knead his eyebrows and temples in a futile at-tempt to ward off the headache he already knew was
inevitable.Whenhelookedupamomentlater,afortyishwomanstoodbeforehim,wearingalooseblouse
andpleatedgrayskirt.
“InspectorLagrange?”
ShortblackhairframedaslightlyroundishKewpie-dollface:buttonnose,cherubmouth,darkredlipstick,
touchofrouge.Lagrangethoughtherjustshortofpretty.“I’mheretoseeDr.ElizabethParkes,”
hesaid.
“Iamshe.”
Apparently,hisexpressiondidnotsufficientlyconcealhisreactions.
“Idonotfityourconceptionofanuclearphysicist?”
Hesmiledback.“No,no,it’sjust…thereceptionistsaidtheyweresendingsomebody.Iassumed—“
Hewavedhishand.“It’sofnoimportance.”
Shestaredathimbemusedly.“Wellthen,shallwe?”Shemotionedtowardadoorway.“Iassumeyou’dlike
alookattheexperimentfirst?”
“Thatwouldbefine,yes.”
Sheheldthedoor,andhesteppedthrough.
Thehangarareawasvast;theypaddedalongabluesteelcatwalkpastadozenrowsofhuge,thrumming
machines. “Generators,” said Elizabeth, over the din. “They feed the superconducting magnets for the
accelerator.”
“They give me a headache,” shouted Lagrange. He now had pain in his head and his ass; he supposed
somewherealongthewayhe’dstubatoe.Theyemergedfinallyintotherearhalfofthebuilding,seemingly
emptyexceptforagiantoverheadcranesuspendedfromaheavysteelgirder.Butastheyapproachedthefar
end,Lagrangesuddenlysawthatahugesectionoffloorsimplyvanishedintoacavernousrectangularpit.
Hefoughtoffvertigoastheystaredovertheedge.
“Sixstoriesdeep,”saidElizabeth.
Atthebottom,amidstscatteredpiecesofequipment,tools,andladders,wasastructurethatlookedliketwo
piggy-backedrailroadcars.Thirty-centimeter-diameterropesofcable,numberinginthehundreds,ranfrom
thecarsupthesidesofthepitanddisappearedintoboxesofelectronicsthatlinedthewalls.
Lagrangepointedtoacircleontheroofofthetopcar.“That’swhereMonsieurParinoentered?”
Elizabethnodded.“Ahatch.Hardtotellfromuphere.”
“Andyou’reabsolutelycertainthere’snootherwayintooroutoftheexperi-ment?”
Sheshrugged. “You should know, Inspector.Yourpeoplehavebeen over that structure about a thousand
times.”
“Notmypeople.”
“You’reSwiss?I’msorry,IjustassumedyouwereFrench.Iknowtherewassomesortofajurisdictional
disputebecausethetunnelstraddlestheborderand—”
“I’mwithEuropol.”
Hereyesroseinfeignedadmiration.“Ah,Europol.Yes,someonesaidtheyweresendinganexpert.”
“Hardlyan expert,”saidLagrange.“Far farfromit. But Isuppose,relative to mylocalcolleagues, I am
perhapseversoslightlymoreeducatedinthearea.”
“Wouldyouliketogodowntomakeanexamination?”sheasked.“I’msorry,buttherearenoelevators,
we’llhavetousetheladders.”
Immediately, Lagrange felt his buttock spasm in anticipation. “That won’t be necessary, I’ve studied the
reports.” He indicated an aperture in the side of the pit, five stories below. “That’s where the beams
emerge?”
“That’stheopeningintothecollidertunnel,yes,but‘emerge’isperhapsnottherightword.Inoperation,of
course,thetunneliscontinuousthroughtheexperiment.Anextremelyhighvacuummustbemaintained.”
Somehow,sheseemedtosensehisdiscomfort.“Wouldyoubemoreateaseinanotherarea?”
“Thatwouldbefine,yes,”saidLagrange.
Theyexitedthebuildingbyareardoor,emergedintobrightsunlight.Almostimmediately,hetrippedovera
raisedsectionofconcretewalkway,wincedasheregainedhisbalance.
“Are you okay?” She reached out to steady his arm and momentarily, quite against his will, he became
aroused.
Howpathetic,hethought,thatthemereincidentaltouchofawomancoulddothattohim.“I’mfine,”he
said.“IstrainedahamstringwhileIwasjoggingtheotherday.Awarningfromnature,Isuppose,tostop
tryingtointerferewithhercourse.”
“NowyousoundlikeGiorgio.”
“Really?Inwhatway?”
“Hewasalwaystalkingaboutdeath.Well, alluding to it, anyway. Thatis,whenhewasn’ttalking about
physics.Heseemedtofeelhewasracingagainstatime-table.HewantedtogettheNobelwhilehecould
appreciateit.”
Theyenteredanarrowtwo-storybuildingthatconnectedatanoddangletotwootheridenticalstructures.
“Hewasdisappointedhedidn’tgetitfortheHiggs…”
“YouknowabouttheHiggs?”
Theywalkeddownanasbestos-tiledcorridor.“Notmuch.Iknowit’sthenamegiventofieldsofsomesort
andalsototheparticlesthatpresumablytransmitthem.Higgsbosons,Ibelievethey’recalled.
Goldmanfoundthefirstonerighthereandgottheprize—whenwasit?—aboutfifteenyearsago.”
“Twothousandthree,”shesaid.“Giorgiofeltitshould’vebeenhis.”
Theyentered a smallcantina.Candy and Coke machinesonone wall. Tentablesand chairs. Microwave
oven.Coffeestand.
“Thisokay?”sheasked.
“Anything,”hesaid.“AslongasIdon’thavetohearthosegenerators.”Theysatatoneofthetables,and
shebroughtoversomecafeaulait.HesippedattheStyrofoamcup.“SoGiorgiowasbitter.”
“Oh,ofcourse,”shesaidquickly.“Isn’tthatderigueurforworld-classphysicistswho feelthey’re being
overlooked?Bitter,driven,obsessed,callous”—hervoicedeepened,hergazedriftedoff—
“manipulative,cold,self-absorbed—“
“Butyouwereinlovewithhim.”Herfocusabruptlyreturned.“AsIsaid,I’veseenthereports,”headded,
almostapologetically.“Itwasintheinterviews.”
Sheshrugged.“Iwasatonetime,yes.Isupposeitwascommonknowledge.Physicistsgossiplikeanyone
else.”
“Andwasthelovereciprocated?”Hecouldseethehurtrippleacrossherfea-tures,andheleanedforward.
“MademoiselleParkes,IamtrulysorryforwhatIrealizemustseemlikeanoutrageousintrusionintoyour
personal life, but I beg you to try to understand my position. Giorgio Parino was perhaps the world’s
greatestexperimentalphysicist.Hisdisappearanceundertheconditionsoftheexperiment—”
“Someofuswouldnotcallitadisappearance.”
He nodded stiffly. He was not quite ready for semantic scientific nitpicking. “Nevertheless, the pressure
fromtheauthoritiesandthepublicandthepressforacompleteexplanation—“
“Fucktheauthorities!”saidElizabeth.“Andthepublic.Andthepress.And—”
“Andthepolice.Ofcourse,”filledinLagrange,grinning.
Shesoftened,grinnedback.“Ofcourse.”
Hedrainedhiscup.“TellmeabouttheHiggs.”
She pursed her lips. “As you said, a type of field. Still far from being understood. The Large Hadron
Collider we have here was meant to investigate it. Current ideas have been expanded from theories first
developedinthe1980sand‘90stoexplainhowtheelectroweakforce,whichistransmittedbyfourzero-
mass particles, could be transformed into two separate forces, one of which has massive particles as its
carrier.Thethinkingwas—is—thatthere’ssomekindofafield,theHiggs,thatpermeatesallofspace
andthatgaveparticlestheirmasseswhentheearlyuniversecongealed.”
“Andthecolliderisabletore-meltthatfield.”
“You smash together two beams of protons at seventeen teravolts, you get a hell of a lot of interesting
effects.”
“Includingtravelthroughtime?”
Again,shesmiled.Thenstoodup.“Let’swalk.Youfeellikewalking?”
Hedidn’t.“Fine.”
“I’llshowyoutheMegatekroom.”
“Okay.”
They emerged from the cantina, turned down the corridor. “You know, Lagrange is a famous name in
physics,”shesaid.
“Unfortunately,yes,”heresponded.“Somymotherusedtoinformmepracti-callyeveryday.Evenatone
time claimed he was my ancestor, although I doubt it. If he was, I’m afraid I’d have been a terrible
disappointmenttohim.”
“Youwerenotagoodstudent?”
“Ibarelymanagedtoekeoutamaster’satColumbia.”
“Ah,sothatexplainsyourexcellentEnglish:YouwenttoschoolintheStates.”
“AsIsaid,myfamilyhadhopes.Fortunately,theexperiencedemonstratedquiteclearlythatI’dneverbe
anymorethanathird-ratephysicist,ifthat.”
Theyturnedacorner.“Youmustnotletothers’opinionsofyoubecomeyourown,”shesaidwithunusual
intensity.“IhadtoconstantlyfightwithGiorgio.”
“Heconsideredyouthird-rate?”
Noanswer.
“Wasitbecauseyou’reawoman?”
“Hesaid…”Sheswallowed.Musclesworkedhighinherjaw.“HesaidIwasverygoodonthedetails,but
that I didn’t have the vision to be truly insightful. He said he realized it sounded sexist, but that all the
womenscientistshe’dknownseemedtohavethesamerestrictedperspective.‘Tunnelvision,’hecalledit,
andthenhe’dlaugh,becauseof—Idon’tknow—someprivatedoubleenten-dre.HesaidIwaswonderful
atporingoverdataandattendingtominuteindi-vidualtasksandthatIshouldn’tbeatmyselftodeathtrying
tobesomethingIwasnot.”
“Andyoudidn’t,Ipresume.”
“No.”
“Didyoubeathimtodeath?”
Theycametoaroommarked“Megatek,”andshepausedatthedoor.“AmIbeingchargedwithacrime,
Inspector?IsthisanofficialEuropolinterrogationoracasualconversation?”
Lagrangeshrugged.“Theanswersarerespectively,mademoiselle,‘Notyet,’and‘Officialinterrogation.’
Iapologizeifmymannerhasbeentooinformal.”
Shefrowned, but Lagrange could see that the gesturewas theatrical. “Perhaps I should have an attorney
present.”
Henoddedslightly.“Withallduerespect,Dr.Parkes,thisisnotAmerica.ThereisnoMirandalawhere,nor
anydirectequivalentofhabeascorpus.”
Sheunlockedthedoor.“WhateverGiorgiodid,hedidtohimself.”
Inside the room were a half dozen scattered computer terminals, a shelf-lined wall filled with black
notebooks, a bulletin board sprinkled with particle-collision photos, and finally, in the center, two large
machinesthatlookedlike3-Dvideogames.Itwasinthese,theMegateks,thatcomputer-enhanced,three-
dimensionalre-creationsoftheexperimentsinthecolliderpitcouldbedisplayed.
“Somepeoplesayyoucouldhavestoppedhim.”
“Itried.Hewouldn’tlisten.”
“Butitwasyouwhothrewtheswitch.”
“Athisorder.Athisinsistence.Doesthatmakemeacriminal?”
“Perhaps.Thereareseveraldependencies.”
“Suchas…”
“Suchaswhatexactlyhashappenedtohim.Suchaswhetheryouknewtheconsequencesofhisorder.”
“HewasDirectorGeneralofCERN,myimmediatesupervisor.”
“Nevertheless,ifyourdirectsuperiorcommandsyoutofirealoadedgunathisheadandyoudoit”—he
held out his hands —”the law says you are guilty of murder. And no matter that he is an arrogant,
patronizing, womanizing bastard.” He paused. “Now, did you know the consequences of throwing that
switch?”
Sheinhaleddeeply. “I…”She shookher head.“Giorgiohadso underminedmy confidenceIcouldn’tbe
sureofanything.Idoubtedmyownmind.”
“Soyouweren’tcertain?”
“No.”
“Butyouaremoreconfidentnow.”
“Iammoreconfidentnow,yes.”
HesatdownatoneoftheMegateks,fiddledwiththejoystick.“HowdidGiorgiofirstgettheideaabout
timetravel?”
Sheleanedoveroneofthecomputers,beganpunchingafewkeys.“Here,bettertoshowthantell.”
A moment later, at the center of his machine’s holographic projection volume, a schematic display of a
detector appeared: cylinder for the central portion, larger cylinder for the electromagnetic calorimeters,
rectanglefor thehadroniccalori-meters.She punched anotherbuttonand,instantly,thirtyorfortymulti-
coloredspaghettitracksshotthroughthedisplay.
“Areproductionofevent1431,”shesaid.“Thedetectorassemblysurroundsthelocationwheretheprotons
collide.”Shehitanotherkey,andallbutahalfdozenofthetracksdisappeared.Shemovedajoystickto
enlargethedisplay.Three-inch-longtracesfannedoutwardfromasinglepoint.
“A jet,” said Elizabeth. “Not that uncommon. The energy was 11.3 teravolts. Now” —again her tapered
fingersflewoverthekeys—”letmeshowittoyouastimepasses.”
Thetracesslowlyextendedinlength.
“Eachinchonthedisplayscaletakesabout.2picoseconds.”
Suddenly,at about four inches, each trace seemedto double, joined by an adjacent twin,which streaked
alongsideitforaboutaninchandahalfbeforedisappearing.
Lagrangeturned,browknit,palmsup.“I’msorry,Idon’tunderstand.”
“No one did,” said Elizabeth. “Particles identical in every Fermi number—I know it’s impossible —had
appearedfromnowherealongsidetheoriginals.Giorgiofinallymadethementalleap.”
Lagrange’smouthopenedinasilentAh.“Therewerenonewparticles.Theoriginalssimplymovedbackin
timetojointhemselvesatanearlierinstant.”
Elizabethnodded.“TheHiggsfieldhadmelted,masshaddisappeared—andpoppedbackabout.3
picoseconds.Thecalculationsconfirmedtherewasachunkofenergymissing;Giorgiocalledittau-sub-e,
thetemporalcomponent.
“Atotallyunexpectedeffect.”
“Totally.And,ofcourse,Giorgioimmediatelyrecognizedthemacroscopicram-ifications.”
Lagrangeshookhishead.
“Theeffecthadoccurredoveralinearextentofnearlyamillimeter,buttherewasnoreasonwhythatcould
notbeexpandedarbitrarily.Apparently—Haveyoureadhis2017PhysicalReviewpaper?”
Lagrangesaidhehad,butwithverylimitedcomprehension.
“Apparently,”shecontinued,“astheuniversecooled,theHiggsfieldcongealedintomicroscopicdomains,
separated by walls like, mmm …” As she searched for an analogy, a tiny crevice appeared between her
eyebrows;despitehimself,La-grangefounditcharming.“Likethatplasticbubblepapertheyusetowrap
gifts.Thecollidingbeamspoppedthebubbles,releasingtheirenergy.”Sheraisedhereyebrows.“Anyway,
Giorgio did the calculations for how to scan the beams so the bubbles would coalesce into a volume of
arbitrarysize.”
“Andinsidethevolume,”venturedLagrange,“whateverwastherewouldmovebackwardintime?”
She nodded. “Giorgio said they would have to give him two Nobel prizes, one wasn’t enough.” She
grinned.“Isuggestedheshouldholdtheprizeafewminutes,thenmovebackintimeandstandalongside
himself.”Thegrinvanished.
“Hetookyouseriously.”
“Notimmediately.Hisfirstprioritywastogoaroundtheworld,givingspeeches.Youunderstand,hewasan
incredibleherotophysicistseverywhere.Hemust’vevisitedahundreddifferentcountries.”
“Whiletherestofthestaff…”
“Eightyofus.Studiedtheeffect,repeatedit,triedtounderstandit,triedtoextendit.Eventually,webuilta
six-cubic-meter test chamber, used a magnetic field to suspend and levitate it in a vacuum —and sent it
backapproximately3.3picoseconds.”
“Youmust’vebeenecstatic.”
Shegavealittlesnort.“Iwasdisturbed.Ifelttherewassomethingfundamentalweweremissing.”
“Andthat’swhenyougavethespeech.”
She nodded. There had been an assembly of the entire staff to discuss recent events in time travel. A
conferenceroom.Ninety-sixyellowchairsinsixevenrows,blackboardinfront,TVmonitorsliningone
wall.Giorgiohadtakenasub-orbitalfromTokyotoattend.
Seven or eight of the physicists had gotten up to speak, discoursing on this or that arcane area, making
recommendations, complaining, fending off Giorgio’s staccato questions and comments. Finally, it was
Elizabeth’sturn.Shetookthelowpodium,hesitantlybegantotalk,showedseveralpreparedslides.
Unfortu-nately,she could not quite conceptualize whatwasbotheringher,andwhenyoucouldnotquite
conceptualize,Giorgiojumpeddownyourthroat.
“Sothephotographswerefuzzy,”herasped.“Sowhat.Cleanyourcameralenses.”
Achucklerippledthroughtheaudience.
“Theywereclean,Giorgio.Andthefocuswaschecked.”
“Sowhatisyourpoint?”
“There…thereissomespatialeffectassociatedwithtimetravel.Perhapsitissecond-order,but—”
“Withallduerespect,Elizabeth,yourdatahardlyjustifiestheconclusion.Frankly,Iwouldn’tevencallit
data.”
“Butthechamber…Mymeasurementsshowitshiftednearlyamillimeter—”
“Oh,sowe’remeasuringdistancesnow?Verygood.Didyouuseawoodenrulerorametalone?”
Morelaughter,muchofitstrained.
“Iusedalasercalipers.”
“Ah,pardonme.Iunderestimatedyourtechnicalability.”Openly,savagelypatronizingnow.“Elizabeth,we
aretalkingaboutasix-cubic-metervolume,subjecttoquitesubstantialforceshere.Whyareyousurprised
byaminusculemovement?Whydoyouthinkit’simportant?Haveyoucheckedthemagneticfieldservos?
Haveyoucheckedtheuncertaintiesintheenergybudgets?”
“Itried,butIcouldn’t—”
“Haveyoudoneanysupportingcalculations?Anymathatall?Anythinkingatallbeforeyoucameuphere
withthesedetails?Detailsarefine,Dr.Parkes,butreally,can’twejustgetalittleperspectiveonwhatisnot
awasteoftime?”
White-faced,choking,Elizabethhadcroaked“Sorry”andfledthestage.
Lagrangeleanedback.“Hehumiliatedyou.”
Shenodded.“Infrontofeverybody,”shewhispered.
“Youlefttheconference?”
“Ofcourse.Istudiedtheminutesafterward.”
Hepicturedher,aloneinsomesmallroom,ahighschoolgirlwho’dmissedtheseniorprom,readingabout
itinsteadinsomedrysecondhandreport.Hewantedtohugher,tellherhewasakindredsoulinpersonal
disappointment.
Butalmostasifreadinghisthoughts—andrejectingthem—shedrewherselfup.“Iwasangry.Ifelt”
—her eyes blazed —”I may be an inferior scientist, but sometimes an inferior does good work. A hack
writercomesupwithagreatnovel.Apoorsoccerteambeatsamuchbetterone.”Shethrustoutherchin.
“Anaveragedetectivehasamagnificentinsightthatcracksanimpossiblecase.”
Lagrangenodded.“Soyoufeltyouwereontosomethingandwerebeingig-nored.”
“Moreaccurately,IfeltGiorgiowasmissingsomething.Iguess,atbottom,whatwasreallybotheringme
wastheoldgrandfatherparadox.Youknow,somebodygoesbackintimeandkillstheirowngrandfather,so
thattheywereneverborn…whichmeanstheyweren’taroundtogobackintime.”
Lagrangecrossedhislegs.“Youdidn’tbuythemany-universetheories?AsIunderstandit,theconceptis
thatwhensomeonegoesbackintimeheisreallytravellingtoanotheruniverse,whichisidenticalwiththe
firstuptotheinstantofhisarrival,butdifferentthereafterbecauseofhispresence.Thatway—”
“Intheuniverseheleaves,hisgrandfatherisaliveandheisborn.Intheoneheenters,hisgrandfatherdies,
andheisn’tborn.”Sheshookherhead.“ThatwasGiorgio’sexplanationandmostoftheothers’.
ThemeltingoftheHiggsfieldproducedclosedtimelikecurves,CTCs,betweenuniverses.”Shechuckled
mirth-lessly. “To me, it sounded like magic. Invoke enough different universes and you can explain
anything. It wasn’t true understanding. And I had my experiments. There’s something that working with
actualhardwaregivesyou—Iknowitsoundsmystical—butthere’ssomethingthatworldtravellersget
outoftouchwith.”
The door opened then and two men entered, dressed casually in slacks and open-collar shirts. Lagrange
stoodup,withdrewhiswallet,andflashedhisbadge.“Gentlemen,I’msorry,butImustaskyoutoleave.
We’llonlybeanotherfiveminutes.”
Themenseemeduncertain,buteventuallydeparted.
“Youknowthem?”askedLagrangewhenthey’dgone.
“Notwell,”saidElizabeth.“Theyoungerone’sbeenhereayear,somekindofmathematicianfromCollege
deFrance.TheotherfellowIbelieveisRussian,specializesinmuondetectors.”
“TellmewhenGiorgiogothisbrightidea.Doyouthinkitwasalwaysinthebackofhismind?”
Sheshrugged.“Idoubtit.Ithinkitwasoneofthosespur-of-the-momentthings,oneofthoseflamboyantI-
am-the-bossmegalomaniacpowermoveshelovedsomuch.”
“ThenitwasforthebenefitoftheJapanese?”
“Partly,yes.Theyhadsentinalargevisitingdelegation.Theyweretalkingaboutahugefundingincrement
—that’swhatit’sallaboutinhigh-energyphysics,asit’salwaysbeen—andGiorgiowasanxioustomakea
grandimpression.”
“And that’s when you picked to tell him you thought the experiments might not be safe.” He raised his
eyebrows.“Awkwardtiming,no?”
Shebristled.“It wasn’t‘timing’at all. I broached it to him as soon asIfeltIhada solid basis for it. A
coupleoftheJapanesejusthappenedtobeintheroom.ShouldIhavewhispered?”
Lagrangedidn’tanswer.“Andyourconcernwas—“
“ThesmallspatialdislocationsI’dmentionedearlier.Iwasworriedaboutwhatmighthappenifanobject
interpenetratedanearlierversionofitself.”
“ButDr.Parinodidnotshareyouranxiety.”
“Hewasfuriouswithmeforbringingitup.Asitturnedout,hewasright.Therewasaproblem,butthat
wasn’tit.”
“Nevertheless, he decided to demonstrate the process safety by using himself as the subject of an
experiment.”Lagrangebegantappinghisfoot.“Howdidhejustifythat?”
“Hedidn’t,really.Inhisposition,youdidn’thaveto.Oh,lateronheofferedupsomemumbojumboabout
takingabitoffutureinformationintothepast,somethingthatrequiredahumanmind,inordertotestor
dispel the so-called knowledge paradox. An example would be paintings brought from the future to the
original artist in the past, who copies them. The process eliminates the creative work. Anyway, no one
consideredthatseriously.WeallknewGiorgiowasjustbeingGiorgio.”
“Wasithisideatogoafullfivesecondsbackward?Wasn’tthattrillionsoftimeslongerthanyou’dsent
anythingelse?”
“It had already been shown that the regression in time depended exponentially on the rate at which you
meltedtheHiggsdomains,notthecollisionenergy.Itmeantonlythatwehadtoincreaseourluminosityand
scanning speed. Giorgio claimed five seconds was the minimum duration required for his future self to
recordandbringbackanumberthatcouldbephotographedwithnexttoasealedclock.”
“TheParisclosinggoldprice.”
“Yes.”
“Whatdidtheotherphysiciststhinkofhisplan?”
“Thathewasentirelycrazy,ofcourse.Butitwasageniusmoveforpublicity.”
“Andweretheyworried,too,aboutsafety?”
“Oh,mostagreeditwasrash,butnoonecouldjustifytheirfeelingsintermsofspecifics.”Sheremoveda
small mirror and some lipstick from a tiny purse she carried. “Giorgio was not the kind of person who
inspiredfeelingsofprotection.”
“Exceptinyou.”
She stopped applying the lipstick. “I was up the entire night before the exper-iment. That was when I
figuredeverythingout.”
“Youcouldseehimfromthecontrolroom?”
Shenodded.Lagrangerememberedthetape—controlroomactivitywasalwaysrecorded.Sixtytelevision
monitors. Two dozen physicists sitting at consoles, hunched over screens, harried, looking up to scan a
readout, to shout something, to scream a command. On one of the consoles, Giorgio strides confidently
towardthepitinthehangarfloor.Undergroundareafifteen,orUA15,thetimetravelexperiment.Hesays
something to one of the Japanese visitors and the man smiles. Giorgio is wearing an orange jumpsuit, a
whitelinedpadunderhisarm.
WAITINGFORACOMMANDscrollsdownoneofthemonitors.WAITINGFORACOMMAND.
“Isthecounterworking?”shoutsaphysicist.
“Firingaway,”saysanother.“Igotitinthelogbook.”
Amechanicalvoiceannounces,“Protoncheck,”andthreeofthescreensfillupwithnumbersandgraphs.
Amomentlater,thevoicedeclares,“SPSready,”andmorenumberstumbleontoadditionaldisplays.
ThecameracatchesElizabeth,sittingatthemaincontrolpanel.Herfaceisgaunt,hereyeswide.Sheusesa
microphonetoaddresspeopleinthehangar.“Giorgio,Ibegyounottodothis.Ibegyou.”
Giorgiowavesandsmiles,patstheJapaneseontheshoulder.
Lagrange shook his head. “Why did he make you the SLIMI?” SLIMI was Shift Leader In Matters of
Information.
Elizabethspoke in a near whisper. “It wasn’tthat unusual. I had done it before.” Sheinhaledsharply.“I
supposeitwasfurtherpunishment.”
Lagrange recalled the final moments. Giorgio descending the ladder into the pit. Signal light going on
indicatingTimeTravelChambersecured.Themechanicalvoicesaying,“Beamscanningsequenceready,”
andElizabethmakingonefutilelastattempt.
“Giorgio,please…please…”
Andtheresponse:“Isthegoldpricein?Assoonasitcomesin,closethefuckingswitchandreadmethe
fuckingnumberwhenthecountergoesdowntotwo.Iorderit,Elizabeth.”
Shehesitates several seconds,looksaroundat the other physicists,whoseex-pressionsare maintained at
carefulneutrality.Amanwearingheadphonesap-proachesherandwhisperssomething.Shedelaysanother
momentandthen,finally,chestheaving,shepressesakey.Themechanicalvoicesays,“Cycleone,”and
beginsacountdownfromninetozero.
Attwo,ElizabethreadsinthePariscloseinNewDollarsperounce,29.32.Atzero,smalldipsappearon
linescrossingthreeofthemonitors.
Even in the hangar, there never was any sound. When the Time Chamber disappeared, it happened in
vacuum;noairwaspresenttorushin.
Lagrangestoodupandstretched.“Youknewimmediately,ofcourse.”
Elizabethnodded.“Allinstrumentreadoutsfromthechamberwentdead.”
Hebegantoslowlypace,ignoringthehamstringtwinges.“Youknewwherehe’dbe?”
“Notexactly.Iknewhowfar,butnotpreciselythedirection.”
“SoitwasmoreorlessluckthatFarsideIIhappenedtobepointedtowardthatsector.”
“Isuppose.Chancesweresometelescopewouldcatchit.”
“Yourdistancewascorrect?”
Afaintgrin.“Withinexperimentalerror.”
“Yourso-calledequivalenceprinciple…”
She puffed her lips. “It seemed reasonable. Travel through space requires time; therefore, travel through
timemightverywellrequirespace.”
“Itresolvesthegrandfatherparadox.”
“Itoccurredtomethenightbeforetheexperiment.Youcan’tkillyourgrand-fatherifyoucan’treachhim.
If you travel through time, you can’t affect anything before you left—or have anything affect you —if
you’reflungfarenoughawayfromyouroriginalposition.”
“Buthowfaris‘farenough’?”
“In general, the speed of light multiplied by the time interval. Nothing could travel back fast enough to
causeaproblem.Theuniversecouldprotectitselffrominconsistenciesandnon-causalevents,itdidn’tneed
otheruniversestohelp.”
He pondered a moment. “But what if you’re transported right near your grand-father, whom you
immediatelymurder?”
Sheshookherhead.“Eitherhe’dhavealreadysiredyourparent,soitwouldn’tmatter,orhecouldn’thave
beenyourgrandfather.Intech-speak,inthetimeintervalyouwentback,noconcatenationofworldlines
couldtraverseasmuchdistanceasyoudid.”
Lagrangewas content to grasp the essence. “So,therefore,whenMonsieurParino was popped back five
secondsintime,inspacehewasthrust—”
Hereyebrowsrose.“Amillionandahalfkilometers.”
Lagrangegavealowwhistle.“Dr.Parkes,thankyou.Theinterviewisofficiallyconcluded.Ifyoucouldsee
mebacktoUA15…”
Shestood.“Ofcourse.”
Theyexited the Megatekroom.The two men who’denteredbefore were waitingoutsideand eyed them
venomouslyastheyrecededdownthehall.“Sotellme,Inspector,”sheasked,“amItobecharged?”
Lagrangelookedatheralongsidehim,pursedhislips.“Well,thatisnotformetodecide,mademoiselle.I
onlymakeareport.”Hecouldnotkeepastraightface.“ButIthinknot.”Atacorner,hedaredtakeherarm.
“Ithinknot.”
HehadheardtalkthatitwasshenowwhomightgettheNobel,sharingitwiththedepartedGiorgiofor
“theParkes-Parinoprinciple.”
“HaveyouseentheactualpicturesfromFarsideII,Inspector?”
“Oh yes,” said Lagrange. “Quite beautiful, in an eerie sort of way.” He tried for a moment to imagine
himselfinParino’sshoes.Therewasaportholeinthechamberandheundoubtedlyhadlookedout.
Lagrange wondered if he’d been able to see the Earth from his position, how small it must’ve appeared
fromamillionkilometersbeyondthemoon,howresplendentamidstthejeweledback-groundofscattered
stars,howachingly,utterlyunreachable…”Theglaremadethechamberlookalmostlikeacomet.”
“Well,” said Elizabeth, “there is a fair amount of energy associated with tem-poral re-entry.” An impish
expressioncrossedherface.“And,ofcourse,Giorgioalwayswasbrilliant.”
Unprofessionalasitwas,Lagrangelaughed.
****
sonobservethetime
KAGEBAKER
ProlificnewwriterKageBaker madeher firstsale,toAsimov’s Science Fiction, in 1997, and hassince
becomeoneofthatmagazine’smostfre-quentandpopularcontributorswithherslyandcompellingstories
oftheadventuresand misadventures of the time-travellingagentsoftheCompany; her stories have also
appearedinAmazing,RealmsofFantasy,andelse-where.Herfirstnovel,IntheGardenofIden,alsoatale
of the Company, was published in 1997 and immediatelybecame one of the most acclaimed and widely
reviewedfirstnovelsoftheyear.HersecondCompanynovel,SkyCoyote,waspublishedin1999,athird,
MendozainHollywood,earlyin2000,andshehasseveralmorenovelsalreadysoldandinthepipeline.
Baker has been an artist, actor,and director at the Living History Center, and has taught Elizabethan
Englishasasecondlanguage.ShelivesinPismoBeach,California.
Intheintricateandeloquentnovellathatfollows,perhapsthebestoftheCompanystoriestodate,shetake
us back in time to Old San Francisco, to the breathless moments just before theGreat San Francisco
Earthquake, for a taut and suspenseful tale of conspiracy, conflict, politicalintrigue, revenge, and
redemptionintheshadowofonrushingcatastrophe.
****
O
ntheeveofdestructionwehadoystersandchampagne.Don’tsupposeforamomentthatwehadanydesire
tolord itover thepoormortals ofSanFrancisco, inthatmonthofApril inthatyear of1906;but things
weren’tgoingtobesograciousthereagainforalongwhile,andwefeltanurgetofortifyourselvesagainst
theworkweweretodo.
Andwhowerewe,youmayask?Thepresent-timeoperativesofDr.ZeusIn-corporated,atwenty-fourth-
centurycabalofinvestorswhohavepresidedoverthedevelopmentofimmortalityandtimetravel,amongst
other things. Neither of those inventions is terribly practical, I regret to say; nevertheless they can be
utilizedtoprovideasatisfactoryprofitforCompanyshareholders.Assuming,ofcourse,thatweimmortals
—theirservants—areabletoperformourtasksinasatisfactorymanner.
LondonbeforetheGreatFire,DelhibeforetheMutiny,evenChicago—IwasthereandIcantellyou,it
requiresagreatdealofmentalandemotionalself-disciplinetolivesidebysidewithmortalsinaSalvage
Zone.Youmustlook,daily,intothesmilingfacesofthosewhoaretoloseall,andwalkbesidetheminthe
knowledge that nothing you can do will affect their fates. Even the most prosaic of places has a sort of
hauntedgloryatsuchtimes;judgethenhowitlookedtous,thatgildedfantasticalbutterflyofacity,quite
unpreparedforitsapproachingholocaust.
TheplacewasmadeevenqueererbythefactthatthereweresomanyCompanyoperativesthereatthetime.
The very ether hummed with our transmissions. In any street you might have seen us dismounting from
carriagesor theoccasionalautomobile, weimmortalgentlemen tippingourderbies totheladies, our im-
mortalladies responding with a graceful inclination of their picturehats,smilingas we met each other’s
terrifiedeyes.WedinedatthePalaceandasguestsatNobHillmansions;promenadedinGoldenGatePark,
droveouttoWoodwardGar-dens,attendedthetheaterandeverywheresawthepalesetfacesofourown
kind,busywiththeirownparticularpreparationsagainstwhatwastocome.
Some of us had less pleasant places to go. I was grateful that I was not required to brave the Chinese
labyrinth by Waverly Place, but my associate Pan had certain business there amongst the Celestials. I
myselfwasobligedtoventure,toomanytimes,intotheboarding-housessouthofMarketStreet.Beneath
theFlyTrapwasaCompanysafehouseandHQ;we’dmeettheresometimes,PanandI,attheendofalong
dayinourrespectiveghettoes,andwe’dsitshakingtogetheroverabraceofstiffwhiskies.Thusheartened,
it was time for a costume change: dock laborer into gentleman for me, coolie into cook for him, and so
homebycablecar.
IlodgedintworoomsonBushStreet.IwillnotsayIsleptthere;onedoesnotrestwellontheedgeofthe
maelstrom. But it was a place to keep one’s trunk, and to operate the Company credenza necessary for
facilitatingthemissionsofthoseoperativeswhosecaseofficerIwas.Salvagingisaterriblycomplicated
affair, requiring as it does that one hide in History’s shadow until the last possible mo-ment before
snatchingone’squarryfromitspreordaineddoom.Onemustbeorganizedandthoroughlycoordinated;and
timingiseverything.
Onthe morningofthe tenthofApril Iwasworking there,sendinga progressreport, when therecame a
briskknockatmydoor.SuchwasmyconcentrationthatIwasmomentarilyunmindfulofthefactthatIhad
nomortalservantstoanswerit.WhenIheardtheimpatienttappingofasmallfootonthestep,Ihastenedto
thedoor.
IadmittedNan D’Araignee, one of our Art Preservationspecialists.Sheis an operative of West African
originwithexquisitefeatures,slenderandslightasadollcarvedofebony.Ihadworkedwithherbriefly
neartheendofthepreviouscentury.SheisquitethemostbeautifulwomanIhaveeverknown,andhappily
marriedtoanotherimmortal,acenturybeforeIeverlaideyesonher.Timing,alas,iseverything.
“Victor.”Shenodded.“Charmingtoseeyouagain.”
“Docomein.”Ibowedherintomyparlor,acutelyconsciousofitsdisarray.
Herbrightgazetookinthewrinkledlaundrycastasideonthedivan,theclutterofunwashedteacups,the
half-eatenoysterloafonthecredenzaconsole,sixemptysautemebottlesandonesmudgilythumbprinted
wineglass. She was far too cour-teous to say anything, naturally, and occupied herself with the task of
removinghergloves.
“Imustapologizefortheconditionoftheplace,”Istammered.“Mydutieshavekeptmeoutagooddeal.”I
sweptacopyoftheExaminerfromachair.“Won’tyousitdown?”
“Thank you.” She took the seat and perched there, hands folded neatly over her gloves and handbag. I
pulledoveranotherchair,intenselyirritatedatmyclumsiness.
“Itrustyourworkgoeswell?”Iinquired,forthereisofcoursenopointinaskingoneofusifwearewell.
“And,er,Kalugin’s?Orhashebeenassignedelsewhere?”
“He’sbeenassignedtoMarineTransport,asamatteroffact,”shetoldme,smilinginvoluntarily.“Weareto
meeton the Thundererafterward. I am so pleased! He’s been in the Bering Sea for two years, and I’ve
missedhimdreadfully.”
“Ah,”Isaid.“Howpleasant,then,tohavesomethingtolookforwardtointhemidstofallthis….”
Shenoddedquickly,understanding.Iclearedmythroatandcontinued:
“WhatmayIdoforyou,Nan?”
She averted her gaze from dismayed contemplation of the stale oyster loaf and smiled. “I was told you
mightbeabletoassistmeinrequisitioningadditionaltransportformymission.”
“Ishallcertainlyattemptit.”Istrokedmybeard.“Yourpresentarrangementsareunsuitable?”
“Inadequate,rather.YoumayrecallthatI’minchargeofPresalvageattheHopkinsGallery.Itseemsour
originalestimatesofwhatwecanrescuethereweretoomodest.AtpresentIhavefivevansarrangedforto
evacuatetheGallerycon-tents,butreallyweneedmore.Woulditbepossibletorequisitionasixth?
Myowncaseofficerwasunabletoassistme,butfeltyoumighthavegreatersuccess.”
Thiswasachallenge.Companyresourceswerestrainedtotheutmostonthisoperation,whichwasoneof
thelargestonrecord.EveryoperativeintheUnitedStateshadbeenpressedintoservice,andmanyofthe
EuropeanandAsianper-sonnel.Ahandsomeallotmenthadbeenmadefortransportunits,butneedswere
swiftlyexceedingexpectations.
“OfcourseIshouldliketohelpyou,”Irepliedcautiously,“ifatallpossible.Youareaware,however,that
horsedrawntransportutilizationisimpossible,duetothesubsonicdisturbancesprecedingtheearthquake—
andmotortransportsare,unfortunately,ingreatdemand—“
A brewer’s wagon rumbled down the street outside, rattling my windows. We both leaped to our feet,
castinginvoluntaryglancesattheceiling;thensatdowninsilentembarrassment.Mme.D’Araigneegavea
littlecough.“I’msosorry—Mynervesaresimply—”
“Notatall,notatall,Iassureyou—onecan’thelpflinching—”
“Quite. In any case, Victor, I understand the logistical difficulties involved; but even a handcart would
greatlyeaseourdifficulties.Somanylovelyandunexpectedthingshavebeendiscoveredinthiscollection,
thatitreallywouldbetooawfultolosethemtothefire.”
“Oh,certainly.”Igotupandstrodetothewindows,givingintotheurgetolookoutandassuremyselfthat
thebuildingshadn’tbeguntoswayyet.Solidandseeminglyaseternalasthepyramidstheystoodthere,for
themoment.IturnedbacktoMme.D’Araigneeasathoughtoccurredtome.“Tellme,doyouknowhowto
operateanautomobile?”
“Butofcourse!”Herfacelitup.
“Itmay be possible to obtain somethinginthatline.Depend upon it, Madame, you will have your sixth
transport.Ishallseetoitpersonally.”
“IknewIcouldrelyonyou.”Sherose,allsmiles.Wetookourleaveofoneanotherwithacourtesythat
beliedourdisquiet.Isawheroutandreturnedtomycredenzakeyboard.
QUERY,Iinput,RE:REQUISITIONADDTNLTRANSPORTMOTORVANORAUTO?PRIORITY
RE:HOPKINSINST.
HOPKINSPROJECTNOTYOURCASE,camethegreenandflashingreply.
NECESSARY,Iinput:NEWDISCVOVRRIDESECTIONAUTH.PLEASEFORWARDREQUEST
PRIORITY.
WILLFORWARD.
Thatwasall.Somuchformychivalrousimpulse,Ithought,andwatchedasthetransmissionscreenwinked
outandreturnedmetomystatusreportontheNobHillPresalvagework.IresumedmyentryoftheGilded
Ageloottaggedforpreservation.
WhenIhadtransmittedit,Istoodandpacedtheroomuneasily.HowlonghadIbeenhidinginhere?
WhatIwantedwasamealandagoodstretchofthelegs,Itoldmyselfsternly.Freshair,insofarasthat
wasavailableinanycityatthebeginningofthistwentiethcentury,Iscannedtheoysterloafandfoundit
alreadypulsingwithbacteria.Pity.AfterdisposingofitinthedustbinIputonmycoatandhat,tookmy
stickandwentouttotreadthelengthofBushStreetwithasboldastepasIcouldmuster.
Itwasnonsense,really,tobefrightened.I’dbeoutofthecitywellbeforethefirstshock.I’dbesafeonair
transportboundforLondonbeforethefirstflamesrose.London,theotherCity.Icouldsettleintoachairat
myclubandreadacopyofPunchthat wasn’ta month old, secure intheknowledgethatthe oak beams
abovemyheadwerefixedandimmovableastheyhadbeensincethedayswhenI’dwornapowderedwig,
astheywouldbeuntilGermanshellscamerainingdowndecadesfromnow….
Shivering,IdismissedthoughtsoftheBlitz.Plentyoflifetothinkabout,surely!Herewerebillspostedto
catchmyeye:ImightgoouttothePavilionatWood-ward’stowatchtheboxingexhibition—JackJoyce
andBobWardfeatured.TherewasdelectablevaudevilleattheOrpheum,Iwasassured,andgaietygirlsout
attheChutes,tosaynothingofaspectacularsideshowre-creationoftheJohnstownFlood…
perhapsnotinthebestoftaste,underthepresentcircumstances.
ImightimbibeGoldSealChampagnetolightenmyspirits,thoughIdidn’tthinkIwould;VeuveCliquot
was good enough for me. Ah, but what about a bottle of Chianti, I thought, arrested by the bill of fare
postedinthewindowofacornerrestaurant.Splendidculinaryfragranceswaftedfromwithin.WouldIhave
grilledvealchopshere?WouldIgoalongBushtothePoodleDogforChickenChaud-FroidBlanc?Would
IventuretoGrantinsearchofyellowsilkbannersforduckroastedinsometinyCelestialkitchen?Then
again, I knew of a Swiss place where the cook was a Hungarian, and prepared a light and crisply fried
WienerschnitzeltocomparewithanyI’dhad…orImightjuststepintoasaloonandorderanotheroyster
loaftotakehome….
No,Idecided,vealchopswouldsuitmenicely.Icastaworriedeyeupatthebuilding—pitythisstructure
wasn’tsteel-framed—andproceededinside.
Itwasoneofthosedark,robustplaceswithin,floorthicklystrewnwithfreshsawdustnotyetkickedinto
littleheaps.Itookmytableasanygoodoperativedoes,backtothewallandaclearpathtothenearestexit.
Servicewaspoor,asapparentlytheirprincipalwaiterwaslatetoday,butthewinewasexcellent.Ifoundit
brightonthepalate,justwhatI’dwanted,andthechopswhentheycamewereredolentofherbsandfresh
oliveoil.WhataconsolationAppetitecanbe.
Yes,Life,thatwasthethingtodistractonefromunwisethoughts.Savorthewine,Itoldmyself,observethe
paradeofcolorfulhumanity,breatheinthefra-granceofthejosssticksandtheseafoodandthegardensof
the wealthy, listen to the smart modern city with its whirring steel parts at the service of its diverse
inhabitants.Themomentisall,surely.
Idinedinsomeisolation,fortheluncheoncrowdhadnotyetemergedfromthenearbyofficesandmyhost
remainedinthekitchen,arguingwiththecookoverthemissingwaiter’scharacterandprobableancestry.
EvenasIamusedmyselfbylistening,however,Ifeltadisturbanceapproachingthedoor.Notembloryet,
thank Heaven, but a tempest of emotions. I caught the horrifying mental images before ever I heard the
stifledweeping.Inanothermomenthehadburstthroughthedoor,ayoungmalemortalwithaprodigious
blackmustache,quitenattilydressed butwith histhick hairin wilddisarray.Assoonashewas pastthe
thresholdhissobsburstoutunrestrained,atavolumethatwouldhavedonecredittoCaruso.
Thisbroughthisemployeroutofthebackatonce,blurtingoutthefirstphrasesoffuriousdenunciation.
Themissingwaiter(forsohewas)staggeredforwardandthrustoutthatday’sChronicle.The headlines,
fullyaninchtall,checkedthetorrentofabuse:MANYLOSETHEIRLIVESITSGREATERUPTION
OFVE-SUVIUS.
Theproprietoroftherestaurant,struckdumb,wentanuglyashencolor.Heputthefingertipsofonehandin
hismouthandbitdownhard.Inabrokenvoice,thewaiterdescribedthehorrors:Roofcollapsedinchurch
in his own village. His own family might even now lie dead, buried in ash. The proprietor snatched the
paper and cast a frantic eye over the columns of print. He sank to his knees in the sawdust, sobbing.
EvidentlyhehadfamilyinNaples,too.
Istaredatmyplate.Isawgrayandrubberymeat,congealinggrease,searedbonewiththemarrowturned
black.Inthemidstoflifeweareindeath,butitdoesn’tdotoreflectuponitwhiledining.
“You must, please, excuse us, sir,” the proprietor said to me, struggling to his feet. “There has been a
terribletragedy.”HesettheChroniclebesidemyplatesoIcouldseetheblurredrotogravurepictureofKing
VictorEmmanuel.ReportThatTotalNumberofDeadMayReachSevenHundred,Iread.
TownsBuriedUnderAshesandManyCaughtinRuinedBuildings.MANYBUILDINGS
CRUSHEDBYASHES.Ofcourse,Ihadknownaboutthecomingtragedy;butitwasontheothersideof
theworld,thebusinessofotherCompanyoperatives,andIenviedthemthattheirworkwascompletednow.
“Iamsoverysorry,sir,”Imanagedtosay,lookingupatmyhost.Hethoughtmypallorwasoccasionedby
sympathy:hecouldnotknowIwasseeinghismortalfacelikeanapparitionofthedaystocome,anditwas
grayandcharring,forhelaydeadintheburningruinsofaboardinghouseintheMissionDistrict.
Horror,yes,impossiblenottofeelhorror,butonecannotempathizewiththem.Onemustnot.
TheywentintothekitchentotellthecookandIheardweepingbreakoutafresh.CarefullyItookupthe
newspaperandperusedit.Perhapstherewassome-thingherethatmightdivertmefromtheunpleasantness
ofthemoment?Embez-zlement.Acrazedadmirerstalkinganactress.Charlatanevangelists.Grislymurder
committedbytwoboys.Deadlyexplosion.Crazedderelictstalkingabankpresi-dent.LosAngelesschool
principalsdemandingacademicstandardslowered.
Idroppedthepaper,and,leavingfivedollarsonthetable,Ifledthatplace.
Iwalkedbriskly,notlookingintothefacesofthemortalsIpassed.Irodethecablecar,edgingawayfrom
the mortal passengers. I nearly ran through the green expanse of Golden Gate Park, dodging around the
mortalidlers,thelovers,thenurseswheelinginfantsinperambulators,untilatlastIstoodontheshoreof
thesea. Temptingto turntolook atthefairy castlesperched onitscliffs;temptingtoturn tolookat the
carnivaloffunalongitsgraysandmargin,butthehumancomedywasthelastthingIwantedjustthen.I
needed,rather, the chillandlevel grace ofthesteel-coloredhorizon, sun-glistering,wide-expanding. The
coldsaltwindbuffetedme,filledmygratefullungs.Ah,theimmortalocean.
Considertheinstructivemetaphor:Everyconceivableterrordwellsinherdepths;shereceivesallwreckage,
refuse,corruptionofeverykind,shepullsdownintoherdepthshumancalamityindescribable:butnoneof
thisisanyconsidera-tiontothesea.Letthescreamingmortalpassengersfightforroominthelifeboats,as
thewreckbelchesflameandsettlesbelowtheextinguishingwave;nextmorningshe’llstillbebeautifuland
serene,hercombersnolesswhite,herdistancesasblue,herseabirdsnolessgracefulastheywheelinthe
pureair.Whatperfection,tobesoheartless.Aninspirationtoanylesserimmortal.
AsIstoodsocommuningwiththeelements,amortalmancamewadingoutofthesurf.Ijudgedhimtwo
hundredpoundsofathleticstockbroker,musclesbulgingundersaggingwetwool,bravingtheicywateras
anactofself-disciplinarysport.Hestoodforamomentononeleg,examiningthesoleofhisotherfoot.
Therewassomethinggladiatorialinhispose.Helookedupandsawme.
“Abracingday,sir,”heshouted.
“Quitebracing.”Inoddedandsmiled.Icouldfeelthefrostpatternsofmyreturningcomposure.
And so I boarded another streetcar and rode back into the mortal warren, and found my way by certain
streetstotheBarbaryCoast.Notaplaceagentlemancarestoadmittovisiting,especiallywhenhe’sknown
thegildedbeauties ofoldByzantiumorRegency-erawenches;the raddledpleasuresavailableonPacific
Streetsufferedbycomparison.ButAppetiteisAppetite,afterall,andthereisnothinglikeittotakeone’s
mindoffunpleasantthoughts.
****
“Yourcostume.”Theattendantpushedapasteboardcartonacrossthecountertome.“Personaleffectsand
fieldequipment.Linen,trousers,suspenders,boots,shirt,vest,coatandhat.”Hefrowned.“Phew!
Theseshouldhavebeenlaundered.Wouldyoucaretobefittedwithanalternateset?”
“That’sallright.”Itooktheoffendingrags.“Thesweatgoeswiththerole,I’mafraid.Irishlaborer.”
“Ah.”Hetookastepbackward.“Well,breakaleg.”
“Thankyou.”
Fifteen minutes later I emerged from a dressing room the very picture of an immigrant yahoo,
uncomfortably conscious of my clammy and odiferous clothing. I sidled into the canteen, hoping there
wouldn’tbeacrowdinthelineforcoffee.Therewasn’t,atthat:mostofthedinerswereclusteredaround
oneoperativeoverinacorner,soIstoodalonewatchingtheFoodServicetechnicianfillmythickchina
mugfromadentedsteelcoffeeurn.Thefragrantsteamwasawelcomedistractionfrommyownfragrancy.
Ifound a solitary table and warmed my hands on my dark brew there in peace, until an operativebroke
loosefromthegroupandapproachedme.
“Say,Victor!”
Iknewhimslightly,anAmericanoperativesoyoungonecouldscanhimandstilldiscernthescartissue
fromhisAugmentations.HewasoneofmyPresalvagers.
“Goodmorning,Averill.”
“Say,youreallyoughttolistentothatfellowoverthere.He’sgotsomeswellstories.”Hepausedonlylong
enoughtohavehiscuprefilled,thencameandpulledoutachairacrossfromme.“Knowwhoheis?
He’stheGuyWhoFollowsCarusoAround!”
“Ishe?”
“Sureis.MusicSpecialistGradeOne!Thatboy’swiredforsound.He’scaughteveryperformanceCaruso’s
evergiven,even thechurch stuffwhenhewasakid. Goingto gethiminCarmenthenight before You-
Know-What,going to record the whole performance.He’s just come back fromplantingreceiversin the
foot-lights!Say,haveyougottenticketsyet?”
“No,Ihaven’t.I’mnotinterested,actually.”
“Not interested?” he exclaimed. “Why aren’t you —how can’tyou be interested? It’s Caruso, for God’s
sake!”
“I’mperfectlyawareofthat,Averill,butI’vegotapriorengagement.And,personally,I’vealwaysthought
deReszkewasmuchthebettertenor.”
“DeReszke?”Hescannedhisrecordstoplacethenameand,whiledoingso,absentlytookagreatgulpof
coffee.Asecondlaterheclutchedhisearandgasped.“ChristAlmighty!”
“Steady,man.”Isuppressedasmile.“Youdon’twanttogulpbeveragesover60degreesCelsius,youknow.
There’ssomeverycomplexcircuitryplacedneartheEustachiantubethatgetsunpleasantlyhotifyoudo.”
“Ow,ow,ow!”Hesuckedinair,staringatmewiththeastonishmentoftheverynewoperative.Italways
takesthemawhiletodiscoverthatimmortalityandintensepainarenotstrangers,indeedcanresideinthe
sameeternalhouseforquitelengthyperiodsoftime.“ShouldIdrinksomeicewater?”
“Bynomeans,unlessyouwantsomerealdiscomfort.You’llbeallrightinaminuteorso.AsIwasabout
to say, I have some recordings of Jean de Reszke I’ll transmit to you, if you’re interested in comparing
artists.”
“Thanks,I’dlikethat.”Averillranahastyself-diagnostic.
“AndhowisyourteamfaringoverattheNewBrunswick,bytheway?Nocasesofnerves,nobluedevils?”
“Hellno.”Averillstartedtolifthiscoffeeagainandthensetitdownrespectfully.
“Doesn’tbotheryouthatthewholeplace will be ashes in a few days’ time,and mostofyourneighbors
dead?”
“No. We’re all okay over there. We figure it’s just a metaphor for the whole business, isn’t it? I mean,
soonerorlaterthiswholeworld”—hemadeasweepinggesture,palmoutward—”asweknowit,isgoing
thesameway,right?Sowhat’sitmatterifit’stheearthquakefinishesitnoworawreckingballsomeplace
furtheronintime,right?Samethingwiththepeople.It’llallcometothesamethingintheend,sothere’s
noreasontogetpersonallyupsetaboutit,isthere?No,sir.Speciallysincewe’llallstillbealive.”
“Acommendableattitude.”Ihadasipofmycoffee.“Andyourworkgoeswell?”
“Yessir.”Hegrinned.“Youwillbesoproudofusburglarysquadfellowswhenyougetournextlist.
Youwouldn’tbelievethestuffwe’refinding!Allkindsofobjetsd’art,lookslike.One-of-a-kinditems,by
God.Wait’llyousee.”
“Ilookforwardtoit.”IglancedatmyChronometeranddrankdowntherestofmycoffee,havingwaited
forittodescendtoacomfortable59degreesCelsius.“But,youknow,Averill,itreallywon’tdotothinkof
yourselvesasburglars.”
“Well—thatis—it’sonlyafigureofspeech,anyhow!”Averillprotested,flushing.“Ajoke!”
“I’mawareofthat,butIcannotemphasizeenoughthatwearenotstealinganything.”Isetmycoffeecup
down,awarethatIsoundedpriggish,andlookedsternlyathim.“We’represervingpricelessexamplesof
lateVictoriancraftsmanshipfortheedificationoffuturegenerations.”
“I know.” Averill looked at me sheepishly, “But—aw, hell, do you mean to say not one of those crystal
chandelierswillwindupinsomeFacilitatorGeneral’sprivateHQsomewhere?”
“That’sanabsurdidea,”Itoldhim,thoughIknewonlytoowellitwasn’t.Still,itdoesn’tdotodisillusion
one’ssubordinatestooyoung.“Andnow,willyouexcuseme?Imustn’tbelateforwork.”
“Allright.Beseeingyou!”
AsIleftherejoinedtheadmiringthrongaboutthefellowwhowastellingCarusostories.Mywaylayalong
the bright tiled hall, steamy and echoing with the clatter of food preparation and busy operatives; then
throughthedark securityvestibule,withitsluminous screensdisplayingtheworldwithout;thenthrough
theconcealeddoorthatshutbehindmeandleftnotraceofitselftoanyeyesbutmyown.Idrewadeep
breath.Chillandsilentmorningair;noglimmeroflight,yet,atleastnotdownhereinthealley.
Half-past-five.Thistimethreedayshence—
Ishiveredandfoundmywayoutinthedirectionofthewaterfront.
NotlongafterwardIarrivedattheloadingareawhereIhadbeendesultorilyemployedforthelastmonth.I
mademyentrancestaggeringslightly,doingmybesttomurder“YouCan’tGuessWhoFlirtedWithMe”in
agravellybaritone.
Themortallaborersassembledthereturnedtostareatme.Mybestfriend,anacquaintanceI’dcultivated
painstakinglytheselastthreeweeks,cameforwardandtookmebythearm.
“Jesus,Kelly,you’dbetterstowthat.Where’veyoubeen?”
Istoppedsingingandgavehimabelligerentstare.“MarchingintheEasterParade,O’Neil.”
“O, like enough.” He ran his eyes over me in dismay. Francis O’Neil was thirty years old. He looked
enoughlikemetohavebeentakenformysomewhatbulkier,clean-shavenbrother.“What’reyoudoingthis
for,man?YouknowHerlihydoesn’tlikeyouasitis.Youlooklikeyou’venotbeenhometosleepnorbathe
sinceFridaynight!”
“SoIhavenot.”Idroppedmygazeinhung-overremorse.
“Comeon,youpoorstupidbastard,I’vegotsomecoffeeinmydinnerpail.Soberup.Wasitaletteryougot
fromyourgirlagain?”
“Itwas.”Ilethimsteermetoasecludedareabehindamountainofcratesandacceptedthetincuphefilled
formewithlukewarmcoffee.“Shedoesn’tloveme,O’Neil.Sheneverdid.Icantell.”
“Now,then,you’retakingitallthewrongway,I’msure.Ican’tbelieveshe’sstoppedcaring,notafterall
thethingsyou’vetoldmeabouther.Justdrinkthatdown,now.Marymadeitfreshnotanhourago.”
“You’realuckyman,Francis.”Ileanedonhimandbegantoweep,sloppingthecoffee.Heforborewiththe
patienceofasaintandreplied:
“SureIam,Jimmy,AndshallItellyouwhy?BecauseIknowwhentotakemydrink,don’tI?Idon’tswill
itdowneverypaydayandforgettogohome,doI?Noindeed.I’dloseMaryandthekidsandalltherestof
it,wouldn’tI?It’sself-controlyouneed,Jimmy,andthesorrowsinyourheartbedamned.
Comeonnow.WithanyluckHerlihywon’tnoticethestateyou’rein.”
Buthedid,andalitanyofscornwaspronouncedonmypenitenthead.Itookitwitheyesdowncast,turning
mybatteredhatinmyhands,andadirtiernormoremaudlindrunkcouldscarcehavebeenseeninthatcity.
Iwouldbesum-marilyfired,Iwasassured,buttheyneededmentodaysobadthey’demployeventhelikes
ofme,thoughbyGodnexttime—
WhenthebosshaddoneexcoriatingmeIwasdismissedtohelpunloadacargoofcoprafromtheNevadan,
in from the islands yesterday. I sniveled and tottered and managed not to drop anything much; O’Neil
stayedclosetomethewholeday,watchfullestIpassoutorwanderoff.Hewasagoodfriendtotheabject
caricatureI presented; God knows why he cared.Well,I should repay hiskindness,atleast,though in a
mannerhewouldneverhavetheopportunitytoappreciate.
We sweateduntilfourintheafternoon,when therewas nothinglefttotakeofftheNevadan;let go then
withdirectionstothenextday’sjob,andthreatsagainstslackers.
“Now,Kelly.”O’NeiltookmyarmandsteeredmewithhimbacktowardMarketStreet.“I’lltellyouwhatI
thinkyououghttodo.Gohomeandhaveabitofawashinthebasin,right?Haveyoucleanclothes?So,
putona cleanshirtand trousersandseecanyou scrapesomeofthatoffyourboots. Thencomeoverto
supperatourplace,see.Mary’sboughtsomesausages,wethoughtwe’dtreatourselvestoadishofCoddle
nowthatLent’sover.We’veplenty.”
“Iwill,then.”Igraspedhishand.“O’Neil,you’realordforcourtesy.”
“Iamnot.Onlygohomeandwash,man!”
WepartedinfrontoftheTerminalHotelandIhurriedbacktotheHQtofollowhisinstructions.Thiswas
justthesortofchanceI’dbeenanglingforsinceI’dsoughtoutthemanonthebasisoftheGeneticSurvey
teamreport.
Anhourlater,ascleanlyasthecharacterIplayedwaslikelytobeabletomakehimself,Iventuredalong
Market Street, heading down in the direction of the tenement where O’Neil and his family lived, the
boarding houses in the shadow of the Palace Hotel. I knew their exact location, though O’Neil was of
courseunawareofthat;accordinglyhehadsentapairofhischildrendowntothecornertowatchforme.
They failed to observe my approach, however, and I really couldn’t blame them; for proceeding down
MarketStreetbeforeme,movingslowlybetweenthegloomoftwilightandtheelectricilluminationofthe
shopsigns,wasanapparitioninascarlettunicandblackshako.
Itwalkedwiththestiffandmeasuredtreadoftheautomatonitwaspretendingtobe.Thelittleraggedgirl
andherlittlerbrotherstaredopenmouthed,watchingitsprogressalongthesidewalk.Itperformedabrief
businessofmarchingmind-lesslyintoalamppostandwalkinginexorablyinplacethereamomentbefore
rightingitselfandgoingon,butnowonanobliquecoursetowardthechildren.
Itoocontinuedonmycourse,smilingalittle.Thiswasdelightful:amortalpretendingtobeamechanical
toybeingfollowedbyacyborgpretendingtobeamortal.
Therewasawildreverberationofmirthintheetheraroundme.Oneotherofourkindwasobservingthe
scene,apparently;buttherewasagiganticqualitytotheamusementthatmademefalterinmystep.Who
wasthat?ThatwassomeoneIknew,surely.QuoVadis?Itransmitted.Thelaughtershutofflikeanelectric
lightbeingswitchedout,butnotbeforeIgotasenseofdirectionfromit.Ilookedacrossthestreetandjust
caught a glimpse of a massive figure disappearing down an alley. My visual impression was of an old
miner,oneofthemythicfoundersofthiscity.Oldgodswalking?Whataridiculousidea,andyet…whata
momentofpanicitevoked,ofmortaldread,quiteirrational.
Butthefigureinthescarlettunichadreachedthechildren.LittleEllaclutchedherbrother’shand,stock-
stillonthepavement;littleDonalshrankbehindhissister,butwatchedwithoneeyeasthethingloomed
overthem.
Itbentforward,slowly,inincrements,asthoughagearratchetedinitsspinetoloweritdowntothem.Its
facewaspaintedwhite,withredcirclesonthecheeksandaredcupid’sbowmouthunderthestiffblack
mustaches.Blankglassyeyesdidnotfixonthem,didnotseemtoseeanything,butonewhite-glovedhand
cameupjerkilytoofferthelittlegirlaprintedhandbill.
Afterafrozenmotionlessmomentshe tookitfromhim.“Thank you,MisterSoldier,”shesaid inahigh
clear voice. The figure gave no sign that it had heard, but unbent slowly, until it stood ramrod-straight
again;pivotedsharplyonitsheelandresumeditsslowmarchdownMarketStreet.
“Soldiergo.”Donalpointed.Ellapeeredthoughtfullyatthehandbill.
”‘CH-IL-DREN,’”shereadaloud.Whatanimpossiblysweetvoiceshehad.“Andthat’sanExclamation
Point,there.‘Babe—Babies,In,To—Toy—’“
”‘Toyland,’”Ifinishedforher.Shelookedupwithagladcry.
“Thereyouare,Mr.Kelly.Donal,thisisMr.Kelly.HeisDaddy’sgoodfriend.Supperwillbeonthetable
presently.Won’tyoupleasecomewithus,Mr.Kelly?”
“Ishouldbedelightedto.”Itouchedthebrimofmyhat.Theypatteredawaydownanalley,makingforthe
darkwarrenoftheirtenement,andIfollowedclosely.
Theyweredifferentphysicaltypes,thebrotherandsister.Prettychildren,cer-tainly,particularlyEllawith
herglossyblackbraids,withhereyesthecolorofthetwilightframedbyblacklashes.Butitisnotbeauty
welookforinachild.
ItwastheboyIwatchedcloselyaswewalked,asturdythree-year-oldtrudgingalongholdingtighttothe
girl’shand.Icouldn’thavetoldyouthequalitynorshadeofhisskin,norhishairnorhiseyes;Icaredonly
thathis head appeared to beacertainshape, that his littlebodyappearedto fit a certain profile,thathis
limbsappearedtobeacertainlengthinrelationtooneanother.Icouldn’tbecertainyet,ofcourse:thatwas
whyIhadmaneuveredhisfatherintothegenerousimpulseofinvitingmeintohishome.
Theylived downalong darkcorridortoward thebackof thebuilding,its wallsdamp withsweat,its air
heavywiththeodorsofcooking,ofwashing,ofmortallife.Thedooropenedacrackasweneareditand
then, slowly, opened wide to reveal O’Neil standing there in a blaze of light. The blaze was purely by
contrasttoourdarkness,however;oncewe’dcrossedthethreshold,Isawthattwokerosenelampswereall
theilluminationtheyhad.
“Therenow,didn’tItellyoushe’dspothim?”O’Neilcriedtriumphantly.“Wel-cometothishouse,Jimmy
Kelly.”
“Godsaveallhere.”Iremovedmyhat.“Goodevening,Mrs.O’Neil.”
“Goodeveningtoyou,Mr.Kelly.”MaryO’Neilturnedfromthestove,bouncingafretfulinfantagainstone
shoulder.“Wouldyoucareforacupoftea,now?”ShewaslikeElla,ifyearscouldbegrantedEllatogrow
tallandslenderandwearherhairuplikeasoftthundercloud.Buttherewasnowelcomingsmileformein
thegreyeyes,foronthepreviousoccasionwe’dmetI’dbeendisgracefullyintoxicated—atleast,doingmy
besttoappearso.Ilookeddownasifabashed.
“I’dblessyouforacupoftea,mydear,Iwould,”Ireplied.“Andwon’tyouallowmetoapologizeforthe
conditionIwasinlastTuesdayweek?I’dnoexcuseatall.”
“Leastsaid,soonestmended.”Shesoftenedsomewhatatmyobvioussobriety.
Setting the baby down to whimper in its apple-box cradle, she poured and served my tea. “Pray seat
yourself.”
“Here.”Ellapulledoutachairforme.Ithankedherandsatdowntoscantheroomtheylivedin.Onlyone
room,withonewindowthatprobablylookedoutonanalleywallbutwaspresentlyfrostedopaquefromthe
steam of the saucepan wherein their supper cooked. Indeed, there was a fine layer of condensation on
everything: it trickled down the walls, it lay in a damp film on the oilcloth cover of the table and the
blanketsonthebedagainstthefarwall.Theunhappyinfant’shairwasmoistandcurlingwithit.
Hadtherebeenany ventilationitwouldhavebeenapleasantenoughroom.Thetablewassetwithgood
china,someone’streasuredinheritancenodoubt.Thetinypotbelliedstovemusthavebeenawkwardtocook
upon,butO’Neilhadbuiltacabinetofslatwoodandsheettinnexttoittoserveastherestofakitchen.The
children’strundlewas storedtidilyunder theparents’bed.Nextto thepaintedwashbasin on thetrunk,a
decorous screen gave privacy to one corner. Slatwood shelves displayed the family’s few valuables: a
sewingbasket,amusicboxwithapaintedsceneonitslid,acheapmirrorwhoseframewasdecoratedwith
glued-on seashells, a china dog. On the wall was a painted crucifix with a palm frond stuck behind it.
O’Neilcameandsatdownacrossfromme.
“You look grand, Jimmy.” He thumped his fist on the table approvingly. “Combed your hair, too, didn’t
you?That’stheboy.You’llmakeagentlemanyet.”
“Daddy?”Ellaclimbedintohislap.“Therewasasoldiercameandgaveusthisinthestreet.Willyouever
readmewhatitsays?There’smorewordsthanIknow,see.”Shethrustthehandbillathim.Hetookitand
helditoutbeforehim,blinkingatitthroughthesteamyair.
HereIpresenttheprintedtexthereadaloud,withouthismanypausesasheattemptedtodecipherit(forhe
wasanintelligentman,butoflittleeducation):
CHILDREN!
ComeseetheGrandFairyExtravaganzaBABESINTOYLAND
MusicbyVictorHerbert
BookbyGlenMacDonough
StagedbyJulianMitchell
IgnacioMartinettiand100Others!
ComingbySpecialTrainofEightCars!
BiggestMusicalProductionSanFranciscoHasSeenInYears!
AnInvitationfromMotherGooseHerself:
MYdearlittleBoysandGirls,
IDOhopeyouwillbehavenicelysothatyourMammasandPapaswilltreatyoutoaperformanceofMr.
Herbert’slovelyplayBabesinToylandattheColumbiaTheater,openingMonday,the16thofApril.Why,
mydears,it’soneofthebiggestsuccessesoftheseasonandhasalreadyplayedforeversomanynightsin
suchfar-awaycitiesasNewYork,Chicago,andBoston.Yes,youreallymustbe good littlechildren,and
thenyourdearparentswillseethatyoudeserveanoutingtovisitme.For,makenomis-take,Imyself,the
onlytrueandoriginalMOTHERGOOSE,shallbethereuponthestageoftheColumbiaTheater.Andso
shallsomanyofyourotherfriendsfrommydelightfulrhymessuchasTom,TomthePiper’sSon,BoPeep,
ContraryMary,andRedRidingHood.ThecurtainwillriseuponMr.Mitchell’ssplendidproduction,with
itsmanynoveleffects,ateighto’clocksharp.
Of course, if you are very little folks you are apt to be sleepyheads if kept up so late, but that neednot
concernyourcarefulparents,fortherewillbeamatineeonSaturdayattwoo’clockintheafternoon.
WON’Tyoupleasecometoseeme?Youraffectionatefriend,MotherGoose.
“Oh,dear,”sighedMary.
“Daddy,canwego?”Ella’seyeswerealightwithanticipation.Donalchimedin:
“SeeMotherGoose,Daddy!”
“Wecan’taffordit,children.”Mary’smouthwasasetline.Shetookthesauce-panoffthestoveandbegan
toladleasavorydishofsausage,onions,potatoesandbaconontotheplates.“We’vegotaroofoverour
headsandfoodforthetable.Let’sbethankfulforthat.”
Ella closed her little mouth tight like her mother’s, but Donal burst into tears. “I wanna go see Mother
Goose!”hehowled.
O’Neilgroaned.“Yourmotherisright,Donal.DaddyandMummydon’thavethemoneyforthetickets,can
youunderstandthat?”
“Yououghtn’ttohavereadoutthatbill,”saidMaryinaquietvoice.
“IwantgoseetheSoldier!”
“Donal,hushnow!”
“Donal’stheboyforme,”Isaid,leaningforwardandreachingouttohim.“Look,DonalOg,what’sthis
you’vegotinyourear?”
IpretendedtopullforthabarofGhirardelli’s.Ellaclappedherhandstohermouth.Donalstoppedcrying
andstaredatmewithperfectlyroundeyes.
“Lookatthat!Wouldyoueverhavethoughtsuchalittlefellow’dhavesuchbigthingsinhisears?Comesit
withyourUncleJimmy,Donal.”Idrewhimontomylap.“Andifyouhushyournoise,perhapsMummy
andDaddy’llletyouhavesweeties,eh?”Isetthecandyinthemidstoftheoilcloth,welloutofhisreach.
“Blessyou,Jimmy,”saidO’Neil.
“Well,andisn’tittheleastIcando?Didn’tknowIcouldworkmagic,didyou,Ella?”
“Settledown,now.”Marysetoutthedishes.“Frank,it’stimetosayGrace.”
O’NeilmadethesignoftheCrossandintoned,withthelittleonesmumblingalong,
“Bless-us-O-Lord-and-these-Thy-gifts-which-we-are-about-to-receive-from-Thy-bounty-through-Chris t-
Our-Lord-Amen.”
Marysatdownwithus,unfoldingherthreadbarenapkin.“Donal,comesitwithMummy.”
“Beeasy,Mrs.O’Neil,Idon’tmindhim.”Ismiledather.“I’vealittlebrotherathomehe’stheveryimage
of.Where’shisspoon?Here,DonalOg,youeatwithme.”
“Idon’tdoubttheylookalike.”O’NeilheldouthistumblerasMarypouredfromapitcherofmilk.
“Lookatyouandme.Doyouknow,Mary,thatwasthefirstacquaintancewehad—?Gotourhatsmixed
upwhenthewindblew‘embothoff.Wewearjustthesamesize.”
“Fancythat.”
Sowedined,andanaffablemortalmanhelpedlittleDonalmakeamessofhispotatoeswhilstchattingwith
Mr.andMrs.O’NeilaboutsuchsubjectsasthedreadfulexpenseoflivinginSanFranciscoandtheirplans
toremovetoacheaper,lesscrowdedplaceassoonasthey’dsavedenoughmoney.Theimmortalmachine
thatsatattheirtablewasmakingathoroughexaminationofDonal,mostsubtly:anidlecaressofhisclose-
cropped little head measured his skull size, concealed devices gauged bone length and density and
measured his weight to the pound; data was analyzed and preliminary judgment made: Optimal
Morphology. Aug-mentation Process Possible. Classification pending Blood Analysis and Spektral
Diagnosis.
“That’sthebestmealI’vehadinthiscountry,Mrs.O’Neil,”Itoldheraswerosefromthetable.
“Howkindofyoutosayso,Mr.Kelly,”shereplied,collectingthedishes.
“Chocolate,Daddy?”Donalstretchedouthisarmforit.O’Neiltoreopenthewaxedpaperandbrokeoffa
square.HedivideditintotwoandgaveonetoDonalandonetoElla.
“Now,youmustthankyourUncleJimmy,forthisisgoodchocolateandcosthimdear.”
“ThankyouUncleJimmy,”theychorused,andEllaadded,“Buthegotitbymagic.ItcameoutofDonal’s
ear.Isawit.”
O’Neilrubbedhisfacewearily.“No,Ella,itwasonlyaconjuringtrick.Rememberthetalkwehadabout
suchthings?Itwasjustatrick.Wasn’tit,Jimmy?”
“That’sallitwas,sure,”Iagreed.Shelookedfromherfathertomeandback.
“Frank,dear,willyouhelpmewiththese?”Maryhadstackedthedishesinawashpanandsprinkledsoap
flakesin.
“Right.Jimmy,willyoumindthekids?We’rejusttakingthesedowntothetap.”
“Iwillindeed,”Isaid,andthought:Thankyouverymuch,mortalman,forthisopportunity.The moment
thedoorclosedbehindthemIhadthe deviceout ofmy pocket.It lookedrather likea bigold-fashioned
watch.Ihelditouttotheboy.
“Hereyougo,Donal,here’sagrandtimepieceforyoutoplaywith.”
Hetookitgladly.“There’satrainonit!”hecried.IturnedtoElla.
“AndwhatcanIdoforyou,darling?”
She looked at me with considering eyes. “You can read me the funny papers.” She pointed to a neatly
stackedbundlebythestove.
“Withpleasure.” Iseizedthem upandwe settledbackin mychair,pulling alampclose. Thebabyslept
fitfully,IreadtoEllaaboutSamboandTommyPipandHerrSpiegleburger,andallthewhileDonalpressed
buttonsandthumbedleversonthediagnostictoy.Itflashedprettylightsforhim,itplayedlittletuneshis
sisterwasincapableofhearing;andthen,asIhadknownitwould,itbithim.
“Ow!”Hedroppeditandbegantocry,holdingouthistinybleedingfinger.
“O,dear,now,what’sthat?Diditstickyou?”Iputhissisterdownandgotuptotakethedeviceback.
“Tsk!Lookatthat,thestem’sbroken.”Itvanishedintomypocket.“Whatashame.O,I’msorry,DonalOg,
here’stheoldhankie.Let’sbandageitup,shallwe?There,there.Doesn’thurtnow,doesit?”
“No,”hesniffled.“Iwantanotherchocolate.”
“Andsoyou’llhaveone,forbeingabraveboy.”Isnappedoffanothersquareandgaveittohim.“Ella,let’s
giveyouanotheraswell,shallwe?Whathaveyoufoundthere?”
“It’sapictureaboutMotherGoose.”ShehadspreadouttheChildren’sPageontheoilcloth.“Isn’tit?
ThatsaysMotherGooserightthere.”
Ilookedoverhershoulder.“PicturesfromMotherGoose,”Ireadout.“HotCrossBuns.PainttheSellerof
HotCrossBuns.Lookslikeit’sacontest,darling.They’reaskingthekiddiestopaintinthepictureandsend
itofftothepapertojudgewho’sdonethebestone.”
“Isthereprizemoney?”Shehadanidea.
“Twodollarsforthebestone,”Iread,pullingatmylowerlipuneasily.“Andpaintboxesforeveryoneelse
whoenters.”
Shethoughtthatover.Dismaycameintoherface.“ButIhaven’tgotapaintboxtocoloritwithatall!O,
that’s stupid! Giving paintboxes out to kids that’s got them already. O, that’s not fair!” She shook with
stifledanger.
“What’snotfair?”Hermotherbackedthroughthedoor,holdingitopenforO’Neilwiththewashpan.
“OnlythisMotherGoosethinghere,”Isaid.
“You’re never on about going to that show again, are you?” said Mary sharply, coming and taking her
daughterbytheshoulders.“Areyou?Haveyoubeenwhee-dlingatMr.Kelly?”
“Ihavenot!”thelittlegirlcriedinatremblingvoice.
“Shehasn’t,Mrs.O’Neil,onlyit’sthiscontestinthekids’paper,”Ihastenedtoexplain.“Youhavetohave
asetofpaintstoenterit,see.”
Marylookeddownatthepaper.Ellabegantocryquietly.Hermothergatheredherupandsatwithheron
theedgeofthebed,rockingherbackandforth.
“O, I’m so sorry, Ella dear, Mummy’s so sorry. But you see, now, don’t you, the harmin wanting such
things?You seehow unhappyit’smadeyou? Lookhowhard Mummyand Daddyworkto feedyouand
clotheyou.Doyouknowhowunhappyitmakesuswhenyouwantshowsandpaintboxesandwhoknows
what,andwecan’tgivethemtoyou?Itmakesusdespair.That’saMortalSin,despairis.”
“Iwanttoseethefairies,”weptthelittlegirl.
“Dearestdear,therearen’tanyfairies! Butsurely itwas theDevil himselfyou metout inthe street,that
gaveyouthatwickedpieceofpaperandmadeyoulongaftervainthings.Doyouunderstandme?Doyou
seewhyit’swicked,wantingthings?Itkillsthesoul,Ella.”
After a long gasping moment the child responded, “I see, Mummy.” She kept her face hidden in her
mother’sshoulder.Donalwatchedthemuncertainly,twist-ingthebigknotofhandkerchiefonhisfinger.
O’Neilsatatthetableandputhisheadinhishands.Afteramomenthesweptupthenewspaperandputit
inthestove.HereachedintotheslatwoodcabinetandpulledabottleofWilson’sWhis-keyuponthetable,
andgotacoupleofcleantumblersoutofthewashpan.
“Willyouhaveadram,Kelly?”heoffered.
“Justtheone.”Isatdownbesidehim.
“Justtheone,”heagreed.
Youmustnotempathizewiththem.
****
When I let myself into my rooms on Bush Street, I checked my messages. A long blue column of them
pulsedonthecredenzascreen.MostofitwasthepromisedlistfromAverillandhisfellows;I’dhaveto
passthatontoourmastersassoonasI’dreviewedit.Ididn’tfeelmuchlikereviewingitjustnow,however.
TherewasalsoaresponsetomyrequestforanothertransportforMme.D’Araignee:DENIED.NO
ADDITIONALVEHICLESAVAILABLE.FINDALTERNATIVE.
Isighedandsankintomychair.Myhonorwasatstake.FromadraweratthesideofthecredenzaItook
anotherGhirardellibarand,scarcelytakingthetimetotearoffthepaper,consumeditinafewgreedybites.
Waitingforitssoothingpropertiestoact,IpagedthroughacopyoftheExaminer.Therewereautomobile
agenciesalongGoldenGateAvenue.PerhapsIcouldaffordtopurchaseoneoutofmypersonaloperation’s
expenseaccount?
Buttheywereshockinglyexpensiveinthiscity.Icouldn’tfindoneforsale,neworused,forlessthana
thousanddollars.Whycouldn’thercaseofficerdelveintohisownpockettodeliverthegoods?Iverified
thebalanceofmyaccount.No,therecertainlywasn’tenoughforanautomobileinthere.However,there
wasenoughtopurchasefourticketsto“BabesinToyland.”
Iaccessedtheproperpartyandtypedinmytransactionrequest.
TIXUNAVAILABLEFOR041606EVENT,camethereply.041706AVAILABLEOK?
OK,Ityped.PLSDEBIT&DELIVER.
DEBITED.TIXINYRBOXATSMKTSTHQ600HRS041606.
TIBIGRATIAS!Ireplied,withallsincerity.
DIEDULCEFRUERE.OUT.
Having solved one problem, an easy solution to the other suggested itself to me. It involved a slight
inconvenience,itwastrue;butanygentlemanwouldreadilyendureworseforalady’ssake.
My two rooms on Bush Street did not include the luxury of a bath, but the late Mr. Adolph Sutro had
providedanalternativepleasureforhisfellowcitizens:theBaths,whichsurelycouldhaveexistedonlyin
thatcity,inthattime.
JustnorthofCliffHouseMr.Sutrohadpurchasedarockylittlepurgatoryofacove,cleanedtheshipwrecks
outofitandproceededtoshoreitupagainstthemoretreacherouswaveswithseveralthousandbarrelsof
cement.Having constructed not onebutsixsaltwater pools of a magnificenceto rival old Rome, he had
proceededtoencloseitinacrystalpalaceaffairofnolessthanfouracresofglass.
Ah,butthiswasn’tenoughforSanFrancisco!Theentrance,onthehillabove,wasasnearaGreektemple
asmodernartisanscouldproduce;throughtheshrineonewanderedalongthemuseumgallerylinedwith
exhibits both educational and macabre and descended a vast staircase lined with palm trees to the main
level,whereonemightbathe,exerciseinthegymnasiumorattendatheaterperfor-mance.
Havingdoneallthis,onemightthendineintherestaurant.
However,myscheduletodaycalledfornothingmorestrenuousthanbathing.Tenminutesafterdescending
thegrandstaircaseIwasemergingfrommychangingroom(oneoffivehundred),havingsoaped,showered
andtoggedmyselfoutinmyrentedbathingsuit,makingmywaytowardthenearestwarm-waterpoolunder
thebemusedeyesofseveralhundredmortalidlerssittinginthebleachersabove.
Iwasnotsurprisedtoseeanotherofmyownkindbackstrokingmanfullyacrossthegreenwater;nothing
drawstheattentionofanimmortallikesanitaryconve-niences.IwasratherstartledwhenIrecognizedthe
man,however,nothavingseenhimsincesometimeinthesixteenthcentury.Lewisisnothingmorethana
LiteraryPreservationSpecialist,ratherasad-lookinglittlefellowwithanobleprofile;notinmyclass,of
course,butagentlemanforallthat.
Hefeltmyregardandglancedup,seeingmeatonce.Hesmiledandwaved.
Victor!hebroadcast.Hownicetoseeyouagain.
It’sLewis,isn’tit?Iresponded,thoughIknewhisnameperfectlywell,andfarmoreofhishistorythanhe
knewhimself.Ihadbeenassignedtomonitorhisactivitiesonce,tomyeverlastingshame.Still,ithadbeen
centuries,andhehadnevershownanysignofrecoveringcertainmemories.Ihoped,forhissake,thatsuch
wasthecase.Memoryeffacementisnotapleasantexperience.
Hepulledhimselfuponthecopingofthepoolandswepthiswethairoutofhiseyes.Isteppedtotheedge,
took the correct diver’s stance and leapt in, trans-mitting through bubbles: So you’re here aswell?
Presalvagingbooks,Isuppose?
The Mercantile Library, he affirmed, and there was nothing in his pleasant tone to indicate he’d
rememberedwhatI’ddonetohimatEurobaseOne.
God!ThatmustbeaHerculeaneffort,Iresponded,surfacing.
Hetransmittedruefulamusement.You’veheardofit,Isuppose?
Rather,Ireplied,practicingmybreaststroke.AllthoseComstockLodesilverbaronswentlootingthe old
family libraries of Europe, didn’t they? Snatched up medieval manuscripts at a tenth theirvalue from
impoverishedVenetianprinces,Ibelieve?FabulouslyrarefirsteditionsfromLondonantiquarians?
Somethinglikethat,hereplied.AndbroughtthembackhometotheStatesforsafekeeping.
Ha!
Well,howweretheytoknow?Lewismadeanexpressivegesturetakinginthevastedificearoundus.
Mr.SutrohimselfhadaShakespearefirstfolio.Whatapanicit’sbeentrackingthatdown!Andyou?
I’mnegotiatingforapromising-lookingyoungrecruit.Moreover,IdrewNobHilldetail,Irepliedcasually.
I’vecoordinatedquiteateamoftalentedyoungsterssettoliberatethepremisesofMssrs.
Towne,Crocker,Huntingtonetal.assoonasthelightsareout.Allmannerofcostlybric-a-brachasbeen
taggedforrescue—Chip-pendales,LouisQuatorzes—tosaynothingofjewelsandcash.
My, that sounds satisfying. You’ll never guess what I found, only last night! Lewis transmitted, looking
immenselypleasedwithhimself.
Somethingunexpected?Iresponded.
He edged forward on the coping gleefully. Yes, you might say so. Just some old papers that had been
mislaidbyanidiotnamedPompeoLeoniandboundintothewrongbook.Justsomethingjotteddownbyan
elderlyleft-handedItaliangentleman!
NotDaVinci?Iturnedinthewatertostareathim,genuinelyimpressed.
Whoelse?Lewisnearlyhuggedhimselfintriumph.And!Not justanydoodlings orspeculationfromthe
penofLeonardo,either.SomethingofdecidedinteresttotheCompany!Itseemshedevotedsomeserious
thought to the construction of ar-ticulated human limbs —a clockwork arm, forexample, that could be
madetoper-formvarioustasks!
I’veheardsomethingofthesort,Ireplied,swimmingbacktowardhim.
Yes,well,heseemstohavetakentheideafurther.Lewisleaneddowninaconspiratorialmanner.
Fromahumanarmheleapttotheideaofanentireartic-ulatedhumanskeletonofbronze,andwondered
whetherthehumanframemightnotbemerelyimitatedbutimprovedinfunction!
ByJove!Wasthemananticipatingandroids?Ireachedthecopingandleanedonit,slickingbackmyhair.
No!No!Hewaschasinganotherideaentirely,Lewisinsisted.ShallIquote?IratherthinkIoughtto let
himexpresshisthoughts.Heleanedbackand,withadreamyexpression,transmittedinflawlessfifteenth-
centuryTuscan:Ithasbeenobservedthatthepresenceofmetalisnotinallcasesinimicaltothebodyof
man,aswemayseeinearrings,orincrossbowbolts,spearpoints,pistolballs,andotherdetritusofwar
that have been known to enter the flesh and remain for some years withoutdoing the bearer any
appreciableharm,orindeedinthatpracticeofphysicianswhereinasmallpelletofgoldisinsertedintoan
incisionmadenearanachingjoint,andthesufferergainsreliefandeaseofmovementthereby.
Takethisideafurtherandthinkthatashatteredbonemightbereplacedwithamodelofthesamebonecast
inbronze,identicalwithorevensuperiortoitsoriginal.
Go further and say that where one bone might be replaced, so might the skeleton entire, and if the
articulationisimproveduponthemanmightattainagreaterdegreeofphysicalperfectionthanhewasborn
with.
The flaw in this would be the man’s pain and the high likelihood he would die before surgery ofsuch
magnitudecouldbecarriedout.
Unless we are to regard the theory of alchemists who hold that the Philoso-pher’s Stone, onceattained,
wouldtransmutetheimperfectfleshtoperfection,akindofsupplegoldthatlivesandbreathes,andbythis
meanstheendmightbeobtainedwithoutcutting,the end beingimmortality. Lewis opened his eyes and
lookedatmeexpectantly.Ismackedmyhandonthecopinginamusement.
ByJove!Irepeated.HowtypicaloftheMaestro.Sohewasallsettoinventus,washe?
Tosaynothingofhipreplacements!
ButwhatafindfortheCompany,Lewis!
Ofcourse,togiveyouarealideaofthetextIoughttohavepresenteditlikethis:Lewisbegantorattleit
outbackward.Ishookmyhead,laughingandholdingupmyhandsinsignthatheshouldstop.
Afteramomentortwohetrailedoff,adding:Idon’tthinkitlosesmuchintranslation,though.
Ishook my head. Youknow, old man, I believe we’re treading rather too closely to a temporalparadox
here.JustaswelltheCompanywilltakepossessionofthatvolume,andnotsomeinquisitivemortal!Whatif
ithadinspiredsomeonetoexper-imentwithbiomechanicalsacenturyorsotooearly?
Ah!No,yousee,sinceHistorycan’tbechanged.We’resafeenough,Lewispointedout.AsfarasHistory
recordsthoseDaVincipages,itrecordsthemasbeinglostintheMercantileLibraryfire.
Thecircleisclosed.Allthesame,IimagineitwasatemptationforanyoperativesstationednearAmboise
inDaVinci’stime. Wouldn’t you have wanted to seek the old man outashelaydying,and tell him that
somethingwouldbedonewiththisparticularidea,atleast?Immortalityandhumanperfection!
OfcourseI’dhave been tempted; but I shook my head. Not unlessI cared to face acourt-martialfora
securitybreach.
Lewisshiveredinhiswetwoolandslidbackintothewater.Iturnedonmybackandfloated,considering
him.
Thetemperaturedoesn’tsuityou?Iinquired.
Oh…they’vegotthefrigidariumallright,butthecalidariaherearen’treallyhotenough,Lewisexplained.
Andofcoursethere’snosudatoriumatall.
Noranyslavesforagoodmassage,either,Iadded,glancingupatthemortalonlookers.Sietransitluxuria,
alas.Lewissmiledfaintly;hehadneverbeencom-fortablewithmortalservants,Iremembered.
Odd,forsomeonewhobeganmortallifeasaRoman,oratleastaRomano-Briton.
Weren’tyourecruitedatBath…?Iinquired,leaningonthecoping.
AquaeSulis,itwasthen,Lewisinformedme.Thepublicbathsthere.
Ofcourse.Iremembernow!Youwererescuedfromthetemple.Interceptedchildsacrifice,Iimagine?
Oh,goodheavens,no!TheRomansneverdidthatsortofthing.No,Iwasjustsomebody’slittleunwanted
holidaysouvenirleftinablanketbythestatueofApollo.Lewisshrugged,andthenbegantogrin.Ihadn’t
thoughtaboutitbefore,butthisputsadistinctlyFreudianslantonmyvisitshere!
Returningtothewombintimeofstress?IwasonlyafewhoursoldwhentheCompanytookme,orsoI’ve
alwaysbeentold.
Ilaughedandsetoffonalapacrossthepool.Atleastyouweresparedanymemoriesofmortallife.
That’strue,heresponded,andthenhissmilefaded.Andyet,youknow,IthinkI’mthepoorerforthat.The
restofyoumayhavesomeharrowingmemories,butatleastyouknowwhatitwastobemortal.
Iassureyouit’snothingtobeenvied,Iinformed him. He nodded in concession of mypointandsetout
acrossthepoolhimself,resuminghisbackstroke.
IthinkIwouldhavepreferredtheexperience,allthesame,heinsisted.I’dhavelikedafather—ormother-
figure in my life. At the very least, those of you rescued at an age to remember it have asort of filial
relationshipwiththeimmortalwhosavedyou.Haven’tyou?
Iregrettodisillusionyou,sir,butthatisabsolutelynottrue,Irepliedfirmly.
Really? He dove and came up for air, gasping. What a shame. Bang goes another romantic illusion. I
supposewe’realljustorphansofonestormoranother!
Atthatmomentapairofmortalschosetoroughhouse,snortingandchucklingastheypummeledeachother
intheirseatsinthewoodenbleachers;oneofthembrokefreeandran,scramblingapelikeovertheseats,
untilhelosthisfootingandfellwithahorrendouscrashthatrolledandthunderedintheair,echoingunder
theglasseddome,offthewaterandwetcoping.
IsawLewisgopale;Iimaginemyowncountenanceshowedreflexivepanic.AfterafrozenmomentLewis
drewadeepbreath.
“Onestormoranother,”hemurmuredaloud.“Nothingtobeafraidofhere,afterall.Isthere?Thisstructure
willsurvivethequake.Historysaysitwill.Nothingbutminordamage,really.”
Inodded.Then,struckinonemomentbythesamethought,weliftedourhorrifiedeyestotheceiling,with
itsonehundredthousandpanesofglass.
“I believe I’ve got a rail car to catch,” I apologized, vaulting to the coping with what I hoped was not
undignifiedhaste.
“I’ve a luncheon engagement myself,” Lewis said, gasping as he sprinted ahead of me to the grand
staircase.
****
Onthe16thofAprilIentertainedfriends,oratleastmylandladyreceivedthatimpression;andwhatquiet
and well-behaved fellows the gentlemen were, and how plain and respectable the ladies! No cigars, no
raucous laughter, no drunkenness at all. Indeed, Mrs. McCarty assured me she would welcome them as
lodgersatanytimeinthefuture,shouldtheyrequiredesirableBushStreetrooms.Iassuredhertheywould
begratifiedatthenews.Perhapstheymighthavebeen,ifherboardinghousewerestillstandinginaweek’s
time.Historywoulddecreeotherwise,regrettably.
My sitting room resembled a council of war, with its central table on which was spread a copy of the
SanbornmapoftheNobHillarea,up-to-datefromthepreviousyear.Mysubordinatesstoodorleanedover
thetable,listeningintentlyasIbentwithredchalktodelineatetheplacementofHushFieldgenerators.
“Thegeneratorswillarriveinabaker’svanatthecornerofClayandTaylorStreetatmidnightprecisely,”
Iinformedthem.“Delacort,yourteamwillapproachfromyourstationattheendofPleasantStreetandtake
possessionofthem.Therewillbefivegenerators.Iwantthemplacedatthefollowingintersections:Bush
andJones,ClayandJones,ClayandPowell,BushandPowellandonCaliforniamidwaybetweenTaylor
andMason.”IputafirmletterXateachsite.“Thegeneratorsshouldbeinplaceandswitchedonbyno
laterthanfiveminutesaftermidnight.Yourpeoplewillremaininplacetoremovethegeneratorsathalf-
pastthreeexactly,returningthemtothebaker’svan,whichwilldepartpromptly.Atthatmomentaprivate
carwillpulluptothesamelocationtotransportyourteamtothecentralcollectionpointonOceanBeach.
Isthatclear?”
“Perfectly,sir.”Delacortsaluted.Averilllookedatherslightlyaskanceandturnedaworriedfacetome.
“What’retheygoingtodoifsomecopcomesalongandwantstoknowwhatthey’redoingthereatthattime
ofnight?”
“AnycopcominginrangeoftheHushFieldwillpassout,dummy,”Philemoninformedhim.Ifrownedand
cleared my throat. Cinema Standard (the language of the schoolroom) is not my preferred mode of
expression.
“Ifyouplease,Philemon!”
“Yeah,sorry—”
“YourteamwilldepartfromtheirstationatJoiceStreetatfiveminutesaftermidnightandproceedtothe
intersection of Mason and Sacramento, where a motorized drayer’s wagon will be arriving. You will be
responsibleforthecontentsoftheFloodmansion.”Ioutlineditinred.“Yourdriverwillprovideyouwitha
sterilecontainmentreceptacleforItemNumberThirty-Nineonyouracquisitionslist.Kindlyseetoitthat
thisparticularitemissalvagedfirstanddeliveredtothedriverseparately.”
“What’s Item Thirty-Nine?” Averill inquired. There followed an awkward si-lence. Philemon raised his
eyebrowsatme.Companypolicydiscouragesfieldoperativesfrombeingtoldmorethantheystrictlyneed
toknow regarding any given posting.Uponconsideration, however, it seemed wisesttoanswer Averill’s
question;therewasenoughstressassociatedwiththisdetailasitwaswithoutaddingmysteries.
Iclearedmythroat.
“TheFloodmansioncontainsa‘Moorish’smokingroom,”Iinformedhim.“Amongitsfeaturesisalumpof
blackstonecarefullydisplayedina glass case. Mr. Flood purchased itundertheimpressionthatitis an
actual piece of the Qaaba from Mecca, chipped loose by an enterprising Yankee adventurer. He was, of
course, defrauded; the stone is in fact a meteorite, and preliminary spectrographic analysis indicates it
originatedonMars.”
“Oh,”said Averill,noddingsagely. I did not choosetoadd that plainly visibleonthe rock’ssurfaceis a
fossilizedcrustaceanofanunknownkind,orthattherock’srediscovery(inamuseumownedbyDr.
Zeus,incidentally)intheyear2210willgalvanizetheMarsColonizationEffortintomakingrealprogressat
last.
Ibentoverthemapagainandcontinued:
“Alltheitemsonyourlistaretobeloadedintothewagonbytwentyminutesafterthree.Atthattime,the
wagonwilldepartforOceanBeachandyourteamwillfollowintheprivatecarprovided.Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Rodrigo,yourteamwilldepartfromtheirTaylorStreetstationatfiveminutesaftermidnightaswell.
YourwagonwillarriveatthecornerofCaliforniaandTaylor;youwillproceedtosalvagetheHuntington
mansion,” I marked it on the map. “Due to the nature of your quarry you will be allotted ten additional
minutes,butalllisteditemsmustbeloadedandreadyforremovalbyhalf-pastthree,atwhichtimeyour
privatetransport willarrive.Upon arrival atOceanBeachyou will be assistedby Philemon’steam, who
willalready(Ishouldhope)haveloadedmostoftheirsalvageintothewaitingboats.”
“Yes,sir.”Rodrigomadeaslightbow.
“Freytag,yourteamwillbestationedonJonesStreet.Youdepartatfiveaftermidnight,liketherest,and
yourobjectiveistheCrockermansion,here.”FreytagbentclosetoseeasIshadedinherarea.“Yourwagon
willpullupto Jones and California, you ought to be able to fillitintheallottedtimeof two hours and
fifteenminutesprecisely,andbereadytodepartforOceanBeachwithoutinci-dent.Loong?
Averill?”
“Sir!”Bothimmortalsstoodtoattention.
“Your teams will disperse from their stations along Clay and Pine Streets and salvage the lesser targets
shown here, here, here, and here — ” I chalked circles around them. “I leave to your best judgment
individualpersonnelassignments.TwowagonswillarriveonClayStreetatoneo’clockpreciselyandtwo
morewillarriveonPinefiveminuteslater.Yououghttofindthemmorethanadequateforyourpurposes.
You will need to do a certain amount of running to and fro to coordinate the efforts of your ladies and
gentlemen,butitcan’tbehelped.”
“Idon’tanticipatedifficulties,sir,”Loongassuredme.
“Noindeed;butremembertheimmensityofthiseventshadow.”Isetdownthechalkandwipedmyhands
on a handkerchief. “Your private transports will be waiting at the corner of Bush and Jones by half-past
three.Pleasearrivepromptly.”
“Yes,sir.”Averilllookedearnest.
“Intheentirelylikelyeventthatanyparticularteamcompletesitstaskaheadofschedule,andhasfreespace
initswagonafterallthelistedsalvagehasbeenaccountedfor,Iwillexpectthatteamtolenditsassistance
toMme.D’AraigneeandherteamsattheMarkHopkinsInstitute.”Isweptthemwithameaningfulstare.
“Gentlemendoingsocanexpectmypersonalthanksandcommendationintheirpersonnelfiles.”
Thatimpressedthem,Icouldsee.Thefavorablenoticeofone’ssuperiorsisinvariablyone’stickettothe
bettersortofassignment.Clearingmythroat,Icon-tinued:
“Ianticipatearrivingatnolaterthanhalf-pasttwotooverseethefinalstagesofremoval.Kindlyremainat
yourtransportsuntilItransmityoursignaltodepartforthecentralcollectionpoint.Haveyouanyfurther
questions,ladiesandgentle-men?”
“None,sir,”Averillsaid,andtheothersnoddedagreement.
“Thenit’ssettled,”Itoldthem,andcarefullyfoldedshutthemapbook.“Awordofwarningtoyouall:you
maybecomeawareofprecursorstotheshockinthecourseoftheevening.Historywillrecordaparticularly
nastyseismicdisturbanceattwoA.M.inparticular,andanotheratfive.Controlyournaturalpanic,please.
Upsettingasyoumayfindtheseincidents,theywillpresentnodangerwhatsoever,willinfactgounnoticed
bysuchmortalsashappentobeawakeatthathour.”
Averillputuphishand.“Ireadthehorseswillbeabletofeelit,”hesaid,alittlenervously.“Ireadthey’ll
gomad.”
Ishrugged.“Undoubtedlywhywehavebeenobligedtoconfineourselvestomotortransport.Ofcourse,we
are no brute beasts. I have every confidence that we will all resist any irrational impulses toward flight
beforethejobisfinished.
“Nowthen!Youmayattendtotheremovalofyourpersonaleffectsandpreparefortheevening’sfestivities.
Ishouldn’tlunchtomorrow;you’llwanttosaveyourappetitesforthebanquetatCliffHouse.Iunderstand
it’sgoingtoberatheraRomanexperience!”
Thetensionbroken,theylaughed;andifAverilllaughedabittooloudly,itmustberememberedthathewas
stillyoung.Asimmortalsgo,thatis.
****
Astute mortals might have detected something slightly out of the ordinary on that Tuesday, the 17th of
April;certainlythehired-vandriversmusthavenoticedanincreaseinbusiness,astheyweredispatchedto
house after house in every district of the city to pick up nearly identical loads, these being two or three
ordinary-lookingtrunksandonecratepreciselyfiftycentimeterslong,twentycentimeterswideandtwenty
centimeters high, in which a credenza might fit snugly. And it would be extraordinary if none of them
remarked upon the fact that all these same consignments were directed to the same location on the
waterfront,theberthofthesteamerMayfair.
Certainlyinsomecasesmortallandladiesnoticedtrunksbeingtakendownflightsofstairs,andputanxious
questionstocertainoftheirtenantsregardinghastyremoval;buttheirfearswerelaidtorestbysmilinglies
andreadycash.
Anddidanyonenotice,astwilightfell,whenpersonsinimmaculateeveningdressweresuddenlytobeseen
in nearly every street? Doubtful; for it was, after all, the second night of the opera season, and with the
MetropolitancompanyintownallofSocietyhadturnedouttodothemhonor.Ifacertainnumberofthem
converged on a certain warehouse in an obscure district, and departed therefrom shortly afterward in
gleamingautomobiles,thatwasunlikelytoexcitemuchin-terestinobserverseither.
Imyselfguidedabrisklittlefour-cylinderFranklinthroughthestreets,bracingmyselfasitbumpedover
thecablecartracks,andsteereddownGoughwiththeintentionofturningatFultonandfollowingitoutto
thebeach.AtthecornerofGearyIglimpsedforamomentatallfigureinaredcoat,andwonderedwhatit
wasdoingsofarfromthetheaterdistrict;butaglanceovermyshouldermadeitplainthatIwasmistaken.
The red-clad figure shambling along was no more than a bum, albeit one of considerable stature. I
dismissedhimeasilyfrommythoughtsasIcontemplatedtheO’Neilfamily’soutingtothetheater.
HadIawarm,sentimentalsensationthinkingof them,rememberingElla’sfaceaglowwhen shesaw me
presentherfatherwiththetickets?Certainlynot.Onemagicaleveningoutwasscarcelygoingtomakeup
fortheirghastlydeaths, in whatever cosmic scale might be supposed to balance such things.Best not to
dwellonthat aspect of it all. No, it was the convenience of their absence from home that occupied my
musings,andthebestwaytotakeadvantageofitwithregardtomymission.
AttheendofFultonIturnedright,inthepurpleglowofeveningoverthevastPacific.Farouttosea
—wellbeyondthesightofmortaleyes—theCompanytrans-portshipslayatanchor,waitingonlyforthe
coveroffulldarknesstoapproachtheshore.InafewhoursI’dbeonboardoneofthem,steamingoffinthe
directionoftheFarallonestocatchmyairtransport,withnothoughtforthesmokingruinoftheplaceI’d
livedinsomanyharrowingweeks.
CliffHouseloomedaboveme, itsturretedmass ablazeof light.Isaw withsomeirritationthatthe long
uphillapproachwascrowdedwithcarnagesandautomobiles,drawninonadiagonal;Iwasobligedtogo
upasfarastheraildepotbeforeIcouldfindaplacetoleavemymotor,andwalkbackdownhillpastthe
Baths.
I daresay the waiters at Cliff House could not recall an evening when so large a party, of such unusual
persons,haddinedwithsuchhystericalgaietyasonthis17thofApril,1906.
If I recall correctly, the reservation had been made in the name of an interna-tional convention of
seismologists.SanFranciscowaseverthemostcosmopolitanofcities,sotherestaurantstaffexpressedno
surprisewhenelegantlyattiredpersonsofeveryknowncolorbeganarrivingincarriagesandautomobiles.
Ifanyonere-markeduponacertainindefinablesimilarityinappearanceamongsttheconven-tioneersthat
transcendedrace,why,thatmightbeexplainedbytheircommonavocation
—whateverseismologymightbe;nooneonthestaffhadanyclearidea.Onlythequeernervousnessofthe
guestswasimpossibletoaccountfor,theten-dencytowarduneasygiggling,thesuddenfrozensilencesand
dilatedpupils.
IthinkIcanspeakformyfellowoperativeswhenIsaythatweweredeterminedtoenjoyourselves,terror
notwithstanding. We deserved the treat, every one of us; we faced a long night of hard work, the
culminationofmonthsoflabor,undercircumstancesofmentalstrainthatwouldtesttheresolutionofthe
mosthardenedmercenaries.Theleastwewereowedwasaneveningofsilkhatsandtiaras.
****
TherewasapositivechatterofcommunicationontheetherasIapproached.Wewereallhere,orintheact
ofarriving;notsinceleavingschoolhadIbeeninsuchacrowdofmyownkind.Ithoughthowwewereto
feasthere, acompanyof immortalsin anairycastle perchedonthe edgeofthe UttermostWest, and flit
awaywellbeforesunrise.Itisoccasionallypleasanttoembodyamyth.
I saw Mme. D’Araignee stepping down from a carriage, evidently arriving with other members of the
Hopkinsoperationteam.NobulkyRussianseacaptaininsight,ofcourse,yet;Ihastenedtohersideand
tippedmyhat.
“Madame,willyoudomethehonorofallowingmetoescortyouwithin?”
“M’sieurVictor.”Shegavemeadazzlingsmile.Sheworeagownofpalebluegreensilk,ashademuchin
fashionthatseason,whichbroughtoutbeautifullycertaincopperhuesinherintenselyblackskin.
Diamondswinked from the breathing shadow of her bosom. She took my arm and we proceeded inside,
wherewehadtheremarkableexperienceofhavingtoshoutourtransmissionstooneanother,socrowded
wastheether:
IamverypleasedtoinformyouIhavearrangedforanautomobileforyourusethisevening,Itoldher,as
wepausedatthecloakroomforchecks.
Oh,Iamsoglad!Idohopeyouweren’tputtounnecessarytrouble.
Throughthedoorto the dining room we caught glimpses of napery like snow, folded inawildernessof
sharplittlepeaks,withhereandthereagiltepergnerisingabovethem.
NotwhatI’dcallunnecessarytrouble,no,thoughitprovedimpossibletorequi-sitionanythingatthislate
date.However,Ididhaveavehicleallocatedformyownpersonaluseandthatfinerunaboutisentirelyat
yourdisposal.
Merci,mercimilletemps!Butwillthisnotimpedeyourownmission?
Notatall,dearlady.IshallbeobligedtoyoufortransportationasfarasthePalace,Ithink,afterwe’ve
dined;butsincemymissioninvolvesnothingmorestren-uousthancarryingoffachild,Ianticipatestrolling
backacrossthecitywithease.
Youaretookind,myfriend.
Agentlemancoulddonoless.Ipulledoutachairforher.
Wechattedpleasantlyoftriflingmattersastherestoftheguestsarrived.Westudiedtheporcelainmenuin
someastonishment—theCompanyhadspentafortuneheretonight,certainlyenoughtohaveallottedme
oneextraautomobile.Iwasrathernettled,butmyirritationwasmollifiedsomewhatbytheanticipationof
ourcartedujour:
Allaccompanied,ofcourse,bytheappropriatevintages,andservicealarusse.Wewerebeingrewarded.
Ashiftintheblackrock,milesdown,needle-thinfissuresscreamingthroughstone,perdurableclaybulging
liketheheadofamonstrouschildengagingforbirth,strain-ing,straining,STRAINING!
Thesmilingchatterstoppeddead.Thewaiterslookedaround,confused,atthatelegantassemblyfrozenlike
mannequins.Not a scrapeofchair moving,notachime of crystalagainstchina. Onlythesound that we
alonelistened to:the cello-stringfarbelow us,tuningfor thedanceof thewrathof God.Ifound myself
staring across the room directly into Lewis’s eyes, where he had halted at the doorway in mid-step. The
immortalladyonhisarmwasasstillasapaintedimage,aperfectprofilebyDaVinci.
Theorchestraconductormistookoursilenceforacueofsomekind.Heturnedhurriedlytohismusicians
andtheystruckupalittlewaltztune,lightgraciousaccompanimenttoourfestivities.Withaboomanda
rushofvacuumthe service doors parted, as the first of the waiters burst through with tureens and silver
bucketsofice.Champagnecorkspoppedlikeartillery.Asthenoisesroaredintooursi-lence,animmortalin
whitelaceandspanglesshrieked;sheturneditintoahightrillinglaugh,placingherslenderhanduponher
throat.
Soconversationresumed,andaserverappearedatmyelbowwithanapkinedbottle.Iheld,upmyglassfor
thechampagne.Mme.D’AraigneeandIclinkedanunspokentoastanddrankfervently.”
Twicemorewhilewedinedonthosegoodthings,theawfulwarningcame.Asthevenisonroastwasserved
forth,itsdishofportjellybegantoshimmerandvibrate—toosubtlyforthemortalwaiterstonoticemore
thanaprettyplayoflight,butwesaw.Onthesecondoccasiontheoystershadjustcometothetable,and
whatsubaudiblepandemoniumofclatteringtherewas:half-shellagainsthalf-shellwiththesoundofbasalt
cliffsgrindingtogether,andthestaccatorattleofallthelittlesauceboatswiththeirscarletandyellowand
pinkandgreencontents;thoughofcoursethemortalwaiterscouldn’thearit.Noteventhepatienthorses
waitingintheircarriage-tracesheard ityet. Butthesparklingbubblesascendedmoreswiftlythroughthe
glassesofchampagne.
Thewaitersbegantomovealongthetablesbearingtrays:littlecut-crystalgobletsofpinkices,orredand
amber jellies, or fresh strawberries drenched in liqueur, or cakes. We heard the ringing note of a dessert
spoonagainstawineglass,sig-nalingusalltoattention.
TheChiefProjectFacilitatorrosetoaddressus.Labienusstoodpoisedandsmilinginfaultlesswhitetieand
tuxedo.AshewaitedforthebabbleofvoicestofadehetookouthisgoldChronometeronitschain,studied
itstinyscreen,thensnappeditshutandreturnedittothepocketofhiswhitesilkwaistcoat.
“MyfellowSeismologists.”Hisvoicewasquiet,yetwithoutraisingithereachedallcornersoftheroom.
Commanding legions confers a certain ease in public speaking. “Ladies.” He bowed. “I trust you’ve
enjoyedthebilloffare.Iknowthat,asIdined,Iwasremindedofthefactthatperhapsinnoothercityin
theworldcouldsuchafeastbesogathered,soprepared,soservedtosucharemarkablegathering.
WherebutherebytheGoldenGatecanonebanquetinasplendorthatbeggarstheOldWorld,ondelicacies
presentedbymastersofculinaryso-phisticationhiredfromallcivilizednations—allthewhileinsightof
forested hills where savages roamed within living memory, across a bay that within livingmemory was
innocentofanysail?
“Soswiftlyhassherisen,thisgreatcity,asthoughmagicallyconjuredbydjinnioutofthinair.Justifiably
hercitizensmightexpecttowaketomorrowinawil-derness,andfindthatthisgorgeouscitadelhadbeenas
insubstantialastheirdreams.”
Archlyexchangedglancesbetweensomeofouroperativesashisironywasap-preciated.
“But if that were to come to pass — if they were to wake alone, unhoused and shivering upon a stony
promontory, facing into a cold northern ocean and a hostile gale —why, you know as well as I do that
withinafewshortyearsthecitizensofSanFranciscowouldcreatetheircityanew,withspiressoaringever
closertoHeaven,andmansionsyetmoregracious.”
Ofcourseweknewit,butthepoormortalwaitersdidn’t.Iamafraidsomeofouryoungeroperativeswere
baseenoughtosmirk.
“Letusmarvel,ladiesandgentlemen,atthisphoenixofacity,atonceephem-eralandabiding.Letusdrink
totheimperishablespiritofhercitizens.IgiveyoutheCityofSanFrancisco.”
“TheCityofSanFrancisco,”wechorused,raisingourglasseshigh.
“AndIgiveyou,”smilingheextendedhishand,“TheCityofSanFrancisco!”
Beamingthewaiterswheeleditin,onavastsilvercart:anornateconfectionofpastry,ofspun-sugarand
marzipanandcandies,aperfectmodeloftheCity.ItwaspossibletodiscernatinyFerryBuildingrising
abovechocolatewharves,andatinyPalace,andNobHillreproducedinsugaredpeelandnonpareils.
AcrossthefamiliargridofstreetsGoldenGateParkwasdoneingreenfondant,andbeyonditwasthehill
where Sutro Park rose in nougat and candied violets, and beyond that Cliff House itself, in astonishing
detail.
Weapplauded.
Thenshewasdestroyed,thatbeautifulcity,withasilvercakeknifeandservingwedge,andparceledoutto
usinneatslices.OnehadtocommendLabienus’senseofhumor,tosaynothingofhissenseofritual.
****
Itwasexpectedthatwewouldwishtodance,afterdining;theballroomhadbeenreservedforouruse,and
at some point during dessert the orchestra had discreetly risen and carried their instruments away to the
dais.
I thought the idea of dancing in rather poor taste, under the circumstances, and apparently many of my
fellowoperativesagreedwithme;butAverillandsomeoftheotheryoungonesgotoutontheflooreagerly
enough,andsoonthestatelypolonaisegavewaytoragtimetunesandtwo-stepping.
Under the pretense of going for a smoke I stepped out on the terrace, to breathe the clean night air and
metabolize my portion of magnificent excess in peace. By ones and twos several of the older immortals
followedme; soon there wasquiteanassemblage of us out therebetweentwoworlds, between the dark
watersurgingaroundSealRockandthebrilliantmagiclanternoftheballroom.
“Victor?”Mme.D’Araigneewasmakingherwaytomethroughthecrowd.Herslippers,togetherwithher
diamonds,hadgoneintotheleathercaseshewascarry-ing,andshehaddonnedsensiblewalkingshoes;she
hadbuttonedalongmo-torist’sdusteroverhereveninggown.TheradiantQueenoftheNightstoodnow
beforemeastheEfficientModernWoman.
“Youdidn’tcaretodanceeither,Isee,”sheremarked.
“NotI,no,”Ireplied.Westoodforamomentlookinginatthegiddywhirl.IsawAverillprancebyinthe
armsof an immortal sylphinpinksatin; their faces wereflushedand merry. Don’tthink them heartless,
Reader.Theydidnotun-derstandyet.Horror,forAverill,wasstillalonelyprairieandaburningwagon;for
thegirl,stillasoldierwithabayonetina desertedorchard.Thosenightmares weren’t here in this bright
roomwithitsbouncingmusic,andsoallmustberightwiththeworld.
Butwewereoldones,Mme.D’AraigneeandI,andwestoodoutsideinthedarkandwatchedthemdance.
Down, miles down, the slick water on the clay face and the widening fissure in darkness, deadshale
trembling like an exhausted limb, granite crumbling, rock crack-ing with the strain andcrying out in a
voicethatroseup,andupatlastthroughtheredbrick,throughthetileandparquet,intothewarmairand
themusic!
The mortal musicians played on, but the dancers faltered. Some of them stopped, looking around in
confusion; some of them only missed a step or two and then plunged back into the dance with greater
abandon,determinedtocel-ebratesomething.
Mme.D’Araigneeshivered.Ithrewmyunlitcigarovertheparapetintothesea.
“Shallwego,Nan?”Iofferedhermyarm.ShetookitreadilyandweleftCliffHouse.
Outsideonthecarriagedrive,andallthewayupthesteephilltowheremymotorwasparked,thewaiting
horsesweretossingtheirheadsandwhickeringuneasily.
Mme.D’Araigneetookthewheel,easilyguidingusbackdownintotheCitythroughthespanglednight.
Evennow,attheGrandOperaHouse,EnricoCarusowasstrikingaposebeforeavastSpanishmountain
range rendered on canvas and raising his carbine to threaten poor Bessie Abott. Even now, at the
Mechanic’sPavilion,theGrandPrizeMaskedCarnivalwasinfullswing,withthrongsofcostumedroller-
skaterswhirlingaroundtherinkthatwouldbeatriagehospitalintwelvehoursandapileofsmokingashes
intwenty-four.Evennow,theclockonthefaceofOldSt.Mary’sChurch-bearingitswarninglegendSON
OBSERVETHETIMEANDFLYFROMEVIL—wascountingouttheminutesleftforheedlesspassers-
by.Evennow,theO’Neilchildrenweresittingforwardintheirseats,scarcelyabletobreatheasthecruel
Toymakerrecitedtheincantationthatwouldbringhiscrea-tionstolife.
And we rounded the corner at Divisadero and sped down Market, with Prospero’s dprespageant speech
ringinginourears.AtthecornerofThirdIpointedandMme.D’Araigneeworkedtheclutch,steeredover
tothecurbandtrodonthebrakepedal.
“You’requitesureyouwon’tneedarideback?”sheinquiredoverthechatterofthecylinders.Iputmylegs
outandleaptdowntothepavement.
“Perfectlysure,Nan.”Ishotmycuffsandadjustedthedrapeofmycoat.Reach-ingintotheseatItookmy
stickandsilkhat.“GivemyseattotheMuseofPainting.I’mofftolurkinshadowslikeagentleman.”
“Bonne chance, then, Victor.” She eased up on the brake, clutched, and cranked the wheel over so the
FranklinswungaroundinawidearctoretraceitscourseupMarketStreet.Itippedmyhatandbowed;with
acheerywaveandadoublehonkontheFranklin’shorn,shesteeredawayintothenight.
Sofar,sogood.Thenightwasyetyoungandtherewereplentyofdebonairsocialitesineveningdresson
thestreet,arrivinganddepartingfromtherestaurants,thehotels,thetheaters.ForablockIwasoneoftheir
number;thenIaccom-plishedmydisappearancedownablackalleywayintoanotherworld,tothreadmy
waythroughtheboarding-housewarren.
Ratswereoutandscuttlingeverywhere,sensingthecomingdisasterinfallibly.Insomebuildingstheywere
cascadingdownthestairsliketricklingwater.Catsignoredthemanddrunkardsstoodwatchinginstupefied
amazement,buttherewasnobodyelsetoremarkuponit;thesestreetsdidnotinvitepromenaders.
I found the O’Neils’ building and made my way up through the unlit stairwell, here and there kicking
verminoutofmyway.Ileftthelandingandproceededdownthecorridor,pastdoorstightshutshowing
onlyfeeblelinesoflightatfloorleveltomarkwheretheoccupantswereathome.Iheardsnores;Iheard
weeping;Iheardadrunkenquarrel;Iheardavoiceraisedinwistfulmelody.
NolightattheO’Neils’door,naturally;noneatthedoorimmediatelyoppositetheirs.Iscannedtheroom
beyond but could discern no occupant. Drawing out a skeleton key from my waistcoat pocket, I gained
entranceandshutthedoorafterme.
Notenantatall;good.Itwasdeath-coldinthereandblackaspitch,forarollershadehadbeendrawndown
ontheonewindow.Aslighttugsentitwobblingupwardbutfailedtoletmuchmorelightintotheroom.
NotthatIneededlighttoseemyChronometerasIcheckedit;half-pasteleven,andevennowmyteams
wereassemblingattheirstationsonNobHill.Ileanedagainstawall,foldedmyarmsandcomposedmyself
towait.
Timepassed slowlyfor me,but inToylanditsped by.Songsanddances,glit-teringprocessionscameto
theirinevitableclose;fairiestookwing.Innocencewasrewardedandwickednessresoundinglypunished.
The last of the ingenious special effects guttered out, the curtain descended, the orchestra fell silent, the
houselightscameup.Alittlewhilethemagiclingered,astheO’Neilfamilymadetheirwayoutthroughthe
lobby, a little while it hung around them like a perfume in the atmosphere of red velvet and gilt and
fashionablyattiredstrangers,untiltheywereborneoutthroughthedoorsbytherecedingtideofthecrowd.
Thenthemagicleftthem,evaporatingupwardintothenightandthefog,andtheygottheirbearingsand
madetheirwayhomealongthedarkstreets.
Iheardthem,comingheavilyupthestairs,O’NeilandMaryeachcarryingachild.Downthecorridortheir
footstepscame,andstoppedoutside.
“Slidedownnow,Ella,Daddy’sgottoopenthedoor.”
I heard the sound of a key fumbling in darkness for its lock, and a drowsy little voice singing about
Toyland,theparadiseofchildhoodtowhichyoucanneverreturn.
“Hush,Ella,you’llwaketheneighbors.”
“Donal’s asleep. He missed the ending.” Ella’s voice was sad. “And it was such a beautiful, beautiful
ending.Don’tyouthinkitwasabeautifulending,Daddy?”
“Sure it was, darling.” Their voices receded a bit as they crossedthe threshold. I heard a clink and the
sputteringhissofamatch;therewasthefaintestglimmerofilluminationdownbythefloor.
“Sssh,sh,sh.Homeagain.HelpMummygethisbootsoff,Ella,there’sadear.”
“I’lljuststepacrosstoMrs.Varian’sandcollectthebaby.”
“Mindyourememberhisblanket.”
“Iwillthat.”
Footstepsinthecorridor again,discreet rappingona panel,awhispered con-versationin darknessanda
sleepywail;thenreturningfootstepsandapairofdoorsclosing.Then,moremuffledbutstilldistincttome,
thesoundoftheO’Neilsgoingtobed.
Theirlampswereblownout.Theirwhispersceased.StillIwaited,listeningastheminutestickedawayfor
theirmortalsoulstorest.
Half-past one on the morning of Wednesday, the 18th of April in the year 1906, in the City of San
Francisco. Francis O’Neil and his wife and their children asleep finally and forever, and the world had
finishedwiththem.Inthegraymorning,atpreciselyfourteenminutesafterthehouroffive,thisboarding
housewouldlurchforwardintothestreet,brickstumblingasmortarblewoutliketalcumpowder,rotten
timberssnapping,andthatwouldbetheendofFrank’sstrengthandMary’scareandElla’sdreams,theend
ofthebriefunhappybaby,andno-onewouldrememberthembutme.
And,perhaps,Donal.Isteppedacrossthehallandletmyselfintotheirroom,perfectlysilent.
Thechildrenlayintheirtrundleonthefloor,nexttotheirparents’bed.Donalsleptontheouteredge,curled
on his side, both hands tucked under his chin. I stood for a moment observing, analyzing their alpha
patterns.WhenIwassatisfiedthatnocasualnoisewouldawakenthem,IbentandliftedDonalfromhis
bed.Hesighedbutslepton.Afteramoment’shesitationIdrewtheblanketuparoundElla’sshoulders.
Istoodback.Theboyworeanightshirtandlongblackstockings,butthenightwascold.Frank’scoathung
overthebackofachair:Iappropriatedittowraphisson.ShiftingDonaltoonearm,Ibackedoutofthe
roomandshutthedoor.
Finished.
Nosleeperinthatbuildingwoke to hear ourrapiddescentof thestairs.On thefirst landing a drunk sat
upright,leaninghisheadontherailings,soundasleepwithhislowerjawdroppedopenlikeacorpse’s.
Wefledlightlypasthim,DonalandI,andhenevermoved.
Awaythroughthemaze,then,awayforeverfromthedirtandstenchandpovertyofthatplace.Intwelve
hours it would have ceased to exist, and the wind would scatter white ashes so the dead could never be
namednornumbered.
Even Market Street was dark now, its theaters shut down. Over at the Grand Opera House on Mission,
EnricoCaruso’scostumeshungneatlyinhisdarkdressingroom,readyforaperformanceofLaBoheme
that would never take place. Up at the Mechanic’s Pavilion, the weary janitor surveyed the confetti and
otherfestivedebrislitteringtheskatingrinkanddecidedtosweepitupinthemorning.
Toyland,atthe Columbia, was shut away in itspropertiesroom;fairy tinsel, butterfly wings, bear heads
peeringdownfromdustyshelvesintothedarkness.
EvennowmyresolutegentlemenandladiesweredespoilingNobHill,flittingthroughitsdarkeneddrawing
roomsathyperspeedlikesomanywhirringghosts,bearingwiththemwinkinggiltandcrystal,calfskinand
morocco,canvasandbrass,alltheverybestthatmoneycouldbuybutcouldn’thopetopreserveagainstthe
hourtocome.WithouttheFranklinI’dhaveatediouswalkuphilltojointhem,butatabriskpaceImight
arrivewithtimetospare.
Donal stretched and muttered in his sleep. I shifted him to my other shoulder, changed hands on my
walking-stick,andwasabouttohurryonwhenIcaughtawhiffofsomefamiliarscentontheair.Ihalted.
Itwasnotapleasantscent.Itwasharsh,musky,likebloodorsweatbutneither;likeananimalsmell,but
other;itsummonedinmeasuddenterrorandconfusion.WhenItriedtoidentifyit,however,Ihadonlya
mentalimageofabearcostumehangingonahook,theheadlookingdownfromashelf.WhenhadIseen
that?Ihadn’tseenthat!Whosememorieswerethese?
Icontrolledmyselfwithaneffort.Somepsychicdisturbancewasresponsibleforthis,myownnerveswere
contributingtothis,therewasnorealdanger.Why,ofcourse:itmustbenearlytwoo’clock,whenthefirst
ofthemajorsubsonicdisrup-tionswouldoccur.
Yes,hereitcamenow.Icouldhearnearbyhorsesbegintoscreamandstampfrantically,Icouldfeelthe
paving-bricksgrindagainstoneanotherunderthesolesofmyboots,andtheairgroanedasthoughburied
giantswereprayingtoGodforrelease.
Yes,Ithought,thismustbeit.IbalancedmystickagainstmykneeanddrewoutmyChronometer,tryingto
verifythetime.AsIpeeredatitthedoorofastabledirectlyacrossthestreetburstopen,andawhitemare
camechargingout,hoovesthundering.Donaljerkedandcried.
Timingiseverything.Myassailantchosethatperfectmomentofdistractiontostrike.Iwasenvelopedina
chokingwaveofthatsmellasahandclosedonmyfaceandpulledmyheadback.InstantlyIclawedatit,
twistedmyheadtobite;butavastarmwaswrappingaroundmefromtheothersideandcoldsteelentered
mythroat,openedtheartery,wrenchedasitwaspulledoutagain.
Soswiftlyhadthisoccurredthatmystickwasstillfallingthroughmidair,hadnotyetstruckthepavement.
Donalwaspulledupwardandbackward,tornfromme,andIheardhisterrifiedcryminglewiththeclatter
ofthestick as it landed, the rumbling earth, the running horse, a howling laughter I knew but could not
place.Iwassinkingtomyknees,clutchingatmycutthroatasmybloodfountainedoutoverthestarched
frontofmydressshirtandstainedthediamondstudsoitwinkedlikeMars.Ares,GodofWar.
Thor.IwasconsciousofaterribleangerasIdescendedtotheshadowsandcurledintoFugue.
****
“Willyougetontothis,now?Throatcutandhe’snotbeenrobbed!Here’shiswatch,forChrist’ssake!”
“Strokeofluckforus,anyhow.”
Isat up and glared at them. The two mortalthievesbacked away from me, horrified; then onemustered
enoughnervetodartinagain,aimingakickatmewhilehemadeagrabformyChronometer.Icaughthis
wristandbrokeit.Hejumpedback,stiflinganagonizedyell;hiscompaniontooktohisheelsandafteronly
asecond’shesitationhefollowed.
IremainedwhereIwas,huddledonthepavement,runningaself-diagnostic.Theedgesofmywindpipeand
jugulararteryhadclosedandwerehealingnicelyathyperspeed;ifthethieveshadn’trousedmefromFugue
I’dbe wholenow. Bloodproductionhad spedupto replacethat nowdyeingthe frontof myprevi-ously
immaculateshirt.Theexteriorskinofmythroatwasevennowself-suturing,butIwasstilltooweaktorise.
Myhatandstickremainedwheretheyhadfallen,butofDonalormyassailanttherewasnosign.Ilicked
my dry lips. There was a vile taste in my mouth. My Chronometer told me it was a quarter past two. I
dragged myself to the base of a wall and leaned there, half-swooning, drowning in unwelcome
remembrance.
Thatsmell.Sweat,blood,theAnimal,andsmoke.Yes,they’dcalledittheSum-merofSmoke,thatyearthe
worldended.Whatworldhadthatbeen?TheworldwhereIwasalittleprince,ornearlyso;betterifmy
motherhadn’tbeenaDanishslave,butmyfatherhadnosonsbyhisladywife,andsoIhadfineclothesand
agoldpinformycloak.
WhenIwenttoclimbonthebeachedlongshipandplaywiththegear,awarriorthreatenedmewithhisfist;
thenanothermantoldhimhe’dbetternot,forIwasBaldulf’sbrat.Thatmadehimbackdowninahurry.
Andonce,myfathersetmeonthetableandputhisgoldcupinmyhand,butInearlydroppedit,itwasso
heavy.HehelditformeandItastedthemeadandhiscompanionslaughed,beatingonthetable.
Theash-whitelady,though,lookeddownatthefloorandwrungherhands.
ShetoldmesometimesthatifIwasn’tgoodtheBearwouldcomeforme.Shewastheonlyonewhowould
everdaretotalktomethatway.Andthenhehadcome,theBearandhisslaughteringknights.Allinone
day I saw our tent burned and my father’s head staring from a pike. Screaming, smoke and fire, and a
bannerbearingareddragonthatsnakedlikealivingflame,Iremember.
Mymotherhadcaughtmeupandwasrunningfortheforest,butshewasaplumpgirlandcouldnotgetup
thespeed.Twoknightschasedafterusonhorseback,whoopinglikemadmen.Justundertheshadowofthe
oaks,theycaughtus.Mymotherfellandrolled,loosingherholdonme,andscreamedformetorun;then
oneoftheknightswasoffhishorseandonher.Theotherknightgotdowntooandstoodwatchingthem,
laughingmerrily.Oneofherslippershadcomeoffandherbaretoeskickedattheairuntilshedied.
Ihadbeensobbingthreats,Ihadbeenhurlingstonesandhandfulsofoak-mastattheknights,andnowIran
attheoneonmymotherandattackedhimwithmyteethandnails.Hereareduponhiselbowstoshakeme
off;buttheotherknightreacheddownandpluckedmeupaseasilyasifI’dbeenakitten.Heheldmeathis
eyelevelwhileIshriekedandspatathim.Hisshrilllaughterdroppedtoachuckle,butneverstopped.
A big shaven face, no beard, no mustache, colorless fair hair cropped. Head of a strange helm-shape,
tremendousprojectingnoseandbrows,andhiswidegleefuleyessopaleablueastobecolorless,likeone
of my father’s hounds. He had enormous broad cheekbones and strange teeth. That smell, that almost-
animalsmell,wascomingfromhim.ThathadbeenwhereI’dfirstencounteredit,hang-ingthereinthegrip
ofthatknight.
Theotherknighthadgotupandcameforwardwithhisknifedrawnandreadyforme,butmycaptorheld
outhishugegauntletedhand.
“Siste!”hetoldhimpleasantly.“Siste,comes.”
The other knight growled something and brandished his knife. My captor’s eyes sparkled; he batted
playfullyatmyassailant,whoflewbackwardintoatreeandlay theretwitching,blood runningfromhis
ears.Leftinpeace,myknightheldmeupandsniffedatme.Hesatdownandranhishandsalloverme,
takinghisgauntletsofftosqueezemyskulluntilIfeareditwouldbreaklikeanegg.Ihadstoppedfighting,
butIwhimperedandtriedtowriggleaway.
“Doyouwanttolive,littleboy?”heaskedmeinperfectlyaccentedSaxon.Hehadahigh-pitchedvoice,
nasallyresonant.
“Yes,”Ireplied,shockedmotionless.
“Thenbegoodanddonottrytorunawayfromme.Iwillpreserveyoufromdeath.Doyouunderstand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”Heforcedmymouthopenandexaminedmyteeth.Apparentlysatis-fied,hegotup,thrustingme
underhisarm.Takingthetwohorses’bridles,hewalkedbacktothewar-campoftheBearwithlongrolling
strides.
It was growing dark, and new fires had been lit. We passed pickets who chal-lenged my captor, and he
answered them with smiles and bantering remarks. At last he stopped before a tent and gave a barking
order,whereuponagroomhurriedouttotakethehorsesandledthemawayforhim.Twootherknightssat
nearby,leaningbackwearilyastheirsquirestookofftheirarmorforthem.Onepointedatmeandaskeda
question.
Mycaptorgrinnedandsaidsomethinginflutingreply,huggingmetohischest.Oneknightsmiledalittle,
buttheotherscowledandspatintothefire.AsmycaptorboremeintohistentIheardsomeonemutter
“Romani!”inadisgustedtone.
Itwasdarkinthetent,andtherewasnoonetheretoseeashestrippedoffmyclothesandcontinuedhis
examinations. I attempted to fight again but he held me still and asked, very quietly, “Are you a stupid
child?HaveyouforgotwhatIsaid?”
“No.”IwassofrightenedandfuriousIwastrembling,andIhatedthesmellofhim,socloseinthere.
“Thenlistentomeagain,Saxonchild.Iwillnothurtyou,neitherwillIoutrageyou.Butifyouwanttodie,
keepstruggling.”
Iheldstillthenandstoodsilent,hatinghim.Heseemedquiteunconcernedaboutthat;hegavemeacupof
wine and a hard cake, and ignored me while I ate and drank. All his attention was on the two knights
outside.Whenheheardthemdepartintotheirrespectivetents,hewrappedmeinacloakandboremeout
intothenightagain.
Attheotherendofthecamptherewasaveryfinetent,pitchedalittledistancefromtheothers.Twomen
stoodbeforeit,deepinconversation.Afteramomentonewentaway.Theotherremainedoutsidethetenta
moment,breathingthenightair,lookingupatthestars.Whenheliftedtheflapandmadetogoinside,my
captorsteppedforward.
“Salve,Emres.”
“Salve,Budu,” replied the other. He was a tall man and elderly—I thought: his hair and eyebrows were
white.Hisface,however,wassmoothandunlined,andtherewasaneasysupplenesstohismovements.
Hewasverywell-dressed,asBrit-onswent.TheyhadabriefconversationandthentheonecalledEmres
raisedtheflapofthetentagain,gesturingusinside.
Itwassobrilliantlylitinthereitdazzledmyeyes.Iwasagainunrobed,inthatwhiteglare,butIdareddo
nomorethanclenchmyfistsastheoldoneexaminedme.Hishandswereremarkablysoftandclean,and
hedidnotsmellbad.Hestuckmewithapinanddabbedthebloodontothetongueofalittlegodhehad,
sittingonhischest;itclickedforamomentandthenchatteredtohiminatinnyvoice.Mycaptorandhe
had a conversation in a swift tongue quite unlike the Latin they’d been using until that time. At its
conclusion,Em-respointedatmeandaskedaquestion.Mycaptorshrugged.Heturnedhisbigheadtolook
atme.
“Whatisyourname,littleboy?”heaskedinSaxon.
“Bricta,sonofBaldulf,”Itoldhim.HelookedbackatEmres.
“EcceVictor,”hesaid.
****
The taste in my mouth was unbearable. I hadn’t wanted this recollection, this squalid history! I much
preferredTimetobeginwiththatfirstmemoryofthesilvershipthatroseskywardfromthecircleofstones,
takingmeawaytothegleaminghospitalandthesweet-facednurses.
Igotunsteadilytomyfeet,gropingaftermyhatandstick.AsIdidsoIheardtheunmistakablesoundofan
automobileapproaching.Inanothersecondalightrunaboutrattledaroundthecornerandpulledupbefore
me.Labienussatbehindthewheel,nolongerthejovialMasterofCeremonies.Hewasallhard-eyedcen-
turionnow.
“Wereceivedyourdistresssignal.Report,please,Victor.”
“Iwasattacked,”Isaiddully.
“Tsk!Ratherobviously.”
“I…Iknowitsoundsimprobable,sir,butIbelievemyassailantwasanotheroperative,”Iexplained.To
mysurprisehemerelynodded.
“Weknowhisidentity.You’llnoticehe’ssendingquiteadistinctsignal.”
“Yes.”Ilookeddownthestreetinwonderment.Thesignallayontheairlikeatrailofgreensmoke.Why
wouldhesignal?“He’s…somewhereinChinatown.”
“Exactly,”agreedLabienus.“Well,Victor,whatdoyouintendtodoaboutthis?”
“Sir?”Ilookedback athim,confused. Somethingwas wronghere,some busi-nessI hadn’tbeenbriefed
about,perhaps?Butwhy—?
“Come,come,man,you’veamissiontocomplete!Hetookthemortalboy!Surelyyou’veformedaplanto
rescuehim?”heprompted.
Thehideoustastewelledinmymouth.Isuppressedanurgetoexpectorate.
“Myteam onNobHill ismorethan competenttocomplete thesalvagethere withoutmysupervision,” I
said, attempting to sound coolly rational. “That being the case, I believe, sir, that I shall seek out the
scoundrelwhodidthistomeandjollywellkillhim.Figurativelyspeaking,ofcourse.”
“Verygood.And?”
“And, of course, recapture my mortal recruit and deliver him to the Collection Point as planned and
accordingtoschedule,”Isaid.“Sir.”
“Seethatyoudo.”Labienusworkedbothclutchandbrakeexpertlyandedgedhismotorforward,cylinders
idling.“ReporttomycabinontheThundereratsevenhundredhoursforaprivatedebriefing.
Isthatclear?”
“Perfectlyclear,sir.”Sotherewassomemysterytobeexplained.Verywell.
“Youaredismissed.”
“Sir.”IdoffedmyhatandwatchedashedrovesmoothlyawayupMarketStreet.
Ireplacedmyhatandturnedinthedirectionofthesignal,probing.Mydiz-zinesswasfading,burnedaway
bymygrowingsenseofoutrage.Thefilthyolddevil,howdarehedothistome?Whatwasheplayingat?I
begantowalkbrisklyagain,myspeedincreasingwithmystrength.
Ofcourse,thevowtokillhimhadn’tbeenmeantliterally.Wedonotdie.ButI’dfindsomewayofpaying
himoutinfullmeasure,Ihadn’ttheslightestdoubtaboutthat.Hehadtheedgeonmeinstrength,butIwas
swifterandinfullpossessionofmyfaculties,whereashewasprobablydroolingmad,theoldtroll.
Yes,mad,thatwastheonlyexplanation.Therehadalwaysbeenrumorsthatsomeoftheoldestoperatives
wereflawedsomehow,thosecreatedearliest,beforetheAugmentationProcesshadbeenperfected.Budu
hadbeenoneoftheoldestI’devermet.Hehadbeencreatedmorethanfortythousandyearsago,beforethe
humanraceshadproducedtheirpresentassortmentofrepresentatives.
NowthatIthoughtofit,Ihadn’tseenanoperativeofhisracialtypeinthefieldinyears.Theyhelddesk
jobs at Company bases, or were Air Transport pilots. I’d assumed this was simply because the modern
mortalracewasnowtoodifferentforBudu’stypetopassunnoticed.Whatifthetruereasonwasthatthe
Companyhaddecidednottotakechanceswiththeearliermodels?Whatiftherewassomeriskthatallof
thatparticularclasswereinherentlyunstable?
GoodGod!NowonderIwasexpectedtohandlethismatterwithoutassistance.Undoubtedlyourmasters
wantedthewholeaffairresolvedasquietlyaspossible.Theycouldcountonmydiscretion;Ionlyhoped
myabilitymettheirexpectations.
Followingthesignal,IturnedleftatthecornerofMarketandGrant.ThegreentrailledstraightupGrantas
farasSacramento.Whatwashisgame?HewasdrawingmestraightintothedepthsoftheCelestialquarter,
aplacewhereI’dbeconspicuouswereitdaylight,butatnoparticulardisadvantageotherwise.
He must intend some kind of dialogue with me. The fact that he had taken a hostage indicated that he
wantedourmeetingonhisterms,underhiscontrol.Thathefeltheneededahostagecouldbetakenasa
signofweaknessonhispart.Hadhisstrengthbeguntofailsomehow?Notifhisattackonmehadbeenany
indication.Thoughithadbeenlargelyamatterofspeedandleverage….
IcametothecornerofGrantandSacramento.Thesignalturnedtotheleftagain.Ittraveledupablock,
where it could be observed emanating from a dark-ened doorway. I stood considering it for a moment,
tappingmystickimpatientlyagainstmyboot.Ispatintothegutter,butitdidnottakethetastefrommy
mouth.
Iwalkedslowlyuphillpasttheshopsthatsoldblackandscarletlacquerwareandgreenjade.Herewasthe
Baptistmission,smellingofstarchandgoodinten-tions.Fromthislodging-housedoorwayaheavyperfume
ofjosssticks;fromthisdoorwayareekofpreservedfish.Andfromthisdoorway…
Itstoodajar.Anarrowcorridorwentstraightbackintodarkness,withanarrowerstairascendingtotheleft.
The bottommost stair tread had been thrown open like the lid of a piano bench, revealing a black void
below.
Iscanned.Hewasdownthere,andmakingnoattempttohidehimself.Donalwastherewithhim,stillalive.
Therewerenoothersignsofmortallife,however.
Ipacedforwardintothedarknessandstoodlookingdown.Chillairwascomingupfrombelow.Itstank
likeacrypt.Rungsleadingdownintoapassagewaywerejustvisible,byawaveringpoolofgreenlight.
Sowasastaringdeadface,contortedintoagrimaceofrage.
Afteramoment’sconsideration,Iremovedmyhatandsetitonthesecondstep.MystickIresolvedtotake
withme,althoughitsswordwouldbeuselessagainstmyopponent.Nopointinanyfurtherdelay;itwas
timetodescendintoyetanotherhell.
Atthebottomoftheladderthelightwasalittlestronger.Itrevealedmorebodieslyinginasubterranean
passageofbrickplasteredoverandpaintedadullgreen.Thedeadhadbeenyoungmen,andseemedtohave
diedfighting,withinthelastfewhours.Theyweresmashedlikesomanyinsects.Thelightthatmadethis
plainwasemanatingfromawidedoorwaythatopenedoffthepassage,sometenfeetfurtheron.Thesmell
ofdeathwasstrongestinthere.
“Comein,Victor,”saidavoice.
Iwentasfarasthedoorwayandlooked.
In that low-ceilinged chamber of bare plaster, in the fitful glow of one oil lamp, more dead men were
scattered.ThesewereallelderlyChinese,skeletallyema-ciated,and theyhad beendeadsomehoursand
theyhadnotdiedquietly.Oneleanedinachairbesidethelittletablewiththeflickeringlamp;onewashung
uponahookthatprotrudedfromawall;onelayhalf-in,half-outofacupboardpassage,hisarmflungout
asthoughbeckoning.Threeweresprawledonthefloorbesideslatwoodbunks,inposturessuggestingthey
hadbeenslainwhilstinthelethargyoftheirdrugandtossedfromthecoucheslikerags.
The apparatus of the opium-den lay here and there; a gold-wrapped brick of the poisonous substance,
brokenpipes,burntdishes,longmatches,bitsofwire.
Andthere,beyondthem,satthemonsterofmylongnightmares.
“Youdon’tlikemyhorribleparlor,”chuckledBudu.“Yourlittlewhitenosehassqueezednearlyshut,your
nostrilslooklikeafish’sgills.”
“It’sjustthesortofnestyou’dmakeforyourself,youmurderingoldfool,”Itoldhim.Hefrownedatme.
“Ihave nevermurdered,” hetoldme seriously.“Buttheseweremurderers, andthieves.Who elsewould
keepsuchafinesecretcellar,eh?Agood placeforaprivatemeeting!”Heleanedback againstthewall,
loungingathiseaseacrossthetoptierofabunk,wavingenormousmud-cakedboots.Hisdressconsistedof
stainedbluejeantrousers,avastshapelessredcoatmadefromablanket,andabatteredblackfelthat.He
hadlethishairandbeardgrowlong;theytraileddownlikepalemossoverhisbarehairychest.Helooked
ratherlikeSt.Nicholasturnedmonster.
Donalsatstifflybesidehim.Buduhadplacedhisgreathandabouttheboy’sneck,aseasilyasImighttake
holdofanaxehandle.
“UncleJimmy,”moanedDonal.
“Explain yourself, sir,” I addressed Budu, keeping my voice level and cold. He responded with gales of
delightedlaughter.
“IwastheBriton,andyouwerethelittlebarbarian!”hesaid.“Lookatusnow!”
Isteppedintotheroom,havingscannedfortraps.“Ifollowedyoursignal,”Itoldhim.‘Youcertainlymade
itplainenough.MayIaskwhyyouthoughtitwasnecessarytocutmythroat?”
Heshrugged,regardingmewithhoodedeyes.“Howelsetogetyourattentionbuttotakeyourquarryfrom
you?Andhowtodothatbutbydisablingyoutem-porarily?Whatharmdiditdo?Spoiledyournicewhite
shirt,yes,andmadeyouangry!”Hechuckledagain.
Itappedmystickinimpatience.“Whatwasyourpurposeincallingmehere,oldman?”
“Totellyouafewtruths,andseewhatyoudowhenyou’veheardthem,Youwerewonderingaboutus,we
oldestOldOnes, wonderingwhatbecameofusall.Youwerethinkingwe’relike badlymadeclockwork
toys,andourGreatToymakersdecidedtopullusofftheshelvesofthetoyshop.”Hestretchedluxuriously.
Donaltriedtoturnhisheadtostareathim,butwasheldfastastheoldcreaturecontin-ued:
“No,no,no.We’renotbadlymade.Iwasbettermadethanyou,littleman.It’saquestionofpurpose.”
Hethrusthisprognathousfaceforwardatmethroughthegloom.“Iwasmadeawar-axe.Theymadeyoua
shovel.Isthemetaphorplainenoughforyou?”
“Itakeyourmeaning.”Imovedastepcloser.
“You’ve been told all your life that our masters wish only to save things, books and pretty pictures and
children,andforthispurposeweweremade,tocreepintohouseslikemiceandstealawaylootbeforeTime
caneatit.”
“That’sanoversimplification,butessentiallytrue.”
“Isit?”Hestrokedhisbeardinamusement.IcouldseetheredlinesacrossthebackofhishandwhereI’d
clawedhim.Hehadn’tbotheredtohealthemyet.“Youpompouscreature,inyourniceclothes.Youwere
madetosavethings,Victor.Iwasn’t.Now,hearthetruth:I,andallmykind,weremadebecauseourperfect
andbenignmasterswantedkillersonce.Canyouguesswhy?”
“Well,letmesee.”Iswallowedbackbile.“Yousayyou’renotflawed.Yetit’sfairlycommonknowledge
thatflawedimmortalswereproduced,duringthefirstexperimentationswiththeProcess.
WhatdidtheCompanydoaboutthem?Per-hapsyouwerecreatedasameansofeliminatingthem.”
“Goodguess.”Henoddedhishead.“Butwrong.Theywereneverkilled,thosepoorfailedthings.I’veseen
them,screaminginlittlesteelboxes.No.Guessagain.”
“Then…perhapsatonetimeitwasnecessarytohaveagentswhosespecialtywasDefense,”Itried.
“Priortothedawnofcivilization.”
“Whee!Aneasyguess.Youfool,ofcourseitwas!Youthinkourmasterswaited,sogentleandpure,for
sweetreasontopersuadementoevolve?Oh,no.Toomanywolveswerepreyingonthesheep.Theyneeded
operativeswhocouldkill,whocouldhappilykillfierceprimitivessothepeacefulonescouldweavebaskets
andpaintbisononwalls.”Hegrinnedatmewiththoseenormousteeth,andwenton:
“WemadeCivilizationdawn,Iandmykind!Wepushedthatbrightballoverthehorizonatlast,andwedid
itbykilling!Ifamanraisedhishandagainsthisneighbor,wecutitoff.Ifatribepaintedthemselvesfor
war,wewashedtheirfaceswiththeirownblood.ShallItellyouoftheracesofmenyou’llneversee?
Theywouldn’tlearnpeace,andsoweweresentintoslaythem,man,woman,andchild!”
“Youmean,”Iexhaled,“theCompanydecidedtoaccelerateMankind’sprogressbyselectivelyweedingout
itssociopathicmembers.Andifitdid?We’veallheardrumorsofsomethinglikethat.Itmaybenecessary
from time to time even now. Not a pretty thought, but one can see the reasons. If you hadn’t done it,
mankindmighthaveremainedinastateofsavageryforever.”Itookanotherstepforward.
“Wedidgoodwork,”hesaidplaintively.“Andweweren’thypocrites.Itwasfun.”Hispalegazewandered
past me to the doorway. There was a momentary flicker of something like uneasiness in his eyes, some
rippleacrossthesurfaceofhisvastcalm.
“Whatisthepointoftellingmethis,mayIask?”Ipressed.
“Toshowyouthatyouservelyingandungratefulmasters,child,”hereplied,hisattentionreturningtome.
“Stupidmasters.They’venounderstandingofthisworldtheyrule.Onceweclearedthefieldsotheycould
plant, how did they reward us? We had been heroes. We became looters. And you should see how they
punishedus,theoneswhoargued!Nomorepruningthevine,theytoldus,letitgrowhowitwill.You’re
onlytogatherthefruitnow,theytoldus.Wasthatfair?Wasit,whenwe’dbeencreatedtogatherheads?”
“No,Idaresayitwasn’t.Butyouadapted,didn’tyou?”TomydismayIwasshakingwithemotion.“You
foundwaystosatisfyyoururgesintheCompany’sservice.You’dtakenyourshareofheadsthedayyou
caughtme!”
“Rescuedyou,”hecorrectedme.“Youwereonlyalittleanimal,andifIhadn’ttakenyouawayyou’dhave
grownintoabiganimallikeyourfather.TherewerelicecrawlinginhishairwhenIstuckhisheadonthe
pike.Therewasfoodinhisbeard!”
Ispatinhisface.Icouldn’tstopmyself.ThenextsecondIwassickwithmortification,tobeprovokedinto
suchoperaticbehavior,anddabbedhurriedlyatmychinwithahandkerchief;Budumerelywipedhisface
withthebackofhishandandsmiled,contenttohavereducedmystature.
“Yourangerchangesnothing.Yourfatherwasadirtybeast.Hewasanoath-breakerandaninvadertoo,as
wereall hispeople.You’vebeen taught yourhistory,you know allthis!So don’tjudge meforenjoying
whatIdidtoexterminatehisrace.And,see,seewhathappenedwhenIwasorderedtostopkillingSaxons!
WhenArthurdied,Romanorderdiedwithhim.Allthatwe’dwonatBadonHillwaslostandtheSaxon
hordesreturned,nevertoleave.Whatsensediditmake,tohavegivenouraidforawhiletoonecivilized
tribeandthenleaveittobedestroyed?”Hisgazetraveledpastmetothedoorwayagain.
Whowasheexpect-ing?Theyweren’tcomingtohisaid,thatmuchwasclear.
“Wedonotinvolveourselvesinthepettyterritorialsquabblesofmortals,”Irecited.“Wedonotembrace
theircauses.Wemoveamongstthem,savingwhatwecan,butweareneversuchfoolsastobedrawninto
theirdisputes.”
“Yes,you’requotingCompanyPolicytome.Butdon’tyouseethatyourfineimpartialityhasnopurpose?
Itaccomplishesnothing!It’swasteful!Youknowthehousewillburn,soyou’creepinlikethievesandsteal
the furniture beforehand, and then watch the flames. Wouldn’t it be more efficient use of your time to
preventthefireinthefirstplace?”Hepausedamomentandlookedatthebackofhishandwithaslight
frown.Isawtheredlinestherefadetopinkashesetthemtohealingover.
“It would be more efficient, yes,” I said, “but for one slight difficulty. You couldn’t prevent the fire
happening.Itisn’tpossibletochangehistory.”
“Recordedhistory.”Hebaredhisbigteethinamusementoncemore.“Itisn’tpossibletochangerecorded
history. And do you think even that sacred rule’s as unbreakable as you’ve been told? I have made the
historythatwaswrittenandread.Itdisappointsme.Iwillmakesomethingnewnow.”
“Shallyoureally?”Ifoldedmyarms.Doubtlesshewasgoingtostartbraggingaboutbeingagod.Itwent
withtheprofileofthissortoflunatic.
“Yes,andyou’llhelpmeifyou’rewise.Listentome.Inthetimebeforehistorywaswrittendown,inthose
days,ourmasterswerebold.Allmortalshaveinheritedthelegendthattherewasonceagoldenagewhen
menlivedsimplyinmeadows,andtheEarthwasuncrowdedandclean,andtherewasnowar,butonlyarts
ofpeace.
“But when recorded history began —when we were forbidden to exterminate the undesirables —that
paradisewaslost.Andourmastersletitbelost,andthatisthecondemnationIflingintheirteeth.”Hedrew
adeepbreath.
“Yourpoint,sir?”
“I’llmakeanendofrecordedhistory.Icansodecimatetheracesofmenthattheirgoldenagewillcome
again,andneveragainwilltherebeenoughofthemtoravageoneanotherorthegardentheyinhabit.And
we immortals will be their keepers. Victor, little Victor, how long have you lived? Aren’t you tired of
watchingthemfightandstarve?Youcreepamongthemlikeascavenger,butyoucouldwalkamongthem
like—“
“Likeagod?”Isneered.
“Ihadbeenabouttosay,anangel.”Budusneeredback.“IremembertheserviceIwascreatedfor.Doyou,
littleman?Orhaveyoueverevenknown?Suchluxuriesyou’vehad,amongthepoormortals!Haveyou
neverfelttheurgetoreallyhelpthem?Butthetime’ssoonapproachingwhenyoucan.”
“Ridiculous,”Istated.“YouknowaswellasIdothathistorywon’tstop.There’llbejustasmuchwarfare
andmortalmiseryinthisnewcenturyasinthecenturiesbefore,andnothinganyonecandowillalterone
event.”IgaugedthepressureofhisfingersonDonal’sneck.HowquicklycouldImovetogetthemloose?
“Notoneevent?Youthinkso?Maybe.”Helookedsly.“Butourmasterswillturnwhatcan’tbechangedto
theirownadvantage,andwhycan’tI?Thinkofthegreatslaughterstocome,Victor.HowdoyouknowI
won’tbeworkingthere?HowdoyouknowIhaven’tbeenatworkalready?HowdoyouknowIhaven’tgot
disciplesamongourpeople,wearyasIamofourmasters’blundering,readyasIamtomutiny?”
“Becausehistorystatesotherwise,”Itold himflatly. “Therewillbe nomutiny, no WarinHeaven ifyou
like.Civilizationwillprevail.Itisrecordedthatitwill.”
“Isit?”Hegrinned.“Andcanyoutellmewhorecordedit?MaybeIdid.MaybeIwill,afterIwin.
Victor,suchasimpletrick,butit’sneveroccurredtoyou.Historyisonlywriting,andonecanwritelies!”
Istaredathim.No,infact,itneverhadoccurredtome.Herockedtoandfroinhismerriment,dragging
Donalwithhim.Silenttearsstreameddownthechild’sface.
Budulurchedforward,fixingmewithhisgaze.“Listennow.Ihavemyfollow-ers,butweneedmore.
You’lljoinmebecauseyou’reclever,andyou’rewearyofthishorrortoo,andyouowemethedutyofa
son,forIsavedyoufromdeath.You’reaFacilitatorandknowthecodestoorderCompanyequipment.
You’ll work in secret, you’ll obtain certain things for me, and we’ll take mortal children and work the
AugmentationProcessonthem,andraisethemasourownopera-tives,forourpurposes,loyaltous.
Thenwe’ll pull the weeds from the Garden. Thenwe’ll geld the bull and make him pull the plow. Then
we’llslaughterthewolfthatpreysontheherd.Justasweusedtodo!TherewillbeOrder.
“ForthisreasonIcameasabeggartothiscityandfollowedyou,watchingyou.NowI’vemadeyoulisten
tome.”Helookedatthedoorwayagain.“TellmeI’mnotafool,littleVictor,tellmeIhaven’twalkedinto
thistrapwithyoutonopurpose.”
“WhatwillyoudoifIrefuse?”Idemanded.“Breakthechild’sneck?”
Thiswastoomuchfortheboy,whowhimperedlikearabbitandstartedforwardconvulsively.Budulooked
down,scowlingasthoughhehadforgottenabouthim.“Areyouastupidchild?”heaskedDonal.
“Doyouwanttodie?”
Icannotexcusemynextact,thoughhedrovemetoit;he,andthehorroroftheplace,andthetimethatwas
slippingawayandbringingthisdoomedcitydownaboutourearsifwetarried.Ichargedhim,howlinglike
theanimalhewas.
Herearedback;butinsteadofclosingaboutDonal’sthroat,hisfingerstwitchedharmlessly.Ashisweight
shifted,hisrightarmdroppedtohisside,heavyaslead.Mychargethrewhimbackwardsothathishead
struckthewallwitharesoundingthud.
Allthelaughterdiedinhiseyes,andtheyfocusedinwardasheranhisself-diagnostic.IcaughtupDonalin
myarmsandbackedawaywithhim,panting.
Budulookedoutatme.
“A virus,” he informed me. “It was in your saliva. It’s producing inert matter even now, at remarkable
speed,that’sblockingmyneuroreceptors.Idon’tthinkitwillkillme,butIdoubtifevenyourmasterscould
tell.I’msuretheyhopeso.You’resurprised.Youhadnoknowledgeofthisweaponinsideyourself?”
“None,”Isaid.
Buduwasnoddingthoughtfully,orperhapshewasbeginningtobeunabletoholdhisheadup.“Theydidn’t
tellyouaboutthistalentofyours,becauseifyou’dknownaboutit,Iwouldhaveseenitinyourthoughts,
and then I’d never have let you spit on me. At the very least I wouldn’t have wiped it away with my
woundedhand.”
“Acivilizedmanwouldhaveusedahandkerchief,”Icouldnotresistobserving.
Hegiggled,buthisvoicewasweakerwhenhespoke.
“Well.Iguesswe’llseenowifourmastershaveatlonglastfoundawaytounmaketheircreations.OrI
willsee;youcan’tstayinthisdangerousplacetowatchtheoutcome,Iknow.Butyou’llwishyouhad,in
theyearstocome,you’llwishyouknewwhetherornotIwasstillwatchingyou,followingyou.ForIknow
yourdefenseagainstmenow,thinkofthat!AndIknowwhobetrayedme,withhisclevervirus.”
Budu’spaleeyeswidened.“Iwaswrong!Therestofthemmaybeshovels,butyou,littleVictor—youwere
madeapoisonedknife.VictorVeneficus!”headded,andlaughedthicklyathisjoke.“Oh,tellhim
—neversleep.IfIlive—“
“We’regoingnow,DonalOg,UncleJimmy’llgetyousafeoutofhere,”Isaidtothechild,turningfrom
Budutothreadmywaybetweenthestinkingcorpsesonthefloor.
IheardBuducoughonceashisvocalcenterswent,andthentheetherwasfilledwithacascadeofimages:
Anakedchildsquattingonaclayfloor,staringthroughdarknessataloomingfigureinabearskin.
Flamesdevouringbrushhuts,goatskintents,cottages,halls,palaces,shops,restaurants,hotels.Soldiersin
everyconceivablekind of uniform, with every known weapon,in every posture of attack or defensethe
humanformcouldassume.
Ifthesewerehismemories,ifthiswastheendofhislife,therewasnoemotionofsorrowaccompanying
theimages;nofear,noweariness,noreliefeither.Instead,aloudyammeringlaughtergreweverlouder,and
deafenedtheinnerearatthelastimage:ahulkingbruteinabearskin,squattingbesideafire,turningand
turninginhisthickfingersagleaminggoldenaxe;andonthebladeoftheaxewaswrittenthewordVIRUS.
Halfwayuptheladder,thetrapopeningwasoccludedbyafacethatlookeddownatmeandthendrewback.
Icameupwithallspeed;IfacedasmallmobofChinese,grimmenwithbronzehatchets.Theyhadnot
expectedtoseeamanineveningdresscarryingachild.
IaddressedtheminCantonese,forIcouldseetheywerenativesofthatprov-ince.
“Thedevil who killed your grandfathers is still down there. He is asleepandwillnotwakeup.Youcan
safelycuthimtopiecesnow.”
Itookupmyhatandleftthemortalsstandingthere,lookinguncertainlyfrommydepartingformtothedark
holeinthestair.
Theairwasbeginningtofreshenwiththescentofdawn.Ihadlittlemorethananhourtogetacrossthecity.
InsomethingclosetopanicIbegantorunupSacramento,broadcastingaGeneralAssistanceSignal.Had
mysalvageteamswaitedforme?Donalclungtomeanddidnotmakeasound.
BeforeIhad“gone”threeblocks,Iheardthenoiseofanautomobileechoing-loudbetweenthebuildings.
ItwasclimbingupSacramentotowardme.Iturnedtomeetit.OvertheglareofitsbrassheadlampsIsaw
PanWen-Shi.Histuxedoandshirtfront,unlikemine,werestillasspotlessaswhenhe’dlefttheCompany
banquet.Ontheseatbesidehimwasatinyalmond-eyedgirl.Hebrakedandshifted,puttingoutahandto
preventherfromtumblingoffandrollingawaydownhill.
“Climbin,”heshouted.IvaultedtherunningboardandtoppledintothebackseatwithDonal.Panstepped
onthegasandwecrankedforwardagain.
“Much obliged to you for the ride,” I said, settling myself securely and attempt-ing to pry Donal’s arms
loosefrommyneck.“Hadabitofdifficulty.”
“SohadI.Wemusttelloneanotherourstoriessomeday,”Panacknowledged,roundingthecorneratPowell
andtakingusdowntowardGeary.Thelittlegirlhadturnedinherseatandwasstaringatus.
Donalwasquiveringandhidinghiseyes.
“Nowthen,DonalOg,nowthen,”Icroonedtohim.“You’vebeenabraveboyandyou’reallsafeagain.
And isn’t this grand fun? We’re going for a ride in a real motor-car!” Under my words was a soothing
frequencytoblurhismemoryofthelasttwohours.
“BadToymakergone?”askedthelittlemuffledvoice.
“Sureheis,Donal,andwe’veescapedentirely.”
Heconsentedtolowerhishands,butshrankbackatthesightoftheothers.“Who’sthat?”
“Why,that’salittleChinadollthat’sescapedtheoldToymaker,sameasyou,andthat’sthekindChinaman
whohelpedher.They’retakingustothesea,wherewe’llescapeonabigship.”
Hestaredatthemdoubtfully.“IwantMummy,”hesaid,tearsforminginhiseyes.
Thelittlegirl,whotillthismomenthadbeensolemninfascination,suddenlydimpledintoalovelysmile
andlaughedlikeasilverbell.Shepointedafingerathimandmadealongbabblingpronouncement,neither
inCantonesenorMan-darin.Foremphasis,shereacheddownbesideherandflungsomethingathimover
thebackoftheseat,withatriumphantcryof“Dah!”Itwasawrapped barof Ghirardelli’s, onlyalittle
gummyatonecornerwhereshe’dbeenteethingonit.Icaughtitinmidair.
“Seenow,Donal,thenicelittlegirlisgivinguschocolates!”Itoreoffthewrapperhastilyandgavehima
piece.ShereachedoutademandinghandandIgavehersomeaswell.“Chocolatesandanautomobileride
andabigship!Aren’tyoutheluckyboy,then?”
He sat quiet, watching the gregarious baby and nibbling at his treat. His mem-ories were fading. As we
rattledupGearyhelookedatmewithwonderingeyes.
“WhereElla?”heaskedme.
WhenIhadcaughtmybreath,Ireplied:
“Shecouldn’tcometoToyland,DonalOg.Butyou’realucky,luckyboy,foryouwill.You’llhavesplendid
adventuresandnevergrowold.Won’tthatbefun,now?”
Helookedintomyface,notknowingwhathesawthere.“Yes,”heansweredinatinyvoice.
Luckyboy, yes, borneawayin amechanicalchariot, awayfromthe perishablemortalworld, andallthe
prettynurseswillsmile overyouandperhapssing youtosleepbeforetheytakeyouofftosurgery.And
when you wake, you’ll have been Improved; you’ll be ever so much cleverer, Donal, than poor mortal
monkeyslikeyourfather.Abiomechanicalmarvelfittostridethroughthisnewcenturyincompanywith
theinternalcombustionengineandtheflyingmachine.
Andyou’ll be so happy, boy, andatpeace, knowing about thewonderfulworkyou’ll have to doforthe
Company; much happier than poor Ella would ever have been, with her wild heart, her restlessness and
anger. Surely no kindness to give her eternal life, when life’s stupidities and injustice could never be
escaped?
…Butyou’llenjoyyourimmortality,DonalOg.Youwill,ifyoudon’tbecomeathinglikeme.
Thewordscameintomymindunbidden,andIshudderedinmyseat.Mustn’tthinkofthisjustnow:too
muchtodo.Perhapsthewholeincidenthadbeensomesortofhallucination?Therewasnofoultasteinmy
mouth, no viral poison sizzling under my glib tongue. The experience might have been some fantastic
nightmarebroughtonbystress,butforthebloodstainingmyeleganteveningattire.
Iwasagentleman,afterall.Nogentlemandidsuchthings.
PanboreleftatMason,rodethebrakesallthewaydowntoFulton,turnedrightandaccelerated.Wesped
on,desperatetoleavethepast.
****
Therewerestillwhaleboatsdrawnuponthesand,stillwagonswaitingthere,andshirtsleevedimmortals
hurriedlyloadingboxesfromwagontoboat.We’dnearlyleftittoolate:thoseweremypeople,thatwasmy
Nob Hill salvage arrayed in splendor amid the driftwood and broken shells. There were still a pair of
steamersridingatanchorbeyondSealRock,thoughmostofthefleethadalreadyputouttoseaandcould
beglimpsedastinylightsonthegrayhorizon,makingfortheFarallones.Aswecamewithinrangeofthe
HushFieldbothofthechildrenslumpedintoabruptandwelcomeunconsciousness.
We jittered to a stop just short of the tavern, where an impatient operative from the Company’s motor
agencytookchargeof the automobile. Pan and I jumped out, caught up our respective children, and ran
downthebeach.
PastthewagonsloadedwithrichjetsamoftheGildedAge,weran:linedupinthemorninggloomandsalt
windwerethegrandpianos,thecrystalchandeliers,thepaintingsingiltframes,theantiquefurniture.
Statuary classical and modern; gold plate and tapestries. Cases of rare wines, crates of phonograph
cylinders,ofbooksandpapers,waitedlikerefugeestoescapethecomingmorning.
IglimpsedAverill,strugglingthroughthesandwithhisarmsfullofpricelessthings.Hewassobbingloudly
asheworked;tearscourseddownhischeeks,hiseyeswerewidewithterror,buthisbodyservedhimlike
theclockworktoy,likethefinemachineitwas,andborehimceaselesslybackandforthbetweenthewagon
andtheboatuntilhisappointedtaskshouldbedone.
“Sir!Wheredidyougetto?”hesaid,gasping.“Wewaitedandwaited—andnowit’sgonnacutlooseany
secondandwe’restillnotdone!”
“Couldn’tbehelped,oldman!”Itoldhimaswescuttledpast.“Carryon!Ihaveeveryfaithinyou!”
Ishutmyearstohiscryofdismayandranon.Aboatreservedforpassengersstillwaitedinthesurf.Pan
andImadefortheboardingofficerandgaveouridentification.
“You’vecutitdamnedclose,gentlemen,”hegrumbled.
“Unavoidable,”I told him. His gaze fellonmygore-drenchedshirt and he blinked, but waved us to our
places. Seconds later we were seated securely, and the oarsmen pulled and sent us bounding out on the
recedingtidetotheThun-dererwhereshelayatanchor.
We’d done it, we were away from that fated city where even now bronze hatch-ets were completing the
finalbetrayal—
No.Agentlemandoesnotbetrayothers.Nordoesheleavehissubordinatestodealwiththeconsequences
ofhismisfortune.
Donalshiveredinthestiffbreeze,wakingslowly.Frank’scoathadbeenlost,somewhereinChinatown;I
shrugged out of my dinner jacket and put it around Donal’s shoulders. He drew closer to me, but his
attentionwascaughtbytheoperativesworkingontheshore.Ashewatched,somethingdisturbedtheearth
andthesandbegantoflurryandshift.Anotherwarningwassoundingupfrombelow.
Therumblingcarriedtousovertheroarofthesea,asdidtheshoutsoftheoperativestryingtofinishthe
loading.Onewagonsettledforwardafewinches,causingtheunfortunateprecipitationofamassiveantique
clockintothearmsoftheimmortalswhohadbeengingerlyeasingitdown.Theyarresteditsflight,butthe
shockorperhapsmerelythestrikinghoursetinmotionitsparadeoftinygoldenautomata.
Outcameitsrevolvingplatforms,itstrumpetingangels,itspir-ouettinglovers,itsminuteDeathwithraised
scytheandhourglass.CrazilyitchimedFIVE.
Pan and I exchanged glances. He checked his Chronometer. Our boatmen increased the vigor of their
strokes.
Moment by moment the East was growing brighter, disclosing operatives massed on the deck of the
Thunderer. Their faces were turned to regard the sleeping city. Pan and I were helped on deck and our
mortalchargeshandedupafterus;apairofwhite-coifednursessteppedforward.
“AgentPan?AgentVictor?”inquiredone,astheothercheckedalist.
“Here,now,Donal,we’reonourshipatlast,andhere’salovelyfairytolookafteryou.”Ithrusthiminto
herwaitingarms.TheotherreceivedthebabyfromPan,andthelittlegirlwentwithoutcomplaint;butas
hisnurseturnedtocarryhimbelowdecks,Donaltwistedinherarmsandreachedoutadesperatehandfor
me.
“UncleJimmy!”hescreamed.Iturnedawayquicklyassheborehimoff.Really,itwasforthebest.
Imademywayalongtherailandemergedontheaftdeck,whereInearlyranintoNanD’Araignee.Shedid
notseeme,however;shewasferventlykissingagreatbeardedfellowinabrass-buttonedbluecoat,which
hehadopenedtowrapaboutthemboth,makingawarmprotectedplaceforherinhisarms.Helookedup
andsawme.Hiseyes,timidandkindly,widened,andhenoddedinrecog-nition.
“Kalugin,”Iacknowledgedwithbrittlecourtesy,tippingmyhat.Iedgedonpastthemquickly,butnotso
quickly as to suggest I was fleeing. What had I to flee from? Not guilt, certainly. No gentleman
dishonorablycovetsanothergentleman’slady.
AsIreachedtheaftsaloonwefeltitbeginning,withtherisingsurgethatliftedtheThundereratitsmooring
andthreatenedtoswampthefleeingwhaleboats;weheardtheroarcomingupfromtheearth,andinthe
Citysomemortalssatupintheirbedsandfrownedatwhattheycouldsensebutnotquitehearyet.
IclungtotherailoftheThunderer.Myfellowoperativeswerehurryingtothesternoftheshiptobewitness
toHistory,andnearlyeveryfaceboreanexpressioncompoundedofmingledhorrorandeagerness.There
wereoneortwowhoturnedaway,avertingtheireyes.Therewerethoselikeme,sickandexhausted,who
merelystared.
Andreally,fromwherewelayoffshore,therewasnotmuchtosee;noDeMillespectacle;nomoreatfirst
thanapuffofdustrisingintotheair.Butveryclearacrossthewaterweheardtherumbling,andthenthe
roar of bricks coming down, and steel snapping, and timbers groaning, and the high sweet shattering of
glass,andthetollinginalldiscordanceofbronze-throatedbells.LoudastheLastTrum-pet,butnotloud
enoughtodrownoutthescreamsofthedying.No,theroaroftheearthquakeevenpausedforaspace,asif
toletushearmortalagonymoreclearly;thenthelittlewehadbeenabletoseeoftheCitywasconcealedin
aroilingfogthecolorofabloodstain.
Iturnedaway,andchancedtolookupattheopendoorwayofastateroomonthedeckabove.Therestood
Labienus,watchingthedeathofthreethousandmortalswithanavidstare.ThatwaswhenIknew,andknew
beyondquestion,whoseweaponIwas.
Ihadn’tescaped.Mysplendidmansion,withallitsgildedconceits,hadcol-lapsedinarainofbricksand
brokenplaster.
AhandsettledonmyshoulderandIdroppedmygazetobeholdLewis,ofallpeople,lookingintomyface
withcompassion.
“Iknow,”hemurmured,“Iknow,oldfellow.Toomuchhorrortobear.Atleastit’sfinishednow,forthose
poormortalsandforus.Atleastwe’vedoneourjobs.Braceup!CanIgetyouadrink?”
Whatdidherecognizeinmysickwhiteface?Notthefeaturesofamanwhohademptiedaphialintoan
innocent-lookingcupofwine,andgivenittohimunderpretenseofcalminghisnerves.Why,I’dalways
beenapoisoner,hadn’tI?Butithadhappenedlongago,andhehadnomemoryofitanyway.I’dseento
that.AndLewiswouldneversuspectmeofsuchbehaviorinanycase.Wewerebothgentlemen,afterall.
“No,thankyou,”Ireplied,“IbelieveI’lljusttaketheairforalittlewhileouthere.It’safinerestorativeto
thenerves,youknow.Seaair.”
“Soitis,”heagreed,steppingback.“That’sthespirit!Andit’snotasthoughyoucouldhavedoneanything
more.Youknowwhattheysay:Historycannotbechanged.”Hegavemeafinalhelpfulthumponthearm
andmovedaway,clingingtotherailasthedeckpitched.
Alone,Ifixedmyeyesonthewidehorizonofthecoldandperfectsea.Idrewinadeepbreathofchillair.
Onecanwritelies.Andlivethem.
Two operatives in uniform were making their way toward me through the press of the crowd. I looked
acrossatthem.
“ExecutiveFacilitatorVictor?”
Inodded.Theyshoulderedintoplace,oneoneithersideofme.
“Sir,yourpresenceisurgentlyrequested.Mr.Labienussendshisapologiesforunavoidablyrevisingyour
schedule,”oneofthemrecited.
“Certainly.”Iexhaled.“Byallmeans,gentlemen,letusgo.”
We made our way across deck to the forward compartments, avoiding the hatches where the crew were
busilyloading downtheArt, theMusic,the Liter-ature,thefine floweringofthe Humanitythatwe had,
afterall,beencreatedtosave.
****
honorablementions:
1999
DanielAbraham,“Jaycee,”Asimov’s,December.
––-,&MichaelaRoessner,SageWalker,WalterJonWilliams,“Tauromaquia,”
EventHorizon,August/September.
BrianAldiss,“AnApolloAsteroid,”MoonShots.
PoulAnderson,“TheShrineforLostChildren,”F&SF,October/November.MichaelArmstrong,
“RecalledtoHome,”Asimov’s,April.
––-,“OfBitchesBorn,”NotofWomanBorn.
EleanorArnason,“TheActors,”F&SF,December.
––-,“TheGrammarian’sFiveDaughters,”RealmsofFantasy,June.
––-,“StellarHarvest,”Asimov’s,April.
ConstanceAsh,“TheLeopard’sGarden,”NotofWomanBorn.
PaoloBacigalupi,“APocketfulofDharma,”F&SF,February.
KageBaker,“TheFourthBranch,”Amazing,Summer.
––-,“TheQueenintheHill,”RealmsofFantasy,December.
––-,“SmartAlec,”Asimov’s,September.
TonyBallantyne,“Soldier.exe,”Interzone,June.
JohnBarnes,“BangOn!”Apostrophes&Apocalypses.
––-,“EnricoFermiandtheDeadCat,”Apostrophes&Apocalypses.
WilliamBarton,“Soldier’sHome,”Asimov’s,May.
StephenBaxter,“Huddle,”F&SF,May.
––-,“ThePlainofBones,”Interzone,February.
––-,“SaddlePoint:TheFaceofKintu,”ScienceFictionAge,May.
––-,“Spindrift,”Asimov’s,March.
GregBear,“TheWayofAllGhosts,”FarHorizons.
ChrisBeckett,“Valour,”Interzone,March.
M.ShayneBell,“TheGame,”RealmsofFantasy,April.
GregoryBenford,“AHungerfortheInfinite,”FarHorizons.
JudithBerman,“TheWindow,”Asimov’s,August.
TerryBisson,“macs,”F&SF,October/November.
––-,“Smoother,”F&SF,January.
PaulBlake,“WatchingtheAngels,”AltairFour.
NelsonBond,“ProofofthePudding,”Asimov’s,October/November.
BenBova,“RedSkyatMorning,”Analog,May.
T.CoraghessanBoyle,“AfterthePlague,”Playboy,September.
ScottBradfield,“DazzleRedux,”F&SF,December.
ElizabethBraswell,“TheBride,”Amazing,Winter.
DavidBrin,“Temptation,”FarHorizons.
KeithBrooke&:EricBrown,“TheFlightoftheOhCarrollian,”Interzone,July.
EricBrown,“DarkCalvary,”ScienceFictionAge,January.
––-,“HuntingtheSlarque,”Interzone,March.
––-,“StepsAlongtheWay,”MoonShots.
––-,“VenusMacabre,”AboriginalSF,Winter.
StephenL.Burns,“Vultures,”Analog,February.
PatCadigan, &KathleenAnn Goonan,PaulWitcover,SeanStewart,“CameraObscura,” Event Horizon,
April/May.
OrsonScottCard,“HealThyself,”Amazing,Summer.
––-,“InvestmentCounselor,”FarHorizons.
––-,“Vessel,”F&SF,December.
AmySterlingCasil,“LettersfromAries,”Talebones,Winter.
Adam-TroyCastro&JerryOltion,“TheAstronautfromWyoming,”Analog,July/August.
RobertR.Chase,“Heat,”Analog,December.
RobChilson,“TheHestwood,”F&SF,April.
RickCook,“TheHostoftheAir,”Analog,March.
BruceCoville,“TheGiant’sTooth,”RealmsofFantasy,December.
AlbertE.Cowdrey,“Revenge,”F&SF,May.
RobertCox,“TheGrandmaster’sLastCrusade,”Aurealis24.
TonyDaniel,“InfromtheCommons,”Asimov’s,October/November.
––-,“MysteryBox,”Asimov’s,April.
DonD’Ammassa,“Wormdance,”Asimov’s,May.
StephenDedman,“ASingleShadow,”WeirdTales,Summer.
––-,“TheLadyMacbethBlues,”Interzone,October.
––-,“UnequalLaws,”ScienceFictionAge,March.
A.M.Dellamonica,“TheDarkHour,”Tesseracts8.
NicholasA.DiChario,“Movin’On,”WeirdTales,Spring.
––-,“Sarajevo,”F&SF,March.
PaulDiFilippo,“Angelmakers,”Interzone,March.
––-,“Fax,”PirateWritings17.
CoryDoctorow,“HomeAgain,HomeAgain,”Tesseracts8.
––-,“VisittheSins,”Asimov’s,June.
TerryDowling,“TheViewinNancy’sWindow,”Interzone,August.
GardnerDozois,“AKnightofGhostsandShadows,”Asimov’s,
October/November.
L.TimmelDuchamp,“LivingTrust,”Asimov’s,February.
AndyDuncan,“TheExecutioners’Guild,”Asimov’s,August.
––-,“Fortitude,”RealmsofFantasy,June.
––-,“FromAlfano’sReliquary,”WeirdTales,Fall.
––-,“GrandGuignol,”WeirdTales,Winter.
S.N.Dyer,“OriginalSin,”Asimov’s,January.
ScottEdelman,“TheLastManontheMoon,”MoonShots.
KandisElliot,“TCoB,”Analog,September.
HarlanEllison,“ObjectsofDesireintheMirrorAreCloserThanTheyAppear,”
F&SF,October/November.
TimonsEsaias,“Lilith,Searching,”TheAgeofReason.
JohnEzzy,“TheOldGodBeginstoReassertHimself,”Aurealis24.
GregoryFeeley,“LadiesinTheirLetters,”Asimov’s,June.
GemmaFiles,“BloodMakesNoise,”TransVersions11.
SheilaFinch,“NoBrighterGlory,”F&SF,April.
EliotFintushel,“DeRerum,”AboriginalSF,Spring.
––-,“IzandtheBlueGod,”Asimov’s,April.
––-,“OpenMike,”Asimov’s,December.
––-,“WefromAfar,”ScienceFictionAge,July.
MichaelF.Flynn,“FlameofIron,”Analog,March.
––-,“PrudenceandFortitude,”Analog,April.
PeterFriend,“StormyWeather,”Interzone,August.
ValerieJ.Freireich,“SuburbanEcology,”Asimov’s,August.
EstherM.Friesner,“Chanoyu,”Asimov’s,March.
––-,“HowtoMakeUnicornPie,”F&SF,January.
––-,“Love,CrystalandStone,”Albedo19.
R.GarciayRobertson,“DianabyStarlight,”Asimov’s,March.
––-,“ForeverFree,”PastLives,PresentTense.
––-,“Strongbow,”F&SF,August.
DavidGill,“OfDivers,HawkersandSlugs,”Interzone,November.
AlexanderGlass,“Grandma’sBubbleandtheSpeakingClock,”Interzone,May.
––-,“TheMirrorRepair’d,”Interzone,January.
JamesC.Glass,“Shadows,”Analog,January.
LisaGoldstein,“TheWitch’sChild,”RealmsofFantasy,December.
ColinGreenland,“MissBeckyLabanandtheGalacticLeague,”Albedo18.
––-,“TheWaytoNorwich,”MoonShots.
EileenGunn,&AndyDuncan,PatMurphy,MichaelSwanwick,“GreenFire,”
EventHorizon,January.
JamesGunn,“TheGiftie,”Analog,September.
KarenHaber,“TheSweetTasteofRegret,”ScienceFictionAge,July.
JoeHaldeman,“ASeperateWar,”FarHorizons.
JeffHecht,“TheRumoroftheRuinedCity,”Asimov’s,April.
NinaKirikiHoffman,“Mud,”Amazing,Winter.
––-,“SalvageEfforts,”F&SF,August.
BrianA.Hopkins,“ReflectionsonaClassicMachine,”DarkPlanet,October.
BenJeapes,“GowiththeFlow,”Interzone,April.
PhillipC.Jennings,“OldGlory,”Asimov’s,May.
––-,“Otherness,”Amazing,Fall.
JanLarsJensen,“TheSecretHistoryoftheOmithopter,”F&SF,June.
BillJohnson,“TheVaultsofPermianLove,”AnalogsMay.
KijJohnson,“Chenting,intheLandoftheDead,”RealmsofFantasy,October.
S.IvanJurisevic,“CaptainStarlightandtheFlyingSaucer,”Interzone,August.
MichaelKandel,“HookingUp,”F&SF,August.
WilliamH.Keith,Jr.,“Fossils,”Asimov’s,August.
J.GregoryKeyes,“AnAirofDeception,”Amazing,Spring.
NancyKress,“SleepingDogs,”FarHorizons.
KathrynKulpa,“TheNightCopernicusDied,”Asimov’s,February.
DouglasLain,“InstantLabor,”Amazing,Spring.
GeoffreyA.Landis,“InterviewwithanArtist,”Asimov’s,July.
––-,“IntotheBlueAbyss,”Asimov’s,August.
––-,“TheLeaningTowersofVenice,”TheAgeofReason.
MiriamLandau,“Allies,”Asimov’s,March.
ChrisLawson,“ChineseRooms,”Eidolon28.
TanithLee,“ScarletandGold,”WeirdTales,Summer.
––-,“WhereDoestheTownGoatNight?”Interzone,September.
UrsulaK.LeGuin,“DarkroseandDiamond,”F&SF,October/November.
––-,“OldMusicandtheSlaveWoman,”FarHorizons.
JonathanLethem,JamesPatrickKelly,&JohnKessel,“NinetyPercentofEverything,”F&SF,September.
KellyLink,“TheGirlDetective,”EventHorizon,March.
RichardA.Lupoff,“31.12.99,”Interzone,September.
IanR.MacLeod,“TheChopGirl,”Asimov’s,December.
PaulJ.McAuley,“AlienTV,”Interzone,April.
––-,“BeforetheFlood,”Interzone,May.
––-,“NamingtheDead,”Interzone,November.
––-,&MichaelMarshallSmith,JeffVanderMeer,“DeadStringerforLove,”
EventHorizon,June/August.
SallyMcBride,“SpeakingSea,”Tesseracts8.
AnneMcCaffery,“TheShipThatReturned,”FarHorizons.
WilMcCarthy,“OnceUponaMatterCrushed,”ScienceFictionAge,July.
JackMcDevitt,“DeadintheWater,”NotofWomanBorn.
IanMcDonald,“BreakfastontheMoon,withGeorges,”MoonShots.ChristopherMcKitterick,
“CirclesofLightandShadow,”Analog,February.ElisabethMalartre,“EvolutionNeverSleeps,”
Asimov’s,July.
BarryN.Malzberg,“Shiva,”ScienceFictionAge,May.
JosephManzione,“EmperorPenguins,”Analog,July/August.
DavidMarusek,“CabbagesandKales,or,HowWeDownsizedNorthAmerica,”
Asimov’s,February.
––-,“YurekRutz,YurekRutz,YurekRutz,”Asimov’s,January.
KathleenM.Massie-Ferch,“MoonHunters,”MoonShots.
MichaelMeddor,“TheWizardRetires,”F&SF,September.
YvesMeynard,“WithintheMechanism,”Tesseracts8.
LydaMorehouse,“TwelveTraditions,”ScienceFictionAge,May.
AndrewMorris,“EmotionalBypass,”Eidolon28.
DerrylMurphy,“NorthwestPassage,”RealmsofFantasy,February.
VeraNazarian,“RossiaMoya,”TheAgeofReason.
KimNewman,“AngelDown,Sussex,”Interzone,November.
SimonNg,“TheHeartDrummer,”Eidolon28.
DavidNickle,“Ground-Bound,”OnSpec,Spring.
G.DavidNordley,“Democritus’Violin,”Analog,April.
––-,“Mustardseed,”Asimov’s,September.
––-,“TheTouch,”TheAgeofReason.
JerryOltion,“Biosphere,”F&SF,June.
SusanPalwick,“Judith’sFlowers,”NotofWomanBorn.
SevernaPark,“TheBreadfruitEmpire,”EventHorizon,May.
––-,“Harbingers,”EventHorizon,January.
RichardParks,“TakeaLongStep,”RealmsofFantasy,April.
UrsulaPflug,“GonewiththeSea,”Tesseracts8.
FrederikPohl,“TheBoyWhoWouldLiveForever,”FarHorizons.
TomPurdom,“FossilGames,”Asimov’s,February.
––-,“Woman’sWork,”Asimov’s,August.
WolfRead,“TheTreesofVerita,”Analog,June.
RobertReed,“AttheCornerofDarwinandEternity,”Interzone,October.
––-,“Baby’sFire,”Asimov’s,July.
––-,“TheChallenger,”ScienceFictionAge,May.
––-,“GameoftheCentury,”F&SF,May.
––-,“HumanBay,”Asimov’s,May.
––-,“MacandMe,”Asimov’s,February.
––-,“Nodaway,”Asimov’s,September.
––-,“WhatItIs,”ScienceFictionAge,September.
––-,“WillBe,”F&SF,January.
JessicaWynneReisman,“Raney’sHounds,”RealmsofFantasy,October.
MikeResnick,“HuntingtheSnark,”Asimov’s,December.
AlastairReynolds,“AngelsofAshes,”Asimov’s,July.
––-,“Viper,”Asimov’s,December.
UncleRiver,“TheDashingAboutFlyingBoxPeople,”Analog,April.
KimStanleyRobinson,“ArthurSternbachBringstheCurveballtoMars,”
Asimov’s,August.
––-,“MayaandDesmond,”TheMartians.
––-,“SexualDimorphism,”Asimov’s,June.
––-,“WhatMatters,”TheMartians.
BruceHollandRogers,“HowtheHighlandPeopleCametoBe,”RealmsofFantasy,August.
ChuckRothman,“Sundials,”AboriginalSF,Fall.
DianaRowland,“Extant,”TheAgeofReason.
RudyRucker&PaulDiFilippo,“TheSquareRootofPythagoras,”ScienceFictionAge,November.
KristineKathrynRusch,“Bonding,”Asimov’s,April.
––-,“FlowersandtheLastHurrah,”Analog,March.
––-,“Relics,”PastLives,PresentTense.
––-,“TheWomenofWhaleRock,”F&SF,March.
RichardPaulRusso,“WatchingLearDream,”F&SF,July.
WilliamSanders,“DirtyLittleCowards,”Asimov’s,June.
––-,“Jennifer,JustBeforeMidnight,”F&SF,AugustJamesSarafin,“AClarityintheIce,”F&SF,June.
PamelaSargent,“HillaryOrbitsVenus,”Amazing,Spring.
NisiShawl,“ThePragmaticalPrincess,”Asimov’s,January.
RobertSheckley,“VisionsoftheGreenMoon,”MoonShots.
CharlesSheffield,“WithMcAndrew,OutofFocus,”ScienceFictionAge,March.
RickShelley,“AttheZoo,”Analog,June.
––-,“TheAlien,”Asimov’s,March.
LuciusShepard,“CrocodileRock,”F&SF,October/November.
LewisShiner,“LizardMenofLosAngeles,”F&SF,July.
W.M.Shockley,“ByNon-HatredOnly,”Asimov’s,July.
WilliamShunn,“Stalin’sCandy,”RealmsofFantasy,June.
RobertSilverberg,“GettingtoKnowtheDragon,”FarHorizons.
––-,“Travelers,”Amazing,Summer.
LeahSilverman,“DeepBlueSea,”OnSpec,Spring.
DanSimmons,“OrphansoftheHelix,”FarHorizons.
JanniLeeSimner,“RaisingJenny,”NotofWomanBorn,
DaveSmeds,“ARavenonMyShoulder,”TheAgeofReason.
BrianStableford,“AnotherBranchoftheFamilyTree,”Asimov’s,July.
––-,“AshesandTombstones,”MoonShots.
––-,“TheGatewayofEternity,”Interzone,January/February.
––-,“HiddenAgendas,”Asimov’s,September.
––-,“IceandFire,”Albedo18.
––-,“TheOracle,”Asimov’s,May.
––-,“TheSecretExhibition,”WeirdTales,Fall.
AllenSteele,“TheExileofEveningStar,”Asimov’s,January.
––-,“GreenAcres,”ScienceFictionAge,March.
––-,“HerOwnPrivateSitcom,”Analog,January.
LucySussex,“TheQueenofErewhon,”F&SF,September.
MichaelSwanwick,“AncientEngines,”Asimov’s,February.
––-,“RidingtheGiganotosaur,”Asimov’s,October/November.
JenniferSwift,“LivingHistory,”Interzone,February.
TaisTeng,“CrownedbyLightning,”Albedo18.
MichaelThomas,“TheTimeThief,”F&SF,December.
MarkW.Tiedemann,“ChasingSacrifice,”ScienceFictionAge,January.
––-,“Gallo,”Asimov’s,March.
––-,“TextureofOtherWays,”ScienceFictionAge,September.
LoisTilton,“Dragons’Teeth,”Asimov’s,January.
––-,“Midnight,”TheAgeofReason.
––-,“TheScientificCommunity,”Asimov’s,September.
ShaneTourtellotte,“LiveBait,”Analog,July/August.
HarryTurtledove,“Forty,CountingDown,”Asimov’s,December.
––-,“Twenty-one,CountingUp,”Analog,December.
MaryA.Turzillo,“MarsIsNoPlaceforChildren,”ScienceFictionAge,May.
JamesVanPelt,“TheDiorama,”TransVersions11.
RichardWadholm,“TheIceForest,”Asimov’s,January.
HowardWaldrop,“TheDynastersVol.1,OntheDowns,”F&SF,October/November.
––-,“London,Paris,Banana…”,Amazing,Winter.
KylaWard,“TheFeast,”Aurealis24.
IanWatson,“CaucusWinter,”F&SF,January.
––-,“Three-LeggedDog,”Interzone,May.
Lawrence Watt-Evans, “He’s Only Human,” Science Fiction Age, September. Andrew Weiner, “The
IdentityFactory,”ScienceFictionAge,January.
K.D.Wentworfh,“TheEmbians,”F&SF,May.
––-,“TheGirlWhoLovedFire,”RealmsofFantasy,August.
RamonaLouiseWheeler,“ThatSleeperintheHeart,”Analog,October.
RickWilber,“ImagineJimmy,”F&SF,April.
KateWilhelm,“TheHappiestDayofHerLife,”F6SF,October/November.
WalterJonWilliams,“Argonautica,”Asimov’s,October/November.
JackWilliamson,“EnginesofCreation,”ScienceFictionAge,September.
ConnieWillis,“TheWindsofMarbleArch,”Asimov’s,October/November.
F.PaulWilson,“Aftershock,”RealmsofFantasy,December.
RobinWilson,“TheGriftoftheMagellanae,”F&SF,March.
––-,“SoleMortalThingofWorthImmortal,”ScienceFictionAge,July.
LaurelWinter,“SkyEyes,”F&SF,March.
GeneWolfe,“FishStory,”F&SF,October/November.
––-,“HasAnybodySeenJunieMoon?”MoonShots.
SarahZettel,“KindsofStrangers,”Analog,October.
––-,“MeansofSurvival,”Analog,March.
ZoranZivkovic,“TheAstronomer,”Interzone,June.
